Congealed

"Are you having a séance in here? He isn't dead yet."

If Jonesy could have had a birthday mid-summer, instead of dead in the middle of winter, that would be great. He's a camping fanatic, and Byron has connections to get a cabin in the woods for an ultimate slumber party. Connections being his mother, who promised everything would be ready for them.

Everything, not everyone.

"Dude, I got us a cabin in the woods for your birthday," he had said.

"Great, I'll let Philippa know. She'll be so hype!" Jonesy had taken him by both shoulders and was beaming so hard his face could have split. There was no way Byron could tell him she wasn't invited.

Having his heart split would be a much worse fate.

Thing was, she didn't have her license. Which would have been fine, because she could have carpooled with her boyfriend, and met him there. Unfortunately, despite requesting the day off for a long birthday weekend, Jonesy's boss scheduled him until five, and already at his limit for excused absences (stupid flu bug), he stayed, as all the snow started to pile up.

Byron had agreed to drive Philippa. That way they could prepare dinner and be ready by the time that he'd be arriving before giving him a very generous birthday gift. One that made him blush as she asked if he was packing his headphones, because things would be getting loud. How generous of her.

It's late January, and it feels it. There's about a half foot of snow accumulated outside the window. It's taking longer than it should for Jonesy to show up, but they assume that he's going slowly, because the roads have turned to ice in the cold. 

The weather has turned bad enough that the power gets knocked out. So here he is, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, looking at her amidst a circle of lit candles.

"Don't say yet. It worries me." She shifts her weight. "I'm waiting to seduce Jonesy. We're already behind schedule."

She has a schedule? Are they that routine that she knows how many minutes it'll take to create the ultimate power combo for his pleasure? Does that include the time it'll take him to defrost?

"You're going to catch cold in that thing. If you want to bundle up, I can answer the door when he shows up and delay him a few minutes." It's not that he wants to help her nail his best friend. He isn't her biggest fan to be honest. They haven't hung out much, but she is infamous for stealing his attention. Also for long set of legs of hers that she has spread out for display.

He can see the allure.

He can feel it, backing out of the doorway.

"He'll be here any minute. I can feel it," she calls after him. He nods, though she can't see him, long gone down the hallway. He needs to collect his thoughts. The last thing he needs is for Jonesy to walk into his best friend deconstructing the tent in his pants, pitched by his girlfriend, on his birthday.

He makes his exit to the kitchen, where a, now dead, slow cooker sits on the countertop. The mac and cheese is cold now. It's slowly congealing, because he had thought that they'd have eaten and moved onto dessert by now. Rather they'd have moved onto their special dessert, and Byron would eat the bag of Sour Patch Kids he had thrown into his duffel bag.

The kitchen is dark without the lights, and he reaches for his phone. There's no service, but he can use it as a makeshift flashlight so that he can make his way to the fridge for a bottle of water. 

"Bryan!" He's not going to respond. He's grown used to it, with years of people mishearing his name upon introduction, and he's given up on correcting them. It's just that he's only now gotten his emotions under control, and he isn't fond of testing fate.

She calls the name again.

After the third try, she shuffles out of the bedroom, carrying one of her candles.

His flashlight accidentally hits her in the pupils. 

"Sorry," he apologizes, turning it off. She sets the candle on the counter between them, and he stares at it, because it's not her.

"I was calling for you."

"No you weren't. You were calling for some guy named Bryan." He takes the lid off the slow cooker. It's definitely getting worse by the moment, and he gives it a stir in an attempt to revive it. Also in an attempt to avoid looking at her in that outfit, or therefore lack of.

She doesn't seem to catch the hint.

Poking her own nose in, it wrinkles. "What if he got hurt and can't contact either of us? What if he's not coming tonight?"

"Then hopefully he finds help. But it'll only be worse if we go out looking for him. It's dangerous out there, and you aren't even properly dressed." He tightens the strings on his own hoodie. He's thrown some wood into the fireplace, but it isn't a miracle worker.

"I have clothes." 

He waits for her to fetch them and get dressed, and laughs at how thin they are. She's still shivering. 

"C'mon. Extinguish the candles and we can go sit by the fire. It'll be warmer." 

She returns, this time with a blanket, to find him on the floor. He has the slow cooker with him, and a serving spoon. He takes a heaping scoop and eats it straight off the spoon.

"Seriously, not-Bryan?"

"Not-Bryan?"

"You said your name wasn't Bryan."

"It's Byron. As in Lord Byron." He nibbles at the gluey cheese. It's past its prime, but he is hungry, and doubts his friend will be arriving tonight.

She takes the spoon from him. "You're a Lord?"

Obviously someone isn't as big into poetry as his parents. She's also not above sharing his cooties, licking a glob of macaroni off the spoon.

He chuckles and shakes his head.

"We can get bowls, y'know."

"I don't mind." 

There's something in the way that she smiles at him with cheese glazed lips that tickles his heart. It's probably residual from seeing her in that lace number, still peeking out from underneath that sweater dress of hers. 

This time he shivers, fingers brushing hers as he takes the spoon back from her.

"Next year I should get him tickets to the movies." It's the most inconvenient time of the year to have a birthday. At least the theater will have heat, and they can stuff themselves with buttery popcorn instead of congealed mac and cheese.

"Who?" She's watching as he methodically eats one noodle at a time. The question startles him, and he jolts back, cheese smeared on his nose.

"Jonesy." The second syllable comes out airy, as her thumb rubs his nose clean. He loses it when she licks her thumb clean, forgetting how to breathe for a minute. 

Her smile drops. It's almost as if she had forgotten her boyfriend could be trapped out in the middle of a snowstorm.

She's quiet for a few minutes, plucking pieces of macaroni out of the slow cooker. They're not sharing the spoon anymore. He must have cooties again. Or she's realized that they got too intimate for two humans only connected by their favorite person.

"He was really excited about this. It's all he would talk about for the last two weeks. He said his two favorite people would finally get to hang out and learn to love each other as much as he loves us." 

Byron sets the spoon down. "I don't hate you."

"You don't?"

"I just hate how much time he spends with you."

"Huh."

"What?"

"I could say the same thing about you." She twists to face him. "All those overnight bro trips, and bronch every Sunday." 

It's Bronch. They've been having their bro-brunch for years. They'd been jealous of his mother always having a ladies brunch without them, so they went with intentions of getting tall stacks of blueberry pancakes and ended up with a dedicated table and waitress. Ladies aren't bros. Ladies can't eat bronch.

Still, she has a point. He makes no effort to include her, knowing she'll take all his attention. How could she not, with those stupid long legs and that beautiful smile?

"Fair point."

She moves the food out of the way and scoots closer. He hesitates. Is she moving towards the fire, or trying to get closer to him? Should he scoot back more, or-

Oh.

Holding the blanket out, she wiggles even closer.

"We should share body heat. I didn't think it'd be this cold." She lets the blanket fall over him, and he sits rigid. She looks perfectly cuddle worthy, but cuddling leads to canoodling, and that's a slippery slope to go down.

"There's an extra hoodie in my bag if you want to borrow it."

She does, and he takes the moment to breathe as she goes for it and slips it on. She's swimming in it. Crawling back under the blanket, she curls into his side.

That plan went horribly.

"Philippa..."

"Call me Pip."

"Pip?"

"I was named after my prick of a father. I hate being called Philippa." It's news to him, as Jonesy always calls her by her full name. He wonders if he knows, or if she hasn't told him, for fear of upsetting him and losing him. 

At the memory of his best friend, he crosses his legs. He needs to calm down. It should be easy, because she's started talking about her abusive father, which isn't sexy in the slightest, but he wants to hold her and wipe her tears away. 

Where the heck is Jonesy?

Her words start to slur, and he realizes that she is falling asleep. He tries to lift her, failing. His body too is falling to sleep, and try as he might to stay awake, wedged between her weight and the hardwood floor he isn't letting her head fall to, he succumbs. 

He wakes the next morning to find her still asleep on him. Temptation gets the better of him and he kisses the top of her head. He manages to get his phone out of his pocket to see that it is dead. 

Putting his phone down, he sees that she has awoken (turns out he has jostled her after all) and is smiling at him. There's no immediate leap of horror after finding herself practically in her boyfriend's best friend's lap.

"I wonder if he's going to show up today."

Oops, there goes the smile.

"Is it still storming outside?" The windows are covered in white, so they head to the door. There, fist raised to knock stands Jonesy, looking a bit frozen.

"Judging by the looks on your faces, I'm going to assume neither of you got my texts." 

She snaps out of her daze and shifts away from Byron. Her side feels cold without him. "We lost power yesterday. No phone service either."

"We're glad you're safe." 

The truth pains him. Yes, he is glad that his best friend is safe. Mainly because he cares about him. Though he'd be lying if he said that it had nothing to do with preventing him from acting on certain feelings that cropped up in his absence. 

Problem was, the feelings weren't just physical anymore.

He doubts this is what he meant when he said he wanted him to learn to love her.

"Come in," she says, wrapping the blanket completely around herself. She's still wearing Byron's hoodie. 

"It was so bad out last night when I got out of work I went home. Texted that I'd head out in the morning, and for you guys to save me some mac and cheese."

It's still sitting on the floor.

Byron steers him to the bedroom. Motioning behind Jonesy's head for Pip to hurry, she runs into the living room to fling off his hoodie and take the pot to the fridge. The ring of candles are still waiting for him, unlit, and he sighs happily.

"Isn't she the greatest?"

"She's pretty alright," he undersells, catching her eye as she approaches. She gives a half hearted smile, fingertips grazing his for a moment as she passes him through the doorway.

His hand folds around the paper. He waits until the door is closed to read it.

'I wish I had met you first.'

He listens to his best friend unzip her dress, gawking in delight. Then a flat, hollow voice.

"Happy belated birthday, Jonesy."

The paper crumples in his fist.