Chapter 13 Nicholas
Watching Andrew walk away makes something nasty crawl its way into Nicholas’s throat. It’s like the rage room all over again, standing back and watching Andrew’s carefully crafted composure fall. Except the only thing he seems to be breaking this time is himself.
It’s strange to remember the first time he met Andrew, he thought there was nothing to him.
He now knows this man is full of layers and walls.
Walls Nicholas is learning to understand.
For all his lashing out and storming away, he knows Andrew enough already to know he shouldn’t be alone right now, yet neither Charlie or his little boyfriend that Andrew seems painfully fond of, are going after him.
“Is someone going to follow Andrew?” Nicholas demands.
“Uh no,” Charlie says in a tone that suggests he thinks Nicholas is out of his mind. “Did you miss the part where he doesn’t want us to?”
Nicholas did hear that, but what Andrew said and what he knows of Andrew to be true, aren’t exactly lining up.
Andrew said he didn’t need the rage room and that wasn’t true.
He also said he was fine after the paparazzi, but the way he looked digging his toes into the sand and staring at the sea like he was ready to disappear said otherwise.
Nicholas might not know Andrew that well yet but one thing is clear.
That man has no fucking idea how to handle his own emotions.
Not that Nicholas is much better. He practically has a membership to the rage room and plays a professional sport where he gets in fights because he can’t manage his own.
But this isn’t about Nicholas, this is about Andrew.
That god awful feeling in his chest intensifies, and Nicholas realizes with a sudden uncomfortable clarity: it’s worry. He’s not sure he’s ever cared about anyone else before, not since he was a child and it was conditioned out of him.
“Honestly we should probably leave,” Charlie says.
“Sometimes Andrew gets in moods like this where he needs to be left alone, but he always comes out when he’s ready.
Just uh, sit and watch television or something.
Don’t touch his Kindle. He doesn't like that. Don’t put the television on an even volume, he doesn't like that either.”
“Are you going to go, or stay and tell me everything he doesn’t like?” Nicholas snaps, wishing they’d leave so he could go check on Andrew.
“You’re bitchy, you know that.” Charlie pats him on the chest. “Take care of my brother or I’ll kill you. Also that might sound like I’m joking, but I promise you, I’m not. Our parents are lawyers. There’s very little they couldn’t get me out of.”
“First Polly Pocket, now you. I’m not going to hurt him, calm down.”
“I don’t trust you,” Eden declares, glaring at him. “But for some fucking reason, Andrew does, so don’t fuck that up.”
“What he said,” Charlie says, slinging an arm around Eden’s shoulder. “We’re gonna head out, but tell Andrew we left whenever he leaves his room. I’ll call him later.”
Nicholas grunts.
Eden flips him off, then saunters out of the apartment with Charlie on his tail. When the door shuts, Nicholas breathes just a little easier, his feet moving before he’s consciously made the decision to follow. He knocks twice.
“Fuck off Charlie, I’m not in the mood.”
“Charlie already fucked off with his boyfriend,” Nicholas says. “Just me left.”
There’s some muttered cursing before the bedroom door is yanked open to reveal Andrew looking expectedly disheveled. What’s less expected is the redness in his eyes, almost like he was crying.
Nicholas is probably the worst possible choice to comfort Andrew right now. He’s got no idea how to placate people or be polite, but he’s the only one left.
“You can uh, watch the TV if you want.”
“If I wanted to watch TV, I would’ve stayed in the living room.”
Andrew scrubs a hand through his hair making his normally tamed locks stand up on one side. “Look, you don’t wanna be around me right now.”
The word choice isn’t lost on Nicholas. Growing up, he had to be a master of what was said and not said.
His parents were experts in saying one thing while meaning another, the echelon of the upper elite cruel in their kindness.
Boarding school had been no different. Everyone’s interactions with him had been about gaining something.
He’d learned to observe and catalog, to notice the discrepancies in what people said versus what they truly meant.
“I’m good,” Nicholas says, leaning against the doorway. Were it anyone else, he’d walk right into the room, but with Andrew he won’t enter until he’s given permission. He’s learned enough about him to know he needs that control.
“I’m cranky, Nicki.”
“Picked up on that, princess.”
Pulling at his hair, Andrew groans. “Then you should know you don’t wanna be around me.”
“You keep telling me what I should want, not what you want.”
Andrew stops stock still, dropping his hands to his sides and staring at Nicholas like he’s never seen him.
“From where I stand, everyone seems to think you want to be alone, but that’s bullshit.”
“Nicki.” His voice is small, and that makes Nicholas fucking mad. He likes when Andrew is loud and bossy and strong.
“It’s bullshit.”
“They love me.”
“I never said they didn’t. Doesn’t make the entire situation less fucked.”
“It’s easier if they think I want to be alone.”
“Bullshit.”
“Is that your word of the day?” Andrew gripes.
“It’s the word that fucking fits, so I’m gonna keep fucking using it.”
Andrew sighs, stepping out of the doorway in silent permission for Nicholas to enter.
He wastes no time, taking in Andrew’s room from the crisp white bed piled high with pillows to the sheer white curtains covering the window and the oversized chair in the corner with a soft looking blanket folded over the back.
It looks exactly the same as it did the first time Nicholas saw it and it’s easy to imagine Andrew here, hiding away from the world.
“Look, it’s just—” but Andrew doesn’t finish, shoulders dropping.
“Do you want to be alone, princess?”
His shoulders might as well be on the floor, his entire body radiating unhappiness in a way that makes Nicholas want to slam someone into the boards or smash something. How fucking dare anyone make his confident, commanding Andrew shrink like this.
“No,” Andrew whispers.
In two strides, Nicholas is in front of him, pulling Andrew into a hug. He half-expects to be punched, and he definitely doesn't expect Andrew to fall into his arms with a choked off sob. He doesn’t expect to find his own body sagging in relief at finally having him this close.
Andrew says something, the words muffled against Nicholas’s shoulder.
“What was that?” Nicholas asks, reluctant to let go of him.
“I said it’s easier when no one sees me like this.”
“Easier for fucking who?” Nicholas demands, loosening his hold enough that Andrew can turn his head to rest his cheek against Nicholas’s shoulder, but he doesn’t let go.
“For everyone.”
“Bull-fucking-shit, princess.”
“Fine,” Andrew snaps, holding Nicholas just a little tighter. “It’s easier for them. I want it to be easy for them. I can handle my own feelings, they can’t. They shouldn’t have to.”
“Says fucking who?”
“Uh, me.” Andrew’s hair tickles his nose, reminding him that despite being back in his normal polo and khakis, he still smells like Nicholas. “Why are you doing this anyway? You don’t…you don’t have to.”
Nicholas doesn’t have a fucking clue how to answer that question honestly.
He’s pretty sure after the shit first impression he made, he doesn’t have the right to change his mind, to say that suddenly he thinks maybe Andrew is his type.
Or that maybe, Nicholas didn’t know what his type was before Andrew.
He deserves better than Nicholas’s fumbling mess of feelings.
“Our deal,” Nicholas settles on, offering the safest answer. “I was going to teach you to be selfish, remember?”
“Our deal,” Andrew says, voice strangely tight. “Right.”
Nicholas has the dawning realization he just fucked things up but without any idea how to fix them. He’s spent his entire life noticing people, but without caring what those observations meant. Realizing he cares when it comes to Andrew has him so far out of his depth, it’s laughable.
“You can help me pack,” Andrew says, stepping out of the embrace. He rubs his face, smoothing his hair down and looking anywhere but at Nicholas. “Get my suitcase from the closet.”
“Bossy,” Nicholas snorts.
“Get my suitcase, please,” Andrew says, piling up stacks of polo shirts on his bed. “It’s in my closet, in the back left under a black storage tote with a red lid. The suitcase is gray with a monogrammed luggage tag.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Fuck you,” Andrew laughs, the sound doing something funny to Nicholas’s chest. “I don’t know how much to pack. I don’t know how long I’ll be staying at your place.”
“Bring everything.”
“Sure, let me just pack up my entire closet,” Andrew snorts, like Nicholas is joking.
“I could hire someone.”
“I can pack my own shit, Nicki. I’m also not bringing my entire house. I won’t be with you that long, you’ll see.”
Frustrated by the prospect of Andrew leaving before he’s even fully moved in, Nicholas marches himself to Andrew’s small walk-in closet off the bathroom to get his suitcase. The sooner they can get him back to Nicholas’s house, the better.