fic: TSN RPF; let me take care of you
Feb. 18th, 2011 03:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moogingSince seeing this film I have written SIXTEEN THOUSAND words across four different fics (I can't just write one at a time, okay, I get distracted super easily, like a magpie, or a hamster) and I didn't think this would be the one I finished first buuuuuuut it was. IT IS ALSO EASILY THE MOST RIDICULOUS and its competition includes a zombie au and something else particularly ludicrous. ANYWAY HERE IT IS.
title: let me take care of you
fandom: the social network rpf
pairing: andrew garfield/jesse eisenberg
rating: PG for Probably Gay
word count: ~3300
warnings: if this fic were a pizza, it would have a doughy base of ludicrosity, a tangy tomato layer of unnecessarily ~emotional~ h/c, a cheesy topping of diabetes-inducing schmoop and a handful of the olives of my dignity that people would just pick off and discard.
disclaimer: these people are real and belong to themselves, this never happened, I'm not implying that it did, this uses fictionalized versions of public personas, etc etc etc. LIFE RUINERS.
a/n: this was meant to be a five times fic and the full title was going to be "four times jesse and andrew took care of each other and one time they took care of each other", but then this bit got really long and ridiculous, so. I STILL WANT TO WRITE THE OTHER FOUR TIMES THOUGH, SOMEONE STOP ME.
summary: "As tempting as it is to leave you to drown in your own sweat," Jesse says, "you know, I think - maybe - it might get me fired."
They've got the weekend off, their first break since they started shooting, and Andrew's been talking for ten straight days about all the things they could do. "It's Boston, man," he's enthused, "we can go see Boston. We could do a scavenger hunt or look for seagulls or something." Jesse isn't sure about the seagull thing, but sometimes Andrew gets these flights of fancy that they all just go along with - that Jesse just goes along with. He reminds Jesse of Tallahassee, only instead of a strapping, muscular American, he's a gangly, affectionate half-Brit, and this isn't a movie, no matter how much Jesse sometimes thinks Andrew must be a fictional character.
Andrew has been lighting up about the apparently endless options open to them in their first forty-eight hours of free time, so when he has failed to emerge from his room by eleven on Saturday morning, Jesse thinks he's justified in feeling a little worried. He gives it another half an hour, though, just in case Andrew's pep has deserted him in the face of being able to stay in bed past the unsociable hours of dawn and just past it, but then he is actually worrying quite a lot, so he goes and knocks on Andrew's door.
"Andrew?" he calls, trying to keep his voice low in case Andrew really is asleep and won't thank him for being woken up.
Jesse thinks he hears something from inside but it's quiet enough that he can't tell whether it's a fuck off or come in. He pushes the door open a sliver. He can see a heap of Andrew in the bed.
"Sorry," he says, backing out again, "you're sleeping."
"Whasstam," says Andrew, muffled by pillows, and then, as Jesse pauses in the doorway, "Jess?"
Jesse steps into the room, still unsure. "Hello?"
Andrew coughs. It sounds unhealthy. In fact, now that Jesse's in the room properly, it feels unhealthy, like when his sisters had the chickenpox and even walking past their bedroom doors felt like walking past the black death.
"What's the time?" says Andrew, and, yes, okay, he has to be sick, because his voice is so hoarse it makes Jesse wince.
"Half eleven," he says, adding, "also, it's Saturday. In case you thought it wasn't. It is."
"Half eleven," Andrew says, still sounding like his voice is being dragged up from a pit through a cheese grater. "Really?"
"Yes," says Jesse, and then, in case, "but don't even try to get up, you sound like you've died."
"Don't tease me," says Andrew, from the heap of quilt he's nested into. "My head hurts."
He sounds so plaintive that Jesse's heart actually gives a tug. It's horrible.
"Sorry," he says, meaning it.
"Don't be nice to me," Andrew moans. "That means I'm really ill."
"I hate to break it to you," Jesse says, shifting his weight a bit from foot to foot, "but I think you are really sick. And not in like a phat way, in a contagious, mark-your-doors, sort of way."
"Did you just say phat?" Andrew rasps.
"I will deny it later," Jesse says. "You're probably delirious anyway."
Andrew coughs. Jesse listens to the rattle of it, and worries a little more.
"Can I do anything?" he offers, when Andrew is quiet again.
"No," Andrew says, sounding exhausted. "I'm fine."
"That is the most blatant lie you have ever told me. There must be something? Water, maybe?"
"No, please, just leave me to die," Andrew moans, face mostly in his pillow. Even from over by the door Jesse can see the sweat on his forehead.
"As tempting as it is to leave you to drown in your own sweat," Jesse says, "you know, I think - maybe - it might get me fired."
In reply, Andrew coughs a lot more and then makes an honest to god whimper. Jesse is this close to not being able to cope with this at all.
"Can I, um," he tries to think what other people do for him when he's got the flu, "get you some soup or something?"
There is no response. The lump of Andrew in the bed is very still, and very quiet. For a second, Jesse is genuinely afraid he might have just died or something, and he has to psych himself up to going over to the side of the bed that Andrew's leg is hanging off, limp, his face just visible, a pale sliver of skin and a shock of sweaty dark hair above the quilt. As soon as Jesse gets closer he can see Andrew breathing, the rise and fall of his body, so he stops panicking. He puts the back of his hand to Andrew's forehead like his mom used to do when he was little and sick, and Andrew is burning up. He can't remember whether you're supposed to sweat out a fever or whether that was disproved at, like, the turn of the century. He compromises, pulling the quilt away from Andrew's face properly, baring a swath of sweat-damp neck, but leaving the rest of him covered. Sleep is good, this much Jesse does know, so he leaves the room quietly and then spends a good five minutes checking his own pulse, slumped against the corridor wall, feeling it race under the push of his fingers at first and then, as he calms down, slow to anxious rather than terrified, and definitely not flu-ridden. That helps.
After a few hours pass, Jesse pours a glass of water and goes back in to Andrew, like he hasn't spent his time trying to read a book but realising every few minutes that he's spent more time staring at Andrew's door than he has taking in the words on the page in front of him. It's all fairly ridiculous.
"Andrew?" he asks, softly, in case he's still asleep.
"Mmmph," says the lump under the quilt.
"How are you feeling?" The world's most pointless question. Why do people ask this when it's usually patently obvious? Jesse sometimes doesn't get the social intricacies of the English language but he's spent enough time acting that he knows which ones to fall back on when he doesn't know what to say.
The lump of Andrew shakes for a moment, and then, like the creature from the black lagoon, Andrew pries himself out from under the quilt and sits up, propped against the headboard. He looks really awful. Jesse hopes he doesn't look as worried as he feels, but then he knows he probably does: he just has a worried face, he's been told.
"Not bad," says Andrew, in his new, croaky voice and then laughs. It sounds like a frog is laughing. A frog that's been trodden on. Why can't Jesse cope with these situations? It's Andrew. He tries to get a grip. Andrew says, "Actually, I feel awful," and Jesse says, "No shit." Andrew smiles weakly at him.
Jesse steps towards the bed but Andrew holds up a shaky hand.
"I don't want to give you the plague."
"Andrew," says Jesse, in not the steadiest of voices, "we've been on set together all week and we share a kitchen and a bathroom and last night you put your face into my dinner to show me that you didn't need chopsticks as long as you had a mouth. I think, you know, I'm pretty much screwed whether I stay over here or not."
Andrew gives him a wan smile. "Fine," he says. "Come ye at your own peril."
"You have got to be too ill to say things like that," Jesse tells him, coming closer.
"Apparently not."
"Apparently." Jesse offers him the water. Andrew takes it but his fingers slip, and Jesse closes his hand back round the glass, over Andrew's hot, fevered skin.
"Easy," he says, "hey, it's okay."
Andrew makes a disgruntled sound. "Try again."
Jesse slowly loosens his grip and Andrew tightens his, and then Andrew has the glass and is taking a sip, and Jesse feels bizarrely proud, like watching a fawn take its first steps or something.
"It works because you're a deer," he says, aloud, watching Andrew's teeth clink on the edge of the glass, his dry lips redden as the water hits them, as Andrew uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.
"What?"
"Nothing," Jesse says.
Andrew frowns. "Don't do that," he says. "I'll think I'm hallucinating or something."
Jesse frowns too, worried. "Are you?"
Andrew raises his eyebrows, pulling a face Jesse imagines he uses to open the door to trick-or-treaters. It would be horrifying even without Andrew looking drawn and awful. "Not yet," he says.
Jesse hovers. Andrew is cradling the water glass to his chest, like reaching over to the bedside table would take too much energy. Jesse reaches out and takes it from him, sets it down on a coaster. Andrew looks amused. "Looking out for water stains, are we?"
"I'm trying to make sure you don't spill water all down your quilt," Jesse says, "because I'm not changing it. And I don't know what you're doing, other than being infectious."
Andrew snorts in laughter, and then holds a hand over his nose. "Um," he says, muffled, sheepish. "Could you pass me a tissue?"
Jesse pads out to the bathroom and comes back with a roll of toilet paper. Andrew is exactly where he left him. He tears off squares of tissue and hands them to Andrew, who wipes his hands and his nose, making a face.
"You are revolting right now," Jesse tells him, but he's looking at Andrew's white face and flushed cheeks, the sweat on his forehead, and he bites his lip, concerned.
"Don't look like that," Andrew says. "I'll be fine, I bounce back fast. Honestly. I used to have to resort to the old thermometer in the hot water bottle thing when I wanted to stay off school after I'd got better."
Jesse laughs, because he can just see it, but he can't stop his brow from creasing. "I'm not worried," he says, though, in case it makes Andrew feel better.
"You are a terrible liar sometimes," Andrew says, and even in his croaky voice, Jesse can hear the fondness creeping through. Normally he tries not to notice, like when he catches Andrew looking at him like he's in love, because he doesn't know what to do, because it makes his heart beat like he's got flu, and he's terrified he'll be looking up as Mark and it'll come out as Jesse, wide-eyed admiration, and ruin the film.
"Now get out," Andrew says, and Jesse freezes. "If you get the plague I will definitely be sacked."
Jesse laughs; it shakes. "I know you're this close to hallucinating but we've already had this conversation."
"But I must look horrific," Andrew complains, sliding back under the quilt, grimacing like it hurts to move even that much. He pulls the quilt up over his nose so all Jesse can see are these stupid big eyes and his matted, sweaty hair. It's still adorable. Jesse thinks about waking with a fever, losing his voice, losing days of filming, and then he looks at Andrew, eyes just peeping at him over the edge of the quilt, and it's not even really a question. They share so much space anyway that if he's going to get it, it's probably already in his system. Maybe something changes in his face, or maybe Andrew just already knows him that well, because Andrew's eyes suddenly crinkle up like they do when he smiles his big ridiculous smile, and he lifts a hand out of his quilt cocoon and pats the side of the bed.
"Tell me a story," he says, and Jesse is already walking forward to perch on the bed, trying not to sit on any part of Andrew. Andrew just grins, and shifts sleepily out of his way a little.
Jesse says, "What kind of story?"
"I don't know," says Andrew, snuggling back down into his quilt. Even radiating sickness, he's still sickeningly attractive, or maybe Jesse's just fevered already.
Jesse hesitates. Andrew looks at him, patiently, like he genuinely wants to hear what Jesse's going to come up with, and Jesse has to look away for a minute.
"Jess?" Andrew sounds tentative through the rasp in his voice.
"Once upon a time," Jesse starts, looking back to see Andrew's wide, sleepy grin, "once upon a time there was, er, a prince. Called Andrew."
"Andrew's not a very princely name. It sounds more like this prince should be the king."
"Shut up, I'm telling the story."
Andrew pulls the most exaggerated face of contrition Jesse has ever seen and he laughs, and keeps going, shifting further onto the bed.
"And, um, this prince lived in a castle."
"Was it a big castle?"
"Yes, it was a big castle."
"What colour curtains did he have?"
"I don't know. Blue. Are blue curtains okay?"
"Blue curtains are great. Suitably regal. You may continue."
Jesse smiles, unbidden. "Okay, so, one day Prince Andrew is sitting up in his tower room admiring his suitably regal blue curtains when he hears a noise outside his window. He gets up, and looks outside, and there's a little bird on his window ledge."
Andrew crooks an eyebrow, suspicious from the depth of his bedding palace. "A bird?"
"Are you going to let me tell this story or not?"
"Yes. Fine. Please, sweet Jesse, please tell me about the bird on the window ledge."
"So he opens his royal blue curtains to see this bird on the window ledge."
"You said that already."
Jesse stops. Andrew bats weakly at his side.
"I didn't mean it," he croaks, and Jesse knows he's doing that thing with his eyes on purpose, all big and sorrowful like a sort of beagle/bambi hybrid. "Go on, I'm listening, I promise."
"And - and the bird is a little blackbird, all scruffy like it's been in a fight or flown into a tree or something. And Prince Andrew says to the bird, he says, "Are you all right?" and the bird says - it can speak, okay, shut up - the bird says that it's really a man under a spell, and it's flown all this way to the castle because he thinks Prince Andrew is good enough and kind enough and strong enough to help him."
Andrew's gone quiet now, and Jesse goes on. "So Prince Andrew goes to see the court spellmaker, who's called, um, Sporkin of the Longscripts - it's an old family name, no-one knows where it came from - and he explains about the bird, and how this man is trapped and can't be free without his help. And - "
Jesse stops, going red. This is not the story he meant to tell. He was thinking of maybe having Prince Andrew's palace overrun by cats. Andrew nudges him again. "Go on, Jess," he says, in a different sort of voice. "Then what happens?"
"And the spellmaker says, "ah, right, nothing simpler, take these herbs and feed them to the bird." And Prince Andrew is happy, and he's heading back up to his super princely castle room when the spellmaker stops him and says, "but wait, why was the man cursed to begin with?" And Prince Andrew shrugs, and says he doesn't know. "You see," says the spellmaker, "if he was cursed through no fault of his own, give the bird those herbs and he will be free. But if he was cursed because of his failings as a man, I cannot help, for that is a different kind of curse that herbs and spells cannot cure." And Prince Andrew goes back to the bird, and he explains all this, and the bird - "
Jesse stops again. This is horrendous. There's a lump in his throat entirely disproportionate to the story he's telling. Andrew's eyes are dark with something besides the fever; he nudges Jesse again, and says, "Go on."
Jesse swallows. He might as well finish, and then Andrew will fall asleep, and he can pretend this was just something Andrew dreamed up in a fevered sleep, its own kind of fairytale. "And the little bird," he says, choked, "just flies away, because although Prince Andrew was good and kind and strong, the little bird was not and so he could not be saved. But, um, they all lived happily ever, I guess I should say that."
There's a long silence. Jesse cannot look up from his hands, but he also can't bring himself to get up from the bed. His face is hot.
Eventually, Andrew just says, "Jesus, Jesse," with something slightly brittle in his voice. It drops, though, when he says, "You were supposed to be cheering me up," and pouts like a little kid. Jesse makes this little apologetic laugh.
"You didn't say to tell you a happy story," he says.
"I thought it was implied."
Andrew's voice is hoarser now, probably because he's been talking more, and Jesse can actually see him shivering, even with the quilt mound heaped over him. He wants to press his hand to Andrew's forehead again, fretful, but Andrew's awake now, and Jesse isn't sure if he can. Andrew closes his eyes, just softly, just for a moment, and Jesse reaches out before he can stop himself. Andrew shifts when Jesse's fingers touch his forehead, pulling the corners of his mouth down.
"Cold hands," he complains. He opens his eyes again, blinking up at Jesse.
"You're hot," says Jesse, and then, when Andrew says, "Thank you," he adds, "You know what I mean."
"Don't lie," Andrew sniffs, groping a hand out crabwise for the roll of toilet paper, blowing his nose again. "You know you want me." He sneezes.
"You got it," says Jesse, dryly. He adds, "And I don't want it."
Andrew reaches out for Jesse's wrist and tugs. Jesse goes easily: when Andrew pulls, he just gives. He ends up close enough to feel Andrew's hot breath on his cheek when Andrew lets his wrist go and puts the back of his hand on Jesse's forehead. Jesse frowns, but doesn't pull back.
"You're hot too," says Andrew, and Jesse thinks, no, not really before his brain catches up properly.
"I feel fine," he says. Andrew sort of snorts, and retreats back inside his quilt. He looks tired, half-asleep.
"I'll let you get some rest," Jesse says, starting to get up off the bed, but Andrew grabs for him with sweat-damp fingertips.
"I think you're ill too, Jess," he says, with his eyes closed. "You should stay."
And Jesse feels fine - maybe his heart is pounding, maybe he's flushed, but he's fine - but he sinks back down onto the mattress.
Andrew hasn't let go of his sleeve, and he's slumped into pillows and quilt, and he pulls again, and Jesse gives. They end up with Andrew propped against the pillows and Jesse, on top of the quilt, propped against Andrew. Andrew brushes Jesse's legs with his own, the quilt between them. Jesse shivers hot, and he can't tell if it's fever or not. He closes his eyes against it, and lets himself keep them closed.
Minutes pass.
Just when Jesse is sure Andrew is asleep, Andrew says, voice sleep thick, "I didn't like the story, Jess."
"No?" Jesse says, keeping his voice soft, quiet.
"No," Andrew says. He turns his head; his damp forehead presses against the side of Jesse's face, and Jesse doesn't start, or pull away. "I have a better ending," he says.
"Go on, then," says Jesse, with his eyes closed. "Tell me."
"I don't think the little bird was cursed," says Andrew, in a half-asleep slur. "I think the prince wanted to turn into a bird too. I think that's how it ends."
"They're both birds?" Jesse asks, and he's drowsy despite himself, curled half on Andrew's side. He's trying not to be self-conscious, and instead he's just tired.
"They're both birds," Andrew tells him, and he gets his hand out from under the quilt and links his fingers in with Jesse's.
~fin~
a/n part the second: I'M REALLY SORRY ABOUT THE STORY ABOUT THE BIRD, I DON'T EVEN KNOW, OKAY.
title: let me take care of you
fandom: the social network rpf
pairing: andrew garfield/jesse eisenberg
rating: PG for Probably Gay
word count: ~3300
warnings: if this fic were a pizza, it would have a doughy base of ludicrosity, a tangy tomato layer of unnecessarily ~emotional~ h/c, a cheesy topping of diabetes-inducing schmoop and a handful of the olives of my dignity that people would just pick off and discard.
disclaimer: these people are real and belong to themselves, this never happened, I'm not implying that it did, this uses fictionalized versions of public personas, etc etc etc. LIFE RUINERS.
a/n: this was meant to be a five times fic and the full title was going to be "four times jesse and andrew took care of each other and one time they took care of each other", but then this bit got really long and ridiculous, so. I STILL WANT TO WRITE THE OTHER FOUR TIMES THOUGH, SOMEONE STOP ME.
summary: "As tempting as it is to leave you to drown in your own sweat," Jesse says, "you know, I think - maybe - it might get me fired."
They've got the weekend off, their first break since they started shooting, and Andrew's been talking for ten straight days about all the things they could do. "It's Boston, man," he's enthused, "we can go see Boston. We could do a scavenger hunt or look for seagulls or something." Jesse isn't sure about the seagull thing, but sometimes Andrew gets these flights of fancy that they all just go along with - that Jesse just goes along with. He reminds Jesse of Tallahassee, only instead of a strapping, muscular American, he's a gangly, affectionate half-Brit, and this isn't a movie, no matter how much Jesse sometimes thinks Andrew must be a fictional character.
Andrew has been lighting up about the apparently endless options open to them in their first forty-eight hours of free time, so when he has failed to emerge from his room by eleven on Saturday morning, Jesse thinks he's justified in feeling a little worried. He gives it another half an hour, though, just in case Andrew's pep has deserted him in the face of being able to stay in bed past the unsociable hours of dawn and just past it, but then he is actually worrying quite a lot, so he goes and knocks on Andrew's door.
"Andrew?" he calls, trying to keep his voice low in case Andrew really is asleep and won't thank him for being woken up.
Jesse thinks he hears something from inside but it's quiet enough that he can't tell whether it's a fuck off or come in. He pushes the door open a sliver. He can see a heap of Andrew in the bed.
"Sorry," he says, backing out again, "you're sleeping."
"Whasstam," says Andrew, muffled by pillows, and then, as Jesse pauses in the doorway, "Jess?"
Jesse steps into the room, still unsure. "Hello?"
Andrew coughs. It sounds unhealthy. In fact, now that Jesse's in the room properly, it feels unhealthy, like when his sisters had the chickenpox and even walking past their bedroom doors felt like walking past the black death.
"What's the time?" says Andrew, and, yes, okay, he has to be sick, because his voice is so hoarse it makes Jesse wince.
"Half eleven," he says, adding, "also, it's Saturday. In case you thought it wasn't. It is."
"Half eleven," Andrew says, still sounding like his voice is being dragged up from a pit through a cheese grater. "Really?"
"Yes," says Jesse, and then, in case, "but don't even try to get up, you sound like you've died."
"Don't tease me," says Andrew, from the heap of quilt he's nested into. "My head hurts."
He sounds so plaintive that Jesse's heart actually gives a tug. It's horrible.
"Sorry," he says, meaning it.
"Don't be nice to me," Andrew moans. "That means I'm really ill."
"I hate to break it to you," Jesse says, shifting his weight a bit from foot to foot, "but I think you are really sick. And not in like a phat way, in a contagious, mark-your-doors, sort of way."
"Did you just say phat?" Andrew rasps.
"I will deny it later," Jesse says. "You're probably delirious anyway."
Andrew coughs. Jesse listens to the rattle of it, and worries a little more.
"Can I do anything?" he offers, when Andrew is quiet again.
"No," Andrew says, sounding exhausted. "I'm fine."
"That is the most blatant lie you have ever told me. There must be something? Water, maybe?"
"No, please, just leave me to die," Andrew moans, face mostly in his pillow. Even from over by the door Jesse can see the sweat on his forehead.
"As tempting as it is to leave you to drown in your own sweat," Jesse says, "you know, I think - maybe - it might get me fired."
In reply, Andrew coughs a lot more and then makes an honest to god whimper. Jesse is this close to not being able to cope with this at all.
"Can I, um," he tries to think what other people do for him when he's got the flu, "get you some soup or something?"
There is no response. The lump of Andrew in the bed is very still, and very quiet. For a second, Jesse is genuinely afraid he might have just died or something, and he has to psych himself up to going over to the side of the bed that Andrew's leg is hanging off, limp, his face just visible, a pale sliver of skin and a shock of sweaty dark hair above the quilt. As soon as Jesse gets closer he can see Andrew breathing, the rise and fall of his body, so he stops panicking. He puts the back of his hand to Andrew's forehead like his mom used to do when he was little and sick, and Andrew is burning up. He can't remember whether you're supposed to sweat out a fever or whether that was disproved at, like, the turn of the century. He compromises, pulling the quilt away from Andrew's face properly, baring a swath of sweat-damp neck, but leaving the rest of him covered. Sleep is good, this much Jesse does know, so he leaves the room quietly and then spends a good five minutes checking his own pulse, slumped against the corridor wall, feeling it race under the push of his fingers at first and then, as he calms down, slow to anxious rather than terrified, and definitely not flu-ridden. That helps.
After a few hours pass, Jesse pours a glass of water and goes back in to Andrew, like he hasn't spent his time trying to read a book but realising every few minutes that he's spent more time staring at Andrew's door than he has taking in the words on the page in front of him. It's all fairly ridiculous.
"Andrew?" he asks, softly, in case he's still asleep.
"Mmmph," says the lump under the quilt.
"How are you feeling?" The world's most pointless question. Why do people ask this when it's usually patently obvious? Jesse sometimes doesn't get the social intricacies of the English language but he's spent enough time acting that he knows which ones to fall back on when he doesn't know what to say.
The lump of Andrew shakes for a moment, and then, like the creature from the black lagoon, Andrew pries himself out from under the quilt and sits up, propped against the headboard. He looks really awful. Jesse hopes he doesn't look as worried as he feels, but then he knows he probably does: he just has a worried face, he's been told.
"Not bad," says Andrew, in his new, croaky voice and then laughs. It sounds like a frog is laughing. A frog that's been trodden on. Why can't Jesse cope with these situations? It's Andrew. He tries to get a grip. Andrew says, "Actually, I feel awful," and Jesse says, "No shit." Andrew smiles weakly at him.
Jesse steps towards the bed but Andrew holds up a shaky hand.
"I don't want to give you the plague."
"Andrew," says Jesse, in not the steadiest of voices, "we've been on set together all week and we share a kitchen and a bathroom and last night you put your face into my dinner to show me that you didn't need chopsticks as long as you had a mouth. I think, you know, I'm pretty much screwed whether I stay over here or not."
Andrew gives him a wan smile. "Fine," he says. "Come ye at your own peril."
"You have got to be too ill to say things like that," Jesse tells him, coming closer.
"Apparently not."
"Apparently." Jesse offers him the water. Andrew takes it but his fingers slip, and Jesse closes his hand back round the glass, over Andrew's hot, fevered skin.
"Easy," he says, "hey, it's okay."
Andrew makes a disgruntled sound. "Try again."
Jesse slowly loosens his grip and Andrew tightens his, and then Andrew has the glass and is taking a sip, and Jesse feels bizarrely proud, like watching a fawn take its first steps or something.
"It works because you're a deer," he says, aloud, watching Andrew's teeth clink on the edge of the glass, his dry lips redden as the water hits them, as Andrew uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.
"What?"
"Nothing," Jesse says.
Andrew frowns. "Don't do that," he says. "I'll think I'm hallucinating or something."
Jesse frowns too, worried. "Are you?"
Andrew raises his eyebrows, pulling a face Jesse imagines he uses to open the door to trick-or-treaters. It would be horrifying even without Andrew looking drawn and awful. "Not yet," he says.
Jesse hovers. Andrew is cradling the water glass to his chest, like reaching over to the bedside table would take too much energy. Jesse reaches out and takes it from him, sets it down on a coaster. Andrew looks amused. "Looking out for water stains, are we?"
"I'm trying to make sure you don't spill water all down your quilt," Jesse says, "because I'm not changing it. And I don't know what you're doing, other than being infectious."
Andrew snorts in laughter, and then holds a hand over his nose. "Um," he says, muffled, sheepish. "Could you pass me a tissue?"
Jesse pads out to the bathroom and comes back with a roll of toilet paper. Andrew is exactly where he left him. He tears off squares of tissue and hands them to Andrew, who wipes his hands and his nose, making a face.
"You are revolting right now," Jesse tells him, but he's looking at Andrew's white face and flushed cheeks, the sweat on his forehead, and he bites his lip, concerned.
"Don't look like that," Andrew says. "I'll be fine, I bounce back fast. Honestly. I used to have to resort to the old thermometer in the hot water bottle thing when I wanted to stay off school after I'd got better."
Jesse laughs, because he can just see it, but he can't stop his brow from creasing. "I'm not worried," he says, though, in case it makes Andrew feel better.
"You are a terrible liar sometimes," Andrew says, and even in his croaky voice, Jesse can hear the fondness creeping through. Normally he tries not to notice, like when he catches Andrew looking at him like he's in love, because he doesn't know what to do, because it makes his heart beat like he's got flu, and he's terrified he'll be looking up as Mark and it'll come out as Jesse, wide-eyed admiration, and ruin the film.
"Now get out," Andrew says, and Jesse freezes. "If you get the plague I will definitely be sacked."
Jesse laughs; it shakes. "I know you're this close to hallucinating but we've already had this conversation."
"But I must look horrific," Andrew complains, sliding back under the quilt, grimacing like it hurts to move even that much. He pulls the quilt up over his nose so all Jesse can see are these stupid big eyes and his matted, sweaty hair. It's still adorable. Jesse thinks about waking with a fever, losing his voice, losing days of filming, and then he looks at Andrew, eyes just peeping at him over the edge of the quilt, and it's not even really a question. They share so much space anyway that if he's going to get it, it's probably already in his system. Maybe something changes in his face, or maybe Andrew just already knows him that well, because Andrew's eyes suddenly crinkle up like they do when he smiles his big ridiculous smile, and he lifts a hand out of his quilt cocoon and pats the side of the bed.
"Tell me a story," he says, and Jesse is already walking forward to perch on the bed, trying not to sit on any part of Andrew. Andrew just grins, and shifts sleepily out of his way a little.
Jesse says, "What kind of story?"
"I don't know," says Andrew, snuggling back down into his quilt. Even radiating sickness, he's still sickeningly attractive, or maybe Jesse's just fevered already.
Jesse hesitates. Andrew looks at him, patiently, like he genuinely wants to hear what Jesse's going to come up with, and Jesse has to look away for a minute.
"Jess?" Andrew sounds tentative through the rasp in his voice.
"Once upon a time," Jesse starts, looking back to see Andrew's wide, sleepy grin, "once upon a time there was, er, a prince. Called Andrew."
"Andrew's not a very princely name. It sounds more like this prince should be the king."
"Shut up, I'm telling the story."
Andrew pulls the most exaggerated face of contrition Jesse has ever seen and he laughs, and keeps going, shifting further onto the bed.
"And, um, this prince lived in a castle."
"Was it a big castle?"
"Yes, it was a big castle."
"What colour curtains did he have?"
"I don't know. Blue. Are blue curtains okay?"
"Blue curtains are great. Suitably regal. You may continue."
Jesse smiles, unbidden. "Okay, so, one day Prince Andrew is sitting up in his tower room admiring his suitably regal blue curtains when he hears a noise outside his window. He gets up, and looks outside, and there's a little bird on his window ledge."
Andrew crooks an eyebrow, suspicious from the depth of his bedding palace. "A bird?"
"Are you going to let me tell this story or not?"
"Yes. Fine. Please, sweet Jesse, please tell me about the bird on the window ledge."
"So he opens his royal blue curtains to see this bird on the window ledge."
"You said that already."
Jesse stops. Andrew bats weakly at his side.
"I didn't mean it," he croaks, and Jesse knows he's doing that thing with his eyes on purpose, all big and sorrowful like a sort of beagle/bambi hybrid. "Go on, I'm listening, I promise."
"And - and the bird is a little blackbird, all scruffy like it's been in a fight or flown into a tree or something. And Prince Andrew says to the bird, he says, "Are you all right?" and the bird says - it can speak, okay, shut up - the bird says that it's really a man under a spell, and it's flown all this way to the castle because he thinks Prince Andrew is good enough and kind enough and strong enough to help him."
Andrew's gone quiet now, and Jesse goes on. "So Prince Andrew goes to see the court spellmaker, who's called, um, Sporkin of the Longscripts - it's an old family name, no-one knows where it came from - and he explains about the bird, and how this man is trapped and can't be free without his help. And - "
Jesse stops, going red. This is not the story he meant to tell. He was thinking of maybe having Prince Andrew's palace overrun by cats. Andrew nudges him again. "Go on, Jess," he says, in a different sort of voice. "Then what happens?"
"And the spellmaker says, "ah, right, nothing simpler, take these herbs and feed them to the bird." And Prince Andrew is happy, and he's heading back up to his super princely castle room when the spellmaker stops him and says, "but wait, why was the man cursed to begin with?" And Prince Andrew shrugs, and says he doesn't know. "You see," says the spellmaker, "if he was cursed through no fault of his own, give the bird those herbs and he will be free. But if he was cursed because of his failings as a man, I cannot help, for that is a different kind of curse that herbs and spells cannot cure." And Prince Andrew goes back to the bird, and he explains all this, and the bird - "
Jesse stops again. This is horrendous. There's a lump in his throat entirely disproportionate to the story he's telling. Andrew's eyes are dark with something besides the fever; he nudges Jesse again, and says, "Go on."
Jesse swallows. He might as well finish, and then Andrew will fall asleep, and he can pretend this was just something Andrew dreamed up in a fevered sleep, its own kind of fairytale. "And the little bird," he says, choked, "just flies away, because although Prince Andrew was good and kind and strong, the little bird was not and so he could not be saved. But, um, they all lived happily ever, I guess I should say that."
There's a long silence. Jesse cannot look up from his hands, but he also can't bring himself to get up from the bed. His face is hot.
Eventually, Andrew just says, "Jesus, Jesse," with something slightly brittle in his voice. It drops, though, when he says, "You were supposed to be cheering me up," and pouts like a little kid. Jesse makes this little apologetic laugh.
"You didn't say to tell you a happy story," he says.
"I thought it was implied."
Andrew's voice is hoarser now, probably because he's been talking more, and Jesse can actually see him shivering, even with the quilt mound heaped over him. He wants to press his hand to Andrew's forehead again, fretful, but Andrew's awake now, and Jesse isn't sure if he can. Andrew closes his eyes, just softly, just for a moment, and Jesse reaches out before he can stop himself. Andrew shifts when Jesse's fingers touch his forehead, pulling the corners of his mouth down.
"Cold hands," he complains. He opens his eyes again, blinking up at Jesse.
"You're hot," says Jesse, and then, when Andrew says, "Thank you," he adds, "You know what I mean."
"Don't lie," Andrew sniffs, groping a hand out crabwise for the roll of toilet paper, blowing his nose again. "You know you want me." He sneezes.
"You got it," says Jesse, dryly. He adds, "And I don't want it."
Andrew reaches out for Jesse's wrist and tugs. Jesse goes easily: when Andrew pulls, he just gives. He ends up close enough to feel Andrew's hot breath on his cheek when Andrew lets his wrist go and puts the back of his hand on Jesse's forehead. Jesse frowns, but doesn't pull back.
"You're hot too," says Andrew, and Jesse thinks, no, not really before his brain catches up properly.
"I feel fine," he says. Andrew sort of snorts, and retreats back inside his quilt. He looks tired, half-asleep.
"I'll let you get some rest," Jesse says, starting to get up off the bed, but Andrew grabs for him with sweat-damp fingertips.
"I think you're ill too, Jess," he says, with his eyes closed. "You should stay."
And Jesse feels fine - maybe his heart is pounding, maybe he's flushed, but he's fine - but he sinks back down onto the mattress.
Andrew hasn't let go of his sleeve, and he's slumped into pillows and quilt, and he pulls again, and Jesse gives. They end up with Andrew propped against the pillows and Jesse, on top of the quilt, propped against Andrew. Andrew brushes Jesse's legs with his own, the quilt between them. Jesse shivers hot, and he can't tell if it's fever or not. He closes his eyes against it, and lets himself keep them closed.
Minutes pass.
Just when Jesse is sure Andrew is asleep, Andrew says, voice sleep thick, "I didn't like the story, Jess."
"No?" Jesse says, keeping his voice soft, quiet.
"No," Andrew says. He turns his head; his damp forehead presses against the side of Jesse's face, and Jesse doesn't start, or pull away. "I have a better ending," he says.
"Go on, then," says Jesse, with his eyes closed. "Tell me."
"I don't think the little bird was cursed," says Andrew, in a half-asleep slur. "I think the prince wanted to turn into a bird too. I think that's how it ends."
"They're both birds?" Jesse asks, and he's drowsy despite himself, curled half on Andrew's side. He's trying not to be self-conscious, and instead he's just tired.
"They're both birds," Andrew tells him, and he gets his hand out from under the quilt and links his fingers in with Jesse's.
~fin~
a/n part the second: I'M REALLY SORRY ABOUT THE STORY ABOUT THE BIRD, I DON'T EVEN KNOW, OKAY.
