Amir's welcome at this year's Thanksgiving; explicitly handwritten next to Jake's name on the invitation. Jake keeps it buried under the receipts in their tax drawer while he thinks of a plan. There's a reason he always declines to come – even when it's just Jake it's never just Jake. Amir tags along everywhere he goes, like Mary's little wolf in lamb's clothing. He's even in Jake's head, preventing him from thinking of unmixed metaphors.

The last time Jake went to a Hurwitz Thanksgiving, Jake locked Amir in the office, and he still managed to crash dinner and ruin everyone's night. He was high, groped everyone there but especially Jake's aunt, and almost killed Grandpa Earl. At least Earl won't be at risk this time, seeing as he's six feet under.

It's really out of nowhere. There's no reason for them to trust Amir now, twelve years later. Who thought it was a good idea? Maybe one of his in-laws he's never met convinced Mom to include Amir. That made the most sense. It wouldn't have been one of his siblings; they're too smart. It feels odd calling them smart, but being around Amir for so long really lowers the bar of basic intelligence.

Jake pretends to pick up the invite fresh from their mailbox and shows it to Amir. He squeals, excited to see 'Laura' again, because he's on a first name basis with Jake's mother for some reason. It's not her, anyway, it's the photos she took of Jake as a baby. At first, Jake was extremely concerned. Over time, he learned Amir just wanted to fantasize about the childhood years they could have spent together. So still creepy, but way less so.

Jake packs their bags into his trunk, and they drive to the train station. Amir's wearing his stupid big puffy coat, and Jake would object but it makes him easier to keep an eye on as he wanders up and down the platform. It is cold enough, too, but they're mostly gonna be inside this weekend. Jake's fine in a hoodie – dress shirt underneath, of course. He wants to look nice for this reunion.

Reunion might be a little strong. He sees Micah most days at work. They could've headed up with him, actually. He took the early train so he could pick up his fiance on the way there. But it's better if everyone gets as little Amir time as possible, if only to increase the chances of being invited back next year. Also, Jake hasn't met Adila yet, and it'll be less awkward if he meets her at the same time as everyone else.

There's a little boy pointing at the train as it arrives. He calls out the train's serial number, or species or whatever, from memory.

Amir says, "I don't give a shit about trains," and pushes the boy out of the way.

Jake apologises, and runs onto the train after Amir. He ushers Amir to the most secluded booth, and packs their bags in the overhead locker. Amir pulls a jumbled Rubik's cube from his pocket and begins flicking it. It's sitting solved on the table by the time Jake sits down.

Jake shakes his head. Amir is always the most horrible to people who share traits with him (especially kids). Although, Amir's not obsessed with anything enough to memorize that much – except Jake. Maybe aardvarks.

They're rolling along about fifteen minutes when Amir starts voicing his complaints about all the other passengers. He especially hates the children who cry when their iPads are taken away. Jake bites his tongue – that one has to be on purpose. Amir doesn't just cry – he kicks and claws. And he knows good and well how to rile Jake up.

So Jake waits to step in until blood is drawn, because in that case he's misjudged this (not his fault when Amir cries wolf so often). But there is no blood. Amir moves on to clogging the bathroom sink, leaving it to run so water pools the carriage. Alternately apologizing to and insulting the staff fills up the rest of the one-and-a-half hour ride. Jake thinks so, anyway. His headphones are on, and his Spotify Daily Mixes drown most of it out.

They flag down a taxi, and it takes them to the house. The fare's cheaper than in New York City, but it's more than Jake'd like to pay once-there once-back. Maybe Micah will go Dutch when they head home.

Jake pays the driver, lifts the bags out of the trunk and shuffles them over to the front door, then runs over and closes the trunk while Amir snorts and types something on his phone. Jake grabs a hunk of Amir's jacket and yanks him onto the sidewalk so the taxi doesn't run him over on the way out.

"Do not stand in the road," Jake says, into Amir's ear.

"Do not grand in the toad."

"Did you understand what I said?"

"Yes. I overstand everything you say. I'm not stupid."

"Didn't call you stupid. I just don't want you to die right before dinner."

"But right after'd be fine?"

"Let's just go inside."

Jake walks back up to the front door, checking out the house. It looks the same as always: two floors, Tudor-inspired, and crammed in the middle of the large lawn. The fence gate to the backyard still has rust patches, or maybe it was cleaned and grew them again in the same spots – where the sprinkler hits it in summer. The living room lights are on, fuzzy shadows dancing over the white curtains as the TV flickers.

Jake raises his finger to press the doorbell, but lets it hover in the air for a second. He spent so long coming to grips with the fact that he'd never come back here. He could just turn around and leave. Nobody would know. They'd probably have a better weekend.

No. Somebody invited him. The same somebody invited Amir. They deserve more than an apology text after the fact. Jake rings the doorbell. Amir presses it too, because he'd press anything that makes a noise. He got really into poking Jake for a week or two. Jake had tiny bruises all over his stomach like he slept face-down on a bed of nails.

The door swings open – it's Sarah. She's in a shimmery pink sheath dress, holding a wine glass with matching lipstick prints around the rim.

She takes a step back. "Oh. Jake. Hello!"

She had no idea he was coming. That probably goes for everyone else too. Great.

"Hey," Jake says. He picks up the bags.

Sarah looks over Jake's shoulder. "Hi, Amir," she warbles, eyes peaking wide with fear.

Amir doesn't say anything. He waves lazily, still staring at his phone.

"Come in," she says, not sure if she's allowed to say it, but she ushers them inside anyway, and closes the door behind them.

Mom's stuck new coat hooks on the other side of the entry, and filled the old space with a large mirror. Next to Sarah and her upper management makeup, Jake is rushed, scrappy. He missed a spot trimming his beard, just on the edge of his jaw. Why didn't he notice that at home? Amir takes a quick picture of him, like Jake can't see him clearly in the reflection, and sticks his phone in his pocket.

"How are you?" she asks.

"I should ask you the same question, Rachel," Amir sneers.

"That's Sarah."

"I don't really need to remember the names of your 'family', do I?"

"Yes. Yes, you do. Sorry, Sarah," Jake says, because Amir won't.

She takes on a frozen smile, like an ape showing submission. "It's fine. I'm fine. I got promoted again."

Promoted? Jake runs his own company. He's CEO (or maybe Amir is? It's confusing) and he's better than her (even if he earns a tenth of what she does).

"Good for you," Jake says, anyway.

Sarah calls over her shoulder. "Mom? Jake's here."

Mom rushes in, wrapping Jake in a quick hug. She pulls back, keeping her hands on his arms, holding him in place.

"You're here! I wasn't sure you'd come."

"Of course we did. Who'd pass up on free food?" Amir snorts at his own joke, if it even qualifies as one.

"You're a comedian, right?" Sarah asks.

"Yeah. Obviously. Not my fault you're a girl."

Jake glares at Amir. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's satire," he says, and then his pocket chirps.

"Who's phone was that? We're doing no phones this year." Mom thrusts a basket full of phones towards them.

Amir pulls it out. "Grindr," he says sheepishly, adding his phone to the basket. Jake throws his in too, and takes a moment to really admire the hardwood flooring in here.

Sarah hums. "Do guys really 'grind' on Thanksgiving? Aren't they too full?"

Mom must have mopped right before everyone arrived. Or did she use polish? They're so shiny. Jake can't keep their vinyl floorboards dust-free for more than a day. Maybe Amir just sheds a lot.

"You'd be surprised," Amir says, in his smooth-quip voice, and he chuckles along with them.

Jake tunes back in when Amir's done talking, and everyone's just wallowing in a silent moment. Jake rolls his shoulders; they're tensing up from carrying the bags.

Mom pats Sarah's arm. "Would you help Jake carry the bags to their bedroom?"

Their bedroom. Her voice hitched a little. Jake's heart pounds. He hasn't been here in so long – she can't still be thinking of it as Jake's room. Even if she is, that's not why she's giving him and Amir an extra polite smile, the one she used to reserve for their friends' parents when she served iced tea.

"I can carry them," Jake says.

"Second on the left."

"I know."

Jake adjust his grip and heaves the bags up, ignoring Amir starting to shuffle around photo frames on the hall table so the ones of Jake are in front. If he's not doing permanent damage, it's not Jake's problem.

Jake makes it up the stairs before his arms start to shake, and uses his elbow to lever open the second door on the left. He sets the bags on the floor and sits down to catch his breath. The double bed still squeaks and creaks. The one and only bed.

Did Mom give them a room with one bed on purpose? She has to know they're not really a couple – Jake must have said it a thousand times. They don't share a bed at home except when Amir has nightmares or Jake feels too good to bear the cool of his own sheets against his skin. Just because Amir's on Grindr doesn't mean Jake is. He is, but Mom doesn't know that because he has the good sense not to leave his phone off silent.

Jake sighs, and lies back against the headboard, looking around the room. The kitchy daffodil wallpaper's been replaced by plain cream paint. It's classier. It's not the same. Mom always liked decorating, when she had the time. She has plenty now, and a big empty house to tinker with. It smells the same though, down to the sickly lavender laundry powder.

In college, Jake realized she uses twice the recommended amount. But he also learned the stench teen boys can emit when left to their own devices. Maybe he was nose-blind to his brothers. Himself.

He taps his foot along the floor – that one floorboard is still loose. Jake's heart flutters. He pries it up with a finger, but the space underneath is empty. Micah must have taken the magazines to college.

Jake lets out a deep breath. Then he frowns – nobody bothered clearing out the stash in the woods; at least, he didn't, and Micah never knew about that one. It's probably still rotting there in the CVS bag, waiting for some kid to find it. Is that creepy? Or a way of giving to the next generation? Mom had better not ask about grandkids.

The floorboards shift outside his room, the way Jake inadvertently memorized they do when someone's about to open the door. It creaks open, and Amir steps inside.

He huffs. "Are you coming back down? Your lame family are trying to talk to me."

"Maybe you could try not being rude."

"I could, but I'm not going to."

"Great. Wear something nice for dinner," Jake says. He takes off his hoodie and throws it on the bed, then leaves Amir to change.

Hopefully he goes with the collared shirt and nice pants combo that Jake stacked together in a luggage cube. It's a new experiment. He figures predeciding Amir's outfits is almost like wearing matching clothes. Amir can at least wear something Jake is guaranteed to approve of. But he's been choosing what to wear on his own lately. He's officially graduated to functioning at the level of a first-grader.

He's even less picky about food (at least, in front of other people). "No nuggets this Christmas", he'd said just after Jake read the invite. The holiday was wrong, but the sentiment was nice. A large amount of Headgum's budget is dedicated to 'catering' – the most business-like term Jake could come up with for Amir's McNugget Trust. They could shift some of that money into getting a bigger apartment. Or office. Obviously, they don't view the company money as personal funds. Although, if they did, it wouldn't be the most unprofessional thing they've done at work.

Jake pauses at the top of the stairs, his hand on the bannister. He rubs his thumb over where Rachel tried to carve her initials with her car keys because her boyfriend was really into graffiti.

Has it been too long? He could have shirked the invite this year, too, and then he wouldn't have to face them like this. He's so unprepared. It's a habit of his to overthink, to come up with answers to every possible line of questioning, but he never needed to do that with his family before. He swallows, mouth dry and empty of answers, and heads downstairs.

Eliza wraps him in a bear hug as soon as he reaches the ground floor. She doesn't bend his neck funny and muss up his hair like she used to. The few years that separate them are negligable now. Actually, she looks younger than him; full cheeks peach with blush and bright eyes not weighed down by perpetual bags. Her stomach barges into his. Jake doesn't want to congratulate her in case she isn't pregnant, so he says nothing.

"How have you been?" she asks.

"Good," he says, muffled by the puffy shoulder of her dress.

She pulls back, eyes wide. "I can't believe you finally came back up. Aaron bet me you wouldn't."

Aaron, presumably, waves at him from the couch. All the men are watching football while the women are in the kitchen (except Eliza). Jake knows that's not how it's supposed to be anymore, but if nobody else is saying anything...

He's never talked politics with his family before. They probably think he's too liberal. They at least think he's gay; anything else and they could faint.

Aaron has dark hair and a trimmed beard, wireframe glasses around his beady eyes. His smile is thin-lipped, a courtesy smile. Almost like Amir when he does his impression of a normal man. Aaron isn't normal, either. He doesn't know Jake and yet thinks he can bet on what Jake will or won't do.

"Nice to meet you, buddy," Jake says, though that scarcely counts as meeting, and he waves back but Aaron doesn't see because his team just got possession.

"Mom's in the kitchen," Eliza says, after a moment.

They've never talked for long. Jake still knows her well enough that it's a good idea if they never do. They wouldn't be friends if they weren't brother and sister. But it's odd that she wouldn't mention that she's pregnant. Maybe she's keeping it secret from everyone. The loud red jungle leaves on her dress disguise the bump perfectly.

He gives her a smile, and walks past the dining table, straightening a fork on the way. Mom was always pedantic about that.

The kitchen is overflowing; pots bubbling with stewed carrots and potatoes rolling on the boil, knives fluttering through sprouts, freshly washed hands shaking drips across the room, and a little girl leaping between everyone's feet like a circus dog through a burning hoop.

"Watch out, Aubrey!" shouts a darker woman that he doesn't know. Her knife waves too close to her helix piercing as she tries to keep from slashing anyone.

Jake yells, "Hi."

"Can you watch her for a minute?" the woman asks, like she's been dealing with this for hours.

"Aubrey," he says, bending down to her level, "Do you want me to read you a book?" That's the type of uncle he is. She won't turn into a screen-obsessed brat under his watch. That, and she doesn't understand enough about society to get weird about him and Amir. He'll happily read Roald Dahl over being 'discreetly' interrogated.

"I don't like you," she says, and runs out to the living room, to join all the men glued to the TV. Nobody can say Jake didn't try.

Mom dries her hands on a checked dishtowel, and hands Jake a chopping board and a knife still in its blue plastic sheath.

"Chop up those pears, will you? It's so great to see you," she says, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, then squeezing past the island to stir the pots. She's wearing the same floral-print apron she used to. It's just as stained, but she's found the time somewhere to reattach the pink rufflettes at the hem.

Jake sets up on the corner of the island, unsheathes the knife and starts by taking off the stems. They haven't eaten home-made dinner for a month. The prospect of cutting anything up gives him flashbacks of trying to teach Amir. Thanks to Jake's quick thinking and a bag of frozen peas, the doctors were able to save the finger.

What are they having pears for, anyway? Thanksgiving is about meat and carbs. Jake cuts them into cubes, trying to keep his other hand as far away from the knife as possible.

"That's too big," Mom says, as she sweeps behind him. "Do it again."

Jake cuts them smaller and smaller until Mom gives him a big bowl of pomegranate guts and salad leaves, squirting in some lemon juice and oil. He dumps the pear in and mixes it through, thinking all the time: Amir will not eat this. His palate has only expanded to other birds, and the occasional cream cheese bagel. Maybe a lettuce leaf if he's really in a good mood.

"Thanks, sweetie," Mom says, grabbing the bowl. "Go – talk to your brother."

"I see him all the time. You don't need more help?"

"We're fine. Bring him a beer."

Jake takes two beers from the fridge, heads through into the lavender laundry. Amir's downstairs by now. If Jake goes back to the living room, he'll be on babysitting duty. Or maybe Amir's done something horrible already, which will be Jake's fault somehow. Either way, it's not worth making small talk with Micah.

Jake sighs, and leans against the washing machine. There's still all of dinner to get through. He'll have to shift the focus to Rachel and her endless string of boyfriends. She can be the weird one tonight. Jake can fade into the background, talking to Aaron about March Madness brackets or grilling or their jobs, whatever normal people discuss. Amir'll keep asking to look at Jake's baby photos again, especially the ones of him in the bath, and nobody will bat an eye because they're Together now, apparently.

Jake twists off the cap and takes a long sip, relishing in the burn plundering his throat. Shoving the other beer under his armpit, he turns the knob slowly so Mom doesn't hear the rattle, and steps outside.

The porch was swept this morning, Jake figures, but a few ruddy leaves are still gathered around the potted marigolds. It used to be his job during fall. The leaves just keep coming. Nature wants to mulch and reclaim this house as a garden plot.

He sits on the top step, his knees up near his chest, and watches the neighbor's garage engulf the sun. It's already cut in half, dimmed enough to stare into safely. A few blackbirds spook, cry and fly over his head. A prowling cat, maybe. Jake imagines it's the same one that ran away from the house thirty-something years ago.

The doorknob rattles, and footsteps smack the deck behind him. Jake looks up, ready for a reprimand from Mom – but it's Micah. She probably heard him come out here after all. Jake always thought she left the doors squeaky so she could catch them going out at night. Micah sits next to Jake on the steps, batting a lone moth away from his face.

"Hey," Micah says, simply.

"Do you remember our cat's name?"

"Mittens."

"Right. Not very creative." Jake passes him the unopened beer.

"We've improved."

"I'd hope so. I don't wanna think our listeners are that stupid."

Micah chuckles. The last trace of sun vanishes, and the air turns suddenly cold.

"What's with Amir?" Micah muses.

It's about the trickiest question anyone could ask. Gun to his head, Jake'd rather quantum physics as a topic. Amir's on pretty good behavior right now, though. At least, he was a few minutes ago. If he's already pissing people off– Jake makes a mental note to check the train timetable again. They might need to leave at any time.

"I don't know," Jake replies, hoping it sounds offhanded.

"And you?" Micah asks, nudging Jake's shoulder with his own.

"Yeah. You know, fine."

Jake sips his beer, staring up into the sky, tracing constellations he doesn't remember the names of anymore after years of New York's light pollution. He needs to say something else, but his mind is both blank and full of things he should never admit. Amir-induced wild nights out on the town; Amir-induced nights snuggling in bed. Amir-induced feelings that cannot be explained in English, or with Jake's broken Duolingo streak in Hebrew.

Micah sighs. "So you're not going to tell me anything about you, ever. Got it."

"You know me, man," Jake says, forcing a chuckle, steering them back to Casual Conversation Land.

"I'm your brother, and I do not know you."

Micah's eyes linger on him for a moment, then Micah stares out at the picket fence. No chance of keeping it casual, then. It has been years since they've really talked; even with Micah working at Headgum, it's all business. But Jake's not even one beer in, and he's asking about Amir.

"Ask better questions," Jake says.

Micah sniffs, steepling his fingers like an evil lord thinking of a fitting punishment for his unfaithful lackey.

"Are you ever going to bring someone here for us to meet, or is it just... Amir?"

Jake frowns. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know. We're all married or getting married," Micah says, like 'you're eight years older than me and I'm engaged, what's wrong with you?'

"Did Mom just call us for dinner?" Jake asks, looking dumbly back at the weatherboards.

"Was that too much? You don't have to talk about it."

Jake's knee bounces rapidly, thwapping his heel on the deck stair. "I just don't think there's room to get married, with Amir there."

"Jake. Are you sure you don't want to tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"That you guys are in love."

Jake steps out of his body. "I'm not."

"But you're still gonna live with him forever, wipe his ass when he gets old–"

"I do that now."

Micah does a double take. "Really?"

"Joking," Jake huffs, giving a weak smile. He fucking wishes he was joking.

"I wouldn't do that for someone I wasn't in love with."

"Well, we're not the same person, Micah." Even if everyone who watches Headgum confuses them constantly.

"It just– you see how it sounds like it?"

He's spending his whole life with a man and he can't say he's in love, and his whole family thinks he's a closet case. There's no way he couldn't spot it; etched into every look they give him, the fawning over Amir when he says he fucks men that they'd never give Jake in a hundred years even if he wasn't a husk, a shell of himself.

Jake stands up and heads inside. Maybe he can help baste the turkey. Won't help how gay he looks, but hey – food is a safe topic, right?

The extendable dining table is laid heavy with feast. The huge serve of pear and pomegranate salad, sprouts heaped in piles, steaming bowls of mashed potatoes and stewed carrots. Bread rolls with a tray of butter pats, roasted brussels sprouts and butternut squash, and an ocean of homemade cranberry sauce.

Amir circles the table, inspecting each dish to see if they're edible. He sticks his tongue out at each one he doesn't like.

"That's potato," Jake says, when Amir reaches it. "What fries are made of."

"Which fries?"

"All fries. McDonald's fries."

Amir stares at Jake from under his eyebrows, tightlipped, and moves on. At least he's okay with a vegetable, even if it has no nutritional value.

Mom dashes in and sets the crackling turkey in the center of the table, bready stuffing rolling out onto the platter.

"Dinner's ready!" she calls, untying her apron.

Everyone gathers around the table and sits down. Amir tries for Jake's lap, but Jake gently shoves him into his own chair. The chair legs aren't stable enough to hold two people. At least one used to pop out every month or so, which wasn't quite often enough for Dad to glue them back in.

Mom stands at the head of the table, raising her wine glass. It never felt odd when she started sitting there. It's weirder looking back at old photos when she sat at Dad's right hand. Mom gently taps her glass with the tip of a dinner knife.

"Before we start," she announces, " I'd like to say a few words."

This isn't orthodox, but maybe it's because Jake's back. She wants to reintroduce him to the family. She wants to reconnect with her son. It's sweet.

"Micah. It still shocks me how you've grown up into the young man I see before me, even after watching my other children," she says, eyes landing on Jake for a moment,"–grow and change. And now you're engaged! I can't believe it."

Everyone watches Micah and Adila kiss, and claps. Jake slaps Amir's hand away from the mashed potatoes.

"I know I usually do it," Mom says to Micah, "but – would you like to carve the turkey?"

"Sure."

Why is she making this a big deal? They never had tradition around this. Dad carved it until he died, because he was weird about how meat was prepared, then Mom did because she made the rest of the food. Or did it only start having importance once Jake left? He missed the manhood rite of turkey carving, and that's what's wrong with him.

Micah doles out slices of turkey while everyone passes bowls around the table. Jake keeps one hand firmly on Amir's shoulder because he's eyeing Micah's carving fork. He could lunge for it, pretend he's Satan and stab everyone for not being sinful enough.

Amir tries to pass Jake the mashed potatoes without taking any, but Jake grabs the spoon and plops a cloud onto his plate.

"You need to eat to survive, right, bud?"

Amir tuts, but lets it go for now. Jake almost says 'good boy', like he's talking to their dog. He gives himself at least a small serving of everything, because that's the polite thing to do. The ladies spent a long time cooking this (presumably). Micah delivers the turkey to his plate, and Jake says 'thanks' but nobody hears him.

"Does everyone like the cranberry sauce?" Maybe-Aaron asks.

"Don't go easy on it. We still have some at home in the freezer," Eliza says. "He got a bulk deal."

The sauce is too tart and lumpy. It doesn't pair well with the turkey. This is why men shouldn't cook, Jake thinks, for a split second. He frowns – he shouldn't find those jokes funny anymore. The sauce is touching every other thing on the plate, tainting these beautiful dishes made by people who know how to prepare food. Jake peeks at Amir's plate, where he's laid everything out seperately like a charcuterie board. Turkey not touching potato not touching bread roll. Why is Amir so much smarter about these things? Because he doesn't care if he's a freak.

Micah waves, takes Jake's attention away from pushing his food around with his fork.

"Jake, Amir, this is Adila." Micah smiles a little wider when he says her name, like he'd propose to a slip of paper with Adila scribbled on it.

She's the woman with the helix piercing who was waving the knife. Is Aubrey hers? Did Jake just miss Micah having a kid? He can't be a father. Jake isn't even sure he can keep Dingo alive. It's only been a few months and he already got a huge splinter in his paw. Jake could barely hold him down to take it out.

Adila cocks her head to the side, her piercing shimmering in the light – Jake is taking too long to reply.

"Nice to meet you," he says.

"You too." She takes a bite of turkey, and asks, her mouth still full: "How did you two meet?"

Jake says, "Work," at the same time Amir says, "Fate."

She giggles. "You're so cute together. Opposites attract, right?"

"I know, right? Like, he's always shutting me down–"

Jake interrupts. "We're not a couple."

"Oh."

Her brow scrunches. She's confused. Jake is confusing. He's splitting hairs and nobody can understand him. Maybe he should just go with it. What's wrong with people thinking they're a couple? Nothing except the gnashing pit in Jake's stomach, and he's about to fill that with turkey.

Jake looks around the table. Everyone's sitting couple by couple, except Mom and Aubrey, who's barely big enough for her chair. Jake feels the same size. Who's kid is she?

"When are you thinking of having the wedding?" Amir asks, pointing his fork at Micah and Adila.

"Spring."

Amir rolls his eyes. "Okay. It's just– No. Your funeral." He stares at his plate, scoffing.

"What's wrong with Spring?"

"What isn't wrong? Hayfever, bees all over your flower-wrapped altar, not to mention you'll be incredibly tense."

"Why?"

"Tension. Springs have tension." Amir shakes his head in disbelief. "Wow. Nobody here's ever picked up a book before."

"Amir," Jake warns.

"You certainly haven't. Probably why you had to drop out."

He shoves Amir's arm. "Take your elbows off the table."

Jake turns to the other side, and finds the ace up his sleeve – Rachel. The youngest daughter desperate for attention, which she finds in a neverending string of boyfriends. She can take a little heat off him.

"Rachel. How are you?"

"I'm great." Her hair is frizzed and choppy, which means she cut it herself again, which means she's not great.

"Who's your date?" Jake asks, leaning around her.

He nods. "I'm Casey." His leather jacket is too squeaky to eat in.

"Cool. Like Casey Brenner." One of her many exes.

"Yep," Rachel says sharply. She remembers.

"But you don't ride a motorcycle, do you, Casey?"

His face lights up when he hears the word 'motorcycle'. "Well, I don't own one right now, but my buddy Michael lets me borrow his."

Jake stares right into Rachel's glare, smiling. "That's really great, Ryan. Sorry – Casey. It's hard to keep track."

"Not that hard," she says. "We've been dating for four months."

"Right. Don't worry, Casey – she's totally not a serial monogamist or anything. "

"Ooh, that's fun. Let's all say our body counts," Amir says.

"No," Jake says. "C'mon, man."

"Why? Afraid I'll have more than you?"

"I know you do. You used to go up to New Jersey just to visit gas station bathrooms. You'd come back covered in stains, with red eyes like you'd been crying for hours."

"It's called game, Jake."

"Let's not talk about this right now," Jake says, mouthing 'sorry' to poor little Aubrey.

Amir slams his cutlery down. "Oh, so we can't talk about sex in the office, can't talk about it at the dinner table – where can we talk about it, pray tell?"

Jake feels ten pairs of eyes on him, and says, "Never."

"Wow. Virgin," Amir says through a false cough.

Jake's face heats up. It's anger; he's not blushing thinking about how Amir knows good and well he's not a virgin. Amir promised he'd behave.

"Why don't we all go round and say what we're thankful for?" Sarah suggests.

Thank you, Sarah. Good, honest, overachieving Sarah. She probably memorized Thanksgiving conversation starters for this exact occurence.

Amir sticks his hand up. "I'll start."

He is really insistent tonight, huh? Normally he lets people get a few words in before he twists their sentences back to whatever topic he's latched on to. Jake holds his hand steady above his plate, ready to clamp it over Amir's mouth.

"I'm thankful for... Jake. He's the light of my life. The white of my wife."

That's not offensive (mostly). What is Amir playing at? This has to be leading up to something.

"I cherish every day we spend together. And even though you pretend not to give a shit about me, I know you care. I'm so glad I found you, and that you keep finding your way back to me."

Jake blinks the tears out of his eyes. "Thanks, Amir."

Amir smiles earnestly, and pats Jake on the back. "Let's get out of here; get some real food."

There it is. "My mom spent hours cooking this."

"Waste. Of. Time. No offense, Laura."

Mom stares Jake down, and Jake is back in the living room interrupting one of her tea parties, learning for the first time the phrase: children should be seen and not heard.

"Jacob?" she says, voice breaking. "Would you like to handle this, seeing as Amir is your guest?"

Jake's fucked. That's her I'll-yell-at-you-later-we've-got-company voice. These ritual dinners and tea parties are the most important thing in the world to her, and he's ruined it by just showing up.

"Uh– Yeah," he stammers, "Amir, let's go get some fresh air."

He dashes upstairs for his hoodie. They can't just hide in the bedroom. That means Mom can find them and tell them off. Amir'll just make it worse, then they'll get sent home. Jake throws on his hoodie and grabs his shacket too. They might have to be outside for a while until everybody calms down.

Amir follows in behind him. "Are we going outside?" he asks, dumbly, not knowing where fucking fresh air is.

"Yep," Jake says sharply, picking up Amir's jacket and stomping back downstairs.

Amir follows, again. "But you said I'd get frostbite if I went out at night."

"I didn't want you to keep leaving the apartment. You keep making fun of joggers until they punch you. Also, you did get frostbite one time," Jake says, pulling on his shacket and grabbing his phone from the basket.

"On my toe."

"On the toe you insisted they sew to your crotch, yes. Thank God they could finally perform a standard phalloplasty, and return you to normal."

"I didn't hear you complaining," Amir leches, wiggling his eyebrows.

"You weren't listening."

Jake shoves Amir's puffy jacket into his chest, hard. Amir pulls it on and snaps the clasps shut. He smooths his hands over the jacket, then looks up at Jake through fluttering eyelashes.

"Dinner tonight?"

Jake opens the front door, "We were having fucking dinner. You got us kicked out," and slams it behind them, storming down the street.

"We weren't kicked out. Your mom just agreed that her food was trash and tried to save me, her favorite son, from–"

"That's her version of kicking us out. She doesn't need to swear, or yell, because you know what? She's a nice, polite, normal woman. My family aren't like you!"

"They're not like you either!" Amir screeches.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You'd rather spend time with me than them. And it's not just because you're a massive gaylord."

"Don't."

"Think about it. How many Thanksgivings have you avoided so you could 'keep an eye on me'?" Amir asks, air quoting the last part like he doesn't need to be monitored to prevent catastrophe.

"I didn't want you to follow me here and wreck my family's holiday. Like you just did."

"Or was it way less stressful? I saw you clenching your jaw even while you were packing the bags. And you sit weird, like you did when we tried that remote controlled–"

"We're in a public space," Jake reminds, even though he can't see anyone else in the street.

"The point is: you're not having a good time here."

"I don't have to listen to you."

"No. You choose to."

Fucking Amir. Jake does keep choosing him, over and over and over. Why is past Jake such an idiot? Jake is so weak-willed he can't even cut one guy out of his life. Sure, Amir thinks he's talented and interesting and wears cool clothes, but that shouldn't mean anything in the face of family. Should it?

"Do you love me?" Jake asks.

"Yeah. Of course I love you," Amir says, the same easy way he says it every day.

Jake falls into Amir's arms, grimaces into his neck. Hatred is not a strong enough word. But it's not hatred, in the same way it's not the opposite of hatred. It's something undeniable, like gravity, or the way Amir always makes the puppets of them kiss, or Jake's fear of puppets.

"Does it matter if I don't love you back?" he mumbles.

"It never has."

Jake smiles, teeth brushing Amir's jaw. "How do you know me so well?"

"Ever since I saw you at that desk, I wanted to get to know you. And I made it my life's mission."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"Couldn't have picked something else? Like learning how to keep your body clean?"

"I have you for that. You're my second brain."

Jake hugs him tighter.

The nearest McDonald's is a twenty minute walk away, but it takes them thirty. Jake can't pull his phone out for directions without Amir begging him to Grind like a little kid whines for Candy Crush, so they make a few wrong turns. They join the back of the line, and Jake secretly blames Amir for making them 'late', even though he knows there is always a line here.

Amir nudges Jake with his elbow. "My cousin Leron has a new investment opportunity, if you're interested."

"Can't be that new. You haven't had your phone for two hours."

"New as in new school. Plato for the modern age."

"So not new."

"I can tell by your criticism that you're jealous," Amir sings.

"I'm not."

"Not of the business idea. Of how close I am with my cousin."

"You kissed him. I don't want to be that close with my family."

"How come the rhyme: tonguing's for cousings?"

Maybe another day Jake'd be upset, pick apart Amir's grammar and horrible life choices. But in line under the fluorescent lights, the smell of Pine Sol and deep friers in the air, Jake chuckles.

"How do you always know the worst possible thing to say?"

"It's in my blood. Like Seinfeld."

"You're not related. You weren't even born in America."

"Yeah, but I grab New Yorkers off the street, take 'em down a back alley and suckle their blood. Like Seinfeld."

Jake orders their food and grabs it from the pimply manager, and they eat it on the walk back.

They must be quite a sight: Amir, a raccoon gobbling trash caught in the beam of a flashlight every time they pass under a streetlamp. Jake, alternately pinning fries, a burger, and a Coke under his armpits trying his hardest not to drop anything. He loses the Coke in someone's front hedge about halfway home. But nobody's looking. It's Thanksgiving, and everyone's having dinner with their families. Jake's Quarter Pounder tastes just as good as turkey.

Mom's house looks smaller as they're walking back down Sycamore Street. It blends in with the other houses, like if Jake wasn't paying attention he might wander into the wrong one. But they don't have the big scraggly tree out the front, or the mailbox with a dent in the pole. Jake put that dent there when he backed out of the driveway for the first time. He runs his fingers over it on the way to the doorstep.

Jake turns the handle, but it's locked. He pulls his keyring from his jeans, but pauses. He doesn't have keys to this house anymore; he can't get in without Mom letting him. Jake doesn't even live in the same state but it still sends a shudder down his spine. He fiddles with the hem of his jacket, wishing he was brave enough to take Amir's hand instead, and knocks. There's a moment before Mom answers, and Jake considers leaving their bags there and just heading for the train station. But then Mom opens the door, and they step inside.

The heat's a little stifling, but Jake doesn't miss his numb nose. Something smells sweet and mouthwatering. Jake peeks around the corner of the entry into the living room, where everyone's sitting with steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

"How was your walk?" Mom asks, measured.

"Good," Jake says, taking Amir's jacket.

"No thanks to you," Amir adds.

"She sent us out."

"Yeah. She made her only son forage for food in the woods just because I made a few completely justified comments about her decorating skills."

"That entire sentence was wrong, bud. Why don't you go change into your pyjamas?"

"You wouldn't dare say that to your mother."

"She's graciously hosting us. She'll probably go to bed last."

"I don't care for your attitude, Mister. Mister Jerk."

"Should I regret the talk we had earlier? I thought we really figured some stuff out," Jake says, trying not to watch his mother's eyebrows raise.

"You figured stuff out. I'm never gonna change, baby," Amir sings, walking backward, arms outstretched. He trips on the rug and falls next to the coffee table, knocking Rachel's hot chocolate all over himself.

Using his sleeve, Amir wipes off his glasses. "I'm gonna go and change–"

"Into your pyjamas."

"–my pyjamas, yeah."

Jake pulls him back onto his feet. Amir stomps up the stairs, trying to tug his wet t-shirt away from his skin.

"Thank you for giving us a break," Mom says.

"It's okay. I know he can be a lot."

Mom reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. "It wasn't my choice to invite him. But I'm glad you came up."

"Thanks, Mom."

"I saved your plate. It's in the fridge."

"We already ate. Sorry he called your food gross."

"I don't mind. I know he's... different."

"Right." Jake points upstairs. "I think I'm gonna join him."

"Good night."

"Night," Jake says, and he heads to the second floor.

It feels too much like slinking away from the rest of the family, with their hot chocolate and murmured voices. Like Amir's a girl Jake snuck home and hid in his closet. Maybe that's the wrong metaphor.

They must be gossiping about him and Amir. Probably did all through dinner. Or did they not talk about them at all? Jake didn't consider it before, because Amir was talking the whole time. He's good at that – he doesn't let Jake dwell on things too long.

Sometimes it's frustrating, like when Jake tried to shoot a web series pilot and Amir distractified it into an hour-long pulp film. All Jake wanted was to edit the script. But when Lerona sadly passed away through no fault of Jake's own, Amir was there, saying something stupid about worms. Jake got so annoyed that he forgot to cry.

Amir's tying his sweatpants' strings into a half-knot. He scoffs when he sees Jake. "Took you long enough. I was starting to think you'd abandoned me."

"I left you for three minutes." Jake slips off his shoes and pulls his own pyjamas out of his bag, tossing Amir's dirty clothes back into their luggage cube.

"And that's four minutes too long. I added one to account for all the years we hadn't met yet."

"So I'm constantly in debt to you?"

"In a hanging-out, spending-time-with-me way, yes. You're absolutely in the red."

"So you're gonna come bug me after we're dead too?" Jake asks.

"Of corns. Absolutely of corns."

Jake recalls those weird CollegeHumor sketches he starred in where his roommate was a ghost.

"I think that's a nice thought," that Amir wants to keep annoying him until the end of time.

"A thought? It's real life. Don't tell me there's no afterlife because you know what happened when you told me about Santa–"

"Calm down! I'll see you in heaven, okay?"

"Okay..."

"Okay," Jake says, hands up like he's convincing a wild animal he's not a threat.

Jake backs his way into the bathroom, trying not to make any sudden movements, and starts brushing his teeth. Amir wanders in after a minute and starts fiddling with the toilet paper, folding it into strange origami. Jake spits, reminds Amir to brush too and heads across the hall to change. Amir stays in the bathroom for a few minutes, and comes back in with a dry toothbrush. It's hard, forcing Amir to follow basic hygiene when they're somewhere new – seeing as he obviously left his social skills at home too, Jake doesn't say anything.

Amir climbs into bed next to him, and there's a weird mix of Home and Amir smells in the air. They're both comforting on their own, but together they set Jake's teeth on edge. This is why he stopped coming. Nothing Jake likes can cross over with anything else he likes.

Amir hates kites.
His family hate Amir.
Neither of them care about being stylish, or going clubbing.

The last time he let two things meet Lerona got hit by a bus (and he didn't even like Amir that much back then).

Nobody's died this time... yet. There's always a floating 'yet' in the back of Jake's mind. Something catastrophic could still happen. It probably will. Around Amir, it always does. Like when he made Jake care about him, moment by moment, day by day, until Jake had enough cross-country air miles to meet back up for free post-pandemic.

Jake holds Amir close to his chest. He's warm, and his heartbeat is lulling. He's not doing something dangerous, getting himself or others hurt. He's safe with Jake, and Jake is relatively safe with him.

Jake scratches gentle circles into Amir's hair; in response, Amir snuggles his face against Jake's ribs. This is the part where Jake's supposed to get butterflies in his stomach. Instead, he feels content. Of course, he's never liked bugs.

Instead of a cacophony of car horns, Jake wakes up to birdsong. It always pissed him off as a teenager. The chirping felt personally designed to cut his weekend sleep-ins two hours short. Today, he can see why not everyone lives in a big city. Nobody's even driving past yet.

He rolls over and swiftly remembers Amir didn't brush his teeth last night (though it smells like it's been longer). It'd be wrong to say that's Jake's only regret regarding last night, but for the moment it is his biggest.

Amir's already awake. "Hello, sleepyhead. Ready for a little morning delight?"

"My parents are in the next room." Jake redirects: "We didn't eat onion last night. When's the last time you brushed your teeth?"

"I plead the fifth, sir. The fifth elephant."

"Element, and you need to brush more. How are your teeth not yellow?"

"I scrape the plaque off with my fingernails."

"I guess that works? But stop." Jake leans over the edge of the bed and fishes Amir's toothbrush from his bag.

"My way doesn't taste like mint 9/11 in my mouth."

"I got you the kids' toothpaste, remember? It's grape flavored." Jake holds out the toothbrush and the tube with purple fairies on it. The cashier asked him what his daughter's name was. He just said Breanna.

Amir grunts, but takes them, and stomps into the bathroom. Someone's in there brushing. Jake takes a moment to savor the farce that it's Amir. He gives the toothpaste back to Jake and it's at least emptier than before.

Jake wanders downstairs for breakfast – everyone's already dressed, sipping the last dregs of their coffee.

"What's happening?" he asks.

"We're going apple picking," Sarah says.

Jake didn't mention the apple picking to Amir. Mostly because they only ever went twice before Jake moved to New York. Is it a yearly thing now? It wasn't mentioned on the invite. That must mean it's expected.

"What do you mean?" Amir asks, from over Jake's shoulder, taking yet another year off Jake's life. "We're lounging around here in our pyjamas and gossiping about boys. I'm up for a pillow fight, just don't hit my face." Amir chuckles. "Or body."

"We'll get dressed," Jake says.

Jake didn't pack an apple-picking outfit for Amir. They were only supposed to be outside between the train station and the taxi. Amir's stupid big puffy jacket isn't going to have the mobility required for apple picking. And Jake only packed himself a flannel and the flannel-print shacket. He wore the shacket last night (yes, over the hoodie still counts). This is fucking great – now he has to repeat outfits on the first Thanksgiving back with his family (they already don't think podcasting is a real job). Either that or Amir wears it and everyone'll make their requisite couple comments. How bad is pneumonia again?

Jake outfit repeats, figuring it's second only to death.

Pickett's orchard stretches back into infinity from the fenceline. The apples are dark red and past their prime. Jake has to clamber over Amir's lap to leave Eliza's car because Amir's stuck in his seatbelt. It's twisted permanently, somehow, even after Amir leaves the car. Jake grabs two baskets and drags Amir into the middle of the orchard.

Jake reaches up and snaps a few apples from their twigs. He doesn't bother sizing them up, finding ones in good condition. He'll just leave them all with Mom, or whoever wants them – it might be illegal to smuggle apples across state borders. That, and he doesn't love apples that much.

Micah wanders over, starts picking from the same tiny tree. "So... last night, huh?"

Jake shakes his head. "I knew this would happen. I don't even know why we were invited."

"I invited you," Micah says. "I begged Mom to let you come this year."

"Why?"

"I thought with Adila there it'd kinda distract everyone. And give you a chance to meet her," he jabs, banging his shoulder against Jake's.

Jake winces. "Sorry for putting that off. She's nice."

"I know. I'm so ready to marry her."

"It's kind of soon, though. You haven't even known her for a year, right?"

"You're just jealous you're gonna be the last one married."

Not this again. Jake doesn't have the strength to fight it, this time, so he opts for the truth: "I think Amir married me like ten years ago."

"Again with the relationshippy stuff. Be real with me, dude. What's your guys's deal?"

"We're best friends. We're roommates. That's it."

"He's gay, though, right?"

"Bi."

Micah leans in, squints at Jake. "You bangin' him?"

Jake scoffs. "No."

"You totally are."

"Don't make this weird."

"It's fine. I knew, dude. You were always wearing those Prop 8 shirts. Legalize Gay," he mocks, in a deep voice.

"So were a bunch of other allies."

"But you are gay."

"Bi."

"Sarah said he's on Grindr though. So you guys just have, like, a casual thing?"

"Not really. He depends on me for his day-to-day life. I guess I depend on him too," Jake says, staring down the row at Amir desperately batting at an apple on a too-tall branch.

Micah hums. "Alright."

"Alright? You're done interrogating me?"

"Look – I don't get what you're trying to say. Frankly, I don't think you know what you're saying. But I'm not gonna sit here and pry until I get the 'right answer', 'cause there is no right answer. I mean, look at Rachel. How many guys has she brought home saying they're the one? But it's not like she wasn't getting anything out of those relationships, even if they only lasted a few weeks."

Jake's heart swells, filling his entire chest with warmth. Micah says he doesn't get it but he's closer to the mark than anyone's ever been. Jake wipes a tear from under his eye. "You're too smart, dude," he says. "You're supposed to be a kid."

Micah lays a hand on Jake's shoulder. "Well, you're just as dumb as you've always been."

"That's good, actually. I'm always worried Amir's rubbing off on me."

Micah snorts. "I thought you said he did."

Jake steps back and throws an apple at Micah's head, but Micah bitch-ducks just in time. Jake doesn't call him out on it.

Amir walks up to them, holding out his basket, and asks: "How many worms per apple is okay?"

Jake looks inside the basket. It's filled with holey, rotting apples, worms writhing everywhere like a kid's horror version of spaghetti and meatballs.

"Zero worms," Micah says. "Wait – have you been picking them from the trees, or picking them up from the ground?"

Amir shrinks back. "The one that doesn't make Jake yell at me."

"Don't be like that," Jake says. "You saw everyone else was picking them normally."

"Yeah, and I thought they were suckers for reaching up and getting their arms tired. The lowest hanging fruit is on the ground."

"It's fine. You can have my apples," Jake says.

Amir chuckles. "Adam and Eve? Nah – Adam and JAKE."

"Doesn't really make sense."

"You are a snake charmer," Micah says, and Jake tosses another few apples his way. One hits him in the arm, at least, but it just makes him laugh harder.

"Why are you such a bad shot?" Amir asks. "Last week you were bragging to that girl that you were pitcher on the junior softball league."

"Do not make a pitcher/catcher joke," Jake says, faking out another apple.

Micah flinches. "I wasn't," he lies.

They filter back through the gate, and Eliza stops Jake before he can cram into the middle of her backseat again.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" she asks, already holding him in place with a hand on his chest.

"Sure," Jake says, trying not to let his face show his surprise.

Eliza? Talking? That's like Amir and vegetables – completely incompatible.

"I just wanted to say I'm proud of you. And I'm sorry for calling you a fag when we were younger."

Jake furrows his brow. "Did you call me that?"

"Yeah. Do you not remember?" She sucks in air through her teeth. "Sorry for bringing it up, then."

"It's okay. You wanna apologize for beating me up all the time too?" Since that's the thing Jake can actually recall; the endless punches and hairpulling that was only fair for her to do to him, somehow.

Eliza shrugs. "Nah."

There she is. That's the Eliza he's come to know. She plays Semi-Charmed Life on the drive back and everyone sings along, even Aaron, but he can't remember the words the way Jake, Amir and Eliza do.

When they get home, Amir starts raving about penguins and how they rip off their partners' heads after sex. He says they can have over 100 sexual partners and 150 STDs in their lifetimes, and Jake accidentally makes eye contact with Rachel. She almost growls; then drags Jake into the kitchen by the collar.

"You're an asshole, Jake," she shouts, sticking her finger in his face. Strong start. "You waltz in here with your stupid boyfriend–"

"Not my boyfriend."

"–and ruin dinner by calling me a slut in front of Brian! Everyone knows you're the slut of this family."

"What are you talking about, Rach?"

"Mom found your Polaroids. The ones you stashed under the floorboards?"

The Polaroids. Of course Micah didn't take them – he probably threw up just catching a glimpse of them under the magazines. Jake spent hours finding the most flattering angles – he shudders.

"Oh yeah. Everyone knows about them. Who'd you take 'em for, Jake? A guy in your dorm? Or were you just gonna hand out naked photos of yourself on the street?!"

"Shut up! You are way out of line."

"I never wanted you to come back here! You always bring trouble. I'm so glad every year when you decline the invitation."

"So this isn't even about Amir? It's me?"

"It's both of you. The fucking Dream Team better stay in New York next year. I'm not doing this again." She's tearing up. "Just leave!"

Mom pops up from over her shoulder. "Rachel. Stop swearing at your brother."

"Yeah? You try talking to him," she says, storming out.

"You know how she is," Mom says.

Jake hums. He does know how Rachel is, but that doesn't mean he didn't hurt her.

"But..." Mom continues, because there's always a 'but', "Maybe it'd be a good idea to start your own Thanksgiving traditions."

Jake closes his eyes. That's Mom's way of screaming 'Just leave!'. They're not even welcome to stay the rest of the weekend? It was one bad dinner. It wasn't even nearly as bad as the other times.

"You're welcome to visit throughout the year." When nobody else is there for him to annoy.

"Thanks," he wheezes, trying not to let his voice break.

"I like Amir. It's just– your sisters. You understand," she commands.

"I do." Jake sniffles. "I guess we're gonna head out early, then."

"I'll pack leftovers for you."

"He won't eat them," Jake says, but she gives him the Tupperware anyway.

Jake packs their bags, and the bedroom looks so much better without his and Amir's clothes thrown everywhere. It looks how it's supposed to; not like Jake's old room, but Mom's guest bedroom. Mom probably knows how to get the Amir smell out of the sheets, too. There will be no trace of them left.

Jake pulls out the keys to their apartment, and nicks the bannister next to Rachel's attempted initials, just deep enough that it won't buff out.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Amir's in the living room flipping through photo albums with Micah and Adila, while Micah points out which are of Jake and which are of himself. They've done this routine for so long Jake can't imagine there's any pictures of him that Amir hasn't seen.

Micah hears Jake's footsteps, and leans over the back of the couch. "What's with the bags?"

"We're gonna head home," Jake says, like it's his choice, like it was ever a choice.

Micah smiles. "We'll come down with you."

"Are you sure?" Jake asks, eyes flicking to Adila.

"Yeah," she says. "Aubrey's pretty much at the end of her rope."

"She's your kid?" Jake asks, and she nods.

"Not mine," Micah clarifies. "I'm just a kid myself, right?"

Jake smiles. "No. You're gonna be a good dad. Just don't die right away."

"I'll try."

Micah grabs all of their stuff and crams it into their bags, fabric pooling out from where the zippers couldn't close. Adila calls Aubrey and gives her a book with fairies on the cover, Jake calls Amir and gives him his Rubik's cube, and they all wait out the front for the taxi.

"You guys are funny," Adila says. "I don't know why your mom got so pissed. Way tamer than your podcast."

"You're a listener?" Jake asks.

"Yeah. It's low-concept, but you have great chemistry. I'm laughing the whole time."

"Okay, well, it's not supposed to be funny," Amir spits.

"Yes, it is?" Jake says. "She's not being mean."

"It's actually a huge compliment. Adila's a big podcast buff. It's probably the only reason she wants to marry me." Micah pouts, draping an arm over her.

She smiles. "Hundred percent."

They sit together on the train back, and Adila laughs at Amir's jokes, even when he says that since halal food and kosher food are pretty much the same thing, she should just convert because 'it comes with a free circumcision'. And when Micah helps the girls find an unoccupied bathroom, Amir says he'd only kill Adila if Jake died and he had to marry Micah instead. It's bordering on friendship.

Jake unlocks their apartment and sets the bags by the door, fishing out the leftovers and nothing else. He can unpack later. Right now, it's still Thanksgiving weekend. Jake's gonna spend it here with Amir, like every other year.

Amir's slouched over the couch, flicking through Netflix on mute. Jake opens the Tupperware of turkey and joins him, lifting up Amir's legs and laying them back down on his lap. Amir whines when he notices Jake snacking. Jake tears off a piece, and presses it to Amir's mouth, followed by a quick kiss. That could be a fun tradition.

Amir doesn't think so. "I don't know what's grosser, this rotting chicken or your breath."

"It's turkey," Jake corrects. "I'm glad we got to come back early."

"Me too. Your quote unquote 'family' are the magnum hopeless of dipshits."

Jake tries to shut him up with some more turkey, but Amir just talks through the chewing.

"Believe it or not, I like spending time with you outside of work."

Even through Jake already knows that, even though Amir has been trying to see him outside of requisite work hours for almost twenty years, Jake says:

"Believe it or not, I do too. I guess I'm thankful for you." He didn't get a turn at dinner, but he can say it now.

"Gay."

"You gotta stop saying that. It's not even accurate."

"Bi isn't a slur, so it's not fun to say."

"So you do know it's wrong."

Amir huffs, folding his arms. "I don't ask you why you piss sitting down."

"Huh?"

"So don't taze me, bro. Don't faze– don't criti-saze me. Bro."

Jake puts the lid back on the turkey, no longer hungry. "I'm revoking the thankful thing. You're awful. I want you away from me."

"Oh yeah? What about this?"

Amir cups his jaw, and kisses him deeply. He did brush his teeth this morning – he nibbles on Jake's lip, and there's not a hint of plaque. More than that, it feels divine, in a way that makes Jake want to believe in Amir's afterlife, the one that's just the two of them forever. They'd find ways to fill eternity, so even in a featureless void they'd never get bored.

"That," Jake murmurs, against Amir's lips, "you can stay for."