FIC: He Wants The World To Rule Itself (2/?)
FIC: He Wants The World To Rule Itself (2/?)
Paring: Andrew Garfield/Jesse Eisenberg
Rating: PG (atm)
About: A lot of stories seem to be Jesse pining for Andrew, so I thought I'd do it the other way round. Also, I'm British so it's easier to write this way!
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction from my own head. Based on my idea of Andrew Garfield and Jesse Eisenberg.
Author's Note: The chap[ters will get longer once the story gets more interesting.
Follow up to: Part 1
A rapid knock on the door startles Andrew awake. Heart thudding violently in his chest, he reaches blindly for his phone on the bedside table to check the time.
“Shit,” he mutters, attempting to climb out of bed but getting tangled up in the sheets. He kicks his legs out, trying to get free. “Shit, shit, shit. Shit.”
The knock comes again, and Andrew manages to stand up and stumble towards the door, running his hands through his insane mess of hair, trying to tame it, checking to see if he can get away without washing it. At some point in the night he had woken up enough to pull off his trousers and shirt. His dreams had been hectic, dancing with coding words that he didn’t understand, fake Harvard buildings and bitten lips that made his fists curl around his sheets and left him feeling worn out, like he hadn’t had any sleep at all. He wrenches the door open and the sight of Jesse there, freshly showered, dressed in faded jeans and a zip-up navy hoodie, confuses him. Then he figures that sometime after he went to bed without setting his alarm clock, Jesse must have left to go back to his own room. The fact that he left makes Andrew feels stupidly sad. Was his sofa not good enough for Jesse? He’s had too little sleep to be able to think clearly.
“Um. You’re in your underwear,” Jesse states, his voice matter-of-fact, but his eyebrows raised slightly.
“Yes.”
“And we have to leave. Like, now.”
“Shit. Right.” Andrew signals for Jesse to come in and runs back across the suite to the chest of drawers near his bed. He hears Jesse close the door behind him and go to the kitchenette, where he flicks the switch on the coffee machine. Andrew yanks open a drawer, pulling out a t-shirt, fresh boxers, socks.
“I need to do some laundry,” he says, to no-one, but he hears Jesse chuckle softly in the background, light footsteps padding around the room. He turns around and sees Jesse standing by the television, looking down at the two mugs that Andrew abandoned there last night.
“You fell asleep,” Andrew explains. Jesse looks up, and for a moment, before Jesse hides it, Andrew sees an expression on his face that he cannot even begin to understand. His eyes are soft, his lips turned up ever so slightly. He looks at Andrew almost...tenderly. It makes him feel dizzy and his chest aches, a low, dull pain that he hasn't been able to shake, but he tells himself that that is because he hasn’t had anything to eat yet today, not because he’s searching for something in Jesse that isn’t there.
“Don’t look, I’m getting changed,” he says, and Jesse nods and turns away as Andrew pulls off his underwear and throws it into the corner on top of an ever-growing pile of clothes that need washing. He grabs the clean pair of shorts and pulls them on, then his questionably clean t-shirt.
“Trousers. Shit. We’re really late. I can’t find my trousers. Is the coffee done?” he prattles on as he tries to get ready. “God, I’m starving. Where are my - found them.”
He runs to the bathroom, squeezes toothpaste onto his toothbrush and jams it into his mouth. When he goes back into the main room, Jesse is looking in the fridge.
“No food,” Andrew says, his mouth foamy, his words muffled.
“Oh. You’re going to be hungry then.”
“Yep.” He goes back to the bathroom, spits, rinses, brushes again. Jesse is too much for him this early in the morning, too much to deal with. His quiet otherworldliness, the way that he stands with his hands in his pockets, those ridiculous hollowed cheekbones. It is giving Andrew a headache already, and it’s only 7am. Sometimes he hates Jesse. Mostly he hates himself.
“Come on, Andrew,” Jesse shouts, and Andrew grabs his trainers, tucking the laces down the side to save time inside of lacing them.
“Ready,” Andrew says, then remembers his mobile phone and goes back to pick it out of the sheets where he flung it earlier.
“Jacket. It’s cold out,” Jesse says.
“Right.” He goes back to the wardrobe and pulls out a sweater, dragging it over his head.
“Here.” Jesse hands him a flask of coffee and Andrew, in his current exhausted, aching state, almost bursts into tears.
“How do you do that?” Andrew asks as he follows Jesse out of the front door, checking that he has his key card and wallet in his pockets.
“Do what?”
“Do everything for me.”
Jesse shrugs, his shoulders straight, his mouth twisted. It’s a Mark Zuckerberg shrug, and Andrew’s grateful because it is easier for him to deal with than actual Jesse is. He throws an arm around Jesse’s shoulders and gives him a small squeeze, a thank you. He takes a sip from the flask and doesn’t see Jesse smile.
***
The atmosphere in the crowded, sweating room is above and beyond electric. Every time David calls action and Andrew pushes the door open, he gets shivers all the way up and down his spine as he sees the round table, the kids tapping furiously away at the computers, the crowd of extras shouting and cheering, Joe Mazzello in the corner waving at him, and Jesse standing there, arms crossed, looking over the room as if he is surveying his empire. Jesse - Mark, Mark, Mark - comes over and says his piece, flawless of course, despite his trepidations last night, and then Joe shouts three minutes! A roar rises in the room and the kids around the table throw back apple juice shots, slamming the glasses down, their hands returning to dance over the keyboards. He is Eduardo now, and he is grinning, excited, a little confused, stunned, amazed. He brushes off Mark’s chicken comment and presses the brown envelope to his chest, telling himself that the static electricity tingling in his fingertips is from the atmosphere in the room, not because he’s touching this man, not that at all. Because Eduardo loves Mark, but not like that. Probably. Maybe. Mark looks up at him and Eduardo’s heart jumps a little, because, for now at least, he has bought more time for them. For their friendship. One of the intern contestants throws his hand up into the air and shouts, then a second one immediately after. Mark goes over, checks each screen, and then that line that makes Eduardo’s toes curl deliciously in his shoes every single time: welcome to facebook. The room explodes and Dustin turns the music on. California! bursts out while Eduardo is laughing, a little scared by the importance of what is happening, but delighted. He catches Mark’s eye, who grins at him, and it is this moment, more than any other, that Eduardo thinks that they’ve made it.
David calls cut and Andrew blinks, taking a moment to slip back into himself. That was a good take. He could feel it. The energy, the excitement, the chemistry. It all worked. He jumps up and down on the spot, buzzing with the power of what they are doing, and he turns to smile at Jesse, to share this with him, desperate to share it, but he’s gone. Andrew looks around to find him and sees him standing back on his starter mark, hands in pockets, staring into space. He smiles slightly, resigned, but it makes him a little sad. Jesse doesn’t live in the moment. He lives in the future, in the expectation that he will always produce something better, something more. Andrew wonders how much Jesse actually misses out on by never appreciating the sheer beauty of what he is creating right then.
Or maybe he just wants to stay in character, because when Jesse looks up and catches Andrew’s eye, all Andrew can see is Mark Zuckerberg, and it is as eerie as it is impressive and beautiful. Andrew has to take a moment away from Eduardo Saverin every now and again, because the Brazilian co-creator of facebook has nestled into his brain so deeply that by the end of a 14 hour shoot, it is painful to let him go. But Jesse doesn’t step away, ever. It is intense and it makes Andrew worry.
“Let’s go again,” David shouts over the buzzing noise of the extras talking, and Andrew slips out of the room, closes his eyes, and lets Eduardo take over. His make up girl fusses around him, brushing powder over the light sheen of sweat on his forehead, rubbing at the dark shadows around his eyes with the tip of her little finger.
“You need to sleep more,” she mumbles. “I’m running out of foundation.”
But Andrew isn’t listening. He’s not even there any more. When he opens his eyes, he sees what Eduardo sees. He is thinking about Mark, feeling his adoration of Mark pumping through his veins. He rolls his shoulders back and shakes his hands as he tries to loosen up. When Andrew first read the script, for months he found himself thinking what would Eduardo do? He doesn’t have to think like that now. Now he thinks what would I do? He thinks I would set up a bank account and I would put $18,000 in it because I want Mark to keep including me in this. It’s easy. He likes being Eduardo. When he’s Eduardo he doesn’t want to kiss Jesse Eisenberg, or run his fingers over Jesse Eisenberg’s collarbones, or possibly bite Jesse Eisenberg’s bottom lip for him if he had the chance. For now, being Eduardo is simpler.
The door opens and David sticks his head out.
“Ready, Wardo?” he asks.
Wardo nods.
“We’re filming the same again, from the right. Try and look, I don’t know, dizzier when you walk in the room. This is big. You did not see this coming. Ok?”
“Ok.”
David disappears and the make up girl steps back. Eduardo waits by the door, listening to hear his cue on the other side. When he steps into the room again, the familiar feeling of excitement and pride wells up in him, and he lets himself smile. Dustin waves and then Mark is there, talking, his eyes alight with the promise of the magnificence that he is creating.
“Every 10th line of code written, they have to drink a shot. And hacking’s supposed to be stealth, so any time the server detects an intrusion, the candidate responsible has to drink a shot. I also have a program running that has a pop-up window appear simultaneously on all windows-the last - Jesus, fuck,’ Jesse bursts out, breaking the spell, making Andrew jump back into his own skin.
“Sorry David,” Jesse says. “It’s always that line. Simultaneously on all five computers. It works. That lines works. It just won’t come out of my mouth. Why am I not saying it? Fucking what is wrong with my mouth and that line?”
He turns to Andrew as if he can give him some sort of answer.
“You did it great just a minute ago,” Andrew offers, realising too late that he used his own accent, not Eduardo’s, because he was too busy thinking that there was absolutely nothing wrong with Jesse's mouth. He tries to use his own accent as infrequently as possible on set because Jesse likes to stay ‘in the zone’ and Andrew's twisted English-American accent confuses him. Jesse’s shoulders droop and Andrew knows that all the energy that fizzed between them a moment ago, while the cameras were rolling, is gone.
“Take a break, guys,” is all David says, not even looking up from the clipboard that the scene monitor is showing him.
“Come on,” Andrew murmurs close to Jesse’s ear, his hand on his lower back, leading him out of the room. Jesse goes with it, letting Andrew walk him along the hall, down a flight of stairs, outside and across a car park to Andrew’s small but comfortable trailer. He holds the door open for Jesse, then closes it behind him, points Jesse to a chair and sets about making a pot of tea. The English way of solving problems, he thinks. I’m such a stereotype.
“So what’s up, Jess?” he asks as he pours milk into two cups. He sees Jesse look up sharply from the corner of his eye, and he wonders if he has ever called him Jess before, skipping over that crucial last letter in such a comfortably familiar way. He doesn’t think so.
“You are like a gazelle.”
Andrew turns around and raises one eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You move like one,” Jesse says. He is staring up at Andrew, his mouth in a straight line, as if he is making a very serious point about Andrew’s grammar, or something. “A gazelle. Or maybe a deer.” He frowns and shrugs a little. “It depends on what you’re doing.”
Andrew can’t talk. He can’t reply. He bites back the world’s most sickeningly fond smile and shakes his head.
“I can’t read you at all, mate,” he says; he hands Jesse a mug of tea and flops down onto the sofa opposite Jesse’s chair.
“I know. I’m an enigma,” Jesse deadpans.
Andrews laughs loudly, freely. “You really are,” he says, disbelievingly.
“Also,” Jesse frowns, as if he has realised something, “I just referred to you as a ‘gazelle’. I actually said that out loud, to your face. For that, I sincerely apologise.”
It’s strange, hearing Jesse talk in his distinctly Jesse way, but seeing him as Mark Zuckerberg, in those shorts and insanely ridiculous sandals. Andrew says this.
Jesse doesn’t answer; he bites his lip and his eyes look…they look almost sad and Andrew is left, not for the first time, wondering what he has said wrong.
“Jess…” Andrew starts, but Jesse shakes his head.
“We should probably go back, right?” He asks, putting his untouched tea down on the table.
Andrew sighs. For every moment that he thinks that he is getting closer to Jesse, getting something out of him, getting him to be real with him, Jesse always manages to do something, like turn his face away, so that Andrew can’t see his expression, or let his shoulders drop and his head hand tiredly, or smile that sad, anti-depressant half smile of his, that puts everything in reverse. These are just tiny moments, insignificant little things that probably nobody else would notice, but Andrew notices everything and they make him feel incredibly distant.
“Right,” Andrew says. He doesn’t look at Jesse, because when he does he wants to put one of his hands over Jesse’s face to hide him, or maybe smother him, but just to somehow stop him getting inside of Andrew’s heart. “Let’s go back.”
Paring: Andrew Garfield/Jesse Eisenberg
Rating: PG (atm)
About: A lot of stories seem to be Jesse pining for Andrew, so I thought I'd do it the other way round. Also, I'm British so it's easier to write this way!
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction from my own head. Based on my idea of Andrew Garfield and Jesse Eisenberg.
Author's Note: The chap[ters will get longer once the story gets more interesting.
Follow up to: Part 1
A rapid knock on the door startles Andrew awake. Heart thudding violently in his chest, he reaches blindly for his phone on the bedside table to check the time.
“Shit,” he mutters, attempting to climb out of bed but getting tangled up in the sheets. He kicks his legs out, trying to get free. “Shit, shit, shit. Shit.”
The knock comes again, and Andrew manages to stand up and stumble towards the door, running his hands through his insane mess of hair, trying to tame it, checking to see if he can get away without washing it. At some point in the night he had woken up enough to pull off his trousers and shirt. His dreams had been hectic, dancing with coding words that he didn’t understand, fake Harvard buildings and bitten lips that made his fists curl around his sheets and left him feeling worn out, like he hadn’t had any sleep at all. He wrenches the door open and the sight of Jesse there, freshly showered, dressed in faded jeans and a zip-up navy hoodie, confuses him. Then he figures that sometime after he went to bed without setting his alarm clock, Jesse must have left to go back to his own room. The fact that he left makes Andrew feels stupidly sad. Was his sofa not good enough for Jesse? He’s had too little sleep to be able to think clearly.
“Um. You’re in your underwear,” Jesse states, his voice matter-of-fact, but his eyebrows raised slightly.
“Yes.”
“And we have to leave. Like, now.”
“Shit. Right.” Andrew signals for Jesse to come in and runs back across the suite to the chest of drawers near his bed. He hears Jesse close the door behind him and go to the kitchenette, where he flicks the switch on the coffee machine. Andrew yanks open a drawer, pulling out a t-shirt, fresh boxers, socks.
“I need to do some laundry,” he says, to no-one, but he hears Jesse chuckle softly in the background, light footsteps padding around the room. He turns around and sees Jesse standing by the television, looking down at the two mugs that Andrew abandoned there last night.
“You fell asleep,” Andrew explains. Jesse looks up, and for a moment, before Jesse hides it, Andrew sees an expression on his face that he cannot even begin to understand. His eyes are soft, his lips turned up ever so slightly. He looks at Andrew almost...tenderly. It makes him feel dizzy and his chest aches, a low, dull pain that he hasn't been able to shake, but he tells himself that that is because he hasn’t had anything to eat yet today, not because he’s searching for something in Jesse that isn’t there.
“Don’t look, I’m getting changed,” he says, and Jesse nods and turns away as Andrew pulls off his underwear and throws it into the corner on top of an ever-growing pile of clothes that need washing. He grabs the clean pair of shorts and pulls them on, then his questionably clean t-shirt.
“Trousers. Shit. We’re really late. I can’t find my trousers. Is the coffee done?” he prattles on as he tries to get ready. “God, I’m starving. Where are my - found them.”
He runs to the bathroom, squeezes toothpaste onto his toothbrush and jams it into his mouth. When he goes back into the main room, Jesse is looking in the fridge.
“No food,” Andrew says, his mouth foamy, his words muffled.
“Oh. You’re going to be hungry then.”
“Yep.” He goes back to the bathroom, spits, rinses, brushes again. Jesse is too much for him this early in the morning, too much to deal with. His quiet otherworldliness, the way that he stands with his hands in his pockets, those ridiculous hollowed cheekbones. It is giving Andrew a headache already, and it’s only 7am. Sometimes he hates Jesse. Mostly he hates himself.
“Come on, Andrew,” Jesse shouts, and Andrew grabs his trainers, tucking the laces down the side to save time inside of lacing them.
“Ready,” Andrew says, then remembers his mobile phone and goes back to pick it out of the sheets where he flung it earlier.
“Jacket. It’s cold out,” Jesse says.
“Right.” He goes back to the wardrobe and pulls out a sweater, dragging it over his head.
“Here.” Jesse hands him a flask of coffee and Andrew, in his current exhausted, aching state, almost bursts into tears.
“How do you do that?” Andrew asks as he follows Jesse out of the front door, checking that he has his key card and wallet in his pockets.
“Do what?”
“Do everything for me.”
Jesse shrugs, his shoulders straight, his mouth twisted. It’s a Mark Zuckerberg shrug, and Andrew’s grateful because it is easier for him to deal with than actual Jesse is. He throws an arm around Jesse’s shoulders and gives him a small squeeze, a thank you. He takes a sip from the flask and doesn’t see Jesse smile.
***
The atmosphere in the crowded, sweating room is above and beyond electric. Every time David calls action and Andrew pushes the door open, he gets shivers all the way up and down his spine as he sees the round table, the kids tapping furiously away at the computers, the crowd of extras shouting and cheering, Joe Mazzello in the corner waving at him, and Jesse standing there, arms crossed, looking over the room as if he is surveying his empire. Jesse - Mark, Mark, Mark - comes over and says his piece, flawless of course, despite his trepidations last night, and then Joe shouts three minutes! A roar rises in the room and the kids around the table throw back apple juice shots, slamming the glasses down, their hands returning to dance over the keyboards. He is Eduardo now, and he is grinning, excited, a little confused, stunned, amazed. He brushes off Mark’s chicken comment and presses the brown envelope to his chest, telling himself that the static electricity tingling in his fingertips is from the atmosphere in the room, not because he’s touching this man, not that at all. Because Eduardo loves Mark, but not like that. Probably. Maybe. Mark looks up at him and Eduardo’s heart jumps a little, because, for now at least, he has bought more time for them. For their friendship. One of the intern contestants throws his hand up into the air and shouts, then a second one immediately after. Mark goes over, checks each screen, and then that line that makes Eduardo’s toes curl deliciously in his shoes every single time: welcome to facebook. The room explodes and Dustin turns the music on. California! bursts out while Eduardo is laughing, a little scared by the importance of what is happening, but delighted. He catches Mark’s eye, who grins at him, and it is this moment, more than any other, that Eduardo thinks that they’ve made it.
David calls cut and Andrew blinks, taking a moment to slip back into himself. That was a good take. He could feel it. The energy, the excitement, the chemistry. It all worked. He jumps up and down on the spot, buzzing with the power of what they are doing, and he turns to smile at Jesse, to share this with him, desperate to share it, but he’s gone. Andrew looks around to find him and sees him standing back on his starter mark, hands in pockets, staring into space. He smiles slightly, resigned, but it makes him a little sad. Jesse doesn’t live in the moment. He lives in the future, in the expectation that he will always produce something better, something more. Andrew wonders how much Jesse actually misses out on by never appreciating the sheer beauty of what he is creating right then.
Or maybe he just wants to stay in character, because when Jesse looks up and catches Andrew’s eye, all Andrew can see is Mark Zuckerberg, and it is as eerie as it is impressive and beautiful. Andrew has to take a moment away from Eduardo Saverin every now and again, because the Brazilian co-creator of facebook has nestled into his brain so deeply that by the end of a 14 hour shoot, it is painful to let him go. But Jesse doesn’t step away, ever. It is intense and it makes Andrew worry.
“Let’s go again,” David shouts over the buzzing noise of the extras talking, and Andrew slips out of the room, closes his eyes, and lets Eduardo take over. His make up girl fusses around him, brushing powder over the light sheen of sweat on his forehead, rubbing at the dark shadows around his eyes with the tip of her little finger.
“You need to sleep more,” she mumbles. “I’m running out of foundation.”
But Andrew isn’t listening. He’s not even there any more. When he opens his eyes, he sees what Eduardo sees. He is thinking about Mark, feeling his adoration of Mark pumping through his veins. He rolls his shoulders back and shakes his hands as he tries to loosen up. When Andrew first read the script, for months he found himself thinking what would Eduardo do? He doesn’t have to think like that now. Now he thinks what would I do? He thinks I would set up a bank account and I would put $18,000 in it because I want Mark to keep including me in this. It’s easy. He likes being Eduardo. When he’s Eduardo he doesn’t want to kiss Jesse Eisenberg, or run his fingers over Jesse Eisenberg’s collarbones, or possibly bite Jesse Eisenberg’s bottom lip for him if he had the chance. For now, being Eduardo is simpler.
The door opens and David sticks his head out.
“Ready, Wardo?” he asks.
Wardo nods.
“We’re filming the same again, from the right. Try and look, I don’t know, dizzier when you walk in the room. This is big. You did not see this coming. Ok?”
“Ok.”
David disappears and the make up girl steps back. Eduardo waits by the door, listening to hear his cue on the other side. When he steps into the room again, the familiar feeling of excitement and pride wells up in him, and he lets himself smile. Dustin waves and then Mark is there, talking, his eyes alight with the promise of the magnificence that he is creating.
“Every 10th line of code written, they have to drink a shot. And hacking’s supposed to be stealth, so any time the server detects an intrusion, the candidate responsible has to drink a shot. I also have a program running that has a pop-up window appear simultaneously on all windows-the last - Jesus, fuck,’ Jesse bursts out, breaking the spell, making Andrew jump back into his own skin.
“Sorry David,” Jesse says. “It’s always that line. Simultaneously on all five computers. It works. That lines works. It just won’t come out of my mouth. Why am I not saying it? Fucking what is wrong with my mouth and that line?”
He turns to Andrew as if he can give him some sort of answer.
“You did it great just a minute ago,” Andrew offers, realising too late that he used his own accent, not Eduardo’s, because he was too busy thinking that there was absolutely nothing wrong with Jesse's mouth. He tries to use his own accent as infrequently as possible on set because Jesse likes to stay ‘in the zone’ and Andrew's twisted English-American accent confuses him. Jesse’s shoulders droop and Andrew knows that all the energy that fizzed between them a moment ago, while the cameras were rolling, is gone.
“Take a break, guys,” is all David says, not even looking up from the clipboard that the scene monitor is showing him.
“Come on,” Andrew murmurs close to Jesse’s ear, his hand on his lower back, leading him out of the room. Jesse goes with it, letting Andrew walk him along the hall, down a flight of stairs, outside and across a car park to Andrew’s small but comfortable trailer. He holds the door open for Jesse, then closes it behind him, points Jesse to a chair and sets about making a pot of tea. The English way of solving problems, he thinks. I’m such a stereotype.
“So what’s up, Jess?” he asks as he pours milk into two cups. He sees Jesse look up sharply from the corner of his eye, and he wonders if he has ever called him Jess before, skipping over that crucial last letter in such a comfortably familiar way. He doesn’t think so.
“You are like a gazelle.”
Andrew turns around and raises one eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You move like one,” Jesse says. He is staring up at Andrew, his mouth in a straight line, as if he is making a very serious point about Andrew’s grammar, or something. “A gazelle. Or maybe a deer.” He frowns and shrugs a little. “It depends on what you’re doing.”
Andrew can’t talk. He can’t reply. He bites back the world’s most sickeningly fond smile and shakes his head.
“I can’t read you at all, mate,” he says; he hands Jesse a mug of tea and flops down onto the sofa opposite Jesse’s chair.
“I know. I’m an enigma,” Jesse deadpans.
Andrews laughs loudly, freely. “You really are,” he says, disbelievingly.
“Also,” Jesse frowns, as if he has realised something, “I just referred to you as a ‘gazelle’. I actually said that out loud, to your face. For that, I sincerely apologise.”
It’s strange, hearing Jesse talk in his distinctly Jesse way, but seeing him as Mark Zuckerberg, in those shorts and insanely ridiculous sandals. Andrew says this.
Jesse doesn’t answer; he bites his lip and his eyes look…they look almost sad and Andrew is left, not for the first time, wondering what he has said wrong.
“Jess…” Andrew starts, but Jesse shakes his head.
“We should probably go back, right?” He asks, putting his untouched tea down on the table.
Andrew sighs. For every moment that he thinks that he is getting closer to Jesse, getting something out of him, getting him to be real with him, Jesse always manages to do something, like turn his face away, so that Andrew can’t see his expression, or let his shoulders drop and his head hand tiredly, or smile that sad, anti-depressant half smile of his, that puts everything in reverse. These are just tiny moments, insignificant little things that probably nobody else would notice, but Andrew notices everything and they make him feel incredibly distant.
“Right,” Andrew says. He doesn’t look at Jesse, because when he does he wants to put one of his hands over Jesse’s face to hide him, or maybe smother him, but just to somehow stop him getting inside of Andrew’s heart. “Let’s go back.”