(no subject)
jesse eisenberg/andrew garfield ;; garrett hedlund/andrew garfield (rps)
nc-17
notes:
(1) there is a plot to this, i swear, im just trying something new. this story bounces bath and forth between the present timeline and the past. the present is andrew with garrett, the past is andrew with jesse (if that isnt clear).
(2) the title is taken from an imogen heap song - who basically soundtracks this entire fic - while the premise is lifted from the hand-rubbing andrew was giving garrett on the vanity fair shoot.
(3) WARNING, the last scene may be triggery for some people because it's a pretty violent scene involving strangling, scratching, and fighting. you CAN enjoy the story without reading it.
part one;
hide and seek
trains and sewing machines
(oh you won't catch me around here)
blood and tears (hearts)
hide and seek ;; imogen heap
Although he could not see her, Andrew knew that his mother was beaming on the other end of the phone. “This is such a big step!” she said. “Such a life changing moment. I wish I was there to see it.”
Andrew smiled nervously. He pressed the phone to his ear and squinted when the wind picked up dirt and blew into his eyes. “Yeah, me too,” he told her. “I wish you were here.”
“Oh, I’m just-” and she stopped. Andrew could almost see her, her short brown hair brushing against her shaking shoulders and she placed a hand over her mouth and veered the phone to the side, trying to hide her short, quick sobs from sifting into the phone. But he could still hear her, quietly crying, and he felt a lump in his throat when he realized that he could do nothing to stop it.
“Mum?” he said, voice careful and trying to not make matters worse.
“I’m okay,” she said quickly. Then there was a sniffle and the sound of her hand running across the bottom of her nose. “Your mum’s okay. I’m just a little hysterical is all. I’m allowed to be. My little boy’s growing up.”
A soft smile played at his lips. He wanted to say that he grew up the moment he bought a one way ticket to Los Angeles, packed his bags and planned on never returning home for more than two weeks a time. But he knew that would just trigger the memory of him standing in the threshold of their tiny home, two suitcases in hand as his father handed him directions on how to exchange currency, and his mom could barely look at him, she was crying so much.
So he just told her, “Yeah, I guess I am,” and let the familiar, soft, comfortable silence fill in.
It was odd to be doing this over the phone, but it was something that was common for all of their conversations. A small moment of reflecting, together, even if Andrew was forced to imagine his mother sitting on the barstool in the kitchen, her eyes glazed.
After a solid three minutes of silence, she sniffed and said, “You make sure this one treats you right, okay?”
Andrew bit the inside of his lip. “Yes, mum,” he said, with a nod of his head to reassure himself more than his mother.
“You swear it?” she asked, voice steadier than it had been this entire conversation.
“I swear it,” he said, and nodded.
He knew that she had nodded too before she sniffed for the last time and said, “Good. I’ll talk to you soon. I love you.”
He told her, “I love you too,” before he hung up the phone.
With the slap of his cell phone coming to a close, the sound reverberated against his empty walls like a shout in a steep cave. His once crowded apartment was now empty of all things personal except for one last box that needed to be loaded into the moving van. On the side, scribbled in his own messy handwriting, was the word “RECORDS”, in all caps. He kicked the box with the tip of his shoe, to gauge just how tightly he had packed it and when it didn’t budge he groaned both at how much energy it would take to lug it down three flights of stairs, and how much weight was going to be placed against his arms.
Looking at the screen of his phone he was aware that it was close to five o clock and he had promised Garrett that he would have all his boxes scattered in their living space by four thirty, but he just couldn’t bring himself to pick up the last box. Instead, he let out a long sigh and turned so he could take a seat on the dipping, but sturdy, filled cardboard, his elbows on his knees and his hands coming to a clap, his cell phone in-between them.
He was going to miss this place, with its elevator constantly in maintenance and his next-door neighbor’s affinity for loud Latin music at three am. With its ugly stained carpet and patio that overlooked a garden filled with dying plants and littered grass. It was his first place, his only place, and now he was moving in with Garrett, on the other and nicer part of town, in a two story house with two bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a pool. He was suppose to be ecstatic, this was, after all supposedly better than what he had but if he was honest all he wanted was a one bedroom apartment with a small bathroom with no windows, a kitchen that overlooked the living/dining room, and a view of an alley filled with nothing but a dumpster. But that wasn’t his apartment and it wasn’t even in his city and that wasn’t his life anymore. Like Jesse told him, it would be better if he just forgot about him and moved on but Jesse never told him just how hard this whole process was going to be.
He shook his head, a physical action that he always hoped would wipe his mind of all thoughts about his previous fling but it never did. It just reminded him of how Jesse would shake his curls right after he stepped out of the shower, like a wet dog, spraying droplets of water all over his bedroom. Andrew would laugh and Jesse would grin and make his way over to the bed, looming over Andrew as, dressed only in a towel slung low across his hips, he would place both his hands on the taller man’s shoulders, lean down, and press his head of wet hair against Andrew’s cheek and chin as he bit down against his neck. He could still feel it, sometimes, Jesse’s teeth sinking into his skin and as he sat there in his apartment, silently reminiscing, he rubbed a hand over his neck, searching for any sign that that distant moment was real. But there was nothing there. No bruised, no raised skin, not anything. Just thick, smooth, skin that, if he looked in the mirror, shined anew like no man had ever touched him there.
Abruptly, he stood. He ran an irritated hand through his hair and stared down at the box accusingly. The top was sunken in from where he had taken a seat but the tape was still intact. Still, the imperfection stirred something inside him and, livid, he began kicking at the box. It was always in the same spot but the tip of his shoe, the side of his shoe, and back to the tip, came crashing into the side of the box, enough to make him jump lowly with each impact.
When he stopped, the rage was not necessarily gone, it had just began to bury itself deep inside of him, behind his muscles and bones, packed tightly beneath his heart, hiding away until he unknowingly allowed it to live again.
His phone rang and without looking at it he knew that it was Garrett. He tucked the device into his pocket and ignored the scathing generic ring tone as he used his newfound energy to lift the box from the floor, in one easy swipe, pick up the keys up from the kitchen counter, close and lock his apartment door, and walk down three flights of stairs without looking over his shoulder once.
→ → →
It seemed so redundant to recount the day that he and Jesse met. He had told it so many times to his mother and father and sister and friends, each on separate occasions, that he was sure that they could possibly tell it better than he could. But whenever someone asked and one of them was around he would groan and bury his head into his arms and say, in a muffled voice, “Let them tell you,” motioning with his shoulder to the individual who had heard it so many times before. But that individual always refused to tell it and would push at his shoulder until he lifted his head and told him, “No you tell it. I know all the facts and the lines, but you tell it with an emotion that I simply don’t have.”
That used to flatter him. He would flush heavily and nod and avert eye contact with everyone in the vicinity before he took a breath and began regaling the tale that was much more epic, he was sure, in his mind than it was on paper. Because in his mind he could still see Jesse’s eyes light up the first time their hands met, he could still hear Jesse’s laugh when Andrew gripped his hand in fear at some terrible horror movie he had dragged them to, and he could still see the curve of Jesse’s mouth after the first time they kissed. For, when it came to Andrew, the story of the first time they met was filled with others firsts that didn’t happen until well into their relationship, but no one ever seemed to mind the tangent that he drifted off into.
He would give anything to have the thrill that overcame him, when he told the story, back again. Now - especially when Emma and he grabbed lunch the third day on the Spider-Man set, and in the middle of her sandwich she looked up him through her sunglasses and said, “Tell me about the day you and Jess, met.” - there was a sick, twisting, feeling in his gut.
He had to place his sandwich down and sit up a little straighter in his chair to stop himself from vomiting, but it didn’t stop his skin from turning a ridiculous pale color that caused Emma to place her sandwich down as well, lean across the table, and with a worried voice say, “Holy shit, holy shit, Andrew, hey,” and she began snapping in his face as if to wake him out of a trance that he hadn’t yet fallen into, but he could feel sweeping him and attempting to push him into some sort of shock.
“Andrew. Dude. Are you okay? Are you okay?” She was leaning across the small café table, one of which ran up and down the small stretch of the street that the restaurant was placed on. Set up on the sidewalk they were separated by walking pedestrians only by a floral decorated white fence, which their table was pressed against. Patrons of the restaurant and people walking by stared as Emma shook him and Andrew slowly came to.
He only knew to tell her he was okay by blinking his eyes at a slow, normal, pace, and looking up at her with a nod. When she sat back down she did so with a heavy sigh that seemed to de-inflate her and she wiped at her forehead with the back of her hand.
“Dude,” she said with a shake of her head. “I thought you were going to pass out or something but you were just…” and she trailed off, looking behind his head at something in the distance before grabbing her bottled water and taking a drink. “Here,” she then said, holding the water over the table for Andrew to take. He shook his head but she shook the bottle, insisting, and it only took one motion for him to cave in and take the bottle. It was cool to the touch and he stared at the label, almost at a loss as to what to do with it when she said, “Drink it,” and he did.
He took three long gulps before he handed the water back over and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared down at his sandwich, which now served no appetizing qualities and told her, “Sorry about that,” with a forced chuckle and smile that she hoped she wouldn’t see through.
Even though she had only known him for a few days, her furrowed eyebrows told that she knew everything, at the moment, was not all right, but her bottom lip going in-between her teeth told that she wasn’t going to push it.
“So you don’t want to talk about Jesse,” she stated, rather than asked. Then she was silent. Then she was nodding. “Alright then,” and she picked up her sandwich and took a large bite. With bread and meat and cheese and lettuce in her mouth she said, “Then tell me about England.”
↑ ↑ ↑
Whenever they were standing side by side or face-to-face, it always surprise Andrew that Garrett was, indeed, taller than him. It was only by an inch but for someone of his stature who had only known a few men, especially those who he fancied, who could match or defeat his height, an inch meant everything to him. Garrett not only had him in height but he beat him in the department of general stature as well. Though he had been working out tirelessly to build muscle for the role of Spider-Man, he would marvel in how he could never seem to match or past Garrett’s size.
Once, when they were lying in bed together, Garrett in jeans and a t-shirt and Andrew stripped all the way down to his shorts, he pressed his left arm to Garrett’s right and said, “I think you’ve been working out simply just to stay bigger than me.”
Garrett had smiled up to the ceiling before he turned just his head, grinning at him and saying, “Oh yeah?” in that odd southern drawl that Andrew had no idea he could love.
“Yeah,” Andrew had said, his smile sleepier than Garrett’s, but a smile nonetheless. “Because if you’re bigger than you’ll always be the dominant one and I know that’s what you want.”
Garrett turned his face back to the ceiling, the back of his pressed deep into his pillow, before he let out a deep chuckle that, with their arms pressed together, Andrew could feel running through his own body as well.
“You might be right about that,” he said and his eyes flickered over to Andrew, “But only because if I let you dominant then I’ve got nothing else to give, and you’d leave.”
Garrett spoke as if that was just the way it was. He wasn’t digging for sympathy or reassurance that that would never happen, that Andrew would never leave him. He was shrugging with his words and it was that that made Andrew lay quietly beside him, head turned, and he allowed his eyes to roam over every sharp line in Garrett’s face, from the frown lines that craved his mouth to the sharp edge of his nose. Garrett didn’t look over at him, but the way his eyes darted wildly he could tell that he was trying his hardest to stay transfixed on the empty ceiling.
“I don’t want you to think about me leaving,” he finally said, the words coming out quieter and softer than he would’ve liked.
This time Garrett physically shrugged but he didn’t look at Andrew as he said, “Then stop thinking about doing it.”
Andrew pressed his lips together and turned his head so he could too could stare up at their nothing ceiling, and there, he and Garrett laid and watched the thick darkness until their eyes felt heavy.
← ← ←
It was because of that night that Andrew felt obligated to tell Garrett, the next day over brunch, that he would indeed move in with him. He asked while pouring orange juice from a pitcher into two clear glasses that were adorned with flowers - a joke gift given to him by his older brother when he found out that he was gay. Garrett told him once, “He couldn’t find any cups with fairies on them, so he said that flowers would have to do,” and the way he said it, with such an unwavering smile on his face, made it seem like all was well on the front with his sibling.
Garrett never talked much about his mother and when he did it was always to the extent of, “My mother used to say”. Then he would stop for a moment and look down at his shoes, and always, without fail, scuffle them, sigh, and smile sadly as if remembering a fond memory that he would never be able to recapture. It was the smile that Andrew wore when something reminded him of Jesse, but it was a dramatically different look that Garrett wore when he thought about his father.
He never talked about him, at least not to Andrew, but during football games - which Garrett would always manage to wrestle Andrew into the couch to stay and watch with him - Garrett would sometimes veer from his commentary and grow steadily but eerily silent. His hands would ball into heavy fists and his jaw would clench before he picked up his beer from the coffee table and finished it all in one go. Then he would shoot up, without a word, and venture into the kitchen, grab two beers, all for himself, and drink one, and then the other, before the commercial break was even over.
Andrew could only watch him drink and right after he was finished his second beer, right before he moved back up from the couch to grab more, he would loop an arm around his, press into his side, rest his head on his shoulder and say, “Your fucking Cowboy’s are losing, big shocker there.”
He could feel Garrett relax against him, his shoulders settling down as he placed an arm around Andrew and said, “Leave it to you to be a Jets fan.”
While Andrew didn’t know what that meant, and he never stopped to ask, the smile that began to tug at Garrett's mouth was enough to sedate the both of them for the rest of the game.
↓ ↓ ↓
He wouldn’t call them nightmares, but sometimes Andrew felt himself being violently shaken awake in the middle of the night. And behind his eyelids there was no tangible image, just the fearful splatter of thick reds and oranges that, when explaining, never seemed to make sense, but in the moment they made him quiver helplessly beneath his skin, a feeling only worsened when his body awoke before his mind and he could feel fingers pressing into his skin and words being whispered close to him, but he could only make out the noise. It sounded like low, unintelligible clashing of syllables and nouns, but without it, Andrew was sure that these fits of his would last a lot longer. Because the voice that lifted and carried him out of his own mind was always so gentle and triggered something warm inside of him that overlapped the cold darkness that was constantly attempting to suffocate him.
Garrett never asked what was disturbing him in his sleep, but Andrew could see the question in his eyes every time his own flew open, alarmed and wet, as he looked up at his boyfriend, outlined in the dark bedroom by the light of moon shining in from the bedroom window. His eyes were always so strikingly light and Andrew, though once or twice, he did try, could not speak. He could only stare at him, allow him to attempt to see into him, before he sat up in bed, placed his face in the crook of Garrett’s neck and allowed himself to be enveloped before he was gently laid back to bed.
And with Garrett’s arms completely around him, his strong chest pressing into his back, Andrew made a promise to himself that one day, he would tell Garrett everything, he just hoped that when he did, he would make good on his promise, of never leaving him for something that happened so long before.
→ → →
Something, like the scars on the inside of Jesse’s wrists that, when Andrew first introduced Garrett to his group of friends, stood out like a bleeding tattoo when he extended his hand to shake at Garrett’s hand. And their friends - Justin, Armie, Josh, Max - they had all seen the scars before. They had asked all their questions, raised their concerns, pursed their lips in disbelief and shook their heads in judgments; but the long, thick scratches, that Jesse tried to pass off as, “Cat scratches,” with a smile, were brand new to Garrett, who wasn’t stupid, and knew that cat claws weren’t that separated or precise or deep.
He stared at them for the entire length of the night, his eyes trailing from the smiling faces of Andrew’s friends, back to Jesse’s skin whenever he moved to pick up his beer bottle, push at the table, or fold the cuff of Andrew’s shirt. Though they sat at stools around a small circular table Jesse and Andrew had managed to cut themselves off from the conversation about the Oscars that was currently at hand. Even when Justin knocked the edge of his beer into Jesse’s arm and asked, “You going to wear that same tux to the Oscars man? I mean, you might have a chance of winning,” and his smile was goading and patronizing, but in that older brother way, Jesse just smirked, glanced at Andrew and said, “Maybe. But it’s not like you’ll even know. Were you even invited Justin?” before the laughs of the group sent him hurling back into a hushed conversation with his boyfriend.
He was never one to be possessive; in fact, there were only two items in his life that he even dared to think about more than once throughout his day. One, was his truck, which he had bought for three hundred dollars the first few hours he had stepped foot in LA. It was a large hunk of metal that threatened to break into pieces, en route, any day now, and while he didn’t feel that putting money into repairing it, was worth it, he would be terribly sad to see it being hauled away by the junk truck, when that day came.
The second item was his guitar, in which the buying process had no sentimental value, but he strummed away at the item often enough that other memories were laced into the body and the strings. Most recently he had been absent mindedly playing on the back porch and Andrew had come out, sat on the end of the long beach chair he owned, and begged him to play him something that he had never heard before. It was an easy request, for Andrew had told him the day they met that he knew nothing about country music, but Garrett still felt the palms of his hands become slick with sweat as he moved the pick back and forth over the strings, trying to think of something to play for him.
He must’ve, mentally, thumbed through every song he knew before he landed on a tune that he wrote back in High School for a girl he was trying to woo into going to prom with him. At first it was a matter of just changing “Sharon” to “Andrew” - and thank god he wasn’t a fan of songs that rhymed or used the word “girl” too much - but then, as he got into, it was a matter of switching up lyrics completely, shaping it into an entirely different song as Andrew sat there, with his knees pulled up to his chest and his chin atop them, staring at him, grinning, as he tried not to let his fingers slip from the bar of the fret.
When he was done he felt a flush of embarrassment that he hadn’t felt since he first sang in front of a crowd of people back home, and he had the nerve to blush and duck his head, bashfully. This made Andrew laugh, which was the first reaction he had since the song had ended and Garrett had half a mind to be offended before Andrew pulled the guitar off his lap, placed it gingerly into the grass, and crawled right in-between his legs.
With his hand going to the side of his face, the other man smiled as he said, “I didn’t know you could actually sing,” and Garrett knew he was talking about the digital enhancing Andrew swore they did on everyone’s voice for Country Strong. While he would never sound as good as he did without some work on the computer, the way Andrew’s thumb was running across his jaw line, and the way his large, brown eyes darted from his mouth to his eyes, he knew that he hadn’t been that bad.
“I told you, didn’t I,” he finally managed to say, “I wanted to be a country singer when I was little.”
Andrew scoffed with his smile still intact, “And I wanted to be a gymnast but that doesn’t mean I can still stick a double backhand spring.”
Garrett raised an eyebrow. He knew about Andrew’s young career was a gymnast but sometimes when he talked about the sport - and he insisted that it was, in fact, a sport - Garrett just didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, and he didn’t pretend to know either. This just made Andrew chuckle before the inside of his bottom lip began to roll beneath his teeth and Garrett knew that he was contemplating kissing him now, or after some comment he was fishing for. And while he loved to let him take his time, Garrett used that moment to decide for him, and he lifted his head and pressed their lips together.
↑ ↑ ↑
There weren’t many things about Garrett that bothered Andrew, but one of the cons of dating someone like him, someone handy and strong and with a constant want to physically exert himself, was that he either never let Andrew help, or he treated him like a woman. When they would go grocery-shopping Garrett would gather all the heavy bags and leave Andrew with the plastic filled with chips and eggs and bread. Whenever they would be planning to travel and Andrew was standing at the top of the stairs with his suitcase in hand, Garrett would always come up behind him and whisk the bag away, one-arming it down the stairs. As Andrew was attempting to move his own boxes from the van, boxes that he had packed inside himself, with only a little help from the guys on the first floor, Garrett was permanently standing at the end of the ramp, with his hands on his hips and a worried expression on his face, one that worsened with every box that Andrew lifted.
One was labeled, “DISHES” and there was nothing inside but plastic dishes that he brought for himself after a particularly drunk and angry night in which he destroyed each and every glass dish that he owned. The box was one of the lightest, but still, Garrett wouldn’t let him get two steps onto the ramp before he was removing the box from Andrew’s arms and telling him, in a muffled voice, “I got it, I got it, you can get the next one.”
Andrew wasn’t letting up on the box. It was half in his arms, half in Garrett’s, and their fingertips were touching as both sets of hands cupped the bottom edges of the box. “You said that with the last box,” Andrew said as he attempted to crane his head to the left to look at Garrett. “Let me get this one.”
Garrett too was trying to get a look at Andrew, craning his head to the left just when Andrew craned his head to the right. “This one’s heavy, babe, why don’t you go get a box filled with clothes or something?”
It was the “babe” that did him in, the simple little pet name that Andrew was no stranger to, that pulled at the small flicker of anger in the pit of his stomach and extended it into something large and furious; something that he couldn’t and didn’t want to control. Anger licked at his fingertips wanting to move and he pressed them harder onto the box as he pulled his arms, and the box, into him with one quick, hard, thrust. Only Andrew wasn’t counting on Garrett’s hold on the box being so loose, that he was just allowing it to rest on his arms. When the box hit him harshly, square in the chest, he didn’t actually feel the wind being knocked out of him, as much as he felt his feet being lifted from the ramp of the truck.
He heard his body slam into the truck bed before he felt it - the pain in the back of his skull, neck, and shoulders, dully thudding to the sound of Garrett’s rushed footsteps coming up the ramp. The box had fell right along with him, resting soundly on his chest, and Garrett had simply pushed it off of him as he knelt at his side and a ran a hand through his hair.
His voice was nothing but concerned when he asked, “Hey, shit, you okay?”
It was the soft way, the way he spoke, as if, if he had raised his voice, Andrew would break. That caused Andrew to violently push him and his hand away. It caused a rush of pain to shoot through his upper body, so much so that he couldn’t be concerned with Garrett stumbling backwards, having been balancing himself solely on the pointed toes of his feet, and he landed right on his ass. He wasn’t hurt though, the fall not being as drastic as the one Andrew had taken, and he gave no sign of feeling anything but irritation, the concern almost being fully pushed out of him.
“None of this would’ve fucking happened if you would just treat me like a goddamn adult,” Andrew spit as he, carefully, attempted to bring himself up to a standing position. But he could only sit up on his elbows, his entire body, sans legs and feet, aching tremendously.
He swore under his breath at the possibility of a hospital visit and blamed the newfound panic that was beginning to set in on his boyfriend, who was able to stand with relative ease, and who had the nerve to stare down at him with narrowed eyes filled with anger, but still, extended a hand to help.
Andrew stared at him, from his sitting up on the truck, and shared an equally irritated gaze for a long while, waiting for Garrett’s hand to fall helplessly to his side as the other man gave up. But when he didn’t, when he just stood there, waiting for Andrew to gather himself and his feelings, Andrew extended a shaking arm and allowed Garrett to use two hands to pull him to his feet. As soon as he shot up, Andrew stumbled forward, his body unprepared for such an alarming action. Without hesitation, Garrett caught him. He held him with arms around his back as Andrew settled his hands on his shoulders and they just stood there, in the back of the truck, embraced in what started as a simple helping gesture but slowly melted into an apologetic hug.
While Andrew hated, beyond belief, the fact that Garrett let him carry only four heavy boxes into the home before he was back to dictating what Andrew could and could not lift, he was overjoyed that their arguments and fights, no matter how big or small, could be fixed quickly and softly and mostly without words.
← ← ←
Jesse had the scratches on his arms, which would never fade enough to be ignored, and Andrew had the burns on his collarbones. There were six of them, three on each, and they were shape of sharp, thin, slices that curved all the way down to his chest. With time they had faded into a light shade of brown and every doctor that he went to told him that with some medicated cream, and with time, they would eventually be too light for anyone to notice. But he didn’t wear them with shame. They didn’t stop him waltzing around the house with his shirt off, going to the beach or swimming, or even allowing Garrett to undress him time after time.
It was always an area that Garrett never dared to venture to. He had asked once, after their third night spent together, what caused them, and Andrew had locked up so much, his entire body going rigid and his mouth pressed tight into a straight line, that Garrett knew that it was something else he would have to wait for; for Andrew to come around and tell him himself. Until then, his fingertips and tongue, only ghosted over them, momentarily.
↓ ↓ ↓
Garrett always started his sixth beer with, “Let me ask you somethin’.”
It wasn’t a question and Andrew would never be in a place to deny him his question, no matter how drunk, or sober he happened to be. He always chalked up Garrett’s irresistible nature to his accent, which only seemed to thicken when he was drunk and lazy. Garrett always said the same thing happened to Andrew and he never believed him until they taped one of their late night, drunken, conversations and in the morning, over waffles, they both were in a fit of laughs as they tried to decipher what either of them were talking about, for they both sounded completely incomprehensible.
But Andrew was only on his third drink, taking his time, while Garrett had been downing them from the moment the last box was placed in the house. And while the entire living room was packed with boxes stacked high, and the only light was the dimmed overhead in the living room, neither of them seemed to mind as two six packs sat at their feet, the two of them lying on their sides on the living room, drinking, speaking, and listening.
“When I ask you this, you gotta be honest alright?” Garrett said and he looked right into Andrew’s eyes.
He nodded. “I promise. I won’t lie to you.”
The corner of Garrett’s mouth quirked, “Well alright,” he said. Then he cleared his throat, “You still in love with Jesse?”
Andrew couldn’t lie, even though he desperately wanted to. It wasn’t because he had told Garrett that he wouldn’t and he was a man of his word because if Andrew was honest with himself he would’ve lied to keep himself from potentially hurting his boyfriend. But it was because when Garrett was finished asking his question, immediately his eyes darted up to meet Andrew’s and the way they widened, and the soft brush of red that was painted on the tips of his cheeks, gave way to an answer before he could even open his mouth.
Garrett let out a sigh. It was long and tired and he moved from lying on his side, facing Andrew, to on his back, facing the ceiling. His empty bottles formed a crown around his head that blocked his face from Andrew’s view, but he wasn’t watching his face anyway. He was watching his hands which, blindly, reached into the pocket of his jeans and in from the right one he pulled out a bright blue lighter, and from the left, he pulled out a worm packet of cigarettes. Skillfully, he flipped the top of the box open and pulled out one, discarded the filled box next to his legs and placing it in-between his lips, lighting it, and inhaling.
“Jesus,” he said with a shake of his head, smoke chasing his words.
“I don’t want to lie to you,” said Andrew as he moved the beer bottles from blocking his view of Garrett, placing them to the side as he kept himself propped up. He waited until Garrett took another puff and looked over at him before he said, “I think I’ll always love Jesse.”
Garrett stared at him, and Andrew believed that he was looking for any sign that the words coming out of his mouth were untrue, but he didn’t know if it was hope, that he would find something, or if it was hope that he wouldn’t. Either way, neither of them broke each other’s gaze for a long time and when they did, it was Andrew who removed his eyes from Garrett’s and looked down at the terribly white carpet. Garrett continued to smoke, allowing ashes to fall to the floor with every wave of his hand, but he didn’t look away from Andrew.
When Andrew finally looked back up, the cigarette was in-between Garrett’s lips and he said, “But that doesn’t mean that I can’t love you.”
Garrett pulled the cigarette out. He blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Do you?”
“Do I what?” Andrew asked with a slow, calculating, blink.
“Do you love me?”
The end of his cigarette burned slowly, even when he was inhaling, the paper burned up and the ashes dripped like everything was moving in slow motion. The way Garrett was staring at him felt like an eternity rather than a few seconds, and it was just like Andrew felt whenever the two of them were together. Time seemed to stop whenever they were alone. Everything seemed a little bright, a little more meaningful, but everything also seemed to be moving at a pace that he was just not comfortable with.
With Jesse everything was quick like a snap of a finger. He knew he exact moment he fell in love with Jesse and he told him right then and there, without hesitation and without second guessing himself. He first kissed Jesse when he felt like it. He slept with him the moment he felt the want and the need. With Garrett, it was more about slow and steady and getting to the finish line at your own pace, rather than winning and getting there as fast as possible.
But even with all the time, the time that seemed to stop the world, Andrew didn’t know exactly where he stood with Garrett and because of that, he could not and would not, tell him that he loved him. And from his flickering gaze, Garrett knew that as well.
There was no heavy sigh this time. Just a long, drawn out, inhalation, and a string of smoke rings that made Andrew crack a small smile because he would never not be amused by them. And from that, Garrett also began to smile, which made Andrew grin wider and Garrett let out a small laugh.
“Well,” he said, finishing off his cigarette and disposing it into an empty bottle. “I know for a fact that I do love you. So I don’t mind you staying around a little longer and deciding if you feel the same way.”
Andrew just could not help himself from leaning over and pressing his lips to the corner of Garrett’s mouth.
→ → →
They were both standing on the skinny steps leading into Andrew’s trailer when Jesse asked him to move in with him. Andrew was finishing the first cigarette he had had in months and he could barely hear Jesse’s voice over the sound of the stick rolling in-between in his fingers and the wind rushing past his ears. He turned to him, with rumpled eyebrows and one of them raised, Jesse keeping his gaze to the ground before he looked up, expecting an answer. Only Andrew didn’t think he heard him correctly because he couldn’t have heard him correctly.
Ever since the second month of filming Jesse had been in perpetual denial that their relationship even existed. When Andrew would ask - and he asked frequently - just what the hell they were doing Jesse stuffed his hands in his pockets and coolly told him, “We’re just fucking around.” He had gone to bed many a nights with the thought that he was just some on-set fling and when the movie was over, and the award shows were done, they would go back to their respective lives and never talk about the epic Jesse/Andrew saga that took place in Boston, Baltimore, and LA.
Filming was due to end in exactly three days, and Andrew had been trying to gather the exact way to say good-bye, when Jesse cleared his throat and said, “So, um, are you going to say yes, or…”
Andrew could only blink at him as his entire body went limp in shock. His fingers, which were steadily holding the burning cigarette, dropped it onto his shoe but he paid it no mind for his entire attention, his entire world, was focused on the man who was standing ever so uncomfortably on the steps next to him. Jesse looked ashamed and disgusted at himself for even asking such a thing but Andrew just knew (he learned to know) that that was just Jesse’s disposition when he thought he was going to be rejected, which was, albeit, all of the time. But behind that look was a soft glimmer of hope, that Andrew would answer in the affirmative because Andrew was always the one to give Jesse whatever he wanted, all he had to do was ask and sometimes, he didn’t even have to go that far.
“Where,” Andrew started, then he looked down at his shoe, where the faint flicker of orange and red lay, and he kicked it off gently. “Where, would we be living?”
Jesse’s face softened when Andrew met his eyes, a faint dawn of realization washing over him. Although Jesse always talked about how much he struggled with control of his own body, mind, and emotions, Andrew could see his hands, mentally, tightening around the reigns as he tried, and succeeded, in letting his face not completely fall.
His hand scratched the back of his neck as he spoke. “I, uh, I haven’t actually um, thought that through yet. But. We could just, um, get our own place?”
There were a rush of questions that entered Andrew’s mind; right at the moment he realized that Jesse hadn’t even given that much thought to it. He was just being spontaneous. He wanted something and went for it and it was so unlike him that Andrew threatened to break out into a full blown grin but kept himself from doing so for the sole reason that it would send the wrong message. The message that he, being delighted with Jesse’s newfound freedom, meant that he would indeed move in with him, and that was simply not the case. Andrew couldn’t move in with him because his status would just be bumped up from “bit on the side” to “mistress”, complete with a separate home and all.
He wanted to ask - “Would we be living in New York or LA? Would we have a house or a nicer apartment than you share with your girlfriend? If we do live in New York would we be living in the same complex or the other side of town? Will you send all your bills to your home in New York or transfer them to ours? Will your agent be in on this so you can keep up this whole façade with your girlfriend?” - but he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut because he knew with every question that exited his mouth, more and more anger would just be building up inside of him. Because while the gesture was extremely endearing, especially for someone who didn’t like any ounce of change, it was also insulting and made Andrew sick.
He ran a hand through his hair that was getting longer, now that hair and make up swore that three days of not cutting wouldn’t do much to hinder Eduardo’s look, and bit at the inside of his cheek before he looked at Jesse and said, “So I guess this means you’ve left Anna then.”
Jesse’s entire being shut down. Nearly all emotion was drained from his face and his shoulders rose in defense and Andrew knew that all logical conversation had just been thrown out the window, along with any hope of him answering “Yes,” to Jesse’s question.
“Why would you - why would you even ask me that?” Jesse said, hysterical and quick, just like Mark.
Andrew shook his head because he couldn’t take this goddamn character bleed anymore. It was this shit that got them wrapped up in each other in the first place and he hated the fact that the more they got involved, the harder it was to separate Mark from Jesse, but especially he from Eduardo. Because every single second he spent with Jesse - in his trailer, in his bed - and he whispered bullshit promises that one day he would leave her, one day they would be together, he was being betrayed and he knew it. But he kept coming back because his heart was a masochist and it loved being torn to pieces.
Jesse whispered in exasperation, “Why the fuck,” before he ran through his hair, then dropped it suddenly and shook his head. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his - Mark’s - hoodie and stepped down the steps until his feet were on the concrete. He wasn’t facing Andrew when he said, “I can’t do this anymore, Wardo.”
It came out so easily. That one, fucking, slip. And even Jesse, who was ready to stomp off in the direction of his own trailer, had the decency to slump in his shoulders in shame. Andrew, however, didn’t think that he could move. He just, stood there, frozen on the steps of his trailer as he stared down at the back of Jesse’s head and asked,
“Are you fucking kidding me? Were you…Were you in character right now, or are you-”
He couldn’t control his feet but they were stamping down his trailer steps, around Jesse until they were standing right in front of one another. Jesse’s face was broken and ashamed, but only for a moment. Only until Andrew had casted a complete shadow over his form and then he squared his shoulders and put on that look of hardened nonchalance that was foreign to him, but like home to Mark.
Andrew raised a finger, pointing it accusingly at Jesse’s chest as he said, “Don’t you dare, blame this whole fucking, wanting to move in thing on Mark, Jess. I swear to God, I will fucking-”
“You’ll fucking what, Andrew?” Jesse responded, still in complete defense mode. “Call up Carey and cry about it?” Then he scoffed with a smirk. “We both know you aren’t going to do shit because you’re too fucking dependent on this - on me - to do anything to ruin it.”
It was nothing but the truth, but it was the truth that snapped Andrew’s sense in two and without warning he found himself grabbing tufts of Jesse’s hoodie and shirt, balling his fists and pushing him roughly into the side of the trailer. The slam of a body against metal rang out amongst the entire park of trailers but Andrew was too consumed by his anger to worry about one of their cast mates, or wardrobe, coming out to check on them. He was too consumed with wiping that look of cool confidence off Jesse’s smug face. He pressed him harder into the trailer, wanting the folds of the metal to bruise his back, but still Jesse’s face didn’t falter. It was still tight and unconcerned.
“Are you just going to try to fucking smush me to death? That seems a bit, slow and stupid, even for you.”
Andrew kept one hand fisted in Jesse’s top and the other pulled back before he punched him square in the jaw. The back of Jesse’s head cracked into the trailer and Andrew’s knuckles stung and burned but Jesse wasn’t looking at him like that anymore. He wasn’t looking at him at all. The punch had completely shifted his gaze to the side of him, to the ground, where Jesse stared stunned before he looked up at Andrew, using one hand to adjust his jaw.
He wasn’t surprised, in the least. They had had fist fights before and he knew Andrew wasn’t afraid to punch, he just didn’t think that he would hit him with three days to the end of shooting and there would be an undeniable bruise lingering in the morning.
Eyes locked, Andrew let go of Jesse’s shirt and stepped back a few in retreat. He thought about locking himself in his trailer and calling Brenda to see if he could catch a ride with her when Jesse pushed himself off the trailer and slammed himself directly into Andrew. He wasn’t expecting it and he toppled completely over, onto the ground, his back taking a direct hit while he managed to save his head from slamming into the concrete. But it’s not like his small act mattered, for within seconds Jesse was on top of him, straddling with him, with his hands wrapped tight around his neck and his thumbs pressing right into his larynx.
The air, that was being rushed out of his system with his fall, seemed to be caught right underneath Jesse’s thumbs, making it even harder to breathe than if the passageway was clear. With his hands, he attempted to grab at Jesse’s but Jesse just tightened his hold so that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get Jesse’s hands to let up. His feet were sliding against the concrete helplessly, not being able to kick or bruise in any way, shape or form, and his fingers were clawing, first at Jesse’s fingers, then at his hands, before they started at his wrists.
There, they found long stretches of exposed skin and Andrew dug his nails into them, scratching and pulling just as deep and hard as Jesse was holding onto his neck. Andrew’s vision began to drift in and out of darkness the more Jesse kept his hold and the more he tore into Jesse’s skin. Andrew didn’t even stop when he felt wet droplets paint the tips of his fingers and run down the sides, he just kept digging further, Jesse hissing lowly, the only sound of him being affected, and the one sound that kept Andrew going. He was literally holding onto his last breath, his fingers pulling forward Jesse’s skin, his entire being ready to give out, when Jesse let go of his neck.
It wasn’t gradual, but with a quick release of Jesse’s fingers and palms, Andrew was overcome with an influx of air that rushed into his lungs, causing his back to arch from the ground ever so slightly.
While he was glad to breathe, he had only a moment to enjoy it before Jesse’s fist slammed straight into his jaw once, twice, then a third time, before Jesse hooked his hand underneath Andrew’s chin and steadied his head to look up at him.
Jesse looked positively possessed by anger, but Andrew was too exhausted and too used to it be afraid. He just lay there and gave in when Jesse’s mouth was on his jaw and then the corner of his lips and then on his own.
The kiss was messy and filled with something more sullied than passion but that was the only word Andrew could think to describe it. Jesse’s tongue was in his mouth and he couldn’t stop himself from pressing his teeth onto the muscle until he could taste it bleeding. Jesse pulled away for just a moment to lick at the line of the jaw he had slugged, then the length of his neck, painting them both a stinging red.
Andrew was bruised, all over, and would feel like shit in the morning but he wasn’t the one bleeding from the mouth and the wrists as well as holding a swollen jaw. That was all Jesse, who, even as he stared down at him, dropping blood on his cheeks and his shirt, Andrew couldn’t help but grab the back of his hair and pull him back down for a kiss.
continue to part two
nc-17
notes:
(1) there is a plot to this, i swear, im just trying something new. this story bounces bath and forth between the present timeline and the past. the present is andrew with garrett, the past is andrew with jesse (if that isnt clear).
(2) the title is taken from an imogen heap song - who basically soundtracks this entire fic - while the premise is lifted from the hand-rubbing andrew was giving garrett on the vanity fair shoot.
(3) WARNING, the last scene may be triggery for some people because it's a pretty violent scene involving strangling, scratching, and fighting. you CAN enjoy the story without reading it.
part one;
hide and seek
trains and sewing machines
(oh you won't catch me around here)
blood and tears (hearts)
hide and seek ;; imogen heap
Although he could not see her, Andrew knew that his mother was beaming on the other end of the phone. “This is such a big step!” she said. “Such a life changing moment. I wish I was there to see it.”
Andrew smiled nervously. He pressed the phone to his ear and squinted when the wind picked up dirt and blew into his eyes. “Yeah, me too,” he told her. “I wish you were here.”
“Oh, I’m just-” and she stopped. Andrew could almost see her, her short brown hair brushing against her shaking shoulders and she placed a hand over her mouth and veered the phone to the side, trying to hide her short, quick sobs from sifting into the phone. But he could still hear her, quietly crying, and he felt a lump in his throat when he realized that he could do nothing to stop it.
“Mum?” he said, voice careful and trying to not make matters worse.
“I’m okay,” she said quickly. Then there was a sniffle and the sound of her hand running across the bottom of her nose. “Your mum’s okay. I’m just a little hysterical is all. I’m allowed to be. My little boy’s growing up.”
A soft smile played at his lips. He wanted to say that he grew up the moment he bought a one way ticket to Los Angeles, packed his bags and planned on never returning home for more than two weeks a time. But he knew that would just trigger the memory of him standing in the threshold of their tiny home, two suitcases in hand as his father handed him directions on how to exchange currency, and his mom could barely look at him, she was crying so much.
So he just told her, “Yeah, I guess I am,” and let the familiar, soft, comfortable silence fill in.
It was odd to be doing this over the phone, but it was something that was common for all of their conversations. A small moment of reflecting, together, even if Andrew was forced to imagine his mother sitting on the barstool in the kitchen, her eyes glazed.
After a solid three minutes of silence, she sniffed and said, “You make sure this one treats you right, okay?”
Andrew bit the inside of his lip. “Yes, mum,” he said, with a nod of his head to reassure himself more than his mother.
“You swear it?” she asked, voice steadier than it had been this entire conversation.
“I swear it,” he said, and nodded.
He knew that she had nodded too before she sniffed for the last time and said, “Good. I’ll talk to you soon. I love you.”
He told her, “I love you too,” before he hung up the phone.
With the slap of his cell phone coming to a close, the sound reverberated against his empty walls like a shout in a steep cave. His once crowded apartment was now empty of all things personal except for one last box that needed to be loaded into the moving van. On the side, scribbled in his own messy handwriting, was the word “RECORDS”, in all caps. He kicked the box with the tip of his shoe, to gauge just how tightly he had packed it and when it didn’t budge he groaned both at how much energy it would take to lug it down three flights of stairs, and how much weight was going to be placed against his arms.
Looking at the screen of his phone he was aware that it was close to five o clock and he had promised Garrett that he would have all his boxes scattered in their living space by four thirty, but he just couldn’t bring himself to pick up the last box. Instead, he let out a long sigh and turned so he could take a seat on the dipping, but sturdy, filled cardboard, his elbows on his knees and his hands coming to a clap, his cell phone in-between them.
He was going to miss this place, with its elevator constantly in maintenance and his next-door neighbor’s affinity for loud Latin music at three am. With its ugly stained carpet and patio that overlooked a garden filled with dying plants and littered grass. It was his first place, his only place, and now he was moving in with Garrett, on the other and nicer part of town, in a two story house with two bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a pool. He was suppose to be ecstatic, this was, after all supposedly better than what he had but if he was honest all he wanted was a one bedroom apartment with a small bathroom with no windows, a kitchen that overlooked the living/dining room, and a view of an alley filled with nothing but a dumpster. But that wasn’t his apartment and it wasn’t even in his city and that wasn’t his life anymore. Like Jesse told him, it would be better if he just forgot about him and moved on but Jesse never told him just how hard this whole process was going to be.
He shook his head, a physical action that he always hoped would wipe his mind of all thoughts about his previous fling but it never did. It just reminded him of how Jesse would shake his curls right after he stepped out of the shower, like a wet dog, spraying droplets of water all over his bedroom. Andrew would laugh and Jesse would grin and make his way over to the bed, looming over Andrew as, dressed only in a towel slung low across his hips, he would place both his hands on the taller man’s shoulders, lean down, and press his head of wet hair against Andrew’s cheek and chin as he bit down against his neck. He could still feel it, sometimes, Jesse’s teeth sinking into his skin and as he sat there in his apartment, silently reminiscing, he rubbed a hand over his neck, searching for any sign that that distant moment was real. But there was nothing there. No bruised, no raised skin, not anything. Just thick, smooth, skin that, if he looked in the mirror, shined anew like no man had ever touched him there.
Abruptly, he stood. He ran an irritated hand through his hair and stared down at the box accusingly. The top was sunken in from where he had taken a seat but the tape was still intact. Still, the imperfection stirred something inside him and, livid, he began kicking at the box. It was always in the same spot but the tip of his shoe, the side of his shoe, and back to the tip, came crashing into the side of the box, enough to make him jump lowly with each impact.
When he stopped, the rage was not necessarily gone, it had just began to bury itself deep inside of him, behind his muscles and bones, packed tightly beneath his heart, hiding away until he unknowingly allowed it to live again.
His phone rang and without looking at it he knew that it was Garrett. He tucked the device into his pocket and ignored the scathing generic ring tone as he used his newfound energy to lift the box from the floor, in one easy swipe, pick up the keys up from the kitchen counter, close and lock his apartment door, and walk down three flights of stairs without looking over his shoulder once.
→ → →
It seemed so redundant to recount the day that he and Jesse met. He had told it so many times to his mother and father and sister and friends, each on separate occasions, that he was sure that they could possibly tell it better than he could. But whenever someone asked and one of them was around he would groan and bury his head into his arms and say, in a muffled voice, “Let them tell you,” motioning with his shoulder to the individual who had heard it so many times before. But that individual always refused to tell it and would push at his shoulder until he lifted his head and told him, “No you tell it. I know all the facts and the lines, but you tell it with an emotion that I simply don’t have.”
That used to flatter him. He would flush heavily and nod and avert eye contact with everyone in the vicinity before he took a breath and began regaling the tale that was much more epic, he was sure, in his mind than it was on paper. Because in his mind he could still see Jesse’s eyes light up the first time their hands met, he could still hear Jesse’s laugh when Andrew gripped his hand in fear at some terrible horror movie he had dragged them to, and he could still see the curve of Jesse’s mouth after the first time they kissed. For, when it came to Andrew, the story of the first time they met was filled with others firsts that didn’t happen until well into their relationship, but no one ever seemed to mind the tangent that he drifted off into.
He would give anything to have the thrill that overcame him, when he told the story, back again. Now - especially when Emma and he grabbed lunch the third day on the Spider-Man set, and in the middle of her sandwich she looked up him through her sunglasses and said, “Tell me about the day you and Jess, met.” - there was a sick, twisting, feeling in his gut.
He had to place his sandwich down and sit up a little straighter in his chair to stop himself from vomiting, but it didn’t stop his skin from turning a ridiculous pale color that caused Emma to place her sandwich down as well, lean across the table, and with a worried voice say, “Holy shit, holy shit, Andrew, hey,” and she began snapping in his face as if to wake him out of a trance that he hadn’t yet fallen into, but he could feel sweeping him and attempting to push him into some sort of shock.
“Andrew. Dude. Are you okay? Are you okay?” She was leaning across the small café table, one of which ran up and down the small stretch of the street that the restaurant was placed on. Set up on the sidewalk they were separated by walking pedestrians only by a floral decorated white fence, which their table was pressed against. Patrons of the restaurant and people walking by stared as Emma shook him and Andrew slowly came to.
He only knew to tell her he was okay by blinking his eyes at a slow, normal, pace, and looking up at her with a nod. When she sat back down she did so with a heavy sigh that seemed to de-inflate her and she wiped at her forehead with the back of her hand.
“Dude,” she said with a shake of her head. “I thought you were going to pass out or something but you were just…” and she trailed off, looking behind his head at something in the distance before grabbing her bottled water and taking a drink. “Here,” she then said, holding the water over the table for Andrew to take. He shook his head but she shook the bottle, insisting, and it only took one motion for him to cave in and take the bottle. It was cool to the touch and he stared at the label, almost at a loss as to what to do with it when she said, “Drink it,” and he did.
He took three long gulps before he handed the water back over and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared down at his sandwich, which now served no appetizing qualities and told her, “Sorry about that,” with a forced chuckle and smile that she hoped she wouldn’t see through.
Even though she had only known him for a few days, her furrowed eyebrows told that she knew everything, at the moment, was not all right, but her bottom lip going in-between her teeth told that she wasn’t going to push it.
“So you don’t want to talk about Jesse,” she stated, rather than asked. Then she was silent. Then she was nodding. “Alright then,” and she picked up her sandwich and took a large bite. With bread and meat and cheese and lettuce in her mouth she said, “Then tell me about England.”
↑ ↑ ↑
Whenever they were standing side by side or face-to-face, it always surprise Andrew that Garrett was, indeed, taller than him. It was only by an inch but for someone of his stature who had only known a few men, especially those who he fancied, who could match or defeat his height, an inch meant everything to him. Garrett not only had him in height but he beat him in the department of general stature as well. Though he had been working out tirelessly to build muscle for the role of Spider-Man, he would marvel in how he could never seem to match or past Garrett’s size.
Once, when they were lying in bed together, Garrett in jeans and a t-shirt and Andrew stripped all the way down to his shorts, he pressed his left arm to Garrett’s right and said, “I think you’ve been working out simply just to stay bigger than me.”
Garrett had smiled up to the ceiling before he turned just his head, grinning at him and saying, “Oh yeah?” in that odd southern drawl that Andrew had no idea he could love.
“Yeah,” Andrew had said, his smile sleepier than Garrett’s, but a smile nonetheless. “Because if you’re bigger than you’ll always be the dominant one and I know that’s what you want.”
Garrett turned his face back to the ceiling, the back of his pressed deep into his pillow, before he let out a deep chuckle that, with their arms pressed together, Andrew could feel running through his own body as well.
“You might be right about that,” he said and his eyes flickered over to Andrew, “But only because if I let you dominant then I’ve got nothing else to give, and you’d leave.”
Garrett spoke as if that was just the way it was. He wasn’t digging for sympathy or reassurance that that would never happen, that Andrew would never leave him. He was shrugging with his words and it was that that made Andrew lay quietly beside him, head turned, and he allowed his eyes to roam over every sharp line in Garrett’s face, from the frown lines that craved his mouth to the sharp edge of his nose. Garrett didn’t look over at him, but the way his eyes darted wildly he could tell that he was trying his hardest to stay transfixed on the empty ceiling.
“I don’t want you to think about me leaving,” he finally said, the words coming out quieter and softer than he would’ve liked.
This time Garrett physically shrugged but he didn’t look at Andrew as he said, “Then stop thinking about doing it.”
Andrew pressed his lips together and turned his head so he could too could stare up at their nothing ceiling, and there, he and Garrett laid and watched the thick darkness until their eyes felt heavy.
← ← ←
It was because of that night that Andrew felt obligated to tell Garrett, the next day over brunch, that he would indeed move in with him. He asked while pouring orange juice from a pitcher into two clear glasses that were adorned with flowers - a joke gift given to him by his older brother when he found out that he was gay. Garrett told him once, “He couldn’t find any cups with fairies on them, so he said that flowers would have to do,” and the way he said it, with such an unwavering smile on his face, made it seem like all was well on the front with his sibling.
Garrett never talked much about his mother and when he did it was always to the extent of, “My mother used to say”. Then he would stop for a moment and look down at his shoes, and always, without fail, scuffle them, sigh, and smile sadly as if remembering a fond memory that he would never be able to recapture. It was the smile that Andrew wore when something reminded him of Jesse, but it was a dramatically different look that Garrett wore when he thought about his father.
He never talked about him, at least not to Andrew, but during football games - which Garrett would always manage to wrestle Andrew into the couch to stay and watch with him - Garrett would sometimes veer from his commentary and grow steadily but eerily silent. His hands would ball into heavy fists and his jaw would clench before he picked up his beer from the coffee table and finished it all in one go. Then he would shoot up, without a word, and venture into the kitchen, grab two beers, all for himself, and drink one, and then the other, before the commercial break was even over.
Andrew could only watch him drink and right after he was finished his second beer, right before he moved back up from the couch to grab more, he would loop an arm around his, press into his side, rest his head on his shoulder and say, “Your fucking Cowboy’s are losing, big shocker there.”
He could feel Garrett relax against him, his shoulders settling down as he placed an arm around Andrew and said, “Leave it to you to be a Jets fan.”
While Andrew didn’t know what that meant, and he never stopped to ask, the smile that began to tug at Garrett's mouth was enough to sedate the both of them for the rest of the game.
↓ ↓ ↓
He wouldn’t call them nightmares, but sometimes Andrew felt himself being violently shaken awake in the middle of the night. And behind his eyelids there was no tangible image, just the fearful splatter of thick reds and oranges that, when explaining, never seemed to make sense, but in the moment they made him quiver helplessly beneath his skin, a feeling only worsened when his body awoke before his mind and he could feel fingers pressing into his skin and words being whispered close to him, but he could only make out the noise. It sounded like low, unintelligible clashing of syllables and nouns, but without it, Andrew was sure that these fits of his would last a lot longer. Because the voice that lifted and carried him out of his own mind was always so gentle and triggered something warm inside of him that overlapped the cold darkness that was constantly attempting to suffocate him.
Garrett never asked what was disturbing him in his sleep, but Andrew could see the question in his eyes every time his own flew open, alarmed and wet, as he looked up at his boyfriend, outlined in the dark bedroom by the light of moon shining in from the bedroom window. His eyes were always so strikingly light and Andrew, though once or twice, he did try, could not speak. He could only stare at him, allow him to attempt to see into him, before he sat up in bed, placed his face in the crook of Garrett’s neck and allowed himself to be enveloped before he was gently laid back to bed.
And with Garrett’s arms completely around him, his strong chest pressing into his back, Andrew made a promise to himself that one day, he would tell Garrett everything, he just hoped that when he did, he would make good on his promise, of never leaving him for something that happened so long before.
→ → →
Something, like the scars on the inside of Jesse’s wrists that, when Andrew first introduced Garrett to his group of friends, stood out like a bleeding tattoo when he extended his hand to shake at Garrett’s hand. And their friends - Justin, Armie, Josh, Max - they had all seen the scars before. They had asked all their questions, raised their concerns, pursed their lips in disbelief and shook their heads in judgments; but the long, thick scratches, that Jesse tried to pass off as, “Cat scratches,” with a smile, were brand new to Garrett, who wasn’t stupid, and knew that cat claws weren’t that separated or precise or deep.
He stared at them for the entire length of the night, his eyes trailing from the smiling faces of Andrew’s friends, back to Jesse’s skin whenever he moved to pick up his beer bottle, push at the table, or fold the cuff of Andrew’s shirt. Though they sat at stools around a small circular table Jesse and Andrew had managed to cut themselves off from the conversation about the Oscars that was currently at hand. Even when Justin knocked the edge of his beer into Jesse’s arm and asked, “You going to wear that same tux to the Oscars man? I mean, you might have a chance of winning,” and his smile was goading and patronizing, but in that older brother way, Jesse just smirked, glanced at Andrew and said, “Maybe. But it’s not like you’ll even know. Were you even invited Justin?” before the laughs of the group sent him hurling back into a hushed conversation with his boyfriend.
He was never one to be possessive; in fact, there were only two items in his life that he even dared to think about more than once throughout his day. One, was his truck, which he had bought for three hundred dollars the first few hours he had stepped foot in LA. It was a large hunk of metal that threatened to break into pieces, en route, any day now, and while he didn’t feel that putting money into repairing it, was worth it, he would be terribly sad to see it being hauled away by the junk truck, when that day came.
The second item was his guitar, in which the buying process had no sentimental value, but he strummed away at the item often enough that other memories were laced into the body and the strings. Most recently he had been absent mindedly playing on the back porch and Andrew had come out, sat on the end of the long beach chair he owned, and begged him to play him something that he had never heard before. It was an easy request, for Andrew had told him the day they met that he knew nothing about country music, but Garrett still felt the palms of his hands become slick with sweat as he moved the pick back and forth over the strings, trying to think of something to play for him.
He must’ve, mentally, thumbed through every song he knew before he landed on a tune that he wrote back in High School for a girl he was trying to woo into going to prom with him. At first it was a matter of just changing “Sharon” to “Andrew” - and thank god he wasn’t a fan of songs that rhymed or used the word “girl” too much - but then, as he got into, it was a matter of switching up lyrics completely, shaping it into an entirely different song as Andrew sat there, with his knees pulled up to his chest and his chin atop them, staring at him, grinning, as he tried not to let his fingers slip from the bar of the fret.
When he was done he felt a flush of embarrassment that he hadn’t felt since he first sang in front of a crowd of people back home, and he had the nerve to blush and duck his head, bashfully. This made Andrew laugh, which was the first reaction he had since the song had ended and Garrett had half a mind to be offended before Andrew pulled the guitar off his lap, placed it gingerly into the grass, and crawled right in-between his legs.
With his hand going to the side of his face, the other man smiled as he said, “I didn’t know you could actually sing,” and Garrett knew he was talking about the digital enhancing Andrew swore they did on everyone’s voice for Country Strong. While he would never sound as good as he did without some work on the computer, the way Andrew’s thumb was running across his jaw line, and the way his large, brown eyes darted from his mouth to his eyes, he knew that he hadn’t been that bad.
“I told you, didn’t I,” he finally managed to say, “I wanted to be a country singer when I was little.”
Andrew scoffed with his smile still intact, “And I wanted to be a gymnast but that doesn’t mean I can still stick a double backhand spring.”
Garrett raised an eyebrow. He knew about Andrew’s young career was a gymnast but sometimes when he talked about the sport - and he insisted that it was, in fact, a sport - Garrett just didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, and he didn’t pretend to know either. This just made Andrew chuckle before the inside of his bottom lip began to roll beneath his teeth and Garrett knew that he was contemplating kissing him now, or after some comment he was fishing for. And while he loved to let him take his time, Garrett used that moment to decide for him, and he lifted his head and pressed their lips together.
↑ ↑ ↑
There weren’t many things about Garrett that bothered Andrew, but one of the cons of dating someone like him, someone handy and strong and with a constant want to physically exert himself, was that he either never let Andrew help, or he treated him like a woman. When they would go grocery-shopping Garrett would gather all the heavy bags and leave Andrew with the plastic filled with chips and eggs and bread. Whenever they would be planning to travel and Andrew was standing at the top of the stairs with his suitcase in hand, Garrett would always come up behind him and whisk the bag away, one-arming it down the stairs. As Andrew was attempting to move his own boxes from the van, boxes that he had packed inside himself, with only a little help from the guys on the first floor, Garrett was permanently standing at the end of the ramp, with his hands on his hips and a worried expression on his face, one that worsened with every box that Andrew lifted.
One was labeled, “DISHES” and there was nothing inside but plastic dishes that he brought for himself after a particularly drunk and angry night in which he destroyed each and every glass dish that he owned. The box was one of the lightest, but still, Garrett wouldn’t let him get two steps onto the ramp before he was removing the box from Andrew’s arms and telling him, in a muffled voice, “I got it, I got it, you can get the next one.”
Andrew wasn’t letting up on the box. It was half in his arms, half in Garrett’s, and their fingertips were touching as both sets of hands cupped the bottom edges of the box. “You said that with the last box,” Andrew said as he attempted to crane his head to the left to look at Garrett. “Let me get this one.”
Garrett too was trying to get a look at Andrew, craning his head to the left just when Andrew craned his head to the right. “This one’s heavy, babe, why don’t you go get a box filled with clothes or something?”
It was the “babe” that did him in, the simple little pet name that Andrew was no stranger to, that pulled at the small flicker of anger in the pit of his stomach and extended it into something large and furious; something that he couldn’t and didn’t want to control. Anger licked at his fingertips wanting to move and he pressed them harder onto the box as he pulled his arms, and the box, into him with one quick, hard, thrust. Only Andrew wasn’t counting on Garrett’s hold on the box being so loose, that he was just allowing it to rest on his arms. When the box hit him harshly, square in the chest, he didn’t actually feel the wind being knocked out of him, as much as he felt his feet being lifted from the ramp of the truck.
He heard his body slam into the truck bed before he felt it - the pain in the back of his skull, neck, and shoulders, dully thudding to the sound of Garrett’s rushed footsteps coming up the ramp. The box had fell right along with him, resting soundly on his chest, and Garrett had simply pushed it off of him as he knelt at his side and a ran a hand through his hair.
His voice was nothing but concerned when he asked, “Hey, shit, you okay?”
It was the soft way, the way he spoke, as if, if he had raised his voice, Andrew would break. That caused Andrew to violently push him and his hand away. It caused a rush of pain to shoot through his upper body, so much so that he couldn’t be concerned with Garrett stumbling backwards, having been balancing himself solely on the pointed toes of his feet, and he landed right on his ass. He wasn’t hurt though, the fall not being as drastic as the one Andrew had taken, and he gave no sign of feeling anything but irritation, the concern almost being fully pushed out of him.
“None of this would’ve fucking happened if you would just treat me like a goddamn adult,” Andrew spit as he, carefully, attempted to bring himself up to a standing position. But he could only sit up on his elbows, his entire body, sans legs and feet, aching tremendously.
He swore under his breath at the possibility of a hospital visit and blamed the newfound panic that was beginning to set in on his boyfriend, who was able to stand with relative ease, and who had the nerve to stare down at him with narrowed eyes filled with anger, but still, extended a hand to help.
Andrew stared at him, from his sitting up on the truck, and shared an equally irritated gaze for a long while, waiting for Garrett’s hand to fall helplessly to his side as the other man gave up. But when he didn’t, when he just stood there, waiting for Andrew to gather himself and his feelings, Andrew extended a shaking arm and allowed Garrett to use two hands to pull him to his feet. As soon as he shot up, Andrew stumbled forward, his body unprepared for such an alarming action. Without hesitation, Garrett caught him. He held him with arms around his back as Andrew settled his hands on his shoulders and they just stood there, in the back of the truck, embraced in what started as a simple helping gesture but slowly melted into an apologetic hug.
While Andrew hated, beyond belief, the fact that Garrett let him carry only four heavy boxes into the home before he was back to dictating what Andrew could and could not lift, he was overjoyed that their arguments and fights, no matter how big or small, could be fixed quickly and softly and mostly without words.
← ← ←
Jesse had the scratches on his arms, which would never fade enough to be ignored, and Andrew had the burns on his collarbones. There were six of them, three on each, and they were shape of sharp, thin, slices that curved all the way down to his chest. With time they had faded into a light shade of brown and every doctor that he went to told him that with some medicated cream, and with time, they would eventually be too light for anyone to notice. But he didn’t wear them with shame. They didn’t stop him waltzing around the house with his shirt off, going to the beach or swimming, or even allowing Garrett to undress him time after time.
It was always an area that Garrett never dared to venture to. He had asked once, after their third night spent together, what caused them, and Andrew had locked up so much, his entire body going rigid and his mouth pressed tight into a straight line, that Garrett knew that it was something else he would have to wait for; for Andrew to come around and tell him himself. Until then, his fingertips and tongue, only ghosted over them, momentarily.
↓ ↓ ↓
Garrett always started his sixth beer with, “Let me ask you somethin’.”
It wasn’t a question and Andrew would never be in a place to deny him his question, no matter how drunk, or sober he happened to be. He always chalked up Garrett’s irresistible nature to his accent, which only seemed to thicken when he was drunk and lazy. Garrett always said the same thing happened to Andrew and he never believed him until they taped one of their late night, drunken, conversations and in the morning, over waffles, they both were in a fit of laughs as they tried to decipher what either of them were talking about, for they both sounded completely incomprehensible.
But Andrew was only on his third drink, taking his time, while Garrett had been downing them from the moment the last box was placed in the house. And while the entire living room was packed with boxes stacked high, and the only light was the dimmed overhead in the living room, neither of them seemed to mind as two six packs sat at their feet, the two of them lying on their sides on the living room, drinking, speaking, and listening.
“When I ask you this, you gotta be honest alright?” Garrett said and he looked right into Andrew’s eyes.
He nodded. “I promise. I won’t lie to you.”
The corner of Garrett’s mouth quirked, “Well alright,” he said. Then he cleared his throat, “You still in love with Jesse?”
Andrew couldn’t lie, even though he desperately wanted to. It wasn’t because he had told Garrett that he wouldn’t and he was a man of his word because if Andrew was honest with himself he would’ve lied to keep himself from potentially hurting his boyfriend. But it was because when Garrett was finished asking his question, immediately his eyes darted up to meet Andrew’s and the way they widened, and the soft brush of red that was painted on the tips of his cheeks, gave way to an answer before he could even open his mouth.
Garrett let out a sigh. It was long and tired and he moved from lying on his side, facing Andrew, to on his back, facing the ceiling. His empty bottles formed a crown around his head that blocked his face from Andrew’s view, but he wasn’t watching his face anyway. He was watching his hands which, blindly, reached into the pocket of his jeans and in from the right one he pulled out a bright blue lighter, and from the left, he pulled out a worm packet of cigarettes. Skillfully, he flipped the top of the box open and pulled out one, discarded the filled box next to his legs and placing it in-between his lips, lighting it, and inhaling.
“Jesus,” he said with a shake of his head, smoke chasing his words.
“I don’t want to lie to you,” said Andrew as he moved the beer bottles from blocking his view of Garrett, placing them to the side as he kept himself propped up. He waited until Garrett took another puff and looked over at him before he said, “I think I’ll always love Jesse.”
Garrett stared at him, and Andrew believed that he was looking for any sign that the words coming out of his mouth were untrue, but he didn’t know if it was hope, that he would find something, or if it was hope that he wouldn’t. Either way, neither of them broke each other’s gaze for a long time and when they did, it was Andrew who removed his eyes from Garrett’s and looked down at the terribly white carpet. Garrett continued to smoke, allowing ashes to fall to the floor with every wave of his hand, but he didn’t look away from Andrew.
When Andrew finally looked back up, the cigarette was in-between Garrett’s lips and he said, “But that doesn’t mean that I can’t love you.”
Garrett pulled the cigarette out. He blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Do you?”
“Do I what?” Andrew asked with a slow, calculating, blink.
“Do you love me?”
The end of his cigarette burned slowly, even when he was inhaling, the paper burned up and the ashes dripped like everything was moving in slow motion. The way Garrett was staring at him felt like an eternity rather than a few seconds, and it was just like Andrew felt whenever the two of them were together. Time seemed to stop whenever they were alone. Everything seemed a little bright, a little more meaningful, but everything also seemed to be moving at a pace that he was just not comfortable with.
With Jesse everything was quick like a snap of a finger. He knew he exact moment he fell in love with Jesse and he told him right then and there, without hesitation and without second guessing himself. He first kissed Jesse when he felt like it. He slept with him the moment he felt the want and the need. With Garrett, it was more about slow and steady and getting to the finish line at your own pace, rather than winning and getting there as fast as possible.
But even with all the time, the time that seemed to stop the world, Andrew didn’t know exactly where he stood with Garrett and because of that, he could not and would not, tell him that he loved him. And from his flickering gaze, Garrett knew that as well.
There was no heavy sigh this time. Just a long, drawn out, inhalation, and a string of smoke rings that made Andrew crack a small smile because he would never not be amused by them. And from that, Garrett also began to smile, which made Andrew grin wider and Garrett let out a small laugh.
“Well,” he said, finishing off his cigarette and disposing it into an empty bottle. “I know for a fact that I do love you. So I don’t mind you staying around a little longer and deciding if you feel the same way.”
Andrew just could not help himself from leaning over and pressing his lips to the corner of Garrett’s mouth.
→ → →
They were both standing on the skinny steps leading into Andrew’s trailer when Jesse asked him to move in with him. Andrew was finishing the first cigarette he had had in months and he could barely hear Jesse’s voice over the sound of the stick rolling in-between in his fingers and the wind rushing past his ears. He turned to him, with rumpled eyebrows and one of them raised, Jesse keeping his gaze to the ground before he looked up, expecting an answer. Only Andrew didn’t think he heard him correctly because he couldn’t have heard him correctly.
Ever since the second month of filming Jesse had been in perpetual denial that their relationship even existed. When Andrew would ask - and he asked frequently - just what the hell they were doing Jesse stuffed his hands in his pockets and coolly told him, “We’re just fucking around.” He had gone to bed many a nights with the thought that he was just some on-set fling and when the movie was over, and the award shows were done, they would go back to their respective lives and never talk about the epic Jesse/Andrew saga that took place in Boston, Baltimore, and LA.
Filming was due to end in exactly three days, and Andrew had been trying to gather the exact way to say good-bye, when Jesse cleared his throat and said, “So, um, are you going to say yes, or…”
Andrew could only blink at him as his entire body went limp in shock. His fingers, which were steadily holding the burning cigarette, dropped it onto his shoe but he paid it no mind for his entire attention, his entire world, was focused on the man who was standing ever so uncomfortably on the steps next to him. Jesse looked ashamed and disgusted at himself for even asking such a thing but Andrew just knew (he learned to know) that that was just Jesse’s disposition when he thought he was going to be rejected, which was, albeit, all of the time. But behind that look was a soft glimmer of hope, that Andrew would answer in the affirmative because Andrew was always the one to give Jesse whatever he wanted, all he had to do was ask and sometimes, he didn’t even have to go that far.
“Where,” Andrew started, then he looked down at his shoe, where the faint flicker of orange and red lay, and he kicked it off gently. “Where, would we be living?”
Jesse’s face softened when Andrew met his eyes, a faint dawn of realization washing over him. Although Jesse always talked about how much he struggled with control of his own body, mind, and emotions, Andrew could see his hands, mentally, tightening around the reigns as he tried, and succeeded, in letting his face not completely fall.
His hand scratched the back of his neck as he spoke. “I, uh, I haven’t actually um, thought that through yet. But. We could just, um, get our own place?”
There were a rush of questions that entered Andrew’s mind; right at the moment he realized that Jesse hadn’t even given that much thought to it. He was just being spontaneous. He wanted something and went for it and it was so unlike him that Andrew threatened to break out into a full blown grin but kept himself from doing so for the sole reason that it would send the wrong message. The message that he, being delighted with Jesse’s newfound freedom, meant that he would indeed move in with him, and that was simply not the case. Andrew couldn’t move in with him because his status would just be bumped up from “bit on the side” to “mistress”, complete with a separate home and all.
He wanted to ask - “Would we be living in New York or LA? Would we have a house or a nicer apartment than you share with your girlfriend? If we do live in New York would we be living in the same complex or the other side of town? Will you send all your bills to your home in New York or transfer them to ours? Will your agent be in on this so you can keep up this whole façade with your girlfriend?” - but he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut because he knew with every question that exited his mouth, more and more anger would just be building up inside of him. Because while the gesture was extremely endearing, especially for someone who didn’t like any ounce of change, it was also insulting and made Andrew sick.
He ran a hand through his hair that was getting longer, now that hair and make up swore that three days of not cutting wouldn’t do much to hinder Eduardo’s look, and bit at the inside of his cheek before he looked at Jesse and said, “So I guess this means you’ve left Anna then.”
Jesse’s entire being shut down. Nearly all emotion was drained from his face and his shoulders rose in defense and Andrew knew that all logical conversation had just been thrown out the window, along with any hope of him answering “Yes,” to Jesse’s question.
“Why would you - why would you even ask me that?” Jesse said, hysterical and quick, just like Mark.
Andrew shook his head because he couldn’t take this goddamn character bleed anymore. It was this shit that got them wrapped up in each other in the first place and he hated the fact that the more they got involved, the harder it was to separate Mark from Jesse, but especially he from Eduardo. Because every single second he spent with Jesse - in his trailer, in his bed - and he whispered bullshit promises that one day he would leave her, one day they would be together, he was being betrayed and he knew it. But he kept coming back because his heart was a masochist and it loved being torn to pieces.
Jesse whispered in exasperation, “Why the fuck,” before he ran through his hair, then dropped it suddenly and shook his head. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his - Mark’s - hoodie and stepped down the steps until his feet were on the concrete. He wasn’t facing Andrew when he said, “I can’t do this anymore, Wardo.”
It came out so easily. That one, fucking, slip. And even Jesse, who was ready to stomp off in the direction of his own trailer, had the decency to slump in his shoulders in shame. Andrew, however, didn’t think that he could move. He just, stood there, frozen on the steps of his trailer as he stared down at the back of Jesse’s head and asked,
“Are you fucking kidding me? Were you…Were you in character right now, or are you-”
He couldn’t control his feet but they were stamping down his trailer steps, around Jesse until they were standing right in front of one another. Jesse’s face was broken and ashamed, but only for a moment. Only until Andrew had casted a complete shadow over his form and then he squared his shoulders and put on that look of hardened nonchalance that was foreign to him, but like home to Mark.
Andrew raised a finger, pointing it accusingly at Jesse’s chest as he said, “Don’t you dare, blame this whole fucking, wanting to move in thing on Mark, Jess. I swear to God, I will fucking-”
“You’ll fucking what, Andrew?” Jesse responded, still in complete defense mode. “Call up Carey and cry about it?” Then he scoffed with a smirk. “We both know you aren’t going to do shit because you’re too fucking dependent on this - on me - to do anything to ruin it.”
It was nothing but the truth, but it was the truth that snapped Andrew’s sense in two and without warning he found himself grabbing tufts of Jesse’s hoodie and shirt, balling his fists and pushing him roughly into the side of the trailer. The slam of a body against metal rang out amongst the entire park of trailers but Andrew was too consumed by his anger to worry about one of their cast mates, or wardrobe, coming out to check on them. He was too consumed with wiping that look of cool confidence off Jesse’s smug face. He pressed him harder into the trailer, wanting the folds of the metal to bruise his back, but still Jesse’s face didn’t falter. It was still tight and unconcerned.
“Are you just going to try to fucking smush me to death? That seems a bit, slow and stupid, even for you.”
Andrew kept one hand fisted in Jesse’s top and the other pulled back before he punched him square in the jaw. The back of Jesse’s head cracked into the trailer and Andrew’s knuckles stung and burned but Jesse wasn’t looking at him like that anymore. He wasn’t looking at him at all. The punch had completely shifted his gaze to the side of him, to the ground, where Jesse stared stunned before he looked up at Andrew, using one hand to adjust his jaw.
He wasn’t surprised, in the least. They had had fist fights before and he knew Andrew wasn’t afraid to punch, he just didn’t think that he would hit him with three days to the end of shooting and there would be an undeniable bruise lingering in the morning.
Eyes locked, Andrew let go of Jesse’s shirt and stepped back a few in retreat. He thought about locking himself in his trailer and calling Brenda to see if he could catch a ride with her when Jesse pushed himself off the trailer and slammed himself directly into Andrew. He wasn’t expecting it and he toppled completely over, onto the ground, his back taking a direct hit while he managed to save his head from slamming into the concrete. But it’s not like his small act mattered, for within seconds Jesse was on top of him, straddling with him, with his hands wrapped tight around his neck and his thumbs pressing right into his larynx.
The air, that was being rushed out of his system with his fall, seemed to be caught right underneath Jesse’s thumbs, making it even harder to breathe than if the passageway was clear. With his hands, he attempted to grab at Jesse’s but Jesse just tightened his hold so that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get Jesse’s hands to let up. His feet were sliding against the concrete helplessly, not being able to kick or bruise in any way, shape or form, and his fingers were clawing, first at Jesse’s fingers, then at his hands, before they started at his wrists.
There, they found long stretches of exposed skin and Andrew dug his nails into them, scratching and pulling just as deep and hard as Jesse was holding onto his neck. Andrew’s vision began to drift in and out of darkness the more Jesse kept his hold and the more he tore into Jesse’s skin. Andrew didn’t even stop when he felt wet droplets paint the tips of his fingers and run down the sides, he just kept digging further, Jesse hissing lowly, the only sound of him being affected, and the one sound that kept Andrew going. He was literally holding onto his last breath, his fingers pulling forward Jesse’s skin, his entire being ready to give out, when Jesse let go of his neck.
It wasn’t gradual, but with a quick release of Jesse’s fingers and palms, Andrew was overcome with an influx of air that rushed into his lungs, causing his back to arch from the ground ever so slightly.
While he was glad to breathe, he had only a moment to enjoy it before Jesse’s fist slammed straight into his jaw once, twice, then a third time, before Jesse hooked his hand underneath Andrew’s chin and steadied his head to look up at him.
Jesse looked positively possessed by anger, but Andrew was too exhausted and too used to it be afraid. He just lay there and gave in when Jesse’s mouth was on his jaw and then the corner of his lips and then on his own.
The kiss was messy and filled with something more sullied than passion but that was the only word Andrew could think to describe it. Jesse’s tongue was in his mouth and he couldn’t stop himself from pressing his teeth onto the muscle until he could taste it bleeding. Jesse pulled away for just a moment to lick at the line of the jaw he had slugged, then the length of his neck, painting them both a stinging red.
Andrew was bruised, all over, and would feel like shit in the morning but he wasn’t the one bleeding from the mouth and the wrists as well as holding a swollen jaw. That was all Jesse, who, even as he stared down at him, dropping blood on his cheeks and his shirt, Andrew couldn’t help but grab the back of his hair and pull him back down for a kiss.
continue to part two