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Andy
“What's he up to now?” she asks, her voice thick with barely-suppressed laughter. It makes you happy that she gets along so well with one of your best friends in the world, but you really could do without listening to her chuckle over random gossip about him. You don't look up, instead reaching out across the distressed oak kitchen table to get your glass of orange juice, taking a long, cool sip as you pore over the sports pages of your newspaper for some football – sorry – soccer news. The spring sunlight is streaming in through the doors that open out onto your porch, and the squinting that it causes makes your confused expression seem more... authentic.
“Hmm? What's that?” you ask, licking a thumb so that you can flick to the political pages.
“Norman, of course,” is the response, and you finally look up, see that she's reading some trashy gossip magazine. “It says he's... ”
You don't let her finish, shaking your head as you try to swallow down a mouthful of the French toast that's suddenly unbearably dry despite all the syrup you just poured over the top of it.
“I don't want to know,” you protest, waving your hands and cracking a smile that almost hurts your jaw. “You know not to believe any of that crap.”
“I know,” she smiles, setting the magazine down on the table and putting her cup of tea on top of it. You watch as a ring of hot liquid seeps into the front page, and it makes you feel satisfied to see it spoiled.
~ ~ ~
Your filming schedules haven't corresponded at all this season and it's been a fucking ballache. You and he have both said that, in late night texts where you mostly just bitch about your days instead of your normal silly in-jokes and music recommendations. You've been outside in the stifling Georgia heat during the day, sweating your arse off, having to shower off mud and ticks and fuck knows what else the make-up department have plastered to you, but Norman's been night filming at the studio. Sleeping while you're working; sometimes sleeping when he's meant to be working; not there to answer your silly phone calls where you croon Madonna songs down the line at him and cackle in his ear about things that have happened during filming that you haven't been able to share with him.
One morning, a morning where the heat is a little less muggy and a lot more bearable than normal, you hear he's gotten back to his trailer just as you're about to make your normal coffee run. Even the staff at your favourite place have been raising their eyebrows when you ask for one latte, not two. They ask you frantically Who died?, and you recognise that wide-eyed Oh shit please tell us it wasn't Daryl because you've not been getting Norman his coffee lately and... look in their eyes. But today you do buy two, tipping double if not triple the amount you normally do, a spring in your step as you say goodbye in a sing-song voice. You have the air-con on in your car as high as it will go on the drive back to set, suddenly wishing you weren't wearing faded khaki shorts and a crappy, shapeless grey t-shirt that's seen better years let alone better days. But you shove those thoughts out of your mind as best you can, singing (well, shouting, really) along to a Tom Petty song that's playing on the local radio station that you secretly love, and you can't fucking wait to enthuse with your mate about how filming has been going so far. I hear you've been killing it, dude. Did Greg tell you how I flipped out when they wouldn't let me do that stunt on the RV?
The crew look over at you as you pull up, music still blasting out. You're whistling Free Fallin' as you get out, and then you reach into the passenger side to retrieve the two steaming hot coffees. You approach the trailer, your foot on the bottom step. But then someone calls out, and you feel like dropping the cardboard tray in a fit of pique. He's already gone, the voice says. He and Jeffrey took their bikes and split. They do that most days, didn't you know?
Oh you think. Oh, it's like that. You purse your lips, nodding, tucking your chin against your chest. You're sure the feeling that everyone is holding their breath as they await your response is sheer paranoia on your part.
“Two for me then!” you say chirpily, inwardly groaning at your lame excuse for a joke.
~ ~ ~
You start jogging before work, before it's even light outside. You enjoy the thudding rhythm of your trainered feet on the Inman Park pavements, the way your mind starts to rid itself of any intrusive thoughts other than the ones telling you to keep going. Keep going and stop thinking about him, they say. The boost of oxygen clears out your brain; your heart. Before too long, you have to start buckling your belt in a different hole, and then another when you add an extra mile and a half to your normal daily route. Norman doesn't jog, he won't even run during filming unless it's absolutely necessary, and somehow this makes the activity feel even more virtuous of you. It's air in your lungs and ice cold water upon your tongue. It's cleansing and good and worthy. It's not cigarette smoke and whisky and him. All those things are bad for you.
And that's why you crave every single fucking one of them.
You're good for him; a leveller. You know that. Calm and measured. But sometimes... sometimes, just sometimes, you're really fucking sick of being calm and measured.
You don't hold out for long, telling yourself that you're fine without seeing him. It's ridiculous how much you miss him – his outwardly confident showing off that you know conceals a shy, sweet side that you'd never dare take the piss out of because you adore it so much. He's probably not even the slightest bit aware that you're pining, and you truly don't know whether that makes you feel better or worse.
Norman
Man, filming apart from most of the cast sucks, you think, as you trudge across the long grass to the catering truck. Heavy-limbed with tiredness, you just want to sit down on a bench with Andy, have a cigarette or two, and shoot the shit. Daryl's storyline this season has made you feel beaten down and ansty - you've gone home each day with a knot of tension in the pit of your belly that even a good bike ride hasn't been able to loosen up, and you've brought that angry, guilty tense feeling back to your own home, your own space, too many fucking times lately. But Andy can penetrate that with his warmth and humour, his silly singing and his ridiculous excuses for jokes. He can blow it to smithereens, a breath of fresh air lifting your mood and making you remember that all this graft is your legacy. Your legacy – his.
You're lying back on the sofa in your trailer during lunch, holding an ice pack to one of your knees. Damn action scenes got you feeling the age you're so uncomfortable with being. You arch back, tapping the adjoining wall with a knuckle. Usually it's followed by the sound of cowboy boot-clad footsteps on the steps, but today there's nothing. The silence makes you uncomfortable, almost lonely.
Andy's started to eat his lunch alone, or with the crew. One afternoon, you go out for food together, at your favourite table, at your favourite place. You all but had to beg him to come, even though this a ritual you've performed for nigh on four seasons now. Guilty carbs, strong coffee, ice-cube filled glasses of Coca-Cola, and cigarettes.
“I've stopped smoking,” he tells you, wrinkling his nose as you hold the packet of Parliaments out to him, like he's disgusted by the concept. You've rarely known him to refuse - normally if he does he relents after less than thirty seconds, telling you he's quitting, he's really quitting this time.
Thought you'd be away for a ride with Jeffrey rather than eating lunch with boring old me, he remarks curtly, looking briefly at the menu before pushing it across the table towards you. He'll get a club sandwich with sweet potato fries, like he always does.
“Why would I be with him?” you ask, genuinely perplexed, giving a quick shake of your head at your usual waitress, who's about to approach with a wide grin at the thought of serving her two favourite patrons.
Andy pokes at the ice in his drink with a straw. He won't meet your eyes, which you understand, because that blue gives away everything.
“Because that's what you do now?”
“Yeah but this is our thing, dude. Friday afternoon lunch when we're both free... right?”
“Right,” Andy makes a sucking noise with his teeth and shifts in his chair awkwardly. He digs into his back pocket, pulling out a couple of twenties and throwing them onto the middle of the table. “You know what? I'm not hungry. Here, have lunch on me.”
He stands up, unable to meet your eyes. He's about to walk away when he tells you that maybe you should call Jeffrey to see if he fancies a bite to eat.
~ ~ ~
It's the next day when he comes to your trailer, and you find yourself confronting him. You'd played the conversation over in your head a dozen times – a reasoned conversation, not the snark that inevitably comes out of your mouth.
“What the fuck was that about yesterday? Do I need a permission slip to hang out with other people?”
“It's fine,” Andy shrugs. “You've gotten a new toy to play with. I know how you are. You get obsessed with something for a while, then you get bored, then you move onto something else. It's okay. If people are as disposable as things too, that's okay.”
You're fucking floored; unsure whether to push him, slam him against the wall with your fists wrapped around his shirt collar, or tell him to fuck off. Or let the prickling sensation at the back of your eyes develop further. What you do know is that you're fucking seething. It's pretty fucking clear that his words aren't off the cuff. His words have been fucking planned.
“You think I treat people like something I can throw away? That's what you think I do?”
Andy has his hands on his hips, cocking his head to the side. You know from the way he's sucking his lips into his mouth that there's something he's really dying to spit out, and you pick up an empty beer bottle, throwing it into the bin angrily, enjoying the crashing noise and the way that that British asshole flinches. He says nothing, so you speak again.
“What's this really about? It can't be about fucking Jeffrey, man. A few bike rides? He's your friend too. This can't really be about some playground bullshit.”
Andy bites that fleshy, pink bottom lip of his. He rakes through his beard with his fingernails, and the noise of it makes your stomach flip over.
“Cheating with someone who's in a relationship is tacky,” he says in a low, almost-growl.
“What?”
“You know what – who - I mean. I read the... gossip. She's with someone. You'd do that? That's who you are?”
The anger bubbles up inside of you, acidic and dangerous. He's the one acting like a jealous chick over a few bike rides and he's telling you about the fucking tackiness of cheating?
“Ten years ago I'd have fuckin' swung at you for a comment like that,” you spit.
“Ten years ago we didn't know one another.”
You throw an arm out and across your body in frustration.
“Yeah. And wasn't I fucking better off for it.”
You jab a finger in Andy's stupid, razor-cheekboned face. He glares back as you speak, but you can tell that your rage that he's been unfamiliar with until now has shocked him. In your anger, you find your accent slipping into the Southern twang you've absorbed during your years in Georgia, like you're Daryl arguing with Rick, and you wish that all this was fictional; that all this could be fixed with a beer once the director yells cut.
“You can't fuckin' judge me on things you know nothing about. Fuckin' getting at me like some kind of jealous girl? Like you're not married? Like I'm not free to do what the fuck I want? I'm not here for your amusement, bro. Not someone you can watch do all the shit that you can’t because you’ve settled down.”
Andy sucks his cheeks in, his top lip sneering in disgust.
“I don't want to do any of that, Norman, believe me.”
Suddenly he's looking at something behind your left shoulder, and you remember that there's a bottle of Jack lying on the sofa. He shakes his head slowly, patronising as fuck.
“Enjoy your whiskey.”
Your arm hangs by your side as he leaves, fingers twitching agitatedly. You wait for him to slam the door, but he closes it as quietly as possible, and somehow that's even more maddening. In response, you flip the closed door the bird. Once, twice. Your chest is rising and falling, and there are damp patches under your arms. You feel like you could put a fist through a wall, or throw someone to the ground and fuck their brains out, or take the bike out and go fast, much too fast.
Instead you pick up the bottle of booze.
It feels weighty in your hand as you lift it from the sofa. You run your thumb and index finger around the thick, curved neck first, before wrapping your entire palm around the rectangular body of the bottle. With a fingernail you begin to pick at the black plastic coating around the lid, chewing on your bottom lip the way you always do. The way Andy's started doing too you think, before a sour taste develops at the back of your throat. The label looks like a comforting old friend, and soon you can practically taste it; that sharp, bitter sting of the first sip that tingles on your tongue before it slides down your throat and fills your belly full of warmth - and your mouth and fists full of fire.
That's a past you. Or at the very least, a mostly in the past you. Maybe one that's stayed dormant for longer than you ever imagined it could. You feel centred here, connected to the earth and the trees and the moonlit solo motorbike drives that have you howling like a wolf inside your helmet. And you know who's centred you. And you resent that.
So you open the bottle.
Andy
The fight makes both of you sick. Physically ill. Your muscles ache, and you tell yourself it's the exertion of filming, but then someone not-so-casually mentions to you that Norman's complaining even more than normal about headaches; the legacy of that accident in Berlin (and maybe too much booze you think, cruelly).
For the first time, you're grateful that Rick and Daryl don't have many scenes together this season. You pride yourself on your method acting, and you've no fucking clue how you would be able to convey a sense of brotherhood with a man that you know you've hurt. You've been replaying the whole thing over and over in your mind. The fact it came out of seemingly nowhere. The fact that for a nano-second you thought Norman might land a punch on your jaw, and you would have deserved it. The fact that the heat and simmering resentment that you just won't allow yourself to accept the source of was creating tension between the two of you that you had never experienced before. In your head, when you replay everything, he moves to swing a punch, but you wrap a palm around the back of his neck, and...
~ ~ ~
It's him who calls you first. His sweet side has him hating falling out with a friend – one thing you would never question is his loyalty to those he cares about. Of course, Norman being Norman, the call comes at just after 2am, when really he should know you'd be in bed. Even if you weren't in bed, because you're not sleeping very well these days.
Sorry for being an asshole, he tells you. You say the same thing, silencing him when he tries to say that it was his fault, but you cut him off sharply; admitting that you said some awful things, terrible things that you should never have thought let alone said.
“Dude... was that our first ever argument?” he chuckles.
You wince.
“I guess so.”
Norman snorts. “Fuck, we're really good at it. Wanna do it again?”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
“Aw c'mon, I haven't had a black eye yet this year.”
Go to sleep Norman, you tell him, but he just laughs down the line at you, and hangs up. He slept at your home once, fourteen hours and not a peep out of him. When he got up, you set a plate of sourdough toast with creamy scrambled eggs and thick cut bacon down in front of him, making sure there was a large coffee too because sometimes you're genuinely concerned that Norman can only be activated by at least three shots of espresso.
You feel better, but you wish he was here now.
~ ~ ~
By the time San Diego Comic Con rolls around, things are more than back to normal for the two of you. For a few days after your reconciliatory telephone call, you'd tiptoed around one another, being unusually polite. Then one morning Norman had thrown an empty cigarette pack at the back of your head as you'd walked onto the Alexandria set, and that was that. After his glitter prank with your car's air-con, you'd been just about ready to murder him, but at the same time there was a warmth in your chest at the status quo being returned.
Your supposed revenge at the panel during Comic Con fails spectacularly and you have nothing to show for it save for a beard full of gold sparkle – and the memory of Norman all but fucking thrusting in your lap, rubbing his body against yours.
He's changing out of his costume when you barrel into his trailer a week later, throwing a bucketful of blue glitter all over him, but he's too quick, he grabs you, pulls you backwards against his chest, wrapping his muscled arms around your trim waist and pressing his damp face against the curls at the nape of your neck. Fucker, he growls. You fucking motherfucker. His voice turns your insides to liquid. You wriggle out from his grasp and face him, breathing heavily, audibly. There's glitter on his chin, and in your hair; across the breadth of his chest, and down your arms. His shoulders, those shoulders, are tacky with fake gore and glistening with sweat, and the glitter is sticking to them. You make to reach out and wipe it away, but suddenly you have sweaty palms – why do you have sweaty palms – so you don't. You notice Norman's chest falling, as if he was holding his breath. As if he was waiting for more bodily contact. It's too fucking warm in here.
~ ~ ~
You sit in your car, a Marvin Gaye track playing. His voice is cracking with emotion as he sings about love, and yearning, and lust. It drowns out the sound of the traffic on the bridge above where you've parked. You've been sitting here for nigh on an hour now, staring at the steering wheel, thinking about driving as far as the money in your wallet will take you, or not driving at all. You start wondering if the impact you’ve had on Norman's life is as seismic as the one he's had on yours. You were meant to be on your way to New York Comic Con right now, but you've foregone it for some family time instead; because that means you're a model dad, a stand-up guy, a good bloke.
By the time you get home the heat is still cloying, and you guzzle down large glasses of chilled Sancerre, the crisp white wine making you feel like calling him, or booking the next flight into JFK. On the day you're meant to be there, the sun goes down turgidly slowly and you slump onto the coffee coloured leather couch in what you suppose this country you've adopted would call your 'den' but you mentally refer to as your study. You drain the last of your wine, remembering that there's another bottle in the fridge, and you wonder how reckless you feel right now; if it's reckless enough to hammer down two bottles of wine yourself on an uncomfortably hot Atlanta evening when you could be in New York with him.
The wine goes down, far too fucking easy to drink, and you slump against the sofa, Blackstar playing louder than it probably should be at this time of the morning, lighting up even though it's the rule that you don't smoke in the house, and you lie back, exhaling smoke towards the oak-beamed ceiling, your hand lying across your stomach, edging under your clothes, confusing and illicit thoughts running through your mind as your white t-shirt hitches up and the snatches of your exposed bare skin stick to the leather with your sweat. Don't believe for just one second I'm forgetting you, I'm trying to, I'm dying to.
Norman
There was never any question of you and him not resolving the bullshit row you had. You hate arguments. Sure, you've had plenty, but they've been with lovers, fuelled by drink and jealousy and wanting to fuck someone else instead of them, or them fucking someone else instead of you. But rows with someone you respect and admire? No. Man, you just want to get that shit resolved asap.
You're enjoying this phase of your life, you suppose. In your head, you're calling it your 'lone wolf' period. It's been a while since you've had anything steady, but there are people you can call on who are just as happy as you to scratch an itch without the need for commitment, and failing that there's your old good friend, your hand.
Daryl, they call you. Everyone calls you Daryl. The character that needs Rick. You lurk on social media perhaps more than the gossip blogs even realise. You see the fan fiction about Daryl and Rick - Rickyl is a term you initially laughed at, but now find perfectly normal. But even without that, the two of you put so fucking much into your performances that it's impossible for that not to spill over into your real lives. You were brothers long before your characters leant up against that truck and said so.
You miss him at Comic Con in New York. When you go back to your balcony, you have a missed call from him that you immediately return. He sounds husky as he answers, and it doesn't take you long to realise that he's as shitfaced as you've ever heard anyone. It's not like him to be like that, not when he's having family time anyway. You're meant to be the one who's frayed around the edges while he's complete. You can hear the clink of ice in his glass and the noise of him exhaling smoke, imagining his beautiful hands holding a cigarette, so much more elegant than your stubby fingers.
You've never done a romantic comedy, never played anyone lovelorn, but you know how it goes – the crying, the lying in bed, the lack of appetite for food or sex or another person. In reality, you find it's not like that at all. You get up and do your job, and accept invitations to gigs, or go eat at your restaurant and take x amount of selfies with people whose faces are kind but unmemorable. You don't wallow. You don't wallow.
But that doesn't mean you don't feel the ache. It empties your chest and stomach, turns it into a hollow shell, makes your head and limbs throb dully. You ask him where he is, you can hear an owl hooting, and he says he's in his back garden, looking up at the moon. You say his name lightly, and he sighs Don't worry, I'm going to bed soon although you're one to talk, Normski. On your balcony looking down onto the glittering city below, you feel the ache more acutely than ever.
Andy
Back in Georgia after the premiere, Norman's maybe not destroyed, but he's as shocked and down as you've ever seen him. They fucking hate me, he'd messaged you. They're just feeling shocked and angry, you reassure him. When you see him again for the first time face to face, he seems less Norman than usual, and you know that he'd fight to the death if someone criticised you, or Steven, or any of you, while pretending that he doesn't get bothered when he's the target. You don't tell him that you know he's full of shit, that he's putting a brave face on everything. Instead you take up his offer of a glass (or two, or... ) of red wine back at his place, and as he drinks, he apologises for talking about himself and about how he feels, and he tells you that he should have been saying nothing but how amazing you were, how everyone is saying you deserve an Emmy, and then soon you're ringing home and saying that you'll be out longer than you thought, that you can get a taxi home no matter how expensive it is, and soon afterwards you're sinking into a dark leather sofa with a fat, contented black cat on your lap, your face illuminated by candlelight, telling Norman fuck the Emmys; him telling you that he was moved by your performance was better than any award.
And you're tipsy, so you tell him he smells good. It's musky and citrussy and it's... god. Idly you imagine the scent of it on clean but rumpled bedsheets.
He closes the patio doors, commenting on how beautifully orange the leaves on the trees in his back garden are at this time of year, late October, and you nod, your body warm and limber from Malbec. You stretch your legs out, no intention of going home any time soon; not while the wine is warming your belly and the room is thick with the scent of ginger and sandalwood. You spend mainly summers together but he always reminds you of autumns like this - or the autumn reminds you of him. A blanket of orange and yellow beneath your feet, reminding you that soon you will be back in the UK. Leaves and trees decay, everything ends, like the year's filming.
He's sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of you, a pile of vinyl records scattered behind him, and black and white photos waiting on being framed leaning against the main wall. His faded black t-shirt is more hole than material, and he's wearing two odd socks. He cocks his head to the side, looking up at you, a cigarette dangling from his thin lips. Damp curls of dark hair fall into his eyes. You smile at him, enjoying the evening and the Bowie tracks he's playing. Then your fucking intrusive thoughts about whether Jeffrey has been here much flood your brain, turning the sweetness into bitter.
It wrecks you that he goes off with him. Wrecks you. Suddenly you're overwhelmed with it. The fear that he's over whatever he felt, and the terror of thinking that maybe he has found someone else to be close to. One that won't blow hot and cold like you do.
“You said you’d wait,” you blurt out. Your finger circles around the rim of your glass. You're scared to look at him, fearing that one of you is about to get rejected.
“I did,” Norman nods emphatically. “I have been.”
You sit up, shaking your head at first as he sits up, tries to pour more wine into your glass, then relents.
“So why do I feel like I've been left behind?” you ask, hating how pleading your voice sounds.
Norman's expression is pained, resigned. He sits back, sets the bottle onto the floor, takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales, throwing a hand up in exasperation.
“I can't wait on a maybe, man.”
~ ~ ~
And that's how you find yourself lying on the floor of your study in a fug of cigarette smoke again, listening to more Bowie. We're absolute beginners, with eyes completely open, but nervous all the same.
You get drunk enough to pluck up the courage to call him. You don't think you're that inebriated, but he cackles at you.
“Are you hammered again, man?”
“I'm fine. I'm... merry.” You laugh out loud at that, your body shaking with laughter, arching up off the floor slightly as you chuckle thickly. You hear Norman hiss through his teeth. You wonder where he is, but you don't ask. He gallivants, that's what he does. He corpsed laughing the first time you said that word to him. You had to explain what it meant, and he's used the word ever since to describe his airport life and motorcycle road trips. Gallivanting, dude. Off on another gallivant.
“Merry!” he mocks your accent. “You okay, Andy? What's up?”
You pick at the tassels of the plush burgundy rug you're lying on. Fuck knows how much that thing cost. You didn't pick it. Maybe your back will hurt in the morning from the hard mahogany floor beneath, but you don't care. A lot of you hurts these days.
“Are we good?”
“'Course we're good.”
Then, in somewhat of a turnaround of events, he's the one telling you to get some sleep for once. He reminds you that it's the last day of filming tomorrow.
“I know,” you sigh, reluctantly hanging up.
You think sadly of luggage tags, check-in desks and hard-to-close suitcases, and feel overwhelmed with the aching melancholy you always feel at this time of year. You're not Rick, you tell yourself. And he's not Daryl. You haven't got a war to fight like they do.
So why do you feel battle-scarred.
Norman
You're packing up your shit into boxes when the knock from the next trailer comes. It used to make you jump, but now you expect it before it even happens. You holler at him to come in, looking at the scattered mess on the floor of your trailer, trying to remember where you put the souvenir you had stolen from set for him this year.
He leans against the door frame, beard almost entirely white, a beige baseball cap on his head. He looks tired, sad.
“I'm sorry I can't give you what you want, you know.” His voice is weak. He punches the wall softly with the edge of his fist.
You shove your hands deep into your pockets. You don't feel disappointed because you've long given up on expecting anything to come of this. Yeah you said you'd wait. You'll always wait. But that can't be all your life is.
“What I want? You saying it's just me?”
He enters the trailer properly. He raises an arm a fraction, and you hold your breath, hoping for a touch but knowing him better than that. His arm drops again, and you suppress a jaded snort of laughter.
“You know I can't say what I want, Norman. It's fucking me up even thinking it, let alone saying it out loud.”
“But you're thinking it, right?”
That open, blue-eyed honesty of his slays you. He can get away with anything with that wide-eyed stare. That Who... me? look. You've seen the other sides of it - the mischievous twinkle when he's trying and managing to make you laugh, or vice versa. The darkening, stormy-ocean almost-navy of anger when something has pissed him off. The turquoise tinge when the two of you have been together all day, and you're sweaty, and it's late, and you're sitting close on a sofa, kicking back, smoking cigarettes, chests heaving in time...
Back at Walker Stalker in Atlanta, during that ridiculous panel when Andy had flirted and flirted and flirted, and you'd laughed while it was happening; lapped it up in front of the fans; allowing your heart to fill with hope against all your better judgement, he'd pressed his fingers against your leg, before widening them and allowing them to travel across your skin, digging them into your knee. You'd visibly shivered, your body betraying you. It hadn't occurred to you until now that whether intentionally or not, he'd fucked with your feelings that day; been cruel even though you know that he had no malice in his heart.
He lifts his arm again, and does the same now with his fingers, but against the middle of your chest this time, hands cool and only slightly trembling against the hot skin of your sternum. You're pretty sure his fingertips must feel the hammering of your heartbeat, your pulse beating out a galloping rhythm as you imagine him doing the same against the small of your back, the inside of your thigh, your...
“Are you thinking it?” you repeat.
He pulls his fingers away, looking you in the eye. There's sadness there; regret. You flinch, and look down at your feet.
“If I was, would that be enough?” his voice is ragged. His arms hang by his sides, and you're glad, because if he so much as touched you again you'd either punch him or push him against the wall.
“No!” you tell him, exasperation in your voice.
“Enough just for now?”
I don't know, you reply. But yes, this is enough right now, anything he can give you, you will take - but even if he gave you everything, it would never be enough of him for you. You've grown to learn that you do infatuation rather than love. Normally. You know there's nothing about any of this that is normal.
Andy presses his long fingers against the bridge of his nose, sighing resignedly.
“It'd be easier just to hate you, you know.”
“Do you wish you did?”
He shakes his head gently.
He mouths the word fuck.
And then, quite suddenly, he kisses you.
He wraps a palm around your jaw, thumb caressing your cheek before moving to stroke your bottom lip. And then he kisses you – you know he does, because he's the one who gets to call all the shots here. He rests his forehead against yours momentarily as if he's plucking up the courage, and then his mouth is nipping at your bottom lip tentatively. You daren't move a muscle, frightened that if you dive at him the way you want to, he'll run off. But he kisses you, or, okay, at the very least he opens his mouth and tilts his head so that you lean towards him, both lips meeting his briefly before you widen your mouth and in turn his, and he gives a groan and you gasp when he tastes like you've always imagined. Warm, wet. His hand moves to the back of your head, fingers entwining themselves in your dark, unruly hair, and his other hand is pushing against your shoulder, manoeuvring you backwards towards the wall. He doesn't slam you against it, not in the way you'd like, but there's still a thud as your back connects with plaster, and he breathes a Sorry at you that makes you give a soft laugh. His hands are at either side of your head now, tugging at the damp tendrils at the nape of your neck, and you press your hands against his chest, sucking his plump bottom lip into your mouth. It makes him moan, so you suck harder, feeling him clutch at your shoulders, squeezing the muscles he finds there. You buck your hips forward slightly because you're starting to crave some friction down there, and you know he'll freak out if you do it again, you know you're going too far already and things are never going to be the same again after this, your friendship is ruined, maybe his life, but you can't help it so you slide your fingers downward, letting them fall to his navel, brushing against the dark sprinkling of hair on his stomach. He gives a gasp, backing away slightly as if he daren't let you touch him anywhere near there, but you grip his slender waist, pulling him closer back in, your tongue slipping and sliding against his, moist and hot and hungry. Oh fuck what I am doing he pants, but he doesn't stop, he tugs at the neck of your t-shirt and pulls it down to expose one of your shoulders, and then you feel the slickness of his licking tongue against your collarbone, the graze of his teeth as he sucks on your tattoo. You roll your head back so hard that you butt it against the wall and hurt yourself, but you don't care. Andy is slumped against you now, his body heavy and hot, mouthing against your responsive skin. I got ya, you tell him, arching your back so your body is flush with his. You can smell his sweat, the faint odour of musky cologne, the coffee he drank only minutes ago. You tug at his curls, wanting his mouth on yours again, and he has his eyes closed as he flicks his tongue against yours, moving his hands from your head to the wall behind, leaning against it now as he moves his hips closer. You wrap your hands around the small of his back, desperate for him to come closer, and if you don't have something to rut against soon you're going to go fucking insane. You're hard. You're fucking hard as a rock and Andy's body heat is making you harder; the way he's barely even kissing you now, just panting into your mouth, sucking your bottom lip into his and then releasing it with a wet pop. He shifts slightly, his thigh between your legs, and you're aching now, groaning out his name, Andy I need to... and you want to tell him that you need to unbuckle yourself fucking now, but your voice breaks the spell and then Andy is pulling away, eyes finally opening, wide-eyed with shock as he takes two steps backwards, staring at how you're pressed back against the wall, mouth pink and swollen from his kisses, sweat glistening on your forehead and neck, t-shirt stretched beyond repair, grey jeans straining with how hard you are. This has been too much - but not enough. And you're ruined. He's fucking ruined you. And you know you've ruined him.
~ ~ ~
The temperature in New York is quite a shock to the system after a mild fall in Georgia, and you're grateful for the bar's outdoor heating and your ratty black fingerless gloves. You're clad in your red and black checkered winter coat, and you snuggle down into it as you light up, feeling your long hair tickle the back of your neck as you do so. You're already losing some of the tan you've had for the past few months, and catching your reflection in the window, you see that your skin looks pale against the dark mess of your hair. There are bright green and red holly wreaths hanging from the window, and you hear the Phil Spector Christmas album playing faintly in the distance somewhere.
A guy walking past with his kid clocks you first, and you put your cigarette-holding hand behind your back as they approach, carefully blowing the smoke in the opposite direction. He calls you Daryl but it's cool, it's all good if the kid thinks you're some crossbow-wielding superhero. The dad shakes your hand, his tough, honest, work-worn fingers squeezing yours almost uncomfortably, and you feel gladdened at the thought of brightening his day; giving him and his son a cool story to share. They leave and your body jolts as your phone vibrates in your pocket. You're about to check it, but then a hot girl walks past, giving you a grin. You smile back, and then there's another girl, and this one stops, asking for a selfie which you're happy to give, because she's beautiful; has that dark look that you love. She smells of cherry lip balm, and she seems like she would probably fuck you if you gave her so much of a whisper that you might be interested. And maybe there was a time - a time not too far in the past - that you would have been. Maybe today you are interested. It's been a while, after all. Maybe. Her hands are shaking as she hands you her iPhone and it's cute as all hell. You call her sweetheart, saying Stay warm, girl, and yeah, you could fuck her, but as she stands gazing at the photo you just took, you finally check your own phone and see a message from Andy that says just two words.
In NYC.
You've told yourself since filming ended that having him in your life can be enough. It doesn't have to ever be anything more. Just to know him, to have him near you on seven months of each year is enough to go on. You lie to yourself a lot, you guess.
Andy
What am I doing here?
You rub your chin as you walk up the stairs of his apartment block. The newly-shaven smoothness of your face still feels alien to you after seven months of coarse salt and pepper stubble. You'd figured that taking the stairs instead of the lift would have given you enough time to work out what the fuck to say to Norman, enough time to work out why exactly you were here. No chance. He'd told you that he was at a bar a few blocks from his home, but you'd turned down the offer of meeting in public. Better to be alone when you... when you what? You still didn't know. All you knew is that he was just back from travelling and now suddenly you were in New York. You should be at carol services, ice rinks, christmas tree farms in the deepest English countryside.
He opens the door and beckons you in, wordlessly. He smells of smoke and whisky, and it's comforting and familiar. He looks craggy and exhausted, but you forget about that as he pulls you into a bear hug, feeling tears beginning to well up already. Jesus, you'd thought you'd done all your hugging and crying with him the day you filmed the mid-season finale.
“I didn't disturb your day, did I?” you croak as you pull away, hovering in the hallway nervously. He jerks a thumb in the direction of the kitchen and lounge, and you follow him. It's so quiet that you're aware of the clicking noise of your boots on his wooden floor.
“Never.”
You stand on opposite sides of the kitchen worktop. His MacBook sits on top of a chopping board, and there's a pile of photographs leaning against a stack of cookbooks that look like they've never been so much as thumbed through let alone used.
“You said you were at a bar.”
He bites his bottom lip. “Yup. Was talking to some girl.”
“Were you trying to pull her? Get her up here?” Your tone is faux-jovial.
Norman is well versed in your British vernacular by now, and he looks slightly offended.
“You think I'm that desperate for it I'd bring some chick off the street back?”
“I think you could. If you wanted. They all want.”
Why are you here then?
You pause.
“Want.”
You're facing each other and it's not often you've seen Norman lost for words, but he seems to be now. He opens the freezer, pulling out a bottle of vodka and then getting two short glasses from the cupboard. You're not sure you should be drinking right now, certainly not in this apartment, but at the same time your tongue prickles with anticipation, and you take your Barbour jacket and scarf off, throwing them onto a kitchen stool. They make the place look untidy. You don't care.
There are lots of things you should be telling him, instead of letting him press out ice cubes into the glasses. It would be easier here, in this cool, sparsely furnished apartment. It's bright and airy and somewhat sterile. It's not wood and leather and Sugar Maple trees and too much alcohol - it's not steamy, evocative, isolated Georgia where it's too easy to feel cut off from reality, too easy to let yourself ache with feelings you're too scared to confront. There's no soft furnishings to sink into in sleepy heat. No sense of isolation or fairytales in this metropolis. You should be telling him that you're going back to England in a day and a half. That you won't be in contact until filming starts again. That you've been drinking too much and it stops now. That you had lost your fucking mind the day that you kissed him. That it was a mistake. That everything was a mistake and you weren't sure how you were ever going to come back from it, but you had to. For your sake, for his sake, for sanity's sake.
There's a clink as he sets a glass on the counter in front of you. You keep shaking your head as he glugs Absolut into it, but before you've even raised the glass to your lips, he's thrown back a shot and is pouring his second. You knock back yours, and the sour sting reminds you why you've never been much of a vodka drinker.
“So why exactly are you here?” Norman eventually asks, leaning across the counter, his face inches away from yours and those enrapturing eyes of his narrowed. “I'm guessing it's not a social call.”
You've never seem him this serious. He's so cool and calm that it's bordering on aloof, and it's un-nerving.
“I... I don't know why I'm here,” you stutter. Another shot goes down. This one is easier.
“Like you don't know why you kissed me?”
“I don't.”
“The hell you don't.”
His tone isn't angry, just weary. You feel bad because there isn't one part of you that wants to bring a single bit of harm to Norman. He takes his coat off, and as usual his t-shirt is faded with age, a rip under one of the armpits. His jeans are hanging off his waist, and his hair doesn't look like it's seen a brush for a couple of days. Despite the situation, you hide a snort of laughter.
“What's wrong?”
You shake your head, licking vodka off your lips as you sneak a smile.
“Just... you.”
He smiles one of those rare smiles of his that light up those damn hooded eyes and show off his teeth. He's not offended, he understands what you mean, like he always does. It clears the horrible tension in the air a little, and then you're telling him that you hated filming this year, you hated Rick and Daryl being split up; their powers negated, and he nods vehemently, moving to the sofa and beckoning you over.
He sits back, glass in hand, and fiddles with a remote until the room fills with Rocket Man, and it's so delightfully random, so utterly out of place... and you've never enjoyed a song as much as you do right now.
You slope off the stool and stand facing him. He meets your eyes defiantly, parting his legs so you're practically standing between his thighs. I fucking dare you to move closer.
“I have a flight booked for tomorrow evening,” you say.
“Okay.” He shrugs his shoulders, his gaze softening as he looks up at you. Iron blue eyes full of questions. Maybe full of hope, too.
You give a heavy sigh. Oh Norman. You're tired of this dance you're both doing. Exhausted from the guilt at wanting something that's going to fuck up everything you hold dear. Irrecoverably shattered by the knowledge that it's in you to do what you know has been inevitable for far too many months, if not years now.
What am I doing here?
What are you doing here? Staking your fucking claim, that's what you're doing.
Norman sets his glass onto the floor and clears his throat.
“I can call you a cab for the airport right now. You can get an earlier flight home, and you were never here.”
Your heart feels like it's going to cave in on itself. Despite everything, despite what you know he wants too, he's still willing to put himself last. Give up. You feel sick and aching with the emotion that you're too frightened to name.
“You'd do that? You'd let me... ”
“Yeah. It's better for you to do it.”
You throw your hands up.
“And that's why I can't, Norman. That you'd let me walk out of here to the detriment of yourself is why I... ”
“Stop talking, man. Fuck!”
He has his head in his hands now, fingers raking through dark tangles. When he looks back up, his eyes are watering and you know you've placed him in the fucking horrific position between getting what he wants and doing the right thing. You see the moment when he breaks, when he makes his decision. He reaches out, grabs your hand, twines your fingers between his. His mouth parts and there's the briefest of nods. Stay.
I'm not the man they think I am at home, the music says.
“There's not going to be a happy ending to this,” you almost whisper, a shake in your voice.
He clicks his tongue.
“I've never believed in happy endings anyway. Don't like 'em. They don't fit. At least, they've never fit me.”
You let go of his hand as you sit down beside him. You want to give him his happy ending. You want to. But you know you can't. You hope what you can give him, for however long it lasts, will be enough.
His cheeks are flushed as you tuck a lock of hair behind his ear with your index finger. He's barely breathing, and you're shaking.
“So how do we do this?” he asks, turning to you. He looks wary – young, as he tilts his head down bashfully.
You let your finger travel from his cheek to his top lip, tracing the cupid's bow. He parts his lips for you, and your eyes meet his.
“We just take a deep breath.”