JB, who was Jude’s first friend. JB, who carried Jude to the college hospital when he witnessed him having an episode in their dorm.
JB, who shouted and made a scene in that same hospital until a doctor finally saw Jude - and that doctor was Andy, the only physician Jude ever allowed to care for him for the rest of life.
JB, who helped Jude move into the apartment he shared with Willem on Lispenard St. JB, who brought along his friend Richard to help that day. Richard, who later sold Jude his beautiful apartment on Green Street that Jude loved so much. Richard, who secretly looked after him more than Jude ever imagined, who at one point saved his life, and at another point reminded him his birthday was worth celebrating, when Jude himself had forgotten and his world was bleak.
JB, who envied his life, his looks, his career, his relationship (even his limp!). JB, who saw him as competition, rather than someone to pity. JB, who thought he was beautiful, who thought killing something small and adorable was worth it if it meant looking like Jude.
JB, who brought him to parties, who showered him with laughter and provocations.
JB, who asked too many questions and wanted all the answers but got none of them. JB, who then asked Harold to back off from asking all the questions and wanting all the answers as well.
JB, who captured his life in galleries, on canvas, on film. The good and the bad.
JB, who’s art invaded and celebrated and decorated. JB, who’s art froze Willem in time for him.
JB, who was Jude’s last friend. JB, who Jude resented, who Jude hated, who Jude never forgave, who Jude wanted dead.
JB, who found him at last, who put away his suits, who handed out his letters.
JB, who outlived his friends, who was left alone, with his pictures, and his paintings, and his pain.
The true “boys will be boys” is when all FOUR of you managed to forget your keys and phones and it’s freezing outside and the best solution you and your friends (Ivy League graduates, may I add) could come up with was launching yourself off the roof ledge to break into your own apartment
Notes: Anyone who hasn't read this book should absolutely go read it because it's amazing. They should also be warned it depicts every trigger in the book and is also just relentlessly sad for a lot of it. But it's also a beautiful, thoughtful piece about friendship, love, and what it means to live through abuse.
Though I don't depict any of the more traumatic aspects in this fic, some of these characters are still dealing with the aftereffects, and there's small, very small pieces of that in here. So just be warned before reading.
I want to be able to give Jude some happy moments, so this is that.
Summary: Jude doesn't like to be touched. But he can't stop thinking about tickling. He doesn't know what to do with this.
“Get your hands off of me!”
“Only if you ask nicely~”
“God, you’re such an asshole—JB!”
“Geez, Malcom, you want to wake the whole neighborhood, do you?”
This was in response to a shriek that had torn through the apartment, raising alarm bells in the form of goosebumps prickling along Jude’s skin. He was working on a roasted duck for Harold, who was meant to be coming over that night with Julia. Harold had insisted he was going to cook this time, but it had been a bad day, one that required busy hands and a distracted mind—to Harold, he merely said he wanted to be spared his experiments that night, a comment that was taken with much scoffing and huffing. Now, his hands froze over the meat he was carving at the sudden sound from the living room.
He stepped away to go investigate, preparing for a fight or worse, and halted when the shriek morphed into fits of laughter, albeit desperate and pitchy ones. That didn’t sound like a fight.
When he came to the doorway, he saw why. Malcom was pressed back into the couch, JB hovering over him, his hands darting out quickly towards Malcom’s person, whose face in return was crumpled into a weak grin, his hands struggling to catch JB’s. Jude’s eyes glanced around the room, landing on Willem who sat opposite them in one of their lounge chairs. His demeanor was calm and there was an amused smile on his face. Jude felt himself relaxing, slightly.
“What’s going on?” he asked cautiously, even as the scene was becoming obvious to him.
JB was tickling him. Of course. The little jabs towards his person were fingers reaching out and squeezing and poking all over Malcom’s torso. And, from the looks of it, doing so very effectively. Malcom was flushing all over, but he didn’t seem to be fighting back nearly as hard as he could have been, despite all his squirming.
“Malcom here made a comment that does not bear repeating,” JB said calmly.
“I said you’re a narcissistic piece of shit who can’t handle any criticism—fuhuhuhuck! N-Not there, mahahan!”
JB had shoved two hands under his arms, wiggling his fingers mercilessly. “See? Doesn’t bear repeating.”
Jude watched them for a few moments longer, his stomach twinging and curling with a familiar anxiety. Tickling wasn’t something he had much experience with, a fact that had never bothered him in the slightest. He was fairly certain he would dislike it. Yet, as Malcom and JB continued to wrestle and bicker on the couch, he felt a tug of something that was dissimilar to the disgust or discomfort he might have expected. He was… curious. Maybe it was how jovial they were, how friendly; he had always been jealous of the easy way they all touched each other, a part of him longing for it even as he did everything in his power to avoid it. Maybe it was the smile on Malcom’s face, the soft giggles that were different, freer and more chaotic than his usual laughter. Maybe it was the way Malcom wasn’t really fighting back, allowing himself to be caught by the tickling hands again and again whenever he managed to get the upper hand for a brief moment.
Envy. That was the squirming monster in his gut, the thing that writhed and hissed at the display. He blinked to realize it.
After a moment, he noticed Willem glancing over at him, his head tilted slightly. Jude flushed, embarrassed to have been caught in his recollection, though of course Willem would have no way of deducing what he was really thinking about. He swiftly turned around, abandoning the trio to return to his cooking.
“Try not to kill him,” he called back at them, going for wry, though it sounded strangled even to his own mind.
JB’s enthusiastic response was prompt. “No promises.”
Throughout the years together, their friendship morphed and twisted and fizzled at times, though it always eventually resumed its form in some fashion or another. And through all that, there was the tickling. As they grew older, it didn’t happen nearly as often as it did in those early years, when they were freshly on Lispenard Street and the world seemed expansive and dramatic, built for only the four of them. Back then, these tickle fights occurred often and furiously, usually between Malcom and JB and usually with JB as the instigator-turned-eventual-victim. Every once in a while, Willem would be brought into the fray. Sometimes a quick poke to JB’s side to get him to quiet, or a clawing of his knee when they were sitting on the couch and JB was having a very JB-ish rant. Sometimes JB would get revenge, and Jude would get the pleasure of hearing Willem’s laughter. It was one of his favorite sounds, though at the time he could hardly have guessed how dear to him it would become. Back then he was just happy to be around his friends, though he couldn’t help but stare, observing Willem’s gasps and snorts that were so unique to this particular form of play. It was strange how it didn’t occur anywhere else, no matter how funny the joke or hilarious the anecdote. Jude had quickly become obsessed with it, though it was a quiet, secret obsession.
Sometimes Malcom would tickle Willem, and these moments were softer, gentler, and Willem didn’t fight to get revenge like he did with JB. Jude was able to relax more whenever this occurred. JB had a chaotic energy about him that sometimes set Jude on edge, worried he might get pulled into the fray. But with Malcom, the tickling was so light and caring that it was clear this was tickling meant only for Willem and no one else. It filled Jude with envy and relief. Still, it was a much more comfortable setting, and he loved how Willem giggled—giggled, the very sound so un-Willem like that he could hardly stand it—and twisted in his seat, always forcing himself to settle back down so Malcom could continue. Oh, they teased each other, of course. But everything in their stance read happy and content, so Jude never felt any need to intervene on his behalf.
As they grew older, the tickling between each other died down, though now there were girlfriends and boyfriends whose hands couldn’t stay to themselves. And there were Harold and Julia who were as lovey with one another as when they first got together and so Jude would often walk in on them giggling and tussling together on the couch like two children.
Ever since he first started noticing it, he couldn’t stop noticing it. It would have been easier if he could have known what it was a desire for. He didn’t want the tickling to happen to him—at least so he thought. Sometimes at appointments with Andy, his fingers would be too light when examining his legs, and Jude would flinch and Andy would pull away as though burned with a quick, embarrassed apology. Sometimes Jude thought about telling him that it was because he was ticklish. Would he react? Would he do something about it, perhaps playfully inquire further? That’s how it seemed to go with other people. But ultimately he never did, as the relief when the ticklish sensation stopped was strong enough to deter him.
So then what was this fascination?
It was years later the first time he tried to explore it. He was with Willem now, a reality that was in and of itself an anomaly every day. Willem who was so sweet and caring. Willem who was so patient despite everything. Willem who, for some inexplicable reason, loved him.
And he felt comfortable around him. It had taken a while, sure, but as time progressed, he felt himself relaxing more around the other man. There were still the hyenas, lurking in the dark, and the nights where he slunk away to give into his more self-destructive desires. But then he wasn’t sure if that would ever go away with anyone. Willem was comfortable enough. And once he realized it, he began to feel that itch again. He’d noticed it in one of Willem’s films. It was a brief scene between him and some fictional paramour who was wrestling him in bed one early morning, a scene that quickly grew tickly and affectionate. Normally, Jude skipped any intimate scenes Willem was involved in. He was fine with him doing it, but the details he could do without. But now, he paused, watching Willem’s face break open into laughter.
Tickling. This was a thing between lovers. Especially when it came to adults, it seemed. Perhaps that was the missing link. Sure, he had never thought he wanted this before, but maybe with Willem, maybe then it would be okay. Maybe that was what his brain had latched onto.
He wasn’t sure how to approach the issue, so he waited many weeks until one night in bed, while Willem was playing with his hair, one of the few forms of touch Jude always readily accepted, he blurted it out.
“Do you ever think about tickling me?”
He heard the distinct sound of Willem choking on his own spit, his fingers pausing in his hair. Jude didn’t dare look back, though he could feel Willem’s gaze on him. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Tickling. I just noticed it’s a thing people do in relationships. A form of affection, I guess.” There was a beat of silence. “I’m asking honestly here. You don’t need to lie if you do.”
For a moment, he wasn’t sure if Willem was going to respond. And then: “Not really? I guess? I mean, it always seemed pretty clear when we were younger that you didn’t want anything to do with it. And I know you’re more okay with you and I touching, but tickling… well, I don’t know. I guess it feels sort of invasive—uncontrollable. So, I never thought it would be something you’d want. Here and there, there might have been moments where I thought about it, but just in passing. Why?”
Now it was Jude’s turn to fall quiet. He stared at the wall, which looked ominous and blank in the darkness of their room. He forced himself not to fiddle with the sheets, not wanting to seem as nervous as he looked.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and startled, only a little, but enough for the touch to retreat. “Jude… do you want to be tickled? It’s alright if you do. Touch doesn’t work all the same. You can want certain things and not want others, I won’t judge you for it.”
Do you want to be tickled? That was the question indeed. Jude finally turned back. Willem was staring at him, his eyes alight with a gentle caring, though Jude could see through to the curiosity underneath that he was failing to hide. Ultimately it was that that decided it for him. He hadn’t expected Willem to want to do it, really. The thought filled him with equal parts excitement and trepidation. Perhaps he was finally going to crack this mystery that had bothered him for so long.
He nodded slowly. “I think… I want to try. I don’t know if I’ll like it. But I’ve been wondering about it and grown curious, I suppose.”
They turned to face each other, both in their PJs, though Willem had forgone his shirt, leaving his torso bare and beautiful. Willem held up his hands with his fingers half curled, so that it looked like he was trying to calm him down. There was something amusing about the hesitant stance. “Okay. Where would you like me to do it? And for how long? I don’t want to overload you.”
These were things Jude had not considered, but he found himself suddenly self-conscious about the notion that his body might have to be exposed for this. There weren’t many places that were safe. “My sides. Just there. And over the shirt, please.” Willem was giving him an odd look. “What?”
“I kind of need you to raise your hands if I’m going to get any access. You’re clenched up, a bit.”
Jude flushed, nodding jerkily and carefully pulling his arms overhead so that the tips of his fingers rested against the back of his skull. It was a very vulnerable position to stay in, and he forced himself to breathe evenly, reminding himself that this was Willem and Willem was different. “Go ahead.”
At first, Willem merely placed his hands against his sides. But then his fingers began to move. And Jude inhaled sharply at the foreign sensations, his arms twitching already. It was like electricity and panic all at once, both firing off in his nervous system so strongly that he struggled not to push Willem off immediately. It was only a momentary shock, though, and after he was able to gather his sense, he came to the conclusion that it was not terribly ticklish, at least not in that spot. It definitely tickled, but not as much as he’d remembered from when he was very little. It was almost pleasant at times, or sometimes itchy. Then again, Willem was being fairly gentle.
Willem glanced up at him, looking surprisingly unsure of himself, though he couldn’t have said what Willem had to be nervous about. “How is it?”
Jude frowned. “I don’t know. I think I’m supposed to be laughing right now. But I don’t really feel like laughing.”
“Maybe you’re just not that ticklish there.”
“Could you try a little harder?”
Willem complied and Jude gasped, arching back. There was the sensation he remembered. And loads of it. A half-formed giggle slid out and his arms came crashing down as he pushed Willem forcibly off.
“Sorry,” the other said quickly, holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” Jude said, a little tiredly. He was still rubbing his sides, the sensation lingering like a sour taste at the back of his mouth. “It wasn’t as fun as it seems to be for all of you.” His tone was bitter and he forced his face to remain neutral and not disappointed. It does feel invasive, he thought privately, echoing Willem’s earlier concerns. And vulnerable. And helpless.
“I didn’t think it would be. I would have been surprised if—well, never mind. It’s fine. I’m okay not having tickling in our relationship.”
But Jude kept frowning, staring down into his lap.
“Jude?”
“I thought it was that I wanted it for myself. Whenever I would see you, all of you, tickling and playing around, I thought maybe I wanted to join in. But I definitely don’t like it. I don’t know why it’s still pulling at me.”
Willem thought for a moment, his hand absently coming over to play with Jude’s hair once more. The other man hummed, not realizing how tense he’d been till he started relaxing again. “Maybe,” Willem said slowly, glancing up at him hesitantly. “Maybe you want to do the tickling.”
Jude’s eyes snapped open. “Willem, no.”
“What?”
“That’s hardly fair. How can I ask you to subject yourself to something that I’m not willing for you to do to me. It’s not right and it’s certainly not expected of you, especially—” he broke off what he was going to say next: especially because I can’t give you what you want—sex.
Scoffing, Willem took hold of his hands, lifting them very carefully up to his own sides, giving Jude all the time in the world to pull away if he wanted to. He didn’t. “First of all, there are many things you do to me that I don’t do to you, and many things I do to you that you don’t do to me. Relationships aren’t strict transactions—at least not the fun ones, anyway, or the healthy ones. It’s about understanding what the other person wants and especially what they don’t want. But second of all… I don’t actually mind the tickling.”
Jude stared at him. This was certainly new information, though it was a theory he had suspected on and off through the years. “You don’t?”
Willem shook his head shyly. “Not exactly. Sure, I mean, sometimes it can be too much, and it has to be only with the right people. I wouldn’t like just anyone tickling me. But you, Jude…” He smiled, flushing suddenly and brightly all the way to the crest of his forehead; it was unbearably endearing. “I think I would love if you were to tickle me.”
There was an emotion building in Jude’s chest that squeezed tightly around his core and made it difficult to breathe for a moment. He had never felt so simultaneously selfish and guilty all at once, not since Willem had first asked to be with him. How was it possible his life could ever become this perfect?
Not entirely perfect, his mind taunted, but he ignored this for now. That was a problem for another time.
“Okay,” Jude said slowly. “If you’re okay with it. And you’ll let me know when you want me to stop?”
“I promise.”
Willem lay down on the bed, pulling his arms up over his head in what was clearly meant to be a casual gesture, but was anything but. His torso was still bare, a fact they were now much more aware of.
“You seem tense.”
“I’m just very ticklish.”
“I know.” And now it was Jude’s turn to blush. There was technically nothing strange about it. He had grown up around Willem, of course he had noticed. But it still felt like a confession of sorts. Pushing past the awkward moment, he continued, “Where would you like me to…?”
Willem shrugged. He was already smiling, a shy thing that crept slowly up his face. “Anywhere you want. I think it’s pretty effective in most areas.”
Watching him the whole time to make sure this was still okay, Jude lowered his hands down to Willem’s stomach. The skin jumped under even that simple touch, and Jude shot a look up to Willem. He was still smiling. Carefully, Jude began to move his fingers. The gesture was foreign to him. He had seen this done many times, but he only had memories to go off of for what it was meant to look like. He didn’t know what it felt like to tickle someone. So, the movements were jerky and stiff, like stage directions he was following out.
But it didn’t matter. Willem had been right about being very ticklish. His smile had cracked out of its usual, perfect form, his teeth hooking around his lower lip to prevent the laughter that was already building. His toes curled, his hands clenched into fists, and his stomach tightened, a beautiful, brilliant flush spread across his face.
“It seems to be effective,” Jude commented and Willem chuckled, the sound breaking the dam and allowing more laughter to escape, impossible to reign back in.
“I-it is,” he agreed, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. “God, Jude, this is so gentle—”
Jude halted. “Is that bad?”
“No, no, it just really tickles. Like, surprisingly tickles. Most people aren’t this gentle—fuck!”
Willem was properly giggling now, hiding his face in his arms. Jude watched his own hands move. He was being very light, he supposed. His fingers danced over his stomach like birds, dancing and twittering about on the front porch. Now, he kept it up on purpose, if only because it made Willem whine, a sound he had never heard before and longed to keep hearing.
Willem’s body was coiled like a spring, and he could tell he was ready to leap forward and push his hands off, but he wasn’t. Jude kept having to ask if this was okay as a result, which meant Willem kept having to yes it was which appeared to be such a flustering ordeal that Jude occasionally asked just to see the expression on his face.
Remembering something Malcom had done once, Jude clawed his hands against his hips and slowly crawled them up under his arms. Willem arched back, gasping and snorting as he flailed for a grip on the headboard.
“Juhuhude!”
“Tickle?”
“E-Extrehehemely!’
Jude smiled, flushed all over with pleasure at the sight of the man he loved, in his bed, laughing—and how he loved his laugh, the sound like the breeze from an open window on a spring day or the scent of freshly baked bread from the bakery Willem had discovered downtown. And Jude, of all people, was the cause of it. He wanted to stay here forever, laughing and tickling until one couldn’t tell hands from skin and Willem from Jude.
Eventually, though, an end had to come about as Willem truly was much more ticklish than he remembered. When he experimented with fluttering fingers over his thighs, a spot that had always made Willem strangely twitchy back in the days when they would make love, Willem burst into cackles, launching forward and scrambling for Jude’s hands. Jude snatched them back quickly, folding them safely into his own lap. His heart raced from the sudden movement, but Willem wasn’t angry. Desperate was a better word for it.
“Sorry,” he apologized, turning to Jude with a weak smile. “That’s uh, a very ticklish spot. I hadn’t expected it to feel so intense. We may have to work up to that.”
Jude shook his head, the words work up to that revolving in his mind, reminding him that there would be other times. “It’s alright. I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did.”
“Yeah, well.” Willem scratched his cheek, averting his gaze. “I was having fun, y’know?”
They both looked at each other and away, overcome by a strange shyness at the intimate moment.
Several minutes later, pressed close together in bed with Willem’s arms wrapped so tightly around Jude he could blessedly barely think, Jude mumbled, “So the tickling… you would be okay with me doing that again?”
Willem pressed his face into his head, the kiss long and tender so that Jude’s bones seemed to melt within his body. “I would be more than okay with it, if it was something you wanted. Just maybe not in front of others. I don’t think I could handle Harold or Richard discovering how embarrassingly ticklish I am.”
They both laughed at that, and Jude snuggled in closer, inhaling the scent of Willem and falling into one of the first peaceful sleeps he’d had in many months.
one day when i‘m like 70 i‘ll die and my kids will ask me who tf that man in my will is and I‘ll tell them that my grand fortune is reserved for my real child and first born son, Jude st. francis.
I love how in the dutch stage play of A Little Life when Jude goes to see JB for the first time after their first fight (about the painting), Jude walks up to JB and tuts at him while JB is standing with his head down and stuff
