Disclaimer: I don't own ASOUE or anything related to it. This story was written for Weird Ships Week at 667 Dark Avenue. The title was going to be "No One Will Ever Love You For Your Honesty", because that song always reminds me of Jerome, but it wouldn't have fit into the subject line. And I know "It's not... usual" is a line from The Simpsons, but it seemed like something Jerome would say and none of the other lines I tried were as good.
Advice
It's not envy, what he feels for Jacques. He's sure of that, because what would be the point? If you envy someone it means you want to be like them, and Jerome is realistic enough to know he has no chance of being anything like Jacques. The world is divided into people who control their own lives and people whose lives simply happen to them, people who know what to do when trouble strikes and people who hide until it goes away – in short, into the people who give advice and the people who take it. Jerome falls firmly into the second camp; Jacques, equally firmly, into the first.
If Jerome envies anyone it's Lemony, because while he's clearly a member of the second group – quiet, awkward, introverted, the sort of person who smuggles books into cocktail parties – he seems comfortable with this. He doesn't have to try the way Jerome does, doesn't hear that constant, nagging whisper at the back of his mind exhorting him to smile wider, show more enthusiasm, be friendlier and more agreeable and fit in. He's something Jerome could have been, maybe, with a big brother to support him.
So, not envy. Admiration is maybe closer, because when you admire someone you want to be around them and hear them talk and you think about them a lot. Not all the time, though. And he's sure that the things you're supposed to be thinking of when you do are things they've done or said that were important in some way, not things like the way they smile with the left side of their mouth before the right or the way they eat spaghetti or the length of their fingers. So there's a problem with that explanation as well.
Jerome has two main approaches to problems. Plan A: ask Jacques for advice, and Plan B: pretend nothing is happening. He can't do A, and after a while the effort required to do B becomes unsustainable, and so he's forced to fall back on Plan C - Beatrice.
He manages to get her alone for five minutes and, after she swears not to tell anyone about this, ever, especially Lemony, stammers out his problem, or half of it anyway. He only gets that far before she cuts him off, with an exasperated sigh, and tells him exactly what the explanation is.
Jerome nearly chokes.
"N-no!" he splutters, when he's got his breath back. It's a sign of just how shocked he is that he doesn't realise for some minutes that he directly contradicted her. "I can't be – I mean, I'm not – that d-doesn't make sense!"
Beatrice narrows her eyes at him. "Why not?"
"Well, he's… and I'm… and I'm not… you know…" Jerome reflects for a moment on how much easier this would be if he could bring himself to say the words. "It's not… usual."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Jerome." She shakes her head, slowly. "You can't stay bound to the status quo your whole life. And for the record, you wouldn't be the first in our circle to be – unusual, or various synonyms. You'll just have to pluck up the courage to face it." Her expression softens, and she pats him on the shoulder. "Good luck."
And then she's gone, leaving Jerome to stare after her and remember why he didn't make "talking to Beatrice" his Plan B.
It's three days before he can bring himself to speak to Jacques. They're in a secluded corner of the library, where even if the worst happens and this conversation ends in someone Making A Scene, it will at least be a quiet one.
"So what's the matter?" Jacques asks, and Jerome bites his lip and holds on to the edge of the table, watching his knuckles turn white.
"Supposing a person," he says, slowly, "was feeling – feelings, for another person, and the other person didn't know, and supposing for whatever reason the idea of a – a relationship between them would be wrong, or – or unacceptable – what would you say the first person should do?"
Jacques is quiet for a long time. "Well," he says eventually, "first of all I'd say that if the first person doesn't want his friend to know that he's talking about himself, he should try not to look as though he's being jabbed with a hatpin for every word he says."
Jerome gulps. "Oh. Okay."
"Second of all," Jacques continues, "if you don't want me to know that it's another man, just say that it's a woman instead of avoiding all the pronouns. And third, if you don't want me to know that it's me…"
The lights suddenly flicker on and off for a second, which is confusing because it's the middle of the day, and it takes Jerome a while to realise that maybe it's him doing the flickering. When he comes around properly Jacques has an arm around him holding him upright, which is almost enough to make him pass out for real.
"If you don't want me to know that it's me," Jacques says, and his mouth is now far too close to Jerome's ear and it's all he can do not to start shaking, "you should try to look at me when you talk, at least once. Are you all right?"
Jerome nods, and then he shakes his head as well because he's really not sure what the answer is. "So, what would you do," he manages, and he does try to look at Jacques but his eyes refuse to leave the table, "if – if I told you I thought I was – in love with you?"
Jacques puts a hand under Jerome's chin and turns him to face him. "First, I'd ask you what took you so long," he murmurs. Jerome is hardly aware of the words by now. All he can feel are vibrations. "And second…" His hand slips round to the back of Jerome's neck, fingers cradling his head, pulling him in. "I'd do this."
Jerome learns three things. First is that the inside of Jacques' mouth has its own flavour that can't be described by reference to anything he knows of. Second, that it's possible to go for several minutes without apparently breathing. And third, that he doesn't envy Lemony any more. Not even a little.
It's not until Jacques breaks away from him and he can lean over the table, gasping, that he realises the fourth thing. They're in a library. In public. There are people. No one's pointing and staring, so he assumes that no one saw them, but still…
"Are you sure you're all right?" Jacques asks. His hand is still on Jerome, and Jerome's objection freezes in his throat because he really, really doesn't want it to go away, and if he's sure of anything at all in this world it's that Jacques Knows What He's Doing.
Over the next few weeks he discovers that Jacques does, indeed, know exactly what he's doing. It's possible that Jacques has even had b- even in his mind, Jerome stumbles over the word – had boyfriends before. Jerome always suspected that he was hiding something, beyond the detective work that he can't talk about for obvious reasons, so maybe this is it. He tries not to think too much about who the others might have been, just as he tries not to think about how wrong this all is and what would happen if it ever got out. He's more successful at this than might be expected. Partly because Jerome is good at not thinking about things, partly because, when he's alone with Jacques, he isn't thinking about anything at all.
It's a blissful if slightly terrifying period, and it can't last.
The end comes on the day they go to watch Beatrice's theatrical debut. Lemony is there as well, of course, but he's reviewing and can't be distracted so they have to sit somewhere else. Which means they're alone, together, in public, for the first time since the library.
From the moment they walk into the theatre Jerome can sense heads turning in their direction, and by the time they find their seats he knows the whole audience is watching the two of them from behind their programmes. Watching and whispering. He can't move. He can't breathe. The lights go down, and he's just about to let himself relax his grip on the armrest when Jacques' hand folds gently around his.
Jerome yelps. He leaps up, clutching his hand to his chest, and runs, tripping and apologising after every step, out of the theatre.
He's at home, some time later – he doesn't know how much later, because he's underneath the bed – and there's a knock on the door. Jacques calls his name. He presses his hands over his ears and hums, a single, high-pitched note, but he can still tell Jacques is there if only by the aching in his chest and stomach.
The door clicks open. He'd forgotten that Jacques had a key. He's still calling "Jerome? Jerome!" and Jerome knows he needs to answer him, or at least to get out from under the bed, but he's shaking too much and he just can't. He hears the bedroom door open too, and closes his eyes.
Jacques sits down on the bed. "Jerome, what happened?" he says, and he doesn't sound angry which is what Jerome thought he was afraid of but it's worse than that, so much worse. He sounds disappointed. Disappointed and tired.
"I'm sorry!" Jerome whimpers, into the carpet, realising for the first time that he's in tears.
Jacques sighs. "Jerome, come out of there."
He always listens to Jacques, because Jacques always knows what he's doing, so he crawls out and Jacques takes hold of his arm and helps him up on to the bed. They sit in silence for a long time. Jerome wants to apologise again, and again, and he would if he thought it would help, but if he says anything then Jacques is going to and he doesn't want to know what that reply will be.
Eventually Jacques does speak, of course. One of them had to. "Does it really frighten you that much?" he says. He still isn't raising his voice. Jerome almost wishes he would. It would be awful if Jacques shouted at him, but not as awful as hearing him so quiet and insecure and hurt. Jerome hurt him, and where did he get that kind of power? Doesn't Jacques know he can't be trusted with something like that?
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and then "I l-love you. I do. But I'm not – I can't…" and then he breaks off again, because how can he explain this? That just by feeling this way he's setting himself in opposition to the whole world? Jacques can cope with things like that. He can brush away other people's opinions like flies. To Jerome, they're more like snow gnats. They sting, they bite, they leave marks.
Jacques puts his head in his hands. "I know," he says. "I know."
Jerome doesn't know if he means I know you love me or I know how scared you really are or I know you're sorry or all or none or some combination of the three. The room is shaking as if an earthquake has struck it, about to bury the two of them under heaps of rubble, which at least would get him out of this. "I'm sorry," he says, for the third time.
"Stop saying that," Jacques hisses, and now he does sound angry and it's not better after all. It's like being stabbed in the stomach and deflating, burning pain sucking the air from his body.
"I don't know what to do!" Jerome wails, collapsing on the bed, burying his face in the pillow. "Jacques, tell me. Please. Tell me and I'll listen. I'll do whatever you want."
He feels Jacques lie down next to him, arms wrapping around him, warm and strong and (used to be) safe. "I want to know what you want, Jerome," he says. "You know how I feel. I need you to tell me what you want most. Honestly."
Honestly. This is what dooms them, this one word, because what Jerome wants to say is You. I want you. If he says that, he knows, things will be okay for now. Jacques will smile and forgive and keep holding him, and won't be disappointed any more or hurt. For now. Jerome is an expert in "for now."
But he has to be honest this time. Jacques told him to. And he always listens.
"I want to be normal," Jerome says. "The way I used to."
Jacques shudders and breathes in hard, a little gasp as if he's been hit. Jerome lies very still. He thinks he might have to be sick. That terrible, shameful sound, the sound of breaking your best friend's heart, is going to be in his head forever now.
"I'm s-" he begins, and feels Jacques shake his head.
"Don't apologise." He pulls away and slides off the bed and stands up, and Jerome feels cold air rushing in where his arms used to be. "I'm the one who said be honest," Jacques says, and maybe he says I love you one last time as well or maybe Jerome just wants to hear that. And then he's gone, and Jerome is still lying there, not wanting to move in case the chill from where his body was goes away.
Is it brave to admit you're a coward, Beatrice? he wonders, but he'll never be able to ask her.