Andy leaves the party much later than he expected. He had had more fun than he expected. He had said a lot more about himself than he expected. There were a lot of things that had happened that he had not expected.
He still feels his lips tingling, and he doesn't know if it's from the alcohol or from the kiss.
It isn't that he likes Brett. He's only just seen Brett again for the first time in a long time, and when they'd parted ways, it wasn't on good terms. But Brett is the first man he has kissed since he has discovered his personal attractions, and there is something new and exciting about it. Some other kind of passion that also scares him, but unlike the passion he feels when he is near Chucky, this one intrigues him at the same time.
Brett Shelton, of all people, was the one he had kissed. And Brett was not angry about it.
He touches his lips again, rubbing thoughtfully. He is still a little dizzy, but the air is cool, and everything feels so pleasant to him. He does not remember the last time he felt so at peace inside, all the anxiety and conglomeration of emotions silent for once. All he can feel is the way his heart seems to beat in his throat, and the way his hands shake, and shake, and shake.
He tries to think of anything else now, thinking it is shameful and silly to dwell on something so quickly passed for so long. But as he waits to cross a street, or as he passes a closed down shop, his mind wanders, and he thinks of it again. He replays it in his mind, and thinks to himself that it really isn't so bad if he should think of it a lot. After all, it validated much of his feelings that he had been internalizing for the past ten or so years of his life.
He feels so cleansed by this that he almost forgets why he had left in the first place. Almost, but not quite. And as long as he had been avoiding it, he knows that he must face it at some point, and he decides that there is no time quite like the present. He is more ready to die than ever, finally having found peace with some corner of his life.
So he is very expectant to still see the doll there, in his apartment. What he does not expect is how immaculate his apartment looks since he'd last seen it. While this does not mean all too much, seeing as he has not brought himself to fix his apartment in anyway in a very long time, it is still a noticeable difference, the way everything has been moved around to a more presentable manner.
He sees Chucky rounding the corner from the hall to his room towards where the living room meets the small dining area, and Chucky has already positioned himself for a fight. But Andy beats him to his words.
"You cleaned," he says, although that is not what he had wanted to say. But it perturbs him so much that this is what the doll had taken time to do in his absence that it immediately finds its way into the open. Why has the doll cleaned his apartment, of all the options he had in his hands? His simple statement begs the very question.
The doll has the grace to look chagrined. But it's gone with such a quickness that Andy does not know if the look was even there to begin with.
"I know a lot about you, Andy," he says, and he has the audacity to grin, as if he has the upper hand. He leans against the wall, crossing his arms. The smirk reaches his eyes, and it makes Andy feel a growing heat inside, despite himself. "And I know that you're late."
Andy will not allow himself to feel the need to rise to the challenge, and yet his heart pumps steadily faster. A traitor.
His heart had beat quickly like this, but in a different way. Now he feels himself heat up across his cheeks at the memory. He touches his lips, feels the itch of a grin, anger already forgotten in remembering. He forgets that Chucky is there, and it is too late when he remembers.
"What're you grinning about?"
It's much too late.
"Why did you clean?" Andy asks, threatened. He does not plan on telling Chucky anything about himself. He did not want him to know about the way he mutilated himself, and he most assuredly did not want Chucky to discover anything about the evening so far. It isn't that he is particularly ashamed of it, merely that he has not even told his mother, or anyone else, or everyone else even- because anyone and everyone else is who he would choose to tell before telling Chucky this particular facet of himself.
"Never mind that," Chucky replies, but it is too quick, and Andy knows he is hiding something as well. The feeling of being threatened grows. There are personal things in this apartment, memories and scraps of reflection that he had buried deep into the shambles of his other things, and now that Chucky has cleaned, they are exposed. And he knows that this is what has happened. Somehow or another, parts of him have been exposed, against his consent.
"Well," he responds, coldly. "You never mind what it is I'm grinning about, then."
He hears Chucky growling. The sound is deep and low, and he knows that, somehow, he has turned the tables on his adversary. The question is how. The feeling of being threatened remains, and he swallows thickly, and tries to remain with the upper hand. The adrenaline is rushing through him again, as it always does when they reunite. It is an inconvenience, he decides, because Chucky always seems to appear when he wants him around the least.
Not that there is ever really a time he wants him around.
He wants to ask him to leave again, but he knows that it will not happen, or that even if it does, they will find each other again. It always happens. He does not know how to cope with the idea that they are both in such a close proximity and there is no violence, no blood shed. He wishes there was. He wishes Chucky could, at least, do the one thing they both wanted. He wishes for death more than anything else.
Or perhaps not, now that he feels so warm inside. But he knows that the warmth will only last as long as whiskey does when it settles in your stomach, and he knows that it will be all over in the morning, and his head will ache and he will regret the night.
And speaking of whiskey, he wants it now, even though mere hours ago he had emptied himself into a toilet bowl because of it. He ignores the way Chucky is still there, ever present, watching his every move, and makes his way into the kitchen, finding his solace where he always leaves it, standing steadfastly in the corner of his countertop amongst other items.
He has already drank past the neck of the bottle when he hears Chucky again.
"Are you really sure you wanna be drinking that after your little fiasco on the floor here just the other day?" Chucks asks. There is condescension in his tone, and something else he cannot place. Something he does not care to place.
He drinks again, not taking his eyes off of Chucky. He sets the bottle on the counter and wipes his mouth. "Are you really sure you actually care?" he asks, almost mockingly, and watches as it is Chucky who swallows hard this time.
"Fine," Chucky says, and puts his hands up. "But I'm not fuckin' taking you to bed again. This time I'll let you get what you deserve."
"Didn't ask you to take me anywhere the first time," Andy almost bites back. He manages to keep an even tone.
He has been dragged across too many emotions in such a small amount of time, and it leaves him weary. He remembers instantly why he has stopped trying to care. He simply does not have the energy or the stamina for it. He almost tells Chucky he is going to bed on his own, without his help, just to be spiteful. But he doesn't even have the energy for this, and he does not really care to let Chucky know of everything he does. He is sure Chucky will know anyways, the way he watches him now. The way he has always watched him.
He finishes off the bottle, and drags himself once more, this time down the small hallway to his bedroom. He can faintly hear Chucky still talking, but they are incoherent sounds, and he cannot care what words they make. He only cares to find the door to his room, and to sloppily find his way into the bathroom.
He sits at the floor, reaching around the edge of the sink just before he does. It seems that Chucky at least had the decency to not move everything around. He clasps the razor in his hand and leans against the wall, breathing as steadily as he can. He can feel the swirl of emotions inside him swell and push against him from inside. They are filling him to the brim, and he knows that they must come out somehow, or he will burst.
He draws the first line, and the relief immediately follows. He draws another, and another, and then he feels nothing at all.
Or so he thinks.
The door to the bathroom slams open, and he jumps at how loud the doorknob sounds against the paper thin wall. All his serenity drains away so quickly, and the anger is rushing back, the anger and the pain and the need, and everything that he had ever wanted to put away.
Chucky stands in the doorway, and Andy draws another line. Two, for good measure.
"You're…" Chucky starts.
"Don't," Andy interrupts. "We've had this argument before- although for the life of me, I don't know why we did."
He draws another line, and in the strange light of the bathroom, it almost looks like it pains Chucky to watch him do it. Andy thinks to himself he needs to get new bulbs. He's always hated the awkward coloring it gave the room anyways.
"You can't do that."
Andy sighs, and draws another line anyways. If anything, now it is simply a way to aggravate Chucky in the same way Chucky used to aggravate him. A spiteful masterpiece. He draws an X, watches it drain down his arm and feels how warm it is. Warm like when Brett kissed him. Warm like his cheeks are becoming just remembering it.
Chucky is still here, he remembers. And his heart stutters, and he is angry all over again.
"You mean, only you can do this?" he asks, and he isn't even looking where he is drawing anymore, his eyes are dead set on the doorway and the figure standing there. "You mean, only you decide what happens to my body and when?"
Chucky steps back, his jaw seemingly unhinged, but before he responds, Andy continues.
"You never finished your strange little ritual. You don't own me. You never did."
He keeps drawing the stripes, and he does it faster now. The more anxious he gets, the faster he cuts, and the more he relies on the way the blood flows. He wishes he were as calm as the bloodstream.
"All this time," he seethes, and the blood is dripping on the floor. Chucky looks almost pale. He doesn't know why. It unsettles him. It's as if the he's draining blood not from himself, but from Chucky instead. He pushes forward anyways. "All this time, I was thinking that you would come and you would get the job done, and yet, I am still here, and you are still here, and you are still failing."
"Are you getting mad at me right now?" Chucky snaps, suddenly back to life. His eyes are sharp and his scowl deep. Andy does not care. He is beyond caring.
"I went through all this trouble, and here you are, once again, not able to do the one thing you always threaten to do. What are you here again for, anyways, if not to kill me?"
He cuts too deep. He had made a mistake. He hopes otherwise, but the look that crosses Chucky's face seals it. He suspects. He knows.
"What trouble?" Chucky asks. He takes a step into the bathroom.
"Why? Why do you keep coming- why do you keep coming back?" he carries on. His voice has not changed the entire time. He feels lifeless and unhinged.
The lines are running deeper, and deeper, but he is too focused on Chucky in the doorway, even as the edges of his vision are beginning to blur. He is so angry, so incredibly angry, and he knows, suddenly, that this is what happens when anger is pushed away and ignored. But even now, he cannot seem to release it, even as it pushes against him from inside and screams to escape.
"Stop! Stop it- are you fuckin' crazy?" Chucky screams, and Andy feels those small, cold hands in a tight grip around his arms, and for a moment, he stills. He can feel his heartbeat all the way to the palms of his hands.
He pulls out of Chucky's grip, bloodied arms slipping out of those tiny fingers so easily. The only sound he hears is his pulse, and it seems so achingly loud.
"What trouble?" Chucky asks again, and he can't seem to tear his eyes away. The anger and the pain and the need are at the base of his throat. He swallows, and counts each beat he feels under his skin.
"Please leave," he says. "Just please, please leave."
Chucky doesn't say anything. His hands are stained with Andy's blood – which Andy finds amusingly ironic in a dark sort of way. He steps back towards the doorway, only to sneer at him before disappearing behind the frame completely.
It is only then that Andy can seem to breathe again, and only then that he looks at what he's done. It's a mess, and he had found no relief after all. His heart is still pounding away, angry and unattended. He stands, slowly, trying to regain his senses, trying to find the calm again.
He tries to think of Brett as he washes himself off, but even this has been tainted. He tries to feel upset about it, but he can't seem to. Not anymore. Because of course Chucky would ruin it, in the same way he tended to ruin every good thing he ever found. He can't find it in himself to care.
He can't even seem to care that he can still hear Chucky inside his apartment, because he's never left – why would he leave, it would be doing Andy a favor, and Chucky would do no such thing – and probably would not leave for a long time. He can't seem to care at all.
He can only care that he finds his bed, and when he does, he crawls underneath the covers and hides in the blackness, enjoying what small amount of warmth he has left before it completely melts away.