(no subject)
who? Andrew Wells and Charlie Dalton.
when? early last month, sometime between April fool's and the geassing.
what? Andrew brings Charlie a birthday gift. Charlie hits on him (duh), they argue philosophy and gayness, and then he finds out that he wasn't really important in his canon. long and unfinished, feel free to skip~ Greenie and I are crazy, that's all.
He doesn't have to deliver it in person. Andrew knows that, but he's here anyway. The paper-thin DVD case sticks to his sweaty fingers in the elevator. He's had it for a long time now, downloaded off the 'net in fifteen parts and pieced painstakingly together in hospital so that the scenes run together smoothly. Trying to fix the slight pixellation over some scenes, the warble in the music. He'd considered handing it over to all four of them at his little Welcome Home party when Charlie had crashed, but he'd forgotten in the hubbub and by the end he didn't want anything to do with Charlie Dalton anymore.
In his other hand he's got a book; not part of the deal, but Andrew's throwing it in because it helped him through some of his issues and he can feel Stephen Fry's uncanny resemblence to Charlie. The lying, the rage, the insecurity and entitlement, the boarding school bravado. And of course, the Love that Dare Not etc. Which, if Andrew's honest with himself (and when is he ever?) is the real reason he's here, knocking on the door in Pisces - wasn't this Cordelia's old apartment? Probably better not to think about Cordelia right now.
Andrew shakes himself mentally. It's not as clandestine as his nerves are making it seem. He doesn't have to deliver in person, but even if he iss a little disgusted by Charlie Dalton, horrified even, the young man holds a certain sway which Andrew is partial to. "Hey, uh, Charlie?" he calls out - not too loud, because he doesn't want this getting back to Warren ever, but loud enough. His fingers tap over the wood of the door, one-two-three, one-two-three. "It's Andrew, um, Andrew Wells." The quaver in his own voice is ridiculous. "I have your movie."
As far as everyone knows, Charlie spends every waking minute planning revolution or doing other Very Important Things. And usually, this is true - everything he does is important, of course, and these days revolution is never far from his mind. But after the events down at Petrelli's office (the blinding rage that followed, getting progressively more drunk with the Captain and venting with his head in his hands) he's mostly been laying on his couch, reading the same poems over and over and just trying not to think. Flipping coins to cut school entirely, flat on his back with Ginsberg in his face, clicking his teeth and letting the words numb him.
That's why it takes him a moment to register the sound, and when he does, everything suddenly becomes much sharper. No more nonsense black-on-white imagery fogging everything in his mind. "Andrew Wells," he says to himself, the placeholder smirk spreading across his face. One of the many, many people on the network who holds Charlie's fascination for reasons he can't discern. As much as the guy professes to hate him (as much as many people profess to hate him, for that matter) he never stays away. No one does. Even Cordelia's bad at avoiding him, and she actually has reason to.
Glass of wine in hand and conspicuously shirtless, because it's just how he's come to exist in Babylon, Charlie fumbles with the handle and uses his foot to nudge open the door. Hibari Kyouya can go to hell; he still hasn't gotten used to not being able to use his right hand. "Hi," Charlie says unnecessarily, pushing the door open wider. "I didn't think you'd actually bring it, you know. Thanks." He knows it's unnerving when he just stares at people like this, intense and cocksure, but he doesn't break eye contact as he gestures with the glass to the empty apartment. "You can come in for a while. It's the least I can do." Andrew's hard to track down at best, and it's unusual that he spends much time with anyone but Kennit and Kaitlin these days, so as long as he's got him here, he may as well try to keep him.
Focus on Andrew always makes him uncomfortable, like sun through a magnifying glass; warm at first, but after a little bit the familiar signs of embarrassment start to show themselves in the cast of his eyes, the way his fingers still like a rabbit who knows he's been sensed. He steps through the door, and its innocent click should be a clang, steel bars or a six-inch-thick door, the slow stone groan as he descends into the Mines of Moria...
Abruptly, he holds out the DVD and the book, packaged together in his hands. "I found this the other day and thought of you... I read it in high school, so um." Andrew tilts his head, trying to banish the appearance of being nervous even if the tightness in his stomach remains infuriatingly there. God damn Charlie Dalton with his clever tongue and crazy pirate boyfriend and infuriatingly attractive shirtlessness. "Happy birthday, right?"
Being friends with girls (or straight guys) is so much easier, and Andrew avoids Charlie's eyes and stares into the swirling red depths of the wine in his hand instead. Giving up on finding anything in there to help him, Andrew moves over and flops onto the couch in the overgrown puppydog way he has, hair in his eyes and limbs all over the place. He's staying, and if Charlie Dalton (it's an uncomfortable name to think and Andrew always finds he's slipping into Nuwanda but that's erring a little too much on the side of encouragement- he doesn't want to be friends) if Charlie Dalton so much as touches him Andrew will bang down hard on his bandaged hand, and fair play can go die in a black hole.
Well. That was easier than expected. He's used to fighting for what he wants, but Charlie still likes it when things - and people, especially people - just fall into his lap. "Thank you," he says, a little more genuinely, tucking the wine glass in the crook of his sling to take the proffered gifts. He doesn't want to think too hard about having his life, his - whatever the word is, his canon in his hands. "How sweet," he murmurs, mostly for his own benefit, flipping pages of the book. It's not poetry, so god know why it would remind Andrew of him, but he's not complaining.
"Shouldn't you be with Mears?" is the next thing out of his mouth, though it isn't accusatory. Charlie drops onto the couch next to Andrew, legs crossed in front of him and the gifts in his lap. He just cocks his head a little and polishes off at least half of the wine, but he never, ever looks away. "I'm not saying you should leave, of course," Charlie says with a grin around the rim of the glass. That's definitely not what he's saying.
It isn't like he's going to do anything (he's something like a bird with clipped wings nowadays; not that Charlie minds, oddly enough) but still. Playing with people has always been one of his favorite hobbies, right up there with fighting and the sax. So he just blinks a few times at Andrew, that quizzical smile still on his face, daring him to tell Charlie why he's here.
Andrew's head hits the back of the couch and his eyes wander the ceiling as he takes in that question. "Huh," he says, just a short, bitter expulsion of air. "No. Well. Probably? Whatever, I don't know." Well, that was only about six different answers. Andrew rolls his eyes, his face a parody of long-suffering as his gaze slides back down, parting the air and resting on Charlie again; he squints a little with one eye, because it's clearer that way. "Shouldn't you be off with your crazy pirate?" he asks, moving his head forward, one eyebrow raising, all the scorn he could manage poured into those words.
But Andrew's temperament is quicksilver, and he grins again almost immediately; it wipes the ugly emotions off his face, makes him look young. Propping up his head (Andrew likes to see the world at a permanently askew angle, just fifteen degrees to the left) he pulls a knee to his chest and considers Charlie. Maybe it's a little hint of rebellion against Warren, and maybe Andrew just loves playing with matches. Gasoline-soaked matches. His grin fades a little. "I wanted to bring you the stuff... I mean like, I figure it's polite to stay, and since you said you wouldn't kill Warren and all I'm just being sort of extra-nice." He beams. "But I still don't like you, so don't get the wrong idea or anything."
Andrew watches Charlie's fingers on glass, the sling making him think of epic battles, duels at dawn or dusk. His (vivid) imagination always seems to come out to play around strangers, or at least relatively unfamiliar aquaintences, and he lets it wander, bar specific directions. Lines drawn in the sand. "And if you try and make this into something it's not and I don't know, rub it in Warren's face, I'll just kill you, okay?" It's an empty threat, but Andrew makes sure it doesn't sound it. He's killed people before, right? Well, Jonathan. It's not like he's completely unintimidating.
"Not crazy," Charlie says automatically, underneath Andrew's words, though he doesn't answer the question. Just shrugs one shoulder and keeps swirling the glass in his hand. He spends most days and every night with Kennit, and the hours in between trying to get him out of his head. Charlie internalizes people just so they'll be real to him, and since he got here, no one's been more real. Sometimes (very rarely, but sometimes) it's unnerving, so silence can help.
Torture isn't murder, and it isn't always physical, either. He does hope that Mears finds out about this. God, does he ever. He's bottling up all of his fury for when his hand heals, and he wants Mears to have a reason to give it as good as he gets. But he won't be the one to tell him, no. It's more fun through the grapevine. "I wouldn't dream of it," Charlie says, a little false innocence creeping into his voice. But the prospect of Andrew even trying to hurt him makes Charlie's smirk start up again. It's not like they keep it a secret on the network, and anyone could kill Jonathan Levinson. Still, Charlie recognizes the edge in his voice and concedes, just a little. "Mears will never know, and, I'm sorry to say, I won't lay a finger on you." If he could keep the devil out of his grin for more than two seconds at a time, it would be a miracle. Charlie doesn't believe in those.
But he does finish off the glass of wine and set it on the floor, busying himself with undoing his sling instead. It's completely unnecessary, but Dr. Cox had forced him to wear it when he left the hospital, ranting about how he wasn't convinced that the searing pain of crushed fingers would be enough to keep him from trying to use his bad hand. "What's on your mind?" he asks idly once he's done, running his free hand through his hair. As much as their triad of dramatics can bore Charlie, he still watches everything on the network, filing away meticulous mental notes about everyone and everything, and he knows that Andrew isn't all sunshine and flowers.
Andrew scoffs a little at the not crazy, but doesn't press the point. Nuwanda should know by now how insane everyone thinks he is and besides, who's Andrew to talk? He hums a sigh.
If Charlie won't lay a finger on him then it doesn't matter if Warren knows or not, which is why the smirk makes Andrew's jaw tighten; he's lying, or at least his promise is a lie, and this is a bad idea. He watches with a sort of horrified appreciation as the sling comes off; the flex of Charlie's muscles is provocative purely because it shouldn't be, and Andrew kicks himself mentally. He doesn't look at the injury; not more than a glance, he knows by now how uncomfortable someone staring can be.
"Still wanna know which hurt more?" he murmurs, and then bites his tongue. Not here to pick a fight, because that's Warren's thing. But if that's the case, then why is he here? The fact that his brain keeps lingering on leaving, a constant battle of should-i-stay-or-should-i-go which a masochistic part of him doesn't entirely mind... that in itself should be an indicator of why he shouldn't be sitting opposite a shirtless Charlie Dalton, who he wants to call Nuwanda (it almost comes out of his mouth, every time, and he says Charlie Dalton instead so as not to give the wrong idea. But he's watched Dead Poets Society too many times to think of him as anything else.) "Listen," he says, looking up at Charlie, finding this is the first time in a while he's found someone whose shoulder he doesn't want to cry on. "Do you want me to watch your movie with you?" What he means is: can I, of course, be wants it to seem a little more charitable. The whole Neil thing is probably more traumatic if you knew the guy. Know the guy. "I mean, I'll get it if you say no, I think I'd die if someone watched Buffy episodes with me but uh. Yeah."
The question catches him off guard - not the first (he knows now, thanks to stalking the network) but definitely the second. Charlie just quirks an eyebrow and mulls it over for a few seconds. Knox has made it expressly clear that he doesn't want to see their movie, though Charlie knows he could talk his best friend into anything. On the other hand, he doesn't want Neil to see it. Ever. The only other person who might care, he realizes with a little bitterness, would be Kennit. And even then... though Charlie's well aware that if the Captain's books existed in this world, he'd read them all in one sitting, he isn't sure if it goes both ways. It's just a movie, he tells himself. A stupid movie. Of his life. Part of it, anyway, and which parts-
"Yes," he says suddenly, eyes snapping out of his reverie and back on Andrew. "Yeah, sure. That's a little fucked up, but what isn't in this world?" Charlie keeps talking as he collects the movie and wanders across the room to fiddle with the DVD player. This modernized way of life is still bullshit, though he knows how to work things. Mostly thanks to Cordelia (a huge step over the faded bloodstain and the stabbing pang of guilt that he feels every single fucking time, despite himself). "It works, you've seen it and I've lived it. No surprises." Crouched in front of the television and waiting for the player to load, Charlie shoots a grin over his shoulder. "I'd watch your show," he says, virility paint coating his voice. He has to wonder if that part's in the movie, too.
There's a sick thrill resting in his throat when he rejoins Andrew, reaching for the rationed pack of cigarettes he keeps on the end table. "I'm going to have to smoke, sorry," he says fleetingly as it starts up. Cameron's fucking face is the first thing to catch Charlie's attention. Never thought he'd see that again. Cigarette clamped in his mouth and the lighter clicking away in his hands, he throws another raised-eyebrow glance at Andrew and mumbles, "Am I going to like this?"
Of course Nuwanda'd watch Andrew's show, he bets a lot of people wouldn't mind that (don't think of Mukuro, it's easier) and the point is Andrew was hideously embarrassed at having even Jonathan see even fractions of his life; sometimes, watching it, he's embarrassed for himself. Someone like Charlie doing a running commentary doesn't even bear considering. Andrew means it; he'd just sink down into the floor and die. The very thought of it, he tells himself, is why he's flushing a little, glancing down at the carpet and - when he spots the stain - just as quickly back up to the TV. Andrew is very good at not thinking about things, at ignoring the crazy words that tumble out of people's mouths and pretending everything is normal, normal, normal.
"I don't mind," he says about the cigarette, and there's an abrupt lurch in his stomach as the smell of tobacco hits him, something Andrew has always associated purely with Spike. I Spy ("Something that starts wi--" "Dead nerd." "I'll be good!") Watching Passions in the basement, and this is nothing like that at all.
He can recognize something in Charlie's gaze, then, maybe like a mirror held up to his own anxiety. "Probably not," Andrew tells him honestly. Because your best friend dies. Because you're expelled from Welton. Because you're a crazy little ball of rage... but he can't say any of those things. Instead he watches. Beginning of term; Todd's on the screen, and then Neil. Andrew finds he's watching Charlie instead of the movie, and when he's caught he glances away, fingers sliding awkwardly over his lips.
There's a reason Charlie was determined to watch their movie alone first, so no one would see his knee-jerk reactions. He doesn't want to give Andrew the satisfaction, but that doesn't stop him from choking a little on smoke when he's watching himself. There's nothing that isn't completely fucking bizarre about this, and he misses Knox, and he misses Neil, and he misses his friends not thinking he's an insane man. It's all rubbing salt in a fresh wound, but Charlie just coughs a little to cover up anything he might want to say.
It's funny, how Babylon and politics and revolution have increased his temper tenfold. Things that made him angry when he actually lived them now make his heart pound in his ears and his blood boil - it doesn't matter that they're in the past. In fact, reliving it just makes them worse. "Distract me," Charlie says quickly when Mr. Perry drags Neil out into the hall. Why doesn't he let you do what you want? It feels like a lifetime ago, and he keeps thinking of how he'd handle the situation differently now. With what he knows. With what he can do. "Do you smoke? Here." He turns to Andrew and holds out the half-burned cigarette.
"I won't watch until Keating shows up," and even then, that's not exactly his favorite idea ever. Charlie breathes and forces himself to detach from the movie. It was fiction. Entertainment. Like poetry. He can think of it like poetry, and it's easier that way, so he just smiles and leans in. "You have to wonder if the things that they don't show ever really happened," Charlie muses, the mischief in his tone not entirely an accident.
So maybe it's a little sick, to want to watch Charlie squirm. It's not as if the reverse isn't true, Andrew knows that, so he doesn't feel too bad about wanting to be here as it all goes on ('slick' and 'keen', Andrew remembers with horror his talk-like-a-fifties-schoolboy phase he'd had when he was about sixteen.) And to distract Charlie. Of course. At least that's one thing Andrew's getting good at.
Andrew takes the cigarette and holds it hesitantly between forefinger and thumb while he listens to Charlie; tentatively he raises it to his lips, not wanting to seem a total 'tard. But it probably would have been better if he'd just admitted he didn't smoke; he'd given up the pipe after a few months of fruitless wheezing. A short drag and Andrew chokes, his eyes watering; his cough splutters ash onto his pants, which he brushes at frantically. Handing the cigarette back to Charlie. "I have asthma," he mutters automatically, injury excuses leftover from high school. He isn't blushing, but he can feel his ears are red, and he glowers at Charlie, daring him to laugh.
The smoke isn't the only reason he's spluttering. But ignoring Charlie's incredibly unsubtle implications at what went on between-the-scenes - not to mention quashing his own fanboy curiosity on the subject - this is an argument he's been over a thousand times. Andrew's embarrassment fades swiftly and his tone turns thoughtful. "Did any of it happen?" he ssks. Warren has the scientific theory to say yes, it all happened. Andrew still thoroughly believes all he has is his memories. It wasn't real, couldn't have been. The light of conviction is in his eyes. "I mean, maybe when we came through that portal, that's uhm. I dunno. The first time we ever really lived."
"It happened," Charlie says resolutely, leaning his head on the couch and giving Andrew a sideways glance, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. "They can't create memories for us. If we remember it, then it happened." This is venturing into dangerous territory (it's real because it's in my mind, it's in my mind because it's real; you, Andrew Wells, are not either of those), here be dragons, and that's never deterred Charlie before. "Not that I believe the bullshit that scientists and Petrelli throw at us, but this," gesturing vaguely at the screen, Keating's whistling in the back of his mind, "All of this happened."
He shouldn't be leaning in so close to Andrew Wells, and he knows that, but Charlie's convinced that if he isn't in someone's face, then they aren't really focusing on him. "I've got the scars to prove it," he says jovially, waving his injured hand a little and letting it land perilously close to Andrew's leg - but he won't lay a finger on him. Definitely not. "You probably do too. Things like that don't just appear out of nowhere," but everyone's reality is only relative to their own experiences, unique to their own mind, can only be understood through analogy and all analogies are false. Any scars Andrew Wells bears are no more and no less real than Charlie's own, but he keeps all of this where it should be, trapped under his tongue with the rest of his ideas.
"Keating would hate it here," he adds idly, turning his gaze back to the television but never backing away from Andrew.
"That's all built from the ground up. They like, pulled us with our memories and scars and all that stuff..." Andrew trailed off. Warren argues with cold, hard, science; apparently Charlie argues with philosophy. He can't win against either. All Andrew knows is that he needs it to have just been fictional.
A slight shift and he's backing into the corner of the couch, subtle movements away from Charlie's skin. He pulls his legs up to hold in front of him like a shield, arms wrapped around; it always makes him feel like a little kid, sitting like this, but it's comforting, too. "It doesn't matter anyway." Most of what Andrew remembers, or chooses to remember, never happened anyway. Maybe that's why he can believe the fictional stuff; his whole life's a lie? Well, how's that any different from normal. Everyone's been saying alternate realities lately, but isn't that straight out of fiction, too? He grimaces. "I mean, everyone remembers stuff differently anyway." He remembers reading a study about how witnesses at crime scenes would recall different car colors, different street names, different times... "It's all relative."
Andrew shrugs, turns back to the screen, tries not to be awkward because that would make it obvious he's noticed how close Charlie is and turn it into a big deal. Which it isn't. He rolls his eyes and relaxes. Because he's not interested - well, maybe he's fascinated a little, and he knows Charlie's flirting gets a reaction out of him but when he looks in himself, he knows that he's not. Better to just politely enjoy the attention - it wasn't as though he received it a lot. "What are you doing to your hair?" he asks with amusement, the part of his mind not over-analyzing the situation still watching the movie.
It matters. To someone who's currently coin-flipping between taking over and escaping entirely, it matters. Charlie keeps having nightmares about ending up in Welton instead of the other world, right back to where he left off, and would he lose his memories of Babylon? Would time have continued on? Would it be snowing, would his father still be guiding him by the back of his neck, what the fuck would he do. But that's why he doesn't sleep, reminding himself that no one can make him go back to that world (even as it plays in front of him; bizarre, bizarre) and that he's meant for bigger things, anyway.
"Good question," he laughs, scrutinizing the scene. Too many memories. Way, way too many. His hair's longer now, and he's stopped that little mirror ritual he had back at Welton. Times of change and all. "That coach hated me. I think it's because I dated his daughter sophomore year." As much as Charlie may want to fight it, he's getting used to this, making all sorts of disconnects in his logic so that his babbling won't escape at Andrew. "And they," he adds when Knox meets Chris, the tease, for the first time, "Don't end up staying together. True love, right?"
It's actually kind of fun, filling in the blanks for Andrew. Charlie's quiet as he watches and finishes up his cigarette, watching Knox, the fool. "Book-ripping!" His face lights up instantly. For the days when this was his ultimate act of rebellion - though, truly, he likes swordplay better. But there's a certain sort of nostalgia in this. "How inspiring, and we haven't even gotten to the emotional junk yet," Charlie murmurs, pulling one knee up in front of him and resting his chin on it. "If you have your nerdy questions, feel free to fire away," he tacks on, grinning at the screen.
Hand up to his mouth and Andrew chews on his thumbnail as he watches, a habit he can't break no matter who's in the room with him. He grins around it when Keating comes on because he's always thought Robin Williams was pretty hilarious. He wonders what it would be like for Charlie watching, say, Good Morning Vietnam. Or better, better, anything with his own actor in. Doing and saying things he never did and said. Andrew remembers finding Transformers and the horrible feeling of vertigo he'd had when halfway through the movie there was his face, unexpectedly on the laptop screen. Maybe not better after all.
The Knox and Chris thing doesn't really surprise Andrew, but it upsets his idea of how a movie should be. Just knowing the people on the screen are real and walk around doing other stuff, beyond whatever Peter Weir had scripted for them.. the meta-textual reality of it makes the movie less enjoyable as something to escape into, which is all movies ever are for Andrew, and he finds he does have a lot of questions. What was Keating like? What other classes did you have? What was Todd's brother's name? Who were those girls you brought to the cave? The million pointless pieces of information Andrew always wants to know when he watches something.
The primary one, however, is personal. Andrew knows it says a lot about him, and that Charlie mightn't even answer, but he has to ask. "So were you and Knox..." he pauses, glances over, mimics Charlie's innuendo-filled eyebrow raise with a hint of a smirk.
Charlie wants to roll his eyes and hit Andrew for asking, but on the other hand. There's no one more obvious. So he just inclines his head a little, locks on with Andrew, and matches his expression a thousand times over. "No." Because they weren't. He's an awful liar, but partial truths work better anyway. "He's my best friend," Charlie says pointedly, eyes boring holes into Andrew's own. "Like Mears is your best friend? Or Levinson, but that's not what I'm getting at."
Babylon has eased away all of the usual excuses that everyone liked to toss around. All boys' school, things happen. Too long without girls. Too long without anyone. But Charlie's never believed that of himself, he likes what he likes and gets what he wants and that's that. It's all very simple. "And not Neil," he adds on, smiling like the devil, like temptation. "Not at Welton, anyway. But there's a lot of shit they aren't showing." Women swooned and gods were created - Keating got that right, but they're missing the first soccer practice, they're missing getting in trouble for eating with their right hands, they're missing his father. Though that last part is really okay with Charlie. The glimpse in the beginning that lasted less than half a second had been more than enough to remind him of everything he's fighting against and add extra vibrancy to the dreams that plague him.
"Why do you ask?" They're escaping to the cave, and Charlie just sets his jaw and looks at Andrew instead. He knows that he's not exactly subtle, with Knox, with Neil, with anyone, but it still strikes him as a strange question when Andrew's barely been around him. Maybe they left more in the movie than he thought.
Andrew wants to giggle, feels the laughter rising like bile or hysteria in the back of his throat. Does Charlie know how apt that comparison is? Of course he does, the look in his eyes, the dark quirk of seduction in his smile, there is no way Andrew can escape it. The reality that he and Warren and Jonathan aren't like the boys in the movie. He shrugs, lowers his eyes without blushing. "Warren and I," he says, and if he had an end to that sentence it's never forthcoming. At least Nuwanda already knows (sometimes Andrew thinks everybody knows by now, and that thought makes him cringe and pours sweet, warm honey through his belly.)
A soft hiss of exasperation from between Andrew's teeth, cool over his fingers. "Fine, whatever." He's fairly sure Charlie's lying, or else he's telling the truth and wants to be lying, it's the same difference either way. He shoots a sideways glance that's almost sly. "I was just cuuurious." It's a bit of a singsong; but he is. Who else is there he could talk to about stuff like this that isn't a ridiculously literal ex-vengeance demon or a bitchy pedophilic hairdresser?
It occurs to Andrew that his taste in people is a little left of center.
They're throwing down food and reading poetry onscreen; Andrew always liked this bit. "I mean, the entire thing with Neil was an obvious metaphor for repressed homosexuality, but you and Knox I just kinda liked."
Charlie's fishing out another cigarette when Andrew says it, and something about the statement bothers him immensely. "Neil as a metaphor for repressed homosexuality," he repeats, a hard edge creeping into his voice whether he wants it to or not. He's quick to forget his promise, clapping his hand down on Andrew's knee and leaning forward to look him in the eye. "Don't say he's a metaphor, alright? Don't say that." It was all fiction, entertainment, it had to have those layers - but Neil's here now, and Charlie can't think of him as a metaphor.
Then, of course, his mind switches gears almost instantly. He hears his own voice reading Cowley and mentally recites along, fingers tensing just slightly. "Or you could tell me what Knox and I were metaphors for," Charlie suggests, not bothering to shush the derisive tone. Still, he's smiling when he says it. He usually smiles, through vague threats and fist fights and everything else. It adds an element of surprise, of not knowing what he'll do next. Charlie does like to keep people guessing up until the very end, pouncing with no presupposition, catching their blind side.
But he doesn't hurt Andrew Wells. Or jump him. Just keeps glancing expectantly between the screen and Andrew, eyebrows raised. Waiting for the answer.
Probably that was the wrong thing to say. It had come from Andrew's geek side, as though he was here watching the movie with Jonathan, MST3K-ing it up. Speaking of, the lighting in this movie is really weird... this time, he manages to keep the comment to himself. This is Charlie's life we're watching, he reminds himself, but even with Nuwanda's hand on his leg, which Andrew slides away but not enough to really shake it off. "Wow, sorry." Even with the physical presence, it still just feels like DPS, watching for the sap, skipping the death scene with its terrible music, remembering watching it bored in a sticky English classroom.
A glance: Charlie's still smiling brightly and Andrew doesn't register that it might be bad news; the sharpness of the tone catches at him and nothing more. "Less than repressed homo--?" he begins to suggest, catches the manic gleam in Charlie's eye, and shuts up. It takes him a moment to notice, but he's still edging away from Charlie millimeter by millimeter, his body coiling itself in a different direction, his head tilting away and his jaw tensing. "Maybe I should just not talk about the movie," he mutters aloud to himself, shifting again, this time so his back's against the armrest, pulling his legs up between his body and Charlie. An obvious back off, even as he's making sheepish excuses: "I had to study it for English, all the dumb stuff I made up for my paper's probably stayed with me."
In one fluid motion, Charlie pulls back and taps out another cigarette. "You can talk about it," he says nonchalantly, covering up his own discomfort as he searches for the lighter. "Just don't call us metaphors or- or say shit about actors, I don't know." He's assuming the least predatory position he knows, not wanting to scare Andrew off; legs stretched out and sockfeet propped up on the coffee table in front of them, his good hand clasped behind his head. He doesn't speak for a while, doesn't look at Andrew, just watches the movie unfold in front of him. Some things he's forgotten (Keating's impressions, what rowing felt like) and others are as clear as if they were yesterday (standing on desks, to feel taller).
When it's just Neil and Todd, Charlie takes the cigarette from his mouth to blow smoke in the air. "Wonder what would've happened if he just hadn't tried out," he muses, both to himself and to Andrew. "Then again, that wouldn't have been very carpe diem of him. Wouldn't have made for a good movie, either." Every time he utters those two words anymore, it's a little bitter, unfamiliar in his own mouth. Carpe diem means Welton, carpe diem means the cave and the congo creeping through the black and a different captain entirely. It doesn't belong in Babylon.
"Also, Knox is a fucking stalker." Charlie laughs when he says it, but he misses when Knox used to be proactive, even if he was an idiot about it. Yeah, go tell her how you feel, that's a great idea - ignoring the obvious sarcasm in Charlie's voice, his eyes lighting up at the very idea. And he did it, the fool. The complete and utter fool, sitting on his bike and staring at the girl who wasn't good enough for him. Typical.
But Andrew finds his questions seem stupid and unimportant now. He just watches the movie, and watches Charlie watching the movie, inwardly still analysing the anatomy of every scene, picking it apart.
Once upon a time when every brush of skin had to be accidental, every glance had to be innocent, Andrew had developed a way of watching television that involved sprawling all over the other person; it feels unnatural to be curled up in his corner like this and he relaxes, just a little. "Then it would have been a movie about you," he points out dryly, which he's fairly sure Charlie would think subject matter for a fantastic film.
The Knox comment has Andrew's gaze snapping around, because it's the tone Warren uses to make fun of Andrew, except not. Andrew swallows; Warren comparisons? Bad. Also strangely apt. But definitely bad.
"Did they really break up?" Andrew asks, and what he meant to be a skeptical tone comes out smaller. Trust Charlie Dalton to find away to ruin even a movie's happy ending. "I mean, she was kind of a bitch, but some guys like that sort of thing, I guess."
"She was," Charlie agrees, taking another drag between his words. "And they did. Not that I was around to see this part, but they stayed together for a while, he found out he didn't really know her, she decided she liked Chet Danbury better than the romantic poet who bit off more than he could chew." There's no hiding the bitterness in Charlie's voice, the months of listening to Knox blather about this girl he didn't even know, the knowledge that she wasn't good enough. All he wants is for Knox to be happy. Happiness requires a girl to complete him, and that's an awfully high standard. In the meantime. There's only one person good enough for Knox, and he hates this train of thought, so he's off of it quickly. "She didn't deserve him."
To indeed be a god. It's been a mantra in his head ever since that day, under the constant chorus of Plath and Ginsberg and Wordsworth that color every other corner of his thoughts. It's still the most true thing about him. Let it fill your soul. "It should have been about me," he says blithely, shooting another grin at Andrew. "It would've been better, I promise you. Not that this is bad, but think of it - a movie about my father, and Lake Champlain, and raising hell at Welton, and coming to Babylon, and you nerds, and Kennit." It's a little scary, how he can no longer imagine life without revolution and piracy. And that quiet place at the top of the dome where no one can touch them, where they belong. "It should have been," he repeats, a little more to himself. Maybe he wasn't interesting enough to be the protagonist. Not suicidal, not cripplingly shy, not hopelessly in love. Just the rebel. Movies about those don't end well. The smile Charlie gives Andrew is a little more subdued, a little sadder this time. Neil getting the part, and the poem about Chris in the background, but to Charlie it's still his story. It has to be.
Andrew takes in all of Charlie's words with consideration, narrowing his eyes and nodding his head. He still likes the idea of Knox and Charlie, enough that he isn't too upset about the movie's romance being spoiled. Enough that he gets a secret little thrill from the bitterness in Charlie's tone; he knows what that feels like.
"Uh," Andrew points out, dropping a leg and jiggling it idly as he raises an eyebrow at Charlie. "Sorry, hombre, but I don't think the crazy pirate can be in your film, he's got his own... whatever. Crazy pirate book." Admittedly, it sometimes bugs Andrew that he has no idea what Kennit's from; normally he can work it out, unless it was a show after his time. It's annoying because remembering useless trivia like which minor character belongs to which series is one of Andrew's major talents, and he's fallen through with this one. Yagami Raito, too; google turns up nothing, the store has nothing. All he knows is that he fucking loves coloring.
Charlie just rolls his eyes and waves his good hand at Andrew, brushing him off. "If it's a movie about my life," he repeats, ignoring the logical disconnect he's about to make, "Then he's in it." There is life before Babylon and life now, and Charlie has trouble distinguishing which is which anymore. Wasn't he a revolutionary then, too? Hasn't he always been? But the movie tells him otherwise, that he wasn't important at all - it's giving him hives to see how much they skipped over. Even Meeks and Pitts got their hi-fi system in.
"Don't call him crazy," Charlie says idly, undercutting Todd's impromptu poem. It still gives him a chill to hear it. To him, it isn't Todd speaking, it can't be; that isn't the boy who sputtered about what Keating would have wanted just a couple of months ago. But there's the look on Neil's face that Charlie never saw the first time around, and suddenly it all makes much more sense. That's how things are. Then, sharper, once it gets to the soccer match - "Seriously, don't call him crazy, or I can't be held accountable for my actions." It's less threatening, more smirking (though in its way, that's an equal threat) and Charlie settles back into the couch, curling one leg under him. Poetrusic, and everyone with their eyes glued to him - he's missed that feeling, and reliving it makes him feel powerful, his eyes sliding shut when the saxophone hits. Like going home again.
Just ignore it, just ignore it. It's the kind of circular argument Andrew usually likes, but it ties right back into the what's real and what's not question, which isn't what Andrew's interested in, and really, it's better not to piss of Charlie when they're alone in his apartment together.
"It's an affectionate nickname," says Andrew dryly, because otherwise he'll say he shot Cordelia. He eyes flicker to the stain on the floor again and his face twists in a sad expression that makes him look younger.
The saxophone scene. Andrew mouths along with the fragmented poetry, he loves this bit, this and the desk set and, just a little bit, the scene in the snow. He's grinning wide, looking over at Nuwanda and back to the screen, perfect mirror expressions of poetic bliss. "You're totally soloing Knox," he breathes mischievously, and it's true; the long sweet notes would be a tragic love song if it had been a girl sitting in the cave listening.
The song was never written for Knox. It was never written for anyone. Charlie remembers how little sleep he had been getting at the time, staying up and running notes through his head, scribbling them down alongside his poetry and trying to make them into what he really wants to say. Not to Knox, but to the whole world. This was his philosophy summed up in sounds and nonsense words; this was Charlie's S.O.S. call. It's still his favorite thing he's ever created (though the piece he's writing for Kennit's poem isn't bad, but he won't stop until it's perfect) and hearing it back, watching himself play it, is a trip.
"A little," he concedes, his voice low and humming. "He needed it at the time." Charlie runs his hand over his face, his exhaustion catching up with him, and lets it fall to his neck, resting there and tracing his fingers over his Adam's apple again and again. "Knox said no to me," he says, introspection starting to leak out in front of Andrew. Never a good sign. And his face is impassive, eyes still half-closed and faded smirk lingering.
He knows what Knox is like. If there's anything Charlie knows for certain, it's that his best friend falls for anything that happens in grand sweeps, and that's why he's been friends with Charlie. But he's bad, really bad, at figuring out what he wants beyond those. Charlie watches himself watching Knox, and if it was anyone else, he would have been encouraging. Those words wouldn't have come out of his mouth. You don't really think she means you're going with her. She'll hurt you, she isn't good enough. "I was a little obvious," Charlie grins, facing Andrew. "Your theories may not be entirely unfounded."
when? early last month, sometime between April fool's and the geassing.
what? Andrew brings Charlie a birthday gift. Charlie hits on him (duh), they argue philosophy and gayness, and then he finds out that he wasn't really important in his canon. long and unfinished, feel free to skip~ Greenie and I are crazy, that's all.
He doesn't have to deliver it in person. Andrew knows that, but he's here anyway. The paper-thin DVD case sticks to his sweaty fingers in the elevator. He's had it for a long time now, downloaded off the 'net in fifteen parts and pieced painstakingly together in hospital so that the scenes run together smoothly. Trying to fix the slight pixellation over some scenes, the warble in the music. He'd considered handing it over to all four of them at his little Welcome Home party when Charlie had crashed, but he'd forgotten in the hubbub and by the end he didn't want anything to do with Charlie Dalton anymore.
In his other hand he's got a book; not part of the deal, but Andrew's throwing it in because it helped him through some of his issues and he can feel Stephen Fry's uncanny resemblence to Charlie. The lying, the rage, the insecurity and entitlement, the boarding school bravado. And of course, the Love that Dare Not etc. Which, if Andrew's honest with himself (and when is he ever?) is the real reason he's here, knocking on the door in Pisces - wasn't this Cordelia's old apartment? Probably better not to think about Cordelia right now.
Andrew shakes himself mentally. It's not as clandestine as his nerves are making it seem. He doesn't have to deliver in person, but even if he iss a little disgusted by Charlie Dalton, horrified even, the young man holds a certain sway which Andrew is partial to. "Hey, uh, Charlie?" he calls out - not too loud, because he doesn't want this getting back to Warren ever, but loud enough. His fingers tap over the wood of the door, one-two-three, one-two-three. "It's Andrew, um, Andrew Wells." The quaver in his own voice is ridiculous. "I have your movie."
As far as everyone knows, Charlie spends every waking minute planning revolution or doing other Very Important Things. And usually, this is true - everything he does is important, of course, and these days revolution is never far from his mind. But after the events down at Petrelli's office (the blinding rage that followed, getting progressively more drunk with the Captain and venting with his head in his hands) he's mostly been laying on his couch, reading the same poems over and over and just trying not to think. Flipping coins to cut school entirely, flat on his back with Ginsberg in his face, clicking his teeth and letting the words numb him.
That's why it takes him a moment to register the sound, and when he does, everything suddenly becomes much sharper. No more nonsense black-on-white imagery fogging everything in his mind. "Andrew Wells," he says to himself, the placeholder smirk spreading across his face. One of the many, many people on the network who holds Charlie's fascination for reasons he can't discern. As much as the guy professes to hate him (as much as many people profess to hate him, for that matter) he never stays away. No one does. Even Cordelia's bad at avoiding him, and she actually has reason to.
Glass of wine in hand and conspicuously shirtless, because it's just how he's come to exist in Babylon, Charlie fumbles with the handle and uses his foot to nudge open the door. Hibari Kyouya can go to hell; he still hasn't gotten used to not being able to use his right hand. "Hi," Charlie says unnecessarily, pushing the door open wider. "I didn't think you'd actually bring it, you know. Thanks." He knows it's unnerving when he just stares at people like this, intense and cocksure, but he doesn't break eye contact as he gestures with the glass to the empty apartment. "You can come in for a while. It's the least I can do." Andrew's hard to track down at best, and it's unusual that he spends much time with anyone but Kennit and Kaitlin these days, so as long as he's got him here, he may as well try to keep him.
Focus on Andrew always makes him uncomfortable, like sun through a magnifying glass; warm at first, but after a little bit the familiar signs of embarrassment start to show themselves in the cast of his eyes, the way his fingers still like a rabbit who knows he's been sensed. He steps through the door, and its innocent click should be a clang, steel bars or a six-inch-thick door, the slow stone groan as he descends into the Mines of Moria...
Abruptly, he holds out the DVD and the book, packaged together in his hands. "I found this the other day and thought of you... I read it in high school, so um." Andrew tilts his head, trying to banish the appearance of being nervous even if the tightness in his stomach remains infuriatingly there. God damn Charlie Dalton with his clever tongue and crazy pirate boyfriend and infuriatingly attractive shirtlessness. "Happy birthday, right?"
Being friends with girls (or straight guys) is so much easier, and Andrew avoids Charlie's eyes and stares into the swirling red depths of the wine in his hand instead. Giving up on finding anything in there to help him, Andrew moves over and flops onto the couch in the overgrown puppydog way he has, hair in his eyes and limbs all over the place. He's staying, and if Charlie Dalton (it's an uncomfortable name to think and Andrew always finds he's slipping into Nuwanda but that's erring a little too much on the side of encouragement- he doesn't want to be friends) if Charlie Dalton so much as touches him Andrew will bang down hard on his bandaged hand, and fair play can go die in a black hole.
Well. That was easier than expected. He's used to fighting for what he wants, but Charlie still likes it when things - and people, especially people - just fall into his lap. "Thank you," he says, a little more genuinely, tucking the wine glass in the crook of his sling to take the proffered gifts. He doesn't want to think too hard about having his life, his - whatever the word is, his canon in his hands. "How sweet," he murmurs, mostly for his own benefit, flipping pages of the book. It's not poetry, so god know why it would remind Andrew of him, but he's not complaining.
"Shouldn't you be with Mears?" is the next thing out of his mouth, though it isn't accusatory. Charlie drops onto the couch next to Andrew, legs crossed in front of him and the gifts in his lap. He just cocks his head a little and polishes off at least half of the wine, but he never, ever looks away. "I'm not saying you should leave, of course," Charlie says with a grin around the rim of the glass. That's definitely not what he's saying.
It isn't like he's going to do anything (he's something like a bird with clipped wings nowadays; not that Charlie minds, oddly enough) but still. Playing with people has always been one of his favorite hobbies, right up there with fighting and the sax. So he just blinks a few times at Andrew, that quizzical smile still on his face, daring him to tell Charlie why he's here.
Andrew's head hits the back of the couch and his eyes wander the ceiling as he takes in that question. "Huh," he says, just a short, bitter expulsion of air. "No. Well. Probably? Whatever, I don't know." Well, that was only about six different answers. Andrew rolls his eyes, his face a parody of long-suffering as his gaze slides back down, parting the air and resting on Charlie again; he squints a little with one eye, because it's clearer that way. "Shouldn't you be off with your crazy pirate?" he asks, moving his head forward, one eyebrow raising, all the scorn he could manage poured into those words.
But Andrew's temperament is quicksilver, and he grins again almost immediately; it wipes the ugly emotions off his face, makes him look young. Propping up his head (Andrew likes to see the world at a permanently askew angle, just fifteen degrees to the left) he pulls a knee to his chest and considers Charlie. Maybe it's a little hint of rebellion against Warren, and maybe Andrew just loves playing with matches. Gasoline-soaked matches. His grin fades a little. "I wanted to bring you the stuff... I mean like, I figure it's polite to stay, and since you said you wouldn't kill Warren and all I'm just being sort of extra-nice." He beams. "But I still don't like you, so don't get the wrong idea or anything."
Andrew watches Charlie's fingers on glass, the sling making him think of epic battles, duels at dawn or dusk. His (vivid) imagination always seems to come out to play around strangers, or at least relatively unfamiliar aquaintences, and he lets it wander, bar specific directions. Lines drawn in the sand. "And if you try and make this into something it's not and I don't know, rub it in Warren's face, I'll just kill you, okay?" It's an empty threat, but Andrew makes sure it doesn't sound it. He's killed people before, right? Well, Jonathan. It's not like he's completely unintimidating.
"Not crazy," Charlie says automatically, underneath Andrew's words, though he doesn't answer the question. Just shrugs one shoulder and keeps swirling the glass in his hand. He spends most days and every night with Kennit, and the hours in between trying to get him out of his head. Charlie internalizes people just so they'll be real to him, and since he got here, no one's been more real. Sometimes (very rarely, but sometimes) it's unnerving, so silence can help.
Torture isn't murder, and it isn't always physical, either. He does hope that Mears finds out about this. God, does he ever. He's bottling up all of his fury for when his hand heals, and he wants Mears to have a reason to give it as good as he gets. But he won't be the one to tell him, no. It's more fun through the grapevine. "I wouldn't dream of it," Charlie says, a little false innocence creeping into his voice. But the prospect of Andrew even trying to hurt him makes Charlie's smirk start up again. It's not like they keep it a secret on the network, and anyone could kill Jonathan Levinson. Still, Charlie recognizes the edge in his voice and concedes, just a little. "Mears will never know, and, I'm sorry to say, I won't lay a finger on you." If he could keep the devil out of his grin for more than two seconds at a time, it would be a miracle. Charlie doesn't believe in those.
But he does finish off the glass of wine and set it on the floor, busying himself with undoing his sling instead. It's completely unnecessary, but Dr. Cox had forced him to wear it when he left the hospital, ranting about how he wasn't convinced that the searing pain of crushed fingers would be enough to keep him from trying to use his bad hand. "What's on your mind?" he asks idly once he's done, running his free hand through his hair. As much as their triad of dramatics can bore Charlie, he still watches everything on the network, filing away meticulous mental notes about everyone and everything, and he knows that Andrew isn't all sunshine and flowers.
Andrew scoffs a little at the not crazy, but doesn't press the point. Nuwanda should know by now how insane everyone thinks he is and besides, who's Andrew to talk? He hums a sigh.
If Charlie won't lay a finger on him then it doesn't matter if Warren knows or not, which is why the smirk makes Andrew's jaw tighten; he's lying, or at least his promise is a lie, and this is a bad idea. He watches with a sort of horrified appreciation as the sling comes off; the flex of Charlie's muscles is provocative purely because it shouldn't be, and Andrew kicks himself mentally. He doesn't look at the injury; not more than a glance, he knows by now how uncomfortable someone staring can be.
"Still wanna know which hurt more?" he murmurs, and then bites his tongue. Not here to pick a fight, because that's Warren's thing. But if that's the case, then why is he here? The fact that his brain keeps lingering on leaving, a constant battle of should-i-stay-or-should-i-go which a masochistic part of him doesn't entirely mind... that in itself should be an indicator of why he shouldn't be sitting opposite a shirtless Charlie Dalton, who he wants to call Nuwanda (it almost comes out of his mouth, every time, and he says Charlie Dalton instead so as not to give the wrong idea. But he's watched Dead Poets Society too many times to think of him as anything else.) "Listen," he says, looking up at Charlie, finding this is the first time in a while he's found someone whose shoulder he doesn't want to cry on. "Do you want me to watch your movie with you?" What he means is: can I, of course, be wants it to seem a little more charitable. The whole Neil thing is probably more traumatic if you knew the guy. Know the guy. "I mean, I'll get it if you say no, I think I'd die if someone watched Buffy episodes with me but uh. Yeah."
The question catches him off guard - not the first (he knows now, thanks to stalking the network) but definitely the second. Charlie just quirks an eyebrow and mulls it over for a few seconds. Knox has made it expressly clear that he doesn't want to see their movie, though Charlie knows he could talk his best friend into anything. On the other hand, he doesn't want Neil to see it. Ever. The only other person who might care, he realizes with a little bitterness, would be Kennit. And even then... though Charlie's well aware that if the Captain's books existed in this world, he'd read them all in one sitting, he isn't sure if it goes both ways. It's just a movie, he tells himself. A stupid movie. Of his life. Part of it, anyway, and which parts-
"Yes," he says suddenly, eyes snapping out of his reverie and back on Andrew. "Yeah, sure. That's a little fucked up, but what isn't in this world?" Charlie keeps talking as he collects the movie and wanders across the room to fiddle with the DVD player. This modernized way of life is still bullshit, though he knows how to work things. Mostly thanks to Cordelia (a huge step over the faded bloodstain and the stabbing pang of guilt that he feels every single fucking time, despite himself). "It works, you've seen it and I've lived it. No surprises." Crouched in front of the television and waiting for the player to load, Charlie shoots a grin over his shoulder. "I'd watch your show," he says, virility paint coating his voice. He has to wonder if that part's in the movie, too.
There's a sick thrill resting in his throat when he rejoins Andrew, reaching for the rationed pack of cigarettes he keeps on the end table. "I'm going to have to smoke, sorry," he says fleetingly as it starts up. Cameron's fucking face is the first thing to catch Charlie's attention. Never thought he'd see that again. Cigarette clamped in his mouth and the lighter clicking away in his hands, he throws another raised-eyebrow glance at Andrew and mumbles, "Am I going to like this?"
Of course Nuwanda'd watch Andrew's show, he bets a lot of people wouldn't mind that (don't think of Mukuro, it's easier) and the point is Andrew was hideously embarrassed at having even Jonathan see even fractions of his life; sometimes, watching it, he's embarrassed for himself. Someone like Charlie doing a running commentary doesn't even bear considering. Andrew means it; he'd just sink down into the floor and die. The very thought of it, he tells himself, is why he's flushing a little, glancing down at the carpet and - when he spots the stain - just as quickly back up to the TV. Andrew is very good at not thinking about things, at ignoring the crazy words that tumble out of people's mouths and pretending everything is normal, normal, normal.
"I don't mind," he says about the cigarette, and there's an abrupt lurch in his stomach as the smell of tobacco hits him, something Andrew has always associated purely with Spike. I Spy ("Something that starts wi--" "Dead nerd." "I'll be good!") Watching Passions in the basement, and this is nothing like that at all.
He can recognize something in Charlie's gaze, then, maybe like a mirror held up to his own anxiety. "Probably not," Andrew tells him honestly. Because your best friend dies. Because you're expelled from Welton. Because you're a crazy little ball of rage... but he can't say any of those things. Instead he watches. Beginning of term; Todd's on the screen, and then Neil. Andrew finds he's watching Charlie instead of the movie, and when he's caught he glances away, fingers sliding awkwardly over his lips.
There's a reason Charlie was determined to watch their movie alone first, so no one would see his knee-jerk reactions. He doesn't want to give Andrew the satisfaction, but that doesn't stop him from choking a little on smoke when he's watching himself. There's nothing that isn't completely fucking bizarre about this, and he misses Knox, and he misses Neil, and he misses his friends not thinking he's an insane man. It's all rubbing salt in a fresh wound, but Charlie just coughs a little to cover up anything he might want to say.
It's funny, how Babylon and politics and revolution have increased his temper tenfold. Things that made him angry when he actually lived them now make his heart pound in his ears and his blood boil - it doesn't matter that they're in the past. In fact, reliving it just makes them worse. "Distract me," Charlie says quickly when Mr. Perry drags Neil out into the hall. Why doesn't he let you do what you want? It feels like a lifetime ago, and he keeps thinking of how he'd handle the situation differently now. With what he knows. With what he can do. "Do you smoke? Here." He turns to Andrew and holds out the half-burned cigarette.
"I won't watch until Keating shows up," and even then, that's not exactly his favorite idea ever. Charlie breathes and forces himself to detach from the movie. It was fiction. Entertainment. Like poetry. He can think of it like poetry, and it's easier that way, so he just smiles and leans in. "You have to wonder if the things that they don't show ever really happened," Charlie muses, the mischief in his tone not entirely an accident.
So maybe it's a little sick, to want to watch Charlie squirm. It's not as if the reverse isn't true, Andrew knows that, so he doesn't feel too bad about wanting to be here as it all goes on ('slick' and 'keen', Andrew remembers with horror his talk-like-a-fifties-schoolboy phase he'd had when he was about sixteen.) And to distract Charlie. Of course. At least that's one thing Andrew's getting good at.
Andrew takes the cigarette and holds it hesitantly between forefinger and thumb while he listens to Charlie; tentatively he raises it to his lips, not wanting to seem a total 'tard. But it probably would have been better if he'd just admitted he didn't smoke; he'd given up the pipe after a few months of fruitless wheezing. A short drag and Andrew chokes, his eyes watering; his cough splutters ash onto his pants, which he brushes at frantically. Handing the cigarette back to Charlie. "I have asthma," he mutters automatically, injury excuses leftover from high school. He isn't blushing, but he can feel his ears are red, and he glowers at Charlie, daring him to laugh.
The smoke isn't the only reason he's spluttering. But ignoring Charlie's incredibly unsubtle implications at what went on between-the-scenes - not to mention quashing his own fanboy curiosity on the subject - this is an argument he's been over a thousand times. Andrew's embarrassment fades swiftly and his tone turns thoughtful. "Did any of it happen?" he ssks. Warren has the scientific theory to say yes, it all happened. Andrew still thoroughly believes all he has is his memories. It wasn't real, couldn't have been. The light of conviction is in his eyes. "I mean, maybe when we came through that portal, that's uhm. I dunno. The first time we ever really lived."
"It happened," Charlie says resolutely, leaning his head on the couch and giving Andrew a sideways glance, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. "They can't create memories for us. If we remember it, then it happened." This is venturing into dangerous territory (it's real because it's in my mind, it's in my mind because it's real; you, Andrew Wells, are not either of those), here be dragons, and that's never deterred Charlie before. "Not that I believe the bullshit that scientists and Petrelli throw at us, but this," gesturing vaguely at the screen, Keating's whistling in the back of his mind, "All of this happened."
He shouldn't be leaning in so close to Andrew Wells, and he knows that, but Charlie's convinced that if he isn't in someone's face, then they aren't really focusing on him. "I've got the scars to prove it," he says jovially, waving his injured hand a little and letting it land perilously close to Andrew's leg - but he won't lay a finger on him. Definitely not. "You probably do too. Things like that don't just appear out of nowhere," but everyone's reality is only relative to their own experiences, unique to their own mind, can only be understood through analogy and all analogies are false. Any scars Andrew Wells bears are no more and no less real than Charlie's own, but he keeps all of this where it should be, trapped under his tongue with the rest of his ideas.
"Keating would hate it here," he adds idly, turning his gaze back to the television but never backing away from Andrew.
"That's all built from the ground up. They like, pulled us with our memories and scars and all that stuff..." Andrew trailed off. Warren argues with cold, hard, science; apparently Charlie argues with philosophy. He can't win against either. All Andrew knows is that he needs it to have just been fictional.
A slight shift and he's backing into the corner of the couch, subtle movements away from Charlie's skin. He pulls his legs up to hold in front of him like a shield, arms wrapped around; it always makes him feel like a little kid, sitting like this, but it's comforting, too. "It doesn't matter anyway." Most of what Andrew remembers, or chooses to remember, never happened anyway. Maybe that's why he can believe the fictional stuff; his whole life's a lie? Well, how's that any different from normal. Everyone's been saying alternate realities lately, but isn't that straight out of fiction, too? He grimaces. "I mean, everyone remembers stuff differently anyway." He remembers reading a study about how witnesses at crime scenes would recall different car colors, different street names, different times... "It's all relative."
Andrew shrugs, turns back to the screen, tries not to be awkward because that would make it obvious he's noticed how close Charlie is and turn it into a big deal. Which it isn't. He rolls his eyes and relaxes. Because he's not interested - well, maybe he's fascinated a little, and he knows Charlie's flirting gets a reaction out of him but when he looks in himself, he knows that he's not. Better to just politely enjoy the attention - it wasn't as though he received it a lot. "What are you doing to your hair?" he asks with amusement, the part of his mind not over-analyzing the situation still watching the movie.
It matters. To someone who's currently coin-flipping between taking over and escaping entirely, it matters. Charlie keeps having nightmares about ending up in Welton instead of the other world, right back to where he left off, and would he lose his memories of Babylon? Would time have continued on? Would it be snowing, would his father still be guiding him by the back of his neck, what the fuck would he do. But that's why he doesn't sleep, reminding himself that no one can make him go back to that world (even as it plays in front of him; bizarre, bizarre) and that he's meant for bigger things, anyway.
"Good question," he laughs, scrutinizing the scene. Too many memories. Way, way too many. His hair's longer now, and he's stopped that little mirror ritual he had back at Welton. Times of change and all. "That coach hated me. I think it's because I dated his daughter sophomore year." As much as Charlie may want to fight it, he's getting used to this, making all sorts of disconnects in his logic so that his babbling won't escape at Andrew. "And they," he adds when Knox meets Chris, the tease, for the first time, "Don't end up staying together. True love, right?"
It's actually kind of fun, filling in the blanks for Andrew. Charlie's quiet as he watches and finishes up his cigarette, watching Knox, the fool. "Book-ripping!" His face lights up instantly. For the days when this was his ultimate act of rebellion - though, truly, he likes swordplay better. But there's a certain sort of nostalgia in this. "How inspiring, and we haven't even gotten to the emotional junk yet," Charlie murmurs, pulling one knee up in front of him and resting his chin on it. "If you have your nerdy questions, feel free to fire away," he tacks on, grinning at the screen.
Hand up to his mouth and Andrew chews on his thumbnail as he watches, a habit he can't break no matter who's in the room with him. He grins around it when Keating comes on because he's always thought Robin Williams was pretty hilarious. He wonders what it would be like for Charlie watching, say, Good Morning Vietnam. Or better, better, anything with his own actor in. Doing and saying things he never did and said. Andrew remembers finding Transformers and the horrible feeling of vertigo he'd had when halfway through the movie there was his face, unexpectedly on the laptop screen. Maybe not better after all.
The Knox and Chris thing doesn't really surprise Andrew, but it upsets his idea of how a movie should be. Just knowing the people on the screen are real and walk around doing other stuff, beyond whatever Peter Weir had scripted for them.. the meta-textual reality of it makes the movie less enjoyable as something to escape into, which is all movies ever are for Andrew, and he finds he does have a lot of questions. What was Keating like? What other classes did you have? What was Todd's brother's name? Who were those girls you brought to the cave? The million pointless pieces of information Andrew always wants to know when he watches something.
The primary one, however, is personal. Andrew knows it says a lot about him, and that Charlie mightn't even answer, but he has to ask. "So were you and Knox..." he pauses, glances over, mimics Charlie's innuendo-filled eyebrow raise with a hint of a smirk.
Charlie wants to roll his eyes and hit Andrew for asking, but on the other hand. There's no one more obvious. So he just inclines his head a little, locks on with Andrew, and matches his expression a thousand times over. "No." Because they weren't. He's an awful liar, but partial truths work better anyway. "He's my best friend," Charlie says pointedly, eyes boring holes into Andrew's own. "Like Mears is your best friend? Or Levinson, but that's not what I'm getting at."
Babylon has eased away all of the usual excuses that everyone liked to toss around. All boys' school, things happen. Too long without girls. Too long without anyone. But Charlie's never believed that of himself, he likes what he likes and gets what he wants and that's that. It's all very simple. "And not Neil," he adds on, smiling like the devil, like temptation. "Not at Welton, anyway. But there's a lot of shit they aren't showing." Women swooned and gods were created - Keating got that right, but they're missing the first soccer practice, they're missing getting in trouble for eating with their right hands, they're missing his father. Though that last part is really okay with Charlie. The glimpse in the beginning that lasted less than half a second had been more than enough to remind him of everything he's fighting against and add extra vibrancy to the dreams that plague him.
"Why do you ask?" They're escaping to the cave, and Charlie just sets his jaw and looks at Andrew instead. He knows that he's not exactly subtle, with Knox, with Neil, with anyone, but it still strikes him as a strange question when Andrew's barely been around him. Maybe they left more in the movie than he thought.
Andrew wants to giggle, feels the laughter rising like bile or hysteria in the back of his throat. Does Charlie know how apt that comparison is? Of course he does, the look in his eyes, the dark quirk of seduction in his smile, there is no way Andrew can escape it. The reality that he and Warren and Jonathan aren't like the boys in the movie. He shrugs, lowers his eyes without blushing. "Warren and I," he says, and if he had an end to that sentence it's never forthcoming. At least Nuwanda already knows (sometimes Andrew thinks everybody knows by now, and that thought makes him cringe and pours sweet, warm honey through his belly.)
A soft hiss of exasperation from between Andrew's teeth, cool over his fingers. "Fine, whatever." He's fairly sure Charlie's lying, or else he's telling the truth and wants to be lying, it's the same difference either way. He shoots a sideways glance that's almost sly. "I was just cuuurious." It's a bit of a singsong; but he is. Who else is there he could talk to about stuff like this that isn't a ridiculously literal ex-vengeance demon or a bitchy pedophilic hairdresser?
It occurs to Andrew that his taste in people is a little left of center.
They're throwing down food and reading poetry onscreen; Andrew always liked this bit. "I mean, the entire thing with Neil was an obvious metaphor for repressed homosexuality, but you and Knox I just kinda liked."
Charlie's fishing out another cigarette when Andrew says it, and something about the statement bothers him immensely. "Neil as a metaphor for repressed homosexuality," he repeats, a hard edge creeping into his voice whether he wants it to or not. He's quick to forget his promise, clapping his hand down on Andrew's knee and leaning forward to look him in the eye. "Don't say he's a metaphor, alright? Don't say that." It was all fiction, entertainment, it had to have those layers - but Neil's here now, and Charlie can't think of him as a metaphor.
Then, of course, his mind switches gears almost instantly. He hears his own voice reading Cowley and mentally recites along, fingers tensing just slightly. "Or you could tell me what Knox and I were metaphors for," Charlie suggests, not bothering to shush the derisive tone. Still, he's smiling when he says it. He usually smiles, through vague threats and fist fights and everything else. It adds an element of surprise, of not knowing what he'll do next. Charlie does like to keep people guessing up until the very end, pouncing with no presupposition, catching their blind side.
But he doesn't hurt Andrew Wells. Or jump him. Just keeps glancing expectantly between the screen and Andrew, eyebrows raised. Waiting for the answer.
Probably that was the wrong thing to say. It had come from Andrew's geek side, as though he was here watching the movie with Jonathan, MST3K-ing it up. Speaking of, the lighting in this movie is really weird... this time, he manages to keep the comment to himself. This is Charlie's life we're watching, he reminds himself, but even with Nuwanda's hand on his leg, which Andrew slides away but not enough to really shake it off. "Wow, sorry." Even with the physical presence, it still just feels like DPS, watching for the sap, skipping the death scene with its terrible music, remembering watching it bored in a sticky English classroom.
A glance: Charlie's still smiling brightly and Andrew doesn't register that it might be bad news; the sharpness of the tone catches at him and nothing more. "Less than repressed homo--?" he begins to suggest, catches the manic gleam in Charlie's eye, and shuts up. It takes him a moment to notice, but he's still edging away from Charlie millimeter by millimeter, his body coiling itself in a different direction, his head tilting away and his jaw tensing. "Maybe I should just not talk about the movie," he mutters aloud to himself, shifting again, this time so his back's against the armrest, pulling his legs up between his body and Charlie. An obvious back off, even as he's making sheepish excuses: "I had to study it for English, all the dumb stuff I made up for my paper's probably stayed with me."
In one fluid motion, Charlie pulls back and taps out another cigarette. "You can talk about it," he says nonchalantly, covering up his own discomfort as he searches for the lighter. "Just don't call us metaphors or- or say shit about actors, I don't know." He's assuming the least predatory position he knows, not wanting to scare Andrew off; legs stretched out and sockfeet propped up on the coffee table in front of them, his good hand clasped behind his head. He doesn't speak for a while, doesn't look at Andrew, just watches the movie unfold in front of him. Some things he's forgotten (Keating's impressions, what rowing felt like) and others are as clear as if they were yesterday (standing on desks, to feel taller).
When it's just Neil and Todd, Charlie takes the cigarette from his mouth to blow smoke in the air. "Wonder what would've happened if he just hadn't tried out," he muses, both to himself and to Andrew. "Then again, that wouldn't have been very carpe diem of him. Wouldn't have made for a good movie, either." Every time he utters those two words anymore, it's a little bitter, unfamiliar in his own mouth. Carpe diem means Welton, carpe diem means the cave and the congo creeping through the black and a different captain entirely. It doesn't belong in Babylon.
"Also, Knox is a fucking stalker." Charlie laughs when he says it, but he misses when Knox used to be proactive, even if he was an idiot about it. Yeah, go tell her how you feel, that's a great idea - ignoring the obvious sarcasm in Charlie's voice, his eyes lighting up at the very idea. And he did it, the fool. The complete and utter fool, sitting on his bike and staring at the girl who wasn't good enough for him. Typical.
But Andrew finds his questions seem stupid and unimportant now. He just watches the movie, and watches Charlie watching the movie, inwardly still analysing the anatomy of every scene, picking it apart.
Once upon a time when every brush of skin had to be accidental, every glance had to be innocent, Andrew had developed a way of watching television that involved sprawling all over the other person; it feels unnatural to be curled up in his corner like this and he relaxes, just a little. "Then it would have been a movie about you," he points out dryly, which he's fairly sure Charlie would think subject matter for a fantastic film.
The Knox comment has Andrew's gaze snapping around, because it's the tone Warren uses to make fun of Andrew, except not. Andrew swallows; Warren comparisons? Bad. Also strangely apt. But definitely bad.
"Did they really break up?" Andrew asks, and what he meant to be a skeptical tone comes out smaller. Trust Charlie Dalton to find away to ruin even a movie's happy ending. "I mean, she was kind of a bitch, but some guys like that sort of thing, I guess."
"She was," Charlie agrees, taking another drag between his words. "And they did. Not that I was around to see this part, but they stayed together for a while, he found out he didn't really know her, she decided she liked Chet Danbury better than the romantic poet who bit off more than he could chew." There's no hiding the bitterness in Charlie's voice, the months of listening to Knox blather about this girl he didn't even know, the knowledge that she wasn't good enough. All he wants is for Knox to be happy. Happiness requires a girl to complete him, and that's an awfully high standard. In the meantime. There's only one person good enough for Knox, and he hates this train of thought, so he's off of it quickly. "She didn't deserve him."
To indeed be a god. It's been a mantra in his head ever since that day, under the constant chorus of Plath and Ginsberg and Wordsworth that color every other corner of his thoughts. It's still the most true thing about him. Let it fill your soul. "It should have been about me," he says blithely, shooting another grin at Andrew. "It would've been better, I promise you. Not that this is bad, but think of it - a movie about my father, and Lake Champlain, and raising hell at Welton, and coming to Babylon, and you nerds, and Kennit." It's a little scary, how he can no longer imagine life without revolution and piracy. And that quiet place at the top of the dome where no one can touch them, where they belong. "It should have been," he repeats, a little more to himself. Maybe he wasn't interesting enough to be the protagonist. Not suicidal, not cripplingly shy, not hopelessly in love. Just the rebel. Movies about those don't end well. The smile Charlie gives Andrew is a little more subdued, a little sadder this time. Neil getting the part, and the poem about Chris in the background, but to Charlie it's still his story. It has to be.
Andrew takes in all of Charlie's words with consideration, narrowing his eyes and nodding his head. He still likes the idea of Knox and Charlie, enough that he isn't too upset about the movie's romance being spoiled. Enough that he gets a secret little thrill from the bitterness in Charlie's tone; he knows what that feels like.
"Uh," Andrew points out, dropping a leg and jiggling it idly as he raises an eyebrow at Charlie. "Sorry, hombre, but I don't think the crazy pirate can be in your film, he's got his own... whatever. Crazy pirate book." Admittedly, it sometimes bugs Andrew that he has no idea what Kennit's from; normally he can work it out, unless it was a show after his time. It's annoying because remembering useless trivia like which minor character belongs to which series is one of Andrew's major talents, and he's fallen through with this one. Yagami Raito, too; google turns up nothing, the store has nothing. All he knows is that he fucking loves coloring.
Charlie just rolls his eyes and waves his good hand at Andrew, brushing him off. "If it's a movie about my life," he repeats, ignoring the logical disconnect he's about to make, "Then he's in it." There is life before Babylon and life now, and Charlie has trouble distinguishing which is which anymore. Wasn't he a revolutionary then, too? Hasn't he always been? But the movie tells him otherwise, that he wasn't important at all - it's giving him hives to see how much they skipped over. Even Meeks and Pitts got their hi-fi system in.
"Don't call him crazy," Charlie says idly, undercutting Todd's impromptu poem. It still gives him a chill to hear it. To him, it isn't Todd speaking, it can't be; that isn't the boy who sputtered about what Keating would have wanted just a couple of months ago. But there's the look on Neil's face that Charlie never saw the first time around, and suddenly it all makes much more sense. That's how things are. Then, sharper, once it gets to the soccer match - "Seriously, don't call him crazy, or I can't be held accountable for my actions." It's less threatening, more smirking (though in its way, that's an equal threat) and Charlie settles back into the couch, curling one leg under him. Poetrusic, and everyone with their eyes glued to him - he's missed that feeling, and reliving it makes him feel powerful, his eyes sliding shut when the saxophone hits. Like going home again.
Just ignore it, just ignore it. It's the kind of circular argument Andrew usually likes, but it ties right back into the what's real and what's not question, which isn't what Andrew's interested in, and really, it's better not to piss of Charlie when they're alone in his apartment together.
"It's an affectionate nickname," says Andrew dryly, because otherwise he'll say he shot Cordelia. He eyes flicker to the stain on the floor again and his face twists in a sad expression that makes him look younger.
The saxophone scene. Andrew mouths along with the fragmented poetry, he loves this bit, this and the desk set and, just a little bit, the scene in the snow. He's grinning wide, looking over at Nuwanda and back to the screen, perfect mirror expressions of poetic bliss. "You're totally soloing Knox," he breathes mischievously, and it's true; the long sweet notes would be a tragic love song if it had been a girl sitting in the cave listening.
The song was never written for Knox. It was never written for anyone. Charlie remembers how little sleep he had been getting at the time, staying up and running notes through his head, scribbling them down alongside his poetry and trying to make them into what he really wants to say. Not to Knox, but to the whole world. This was his philosophy summed up in sounds and nonsense words; this was Charlie's S.O.S. call. It's still his favorite thing he's ever created (though the piece he's writing for Kennit's poem isn't bad, but he won't stop until it's perfect) and hearing it back, watching himself play it, is a trip.
"A little," he concedes, his voice low and humming. "He needed it at the time." Charlie runs his hand over his face, his exhaustion catching up with him, and lets it fall to his neck, resting there and tracing his fingers over his Adam's apple again and again. "Knox said no to me," he says, introspection starting to leak out in front of Andrew. Never a good sign. And his face is impassive, eyes still half-closed and faded smirk lingering.
He knows what Knox is like. If there's anything Charlie knows for certain, it's that his best friend falls for anything that happens in grand sweeps, and that's why he's been friends with Charlie. But he's bad, really bad, at figuring out what he wants beyond those. Charlie watches himself watching Knox, and if it was anyone else, he would have been encouraging. Those words wouldn't have come out of his mouth. You don't really think she means you're going with her. She'll hurt you, she isn't good enough. "I was a little obvious," Charlie grins, facing Andrew. "Your theories may not be entirely unfounded."