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His head pounds. It doesn’t hurt, but only because he’s been stuffed full of medicine and can barely feel his face when he touches it, let alone anything else. He knows there should be pain, though, and the pounding is drilling away at his skull. A continuous thudding that reminds him he’s fucked.
His face had been in pieces. One mistimed chair shot and he’d been down, crowd screaming in horror. The memories are fuzzy, if Fandango’s honest. Everything still is, even now that he’s back home. The nurse that helps take care of him – he can walk and do things, but it’s difficult when he’s got most of his face covered and is constantly loopy from the drugs he’ll need a while longer – has told him some fragments, but she wasn’t there either and barely knows what a chair shot is supposed to be.
Luckily he has Tyler. His boyfriend hadn’t been very clear either, but he’d been able to calm his nerves by just being there. He’d been at the hospital and he’d been here and looking at him, all calm perfection, makes Fandango not worry so much. When he feels better, Tyler will be able to tell him what to do next. If he still has a job.
Because Tyler takes care of him. He brings him food he can swallow easily and sorts his mail. He has even lowered himself to cleaning the house occasionally and isn’t that a strange thing to watch. Fandango is just glad he’s there at all.
It’s the fourth day after he’s left the hospital and Tyler has shown up again. He glances at the bandages momentarily as he walks in – Fandango can imagine they look odd, sees a flash of blood in his mind though he knows better – but pays them little heed when he motions Fandango to scoot back and he straightens the bed as well as he can. Fandango expects he’ll be ordered to sit up next, because he can smell the soup steaming away in the kitchen. His kitchen, that Tyler knows the way in so well already.
Tyler looks a bit harried and it’s a look Fandango isn’t used to. Not unless it’s after a match and that’s more due to whoever Tyler’s facing – they seem to take great joy in ruffling his feathers that way – than a conscious choice.
His hair looks messy, though, and not of the artistically dishevelled kind. It’s a mess, frankly, and it isn’t something Fandango can imagine Tyler being okay with. Nothing short of perfection for Tyler Breeze, yet here he is. His scarf doesn’t even drape elegantly, his boots don’t gleam. It makes Fandango glance over every so often, even as Tyler fusses over sheets and fluffs his pillows. To make sure it’s really him.
“Were you late this morning, or something?” he croaks, his skin pulling awkwardly as he talks.
Tyler pauses. “Oh? Why do you ask?”
Fandango knows that tone. It’s the one his boyfriend uses when he’s about to rip someone to shreds with just his words. Normally he’d avoid that kind of Tyler like the plague. He’d treat gently, carefully, because that kind of Tyler gets sulky and withholds sex for days. But today isn’t a normal day – and he’s not getting sex anyway, considering he can barely move without flinching – and Fandango’s face has recently been smashed to pieces and then remade, like a porcelain doll handled too carelessly.
So he doesn’t shy away this time. He powers forward, straight through Tyler’s shiny veneer.
“You’re a mess.”
Tyler bristles. “I’m a mess. Bandages are keeping your fucking face together! Don’t talk to me about being a mess!”
The comment – the face – makes Fandango want to laugh and it’s the most glorious thing. The last few weeks he’d been stuck to a bed, consequences and worries milling around in his head. Laughter hadn’t been part of it, yet here he is.
He looks at Tyler. Just looks. Takes in his badly concealed annoyance, the way his eyes squint dangerously – like a warning – the elegant lines of his face, contrasting that fire, and something hits him. Something rather obvious.
’God, I love this man.’
He’d known it, deep down. He doesn’t fall easily, but when he does he falls hard. Tyler, though… Tyler grabbed hold the moment he gave Fandango the time of day, as if Tyler would accept any less. As if he’d settle for something other than utter devotion. Tyler dragged it out of him mere weeks after they got together.
It’s dangerous, though, this feeling. Wanting to keep this, keep Tyler, is perilous, because Tyler is volatile and passionate. He is a fluid, ever-changing whirlwind and Fandango has no doubt that he’s exactly the same when it comes to love. If he even loves at all. It’s inspiring and terrifying at the same time.
Again, he should have known. Fondness has crept in lately, for Tyler’s quirks, the way his lip would curl whenever he got pissy, and though it hadn’t eclipsed the lust he still felt when he looked at the guy, it now comfortably accompanied it. Such feelings were rare in Fandango’s relationship. They felt dangerous.
“You’re supposed to make some witty retort at this point,” Tyler interrupts his thoughts, words clipped. “Don’t tell me your sense of humour got smashed to pieces alongside your good looks.”
The blond man is looking at himself in the mirror, fingers running through his hair expertly.
“Not to worry,” Fandango says, “my personality more than makes up for those particular shortcomings.”
“Hardly.” Tyler has moved onto his cuticles now and seems to be completely fascinated by them. “You really don’t have any redeeming qualities left.”
“Well, you won’t have any cuticles left if you keep that up and you need your pretty boy looks.”
Fandango knows he sounded a bit too sharp there, without any of Tyler’s relaxed, joking air, but luckily Tyler just raises an eyebrow at him.
“Know you can get away with that shit for about another week before the broken face stops being an excuse.”
The fact he even gives Fandango such consideration shows how serious his wounds had been. He’d felt the pain, of course, the crunch of bones snapping, and the wet slick of blood down his face. It had hurt, but the look on Tyler’s face had made it seem like looking at it was even worse. He’d caught some garbled words and a plea from Tyler to sit down – his tone so alien that it’d been impossible to place – before Fandango had passed out. When he’d woken up in a bright hospital room, face put back together, Tyler hadn’t been there.
He’d been there the next day, though, legs crossed elegantly as he’d sat in a nearby chair, reading a magazine. He’d been pristine, put-together, beautiful, and looked so out of place in their sterile, dull surroundings.
That strange tone had gone and he seemed almost dismissive, even as he’d stood next to the bed. Fandango had had a tough time staying awake – drugs pumping – but his uncovered eye focused on nothing but Tyler’s handsome face for as long as he could manage.
The day after, he’d been late. He showed up in the evening, but had shown up nonetheless. It took Fandango a while to realize it had been the night of the PPV – the PPV he’d now missed – but when he tried asking about it, his entire face screamed at him.
The subsequent scolding he’d received had been glorious, because it had been the first time since the accident that some emotion had broken through Tyler’s cool. He hadn’t been as calm, not as collected, and had Fandango been able to he would have smiled.
Only after Tyler had waved goodbye did he realize the PPV had been in Chicago that night, several hours away.
Tyler kept coming and only twice had to beg off due to scheduling. The whole thing was curious, because Fandango couldn’t do much except lie there, dizzy from his medication, and look at Tyler as he fiddled on his phone or complained about his day.
Strangely, those were the times he enjoyed the most, because those instances were the most ‘them’. Tyler would have bitched about his music not synchronising properly accident or no accident and it made things seem more normal.
Things weren’t normal, though. Tyler was high-maintenance and a finicky princess most of the time, not this ever-present, caring mockery Fandango wasn’t used to. It made him nervous, especially because Tyler hadn’t so much as touched him in all week and blatantly ignored every hand Fandango had reached out. He’d just looked away.
Still, when Fandango was allowed to go home to recuperate further – a nurse at hand to administer medication and clean his bandages everyday, because Tyler sure as hell wasn’t going to do it – Tyler accompanied him again. The loyalty was startling and strange. Pleasant, but frightening, because it was a change to their relationship and Fandango didn’t know how to feel about it. He’d been happy the way they were.
It didn’t help that all the care and consideration, which only got worse as time progressed and there was no hospital to fall back on, came with an otherwise growing detachment from Tyler. He’d look at Fandango sometimes and when Fandango turned his head his expression would go blank. Every time Fandango gingerly got up, Tyler would hover but ever just out of reach.
So he misses the touches now. He misses the way he could annoy Tyler by showing too much affection, or by simply holding his hand.
“You look at me differently now,” he says one day, after Tyler has arrived in work-out clothes and looks nothing like himself.
Tyler shrugs. “Well, you look different.”
He doesn’t even pause as he moves to the kitchen. Fandango watches him leave. It’s sudden, then, and almost as obvious as his feelings for Tyler had been. Why Tyler barely glances his way these days, or why he shies away from the smallest of touches.
Fandango looks different.
He’d always known Tyler was vain and looks-obsessed. It had been kind of ego-stroking to find Tyler approved of him enough to date him. It had made him smile wider, because beautiful Tyler Breeze considered him handsome enough to share his spotlight.
That knowledge now causes him to choke on his next breath, awful coughs wrenching free. It pulls at the slowly healing wounds on his face. He’s forgotten how many stitches were needed to put his features back together and he’d been – quite gently, all things considered – told he’d never look the same. In his mind’s eye he can already see the scars even though the nurse refuses to show him anything when she swaps in fresh bandages.
He’s going to be ugly now. Scars give character, sure, and tattoos – nice ones, like on his legs – can hide many a thing, but not on his face. Not across his nose and only just missing his right eye. Those just disfigure.
Tyler can barely stand being in the same ring as ugly people. Why would he ever deign to date one?
Fandango wonders if this is what it’s like to feel your heart break. Or if it’s just the pain in his face, travelling down because he can’t stop breathing awkwardly. Either way, his gasps cause Tyler to come rushing back into the room. He still has Fandango’s bright green apron on.
“What’s wrong? Dango?!”
No touching even now, just hands hovering in mid-air. It looks like Tyler wants to grab hold of him, but he never does. Wrenches himself back, even. It’s so obvious now and Fandango feels stupid. Of course Tyler Breeze wouldn’t date some freak whose entire face has been messed up and ruined by huge scars. Tyler demandsperfection.
“Just,” he heaves, “imagined the scars on my face.” He tries a smile. “It wasn’t pretty.”
“Christ, is that all?” Tyler runs a shaky hand across his face. “I thought you’d managed to break something else. Of course the scars are going to be ugly!”
He looks cross, but concerned and it quiets Fandango’s breathing. Tyler’s still willing to take care of him, after all. He has some time. With a bit of luck he can guilt his boyfriend into hanging around a bit longer. And doesn’t that just make him a terrible person?
Tyler snorts. “Xavier actually called us beauty and the beast earlier, when I told him about the scars. Not to worry, I unplugged his controller while he was playing and made him fail his level.”
He’d miss this, Fandango realizes. He’d miss Tyler talking about Xavier, or his dogs, or the uggo that tried flirting with him earlier. He’d miss his sneakiness and his passion and the look in his eyes when Fandango would compliment him. He’d miss all of it and with Tyler Breeze there was a lot to miss.
“Are you even listening to me, Dango?”
He’ll even miss how easily pissed off his boyfriend is when he’s being ignored. Like right now. Heaven help him, Tyler is squinting at him and everything. Normally the man hates doing that, because he’s afraid he’ll get wrinkles.
“Tyler?” he says softly.
“What.”
He reaches out. “Hold my hand for a second? Please?”
Luckily, Tyler just grumbles a bit and then very carefully holds his hand. He sits down and continues talking as Fandango stares at their linked hands. He’ll miss that too.
The next day, things are the same. Tyler’s being considerate and thoughtful again. He’s tucked him in, set up the TV so Fandango can see it from the bed, and he’s even mashed his food for him. (The face he’d made while bashing the potatoes into a pulp had been hilarious and if Fandango hadn’t been half mummy and half terribly disfigured, he’d have laughed.)
He’s not looking at Fandango much, though, and saying even less. As if his mind if miles away. For someone so focused on the here and now, that speaks volumes. Tyler is already considering other options, other avenues, and not Fandango. It smarts.
“Okay,” he finally speaks up, “can we just get this over with already?”
The blond turns his head from where he’d been looking outside. “What?”
“Can we get to the point where you say it’s not working any more and we might need a break? I know you feel bad right now and will continue to be all supportive, but I’d kind of prefer to get to the breakup part while I’m still legally allowed to drown myself in pain relief.”
That does change Tyler’s expression. Shock, hurt, some anger. Fandango expects venom, some insults, or maybe even just blankness. He gets a tiny, broken voice.
”You’re breaking up with me?”
”No! I thought you were breaking up with me!”
”What are you talking about?”
“You’ll barely look at me! You haven’t even touched me since the accident unless I ask for it!”
“Maybe because I keep looking at you and remembering what happened. Maybebecause you went down like you’d been shot and there was blood everywhere,” Tyler snarls. “Maybe because you didn’t move. Maybe because I was fuckingworried shit.”
He sure looks ruffled now. Their co-workers would have a ball with it, but Fandango’s just happy to see the fire. It’d been weird, not seeing any of it. He loves stoic Tyler, but not when he needs him to be there, to be real. And he’d needed some passion to cling to while he felt like he was going under. This is so much better than the pretty painting on a wall Tyler had been portraying the last few days.
“Why would you ever think I’d want to break up with you?” Tyler chokes out, looking close to tears now. Maybe Fandango shouldn’t have wished for more emotion.
“You haven’t been looking at me. You haven’t been touching me. I thought I’d figured it out. That you wouldn’t want to be with somebody who looked like-” He waves at his face. “this.”
Tyler sighs. “You idiot. You’ve always been uglier than me. Why should that start being a problem now?”
“Then why…”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish.
“I already explained it to you. Because of the memories. And maybe because I worry I’ll hurt you. I worry I’ll hurt myself. Your face is a mess -”
Fandango flinches.
“and yet I don’t care. I should care. I always have. Yet I don’t with you and it’s scaring me, Dango. I don’t… I don’t do what this is between us.”
Tyler still looks distraught and Fandango wants to hold him, but the other man is across the room, gripping onto a nearby chair, knuckles white. Depth is difficult with one eye, but he can just make out the distance as he slides off the bed and gets to his feet. He sways in place, equilibrium unsteady, and Tyler makes for him immediately.
“What are you doing?! Get back in bed!”
“I’m fine,” he grumbles. “I’m fine and you’re fine and I won’t smash into pieces if you touch me. In fact, I’ll be worse off if you don’t.”
Sirens pass by outside – a shrill distraction – and it’s fitting, somehow, because Tyler is looking at him with big eyes and there’s terror there. It hurts, that the idea of liking Fandango – loving him, maybe? - scares his boyfriend so. But then, he’d felt terrified too, so he’s just as bad.
“You don’t have to, though,” Fandango says, because he has to. “You don’t have to do this, if you can’t. I’ll be fine. I have Monica-”
“Marcella,” Tyler corrects.
“I have Marcella to take care of me. You can go. I’m much better now. You don’t have to feel guilty. You can leave, if that’s what you want.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, shut up, Dango.”
Tyler steps forward, then, and carefully wraps his arms around Fandango, forehead resting against his chest. Fandango feels his entire body relax at the touches, at the way Tyler leans into him and breathes softly against his skin. Having him so close is a welcome change to the last few weeks and he wants to reciprocate, but he can’t because Tyler needs this and he needs to not risk spooking him. Movement hurts, still, because it jars his stitches and he knows the moment he shows any sort of pain Tyler will back off and run away again. So he stands there, closes his functioning eye and just breathes.
“Stop being such a self-sacrificing asshole,” Tyler mumbles into his chest. “I travelled across the country looking like an uggo, just so I’d be here on time. Fuck, I left the gym without showering or changing clothes one time so I could see you. If you think I’d do all that and then dump you now that I can finally start giving you blowjobs again, you’re an idiot.”
“Tyler,” he grouses.
“You’re going to make it up to me, of course, when you’re all better, but until then I’m here and I will be, even if it’s scaring me to death.”
Fandango drops his head a bit, rests the side of his face that isn’t bandaged on top of his boyfriend’s head. He sighs.
“I think I might be in love with you,” he whispers, knowing full well Tyler will hear. Indeed, the arms holding him tense, then grab hold tighter. Fandango dares looping one of his own around the smaller man. For now he’s just happy to stand there.
Tyler speaks up eventually, voice cracking. “Tell me that again when I’m not an emotional mess and I’ll reward you. Magnificently. After I’ve washed my hair, though, because I feel disgusting and ugly.”
It takes all of Fandango’s considerable restraint – okay, maybe he’s lying there, he’s never been too great at keeping still – to not laugh. His face thanks him for it.
“Now you’re being silly. You’re always beautiful.”
The response sounds a lot less wavering and Fandango thinks he can see a grin.
“Damn right I am.”
He just smiles in return.