[oneshot] i don't know why you say goodbye, i say hello
Title: i don't know why you say goodbye, i say hello
Pairing: jesse eisenberg/andrew garfield, ft. copious amounts of emma stone
Rating: r
Genre: romance, angst, mild humor
Warnings: swearing, sexual themes, rps
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: future fic. fiddled with the spiderman production timeline to get it to work, so i guess in that sense this is alternate reality. could be considered a continuation (after a time jump) of someone you cannot reject, something i will not neglect. 6,660 words. a million thanks to the lovely underhand_glory for putting up with my whining about this. ♥
listen. the truth is,
nothing is guaranteed.
you know that more than anybody.
so don't be afraid. be alive.
( the truth about forever, sarah dessen )
Inevitably, the press junket ends, like they always knew it would.
There's a deluge of congratulations all around after their last press conference together, exchanges of personal email addresses and cell phone numbers and promises to keep in touch. But as insightful as Shakespeare might've been when he'd delved into the human psyche, he thinks, sometimes absence didn't make the heart grow fonder-sometimes stretching feelings of affection and love and friendship over long distances made it all the easier for them to dissipate, slip away like the wind between Andrew's fingers. If he's learned anything at all from the industry, it's that nothing ever lasts.
At any rate, Jesse's got filming for 30 Minutes or Less and the Zombieland sequel to occupy his time, and Andrew has to start thinking about playing Spiderman next year. David's been gone for weeks now to shoot The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo with Rooney and Aaron's moved on to other screenplays still in development. Rashida and Brenda have their TV shows. Over the course of the next several months, he will lose contact with the vast majority of the people he's just spent the past year with, and maybe, in a couple of years, he'll look back on this time with a sort of detached nostalgia, like it was all a vague dream he'd once had-a wonderful, splendid, warm dream that had ended as quickly as it had begun.
Everyone's there one day and gone the next, it seems-gone their separate ways, working on their separate projects. Jesse's texts and emails become increasingly impersonal after they finish doing DVD commentary for the movie, and somewhere down the line he just stops responding at all, and it's not like Andrew can make up excuses to fly to wherever Jesse is on his own flights of fancy. And there is Shannon to think about, poor, lovely Shannon with her long brown hair and honest eyes, Shannon who doesn't know that anything is even amiss. He doesn't want to hurt her-he's never wanted to hurt her, or anyone, but Andrew's always been bad at putting up masks and hiding himself behind patched-together lies.
And so it is that they break up, all messy, jagged edges and perfect fodder for tabloids mere days before he needs to fly to New York for Spiderman production in February. She's confused and doesn't understand, but Andrew knows exactly why they fell apart. He types an angry email in his drafts, says things like you've ruined me for life, you stupid fuck, ruined me with your stupid face and your fidgety hands and the way you used to press your fingers into my back-this is all your fucking fault and how could you do this to me, Jesse, it's not fair. Angry face. Perhaps the most maddening thing about the whole situation is that he's made Jesse such a substantial part of who he is, as dumb as it sounds in his head, and no matter what Jesse's done (no matter what he might do in the future), part of Andrew still loves him. And Jesse had, even if just for a fleeting moment-Jesse had loved him too.
Get yourself together, Carey replies sometimes after he's sent her a particularly pathetic text, it's not worth it. You're better than this. And eventually, he does-because even anger doesn't last, and pain becomes a minute, pounding ache in the back of his head that he's never really, fully aware of unless it's late at night and he's alone, pouring over the Spiderman script with soft music playing on iTunes or lying in bed and trying to fall asleep.
They all see each other again at the Academy Awards ceremony a month later, and a dull resignation beats in his chest when he sees Jesse on the red carpet, when he takes pictures with Carey, Keira, the rest of The Social Network's cast. Jesse seems intent on keeping at least Justin and Armie in between them at all times, but at the very end of the carpet, he manages to hook his arm inside the loop of Jesse's and pose in front of the flashing cameras, a smile plastered on his face.
Jesse scurries off but doesn't disappear fully out of his view for the rest of the night, if only because they're all sitting together near the front in case they win. ("There's no chance," Aaron keeps saying, and Jesse is nodding from his seat, but that doesn't stop Brenda from clutching his hand with tense, nervous energy when the other awards are announced.)
Carey wins best lead actress and accepts her award with a class and dignity that Andrew could only ever hope to achieve; later on in the night, Keira claims the Oscar for best supporting actress and Andrew is there with Carey as she climbs off the stage to bury her in their arms. Christopher Nolan wins best director and there's a short round of commiseration in their row, much patting of David's back and exchanging of looks behind it, and then the next minute they're announcing best supporting actor and they say his name-his name. There is a moment of disconnect, a sort of out-of-mind experience when the words Andrew Garfield, for Never Let Me Go ring through the auditorium, and then hands are pushing at him; he feels like he's floating as he walks toward the stage. When he's giving his speech he just wants to start crying into the microphone, but he can't-his eyes are dry- and in his heart of hearts he knows (he doesn't know how he does, but he does) he knows it's because there will be something bigger.
And there is-Aaron wins for best adapted screenplay and the whole audience laughs for a moment when Andrew keeps whooping after everyone else has stopped. Christopher Nolan and his brother win for best original screenplay. Five minutes later, Trent and Atticus are going up to accept their Oscar for the brilliant soundtrack they'd scored-and then Jesse's name is getting called for best lead actor and his jaw drops in that familiar, endearing way. "Year of the young blood, isn't it?" Aaron yells over the tumultuous swell of noise, and Andrew can only smile and nod.
The last few seconds that stretch out before them as Meryl opens the envelope for best motion picture feel like the longest of his life. He's gripping Justin's hand on one side and Brenda's clammy one in the other as Meryl leans forward into the mic, looks directly at him and says, with a distinct air of finality-The Social Network. There is a sudden swell of noise around them and the next moment they're all hugging, and oh, this is what he'd been waiting for (this is what they'd all been waiting for). He's sobbing into Justin's shoulder as they make their way up with Aaron and David and Kevin, Rashida and Max and Armie-and Jesse, who grins at him with this open, beautiful expression that Andrew can only half-see through a thick film of tears. Kevin's speaking to the standing ovation but Andrew can't hear what he's saying, and years later he probably won't remember what exactly was said because it's not important. What he'll remember (what's important) is Jesse putting his arms around Andrew's shoulders and hugging him, his face tucked into Andrew's neck like nothing had happened between them-he'll remember tears and joy and Brenda's hand in his and that look on Jesse's face, and how Armie manages to look small despite his height when Kevin hands him the Oscar, and Aaron wiping at Rooney's running mascara. He'll remember getting back down to their seats and finding Carey in the sea of people, he'll remember the way she hugs him like she never wants to let go, tiny hands against his spine and blonde hair just touching the underside of his chin.
When he gets home, tipsy from the after-party, clothes stained and disheveled, he deletes that email from his inbox.
Over the months, the cast and crew on the Spiderman set develop that familiar feeling of camaraderie. It helps that they're working with an enormous franchise (humbled by it, even) and he and Sally and Martin spend long hours together off set for their roles, and they're like second parents to him even though he's initially rather star struck. It just makes sense, and it fits, and having older actors there to help guide him through certain scenes mirrors Peter's own growth and development in the script. When they shoot Uncle Ben's death, the tears that drip down his face seem to be more his own than those of any fictional character he might be playing.
And Emma, sweet, expressive Emma who likes to prance around set just like he does, who has a smooth sense of humor and a refreshing tendency to laugh at herself-Emma is like the little sister he never had. She is charming and down-to-earth and significantly less neurotic than his previous co-star, but that doesn't stop her from reminding Andrew of Jesse when he's not careful, which is ridiculous because it's all sheer projection. Filming in balmy Los Angeles begins in May, and she drives him back to his hotel after especially grueling days of stunt shooting. Emma is a meticulous, careful driver; she stops at yellow lights, even if she could go past them, and never honks at tailgaters or the crazy ones who cut her off at intersections. One night, her phone rings twice during the course of the ride back, but she doesn’t check it until they're parked outside the hotel and Andrew's gathering his things from the trunk.
"Oh, hey," she says, leaning against the side of her car and waving the luminescent screen in his face. "It's Jesse."
Andrew breathes out through his nose and manages a lopsided smile. "Tell him I say hi."
"Sure," Emma says brightly, punching keys on her phone. "You two were fantastic in The Social Network, I loved it."
"Hey, thanks. I hope you aren't just being polite," he says, grinning. "Did you sympathize with me or Jesse?"
Emma gives him a knowing glance and crosses her arms. "Who do you think?"
"I don't know," he replies, shrugging.
"Sean Parker," Emma says cheekily, and Andrew groans, holding a hand to his heart. "I talked to him about it last year on set for Friends with Benefits."
"I'm sure he was pleased."
"No," she says, the lines of her face creasing as she smiles at him. "He told me I was missing the point."
"Which one?"
"That everyone had their reasons for doing what they did, and that it wasn't as black and white as who was right and who was wrong," she says. Andrew nods. "He likes to wax philosophic, doesn't he?"
"Justin? Yeah, he can be very insightful." Andrew laughs when Emma makes a face.
Her phone buzzes twice and she looks down, the touch-screen casting white rectangles on her face. "Jesse's in town, he says he might stop by the set tomorrow. Ah, bad timing-" she pouts a little bit, here, "tomorrow's the scene where we have to trudge through all that muck-"
"Yeah, unfortunate," he says, slamming the trunk door down to keep his hands from shaking. "Well," Andrew continues abruptly, ignoring her surprised expression, "it's getting late, you should go home and rest for the shoot tomorrow. Good night!" He flees before Emma can even open her mouth to respond.
She doesn't mention it the next day when she comes to pick him up, something he's immensely grateful for. The nervousness feels like it's set deep in his bones, though, and it's a subtle, barely-there unease: not the kind that makes him forget lines in the middle of a dialogue exchange or abruptly slip out of character, but the anxiousness that builds and creeps into scenes when it's not supposed to, the kind that makes them feel wrong even if his delivery is flawless.
"Are you okay?" Martin asks him when they break for lunch.
"I'm fine," he says resolutely. "Just a little nervous, that's all. I'll get over it." Martin gives him a concerned look but doesn't press the matter.
Andrew is in his trailer blasting Simon & Garfunkel and Damien Rice from his laptop speakers when Jesse arrives. There's a knock at the door and he yells that it's open before scrunching his eyes shut and focusing on the music.
When he opens them again, Jesse is standing there awkwardly and the only thing that comes to mind is that some things just never change. He looks exactly the same, and perhaps it makes sense because no matter how long it's felt, it's really only been half a year at most. There's the baseball cap shoved over flattened curls, ill-fitting gray jeans and a dress-shirt-and-vest combo that looks like it could've come from the Holy Rollers set (Andrew wouldn't be surprised if this turned out to be true), and those tiny, premature wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. Andrew feels a kind of relief at seeing them there, still, because it means he's been laughing. It means he's been happy.
The silence stretches on and Andrew feels frozen, like he's stuck to his chair; his tongue is glued to the top of his mouth, his breath sucked in as far as it can go. Jesse's eyes rake over his nondescript jacket and loose jeans, how he's still covered in mud from the morning's filming, and Jesse's eyebrows quirk up in the way they always had whenever Andrew had done something particularly idiosyncratic.
"Hey," Jesse says finally, shuffling his feet, his tone a mixture of apprehension and discomfort-and hearing his voice for the first time in months is what gets to Andrew, what propels him out of his seat to close the distance between them and slant his mouth over Jesse's.
Jesse relaxes into him for one, magnificent moment-and then he's pushing Andrew away, hands up like he's afraid Andrew's going to come at him again. "Stop," he stutters when Andrew steps forward, his arms pin-wheeling backward, teeth worrying at his lower lip. His gaze hones in on the floor next to Andrew's feet. "I just-Andrew, I just want to be your friend."
"I don't want friends," he says. Jesse jerks backward at the familiar line, but he stays quiet, doesn't take the bait. "Did you know," he continues, "that you never smile in pictures? There's always this blank, default expression on your face, or maybe a slight tilt of your mouth, but there's never a full out smile when the camera lights flash in front of you." He lets out a long, shaky breath. "Yeah, I've had to resort to looking at old photos of you just to remember, you know? To remember Paris and Milan and Japan, to remember your face and how happy we were, what it was like-and you know how pathetic that makes me, Jesse? Really, really fucking pathetic. I missed you," and then he's stepping forward again but Jesse's shaking his head, his face shuttered, and he nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to get to the door.
Andrew lets him go. The worst of it, he thinks later, is that he can't be mad at Jesse like Eduardo had been at Mark, because he understands. He gets it. He gets Jesse-he understands the separation anxiety and the irrational fear of change and taking comfort in what he has, in the routine Jesse's built up for himself over the years. And seven years-seven years of New York and Anna and that anthropology degree-is a long time.
Emma manages to corner him when they're finished for the day. (To be fair, Andrew would've gone to her eventually anyway, given that she's his ride home every night.) "What's going on with you and Jesse?" she asks, tapping her foot against the floor in a quick rat-a-tat and glaring up at him through her blonde bangs. She is concerned, in that real, heartfelt way that any good friend would be, and he files this detail away into the back of his mind.
"It's not important," he attempts to brush off, but she's not having any of it. If he were in her shoes, he probably wouldn't either.
"Not important my ass," she snaps, hands on her hips, blocking the car door. "Until you explain yourself, I'm blaming you for the fact that I didn't even get to talk to him before he ran out of your trailer, jumped back into his car and drove away. I thought you two were friends!"
"It's-complicated," he tries again.
Her arms are crossed now, and her stare feels like it's burning holes through to the back of his skull. (He'll have to ask her later how she does that, how she manages to make everyone feel small in the face of her wrath-or in this case, her worry.) "Try me."
Andrew eyes her, turns it over in his head. And then, "Shannon and I-there's a reason why I broke it off with her."
Emma looks confused for a second, and then it's like he can literally see the light bulb turning on above her head. "So that's what this is about? You're in love. With Jesse."
His silence says everything. Emma squints at him for a considering moment and Andrew feels not unlike bacterial specimen on a Petri dish. "Well," she says carefully after a long beat, "what are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing," he says, exhaling, and then he sees the conflicted expression on her face and it suddenly occurs to him that she'd just been filming with Jesse a few months prior, for Zombieland 2. She looks thoughtful and quiet and it scares him. "Look, I shouldn't have told you about it-I hate choosing sides when my friends are, you know, when they aren't getting along, and I'm sure you do, too, and-just forget about it, Emma." He takes her arm and tugs her aside gently so he can open the car door and climb in. On the ride back, they just listen to each other breathe.
In an effort to cheer him up, Emma manages to convince several members of the cast and crew to take him somewhere fun on their day off.
"So," he asks tentatively from the back seat of her car, squashed in between Justin the cameraman and Rhys. "What is laser tag, exactly?"
"Oh my God," she says, nearly veering into the next lane. "You poor, deprived child."
"Don't worry," Rhys says, grinning. "I got this." He proceeds to launch into a convoluted explanation of the physics, logistics and strategy of laser tag that completely goes over his head.
"He doesn't get a word you're saying," Emma says wryly five minutes into his speech. "Look," and Andrew shifts his gaze to her eyes in the rearview mirror, "you have a laser gun. You wear a full body suit. You run around a dark maze-like building and shoot everyone you see."
"Oh," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "I think I get that." Rhys sighs and leans back against the leather of the car seat, mumbling something about under-appreciation.
It turns out that Andrew is absolute shit at the game, and whether it's because he's never played it before or his cardio's just not up to the challenge, he doesn't know. "I'm so bad at this," he says at the end of the second round, buckling over to rest his hands on his knees, panting for breath. Sweat plasters his hair against his forehead. "I was a child gymnast, not a child assassin."
"You really are bad," Emma says, tapping her gun against the score-machine that's on continuous loop. "Bottom of the table twice in a row?"
"I can't aim! When I see someone, I shoot, but they don't get hit, and then they see me and I get hit."
Emma pats him on the back. "But you are having fun, aren't you?" Andrew pretends to think about it for a moment and she wails, punching his arm. "Come on, tell the truth-we can always go bowling or something if you don't want to stay."
"No," he says, clenching his jaw and hoisting his gun over his shoulder with purpose. "I'm going to win a game, you'll see."
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 5/28/10 2:25PM
Subject: lmao
haha andrew is like a kid in a candy shop right now
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 5/28/10 2:30PM
Subject: :|
... What are you doing?
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 5/28/10 2:42PM
Subject: doing fun things with his life!
did you know that he'd never been to laser-tag before? do they not have that in england?
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 5/28/10 3:12PM
Subject: Ew.
Emma, you do know how filthy and unsanitary those places are, don't you? What are you going to do if he can't deal with the germs and gets sick?
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 5/28/10 3:40PM
Subject: 8)
why do you care?
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 5/28/10 3:42PM
Subject: Don't be ridiculous.
I don't.
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 5/28/10 3:45PM
Subject: >:|
you are so dumb. you are really dumb. forreal.
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 5/28/10 3:46PM
Subject: ???
I don't get it, you just said the same thing three times?
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 5/28/10 4:03PM
Subject: ugh, boys.
... you know what? nevermind.
"I'm too tired to move, even," he announces dramatically when Emma's driven them back to the studio and the others have all left. "Blaming you if I'm sore on set tomorrow."
"Get used to it," she returns, shoving his shoulder. "You and Rhys are going to be shooting stunts all summer."
"That's what the doubles are for," he says, frowning, and she laughs, loud and clear.
The ride back to the hotel is stretched longer tonight because it seems like traffic control's giving them all the red lights. "So," Emma says, "the Tony awards are in June. We're not shooting that week, and I'd been planning to go." She glances at him, then back to the road. "Do you want to come? There are two guest rooms at my apartment in New York."
A pause. "You're not so good with subtlety, are you?" he says finally, exhaling. "Jesse's going to be there."
She grins, unrepentant. "Come on, it'll be fun. And you've been in stage productions before-there's no reason you shouldn't want to go."
"Nice try."
Emma sighs. "Look, Jesse might not be very well-adjusted, but he's still a gentleman, you know? He won't ignore you. He doesn't hate you."
"As long as he knows that-you know, that I love him and not in the funny haha-that-was-just-for-an-interview-and-I-meant-I-love-you-like-a-brother way-he's going to avoid me. And there's nothing I can do about it. You can't make someone love you."
"How do you know he doesn't already?"
Andrew throws her a disbelieving look. "Really? Are you really asking that question?"
"Hear me out, okay? This is my female intuition talking-and the fact that I've known him for longer than you have." Andrew makes a face and she punches him in the arm. "I think he's just being stupid. Worst case of denial in the history of mankind," she insists. "It all makes sense now. He'd always covertly ask about you when we were on set. Of course, then, I didn't know about this whole thing so I didn't really say much apart from the usual, oh, filming's going great! Andrew's very nice, but you knew that already because you were in a movie together." A beat of silence, and then-"If you like, I can talk to him for you."
"Emma," he says, "I appreciate it-no, really, I do, but it's not going to change things. He's made up his mind. Even if it were true-and it's not-he can't just throw his life away."
"Oh, the symmetry's just beautiful-you're in denial, too! Does that make it easier for you to deal with?" Andrew frowns. "He doesn't know what's good for him," Emma continues, gripping the steering wheel hard. "He wouldn't know a good thing if it hit him in the face because he's so afraid-"
"I know!" He shakes his head. "I know. Just-give it time, okay? Give it time."
"Right, and what are you going to do when he proposes to Anna? When they get married? Because that's what's going to happen-she's sweet and she loves him and she represents everything static in his life. He can't deal with impulsive, on-the-fly decisions, so he just chooses to ignore that route entirely. Instead of facing his problems-facing you-he just hides from them and hopes they'll go away on their own."
"So what am I supposed to do about it? I can't change who he is. I can't even change who I am."
She shrugs. They're pulling into the hotel parking lot now. "I don't know how, but you'll have to make him really think about it, really consider it. And if I'm right-and I think I am-then everything will fall into place."
"You're such a guru," he says drily.
"Thanks, I’m here all week," Emma says, smiling. "And how about that awards ceremony? Let's go together, as friends." She parks the car neatly and turns to face him. "I'm sure Kieran will be fine with it."
"Throwback to middle school dances," Andrew snorts, "but alright." Emma lets out a loud whoop and drums on the steering wheel. The corners of his lips come up despite himself. "Don't get too excited now, I've been told I'm a very dull date."
"Don't be stupid," she sniffs. "It'll be fantastic."
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 6/03/10 9:03PM
Subject: new york!
so will i be seeing you at the tonies?
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 6/03/10 10:34PM
Subject: re: new york!
Yes! When are you flying in?
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 6/03/10 10:40PM
Subject: re: new york!
maybe the sunday night before? we don't have filming that week, which is nice.
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 6/03/10 10:45PM
Subject: Wait.
Wait, wait. Is there anyone coming with you?
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 6/03/10 10:46PM
Subject: why...
...do you want to know? does it matter?
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 6/03/10 10:51PM
Subject: Come on,
don't be like this, Emma.
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 6/03/10 11:02PM
Subject: Emma?
Are you going to answer my question?
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 6/03/10 11:20PM
Subject: Emma!
You can't just leave me hanging like that!
Perhaps it's a bad thing that he's gotten used to the weather in California because New York's just starting to heat up when they fly in for the Tonies the night before the ceremony. In the morning, they go to Madison Square Garden, and then Emma's dragging him down the avenue to look at suitable red carpet outfits. "You've got to look the part, don't you?" she reasons, and Andrew knows better than to stand between a woman and shopping. They share a steak and Portobello hero on the side of the road and he's barely had time to scarf down his half of the sandwich before he's getting whisked off to a salon to get his hair done.
"Is this really necessary?" he asks. Emma raises a cucumber slice off her eyelid and glares at him. "Okay! Okay."
The collar of the new suit itches uncomfortably when their ride pulls up at the carpet and they step out. "He's not going to be here," Andrew says, looking around.
She loops her arm through his and smiles for the flashing cameras. "You think he's going to miss the biggest Broadway awards ceremony of the year because of you?" Andrew glances down at her. "Think again."
"No," he grumbles. "I think the whole red carpet affair is going to put him off."
"You underestimate him," Emma says lightly.
And she's right: five minutes after they take their seats, Andrew glances back and sees Jesse emerging from a hoard of paparazzi. Emma gives him a little shove, but before he can get up, he sees Anna appear behind him, hand clutched in Jesse's. He swivels back to face the front. "Later," he mouths.
He stands with the ovation for Best Choreography and twists around to see Jesse staring straight at him. When they make eye contact, Jesse jumps a little, and he feels a moment of satisfaction that he can still elicit such a visible reaction from him. Emma starts feeding him notes scribbled on ripped pieces of napkin in the middle of the ceremony, tips on what to say and how exactly to hold himself and he's snorting into his open program.
Andrew glances back again during the montage of Best Book of a Musical; this time, Jesse catches his eye and then blatantly bends toward Anna, says something that makes her laugh into her palm. Emma doesn't ask any questions when he takes her hand, just squeezes it back.
"Later" decides to finally come soon after Elf, The Musical receives the Tony for Best Original Score, when Andrew turns again just in time to see Jesse making his way to the back of the concert hall towards the bathrooms.
"Be right back," he yells at Emma over the waves of applause. She waves him off with a wicked grin on her face.
The bathroom door's just swinging shut as he exits the auditorium. When he opens it again, Jesse's at the sink, head down, eyes closed, the whirring fluorescent lights casting fucking halos in his curly hair.
"You can't keep using her as a shield," Andrew breathes into the curve of his neck. "Especially not if you're going to the men's room." He takes a step backward as Jesse whirls around and clutches at the marble tabletop. "Asked Emma about me, did you? What did you want to know that I couldn't tell you myself?"
"I just-" Jesse starts weakly. "I just wanted to know how you were."
"I gave you my number," he says, and the air between them seems to thrum with tension. "I gave you my email, I gave you my fucking address, and I gave you my-" heart, he wants to say, but it's too much, and Jesse already knows anyway.
He doesn't speak, just shrinks into the counter. Andrew runs a hand through his hair. "Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"
"Why did you come?"
"Not just because of you, if that's what you're thinking," he hisses. "Actually-who am I kidding? I came because I knew you would be here. But you don't care about that, do you?"
"I-"
"I wish I knew how to stop loving you." His breath is coming out in harsh pants, now. "Will you answer one question for me?" Jesse doesn't reply, but he doesn't bolt out of the bathroom like Andrew's expected him to for the last five minutes either, so he plows on. "Can you look me in the eyes-really, really look-and say you feel nothing for me?"
The mask falls, then-Jesse's face is a sea of raw emotion, fear and hurt and pain scrawled across it, and Andrew can't look, has to stare at the linoleum of the bathroom floor instead. When he glances up again Jesse's mouth is open, like he's about to speak, and Andrew leans forward, eyes snapping in frustration-
Andrew's phone starts ringing its jaunty tune at that exact moment and he swallows, closes his eyes as if that'll make the interruption disappear.
It doesn't. He pulls his phone out-caller ID says Shannon Woodward and he lets out a long, heavy sigh. Jesse still looks like a cornered animal against the counter but his face is unreadable again, that studiously schooled expression back in place. Andrew shakes his head, knows that he's lost him. "I have to take this call." Jesse nods tightly and eases out from between Andrew and the sinks.
He puts the phone to his ear and listens to the door squeak shut.
It goes like this: Shannon is a sobbing mess on the other end of the line, but Andrew manages to calm her down. He feels like crying himself by the end of the call, and when he leaves the bathroom and gets back to the auditorium, Jesse is long gone, Anna with him.
Emma sees the look on his face when he returns and doesn't ask any questions. They're invited to an after-party, but she declines for both of them and opts to drive him home. It starts raining in the middle of the ride-perfect, he thinks moodily. "There's alcohol in the apartment," she murmurs as he climbs out of the car, hands over his head in a vain attempt to fend off the sudden downpour. "I have to meet up with Kieran in half an hour, but help yourself. Try not to break anything."
"I'm sorry," he tries, but she waves him off.
The apartment is blessedly dry. There's Grey Goose in the wine cooler and he pulls it out after he changes, pours himself a glass and sinks onto the couch, doesn't even bother to turn the lights on. The next time he looks at the digital clock, it says three in the morning and the vodka doesn't even burn anymore as the last of it slips down his throat.
He doesn't hear the knocking on the door until it's risen to a considerable volume, and even then, he can't see anything when he looks through the peephole. "Who is it?" he yells, leaning against the door to keep his balance. The knocking stops for a moment, and then resumes.
"God damn," he swears when he drags it open, "you're a persistent fucker-"
It's Jesse. His clothes are plastered to his body and he's dripping all over the landing floor, blinking water out of his eyes as they trickle from his long bangs. "I could say the same thing about you," he retorts.
Andrew doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. "How did you know I was here?"
Jesse holds up his phone and Andrew leans forward, focuses hard enough to see Emma's name swim across his vision. "I have her number."
"Okay. A more apt question," he slurs, "would be, what the hell are you doing here?"
"Would you like the long version or the short version?"
He holds a hand to his head in an effort to stop it from spinning. "Don't fuck around with me, Jesse. It's too late for this shit."
"Okay," Jesse says, and then he's stepping forward with a loud squelch. One moment, he's staring at the bridge of Jesse's nose and the next, there are wet hands in his hair and Jesse's kissing him, Jesse fucking Eisenberg is kissing him and it's the most glorious thing in the world even though he's wasted beyond belief and he feels like he's about to pass out any second.
And then the reality of it sets in and now he's the one pushing Jesse away, and Andrew doesn't know when the tables turned but this is really fucking backward. Jesse closes the apartment door behind him.
Andrew tousles his hair and raises a hand. "I don't want a pity fuck, Jesse. Get out of the apartment. You have a girlfriend."
"Not anymore. Anna broke up with me."
The world seems to tilt on its axis for a moment. "What. What?"
"It was a mutual thing." Jesse steps forward. Andrew scoots back. "After the ceremony she said that I was always a good actor but never a very good liar, except maybe to myself. She told me she couldn't give me what I wanted."
"And what do you want?"
"Does it matter?"
"Very much, yes."
Jesse cocks his head to the side and looks at him. "You."
Andrew feels naked. He backs into the kitchen. "Aren't you scared?"
"Shitless."
"You can't just-you're not allowed to just change your mind like that."
"I thought about it a lot, actually." Andrew lets out a shaky breath, and he's mortified to feel tears of exhaustion pooling at the corners of his eyes. "Oh, God, don't cry-I can't handle crying."
He wipes angrily at his face. "It's not like I'm doing it on purpose. I'm just tired-I haven't been sleeping well. No thanks to you." He pauses, pulls a new bottle of vodka out of the cooler and pours them both glasses before he realizes what he's doing. "This is still all your fault. You aren't forgiven."
Jesse takes a glass from him before he accidentally smashes it against the floor. "I know."
They drink for a bit in the pregnant silence. Then-"I'm going to regret letting you in the house, aren't I?"
"Maybe not," he says, setting his empty cup down. He takes Andrew's out of his loose grasp and places it gently on the counter. His eyes are bright in the darkness. "Well?"
Andrew reaches unsteady fingers out to touch Jesse's cheek and feels a visceral tug in his chest when Jesse closes his eyes and turns his face into Andrew's hand. "Jesus-are you sure about this?"
"Not at all," he replies, bringing his hand up to cup Andrew's. "But that's the beauty of it, isn't it?"
And maybe it's because he's drunk out of his mind, or because his heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest, or just that Jesse is real and warm and solid in front of him-but it doesn't matter why, just that he's bending forward, breathing the same air that Jesse is for that one instant before their mouths connect. Somehow, they make it to his guest room without tripping over anything, and then it's just a lot of fumbling and touching and undressing, Jesse murmuring apologies (things like I'm sorry and I'll make it up to you and right now I'm just glad you don't hate me) into his throat and sweeping his fingers everywhere until Andrew feels like the taut string of a violin, strung almost all the way past its limit but just not-quite-there.
He wakes up in the morning with the worst hangover of his life-and to an empty bed. "Fuck," he breathes into his pillow before rolling over and sitting up, eyes squeezed shut against streams of too-bright sun pouring in from the window. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"We didn't get around to it, no," comes a voice. Andrew cracks his eyes open again and sees Jesse's mop of curls framed against the doorway. "You passed out before anything happened." The edge of the bed dips when he sits down. "Painkillers?"
"Thanks," he croaks. It tastes like something's crawled into his mouth and died but he doesn't care-he downs the pills and then catches Jesse's mouth with his, kisses him long and hard until they're both out of breath.
"And a very good morning to you, too." Andrew peers around Jesse's head at a sleepy-eyed Emma leaning against the open door. "Did you end up using the lube I told you to get?"
Jesse recoils into his chest, stuttering out protestations, and Andrew laughs, really laughs, head thrown back against the headboard. Emma winks at him and disappears into the living room, yelling something about breakfast in fifteen minutes.
Jesse's still babbling about the lube and Andrew shuts him up with another kiss. Right now, it's all he really needs.
fin
A/N: it's. finally. done. ~____~ i apologize for my tendency to ramble, and also the blatant plugging i'm about to do next: tumblr! i need to follow people who are as unhealthily obsessed with the social network/andrew garfield/jesse eisenberg as i am! keke i'll definitely try to follow everyone back, but if i miss you just send a note to my askbox and i'll get to it :3 to be honest, i'm not very good with photoshop and the whole shebang, so mostly i just reblog a ton of shit and reply people's entries with lots of flail, so you have been forewarned n__n
Pairing: jesse eisenberg/andrew garfield, ft. copious amounts of emma stone
Rating: r
Genre: romance, angst, mild humor
Warnings: swearing, sexual themes, rps
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: future fic. fiddled with the spiderman production timeline to get it to work, so i guess in that sense this is alternate reality. could be considered a continuation (after a time jump) of someone you cannot reject, something i will not neglect. 6,660 words. a million thanks to the lovely underhand_glory for putting up with my whining about this. ♥
listen. the truth is,
nothing is guaranteed.
you know that more than anybody.
so don't be afraid. be alive.
( the truth about forever, sarah dessen )
Inevitably, the press junket ends, like they always knew it would.
There's a deluge of congratulations all around after their last press conference together, exchanges of personal email addresses and cell phone numbers and promises to keep in touch. But as insightful as Shakespeare might've been when he'd delved into the human psyche, he thinks, sometimes absence didn't make the heart grow fonder-sometimes stretching feelings of affection and love and friendship over long distances made it all the easier for them to dissipate, slip away like the wind between Andrew's fingers. If he's learned anything at all from the industry, it's that nothing ever lasts.
At any rate, Jesse's got filming for 30 Minutes or Less and the Zombieland sequel to occupy his time, and Andrew has to start thinking about playing Spiderman next year. David's been gone for weeks now to shoot The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo with Rooney and Aaron's moved on to other screenplays still in development. Rashida and Brenda have their TV shows. Over the course of the next several months, he will lose contact with the vast majority of the people he's just spent the past year with, and maybe, in a couple of years, he'll look back on this time with a sort of detached nostalgia, like it was all a vague dream he'd once had-a wonderful, splendid, warm dream that had ended as quickly as it had begun.
Everyone's there one day and gone the next, it seems-gone their separate ways, working on their separate projects. Jesse's texts and emails become increasingly impersonal after they finish doing DVD commentary for the movie, and somewhere down the line he just stops responding at all, and it's not like Andrew can make up excuses to fly to wherever Jesse is on his own flights of fancy. And there is Shannon to think about, poor, lovely Shannon with her long brown hair and honest eyes, Shannon who doesn't know that anything is even amiss. He doesn't want to hurt her-he's never wanted to hurt her, or anyone, but Andrew's always been bad at putting up masks and hiding himself behind patched-together lies.
And so it is that they break up, all messy, jagged edges and perfect fodder for tabloids mere days before he needs to fly to New York for Spiderman production in February. She's confused and doesn't understand, but Andrew knows exactly why they fell apart. He types an angry email in his drafts, says things like you've ruined me for life, you stupid fuck, ruined me with your stupid face and your fidgety hands and the way you used to press your fingers into my back-this is all your fucking fault and how could you do this to me, Jesse, it's not fair. Angry face. Perhaps the most maddening thing about the whole situation is that he's made Jesse such a substantial part of who he is, as dumb as it sounds in his head, and no matter what Jesse's done (no matter what he might do in the future), part of Andrew still loves him. And Jesse had, even if just for a fleeting moment-Jesse had loved him too.
Get yourself together, Carey replies sometimes after he's sent her a particularly pathetic text, it's not worth it. You're better than this. And eventually, he does-because even anger doesn't last, and pain becomes a minute, pounding ache in the back of his head that he's never really, fully aware of unless it's late at night and he's alone, pouring over the Spiderman script with soft music playing on iTunes or lying in bed and trying to fall asleep.
They all see each other again at the Academy Awards ceremony a month later, and a dull resignation beats in his chest when he sees Jesse on the red carpet, when he takes pictures with Carey, Keira, the rest of The Social Network's cast. Jesse seems intent on keeping at least Justin and Armie in between them at all times, but at the very end of the carpet, he manages to hook his arm inside the loop of Jesse's and pose in front of the flashing cameras, a smile plastered on his face.
Jesse scurries off but doesn't disappear fully out of his view for the rest of the night, if only because they're all sitting together near the front in case they win. ("There's no chance," Aaron keeps saying, and Jesse is nodding from his seat, but that doesn't stop Brenda from clutching his hand with tense, nervous energy when the other awards are announced.)
Carey wins best lead actress and accepts her award with a class and dignity that Andrew could only ever hope to achieve; later on in the night, Keira claims the Oscar for best supporting actress and Andrew is there with Carey as she climbs off the stage to bury her in their arms. Christopher Nolan wins best director and there's a short round of commiseration in their row, much patting of David's back and exchanging of looks behind it, and then the next minute they're announcing best supporting actor and they say his name-his name. There is a moment of disconnect, a sort of out-of-mind experience when the words Andrew Garfield, for Never Let Me Go ring through the auditorium, and then hands are pushing at him; he feels like he's floating as he walks toward the stage. When he's giving his speech he just wants to start crying into the microphone, but he can't-his eyes are dry- and in his heart of hearts he knows (he doesn't know how he does, but he does) he knows it's because there will be something bigger.
And there is-Aaron wins for best adapted screenplay and the whole audience laughs for a moment when Andrew keeps whooping after everyone else has stopped. Christopher Nolan and his brother win for best original screenplay. Five minutes later, Trent and Atticus are going up to accept their Oscar for the brilliant soundtrack they'd scored-and then Jesse's name is getting called for best lead actor and his jaw drops in that familiar, endearing way. "Year of the young blood, isn't it?" Aaron yells over the tumultuous swell of noise, and Andrew can only smile and nod.
The last few seconds that stretch out before them as Meryl opens the envelope for best motion picture feel like the longest of his life. He's gripping Justin's hand on one side and Brenda's clammy one in the other as Meryl leans forward into the mic, looks directly at him and says, with a distinct air of finality-The Social Network. There is a sudden swell of noise around them and the next moment they're all hugging, and oh, this is what he'd been waiting for (this is what they'd all been waiting for). He's sobbing into Justin's shoulder as they make their way up with Aaron and David and Kevin, Rashida and Max and Armie-and Jesse, who grins at him with this open, beautiful expression that Andrew can only half-see through a thick film of tears. Kevin's speaking to the standing ovation but Andrew can't hear what he's saying, and years later he probably won't remember what exactly was said because it's not important. What he'll remember (what's important) is Jesse putting his arms around Andrew's shoulders and hugging him, his face tucked into Andrew's neck like nothing had happened between them-he'll remember tears and joy and Brenda's hand in his and that look on Jesse's face, and how Armie manages to look small despite his height when Kevin hands him the Oscar, and Aaron wiping at Rooney's running mascara. He'll remember getting back down to their seats and finding Carey in the sea of people, he'll remember the way she hugs him like she never wants to let go, tiny hands against his spine and blonde hair just touching the underside of his chin.
When he gets home, tipsy from the after-party, clothes stained and disheveled, he deletes that email from his inbox.
Over the months, the cast and crew on the Spiderman set develop that familiar feeling of camaraderie. It helps that they're working with an enormous franchise (humbled by it, even) and he and Sally and Martin spend long hours together off set for their roles, and they're like second parents to him even though he's initially rather star struck. It just makes sense, and it fits, and having older actors there to help guide him through certain scenes mirrors Peter's own growth and development in the script. When they shoot Uncle Ben's death, the tears that drip down his face seem to be more his own than those of any fictional character he might be playing.
And Emma, sweet, expressive Emma who likes to prance around set just like he does, who has a smooth sense of humor and a refreshing tendency to laugh at herself-Emma is like the little sister he never had. She is charming and down-to-earth and significantly less neurotic than his previous co-star, but that doesn't stop her from reminding Andrew of Jesse when he's not careful, which is ridiculous because it's all sheer projection. Filming in balmy Los Angeles begins in May, and she drives him back to his hotel after especially grueling days of stunt shooting. Emma is a meticulous, careful driver; she stops at yellow lights, even if she could go past them, and never honks at tailgaters or the crazy ones who cut her off at intersections. One night, her phone rings twice during the course of the ride back, but she doesn’t check it until they're parked outside the hotel and Andrew's gathering his things from the trunk.
"Oh, hey," she says, leaning against the side of her car and waving the luminescent screen in his face. "It's Jesse."
Andrew breathes out through his nose and manages a lopsided smile. "Tell him I say hi."
"Sure," Emma says brightly, punching keys on her phone. "You two were fantastic in The Social Network, I loved it."
"Hey, thanks. I hope you aren't just being polite," he says, grinning. "Did you sympathize with me or Jesse?"
Emma gives him a knowing glance and crosses her arms. "Who do you think?"
"I don't know," he replies, shrugging.
"Sean Parker," Emma says cheekily, and Andrew groans, holding a hand to his heart. "I talked to him about it last year on set for Friends with Benefits."
"I'm sure he was pleased."
"No," she says, the lines of her face creasing as she smiles at him. "He told me I was missing the point."
"Which one?"
"That everyone had their reasons for doing what they did, and that it wasn't as black and white as who was right and who was wrong," she says. Andrew nods. "He likes to wax philosophic, doesn't he?"
"Justin? Yeah, he can be very insightful." Andrew laughs when Emma makes a face.
Her phone buzzes twice and she looks down, the touch-screen casting white rectangles on her face. "Jesse's in town, he says he might stop by the set tomorrow. Ah, bad timing-" she pouts a little bit, here, "tomorrow's the scene where we have to trudge through all that muck-"
"Yeah, unfortunate," he says, slamming the trunk door down to keep his hands from shaking. "Well," Andrew continues abruptly, ignoring her surprised expression, "it's getting late, you should go home and rest for the shoot tomorrow. Good night!" He flees before Emma can even open her mouth to respond.
She doesn't mention it the next day when she comes to pick him up, something he's immensely grateful for. The nervousness feels like it's set deep in his bones, though, and it's a subtle, barely-there unease: not the kind that makes him forget lines in the middle of a dialogue exchange or abruptly slip out of character, but the anxiousness that builds and creeps into scenes when it's not supposed to, the kind that makes them feel wrong even if his delivery is flawless.
"Are you okay?" Martin asks him when they break for lunch.
"I'm fine," he says resolutely. "Just a little nervous, that's all. I'll get over it." Martin gives him a concerned look but doesn't press the matter.
Andrew is in his trailer blasting Simon & Garfunkel and Damien Rice from his laptop speakers when Jesse arrives. There's a knock at the door and he yells that it's open before scrunching his eyes shut and focusing on the music.
When he opens them again, Jesse is standing there awkwardly and the only thing that comes to mind is that some things just never change. He looks exactly the same, and perhaps it makes sense because no matter how long it's felt, it's really only been half a year at most. There's the baseball cap shoved over flattened curls, ill-fitting gray jeans and a dress-shirt-and-vest combo that looks like it could've come from the Holy Rollers set (Andrew wouldn't be surprised if this turned out to be true), and those tiny, premature wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. Andrew feels a kind of relief at seeing them there, still, because it means he's been laughing. It means he's been happy.
The silence stretches on and Andrew feels frozen, like he's stuck to his chair; his tongue is glued to the top of his mouth, his breath sucked in as far as it can go. Jesse's eyes rake over his nondescript jacket and loose jeans, how he's still covered in mud from the morning's filming, and Jesse's eyebrows quirk up in the way they always had whenever Andrew had done something particularly idiosyncratic.
"Hey," Jesse says finally, shuffling his feet, his tone a mixture of apprehension and discomfort-and hearing his voice for the first time in months is what gets to Andrew, what propels him out of his seat to close the distance between them and slant his mouth over Jesse's.
Jesse relaxes into him for one, magnificent moment-and then he's pushing Andrew away, hands up like he's afraid Andrew's going to come at him again. "Stop," he stutters when Andrew steps forward, his arms pin-wheeling backward, teeth worrying at his lower lip. His gaze hones in on the floor next to Andrew's feet. "I just-Andrew, I just want to be your friend."
"I don't want friends," he says. Jesse jerks backward at the familiar line, but he stays quiet, doesn't take the bait. "Did you know," he continues, "that you never smile in pictures? There's always this blank, default expression on your face, or maybe a slight tilt of your mouth, but there's never a full out smile when the camera lights flash in front of you." He lets out a long, shaky breath. "Yeah, I've had to resort to looking at old photos of you just to remember, you know? To remember Paris and Milan and Japan, to remember your face and how happy we were, what it was like-and you know how pathetic that makes me, Jesse? Really, really fucking pathetic. I missed you," and then he's stepping forward again but Jesse's shaking his head, his face shuttered, and he nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to get to the door.
Andrew lets him go. The worst of it, he thinks later, is that he can't be mad at Jesse like Eduardo had been at Mark, because he understands. He gets it. He gets Jesse-he understands the separation anxiety and the irrational fear of change and taking comfort in what he has, in the routine Jesse's built up for himself over the years. And seven years-seven years of New York and Anna and that anthropology degree-is a long time.
Emma manages to corner him when they're finished for the day. (To be fair, Andrew would've gone to her eventually anyway, given that she's his ride home every night.) "What's going on with you and Jesse?" she asks, tapping her foot against the floor in a quick rat-a-tat and glaring up at him through her blonde bangs. She is concerned, in that real, heartfelt way that any good friend would be, and he files this detail away into the back of his mind.
"It's not important," he attempts to brush off, but she's not having any of it. If he were in her shoes, he probably wouldn't either.
"Not important my ass," she snaps, hands on her hips, blocking the car door. "Until you explain yourself, I'm blaming you for the fact that I didn't even get to talk to him before he ran out of your trailer, jumped back into his car and drove away. I thought you two were friends!"
"It's-complicated," he tries again.
Her arms are crossed now, and her stare feels like it's burning holes through to the back of his skull. (He'll have to ask her later how she does that, how she manages to make everyone feel small in the face of her wrath-or in this case, her worry.) "Try me."
Andrew eyes her, turns it over in his head. And then, "Shannon and I-there's a reason why I broke it off with her."
Emma looks confused for a second, and then it's like he can literally see the light bulb turning on above her head. "So that's what this is about? You're in love. With Jesse."
His silence says everything. Emma squints at him for a considering moment and Andrew feels not unlike bacterial specimen on a Petri dish. "Well," she says carefully after a long beat, "what are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing," he says, exhaling, and then he sees the conflicted expression on her face and it suddenly occurs to him that she'd just been filming with Jesse a few months prior, for Zombieland 2. She looks thoughtful and quiet and it scares him. "Look, I shouldn't have told you about it-I hate choosing sides when my friends are, you know, when they aren't getting along, and I'm sure you do, too, and-just forget about it, Emma." He takes her arm and tugs her aside gently so he can open the car door and climb in. On the ride back, they just listen to each other breathe.
In an effort to cheer him up, Emma manages to convince several members of the cast and crew to take him somewhere fun on their day off.
"So," he asks tentatively from the back seat of her car, squashed in between Justin the cameraman and Rhys. "What is laser tag, exactly?"
"Oh my God," she says, nearly veering into the next lane. "You poor, deprived child."
"Don't worry," Rhys says, grinning. "I got this." He proceeds to launch into a convoluted explanation of the physics, logistics and strategy of laser tag that completely goes over his head.
"He doesn't get a word you're saying," Emma says wryly five minutes into his speech. "Look," and Andrew shifts his gaze to her eyes in the rearview mirror, "you have a laser gun. You wear a full body suit. You run around a dark maze-like building and shoot everyone you see."
"Oh," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "I think I get that." Rhys sighs and leans back against the leather of the car seat, mumbling something about under-appreciation.
It turns out that Andrew is absolute shit at the game, and whether it's because he's never played it before or his cardio's just not up to the challenge, he doesn't know. "I'm so bad at this," he says at the end of the second round, buckling over to rest his hands on his knees, panting for breath. Sweat plasters his hair against his forehead. "I was a child gymnast, not a child assassin."
"You really are bad," Emma says, tapping her gun against the score-machine that's on continuous loop. "Bottom of the table twice in a row?"
"I can't aim! When I see someone, I shoot, but they don't get hit, and then they see me and I get hit."
Emma pats him on the back. "But you are having fun, aren't you?" Andrew pretends to think about it for a moment and she wails, punching his arm. "Come on, tell the truth-we can always go bowling or something if you don't want to stay."
"No," he says, clenching his jaw and hoisting his gun over his shoulder with purpose. "I'm going to win a game, you'll see."
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 5/28/10 2:25PM
Subject: lmao
haha andrew is like a kid in a candy shop right now
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 5/28/10 2:30PM
Subject: :|
... What are you doing?
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 5/28/10 2:42PM
Subject: doing fun things with his life!
did you know that he'd never been to laser-tag before? do they not have that in england?
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 5/28/10 3:12PM
Subject: Ew.
Emma, you do know how filthy and unsanitary those places are, don't you? What are you going to do if he can't deal with the germs and gets sick?
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 5/28/10 3:40PM
Subject: 8)
why do you care?
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 5/28/10 3:42PM
Subject: Don't be ridiculous.
I don't.
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 5/28/10 3:45PM
Subject: >:|
you are so dumb. you are really dumb. forreal.
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 5/28/10 3:46PM
Subject: ???
I don't get it, you just said the same thing three times?
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 5/28/10 4:03PM
Subject: ugh, boys.
... you know what? nevermind.
"I'm too tired to move, even," he announces dramatically when Emma's driven them back to the studio and the others have all left. "Blaming you if I'm sore on set tomorrow."
"Get used to it," she returns, shoving his shoulder. "You and Rhys are going to be shooting stunts all summer."
"That's what the doubles are for," he says, frowning, and she laughs, loud and clear.
The ride back to the hotel is stretched longer tonight because it seems like traffic control's giving them all the red lights. "So," Emma says, "the Tony awards are in June. We're not shooting that week, and I'd been planning to go." She glances at him, then back to the road. "Do you want to come? There are two guest rooms at my apartment in New York."
A pause. "You're not so good with subtlety, are you?" he says finally, exhaling. "Jesse's going to be there."
She grins, unrepentant. "Come on, it'll be fun. And you've been in stage productions before-there's no reason you shouldn't want to go."
"Nice try."
Emma sighs. "Look, Jesse might not be very well-adjusted, but he's still a gentleman, you know? He won't ignore you. He doesn't hate you."
"As long as he knows that-you know, that I love him and not in the funny haha-that-was-just-for-an-interview-and-I-meant-I-love-you-like-a-brother way-he's going to avoid me. And there's nothing I can do about it. You can't make someone love you."
"How do you know he doesn't already?"
Andrew throws her a disbelieving look. "Really? Are you really asking that question?"
"Hear me out, okay? This is my female intuition talking-and the fact that I've known him for longer than you have." Andrew makes a face and she punches him in the arm. "I think he's just being stupid. Worst case of denial in the history of mankind," she insists. "It all makes sense now. He'd always covertly ask about you when we were on set. Of course, then, I didn't know about this whole thing so I didn't really say much apart from the usual, oh, filming's going great! Andrew's very nice, but you knew that already because you were in a movie together." A beat of silence, and then-"If you like, I can talk to him for you."
"Emma," he says, "I appreciate it-no, really, I do, but it's not going to change things. He's made up his mind. Even if it were true-and it's not-he can't just throw his life away."
"Oh, the symmetry's just beautiful-you're in denial, too! Does that make it easier for you to deal with?" Andrew frowns. "He doesn't know what's good for him," Emma continues, gripping the steering wheel hard. "He wouldn't know a good thing if it hit him in the face because he's so afraid-"
"I know!" He shakes his head. "I know. Just-give it time, okay? Give it time."
"Right, and what are you going to do when he proposes to Anna? When they get married? Because that's what's going to happen-she's sweet and she loves him and she represents everything static in his life. He can't deal with impulsive, on-the-fly decisions, so he just chooses to ignore that route entirely. Instead of facing his problems-facing you-he just hides from them and hopes they'll go away on their own."
"So what am I supposed to do about it? I can't change who he is. I can't even change who I am."
She shrugs. They're pulling into the hotel parking lot now. "I don't know how, but you'll have to make him really think about it, really consider it. And if I'm right-and I think I am-then everything will fall into place."
"You're such a guru," he says drily.
"Thanks, I’m here all week," Emma says, smiling. "And how about that awards ceremony? Let's go together, as friends." She parks the car neatly and turns to face him. "I'm sure Kieran will be fine with it."
"Throwback to middle school dances," Andrew snorts, "but alright." Emma lets out a loud whoop and drums on the steering wheel. The corners of his lips come up despite himself. "Don't get too excited now, I've been told I'm a very dull date."
"Don't be stupid," she sniffs. "It'll be fantastic."
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 6/03/10 9:03PM
Subject: new york!
so will i be seeing you at the tonies?
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 6/03/10 10:34PM
Subject: re: new york!
Yes! When are you flying in?
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 6/03/10 10:40PM
Subject: re: new york!
maybe the sunday night before? we don't have filming that week, which is nice.
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 6/03/10 10:45PM
Subject: Wait.
Wait, wait. Is there anyone coming with you?
From: Emma Stone
To: Jesse Eisenberg
Date: 6/03/10 10:46PM
Subject: why...
...do you want to know? does it matter?
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 6/03/10 10:51PM
Subject: Come on,
don't be like this, Emma.
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 6/03/10 11:02PM
Subject: Emma?
Are you going to answer my question?
From: Jesse Eisenberg
To: Emma Stone
Date: 6/03/10 11:20PM
Subject: Emma!
You can't just leave me hanging like that!
Perhaps it's a bad thing that he's gotten used to the weather in California because New York's just starting to heat up when they fly in for the Tonies the night before the ceremony. In the morning, they go to Madison Square Garden, and then Emma's dragging him down the avenue to look at suitable red carpet outfits. "You've got to look the part, don't you?" she reasons, and Andrew knows better than to stand between a woman and shopping. They share a steak and Portobello hero on the side of the road and he's barely had time to scarf down his half of the sandwich before he's getting whisked off to a salon to get his hair done.
"Is this really necessary?" he asks. Emma raises a cucumber slice off her eyelid and glares at him. "Okay! Okay."
The collar of the new suit itches uncomfortably when their ride pulls up at the carpet and they step out. "He's not going to be here," Andrew says, looking around.
She loops her arm through his and smiles for the flashing cameras. "You think he's going to miss the biggest Broadway awards ceremony of the year because of you?" Andrew glances down at her. "Think again."
"No," he grumbles. "I think the whole red carpet affair is going to put him off."
"You underestimate him," Emma says lightly.
And she's right: five minutes after they take their seats, Andrew glances back and sees Jesse emerging from a hoard of paparazzi. Emma gives him a little shove, but before he can get up, he sees Anna appear behind him, hand clutched in Jesse's. He swivels back to face the front. "Later," he mouths.
He stands with the ovation for Best Choreography and twists around to see Jesse staring straight at him. When they make eye contact, Jesse jumps a little, and he feels a moment of satisfaction that he can still elicit such a visible reaction from him. Emma starts feeding him notes scribbled on ripped pieces of napkin in the middle of the ceremony, tips on what to say and how exactly to hold himself and he's snorting into his open program.
Andrew glances back again during the montage of Best Book of a Musical; this time, Jesse catches his eye and then blatantly bends toward Anna, says something that makes her laugh into her palm. Emma doesn't ask any questions when he takes her hand, just squeezes it back.
"Later" decides to finally come soon after Elf, The Musical receives the Tony for Best Original Score, when Andrew turns again just in time to see Jesse making his way to the back of the concert hall towards the bathrooms.
"Be right back," he yells at Emma over the waves of applause. She waves him off with a wicked grin on her face.
The bathroom door's just swinging shut as he exits the auditorium. When he opens it again, Jesse's at the sink, head down, eyes closed, the whirring fluorescent lights casting fucking halos in his curly hair.
"You can't keep using her as a shield," Andrew breathes into the curve of his neck. "Especially not if you're going to the men's room." He takes a step backward as Jesse whirls around and clutches at the marble tabletop. "Asked Emma about me, did you? What did you want to know that I couldn't tell you myself?"
"I just-" Jesse starts weakly. "I just wanted to know how you were."
"I gave you my number," he says, and the air between them seems to thrum with tension. "I gave you my email, I gave you my fucking address, and I gave you my-" heart, he wants to say, but it's too much, and Jesse already knows anyway.
He doesn't speak, just shrinks into the counter. Andrew runs a hand through his hair. "Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"
"Why did you come?"
"Not just because of you, if that's what you're thinking," he hisses. "Actually-who am I kidding? I came because I knew you would be here. But you don't care about that, do you?"
"I-"
"I wish I knew how to stop loving you." His breath is coming out in harsh pants, now. "Will you answer one question for me?" Jesse doesn't reply, but he doesn't bolt out of the bathroom like Andrew's expected him to for the last five minutes either, so he plows on. "Can you look me in the eyes-really, really look-and say you feel nothing for me?"
The mask falls, then-Jesse's face is a sea of raw emotion, fear and hurt and pain scrawled across it, and Andrew can't look, has to stare at the linoleum of the bathroom floor instead. When he glances up again Jesse's mouth is open, like he's about to speak, and Andrew leans forward, eyes snapping in frustration-
Andrew's phone starts ringing its jaunty tune at that exact moment and he swallows, closes his eyes as if that'll make the interruption disappear.
It doesn't. He pulls his phone out-caller ID says Shannon Woodward and he lets out a long, heavy sigh. Jesse still looks like a cornered animal against the counter but his face is unreadable again, that studiously schooled expression back in place. Andrew shakes his head, knows that he's lost him. "I have to take this call." Jesse nods tightly and eases out from between Andrew and the sinks.
He puts the phone to his ear and listens to the door squeak shut.
It goes like this: Shannon is a sobbing mess on the other end of the line, but Andrew manages to calm her down. He feels like crying himself by the end of the call, and when he leaves the bathroom and gets back to the auditorium, Jesse is long gone, Anna with him.
Emma sees the look on his face when he returns and doesn't ask any questions. They're invited to an after-party, but she declines for both of them and opts to drive him home. It starts raining in the middle of the ride-perfect, he thinks moodily. "There's alcohol in the apartment," she murmurs as he climbs out of the car, hands over his head in a vain attempt to fend off the sudden downpour. "I have to meet up with Kieran in half an hour, but help yourself. Try not to break anything."
"I'm sorry," he tries, but she waves him off.
The apartment is blessedly dry. There's Grey Goose in the wine cooler and he pulls it out after he changes, pours himself a glass and sinks onto the couch, doesn't even bother to turn the lights on. The next time he looks at the digital clock, it says three in the morning and the vodka doesn't even burn anymore as the last of it slips down his throat.
He doesn't hear the knocking on the door until it's risen to a considerable volume, and even then, he can't see anything when he looks through the peephole. "Who is it?" he yells, leaning against the door to keep his balance. The knocking stops for a moment, and then resumes.
"God damn," he swears when he drags it open, "you're a persistent fucker-"
It's Jesse. His clothes are plastered to his body and he's dripping all over the landing floor, blinking water out of his eyes as they trickle from his long bangs. "I could say the same thing about you," he retorts.
Andrew doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. "How did you know I was here?"
Jesse holds up his phone and Andrew leans forward, focuses hard enough to see Emma's name swim across his vision. "I have her number."
"Okay. A more apt question," he slurs, "would be, what the hell are you doing here?"
"Would you like the long version or the short version?"
He holds a hand to his head in an effort to stop it from spinning. "Don't fuck around with me, Jesse. It's too late for this shit."
"Okay," Jesse says, and then he's stepping forward with a loud squelch. One moment, he's staring at the bridge of Jesse's nose and the next, there are wet hands in his hair and Jesse's kissing him, Jesse fucking Eisenberg is kissing him and it's the most glorious thing in the world even though he's wasted beyond belief and he feels like he's about to pass out any second.
And then the reality of it sets in and now he's the one pushing Jesse away, and Andrew doesn't know when the tables turned but this is really fucking backward. Jesse closes the apartment door behind him.
Andrew tousles his hair and raises a hand. "I don't want a pity fuck, Jesse. Get out of the apartment. You have a girlfriend."
"Not anymore. Anna broke up with me."
The world seems to tilt on its axis for a moment. "What. What?"
"It was a mutual thing." Jesse steps forward. Andrew scoots back. "After the ceremony she said that I was always a good actor but never a very good liar, except maybe to myself. She told me she couldn't give me what I wanted."
"And what do you want?"
"Does it matter?"
"Very much, yes."
Jesse cocks his head to the side and looks at him. "You."
Andrew feels naked. He backs into the kitchen. "Aren't you scared?"
"Shitless."
"You can't just-you're not allowed to just change your mind like that."
"I thought about it a lot, actually." Andrew lets out a shaky breath, and he's mortified to feel tears of exhaustion pooling at the corners of his eyes. "Oh, God, don't cry-I can't handle crying."
He wipes angrily at his face. "It's not like I'm doing it on purpose. I'm just tired-I haven't been sleeping well. No thanks to you." He pauses, pulls a new bottle of vodka out of the cooler and pours them both glasses before he realizes what he's doing. "This is still all your fault. You aren't forgiven."
Jesse takes a glass from him before he accidentally smashes it against the floor. "I know."
They drink for a bit in the pregnant silence. Then-"I'm going to regret letting you in the house, aren't I?"
"Maybe not," he says, setting his empty cup down. He takes Andrew's out of his loose grasp and places it gently on the counter. His eyes are bright in the darkness. "Well?"
Andrew reaches unsteady fingers out to touch Jesse's cheek and feels a visceral tug in his chest when Jesse closes his eyes and turns his face into Andrew's hand. "Jesus-are you sure about this?"
"Not at all," he replies, bringing his hand up to cup Andrew's. "But that's the beauty of it, isn't it?"
And maybe it's because he's drunk out of his mind, or because his heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest, or just that Jesse is real and warm and solid in front of him-but it doesn't matter why, just that he's bending forward, breathing the same air that Jesse is for that one instant before their mouths connect. Somehow, they make it to his guest room without tripping over anything, and then it's just a lot of fumbling and touching and undressing, Jesse murmuring apologies (things like I'm sorry and I'll make it up to you and right now I'm just glad you don't hate me) into his throat and sweeping his fingers everywhere until Andrew feels like the taut string of a violin, strung almost all the way past its limit but just not-quite-there.
He wakes up in the morning with the worst hangover of his life-and to an empty bed. "Fuck," he breathes into his pillow before rolling over and sitting up, eyes squeezed shut against streams of too-bright sun pouring in from the window. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"We didn't get around to it, no," comes a voice. Andrew cracks his eyes open again and sees Jesse's mop of curls framed against the doorway. "You passed out before anything happened." The edge of the bed dips when he sits down. "Painkillers?"
"Thanks," he croaks. It tastes like something's crawled into his mouth and died but he doesn't care-he downs the pills and then catches Jesse's mouth with his, kisses him long and hard until they're both out of breath.
"And a very good morning to you, too." Andrew peers around Jesse's head at a sleepy-eyed Emma leaning against the open door. "Did you end up using the lube I told you to get?"
Jesse recoils into his chest, stuttering out protestations, and Andrew laughs, really laughs, head thrown back against the headboard. Emma winks at him and disappears into the living room, yelling something about breakfast in fifteen minutes.
Jesse's still babbling about the lube and Andrew shuts him up with another kiss. Right now, it's all he really needs.
fin
A/N: it's. finally. done. ~____~ i apologize for my tendency to ramble, and also the blatant plugging i'm about to do next: tumblr! i need to follow people who are as unhealthily obsessed with the social network/andrew garfield/jesse eisenberg as i am! keke i'll definitely try to follow everyone back, but if i miss you just send a note to my askbox and i'll get to it :3 to be honest, i'm not very good with photoshop and the whole shebang, so mostly i just reblog a ton of shit and reply people's entries with lots of flail, so you have been forewarned n__n