Jake pulls the handle at the bottom of his desk chair, leans back, and clicks the Youtube link. There's still another hour until the day ends, another hour of content review for the website. Most of what they get sent is garbage, but it's still better than writing. Well, it does include writing, but it's not hard to do when the video is really funny and the quippy summary basically writes itself.

The video loads – two nerds wrestling over their opinions on Star Wars. It's entertaining, maybe even good enough to put up on the website. But there's only fifty-nine minutes until work officially ends, and Jake unofficially clocked out around lunchtime, so it's unlikely. As the nerds roll over each other on the ground, an idea for a comment comes to mind. Jake chuckles to himself as his fingers fly over the keys.

tarvisbakerfan: you guys ever watch leekspin? cuz i bet you spin each other's leeks

“'Cause I'm your biggest fan and Ja-hay-hay-eeke is so funny. He's so, he's so funny,” Jake hums to himself, the spitting ear-mage of Lady Gaga.

Amir starts humming along too. Jake forgot he's there. He's been quiet today, for once. Or maybe he left in the middle of the day. It's almost comforting to hear Amir's voice, just to know that he's not off terrorizing somebody else, or in the hospital.

“To-gay is gonna be the gay that I'm gonna throw it back to Jew,” he sings.

And there it is. It's honestly impressive how little time it takes to ruin Jake's day. Amir taps on his desk, his thumbs hitting the wood veneer seemingly at random, although he's still humming Wonderwall. His face squinches as he messes up the tune. That horrific chipmunkian grimace, the way he bares his teeth and how his patchy beard stretches over his jaw, trying to accommodate for movements nobody should ever make. How is this fair? How come it has to be Jake who sits across from Amir? What about Streeter, or Pat, or Sarah? It's not like they're completely undeserving. Especially given Pat's fashion sense.

Jake's phone buzzes. Think of the devil.

Pat: Hey did you check out CtC yet?

Jake: so pimp! ch should have a gaming section lol

Pat: Hahaha

Of course Pat liked his idea. Jake's ideas are brilliant. And yet somehow, they always sound better coming from other people's mouths. He can't count the number of times he's pitched a sketch and been rejected, then someone else pitched basically the same thing and got a standing O.

“I can't believe that anybody feels the jay I Jew about Jew jow.”

Over Amir's shoulder, Pat puts on his headphones, giving Jake a dirty look like he's in charge of everything Amir does. He doesn't dictate insanity; can't, in fact. Amir doesn't have much control over himself either. Pat is weak – this has only been going on for a few minutes. When Amir stays over, sometimes he sings all night long, even in his sleep. Cassels wouldn't last an hour sitting across from this fool.

Maybe Jake can make an offer. Pat's poor – he tries to hide it, but he never buys a drink when the writers all go to a bar, and he has about twenty non-existent nieces he's raised funds for. He'd swap with Jake for the right price. And Jake could always say no takesies-backsies, you made your bed and now you have to lie in it, right next to Amir for the rest of time.

Amir smiles as he hums and taps and wiggles in his chair. For a guy who forgot how to walk backwards the other day he sure knows how to move. And for the record – why is he so happy? Did he forget about the video Jake took of him only yesterday?

Jake turns his camera on, the one his dad got him for his birthday a while back, and presses play on the most recent recording.

You, yeah you

You fix everything by just being here

Amir cries as he sings the final words. His tiara is sliding off his head, and so are his glasses. The tiara was never explained.

“Tell everyone you're a pervert, and I'll think about deleting the video.” Jake's voice is muffled from being behind the camera.

Amir looks at Jake desperately, his brown doll's eyes shining under the harsh fluorescent lights that discourage morning-afters. He knows there's no escape now.

“I'm a pervert, okay?” he shouts. “I'm a huge pervert!”

Jake, the one not on the recording, sighs. If Amir just stopped being an annoying asshole, Jake wouldn't have to do this. It works, though, for an hour at the very least. Then he's back in full swing, giving Jake a sore jaw and a tension headache. Maybe he likes Jake putting him in his place. Gross.

“Will you delete the video, please? You said you'd delete it.”

“I said I'd think about deleting it.” Not that he could if he wanted to, since he wasn't recording that part. The pervert admission was what he truly wanted on film.

“The song's not ready, and if everyone hears my placeholder lyrics then they're gonna think–“

“Placeholders? You said it was the final draft!”

“They're the final placeholders, then.”

“Doesn't matter. You can't write and practice love songs for me, that you're gonna perform at work. That's not okay. It makes me really uncomfortable.”

“It's not a love song. It's a friendship song–“

“No.”

“–to commemorate our friendship!”

The video stops. Jake stopped recording at that point because it got a little too desperate and a little too if-Jake-shows-this-to-anyone-they're-gonna-think-he's-gay-too.

Before he dropped out of college, he was friends with a few guys who were actually gay gay, not just like, fooling around with a guy in their dorm during a dry spell. Actually, his friend Andrew from high school was gay. And Jake was fine with it back then, too. He was ahead of the curve, as is standard for him in all parts of his life.

But, as he is ahead of the curve, Jake doesn't need that kind of rumor going around the office, especially not one painting him withAmir. You'd have to be one gay son-of-a-bitch to go for him over any of the other guys in the office. Not that Jake would know - Amir's ugly and annoying, is the takeaway here.

Jake sets his camera down, hits submit on the comment, and starts up a round of Crush the Castle because on more than one occasion he's written his train of thought into what should have been a mindless Top 10 Boobs listicle, and none of this should be in writing. It all sounds bad, because sometimes Jake's mouth just says things that his mind doesn't tell it to, and sometimes his mind tells it to say things his mouth shouldn't say and it does anyway.

Amir picks up and sets down his desk phone to the beat. More and more people are wearing headphones and/or glares, directed at Jake. He's not Amir's babysitter. Someone else could step in at any goddamn time. Why is everything on his head?

Amir stops, suddenly. It's not relieving, because it most likely means he's gonna start telling some depressing story about his childhood. Maybe how his dad used to beat him to the rhythm of Mambo No. 5, or some song that definitely didn't exist back then.

“Amir. Come see me in my office.”

It's Ricky speaking. He's standing right behind Jake, and because Amir was making so much noise Jake couldn't get an advance warning and close the tab in time. It's not even his fault for playing games at work; it's Pat's. He keeps sending links to the entire company, for some reason. And yeah, maybe Jake shouldn't click on every random link in every email sent to him, but it's his work computer. IT will fix it.

Speaking of emails, Jake refreshes his email. Nothing new. He barely gets any work emails, actually – is he being left out of an important chain? CC him in, Cap'n! He chuckles to himself. Seriously, though. Emails are like ninety percent of working in an office. Doesn't anyone want his feedback on their shitty articles? He lets them tear his to shreds, and then pass off those shreds as their own work. They're good ideas, so they shouldn't go to waste, but it'd be nice to get a little credit.

There's a thud. It's obvious who it is, but not what it is, so Jake turns in his chair to assess the situation.

A chair is overturned – that was the first thud. The other thuds are Amir screaming and banging on the glass walls, like an ape. Ricky lets him, watching; not worried, but with a raised eyebrow, silently daring Amir to break the window. Jake will have to pay for any damaged property, since Amir keeps 'going Dutch Irish' and making Jake buy every meal. Jake is in-between paychecks right now, so that's not happening. He rushes over and opens the door.

“Amir. What are you doing? You need to calm down–“

“I'm a star! I'm a supernova casanova goddamn star, motherfucker! Woo!” he squeals, tearing a hole into a couch cushion. Jake tries to grabs his wrists, but he slithers away, breakdancing on the floor. He's liable to kick a hole in Ricky's desk, the way his feet are swinging like those novelty clowns you can never knock on their side.

Jake gives Ricky an apologetic look. “Sir, I'm so sorry–“

“It's okay. Just keep your hands off the talent.”

“Right. Sorry, what?”

“Amir's been scouted by a talent agent.”

“They hunted me down and shot me with Cupid's arrow, and now,” he cackles, “I'm a quadrillionaire of myself!”

Jake calls bullspit. There was a talent agent in the office and they didn't scout Jake? He's the fifth best white rapper (in the building, at least) and has the twinkling eyes of a front-cover model. Sure, his six-pack is more of a one-pack, but with a little carbo-loading and crash-dieting it'll blossom into something beautiful. Any agent worth his salt could see that. Amir has zero talent, skill, or worth as a human being. Why even take a second look?

“What 'talent' has he been scouted for, exactly?”

“A singer, I be,” Amir answers, crooking his finger like a pirate's hook.

“CollegeHumor has been looking to start a record label. This will really help our bottom line – almost nobody reads our articles. I'm not sure why we're still writing them. There's actually a few layoffs coming–”

“They may not be for everybody, sir, but our diehard fans refresh the site a hundred times a day looking for those articles. We have to appeal to our ride-or-dies – that's just good financing. I'm not a businessman, but I know people, sir.”

Jake's out of breath by the time he finishes grovelling. Ricky rolls his eyes (so when he does it, that's fine, but when Jake does it he gets sent out of the pitch meeting),leans his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers.

“I'm not firing you, Jake. Remember what I told you about speeches: in this economy, we need economy of language. I'm transferring you to our music division.”

“I get to work for a record label?” Pussy off the charts.

“Right. Off the charts. And really, who better to be Amir's assistant?”

Amir and Ricky keep laughing long after Jake stops. This has to be some kind of sick joke, or the most terrifying nightmare Jake's ever had. He pinches his arm, hard, and whimpers when it burns. Not a dream.

“Amir – they want to get you in the studio this afternoon. West Eighty-first Street.”

“Permission to swear, sir?” Amir asks. “'Tis the best moment of me life. 'Tis the best moment of me life. It's the best moment of–“

“Your life. Congratulations, Amir.”

“You didn't even swear,” Jake points out, fruitlessly.

“Can Jake come too? I need him to... assist me,” Amir says, sending a sly look to Jake like he's doing him a favor by bringing him along. Amir needs so much assistance. This'll be worse than cleaning toilets back in a Connecticut gas station, because at least when he was doing that he had New York to look forward to.

“Of course,” Ricky confirms, sealing Jake's fate. “Amir, hand me that ataché case.”

He does. Ricky opens it, and smiles wide. “Dismissed.” He doesn't look up.

On their way out Jake peeks in the case: there lies a teddy bear with a pillow under its head. Ricky drapes a tiny blanket over it, gently tucking it in. What the fuck does a CEO even do? 'Cause Jake's pretty sure that's not in the job description.

Amir tugs at Jake's sleeve. “Let's go, Romeo.”

Jake shrugs him off, walking fast to try and gain some distance. “Who the hell was this talent agent, anyway?”

“Some foreign guy. From Cleveland, or Germany or something.”

“One of those is in America.”

“I know,” Amir scoffs. He pulls out a notepad and writes: 'Germany in America, porbably capital of Ohio.' Most of the letters are backwards, duplicated, and overlapping.

Jake could correct him, but really a school-teacher should have done that twenty-odd years ago. What's more interesting is Amir's singing ability, or lack thereof. Fine, he's not terrible, but if anyone spent more than five minutes with him they'd know he's impossible to work with. This agent must be out of their mind.

“Are you really going to record a song? Today?”

“Yah. Und I haf written it myself. So.”

Jake grabs the notepad, turning it on him. “Well, you can't read or write, so.”

“I can write, just not letters, so.”

Amir pulls out a piece of paper with drawings of stick figures, swirls and glyphs. In the corner, it says 'great job, Amir!' in Ricky's handwriting, next to a star sticker.

“You put so much effort into making up these weird hieroglyphics that you may as well have learned the alphabet.”

“It's Hebrew. Don't be racist.”

Jake snatches the paper, and turns it back on Amir. “It's not Hebrew, because this is a freakishly detailed drawing of my face. You individually drew in each beard hair.”

“Y'know, I'm starting to think you'd like me better if I was dead, or in a coma or some shit.”

“If you were in a coma you might wake up,” Jake mutters.

“I'm actually– I'm rethinking having you as my assistant. Yeah.”

“Good. I actually had this pimp idea about another new division we could do, one with articles people would actually read.”

“What, a fashion column?” Pat says, grinning lazily, leaning over the copier all casual-like. Fucking gangly eavesdropper.

“Go fuck yourself, Pat. It's the gaming thing I texted you about.”

“Oh, so we'd review popular games, but with a comedic twist. Okay, sounds like a good idea. Console companies have lots of money for sponsorships, too–”

“We're only reviewing flash games. They're gonna last forever, so we have to carve out a market soon, or someone else will.”

Pat pulls his 'I'm a nerd and you just said something factually incorrect according to my scientific calculations' face.

“Before you say it's a stupid idea, I know it is. It was a joke.”

Amir tugs on his sleeve. “Jake, don't waste time talking to this weasel. I need to get to the recording booth.”

“Just take a taxi.”

“I don't know how.”

“How do you not know– You've lived in New York longer than I have. Fine. Jesus Christ.”

Amir pulls out his wallet, and hands Jake a note. “Is fifty bucks enough?”

His wallet is still hovering there open, lines of green on display. Hey, maybe Jake can tolerate Amir just a little longer today.

“Better make it a hundred.”

Amir hands over the money. “I'm so glad you offered to be my assistant.”

This whole assistant thing will last a week, tops, same as The CollegeHumor Show. And hey, if Jake can actually make money wiping Amir's ass (metaphorically) without having to suck off CollegeHumor at the same time (also metaphorically) then it's kind of like a paid vacation.

Jake pats the bills in his pocket, and smiles. “Me too.”

Jake flags them a cab, and wrestles Amir into the back, giving him his phone to play Bejeweled so he doesn't start insulting the driver. Amir hums to himself, but it's not a tune Jake's ever heard before. It must be the song he wrote, although knowing Amir, he's probably just Weird Al-ing something. There could be money in that, if he could just get over himself and realise he'll never be sincerely good at music.

He's not tone deaf, though. Just lyrically deaf. He comes up with slant rhymes and carves them into ancient tablets and scrolls, reading or reciting them like he's a professional actor. Each time he pulls out a rolled up piece of paper it draws a straw from Jake's fist of patience. Pretty soon, it's going to be more than the last straw.

Jake doesn't know what that means just yet.

All of this would make some sense if someone else wrote the song. It's just impossible that any sane person would look over that page of scribbles and say, 'You're signed!'

The taxi pulls over. Amir offers to go Dutch as long as Jake lends him his half, which is better because it at least offers the veneer of generosity. There's no point in arguing that Amir gave Jake the cash in the first place – he already made a cool fifty bucks off Amir today.

The lobby is tall, with gold accents and framed vinyls on the wall. Amir goes over to the desk, but Jake is frozen in place by just how many albums have been recorded here. By real, actual musicians. Ricky really shelled out on this one. They could have used this money for office space – they're like sardines in a tin, including the smell.

“Fifth floor,” says the receptionist, and she points her pen at the elevator.

“I'm so excited,” Amir says, once they're going up. He punches and dusts the air in front of him, then shakes his hands like he's drying them.

Jake shoves his shoulder. “Calm down. Don't let the sound guy see you like that. He'll send you out.”

Amir slows down, then moves to fidgeting his hands in front of his waist.

“It's okay.”

“I know. I've just, like, never done this before. Don't you get scared when you do things you've never done before?”

“No, 'cause I'm not a bitch.”

“Oh,” Amir says, and he stops wriggling, staring at the ground. Maybe that was a little harsh.

“Just, don't freak out. I'll fuckin', be there for you, or whatever,” Jake says, pointedly watching the floor number tick up. God, that felt gross.

Amir's eyes bore into the side of his face, making him heat up a little. Jake likes attention but he's never liked being stared at. Looking is what you do at something you're interested in. Staring is what you do at a wrecked car, as you try to imagine how the hell it flipped over on a straight road with nice weather. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

Shit.

“Hallo,” says the man who pretends to be different people. He's wearing suspenders, which is supposed to evoke Germany, Jake guesses? “I'm a talent agent, and I've never met you before, Jake.”

“But you know my name,” Jake calls, sticking his finger at the man's chest.

“Merely a lucky guess, Herr Pointy Fingers. Point point point,” he chants, poking Jake in the nipples, making another lucky guess as to the exact position and diameter of them.

Jake bats his hands away. “Is the booth all set up?” Maybe if they can get to the sound guy the weirdo will leave them alone.

“Silly boy, no no no. Amir has to do some vocal warmups first– I can see by the look on your gingerbread face that you're looking forward to that!”

Amir laughs along. Jake continues to grimace.

The man opens a door, and takes them into the soundroom. It's the same size as Jake's apartment, except if Jake glued a bunch of foam onto his bathroom walls. The man turns around and blocks them from approaching the booth.

“You haven't asked me my name yet. It's very rude, actually.”

“Most people introduce themselves with their name.”

“You hafn't said your name either, Jakey Hurwitz, so why don't you just go ahead and ask me my name?” he murmurs, his hand suddenly around Jake's neck, not squeezing but at any moment and for any reason he could decide to follow through on his threat. The cruel consumption of air, the theft of rights and the rough webbing between his finger and thumb are more than the sum of their parts, at least where Jake's parts are concerned.

“What's your name?” Jake whispers. “Sir,” he adds, not quite intending to.

“Oh, well, my name iiiiiissssss...... Chomway... Poyrosphan! Yes, that's my name, which I have known the whole time of course.”

“That's a very interesting name,” Amir says.

“It's a normal name,” he says, slipping away from Jake to lean on the soundboard.

Jake gulps down air. What was that? It was violent. Not arousing. He's gonna have to write that explanation down a hundred times for it to stick.

Amir's eyes linger on him, on his heaving chest and burning face. Jake pretends to be interested in the magazines on the coffee table in the corner, so he at least doesn't have to watch Amir watching him.

“Now for warmups – follow my lead, m'kay?”

He barks like a seal, and Amir clucks like a chicken. Even with the sound-absorbing foam on the walls, Jake has to fight not to plug his ears. It's like there's fifty people jammed in the room – combined with what just happened, it's too fucking much. Chomway smacks the soundboard for emphasis, and it lays down a beat. He and Amir spring up, colliding in the middle of the room, slow dancing and stomping their feet onto Jake's toes, no matter how hard he tries to get away.

“Stop!” Jake shouts.

“Not yet. And... stop!”

The beat stops, even though Jake doubts this place is high-tech enough to have voice commands. He must have memorized the exact length of the track.

“I really feel warmed up,” Amir chokes out, through his shredded chain-smoked-for-thirty-years throat. Hey, maybe he'll lose his voice and won't be able to talk for the rest of the day.

“Fantastic, or as we say in the motherland, good go of it, guvna!”

“Can we record the song now?” Jake asks. They are going to be here for hours if he doesn't step in now, and he'd rather not spend even another minute.

Chomway's eyes go wide. “We? Wake up Jake – you're not a part of this in any way, shape, or way.”

“You said way twice.”

“I'm not sure why you're even here.”

Amir sighs dismissively. “It's fine, let's just get started.”

They hover around the door to the booth, shooting conspicuous looks at Jake. Chomway flutters his hands near his mouth, like it'll stop Jake reading his lips.

“What is with that guy?” Chomway whispers at full volume.

“I don't know, he follows me around sometimes. It's kind of depressing.” Really?

“Yeah, he's a real downer. Look at his ugly little beard, too.”

“Ha! It is ugly. I would never have a beard,” Amir says, rubbing his hairy chin.

Jake doesn't have time for this. He's got a fedora to buy – think about buying, anyway. Hats are weirdly expensive for things that ambiguously look bad and good at the same time.

“If you don't want me here, I'll just ask Ricky for my old job back.”

“Okay.”

“Sounds good,” Chomway says, giving an amused look to Amir. “I can fill your role for the rest of the day, before we find a replacement.”

He mimes an hourglass figure in the air, which is inappropriate but if Jake were in the same place, he'd totally have a hot secretary with a clipboard and her hair pinned back but pieces falling into her face that he could tuck behind her ear. Or something. Amir adds more boobs to the figure, and then a penis.

And that's Jake's cue to leave. He waves goodbye, and Amir doesn't even look at him. He's not nervous at all – so Jake didn't have to come to this thing. But hey, at least he almost died, and maybe found a new fetish. That's something.

As Jake goes for the doorhandle, he pats his pocket and it's empty. That's right, Amir still has his phone.

“Hey,“ he starts, but they don't hear him. He may as well wait for a break in the conversation. Or just buy a new phone. Depends how long this takes.

“Now, we only have thirty minutes to get this track down, so let's get started.”

“I thought I had an hour.”

“No no no! You forgot about your launch party. It starts at seven, and goes to seven.”

“A twelve hour party?”

“To seven the next night; a thirty hour party.”

Jake steps in. “You're having a launch party before you even release the song?”

“I'm building hype,” Chomway says smugly, saying the word 'hype' like he's clearing his throat.

Nobody's ever done that before – an unknown artist, out of nowhere having a launch party for a single song that isn't even out yet? This guy has also never not scammed them before. Musicians always have the sickest parties, though. It's a status thing. There's might be actual famous people there. D-list, even C-list celebs. It's worth the risk of being seen at a lame party.

“You know what? Amir, that party sounds dangerous. You should bring a bodyguard,” he says, thumping his chest.

Amir isn't biting. “It's just a small party, right?”

“It's on a yacht!” Chomway shrieks. “I've always wanted to stand on the tip and yell out like that movie, you know...”

“Titanic?”

“Speed 2.”

Amir fidgets with his hands, excited. “I'm really a big enough star for a frickin' yacht party?”

“You're the biggest star I've ever seen, like that big one in the sky at night, the big C-shaped one–“

“The moon?” Jake suggests.

“No, not that one... The moon!”

Amir punches the air again and again. “Let's bust this track out mother fudgers! I'm on a boat and I just had sex in a box!”

“What the fuck is he talking about?” Chomway says lightly, pointing his thumb at Amir.

“I never know.”

Amir dances his way into the booth, closing the door behind himself. Chomway pulls on a pair of headphones and sits in front of the mixing board.

“Okay, whenever you're ready, mon frere.”

Of course Chomway is the sound guy too, as well as being a talent scout. He'd need a second job if he's so shitty at the first one that he passed up Jake. If he's actually anything he says he is.

Amir begins singing.

Whenever I'm having a bad day

Feeling down, feeling away

I know that feeling is always fleeting

Because soon

Jake doesn't actually want to stay for this part, if he doesn't have to. And he doesn't.

“I gotta make a phone call.” He's the master of excuses.

“Shut the fuck up,” Chomway whispers cheerfully, waving him out. Whatever. Still worked.

I'll be back at my desk sitting

Across from my best friend

Just because he's obsessed with Jake doesn't mean Jake feels the same way back. They're not even friends, let alone best friends. Amir smiles at him through the glass. Jake shuts the door behind him.

It's boring and quiet in the hallway. He could go back in. This is like one of those experiments where people shock themselves rather than sitting in a quiet room.

Maybe he should make a phone call for real. Too bad everyone in his phone is a loser and/or slumpbuster and/or fake number. As he goes to type in another fake number, Pat texts him.

Pat: I pitched that idea for the gaming division. Ricky was totally into it!

Jake: nice going man. tell the rickster to call me, i've got some more ideas

Pat: I told him it was my idea, since you said it was stupid. I actually made some alterations so it's more like a parody of IGN, called ONYN. Like The Onion, you know?

Jake: kys

What the fuck? Just because Jake said the idea was stupid, that didn't mean he was actually giving up on it. That was a gem, everyone knew that from the start.

So Pat steals his golden goose egg just as Amir steals his day-long dream of being a professional musician who goes to sick parties and shit? This is literally the worst day of Jake's entire life. And he's not even going to have time to try on that fedora, let alone the ripped skinny jeans. Last time he pulled them on his foot shot out the knee hole seven different times – it wasn't even worth making a wrong hole joke about.

Chomway slams the door open, and rushes Amir out of the room, making a whooping noise like a sick bird.

“Was that good enough?” Amir asks.

“It was more than good; it was mediocre! But that's what AutoTune is for!”

“I feel like normally people do more than one take for a song?”

“It doesn't matter what you feel like, stupid idiot head. One take is all you need when you're a professional. Right, Jake?”

Chomway flicks his eyes up and down Jake in a way that makes him want to curl up like one of those pill bugs. Jake called him 'sir', and not just because he's a higher-up. That's pretty much fake-your-own-death worthy.

Chomway pulls out his phone. “Alright, let's go to that partay! Except I can't go, whoopsie, because I have just received a text from Snoop Dogg. He's ready to record his next album!”

“You record for Snoop Dogg?”

“He's going for a pop sound this time, a complete one-eighty. I have to call Katy Perry in to do backup vocals. Good day!” he sings, pushing Jake's face before strutting away.

“He said there's a lemon downstairs?”

“I think he said a limo.” Please let it have been a limo.

“Oh, yeah. That makes more sense.”

They hop in the elevator. Jake taps his foot against the floor. Amir might be stupid, but he's not dumb. He saw what happened. Jake just needs to set the record straight.

“Look, that guy might be a little weird–“

“He's just German, I think.”

“But if he can get us to some sick-ass parties, we're gonna be golden, dude. Trust me. Swimming in girls.”

“I think the boat is on water, not on girls. I don't want to swim in girls.” Amir looks Jake right in the eyes, then, like he almost never does, like he knows exactly what he's saying.

Jake tries not to take a step back. He knew that already, but it still kind of freaks him out. All the guys in his frat at least had the courtesy to objectify women, even if they'd slept in each other's beds the night before. He should be glad Amir isn't copying him for once, but it feels like he's inviting Jake to tip his hand.

The elevator dings, saving Jake from having to respond. He walks far ahead and leads Amir outside; sure enough there's a limousine, not a lemon (although there is a lemon-scented air freshener on the rear view mirror).

The driver takes off as soon as they close the door behind them. He must already know the destination.

“Are you sure you wanna go to this party? I mean, I could just go for you,” Jake suggests, and he's really not just being an asshole. Sure, Amir not being there to cramp his style would be great, but he's saying it for Amir's sake too.

“No way.”

“But you hate loud noises and lots of people.”

“I love parties. I don't care about that shiatsu.”

“Then why did you make me hide with you in the dark in the janitor's closet the other day?”

“You don't get me at all. Get this guy outta here,” he says to the driver. “I'm serious, get this fucking Debbie Downer out of here.”

The window between them and the driver lowers.

“If I throw another person out of a moving vehicle I'm gonna lose my license. Sorry, boss.”

“Wow. Service really is going to shit these days.” Amir chuckles drily, and takes a sip from his glass of champagne – where did he get that? “I guess you can stay.”

Jake blows out his breath of air, counting down slowly from ten. This is all going to be worth it. This is the first day of the rest of his life, which is going to consist mainly of celebrity weddings and secret island parties with like, concubines, or something. If Amir's gonna be there too, well, there's always the other side of the island.

It's dark out, when they arrive – it seemed like just the tinted windows, but when Jake opens the door and steps onto the sidewalk he can hardly see where he's standing. Amir follows him, then sticks his head back in the car.

“No tip for you!” he shouts. “It's from Seinfeld. Actually, there's a tip for you: watch Seinfeld. You may as well get into comedy since it's clear you weren't meant to be a driver–“

“Enough,” Jake says, pulling Amir away by his collar.

The limo takes off with speed, the door slamming itself shut. Well, he's probably used to it, if he drives around rich people all day. Amir's just as rude and he never tips. Glass breaks behind him – Jake turns around to look at the pier.

Reds and yellows flit across the near-black water, the stuff which is grey and horrible in daylight now a wonder of nature. It's a beautiful river, or bay, or whatever it is. New York is here for a reason.

The splashes against the hull drown out the high tones of the pop song blaring on deck, but the laughter and clinking glasses cut through on the breeze. Figures dance close and rough, rougher than they should given how classy Jake thought yacht parties were. A Hemsworth would never be seen at an event like this.

A pink bra ribbons off the side, catching the wind and flying before it's swallowed by the gnashing teeth of the water.

Maybe Hemsworths are overrated.

“Jake. Hurry up.”

“Sorry. I'm just... taking it all in,” he says, grinning wide.

Amir grabs him by the hand and pulls him along the pier. He stumbles, but runs along anyway, trusting each step will land on wood and not air, as the inky night swallows the edge of the dock. His stomach tightens, the urge to laugh at nothing lapping at his lungs and the cool air cutting through his thin button-up.

The ramp up doesn't lead all the way to the boat – there's an eight-inch gap between them and the edge, enough for Jake's foot to wedge into and drag him screaming into the depths.

“What are you, scared?” Amir asks.

He kicks the boat hard, and the gap widens just a little.

“Just give me a second.”

“Give you a second what? Like, you're always saying stupid shit like that. I never know what you're talking about.”

“Don't repeat what I said to you. It's creepy that you memorize it, by the way.”

“It's called social skills, Jake, and I have fuck-it loads.”

Amir takes a running leap, landing on the boat like there's no gap at all. He snaps around, smug, and wiggles his eyebrows. Dick. He takes a wide stance and holds out his hand to Jake, grabbing the railing for stability.

“Come on. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy.”

“Don't start a chant, dude. I'll do it. Just shut up.”

He takes a deep breath, and runs. His legs shoot him up into the air, but he was never good at dunking, could never time it right and smashed into the other players, the ball splatting his nosebleed all over the court. His foot doesn't land – it's falling longer than it should. But there's still Amir's hand! He leans forward and grabs.

Amir yanks his hand away. “Psych!”

Jake's dead. He can't swim well. His brothers and sisters always had to drag him out of the lake coughing and sputtering. They're thousands of miles away now. There's nobody to help him now. He's dead.

A hand clutches his wrist. There's a bright light haloing its head and body. It's God.

It pulls him up with ease, and cradles him against its lapel. It's warm. He can still hear the party, distantly, as he rises up to Heaven. Not where he'd put himself if he were God, but hey, he's not complaining.

“Don't cry,” it says, and wait a second.

“Murph?”

“I'll always catch you, Jake,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of Jake's ear.

“Let go, dude,” Jake whines.

“Not until you tell me, and everyone else on this boat, that you're safe.”

“I'm safe.”

“I don't believe you, so why don't you say it again, and mean it this time. I feel safe.”

“I feel safe,” Jake parrots.

He twists out of Murph's grip, and he's on the deck of the boat. It's hard to tell if the waves or the vibrations of stomping feet are making his legs unsteady.

There's so many hot girls on the boat; only in bikini tops and shorts that might as well be underwear, and a few in dresses that cling to everything underneath. Even the guys aren't too ugly, although none of their faces are recognizable. Maybe they're just eye candy too. The party is for Amir, after all.

Jake takes a single step forward and collapses against the railing. His heart is skipping every other beat and he might just be sick down the side of the boat. The lights are too bright, the music is too loud and there's too many people. Is this what Amir feels like when he hides under his desk?

Cold, clammy hands land on Jake's shoulders.

“'Tis a beautiful view, to be sure.”

Jake doesn't react; he barely hears Amir's words, let alone processes them. He just wants off the boat now, but that means crossing the gap again. And another night alone in his cold bed.

“Jakey-jakey. Are you having a heart attack?”

Maybe. “No.”

“Then what's your problem?” Amir laughs. “You look like you almost died or something.”

“I did almost die.”

“You're such a baby. Need me to kiss it better?” He leans in, slow enough for Jake to move out of range without giving himself whiplash.

“Don't. This night has been so terrible. The least you could do is not make me look gay in front of everyone so I at least have a chance of getting laid tonight.” Jake's voice gets high and whiny at the end, and it sounds so fucking pathetic and Amir-like.

“You know, not everything is about you. This party is for me,” Amir says, sticking his thumbs in his chest, “so if you don't like it, you can... get lost. Oh yeah.”

“Get lost? Wow. Cool comeback. How about instead of getting lost – I stay here and get lots. I'm gonna jack all the poon, and you'll be the buffoon.”

“No, don't. Don't jack it.”

“I'm jackin' it,” Jake says, strutting into the middle of the party. This is his night. Nobody can ruin it, not Amir, not even Murph. In ten years he'll look back on this as the start of the rest of his life.

Jake splashes cool water on his face, trying not to spill any more down his shirt. It hardly looks like he was crying now. Why don't girls just put in fake numbers when he asks for them? He always specifies that they can be fake. There's nothing to lose.

He should rejoin the party, see if he can cut his losses and go home with a slumpbuster. Fuck, who's he kidding? This is a yacht party. They're all tens. The only thing he's kissed all night is the glass lip of the vodka bottle – he does it again for courage, coughing when some goes down the wrong way.

He can barely open the door and squeeze out of the tiny cabin bathroom, but he stumbles back to the main deck without spilling more than half of what's left in the bottle. In other words, he's barely even drunk yet. He'll remember all of this tomorrow.

“Hey, Jake.”

Amir's sitting in a circle on the deck with the rest of the party-goers. It's calmer now – a lot of people left after Jake made a pass at them. Amir kept throwing him off by apologizing, which completely negates his negging.

“You wanna play a game with us?” Amir asks.

“Uh, no. I don't think I wanna play one of your stupid games–“

“We were gonna play Suck and Blow.”

Those are two of Jake's favorite words, and together they're only slightly less than the sum of their parts.

“Sign me up!”

Jake wedges himself between two girls – there's not really a gap, but otherwise he'd have to sit next to Amir.

“I love party games,” he says to the dark-haired girl on his left. She smiles, looking him up and down through her eyelashes. When he turns to the other one, she's swapped places with Amir. Shit.

“Aren't we supposed to sit guy-girl? Find another space, buddy. I was here first.”

“Actually, I was here first. I called you over, remember?”

“Whatever.” Jake makes an 'L' on his forehead, pointing to Amir, but all of the girls must be too young to get the joke.

“And I'm sorry, dude, there's just too many girls for us not to sit next to each other. It's math.”

“Add this up: I'm not kissing you.”

“That's fine, just don't drop the card,” he says, confused, holding up the Queen of Diamonds.

“Easy.” Jake shoves his shirt sleeves up, for the casual GQ look that's replaced the roll but still shows off his forearms, and uh, he does work those out for nothing.

Amir holds the card up to his lips, and thankfully starts passing it away from Jake. He can totally get out of it before he has to pass to Amir, like by suggesting everyone switches places. Piece of Jake.

As if Amir doesn't know what he's doing. Oh, just don't drop the card, bleh. He probably set up this whole game and asked them to wait until Jake got out of the bathroom. He doesn't want to drown in girls, after all. Well, Jake does, and he will. This game is the perfect opportunity to show off his kissing skills.

It gets passed to the girl next to him. She takes a second to wipe her mouth – her lips are reddened like the suit on the card. She's already kissed someone at this party, and judging by her low-cut top, she's willing to do it again.

She leans in, and so does he. They're both the right amount of hot for each other – everyone here should be watching closely.

Before he can mess up on purpose, she drops the card. It's not an accident – her knee is still touching his, and she's not scrambling to pick up the card and try again. He brushes her hair behind her ear, and kisses her. With tongue.

His stomach twists as she pulls away. She hands him the card from between her fingers, like a cool chick in a movie giving the lead guy her number on a slip of paper. Her eyes aren't quite the same colour, or maybe it's just from the disco lights on Murph's DJ booth. Would she really kiss him if they weren't playing this game? Does it matter? And where was she when he was trying to score fake numbers?

“My turn,” Amir says sheepishly, and Jake's spent so long staring at this girl that the circle is half the size it was when they started, everyone else paired off in a corner. Most of the pairs are two girls, chatting and kissing and Jake should be making some comment about that but Amir looks so eager.

“Let's shuffle around. I wanna give all the girls a chance to get a piece of this.” Jake's voice cracks at the end.

“No fair,” says the girl he just kissed. “Everyone has to get a turn first.”

No fair is right. He's had a turn already, had it with her. There's really no need for him to do this with Amir.

“Come on. I wanna play,” Amir says.

He looks at Amir, whose eyes are wide and hopeful and sickening. He looks back at the girl, and she squeezes his arm in support. She wants him to. Is she into this? Girls must be into two guys kissing the same way that he's into watching girls. But it's not the same. When girls kiss it's all fun and games. When guys kiss they move to a different city where nobody knows them and don't even send a postcard.

She thinks it's the same. He'll do it for her.

Jake's hand quivers as he raises it to his mouth, the card bouncing off his lips as he lets out a shaky breath. He shivers, and turns to Amir.

Amir sits up on his knees, so Jake doesn't have to lean down. He didn't even think about how he's a half-inch taller, and that it might make passing the card more difficult than it has to be. It all feels more difficult than it has to be.

He leans into it, his vision unfocused and hardly even seeing the man right in front of his face. All eyes are on him; although they were twenty seconds ago too, his confidence shrivels to a tiny speck. They're staring, waiting for him to bow out or become different in their eyes. That girl better be BJ-level into this.

Amir's glasses press into his cheek, feeling sterile compared to his warm skin and hair. He put on cologne for this, a cheap one, but it works.

Amir grabs his shoulder, and Jake does the same. His shirt feels like the back of the card, textured and easy to hold on to. Easy to let slip.

The card pulls away from Jake's lips, slightly, and he remembers he's supposed to blow. His eyes are scrunched closed so he doesn't have to see himself in Amir's glasses. It's going to happen now. Jake puffs, and waits for the sound of the card fluttering against the deck.

Amir pulls back. The air is so cold on his face, now, without the windbreak. Jake digs his nails into his thigh, and braces.

“Okay, does anyone wanna swap places?”

Jake opens his eyes. The card is in Amir's hand. It never dropped. It never dropped? Everyone shuffles places, except Jake because he's glued to his spot. Amir passes it to the next girl, and Jake watches him not drop it again.

Why didn't Amir try to drop the card? He's clearly into Jake (which, fair enough) and men in general. The point of the game is to fumble, to have an excuse to do something you'd never even think about ordinarily.

“I need a drink,” he says, to nobody. Someone brushes his leg as he gets up, Amir or the girl, but he doesn't want to see who.

Murph is still rocking out at the DJ booth. He's the only other person Jake knows at this party, and somehow that feels safest right now. As soon as he approaches, Murph stops fistpumping and pulls his headphones off one ear.

“Jake. How many drinks have you had?”

“Like... I don't know. I was drinking from the bottle before.”

“I'll drive you home, bro. I'm always gonna be there for you.”

He always sounds so threatening when he says that. Murph cares about him, though. Is that just because Emily's in love with him?

“Hey, Murph? Why are you still with Emily?”

Murph takes off his headphones entirely, slowly lowering them to the table. “What do you mean?”

Man, this was not a good line of questioning. “I just mean– Like, you see she looks at other guys, right?”

“We have an open relationship, bro. It's totally cool, and if you're not down with that, I'm gonna give you a wedgie in front of everyone here.”

“That's cool. It's whatever. But why do you flip out when she flirts with me?” Jake adds, because he can't not.

“She's been flirting with you?”

“No, dude! But, like, maybe some people would interpret it that way. Maybe. Not me.”

“Our relationship isn't open to everyone. Do you think I should lock it down, though? Like, marry her?”

“I wouldn't rush into anything. You guys have something that works. Why change it?”

Murph chews on that for a moment. Jake saw him in the mall buying a ring already, so he's probably still going to do it. If Emily flirts with him then, though, that's adultery! Jake could get jail time for that, probably. Why does he attract crazy people?

Murph ejects the CD, and puts in one labelled 'Slow Mix'. “I saw you playing Suck and Blow with Amir. That's progressive as fuck. I love that shit. Sorry he blue-balled your ass, though. We can kiss if you want.”

“Shut up,” Jake says, looking over his shoulder to confirm that yes, people heard that.

Murph grabs him by the jaw. “If you think I would ever make you uncomfortable in front of a large group of people you are sorely mistaken.”

“Ow! Alright, just let go!”

“Sorry, was I hurting you? Sometimes I don't know my own strength,” he says, flexing his fingers.

Jesus fuck. Normal offices aren't like this. He's been to one. They don't hire one lunatic, let alone three, all of which want to fuck Jake.

No. It wasn't better in LA. That bitch trying to imply he was obsessed with Amir was nuts too.

He came back, though. It's always hanging over his head, a broken lightbulb that he can't get the power through to. He can never figure out why he came back. Doesn't stop him from spiralling every time he's drunk, though.

He looks over at Amir. He's near the railing with the girl that kissed Jake before, his palm in her face. The breeze carries their voices over.

“Stop. I'm gonna tell you why, okay?”

She nods.

“I'm out of your league. You're a two. A goddamn two.”

She keeps nodding, biting her lip to keep from crying.

“Honestly? I don't know how you got invited to this party. You're not hot, and you're not rich or famous. There's no reason for you to be here.”

She runs to the ramp off the boat. Jake stumbles behind her, stopping before he has to jump the gap again.

“Wait!”

She turns back and wipes the tears from under her eyes.

“Do you wanna share a cab?”

“I only kissed you because you're Amir's friend. You're not attractive and you're a bad kisser.”

“Whatever, sweetheart. You'll be begging to kiss me when I'm famous.”

She flips him off, and disappears into the night.

“Hey. You wanna blow this popsicle stand?”

“I'm not going home with you,” Jake grits. His stomach is starting to turn.

“That's because I'm going home with you. Murph's driving us to your apartment.”

“Why is it always my apartment?”

“You have the double bed. It'd be hard to fit both of us in a single. We could try, though. If you want.”

Jake vomits into the water below.

Jake's head hurts. Someone is scurrying around his apartment, rifling through the kitchen. A cup smashes on the floor.

“Oops.”

Amir slept over. They were on a boat, and they didn't kiss, and Amir slept over.

“Don't touch it,” Jake mumbles. Amir's blood tends to really stain things, and he's not getting his deposit back with a stained floor.

“You're awake. Finally. I was thinking about waking you up.”

So making all of that noise was just coincidental, then. Sometimes Amir is stupid and sometimes he just pretends because it's easier than admitting he was an asshole. Jake checks his alarm clock, which for once wasn't what woke him up.

“It's six AM. Go back to bed,” Jake says, but then he remembers Amir will probably climb under the covers next to him. Might be worth it if he can sleep off this hangover, though.

“I have an interview at 107.X this morning.” Well, there goes that idea.

Jake sighs, and props himself up on his elbows. “How do you know that and not me? I'm your assistant, right?”

“Ricky called you, but you were asleep so I picked up.”

“Were you fucking around on my phone again?”

“Your phone has the best games on it! I got bored waiting for you to wake up.”

“You could've gotten a coffee, or something normal instead of watching me sleep.”

“Sorry. Whatever. Just call me a cab to the interview because I don't know how to do that.”

“You saw me do it last time. It's easy; just copy what I did.”

“I'm scared they're gonna run me over or something.”

“Only if you walk in the road.”

“No, because I broke the strike they had last December. Don't ask how–“

“Don't tell.” Please, for the love of everything sacred in the world (Jake's morning sleep-in time) don't tell.

“–but it involved a goose, a chicken – they're different, in case you didn't know – and a little wolverine blood.”

“Goddamnit. Fine. Let me get dressed.”

Jake swings open his closet door, and grinds his teeth like cogs that don't meet up, that will never fit together, that should be in seperate machines on seperate planets.

“I rearranged your closet based on what I'm most likely to also wear that day. So we can match.”

*

They arrive at the radio station. It shares half a floor with an orthodontics clinic, and the carpet is stained with what Jake hopes is energy drinks from overnight hosts. A young assistant sits them down with the host, a bald man with a wrinkly head and no fashion sense. Although, that doesn't really matter given he's on radio. But come on – brown plaid shorts with a dark red hoodie? Those colors don't go together at all.

Before Jake can get a chance to say hello, or 'terrible outfit, sir' or that he shouldn't even be in the interview, the host fades out the song and begins introducing the segment.

“Alright, I'm here with Amir Blumenfeld, better known as The Blüm. He performed the song you just heard, called Jake. Why don't you go ahead and introduce yourself for us with a fun fact?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

The host laughs. “Fair enough. I'm James McClannen, and before I was a radio host, I mopped floors at the Flat Iron.”

Amir looks to Jake for help. Doesn't everyone think about this for hours just in case they get in a weird icebreaker situation like this one right now? Jake's one is that he won a spelling bee in fourth grade. It's light, it doesn't say anything about how smart he is now, and it can never be proven wrong. It's also not true – he got second place, but he's a writer and it'd look bad if he didn't know how to spell.

“Just say you know Hebrew, or something. Keep it light.”

“One time, I saw a man beaten in front of me. Oddly enough, it was my dad doing the beating. I was just glad it wasn't me for once.” Not light.

“Dark sense of humor, huh? I like that,” James says with a smirk.

“It wasn't a joke.” Jesus.

“Doubling down. Nice. Alright, let's get to some of these burning questions. How do you feel about the song which I'm told you recorded only yesterday already being in the top 100?”

“It's ace. I never thought it would happen so fast. Like, two or three days, maybe.”

James laughs again. Luckily he's a guy that can laugh at literally anything. Maybe Amir can bug this guy forever instead. His name even starts with the same two letters (not that Amir would know).

“Now, we have another person with us in the studio – I have to ask, who is your friend here?”

“He's Jake. He's my assistant.”

“I'm way more than that. We practically co-wrote the song together.”

“You didn't write it at all.”

“Yeah, well, that's why I said practically.” Jake bugs his eyes at the presenter – can't they see how dumb Amir is? They should end the interview early.

“Is this the Jake the song is named after?”

“Yes,” Amir says, at the same time Jake says, “No.” Goddamnit.

“I wanted to write a song about him because we're really close friends.”

“We're not that close,” Jake says, trying to sound friendly about it.

“Ouch. Seems like you two aren't on the same page.”

“I just don't want any rumors going around.”

“Rumors?” James asks. So Jake has to spell it out, then.

“You know, that we're g–“

“That we're not the best friends in the whole world,” Amir finishes, and it seems worse.

“Ah. You meant you're even closer than close, because you're best friends,” James says, saying 'best friends' like a toxic puddle he's trying to hop over. Or maybe Jake just feels sick to his stomach.

How many people listen to this radio station? There's millions of people in New York, and even if the tiniest fraction of a fraction of a fraction are listening right now, fifty thousand people just heard that. It only takes one– Maybe not in New York, but in Hamden it only took one person to snitch and Andrew and his family moved to some red state.

“Exactly,” Amir replies, but Jake didn't hear the question.

“Alright, we're going to have to cut it there, but it was great having you on. The Blüm, everybody!”

*

Jake shoves Amir into the elevator and mashes the close door button so nobody can join them.

“What the fuck, dude? Everyone's gonna think we're together. How am I going to get girls now?”

“Did you get girls before?”

“All the time, fuck off. I kissed that girl on the boat – that's why I thought this whole thing wouldn't be so bad after all.”

“Why would it be bad?”

He can't piss Amir off right now, or he'll double down on cutting Jake out of this. He still needs Amir on his side, until Jake gets famous by association. And if Amir started this, he can end it too.

“It wouldn't,” Jake says. “It's fine. Just make sure you tell everyone you were joking.”

“What, now? The interview's over.”

“The next one, dumbass. You are doing more interviews, right?”

“Yeah, I got one tomorrow.”

“Again – I'm your assistant. Why are you doing my job for me?”

“You did my job for me sometimes. It's just easier.”

“But then I don't need to be here, right?”

“I like hanging out with you,” he says and Jake has to turn away from those stupid earnest eyes. “But you kinda flubbed my interview like a dickly prickling.”

“Are you kidding me? I was trying to make you sound normal.”

“Why do I have to be normal? Aren't I supposed to be myself?”

“No! Of course not. If everyone was themselves the world would crumble.”

“I'm just saying, you should let me do the next one by myself.”

“Yeah, well, see how hard it is without help. You always need my help.”

Amir rolls his eyes, trying to hide it by turning away. “I need to practice. I have a concert coming up.”

“Yeah? Maybe I need to practice something too.”

Jake can put an end to this, and prove to everyone that he's not a gay loser. All he needs to do is Milli Vanilli Amir.

Jake sits on his kitchen bench and whips out his phone.

Jake: hey you can play guitar right

Pat: Yeah?

Jake: teach me

Pat: Right now? I'm at work. Where are you BTW

Jake: up ur ass. get over here now

Pat: If you were up my ass I'd already be 'here'?

Jake: fuk u. my apartment now or im telling ur mom about new years

Pat: OK be right there.

In order to pull this off, he's going to have to learn how to play guitar and sing just as well as Amir before the concert. That's in two days. It's probably doable. Jake is naturally musical – he totally sings in the shower all the time. The only thing that'll hold him back is Pat, if he's a shitty teacher. And he's an idea thief, so he probably is, but Jake's a fast learner so it'll all even out.

Once he's revealed Amir as a fraud, he can tell everyone that he was never with Amir. Amir was just blackmailing him so he wouldn't tell anyone about the Milli Vanilli-ing. And then Jake, secure enough to admit that being gay is fine, but he's not, can get a bunch of money and pussy or whatever. And hopefully he'll have enough cashola to hire security guards so Amir stays away forever. It's the perfect plan.

Jake positions the pizza box just so on his coffee table. Pat won't be paid in money, but in pizza, because he's poor and annoying. He can only take a limited amount of food before he's full. Besides, someone has to fatten him up a little. Jake opens the front door before Pat can knock, and he's holding out his spare key about to unlock the door, with a guitar case slung over his back. It's a wonder he can even lift that thing, he's so wiry.

He sits Jake down, gives him the guitar to hold and starts saying some gibberish. Jake just nods along – he's too busy looking at himself in his floor-length mirror. Maybe if this impersonation thing doesn't work out, he can just use this guitar to get chicks, 'cause he looks damn good with it resting over his knee.

“Okay, so go ahead and play.”

Jake strums the guitar with his nails – isn't he supposed to have a pick or something? His other hand needs to hold some of the strings down, so he does that and tries strumming again. It sounds different, but not higher or lower somehow.

“I thought you said you had a basic understanding of chords.”

“Teach me how to play right now or I'm not letting you have any pizza,” Jake says, snatching the box and wedging it between himself and the arm of the couch, where Cassels can't reach.

Pat's' eyes widen in fear. That gangly bitch's stomach is already rumbling, and they've only been sitting here five minutes. Jake strums the guitar a few times, raising his eyebrows, daring Pat to walk away.

“Fine. Just hold your fingers like this,” he says, pressing Jake's fingers into the right position one by one. It's a little too intimate, but Jake has to suffer slightly today so he can be totally rich and drowning in poon by next Tuesday.

“Now strum.”

Jake does. The strings buzz a little bit, but it sounds way better.

“That's the A chord.”

“Cool. So can I play the stupid song now?”

“Jake,” he laughs, the bastard, “you can't play a song with one chord.”

“I need to learn to sing and play like a fucking wizard by Friday. Are you going to help me or not?”

“No. You can't learn that quickly.”

“Bullshit.”

Pat sighs, and takes the guitar back from him. “Well, how well can you sing?”

“Heh. Check this out.”

Lyrics fly out of Jake's mouth faster than he can register them. It's a mix of freestyle rap, a ballad, and all the power of the top one hundred singles from 2004. His pitch is perfect too – a little rustic in parts, but it's nothing post-processing couldn't fix.

“Wow,” Pat says, dumbstruck. “That was...”

“Amazing. I know. Be honest – do you think it needs any work?”

“Yes,” Pat says, a little too quickly and a little too enthusiastically.

“Fuck you. That was a rhetorical question, and the answer's no.”

“Why do you want to do this anyway?”

“I'm gonna Milli Vanilli Amir, knock his ass out of the ring and become über-famous myself.”

Pat squints, doing the math in his head. “Okay, so firstly you don't sound anything like Amir. And secondly, the guys behind Milli Vanilli didn't become famous themselves.”

“Yeah, they did.” His whole plan hinges on that. It's totally true.

“What are their names?”

“Uh... Michael... Jordan?”

“Wrong. This whole thing is pointless, Jake. I'd be happy to teach you guitar if you just want to learn, though,” he says, reaching for an unearned slice of pizza. “I'm free from nine to ten AM.”

Jake cradles the box to his chest. “Just give me the basics. I'm hot enough that everyone will just go along with it.”

“Not that hot.” Pat clears his throat, and shuffles some of the music sheets from his guitar case. “Can I have some pizza now? I didn't have time to grab lunch before I came over.”

Jake smiles. Pat's gonna basically do all the work for him, and all Jake has to do is feed the bitch. Deal of a lifetime.

“Play the A chord again.”

“The a chord? Learn to speak, dipshit–“

“The chord I just showed you.”

“Oh.”

These are going to be the longest two days of Jake's life.

“I need you to take me to my interview,” Amir says, voice tinny through the phone speakers.

Right. This is the one where he's gonna admit that he was joking about them being close friends.

“Fine. Where are you?

“This one's on TV! I'm basically an actor now. Come get me, bitch.”

“Yeah, but where are–“

The phone clicks, as Amir struggles to hang up. Jake does it for him, and rolls out of bed. Amir's probably just outside his building again. The door code changes once a week, and sometimes it takes Amir a few days to guess it.

A TV interview. That's weird, right? His second interview and it's on TV? Amir was barely getting roles in CollegeHumor web videos only a few days ago. This whole thing is moving so fast. If Jake wants to tag along, he needs to keep up.

He hops in a taxi, collects Amir, and they head to the news station. It's busy inside despite how early it is. Jake is lost, immediately, but the guy who's everywhere is there to meet them. He appears to still be their talent agent/sound guy/manager, Chomway Poyrosphan, or whatever the fuck.

“Hello! I love to say hello to you, my very special friend Amir!”

“Hi. Do I know you?”

“Yes! Your television debut is very very soon, in about twelve minutes,” Chomway says, checking his watch-less wrist, “so I'm going to leave you with a very good friend of mine who you have never seen before. Goodbye!”

He disappears around the corner, where there are a bunch of clothing racks. There's some extended rustling, a squeal, and then he reappears, swaying his hips as he walks.

“Hallos, I am a fashion designer, and it is good to meet yous for the first ever time.” He picks up Amir's hand, and slobbers all over his knuckles.

“Good to meet you too.”

“That's not a normal greeting,” Jake points out.

“Depends on your perspective what is and isn't normal. In my country you are very very ugly and people throw stones at you as you walk down the street, but I can't see any bruises on your little horrible face, so maybe you're normal here.”

“No, people think he's ugly,” Amir says.

“Shut up, dude.” Jake shouldn't listen to these idiots but he crosses his arms over himself, hunching just a little.

“I will greet you as well,” he says, gripping Jake's hand with all the force of a building toppling over onto an infant.

“Jesus. Let go,” Jake squeaks.

“Of courses. Nows, we are going to dress you to look like a star. How do you feel about meat? Well, this is the meat dress that Ladum G'ga famously wore in that one movie, you know the one. Do you like?”

He holds it up – it's green and blue and there's maggots crawling over the surface.

“It's rotting,” Jake says, because Amir might actually try it on, and this goes beyond a bold fashion choice to an actual health hazard.

“I'm sorry, I'm not from this country but I think that is slang for 'very good and fashionables'.”

“It is! You're really integrating well,” Amir says. “Oh, what's your name by the way?”

“Did you want to know my name?”

“Yeah, I just asked you.”

“My name? Oh, well, my name is so very ordinary that it's hardly even worth saying. You could just guess it?”

“Okay, uh. John André Smith,” Amir guesses.

“Why the André?”

“There's three thousand of him. It's a pretty common name, then.”

“Great guesses, great logic, but you're wrong. Wrong wrong wrong, we sing the wrong wrong song!”

Surely this one isn't singing too. Please.

“You're not fucking Rumplestiltskin. Just say your name.”

“Ooh – Rumplestiltskin! That's a very good guess, not close at all but almost there... But we shall play games no longer, for I shall tell you....... My name issssssssst...... Bananas Roobs!”

“I can't do this anymore,” Jake mutters to nobody in particular, maybe God if there was one, but judging by this conversation it's not likely. “I'm Amir's personal stylist. We have no need of your services,” he says in a fancy stylist voice.

“You wanna style me?”

“Of course, since it's my job,” Jake grits through a smile.

The sad thing is, it's not entirely a lie. Jake helps Amir get dressed a lot – sometimes he forgets how buttons work, and sometimes it's plain old not knowing the dress code for work. CollegeHumor is super casual, but getting Amir to wear a shirt can be like defusing a bomb. It was kind of nice wearing a suit in LA, but it wore down at Jake every day until he had to flee back to New York lest he lose his sense of self.

Maybe it wasn't the suit.

“Yeah, I'm sorry Bananas. I'd rather have Jake style me,” Amir says, clutching Jake's arm.

But it definitely wasn't because he missed Amir. Jake tugs his arm away, shoving Amir's clammy hands back at him.

Bananas strokes his chin in thought. “If your boyfriend is a stylist–“

“Boy best friend,” Amir notes, also incorrectly.

“–then why is he dressed so poorly?”

“Fuck you,” Jake spits. He's wearing a studded belt, skinny jeans and boots – boots for men, even though– no, especially because they have a slight heel. They're faux suede, which is totally better for the environment and also: they're the same highlighter yellow as his boxer briefs, which are peeking over the top of his jeans. Color matching is just basic fashion, and if this guy can't see that, he's a fucking fraud.

“Calm down, Jake. You're scaring me. He's not a fraud.”

“I... didn't mean to say that out loud.”

“No, he's right.” Bananas takes off his beret, and throws it to the floor. “I am a fraud. I haven't been to a fashion show in years. I'm just stuck at this news station, waiting for some big Hollywood producer to pick me up and throw me into the next big movie. But you know what's the worst part?”

He wipes a tear from his eye.

“What?” Amir asks solemnly.

“I've been pretending to be French for seven years,” he says, in a normal New York accent. Amir gasps. He smudges his pencil moustache – Amir gasps again.

“Five minutes to call!” some woman says. They gotta wrap this up before this guy tries to take over Amir's interview. Jake needs this to go well – his standing depends on it.

“It's great that you're finally admitting this, but Amir has to get dressed now. Okay?”

“Okay. I'll just sneak out into the alleyway and inject some dumpster juice right into my gluteus; good day!”

Amir waves goodbye, then turns to Jake. “That guy was kind of annoy-noy.”

Jake waits until Bananas is definitely out of earshot, before he says, “Very annoy-noy. Now take your shirt off.”

“Exclues moi?”

“You're not wearing a polo shirt on national TV.”

“State TV, I think. Or city. New York is confusing, ernh!” Amir says, snapping his neck to one side.

“Only douchebags and nerds wear polos now. I know I'm wearing one, just shut up, it's ironic and I wear it well.”

“I wanna wear sequins.”

“You're wearing a mismatched suit, a graphic tee with a tie and another tie as a bandana around your stupid little noggin. That's the best I can do for your horrible body and dull complexion. You're welcome,” Jake says, starting to grab bits and pieces off the costume rack.

“Purple and green? That doesn't go together at all.”

Maybe the polo was a mistake. But the bigger mistake is wasting his genius on this loser.

“Yeah, well, if you're not wearing it I'm wearing it.” Jake pulls on the green striped suit jacket.

“Why?”

“This is fashion! Or was the eight-year-old Macaulay Caulkin lookalike at the thrift store on Fifth Avenue not stylin?”

Amir takes a step back, bumping into a vanity.

“I was on the other side of a glory hole from Jean-Paul frickin' Gaultier!”

“Which side?”

“Which– the left side.”

“No, like, what were you doing?”

“I was on the left side. It doesn't matter, because it proves I know a fuckton about fashion. Some French semen for this diva demon leaves the ladies screaming!”

“...in fear, or?”

“Screaming because they know I'm so far out of their league. Fashion-wise.”

Amir digs through the makeup on the table. “Obviously not looks-wise,” he mutters, a brutal aside that makes Jake clench his fists.

“I'm going to kill you. For real. Right now,” Jake says calmly.

“Amir Blumenfeld!”

A woman with a clipboard and a headset approaches. She's kind of an ugly bimbo, but Jake could make an exception since she's actually quite attractive and classy. The kind of girl he'd have as his secretary or personal assistant.

“Why aren't you on set yet?”

She grabs him by the arm and rushes him over to the set, and Jake jogs behind. He's not missing the chance to watch this shitshow before they edit it down.

Luckily, neither of the newscasters look like Bananas Morocco, or whatever his name was. They're clean-cut and white-washed, like the donors to Jake's school back in Connecticut. Amir is not going to fare well.

Jake stands right behind the camera on stage right. A few people give him looks like he's a clown ready to appear in the next segment. Jake might not fit in here, with their khaki shorts and ringer tees, but he'd fit right in at a runway show. As head designer. Ha, 'head' designer. Why'd Ricky ever pull him as a writer?

“Ready to roll in five, four, three...” The director finishes counting down on his fingers, shooting them finger guns when they're filming.

“Welcome back to Breakfast in the City, I'm Vanessa McCoy,” and wow, her smile is plastered on.

“And I'm Michael Redwood,” says the guy with the $300 haircut. “Right now, we have for you the up and coming artist Amir Blumenfeld, better known by his stage name: The Blüm.”

“That's my name. Do wear it out, ha-ha. Wear my name on a badge.”

The hosts chuckle, but they're clearly thrown off already. The editor is going to have a tough time making this look in any way natural.

“Tell me where I can buy one, and I'll get right on that,” Vanessa says.

“Amir – your hit single Jake is rapidly climbing the charts; in the past day you've gone from a top 100 to being in the top 50. How do you feel about that?”

Oh no. Feelings. There's no way Amir can answer this question appropriately.

“I'm stunned. I thought I'd be in the top 10 by now.” He smiles, thin-lipped but pleased with his own joke.

“Any plans for releasing an album?”

“Well, Vag-nessa, I hate to retread old ground. I mean, imagine if I made eight songs about entering a... I don't know, a March Madness bracket where I kept betting on the losing teams.”

At least those songs would be based in reality. Last time, he entered himself as the winning team, despite being five foot something and never having scored a basket, let alone a dunk or half-court shot. Thank God no-one caught the vag thing.

“That's a very specific example.”

“My boyfriend always does the brackets with me.”

The hosts stiffen, as if they could look any more like cardboard cutouts. “You have a boyfriend?” asks Vanessa, and yeah, of course Michael's not touching that one.

Jake's heart is stuck in his throat. Did he not specifically say to retract the thing about them being together? Each time Amir suggests it he's dumping dirt in Jake's open grave, piling it higher and higher on his chest til his lungs collapse.

“Sorry. I said boy friend. Actually, boy best friend would be more accurate.”

They laugh awkwardly, their grins slipping down their faces. They scan their papers for another question, but neither of them wants to risk Amir's weird answers again. And, fair enough - he's totally bombing out there. Nobody is going to listen to his music if they see him talking like this. Besides, this is Jake's one and only chance to appear on TV (unless he commits a crime or something, which is really a last resort move). It's honestly a blessing that Amir even has the chance to appear next to Jake on television.

Jake knots the tie around his head. It's time.

He sprints onto the set, past all the staff and cameras and lights, landing center stage in a cool-ass pose. The hosts are confused, bewildered and instantly in love with him.

“Heyoooooo,” Jake coos, shimmying his shoulders. He moves smoothly to the sprinkler – showing off his sequin elbow patches.

“Jake? What are you doing?”

“Shaving your career,” Jake says, miming shaving, cutting himself and sticking toilet paper to the wound.

“So this is the Jake from your song,” Michael concludes.

“Uh– No way, dude.”

“Yeah,” Amir sighs, “he is. You guys are gonna cut this out, right? I can help; I've made my own web series.”

“Web 'series'?”

“It's like TV only way lamer!” Jake quips, making an 'L' on his forehead. Wait – is that the wrong hand?

“Well, if it's so lame how come you agreed to be in it?” Amir huffs.

He never agreed to be in it. But breaking and entering isn't serious enough of a crime for anyone to do anything even when it's caught on fucking camera.

“So you two are creative collaborators? Is Jake going to sing on any future tracks?” Vanessa asks, trying to steer things back to her stupid script.

“Uh, hell to the no way Josie. Only because I don't want to be associated with this lameazoid, not because I don't sound like I have the pipes of an angel. The ones from frickin' Heaven, or whatever.”

“Okay, Jake, if you hate me so much then just say it to my face. You're ruining everything!”

“I do hate you. And I do say it to your face; every day!”

“Go away,” Amir says muffled, into his hands as he tries to hide the pathetic tears streaming down his face.

“You're a loser. Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes,” he wails.

“Say it back to me.”

“I'm a loser. Stop it.”

“And we're not friends, or boyfriends, or boy best friends.”

“We're not friends– Jake, stop!”

“I'll never stop, motherfuckers. I'm the king of the hill. Brobane!”

“You're just like my fucking dad.” Amir pushes past Jake and runs off set.

Mission accomplished.

Everyone is stunned by Jake's performance. The director tells everyone to cut, but even he's not sure of what's happening, or if they should keep rolling. They should, because Jake is on fire up here.

The woman with the clipboard walks over to the director. “Alright, well... Should we just do the cooking segment?”

“Yeah,” says the director. “We're not a reality TV show. We have to have a little integrity.”

“I'll tell them to delete the footage, then–“

“No! We'll put it up on Youtube. When he gets famous enough this thing will go viral.”

“He's never gonna get famous, bro. He's a talentless hack – and I'm jumpin' Jack!” Jake says, hopping away like a kangaroo or a frickin' wombat, even.

He totally saved his own skin and Amir's. Everyone would have thought he was a total weirdo. That is, if they even watched the interview at all, because it was so fucking boring. Jake jazzed it up so much they're not even gonna air it, which is great, because it gives Amir time to practice for the next one so he doesn't look like a freak.

Jake gets in the elevator and smiles. This assisting thing is more fun than he thought.

Jake sticks the key in his apartment door, but it swings open without him turning the lock. Amir probably came over here to sulk about Jake taking the reins on his interview. How many times has Jake told him not to leave the door unlocked? How many times has Jake changed the locks so Amir couldn't leave it open in the first place?

“Amir? Did you break in again?” Jake calls, stepping inside. “I said I'd call the cops next time.”

There, sitting on his couch is Pat, who Jake has just remembered has a spare key. Also sitting on his couch are two guitars. Not sitting anywhere is Amir. He's either not here or hiding in the kitchen cupboards again, although if he were here Pat wouldn't be. Amir has this weird vendetta against him like Murph has against Jake, almost like – well, almost like Jake is Amir's Emily. That might be a better comparison than Jake first thought.

Pat holds up his watch, which reads a quarter to ten. “You said we'd do this at nine.”

He did say that. And now he needs all the practice he can get. Unless he just drops the whole music thing and becomes a writer again because, honestly? That sounds way cooler. It was fun joking around with everyone in the office, making fun of their outfits and improv-ing skits together. And sure, writers don't get that much credit, but if he ever gets the confidence to pitch one of his screenplays, he could still meet Brad Pitt one day.

Even Brad Pitt has weird rumors about him – it's best to be out of the public eye altogether, but he can't do that if he's an uber-famous singer-songwriter. This whole Milli Vanilli thing would work better the other way round, anyway – Amir can do a perfect impression of Jake. It's scarily close, like he's playing back a snippet of a recording. He must have studied for years; he does watch Jake that closely.

Jake drops his keys in the bowl by the door. “Sorry,” he offers. “I was working.”

“I skipped work to come help you.” Pat palms over his face, then snaps upright and serious. “I can't keep doing this, Jake.”

“I was late one time, dude. Chill out.”

“No,” he says, taking a deep breath in through his nose. “I need to tell you this.”

Jake moseys on over to the kitchenette, grabbing a glass of water. “What? How to dress like a nerd?”

“I have feelings for you.”

Jake drops the glass. At the last second, the edge catches on the sink and it rolls inside, clattering and pouring the water down the drain. He's too big to fit in the sink, so if he falls he's going to break. Jake turns around, careful, bracing himself on the countertop.

What is Pat doing? They both agreed never to talk about the New Years' party ever again. Of course he wasn't just doing this out of the good of his heart, but it was supposed to be for pizza, not penis, and especially not a partnership.

“Hey, that's– that's a good one, Pat. You really had me going there,” he says, stiffly.

“Huh?”

“It was a joke,” Jake states – demands, because if it's a joke, just a game, then none of it matters. And if it isn't, the building might just collapse with both of them inside.

“Yeah, right. Just a joke,” Pat says, swallowing everything.

Pat's eyes dart around the room, but they keep landing on Jake. This can't keep happening – first Amir and now Pat? What is it about Jake that seems like he's interested in this? He goes home with women at the after-work get togethers. He talks about boobs all the time, and has talked about dicks exactly never (aside from some classic size jokes which anyone would make). Amir's stupid interview started a rumor, just like he knew it would. This isn't going to stop unless Jake stops it.

“Y'know, I don't think I want to play guitar anymore,” he says, tightlipped.

“Oh. But I bought– Jake. I really can't afford this.” He holds up what Jake presumes is an expensive mahogany guitar – it's got a curly, Old West inlay on the front.

“It's fine. Just return it.”

“No refunds,” and of fucking course. Jake is surrounded by lovesick fools.

He can hang it on his wall, at least, as a talking piece. Hopefully any dates he brings over don't ask him to play them something. Pat is so sad and emaciated that it twists Jake's stomach. Maybe if he pays him back, Pat'll leave, and Jake won't have to look at him any more.

“How much was it?”

“Like, six hundred.”

“Uh... I'm getting a call,” Jake says, patting his silent phone in his pocket.

He ducks out into the hallway and pulls out his phone, because if that thing cost six hundred Earth dollars he does need to make a call. It's just a piece of wood, right? With a hole in it; not even a solid piece of wood.

Ricky's pretty cool about giving out money. If not, Amir can cover it with all the concert money he's making this Friday. Speaking of, Amir hasn't texted or called since their joint TV debut. Wow. He's really committing to this whole 'angry at Jake' thing. At least it's peaceful, for the time being.

Actually, Jake hasn't received any texts from anyone, except Pat asking where he was this morning. That's lame.

He dials Ricky's mobile.

“Hey, boss.”

“I'm in a steamroom, but I'm available.”

Why and how did he bring a phone into a steamroom?

“I was wondering if I could get my pay packet a little earlier this month?”

“Actually, Jake–“

“It's for Pat, not me. His... niece is sick again.”

“We all feel terrible about Pat's niece. But the only pay I'm giving you is your severance.”

The line is silent. Jake's knees buckle, and he leans against the wall to stay upright, but the wall's at an angle too, or maybe it's just that his world got turned upside down. He slides down the wall until he's on his knees, and squeezes his eyes shut so the pattern on the hall carpet stops swaying.

“Amir told me you ruined his recording session, and did horseplay on Breakfast in the City.”

“He was bombing, sir. I stopped him from embarrassing himself.”

“You embarrassed the whole of CollegeHumor. This is unacceptable. I'm firing you. Executively, which means no take-backs.”

Jake's voice breaks as he says, “Please. I want to be a writer.“

“You're bad at it. The cheque is in the mail; don't call me again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And stay away from Amir. He's going on a national tour, starting in Madison Square Garden as the supporting act. You cannot upset him anymore. I will take legal action if necessary.”

“Understood.”

“Night-night.”

“It's the middle of the day.”

“It's company-wide mandated naptime. I knew you weren't paying attention in the all-hands meetings.”

The line goes dead.

Fuck this. Fuck everything. Jake doesn't need CollegeHumor. Jake doesn't need Amir, or Pat, or anybody. The only thing he requires in the entire world is to get really really drunk as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, his only friends are three people who work at CollegeHumor, and one of them is Pat. It's gonna look weird if he doesn't invite him. It's gonna be weirder, but if they all drink enough it'll even out.

“Pat, text Sarah and Street. We're going out drinking.”

“It's before lunch,” Pat protests, but Jake's already grabbed his fedora and he's halfway out the door. Day drinking is the new brunch. Or something. It doesn't matter, he's doing it anyway.

*

The bar has dark, clean lines and a dancefloor with pumping music. Behind the bartop, there's bottles of every size, shape and colour jammed into a glowing blue wall. In the corners, there's couples mawing at each other. This is just what Jake needs.

They all push forward to the bar – Sarah and Pat order something girly, while Streeter just wants a beer. Jake asks for some of the strong stuff, but the bartender wants him to be more specific so he asks for vodka. It looks like hand sanitizer and tastes even worse, but it's about efficiency, not enjoyment. Jake hands over the fifty he got from Amir. He downs the shots by the time everyone else is finishing their first sips.

“What are we celebrating, anyway?” Streeter asks.

Pat raises his finger like a scientist about to declare his invention (or Jake's invention, that he stole). “Jake got fired.”

“Nice,” Sarah says, mocking Streeter.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Jake,” he says.

“Don't– don't pity me,” he rasps, throat still burning. “This night's about–“

“About taking that off your mind.”

“About pussy. No offence.”

Sarah and Pat both say, “None taken.”

Jake can't stand this any longer – the music is calling his name, and it's a much better conversationalist than these losers.

“It's time to groove. I behoove you to groove.”

“I think we're just gonna stay here,” Sarah says.

“I'm nowhere near drunk enough to dance yet.”

“Your loss,” he says, but as he stumbles over to the flashing floor tiles he's glad he's alone. Not alone – anonymous. There's bodies all around him, twitching and thrusting. He can't tell where one person ends and another begins. It's the perfect opportunity to get some, even if by accident.

A girl in a short tight dress turns to face him, dancing with small cute movements. He matches her, and they both grin as they sway back and forth. He moves closer, and she's totally into it. Jake doesn't need a yacht to get girls. That's what his natural charm is for. This is what he should've been doing instead of babysitting Amir. He moves his hands to her waist, and leans in to kiss her. She shoves him away, and scurries to hide in the arms of an amateur bodybuilder, or at least he looks like it.

“What are you doing, Ali?”

“I thought he was gay!” she calls over the music, pointing to Jake's outfit.

“Your boyfriend's the one with the gay outfit, sister!”

When Jake wanted something to grind against he wasn't picturing a guy's knee at full speed, but that's what he gets. It's not the impact that hurts, it's his junk being sandwiched between a kneecap and his pelvis. Jake sobs, clutching his crotch.

“That's my girl, asshole!”

“I didn't know,” Jake whines. “You really let her wear that?”

The girl knees him right in the same place, and he doesn't even have the mental capacity to look up her skirt while she does it.

Yeah, maybe that one was earned.

He skulks back over to the bartop as soon as his knees can support him again.

“What happened to you?”

“This guy's girl started groping me, 'cause I'm so fucking irresistable I guess, and so he kneed me in the nuts!”

They stare at him for a few seconds.

“That's not what happened,” Streeter says.

“We all know no girl would ever grope you, dude.”

“Why, 'cause I look fucking ugly and gay?” Jake asks, fishing for them to say 'no, of course not.'

“Because you're a lying asshole,” Sarah says, giggles bubbling out of her like the actual bubbles in her drink.

What the fuck kind of friends are these? A friend is supposed to be by your side, always, no matter how in the wrong you might be. The kind of person who'd lie for you in court to shave a few years off your sentence. These fucks won't even lie to his face, let alone a judge and jury.

“We were just about to drink to Pat's new gaming division.”

Pat's heading the goddamn division too? Great. Just fucking great! Jake should just go and jump off the Brooklyn Bridge right now, except he probably doesn't have enough money for the ride there seeing as how everyone keeps stealing his million-dollar ideas.

“It was Jake's idea,” he says when he sees Jake's face, as if that makes up for it.

Sarah is agape. “That was your idea?” she asks incredulously.

“Yeah, and Cassels is a thieving bitch.”

They laugh like he's joking.

“He's also a gay-ass nerd. Isn't that right, Patrick?”

Pat looks nervous, as he should. Everyone turns to him. They're judging him, finally seeing him for who he really is. Staring deep into his soul, and finding what they see disgusting.

“Yes,” Pat mumbles.

Streeter sets down his beer, slowly, cautiously. He claps, and again, and again, and Sarah joins him in applauding Pat.

“Congratulations, buddy.”

“We're so proud of you,” Sarah coos.

What the fuck ever. When someone's actually gay, that's fine, but when Jake just looks homo-esque (which he doesn't!) then that's a knee-able offence. At this point he may as well move back to Connecticut, where at least he knows the score. He slumps down on a barstool and flops over the bar, resting his forehead on his arms. It takes them a few minutes to stop giggling.

“Hey Jake, got any ideas for me?” Streeter asks, elbowing him. “I wanna lead a division too.”

Jake does have an idea. He has a perfect idea for how the lives of everyone around him will go. The only person he has no idea about is himself, the one he actually knows things about, like that he's pretty bad at cooking and is maybe into some sort of choking thing. Neither of those are great as far as job prospects go.

Jake sits up, and takes a sip of his drink. “You should do stand-up comedy.”

“Hey, no. That's actually a good idea,” Pat says.

Of course Pat would know what's a good idea and what isn't – if it comes from Jake, it's a good idea, ripe for the ganking. But it is a good idea; it's the perfect idea. Streeter is always cracking jokes in meetings and no matter how inappropriate they are, they get laughs, even from investors or lawyers or whoever would wear a suit and tie to their offices. He just has presence.

Sarah raises her hand. “Okay, do me next.”

Sarah should go into television writing. She's funny, sure, but she prefers stuff with a narrative over context-less dick jokes. And Jake used to moderate the comments under the videos – it's not fair that she can't show her face on camera, but it's probably for the best.

“I'd love to do you next,” Jake says instead, because he's not giving away all his ideas for free. And it feels weirder, somehow, for Sarah to know he's been thinking about her. He hasn't, though, not more than anyone else. He tried and tried and tried and she just isn't interested. Also, she slept with Pat, so she clearly has poor taste in men.

Sarah winds up, and throws her drink in his face. So does Streeter. There's a pause, then Pat throws his in as well, just for the fun of it. His one is for the gay-ass nerd comment, but he was too much of a bitch to do it until everyone else did. Jake's eyes sting, and he feels around for something to dry off with.

“What the fuck?” he asks, whilst mopping up his face with a pile of half-soaked napkins.

“You can't say things like that!”

“I was just joking around. We're friends, you know? I didn't mean it,” and he didn't. Pat gives him a look anyway. Maybe his one was for making a pass at Sarah.

“We're not that kind of friends,” Sarah says.

“But you're the kind of friends to throw your drinks all over me? You're all fake losers, and you don't deserve to hang out with the Jake Cruiser. Peace out.” Jake flips them off with both hands, forming the fingers into a peace sign.

Streeter clenches his glass so hard it looks like it's cracking. “I'm gonna burn all the shit you left on your desk.”

“Good. I don't care. It's just pictures of my family or whatever lame-ass shit.”

Jake opens the door out of the bar, and flops onto his unmade bed, rumpled sheets catching the moonlight. He knows it doesn't make sense, that there's something inbetween, but it's unimportant what. He's had six shots of vodka and there's beer bottles scattered across his apartment. Nothing matters anymore, not here, not with these people. After all Jake did was save their asses; even Amir abandoned him. The one person who was always by his side, whether he liked it or not. Tears roll down his face, but he doesn't even care enough to wipe them away.

He pushes his laptop to the other side of the bed, curls up in a ball and dials her number. It goes to voicemail. She's probably screening his calls because of last September when Amir kept stealing his phone.

“Mom? I don't think I wanna live in New York anymore.

“I got fired, and, uh... I don't know. I wanna come home.

“Don't worry. Amir won't be there this time. We... we're not friends anymore. It's weird because I thought I'd be the one to break it off.”

Jake grabs the pillow from the other side of his bed and mushes it tight against his chest, so he'll have a reason for it to be hard to breathe.

“He kinda got me, you know? Like, he thought I was funny when I was being stupid. And he'd go along with my jokes and we'd like, riff, or whatever.

“I don't know. Just, whatever I do, I wanna do something different instead. Grass is always greener, right? Is that a saying?”

Jake sighs. She's not picking up.

“I guess I'll talk to you tomorrow. Bye, Mom.”

Jake's alarm wakes him up at eight. But there's no job to go to, no Amir to wrestle out of his bed. The only thing stopping him from going back to sleep is his pounding headache. How much did he drink yesterday? Who did he drink with? Hopefully not alone, because that's the most depressing thing imaginable. He checks his phone for any texts he made, clues he left for the morning after. There's a few new messages from Pat.

Pat: Hey so the video you made kind of went viral

Pat: Can I get permission for us to post it on CH?

Jake: gfy

He pulls up his Youtube account on his laptop, and chews his nails on his other hand. It looks like he posted a twenty-minute rant that he filmed on his walk home yesterday. Two hundred thousand views.

This is why he comes to work stone cold sober – anything he thinks, says or does while drunk should under no circumstances be filmed. Nobody needs to experience that side of him on demand, and the people that see it live are hopefully drunk enough themselves to forget it by the next morning.

He scrubs through the timeline – from the looks of things he's singing, and trying to pass it off as Amir's voice. He lets it play. His headache is ten times worse, suddenly, and it's not just the brightness of the screen. It sounds like screeching bats tried doing prog rock after twenty years of singing hymns. He's playing the guitar Pat bought for him, too, missing half the strings as he tries to strum using a spoon as a pick. Jake slams the spacebar and the room is thankfully silent.

One of the recommended videos is the breakfast show clip of him and Amir. It has five hundred thousand views – not viral viral, but still enough for someone to maybe recognize Jake on the street. If they don't remember him for his singing voice.

Jake clicks on it and scrolls down to the comments, even though he shouldn't. Comment sections are cesspits – Jake's left enough cruel messages to know that. A lot of them are on Amir's side – all of them, in fact. One in particular stands out:

ihategoogleplus: is it just me or is that guy totally blum's jealous ex bf?

He slams the laptop shut and switches on his TV for noise while he thinks about how to get out of this. Of course, he can never truly escape Amir, because as soon as he flicks it on it's in the middle of an interview with him.

“What do you think about your fans?”

“If I didn't have any fans, I'd still be making music. I don't know; I don't think I'm that much better than anyone else. Why listen to me, right? You guys are crazy,” he says lightly to the camera.

“Well, some of them are. Have you seen that drunk guy's video saying he does all your singing for you?”

“Oh, yeah. I have.”

Well, it's not that much worse than anything in Ace and Jocelyn. Hopefully. Jake can't bear to watch back any more of what he said and/or sung. Maybe he could fake his own death. But it'll never erase the shame.

“I think he said you called in a bomb threat to his brother's school?”

“I wouldn't trust anything he says. Although, one thing is true, we used to work in the same office.”

“But you were never in a relationship?”

Amir looks away for a split second, thinking, remembering, deciding.

“No,” he says, simply.

It should be gratifying, should feel like cutting loose from the cinderblocks keeping him underwater. But it makes Jake's heart spin over, drilling a hole through his sternum. They were in a relationship – Jake may not have wanted to be in it – but they did have something. And yeah, it wasn't any of that BBF stuff Amir keeps claiming it was, but they were friends. Weren't they?

In his whole life Jake will never forget Amir, no matter how hard he tries. Amir shouldn't be the one moving on.

All the envy Jake felt last night slowly seeps back through his skin – he remembers yelling into a camera, yelling at people on the street who stared at him too long. Trying to smash the guitar over his dining room table but being too weak to dent either of them.

“After all this controversy are you worried about being attacked by a fan?”

“Of course not. Everyone is too chickenshit and cockeyed to do anything to me.”

Jake's not a chicken. He can do something to Amir. He can do it right now.

“Besides, I'm too cute,” he says, giggling, placing his hands delicately under his chin. Jake's fists clench.

All he needs is a taxi to Madison Square Garden.

*

He throws his wallet at the driver, hops out onto the street and sees just how long the line is for this thing. Even if he had a ticket he couldn't get in – bouncers hate him, even when he bribes them. So Jake will just have to do what he's good at – being ignored and treated like dirt by everyone.

There's a crowd of six near the front of the line; they've all come together and they're moving in a V formation. He can hide in plain sight by ducking into the gap. The bouncer will think he's with them, and they'll think one of their group invited him but they won't know who. He'll have a few minutes before they realize none of them know him.

Jake sprints, not bothering to avoid a crack in the pavement because his mom didn't even have the courtesy to call him back. If her back breaks, that's too fucking bad. He sidles into the gap, leaving almost no room between himself and the point of the V – a girl with pink and black streaks in her hair. They don't seem to care – they keep stepping forward at the same speed as the rest of the line. With any luck the group will each hold out a ticket in hand, and the bouncer won't bother to count them.

They dig through their pockets for the tickets, and present them. Jake acts like he's rubbing some grime off his pants so he has an excuse to turn his head away, to keep his hands occupied.

The group moves forward – the bouncer must have waved them through. Great. Hopefully Jake can get to and/or confront and/or kill Amir before he gets on stage.

Fingers grip the scruff of his neck – he'd know the strength of that hand anywhere. He's yanked back, feet kicking for something to stand on, and then he's face to face with the man who's different people.

“Ah ah ah, I didn't say the magic word! That's from Jurassic Park, have you seen it?”

Is there anyone alive who hasn't seen it? “Life, uh, finds a way,” Jake says, doing a perfect impression of Jeff Goldblum.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Jurassic Park?”

“I don't think so. I also don't think you showed me your ticket,” the man says, flicking his finger over the center of Jake's chest.

“Look – I don't have one, okay? I need to get in there.”

“You need to get to the back of the line, Jakey-poo. Unless you have something else you can show me...?”

The man trails off, and trails his finger towards Jake's fly. Jake shoves him into the fence.

“Stop! That's not okay! Why does everyone just take from me? I don't want to show you my penis. And I want my gaming division back!”

“Okay. Don't know what the gaming thing is about, but I'm sorry. I crossed a line.”

“You've been crossing lines since the day I met you. Stay the fuck away from me. And Amir,” Jake throws in, because even Amir doesn't deserve to have his life ruined, not by this asshole. If anyone's going to do it, it should be Jake.

He doesn't wait for the man's response. Instead, he weaves through the crowd where there are gaps, and shoulders his own path where there aren't. There are still people on stage making sure all the mics are plugged in and in position, which means they won't start for at least five minutes. Actual security guards with arms crossed and walkie talkies are watching the audience, making sure they don't climb the stage. But if you can't go over, go down under (Aussie twang optional).

Jake ducks under the curtain covering the scaffolding that holds up the stage. Getting from one side to the other is like cutting through a dense jungle with a machete, except without the machete and all the foliage is made of metal. Jake hits his head a lot, which is fine, because a concussion for this stud muffin...

Jake crawls out the back end and he's there. He actually snuck backstage at a concert. This would be cool if he was here for any reason other than confronting Amir. Pulling himself to his feet, he walks down the narrow hallway.

Jake pokes his head around a door labelled hair and makeup – and there he is. Sitting in front of the vanity, appropriately. Jake's blood itches as it pumps through him – he doesn't have to join Amir at the mirror to know his face is burning red. But it doesn't matter. He's not here to look good (although he does). He's here to get his own back.

“Amir!” Jake booms.

He turns around in his seat. Glitter dusts through his hair and dark circles line his eyes. He's wearing a pink fishnet top under his tee, and dark-wash skinny jeans with ripped knees. They look just like the ones Jake's always been too scared to even try on.

Amir's eyebrows scrunch, and he tilts his head to the side. “Sorry, who are you?”

“Oh my God. Don't try and pretend you don't know me.”

“Maybe I'd rather forget you.” He turns back to the mirror, and smudges his eyeliner just so.

“You have one song, and it's about me.”

“You'd know, since you sing all my songs apparently.” Amir scoffs, shaking his head. “Doesn't matter; I can write more.”

“No, you can't.”

Amir looks him in the eye. “You should go.”

“I'm not going anywhere until you tell Ricky to hire me back.” It's the only apology that'll actually mean anything.

“Why should I?”

“Because you're in love with me.”

Amir rolls his eyes. He moves to the small couch, sits down and starts plucking strings and turning knobs on the tail of his guitar.

“See? You're not denying it.”

“I don't have to. Just leave me alone. You keep hurting me.”

“You bit me. You called in bomb threats to Micah's school. Do you think that hurts me?” Does he think it hurt when he said they were nothing more than colleagues?

“Every day you tell me you hate me. Why is it so hard to just be friends with me?”

“You're so fucking annoying, is why. Nobody is ever going to be friends with you unless you change yourself.”

“Pat and Sarah are my friends. So what's the missing piece? Oh right, you're an asshole.”

“Hey–“

“You're so selfish. I finally get a good thing going for me, and all you want is to make it about you. And when I put my foot down you tried to destroy my career with those stupid videos. Why do you have to ruin everything I like? What the fuck is wrong with you, Jake?”

“There's nothing wrong with me. Everything is your fault.”

“Is it?”

Amir slings the strap over his shoulder, adjusting it until the guitar is slung low over his hips.

“Why do you think I'm interested in you? What is it about me?” Jake asks. He can't quite hide the pain in his voice, the little quirk that says he knows asking this is a bad idea.

“Because you came back,” he says simply.

Jake digs his fingernails into his palms, and speaks slowly. “Just call Ricky, you fucking pigfucker.”

“Why are you pissed at me? You're the one who tried to ruin my career!”

“You did ruin my career!”

“You were always five minutes from leaving CollegeHumor. You could have gone any time.”

“No, I couldn't! I tried already! You begged me to stay, and– And so I had to come back,” Jake says, willing his voice not to break. “Because of you.”

“Yeah, well, I wish you stayed in LA.” Amir runs a hand through his hair, and heads for the stage entrance.

“Fuck you. Don't walk away from me.”

“I've got a concert to play, no thanks to you.”

“I tried so hard with you. You never improve. You're so fucked up you don't know not to stab the only person in the world that cares about you. Cared,” he corrects. “That's the weird part. I did care. You know that?”

Amir keeps walking. If he gets on that stage, he wins, and Jake is left with moving back in with his parents, or maybe Pat if he's really desperate. It felt like he already lost everything, but now it's really sand through his fingers, the rug is being yanked out from under him, and there's nothing worse than a sandy fucking rug.

“Why didn't you kiss me?” Jake shouts, before it's too late. That stops him in his tracks.

“What?”

“On the yacht.”

Amir runs his fingers over the studs on his belt. “Did you want me to?”

“No. I don't know. That's the point of the game.”

“I guess... I'm so fucked up I didn't realize I was supposed to drop the card,” he says, smiling thinly. The stagehands part the curtain, and he runs out on stage, to raucous applause from the audience.

That's bullshit. He knew the deal. That's why he started the game; it was his idea. And when Jake wasn't putting out, he dropped him. Amir probably has a million groupies waiting to get their hands all over him. That's not a nice thought, but it's hard to clear from Jake's mind.

No, that's not right. Amir can't have just been trying to sleep with him. Annoying someone every day, buying them presents and trying out pickup lines – that doesn't work. Jake knows because he tried it on Sarah.

Oh.

So Amir learned it from him. It's like every way Amir has deteriorated over the years, he learned from Jake. When Jake tried to run away across the country, Amir was fine. Pleasant to be around, even. Just a guy who's a little too into chicken nuggets. Why did he get under Jake's skin so badly? Now he bites, stabs, and mauls him on the regular, and Jake didn't even think about leaving Amir, not until he became super famous, anyway. But was that ever going to happen?

Jake still doesn't know why he came back, exactly. He can say it was the climate, or that he wanted to work in comedy, not just in an office...

Neither of those are right.

But it can't just have been Amir. Amir is not the sole reason Jake does or doesn't do anything in his life.

Isn't he? The only thing Jake's done on his own since moving to New York is move away. Even that was motivated by Amir. He was dying to get away from him; was he really just running away from his feelings? It was easy to convince himself to return – it was for Amir's sake, and all Jake felt was guilt.

Because he doesn't have the feelings between the two of them, Amir does. That's the way it'll always be; Jake ducking away when it gets too close, too suffocating.

That's why he pictured one of them dropping the card. That's why Amir could forget it and he played it in his head over and over again, asking why Amir didn't fumble the card when Jake should have taken the opportunity like he did behind the bleachers in Hamden, like he did with Pat at the New Years' party.

But Jake didn't. Because it's not his job to push the envelope, it's Amir's. That's why he can get away with murder and still come off cute as a button, and Jake can't ever recover from making those stupid videos. As if they'd actually affect Amir's career. He's just another idiot screaming online to an audience of none.

Jake buries his face in his hands, and mutters, “Fuck, I really am an asshole.”

“That's right,” Murph says. Was he hiding in the corner the whole time? He's wearing all black like he works here – he must be a sound technician.

“But don't just say it to me,” he says, with kind eyes this time, gesturing to the stage.

He's right. Jake has to apologize to everyone. Everyone needs to hear that he's an asshole for making that video. Then maybe Amir will understand that's he's not just saying it to get back to normal. They're way past whatever their version of normal is, anyway, and maybe there's no coming back but Jake still needs to do this, or else he'll feel guilty for the rest of his life.

Jake breaks into a sprint and aims for where the gap in the curtain was. The stagehands try to grab his arms but he's too fast – he breaks through the curtains and onto the stage. The drummer has no idea what's happening, and neither do the security guards hollering from behind him. Jake runs further and further, towards the ocean of an audience, and past Amir to center stage. He prays the microphone is on, and grabs it.

“My name is Jake, and I'm a huge asshole.”

It's on. The crowd is confused, and a few people even laugh at him. He holds down the urge to be sick, and keeps going.

“I made those videos about Amir. I was about to say everything I said was a lie, but it's all true. He did stab me, and call in a bomb threat to my brother's school. But that doesn't mean Amir's not a great singer. Doesn't mean he's not funny, or a good friend. He's the best friend I've ever had. I know you don't have all the background on our relationship – let me tell you, it's pretty big for me to be saying that–“

The mic cuts off with a thud. Jake turns around. Amir is there, gesturing for the security guys to stay back. He goes over to an amp and shoves the sound guy away, flicks a switch and the mic whistles back on. At least he wants to hear Jake out.

“I just wanted to say I'm sorry, but I'm not really good at– at public speaking, so...”

Jake breathes shakily into the mic, the audience wincing as the speakers shudder. His mind is blank. There's so much more to say and yet he can't form the words. He was always bad at writing sincerely – that's why he just sends birthday cards with his signature and no personal message. There's no way to make this like a greeting card.

Or is there?

Lyrics come to the front of his mind, and he begins to sing, even though his voice is terrible, even though everyone's staring at him like he's a car wreck.

I haven't been this scared in a long time
And I'm so unprepared, so here's your Valentine
Bouquet of clumsy words, a simple melody
This world's an ugly place, but you're so beautiful to me

Blink-182 coming in clutch once again. The powerful voice of Tarvis Baker flows through him and out into the audience, who are confused and yet they're hanging onto every word the same way Jake does when he hugs a pillow and cries, listening to Take Off Your Pants And Jacket.

The mic cuts off again, which is kind of a good thing because Jake's mouth is dry – how the hell do singers manage whole songs without drinking any water? Well, they don't have stage fright. That probably helps. Jake wedges the mic back into the stand, hands shaking.

“What is this?” Amir asks, and he's standing next to Jake now.

“This guy fucking sucks!” yells someone in the crowd. Everyone boos, and empty bottles start landing around Jake's feet.

“I'm not being an asshole for once,” Jake says.

“Yes you are,” Amir replies, and Jake gets hit upside the head with half a hotdog. The mustard in his eye burns, and the ketchup weighs down his hair.

“Okay, maybe I am.” Maybe he's actually tanking Amir's career right now by trying to fix it, because everything Jake does sincerely turns out the wrong way. “But I'm doing this for you.”

Amir sighs, but his face relaxes. He knows Jake is trying here, that he doesn't do feelings and gestures and it's like when he tried to say 'good morning' in Hebrew and he mixed all the words around but Amir still knew what he meant enough to make fun of him for it. Hopefully he won't make fun of him now.

Amir steps in front of him, and grabs his own microphone from the other stand. “Everybody stop! This is Jake, from my song. If you throw one more thing I'm having security throw everybody out. I'll perform for fucking nobody.”

“Can you do that?” Jake asks.

He shrugs. “Also, Jake has one last thing to say to you all.”

“What?” Jake hushes.

Amir covers the microphone with his hand. “Tell everyone you're a pervert, and I'll think about forgiving your Jew ass.”

“Oh my God,” Jake whispers. Is he really going to do this in front of a thousand people?

“I'm a huge pervert!” he yells. “Is that good enough?”

“I said I'd think about it.” He plays the first few chords. “Follow my lead.”

Whenever I'm having a bad day

Feeling down, feeling away

I know that feeling is always fleeting

Because soon

I'll be back at my desk sitting

Across from my best friend

He looks across at Jake, eyes guarded and hopeful and brown under the spotlights. Jake joins in.

And before I know it

Everything is perfect again

His voice is unsteady, not professional enough for the thousand people watching, but it's easier when he has Amir to follow. He can't ruin Amir's performance this time – he's only on backup, after all.

You, yeah you

You fix everything by just being here

Amir strums the solo like he was made to play guitar. He's ethereal, his voice projecting for a mile – the crowd are going wild, singing and clapping along. You'd think none of them were there for the headliner at all. But he's sweating, too, with the effort; his biceps twitch as he plays. Amir is physical and yet more at the same time.

Whenever I'm having a good time

Up and at 'em, we're in our prime

I know that feeling will last forever

Because soon

Amir looks over at him again, thinking the same thing about Jake. He wrote a whole song about him, after all. But Jake's never done anything this spectacular – how can Amir be so enamoured? They keep their eyes locked, and start the chorus together.

I'll be back at my desk sitting

Across from my best friend

And before I know it

Everything is perfect again

You, yeah you, Jake

You fix everything by just being here

Their voices mingle together until Amir plays the final chord, letting it fade out naturally. Jake smiles, big and goofy, the way he's tried to correct in the mirror but couldn't. Amir always makes him smile that way – he can't pull off a smirk or a smoulder when he's laughing and giddy, when there's butterflies in his stomach. When did those get there?

“Thank you, Madison Square Garden!”

Jake forgets the crowd, almost, until Amir says that. It felt like just them at their desks, messing around with beats on Garageband when they should be working.

Amir leads him backstage by the wrist, as the audience cheer and beg for an encore. They're not getting one – it's Jake's turn now. He pulls Amir against the wall as the headlining band stream past them to the stage.

“That was amazing,” Jake says, his hand lingering on Amir's arm.

“I know. You're the only person in the world who thinks I'm a bad singer.”

“I never said you were bad.”

“You inferred it, though. And I implied it.” That's wrong, but it doesn't matter. It's nice to hear.

“Should we get out of here?”

“Let's hit the D's, baby boy.”

“Don't call me that. Do you wanna eat it at my place?” Jake offers.

“How about we have a thick dick? I mean a picnic. Sorry.”

“A picnic in the park? That sounds really nice,” but Jake's chest is tight from Amir not wanting to be in his apartment. Huge romantic gestures are supposed to fix everything, right? That's what happens in movies. Maybe it's because this gesture wasn't actually romantic. Was it?

“Let's go,” Amir says, before Jake can start to spiral, and he follows close behind. He can't risk losing Amir in the crowd. Not again.

They sit on the grass under the big oak in the empty corner of the park. Not many people are here today, and if they are they're just walking through. Jake unbags the McDonald's, serving Amir his box of nuggets, and laying a cheeseburger in front of himself. It smells like it was made fresh, not kept warm under heat lamps for an hour. Jake takes a bite, and watches Amir drop a few nuggs. Amir puts the box down and grabs a twig, running it in-between the blades of grass.

“Are we gonna talk, or...” Amir asks, not looking up.

“Yeah, sure.”

Jake takes a deep breath. Amir was the only one who got his jokes, who'd read his status updates and away messages with a snicker. He left a hole in Jake's life, and nobody else could fill it. Patch it. Not to mention he can play guitar really well, and pull off guyliner and ripped jeans. Despite everything Jake knows, everything everyone's ever told him...

“I want us to be friends.”

“Why? You hate me.”

“I don't. I just said that because– because you annoy me sometimes.” Nice cover, Jake. No way he'll see through that. Everyone else could.

“You're annoying too but I don't call you out on it.”

“I apologized, right? I did the song.”

“Yeah.”

“So will you be my friend again?”

“You hurt me, Jake. But I still like you.” Amir sighs, and slumps his head into his hands. “I don't know what to do.”

“If you like me, then... I don't know. I'll change.”

“But if you change I won't like you anymore. Why am I turning into my mother?”

“You're not. Look – I can admit I was a bit of an asshole over the past few days–“

“Years.”

“–and I wish I was nicer to you. All we had to do was find you an outlet, right? You've been really normal since you started being The Blüm, but more than that you've been happy.”

“I'm always happy.”

“No, you're not. But now, you have something in your life other than me. You should go for it. You could really be someone, dude.” Jake sighs. “I'm gonna be stuck as a junior writer forever. I'll drag you down. I already have.”

Amir takes a sip of his orange juice and looks out into the park, watching the people go by.

“Someone handed me a slip of paper while I was in the bathroom before the show.”

Okay, forget what Jake said about Amir being normal.

“It's an invite to one of the shows for, uh, NYFW? Do you know what that stands for?”

“Let me see,” Jake says, licking his lips because he thinks he knows already. The letters are branded into his brain, but there's no harm in checking.

It's a postcard on one side, a charcoal sketch of a woman on a hot-pink background. On the back, it says the time and date of a Spring/Summer runway show in Lower Manhattan. Handwritten, there's a note in the corner:

come see NYFW! you can bring a +1 but if not i'll see you there <3

“It's a fashion show.” If Jake says any more than that he'll start geeking out about which designers will be there, and who's collaborating with who, and he'll look like a loser.

“Oh. I'll probably throw it out. I'm not really into fashion, you know?”

“That's cool,” he says stiffly. It's stupid for Amir to literally throw away this golden opportunity. He can fish the invite out of the bin, but they might not accept it with a week-old yogurt stain in the corner.

“I could go with you, though.”

“You'd take me as your plus-one?”

“Yeah. If that's okay?“

Of course it's okay. Jake has been dreaming of this moment for years, and Amir asks if it's okay? It's like, the reason he moved to New Dork City, and Amir has the goddamn audacity to ask if it's okay?

Jake leaps forward and kisses Amir on the cheek; there's nothing else to do with all that excitement fizzing in his stomach.

“Oh my God. I'm gonna see so many famous people. I'm gonna be like five feet away from models, dude. This is like–“

Like not just flying a kite. Like being a kite, flying on currents, soaring high and wide across a clear blue sky. So pimp. So bitchin' that he pulls the spool free from everyone's hands and he's exploring the whole city from the air, not just the park but weaving between buildings and doing whatever the fuck he wants forever.

“–like the best moment of my life.”

Jake turns the invite over and over in his hand, and he's creasing it with the strength of his grip when he should keep it pristine for framing, but it just lets him know it's not all in his head. He doesn't notice what his other hand is doing until he reaches for his drink and tugs Amir's hand along with him.

Amir is staring at where they're joined. He looks up at Jake, like he's happy just because Jake is happy, and Jake is happy to see him happy too, and it's just going to be like a perpetual motion machine of happiness forever. How could Jake ever have been jealous when he could have felt like this instead? Why couldn't he just be happy for Amir? Does he really deserve this?

“Why'd you give this to me?”

“Because you like fashion.” Amir sighs. “It's not that hard, Jake. I like music and I'm good at it, so I started writing songs. But you sound like a toad when you sing. You shouldn't just do what I'm doing, you should do what you want to do.”

“I don't know what I want.”

“What makes you happy of yourself?”

Jake looks for answers in Amir's eyes, then down at the invite again. “Are you really sure you want me to come?”

Amir cocks his head. “Promise to be nicer to me.”

“I promise.”

“That was easy. I thought you were going to ask me to buy you a watch or something.”

“Why?”

“I'm a rich and famous now. I can buy you stuff if you want it.”

“You think I wanna be your... sugar baby?”

“Well, I wasn't going to call it that–“

“Jesus Christ.”

“–because it sounds creepy! Let me finish.”

“You don't have to buy my friendship. I like you as a person.”

Amir grips his leg, hard, because otherwise his excitement will spill out all over both of them. His nails dig into the skin exposed by the knee rips, but he doesn't seem to feel it. He just stares at Jake.

“Sometimes. Sometimes I like you as a person,” Jake corrects. “And... I missed you.”

“Yeah. You left me a message that was supposed to go to your mom. Saying how gay you are for me or whatever.”

“Shut up. It's not like that. It's–“

“It's different between us,” Amir finishes, and in so few words he captures what Jake could never hope to.

It's different, it's so different than any relationship Jake has had and maybe that's why it's the scariest. They're committed to each other, somehow, somewhy. That's not even a word but Amir would understand him anyway. Jake does so much for Amir but it's not thankless work, it's in exchange for the most supportive, loving thing in the entire world.

“Nobody else gets my jokes,” Jake admits.

“They gotta learn how to be funny,” Amir says gently.

Jake laughs. Can you really teach something like this?

Amir turns shy, suddenly. “Jake?”

“What?”

“I missed you too.”

“I know you did,” Jake says, but it's a weight off his shoulders anyway. Amir can't survive without him the same way he can't without Amir. It's scary and so, so reassuring.

“Can I kiss you?” Amir blurts out. “It can just be– just like, a friend kiss.”

“Can it be?”

“Yeah. It can be whatever we want, right?”

Jake thinks about Murph and Emily. Their whole situation is fucked up, rotten to the core, and yet for some reason Murph wants to marry her, and Emily hasn't broken up with him. It works for them, because beyond all reason it's what they want.

He cups Amir's face with one hand, beard bristles slipping between his fingers. He leans in and takes what is his, and gives what is his in return. Amir is sweaty from his performance, and Jake keeps grinning and almost biting Amir's tongue, but it's so much better than it ever could have been when they were playing that stupid game on that stupid boat. There's people all around them in the park, and they could be looking but it doesn't matter. It's just the two of them fucking around with each other, and that's what Jake wants it to be. That's what Amir wants too.

Amir pulls back first, out of breath even though he just stole all the air from Jake's lungs.

“That was so sick.”

Jake laughs gently. “Yeah. So pimp.”

“So gay,” Amir says, like it's good.

“Maybe.” Jake can do maybe. Which is a hell of a lot more than he's ever done before. He can relish in the maybeness and ambiguity because there's one thing that won't change.

Jake and Amir.

Jake and Amir. Inseparable. Magnets that have to come back together no matter what. Or like puzzle pieces from the middle, that fit together with each other in a way they don't fit with any of the others. Amir won't judge him, won't leave him or banish him, as long as he's not a complete asshole. Amir will forgive him. And how could Jake not forgive Amir after that? Stabbing, biting and bomb threats are temporary. They are forever and always.

Epilogue

Amir pulls back from Jake's neck to check his phone. The air is cold even in Jake's bedroom, and it silhouettes exactly where he was, where Jake wants to pull him back to.

“Did you talk to Ricky?” Amir asks.

“Not after he fired me.”

“He wants both of us to come see him in his office.”

*

The office is packed with boxes, and there's almost no-one around. They must be moving offices again – they can't fit all these new divisions on just one floor. They weave around and over the boxes and piles of paper, and make it inside Ricky's office without knocking too much over.

Ricky's at his desk, with all his toys in archive boxes, except for the teddy bear he's holding. He might be eccentric, but if CollegeHumor's making enough capital to do everything they're doing, Jake can't really fault him. Except for the whole firing thing. That's still on the table.

“You wanted to see us?” Jake says, not saying sir because Ricky's not his boss anymore, and he doesn't have to kiss ass.

“I'll be frank. Jake, your unlicensed performance of Going Away To College is going to cost the company a million dollars.”

“Sorry?” A whole million? Blink 182 can't have lawyers that good.

“Why aren't they going after Jake?” Amir asks.

“They know I don't have any money, but they can sue you guys because it happened during your performance.”

“Amir, you should have stopped him from ruining everything. The tour's cancelled. I'm going to have to let you go.”

“Go where? I've always wanted to go to Ibiza, or Michigan.”

“He's firing you, dude,” Jake says into his ear.

“What?” Amir steps forward, leering at Ricky. “With all respect, sir, this is a fuck you moment. Really a go-fuck-yourself moment. Jake didn't ruin my performance. It was the best take I've ever done of that song. If he had to violate a few copyright laws to do it, then sue him.”

“Don't say that. They will,” Jake urges.

“Don't sue him. But I can't believe you, you rapscallion, you fucking onion of a man. You would fire me just to spite his ginger ass? I demand you pay me back, in karma or the like. Do it now!” Amir whines.

Ricky hugs his teddy bear for support. “I'm sorry. CollegeHumor is going bust. You're not really fired. Well, you are, but only as fired as everyone else is. We stretched ourselves too thin with all these divisions, when we should have focused on what we were good at.”

“Going bust? Oops,” Jake says sheepishly. “Did I done thaaaaaaaat?”

“Horrible impression, Jake,” Ricky mumbles, as if he has the right. “Unprofessional.”

Unbelievable. “You know what's unprofessional? Bringing toys to work. I don't think you even do any work all day; you're just in here having tea parties and naptimes.”

“I saw you playing flash games. You didn't do any work either.”

“I did Amir's work and my own. I don't need to take this from you.”

“How dare you speak to me that way?”

“Go hug your teddy bear, freak.”

Jake closes Ricky's office behind them, flipping him off through the glass. They wander over to their desks, now bare. Jake's has a few scorch marks – Streeter really followed through on burning everything.

“It's okay, Jake. I'll find another label. Maybe in LA?”

“Sounds good,” he says, resting a hand on Amir's shoulder.

“And you'll come with me?”

“Yeah. I thought that was implied.”

“It wasn't. You still have your fashion show.”

“We can go after. I'll book the flight.”

“No,” Amir states, with his finger in the air, “Let's take a taxi. I'll flag it down,” he says, winking.

“That's going to be insanely expensive. I'm not even sure anyone would do that–“

“It's okay, Jake. We're in love. That means anything's possible.”

Jake wants to protest but he can't help smiling when he sees Amir's face. It does feel like anything's possible.

Epilogue 2

“Wait!” Amir pulls out his phone, and mashes in a number. “Patrick!” he screeches.

It's on speakerphone. “Yeah?”

“You fucked my boy.”

“You fucked me, Pat. You stole my division, and now you're living it up in Manhattan in a condo, with a business center.”

“What? I'm fired from CollegeHumor too, assholes. It's not your division anymore – actually, it never was. I created it.”

“Give me co-founder.”

“What? I can't do that. We're being bought by Kotaku. They barely want to keep me as a writer, let alone founder.”

“I don't want cash. Just gimme credit.”

“I'll... see what I can do.”

Amir turns off speakerphone and holds the receiver to his ear. “You'd better see, Patrick. I'm rich now. I'll buy every company you ever try to work for, and fire you. You'll be starving on the streets, Patrick. You'll freeze in the winter, Patrick.”

“He's not Mickey. You don't have to say his name so much.”

“Goodbye for-never.” Amir hangs up, and throws his phone out the window.

“That could kill someone,” Jake says, but it's too late to do anything.

“Let's get out of here,” Amir says.

They climb back over the mountains of boxes, until they're at the elevators. Jake pushes the call button.

“Are you really rich enough to buy Kotaku?”

“Yeah.”

The elevator dings.

“Maybe I'll take you up on that sugar baby thing after all.”

END