Why Don't We date already? | oneshots

call me by your name - jorbyn

Four months, two weeks.

"Shove off, Corbyn," Jonah grumbled, annoyed and exasperated at the blonde who he was pretty sure had just lost him his page in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince.

"What?" Corbyn asked, amused at Jonah's British accent. Though Jonah had already stayed at his house for a month and two weeks, he hadn't gotten used to his accent. Or his presence.

Jonah sighed, flopping onto the spare twin bed in Corbyn's room, usually reserved for his twin Christina, now in Hawaii with her friends. It had been his for the past two weeks, and would be until Jonah's six-month stay in the States was over. He flipped the book to the page he had left off on as Corbyn sat on his own bed and plugged himself into blocky headphones, setting up his Spotify playlist.

Jonah was such a mystery to Corbyn.

It wasn't just the accent or the way he talks (which is weird--who calls fries chips and the trunk the boot?), but-- just-- the-- way-- he-- If Corbyn thought about it more, he would explode.

It was bad enough that Christina had to leave him for her friends in paradise, while he got stuck with a stuck-up British dude who always asks for tea instead of coffee or Gatorade and gets his stuff mixed with Corbyn's and gets his Harry Potter memorabilia everywhere, or watches soccer (football, Jonah calls it) when Corbyn wants to watch proper, good ol' American football, or when he's so damn nice to his mother that his mom acts like Jonah is a second son, or when--

A bell rang in the sprawling New England home. Corbyn grunted and tossed his headphones aside, picking up a few clothes on the floor and throwing them into a hamper in the corner of the room. He straightened and dusted himself off, half-glancing at Jonah's prone figure. "Dinner."

Jonah smoothed out his bedding and straightened a few of his belongings before following Corbyn and walking downstairs into the dining room.

*****

Four months.

Jonah walked into his shared bedroom with Corbyn to find him nursing his shoulder.

"What happened?" Jonah asked. He gingerly sat on the edge of Corbyn's messily crumpled sheets, a testament to the blonde's stubbornness to making his bed, as the other rolled his shoulder out, wincing and muttering curses under his breath as he did so.

"I think I pulled something when I was playing football," Corbyn replied bitterly. "Threw the ball too many times or something."

"Want me to help?" Jonah offered, having to help injured players, being a coach's assistant to his old elementary school baseball team's coach. He placed his hands on the tops of Corbyn's shoulder, rubbing the muscle soothingly while working out the kinks.

Corbyn closed his eyes, reveling in the bliss of having Jonah touch him like this-- at least until he realized that Jonah was the one touching him like that.

"Yeah, I think I'm good," Corbyn said abruptly, standing up and walking out.

The same question was on both boy's minds.

What just happened?

*****

Three months.

Corbyn didn't talk to Jonah for a month after that. Jonah always seemed a bit wary of him. He was halfway through his stay in America. Corbyn had mixed feelings on him leaving.

He poked his eggs with a fork, half heartedly spooning some in his mouth. He had no idea what to do this weekend, as school had gotten out the day before and Jonah's studies wouldn't end until August.