Amends (2/?)
Title: Amends
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Fandom: CSI
Characters: Nick/Greg
Warnings: Underage sexual relationship and discussions of whether this is abusive. Discussions of canon child abuse.
Summary: When Greg's first boyfriend appears in Las Vegas, his reason for being there provokes some soul-searching.
Author's note: With thanks to podga , for a lightning fast, charming, and discerning beta. Any inadequacies or errors in this story are my own.
Chapter Two
Then, San Francisco
July, 1996
The bass was reverberating in the alley outside Chaos in a way that would have made Greg’s pulse start to beat faster even if it hadn’t been his first date with Andy. First date. Probably that wasn’t even what this was, but Amelia had been calling it that all afternoon, and if that had been a little bit too John Hughes for his tastes, then he’d been glad of her standing in his bedroom with her arms akimbo, trying to pick out the things from his teenage wardrobe that might pass as something people wore to clubs.
He did his best to smother the kid-at-Disneyland grin on his face and retain some semblance of cool. Andy and he had talked about bands and music for an hour at the coffee shop before Andy had written his number on a flyer and given it to him, but they’d barely exchanged a dozen words since they met outside the club.
Andy seemed to be on nodding terms with about quarter of the men that were queuing with them though, and it might just be the three espressos he’d drunk before sneaking out his bedroom window, but he felt like he’d just been given associate membership to a secret society.
The queue was moving fast and Greg felt his excitement build until finally they were inside and the music was pounding in his chest cavity and all along his spine.
And the way Andy looked at him made him feel two parts awkward and gangly but one part something nicer, and then Andy kissed him and pushed a foul tasting pill into his mouth with his tongue and a half hour later the night got very good indeed.
(Years later, what he remembered most about his first bump of ecstasy was trying to explain it to Amelia. The words had spilled out of him, and he wasn’t explaining it right; the chills of pleasure that shot up his neck while the music ghosted over his skin. Talking about how much he had truly loved everyone in that club and her, even though she wasn’t there, and Andy, of course.
And she’d looked at him and, blushing furiously, had asked him what they’d done afterwards. They didn’t usually talk about sex but somehow she knew words that he would never have imagined and he tried to explain how they’d done some stuff, but not everything. She was quiet then and something made him want to ask her if she thought it was ok, but he didn’t know which words to use and the moment slipped away.)
August, 1996
What he liked most of all was to lie in Andy’s bed, on Andy’s white cotton sheets, while the sun streamed through the windows of Andy’s apartment.
His parents’ coffee was pretty great but Andy’s was something else and it made Greg feel like one of the models in the style magazines that were stacked on Andy’s coffee table when Andy brought him coffee in chic cups on a breakfast tray.
That morning though, Greg’s legs were tangled in sweaty sheets that smelled unmistakeably of tequila, and the sweet, noxious smell of metabolised alcohol hung in the air.
The previous night Greg had told Andy how old he really was; that instead of being a summer away from college, as he’d let Andy believe, he was about to be a high school junior.
Andy had looked at him with a half-smile, as if he was waiting for a punchline to a joke that didn’t seem like it would be very funny. When he realised that this was actually happening, he’d gone to the cupboard he kept his liquor in and pulled out the Jose Cuervo, roughly pouring some into two shot glasses. When Greg picked up his, Andy had reached for it before cutting the gesture off.
“I guess you drinking is the least of our problems.”
Greg had just looked at him.
Andy had rubbed his eyes. “I’m contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”
“I’m 16. I’m old enough to do lots of things.” He hadn’t mentioned that he wouldn’t be sixteen for two weeks.
Andy had put his arm round his shoulders. “But not this. I feel like Uncle-fucking-Pervy.”
Greg had pushed his arm away. “Are you saying I’m a stupid kid who doesn’t even know what he wants?”
Andy had looked at him carefully. “Is this what you want?”
Greg had thought about how Andy always talked to him like his thoughts and opinions mattered. How he made Greg feel like there were real choices and options beyond the narrow constraints of high school. How cool Andy was. How much he liked the feel of Andy on his skin.
“Yes.” Greg’s voice had been certain. “It absolutely is.”
October, 1996
It had been an almost perfect day. Greg loved browsing around the Haight with Amelia, but shopping with Andy had been a million times better. Amelia couldn’t get enough of books but had no patience for record shopping, and Amoeba Records was one of Greg’s favourite places on earth. Andy had flipped through the racks with a look of concentration that made Greg feel like he wasn’t a total pain for wanting to stay there for so long.
He’d picked up a Mudhoney EP on coloured vinyl that he really wanted, but the price was too steep if he and Andy were going for lunch. He’d slipped it back, behind some other stuff, and Andy had raised his eyebrow.
“Are you not going to get that? You’ve been admiring it for five minutes.”
Greg shrugged. “Maybe next week.”
Andy had reached for his wallet. “Let me.”
But Greg had shaken his head and, after studying him for a moment in puzzlement, Andy had slipped his money back into his back pocket.
(When Andy had given him the EP for Christmas he’d swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to smile over the ache. No one had ever told him that you could cry happy tears and still be a man.)
January, 1997
Andy had taught him how to grind coffee beans and use his French press, and Greg was in the kitchen making coffee when the argument between Mark and Andy started.
Ben and his boyfriend Mark had come over to Andy’s for dinner and even though Greg had mostly been struggling to stay afloat on a wave of reminiscences and references to people and things he didn’t know, he hadn’t missed Mark staring at him.
“How old is the twink?” Mark had interrupted some long-winded point that Ben was making about a local direct-action cycling activist group and civil liberties.
“I’m sorry?”
Greg’s hands stilled on the French press.
“Greg. How old is he?” Mark’s voice was cool and light.
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”
He could hear a subdued clinking as Andy gathered together plates and cutlery. Could almost picture his face, stiff with irritation.
“It takes a village, doesn’t it?”
“A village?”
“To raise a child.”
There was an awful silence; so awful that Greg nearly laughed to break its tension.
“Fuck you, Mark. I’m not some chickenhawk, and I resent the fucking implication that I am. I didn’t pick Greg up in some park where he was playing with his Lincoln Logs in the sandbox. He was drinking espresso in a coffee bar where all the club kids go to buy their pills.”
“Drinking espresso?” There was a sneer a mile wide in Mark’s voice. “I can see why you would naturally have assumed he was 25 if he was drinking coffee.”
“Fuck you.” Andy’s voice was tight with anger.
“Better me than him.” Mark’s tone was chilly. “You do realise that you’ll lose your job if this comes out? That you could do actual time in a real prison for what you’re doing?”
“He’s not a child.”
“What, because he has a veneer of San Francisco cool? If he lived anywhere else he’d be wearing a flannel shirt and a backpack.”
Greg heard a chair being pushed back. “Do you have anything to add to this, Ben?”
Ben cleared his throat. “Leave me out of this.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’.” There a beat of silence. “I think it might be time for you both to go.”
“He’s a good kid.” Mark still sounded pissed off, but his tone had softened. “And from what Ben says, so were you.”
They hadn’t seen Ben again until six months had passed and he’d left Mark for a man who worked for the same law-firm that he did.
Now, Las Vegas
If Andy hadn’t been the only lone guy in Rejavanate, Greg might not have recognised him.
Andy was wearing a sober pair of black trousers and an understated shirt. His hair was grey at the temples and his utterly conventional haircut might have been copied and pasted from any of the thousands of heads bobbing down Wall Street. Greg couldn’t help but contrast his current outfit with the vintage t-shirt and achingly hip jeans that he had been wearing the last time they had seen each other.
(“Hey,” Andy had said, tilting Greg’s chin up in a vain effort to get Greg to look him in the eye. “We always knew that this would end when it was time for you to go to Stanford.”
As though they’d discussed it. As though they’d sat and talked about their relationship and where it was heading during those two and a bit years.
It had always been Andy reading from the map while Greg tried to navigate from the landmarks flashing too quickly past the window.)
Andy stood up when he spotted Greg, and Greg’s stomach flipped over at the expression on his face.
“Andy, it’s good to see you.” A hug seemed too much with Andy standing there all serious, but a handshake seemed too little. He settled for an awkward wave. “Can I buy you a coffee?”
“Greg.” Andy flicked his gaze over Greg. He smiled. “It’s good to see you, too. Long time, huh?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m good for coffee.”
Greg ordered an Americano at the counter; feeling Andy’s eyes on his back. He felt a thrum in his stomach, as though the conversation had already taken an unexpected detour.
“So.” He sat down, and put his mug on the table. “How have you been?”
Andy bit his lip. “I’ve had some stuff going on.”
This was it, then.
“Stuff?” Greg could hear the shake in his voice.
Andy bobbed his head and opened his mouth as if to say something. There was a beat of silence and then he half-smiled to himself.
“You’d think this would be easy. I say this every day.”
“What?” Greg frowned, shifting in his seat.
“I’m a drug addict, Greg. I’m in recovery.”
The unexpectedness of it made Greg pause with his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. “What?”
Andy took a sip of his latte. Put his mug down. “I’ve been clean for nine months.”
“Wow. Congratulations.” The word echoed in Greg’s head and he wondered if Congratulations was the wrong thing to say. Would good job, man have been better?
Andy wrapped his hands around his mug. “I guess you’re wondering what this has to do with you?”
Greg shrugged. “I’m glad to see you. I’m glad you’re more ok than you were nine months ago.”
Andy smiled. “Thanks.” The smile slipped away. “I’m working the twelve steps.”
“Like NA? Narcotics Anonymous?”
“Exactly.” Andy nodded. Another awkward silence, and Greg felt a sharp spasm of foreboding.
“So, step nine is making amends. You’re supposed to go to the people you wronged while you were actively addicted.”
“Ok.” It was almost a question.
Andy took a deep breath. “Greg, our relationship was abusive. I committed a crime when I had sex with you, and there’s not a day that goes past when I don’t regret what I did to you.”
No one had ever thrown a bucket of cold water over Greg’s head, but afterwards he thought that it might feel a lot like that.
He sat looking at Andy, dimly aware that his mouth was hanging open.
“I’m not saying this because I want your forgiveness. I just need to acknowledge what happened and for you to let me know if there’s anything I can do. If you want me to, I’ll turn myself in to the police.”
Greg’s eyebrow twitched. “There’s a three year statute of limitations on statutory rape in California. You’re not going to jail.”
Andy looked like someone had hit him. “You’ve looked into this? Reporting me? Did your therapist encourage you to?”
Greg shook his head. “No, I’m in law enforcement. I’m a crime scene investigator.” He sighed. “Sorry, I’m just struggling to process this. I don’t really know what you want me to say.”
Andy shrugged. “You don’t have to say anything. I just needed to acknowledge this wrong and to make amends if I could.”
Greg gritted his teeth. “You were good to me, Andy. I don’t have any bad memories of our time together.” He found more words. “You were generous and patient. I’m not an expert in recovery from addiction, but I really don’t think you should beat yourself up about this.”
“Is it possible that you just haven’t acknowledged how much pain I caused you?”
Greg raised an eyebrow. “It’s possible. But isn’t it more possible that I can identify my own feelings better than you can?”
Andy’s expression was as patient as the Buddha’s. Greg fought down the desire to reach across the table and slap him.
“You were a child, Greg.”
Greg looked at him for a moment. “You didn’t think so at the time. I remember the argument you had with Mark.”
“Mark?” Andy looked confused.
“Ben Berman’s boyfriend.”
(When he heard the door of the apartment close behind Ben and Mark he’d come out of the kitchen with the coffee pot and two cups.
“I guess they’re not staying for coffee, then. Which is a shame, because I had some colouring to show them that I’m really proud of. Hardly got any crayon outside the lines.” His voice was dry.
Andy looked at him in surprise before starting to laugh.)
“I wasn’t thinking straight, Greg. I was in the throes of an addiction.”
“You were totally functional, Andy. You never missed a day of work. You went for all those lunches with your Mom. We hung out, like, all the time. Are you saying your brain was scrambled the whole time that was going on?”
Andy sighed. “I was in a car accident a few months before I met you.”
Greg nodded. “I remember you talking about it.”
“I had some back pain and my doctor prescribed me Vicodin. By the time I met you, I was buying them on the grey market and abusing them. And taking ecstasy and coke on the weekends.”
Greg raised an eyebrow. “Was there anyone we knew who wasn’t taking ecstasy and coke on the weekends? And plenty of people were taking opioids for the comedown.”
Andy licked his lips. “I’m sorry that I don’t have a more exciting drug addiction story for you, Greg. But the drugs I did take were a problem for me, because I did a lot of things I wasn’t proud of.”
“Like snatching me from my cradle? What else?” Greg’s voice was hard.
There was a pause. Andy looked Greg in the eye. “There were other guys, Greg. I’m sorry.”
“Other guys? How many?”
Andy shrugged. “I really don’t know. I know it’s a cliché, but they meant nothing.”
Greg bit his lip. “It seems kinda like I meant nothing.”
“I was a drug-”
“So you keep saying.” Greg zipped his jacket up and stood up. “You know, until I came here today I had really nice memories of you and the time we spent together. I thought we had a blast. So maybe what you should be apologising for is not the stuff that you did when you were addicted, but the fact that you’re part of some bullshit system that involves trampling on the memories of other people and telling them things that make them feel bad.”
“It’s the truth, Greg.”
Greg snorted. “No, it’s your truth. Which you’ve filtered through some platitudinous, self-serving sloganfest. Confession might be good for the soul, but right now you couldn’t care less about the people you’re confessing to. And that’s just lame.”
He walked out of Rejavanate without a second glance and made it all the way round the corner before the tears started to fall. He wondered if it made him the worst person in the world to wish that Andy really had been sick after all.
( Chapter Three)