Happy Endings (a Gandrew Story)

5

"...Jesus, Garrett, I'm sorry." Andrew says as he sits down on the futon, a hand in his own hair, looking exhausted and decidedly not-sober. "This is dumb, it's three in the morning, I should've got an... uber, or taxi, or.... Jesus, whatever."

"I'd rather you text me, dummy. At least then I know where you are." Garrett says, and regrets it instantly. He turns and locks the door behind him, using the moment to compose himself.

He shakes it off though, as per usual, and sits gently down next to Andrew. He pauses for a moment, watches him (still looks good, even wrecked and tired and sad), waiting for any kind of cues.

He doesn't get any.

"Why me, though?" Is the question that forces itself out from his chest. He blames it on the way his mind is still foggy from the joint he'd left half-finished on his kitchen counter.

There's a pause, but it's not as long as Garrett thought it'd be.

"...'Cause you're the only one who'd just, y'know, come. Not call and ask why, or say no, or be sleeping, or want gas money, or tell me I'm being, like, dramatic." Andrew replies, and Garrett is a little surprised at how articulate he is, at how easy the words come out.

He was right. He had just gotten in the car and driven there. All he'd asked for was the address, then had rushed out the door and into Andrew's problems. Is he that predictable?

Yeah. He is that predictable. He should know that.

"Garrett."

His own name draws him out of his thoughts. Andrew is there, looking right through him, his expression unreadable but not as scary as it had been out by that curb.

"If I remember this I'll tell you everything in the morning, 'kay? I just wanna go to bed. Can I go to bed?"

As if Garrett would say no. As if Garrett would ever, for any reason, consider saying no to Andrew Siwicki.

He grabs him an extra blanket, because he still looks cold, and then grabs one for himself to sleep under on the floor.

/////

Garrett wakes up a little earlier than he normally would, joints aching, back sore, and bruises on his elbows and knees. The joys of sleeping on his floorboards for a solid seven hours. It does make it easier to get up, though, because he doesn't want to spend another minute sprawled out in the cold, so he pulls his sorry ass off the floor and stumbles into his kitchen.

From there, it's pretty much the same morning routine. Besides finishing that joint he'd abandoned last night, which he figures is the perfect medication to slow his brain down once he remembers the cryptic shit Andrew had said the night before. He makes himself a mug of coffee in his French press, smells it, takes a slow sip and burns the roof of his mouth.

Typical.

When he comes back into the Livingroom, Andrew is sitting up, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders, watching him.

He almost drops the mug of coffee, but instead places it down in front of Andrew as if it had been meant for him the whole time.

"Thanks," Andrew says, voice thick and rough.

Somehow, for the first time in a long time, Garrett feels like he shouldn't sit next to him. That it'd be too close, that Andrew wouldn't want them to be touching, that he should stick to the classic "personal-space-bubble" idea that had been drilled on him as a kid when he'd get too close to other boys.

He actually has to remind himself that it's Andrew he's talking about, here, Andrew who would lean against him just as easily, wouldn't push him away, would fall asleep with his head on Garrett's shoulder and not move away once he woke up.