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andre will be there in less than fifteen minutes.
cal’s knees press painfully against the bathroom floor, bony and stinging like how his fingernails cutting the back of his throat stings. it’s not a new feeling, far from it, and today's intrusion only upsets his throat even more.
in intervals, he shoves two fingers down and forces up what is left of everything he’s had so far.
after the first interval, when it’s more about getting the right angle and less about actual success, he pauses. he thinks about it for a moment, never any longer than necessary, but even that bit of clarity doesn’t stop him.
after the second interval, he does the same. he gets more out, only has to tense his stomach to get the majority of it to come flooding up. this is when it hits him the hardest, when all he can think is what the fuck is wrong with me.
the final interval is the worst because it always feels like there’s more to get out, and he needs it all out, out, out. he doesn’t stop until it’s nothing but bile and water, until all that remains is the taste of vomit.
the strain of it all causes his heart to pound and there's an ache near his sternum, unmistakable and only growing more pronounced by each heave.
he wishes he could say that he felt better after it – an action just as soothing as it is distressing - but he never does, even if he’s convinced himself that he will this time.
he does, however, feel like something’s stuck in there. his throat is as raw as his knuckles and his eyelashes are clumped together, his head pounding and tight and his body a little too weak for him to make it a great distance.
as it all swirls down, he coughs to the point that his lungs burn and breathing is a chore. it serves to make that ache in his chest bloom, and the image of himself dead on the bathroom floor crosses his mind.
his loose sweatpants are filthy, trembling fingers are too, his shirt has holes in it, his hair is a mess, and andre will be there in less than ten minutes.
he doesn’t know what to do.
so he just cries and cries and cries, digs his nails into his scalp, considers forcing up some more. more. more, like he hadn’t puked up all that he could. like there was anything left for him to get rid of.
they weren’t going on an actual date. andre wasn’t going to show up with a bouquet of roses. it still doesn’t change that he needs to impress andre, needs to be perfect, needs to be everything for andre.
when he hears footsteps, it requires more effort than it really should have for him to speak.
“i’m in here.” it’s faint and rough, worn with exhaustion. he wipes his face again as andre’s movement cease outside the door in hesitation. he knows, you fucking idiot. he knows.
andre sighs when he comes in and looks at the scene before him. the sound brings out a sob from cal, who tries to shrink down as much as he can out of guilt, though it's a feeling he’s accustomed to by now.
when cal blinks away tears and can actually see andre, he feels even guiltier, but it’s not the first time and it won't be the last, something that makes him feel sorrier for andre than he does for himself.
“you look nice.” cal manages to say, quiet enough to be a whisper. he sniffles and wipes his eyes with the back of the hand not covered in puke. andre stares at him, looks right through him.
andre does look nice and it fucking hurts. it hurts because he wanted was to look nice and now he’s fucked up their plans another time.
“you look awful.” andre replies. in that moment, it’s worse than the idea of heart failure or a perforated esophagus because andre thinks he looks anything other than perfect and –
it’s all for him. for andre.
the thought is going to hurt as much as his throat does tomorrow.
cal remains silent as andre sets his jaw and rolls up his sleeves partially, occupies himself with finding a washcloth before wetting it with warm water, holds it out to cal like a peace offering.
“here.” he says, not unkindly, clearly struggling with keeping himself from saying something else. he lets cal clean himself up in silence, only speaking to point out a little spot on his cheek.
the room spins when andre helps him up and he stumbles a bit when he stands, the world still fuzzy and foreign. andre’s arm around his waist keeps him grounded, even though everything seems to sink further and further below him.
he’s grateful that andre mentions nothing of the smell of vomit on his breath or the fact that he’s crying. he’s nauseous and nervous and he keeps fucking everything up.
“i’m sorry.” it’s small but it doesn’t go unnoticed. andre shakes his head and continues towards his room, not disagreeing when cal points to the floor instead of his bed. cal wonders if it’s because he didn’t have the energy to argue or if he didn’t care. “i’m sorry, andre.”
far too delicately for anything andre should ever have to do, he guides him down. it is somewhat of an uncomfortable position, with them both on the ground and andre’s back pressed to the side of his bed, but it suffices.
the disparity in their appearances is so severe that cal almost laughs. not because it’s truly funny, but because he’s tired and he looks awful and andre doesn't. he thinks might start crying again.
“it’s alright. we can just stay here.” he shrugs, the disappointment in his tone halfheartedly masked.
below his navel, nearly between the peaks of his hip bones, andre rests his hand over the trail of fine hair. the skin is warm beneath his palm, soft like the pale curls under his other hand.
andre is not surprised to find that the petting had lulled cal to sleep, only a few moments after he had laid his head in andre’s lap. he looks peaceful, as pleased as a kitten, stirring only when takes his hand off of his stomach.
“sorry.” he whispers as gently as he can manage, much more secure in the apology than he would be if cal were a bit more lucid. he moves his hand to cal’s side, to his ribs, and busies himself with skirting his fingers over the raised bones hidden by fabric.
is it worth it?
he must fall asleep at some point as well, if the changed lighting of the room and the pain in his neck are anything to go off of. the air around them is cold, sharp and warning of the night’s arrival.
his hands have fallen from where they were, and he brings his right hand up to smooth his thumb over his forehead. he watches as cal’s eyelashes barely flutter before he slides his thumb down to the space between his eyebrow and eye, pulling to lift his eyelid.
“get up.” he tries, only receiving an angry look in response. his hands are on the floor now and he moves to plant his heels, bringing his legs up but not quite completely. “come on.”
andre thinks hard for some time why he bothers with cal but then he can see that he’s trying to hide a smile, and with complete terror, he shuts that thought down.
“stay down here and freeze if you want.”
cal frowns, something barely there. he takes the threat for what it is and hurries to climb into the bed, far too busy fussing with getting comfortable to notice the satisfaction plastered over andre’s face.
andre begins to drift back to sleep nearly as soon as they’re under the covers. a pair of icy hands work their way beneath his shirt and he flinches, turning to lie on his back while a quiet voice seeps through his annoyance.
“feel how cold my hands are.” he makes a sound that resembles a giggle, like it was just the most amusing thing, and he’s still grinning when andre glares at him from out of the corner of his eyes.
cal’s nose is just as cold as his hands when he buries his face into the crook of his neck, carves himself out a place of his own. it fails to surprise andre that he can feel him smiling against him in the minutes between then and when he drifts back to sleep.
it’s this. this is the problem, andre realizes. how easily they can fall back into it all, how easily they can avoid it, pretend like it’s all okay.
another day, he tells himself. he’ll deal with it another day. he doesn’t dwell on if it will ever happen or not, tries his best to ignore that gnawing feeling deep in his stomach.