Work Text:
Clicking of dress shoes on the smooth floors echoes through the building as he walks to his office. The familiar sound and the plain walls remind him of a different time, a sweeter time, with a young man—with eyes full of passion and a head full of dreams and chestnut hair. A reminder of being able to stay up all night doing nothing but drinking, and being able to get up in the morning afterward without feeling like death.
Hands on his thighs, papers spread all over the floor, what were once coffee-filled cups and caffeine drinks littering the floor. A panic of having an exam he was supposed to study for the entire semester but something else was more interesting instead. Like D&D or reading or anything else, really. And none of it matters because the most beautiful eyes in the entire world are staring at him, watching him, and the exams don’t matter anymore because he knows where his future is. Where it will be.
Climbing the stairs is getting harder, he thinks, his breath coming in short gasps as he tries to catch up with the loss of air in his lungs. He’s getting old, he knows, and it doesn’t help any that he knows. It makes it worse. Every step burns and the twelve centimeters he has to lift his legs are starting to remind him of every single mistake he’s ever made to be here. Every short breath makes him think of a time when he was younger and stronger and was able to climb these stairs running if he wanted to, instead of feeling his knees creak with every lift of his legs. He thinks back to the time when his stamina was better, when the stairs weren’t what made his knees burn.
Hands in his curly dark hair tug, making him look up, swallowing at the burn in his scalp from the pull, causing the thighs around his head to shake harder. The same thighs that his hands grip hard enough to leave marks for days, littered with moles and love bites. The carpet burning as he sits on his legs, rendering them useless as they buzz with the familiar numbness from the blood loss barely registering. That isn’t what he is concerned with as of right now. Teary eyes that roll back and hair spread over the pillow, back arched, pale skin glistening from sweat—is much more important than anything at this moment. He grins—or at least he would, were it not for his preoccupied position.
The end to the stairs finally comes and he’s seconds away from his office. From his office too. He swallows down the anxiety before stepping forward and almost running into a young couple. His students, not looking where they’re going, as most young people do, carefree of age and life and sorrow. They apologize and he smiles back, waving them away, his eyes glued to the young couple's hands intertwined as they practically skip away. Young love, he thinks, before shaking his head and stepping forward.
Music fills the air as he’s pulled by a hand, big enough to cover his own and rough enough to rival a working man, made to be cherished, kissed. He’d kiss them, and more, if he could. But they’re in public and they can’t, so he swallows the thought and laughs back as they spin around. Dark curls bounce as he tries to keep up with the other boy; they were always faster. Too fast for him. Too fast when they graduated and faster still when they got lucky to work together and then too far away when he left him behind, and by the time they started their own families, they were too far away to see each other.
The office is open. Not his; only he has the key to it, but the office that’s in the middle of the short hallway—only accessed by two people, and one of them is supposed to be working today. He could go in; he knows he could, no matter what, he’d always be welcomed with open arms and coffee too strong to be consumed. But that would require seeing him, and sure—he sees him every day, but he hasn’t seen him in years. Not truly. It has been years since they’ve truly seen each other. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye when he did, and he doesn’t think he will ever be ready to greet him again.
Time slows down and the open door cracks wider and the person he most wanted to see—the person he never wants to see again—stands in the doorway with that stupid mug in his hand. The one he got him, he got them both, with the stupid catchphrase that only a single father would think is funny, but it was funny to a twenty-year-old too. And he’s haunting them still, without any permission to do so; he’s still there. Always. And he supposes he’s not the only one he’s haunting. It’s comforting in a way.
Andy! A familiar voice shouts as the door slams open. Whatever book he was supposed to be reading doesn’t matter anymore because they’re standing in the doorway, the brown-haired boy behind the shorter one waving at him over his head. Then they’re in his room, the excited boy jumping on his bed and throwing a wrapped… something into his hands. He fumbles with it trying not to drop it before he asks him what it is. Instead of an answer, he’s told to open it, and the brown-haired boy sits down at his desk without asking, because neither of them has to ask that of him. The wrapper is thrown away and in his hands is a mug with the worst font he’s ever seen and the corniest joke he has ever heard. But it’s the best thing in the world as the boy at his desk complains that he got the same thing, trying to scowl and failing as a grin splits his face. He gets tackled on the bed and yelps as his side hits the mattress before they’re all tumbling into his bed once more, with him in the middle, because he always seems to end up in the middle. And it’s nowhere near his birthday or the holidays and that mug is the best gift he’ll ever recieve.
“Andrew.”
The word snaps him back into reality after, once more, being struck by déjà vu. It seems to be happening more and more as he gets older. It reminds him of a young boy with brown hair who always grinned, who was always loud, who only used his full name when he wanted something. Now that full name has no want behind it; it just is. He’s not sure which is worse.
“Micheal.”
It never felt worse hearing his name spoken by him. His name was supposed to sound short and sweet, with a voice dipped in honey and a tone the loveliest of melodies that even the classical singers would blush at. Instead, his name sounds empty and distant, dismissive almost. He's not sure what to do with that; he's never heard his name spoken in such a way, never had to even think about it.
“Andy…” the heavenly voice whispers in his ear, and he groans, turning away and burying his face in the pillows to hide from the sun and wakefulness. He hears the rough voice chuckle before there are cold hands on his hips, making him shiver. Huffing, he nudges the man back, trying to run away from the inevitable. “Andy, you have to get up…”
“Andrew?”
He's once more thrust back into the cold, lonely reality with the distinct lack of hands on his hips and out of his bed. He huffs in frustration, shaking his head before apologizing to the man and forcing out a chuckle. He's not a gambling man, but he would bet everything he is on the fact that she doesn’t.
“You'd love her, Andy! She's sweet and kind and the most beautiful girl you've ever seen.” “She sounds lovely.” He bites back, not bothering to hide his disdain and jealousy from his voice. He's not even fully paying attention to his lover, watching the paper in his hands, not truly reading it. The same page has been staring back at him for an hour by now. “She is! She truly is! As lovely as you, really…” The words are whispered in his ear in a low, suggestive lilt, and he can't help but lean back into Mike, huffing. His jealousy is never-ending, but the angry fire that it was has simmered into a slow burn.
“I see someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Mike chuckles, playful eyes staring back at him as if daring him to bite back, to bark like a dog being commanded to. He suddenly hopes that the next time Mike walks up the stairs, he will slip.
Perhaps that's too harsh.
“You could say that…” he answers the command anyway; after all, what is he if not a loyal dog dragging its feet after its owner for a crumb of attention?
“You did this!” He doesn't remember the last time his voice burned from screaming. Not this kind anyway. “I didn't do shit!” “You did! How could you do this to me?” How long have they known each other? A decade at least. When they first met, he saw him and thought, ‘This. This is the man I will spend my fleeting mortality with,' and then he didn't. For years, waking up next to him, loving him, having him. All thrown into the water for her. He doesn't blame her. How could he? If he were her, he'd do the same. It wasn't her fault Mike was in love with her. It wasn’t her fault that Mike wasn’t in love with him. But it is easier to blame her than himself. But more than that—it is easier to blame him. That night was cold, and colder yet when they slept apart. The next morning, the bed was cold and the right side was empty.
“So!” He tunes back into the conversation, if you can even call it that. It’s more of a monologue Mike is doing while he ignores him. Or tries to, at least. Whenever it was that they got to the coffee machine, it matters not. The water is already boiling, too much for one person, and he’s holding the ground bean bag in his hands. A scoff leaves him, and he glares at the brown powder like it personally offended him. “Not a good time to ask you for assistance then, is it?”
That catches his attention. Not because he needs assistance, that’s natural in their line of work, editors for one another and editing texts. What catches his attention is that he’s asking. Micheal doesn’t ask. He slams his papers on your desk and stares at you, then tells you to do it—nay—demands that you do it. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t beg. Not even him, and he’s tried, believe him. It’s just the way things are. Like the way the sky is blue, and humans breathe air, and the sun shines, Micheal doesn’t ask. For anything. Ever. It infuriates him that he does, apparently, beg. It just takes decades of knowing each other. He pointedly doesn’t wonder whether he ever begged her for anything. He doesn’t.
“Don’t you always.” He replies instead and gets a scoff for his troubles and an eye roll. If he were any younger, he might have chuckled. Now he simply raises a brow at him, refusing to acknowledge the way his lips twitch upwards. He cuts off the tantrum that’s about to come from the other man as he shoves a full coffee mug into his hands. Actual coffee and now whatever water Mike decides to sprinkle with some ground coffee beans. Instead of arguing, his colleague takes a sip and hums in delight, his eyes closing. Andrew follows the lead and drinks from his own mug. Enjoying the relaxing moment of peace and quiet of the morning that has barely started.
So it’s safe to say he’s not as glad when he gets shoved into by the other man. Shoulder to shoulder, way too close than they should ever be anymore. His breath hitches in his throat and he prays to whatever god he can think of for Mike to not be able to hear the way he swallows his heartbeat. It feels like his lungs are too full and his heart is about to leap out of his damn chest, but he remains still as Mike keeps talking, as if this is normal. As if they’re still normal.
“—ew?”
“Andr—”
His heart is beating in his ears, drowning everything else; he can barely focus on anything other than stopping himself from pushing the man into the counter and—
“Andy!”
His heart stops. Or at least he feels like it. Andy. Andy. He hasn’t been Andy in so long. Not to Mike. Not since the golden ring on his left hand made itself home on his skin. Not since the other part of that promise has been given to someone else. To her.
“Sure.” His voice is steadier than he feels. He feels like he’s about to fall into the abyss and meet Abaddon himself. Or whatever is there. “Huh?” The rewarding sound of confusion from his companion graces his ears, and he huffs back, nudging him with his own shoulder. “I’ll do your work for you.”
Mike only grins and nudges him back before saying something about his renown, but he’s not really listening anymore. Instead, he’s slowly moving towards his office, and Mike is following like it’s second nature for them. He supposes it is. It always was. It was always meant to be like this. One of them leading, the other following. It just switches on who’s who based on the day, but it doesn’t matter right now. Right now, the door to his office is closing and he’s leaning on the desk. Right now, the room is too hot and the smell of coffee is strong enough to cover his cologne. Right now, the sound of the lock turning is loud enough to drown out the soft huff that comes out of his lips—and it sounds so sweet.
Right now, he feels young again.