Work Text:
Turns out, quite a lot of effort went into growing oranges.
It also turns out, it doesn’t take much to kill them.
It was a beautiful, sunny day when they decided to grow an orange tree, right in the corner of their little garden.
Their anniversary, hot as the summer day it landed on, everywhere was closed due to the heat, refrigerators running down, the asphalt sticky as the ice lolly slowly melting down Jim’s hand, strawberry red on soft, small fingers, dripping faster than he could catch it.
It reminded him of Dustin.
Dustin, who turned to him, sat on the old wicker loveseat that resided on their deck, the leaf-patterned shade above them doing little to block out the heat, matching his eyes, suggesting they do something, anything, too hot to move but getting restless.
Sticky red dripped onto the baby blue of Jim’s denim shorts, probably staining them but he didn’t care, not when Dustin smiled at him like that.
He smirked behind his sunglasses, licking a stripe up the lolly.
Dustin, who looked thoughtfully off into the distance, they could plant a tree, he grinned, to commemorate their anniversary. An orange tree, and in, like, 7 years, they could make their own marmalade or cake, cocktails.
Jim rolled his eyes, cheeks going as pink as Dustin’s sun-kissed shoulders under the long, white tank top he wore. It was cheesy, stupid and far too hot to be digging around in the yellowing grass and rock hard dirt. He loved it.
He watched as Dustin stood, the seat swinging slightly from the movement, creaking softly into the afternoon, blending wistfully into the sounds of children splashing in pools, the quiet hum of traffic. It was blissful, the obnoxious slapping of Dustin’s flip flops as he disappeared through the backdoor and into the kitchen, bustling about while Jim took the time to finish what remained of the popsicle, his hand red and sticky, like blood, he mused, dipping his artificially stained tongue in and out of his fingers, up the wooden stick until it was all gone, just the stick remained, half stained dark pink, no amount of licking would clean that off.
Quiet, unhurried, they had all the time in the world.
When Dustin came back out, rambling about not having a trowel, who doesn’t have a fuckin’ trowel, old, rusted spoon in one hand, a bowl of orange slices in the other, a glass of water tucked into his elbow, to soak the seeds, he said, that’s what Google told him to do.
Jim laughed as Dustin sat back down, crossing one leg over the other like it was muscle memory to just do so, setting the glass down on the wooden slats and setting the bowl on the space between them, it was too hot to cuddle like they usually would, Jim settled into his big, soft side, a strong arm draped over him. No, they were too sticky for that, like melted strawberry ice or orange slices on a hot day.
They picked at the pieces of fruit in silence, enjoying the company and the soft citrus, juice running down their chins as they laughed and kissed it off, repeat and repeat until only the seeds remained.
It was time to plant a tree. Their tree. Their orange tree.
It was a beautiful, sunny day when Dustin left him, too.
It’s Japan, baby, he had said. Important work things.
Jim felt his heart be crushed, squeezed into pulp like an overripe clementine.
He didn’t have any right to ask Dustin to stay, this was his big break and Jim wasn’t about to ruin it for him.
So he lied through his teeth, sickly sweet, artificial strawberry that burned his throat, too concentrated, too much sugar, that he was happy, Dustin deserved this more than anyone, worked harder than anyone. That part was true, at least.
The tattered, mushed up remains of his heart dripped icy cold down his chest and onto the floor, that part was true, too.
Neither of them had to say it, they knew this wouldn’t work out.
Jim couldn’t up and leave his whole life behind to go to Japan, as tempting as the offer was, not right now anyway, and Dustin couldn’t stay here, he’d spent his whole life working towards this, he just so happened to meet Jim on the way there.
By the time Dustin was packed and ready to head to the airport, 4 am, the early morning air thick and dry, heat blasting them, like a popsicle melting away from the stick, out of control, any attempts to keep them attached completely pointless. The slow, sad slide and splat on the floor was inevitable.
Jim offered to drive him to the airport, feet dragging on the carpet, on the wet pulp of his heart, sticky, holding him down, begging him not to leave. But Dustin only smiled, like his old trainers weren’t stained orange and pink, sticking him to the floor, Greg was picking him up, he wouldn’t want to put that pressure on Jim.
Jim, who nodded and swallowed hard, not letting himself cry over a boy leaving him, kissing his head and telling him to be well, dragging his suitcases out the door.
The honk of a horn outside, the click of a latch.
Jim used to laugh a lot.
Behind him, through the living room, through the kitchen, a sprouting orange tree swayed in the warm breeze.
And sobbed.
It didn’t often rain in summer, but when it did, it poured.
Jim snuggled up closer to Dustin on the couch, staring out of the kitchen window, pouting.
At least they don’t have to worry about watering the seeds today, Dustin had smiled.
It was just the two of them, listening to the rain on the roof, the windows, hitting the deck outside, washing away sticky drips of strawberry and orange, evidence that they were even there at all.
A fresh start, maybe.
The air around them was still hot, humid, the kind that made Jim feel all sleepy, yawning as he nuzzled up, wriggling as close to Dustin as he could get, just because he could.
It was nice, the sun hidden behind the black clouds, providing some relief from the intense heat of the day, cool enough that they could do this now, no whining.
Dustin pulled him close and kissed the top of his little blonde head, peaceful, content, a little sticky, they could shower later, together, pretending they’re out in the rain, flourishing like flowers, one little, one big, growing together, growing old together.
That would be nice, Jim laughed at his own little thought.
Earth to Jim, he heard, ignored, leaning back in his chair, their corner of the cafe, right by the window, where he used to sit with-
Greg sat opposite him, in the overstuffed armchairs, the gentle acoustic music playing overhead, the rain pouring down the windows.
Even inside, Jim wore his sunglasses, his armour, refusing to be vulnerable again.
Are you even listening, he shrugged, who cares.
He doesn’t care that Greg spoke to Dustin, he doesn’t care what Dustin had to say, what he’s been doing, how they love him over there, as if no one loved him over here.
Jim shoved his hand in his pocket, a habit, he noticed, he developed when he kept trying to reach for Dustin’s hand that wasn’t there anymore, like they were sticky pink with sugar and strawberry, orange peel under his nails, attached to that big, warm hand.
Like his sunglasses, if no one could see it, no one could hurt him again, can’t leave what you don’t know you could have.
He sipped his orange juice, bitter, like the black coffee in the large mug on the table in front of Dustin’s friend, his friend, their friend, their orange tree.
The one that died before it fully grew, blossomed, never knowing what could have been, Jim didn’t take care of it, no one took care of him anymore. Weeds overgrowing the roots, bugs gnawing away at it’s life, no fruit to bear, but at least the spiders got what they wanted in life.
Jim didn’t care for the rain, nor the sun, didn’t care anymore.
He shrugged again, Greg sighed, the tension between them was hot and sticky in that way that makes you squirm and wrinkle your nose, you can’t get comfortable, the roots in your chest too wet, too dry, you don’t know how to fix it.
Dustin’s thinking of coming home for Thanksgiving, whatever.
The thought of seeing him going straight to the compost heap in Jim’s heart, twigs of barely grown tree poking and prodding from the pile of dirt there, drenched in pulp, strawberry pink, stained popsicle sticks reminding him of what was once there that don’t pour out onto the floor anymore, locked away behind denim and sunglasses in the darkness of cloud cover, they only hurt if you let them, if you have an intact heart to be burnt, drowned, poked with splinters.
Whatever.
It doesn’t matter.