Two Roads Diverged, Chapter 3
Title: Two Roads Diverged (3/12)
Pairing: Cory/Shawn
Rating: This is more relationshippy than sexy, but there's some description of blow-jobs and hand-jobs, so rate that how you will.
Length: ~50,000 words over 12 chapters
Summary: Years after a falling out, Cory and Shawn reconnect in New York City and help each other through some big changes. This takes place about eight years after the end of the series, so roughly 2008-2009.
Note: My earlier BMW stand-alone fics " Idiot Savant" and " Average Boy" can be read as the backstories to this story, but you do not have to have read those to follow this one.
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Cory wakes up several times throughout the night. He's never slept well in unfamiliar places. At one point he rolls over and puts his arm around Shawn, cuddles up behind him. He is shocked to feel how thin he is, like an armful of bones. His hand instinctively moves to the left side of Shawn's chest, making sure his heart is still beating. The steady thumping is reassuring and Cory passes back into sleep, still holding Shawn protectively.
It's late morning when Cory wakes up for good. He can tell by the quality of the light streaming through the half-open blinds. It takes him a minute to remember where he is, then he rolls over quickly, afraid that Shawn has left. But he's still there, sprawled out and snoring lightly. Cory pokes him but he doesn't stir and he remembers what Shawn said about the sleeping pill. So Cory takes advantage of the chance to have a good look at him while he can't hide.
That haircut is brutal and the beard, he thinks, absurd. He can also see in the sunlight a substantial scar that Shawn never had before on his scalp near his hairline. It doesn't look fresh-at least a couple years old. It's troubling, though. He doesn't like the idea of it. But his body...that's much more troubling. Even through his t-shirt, Cory can see that Shawn's all alarming angles. It makes him feel ill to look at.
He pulls himself out of the bed and goes to pee. Despite his precautions, his head is throbbing. He take more aspirin and then goes in search of his phone. He finds it in his discarded jeans on the bedroom floor. There's a missed call from Topanga from the night before. He calls her back but gets her voicemail. So he calls Gina, her secretary, and tells her to let Topanga know he's all right, just had a late night with a friend. Then he begins rummaging through the kitchen to find some breakfast. There's not much-some take-out containers, some cereal (but no milk), Coke, beer. Unreasonably irritated, he locates Shawn's keys, gets dressed and heads out to the diner on the corner.
Cory returns to the apartment with a stack of styrofoam containers and a grocery sack. He's pleased to find Shawn up and dressed and drinking coffee out of a glass.
"Where did you get coffee?" Cory asks, setting down his spoils which include a couple to-go cups of coffee.
"It's Jack and Coke," Shawn says, "What's all this?"
"You're drinking first thing in the morning?"
"You ease your way into a hangover, you ease your way out. How's your head?"
"Fine," Cory replies then amends it, "Terrible. Does that really work?"
Shawn nods and points to the grocery bag. "Is that orange juice? I can make you a screwdriver."
Cory makes a face then throws his hands up in defeat. Shawn puts together a healthy Tropicana-Smirnoff blend while Cory opens each styrofoam box and lays it out on the counter like a buffet. He accepts the glass from Shawn and points at each item with his free hand. "Pancakes. Omelette. French toast. BLT. Bacon cheeseburger. Eat something."
Shawn smiles apologetically. "That's sweet, Cory, but I'm not-"
"Eat something. I'm not kidding around."
Shawn glares at him but Cory glares right back. He sips his screwdriver, ready to wait out the standoff. But Shawn acquiesces and reluctantly begins picking at the BLT. Pleased, Cory helps himself to the pancakes. They stand beside each other, eating their respective meals at the counter. Cory bumps Shawn companionably. Shawn bumps him back.
"So, what are you gonna do about Topanga?" Shawn asks as Cory packs up the leftovers, each box neatly labeled, into the fridge.
"There," Cory says, "You've got your meals for the next couple of days. And there's milk for your cereal and bread and," he rummages in the grocery bag and produces two square aluminum cans, "Spam. Make some sandwiches."
Shawn smiles. "But what are you gonna do about Topanga?"
"What do you mean?" Cory stalks out of the kitchen and throws himself onto the sofa, irritated.
Shawn sits beside him. "I mean, are you gonna ask her to go to marriage counseling or what?"
"Probably."
"You think that's gonna work?"
"Probably not."
"Yeah. So then what?"
"I don't know."
"Well, what do you want to have happen?"
Cory sighs. "I want to get in a time machine and travel back to every mistake I made and unmake it."
"How's that working out?"
Cory shrugs. "She's not happy either. But I don't think she'll admit it if I don't admit it first. And I want her to be happy. I just don't know if that's possible with me dragging along behind her like a big, dumb anchor for the rest of her life. I know there's things she'd like to do, opportunities she's turned down. I mean, it's like Yale all over again every couple of months. I don't like being the reason she's not living up to her potential. And if I'm not even happy with all the sacrificing she does, what's the point of it all? Do either of us ever get to be happy?"
Cory waits for Shawn's response to this, but when it doesn't come he turns to look at him. Shawn seems lost in thought, his attention a hundred miles away. Then he's looking at Cory and Cory is surprised to see all the little lines at the corner of Shawn's eyes, quite visible in the morning sunlight. He is unmistakably older and it strikes Cory that he looks worn out.
"You wanna go someplace?" Shawn asks.
They end up at the Natural History museum which neither of them has ever visited, despite having more than a decade in New York between them. Shawn seems to be in an especially good mood about playing tourist with his old friend and his cheer is contagious. They wander through the exhibits making each other laugh and shoving each other around like eleven-year-old boys, getting occasional disparaging looks from guards.
Cory remembers school field trips when they were kids, how they had to take part in the buddy system. He and Shawn were always buddies, of course. And they always wandered off together, always got lost, always ended up hauled to the security office while the field trip chaperones were paged. But in-between the times when they wandered off and were hauled back by museum security-those were great times. The whole world was theirs and no one told them what to do or where to go. They made up fabulous stories about the mummies and ancient weapons and amber-encased prehistoric lifeforms they came across. Shawn made up the best stories, a skill he inherited from his father. His stories were always just this side of believable but so much fun. Cory listened intently while Shawn told incredible tales about each artifact and cast himself and Cory as characters in the stories. Sometimes they were warriors. Sometimes they were cavemen. Sometimes they were lost boys raised by wild animals.
Philadelphia and Jefferson Grade School and the Matthews's house in Cedar Heights and the Pink Flamingo Trailer Park and every adult and every rule faded away and it was just Cory and Shawn, Shawn and Cory, buddies hand-in-hand embarking on adventure.
"Do you remember-" Cory starts to ask now, as they stare down a diorama of ancient man.
"Yeah," Shawn answers. He takes Cory's hand, re-instituting the buddy system, and leads him onto the next exhibit.
Sometimes when they were kids, one of them would get overexcited and run to the next room faster than their buddy could find them in the crowds, forget to keep their hands locked. Those were panicky moments-Cory remembers the fear in the back of his throat tasting like tin foil-realizing they'd lost each other. But they always found each other and played it off like neither of them had been scared without the other. One time when they were very little, though, it took too long, what felt to a seven-year-old like hours. And when Cory finally found Shawn inside a walk-through model of the human heart, he was crouched down and crying, hands over his ears as if protecting himself from a blow. "You aren't supposed to leave me," he said, shoving Cory hard. But then he took Cory's hand and Cory promised it would never happen again and Shawn pretended he hadn't been crying.
Visiting a museum is a quieter affair these days. They read the placards, make fun of often euphemistic language, and mention how something reminds them of an article they read or a program they caught on PBS one night when they couldn't sleep. They're grown-ups now, something in all their wild stories they'd never imagined quite right. They both thought they'd be taller, for one thing, and maybe be professional wrestlers by now. Cory always pictured Shawn tattooed, pierced, and intimidating, nothing like the slight, subdued figure he'd turned out. And Cory's adult self had always somehow gotten straight, glossy hair like Eric's. And probably a passel of kids and a station wagon like his dad. He'd never pictured himself with glasses or a thinning spot in the back or feeling like he'd ruined everything before the age of thirty.
Being a weekday afternoon in the middle of January, the museum is pretty deserted. The majority of the other patrons are chaperoned groups of school kids, but they all seem to be following the same predetermined order of exhibits and so Cory and Shawn don't encounter them much. When they pop into the cafeteria for lunch, however, they are surrounded by kids.
"I feel like we should be getting chicken nuggets," Cory says, amused, as they wade through the swarms, trays in hand. Shawn gives him a distracted smile. Cory finds it a little odd that Shawn seems so suddenly uncomfortable surrounded by the kids-he'd always had a good time when they babysat Morgan or Josh. Maybe it's the sheer number of kids that's overwhelming. Shawn definitely looks overwhelmed.
They sit for a few minutes at their table, just long enough for Cory to unpack the plastic lids off the items on his tray and lay everything out just so before he realizes that Shawn hasn't touched his tray. He's sitting very still and looks for all the world like he's about to throw up.
"Okay, Shawnie?"
Shawn opens his mouth to reply, then closes it. He's gone pale as his shirt collar. "I gotta...I'll be right back," he mutters, abandoning their table and making his way unevenly out of the cafeteria.
Cory remains at the table and eats his pasta salad, enjoying watching the kids and trying to pick out some version of himself and Shawn that he knows must be among them. When it becomes clear that Shawn isn't coming back anytime soon, though, he wolfs down his panini and cleans up their trays. He grabs Shawn's untouched container of soup and goes looking for him.
He finds him in a little alcove near the washrooms where carts of folding chairs are stored. Shawn is leaning against the wall between two of the carts, arms folded and eyes closed. Cory weaves his way through the carts and Shawn startles when he reaches out and touches his arm.
"You still hung over?" Cory asks.
"No. Sorry. I just couldn't breathe."
"What's that about?" he asks. Shawn doesn't respond and Cory holds up the soup container in offering but Shawn makes a face so Cory discards it on top of one of the carts. He turns back to him and waits expectantly for some idea of what Shawn wants.
Then Shawn shoves Cory into one of the carts, causing all the chairs on it to rattle and, hands tightly gripping him on either side of his chest, he begins kissing him forcefully. Cory squeaks a little-Shawn's grip is painful-but Shawn doesn't loosen up in any fashion. He keeps pushing against him, trying to dig deeper with his mouth and tongue. It's not entirely unwelcome-Cory feels himself growing hard inside his jeans-but he can't breathe and the whole thing feels off somehow. He puts his hands on Shawn's shoulders and pushes him back.
Shawn lets go of him and falls back a step. There's an expression on his face that Cory can't place-frustration? desperation? panic? anger?-and he pleads with Cory, pressing into him again.
"Nobody fucking knows us here. Just do this."
Cory holds him off, uncertain what to do. Shawn looks like he's going to lose it any second.
"Listen," Cory says, "The place I'm staying is two blocks from here."
"Yes," Shawn replies immediately and insensibly. He physically turns Cory around and marches the two of them out of the alcove and then onward to the museum exit. The sound of children shrieking and laughing echoes off the marble walls behind them.
In Jim's apartment, they leave a trail from the entryway to the bedroom: boots, hats, gloves, scarves, coats, sweaters-so many goddamn layers of sweaters peeled off Shawn-shirts, belts, pants, socks, boxers. Now Cory's on his hands and knees atop the bed pushing Shawn up against the insane pile of pillows at the head. Shawn keeps trying to kiss him but Cory keeps repositioning himself awkwardly around him, causing Shawn to start over every time Cory shifts position.
"What do you keep doing that for?" Shawn growls, sitting up in frustration.
Cory sits back, equally frustrated. "I'm afraid I'm going to hurt you."
"I am so beyond getting hurt."
"No, I mean literally. Like I'm going to hurt you with the weight of my body."
Shawn looks incredulous. "You look great, Cor."
Cory is confused, then he realizes that Shawn thinks Cory's being insecure. "No," he says, "You. You're nothing but bones."
Shawn rolls his eyes and moves away from Cory. The mood has officially been killed. He locates his boxers and slips them back on. His back is to Cory and his shoulder blades look sharp and angry as he slips his undershirt over his head, covering over his ribs and vertebrae.
Cory feels his heart sink as he watches all the protective layers going back on. "I'm sorry, Shawnie, but you look terrible. And I'm not saying that to be a jerk. I'm worried about you."
Shawn shakes his head, buckling his pants. "Don't worry about me. Nobody should ever have to worry about me again. Do you have any idea how much money I got from the film options alone? And they're talking about a cartoon. And toys. It's ridiculous. I could never write another book again and I'd be just fine."
"Your career's great and I'm so, so proud of you. But it looks like it's killing you."
Shawn doesn't sound angry anymore. He just sounds tired. "It's just been a bad couple of months. It has nothing to do with the books or my job." He scratches his beard and looks at Cory without really looking at him. "Anyway, I should go. This was a bad idea."
"No," Cory is surprised to hear how desperate his own voice sounds, "Don't go. Please. I promise I'll leave you be. I'll stop acting like I'm your mother. I just don't want to be alone today."
"I really do have to get going. I got a couple of appointments I shouldn't be late for. I'm pretty sure my lawyer bills by the minute." He seems to soften, though, seeing Cory's no doubt crestfallen expression. "But why don't you come back to my place tonight? I should be done with everything by six."
Cory feels dumb, remembering that Shawn is rich and famous and has important rich and famous people things he should be doing. "Don't worry about it," he says, following Shawn to the door, "I know you're busy. I appreciate you making the time to see me."
"Oh, come on," Shawn chides, buttoning up his coat and wrapping his scarf, "I'm really not that busy. I have practically no life these days. How do you think I wrote so many books so fast?" Then he pauses. "Where's Josh's book?"
"Oh." Cory leaves him in the entry and returns with the little paperback.
Shawn takes it from him and tucks it inside his coat. "I'm so busy I won't even have time to write in it until this evening at the very earliest," he says sarcastically, "Guess you'll have to come over to get it if you don't wanna make your baby brother cry." Shawn makes a face at him and lets himself out. "See ya later."
Alone in Jim's apartment, Cory once again doesn't know what to do with himself. Then he checks his phone and sees more missed calls from Topanga. He does some quick math to figure out the time difference and realizes he just might catch her.
"I'm so sorry I haven't called," he says immediately when she picks up.
"Were you with Shawn?" she asks, not unkindly.
"Yeah."
"I figured."
Two Roads Diverged
Previously:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Next:
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12