Title: Everything is Never Enough
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse, post-Clerks
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob
Rating: NC-17 for masturbation, extreme language
Status: New
Archive: You must send an email to me and let me know where you 
intend to archive. Private archiving allowed as long as you don't 
intend to publish. Behave.
Email address for feedback: kel@crazysheep.net
Series/Sequel: Part I of an actual trilogy. At friggin' last.
Disclaimers: All characters belong to Kevin Smith and the View 
Askewniverse. If I really get into this, I probably will too. Or at 
least go into hock when I walk into a video store, go into rut, and 
buy all the DVDs at once.
Notes: Woke up with this first story in my head this morning and 
wrote the next two straight. Kind of cool. This is, btw, entirely 
the fault of Dead Grrl's plot bunnies.
Outline: Jay wakes up with a typical problem.

"Everything is Never Enough"
by Kelandris

Jay shook his head, shaking his blond hair out of his eyes, and sat 
up in bed. He glanced over at the bedside clock and groaned. 
Christ, it wasn't even noon yet. What the fuck was he doing up?

He reached by instinct for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, 
lit one by reflex, tossing the pack aside. He kicked free of the 
jumble of bedding and walked over to the closet. He swung the door 
open slowly, staring into the mirror bolted into the other side.

Nineteen-year-old boy. On the skinny side, but some muscle 
definition from fighting. Pale. Fuckin' goth pale, he thought, 
shaking his head, but fuck if he could ever be one of those posers. 
Girlfriend had handed him a clove cigarette once, and he'd liked the 
taste, he'd even liked the way the first inhale had calmed him 
*right* down, like someone'd pinned him to the floor. But the only 
black gear he owned was his boots, bought secondhand in a military 
surplus shop over in Trenton, and his collection of fine band shirts, 
which he wore with pride. And most of the band names on `em would've 
caused any of those Bauhaus-lovin' motherfuckers to shriek and run 
for the nearest dark alcove to huddle in lacy despair. Poser fags.

He smiled ironically, looking at the boy in the mirror. Oh yeah, 
like you have room to talk, sweet stuff, getting' chubbies for your 
chubby roommate. Goddamned fat motherfucker, had no fuckin' clue how 
hot he was, no clue how everyone started lustin' after him when he 
walked by. Striding through life in that black trench that fit him 
so damned well. Man had style, definite style, and class, but no 
clue.

Jay sighed, running a hand through his hair. Five years. Five years 
he'd lived with Silent Bob, and he'd been dropping hints since six 
months in. And fuck, he knew Bob was brilliant, and who needed a 
statutory charge, he got that. Not that his family would fucking 
care one way or the other--Dad was dead, Mom was drunk, his one 
sister had run away from home a year before he had. But still, 
somebody could've said *something*; one meddling social worker 
would've been enough. And especially two years in, in their line of 
work, who needed trouble from the cops. Fucking cops.

But then he'd turned eighteen, and it wouldn't have mattered, and 
hadn't he made that fucking clear at least? Silent motherfucker. 
Either he didn't know, or worse, he didn't care.

He looked down with a sigh. Shit. Clear to this point, and now one 
thought... The front of his shorts were tenting out. Sighing again, he 
reached down and began beating his meat, thinking of Silent Bob. 
That soft, kissable red mouth. The soft shoulder-length hair, seal-
dark and shining. Uhh... yeah... He closed his eyes, leaning against the 
doorframe of the closet, t-shirts brushing against his bare back. 
Oh, yeah... Fuck, Bob, yeah...

Two precise knocks on the door, quick and succinct.

"Coffee," said the soft voice, and Jay bucked forward, hearing it. 
Hot come splashed his hand, and he grimaced, shaking his head. One 
fucking thought, one fucking word, and it was all over.

"Be out in a minute," he gasped, reaching for a discarded t-shirt to 
clean up. Shit. *Shit*. Fat motherfucker... Why the hell couldn't he 
be normal, and fall in love with someone had tits for God's sake?

His mind skittered nervously towards one of the times he'd walked in 
on Bob in the shower. Well, Bob...

*Fuck* that. Fuck that. He glanced towards the clock again, 
realizing it was just past noon. He'd been mirror-gazing for twenty 
minutes. Shit. He was sick of this, *sick* of it. He got dressed 
quickly, shoving his shorts and the tee into the basket by the bed. 
Hurt, and feeling the need to wound, he walked out of his room.

"Hey, fat ass, what do I have to do to get some food around here?"

He watched Bob sigh, and point towards the fridge with one cigarette-
holding hand. Master of the elegant fucking gesture, thought Jay, 
sneering. Then Bob slid a mug of coffee towards him and he swallowed 
past a sudden lump in his throat. He stared down at the inky black 
liquid and knew that when he drank it, there would be enough sugar to 
kill four diabetics in the mug. Just what he liked. And Bob knew. 
Bob just knew.

Five fucking years, Jay thought. Gives me everything and it's never 
enough. I only want what he won't give me. Shaking his head, Jay 
walked from the kitchen, falling onto the couch as he watched Bob fix 
breakfast. As both of them had known he would.

Jesus, how does he stand me? 


END
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