Jamie/Geoffrey drabbles


200 words, G.

Jamie searched through every drawer, laying the contents out in neat stacks before sighing and moving on. When I came in and saw the orderly disaster, I shifted the laundry basket on my hip and cleared my throat. He glanced at me and then back into the drawer he was currently dissecting.

“What are you looking for?”

“My lucky socks.” He made a face without looking up, his mouth pursing in a moue of irritation.

“Why are they lucky?”

“They’re the ones I was wearing when we met, and I need them for our train ride this afternoon.” He moved to my bureau, still investigating.

“They wouldn’t be red, by chance?” I dumped the laundry onto the bed, over several stacks of clothing.

“Yes–” he turned toward me, gaped at the pile of bright pink undershirts, pants, and socks.

“I think I’ve found them.” I picked the offending pair from the messy mound and handed them to him. “They weren’t so lucky for my kecks,” I added, trying–unsuccessfully–to hide a grin at his satisfied expression.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He sat down and pulled the socks over his bare feet. “You don’t wear pants, and I look fine in pink.”


200 words, G.

Laugh, giggle, chuckle, chortle–these are all things we do.

When we’re in my room and I’m drawing and you’re watching and then we start in to talking pleasing teasing, then we laugh.

When we are outside, stamping through a soft day, me in my yellow raincoat and you in those wellies that Mrs. Wainthropp bought you, then we giggle.

When we are comfortable and cozy and wrapped up under the covers, touching everywhere we can touch and murmuring words, then we chuckle.

When we are racing running flying falling through the kitchen out the door through the garden down the beach and I catch you or you catch me, then we chortle.

Those are all different words, and I understand their differences, and I understand how they are the same. The differences are small–pitch and timbre, tone and volume. The sameness comes from the expressions we wear–smiles, always, and the tilt of your head, and the angle of mine, and the way your lips are soft and relaxed, and the way my mouth echoes that, though I can only feel it, not see it.

You touched my mouth once, when I laughed, and we both stood still.

200 words, G.

“You need a hat.” Jamie’s nose is pink in the cold wind.

“Gave ’em up.” Geoffrey grins and tugs the bobble of Jamie’s bright cap. “They look better on you anyway.”

Jamie tucks his arm through Geoffrey’s and watches rust-coloured waves slap onto brown sand. “Why would you give up hats?” He uses his free hand to pull the flaps of the silly hat securely over his ears.

Geoffrey lifts his head to follow a gull’s flight. “I used to wear hoods a lot,” he says, footsteps synchronised with Jamie’s, warm down his right side where Jamie is pressed. “They always felt nice. Like a disguise.”

“A hiding place,” Jamie diagnoses, and Geoffrey’s eyes widen and then narrow.

“Maybe,” he evades.

Jamie absently rubs his sleeve across his nose. His fingers slip into Geoffrey’s pocket and stroke his knuckles lightly. “And you aren’t hiding now.”

“No.” Faint prints behind, empty beach ahead. “I guess not.” He glances sideways at Jamie, and the question is clear in his canted eyebrows.

Jamie reads it and laughs. “I’m not hiding. Just cold.”

“Alright then.” Geoffrey twists his hand in his pocket and tickles Jamie’s palm with his fingertips before winding their fingers together.


300 words, PG-13.


I might as well have said it to the sky, for all the attention you paid–all you could pay. Your hands looped over and over to your neck, to the unfamiliar binding there. I could see how your fingers dragged it away, like a caricature of the tired businessman, forever tugging at his noose.

“The texture is all wrong,” you whispered, and having found the words at last, you whispered them again and again: “The texture is all wrong.” You pulled anxiously at the blue tie and then at my hand, your face pained: “The texture is all wrong, Geoffrey.”

I turned to face you and pretended to straighten it, all the while loosening. I curled my fingers between the collar and your skin, felt the flutter of your pulse, warm and alive against the back of my knuckles. I ignored the flood of heat I felt, the sudden constriction of my own clothing as I touched your throat, so much more intimate for you than any other place, more intimate than kissing, more intimate than the times we have both gotten lost and run away and drowned in each other. This is intimacy, isn’t it? This is the most private place between us, the place you have allowed me and no one else. The clatter of the party around us faded as your eyes closed and your mouth opened, breath sighing across my face.

“Better, Jamie?” I murmured, and you nodded, your eyes still closed.

Your mother turned to look at us from across the crowded room and I saw her eyes widen and then narrow; I met them and finally she shrugged and nodded tightly at me, turning away as I stood there with my hand inside your collar.

We might as well have been naked.