strong woman, spring breeze

by TheAravis

It's almost illogical, how he can do such horrible things but still seem exactly how he used to be. Or, how two broken people fall in love. (Matt Engarde/Adrian Andrews)

1. strong woman

This is absolutely the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written. I apologize in advance.

Also, there's a thing where Adrian's and Matt's names are never really said, so if you're getting confused by pronouns, it's probably referring to one of them.

---

(warning for canon character death, canon suicide, and canon suicide attempt, as well as explicit sex)

---

Matt Engarde (in response to being shown Adrian Andrews' profile): That's my manager. Did you meet her? What did you think? Strong woman, right? And she takes good care of me...

---

When Celeste falls in love with him, she falls a little bit in love with him, too.

It's odd, because she knows the one she really cares about is Celeste; the woman she loves more than anything else is Celeste. But the tightness in her chest she thought she'd feel - it doesn't come when Celeste falls in love with someone else.

It's like this: With him, Celeste is happier than she's ever seen her. With him, Celeste shines brighter than she did the days she'd never met him (the days she'd been with her). And with him... Celeste won't fall in love with her.

But her world doesn't fade to gray when he envelops Celeste's world in vibrant color. Instead, it all spills over. Celeste's happiness becomes her own. Every word she gushes about how truly perfect her boyfriend is, about how for the first time she actually feels as if she's loved, she feels Celeste's emotion, sharp as electricity running through her body.

The first time she meets him, his arm wrapped around the woman she loves, she sees it, exactly what Celeste is always talking about: the kindness in the curve of his smile, the softness behind his wide eyes, the halo barely visible in the wisps of hair covering his face, and her mind floods with understanding. When she sees the tenderness with which he holds Celeste, she thinks how it must be impossible to regard him with anything resembling hate. After all, the look on Celeste's face while she's in his arms... it makes her heart burst.

The days she spends with them, when the actor and his manager are always hand in hand, looking no different to her than a prince and a princess... Those days are the purest happiness she's ever known.

---

"I don't know, I guess I just got tired of it."

He's swishing chocolate milk in a wine glass as frustration starts to leak out her eyelids. She wants to- she wants to- she wants to fight him, to wring his neck, to drive a knife through his heart and feel the blade pierce his skin. She-

She hears him sigh and the clink of a glass being placed on a coffee table. His face contorts into something in the vicinity of sympathy. "Look, dude," he says, leaning forward, "sorry if Celeste's upset, but it wasn't a big thing. I don't know what made you guys think it was. It was a couple of dates, not like we were gonna get married or something..."

A "couple of dates"... What a way to describe the most wonderful six months of Celeste's life. Her bones ache with fury, but at the same time...

He's not really... different. After everything, he still seems like God's favorite angel. What he's done hasn't erased the halo shining in his hair or the softness of his smile; somewhere, in the back of her mind, an unwelcome feeling of loyalty tugs at her.

(Wasn't it the same man who filled Celeste with so much happiness that it overflowed into her?)

But, the rational part of her mind says, past actions can't erase current misdeeds. She needs something from him now, not something from him a week ago. In a low croak, she asks him, "How- How could you just toss her away like that?"

But he's barely listening. She watches him take a swig from the glass he'd been fiddling with before, his face completely vacant of emotion, save the flash of pity she sees flit through his eyes. The hopeful part of her dies.

"Adrian, we weren't dating. Right? So you gotta chill out with..." He gestures at her vaguely, the milk in his glass sloshing around as he moves. "This."

She can't find the words to explain it, how Celeste's happiness defines her own, how Celeste's happiness is more important than her own, but more than anything... she realizes that she doesn't want to. He's... empty. Or closed. There's nothing she can get from the man who played a key role in the happiest part of her life. All of this, asking to speak to him here, asking him about Celeste; it was a mistake.

She stands, her chair creaking on the floorboards of his dressing room when it moves. In the most solid voice she can manage, she says, "You're right. I should go. I... apologize for this."

"Don't worry about it, dude. And hey, you're a manager, too, right? Maybe I'll see you around sometime."

She nods in response, thinking to herself there's nothing she'd prefer to never seeing him again.

(But, as she glances back at him and sees the smile on his face, a part of her starts to wonder.)

When Celeste starts dating Juan, the first thing she thinks is that that outcome is probably what he would have hated the most. She's... happy about that. Actually, at the beginning, she thinks that maybe that's exactly why Celeste started dating Juan, but it's a foolish thought to entertain.

Juan made advances on Celeste first. This is something she knows more than anyone else; the sinking feeling in her heart when she'd first found about his flirtations and the iron she tastes in her mouth when she sees him afterwards aren't sensations easily forgotten.

Time turns bitterness and sadness into hate, and she finds herself resenting Juan for a thousand and Juan reasons. There's that he'd flirted with Celeste ceaselessly, not even acknowledging the hundreds of times she's said she wasn't ready for a relationship. To wear someone down... It's an artless and disrespectful way to make a woman fall in love. (Never mind that it's more than she's ever done.) Not to mention the fact that he's an actor, one that could just as easily be using Celeste like she's been used before. She knows her suspicions aren't unfounded; his ambition is obvious. When he waxes bitterly on his lack of fame, she hears him.

But there's something else, too. She can still see him in the back of her mind, saying everything he's ever said about Juan Corrida. She hears it all again, his countless disparaging comments directed at a rival that wasn't even there, but there's one thing he said that resonates above all the others: "He's okay, but it's not like he's the real thing."

See, the thing is, she knows it's irrational and that his opinion at this point should be worth less than nothing, but can you really expect her to quiet an assenting voice? "Okay" sounds like the perfect word to describe Juan; his subpar wooing, his subpar acting, his subpar personality. He's like the number one; something, but a something that is as close as it can possibly be to nothing.

Then, over dinner the day after Celeste's birthday, months into her and Juan's relationship, Celeste diverts a conversation about shared memories and inconsequential jokes to a confession: She finally believes that she can trust Juan with her heart, despite the bad experiences she's had in the past. She says she's known for a while that she'd fallen in love again, but that it had just been the day before that she decided she was okay with it.

She sees Celeste's shining eyes, the tiny smile she can't hold back, and the crinkle of her nose, and she's entranced.

Somehow, this changes everything. (Or rather, of course this changes everything.)

The cheesy lines he'd fed Celeste that used to fill her with icy fury replay in her mind under a different light. This time, she really hears those words he's said: him calling Celeste the most beautiful woman he's ever had the pleasure of seeing, him saying that a heart as kind as Celeste's was something he didn't know still could survive in the world, him trying to figure out why a woman so capable was wasting her time on managing him… These compliments, she realizes, are nowhere near as meaningless as she used to think; these compliments made Celeste feel good and useful and wanted in a way she knows she could never make her feel.

It's healthy for her in a hundred ways, and she knows Celeste isn't stupid, especially since she's been burned once already. She cares too much about Celeste to oppose her relationship with Juan just because she loves her too.

So, slowly and reluctantly, she begins to trust Juan and his intentions, and when Celeste calls her and tells her about her and Juan's engagement, she starts to think she's made the right decision.

When she, days later, finds out that Juan canceled the wedding because he found out Celeste was used and tossed to the corner by his rival, she knows she hasn't.

("Juan Corrida? I mean, he's okay, but it's not like he's the real thing.")

---

When Celeste's life ends, her world ends.

When Celeste's life ends, her life is supposed to end.

It doesn't.

Hours after she should've died, she wakes up in a hospital room a sickly mess. An older woman - her mother, she realizes, somewhere in her mind - sees her and starts to weep, and she realizes that she's living a worst-case scenario.

Arms wrap around her and she feels like she should feel whole, but she doesn't. There's no warmth here, not in this blurry world where she's caged in her body, incomplete. Faintly, she hears the sound of desperation coming out of her captor, the words not coming together. It's... something, the woman wants her to do something, but the rest is a garbled mess. Her mind isn't working right (nothing's been working right since Celeste disappeared) and she wants it to end but her mother won't release her, won't stop talking. She wants to scream but she knows no sound will come out.

She fumbles for a way out, nodding, telling the woman she'll do what she wants her to, doing her best to make eye contact despite unfocused vision. She needs it all to stop.

It doesn't.

This is what hell must be like.

---

"Adrian Andrews! What a coincidence, huh? I never thought I'd see you again, dude. 'Specially since you and Celeste pulled that disappearing act after we broke up. Guess I don't blame you, though."

His hand is on her shoulder, and it's all she can do not to push it off and ask him to never touch her again. She notes to herself that she needs to get used to this, despite all he's done. Or rather, because of all he's done.

Living for revenge isn't easy, and she's not so sure her counselor would have been proud of it if she'd known, but in the end, it's still living. It's been six months since Celeste died, and it's been a week since she decided that she needs to find justice for the woman she loves (loved). If she doesn't, she can't imagine ever being able to face Celeste again.

After all, she can remember it like it was yesterday (and oh, how badly she wishes it was yesterday, that day when Celeste was still alive), the way her phone rang at midnight the night Celeste was out of town with her fiancé.

Adrian, Adrian... I love you. Hearing those words... She remembers how wrong it felt, to hear the words she's always wanted to hear from Celeste in a voice rife with such despair. It had rendered her speechless. I should've known you were the only one I could trust. Matt, he... he told Juan about what happened between us and... It's not happening anymore. I think I'm cursed. I think I might have to be alone forever.

Of course she won't be alone forever, she'd wanted to say. Of course she'd die before she left her behind, before she'd do anything to hurt her. But there'd been a tension in her voice that made her hesitate.

Matt... He's going to ruin my life. I don't know if I can handle being hurt like this again. Whatever he said to Juan... Juan won't listen! He won't even try to understand me! I hate him, too, Adrian! I hate him, too! What a horrible world we live in, where someone like Matt Engarde can run around successful and worshiped by people who know nothing about him while people like us have nothing... Where's the good in this world? What's the point of trying to make it in a world where it's impossible for us to succeed? Celeste was sobbing now, and without thinking, she began to speak. She needed her to stop it, to stop her from spiraling into such horrible, cynical thinking.

It's- It's you. You're the good in this world, you're the reason we have to try every day. We live so one day we get to meet people- people like you.

For a while, there'd been a lengthy silence, the kind that could fill up a room. Just when she realized what she had said and fear started to grip her, she was interrupted.

Celeste was laughing the worst kind of laugh, her voice thick with sadness. You've always been there for me, haven't you? I should've realized sooner... Adrian...

She felt her chest swell with hope. Yes?

Thank you... Thank you for everything... I love you... Celeste's voice was bittersweet then... Still not quite how she'd imagined hearing those words, but a better tone than when she'd said them to her before.

For the first time in her life, she'd started to feel whole. She heard her own laughter ring out weakly before she noticed she was laughing. Y-You said that already!

I know. But please don't forget it.

Then, just as she started to believe she could have what she'd wanted for so long, the line went dead.

It had only been when the news of Celeste's death had reached her that she realized she'd never said "I love you" back.

"Hey, you okay?"

Her mind snaps back to reality. He focuses into view, his hand removed from her shoulder and his brows gently furrowing while he studies her lazily. Her thoughts had gotten her off-task... How irresponsible. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"Just asking how you've been, dude. I heard about Celeste." He brings it up so casually, and for a moment, it's like she's back in his dressing room, ready to murder him for tossing away the woman she'd die for. The only remorse visible on his face is a tiny pout, the kind you'd see on a child who didn't get the toy they wanted. She takes a deep breath and reminds herself of her endgame, of how she'll make it so this world is one where people like him can't and won't succeed. Of how she'll make this world a just one, where Celeste would choose to live instead of die.

"I'm fine, but how I'm doing isn't important. We need to leave; you're due at the set by 3."

He laughs. "All business, huh? Guess you're right. Then... let's get going!" he says, grabbing her bare wrist and starting to lead her out of the room.

His hands are cold on her skin.

---

When Matt gets his first interview in a real, widely-read magazine, she feels herself lose her footing. It's been a year since she joined Global Studios and requested to be assigned to him, and in that year, she's done exactly nothing to dethrone him. In fact, it'd probably be easy to make a case arguing that she's working against herself.

One year and she's built herself a reputation as a cool-headed, no-nonsense manager, never settling and never letting her client waste a minute of his time. In one year with her, his reputation has skyrocketed; he was famous in the children's TV industry before, but it's only now that most people are starting to know him by his own name rather than "the man in the samurai costume." He's commented on the change himself a few times, telling her that it's because of her that now even people who see him on the street can recognize his huge potential.

This is the problem: she'd ran headfirst into Global Studios, her mind consumed by thoughts of a world Celeste would have loved and absolutely nothing else. The righteous fire that burned inside of her faltered more the longer she stayed with him and the more she realized she had no idea how to actually go about doing any of it. So now, running on a sparse flame, she's here... working against herself.

Really, though, it's not like she has a choice. Trying to ruin him through bad managerial decisions is something that would only end in a quick job termination from Global Studios, and doing that would make everything she's done since Celeste died an exercise in pointlessness. And of course, if she has to do the job, she may as well put everything she has into it; that's something Celeste taught her.

And, after all, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

But that still leaves her with the issue of trying to figure out how exactly she'll bring her wildly successful client to his knees. It's infuriating, her situation, to be standing here with all the pieces and no idea how to put them together. At the same time, though, there's a part of her that wonders if she wants to put the puzzle together at all.

It's the same part that's been tormenting her since she met him, the part that gives credit to his opinions and sees his smile and melts. Before, she'd forgotten about it, Celeste's last words living in her mind, but these days... like she said before, she's losing her footing.

It's almost illogical, how he can do such horrible things but still seem exactly how he used to be. Or... no, if anything, he affects her even more now than when she knew him before. One year with cold, curt Adrian Andrews, and he's never said an unkind (or even passive aggressive) word to her. Even at the beginning of her career with him, when she treated him a little bit icier than she does now, he didn't complain about her once. Not to mention how oddly trusting he's been of her, consulting her on near every decision he makes, and the flat-out compliments he pays her without a second thought. And his ever-present physical gestures of affection... the hand on her shoulder, the grabbing of her wrist, the ruffling of her hair, and the one time he'd even fallen asleep on her on a particularly long flight... She used to detest his touch and his amiability, but now she finds some sort of twisted comfort in it.

Before, she'd deny the existence of these feelings completely, but the day she'd found that tabloid article...

It was... stupid, really. She'd just been buying canned coffee from a newsstand when his name caught her eye on a magazine she'd never heard of before. Out of curiosity, and slightly suspicious that some no-name magazine writer was trying to slander her client, she bought the magazine as well.

The cover boasted an exclusive interview with the Nickel Samurai star. To be completely honest, an interview like that wasn't that big of a deal at that point, but she still had her hand hovering over her phone as she read the magazine, ready to sue them for everything they had. Her suspicions turned out to be unfounded; apparently they'd "caught Matt Engarde on an early morning jog" (which was probably true, as it was a habit he kept) and he'd probably just neglected to mention to her. Unfortunate, but he was forgetful as anything.

She scanned the interview, mostly general stuff about how much he enjoyed being the Nickel Samurai, etc., but a part where they discussed his personal life caught her eye.

We've seen you taking quite a few girls up to your room lately. You must be quite the womanizer.
Ha, dude... I mean, if the girls like me, they like me, man. I'm not gonna complain about it.

But we've also heard you've broken a lot of hearts. Do you have anything to say about that?
It's nothing serious... It's just a game, dude. I make them happy, they make me happy, then we're done. Doesn't really mean anything.

She gritted her teeth slightly. A heartless line like that could hurt his child-friendly, "refreshing like a spring breeze" image he'd cultivated so carefully. He really should have thought before he spoke. Luckily, he'd broken his image in a tabloid with zero readership, but she'd have to talk to him later.

As for the girls and the heartbreaking... she knew too much about that. If anyone was going to complain about it, it'd been her. Especially those days they were forced to share a hotel room and he'd ask her to go find somewhere else to stay until he was done "entertaining" them and the times she'd deal with heartbroken or vengeful girls coming up to his room or the studio, out for blood. They never seemed to understand that with a person like him, one night was one night.

But it didn't matter now. She had to find the magazine's reaction and pray it wasn't a condemnation of his behavior. She read on.

Are there any women in your life that do mean something to you?
Yeah, my manager! She's a strong woman... She really takes care of me.

Her cheeks had flushed at this. His kindness was something she'd always written off to him just trying to get her to like him, but that reasoning didn't work on this one. He'd said something kind about her in an interview he never thought she'd know about, even if the line was a little throwaway. Something like that... he'd said it seemingly genuinely, and that fact made some shade of emotion bloom in her... and that emotion definitely wasn't hate. Denying whatever she felt any longer would just be lying, and she... couldn't afford to waste time on that anymore.

Right.

She closed the magazine and sighed.

Some days, she found it hard to live with herself.

("No, I didn't mean it like that, dude! Even if I did like her, she's probably the only person in the world who won't swoon over me.")

---

"We have an early morning tomorrow. We don't have any more time to waste here." She tugs at his arm, glaring back at the women shooting daggers at her.

Totally oblivious, he squints at her for a second then breaks into a goofy smile. "Ha! Adrian! You know sometimes- sometimes I think 'Man, my manager, she's such a jerk all the time,' but you!" He pokes her in the chest, hard, and she starts to miss the coverage of her sleeveless turtleneck, but at this point she's really just annoyed. "You always- always- You know what we gotta be doing!"

She guesses it's a compliment, but it doesn't really matter. It's not like he's really himself. Replying to him with a flat "yes," she starts to pull him away from the group of women he's with. Before she walks him away, she turns to them. "By the way, I'd advise you not to try getting my client drunk again, or there will be consequences."

As they walk away, she chides herself. How irresponsible she'd been, letting some women slip alcohol into his drinks without even realizing. Honestly, it'd been a foolish move on both their parts; knowing him, he probably would've let them jump into his bed if he was sober, but they'd had to press it.

The whole not-drinking deal was an oddly important thing for him. He'd made a point to refuse every drink offered to him, even at meetings with bigwigs where refusing anything didn't seem like the best idea. It'd come off as so strange that even she asked him about it, but he'd fed her an answer about how he was underage and he didn't want to ruin his kid-friendly image that she didn't really believe. When she pressed him, he said something about how lame it was to lose control that sounded like it was straight out of a public service announcement. The reason, she'd eventually decided, wasn't that important and he was right when he said it'd help preserve his image. And yet... If he really did care so much about his image, he wouldn't be bringing strings of girls to their hotel rooms every night. In retrospect, it might've all just been because he got drunk so easily.

She still respected his reservations, but tonight... she's been distracted. It's the first big party they've attended in quite a while, and the first one that Juan Corrida's been at as well. Earlier, he'd sought her out, and they'd exchanged absent pleasantries and spoken briefly about Celeste (apparently, her death was still eating away at him, but they hadn't spoken long enough for her to be able to tell just how true that was) and her new client (which he'd brought up with quite a bit of distaste in his voice and asked her about without a hint of subtlety - she'd told him she didn't think too highly of him, but his acting was impressive). He seemed like he was searching for something from her, but it was unclear what, and before she could find out exactly what he wanted, she had to deal with her inebriated client.

"Adrian!" She looks at him, transported out of her own mind. She'd been tuning him out before, but he's staring at her so intently now that he's hard to ignore. She doesn't meet his eyes, choosing instead to focus on the button calling for the elevator. "Your dress... you look... you look so nice!"

Eugh. That's why he was looking at her so intently? "You said that already, when you were sober and I just put it on." Honestly, her dress is a simple red number she found in the clearance rack of a fancy store. Professionalism is important, but she'd hate to give off an air of luxuriousness.

He wrinkles his nose and scratches his chin. "Then... what about this? This is nice!" He lightly touches the pendant hanging from the chain around her neck, and she swats his hand away.

"You gave that to me." It's very him, she thinks, for him to drunkenly give her a compliment and backhandedly compliment himself.

Actually, it was thoughtful when it happened. It'd been the a couple of days before another big event - she can't remember what it was for - and when they'd shared a cab to get to the airport, he'd given it to her, saying it'd match that dress she always wears. She'd been chagrined that he noticed just how often she wore it, but she guessed he'd have to notice if they attended every party together. The necklace itself was nothing special, sterling silver with a fake ruby pendant, but him doing it at all... She appreciated the gesture.

Suddenly, he's pushing her lightly into an elevator, and she thinks how ironic it is that he's doing that and she's the sober one. She presses the button and the door closes.

"So," he says, "I saw you talking to Corrida." His disapproval - kind of like Juan's when he talked about him - is completely obvious in his tone, but unlike Juan, he doesn't say his name with venom. Instead, there's something like a childish distaste, as if he's talking about broccoli or cough syrup.

Well, heis drunk.

"I was," she responds, not giving him anything else. Of course he's not in his right mind, but their feud is arbitrary and tiring. She'd rather spend the elevator ride in silence.

"Adrian!" he says in slurred emergency, placing his hands on her shoulders. "You shouldn't! He's an asshole!"

She almost laughs for his complete lack of subtlety; it's not the way he often chooses to insult people, mean words masked heavily with passive aggression. Of course, he'd flat-out called her a jerk earlier, but "jerk" doesn't cut quite so deep as "asshole," especially since he'd taken it back after calling her that.

But she doesn't laugh, knowing she's better off not encouraging him. "With my job, I spend a lot of time talking to assholes," she mutters, brushing off his arms. He gets even more handsy when he's drunk… for someone like him, she's surprised that more handsy is even possible.

The door opens and she leads him to their hotel room while he loses his mind over her saying a swear word.

He's leaning on the counter babbling after they've taken off their shoes and she's pouring him a glass of water. As she pushes it into his hands, she says, "You need to drink this. I don't want to spend all day with you tomorrow if you're going to be hungover."

He grins at when he takes the cup, but instead of drinking it, he places the glass on the counter behind him, never once looking away from her. She's about to chide him for it when his hands cup both her cheeks, and she freezes up.

He was handsy before and he touches her affectionately all the time, but this is different. His hands on her face... something like that isn't exactly in the vicinity of platonic, and he's holding her so intimately… What is he trying to do?

Heat rushes to her cheeks, and all she can do is pray that he doesn't notice. Out of everyone, if he found out however it was she felt about him... it would be worst-case scenario.

"You take such good care of me," he says, his voice like honey and his eyes staring holes into her, and even as she tries to break his gaze, she knows she can't. But her face is definitely red now, and she knows he has to feel the heat on his palms, and she hates it. His words... he'd said something just like that in the tabloid. That day...

But before she can reminisce, he's leaning into her, his lips pressing against hers, and she's gone. His mouth is so soft and she's returning his gentle pressure and she's... fallen into it, completely. His tongue grazes her lower lip, and without even a thought, she yields to him, her mouth opening as the taste of chocolate milk and bourbon washes over her. He's swallowing her up, in what she's wanted for so long but also what she hasn't wanted, in what goes against everything she's resolved to stand for, and she hates it but she can't stop, she can't-

When they pull apart, his hands having fallen to her shoulders, she asks him, "Wh-Why did you do that?"

Still grinning, he pushes piece of hair behind her ear. "I said. You take care of me."

And then he's leaning in again and she remembers who the man in front of her is and she panics and she steps-

Back.

His arms fall from her shoulders and he's not touching her anymore and she takes a second to collect herself and she says, "You need to drink water."

He recovers from the shock quickly and starts to laugh. It's better, she thinks, than him being mad, but it's still a little off-putting. He picks up the glass and downs it all at once and for a second, she's scared he'll lean in again, but he doesn't. Instead, boisterous as he's been, he says, "All right! I'm done! What's next?"

He's looking at her expectantly and she realizes then just how hard it is to look at him after what happened. It's like looking at the sun, but it's also not like looking at the sun, because it's him, and he- he isn't the sun.

(Celeste was the sun.)

But she can reflect later; he's still inebriated and waiting for her direction. She looks at him. "You need to go to sleep. Come on." They walk to the bedroom of the hotel room. "Just hang your jacket and take off your tie. I... need to use the bathroom."

It's like all of her has been lit on fire, and she can't stand it anymore. When she gets to the bathroom, she washes her face in the sink and stares at her reflection.

What is she doing?

She shouldn't have accepted it, then, when she read that magazine. She shouldn't have realized that maybe she had feelings that weren't hate for him and then have been okay with it. How could she have done that? How could she have done that to Celeste?

She died because of him!

She- She needs to be stronger, to not melt under a pretty face and a kind persona and someone who makes her feel like maybe she's okay after all that had happened-

No. Not that. He's- He's not that. She needs... to stop.

"Hey! Adrian! Are you okay?"

She tsks at herself. It's not time for this. He's still out there. "I'm fine," she calls out, drying her face with a towel and then opening the door.

She finds him sitting on his bed, squinting at his bowtie and tugging at it. His suit jacket, at least, is off, clinging to a chair next to his bed. She'll have to deal with that later. "Ha... Usually I can do this... but can you... help me out?"

It's new, seeing him actually embarrassed about something. It's probably the alcohol, but it's... refreshing, she guesses, especially since he's usually so egotistical. Refreshing like a spring breeze.

But that's not who he really is, she reminds herself.

And yet... as she sits next to him while he smiles at her so genuinely, she can't push away her affection. It's still there; everything is still there. She feels his gaze on her as she works on his bowtie, and she becomes incredibly aware that the inside of her mouth still tastes like chocolate milk and bourbon. As she pulls off his tie, she feels her hands shaking.

"Thanks," he says, but she barely hears him, suddenly unable to look away from his mouth.

And then his thumb is brushing her bottom lip, and she's about to fall apart, and then somehow- she doesn't. Instead, she hears herself ask him, "Why?"

His brow is furrowing gently now, and she realizes what she's about to say, but fuck it, he's drunk and this situation and she has to know-

"Why did you tell Juan, when they just got engaged? Why would you do that?"

His hand slowly falls from her mouth and surprise starts to color his face when he breaks into laughter. "Adrian."

His laughter... it's not rage, and she knows it's better than what it could be, but its presence at all... A chill runs down her spine. "Yes?"

"Why did you ask to be my manager?"

She stares at him and she's taken aback and she didn't know he knew and how did he know and why didn't he say anything and what does he think and does he know-

His hand is on her face again when he pecks her on the lips and smiles. "I think it's time to go to sleep, dude."

He's right, she thinks, touching her mouth absentmindedly.

---

"Whoa, dude, so I totally thought I already asked you if you could stay somewhere else for a while?"

A sheepish grin sits on his face as he rubs the back of his neck, looking at her pleadingly. He's not at his best, hiding behind the door of their hotel room, clearly shirtless and probably clad only in boxer shorts. She thinks about just how thankful she is that she knocked.

"You did," she says. "I just need to get my wallet. I left it on the counter." It wasn't a mistake so much that she thought she wasn't going to need it. Somehow, when she went for a walk, she'd forgotten about the pretty blonde thing at the diner where they'd eaten breakfast who slipped him a number along with his check.

She braces herself for the playful joke he's about to make at her expense, but he does nothing of the sort. Instead, he just... looks at her for a second, and then snaps back into himself. "I'll go get it. Wait here, okay?"

She nods, but can't shake the look. It's odd, but... he is in the middle of having sex. It's not as if she's here at an opportune time.

"Here," he says, his head popping back up from behind the door. She takes the wallet from his hands and then a smile appears itself on his face, and he's ruffling her hair, same as always. "And thanks, dude. You've always got my back!"

The door closes and she tsks and loops out her hair tie, starting to fix the half-ponytail he had messed up. The odd look in his eyes he'd had before still lingers in her mind, but he'd seemed normal at the end of it. It doesn't really matter, she thinks as she turns away from her hotel room.

Anyway, she's got more pressing things on her mind right now. She'd ran into Juan in the lobby, where he'd insisted they have dinner together, and he's still waiting for her there now. He's awfully eager to talk to her, which doesn't make much sense; he's had her number since Celeste, and they've been in the same city for years.

They hail a cab outside the hotel, and it's small talk all the way to the restaurant. This, maybe, is what is putting her off so much about Juan. He so clearly wants something from her, but he's trying to find it in such an indirect way that she wonders if he knows what he's doing at all. Time spent with him feels wasted, on both ends.

Still, it's not like she doesn't have time to waste.

The restaurant is nothing fancy, just a family chain-restaurant that's brightly lit and bustling with noise. It's a stark contrast to the kinds of places her client's taken her on special occasions, but not an unwelcome one. Juan probably chose to come here and take a cab to avoid media attention, which she can't really blame him for. She'd prefer not to be seen with him as well, especially with the feud between him and her client. The tabloids could have a field day with this, and she doesn't want him to find out about it either.

They sit in silence as menus are perused and she feels almost out of place, in this place where babies are crying and friends are sharing stories. By the time the waiter has come and gone with their orders (some kind of linguini for Juan, medium rare steak for her) and Juan starts to tell her about how it's risky to order a steak cooked less than medium in a place like this (a place that Juan chose, she thinks, a little unfairly), her patience has finally dwindled down to nothing.

"Did you want to talk about something?" she asks him, flat-out. Honestly, at this point she's treated him better than most of the people she encounters in her job; she doesn't have any more time for his directionless babbling.

For a second, he's rendered speechless, and she's afraid that even with her comment, nothing's changed. But then he says Celeste's name and... it still doesn't make sense.

They've already spoken about Celeste, at the party the night before. Juan had brought it up in a stilted, awkward fashion, not unlike the way he's bringing it up now. He'd said something about mourning Celeste with a suspicious lack of emotion. Of course, it's not like she bared her soul to him, either, so she's in no place to assume.

Before she can even mention how she thought they spoke about it already, Juan's backpedaling. He says that he was wrong, that what he wants to talk about has more to do with her client, hand running through his hair in obvious stress.

This catches her attention. It makes a little more sense than what he said before. When he'd brought him up earlier, she'd only stayed long enough with him to give him her two cents, not hear his. But she doesn't really need to; the mutual hatred between Juan and her client isn't exactly a secret.

Juan begins a tirade on her client, listing off everything he's ever done that could be perceived as less than kind. Each point he makes sounds petty, and she's sure she could combat all of them with something she's heard about him doing. She... doesn't really care about hearing this.

"I'd appreciate it if you could spare me the song and dance," she cuts him off, patience wearing thinner by the second.

Juan sputters in unwelcome shock, taking her words for a defense of the actor in her care. Disgust is written all over his face, but she honestly couldn't care less how he takes it until he asks her how even she could fall for it, his sickly sweet idiotic persona that he uses to mask the devil lurking inside of him. Surely she must know what he's done.

Overdramatic, maybe, but it hits too close to home. She knows exactly what his last sentence was referring to. For a second, it feels like Juan knows everything, the feelings she detest that live in her, the things she did (and the things she almost did), just last night, with someone like him... Her chest seizes up. Of course she knows what he's done. Of course she hasn't fallen for it.

Juan is smirking now and she knows that right now her heart is too plain on her sleeve for her liking; she'd said those last two sentences out loud without even realizing. The emotion that must have rang out with them... She needs to get herself together.

She needs to get herself together.

A waitress comes over with their meals, seemingly oblivious to the tension and serving them with a smile on her face. It's the distraction she needs. As Juan thanks the waitress for the food and answers all her questions, she takes a second to collect herself.

By the time the waitress is gone, Juan's smirk still hasn't been wiped off his face. He leans in, absentmindedly twirling his pasta, and suggests that if she does know the truth about her client's actions, then she must hate him too.

She's cutting her steak into pieces roughly, her knife slicing cleanly through the tender meat and hitting the ceramic of her plate with a loud clang. Juan notices just how loud and inefficient her process is before she does, a light chuckle escaping him. She sends him a hard look. "Do you think I'd become his manager otherwise?"

Suddenly, any superiority visible in his expression has disappeared. He's excited now, almost shaking, and he asks if she thinks he doesn't deserve his fame, too, for the person he is. It's an odd way to put it, in terms of fame, but she agrees; after all, Celeste had said something similar at the end of her life.

Juan's eyes wide as he talks, he whispers, mouth covered discreetly, that if that is how she truly feels, then she must not be averse to helping him bring him down.

It's such a huge risk on his part to come out and say it like that, but she can barely even waste her time recognizing that. It's not what's important. What's important is that Juan running into her today in the lobby of their hotel, it's a coincidence. A huge coincidence, since she'd just so happened to forget about her client's guest that night and leave her wallet in the hotel room; she wouldn't have come back to the building so early if she'd remembered. And that this opportunity has come the day after last night, and that her client had woken up that morning with no memory of the night before... it's all become clear.

Celeste has given her this, a shot at redemption.

"I... suppose you're right."

With that, Juan calls the waitress over and asks for takeout boxes and the check. He tells her he has so much to tell her, to show her, about the dozens of ways he's devised to bring him down. He says he's glad to finally have her help, because he's needed it for so long. He says that maybe if she's on his side now, they may actually be able to bring him down.

In the cab on the way back to the hotel, she thinks about those words and the reality of what she's doing. About that smile-

That smile that belongs to a devil, who killed the woman she loves. This train of thought is just a waste of time.

Juan is moving too fast when he brings her up to his room; she can barely keep up with the man, a sudden ball of energy after she's agreed to help him. He's like a child, she thinks, and that really is what the feud is to her. Childish.

But if she needs childishness to finally realize revenge for Celeste, who is she to turn it down? In the way that Juan's said that she's what he's always needed for this, maybe it goes for her, too.

She never told Celeste she loved her. For a long time she was too afraid, and then after him, every day was too soon. But Juan, he'd pursued her relentlessly, every no that escaped her mouth just another challenge to overcome. Love was a bullfight for him, and even it was rough and inconsiderate and one-minded... he won, didn't he?

He won, and Celeste never found out how she felt.

And now she's been stuck in a rut, never bothering to think of ways to get revenge for Celeste, and Juan has been up in his hotel room working on a portfolio. Every attempt failing, of course, but he's done more than her with less opportunity.

As hard as it is to admit, idiotic motives and all, she needs Juan just as much as he needs her.

She finally catches up with Juan in his hotel room, digging through a dresser drawer. Papers are strewn across what she assumes is his bed, a red binder sitting in the center of the mess. Juan looks up when he hears her, telling her he's looking for something he has to show her.

The leftover boxes are on the table and she's on the couch by the time Juan's finally done rifling through his drawer and is pressing a wooden bear into her hands. She... gave this to him, back when he and Celeste were dating. Why is it so important?

Before she can ask him, he tells her to open it. She does as he says, pulling out pieces in the elaborate order she'd memorized so she could teach it to Juan. Inside is...

Inside is...

It's Celeste's suicide note, an account of all the wrongs he committed against her. She reads it once, its contents all too familiar, and immediately folds it back up the way she found it. She can hardly stand to read it as the person she is now, the person who's had the audacity to find comfort in the kindness of the man who drove her love to suicide. Celeste must truly have hated him, she realizes, to spend her last moments centered on what would become of him.

Juan tells her as much, explaining how Celeste must have wanted to destroy his rival's career when she died, to bring him down with her. He says that now that he's let her read the note, she must know now just how much he trusts her.

She tells him that she does.

Over their almost-forgotten dinner, Juan starts to detail the plans he's come up with to expose his rival's misdeeds and just how each of them failed. Alone, he explains, he can't quite do it; any attempt he'd make to call him out would probably just be perceived as jealous slander. But with her, it's all different. With her connections, she can make so many things happen. She can be his man on the inside. After all, he says, the person he's out for trusts her.

She doesn't know if she believes that, but she doesn't say anything to correct him. Instead, she lets him speak, listening intently as he draws out his new plans and adding to them where she can. But even when all the food is gone and the table is cleared, they don't seem to have anything; the information she's brought to Juan's table seems to have just ruled all his ideas out as impossible. Somehow, though, he isn't discouraged. He's just... grateful to her for helping, taking note of each thing she says and adding it to his generous red binder.

She's apologizing to Juan when her phone goes off. Excusing herself when she sees it's him (of course it's him), she takes the call just outside of his hotel room. "Hello?"

"Hey, dude. Hotel room's free now. You can come back if you want. Thanks for letting me have it!"

"You said that already," she answers him. "I'll be there soon."

"Not much going on tonight, huh? Alright, I'll be here." The phone clicks, and he's gone before she can even think about how wrong he was.

She goes back in Juan's hotel room, and he starts to chatter about some new idea he came up with in the two minutes she's been outside. She cuts him off, telling him about her recent caller and how he'll be suspicious if she takes her time listening to his new theory. Anyway, it's pushing morning now; it's time she gets back.

When she does get back, he's prancing around their room in a bathrobe and underwear, something playing on the TV. "You got here pretty fast," he points out when he answers the door. "What were you up to?"

"I had dinner," she tells him, pulling off her shoes. It's... not a lie. And he'll probably drop it; he sounds more curious than accusatory. After all, it's not like she's the one who decided she'd be out all night.

He wrinkles his nose as he sits down in front of the TV. "Place downstairs, dude? Sucks. Their duck leaves something to be desired."

She nods, but she doesn't really believe him. He'll eat pizza from anywhere, but when it comes to fancy food, he's suddenly got a refined palate. The duck's probably fine.

"Anyway, come here, you gotta see this, Adrian!" he says, watching the television intensely. "I wanna take a role like this."

She looks over at the TV. It's an old classic, something about an American spy taking down the Russian mafia. She'd seen the movie before as a girl; when she was younger, she wanted to be like that. Fighting bad guys, having women fall in love with her... it'd been such a dream. And yet, here she is, working for bad guys, the woman she was in love with dead, not even knowing she loved her.

But him... it would work for him. He's got the fighting down in Nickel Samurai and he's got the womanizing aspect with, well, his face. Paired with his spring breeze image, his reputation would soar. It's a star-making role. Still...

"Your schedule's full with the Nickel Samurai. A movie like that would take at least a year."

"Aw, don't be like that. Just watch it with me." He smiles at her, dimples forming on his cheeks, and she realizes just how much she should not take him up on his offer.

"I have to take a shower," she says, turning away from him and starting to release the half-ponytail in her hair.

"C'mon, it's almost over," he replies, and she can hear the pout on his face, and...

It's... just a movie, right? One she likes. And that smile... And he'll like her more if she does what he asks her. And she needs him to trust her, right? The more he trusts her, the easier it'll be to reach her goal. Right?

(What's her goal again?)

"Fine."

She sits down.

---

"Huh, what's this?" she hears him say from his dressing room, and she finds him examining a bottle of wine on his vanity, next to a basket of chocolates and cheeses.

She's apprehensive when she sees him with alcohol, that night still fresh in her mind like it was yesterday instead of months ago. Then again, though, that night, it was bourbon, not wine.

"Isn't your birthday tomorrow? It's probably a gift from the studio," she says, picking a card out of the basket that confirms her theory. She starts to hand it to him when he puts the bottle down.

"Hey, I didn't know you knew!" He grins at her widely as he takes the card from her, as if it's impressive that she, his manager, knows his birthday. She's about to say something about that when his attention turns back to the bottle. "But man, they all know I don't drink..."

She raises her eyebrows. "I thought that was because you were underage," she says, maybe a little transparently. "Drinking won't do any damage to your image now."

It's still a mystery to her why he's so adamantly against alcohol. Maybe he gets a little... affectionate with the people he's with, but it's not like he usually has issues with getting affectionate. The number of girls just this month that showed up at the studio looking for him proves that.

Those girls that she had to deal with...

"No, dude," he says, sounding disappointed, "I told you already. Losing control is lame... Who knows what this stuff could do?" He starts shaking the wine bottle as if to make a point and she takes it out of his hands.

"I'll hold that for now."

But still, his excuse doesn't really hold. He's not that different when he's drunk. She'd tell him as much, but she's resolved to talk as little about that night as possible. Maybe she'll just have to be content with never knowing.

"Hey, do you-" he starts to say when he stops suddenly, staring at her hand wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle. His eyes widen. "Actually-"

He's interrupted by her phone's ringtone, the generic ring that she hasn't bothered to change. She pulls it out, looks at the number, and declines the call, gritting her teeth.

"Your phone's been going off a lot lately," he says, his voice suddenly absent, the emotion that had been in the words he'd been saying before completely lost. His face has gone completely neutral.

"This man I met won't leave me alone," she replies, shoving the phone back into her purse.

Juan... Ever since they'd had dinner that night, he's been contacting her constantly in every method he knows how, her phone his favorite. Usually, it doesn't matter, because he's got information and ideas that she needs and can use, but now... They're finished.

A while ago, Juan drew up a whole plan culminating at the Hero of Heroes Grand Prix, one that could really, actually work. It'd taken some work for them to put it together, especially on her part; she'd had to make a dozen phone calls and organize an event right under her client's nose. The thing is, though, she did it all, organized everything, made the phone calls, and now everything they need to do is done. But Juan won't stop calling her to make sure that everything's in order, no matter how many times she's reassured him.

She knows that he's been waiting for this a long time, and honestly, she's been too, but he's about to blow it for the both of them.

She notices her client, studying her blankly. He's awfully quiet now... "What was it you were about to say before the phone rang?" she asks him, trying to divert his attention back to whatever was making him happy and talkative. Remembering the bottle in her hand, she places it on the vanity.

His eyes are back on her hands and they widen again as he seems to slip back into himself. He turns to face her. "I was asking... Well, work's done for the weekend, right?"

"Yes," she confirms, not quite sure where he's going.

"And it's my birthday tomorrow."

She stares at him. "Wouldn't you know that more than me?"

"And you're free for the rest of the day?" He smiles at her almost hesitantly, and she freezes up.

"Yes..." she says, her voice too low, and she chides herself. Maybe she should have lied...

"You know, dude, I'd hate it if people saw me not acting like myself... But if it was just you... It'd be okay... right?"

He's still smiling, his face almost a little goofy... but she knows exactly what this proposition sounds like. Just her and her client and a bottle of wine... It's not a good idea. The last time he was drunk... She can't.

"That doesn't sound very professional," she says, her voice not strong enough, not together enough.

He pouts slightly. "Well, it... might not be," he admits, and then his arm is on her shoulder and he's smiling again, "but this bottle looks pretty pricey and I... trust you, you know?"

He trusts her.

Doesn't she need him to trust her?

"I... do."

And then she's on his couch and cursing herself. This isn't a good decision; she shouldn't be here. Not with him next to her, jacket and gloves off, downing glasses of wine in one gulp.

There's a movie playing on the huge TV in front of them, the sequel to the movie they'd watched together months ago, but she can't really pay attention while her client is sitting beside her racing to get drunk.

"You're not supposed to drink it like that," she finally says. "It's an expensive wine. You're supposed to sip it."

Her glass is sitting untouched on the coffee table in front of them. She can hold a drink, but she's having enough trouble in this situation already.

"And why do you have so many wine glasses if you don't drink?"

He's laughing now, ruffling her hair without even looking at her. "Guess you can't get off my back for a second, huh? My dad... He used to live here with me, he loves wine. That door there," he says, pointing at the outline of a door she can barely see in the dark room, "it leads to his wine cellar."

"He's why you don't drink?" she asks, surprised. Someone like him... she didn't expect him to have a story like that.

"No, dude!" His smile is so wide now. "It's not like he used to get drunk all the time and hit me or anything. He's a cool dude. I don't drink because... I've got an image, you know? Don't want to ruin it because I got drunk." He laughs. "Man, I've told you this a million times."

"But you don't seem to have any problem with ruining your image by sleeping around," she mutters to herself, barely realizing she's speaking out loud.

He rubs his neck. "A lot of celebrities sleep around, you know; that's a little unfair, dude. And besides..." He pauses, and his voice turned thick. His body curls towards hers and the air in the room is suddenly completely different and how has she not realized just how close they've been sitting until now? "I... didn't think you cared."

She can feel his breath on her face. "I don't."

And it's true, she's never cared, never looked at the girls he slept with with distaste or hate or jealousy... They were just a fixture in her life, the people she'd have to console and make leave. Just another part of the job description. She never saw them in context with... this.

But this... she cares so much about this.

"Don't you?" he says, eyes wide as the moon, and he tilts her chin up and his mouth is on hers and it's happening again but she doesn't want it to stop, his soft lips pressing against her and his tongue sliding into her mouth. He tastes so sweet and for a second she thinks maybe she can get drunk just off of this.

His hand threads through her hair, pulling out her hair tie. He's tugging weakly at her hair and his nails dig gently in her scalp. That pain... it's almost exquisite.

And he pulls away from her and she comes back together and she knows it's supposed to stop. "You're drunk," she says, but he just smiles at her.

"I'm not," he says, taking her glasses off, and he's laying her head against the armrest of the couch and then he's leaning over her, his legs intertwined with hers and she knows what position she's in but she's not going to stop it now.

His mouth is on hers again, but he's kissing her so much differently now, hungrier and rougher, nipping her bottom lip. She feels like her mind should be the fighting itself the way it always is but the only intelligible thought she has is that she's needed this for such a long time, for all those hours she's spend with him the past year, all that time she spent wishing she was doing this.

"Adrian," he moans into her mouth, and she swears it's the hottest thing she's ever heard.

His hand starts snaking up her shirt and he's kneading her chest roughly and fuck, she's never been into that, but she can feel his erection rubbing up against her and there's a look on his face that makes her feel like she's on fire.

They pull apart and she whines, unable to help herself. But he's pushing up her shirt and bra and his mouth wraps around a hard nipple, licking and nibbling, and she was afraid before that he might make some comment about just how turned on he's making her but all she can think about now is his teeth on her chest.

He's unbuttoning her pants then, his hand finding its way into her slippery wetness and his long fingers brushing against her clit, drawing out a moan she can't hold in. He laughs against her chest.

Then he's kissing her again, muffling the noises she's making, and his fingers are pumping in and out of her while his thumb plays with her clit, and she swears, one more thrust and she's-

She cries out.

She's there.

"I fucking love you," he whispers breathlessly, his face an inch apart from hers, eyes drinking her in, and her body goes cold.

Love...

Realization floods her consciousness and she's angry, enraged at herself, enraged at him.

"You don't," she whispers, fixing her clothes and trying to look away from him even though he's surrounding her.

There's something like hurt on his face and he's not drunk but he's not himself either and she can't bear to look at him. "Adrian..." he says, slipping out of her until they're both sitting up, not touching each other except for the arm he's put on her shoulder.

"You don't," she says again, slower, sharper, anger finding its way into her voice. Him... he doesn't know what love is. Love is that pure happiness, the way she'd felt around Celeste. The feelings that flooded her chest the first time she saw her... that joy she felt whenever she saw Celeste smile and that emptiness when she saw her gone. It's not- It's not whatever this is. "Why would you say something like that, after everything? After everything you've done to Celeste?"

He frowns and runs a hand through his hair in stress, pushing his bangs back. She sees them, the angry white lines on his face she's noticed but never commented on, but she doesn't care enough to ask about them now. That's not the answer she needs.

He retracts his arm from her shoulder. "What did I do to Celeste?" he asks her slowly and his voice is so different and his everything is so different, but she doesn't care.

"You..." she says, voice brimming with rage, eyes brimming with tears. "You're the reason she's dead! Don't lie to me... I know everything, Matt!"

And he's laughing, but it's the coldest laugh she's ever heard. She remembers that night, right before it ended... he'd laughed exactly like this. "My manager..." He tucks a piece of behind her ear. "If you knew everything, you'd know the only thing I did was call Juan and tell him that he'd be marrying a woman I've dated."

"We both know she killed herself over that," she shoots back, still mad even though his hand's behind her ear and he's looking down on her and she feels so much smaller than him.

"Did she?" he asks. "See, I know I've done bad things. I know calling him that day, three days after they got engaged, it was kinda petty. But, you know, I thought she killed herself because her fiancé couldn't get over the fact that she had an ex-boyfriend."

And she's struck speechless, because nothing he's saying is wrong.

"Adrian," he says, a sigh escaping his lips, "I'm not the reason Celeste killed herself. I think you have me confused with the person you're sneaking around with behind my back." His hand drops from her ear and he stands up, looking away from her. "I'm gonna take a shower. Don't forget to lock the door and turn off the TV when you leave. And... I'll see you on Monday."

"Matt," she starts to say right before he reaches for the doorknob, and she sees him pause and turn his head, ever-so-slightly.

"Yeah?"

She almost clams up, unsure what she ever meant to say. "Happy birthday."

For a second, she sees the smile she's all too familiar with.

"Thanks."

---

When Adrian hears them announce the Nickel Samurai as the winner of the Hero of Heroes Grand Prix, she goes into Juan Corrida's hotel room for what she hopes is the last time.

It's overflowing with children's teddy bears, presents from his fans. He's so popular, she thinks, and he wastes all his time scheming to try to take down someone a little more popular than him. It's... obscenely childish, and she realizes that she never needed to get herself tangled into any of it. She finds the bear she gave him such a long time ago sitting on his vanity, and she slips it into her purse.

She won't let him use Celeste for his own means anymore.

She's about to slip out when Juan comes in, surprised but happy to see her. He's chattering away about how excited he is about tonight, and she knows that she should tell him (she should've told him a long time ago), but she just lets him speak, trying to find an opening and leave his room. He's not even angry about the loss he's just experienced; it's like he never even expected to win. Maybe that's his problem.

Honestly, Juan's probably just so happy because he's so intent on getting a win from all they'd planned today... Shereally doesn't want to be here when he finds out none of it's going to happen.

But of course she is, watching him open the guitar case she'd brought for him to find an old Pink Princess costume she'd found lying around. Looking at his reaction, she swears his face turns the color of a tomato. He's barely suppressing his anger now, asking her slowly, deliberately, what exactly happened here.

"I made a mistake," she offers, and she needs to leave as soon as possible because it's plain in his expression just how much he does not believe that Adrian Andrews, Matt Engarde's perfectionist manager, made a mistake.

She really should tell him, she thinks, but Juan's yelling, absolutely losing his mind hurling accusations at her. She didn't make a mistake. She did it on purpose, and now, what exactly does she expect to happen at the press conference later? Is she really going to get the Nickel Samurai, have him announce he's saving puppies or orphans or some bullshit? Announce his manager played his rival for a fool?

"The conference isn't happening," she dares cut him off, because, for both of them, it's better if he stops that train of thought now. He'll find this moment humiliating later.

But he doesn't stop. Instead, he's throwing bears around, unable to contain his rage. She's planned this all along, he screams. She'd strung him along because Matt Engarde needed some entertainment, not like she actually gives a damn about her dead best friend. She only cares about her demon client.

The words coming from Juan's mouth that before had been bouncing cleanly off her start to fill her with white-hot rage. She's so tired of people who know nothing about Celeste using her to one-up people they don't like. Celeste was a goddess, ethereal... They never deserved her and they lost her. She's not a point to use in an argument.

She clenches her fist, and right when she's about to let loose on Juan, the door opens.

"Hey, so it seems like I'm interrupting something, but I need my manager back. Thanks, dude!"

He darts in the room, grabbing her wrist before Juan can say a word and pulling her out. She's still speechless as he leads her through the corridor, and it's only when they're at their hotel room and he's locking the door behind her that she finds the ability to speak again.

"Did you hear-" she starts to ask, and he cuts her off with a nod,

"Yeah. That scary guy on the kid's exercise program... He stopped me in the hallway for an autograph and I heard yelling from Corrida's room... and he was yelling at you." His eyes are serious and there's a somberness in his tone... Was he really worried about her?

"But if you heard everything... Does that mean you know?" she asks him, apprehension in her chest. "About the press conference?"

"Well," he says, his voice tired, "I always knew. When I found out you and him were hanging out behind my back, I got wind of your plans, too."

She'd always suspected as much, ever since that outburst the day before his birthday, but... "But you didn't do anything?" she asks. "You knew and you didn't do anything?"

The press conference was canceled last minute; late enough for everybody to find out and talk about, but early enough so no one would show up. And she'd never breathed a word about her sabotaging Juan to anyone, let alone him. Yet he didn't even try to stop it from happening, didn't even ask her to not do it, and he knew the effect he could have on her.

He shrugs as he looks at her, a tiny smile on his face. "I guess I trusted you," he says plainly. "And, I mean, that conference didn't happen, did it?" He's ruffling her hair now, and it feels almost comforting, but...

"It wasn't for you. I did it for Celeste," she says, trying to get his hand out of her hair. "She needs to rest in peace, not in between you and Juan anymore."

"What about you?" he asks, watching her loop out her hair tie lazily. When she starts to re-do the half-ponytail, he speaks again. "You should leave it down. It's nice that way, you know?"

"Is that why you're always messing up my hair?" she mutters, digging through her purse for a comb. "And I don't plan on being part of any of your plots anymore, if that's what you're asking. The feud between the two of you... It's pointless."

As she digs through her purse, she finds the wooden bear, something she's almost forgotten about. Celeste's letter, all she's done... She pulls it out and starts to deconstruct it; she has to make sure it's in there. She has to set Celeste free.

Sure enough, she finds the tiny slip of paper, and as she's about to open it, he takes it out of her hands. "What's this?" he asks, unfolding it.

"It's Celeste's suicide note," she answers, trying to get it back from him. She doesn't know how he'd react to a note like that, listing off everything he's ever done wrong. "Juan was going to use it against you tonight; didn't you know that?"

"Well, not like I knew all the details of your plan. I just picked up on stuff. And, by the way," he says, holding Celeste's note close to his face, "you're wrong. This isn't Celeste's suicide note. This is fake."

W-What? "What do you mean?" she asks him, ripping the paper out of his hands. "Wait... the handwriting... It's different."

She remembers the little notes she'd leave for her when they were roommates, the letters they'd write each other when one of them was abroad and the other wasn't... They'd brought her so much happiness in those days. She was out of it the day Juan showed her the letter, but to forget something like that... How could she?

"It's probably Juan's," he remarks. "That guy... he really hates me."

His comment's wholly unnecessary, but it doesn't really matter. She's not paying him any mind. Instead, she looks at the tiny slip of paper in her hand, the one she'd endured so much yelling to get... "Should I still destroy it?" she asks herself.

It's fake, but it's certainly something Celeste could've written... anyone else would think it was real.

Wait a second.

"How did you know it was fake?"

He's taken aback by her question and he starts rubbing his neck. "When we were dating, she gave me a picture of herself that she wrote me a message on... I look at it, sometimes." His eyes are sincere and she's surprised... Maybe he isn't as heartless as she used to think, if he thinks about Celeste so often that he can recognize her handwriting. "But anyway! What I said before, I was asking..." He still seems apprehensive, his hand on his neck and his mouth turned gently downwards. "I was asking if you're staying, even if you're done messing with our feud or whatever."

He's not looking her in the eye, but... it's such an odd question. She'd never really considered it. Maybe she should've, and maybe she should, quit this job, wipe her hands of everything she's wasted the last two years on. Revenge... what a horrible reason to live. Even if Celeste really did hate him, her devoting her life to bringing him down... It's not what she would've wanted. Celeste would've wanted her to be happy.

But when she looks at him, frowning like that, she kind of doesn't really agree with the idea of calling those past two years wasted. And this... maybe isn't what Celeste would've wanted either. But maybe it's time to start living for herself.

"It's-" she starts to say, but she falls over her words for the first time in a long time. "It's not like I'm getting swamped by job offers."

"But you're such a great manager," he says, staring at his feet, "and I bet if you quit, you would be. I... could make it happen, if you want."

He's actually sad, she thinks to herself. This version of him... is it the real one? The him he becomes when he slicks his hair back? Is that even the real him? But really... whatever him he is... She's already in too deep.

Awkwardly, she puts a hand on his samurai-suited shoulder and looks him in the face. She knows this is a moment where, if they were switched and maybe he was drunk, he'd kiss her, but she's not going to try kissing him now, in his suit that makes him tower above her even higher than he usually does. She honestly doesn't even know if she should be kissing him at all. For now, the hand is enough. "I'm not leaving," she assures him, and then he's staring at her, his eyes so wide, and-

Her phone alarm starts beeping, and she starts correcting herself.

"I'm not leaving, but maybe you should be!" she says, unlocking the door and starting to push him out of the room when he yells.

"Wait, Adrian!" he says, and she stops pushing him for a second. "...Thank you." And then he's starting to turn around and lean over and she swears if he tries to kiss her now-

He does; she dodges it. "We don't have time for this! You're supposed to be on stagenow."

"Wait, I also don't have my helmet!"

---

"You should be outside," she chides him when the door opens as she's retouching her makeup. She eyes his reflection; he's sitting at the couch behind her, and his bow tie's crooked. She knows that's not how she let him leave. What happened to him out there? "The media will be looking for you."

"I'm getting swarmed, dude," he says, leaning back with his arms up on the couch. "The media found me. And so did the fans... There was this one girl in some weird Japanese costume and she completely lost it. I don't think I wanna go back out there."

He's a tired-looking mess, and she'd be worried he might've come off as rude to them if he'd been interacting with them exhausted as he was, but it's him. He's never not been cordial or friendly... After all, he's the master of putting on faces, isn't he?

And the way he's acting... he's still wearing one now.

"Well, there's nothing for you to do here," she says, powdering her face.

"Isn't there?" he asks, and she sees him turn to look at her in the mirror's reflection, his face innocent. Her cheeks flush anyway, when she remembers what she said. "I think we need to talk. Come over here, you look fine."

She's a little skeptical when he says "talk" but his voice is low and serious, and she does what he says. They do have a lot to talk about.

She moves his samurai costume pants over when she sits next to him, leaving a healthy amount of space in between. But it's probably pointless... His face is solemn now, and something like that doesn't seem to be on his mind. He's not even looking at her. "Before, when I still hadn't done the after-show yet... you said you'd stay, right?"

"This job pays well, you know."

He chuckles weakly and leans his head back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. "Adrian, I'm... not the kind of person you think I am. If you knew me, I don't think you'd really want to stay here with me."

Who he really is... For him to come out and say it like that, after starting their conversation with a face on... what's he thinking?

He's probably right, that she doesn't know who he really is, but at the same time... "I've been your manager for more than a year," she says, looking over at him looking up at the ceiling. "I've seen you early in the mornings, I've seen you run on an hour of sleep, I've seen you drunk, I've seen you angry, I've seen your scars. And through all that... You've never said an unkind word to me. You've never been cruel. Even if everything about you is different, I don't think you'd change how you treat me."

A hollow laugh escapes him. "You're giving me a lot of credit. It's just, something was different about you... You know, when I was 'kind' to you, I was just trying to get you on my side. I knew Celeste mattered a lot to you and you knew everything I'd done. But then... I wanted to be... I just kept being nicer and nicer to you and I'd tell myself it was just because I wanted to fuck you or something, but... that day you came to my house... I finally had you, but I still wanted to be nice to you. I wanted to make you smile. Cold Adrian Andrews..."

He breathes out, exasperated, and he's still not looking at her. It's like he's talking to himself.

"Just... I found out you lied to me about why you took the job and about hanging out with Juan, and I didn't ask you to leave, you know? I didn't even think about it. God, I could've lost the image and the job I'd worked years on but all I was thinking about was how I didn't want to lose you."

"You're not going to. I'm not leaving."

"But you know you should," he says, leaning forward in his seat and pushing his bangs back, eyes down. "We both know the pay doesn't matter. You could find a job anywhere. Shit, Adrian, you jumpstarted my fucking career. Just-" He's gritting his teeth now. "You know. I know you know. I'm not a good a person. I don't care about other people, dammit. My whole life... You saw how I treated Celeste. And whenever I did anything with you... you'd always hesitate before stuff happened, regret it after, no matter how much you seemed to like it when it was happening. A year and a half, you kept me arms-length because you knew how terrible I was. Fuck... didn't you want to destroy me?"

He's right; she knows he's right. She can't fall into him guiltlessly, not after everything. But she also can't not fall into him. "I guess... I'm a terrible person, too. To like you so much despite everything." She laughs bitterly.

"That's my problem! You don't like me! The person you like, it's that fucking dumbass who doesn't even know how to be mean. You're staying with me because you like a mask." He finally faces her, and she sees the angry lines running down his eye, the anguish on his face. "You can't look at me and say that you care about the guy who used your best friend to get ahead."

"You're right," she says. "I can't say that; I don't care about that person. But I don't really care about the person who acts like an idiot, either. The person I care about is the person who heard about the plan I made with Juan and didn't do anything to try and stop me because he trusted me so much, the person who was kind to me when he knew it wouldn't help him, the person who made me feel like I could still be good, even if Celeste was gone. And I think you did all those things, made me feel that way because you wanted to, not because you were putting on an act." He's staring at her so hard, and her cheeks get hot, and she looks down. "There's kindness in you somewhere, you know. I... really believe that."

"You're an idiot," he whispers, but before she can respond, his hands are threading through her hair, and he's pressing his mouth hard against hers. He tastes like chocolate milk and he feels like desperation but it's so much different than all the times they've kissed before. There's nothing pulling her back anymore. She nibbles his lip and he moans and that sound... It does things to her. She wants to hear it again.

She pulls off his bow-tie and throws it - somewhere, she'll worry about it later - and she starts unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket and his shirt, hands wandering around his chest. She's seen him shirtless before, but she's never realized just how solid he is, his chest all hard muscle.

He's got both of his hands holding her face firmly to his, licking her lips and kissing her harder than he ever has.

Her hands find their way to his belt, undoing it and unzipping him and slipping under boxer shorts she's seen before. She pulls out his cock, pumping her hands up and down until he's moaning against her again. And then she separates from him, sliding to her knees. His eyes are wide as saucers as watches her lick a stripe up his shaft, and shit, he doesn't taste good, but the look on his face is worth it.

"Holy shit," he whispers, and that... that's worth it, too.

She wraps her mouth around the head of his cock and starts to take him in, bobbing her head up and down. He groans, low and deep, and his fingers tangle in his hair again, not frozen anymore. The sensation of his nails on her scalp and that sound; it's absolutely worth it. She swears she's getting off of getting someone else off.

After a couple of tries, she's finally fit all of him into her mouth, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat, and he cries out and pulls her off him. "You gotta stop," he breathes out. "I can't keep up like this, and I... I wanna fuck you... if that's okay?"

"Yes," she says and she laughs, looking up at him. His eyes go large when he sees her, his mouth having fallen open slightly, and then he's pulling her up and he's kissing her again, urgently. She feels his hands fall from her shoulders to the small of her back, finding her dress zipper and pulling it down.

"You're wearing too much," he says when he pulls away from her. "And... I don't wanna fuck you here." He tugs on her wrist and she stands up, letting him slip her dress and underwear off and lead her to the bedroom. She sits on the bed and watches him undress furiously, and she laughs again. He's so desperate and he's so clumsy when he's desperate.

But he pushes her down on the bed and his mouth is on her breast and whatever humor she found in him is lost to him on top of her. He's so rough with her now, biting and kneading, but it only amps up the pleasure she feels, the pain tearing into her in the most exquisite way. Then the heat of his mouth on her is lost, and he's leaving a trail of kisses down her stomach, and she knows what's about to do.

"Stop," she half-moans, and she's afraid he won't understand her and she can barely form a sentence now. But he does stop, looking up from her stomach, his eyebrows tilting downwards. "I need you inside of me."

"The condoms are, uh, I need to go-"

"I'm on the pill."

There's confusion on his face and fuck, does she not have time for this, but he apparently drops whatever curiosities he has and he moves on top of her. He runs a finger inside of her - "Fuck, you're so wet," he whines - and positions himself at her entrance, entering her... too slowly, too gently.

"Faster," she says, pushing herself up into him, and he moans. He can be so rough, she thinks, when he's touching her and now he's treating her like a damn porcelain doll and this is not the time.

"Shit, I've wanted this for so long," she hears him mutter, and then he's not holding back anymore, steadying her shoulders with his hands and thrusting in and out of her faster than she can feel and shit. He feels so much bigger than she thought he would and that pain he's making her feel is so perfect. She's never realized just how much she needed this from him until now.

And then he's picking her up, holding her to him, and his mouth is on hers again. His thrusts start hitting her so much differently as he pounds into her with abandon. His movements are erratic and rushed and his pace keeps picking up faster and faster and she hears his breath hitch and-

He cries out and he's filling her with warmth and shit, why the fuck does that turn her on so much? She grabs his face and holds it to hers, swallowing the sounds he's making as he slows down, and he came but he's still moving inside of her and she's almost there and-

"Oh my God, please, just a little more, I just need you-"

And he's laughing, slamming into her harder than he ever has, but pacing himself, leaving an achingly long time in between thrusts, and she can't stand it. She whines again and he's still laughing. "I... waited so long for this... and you're – acting – like – you're – just – a –fucking –whore," he says, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust and she honestly could not give a damn about his words because he feels so good. He's still saying something but she barely hears it because the only thing she's registering is the periodic searing in her abdomen and then she's screaming.

After she orgasms, he rolls off her and lays next to her in the bed. They slide under the blanket, somehow falling asleep.

She wakes up curled into his chest, the hotel room almost completely dark, save the lamp they left on in the other room. The sun... it must've set a long time ago. The party is long over. She moves her head to look up at him when she hears him speak.

"Do you regret it?" he asks, staring at the ceiling, his arm wrapping around her and his hand finding its way to her shoulder.

She remembers what he said before, about how she'd hesitate before doing anything and regret it after, and she frowns, looking down. Absently, she realizes that she can hear his heartbeat. "I don't," she replies, and pauses. "But... I should."

For a moment, there's silence. She darts her eyes up to look at him and his expression is empty. He doesn't say a word.

"I told you, didn't I? I'm a terrible person." Laughing darkly into his chest, she closes her eyes.

"We both are."

She doesn't open her eyes, just listens to his heart. It's there, she thinks, cased inside his rib-cage and pumping away. Why, then, is it so broken?

"You cared about her, didn't you?" he suddenly asks, his words vibrating against her cheek. "Celeste..."

"I was in love with her," she says, a smile taking over her face even though she doesn't really deserve to smile over her memory, not someone who's doing what she's doing.

She feels him inhale sharply in surprise, but he doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he asks, "Why? What was it you fell in love with, in her?"

It's an odd question. "You knew her," she points out.

"I never knew her the way you knew her," he replies, and he doesn't say it, but she can hear the impliedI didn't care about knowing her at all.

But he did, didn't he? He did know her. "AndI never knew her the way you did, either." She breathes out slowly, wistfully. "But didn't you see it? She was beautiful." And then his heartbeat fades out from her hearing, and she's there, in that classroom where she laid eyes on the most beautiful woman in the world for the first time. "The first time I met her, I knew. We met in college, and whenever she figured something out, her eyes would shineso bright. You'd think she just found the cure for cancer. And she was so kind; she was paired with me the class we met, and I couldn't wrap my head around the things we were learning at all, but she never got impatient with me. When we got older, she'd always stick by me, even when she was landing important jobs and always had to run around busy. She mentored me, even though she didn't have to. She's the reason people think I'm so good at what I do. I just think of what she would do, and it's always the right decision.

"And didn't you see it?" She laughs. "It's a cliche, but I swear that whenever she smiled, she really would light up a room. Or- not even just that. I'd always get so sad whenever we were apart, but just a call from her, or a postcard she sent me, and my day would completely change. She made my chest feel so full. And she cared so much about me; when my dad got in a car crash, she was with me in the hospital waiting room, even though she knew they wouldn't let her in. I used to think how lucky I was, to find someone so wonderful to fall in love with, even if she didn't love me back."

And now she's here, in bed with the man she hates. But she knows she can't say that.

"I... guess I never saw her that that way," he says when she feels tears leaking out of her eyes, and she rolls away from his chest.

"I don't know how you didn't," she replies, heaviness in her words. "You and Juan, she loved both of you so much, but you never appreciated her the way she deserved."

"You're probably right. If you loved her so much... she was something, huh?"

And an anger blooms in her chest, that he defined Celeste's perfection by her opinion of her. That's not the way it really is; Celeste doesn't need her to be amazing, she needs Celeste to be amazing. But she knows that his heart doesn't work, that he can't know any better, and she bites her tongue. "Yes," she finally responds. "She was."

He's silent for a second, and she thinks maybe he won't speak again, but she's wrong. "I'm... sorry. For what I did to her, and... for taking her away from you."

He shouldn't be apologizing to her, and she can't be quiet anymore. Why doesn't he realize thatshe's not the one allowed to forgive him? "She hated you, you know. When she died, she died blaming you. She said that this world couldn't be good if someone like you could succeed in it."

She's struck him speechless, and she realizes just how cruel she's being, but she can't bring herself to stop.

"What you were saying before... You were right. Ishould hate you. I did, for a while... but sometime between when I became your manager and now... I started to care about you. I started to believe there was kindness somewhere in you. God... Istill believe that," she says, sadness leaking from her words. "You were the first one to make me feel like I could be okay again, after everything."

He's silent, almost like he knows that the worst thing he could do right now is speak.

"I hope one day... I hope one day she can forgive me."

She feels him pull her back into his chest, and all she can do is cry.

He lays there for a while, not saying a word, the only sound in the room her choked-back sobs. And then he breaks the silence.

"Is that why you got so mad at me then, that time at my house when I said I loved you?"

She nods against his chest, unable to speak.

"For what it's worth, Adrian... I still think I meant it."

---

When Adrian gets her face in a tabloid the first time alongside her client, their clothes and hair sloppy and disheveled, she almost threatens to sue.

"You know," he says to her after she slams the magazine on his dressing room vanity, "I don't really see the problem with this. They love us."

And it's true; whoever wrote the article about them (a Ms. Hart that will be getting a phone call from hervery soon) did their research. They dug up that article from what must've been a year ago at that point, when he'd named her as a woman that meant something to him. Particularly, they'd fixated on that one line - "the one person who won't swoon over me" - and proceeded to treat them like protagonists in a romantic comedy.

"I know you don't see the problem with this. You did an interview." He smiles at her sheepishly now, scratching the back of his head as stands from his vanity. "Don't encourage them." She rolls the tabloid up and swats him on the back of the head.

"C'mon, stuff like this is our bread and butter. And aren't you the one who always says the most important thing is keeping the fans happy?" he asks her, and she can't stand that he's using her words against him.

"Not like this," she retorts. "You make them happy by keeping it professional." And it's true. That's what she tells him every time he's got to do a signing or a meet and greet; if a fan asks you to do something odd, politely decline, and move on. Usually, of course, he doesn't, and they end up finishing late because he wasted so much time, but itis what she always says.

He laughs at that, smirking at her, and he tilts her chin up and pecks her on the lips. "If I remember right, I don't think you and I made ourselves happy by keeping it professional."

Hmph. What a low blow. "If I remember right, I don't think I was really a fan." She turns away from him, digging through her bag for their itinerary and deciding to drop the topic for now.

But he's not ready to, apparently. "Aw, don't be like that," he says, moving to face her. "I'm sorry you don't wanna be in the magazines. I just did the interview because, I mean, I'm happy we're together, you know? You're so great. I just want people to know about you."

He was inconsiderate, she thinks, just going out and talking about her without even letting her know. Of course, it's not like he got really personal in the interview or said anything inappropriate but... he still should've asked her first. And yet, that tiny pout on his face and the things he's saying... She's used to him being sweet and saying cheesy romantic things, but something like that… she can feel her cheeks heating up. He's just... so nice to her.

"It's... fine," she says. "Just ask me next time."

He ruffles her hair, his smile beaming, and as she fixes her hair again, she tells him that she regrets encouraging him.

But months later, when he asks her to be his date to the premiere of the Nickel Samurai movie, she doesn't say no.

---

"You know food, don't you?" she asks him, scribbling events into her planner, the bacon and eggs on the table getting colder by the second.

He's poking around their cabinets for some fancy kind of chocolate milk mix that he insists will change her opinion about chocolate milk (that opinion being that it's for children), and she's just waiting for him to sit down.

"Didn't I make us breakfast?" he asks, examining a bag of what looks like expensive coffee and tossing it aside. She sighs. The counter's a mess now.

"No, really know food. There's going to be an annual French pastry contest on the beach in two weeks and they need a celebrity judge. You're always acting like you're a gourmet, so I thought you might want to do it." It's a big, televised event, something that would definitely boost his star power, provided he doesn't make a fool of himself pretending he knows enough about food to critique it next to professional judges.

"I found it!" he exclaims, pulling out an opaque black jar that looks awfully suspicious and grabbing her coffee mug. He gets to work on the chocolate milk, completely ignoring her question and then slamming her mug on the table triumphantly, some milk spilling onto her planner. She sighs at her book and takes a sip from the cup as he watches her.

"It's... good," she says, but she doesn't really mean it, and the look on his face tells her that he can tell.

"Why don't you like it?" he asks, and she starts to tell him about how she doesn't really even like chocolate at all, but he's already making a big show out of taking it out of her hands for himself, saying something about how something so great is wasted on her.

"Matt," she interrupts him. "About the French pastry contest? I need to get back to them by today." She taps her finger on her planner pages, scanning the words she's written down.

"Oh, man, I totally forgot about that!" he says, rubbing his neck, blithe smile on his face. "Well, I know about food enough to do it, but they do know I'm not French, right?"

She tsks, not looking up from her planner. He "knows enough about food" - she kind of doubts that, but he's always good at coming off as likable. "Of course they- Wait, what?"

"I'm... not French. Didn't you know?" he asks her, staring at her like she's got seven heads. His fork is flat on the table, abandoned when he heard her outburst. "Did you... Did you think Engarde was my real last name?" He's laughing at her openly now, and she can feel her ears turning red. "Did you think I played a samurai on TV and my last name just happened to be Engarde?"

"How was I supposed to know?" she asks him. "You don't look like you're not French..."

And it's true, chestnut hair, brown eyes, olive skin... He never really acts French or says anything about being French, but his last name is Engarde. And like she has time managing him to realize his name is some fighting term or whatever? It's not even like she really cares about sports... He's being unfair, she thinks, rolling her pen in her fingers.

"And I always feel like you know everything. My last name's Santos," he says with a light chuckle, a definite improvement from him absolutely losing it from her making a mistake about his surname. He starts digging back into his breakfast.

"So you're Hispanic?" That really came out of left field. If she had to place him, she wouldn't think he was Hispanic at all. But maybe that's the reason for the feud between him and Juan... Two Latino actors fighting it out for roles in brutal Hollywood... but, even put that way, it still sounds a little unnecessary.

"No, man," he says, mouth full of eggs. He swallows and starts talking again. "My dad's Filipino."

"But you don't look Asian," she says, squinting at him. Or maybe he does... The yellow undertones in his skin, the almond shape of his eyes... "And I thought he was in France."

He looks at her oddly. "He's not. I don't know why you think that at all, actually. He's in the Philippines," he says. "And my mom was Italian, but she left a long time ago, so we don't talk about her that much."

It's the first time he's brought up his mother in the time she's known him, and he's... closed on the subject. Not sad, but she knows too well the way he acts when he doesn't want to talk about something. His expression's gone neutral, and he's focusing on his food again. There's just a total disinterest. She's a little curious, but she knows everything about him that's important to her. And he's more open with her than he is with anyone else, the way he's started leaving his hair slicked back when they're alone. She can respect the things he doesn't want to talk about. After all, it's not like she talks about her family all the time, either.

Noticing her staring at him, he winks at her and grins. "Hey, so what about you? What's your last name?"

Does he really not know? He can be an airhead even when he isn't pretending to be an airhead, but she really does expect more from him. At least be a little more subtle when you ask for it, she thinks. "It's Andrews," she says, staring at him.

"I mean your real last name," he says, laughing. "I know you go by Andrews. Geez... no faith, huh?"

"It's my real name," she responds, eyebrows furrowed.

"But you're Asian," he says. "How'd you get that last name?"

He says it so confidently and she's... a little shocked. She always thought she passed for white pretty well, and even though it isn't like she's trying to (other than her dyed blonde hair), she's not going to run around telling people where she was from. And it's so odd how he doesn't even entertain the idea that she's half... Usually people don't even notice she's Asian at all.

"My dad, when he immigrated here from China... He passed really well for a white person with black hair, so he changed his name so people wouldn't be so put off about hiring him," she says. "How did you know I wasn't white?"

"I know your hair's blonde, Adrian, but you know you don't really pass for a white person, right?" She watches him scoop up a forkful of eggs and doesn't grace him with an answer. "So anyway, what was your name supposed to be?"

"Lau." She used to wish it was her last name when she was younger and all the kids bothered her about why her name was wrong. Kind of the way he's doing it, but less curious, more cruel. Then she got older and started dyeing her hair blonde and people stopped bugging her about it.

She shakes her head. What an unwelcome trip down memory lane... and a waste of time, considering she's got an itinerary to sort out. She doesn't really have time for this. She picks up her pen again and starts working on her planner.

"Hey, that's cool. Adrian Lau," he says, like he's testing it on his tongue. "Listen, since we're talking about last names... do you want mine?"

Half-listening, she responds, "Which one?" not bothering to look up.

"Huh... Well, I was thinking it'd probably be Engarde since that's what everyone calls me, but I'd be okay with Santos... It'd make my dad happy." In the corner of her eye, she sees him stroke his chin. "Honestly, if you want, I could take one of yours. Matt Lau. Matt Andrews. That last one, though... I don't know if I'd want to have two first names. No offense."

She looks up when she hears him say the name "Matt Lau," her hand freezing and the pen slipping from her grasp. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

"Um," he starts to say, eyes darting downward, "Yes."

She raises an eyebrow and leans in the table, looking at him. "By seguing from a conversation where we established that I don't know your last name?"

She feels like it's her turn to laugh now, but she's feeling generous, and she doesn't. Honestly... every day with him is an adventure, isn't it? And it's only 10 in the morning...

"No, see... I was thinking about it before. We've been dating for more than year now, and you moved in here a while ago," he reasons out, his face completely serious. He taps his plate with his fork as he thinks. "And... I've met a lot of girls, you know?"

She nods; she knows that more than anyone. Those days angry women used to show up to the studio... She shudders to remember them.

But the words he's saying... is he really being serious? It's not like he's not making valid points, but to say something like that...

"And I don't think I'll ever really feel the way I do with you with anyone else," he admits, poking around a piece of bacon. "It's not like I've picked out a ring or anything, but I just want to put it out there, see how you feel about it. I mean, if you feel the same way... we should get married, shouldn't we? Isn't that what people do?"

She feels her cheeks heat up. To just... come out and say something like that, she doesn't really appreciate it. And... it's really not like she ever dreamed of marriage when she was younger, and even when she fell in love with people the idea was just so outlandish it never crossed her mind. But… she knows she won't be falling in love with anyone else, and she's gotten used to him. He's comfortable now, if a little annoying and childish sometimes. He's… home.

"I suppose you're right," she says. "But... I probably won't take your last name." She pauses and thinks a second... She doesn't really want to take his last name, not either of them, but for it to be a deal-breaker? "Unless you really want me to?"

"No," he says, clearly embarrassed, too, "it's- it's fine. Do you-" He coughs. "-want me to take yours?"

Her father, she knows, would absolutely love that, but he's too well-known to change his name now. "No, it's... fine."

"So-" His eyes dart up to look at her, and then fall back down at his plate. "So it's settled then."

"Yes, it's... settled."

---

When Adrian quietly leaves the mansion and the rising sun isn't even in sight, it's been exactly five years since Celeste died.

She's a ghost as she floats down lively Los Angeles streets, completely detached from the chatter and music she hears coming from bar windows. At the sight of flowers in a deli - a bouquet of red roses, flowers she knows Celeste never really liked - she walks in and purchases them, cradling them in her arms like a child when she walks back out.

The cemetery gate is open when she gets there, a small blessing. She wanders through the pitch-blackness with difficulty, groping her way through strangers' graves until she can just barely make out the outline of a simple round headstone among intricate crosses and frames. Celeste...

She lays the flowers over her grave and lies down next to them, flat on her back. She usually hated lying down on grass, but here, next to her... it's so different.

"Celeste... It's been five years since you left me, did you know?" she asks, staring up at the moon. "It's official now... You've been gone longer than I've known you."

She runs her fingers through the grass over her grave. Those five years... When she died, it was almost a fourth of all the time she'd been alive... and now it's a fifth. And she'll keep living, won't she? And her time with Celeste will become less and less and maybe it'll fade away but...

No. She won't let it happen.

"God knows I'll never forget you." She turns on her side, facing those cheap red roses. Celeste... never liked them, but she wanted to leave her something. She used to say something about how she didn't trust red roses, how every time she got them the person who gave them to her would let her down. She was a serial dater in college, and then Matt Engarde, and Juan Corrida... maybe she had a point.

And now her... She did let her down, didn't she?

"I'm sorry... for everything, not just the roses. I know I don't deserve to be here right now... to remember you so fondly..." She closes her eyes. "You were always looking for love, weren't you? All those boyfriends you went through... I thought someday, at the end of it all, you'd end up with me somehow. But I see now... I didn't deserve you either. You were too good for all of us."

She reaches for the bouquet and clutches it to her chest.

"It was just five years, but you changed my life. You brought so much happiness to this world that couldn't make you happy. Thank you, Celeste..."

She buries her face in the bouquet, and all she can do is cry.

She's sitting alone in a cafe, chewing absentmindedly on a blueberry scone while a half-drank mug of coffee sits at her side.

Then the door flies open, a woman in a blazer and turtleneck bustling in, running to her side. "Adrian! I'm so sorry I'm late!" She pulls out the chair across from her and sits, leaning forward and resting her arms on the table. "This man at Global Studios is just refusing to give Matt the job, and I spent an hour talking him down. What a waste of time... We both know he's the most qualified candidate, but he just has to be difficult. Who isJuan Corrida, anyway?"

The woman says the name with such distaste and she laughs. She definitely doesn't know who he is. "It's fine, Celeste! How are you? I haven't seen you all week."

"Oh, I know," she says regretfully. "It's such a busy time for Matt, what with the summer coming up and everything. There are a million opportunities that I have to find and secure. I wish I didn't, though... I miss you. How's college?"

"Finals are over, so I'm happy... Other than that, though, it's the same as it's always been," she starts to answer when a waitress comes over. But it's worse without you around, she thinks. She won't say that to her, though; she's stressed enough, she wouldn't want her to worry her even more.

"I'd just like a hot chocolate, please. Thank you," the woman says to the waitress, and once the waitress is gone, she turns to her. "I almost forgot to ask you! Are you free tomorrow?"

She answers without thinking; if she has plans, she'll cancel them. She misses her so much. "Yes, I am."

"That's so good to hear! See, Matt wanted to take me to Disneyland tomorrow, and I told him no since I've been spending all my time with him and no time with you, but he said you could come, too! You said you've never been there before, right?" The woman, she's so happy now. As she talks, she moves her arms in wide gestures and her smile never leaves her face.

She feels affection wash over her.

And yet... "I... don't really think I can afford that right now. I don't really have a job lined up after graduation and I have loans to pay off... I'm really sorry." It's unfortunate, especially since she's been seeing her so much less lately.

"Matt will pay for it, don't worry! He's loaded, you know... I have no idea where the money comes from, but it really comes in handy at times like these, right?" the woman says, laughing to herself.

She can't even enjoy the joke because the prospect is so outrageous. She almost spits out her coffee. "Are you sure? I barely know him and that's a lot of money!"

"He's rich and he volunteered, it's fine," she reassures her, waving a hand. "And my two favorite people will be together again! You guys like each other, right?"

The waitress comes over with the woman's drink and she gives her a quick thank you while she thinks about her question. "Yeah... I think he's really good for you."

The woman is smiling now, so much softer and gentler than her smile before. She loves both of those smiles, but the way she's looking at her now... It makes her feel warm inside, like there's nothing in the world to worry about because she's happy. "It means a lot to hear that from you... Thank you."

And she's quiet for a second, breathing in and out and thinking how she wants to live in this moment forever, where the person she loves more than anything else is smiling at her so quietly.

"I mean it, you know," she finally says, and then the woman is laughing and squinting at her.

"You know, won't you feel a little like a third wheel coming along with us?" the woman asks, and she's taken aback.

She watches the woman sip her hot chocolate, speechless for a second. "I thought you wanted me to come."

"Oh, that's not what I meant!" she exclaims, chuckling lightly. "I mean, we should bring someone for you! I bet Matt knows a guy!" She winks at her and she dies a little inside.

This is... a little worse than what she thought before. To have the woman you love volunteer to set you up... it's not a feeling she particularly enjoys. "Thanks, Celeste, but I'm not really interested in a boyfriend right now. I'm okay third-wheeling."

The woman leans forward and studies her, stroking her chin. "Girlfriend?" she asks, and she's filled with apprehension. For a second it feels like she knows everything, but then she continues, "Matt knows girls, too," and she knows how much she doesn't. The woman raises her eyebrows suggestively.

She rubs her neck, staring at her reflection in the coffee. "I'm not really looking for a relationship right now, Celeste."

"Aw," the woman says, a pout on her face, and then her expression turns serious. "But I'm not going to force you if you don't want to. It's just- I'm so happy with Matt right now." The woman's eyes are so soft now, that gentle smile back on her face, and all she can think is how beautiful she is. "When you're in love... Everything they say, it's true. The air smells sweeter and the world becomes so much more vivid and it's like being wrapped in this warmth, this kindness, all the time."

"I'm happy for you," she says, and it's so genuine how she feels, and right then she knows it so strongly, that she only needs this woman to be happy to be happy herself. She doesn't need to be the one making her happy, or a part of it at all. She just needs her the way she is now.

"See, that's it! I don't want you to just be happy for me, even though I'm grateful for it. I want you to feel like this, too. You've been so kind to me ever since we met. No matter what I do, or no matter what happens, you're always there for me. You're the person who deserves this kind of happiness the most. More than anyone else, Adrian, you deserve love."

And she's thinking that being here with this woman is enough either way when a part of her starts screaming that she needs to tell her she loves her. She needs to tell her how she feels when she sees her eyes so soft, how moved she is when she sees her sad, how much she matters to her-

"Celeste... I love you so much..." Arms are wrapping around her now, but they're too hard, too solid, not soft or warm, and everything's wrong. She opens her eyes and she's in the cemetery, the sun barely risen, being held by him, and just like that, everything has disappeared. "Celeste!"

"I thought I'd find you here... Let's go home, okay?" He scoops her up and she weeps into his chest, arms clinging to his shoulders.

He lays her in the backseat of the car and she falls into a dreamless sleep.

When she wakes up, she's in the darkness of the lounge. She sees him sitting at the desk, working on something, but she doesn't say anything.

That dream she had before... It was such a long time ago. She'd almost forgotten it, that Celeste had said something like that, that she deserves love. She thinks about the man sitting just a couple of feet away from her, the man Celeste blamed for her death and the man she fell so deeply in love with, and she speaks.

"Matt," she says, sitting up.

He sits up in his seat, turning his chair to face her. "You're awake! Um... Are you okay?" he asks, almost hesitantly, starting to walk over to her. Celeste was always a touchy subject for them; he never spoke badly about her, but he somehow understood that she believed they didn't really deserve to speak about her at all.

Or used to believe.

"Do you remember how I always used to get mad at you whenever you'd try to apologize for everything you've done?" He's sitting next to her now, a solemn look on his face. "Because it's Celeste who needs to forgive you, not me?"

"I... do."

"I think now," she says, looking at the scars on his face and his wide eyes, "that maybe... she'd forgive you, because of everything you've done for me. Because you've made me happy again, despite everything." She closes her eyes and pictures her love in her mind. "I... really hope she would."

He envelops her in his arms, her face on his shoulders. "Adrian... you know she cared about you, right? When we dated, you were the only thing she talked about, her wonderful best friend Adrian... When you became my manager, I felt like I knew everything about you already."

To hear that from him, to hear that Celeste spoke about her fondly so often that even someone who didn't care about her noticed... It hurts her. "She told me once... that more than anyone... I deserve love. She said that... tome..." She's sobbing into his shirt again, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"She was right, you know." She feels him kiss her hair. "Adrian… she cared more about you than she cared about Juan, more than she hated me. You shouldn't feel so guilty anymore."

---

When Adrian's having dinner with him one day and he offers her a ring, she takes it.

Three days later, she wakes up, and nothing's changed. He's still lying next to her, and she feels it, like she's wrapped in that warmth and kindness Celeste had told her about, so many years ago. She... can't really believe it, having this happiness that was so outlandish she never even dreamed out it.

She looks up at his face, the angry lines he hides from everyone that somehow coexist with the rest of him, his gentle eyes and the serene look on his face as he sleeps. Without thinking, she leans over and kisses him there on his left eye, and he jumps.

"Hey, what are you doing?" he asks her, touching where the place where she kissed him, his face red. "You... can be really weird sometimes, you know that?"

She's blushing too now, turning away from him. "I... didn't know you were awake."

"Man... that doesn't make it any less weird..."

And she's still embarrassed but then he's on top of her, his lips on hers, and all she can think about is how much she loves him.

In that moment, she knows it, that these days she spends with him, these days she'll spend with him for the rest of her life, when the actor and his manager are hand in hand, blissfully in love... These days are the happiest she's ever been.

---

tying up some loose ends (aka romcom credits):

- Adrian keeps the suicide note in case Juan tries to make another one. Related, Juan never stops working on his binder and never seems to come up with a plan that works.
- Adrian gets so mad about Lotta's tabloid article that her yelling at the Editor-In-Chief gets Lotta locked out of tabloid writing. That's okay, she was losing interest anyway. (But for some reason, they don't stop writing articles about Matt and Adrian, which was the actual problem...)
- The French pastry contest people know Matt isn't French, but people think he's French, so it's okay. He criticizes a pastry for "lacking umami," and then calls the next one "too cinammon." The audience loves him, but the judges are about to wring his neck on live TV.
- Matt's rich because his dad's good at playing stocks, and his dad left all his alcohol behind in the States in an attempt to stop drinking. He's doing... well, for him.
- Matt and Adrian fuck after the last scene. People loving his flaws is Matt Engarde's ultimate kink. He listens to a lot of Ed Sheeran.
- Shoe, Matt's cat, is not mentioned once in this fic. This is because Shoe is Schrodinger's cat, or, if I may, Shoedinger's cat. He is both there and not there, simultaneously.
- In Adrian's dream about Celeste, she remembers the drink that Celeste ordered wrong. She ordered green tea.

---

author notes:

- That whole French pastry scene could be alternatively titled "Me Shoving My Baseless Race Headcanons Down Your Throat, and Marriage." It was the result of me becoming drunk with power after creating this relationship through absolutely no canon basis. Also, I believe in asshole Matt who acts like he's a gourmet after marathoning Chopped.
- Matt's real last name wasn't a shout-out to The West Wing (though I will not rule out him later becoming POTUS in his career); he was named for the word "saint." Related, "Lau" means "destroy."
- This story was originally going to end with Adrian not framing Matt after she finds Juan murdered because she blames Juan at the point and has an undeniable attraction to Matt, but then I said to myself, "Holy shit, what the fuck am I doing here?" and proceeded to not do that.
- I wrote this in ten days, and the only reason I started writing this story is because I wanted them to have sex, but I wanted it to not be rapey. I'd like to think I've come pretty far.

---

I might end uploading a new chapter from Matt's perspective. I'm marking the story as complete because I don't know if real life will allow me to do that (even though I am deep, deep in rarepair hell and really want to), but be sure to subscribe if that's something you're interested in. Thank you for indulging me in my questionable, outdated interests. I really appreciate it!