(no subject)
Shut Up I'm Dreaming (of Places Where Lovers Have Wings)
Andrew/Jesse
Author Notes: Obvious things have been changed, set in the present day, etc. etc. I'm sorry this wasn't up on Sunday, work + school are super hectic right now. I'm not disappearing, though. Thank you to Liz, my wonderfulamazing beta and to R, who is actually an ass. ALSO. Hi. You're all amazing. Andrew's mix can be downloaded here and Jesse's mix, if you missed it, can be downloaded here.
VOD (Very Obvious Disclaimer): If you found this by Googling yourself, stop it. And go away. Trust me. Real people, fake things.
Part IV: He Says Your Name Out Loud.
Jesse wakes up to humming in the kitchen and the smell of breakfast-actual breakfast, not his variation on the meal that usually includes something with hot sauce-and a massive, sinking feeling in his chest. It takes him a second to remember that Andrew's there, in the kitchen, making himself right at home. It should count for something that Andrew is just a couple of walls and a few steps away from him. It should calm him. It doesn't.
There's a civil war being declared inside of him whenever Andrew is in the room.
Whenever Andrew exists.
Especially whenever Andrew is in the room.
He tries to breathe methodically. Inhale, exhale. The rise and fall of his chest steadies.
It doesn't help, though. Instead, he just focuses on I'm in love with him and knows nothing like this has the potential to end up well. It's a loaded situation this time, even though it should be easier than before. They're both single (he thinks, at least; Andrew is technically single), currently in the city (he knows that will change soon, and he dreads it an absolute fuck ton), and he swears there's a - a spark of something there, right between them. It hovers in the air sometimes, making his fingers tremble the slightest bit whenever Andrew has a hand in his hair or gives him a blinding, brilliant grin.
It's such a rush when that happens.
He is bound to get too attached again. He loves too much, he invests too much, and he cares too much. When something has him, it has all of him. It's tugging at his heart and guts, dragging them down, because this isn't something he can ever allow himself to have.
People like Andrew don't happen to people like Jesse.
It's probably written somewhere buried in ancient Rome: Andrew shall never love Jesse.
Doomed from before the common era.
(The few times Andrew has come up at therapy with Dr. Goldsmith, he had been told, "Jesse, what you are experiencing isn't anything terrible, nor is it revolutionary. Giving up control of your emotions to another person is something most everybody experiences at one time or another, and Andrew seems like such a great candidate to share that part of yourself with, and--" But Jesse had sort of shrugged it off before the sentence was even done. There are some things that are just too far-fetched to hear. Some things are too abnormal to be taken seriously. This was one of them.
Andrew is way out of his league. Jesse is like the kid from the wrong side of the tracks, in this scenario. He is the awkward (he's trying to work on that, image-wise), less-than attractive friend who manages to miraculously make Andrew laugh. He still isn't sure how that works, or why Andrew keeps him around, because Andrew is the popular kid that everybody flocks to because of his good looks and effortless charisma. Jesse hates that everything gets reduced down to high school analogies; this is so much bigger than anything that petty.
He isn't always down on himself, but he's being realistic. Andrew is all charm and laughs and ridiculous clothes; Jesse is anxious and worries too much and hasn't actually bought clothes in years.)
Jesse heads to the bathroom first and brushes his teeth as quietly as he can. He's kind of, maybe a little, attempting to make himself look acceptable in the morning. Andrew has seen him at his worst, drunk and getting sick, but he doesn't care. He's trying now, he supposes, in his own way. Subtle. He is taking baby steps.
He's in a crawl. Obviously.
His plaid pajama pants probably make him look like he's twelve years old, and his plain white t-shirt makes him look even skinnier than he is. He takes a look at himself in the mirror, studying his reflection. He tries to ignore Andrew singing in the kitchen, something that sounds upbeat-he's always so fucking happy, and Jesse is envious-but he can't because he's smiling a little bit, the corners of his mouth tugged up by invisible strings.
Andrew makes him happy.
He has things to do today, and so does Andrew. He doesn't want to waste the short blocks of time he'll actually get to see him today, so he heads into the kitchen.
He is greedy and he will make the most of everything. He will take whatever he can get. He isn't ashamed to admit it.
Andrew is talking to Alexander and Hephaestion, who are watching him adoringly. Fuck, his cats don't even act like he exists half the time and they're fawning all over Andrew. It is probably because they think he is a delicate woodland creature. Jesse understands.
If Andrew notices Jesse standing there off to the side, he doesn't let on. He's just carrying on while making pancakes. Strawberry pancakes. They're kind of Jesse's most favorite thing for breakfast like, ever.
"So, anyway, were either of you difficult? You probably just jumped straight into a monogamous feline relationship, I assume. Probably not; cats seem like the type of species to just go after what they want. All of that pouncing business and all. It's admirable, really. On the other hand, you lack opposable thumbs. Perhaps it evens out. You know your dad sends me pictures of you? He totally does, and I know you two heathens cuddle in the closet. How ironic. Gay cats, cuddling in the closet." Andrew kind of laughs and flips a pancake over, and Jesse tries to stifle his laughter.
He is in love with Andrew.
Pretty hopelessly.
"He thinks he's sneaky, you know. Just because I'm not facing him doesn't mean I can't sense him staring at me," Andrew says, taking one pancake off the stove and placing it onto a plate he has there. Jesse jumps a little bit, but he's so charmed by the British boy with wild hair talking to his cats that he can't bring himself to care about being caught spying on the three of them.
He counts his cats as people, so what.
"Alexander totally put up a fight. Hephaestion tried courting him for weeks, and Alexander wouldn't even cuddle. I think Alexander was kind of - kind of insecure. He's not as h-a-n-d-s-o-m-e as Hephaestion," Jesse says, spelling out the words as though he's protecting the cat's feelings by making it a bit more difficult for him to comprehend. Andrew snorts.
"Typical. Obviously Hephaestion finds him more than adequate." The line resides with Jesse, because Andrew is adequate, and. Fuck.
His heart does that stupid thing in his chest where it acts like he just snorted a line of coke off a stripper in Las Vegas (not that everybody in Vegas acts like a drug-fueled hooligan, but.), yet he finds he doesn't really mind.
As if on cue, Alexander decides to lean against Hephaestion, and the other cat bats at his tail before they're rolling around on the floor and out of the way, swatting at each other and doing some weird cat-flirting thing. If they were cats, Jesse would totally roll around on the floor with the boy making them strawberry pancakes for breakfast.
"Hey, they worked their shit out." Jesse is defending his cats. His life.
Andrew makes a quiet clicking noise with his tongue. Jesse tries not to check him out but fails horribly.
He's in grey sweats slung low on his hips with a black t-shirt that looks about a thousand years old. There are holes here and there, revealing small patches of smooth skin. Jesse wants - he wants to touch. He wants too much.
"You're making breakfast. I didn't even have stuff to make this," Jesse motions. He feels kind of useless for not being any help, but Andrew knows that Jesse sucks at cooking breakfast food. His pancakes are either mushy or burnt, and his scrambled eggs are like.
Andrew called them boogers, one morning when he fondly watched Jesse make a massacre out of a simple American breakfast. Jesse had protested, but it was a pretty accurate description.
After that, Andrew had always made them breakfast.
Andrew just sort of waves him off. "I went to the store, bonus of being in New York - you walk down half a block, and there's a nice family willing to sell you organic things! Brilliant."
"Strawberry pancakes."
"You like them," Andrew shrugs. It means nothing to him but means everything to Jesse. He finishes up the last pancake, puts it onto the plate, and turns to face Jesse.
Andrew has on a fucking Ween shirt.
Jesse's eyes widen.
"I--" he stutters out. Andrew doesn't even listen to Ween, so. He used to have that shirt, ages ago. He lost it somewhere between Boston and LA, but.
Oh.
Andrew's arms cross over his chest because Jesse is staring, and Andrew has on his shirt, at least he thinks so, and fuck. Fuck.
"Is that--?" He wants to ask.
"No, um. No. I found this at some thrift store once. Thought you would be amused if you ever saw me in it."
Andrew is fucking lying and Jesse knows it. His stomach catapults into his throat. It takes so much for him not to smile. It's so worn, and it wasn't back then. He. He sleeps in it, and that counts. It fucking counts.
So Jesse nods, and Andrew turns away from him to throw some pancakes on a plate. Jesse sits at the bar and watches Andrew clean up some.
"These are amazing. I owe you dinner or something now. When will you be back tonight?" He tries to sound casual, and not like he wants to keep tabs on him.
"We open in five days, so. Things are going really smooth, it shouldn't - Maybe six?" Andrew guesstimates, and Jesse can work with that. He can work with six o'clock.
"I've got a meeting today, but we can. Yeah. Come back, I'll make you dinner." Andrew leans against the counter, plate in his hand, and grins at Jesse.
"Have you expanded your menu?"
"I can make more shit now, shut up," he sort of mumbles in return, busying himself with tearing off a piece of pancake and shoving it in his mouth. He doesn't use syrup because he's weird and un-American, even though the syrup is probably from Canada anyway.
"I trust you," Andrew says simply, and Jesse's heart expands. He knows the statement doesn't just apply to what they're doing for dinner.
They eat in companionable silence. Jesse tries not to stare at Andrew, but Andrew catches his eye every so often, and they both sort of grin, like they're starting a revolution and it's all a big secret.
Jesse feels like he's leading a goddamn revolution.
There's something churning inside of him.
In the fiber of his being.
He's tired of holding on so tight.
Andrew sort of cocks an eyebrow in his direction, and Jesse realizes he's staring.
"Hey there, whatcha thinkin'?" Andrew inquires, but Jesse isn't exactly willing to admit, "Just thinking about how we could totally be boyfriends or something," because, well.
He's thinking outlandish things. Precisely.
Jesse breathes in.
He only needs to get through a few weeks of this, and then he'll be fine. Less than a month. Twenty-one days. After this, he will have space between himself and Andrew that will help make this pang inside his chest, hiding behind his ribs, wrapped around his heart, much easier to ignore. Things like this won't matter. He's got a lot of work coming up; he'll spend some time in Rome for promotion and then in Paris to film. He'll see the fucking Eiffel Tower and walk fucking Champs-Élysées and not think about all of the things he so terribly cannot have.
He won't think about Andrew, because he's something that's so out of reach.
"Nothing," Jesse finally answers. Andrew's face falls marginally, just enough for Jesse to notice that his eyes shine a little bit less. "Thanks for breakfast, though. Again. You didn't have to do this. I know you need to get to the theatre, so. I'll finish cleaning this up, if you want to go get ready."
Jesse averts his eyes when Andrew just kind of sighs, sounding exasperated, and puts his plate in the sink.
The bit of pancake still left on Jesse's plate is suddenly fascinating. He pushes it around on his plate when Andrew walks past him and to his bedroom-the guest bedroom, fuck-without another word.
The more distance he puts between them the better.
Jesse ditches his plate in the sink as well and hurries into his bedroom while Andrew is still changing behind his closed door.
He leans against his wall, breathing in. Breathing out. He feels like a dick. He's always open with Andrew, too honest and too incontestable. When Andrew looks at him, it's like he knows everything; he sees right through the thin shell Jesse tries to keep up between them sometimes when everything just hits too close to home. Things pile on him, heaping onto his heart, and he knows that nobody is going to be there to clear him-them, the things, certainly not Andrew-off. Nobody is going to make this go away.
He supposes he'll live with it forever.
But with space between them, the hurt and the want, the yearning and the fucking desire, is sure to die down.
It has to.
There's a knock on his closed door. He's startled.
Jesse takes in a deep breath before opening it up. Andrew's face, it's-
He looks wounded, as if Jesse just gave him a cheap shot to the gut, but he's trying to hide it. Jesse wants to reach out, slide his fingers through Andrew's hair and run the pad of his thumb over Andrew's cheek. "Chin up, champ," he wants to say, because he knows it would elicit the tiniest smile, and that's all he wants to fucking see, but he doesn't, because he's a coward and he doesn't know how to fix this. He doesn't know what to do when everything suddenly feels so shitty.
He knows it's his fault. He isn't that obtuse.
"I made you this," Andrew voices. It's soft and soothing, meant to calm down Jesse's racing brain and thundering heart. Even when Andrew is clearly put off by Jesse's abrupt change of attitude, he's trying to comfort Jesse. He's selfless a lot of the time, Jesse knows that, but it makes him feel like an even bigger dick for being selfish. It also undeniably makes him feel a little bit better, because Andrew cares and that's-- that's enough.
It works.
Andrew is thrusting a CD in his direction, his finger through the center hole. Jesse takes it carefully, trying his best not to make any skin to skin contact. He wants-
"I know you'll never Google these, because you're set on making the founders of Google, like, weep or something, you stubborn ass, but--"Andrew pulls out a folded up piece of paper from his pocket and thrusts that at Jesse, too. "Here, a track list. Just. Listen to it, okay? And when I get back later on, we need to talk, so just--" He pauses when Jesse takes the paper from him, and their fingers brush, and Andrew makes this little noise like, like- "Listen to this, I'm returning the favor. You stubborn ass." And, okay, Jesse isn't so dense that he doesn't get the reinforcement there, really. Andrew is smiling at him a little.
Jesse can't help but smile a little bit back.
"Thank you," he says, and Andrew just sort of nods like hey, it's fine, forget about it.
Jesse won't forget about it.
"I'm going. Hoffman will kill me if I'm late again; he is a very punctual man, and quite scary when he needs to be."
When Andrew backs away, he bows a little and tips an invisible hat at Jesse, making his way to the front door, and Jesse just waves back like a complete blundering idiot. But Andrew gives him this grin right before he exits the apartment, and there's nothing Jesse can do to keep from returning it. He might be completely fucked, but with that smile? Well.
He'll take it.
There's that thing swelling up in his chest again, but he isn't unable to identify it now.
He knows it's love.
* * *
* * *
* * *
He listens to the mix right away. It's barely eight o'clock in the morning and he doesn't need to leave until ten. He has time. He puts the disc into his Macbook and allows it a minute to import to iTunes before actually letting it play.
He catches the line Andrew wrote in the first note, happiness hit (her) like a train on a track, in the first song. He likes it; he thinks he's heard it before-he isn't entirely oblivious to shit, give him a break-and he wants to repeat it, but he lays back on his bed instead. His Macbook is off to the side, and he's paying attention to the words of everything. He's soaking it in.
He likes the second song a lot. It's got the line in it that resonates with him so much, written around the edge of a dollar that won't ever leave his wallet. He wants to repeat that song forever, fuck the first one, because he gets it. It's perfect and - fuck, Andrew.
None of it is anything he would typically listen to, but he's in love. He doubts he'll listen to anything else for the next six months.
Sorry, Ween.
Andrew had on his shirt.
Andrew stole his shirt.
Andrew slept in his shirt.
His stomach flip flops.
Because Andrew is all he can fucking think about, and he doesn't even consider it a problem.
It's just normal, now.
But suddenly his ringtone is playing, and - oh. The whole song. He starts it over to pay closer attention. Number seven, okay. Noted. And. He likes it. It kind of makes him want to dance. He's tapping his toes into the air, sure he looks ridiculous.
I like this song. My ringtone. I don't care if a girl with a bull ring in her nose humps my leg.
you're so precious but listen to the words because it is more than a catchy song its actually really fucking good
Listening, sir. Listening.
And he does.
It's nice that Andrew wants to be his friend, but.
And then the last line gets him and.
Oh.
Oh.
He isn't sure how to rationalize this one.
It's just a stupid song, but.
Fuck.
On a mix.
It's his ringtone.
A hearts J.
Or whatever, it has a name and a fucking stupid message: Friend Crush.
He's doomed.
Fucked.
Brilliant.
When he leaves for his meeting, he writes his own message on the board. A lyric from the next song. He hopes Andrew approves.
* * *
* * *He grabs his phone and texts Anna when he's watering and rotating her fucking plants (he hates them, he wants to tell her that, but then she might not give him any advice and that would really, seriously suck).
Andrew made me breakfast, and then said he wanted to talk to me tonight. Isn't that how it would go during a break up? A buttering up ritual before you stab somebody in the heart with an ice pick? Not that we are dating or anything. You know what I'm saying.
He doesn't mention the mix because he hasn't processed it enough to share it. It feels personal. It feels too revealing, like it's stripping down what's going on, even when he doesn't have a fucking clue what any of it means.
You're anaaal. Get it? Ha ha? Not funny? I think I'm a real comedian.
I hate you, Jesse replies. He can hear her slight Midwestern twang and sharp a's in everything she says, and the way she says "real" for ridiculous emphasis even when it isn't correct.
You do not + you need advice. He isn't breaking up with you because you're a moron who won't just tell him how you feel. Jesse, he adores you. I didn't think you two idiots would take this long.
He doesn't. It's not. If he did, I would know. He would say something. He's good at this; he knows how to handle these kinds of things. By the way, I'm rotating your plant with the pink pot and I seriously think it looks like it might wilt at any second whenever I touch it. Is it possible for plants to hate people?
Hahahahahah stop it, it's impossible to hate you. You know, not every person is as confident as you give them credit for. You can be kind of intimidating.
Jesse scoffs loudly in the empty apartment, like. Come on, he is the furthest thing from intimidating, like, ever. Kittens with bows on are more intimidating than he is. He brings forth something closer to pity, he assumes. He replies quickly.
I'm not intimidating.
But a reply comes before his message is even sent all the way. It's massive, and he has no idea how she typed it out so fast.
Before you deny it, you are. I'm older than you, and when we met, I was intimidated. You're very smart, and you know what you want. You have a lot of opinions, and you have the ability to make people who don't agree with them feel stupid or even uneducated. You don't do it on purpose, but you're so convincing and logical about most things (note: not about Andrew) that it is overwhelming. You just need to talk to him, okay? Talk to him. And tell me how your meeting goes today. I'm walking into one of my own. Thanks again, buddy.
He stares at the plant in the pink pot for a minute.
It doesn't offer any answers.
What an asshole.
* * *
His meeting is - it's awful. He hates these things: the politics of business; the side that's ugly and flares up; the part that won't let him ever hold Andrew's hand in public-if Andrew was miraculously down with that-and the part that keeps him up sometimes. His meeting with his agency isn't something he should dread, but he does.
It lasts the entire thirty minutes, that sinking feeling.
Except when he suddenly remembers that Andrew made him a mix of fucking love songs and whatdoesthatevenfuckingmeanJESUSCHRIST.
"With the next film, you're really going to take it up a step with--" he hears, but barely listens. He's not saying much, but he isn't expected to. He knows what they want.
He's changing direction. His image is going to change. He's supposed to change, but.
It's only logical for him to be seen as more grown up. He can't play college kids forever or whatever. He knows this.
But Linda, behind her glasses and business-professional smile, is telling him they're going for him to come across more confident. More "leading man" and, oh.
Okay.
"You're there already, really. You're more grown up than you even were a year ago." Jesse didn't know her a year ago, and he's been forty years old internally since he was about eight, and he can't take this seriously.
It makes him feel like shit.
There's some hand shaking and pleasantries, but he doesn't really care, because he hates it all. He doesn't like any of this; he just really fucking loves to act.
There's something about losing yourself in somebody else, a character he'll never meet (sorry Mark Zuckerberg, you were essentially more awesome as a character in a film because you're less interesting in real life) that makes him happy and feel accomplished.
Creativity is such a valued freedom for him.
Hey, can you steal twenty minutes to grab a coffee or something? he text messages Andrew. He's near enough anyway; he could be there on his bike in five minutes, if he doesn't get run over. It's almost happened before.
i'll be able to in 10 meet me at that little place--
Jesse doesn't finish reading the message because he knows where Andrew wants to meet, and he's good with that. He's perfectly fine and not upset at all.
He isn't listening to his mix on the way over and analyzing it all over again. He isn't. He -
He is.
He is totally currently on the same level as a thirteen-year-old girl with braces and a crush, and he's okay with that.
Maybe Andrew likes him, too.
Totally a teenage girl.
I am a teenage girl, he texts Ellen.
If you're 18, you can join me and my lady for a threesome, she replies immediately.
"Are you text cheating on me? Stop sexting in public," Andrew chides him, and Jesse looks up to see him smiling-Andrew smiles so fucking much-at him like he's the best thing he's seen in the last four hours.
"I am, actually. Pat Sajak is pretty wild with the SMS," he shrugs. Andrew laughs, and it is beautiful.
Andrew made him a mix of fucking love songs.
He can handle pretty much anything life wants to throw his way.
"I've got twenty minutes of your time, now tell Pat to fuck off and go tend to his wheel or something," Andrew demands, and they get in line. Jesse knows Andrew will get a green tea, no sweetener, and order the same for Jesse, because that's what he likes, too.
Jesse pays and finds them a table. Andrew's hand brushes his when they walk the few feet, and it feels good. It doesn't - it doesn't feel dire like it did early in the morning. He might not know much of anything, or have it figured out, but he knows it feels better and lighter, and Andrew is still sort of smiling as though he's just glad to be in Jesse's company.
Jesse thinks his face mirrors the expression.
"I'm going to grow up, and you're dating Emma," Jesse leads in with, once they are seated in a far corner. It's a busy place, people are constantly coming and going and talking, but the great thing about New York is that none of them are pretending to give a fuck about Andrew or Jesse. They probably don't, really.
"Wait--wh-- Oh. You're going to straighten your hair or something and have stubble in public, or whatever?" Jesse laughs, that's sort of an absurd idea because he looks like a serial killer whenever he has facial hair, and his hair would look awful straight, and he would never take the time to try and tame that beast, but.
"You get it?" he asks. Andrew nods.
"You don't need to do that, though. You're--" Jesse tries not to focus on the way Andrew's lips close around the straw, but he does anyway for the briefest second. "You're very well respected. People - they love you. You don't need to change."
"Appearances."
"Fuck appearances," Andrew says with some venom in there, a punchy bite to his words.
Jesse just sort of laughs, though, because Andrew is dating Emma, like.
So he laughs instead. Andrew laughs, too, and they can't stop because it's fucking absurd. The nature of it all, and how fucked up it is. There are plenty of others who take it even further; they're not faking marriages or turning into people they aren't, but it's still enough to make him feel dirty for playing along here and there.
He's about to ask what Andrew wanted to talk to him about, but Andrew speaks first.
"Come to a party with me tonight," he asks, but it doesn't sound like a question. He sets his cup down in front of him on the table, next to Jesse's. There's less in Andrew's cup than in Jesse's, but Andrew's probably been talking all day.
"A party?"
"This guy who does props is having a party at his flat. His boyfriend is catering. They just moved in together, so they're having a thing or whatever, and he invited me and gave me a plus one. Everybody else from the cast has other stuff going on, I don't want it to be empty and have nobody show up because he's such a nice guy, or--" But Andrew doesn't need to continue his rambling monologue. Jesse gets it.
"Okay," Jesse agrees. Andrew's eyebrows arch, like he was expecting much more of a protest out of Jesse.
"Okay? You'll go?"
Jesse nods. "I think I would follow you into a black hole," he admits, echoing his thoughts from a few days (has it only been days? It feels like weeks) prior. His gaze drops to Andrew's hands because he's blushing a little bit, he thinks.
How transparent.
"I think I would follow you, too. I'll follow you into the dark. That's a song, right?" But Jesse has no idea.
"I'll Google it," he offers.
Andrew laughs, head thrown back and gorgeous. His neck is so long; so much space Jesse could mark up with kisses. When he's done, he steals Jesse's drink and takes a big gulp, all dramatic and cartoonish.
"You had more than I did, we should be even," Andrew smirks.
Jesse can't make himself care. Andrew can have whatever he wants. He can take it all from him, because he's pretty sure he's had the most important thing, Jesse's heart, for a while.
He wants to kick himself in the shin for thinking such sappy shit.
"It's a date," Andrew tells him when he stands up. He's probably been gone longer than twenty minutes, but he doesn't seem in a hurry to leave.
When he leans in to hug Jesse, he presses the quickest, lightest kiss to his temple. It isn't something anybody else would even catch, but it's in public and it makes Jesse's fingers tingle.
"It's a date," Jesse agrees.
Even if it is just a figure of speech.
He'll take it.
* * *
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