Andrew found that vegetable oil proved itself to be a successful lubricant to quiet doors when one was sneaking back into one's apartment one shared with one's girlfriend at three in the morning after a cast party said girlfriend didn't know about. He was immensely grateful for this as he stumbled into their hallway—the only sound made was perhaps the thud of his body against the wall. He usually shied away from the consumption of alcohol; in all honesty, he didn't handle it very well. Last time he'd gotten drunk a myriad of embarrassing pictures of him wound up on the Internet somehow.
But tonight, he was just so—so happy to be where he was. There was really no time he could recall where he had felt more content, surrounded by the best cast and crew he'd ever worked with. He loved them all equally; he was like the large-bosomed straight out of some American 50's sitcom mother of their little family.
Except that wasn't an entirely accurate simile. Because mothers didn't exactly have the kinds of feelings for their children that he had for Jesse. Unless they were in Alabama, Andrew supposed.
It's easy enough to push away the feelings you may or may not have for a coworker when you're busy all the time —spending half a day eating the same food and drinking fake appletinis—being Eduardo and Mark left no room for personalities.
But when the business was stripped away, and it was just the two of them—even when people surrounded them, it was just the two of them—that's when the friction started. Andrew tried to explain it away, to act like there wasn't anything "between them" (God, he hated that phrase because the only thing he wanted between them was latex and a layer of sweat). But despite the girlfriends—oh yes, they both had girlfriends which was a complete joke if you asked him—whenever Andrew had the slightest reason to touch Jesse, he did, and it was almost laughable how much he felt when their skin met even briefly and how little he felt when he and Shannon were at their most intimate.
Straight. Ha. Yeah, Andrew's straight like Jesse's hair.
And the cast party that night at some crowded club-bar hybrid had been no different. Jesse hated drinking usually, so he simply stood in a corner, laughing when appropriate, making small talk when approached, all the little social graces that he just wasn't born knowing how to do. Andrew had felt a surge of affection as he watched his little awkward boy not really listen to Justin's story about working with Janet Jackson. He really was perfect—Jesse was, not Justin, because bless him; Andrew could barely stand to talk to the boy sometimes.
"Hey." Andrew started as Armie was suddenly beside him, nursing his beer.
"Oh—hi, Armie. What's up?"
He shrugged, which Andrew considered to be an occupational hazard when someone's that big. "Been watching you."
Panic constricted Andrew's vocal cords. He coughed and said, "Ha—have you?"
Armie nodded, and Andrew wondered why he felt sheepish. It wasn't like he was caught doing something bad—right? Right…
"Seen anything interesting?" He chuckled weakly and started chewing his already-chapped bottom lip. Before Armie could answer, Jesse appeared from behind him and Andrew's heart sort of just jumped into his throat, like it always did when they were around each other outside of their working environment.
"Hi guys," he said in his perpetual I've just turned 16 and don't know how to conduct myself in social situations air that Andrew simply adored.
Andrew opened his mouth to say something—what exactly he wasn't sure, he just wanted to talk to him—but Jesse cut him off, stuttering, "You've—your lip's bleeding, did you know?"
And before he could reply, Jesse reached his hand out and wiped the bit of blood off of Andrew's bottom lip with a napkin, and the touch was so tender and just caring and reminded Andrew of his mum but not like his mum at all because like he'd said, they were a long way from Alabama. His body seemed to have this involuntary reaction to Jesse (his pupils were dilated and all the air in the world couldn't help him breathe sufficiently) and out of the corner of his eye he saw Armie smirk and silently turn away.
His phone vibrating in his pocket yanked him back to reality. He shuddered a bit and pulled it out. Text Message from Shannon: Where r u?
Shannon. He had a girlfriend. Right. "Just a sec," he said to Jesse, trying to smile and seem like he wasn't having a minor meltdown. Reading the message, he felt like he should be experiencing even a bit of guilt. But right now, aside from the twinges of annoyance Shannon seemed to inspire in him, all he felt was this small crisis that I have a girlfriend and I have feelings for a guy how do I get rid of my girlfriend how does someone break up with someone.
"Who you texting?" Jesse asked, and Andrew didn't hesitate for a second before pocketing the phone and replying nobody, it wasn't important.
And it wasn't.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of flashing lights, endless drinks, and Jesse. Everywhere Andrew turned—Jesse. Not like he was complaining or anything. If there were one face he could see for the rest of his life, it'd be Jesse's. He snorted at his thoughts—he was such a romantic it was a bit sickening, really. Joe, Armie, and Josh loved to grill him about things he'd done for past girlfriends—serenading them with Belle & Sebastian on a ukulele, baking diamond rings into cakes, et cetera. But he'd go miles beyond indie music and desserts for Jesse, if he had him.
But he didn't. Nothing was more apparent to him after the party as he made his drunken way back to his apartment with Shannon—he sort of avoided calling it "home", that didn't seem quite the apt description— than the fact that he didn't have Jesse at all. And now he was fumbling for a light, but it was too late—suddenly the lamp by the couch in the den was already on. And Shannon was sitting, cross-legged, in an armchair with a stern look on her face and Andrew couldn't help but flashback to high school when he'd snuck back into his room on the second floor with help of a conveniently-placed ladder on the side of his house, only to find his mother sitting on his bed.
"Oh, hi—hi, Shan," he said, trying to sound as nonchalant as he possibly could. "Didn't know you'd be up this late… you—you didn't have to wait up for me, you know." He laughed but it stopped halfway between them and thudded to the floor.
"Where have you been, Andrew?" she asked, and it had less of an accusatory tone than it did a weary one.
"At the cast—cast party, Shan, I told you about it, but you said you didn't want to go."
"Yes, maybe that was because I didn't want to see my boyfriend in love with someone else."
Andrew's breath hitched in his throat. "In—in love? Shannon, I have no idea—"
"Oh Andrew, please, don't. Don't act like you don't know. I see the way he looks at you, and I see how you look at him, and you've never, never looked at me like that."
He.
How he looks at you.
He.
Andrew ran his fingers through his hair and fell down on the couch. "Shannon, are you talking about Jesse?"
She covered her face and groaned softly. "Of course it's Jesse, who else could it be? Who else has it ever been? You two—no, don't interrupt me—you two are in love with each other and you don't even know it."
He didn't say anything; head reeling and heart thumping, he slid further into the cushions.
"And that—that's why I can't be mad at you. Because you don't know it. You don't see the way he acts around you, you haven't watched your interviews—I can tell you love each other. The touching, and, and, the little anecdotes and the funny jokes and little comments, I can tell." She laughed softly at this point. "The worst part is that you're adorable together. More comfortable around him than you've ever been with me."
"That's…that's not true—"
"Oh, stop it. This is the best thing that'll ever happen to you. I'm giving you permission. Setting you free. All that." There was something in her eyes, a sort of reservation, but Andrew was too drunk and confused and happy to see it.
"Are you—are you breaking up with me?" he asked, not sure if he fully believed it.
She allowed herself a small smile. "In the most amiable way."
After sloppily kissing her on the cheek, he gathered clothes and provisions for a couple nights to stay…wherever it was he was going.
He flagged down a cab and sort of flopped into the back seat, giggling a bit. The cabbie looked at him with a bored expression through the rearview mirror. "Look, it's none of my business what you do before you get in here, but if you puke in my cab you're washing it out."
Andrew was smiling too much to hear him. He gave him the address, adding, "My girlfriend just broke up with me!"
Driving now, the cabbie said, "Did she now." He was obviously not interested but this went over Andrew's head.
"Uh huh!"
"What a terrible time this must be for you."
"Not really, no. Hey, this—this little sign on the back of the seat here, see? It says don't draw on any part of the cab. Why does it, why does it matter? I mean, I can see 'no drawing swastikas or phone numbers to solicit sexual favors' but no drawing period I just, I don't understand—"
At that moment the window barrier between the front and back seats sliding shut with surprising force cut him off. "Well," he said, affronted.
Over the radio, a folksy song played. A man and a woman crooned, "Home, let me come home, home is whenever I'm with you. Ah, home, let me come home, home is when I'm alone with you." And Andrew thought he knew exactly what they were talking about.
The barrier didn't open until he reached his destination and demanded at least ten dollars more than he needed, but Andrew didn't notice or care. "Thanks for the ride, I'm gonna go see the guy I'm in love with, bye!"
He bounded up the stairs, entered the apartment number, and pressed the button repeatedly, unaware that it didn't do much to press it more than once.
A groggy voice crackled through the tiny intercom. "Who the hell is it?"
"Jess, it's me, it's Andrew, let me in!"
"Andrew? What—"
"Let me in and I'll explain, promise."
He heard a sigh and some fumbling. "Alright."
The door unlocked, he practically sprinted to Jesse's door and flung it open. Jesse stood there looking particularly disheveled—his hair was more of a mess than usual, some unidentifiable stain dribbled down the front of his Gap hoodie leftover from the set, and his pajama bottoms were on backward. "Jesus Christ, Andrew, why aren't you at home?" he asked as he rubbed the fresh sleep out of his eyes with his fist.
Andrew laughed incredulously, took Jesse's face in his hands, and crashed their lips together. Jesse, confused at first, knotted Andrew's hair in his fingers and smiled. When they separated, Andrew said, "I am, though. I—I love you, Jess."
He could barely hear Jesse when he whispered that he loved him, too. And everything seemed to connect, to make sense—Armie's advice, Andrew's longings that had always been there, Shannon, the song in the cab, everything seemed to add up to now, to home.
Home was wherever he was with Jess.