𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

11. pyromaniacs anonymous.

E L E V E N
pyromaniacs anonymous

JJ has awful taste. Whilst he hasn't said it, it's clear he is struggling to get into Grey's Anatomy.

I don't offer to change the channel, I worry he'd take me up on it. My house, my remote, my choice.

We're a few episodes in when the sun begins slipping down the sky, making way for the moon to take its place high in the sky. It also doesn't take long for my headache to kick in, a hangover mixed with a possible concussion isn't sitting well in my head. I don't entirely know I'm doing it, but I'm sinking lower and lower into the sofa, tipping to the side as my eyes grow heavy.

"What, who is he?" JJ asks, clearly trying to understand the extremely easy-to-follow show—easy to follow in the first few seasons, it then gets ridiculous when you have eighteen seasons of lore and scandalous relationships.

I crack one eye open, "That's George, we like him. And that's Alex, we also like him." I explain.

"He's kind of a dick," JJ looks down at me as I become one with the sofa.

"He's like an onion, JJ, he has layers," I tell him like it's obvious.

"Whose your favourite?" He switches between watching the bloody show, and me as I rest my thumping head on the armrest.

"BokHee. She's kind of irrelevant, and yet the most relevant. The show would be lost without her and her talent," I mumble. My words meld kind of into each other.

"Which one is she?" He now looks very confused.

"Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, JJ." I begin making no sense. I think I was going for her being a scrub nurse and not a surgeon. But, honestly, I don't think much.

JJ stares at the screen as someone begins spurting blood from their neck, he looks mildly horrified, "You watch this to go to sleep?"

"It's fake blood, and there are only a few actually sad parts so I avoid those if I want to sleep. And the parts that make me want to tear my eyes out, those happen more often." I don't even bother opening my eyes when they close this time. He keeps asking questions, I keep giving increasingly less coherent answers. I can't decide if he wants to understand or just doesn't want to watch.

The next time I wake up has to be a good few hours later, the first hints of sunlight bathes the living room.

JJ is out like a light, in a position that somewhat mirrors my own, except he just looks uncomfortable. I sit up a little and pinch his thigh, not bothering to sit up enough to shake him awake. I'm trying to save his neck from being sore, anyway. Surely that buys me enough goodwill. He shoots up, looking around he seems ready to fight before he sees me confused at what kind of dream he had playing on the TV your brain wheels in when you close your eyes.

"I didn't even pinch you that hard," I look at him.

"No, it wasn't that hard, I jus—"

"Am I a pussy?" I grin. Leaning back, looking happy, the morning light casts its bright, warm light just above the TV, the TV itself is still playing Grey's Anatomy, the volume turned down. I always have the captions up, my Grandma used to need them and now I can't watch any other way.

"Wasn't exactly what I was going to say. I didn't entirely know what I was supposed to do, leaving seemed weird, but so did staying, and I think if I tried to put a blanket on you I'd lose my dick—and that would be a travesty to the world." He overthinks.

"It's the middle of summer, JJ, I don't need a blanket. I'm not a fighter trying to make a weight cut. Love the idea, though. Very sweet." I smirk.

He moves so his neck isn't craned at a weird angle, "I am not sweet. Sexy, yes, sweet, no."