Note: takes place post-Grave
Chapter ten
So it was done. Jonathan snapped the lock on the inside of the door, grateful that it would at least shut out the sweaty, leering monolith of a man who'd given them their room key, if no one else. The door was, of course, no protection against their pursuer, but Jonathan reasoned that if they'd made it this far, then maybe now they stood a chance. The more time passed, the more likely it was that Willow had given up on them.
He leant back against the door, suddenly deflated, and wondered how he'd found the energy to walk down the hall to the room. How he hadn't just passed out the minute they'd climbed up into the truck. Whatever sense of self-preservation had kept him going so far seemed to evaporate in seconds, leaving him drained and motionless.
With eyes closed he breathed deep, trying to ignore the sting of the scorched, arid air. Their room, thankfully, did not have the same greasy smell as the one where they'd checked in. Instead it registered as musty and rarely used. The air felt as though it had been undisturbed for many weeks, and he knew if he inspected the shabby dresser or the windowsill that there'd be dust.
But that would require movement, and right now Jonathan wasn't sure he could even manage to fall. He still sagged against the door, exhausted even at the thought of doing anything else.
Andrew had made it as far as the bed before crumpling down on to the faded cotton sheets and scrunching up his face, one hand batting away tears. He made no attempt to hide the silent sobs that shook him with steadily increasing ferocity. Jonathan watched with a peculiar sense of detachment, almost as though he was still waiting for the punch line. He knew he too would probably feel like breaking down and weeping, once he found the energy and the reality of what had happened finally sank in, but Andrew wept for more than that. The name he whispered between breaths was the only decipherable sound either of them made.
Everything that had happened in the past forty-eight hours had assumed a slippery, plastic quality that made it all feel entirely artificial, like shop-bought memories that weren't really his. How could they possibly have been arrested, or almost killed by Willow Rosenberg of all people? And how the hell had Andrew been in love with Warren?
It was almost a comical thought, and even now Jonathan had to suppress a bubble of hysterical laughter as he imagined the two of them together. Tried to imagine anyone loving Warren. Wondered if Warren had actually loved Andrew in return.
Warren was not... had not been lovable. Good things slipped right past him, like he was Teflon-coated. Only the bad stuff penetrated, and that stuff twisted and boiled inside him and turned him into... into exactly the kind of sick twisted fuck who would pretend to love someone like Andrew if he could use it to his own advantage.
Like the movement of glaciers, it was settling slowly into place. He spared Andrew another glance, and the scorched air suddenly lent a touch of warmth to the pity Jonathan felt for the boy.
Sweat dribbled between his shoulder blades and pooled just above his waistband. He felt disgusting and suddenly kind of woozy, and had to brace himself against the door to keep from toppling over.
Despite the baked air in the room, a couple of deep breaths made the nausea subside, and eventually he found himself steady enough to cross the room and stand by Andrew. It took the boy a few seconds to register Jonathan's presence in his personal space, but even that was not enough time for Jonathan to prepare himself for the look on Andrew's face when he glanced up. It tore through the weariness and the aches and the fear, wrenching Jonathan in two, and as much as he wanted to scream at Andrew and smack him for his stupidity, he could not keep from reaching out and laying a hand on Andrew's shoulder.
The contact sparked the first real break in the silence, as Andrew immediately descended into loud, open-mouthed sobs. Jonathan was aware of a disconnected sense of resentment. How could Andrew be so presumptuous? He wanted to be the one who got to break down and cry on someone else's shoulder. He wanted to lose it, and Andrew had taken that privilege from him without even asking.
But that was his place now. He was the one grounded in reality, and he had to be the strong one. He was the one who had to keep them both from giving in.
Warren couldn't have possibly known what he was messing with, Jonathan decided. The look on Andrew's face was proof enough.
His knees gave way of their own accord and he dropped on to the bed next to Andrew. The blonde twisted enough to lay his head on Jonathan's shoulder, and Jonathan let him cry.
*****
Chapter ten
So it was done. Jonathan snapped the lock on the inside of the door, grateful that it would at least shut out the sweaty, leering monolith of a man who'd given them their room key, if no one else. The door was, of course, no protection against their pursuer, but Jonathan reasoned that if they'd made it this far, then maybe now they stood a chance. The more time passed, the more likely it was that Willow had given up on them.
He leant back against the door, suddenly deflated, and wondered how he'd found the energy to walk down the hall to the room. How he hadn't just passed out the minute they'd climbed up into the truck. Whatever sense of self-preservation had kept him going so far seemed to evaporate in seconds, leaving him drained and motionless.
With eyes closed he breathed deep, trying to ignore the sting of the scorched, arid air. Their room, thankfully, did not have the same greasy smell as the one where they'd checked in. Instead it registered as musty and rarely used. The air felt as though it had been undisturbed for many weeks, and he knew if he inspected the shabby dresser or the windowsill that there'd be dust.
But that would require movement, and right now Jonathan wasn't sure he could even manage to fall. He still sagged against the door, exhausted even at the thought of doing anything else.
Andrew had made it as far as the bed before crumpling down on to the faded cotton sheets and scrunching up his face, one hand batting away tears. He made no attempt to hide the silent sobs that shook him with steadily increasing ferocity. Jonathan watched with a peculiar sense of detachment, almost as though he was still waiting for the punch line. He knew he too would probably feel like breaking down and weeping, once he found the energy and the reality of what had happened finally sank in, but Andrew wept for more than that. The name he whispered between breaths was the only decipherable sound either of them made.
Everything that had happened in the past forty-eight hours had assumed a slippery, plastic quality that made it all feel entirely artificial, like shop-bought memories that weren't really his. How could they possibly have been arrested, or almost killed by Willow Rosenberg of all people? And how the hell had Andrew been in love with Warren?
It was almost a comical thought, and even now Jonathan had to suppress a bubble of hysterical laughter as he imagined the two of them together. Tried to imagine anyone loving Warren. Wondered if Warren had actually loved Andrew in return.
Warren was not... had not been lovable. Good things slipped right past him, like he was Teflon-coated. Only the bad stuff penetrated, and that stuff twisted and boiled inside him and turned him into... into exactly the kind of sick twisted fuck who would pretend to love someone like Andrew if he could use it to his own advantage.
Like the movement of glaciers, it was settling slowly into place. He spared Andrew another glance, and the scorched air suddenly lent a touch of warmth to the pity Jonathan felt for the boy.
Sweat dribbled between his shoulder blades and pooled just above his waistband. He felt disgusting and suddenly kind of woozy, and had to brace himself against the door to keep from toppling over.
Despite the baked air in the room, a couple of deep breaths made the nausea subside, and eventually he found himself steady enough to cross the room and stand by Andrew. It took the boy a few seconds to register Jonathan's presence in his personal space, but even that was not enough time for Jonathan to prepare himself for the look on Andrew's face when he glanced up. It tore through the weariness and the aches and the fear, wrenching Jonathan in two, and as much as he wanted to scream at Andrew and smack him for his stupidity, he could not keep from reaching out and laying a hand on Andrew's shoulder.
The contact sparked the first real break in the silence, as Andrew immediately descended into loud, open-mouthed sobs. Jonathan was aware of a disconnected sense of resentment. How could Andrew be so presumptuous? He wanted to be the one who got to break down and cry on someone else's shoulder. He wanted to lose it, and Andrew had taken that privilege from him without even asking.
But that was his place now. He was the one grounded in reality, and he had to be the strong one. He was the one who had to keep them both from giving in.
Warren couldn't have possibly known what he was messing with, Jonathan decided. The look on Andrew's face was proof enough.
His knees gave way of their own accord and he dropped on to the bed next to Andrew. The blonde twisted enough to lay his head on Jonathan's shoulder, and Jonathan let him cry.
*****