(no subject)
minor jesse eisenberg/andrew garfield ;; michael cera (rps)
pg-13
notes:
(1) you guys have go to bear with me, with this. i don't...yeah.
(2) written for this prompt in the tsn_kinkmeme.
part one;
it starts becoming a problem when jesse meets andrew.
it isn't right away. when they first lock eyes the lump in jesse's throat is honestly just because he has a terrible cough and he's been trying to conceal it. it's stupid he knows, he's got the part and no cold is going to change that. but. he holds it in his throat, feels it burn in his chest, and that's pain and stupidity, it's not love.
it becomes love when they're a month into filming and andrew. andrew gets his guitar shipped to their apartment in boston and he settles down on jesse's bed with the curve of the navy blue body on his knee and says, "i've had this thing for years and guess what?"
jesse says, "what?" without looking up from his laptop - trying to curve his fingers in a way that doesn't say 'i steer clear of electronics' - and andrew says, "i can't play a note."
jesse looks up from the screen. it's the middle of their day off and the sun's coming in bright from the window and jesse. his room is so white. the sheets, the walls, the carpet, his skin. and andrew. he stands out with all his color and the light's just halo'ing around him and. jesse wants to take a picture but he doesn't have a camera.
"you own a guitar but can't play guitar. am i getting this right?"
and andrew. he ducks his head. there's a smirk at his mouth but there's red dusted at his cheeks and he's sort of ashamed. his moving his hand over the strings. "yeah, yeah, it's pretty. idiotic, right?"
jesse pulls his bottom lip into his mouth. he doesn't want to say, "yeah," but it's the first word that settles on his tongue and. he stops himself. he pushes the laptop from his lap, lets it teeter a bit to the side before he thinks - 'mark would never do this' - and closes it. he reaches out for the guitar. his arms are outstretched and he's sitting against the headboard and andrew's near the edge and he tilts his head in confusion before he grins and says, "what? can you play?" and he doesn't believe him.
and jesse doesn't say anything but it's his movements that speak louder. the way he takes the guitar by the neck, props it properly over his legs and settles his fingers on the fret board in a "g" chord. a standard chord. the first chord he learned. and he's about to strum with his fingers because he doesn't need a pick and there's not one in sight when.
he's not exactly sure what he's playing. it's a random string of notes that forms some sort of melodic tone that his sister calls "tori amos-esque" before she says, "you're such a bleeding chick, jess," and he doesn't know what that means but he's sure it's not a compliment. but he never tries to change up his style. it's just all soft mewls of the strings humming against the air with a harsh thrum here or there, abrupt and cold and jesse's been told it makes their - the listener's - hair stand on end.
andrew, though. jesse doesn't.
he puts his hand over the strings to silence them. he looks up at andrew who's leaning a lot closer now with his brown eyes wide and filled with. jesse doesn't want to say admiration but. and his mouth is parted when he looks from jesse's eyes and drops to his hands on the guitar and he says, "holy shit, jess."
and yeah, maybe. maybe he's a little bit in love with the way that andrew crawls over his sheets. the way his black pants and red shirt splatter so loudly amongst his things. maybe he's in love with the way andrew crosses his legs, right in front of him, hands folded on his lap as he says, "can you...can you play something else?" and he's nervous. andrew's nibbling on the bottom of his lip and he's wringing his hands and he says, "for me," like he's ashamed and jesse.
jesse says, "sure. okay. yeah. anytime."
and andrew's smile is slow but bright and sure. and yeah, maybe. maybe he's just a little bit in love with that too.
.
jesse only notices the problem that night.
it's hours after the guitar which is lying carefully on his bedroom floor, right next to the laptop that jesse forgot to turn off and he can hear it, overheating quietly in the room. his inner-mark is telling him to get up and shut it off. preserve it. care for it. but he doesn't. he can't bring himself to move out of andrew's arms because. after the guitar, after the music, in the middle of a fleeting lyric andrew had pressed his mouth to jesse's and jesse had balled his hands in andrew's shirt and andrew had unbuttoned his jeans and jesse had ran his tongue down his neck. and they didn't do much but kiss and rub against each other until they came but jesse. he feels sedated and tired. in the best way.
it's when andrew says, "i can't believe you know that song, jess," that jesse looks down at him. at andrew who's laying on his naked chest.
he says, "what song?"
and jesse feels his mouth smiling on his skin. "you know, that one," and he starts humming and when jesse doesn't say anything. he just stares down at him, confused. andrew laughs. "you're not...you're not going to make me sing it are you?" and yeah. yeah jesse is. because he doesn't know what he's talking about. and andrew's voice is rough around the words, "you're a part time lover and a full-time friend," and jesse. jesse feels his blood run cold.
andrew takes his stiff state as acknowledgment and his grin becomes wider as he says, "exactly. that song." and he turns his head so jesse can't see his reaction. so andrew can't see his either. and andrew says, "i never would've pegged you as a juno fan."
and though he doesn't want to move - jesse - he wants to puke.
.
he's not a juno fan.
for three months he's been working up the courage to say those words to andrew who, pokes fun at him on set, and. a few days after the first time they have sex tells him, "you might still have my underwear but i have your virginity," and jesse. he has to laugh because. justin's got his head thrown back and josh's cackling behind his hand and they're both waiting and watching and listening out for jesse to say something. something witty and biting that's both funny and slightly scathing at the same time but. this isn't funny. not to him. so he just smiles and nods and says, "good one, andrew," and walks away.
it's not funny because. he's not a juno fan. he's just.
he can't even admit to himself.
he just is michael cera.
.
that's why his mouth tightens whenever anyone mentions that they're so similar, or twins, or, at some blogs, they're the same person.
and jesse knows that everyone's kidding. that it's a ha-ha real good joke but that doesn't stop that sliver of fear from crawling up his back. and his paranoia, that pesky prickling paranoia that whispers in his ear they know, jesse, they know. and he has to pop another pill. he has to lock himself in his room. he has to drink some water. he has to listen to some music.
he has to call his sister and ask her why. why he let this shit get so out of hand.
.
when he's seven his mother tells him, "michael cera doesn't exist. come on, jess, say it with me." and jesse with all that hair and with his arms crossed over his chest, shakes his head, and says, "he does exist. he's right here and he does exist."
right here is the empty chair at the dining room table. right here is the spot where his older sister tried to sit and jesse started screaming until she moved because right here is where she was squishing him. michael cera.
his mother sighs. she puts her head in her hands and before she looks up at his father, who's sitting at the head of the table, eating. like nothing's wrong because, "he's fine, sharon. he's seven years old. they have imaginary friends. you're the clown, embrace his creativity."
and his mother says, "i do embrace his creativity." his mother says she lets him do theater, she lets him paint pictures, she lets him sing show tunes in the car, she'll let him put on a tutu and dance, swan lake, if he wants but she isn't going to let this imaginary friend fester anymore.
his father shrugs. he goes back to his potatoes.
and his mother turns back to him and says, "michael cera doesn't exist."
and jesse, he says, "he does, mom. he does."
.
but for a while, he didn't.
jesse turned ten and he stopped talking about michael cera. stopped acknowledging him all together. his older sister would tease him, say, "did you and cera have a fight?" and jesse wouldn't even look up from his paper. he would just write and write and ignore her.
his mother was ecstatic. his father shrugged. his little sister blinked because she was too young to even know what was going on.
michael cera didn't exist all throughout middle school.
it wasn't until ninth grade, when jesse wanted to try acting in films, that he woke up one morning, stumbled out of the bathroom, and there was michael cera, sitting on the edge of his bed.
jesse doesn't really recognize him. they were the same age when he was little and they're the same age now but. when they were younger they looked eerily alike. same hair. same eyes. same nose. but michael. he's grown up and out jesse's features, and into his own. and where jesse could stand to gain a few pounds, michael could stand to lose some.
his head pops up from where he's been picking at jesse's tattered comforter and he says, "hey, fuck you. im not fat."
jesse. literally. jumps. "i didn't...i didn't even say anything."
and he didn't. because the sheer thought of him seeing his imaginary (his therapist finally got him to come around to admit that yes, michael was imaginary) friend again was. well. rendering him speechless.
and his hands were shaking and he had to get ready for school because if he wasn't dressed in ten minutes his mom was going to come upstairs, into his room, and ask him what was taking him so long. then she would look to his bed, see michael and become concerned to the point of passing out. or she wouldn't see michael and be even more concerned and jesse.
"dude. you have got to stop freaking out, man."
michael was so calm. he kicked his legs up on jesse's bed, put his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling as he says, "your mom can't see me, remember. she doesn't even think im real."
jesse pulls his towel closer around his waist. "you're not real. you're not. my therapist said that i was just making you up and-"
"and you believed that shit?" michael shook his head. "man, i should've never left. you need me like urkel needs his inhaler."
jesse doesn't. jesse doesn't know what michael is talking about. he doesn't know who urkel is and he hopes. he hopes he isn't going to appear either because he has a science test today and he can. not. deal with this right now.
he says so, aloud, and starts clamoring about his room for a t-shirt, underwear, and a pair of jeans. michael doesn't seem to hear him. he's just laying there, humming happily to himself.
jesse wants to ask, 'why are you here?' he wants to ask, 'why now?' but there are footsteps coming up the stairs. his mother's footsteps. and michael just pats him on his shoulder and says, "all in good time my friend," before his bedroom door opens and jesse turns to find his mother, standing there, with her head cocked to the side.
and although jesse knows he hasn't said anything in the length of the time that his mother would be able to hear it, he still panics, when his mother asks, "jess. who are you talking to?"
.
his therapist, the one he's had since he was seven, doesn't know how to deal with michael.
jesse is fine. jesse is. well, jesse's one of his best patients and he tells him this after session with him. his large, meaty hand slams down on his shoulder and he says, "mr. eisenberg, you're making progress," with a grin that would be intimidating, if it wasn't mostly hidden beneath his bushy mustache.
but michael.
"mr. eisenberg," his therapist says, leaning forward so his elbows are on his knees and his hands are crossed in front of him. "you do know that michael, he...he doesn't exist."
jesse cocks his head to the side because, "no. no, you see, he does. that's why i brought him he's right here."
right here is the second cushion of the purple couch. right here is where jesse always sits but michael ran into the room, sat down first and yelled, "finders keepers". right here is where michael sits, his head to the ceiling as he blows spit bubbles.
jesse's therapist. he makes a small, "hmm," sound that flutters his mustache and he sits back in his chair and inspects jesse's face because. his eyes are so wide and wild and he's fighting back tears because michael. he's real. jesse can see him. every inch of him. and he can hear him. he can smell him. and he can touch him.
his therapist, though, he just grabs his notebook from the small desk beside him, says, "hmm," and begins to write.
.
that night, jesse hears his mother sobbing from the bedroom.
he's holding his pillow over his ear, the other pressed to his bed and michael, who usually goes away at night, lays on his bedroom floor and says, "dude. im really not that bad. im cool as fuck right?"
and jesse. he holds his pillow tighter.
part two coming soon.
pg-13
notes:
(1) you guys have go to bear with me, with this. i don't...yeah.
(2) written for this prompt in the tsn_kinkmeme.
part one;
it starts becoming a problem when jesse meets andrew.
it isn't right away. when they first lock eyes the lump in jesse's throat is honestly just because he has a terrible cough and he's been trying to conceal it. it's stupid he knows, he's got the part and no cold is going to change that. but. he holds it in his throat, feels it burn in his chest, and that's pain and stupidity, it's not love.
it becomes love when they're a month into filming and andrew. andrew gets his guitar shipped to their apartment in boston and he settles down on jesse's bed with the curve of the navy blue body on his knee and says, "i've had this thing for years and guess what?"
jesse says, "what?" without looking up from his laptop - trying to curve his fingers in a way that doesn't say 'i steer clear of electronics' - and andrew says, "i can't play a note."
jesse looks up from the screen. it's the middle of their day off and the sun's coming in bright from the window and jesse. his room is so white. the sheets, the walls, the carpet, his skin. and andrew. he stands out with all his color and the light's just halo'ing around him and. jesse wants to take a picture but he doesn't have a camera.
"you own a guitar but can't play guitar. am i getting this right?"
and andrew. he ducks his head. there's a smirk at his mouth but there's red dusted at his cheeks and he's sort of ashamed. his moving his hand over the strings. "yeah, yeah, it's pretty. idiotic, right?"
jesse pulls his bottom lip into his mouth. he doesn't want to say, "yeah," but it's the first word that settles on his tongue and. he stops himself. he pushes the laptop from his lap, lets it teeter a bit to the side before he thinks - 'mark would never do this' - and closes it. he reaches out for the guitar. his arms are outstretched and he's sitting against the headboard and andrew's near the edge and he tilts his head in confusion before he grins and says, "what? can you play?" and he doesn't believe him.
and jesse doesn't say anything but it's his movements that speak louder. the way he takes the guitar by the neck, props it properly over his legs and settles his fingers on the fret board in a "g" chord. a standard chord. the first chord he learned. and he's about to strum with his fingers because he doesn't need a pick and there's not one in sight when.
he's not exactly sure what he's playing. it's a random string of notes that forms some sort of melodic tone that his sister calls "tori amos-esque" before she says, "you're such a bleeding chick, jess," and he doesn't know what that means but he's sure it's not a compliment. but he never tries to change up his style. it's just all soft mewls of the strings humming against the air with a harsh thrum here or there, abrupt and cold and jesse's been told it makes their - the listener's - hair stand on end.
andrew, though. jesse doesn't.
he puts his hand over the strings to silence them. he looks up at andrew who's leaning a lot closer now with his brown eyes wide and filled with. jesse doesn't want to say admiration but. and his mouth is parted when he looks from jesse's eyes and drops to his hands on the guitar and he says, "holy shit, jess."
and yeah, maybe. maybe he's a little bit in love with the way that andrew crawls over his sheets. the way his black pants and red shirt splatter so loudly amongst his things. maybe he's in love with the way andrew crosses his legs, right in front of him, hands folded on his lap as he says, "can you...can you play something else?" and he's nervous. andrew's nibbling on the bottom of his lip and he's wringing his hands and he says, "for me," like he's ashamed and jesse.
jesse says, "sure. okay. yeah. anytime."
and andrew's smile is slow but bright and sure. and yeah, maybe. maybe he's just a little bit in love with that too.
.
jesse only notices the problem that night.
it's hours after the guitar which is lying carefully on his bedroom floor, right next to the laptop that jesse forgot to turn off and he can hear it, overheating quietly in the room. his inner-mark is telling him to get up and shut it off. preserve it. care for it. but he doesn't. he can't bring himself to move out of andrew's arms because. after the guitar, after the music, in the middle of a fleeting lyric andrew had pressed his mouth to jesse's and jesse had balled his hands in andrew's shirt and andrew had unbuttoned his jeans and jesse had ran his tongue down his neck. and they didn't do much but kiss and rub against each other until they came but jesse. he feels sedated and tired. in the best way.
it's when andrew says, "i can't believe you know that song, jess," that jesse looks down at him. at andrew who's laying on his naked chest.
he says, "what song?"
and jesse feels his mouth smiling on his skin. "you know, that one," and he starts humming and when jesse doesn't say anything. he just stares down at him, confused. andrew laughs. "you're not...you're not going to make me sing it are you?" and yeah. yeah jesse is. because he doesn't know what he's talking about. and andrew's voice is rough around the words, "you're a part time lover and a full-time friend," and jesse. jesse feels his blood run cold.
andrew takes his stiff state as acknowledgment and his grin becomes wider as he says, "exactly. that song." and he turns his head so jesse can't see his reaction. so andrew can't see his either. and andrew says, "i never would've pegged you as a juno fan."
and though he doesn't want to move - jesse - he wants to puke.
.
he's not a juno fan.
for three months he's been working up the courage to say those words to andrew who, pokes fun at him on set, and. a few days after the first time they have sex tells him, "you might still have my underwear but i have your virginity," and jesse. he has to laugh because. justin's got his head thrown back and josh's cackling behind his hand and they're both waiting and watching and listening out for jesse to say something. something witty and biting that's both funny and slightly scathing at the same time but. this isn't funny. not to him. so he just smiles and nods and says, "good one, andrew," and walks away.
it's not funny because. he's not a juno fan. he's just.
he can't even admit to himself.
he just is michael cera.
.
that's why his mouth tightens whenever anyone mentions that they're so similar, or twins, or, at some blogs, they're the same person.
and jesse knows that everyone's kidding. that it's a ha-ha real good joke but that doesn't stop that sliver of fear from crawling up his back. and his paranoia, that pesky prickling paranoia that whispers in his ear they know, jesse, they know. and he has to pop another pill. he has to lock himself in his room. he has to drink some water. he has to listen to some music.
he has to call his sister and ask her why. why he let this shit get so out of hand.
.
when he's seven his mother tells him, "michael cera doesn't exist. come on, jess, say it with me." and jesse with all that hair and with his arms crossed over his chest, shakes his head, and says, "he does exist. he's right here and he does exist."
right here is the empty chair at the dining room table. right here is the spot where his older sister tried to sit and jesse started screaming until she moved because right here is where she was squishing him. michael cera.
his mother sighs. she puts her head in her hands and before she looks up at his father, who's sitting at the head of the table, eating. like nothing's wrong because, "he's fine, sharon. he's seven years old. they have imaginary friends. you're the clown, embrace his creativity."
and his mother says, "i do embrace his creativity." his mother says she lets him do theater, she lets him paint pictures, she lets him sing show tunes in the car, she'll let him put on a tutu and dance, swan lake, if he wants but she isn't going to let this imaginary friend fester anymore.
his father shrugs. he goes back to his potatoes.
and his mother turns back to him and says, "michael cera doesn't exist."
and jesse, he says, "he does, mom. he does."
.
but for a while, he didn't.
jesse turned ten and he stopped talking about michael cera. stopped acknowledging him all together. his older sister would tease him, say, "did you and cera have a fight?" and jesse wouldn't even look up from his paper. he would just write and write and ignore her.
his mother was ecstatic. his father shrugged. his little sister blinked because she was too young to even know what was going on.
michael cera didn't exist all throughout middle school.
it wasn't until ninth grade, when jesse wanted to try acting in films, that he woke up one morning, stumbled out of the bathroom, and there was michael cera, sitting on the edge of his bed.
jesse doesn't really recognize him. they were the same age when he was little and they're the same age now but. when they were younger they looked eerily alike. same hair. same eyes. same nose. but michael. he's grown up and out jesse's features, and into his own. and where jesse could stand to gain a few pounds, michael could stand to lose some.
his head pops up from where he's been picking at jesse's tattered comforter and he says, "hey, fuck you. im not fat."
jesse. literally. jumps. "i didn't...i didn't even say anything."
and he didn't. because the sheer thought of him seeing his imaginary (his therapist finally got him to come around to admit that yes, michael was imaginary) friend again was. well. rendering him speechless.
and his hands were shaking and he had to get ready for school because if he wasn't dressed in ten minutes his mom was going to come upstairs, into his room, and ask him what was taking him so long. then she would look to his bed, see michael and become concerned to the point of passing out. or she wouldn't see michael and be even more concerned and jesse.
"dude. you have got to stop freaking out, man."
michael was so calm. he kicked his legs up on jesse's bed, put his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling as he says, "your mom can't see me, remember. she doesn't even think im real."
jesse pulls his towel closer around his waist. "you're not real. you're not. my therapist said that i was just making you up and-"
"and you believed that shit?" michael shook his head. "man, i should've never left. you need me like urkel needs his inhaler."
jesse doesn't. jesse doesn't know what michael is talking about. he doesn't know who urkel is and he hopes. he hopes he isn't going to appear either because he has a science test today and he can. not. deal with this right now.
he says so, aloud, and starts clamoring about his room for a t-shirt, underwear, and a pair of jeans. michael doesn't seem to hear him. he's just laying there, humming happily to himself.
jesse wants to ask, 'why are you here?' he wants to ask, 'why now?' but there are footsteps coming up the stairs. his mother's footsteps. and michael just pats him on his shoulder and says, "all in good time my friend," before his bedroom door opens and jesse turns to find his mother, standing there, with her head cocked to the side.
and although jesse knows he hasn't said anything in the length of the time that his mother would be able to hear it, he still panics, when his mother asks, "jess. who are you talking to?"
.
his therapist, the one he's had since he was seven, doesn't know how to deal with michael.
jesse is fine. jesse is. well, jesse's one of his best patients and he tells him this after session with him. his large, meaty hand slams down on his shoulder and he says, "mr. eisenberg, you're making progress," with a grin that would be intimidating, if it wasn't mostly hidden beneath his bushy mustache.
but michael.
"mr. eisenberg," his therapist says, leaning forward so his elbows are on his knees and his hands are crossed in front of him. "you do know that michael, he...he doesn't exist."
jesse cocks his head to the side because, "no. no, you see, he does. that's why i brought him he's right here."
right here is the second cushion of the purple couch. right here is where jesse always sits but michael ran into the room, sat down first and yelled, "finders keepers". right here is where michael sits, his head to the ceiling as he blows spit bubbles.
jesse's therapist. he makes a small, "hmm," sound that flutters his mustache and he sits back in his chair and inspects jesse's face because. his eyes are so wide and wild and he's fighting back tears because michael. he's real. jesse can see him. every inch of him. and he can hear him. he can smell him. and he can touch him.
his therapist, though, he just grabs his notebook from the small desk beside him, says, "hmm," and begins to write.
.
that night, jesse hears his mother sobbing from the bedroom.
he's holding his pillow over his ear, the other pressed to his bed and michael, who usually goes away at night, lays on his bedroom floor and says, "dude. im really not that bad. im cool as fuck right?"
and jesse. he holds his pillow tighter.
part two coming soon.