FOR KAZ <3

[laliandra]

For Kaz, who art awesome, for the occasion of her birthday, I present a tale of love, friendship and the throwing of inanimate objects, narrated by one Anderson Hays Cooper, Esq. Edited by Mlle Colline, and set in her fantabulous universe of NorthByNorthwestern, of which a working knowledge is helpful but not required.

WARNINGS! Swearing (it's got RAHM EMANUEL in it ppl) and gratuitous references to Shakepeare, food, history, punditry and politics (it's written by me, and I am a DORK)

I HOPE YOU LIKE IT BB!

Anderson and Jon are supposed to be studying history together, sitting on Jon’s floor in a nest of books and a mild panic because after just two seminars on Early American History they already feel behind and really, no one told them academia was going to be this hard. But Stephen is there and reading over Jon’s shoulder, leaning in and pointing at things and making jokes about teabagging, and they are all giddy with laughter already.

“I would be a good King I think.” Stephen says, waving in his very best regal manner, only let down slightly by the pen marks on his fingers and the holes in the one not very royal converse Anderson can see, tucked as it is under Jon’s knee in a proprietary way that Anderson is very much not commenting on, because funny as it would be to see Jon go red, he likes him; their friendship is still new and he doesn’t want to jeopardise it. They are similar, in just enough ways not to drive each other mad, Anderson recognises a lot, too much sometimes, of the earnestness, that slight air of not quite fitting, and maybe that’s why they get on well, all of them. They are the puzzle pieces that don’t fit in their proper pictures, but all their jagged bits align to somehow to make this group (One day, when they are all drunk he will try and explain this theory and Jon will say “so we’re The Tessellating Misfits?” and Joey will threaten to make that the name of his new band).

“You would be a mad king. Madder than King George,” Jon says easily, because he is so rarely thrown by Stephen, following his scattershot approach to conversation like it comes naturally to him. Which maybe it does.

“I would be a brilliant mad king,” Stephen decides. “The best. Madder even than Mad King Ludwig of Barvaria.”

Anderson gasps with laughter and says “you’re making that up” and Stephen yells, actually yells, “how dare you question the veracity of Mad King Ludwig of Barvaria?” and Anderson can’t help himself, he laughs the laugh that he has been trying to keep very firmly hidden away, like the brand tags in his clothes; Jon is silent for a moment and then giggles, high and surprised. Stephen stares at both of them and looks completely and utterly delighted to have knocked a hole in two facades with one mad stone.

Jon holds out a hand to Anderson, “I won’t mention it if you won’t” he says and they shake on it, just about keeping their faces straight.

“What about him though?” Anderson asks, fixing Stephen with a stare. Even he’ll admit he has good eyes for that kind of thing, pulling focus on people, wide angle to close up. Stephen smiles and he remembers that Stephen is a drama student, more than happy to be in the spotlight.

“I shall consider terms for my continuing benevolence,” he says loftily.

“We could call you ‘Your Majesty’?” Jon says with a grin and Stephen gives the back of Jon’s head a complicated look.

Anderson picks up a weighty biography of Jefferson and tries to look menacing, but Stephen sticks his tongue out and ducks down behind Jon, who just shrugs and says “Oh well, it’s not like we can keep many secrets round here anyway. The walls are too thin, for one thing,” and takes the book from Anderson and opens it up again. Anderson smiles and mentally says a small but fervent prayer that when the other walls get pulled down it can be like this, made just another thing to tease each other about, like Jon’s Springsteen obsession or Barack’s colour coded notes. (Of course Stephen tells everyone and for a few weeks it turns into a competition to see who can make him and Jon laugh the quickest and the worst, until one day Rahm, the surprise entrant, makes them both laugh so much that Jon squeaks and Anderson nearly chokes and there is some sort of unspoken agreement that he has won.)

 

Joey works out it first, which Anderson had kind of been expecting, seeing as they lived together, everything all crammed together without any dividers, but it didn’t exactly go as he’d thought it would. Joey picks up the photo of himself and his family, because he had absolutely no sense of personal space, and says “Wow Andy, you look really like your Dad” which makes Anderson’s heart skip a beat, just as it always did.

“Yeah, people say that a lot,” he says, letting his hair fall across his eyes and not really looking at Joey because it’s always clear to people when he is trying to hide something as soon as they look directly at it.

“Seriously, people must get you mixed up all the time,” Joey laughs and Anderson is almost glad of the opener, because there’s just no good way to drop this into a conversation.

“Not really. He died. When I was ten.” And he wonders why saying “he died” is easier that “he’s dead”, when the only difference is one letter.

Joey pulls a truly terrible face and says, “Oh crap. I’m always putting my foot in it, you should be warned. Shit. I’m sorry.” Anderson knows Joey just enough to know that this is true, and also that he is usually blithely unapologetic about it.

“That’s alright, you weren’t to know,” he smiles then at Joey who looks massively relieved and hands him the picture.

“What was he like?”

“Wonderful,” Anderson answers without a thought. “Very clever. He was a writer.”

“Really? What was his name again?”

“Wyatt Emory Cooper”

“Wait, that Wyatt Cooper?” and Anderson realises two things all at once: one, that Joey is a lot smarter than he makes out, and two, that any minute now he is going to put two and two together and come up with millions. It’s clear as a lightbulb over his roommate’s head when he gets it, and he just stares at Anderson for a few moments, then puts his head on one side and says “What the hell are you doing here then, Vanderbilt?” and Anderson laughs in sheer relief.

“I hate telling people,” he admits, fingers tracing the raised pattern on the frame of the picture. “It always takes them a while to stop seeing it when they see me.”

Joey doesn’t ask which one he means, but by the end of the next day everyone seems to know. No one asks about his Dad, or stops themselves complaining about their own fathers, and of course Jon asks him if he can marry his mother and Keith makes snide remarks and Rahm calls him ‘Vanderbilt’ when he gets annoyed, of course they do, but at least it’s not silence and sympathy or envy and judgement. Stephen waits until everyone is busy deciding what to call the island Anderson is going to buy for them all and says “snap.”

That evening when they are each lying in their own pool of lamplight, reading National Geographic and Time respectively Anderson says “Hey, thanks.”

Joey doesn’t even look up, just turns the page, a smile playing just at the corner of his mouth and says “No problem.”

And Anderson knows that he’s a kind person. It’s something that he has to keep in mind when Joey says yet another stupid thing or comes to The Fulcrum office and tries to seduce all his staff or is unbelievably messy that it makes Anderson’s inner neat freak roll up in a little ball and cry.

It’s hard to remember that there is another side to Joey sometimes. So much so that when Joey sits for an hour watching him, Jon and Stephen make a valiant attempt at lasagne and then blurts out “There’s this girl…” Anderson’s response is “Oh god, what have you done this time?” because for all that Joey has a face that any parent would be happy to see smiling on their doorstep on Prom Night, corsage in hand for their daughter, underneath Joey can be a bastard when it comes to girls.

Jon giggles and Stephen throws a chunk of carrot at Anderson “for being so very tactless,” and then asks “Yet another broken heart? The broken-hearted ones are my favourites, especially when they come round and cry.”

“You are a sick man”, Jon tells him, with a small smile that rather suggests he doesn’t mind.

“I use them as research, should I ever have to play a poor soul brought low by love. Or some sort of Greek tragedy where everyone turns out to be related and there is Much Bloodshed and General Idiocy,” Stephen says, with great relish.

“Sick and wrong. One day when you will do something ridiculous for love and I shall laugh and laugh.” (Jon doesn’t though, on that one day, he smiles, looking like he’s trying to keep the joy contained but it’s just shining out of him. “It’s only a match” he says, a little too casually, “You didn’t have to – you must have travelled all night.”)

“What about this girl then Joe?” Anderson asks before Jon and Stephen can really get going and veer off into their own little slightly wonky universe – there’s no stopping them after that.

“She doesn’t think I’m charming.” Joey says, his face the very essence of woe. There is a moment of silence and gathering of witty retorts.

“The thing is, Joe, not everyone finds you charming,” Jon starts, in his very best ‘I’m using small words for small minds’ voice.

“I really don’t,” Anderson adds, “really. And I’m sure not all girls do either so don’t even… We are wise to your game, Biden.”

“But even when you know I’m being deliberately charming, you’re still charmed. I’m that good.” He flashes them a perfect, perfectly charming smile and they all nod slightly, he’s right, as unfair as that is.

“This girl, Jill, it doesn’t work on her at all.”

Jon puts down his potato peeler and rests his chin in his hands “Go on…” he says, drawing out the ‘o’s, eyes wide and guilelessly intrigued.

When they finally meet Jill Jacobs, Anderson decides in the first minute that the universe is deeply, deeply unfair. She is drop dead gorgeous, clearly far cleverer than Joey and completely unfazed by Stephen, a test of character if ever there was one. After five more minutes of careful observation he realises that Joey absolutely adores her, and one reason is that she doesn’t put up with any of his bullshitting, just raises an immaculate eyebrow at him and carries on talking to Rahm, who is actually looking impressed. Full House, Anderson thinks approvingly, glad for Joey, and then laughs at himself.

Barack wanders over a little too nonchalantly, swinging the attention onto himself in that effortless way of his, with just the briefest glance out of the corner of his eye to see if Rahm is looking as he asks Jill about the community teaching program she’s on. There are things that are important to remember about Barack too, that just because a thing is effortless doesn’t mean it isn’t calculated, but also that being calculated doesn’t make it any less meant.

They are strange and unusual and he wouldn’t swap them for anyone, Anderson realises, watching as his friends congregate in the middle of the kitchen, too much brilliance for one grubby little room. He knows them, all their strangeness and silliness and they are still the best friends he’s ever had, not that he would ever say it, it’s not really the Done Thing, maybe one day when they have all grown up a bit, himself included. (That one day never comes. There is a day, nearly their last day, when they decide to drink all the alcohol they’ve accumulated over the year and end up completely trashed, lolling in the kitchen chairs trying to play cards. Barack looks round and says “You know, I never thought it would work out but…” and waves his hand around, smile bright and unsteady and Anderson says “Yeah, you’ve been, I mean, you guys are” and they all grin and they all know.) Anderson wonders if they feel the same way about him, putting up with his tendency to go from discussing tribalism in African politics to the latest episode of Dynasty in a breath, so fast that usually gives people mental whiplash, and not caring.

Anderson is good at seeing things that people try to conceal, he always has been. He supposes, though it doesn’t exactly make him feel happy to admit it, that he is a product of the society he was brought up in, one that thrives on careful observation of nuanced behaviour. Keith had called him “nothing better than a Society gossip columnist” once, and it had stung. He’d learned not to mention it as much, to keep some things behind a barrier rather than blurting everything out, even though that’s what comes naturally to him. It’s like learning to swear. In the beginning he tripped slightly over anything worse than “crap”, and although he’s got better at it, he still thinks that “fuck” sounds weird in his idiotic 5^th Avenue voice, stands out too much.

But he thinks that maybe it is worth it to be able to know things first – he has always wanted to know everything about everything – and just because he doesn’t always mention things doesn’t mean he doesn’t do something. When Timmy from upstairs started to freak out quietly about failing first semester, he knew no one else had really realised, so he tried to help, listened to him go on about calculus, despite only understanding one word in twenty, and eventually nudging him in the direction of Pete, who turned to be a kindred spirit. (One day Timmy will come up to him and say, “Thanks Andy” and promise to do his taxes for the rest of his life. Anderson will just laugh and say that he doesn’t think he’ll ever earn enough for that to be an issue.)

And then there was the period of time when he felt like the only person not yearningly in love with their roommate. He didn’t really understand how no one else hadn’t noticed the way Barack watched Rahm, eyes dark with intensity, or the way Stephen’s fingers lingered on Jon’s wrist when he passed him a book.

There’s only so much determined not-saying-anything Anderson can do though. It’s only a couple of weeks before exams. They are sitting in Jon and Stephen’s room, record player just loud enough to hear over the talking - well, discussion - well argument - that is currently going on, which started off about ethics in advertising, progressed through dark chocolate versus milk chocolate (“It’s different if it’s in a cookie”) and had now hit the ever sensitive topic of the orange mould in one of the fridges,

“I didn’t even know you could get mould that colour” “I’ve been feeding it beer” “what the hell Colbert?” “It was your food that started this, Olbermann.” “Was not” “Was too!” “Oh that’s mature…”

When Barack gets up and says “Okay, I’ve got to go meet Michelle” and everyone whistles at him, Rahm a beat to late, and in that one second he looks like a man on the edge of a precipice, about to lose grip. Anderson calls him over to talk about “This really interesting piece on Spirit Houses in Asia” and to his credit Rahm wonders over, and it’s possible that he says that kind of thing too much, but it’s not like people would find out about these things if he didn’t tell them.

“Are you okay?” he asks Rahm, who gives him a look, as people sometimes do, one that suggests that he suspects Anderson’s train of thought is kind of a Crazy Train.

“With how things are, with Barack. And Michelle. And Barack,” Anderson says, soldiering on, knowing it’s worth it if will stop that look of desolation ever coming back into his friend’s eyes, despite the fact that right at this moment they are filled with such menace that Anderson really wants to put something solid in between them. Like a wall. Or ten.

“What are you talking about?” Rahm says, “And you really do need a haircut, you look like the lost member of some shitty boyband.”

“I notice things.” Anderson says, “I’m not stupid and besides, the walls are pretty thin.”

Rahm goes an interesting colour and Anderson is pretty sure he’s about to get thumped but Rahm just stares over at the spot on the floor where Barack was sitting and says, “I will be okay with it.”

Anderson is surprised that the carpet doesn’t burst into flames.

“So you and Barack are?” He doesn’t quite know how to finish that sentence. “I mean, you’ve been – for a while now, I thought, well, I knew.”

“Maybe. Not that it’s any of your fucking business, Vanderbilt.” Rahm says, filling in the blanks.

“He’s a good guy,” Anderson says, and Rahm smiles, suddenly, like car headlights flashing through a window at night, unexpected and lighting up the room for just a second.

“He is,” he agrees and Anderson knows that Rahm might just be a little in love, and he can’t blame him. Barack is too easy to love with his determination to do what’s right, not because he thinks he ought to, but because he really cares.

“This is turning into some sort of telenova,” Anderson says with a laugh, “you and him and Michelle, Jon and Stephen and John.”

“You know about that too?” Rahm says, looking a little surprised.

“Sure. They’re not exactly subtle.”

“I don’t think it’s the same. Really. You know what Stephen is like, over-elaborate schemes.”

“But Jon doesn’t know that?” Anderson asks, and realises he should have got that too, John Oliver and Stephen flirt easily sometimes, but he’s pretty sure that if Jon Leibowitz said “jump” Stephen would not only know how high, but already be half way up.

“No.” Rahm says sharply. “And he won’t do anything about it either. It’s giving me very violent urges, I can tell you. If it wasn’t for exams…”

Anderson laughs at that and everyone turns and looks at him.

“That is the sound of Mozart’s nightmares.” Stephen declares, and the argument resumes again.

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you, then,” Anderson says, looking at his friends and hoping against hope for a happy ending.

“Keep them crossed for Colbert, he’s the one who’ll need it,” Rahm says and glares at the world in general, then looks at Anderson and adds, “You’re such a fucking soft touch, Cooper.”

Anderson has always been hopeless at bluffing, which is why he has no money left to lose by the end of the poker game, not that it matters really, he can afford it whereas the others can’t. Still he knows he will never hear the end of it.

“This is why I wanted to play Trivial Pursuit instead” he says, as Rahm smiles, or at least shows all his teeth, which is like saying sharks smile, and starts to count his winnings. The rain rattles the old, useless window and when Anderson looks back at Rahm he raises his eyebrows and looks pointedly to where Jon is trying to flatten down Stephen’s hair, gives up and ruffles it until it is sticking up in all directions.

“You always said you wanted anime hair,” Jon says as Stephen makes an indignant noise and Stephen looks as if Jon were every wish he’d ever made.

“It’s your own fault for going out in this storm,” Barack says, smiling indulgently, “What on earth were you doing out there?”

“Practising for my upcoming starring role in The Tempest,” Stephen says, sliding a smile across at Jon and Anderson can see it happen, see the way their focus shifts until it’s as if he and Stephen were all alone.

“Exit pursued by bear,” Jon says softly and the rest of them might as well be in another room, another world. Joey, oblivious as usual, says “Oh fuck, don’t get Colbert started on bears again.”

“It’s not his fault he has arctophobia,” Jon says, then looks round at their faces and says “fear of bears?” like it’s a perfectly normal thing to know.

“Sometimes I don’t think you know how smart you are” Anderson says, shaking his head at Jon who looks a bit embarrassed and says “Only compared to you uninformed bunch of slackers,” which Anderson was expecting, “ besides, not all of us can be sapphire eyed millionaires with naturally bouffant hair, Andy.”

(One day, when Jon tells them he’s thinking of becoming a comedian Anderson isn’t all that surprised. Jon has always been very good at laughing at himself, and that’s the hardest thing of all to do.)

“That’s me.” Anderson says, laughing, and actually, he’s ok with that.

 

Comments

[azurelunatic]

*heeee* mould. :D :D :D

The mould deserves more fic.

[laliandra.livejournal.com]

I only found out that it has a American version of spelling yesterday...

And when I sent it to my Fabulous Beta she said "so what, mould is a motif now? How is that kind of cute?!"

Thanks for reading, dearest Azz!