"Do you have a Hall Pass?"

Andrew thinks he knows what love is but he doesn’t. He is so unconsciously, hopelessly confused about this four letter demon that he has banished it from his vocabulary completely. He doesn’t know what to do with such feelings; he is a purely sexual animal. But, Andrew is also a criminal. He is a smart, good-looking, terribly charming criminal, but a criminal no less. Art theft, manslaughter, 2nd degree murder, the works. He has broken out of jail twice; the first time he snuck out undetected dressed as a guard and then voluntarily went back; the second time he realized that was the stupidest thing he could ever do and broke out again. It has been two days and he is yet to be caught by the “ever valiant” Los Angeles police department.
 
The sun sends shafts of light through the tall loft windows to settle on the bare hardwood floor. Dust particles drift lazily through the rainbows of golden light like nonchalant stars gliding through a yellow abyss. The place is devoid of material possessions, but memories stain the red brick walls. When Andrew looks up he imagines blonde hair and green eyes, freckled skin and chapped lips on each ceiling tile. He always sees the same things; two teenage boys, one in a leather jacket, the other in a plaid blazer, different as can be, but with fingers twined together in a pretzel love knot; sunshine smiles all around, lighting up the avenue in multi-faceted happiness; he sees an Italian summer home, all old stone and overgrown vines up to the third story windows, like a page from a Madeline book; and then a Los Angeles apartment, small and messy, but mildly pleasant to anyone who delights in staying longer than the usual three and a half minutes; the next tile, by the door, and it’s all crimson red blood, like licorice or Twizzlers, and it’s spattered all over the hardwood; yellow police tape, sirens and red and blue flashing everywhere behind his eyelids; a gun under a bloody coffee table and a girl with short blonde hair, crumpled into a sad, dead heap with cold eyes still stuck in a vibrant shade of smoky indigo, too alive to be anything but...
 
This is when Andrew forces himself to look away, to count something else, like where all the coffee mugs used to be, anything but the God forsaken ceiling tiles.
 
Andrew sits on the floor, leaning against one of the three massive metal support columns in the middle of the loft, his white tee-shirt riding up his tanned back only just slightly as he rests. He is alone; just him in his blue jeans with perfectly unruly black hair and a coffee stained notebook clutched loosely in his right hand. He doesn’t know why he still has it, but he’s held onto it for days now. The pages are starting to come unglued and fall out like crispy brown autumn leaves on asphalt, but still he keeps this decrepit notebook with him. It’s his only connection to the life he used to have; His sister’s dead, his father’s been dead, his mother won’t talk to him, and no one ever disobeys the general so the rest of the family won’t talk to him either, he left his boyfriend seven years ago because he liked him too much, he’s a convicted felon who’s runaway twice like a step-child... it’s safe to say that Andrew’s life is falling apart like the pages of the poor manhandled notebook.

The thick heavy metal door slides open and closed and Andrew hears the soft click of the heel of Bostonian brogues, vintage, size ten and a half, black leather; most likely a lucky thrift store find. He immediately knows who it is.
 
The shoes stand in front of him, and Andrew looks up tall black slacks to a white button down shirt under a black blazer, and he travels up a skinny onyx tie set against the starkly contrasting white. His grey eyes tangle like needy fingers into thick blonde hair and burn cigarette scars into green eyes set into a freckled face. A gold badge glints on a leather belt. It is The Detective.
 
Andrew looks back down at the pools of saffron light upon the floor and says
 
“Hello Jesse. Have you come to take me to jail again?” His tone is one of genuine disinterest as he lets his right leg fall out in front of him, his left bent at the knee.

“I knew you’d be here,” Jesse says, completely skipping Andrew’s question like it’s a high school math test. Andrew looks up at Jesse with one dark eyebrow raised quizzically.
 
“Do tell, detective,” he says, a bit mockingly. “What led you to such a discovery?”
 
“One—,” Jesse starts, shoving Andrew gently with his foot so that he’ll make room for him against the column, then proceeding to sit on the floor next to Andrew. He starts again. “One, this used to be our loft. Two, this was where your sister was murdered—,” He feels Andrew shudder at his words from where their shoulders are touching, and he momentarily feels bad for just saying it so outright. “And third, you just escaped from prison—again—and your mother won’t take you.”
 
“Hmm, you know me so well,” Andrew mutters bitterly, and his voice is a painful thing for Jesse to hear, laced with self-loathing and fear. Andrew tightens his grip around the stained notebook he still has clutched in his lazy fingers.
 
“What’s that?” Jesse asks quietly, nodding towards the book. Andrew brings it up into his lap, gingerly opening the front cover to reveal the fragile pages.
 
“It was Riley’s,” Andrew says, his voice low at the mention of his younger sister’s name. He flips through the pages like they might crumble to dust and blow away.

It is a diary, and each entry is written in beautiful cursive print. Everyday Andrew reads his sister’s entries, and everyday he searches between the lines of “today my brother went to jail” and “this afternoon I bought an ice cream cone down at the pier.” There is something else there, she is leaving him messages; he’s just a little skimpy on the details, like the why and the what and the how of it all. Nothing major.

The cryptic diary of Andrew’s dead sister is momentarily forgotten when Jesse rests his cheek against Andrew’s left shoulder. All movement stops.

“When you left...uhm...” Jesse does quick math in his head. “Seven years ago... yeah, seven years ago, I took everything we ever called “ours” and I set it on fire,” he says, like he just announced the winning lottery numbers.

“So that’s what happened to all the furniture in this place. I’m surprised the loft is even still here, what with your freak attacks of pyromania all of a sudden,” Andrew jokes, and he means well, but it isn’t exactly conveyed in his voice. It’s more of a pathetic mumble than a joke, really, but Jesse chuckles all the same. There is a comfortable silence between the two of them as they sit side-by-side, content with just the presence of one another after years without each other’s company.

There is a moment, suddenly, when Jesse remembers that the entire Los Angeles police department plus the FBI are surrounding the building. He’s wasted too much time already. He lifts his head from Andrew’s shoulder and, without even thinking about it, presses a loving kiss to his temple. It feels natural all of a sudden, that little display of affection, and Jesse feels like this is where he belongs; with Andrew. He stands up and Andrew, with his misty eyes still directed towards the floor, says to him,

“Just like old times, huh Jess?” and Jesse replies with,

“Yeah Andy, just like old times.”

He holds out his hand to help Andrew up off the floor and then says,

“Now c’mon, I’m taking you back to prison.”

a very strange, enchanted boy.

wow, this is so fucking pointless.
oh look at that, I'm actually boring myself.
hmm.
"I say Buffy, my lapels do seem to be crooked." "Don't bother. Pour me another martini Chad!"

for shits and giggles, you know?
..kilts.. ;)
Tabitha will know..
love ya'

Feelings I can't fight. You're free to leave me but just don't deceive me and please, believe me when I say I love you.