[fic] hide and seek pt.2

[angelaizapunx]

notes:
(1) looking for the outlined warnings/part one? just travel all the way down to the bottom of this post and a link is posted there!
(2) also yes, this fic was started before the film festival in hawaii but those pics did inspire me to get off my ass and finish this part

part two;

im losing you
trust me on this one
i've got a bad feeling
the moment i said it ;; imogen heap
It was almost instinctual, his hand curling around the lighter, finger slipping then sliding and igniting a flame to burn the tip of his slightly worn cigarette that hung carelessly in his curled lips. The smell of it - ashy and warm - flooded through the small space of the apartment that Andrew stood in, encircling his thin frame and clouding up in front of his view. Jesse stomped beside him and snatched the cigarette from Andrew’s mouth. It took a moment for him to notice that it was gone, for his mouth and eyes and body were all occupied with the view of New York City that sparkled on the other side of Jesse’s floor to ceiling windows. A grand sight of intimidating gray and black buildings, with their warm squares of light, showcasing small snippets of life, so far away and blurry, but Andrew couldn’t shake the feeling of intimacy that he had with these working strangers and the city itself.

On the plane, in the cab, on the way up the sixteen flights in the elevator, Jesse had told him, “My apartment’s sort of, uh, well. It’s like living in a box and uh, not even a nice one either so, um. Don’t expect much of anything.”

Andrew felt his grin widen with every slide of Jesse’s hand, uncomfortably and insecurely scratching at the back of his neck, as he told him, “I’m expecting a box on the side of the street, gotcha,” but he was not expecting this.

It was 2 am and the city was still thrumming with life, the realization and normality of it all sending a feeling of excitement brewing in the pit of Andrew’s stomach, only to flutter out and swim against his veins, igniting a shimmering sensation throughout his entire body, sparking the ends of his fingertips and a need to do something with them. So he lit a cigarette - just like he would do standing in the living room of his own home - and Jesse, took it away from him.

He snapped his gaze from the window, eyes still wide and slightly dazed as he said, “Huh?”

Jesse didn’t answer him right away. He had thrown the cigarette on his dusty wooden floors, the tip of his worn sneakers stomping into it, crushing the paper and erupting gulps of ash in a small circle around his foot. “I wasn’t fucking kidding when I said you couldn’t smoke in here,” he said, his words being swallowed up by his own purpose and rage, as well as the sound of his stomps pulsating through the room. “I’ve got my…” he started. Then, “My girlfriend knows I don’t smoke.”

With the last word out of his mouth, Jesse gave one last stomp to the flattened cigarette on the ground. Then he removed his foot from over top it and slid his shoe across the slats of the floor, attempting to wipe away both the cigarette ash and Andrew’s mere and constant presence. But as Andrew’s eyes flickered from the deflated and defeated cigarette, to where Jesse’s foot was sliding and pushing, long strips of ash into the cracks between the slats, he knew that he was forever burying him in the crevices of Jesse’s apartment and life.

→ → →

Andrew stabbed the cigarette into the fish-shaped ashtray on the windowsill of their living room. He was pissed off, at himself, for once again, not being able to say those three little words to Garrett after he had muttered them, so easily, in his ear as they lay, laced together, naked limb with naked limb. He scoffed and rubbed a harsh hand over his eyes because; he couldn’t even repeat the words during sex. A moment in which lesser men had let those words that they didn’t even mean, slip up and out and into the ears of hopeful women who instantly felt something hot and real. And he knew, that somewhere inside of him, he did love Garrett. It was just that wherever that love was, his all-encompassing love for some man in New York wasn’t going to let anyone else take over Andrew’s life like he had.

From behind him he heard a clamor of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. Then he waited, for his own feet to be able to feel Garrett’s weight across the carpeted floor. He debated another cigarette when Garrett came right up behind him, the tips of his bare feet pressed against his bare heels and both arms coming around him.

They weren’t there to hold him, not at first. They were there to grab a cigarette from the pack on the windowsill, and then pick up the Zippo lighter. Garrett placed the cigarette in his mouth and it was only then that Andrew realized his face was inches away from his own. His chin on his shoulder, his elbows squeezed his sides as he lifted his arms to light his cigarette. The smell of nicotine filled both their nostrils almost instantly as Garrett threw the lighter, it landing with a sharp pang on the sill, that made Andrew jump in his arms.

“Whoa,” Garrett said, the word still coming out clear, though he had to shift the cigarette to the corner of his mouth to keep it from falling out. He chuckled a bit and placed the palm of his hand flat against Andrew’s chest, his other on his waist. Then he inhaled, moved the hand from his chest to remove the cigarette from his mouth to say, “You alright? I didn’t meant to startle you.”

Andrew took a deep breath. He was inhaling smoke and the smell of Garrett’s shampoo and soap, mixed with his own, mixed the general smell of their home which was in limbo, between the constant smell of bacon and cigarettes and vanilla candles that Garrett shamelessly owned and used. It was a mix of smells that Andrew knew that he would never find with anyone but Garrett - the meat eater, the smoker, the one without guilty pleasures, just pleasures. He was so unlike Jesse and sometimes Andrew had to force himself to stop thinking that he was only with him because he was Jesse’s polar opposite. He had to force himself to think that he was, in fact, in this relationship for himself and no one else. It was a fact - and he knew it to be a fact - that wanted to be twisted into a lie so he could go crawling back to Jesse and he just couldn’t do that. Not now. Not when he could lean against Garrett’s strong chest, his head almost, but not quite, being able to rest back on his shoulder as he smoked near his ear, the sound of paper burning like the sound of distant firecrackers in the night.

The view from Garrett’s home was gorgeous in its own right. It wasn’t instantly breathtaking like the skyline of the city, rather, the city burned in the far distance, past large hills and community after community of proper homes. The sky over Garrett’s home, however, was far vaster and there were actual stars in the sky and one that always seemed to twinkle whenever Andrew felt himself gazing up at it. The grass - and there was actual grass - was so green and after constant rainfall it shined in the light of the moon.

Garrett pulled the cigarette from his mouth and held it out, away from Andrew’s mouth but a clear invitation for him to take a puff. With a lazy smile he nodded and Garrett carefully maneuvered it in-between his lips, Andrew taking a long drag, the ashes sprinkling the carpet, before Garrett pulled it away and Andrew held the smoke in his mouth. He turned his head and it didn’t take a second for Garrett to catch on. Their mouths met and between the two of them they inhaled the smoke that set fire to their lungs but ignored the familiar burn in favor of pressing and moving their tongues together. No one was in control of the kiss, they were standing on mutual ground and kept kissing, warm streaks of air gusting over their mouths as they breathed through their noses, and kept kissing until the spark of the cigarette ran up to meet Garrett’s fingers and he pulled back quickly, letting out a small, “Fuck,” passing the cigarette to his other hand as he shook out the burned one.

Andrew turned his attention tot eh rapidly moving hand, telling him, “Let me see,” before he wrapped his longs fingers around the palm and brought the finger up to his eyes. It was just a small spot, searing red with a promise to blacken. “There’s another for you,” he said with a grin, dropping the hand and looking up at Garrett who had let out another small laugh at that. They, of course, were mentioning the other spots of black that had scarred and then faded Garrett’s hand, scars that they both had for being smokers for so long, burn marks were simply inevitable.

“And I’ve only got you to blame,” he said, finishing off the bud and letting out the smoke between his teeth before he shot, and missed the ashtray.

“You have absolutely horrid aim,” Andrew said and Garrett ignored the still steaming bud for wrapping both arms, tight, around Andrew’s shoulder and nipping at his cheek in revenge for his snarky comment. Andrew laughed and elbowed Garrett in the stomach, hard enough for him to notice, but light enough to not be a real jab. Then he loosened his arms and placed his chin on his shoulder and the two of them stood there, in front of the window, Andrew no longer transfixed on memories of his own mind, but the man who was standing behind him.

He told him, “I’m sorry I just can’t say it yet,” and then drew in his bottom lip.

He could feel Garrett sigh behind him as he said, “I know you are,” and kissed at his cheek before he said, “But I told you, that doesn’t matter to me. I don’t say it cause I want you to say it back. I just say it cause I want you to know.”

↑ ↑ ↑

It was the laptop scene that was completely undoing him.

When they had first sat across from each other - he and Jesse - Fincher and Sorkin tried to explain, using their hands and grand gestures, the amount of emotion that was prevalent and needed in such a scene. Fincher wanted anger and Sorkin wanted tears and they told them both that they would wait until the very last moment to film such a scene. Because the two of them would have to build up an actual relationship as Mark and Eduardo, one that was almost tangible, so that they could knock it all down. And Andrew had nodded at their words because all he had wanted to do was make a great film, play a convincing character, and while he knew that would take some sacrifice of reality, he didn't expect it to hurt this much.

Every fiber of his being was being strung up and sheared after every single take. He was becoming weak with tears, the words climbing from his throat slower and slower after every scene. He was physically and emotionally exhausted and unstable and he didn't know if what he was feeling was all himself or Eduardo.

For the character had been peeking more and more into his life, with every minute that filming commenced. He found himself ironing clothes when they had days off and he was just lounging about the hotel room. He judged fabrics harsher, attempted more and more math in his head, and actually began reading up on economics, forcing himself to get through it no matter how much his eyes begged him to stop. And he found himself glancing over at Jesse and thinking "Mark", more and more, and he just wanted it all to stop.

When Fincher had yelled, “Cut!” Andrew quickly turned his back on Jesse - who was still Mark and would be Mark until the day was over - and ran a heavy hand over his face, attempting to calm his tears and keep his eyes from swelling too much.

He had been downright sobbing in that last take and Justin - who could turn Sean Parker on and off like a flick of a light - strutted over with nothing but concern in touch, placed his hand on Andrew's shoulder, and he immediately tensed. It was an instinctual reaction, to pull away violently and raise his fist and, as if the cameras were still rolling, Justin stepped back, expecting Andrew to strike him with his balled hand. Then Andrew saw his face, hurt and confused, and Justin raised his hands in surrender and Andrew felt himself begin to softly shake. He let down his fist, let out a pitiful chuckle and said, "I'm sorry, man. I'm still a little...in character I guess."

Justin could tell. Andrew was still speaking in his American accent but he just said, "Yeah, yeah, sure," before letting out a worried, nervous, laugh. Unable to comprehend an ounce of the method acting process.

Andrew tried to give him a smile. A small, reassuring smile that said he was okay, he was fine, but only a ghost of a lie spread across his mouth. He pulled the inside of his cheek between his teeth and turned away from Justin, to Jesse, expecting him to be watching the entire spectacle with the same amount, or more, concern that Justin had shown in his eyes. But Jesse was still sitting in the seat as if nothing had happened. He was staring down, at the desk, eyes fixated on the shattered computer and headphones still wrapped around his neck.

Andrew walked a little closer, sucking in a deep breath before he said, softly, "Hey Jess?"

Jesse didn’t respond. His eyes narrowed towards the dismantled computer and somewhere, in the dark corners of his mind, he was attempting to decipher how to piece it back together - what would Mark do? - when Andrew cleared his throat and said, "Jess?" a little louder, leaning his upper body forward to get his point across.

Jesse still didn’t answer and in that moment of being ignored, Andrew set his jaw. He felt his teeth clench and grind against one another, as his fists began wringing, short nails picking at the skin of his palm. He narrowed his eyes, much like Jesse, but with a hotter rage burning behind them as his voice boomed with, “Mark!” with such an abruptness that he startled both the extras and Fincher, but most importantly, Jesse.

He popped his gaze up from the computer, genuinely startled and surprised to see Andrew standing there, still seething in his anger. An anger that he was hoping would be extinguished with the warm gaze of the other pressing into him, but was only fueled, like gasoline to a fire, when Jesse looked at him with such empty eyes. They were so dark and vacant, much like how he looked during the deposition scenes, and Andrew sucked in a breath that was short and filled with the last straw of hope that he had for the day.

He said, “Jess,” and his voice was pathetically breaking, snapping into two as his ears picked up on his accent falling in and out, “I need to talk to you.”

When Jesse blinked, the action was so fast that it was almost as if he didn’t even have enough time to give Andrew that. Then he turned his gaze, then head, back to the broken computer as he said, flippantly, “Not now, Wardo. Later.”

He spun around completely in his chair. His back to the entire set, blocking everything out, readying himself for another take.

Andrew felt his hands begin to shake once more but they were no longer fueled by the anger that Eduardo held toward Sean, rather, it was from his own shattering sense of control.

In an attempt to get ready for the scene, he had tried to think of all the moments in Eduardo's life - involving Mark, Christy, and his father - that would make him feel so angry and betrayed. But in-between those thoughts little flashes of he and Jesse would shoot right through, sending pangs to his gut and heart, bringing a heavier sense of emotion that he could not find with just Eduardo's mind. In-between seeing Mark completely dismiss Eduardo’s achievement in the Phoenix club, he saw Jesse telling Armie that he would be crazy to venture into a relationship with his co-star. He saw Jesse telling Anna, over the phone, that he loved her as he pulled up his pants in Andrew’s trailer. He saw Jesse quickly dissipating from his life the closer and closer they got to the end of filming and he just could not reign those feelings in.

When Fincher clasped him on the shoulder, Andrew was not expecting it and he jumped a little before turning face him, surprise written all over his features. Fincher didn't even seem to notice. He just said, "Nice take," before he dropped his chin and Andrew readied himself for criticism. "Let's just...Try it without the crying this time."

Andrew nodded and when Fincher shouted, "Places!" he looked back to Jesse, hoping that in this moment of recollecting he could find a sliver of the actor behind the mask of Mark. But Jesse wasn't even looking at him, or anyone else for that matter. He was just setting up his hands in the typing position as the PA's quickly cleaned up the destroyed laptop and replaced it, just like that, with another.

← ← ←

“I think it’s a little weird that we have an entire closet dedicated to suitcases,” Garrett said, his voice trailing from the hallway, right outside of their bedroom, into the room where Andrew stood the far side of the bed, a suitcase on the mattress and open in front him.

“We travel a lot,” Andrew said, rolling up and throwing socks in the mesh part behind the top. “It’s only fitting that we have a lot of luggage.”

When Garrett said, “We?” his voice was a lot lower, no longer slightly shouting, for he was out of the hallway and into the bedroom, one large, rugged, black and brown suitcase in his hand. He threw it on the bed, across from Andrew’s, and engraved on the small gold plate on the front was his last name, “Hedlund”. “We don’t have a lot of luggage. You do. I’ve got this,” and his finger prodded into the top. “And my carry-on bag inside of it.”

Sure enough, when he opened the suitcase, there, sitting inside of it, was a smaller black bag of the same set - same gold plate, same name - this one just had a leather strap.

“I can’t help it that I always go some place and end up taking back more than I brought,” Andrew explained, done with his socks and next, he started carelessly throwing in shirts.

“You can’t help that you buy a whole bunch of shit?”

Garrett took out the carry on bag, placed on the floor, and also began throwing clothes in the now empty space. Both of them, hours before, had picked out the clothes they wanted to take and threw them in two messy piles on the bed.

“It’s not shit. It’s stuff that I need like,” and he held up a pair of briefs where the elastic had been slowly separating from the rest of the material, “new underwear,” and he threw the destroyed brief right at Garrett, hitting him in the chest.

Garrett smiled and let it fall into his suitcase before he picked it up and discarded it on the floor.

“Yeah, well, maybe if you weren’t so rough with them when you’re pulling it off…”

“Oh, I’m rough with them?” Andrew asked with a grin. “I’m not the one that likes to hook my finger around it and pull them off with my teeth,” Garrett raised a suggestive eyebrow. “You’re singlehandedly destroying my underwear collection, Mr. Hedlund. I should force you to buy me all new pairs.”

Garrett let out a small laugh, then said, “But the problem is, I would never actually do it.”

“Oh yeah? And why is that?”

Garrett stopped packing for a moment. “Because, I’m completely against you wearing underwear in the first place. It’s such an unnecessary obstacle that slows everything down.”

Andrew felt his eyes wrinkle in the corners and become slightly small as he laughed. A wide grin spread across Garrett’s mouth and he cocked his head in the way as if to say, well, it’s the truth. Garrett turned his head back to his pile of clothes, but Andrew ignored his own in favor of climbing onto the bed and crawling across it, pushing over Garrett’s suitcase, to take it’s place, just when he was throwing in one of his favorite plaid shirts.

On his knees, sinking slightly into the mattress, Garrett was more than a few inches taller than him. But Andrew didn’t mind just like Garrett didn’t seem to mind that his packing session had been interrupted by his boyfriend, who had wrapped his hands in the fabric of his shirt, looking up at him with a slow grin before pulling Garrett’s mouth to meet his own. They kissed, connected by their lips and tongue, even when they both took a nonverbal cue for Andrew to lay back on the bed and Garrett to climb on top of him. Both of their legs were off the mattress, lying on it horizontally, but they paid it no mind, deciding to focus on lapping at each other’s mouths and keeping their hands in one another’s hair.

When they pulled back from kiss, they were both so dreamy eyed and grinning stupidly, and Garrett was petting Andrew’s hair when he told him, “I’m going to miss you.”

Andrew ran his fingers up and down Garrett’s arm, which was bulging with muscle as he used it to prop himself up. “I’m going to miss you too. Even though you did promise to visit when you could.”

“I don’t think visits are going to be enough,” he said honestly. “I’m going to fly out there and never want to leave.”

Using his arms and elbows to lift himself inches from the mattress, Andrew quickly pressed his lips to Garrett’s. It was meant to be a small kiss and Andrew was going to attempt to tell him those three little words again but at Garrett’s shamelessly admission Andrew felt something hot, but soft, boiling in his stomach and drowning his heart. He felt like blushing and grinning and giggling all in the same moment. He knew this was what dipping your toe in love felt like.

But Garrett wouldn’t just let that small kiss do the trick. His lips were back on his in a moment and Andrew lowered his head back on the mattress and let himself be dominated by Garrett’s kiss, because after today the two of them weren’t going to be seeing much of one another. Andrew was heading to New York to film the rest of Spider-Man and Garrett was heading to Mexico to film the rest of On The Road. Garrett did promise to fly out to see Andrew, saying that he would get more time off than his boyfriend, but Andrew knew that sometimes filming schedules just didn’t work out the way you planned and he didn’t put much faith in the director’s letting them have more than one day off.

Garrett’s lips were still on his when he felt his hand fumbling with the button of his jeans. He popped it open and Andrew lifted his hips so that he could hook his hand around them and pull them down a couple hard tugs. When they were significantly low on his thighs Andrew lowered his hips and Garrett’s mouth slid from his own, down his jaw line, and to neck, kissing at the all the skin that wasn’t shielded under his t-shirt. Andrew felt his strong hand move down his side then brush over his hip. His fingers slid across the elastic band of his briefs and Garrett laughed against his skin. Andrew grinned and then let out a sharp laugh when Garrett pulled at the band, so that it snapped against his skin.

“So fucking unnecessary,” he said, with a shake of his head, moving to his mouth back to Andrew, who could only tug at his hair, agreeing.

→ → →

The first time they fought Andrew was standing Jesse’s hotel bathroom.

His feet were bare, the bottoms resting calmly on the cold white tile. His fingers were freshly washed, the tips of them tapping against the white marble counter top in time to the sway of his eyes that ran across the empty pills bottles that Jesse insisted on both lugging with him and setting up on his bathroom counter. In a straight line, from the wall to the edge they ran, the printed dates traveling back to the beginning of last year. Andrew knew this without having to touch them because Jesse had positioned each and every one of them to have the date and name facing outward. Around the necks of the bottles were colored rings - red on some, blue and purple and yellow on others. They were coordinated by such, like a rainbow of problem solvers.

He had propped open the door when he had finished using the toilet because it was just what the two of them had grown accustom to doing. Especially in one particular instance when Jesse kept washing and re-washing and re-washing his hands for a counted twenty minutes, leaving Andrew with no other option but to run all the way back to his room. Still, with a crack in the door, he didn’t hear Jesse move from the bed.

His long fingers wrapped around and picked up a bottle with a red ring and one with a yellow, both of them fairly new but still completely empty. The names were foreign to him, reading like a jumble of senseless letters. He held them both on in one hand and gathered up a purple then blue bottle in the other. He didn’t hear Jesse’s socked feet pad across the carpeted floor.

Four different prescriptions, four different bottles, four stock of pills missing from them.

He kept reading the bottles but nothing stuck out to him but Jesse’s name written: "Eisenberg, Jesse", in a bold, black, simple font.

Andrew didn’t hear the bathroom door swing open, so much as he felt the air conditioned air, from the open room, sweep into the bathroom, wrapping his naked wrists as he pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth and kept on attempting to decipher. His eyes were so locked on the words that he couldn’t even see Jesse’s hand tightening around the edge of the door frame.

When he asked, “What are you doing?” the edge of his nerves chipping angrily at each syllable, caused Andrew to jump, three of the bottles spilling from his hands. They knocked into his bare feet and rolled across the floor, the sound barging into each of their ears for the entire room had been bathed in a comfortable silence.

The sounds seemed invasive, almost as much as how intruding Jesse felt when he took his first step into bathroom.

Andrew didn’t look ashamed. He just looked at Jesse, who wasn’t looking at him, as he said, “I…I just thought you were joking.” He chased his words with a breathy laugh.

Jesse was two steps into the room. His fists were curled at his sides and his blue eyes had darkened with a wave that could only be described as rage. He was almost shaking, Andrew’s grin and laugh having set him on edge and quickly, Andrew wiped it away from his face, replacing his look with one of somber of confusion.

“Why the fuck would I laugh about this?”

He meant the pills. He meant how many he had to take and Andrew, he really didn’t have answer. Only, whenever, Jesse spoke about his neurotic behavior, he did so with such an easy grin that Andrew could only assume he was pulling at his leg. Much like he was doing when he spoke about his inappropriate relationship with his mother. And quickly, his mind wondered if there was a sliver truth there, like there was a field of truth here.

Andrew told him, “I’m sorry,” not for picking up the bottles and being curious, but for apparently assuming something that he shouldn’t have.

He made eye contact with Jesse and kept it, the other man almost daring him to break it with his nostrils that had begun to flare. Andrew swallowed something thick and the sound reverberated throughout the entire room, as he rolled the remaining bottle in his hand and moved to place it back in its place.

“I’ll put it back,” he said, voice careful and teetering on an edge.

His hand was shaking and no amount of mental strength could stop it. It knocked and knocked and knocked against the wall nearest the counter and to stop himself from reacting, instead of carefully placing it down, he all but dropped it. The bottle managed to knock into the one next to it, starting a domino effect of plastic tubes, all of them falling over and all of them rolling off the counter, into the sink, or mere inches away from where they were standing.

Andrew felt his bottom lip begin to quiver. He looked at Jesse who was watching the minimal destruction with eyes that seemed to glaze over in, not tears, but a slap of realization that this was some actualization of his real life. How his own problems were tumbling forwards, backwards and sideways, breaking him down bottle by bottle until he was nothing but a chaotic, sporadic, mess of a human being. His chest began to rise and fall heavily and his hands started shaking, the fists coming undone as he reached up to pull at his hair.

He didn’t know what was going on but Andrew was concerned. He reached out carefully, fingertips touching his shoulder as he said, “Jess,” with such tenderness that it could barely be heard over the bottles sliding in the room when -

Slap. Strike. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Andrew had felt the slap against his outstretched arm but he had not felt the strike against his face. Not immediately at least. It was a few moments before the realization dawned on both him and his skin, his flesh turning a white hot before it burned a bright red. A color than ran deeper than just the surface of his skin, running a hot pain through his entire being as he gingerly reached up to touch the area, as if to see if this moment was actually real. When his fingertips brushed against it, it stung and Andrew’s shoulder’s jumped.

Jesse, he sniffed, almost as the strike had forced him to let out a few tears but there were no streaks coming from his eyes. There was no remorse lying in there either. They were just trained on the sink and began to build the bottles on the counter once more. Through his teeth he warned, “Just don’t touch my things okay?”

Andrew wanted to tell him, okay, but he couldn’t. The words were trapped somewhere between the tingling sensation of his skin and the normality of his flesh. So he just nodded but Jesse, he didn’t even look up.

↑ ↑ ↑

At first he tried to hide them, those finger shaped bruises that wrapped themselves around Andrew’s wrist. He would tug down on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, dull nails pressing into the fabric as the make-up, wardrobe, and hair girls pattered about him. He knew he could conceal them once he tugged on Eduardo’s skin for all he wore were long sleeve shirts that would cuff over the reddened skin, but when he pulled his sweatshirt up and over his head, there was a strong slap of silence, followed by pops of giggles.

He skin was decorated with Jesse’s fingers, Jesse’s teeth, Jesse’s mouth. From his neck to his shoulders to his back to his wrists, nearly every inch of him was marked. The girl’s, who liked to stand on the sidelines and watch the scenes play out, on and off set, would grin over at him. One of them, Sandy, would come over and rustle his hair with all of her teeth showing, before she told him that, “Eisenberg needs to be careful with those love bites of his. We’ve only got so much in the budget for make up.”

He never said anything back but Andrew would grin and they would take it as a silent promise that he would tell Jesse to lighten up, which, he never did. And they continued to make dreamy eyed comments until the bruises on his skin began constructing themselves into something a bit larger and a bit more violent.

When the small red marks that always threatened to turn black and blue, came in with the shape of fingers and nails, already blistering, the make-up girls began to bite their tongues. Their words seemed to be loss in a wind that was nothing more than warning hums. Hums that spoke louder than their comments ever could, that told him if something was going on then he had to tell someone but he didn’t say anything. He just gripped the edge of his chair whenever the hairs of their brushes ran against the spot, the inside of his cheek pressed tight between his teeth as he tried to keep the tears from welling up at the corners of his eyes.

The girls were not the only ones who noticed.

One the rare occasion that Andrew would sit down to lunch with Armie and Josh, the two of them would watch him underneath their almost identical eyelashes as he plowed through a sandwich or a tray full of fries. They would take small breaks in-between their massive meals to turn and stare at one other, having silent and static conversations like the twins they were supposed to be. Their mouths said nothing but their brain waves were loud enough to disrupt Andrew’s chewing and he put down his sandwich as he said, “Okay. What’s going on?”

The two of them, who had been eating a carb-fueled meal put down their forks at the same moment, the same exact way. Armie was the first to speak.

“Dude. If,” and he looked over at Josh.

Josh leaned forward, the edge of the table pressing into his stomach, and Andrew felt his defenses begin to build up as the other's eyes began to burrow into his own. Then they dropped to his neck and Andrew felt his shoulders unconsciously rise. “If Eisenberg is hurting you man, we can-”

Andrew shook his head. Their mute accusations had wiped all the liquid from his mouth because he knew exactly what bush they were carefully beating around. He widened his eyes and silently began begging them to please drop the subject because, “Jesse’s not hurting me. We just…We get a little rough, okay.” He let out a trembling laugh, “Haven’t you guys ever gotten a little carried away?”

Their twin speak was written all over their faces. They weren’t buying it for a moment and both sets of eyes almost burned an entirely new bruise atop the ones on his neck. Then they looked to one another and there was no clear nod, but Andrew knew there was a mental one.

Josh went back to his meal, still stealing glances at his neck, as Armie said, “Yeah, man, okay. We understand.”

← ← ←

They didn’t.

They didn’t understand that there was no victim in the war that was waging between he and Jesse. The war that was set to recess when they woke before the sun, and pulled themselves away from the mattress, sheets, and each other to take separate showers and drink out of separate mugs, downing separate prepared coffees as they silently built the wall of Mark and Eduardo that had been torn down by their words, mouths and legs, the night before. The war that was like a fire, ignited each night when Jesse pulled Andrew atop him, luring him into that false sense of belief that Andrew always fell for. When he believed, for a moment, that Jesse was giving him control of the situation, before he wrapped his leg around his hip and flipped them over so that he was towering over Andrew, his eyes dark and his mouth twisted into a smirk.

Everything that Jesse was going to do to him was stuffed into the small cracks of Jesse’s mouth, that Andrew leaned up from the mattress to stick out his tongue and lap at the words, attempting to dig them out. Jesse always let him. He let him slide his tongue against the bottom row of his teeth and against his own, letting him know that he could have him, as long as he said he could, before he placed his hands on Andrew’s shoulders and pinned him back against the mattress, his chest rising and falling with anticipation.

Jesse’s gaze, so calculative and precise, always sent a wave of shivers through Andrew’s body as his eyes moved across his naked chest, searching for uncharted territory but there wasn’t an inch where teeth or tongue hadn’t been. He had tasted him, all of him, but Andrew could pin point exactly where he had wanted to be on Jesse’s body, but the other man had never allowed him to search. Like the spot that was right below his left ear. The stretch of skin that Andrew knew would send Jesse’s eyes sliding in the back of his head as he leaned into the touch and parted his lips to let out a soft groan of pleasure. The stretch of skin, which Jesse had pulled Andrew away from, his fingers hard against the back of his neck when he said, “No. Not there,” through teeth that were gritted so no sound of regret could slide from him.

He never tried there again because he was afraid that if he did, Jesse would stop giving it to him hard, night after night. He would stop settling in-between his legs, one arm wrapped behind his back as the other stayed his side, his hand pressed into his hip, as he slammed so hard into Andrew that he knocked the headboard into the wall. Andrew would always arch up, press their chests together and feel the slick sheen of sweat between the two of them as his moans spiraled through Jesse’s curls.

Where Jesse buried his face into Andrew’s neck, sinking his teeth into his skin, Andrew placed his shaking hands onto Jesse’s back, his nails finding a steady ground as he dug into him, up ad under, until he could feel his blood filling the space between his nail and skin. He could always hear Jesse let out a sharp hiss before he bit down harder and Andrew began to pull down, separating long strides of skin, skin, and more skin as he felt his own break and burst.

When Jesse bit, Andrew scratched. He pulled when he pulled. Andrew pushed when Jesse pushed.

Andrew knew that Jesse wanted the world to know that he was his, and only his, in a silent, violent, and humiliating way. Where Andrew, he wanted the world to know and he wanted to be the one to tell them by wrapping Jesse up his arms and kissing him in front of a crowd of flashing lights. They were riding two different wavelengths that constantly crashed and sent bursts of sound that could break ear drums, a sound that would never reach a level of harmony, instead, it would just savagely sing out until eventually it burned into nothingness.

↓ ↓ ↓

The house smelled so differently without Garrett there.

Three weeks into filming, Andrew had broken into an allergic reaction due to Eduardo’s cologne and Joe threw his head back and laughed, pointing at the rash against his skin, saying that his body wasn’t ready to smell like a man, it was so used to reeking like a teenage boy doused in Axe. Andrew had thrown the glass bottle at him but now that the days had stretched into weeks, he was beginning to notice just what Joe was talking about.

Garrett scent was undeniable and strong, all shaving cream and Calvin Klein cologne, a smell that weaved it’s way through the threads of Andrew’s shirt, every time he flew down to New Mexico to visit. A smell that he wanted to wave throughout the entire home because LA months were brutal and while he wanted to keep the windows closed to keep the smell of him in, he couldn’t. He had to open them up and watch the tall ghost of Garrett that had manifested from every lingering touch, smell, and hair, sift out of the window and into the night, completely unraveled, just like Andrew’s sanity.

This was the first time that he had ever lived with someone whose schedule clashed with his. Shannon, who was pre-Social Network, worked on multiple television series that always filmed in LA and while she was gone before Andrew could open his eyes, she always crawling into bed with him, every single night.

Jesse never let him stay in his apartment alone. He whispered in his ear that it was because he loved him too much and had him to himself too little, that when they were finally alone together, he wanted them to be together. It always warmed the center of Andrew’s being to hear Jesse spin that excuse in his ear but in retrospect, he knew that Jesse was only protecting himself. He was protecting whatever was left in he and Anna’s relationship, by keeping Andrew away from splattering his image all across their bedroom or writing his name in the cracks of their walls. Jesse was afraid that if Andrew alone for even twenty minutes, that he would find Anna’s journal and confess to her everything that he was doing with her boyfriend, tucking it away so that only she could find it and Jesse would be in the dark until he was pushed to his knees in front of the light.

Jesse was convinced that all Andrew wanted was to shove Anna out of the picture. Anna, who he had only met once at The Social Network premiere. He tells Garrett that he can’t even remember her but her image is forever burned into the main theater of his mind. She was so small and fit perfectly against Jesse’s arm. She was quiet, moreso than Jesse, but when she opened her mouth the conversation flowed between the two of them like a non-stop tennis match. She was smart, so smart, with an interest in almost every topic Andrew could think up, but especially politics and art.

She was the one who was responsible for the painting just outside of Jesse’s bathroom, in the hallway that led to their bedroom and her office. When Andrew couldn’t sleep he would pad out of the room, wrap his arms around himself and just stare at the chaos that and been titled “in rest”. It was a mix of dark blues and greens with splatters of yellow here and there, very Jackson Pollack but with even more a clear end. As if the artist had sketched every brush stroke before hand, then carefully painted to make it seem unintentional. It had a more dizzying effect this way and Andrew felt his brain rattle inside of his head, knocking against the back of his eyes whenever he stared at the painting for too long.

Yet, while he couldn’t make heads or tails of it, at the same time, he understood it. He felt a sort of kinship with the painting, like he understood the hurt and the frigidness that the artist was attempting to convey.

Garrett had a painting too. It was just outside of their bathroom as well, but their bathroom was on the other side of the staircase, the hallway marginally larger than Jesse’s.

There was nothing confusing about “Horses”. It was doused in soft browns and oranges, depicting horses running across a flatland, kicking up dirt in their restless wake. They were wild and free, hair blowing in the constructed wind as they rode without saddles or men atop them. There was no blue sky, no mountains in the background, but Andrew knew that he was supposed to assume that if the artist had chosen to pull the picture back, then there they would be, lurking in the background.

What was important to this artist were the horses. There were five of them, but four of them had portions of their body covered in dust, while the fifth stood in the front, completely clean. There he was, shining as the eye of this sandstorm, eyes and head facing a destination that was unknown but his hooves were going to get him there, his steps sliding across the edge of dusk. His feet suspended in midair, legs kicked up, moving but unmoving. Looking ahead but staying behind. Forever stuck in one exhilarating moment of life.

→ → →

Spider-Man called for a lot of wire work, something that Andrew had done before on the Imaginarum of Doctor Parnassus, but nothing of this magnitude. He went home every evening with new bruises from the harness that had been pressing into his torso and hips upper thighs, threatening to the break the weakening skin there, but never actually succeeding in doing so. His first day of spinning in front of a green-screen, his stunt double asked him if he wanted him to take over for all of the scenes that he didn’t need to be unmasked. Andrew politely declined. With a smile and a shake of his head he told him, “I can handle a little pain.”

The stinging of something cold and then something warm cutting into his flesh kept his mind off the fact that when this was all over, when he was pulled down and rushed off to his trailer, he was going to have to ride back to an empty hotel room, on the side of the country, where his boyfriend wasn't.

He was about seven feet in the air when they called cut and began lowering him to the floor. He wasn’t eager to get out of the harness, but today had been particularly grueling and he began unhooking himself. His hands were sliding expertly around the hooks, the voices of the extras and the crewmen, acting nothing short of background noise as he hung sideways, just one more hook to go.

Then he heard it. A small screech that had belonged only to Emma, who wasn’t even supposed to be on set that day, and her newly shrill voice filled his ears as she said, “Holy shit, Eisenberg! What the fuck are you doing here?”

He couldn’t even hear him respond. His ears were too busy being filled with the rush of rage and love. His last hook snapped with the crane still hovering him about four feet about the ground, and the last thing he saw, before his world was engulfed in darkness, was Jesse staring up at him.

back to part one.
part three coming soon.