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fill | heavy in your arms [4b/?]

[anonymous]

The noise quietens, and he thinks, vaguely, that he’s been left there to suffer in his shame until he dies. But there’s a hand on his shoulder, and a voice, quiet, that says ‘Garfield, Andrew, hey.’

Andrew swallows around a hiccup, flattens his nose against the tiles, as if he could disappear into the ground. ‘Andrew, look at me?’

He does. It takes a mammoth effort, but he does. There’s a guard, one single guard, and he’s kneeling by Andrew’s shoulder.

‘Jesus.’ It’s Sorkin, which Andrew processes with some kind of remote relief. Sorkin likes Jesse, Sorkin isn’t all bad. (Sorkin let it happen.) ‘I know what they say you did, but Jesus.’

Andrew can’t think, is barely aware that there is now a towel around his lower half. He doesn’t want to move.

‘Can you stand for me, Andrew?’ Sorkin asks. It’s tender, it’s the most tender experience he’s had since Jesse slid into bed with Andrew that night. The act makes Andrew shake harder, cry more brokenly. He scrabbles against the tiles, finds some kind of balance and kneels. His arse burns, all of him hurts, broken open and abandoned.

He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t, doesn’t, doesn’t. (Or does he? A flash of Carey, spread out under him, wet spots on the pillow case.)

Sorkin gives him some clothes gently, helps Andrew tug his grey sweatshirt over his head, pull on the white boxer shorts, then the blue sweatpants. Andrew doesn’t care about his dignity, it’s gone, he has nothing left to give.

His guard pulls away his blanket when they reach the cell, helps him settle into it so he can bury his head in the pillow. Andrew barely hears the buzz of the cell door clanging closed, just feels desperate relief - he’s safe, no one can reach him in here. He pulls the small blanket over his chin, pushes his feet right down the crease at the bottom of the too-small mattress, and falls asleep.