(no subject)
past and minor -- jesse eisenberg/andrew garfield (rps)
r
written for this prompt in the tsn_kinkmeme.
Andrew won’t remember the phone call.
He won’t remember Emma’s choked sobs and short breaths and her stopping herself in the middle of her unintelligible sentence, gathering up a breath, and clearing her throat as she tried, and failed, to calmly say into the phone, “You need to get to New York right now.”
He won’t remember standing in his kitchen, beer in hand, as he cradled his phone between his ear and shoulder, mildly concerned but not enough to stop pacing the floor as he took a swig of his drink and asked, “Why? What’s wrong?”
He won’t remember expecting her to say that Kieran and she have broken up, yet again, and this time she finally wants out.
He won’t remember the long dawn out silence that began the stir of panic in the pit of his stomach.
He won’t even remember the sharp, and then dull pain, that shot through his foot when his hand released the grip of his beer and it dropped, like an anvil, directly to his foot, before spilling all over his kitchen floor.
He’ll just remember his entire world, along with his breathing, became twisted in his chest, right underneath his heart, and he couldn’t breathe, think, or speak. His hands caught the edge of the kitchen sink, gripping tight as his body tried to stay steady and upright as something burst, like flames, inside of him, ripping apart his heart and lungs and sole being.
His knuckles turned white as his head ducked violently into the sink and he emptied the contents of his stomach - beer, bread, and chips - along with a harsh rush of tears and he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. Not even for Emma, whose voice he could hear coming from the phone that was floating in the mess of alcohol on the floor. He just stood there, shaking, and vomiting, and crying, until his body finally gave out and he collapsed onto the kitchen floor.
...
Armie told Justin, “We should’ve seen it coming, man,” over the phone when he was sitting in O’Hare airport, ready to board the next flight out to LA.
There was just a sniff from Justin, and Armie didn’t mention it, because he would still be falling apart if he wasn’t in public; if he wasn’t planning on getting sufficiently hammered on the plane.
“He was withdrawing more and more, everyday. He didn’t even want to go out and celebrate his own birthday.”
“Fuck!” yelled Justin, and Armie heard something topple over. He pinched the bridge of his nose to soothe the headache that had been pounding for hours. “Why didn’t we fucking do anything?! Why didn’t we fucking help him instead of cracking jokes about how he was fucking finally turning into…” Justin - Armie could almost see him - was shaking his head. “The last thing I said to him was, ‘So you’ve finally decided to turn into one of those cat ladies?’ He told me he was quitting acting and I cracked a joke.”
Armie couldn’t recall the last thing he had said to Jesse, and he knew that he would be spending the entire length of the plane ride getting drunk and begging his brain to remember. Only, he didn’t think he really wanted to know. Justin couldn’t handle knowing, and that was obvious by the sobs he was shamelessly crying into Armie’s ear.
“You couldn’t have known that…That was the last time you were going to talk to him. Besides, he wouldn’t have had it any other way. You two were always ripping into one another.”
Justin sniffed again, this time, louder and longer. “I know, man. I know. I just, I’m a fucking mess, dude. I didn’t think any of my friends would actually…”
He couldn’t say it. Armie couldn’t either.
He just said, “I know. Neither did I.”
...
When David’s secretary had rapped on his door and told him, “Mr. Sorkin is on line three,” he was more confused than he should’ve been. They didn’t develop any sort of long-lasting relationship while filming The Social Network, but it was functional enough, and even friendly at times, in order to make the best film possible. After filming and after the award shows, the two of them shared a strong handshake and a stiff drink and vowed to speak to each other at parties they might be both attending, and they both kept up that promise. But it was always the same conversation - “Hey, how’s it going?” “Good, and you?” “Great, thanks.” - before they sauntered off to schmooze with other people.
They were certainly not on phone call terms.
He wondered if Sorkin had another script he wanted him to direct and he picked up the phone with a hopeful, “Hello?” not, in any way, shape or form, in a rut for work, but beaming at the chance to make something that great again.
“I’m calling, because I want to know if you’ve heard,” Aaron said, voice business like and strong, but with a strange tone of - was that sadness? - underneath.
David responded honestly with, “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about, Sorkin,” leaning back in his chair with his eyebrows furrowed.
Aaron sighed. “Jesse…Uh, Eisenberg-”
“I only know so many Jesse’s,” he half-joked.
Aaron’s laughed humorlessly. “Well, this particular Jesse. He, uh…He killed himself. Last night.”
David’s heart skipped a beat. He pressed his phone a little harder into his ear and began to feel sweat build at his palms as he sat up straight in his cushiony office chair. His eyes darted wildly about the room as he asked, “Jesse Eisenberg. Our…Mark Zuckerberg he-”
“Killed himself in his New York apartment, right after setting out food for his cats for five days, cleaning up his room, and writing three letters.”
David almost wanted to ask where Sorkin got all this information from when he realized, that it didn’t matter. The point was, someone knew, someone had found him, and was warning all his friends and family and colleagues before the news broke and they had to hear it from some impersonal E!News report.
His throat went dry when he asked, “Who found him?”
Aaron waited a breath before he said, “Not him. It wasn’t him.”
David let out a large sigh of relief that sent his entire upper body bending forward, his stomach caving in slightly. “Oh god,” he said, running a heavy hand over his face, emotions tugging at him from all sides. “Fuck. Thank god. Just. Thank. God.”
“I know,” Aaron said, sadly. “That kid couldn’t have taken that.”
“How the fuck’s he taking this?” he asked quickly, suddenly more alert.
“I have no idea,” Aaron admitted. “But I’m too afraid to call and find out.”
David didn’t say anything. He had half a mind to scold Aaron because he had always been the more emotional of the two of them, but David also had Andrew’s number and he couldn’t muster up the balls to call him either.
He wouldn’t know what to say if he picked up the phone because, “I’m sorry,” was not enough. It was never going to be enough. Not for the boy - and David could call him a boy - who didn’t fall, but plummeted into love with Jesse and gave up his heart so easily. The boy who told David once, over coffee, that he never had felt like this before in his entire life. And at first David thought he was talking about the whole filming experience, and he was flattered, until he looked up at saw where Andrew was staring, a grin plastered on his mouth, as he watched Jesse pace back and forth, with ear buds in ears and the script in his hands.
...
The flight to New York had dragged on too long. He regretted not buying a first class ticket the minute he had to pass a mother, and her little girl, to sit in the reserved window seat. But he hadn’t been thinking about luxury items like more legroom, and privacy, when he bought the ticket, he had only been thinking that he didn’t know, at all, how he was supposed to survive.
With the captain’s voice coming over the speakers, he looked out the window of the plane. His hand was over his mouth but both of them were shaking. He felt the tears ripping through him and clawing at his eyes but he closed them, hard, in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. Just for six hours, he told himself, and then he would lock himself in an airport bathroom and break down for twenty minutes before he had to meet Emma at the baggage claim and check into his hotel room.
Jesse’s mom - Jesse’s poor, poor, mom - had been going out of her mind when she spoke to Andrew. He wanted to speak to his sister, someone more put together than the woman who had to identify her son’s body, but Mrs. Eisenberg was having none of it. She shushed him and with tears in her eyes and voice told him that he could stay with them, at their home, in Brooklyn. She promised him breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and all the love in the world, but Andrew had, politely, declined. He couldn’t be miserable with Jesse’s family because when he thought about them, he knew he didn’t have the right to feel as upset as he did. They were the ones who were losing a son and a brother. He was just losing his best friend.
He sucked in a deep breath and let it pass through his mouth as he continued to will the tears away, remembering how Jesse would curl up to him, in bed, and say, “You know, you’re like a uh, a brother, to me. And not in the, um, incestuous way which I, uh, shouldn’t have said this while we’re in bed, together, and uh, naked. But um, you’re like, family - a family that I’ve chosen. That I’ve gotten to choose and I don’t - I don’t think I could’ve made a better choice.”
From his mouth slipped a pitiful, choked, sob. The little girl, who was sitting next to him, tugged on the sleeve of his shirt and he looked over his shoulder at her, having been turned completely toward the window. She stared at him with wide eyes and told him, “Mister. Whatever’s making you cry, don’t let it bother you. Everything always gets better. That’s what my Dad says.”
He blinked and out came a string of tears. He gave her a small smile before turning his attention to the plane, now ascending, praying to god that if her father was wrong, then the plane would just crash; because there was honestly not sense of living like this, if it didn’t get better.
...
Emma had picked him up from the airport.
There were no grand smiles; no running across the baggage claim, and no hug either. Just he, meeting her eyes, covered with sunglasses, from across the room. He rolled his carry on bag across the marble floor until they were standing face to face. They didn’t say anything. She didn’t ask about his flight because in his red-rimmed, tired, eyes it was clear that not only did he not sleep, but he probably didn’t eat or drink or do much of anything but reflect and regret. Behind her sunglasses she too was worse for wear, but she didn’t plan on taking them off until they were safe behind the doors of their hotel room.
They were staying at the Waldorf Astoria, in one of the backrooms with a balcony that overlooked the courtyard and the city. It was a suite with two bedrooms, connected by a large bathroom. When Andrew stepped inside and just dropped his bag in Emma’s room, she didn’t say anything to correct him. She just watched him go, right out to the balcony, where he kept the doors open, letting in the cool fall air.
She removed her sunglasses, placed them on her nightstand and turned her attention to her bed. Before she had rode to retrieve Andrew she had been picking out what she was going to wear. Now, as she stared down at the three completely different, but equally dark looks, she felt a sharp pang in her chest, like it was beginning to completely caving in.
She felt vain and selfish and foolish for pondering so deeply about what to wear to one of her best friends…And, god, she didn’t want to say it but it was true. His funeral. She felt the tears well up in her eyes and she shook her head to rid herself of them.
There would be no one there for her to impress. No camera crews and no one who would even be looking her way and judging her on what she was donned in. Then she scoffed because she knew that was all bullshit.
People would be judging because anger was easier to deal with than sorrow and grief and paparazzi, even on a day like today, never took a vacation.
She held up two dresses. One was blue-black with shimmer around the collar. The other was just black with a boxy cut.
She said, “What do you think, Andrew?” and sniffed. “Blue-black or black-black?”
On the balcony, Andrew didn’t even budge. He stood with his back to her, cigarette in his hand as he looked out amongst bustling, cold, city, taking a long pull whenever his thoughts seemed to become too heavy.
Emma placed the dresses back on the bed. In her head she decided on the black one.
She walked to the doorframe of the balcony. Andrew gave no way of telling that he knew she was there.
“That’s your fourth cigarette since you got off the plane,” she said.
Andrew finished it off. He threw it over the balcony and into the courtyard, steps away from some birds who were startled enough to scatter. “Well,” he said, reaching into his pocket where, protruding, was a worn box, “it’s a good thing I brought more.”
He took another one out, placed it between his lips, lit it, and smoked.
Emma had seen him smoke only a few times, but it was always with such grace and carefulness. Watching him was like watching a black and white silent film, the intensity in his eyes when he took a slow drag and let out the smoke centimeter by centimeter. On the balcony, there was something feral and ragged, about his smoking. It was quick and dirty, like all he cared about the grimy taste of ash and the fill of nicotine in his lungs.
All he cared about was that each cigarette inched him a little bit closer to death and he would smoke pack after pack if that was the case.
Emma took a step out on the balcony. “Andrew, I know-”
His hands began to shake, enough to drop his cigarette on his shoe and his cursed so loudly and abruptly that Emma jumped. The women walking along the courtyard looked up, alarmed. His face flushed and his palms began to sweat. He violently kicked the cigarette off the balcony, not watching it fall, but turning to face the girl who was standing behind him with a strange look in her eyes.
“No!” he said, shaking his head and wanting to sound angry but he couldn’t. He just sounded pathetic, his voice soaring out, followed by sobs and tears. “You don’t fucking know,” he choked out, still shaking his head as his face twisted into an ugly sorrow before he began wiping violently at his eyes. “I hate this city,” he said, voice so soft underneath his tears. He turned his back to Emma and faced the city and courtyard once again before balling his hands at his sides and screaming loudly, “I HATE THIS FUCKING CITY!”
His voice boomed across the courtyard and into the streets. Those who populated other rooms near them pressed their faces to the glass of the windows, watching, the young, angry, man who had gripped the railing of the balcony to keep himself from collapsing onto the ground.
Emma watched as Andrew’s shoulders began to shake, his head ducked down as he cried, and cried, and she felt her own, hot, tears falling down her cheeks. She walked forward and hovered her hand over his shoulder for a moment before she carefully curled it around his shoulder. She could feel it rippling under her touch, but did not let up. Instead, she wrapped her other arm around his waist and held him, awkwardly, from the side, his tears almost hitting her upper arm.
“I don’t think I can do this,” he said, his tears showing no sign of letting up.
“You have to,” she told him, her own voice a wreckage of pain. “You have to.”
...
It was 2 am when Justin heard a hard knock at his hotel room door.
He was sprawled out on his bed, lying in the wrong direction, dressed in nothing but sweatpants and an old t-shirt. The television was on mute but he was watching the two older woman sell costume jewelry with such intensity that it was almost as if he was attempting to make out their conversation on his own. He didn’t have to. He knew by their smiles and nods and fondling that they were all bullshitting about how great this blue “diamond” bracelet was, how every woman would look fabulous in it, how they were going so fast, so order soon.
He shook his head at the mundane atmosphere of it all and lifted his head to take another shot straight from the dark bottle of Beam.
There was another knock around 2:01 and he really didn’t want to get out of bed, but he did. He thought he might’ve drunkenly ordered room service, another bottle of alcohol or at least some food, but when he opened the door, he didn’t know if he was disappointed, or relieved.
Armie was standing there, clean cut Armie with his pressed blue jeans and soft Iron Maiden t-shirt.
Justin asked, “How many fucking Maiden songs can you even name?”
It’s sad, how Armie tried to grin. He said, “Fuck you. Elizabeth’s brother bought it for me for my birthday and it’s damn comfortable.”
He took their small exchange for an invitation in and Justin was way too out of it to say anything. Plus, he liked the company; he’s always liked the company. It was only when Armie headed straight for the table, a large white bag being placed atop it, did he notice the other man had anything in his hands at all.
“I bought booze,” he said, taking one, two, three bottles of hard liquor out. “But it looks like you don’t need any,” and he motioned, with his eyes, to the nearly empty bottle on the floor in front of his bed.
“Yeah,” Justin said, sheepishly, walking over to the table with his hand on the back of his neck. “I kinda started early.”
From the bag, Armie emptied container after container of what Justin nostrils told him was Chinese food. His stomach began to grumble, then protest, and he felt a sliver of vile in the back of his throat but he ignored it in favor of taking one, of two, seats at the table. Armie took the other.
In silence, they divided the food. In silence they began to eat. Neither of them looked up, for a while, their eyes trained on their quickly disappearing boxes before Armie said,
“I got a text from Emma. She said we could ride to the funeral with her and Andrew.”
Justin felt the plastic fork slip from his fingers. It laid, lifelessly in his box, just like how he imagined Jesse would be lying lifelessly in his casket, or worse, on the floor of his apartment with that blood running from his severed jaw and -
“Justin, man, are you okay? You’re turning green.”
Armie leaned across the table, in confusion and comfort. He tried to place his hand on Justin’s shoulder but the other man swatted it away. Armie didn’t look taken aback, he just watched as Justin leaped from his chair and ran, quickly, into the bathroom, falling in front of the toilet as he immediately emptied his stomach.
The vomit was sharp and hot on his tongue and his mouth, tasting like alcohol and orange chicken. He just kept throwing up and up until he could feel his stomach lining begin to pulsate in pain. It caused his arms to shake, as he held the bowl, his eyes stinging in tears. He was violently heaving and crying and shaking, but made no move to stop.
When his stomach was done, when there was nothing left for it to give, Justin pushed himself into an upright position and slid so that his back was resting against the wall of the bathroom. He was still sobbing. His vision was blurry and he couldn’t really see Armie standing there, against the counter, with a cup of water in his hand as much as he could feel him.
With his arm he wiped away the tears, and he held out his hand to take the cup. Armie gave it to him. When their fingers brushed and their eyes locked, Armie didn’t give him that reassuring, ten-watt smile Justin was so used to, he just stood there, collected for Justin’s sake, but as if he was going to break at any moment.
Justin downed the entire cup of water and leaned over to the right, where the tub was, to spit it all in. It was all a light brown color and he turned up his mouth in disgust before throwing the cup in the tub was well.
The two of them then just occupied the space of the bathroom, Justin’s sobs dying down to just tears running and Armie sniffing and wiping at his own eyes that began to leak.
Then Justin said, “Why the fuck did he even own a gun, man,” and just like that - a flick of the switch, the snap of some fingers - he was back to the sobbing mess he had been seconds before.
Armie didn’t know. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t even shake his head because the same question had ran through his mind when Jesse’s agent had called and gave him the full run down about what was going to be in the paper.
She had told him, clearly and curtly, “Jesse shot himself. Put his mouth around the barrel and pulled. That’s the simple version, Mr. Hammer. I don’t know what shit the Times is going to fluff it up with, but this is the naked truth,” before she hung up.
Armie slid down to the floor of the bathroom. He stretched out his legs and let his head hit the cabinets of the kitchen counter as he sucked in a deep breath and felt the tears began to wrack his own body as well. And he would think, at a later date, what a sight they must’ve been: two grown men sitting in a hotel bathroom, sobbing their eyes out while infomercials played on mute in the bedroom.
...
Andrew won’t remember the funeral.
He won’t remember how he was pressed so tightly between Emma and Armie, in the pew of the synagogue, as Emma tried to hide her sobs in her hand and Armie didn’t try to hide his tears.
He won’t remember how Justin ran out of tissues ten minutes in and how no one said anything when he began soiling the sleeve of his suit.
He won’t remember Sorkin and Fincher clasping him hard on each shoulder when the rabbi spoke about “Mr. Eisenberg” and his “dearer than dear” friends.
He won’t remember the family processing in after everyone was seated and how no one could look their way, not even for a moment.
He’ll just remember afterwards - when they were all standing on the steps, cried out, pale, and silently deciding if they should stay together or drift apart - Jesse’s mother, coming up to him, with a thin letter in her shaking hand. He’ll remember not wanting to look at her but being forced to when she sought out of his eyes and hand, pressing the letter into his palm as Armie and Emma and Justin, watched the exchange intently.
He’ll remember her dream like voice, as if she couldn’t imagine this was even happening, when she said, “He left this for you,” and walked with a watery smile.
He’ll remember the feel of the paper beneath his hands as his curled his fingers around it and tried to stop himself from trembling.
...
Andrew didn’t read it until three days later, when he was home, lying on the new mattress, sheets, and pillows, he had to buy after throwing the others one out. It was after 4 am. He didn’t have anywhere to be in the daytime and he hadn’t been able to fall asleep due to nightmares plaguing him with a sense of need. Need for something that wasn’t, and would never, be there again.
The letter was long, with Jesse’s messy scrawl bouncing all about the lines. He explained why he had to do it, he explained that he was sorry, and he had explained that he had never loved anyone quite like Andrew. Jesse told him, “as grim as it may be, I’m glad you were the last love that I would ever know, because no one would ever measure up to you”.
By the end of the letter Andrew had laughed and cried and felt more ill than he had since the day he received the phone call. He pressed the letter to his chest and stared up at his textured ceiling and smiled a weak, but trying, smile.
He felt fucking insane but couldn’t bring himself to care as he said, “Yeah, well, you’re the last love I’ll ever have too, asshole,” and although he let out a pitiful laugh in the end, he knew that he meant it.
Jesse Eisenberg had completely destroyed him, and he’ll always remember that.
NOTE: my writing has been pretty strange lately. i've never had this before, where i can't stay on one wavelength, but my mind is sort of jumping all about the place (still within the story, but just, at sixteen locations at once), so i hope this makes sense.
r
written for this prompt in the tsn_kinkmeme.
Andrew won’t remember the phone call.
He won’t remember Emma’s choked sobs and short breaths and her stopping herself in the middle of her unintelligible sentence, gathering up a breath, and clearing her throat as she tried, and failed, to calmly say into the phone, “You need to get to New York right now.”
He won’t remember standing in his kitchen, beer in hand, as he cradled his phone between his ear and shoulder, mildly concerned but not enough to stop pacing the floor as he took a swig of his drink and asked, “Why? What’s wrong?”
He won’t remember expecting her to say that Kieran and she have broken up, yet again, and this time she finally wants out.
He won’t remember the long dawn out silence that began the stir of panic in the pit of his stomach.
He won’t even remember the sharp, and then dull pain, that shot through his foot when his hand released the grip of his beer and it dropped, like an anvil, directly to his foot, before spilling all over his kitchen floor.
He’ll just remember his entire world, along with his breathing, became twisted in his chest, right underneath his heart, and he couldn’t breathe, think, or speak. His hands caught the edge of the kitchen sink, gripping tight as his body tried to stay steady and upright as something burst, like flames, inside of him, ripping apart his heart and lungs and sole being.
His knuckles turned white as his head ducked violently into the sink and he emptied the contents of his stomach - beer, bread, and chips - along with a harsh rush of tears and he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. Not even for Emma, whose voice he could hear coming from the phone that was floating in the mess of alcohol on the floor. He just stood there, shaking, and vomiting, and crying, until his body finally gave out and he collapsed onto the kitchen floor.
...
Armie told Justin, “We should’ve seen it coming, man,” over the phone when he was sitting in O’Hare airport, ready to board the next flight out to LA.
There was just a sniff from Justin, and Armie didn’t mention it, because he would still be falling apart if he wasn’t in public; if he wasn’t planning on getting sufficiently hammered on the plane.
“He was withdrawing more and more, everyday. He didn’t even want to go out and celebrate his own birthday.”
“Fuck!” yelled Justin, and Armie heard something topple over. He pinched the bridge of his nose to soothe the headache that had been pounding for hours. “Why didn’t we fucking do anything?! Why didn’t we fucking help him instead of cracking jokes about how he was fucking finally turning into…” Justin - Armie could almost see him - was shaking his head. “The last thing I said to him was, ‘So you’ve finally decided to turn into one of those cat ladies?’ He told me he was quitting acting and I cracked a joke.”
Armie couldn’t recall the last thing he had said to Jesse, and he knew that he would be spending the entire length of the plane ride getting drunk and begging his brain to remember. Only, he didn’t think he really wanted to know. Justin couldn’t handle knowing, and that was obvious by the sobs he was shamelessly crying into Armie’s ear.
“You couldn’t have known that…That was the last time you were going to talk to him. Besides, he wouldn’t have had it any other way. You two were always ripping into one another.”
Justin sniffed again, this time, louder and longer. “I know, man. I know. I just, I’m a fucking mess, dude. I didn’t think any of my friends would actually…”
He couldn’t say it. Armie couldn’t either.
He just said, “I know. Neither did I.”
...
When David’s secretary had rapped on his door and told him, “Mr. Sorkin is on line three,” he was more confused than he should’ve been. They didn’t develop any sort of long-lasting relationship while filming The Social Network, but it was functional enough, and even friendly at times, in order to make the best film possible. After filming and after the award shows, the two of them shared a strong handshake and a stiff drink and vowed to speak to each other at parties they might be both attending, and they both kept up that promise. But it was always the same conversation - “Hey, how’s it going?” “Good, and you?” “Great, thanks.” - before they sauntered off to schmooze with other people.
They were certainly not on phone call terms.
He wondered if Sorkin had another script he wanted him to direct and he picked up the phone with a hopeful, “Hello?” not, in any way, shape or form, in a rut for work, but beaming at the chance to make something that great again.
“I’m calling, because I want to know if you’ve heard,” Aaron said, voice business like and strong, but with a strange tone of - was that sadness? - underneath.
David responded honestly with, “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about, Sorkin,” leaning back in his chair with his eyebrows furrowed.
Aaron sighed. “Jesse…Uh, Eisenberg-”
“I only know so many Jesse’s,” he half-joked.
Aaron’s laughed humorlessly. “Well, this particular Jesse. He, uh…He killed himself. Last night.”
David’s heart skipped a beat. He pressed his phone a little harder into his ear and began to feel sweat build at his palms as he sat up straight in his cushiony office chair. His eyes darted wildly about the room as he asked, “Jesse Eisenberg. Our…Mark Zuckerberg he-”
“Killed himself in his New York apartment, right after setting out food for his cats for five days, cleaning up his room, and writing three letters.”
David almost wanted to ask where Sorkin got all this information from when he realized, that it didn’t matter. The point was, someone knew, someone had found him, and was warning all his friends and family and colleagues before the news broke and they had to hear it from some impersonal E!News report.
His throat went dry when he asked, “Who found him?”
Aaron waited a breath before he said, “Not him. It wasn’t him.”
David let out a large sigh of relief that sent his entire upper body bending forward, his stomach caving in slightly. “Oh god,” he said, running a heavy hand over his face, emotions tugging at him from all sides. “Fuck. Thank god. Just. Thank. God.”
“I know,” Aaron said, sadly. “That kid couldn’t have taken that.”
“How the fuck’s he taking this?” he asked quickly, suddenly more alert.
“I have no idea,” Aaron admitted. “But I’m too afraid to call and find out.”
David didn’t say anything. He had half a mind to scold Aaron because he had always been the more emotional of the two of them, but David also had Andrew’s number and he couldn’t muster up the balls to call him either.
He wouldn’t know what to say if he picked up the phone because, “I’m sorry,” was not enough. It was never going to be enough. Not for the boy - and David could call him a boy - who didn’t fall, but plummeted into love with Jesse and gave up his heart so easily. The boy who told David once, over coffee, that he never had felt like this before in his entire life. And at first David thought he was talking about the whole filming experience, and he was flattered, until he looked up at saw where Andrew was staring, a grin plastered on his mouth, as he watched Jesse pace back and forth, with ear buds in ears and the script in his hands.
...
The flight to New York had dragged on too long. He regretted not buying a first class ticket the minute he had to pass a mother, and her little girl, to sit in the reserved window seat. But he hadn’t been thinking about luxury items like more legroom, and privacy, when he bought the ticket, he had only been thinking that he didn’t know, at all, how he was supposed to survive.
With the captain’s voice coming over the speakers, he looked out the window of the plane. His hand was over his mouth but both of them were shaking. He felt the tears ripping through him and clawing at his eyes but he closed them, hard, in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. Just for six hours, he told himself, and then he would lock himself in an airport bathroom and break down for twenty minutes before he had to meet Emma at the baggage claim and check into his hotel room.
Jesse’s mom - Jesse’s poor, poor, mom - had been going out of her mind when she spoke to Andrew. He wanted to speak to his sister, someone more put together than the woman who had to identify her son’s body, but Mrs. Eisenberg was having none of it. She shushed him and with tears in her eyes and voice told him that he could stay with them, at their home, in Brooklyn. She promised him breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and all the love in the world, but Andrew had, politely, declined. He couldn’t be miserable with Jesse’s family because when he thought about them, he knew he didn’t have the right to feel as upset as he did. They were the ones who were losing a son and a brother. He was just losing his best friend.
He sucked in a deep breath and let it pass through his mouth as he continued to will the tears away, remembering how Jesse would curl up to him, in bed, and say, “You know, you’re like a uh, a brother, to me. And not in the, um, incestuous way which I, uh, shouldn’t have said this while we’re in bed, together, and uh, naked. But um, you’re like, family - a family that I’ve chosen. That I’ve gotten to choose and I don’t - I don’t think I could’ve made a better choice.”
From his mouth slipped a pitiful, choked, sob. The little girl, who was sitting next to him, tugged on the sleeve of his shirt and he looked over his shoulder at her, having been turned completely toward the window. She stared at him with wide eyes and told him, “Mister. Whatever’s making you cry, don’t let it bother you. Everything always gets better. That’s what my Dad says.”
He blinked and out came a string of tears. He gave her a small smile before turning his attention to the plane, now ascending, praying to god that if her father was wrong, then the plane would just crash; because there was honestly not sense of living like this, if it didn’t get better.
...
Emma had picked him up from the airport.
There were no grand smiles; no running across the baggage claim, and no hug either. Just he, meeting her eyes, covered with sunglasses, from across the room. He rolled his carry on bag across the marble floor until they were standing face to face. They didn’t say anything. She didn’t ask about his flight because in his red-rimmed, tired, eyes it was clear that not only did he not sleep, but he probably didn’t eat or drink or do much of anything but reflect and regret. Behind her sunglasses she too was worse for wear, but she didn’t plan on taking them off until they were safe behind the doors of their hotel room.
They were staying at the Waldorf Astoria, in one of the backrooms with a balcony that overlooked the courtyard and the city. It was a suite with two bedrooms, connected by a large bathroom. When Andrew stepped inside and just dropped his bag in Emma’s room, she didn’t say anything to correct him. She just watched him go, right out to the balcony, where he kept the doors open, letting in the cool fall air.
She removed her sunglasses, placed them on her nightstand and turned her attention to her bed. Before she had rode to retrieve Andrew she had been picking out what she was going to wear. Now, as she stared down at the three completely different, but equally dark looks, she felt a sharp pang in her chest, like it was beginning to completely caving in.
She felt vain and selfish and foolish for pondering so deeply about what to wear to one of her best friends…And, god, she didn’t want to say it but it was true. His funeral. She felt the tears well up in her eyes and she shook her head to rid herself of them.
There would be no one there for her to impress. No camera crews and no one who would even be looking her way and judging her on what she was donned in. Then she scoffed because she knew that was all bullshit.
People would be judging because anger was easier to deal with than sorrow and grief and paparazzi, even on a day like today, never took a vacation.
She held up two dresses. One was blue-black with shimmer around the collar. The other was just black with a boxy cut.
She said, “What do you think, Andrew?” and sniffed. “Blue-black or black-black?”
On the balcony, Andrew didn’t even budge. He stood with his back to her, cigarette in his hand as he looked out amongst bustling, cold, city, taking a long pull whenever his thoughts seemed to become too heavy.
Emma placed the dresses back on the bed. In her head she decided on the black one.
She walked to the doorframe of the balcony. Andrew gave no way of telling that he knew she was there.
“That’s your fourth cigarette since you got off the plane,” she said.
Andrew finished it off. He threw it over the balcony and into the courtyard, steps away from some birds who were startled enough to scatter. “Well,” he said, reaching into his pocket where, protruding, was a worn box, “it’s a good thing I brought more.”
He took another one out, placed it between his lips, lit it, and smoked.
Emma had seen him smoke only a few times, but it was always with such grace and carefulness. Watching him was like watching a black and white silent film, the intensity in his eyes when he took a slow drag and let out the smoke centimeter by centimeter. On the balcony, there was something feral and ragged, about his smoking. It was quick and dirty, like all he cared about the grimy taste of ash and the fill of nicotine in his lungs.
All he cared about was that each cigarette inched him a little bit closer to death and he would smoke pack after pack if that was the case.
Emma took a step out on the balcony. “Andrew, I know-”
His hands began to shake, enough to drop his cigarette on his shoe and his cursed so loudly and abruptly that Emma jumped. The women walking along the courtyard looked up, alarmed. His face flushed and his palms began to sweat. He violently kicked the cigarette off the balcony, not watching it fall, but turning to face the girl who was standing behind him with a strange look in her eyes.
“No!” he said, shaking his head and wanting to sound angry but he couldn’t. He just sounded pathetic, his voice soaring out, followed by sobs and tears. “You don’t fucking know,” he choked out, still shaking his head as his face twisted into an ugly sorrow before he began wiping violently at his eyes. “I hate this city,” he said, voice so soft underneath his tears. He turned his back to Emma and faced the city and courtyard once again before balling his hands at his sides and screaming loudly, “I HATE THIS FUCKING CITY!”
His voice boomed across the courtyard and into the streets. Those who populated other rooms near them pressed their faces to the glass of the windows, watching, the young, angry, man who had gripped the railing of the balcony to keep himself from collapsing onto the ground.
Emma watched as Andrew’s shoulders began to shake, his head ducked down as he cried, and cried, and she felt her own, hot, tears falling down her cheeks. She walked forward and hovered her hand over his shoulder for a moment before she carefully curled it around his shoulder. She could feel it rippling under her touch, but did not let up. Instead, she wrapped her other arm around his waist and held him, awkwardly, from the side, his tears almost hitting her upper arm.
“I don’t think I can do this,” he said, his tears showing no sign of letting up.
“You have to,” she told him, her own voice a wreckage of pain. “You have to.”
...
It was 2 am when Justin heard a hard knock at his hotel room door.
He was sprawled out on his bed, lying in the wrong direction, dressed in nothing but sweatpants and an old t-shirt. The television was on mute but he was watching the two older woman sell costume jewelry with such intensity that it was almost as if he was attempting to make out their conversation on his own. He didn’t have to. He knew by their smiles and nods and fondling that they were all bullshitting about how great this blue “diamond” bracelet was, how every woman would look fabulous in it, how they were going so fast, so order soon.
He shook his head at the mundane atmosphere of it all and lifted his head to take another shot straight from the dark bottle of Beam.
There was another knock around 2:01 and he really didn’t want to get out of bed, but he did. He thought he might’ve drunkenly ordered room service, another bottle of alcohol or at least some food, but when he opened the door, he didn’t know if he was disappointed, or relieved.
Armie was standing there, clean cut Armie with his pressed blue jeans and soft Iron Maiden t-shirt.
Justin asked, “How many fucking Maiden songs can you even name?”
It’s sad, how Armie tried to grin. He said, “Fuck you. Elizabeth’s brother bought it for me for my birthday and it’s damn comfortable.”
He took their small exchange for an invitation in and Justin was way too out of it to say anything. Plus, he liked the company; he’s always liked the company. It was only when Armie headed straight for the table, a large white bag being placed atop it, did he notice the other man had anything in his hands at all.
“I bought booze,” he said, taking one, two, three bottles of hard liquor out. “But it looks like you don’t need any,” and he motioned, with his eyes, to the nearly empty bottle on the floor in front of his bed.
“Yeah,” Justin said, sheepishly, walking over to the table with his hand on the back of his neck. “I kinda started early.”
From the bag, Armie emptied container after container of what Justin nostrils told him was Chinese food. His stomach began to grumble, then protest, and he felt a sliver of vile in the back of his throat but he ignored it in favor of taking one, of two, seats at the table. Armie took the other.
In silence, they divided the food. In silence they began to eat. Neither of them looked up, for a while, their eyes trained on their quickly disappearing boxes before Armie said,
“I got a text from Emma. She said we could ride to the funeral with her and Andrew.”
Justin felt the plastic fork slip from his fingers. It laid, lifelessly in his box, just like how he imagined Jesse would be lying lifelessly in his casket, or worse, on the floor of his apartment with that blood running from his severed jaw and -
“Justin, man, are you okay? You’re turning green.”
Armie leaned across the table, in confusion and comfort. He tried to place his hand on Justin’s shoulder but the other man swatted it away. Armie didn’t look taken aback, he just watched as Justin leaped from his chair and ran, quickly, into the bathroom, falling in front of the toilet as he immediately emptied his stomach.
The vomit was sharp and hot on his tongue and his mouth, tasting like alcohol and orange chicken. He just kept throwing up and up until he could feel his stomach lining begin to pulsate in pain. It caused his arms to shake, as he held the bowl, his eyes stinging in tears. He was violently heaving and crying and shaking, but made no move to stop.
When his stomach was done, when there was nothing left for it to give, Justin pushed himself into an upright position and slid so that his back was resting against the wall of the bathroom. He was still sobbing. His vision was blurry and he couldn’t really see Armie standing there, against the counter, with a cup of water in his hand as much as he could feel him.
With his arm he wiped away the tears, and he held out his hand to take the cup. Armie gave it to him. When their fingers brushed and their eyes locked, Armie didn’t give him that reassuring, ten-watt smile Justin was so used to, he just stood there, collected for Justin’s sake, but as if he was going to break at any moment.
Justin downed the entire cup of water and leaned over to the right, where the tub was, to spit it all in. It was all a light brown color and he turned up his mouth in disgust before throwing the cup in the tub was well.
The two of them then just occupied the space of the bathroom, Justin’s sobs dying down to just tears running and Armie sniffing and wiping at his own eyes that began to leak.
Then Justin said, “Why the fuck did he even own a gun, man,” and just like that - a flick of the switch, the snap of some fingers - he was back to the sobbing mess he had been seconds before.
Armie didn’t know. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t even shake his head because the same question had ran through his mind when Jesse’s agent had called and gave him the full run down about what was going to be in the paper.
She had told him, clearly and curtly, “Jesse shot himself. Put his mouth around the barrel and pulled. That’s the simple version, Mr. Hammer. I don’t know what shit the Times is going to fluff it up with, but this is the naked truth,” before she hung up.
Armie slid down to the floor of the bathroom. He stretched out his legs and let his head hit the cabinets of the kitchen counter as he sucked in a deep breath and felt the tears began to wrack his own body as well. And he would think, at a later date, what a sight they must’ve been: two grown men sitting in a hotel bathroom, sobbing their eyes out while infomercials played on mute in the bedroom.
...
Andrew won’t remember the funeral.
He won’t remember how he was pressed so tightly between Emma and Armie, in the pew of the synagogue, as Emma tried to hide her sobs in her hand and Armie didn’t try to hide his tears.
He won’t remember how Justin ran out of tissues ten minutes in and how no one said anything when he began soiling the sleeve of his suit.
He won’t remember Sorkin and Fincher clasping him hard on each shoulder when the rabbi spoke about “Mr. Eisenberg” and his “dearer than dear” friends.
He won’t remember the family processing in after everyone was seated and how no one could look their way, not even for a moment.
He’ll just remember afterwards - when they were all standing on the steps, cried out, pale, and silently deciding if they should stay together or drift apart - Jesse’s mother, coming up to him, with a thin letter in her shaking hand. He’ll remember not wanting to look at her but being forced to when she sought out of his eyes and hand, pressing the letter into his palm as Armie and Emma and Justin, watched the exchange intently.
He’ll remember her dream like voice, as if she couldn’t imagine this was even happening, when she said, “He left this for you,” and walked with a watery smile.
He’ll remember the feel of the paper beneath his hands as his curled his fingers around it and tried to stop himself from trembling.
...
Andrew didn’t read it until three days later, when he was home, lying on the new mattress, sheets, and pillows, he had to buy after throwing the others one out. It was after 4 am. He didn’t have anywhere to be in the daytime and he hadn’t been able to fall asleep due to nightmares plaguing him with a sense of need. Need for something that wasn’t, and would never, be there again.
The letter was long, with Jesse’s messy scrawl bouncing all about the lines. He explained why he had to do it, he explained that he was sorry, and he had explained that he had never loved anyone quite like Andrew. Jesse told him, “as grim as it may be, I’m glad you were the last love that I would ever know, because no one would ever measure up to you”.
By the end of the letter Andrew had laughed and cried and felt more ill than he had since the day he received the phone call. He pressed the letter to his chest and stared up at his textured ceiling and smiled a weak, but trying, smile.
He felt fucking insane but couldn’t bring himself to care as he said, “Yeah, well, you’re the last love I’ll ever have too, asshole,” and although he let out a pitiful laugh in the end, he knew that he meant it.
Jesse Eisenberg had completely destroyed him, and he’ll always remember that.
NOTE: my writing has been pretty strange lately. i've never had this before, where i can't stay on one wavelength, but my mind is sort of jumping all about the place (still within the story, but just, at sixteen locations at once), so i hope this makes sense.