Archive of Our Own

“Want me to fucking stop?! FUCK YOU! See how much I care!” 

And for the coda of this disastrous temper tantrum, the door slams shut. The force of it rattles the surrounding walls so hard that one of Fletcher’s picture frames falls and cracks on the hardwood in one fluid motion. Tiny shards of glass scatter across the floorboards. A photo of the two of them, taken at Carnegie, lies neglected.

“Andrew, you motherless-!” Fletcher almost lunges for the door, stopping himself mid-action. He can feel the urge to hunt Andrew down, drag him back by the hair of his nape, and unleash his undying fury. But Fletcher knows that’s what Andrew expects from him. Instead, he stands still, wrestling between the rage pushing him forward and the exhaustion holding him back. What he really wants is release—to fling open the door and let spill all the hatred, frustration, regret, and disappointment that have built up since things with Andrew began to unravel, to flood the apartment with everything trapped in his chest, residents be damned.

This is Andrew’s fault, the lowlife junkie. Fletcher is constantly agitated lately, and that’s saying a lot. Each day, he contemplates kicking his twunk-ass to the curb. He relishes the thought, loves imagining Andrew as the miserable hobo he’d be without him, except who’s he trying to kid? He’s let this song and dance stretch for weeks now. 

It’s because of the damn pills, from every minor practice session to every major gig. No matter how many times Andrew says he’ll stop, he keeps coming back home with more in his pockets. If Fletcher finds a bottle and flushes the little fuckers down the toilet, another one pops up days later. Every time they scream their lungs out over it? Comes back with more. Every shove, punch, and slap that leave bruises for weeks? Comes back with more. Every brutal fuck they have in order to ease the tension? Every post-coitus fake apology? Every gaze he shot Andrew before he performed, which screamed: ‘Don’t even think about it. Do you know how hard it was for me to find someone like you? Don’t you fucking dare-’? Comes. Back. With. More.

All of the playing he’s been doing recently lacks spirit. It’s tacky, barely coordinated. The fiery passion he originally displayed is gone, and now he’s hardly cutting it. It’s a doozy convincing the band to keep Andrew, let alone put up with him. Fletcher should’ve snuffed him out sooner, applied more force. Maybe if he’d blown his lid off and locked Andrew away in his home till the day he keels over, renovate a makeshift studio in the living room–no gigs, no dealers, no liquor stores, they’d be happier. Buy him the most expensive set of shackles, hell, even throw in some treats if he behaves.

Nevertheless, he chose to move forward. He initially tried to be the perfect fucking partner; Encouraging him, showing patience, being solid as an anchor during his meltdowns. Nothing seemed to stick, though. And maybe he saw that written on Fletcher’s face, ‘cause the drug fiend simply bought more. It was clear that the comforting bullshit did nothing, so it was back to being his awful self again, barbs and all. Cruel violence, crueler words, all served as an effort to make him sting–to make him stop. Except that proved to be fruitless as well. Once he’s on them, he’s either too temperamental or too apathetic, gradually snowballing into a lose-lose situation. 

It’d be futile to chase after him. Fletcher can’t give Andrew the satisfaction of begging him to come back, or else he’ll see past the facade. Wholly, down to his marrow. It’s fine, he doesn’t even have to. He knows Andrew will return. He always does. Fletcher can’t decide whether that’s good or bad anymore. 

Taking a deep breath, the maestro leaves the door unlocked and fetches a broom and dustpan to clean up the mess Andrew left behind–the story of his life nowadays. Afterwards, he trails into the living room and puts on Miles Davis’s ‘In a Silent Way’ on the record player, preparatory to collapsing in his ivory armchair. A prolonged sigh reverberates through the room as his body deflates into the cushion. Wrinkled eyes shift from the ceiling to the window, a slight breeze fanning his face. It’s golden hour, vivid oranges and purples paint the sky in a serene display of light, satirizing his sour attitude. He wonders if Andrew will be home by the time dusk comes around; Perhaps the inevitable temperature drop could play in his favor. He can only wait.

***

A waning moon glistens in the distance, illuminating the neighborhood below. Pale moonshine pours through the glass, casting Fletcher in a soft glow as he shuts his flip phone with fatigued resignation–the result of a tiresome conversation. Won’t be the last of them, either. He wants to sleep so fucking bad it’s almost funny. Regrettably, he has to wait for the cocksucker he graciously took under his wing to cohabit his space with. Speaking of cocksuckers, who knew Daddy had it in him to cuss at Fletcher that profoundly? 

That’s right, everyone, give a hefty round of applause to the lucky ‘Father Of The Year’: Jim Neiman! 

What a goddamn blast. 

It was normal at first, just the annual ‘Please tell me how my son is’ voicemails he receives every four months or so. Usually, he’ll give a quick listen, laugh, and go on about his day, but tonight Fletcher unexpectedly compelled himself to give the man an update. He still hasn’t the slightest clue why. Maybe he’s lost hope in trying to fix Andrew by his lonesome. As much as he loathes the very concept of parents like Jim, the man was entitled to know the truth. Yes, he’s one of the most feeble, yellow-bellied pansies he’s ever interacted with, but it was evident he truly cared about his son. And now he knows too. He didn’t reveal anything about his and Andrew’s current ‘arrangement’, but it’s most likely that he already knew.

Their chitchat went as expected. Mr. Neiman definitely wants to murder Fletcher and defecate on his grave, but obviously he didn’t care, considering how he views him as a last resort. Tomorrow they have to rent a car and drive to Jim’s at around three-thirty, accompanied by the interventionist they hired. The three of them will have a long talk about Andrew’s addiction and what needs to change, but the most excruciating part of this operation is attempting to convince Andrew to be rehabilitated; A diverse list of options to pick from. Sixty days, two months. His only legacy. Gone for sixty days. No band, no shows, no studios. The inconvenience of this ordeal is immeasurable, but he’s willing to take it if it auspiciously heals Andrew, rekindles the flair he knows is residing within. And then everything will be okay. They can look back at this speck of time as nothing but a puny blip, clutching their sides in laughter. The joys of make-believe, eh?

Hours slip by as Fletcher tries to unwind, ad-libbing on the piano when the loud creak of a door opening causes him to jolt out of his seat. Speak of the devil. He briefly checks the clock, which reads 2:16 A.M. Of course it is. He almost wants to throw a fit, but he can’t bring himself to care. There are larger issues at stake.

Fletcher passes Andrew as he galumphs through the entryway, narrowly avoiding tripping over his own feet as he takes his Converse off and throws himself on the leather couch, giggling every step of the way. He quickly shuts and locks the door before sauntering after Andrew, stopping when he’s towering over him. Andrew doesn’t look up; He stares straight ahead, not bothered in the slightest. Aloof.

“My eyes are up here.” 

Mirth and malice stare back. 

“Do you know how late it is? I know you’re high as balls right now, so do yourself a favor and save the speech. Listen, I get that you don’t even wanna look at me, but there’s something trivial that needs to be discussed. So get undressed and go to bed, I’ll join you later.” 

“Ha, you stayed up this late for me?” He bats his eyelashes dramatically. “Oooh, I’m swooning.”

“Neiman, I’m serious, okay, I waited hours. I’m not in the mood for your fucking theatrics. Get. The fuck. To bed.”

Andrew just laughs abrasively and replies, “Nah, don’t wanna.” He absentmindedly wipes away a dribble of snot. “So what is it? Tell me! Go on, spill already!! Talk, talk, talk. It’s all you do, right?! So talk!”

Fletcher sucks his teeth as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re even more of a screwball on this crap than usual. Maybe you’re best suited for playing for the local crackheads instead of this shipwreck of a career you’re struggling to salvage.”

“Oh, please, at least my drumming led me to where I wanted to be–something you wouldn’t know jackshit about, though, right? You inadequate fossil.”

“Motherfucker, do you think I have the time-” He stops mid-sentence as he takes a closer glance. In mere seconds, Fletcher’s practically on top of him, invading his personal space whilst gripping his chin to force eye contact. Andrew attempts to pry away, but it’s no use…

Wait, did he-

…

Greattt, just peachyyyyy.

Like a switch has been flipped, Andrew suddenly surges up to kiss him smack on the lips, immediately shoving his tongue down his throat. The impact causes him to stumble backwards, barely catching himself from falling. His breath reeks of booze. Not wanting to indulge in this saliva-fest, Fletcher grabs a fistful of hair, successfully wrenching him off. 

The younger relents aggressively as he gets closer, pulling and prodding him. He’s used to Andrew being a bitch in heat when he’s high here and there, but this is an actual onslaught; Almost the same ferocity of the rabid dog that tackled him on stage in front of everyone. If he were someone else, there’d be a river of piss running down his leg, but when it comes down to it, the only physically frightening aspect of Andrew is his arms, perfectly sculpted from vigorous amounts of playing. Yeah, he’s as old as dirt, but what he lacks in stamina he makes up for in experience. When an opening is available, he catches Andrew in an arm drag. He’s as swift as a dragonfly when he pins him to the ground, shifting his weight to restrict him.

“Come on, fucker, let me have this!!” Andrew shouts, thrashing and squirming. One of Fletcher’s hands fumbles inside his hoodie pocket until he finds what he’s searching for. Before Andrew’s brain can catch up to what’s about to unfold, it’s too late; He snatches the coke baggie and shoots to his feet, lost in a brief flash of vertigo. Andrew tries to follow suit, but Fletcher spontaneously cracks a heel on his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Ignoring the faint wheeze from below, he examines the bag. Nearly empty.

Andrew stares at Fletcher like a savage, eager to make a meal out of him. “Give it back. I swear to God, if you don’t give it back, I will rip-”

“I called your dad.” 

Silence. Furor shifts into confusion. “What?”

“You wanted to know so badly, did you not? I called Jim. Surprise, dipshit, I’m not the only one who knows about your drug abuse. I’m taking you home tomorrow, so you can kiss core goodbye, time for a break. We’re buckling down for real, and we’re getting you clean.”

He makes a ‘pfft’ noise before cackling like a banshee. “So what? It won’t help! Dad wants to put on his big boy pants and save me?! He can’t even save himself from his own bleak monotony! Plus, it’s so unlike you to be the ‘oh so considerate and gentle lover’,” He air quotes mockingly, “Judging by how fast your last marriage-” Andrew doesn’t finish his gibe because Fletcher assaults him with a backhanded slap to the face. He lands flat on his back, hissing in pain. Slowly sitting up, he places a palm on his stinging cheek. 

“You just needed another drug in your system, huh? What’s a fairy without his fairy dust?” Fletcher sneers, Andrew never leaving his sight as he shuffles towards an open window. “Well, too bad! I’ve had it with your self-pitying, melodramatic-bullshit!” Without hesitation, he tosses the baggie outside, watching it descend in the open air. So long, sweet prince.

He observes Andrew’s reaction with thinly veiled glee. The kid’s eyes widen, processing. Next, his visage contorts between distraught and another emotion he can’t quite grasp. A desperation of sorts? In an instant, he springs up and shoves the older as hard as he can. Fletcher loses stability and topples onto the armchair with a grunt.

Andrew rips off his hoodie and tosses it on the couch before crashing into his lap, knees tucked into the crevices of the cushion. The conductor is bewildered as to why he’s on top of him until he feels it. His erection.

Fletcher looks at him with glaring repulsion as he adjusts his arms on each side of the chair, clenching the handles in a firm vice. Andrew’s preening like the fag he is, flushed cheeks on display whilst biting his bottom lip. Those kooky, brown eyes of his are nearly pitch-black; Pupils blown out just from being slapped around a little. Unashamed deviancy. Christ, it’s never a dull moment with this fruitcake. 

“Hey, earth-to-psycho, go jerk your shrimp-dick in the fucking bathroom, I’m not touching it. What makes you think you’re entitled? Shoo.” Andrew pushes him further back, resting his palms on Fletcher’s shoulders. “I’m serious, Neiman, get off me!” He snaps. His hips try to buck him off, but he doesn’t let up. Once Andrew’s groin aligns with his own, he starts to grind. Moans slip out of his mouth as he rocks back and forth, establishing a tempo. 

Fletcher fumes silently, feeling his veins pop. He didn’t want to be in this position at all–trapped and helpless by this demented creature he nurtured. He tries to let up, only to be forced further down. Andrew opens his eyes and produces a high-pitched chortle. He bumps his forehead against Fletcher’s, cupping his hands over his cheeks, leaving crescent marks with his nails. Little puffs of air tickle his philtrum.

The maestro just goes slack and snakes an arm around his torso, keeping him upright. However, he refuses to give back any friction. He isn’t happy in the slightest. “Freaks like you should’ve been swallowed.” He grits out.

Andrew softly kisses his Cupid’s bow. “But then you’d be all alone. F-Face it, I was made for you…I’m, ah,” He intakes a breath. “All you have—all you need.” He punctuates with a particularly rough thrust, dick throbbing against his inner thigh. His own member is almost ready to flag up, yet fails to commit. He hates Andrew so much right now, having the nerve to do something as preposterous as this. And yet, for all the resentment he feels towards the younger, he’s inappropriately captivated. Mesmerized by the insanity of it. 

A decision is made–he’ll give his star pupil what he craves. Unfortunately, his anger still outweighs his fondness. Fletcher has to remind him who’s in charge.

Because he’s currently distracted from leaving a hickey on his neck, all-teeth-no-tongue, Andrew doesn’t expect the second slap, snapping his head to the side. He yelps in pain as he covers his mouth, losing balance and toppling over his teacher’s knees. Andrew lands on his rear with a clipped ‘oof’. Upon closer inspection, candy-red blood embellishes his bottom lip. Droplets gradually trail down his chin while some of them catch on the collar of his navy blue T-shirt. 

“Ow, what’d you do that for?!”

Fletcher shrugs. “Oh, you know,” He waves with indifference. “Stopping a Special-Eddie from molesting me ‘is all. Fucking hell, I’d bellyflop into the Hudson if anyone walked in on that, I’d never live it down!” 

Andrew frowns. “But I knew you liked it, I could tell.”

“Tell it to Olivia Benson, cockhole. You wanna get off so bad? Fine, be my guest.” He points an index finger at one of his dress shoes. “Get off like the humpy mutt you are,” Fletcher tucks a hand under his chin again, applying a threatening pressure. “And you better make a show of yourself, Bailey, I mean it.” Andrew sits there perplexed before the conductor lightly kicks him in the balls, causing him to groan. “I SAID GO, RETARD!!” 

Seems like his words finally registered since the drummer’s got his thighs wrapped around his calf like a pretzel. Once more, the dry humping resumes. “There he is, that’s a good doggy.” He coos. Andrew fails to suppress a shameful moan. It goes on like this for quite a while, Fletcher fluctuating between murmuring praise or biting insults. The pace increases faster and faster. Andrew makes all these pathetic, lustful noises that go straight to his dick. All four of his limbs circled around his entire leg like some kind of horny octopus, staring up at him like a dumbass.

Creased fingers lovingly trace the mark he slapped earlier. It’s blossomed into a rosy pink color. That, adjoined with the bleeding lip and runny nose, paints a pretty picture that only he gets to study. No matter how repugnant or deranged Andrew can get, Fletcher will forever remain in awe of his grotesquerie. He can feel his prick slowly reach half-hardness. Suddenly, Andrew gapes, knitting his eyebrows together as he presses his forehead against Fletcher’s clothed kneecap, sighing as he cums in his jeans. As soon as it stops, a wet spot darkens his trousers. Fletcher prods at it for his own entertainment before he manhandles the other into their bedroom.

A bedside lamp glows dimly as they strip down to the nude, clothes haphazardly flung across the carpet. In the soft light, Andrew’s physique is simultaneously concerning yet arousing; Tiny freckles dotted randomly on his skin, long legs, a round waist, and a delectable set of collarbones. The battered wife look isn’t that appetizing to most, however. He orders him to climb on the bed as he rummages through the lowest nightstand drawer to grab the silicone. When he returns, he finds Andrew positioned on his hands and knees, goosebumps visible from the cold. “Come on, come on, hurry up already.”

Fletcher scowls as he stills behind him, lathering a good portion of lube on his index and middle fingers. He discards the tube, blows hot air on them, and then cautiously pushes inside. 

Andrew keens as he grips the cotton sheets rigidly, rocking backwards. “Fuck! Don’t stop-!” Fletcher interrupts, using his free hand to shove his face into the mattress.

“Pipe down, coke whore. Strung-out-sluts don’t get to speak.” He ridicules as he slides his digits back and forth. After a few seconds, he tries a different angle that gets the job done; The evidence being Andrew’s muffled moans reaching an ear-shattering pitch as he wriggles uncontrollably. Wow, guess who’s sporting another stiffy? He’s leaking more, too. Typical Neiman libido. Fletcher eases the fist in his scalp as he increases momentum. Another finger is added, and at the same time, Andrew loses strength holding himself up and crashes into the soft covers, using the remaining energy he has left into fucking against the intrusion. They continue until Fletcher is ready. He’s about to move on, but there’s still an egregious amount of animosity left in him.

There’s no mercy when he clutches his hair in a vice again, twisting Andrew’s head at an unnatural angle so they can lock eyes, disregarding the cry that comes from it.

“Do you realize how much of a crazy son of a bitch you’d need to be to do what you did? I should call the cops on your creep-ass, let you rot away in a psych ward for the rest of your grubby existence.” The digits tangled in his locks squeeze harder, more agonizing.“Don’t believe for a second I’d let you get away without any repercussions. Tell me you don’t deserve to be fucked before I castrate you myself. Now.”

“Gh-! I don’t deserve it, I don’t! You’re right! You’re right!!” 

Content with his submission, he reprieves, watching Andrew crumple on the sheets. Fletcher removes his fingers entirely as he shushes him. “Good. That’s good, Andrew. We can get going now, yeah? Does darling boy still want his fill?” Receiving a murmured yes, he returns to the nightstand to slather an extra amount of silicone on his tool. The elder sits against the headboard, patting his lap. “C’mere. Finish what you started.” 

Andrew pants as he wearily crawls over to Fletcher. He balances himself on his knees before grabbing hold of one of his shoulders and the base of his cock–aligning the tip against his rim, then proceeding to sink down. A salacious mewl accompanies the drop. After getting used to the girth, he rises, hollers, and slams back down, buried to the hilt. Andrew gasps as he clings onto Fletcher, arms wrapped around his torso in a bone-crushing hug.

A choking noise lets out when he feels his hot walls clenching around his length. Andrew looks blissfully fucked-out; Eyes crinkled and watery, damp waves plastered on his temple, visage covered in a concoction of perspiration and blood. Shit, he could cum right now. Swallowing a grunt, he returns the embrace, and Andrew starts to move. Their moans immediately synchronize as a result of the sweet, sweet friction. The creaking headboard syncopates every little movement.

“That’s great. Just like that, don’t stop,” Fletcher heaves against his sternum in the middle of shoves, matching his flow. “Keep making it up to me, baby, fuck, you’re nearly there.” His hands cascade down to Andrew’s hips as he turns his head to lick one of his nipples, rolling it between his teeth. Andrew convulses as if he’s being electrocuted, whipping back and forth from the sensitivity. He leans into the touch, aching for more. Fletcher indulges him, biting it harder whilst toying with the other one between his thumb and forefinger. He switches back and forth until he’s bored, releasing with a wet pop. Giving in to his own desires, the drummer buries his face in his neck. His canines puncture the same patch of skin he bit earlier, in addition to leaving more bruises. 

Fresh sweat coating their glistening bodies coalesces, cementing Andrew into his lap as he bounces. Flesh tethered to flesh. The only romantic thing that’s come of this farce. Regret swamps his mind once the thought is brought to fruition. Sentimentality no longer holds a place here, pansy. Just focus on blowing your load inside this conniving little douchebag already. 

Abruptly, Andrew’s motions steady, then cease altogether. Fletcher quizzically observes him, internally grateful for the respite. It’s short-lived, however, when his face goes slack, blank like a sheet. His pupils have shrunk back to normal, involuntarily blinking rapidly as if he’s about to faint. He can visually see him buzzing out of his own skin.

“Andrew, can you hear me?” Fletcher lightly clasps his hands on his shoulders, rubbing his thumbs in a circular motion. “…This went on longer than it should. I’m getting you water, okay? But first, you gotta get off me. Just go slow.” He rubs his arms up and down, encouraging him.

“N-No, I don’t want to…” 

“It’s gonna be okay, it’ll only take me a minute-”

“I SAID NO!!” Andrew shouts, constricting his grip. “I w-won’t let you. Please,” He begs. “Terence, come on, I…” He cuts off his own pleading by stifling a whimper. “I need this. Can we please, just-”

Fletcher can feel himself grow soft while he’s still inside. “Are you out of your fucking mind?! You don’t have to answer that since it’s obvious. Do you honestly believe I’m obligated to fuck you like this?! I don’t give a rat’s ass on how badly you wanna chase endorphins right now, you need rest. Do you understand, Neiman? This isn’t helping.” It’s no secret how much he adores seeing Andrew in pain, especially if he’s the one inflicting said pain, but watching Andrew fall apart like this makes him nervous.

In lightning speed, Andrew brutally crushes his body even lower between Fletcher’s legs. The mattress dips, forcing them to stay entwined as his face twists in a manic expression; Wild eyes, cracked lips in a vicious snarl, half-hysterical, half-miserable. He feels Andrew drive his fingernails into the wrinkles under his bags, pressing roughly. The maestro shrieks, trying to get away, but the other refuses.

A loose thread is torn. In the most livid Fletcher ever saw him, he screams: “You living, BREATHING, PILE OF ASH, I DON’T WANT REST! THERE’S NOTHING LEFT AFTER THIS!!!” Some of his spit lands on Fletcher’s nose and lips due to close proximity. “There’s nothing. I’m nothing! You knew this would happen–I’m like this because of you!! You’d NEVER be successful without me, and yet you can’t do me this one fucking favor, you fucking leech!” 

Unbridled fury and disgust possess Fletcher with little to no resistance. “You’d be a talentless hack without me, you deplorable sissy.” He provokes. “No, cause you like it, right? You like placing the blame on anyone but yourself, is that it?! I don’t know if you can recall with that excuse of a pea-brain brain you have rattling inside your head, but I’ve never asked you to get high!!”

Before Andrew can cuss him out, Fletcher goes off, firing vitriol from his mouth like a machine gun. “Didn’t I tell you again and again to quit? To stay clean? Or pick up a damn hobby?! If I knew I had to put up with this never-ending circle of hell, I would’ve shipped your sorry-ass to rehab months ago. Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile! Utter garbage. I put you on the map, and now look what you’ve done! You’re a disgrace! Fucking worthless!!” He barks directly into his eardrum, still hoping that the shrapnel he’s spewing cracks a dent in the denial he’s held onto for so long.

The unabashed ferocity in Andrew’s piercing glare starts to diminish. It becomes apparent that his piece of advice is being taken into account, judging by how uncomfortable he seems, folding in on himself as he struggles to avoid Fletcher’s gaze–humiliation out in the open.

Except, he still doesn’t know when to quit; A once-admirable trait now nettlesome. Fletcher can see a gleam returning to those dark browns of his, sees the gears turning behind them as well. A vacant smile grows on his lips. In a gravelly, calm voice, he asks: “Is that how your last conversation with Sean Casey went? No matter how hard he tried or how much he accomplished in spite of you, he felt nothing. Is that why he hung himself?!”

“Andrew.”

“It’s okay, I get it.” He snickers. “I mean, I would too if I were as weak. You were too rough on him, huh? Heh! That’s too bad. You fucking killed a kid, Fletch. So young, so much potential…A shame he couldn’t suck you off before he decided to reenact Hangman.”

He knows it’s just cheap bait. 

He really does. 

But the blood’s already in the water. 

You’ve mended him to your own liking; Why else is he the catalyst of your destruction? 

There’s a hint of grace in the way Fletcher’s hands seize the front of Andrew’s throat, strapping him down. They fit so snug, almost like they were crafted to squeeze that long neck of his. Usually, whenever he chokes Andrew, it’s titillating. Exciting. None of that is going on here. This is strangulation at its finest. If Fletcher wouldn’t miss hearing him talk, he’d probably keep pressing until he broke his voice box. He still could. It beckons him–beautiful, peaceful silence. It all depends on whether he’ll be contrite. 

It’s a little uncanny when he doesn’t feel clawing at his wrists. Fletcher stops flattering his own handiwork to fully concentrate on Andrew, studying any kind of struggle, cry, or lunge as an indication to stop. He double-takes when he realizes Andrew merely lies there and takes it, making no effort to throw him off or to break free. He just blinks up at Fletcher as if he’s in a trance, a subtle admiration in his gaze as he smiles placidly, gasping. Fletcher stops pressing but doesn’t let go.

“Do it.” Andrew rasps. “Go on, kill me.” He says with an appalling laugh of overeagerness, two black holes brimming with water peer into his soul while a Cheshire grin splits his face. “I’m worthless, aren’t I?! So get rid of me, find another toy! I gave you everything I had, everything. I’m useless now–I have nothing left to give. IF I DISAPPOINT YOU SO MUCH THEN WHY BOTHER LIVING?! JUST END IT ALREADY!!!”

Fletcher’s aversion persists. He’s about to scream at the boy beneath him, spit in his face, and call him dramatic. But the more he considers it, the more he realizes how grim Andrew’s future truly is. He’s forced to decide whether to help himself or not–take the long, grueling steps to overcome addiction. Even if he does end up achieving sobriety, he’s still doomed for an early death if he continues to pursue drumming, scratch that, if he chooses to stay with him. And, well, he always returns, doesn’t he?

They’re here now–the beginning of the end.

In retrospect, he shouldn’t be surprised. He was always responsible for the detrimental consequences of his self-serving edification. It didn’t count that Andrew shared the same philosophy as he did, nor that he set his mind to become a Great on his own accord. The damage is done. He knew what he was doing. What they had was always rigged to detonate. In the end, it was only a matter of who died first. It hurts even worse when he realizes he wouldn’t change a thing. He wouldn’t.

Every curse and insult Andrew shrieks falls on deaf ears as Fletcher weighs his choices. Despite the unfortunate chain of events that led up to this, he wants to make him feel good. He does, he does. It’s the least he can do while there’s still moonlight. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Fletcher faces the music. 

When he feels a fist stop pummeling his breastbone, another ache to look forward to, he nudges Andrew off to stand. Next, he motions for him to slide further towards the edge of the bed. Warily fulfilling his order, Fletcher spreads his legs apart, standing between them. Fletcher focuses on him detachedly before clutching the kid’s face, caressing his cheekbones with his thumbs, and sighing. “You complete, utter waste of space.” In one breath, he rams his dick back into Andrew’s tight ring, pelvis rolling with careless brutality.

Andrew slams his skull against the mattress as he bites down on his lips, fighting to stifle any noise that comes from his mouth. The scab reopens. “F-Ffff!! Fff-leetch-!”

“Brace yourself, you weepy cunt, it’s my turn. I don’t care what you do or don’t want, ‘cause you’re my cock sleeve, remember? That’s all. My dearest, run-of-the-mill pocket pussy.” 

“Ohhh, I fucking hate youuu…” He hoarsely cries, wrapping his giant legs around Fletcher’s torso. His heels dig into the other’s back like hooks. 

Fletcher snaps his hips with the intent to carve, each thrust sharper than the last. Andrew tries to find purchase on the other man, but Fletcher captures both his wrists and pins them on the sheets, crossing them. The keens and sobs Andrew lets loose drive him insane, prompting him to initiate an unrelenting assault. Restraint was never his strong suit, anyway. 

“You’re a goddamn cretin–a tedious, lousy, little diva whose only purpose in life is reduced to being an abhorrent masochist and an even shittier drummer, ever since he spent the rest of his mopey days getting high like a kite or spearing himself on my dick like the cheap, gutter-whore he was born to be.” He huffs over his clavicle. 

Andrew’s back arches, wriggling all over the maroon bedspread as his erection stands flush on his stomach, precum coursing down the shaft onto his belly. Fletcher takes two of his digits to gloss them in the sticky lather, bringing them up to his mouth and moaning obscenely when Andrew accepts, sucking greedily.

“Should’ve force-fed you every pill in this house till you got sick–make you wish you were dead. How long did you plan to keep this up? Gradually working your way up the drug pyramid until you OD’d with my cock still in you?” A beat passes until he feels his tongue lose its fervor, then he hears a loud strangled noise. Fletcher intently watches as Andrew’s brain short-circuits, sputtering and quivering feverishly. He can’t recall ever seeing him this pink. My, what a sicko. Fletcher can’t help but smile, whether it be from shock or awe. 

Goal-oriented, he cultivates this depraved fantasy, not sure where to start yet willing to go all out. “That’s not even the worst of it. As soon as your imprudent excuse of a family leaves your funeral, I’ll be there, waiting to desecrate you.” He presses a thumbnail to his Adam’s apple, evoking a shudder. “I’ll dig out your coffin, pry it open, and have my prize–a proper send-off for my best player. And do you know why?”

Andrew’s practically bleating now. “No, no, why, tell me, pleasepleaseplease-!” He babbles. Fletcher catches his breath and shifts his hips to a certain degree so that he’s hammering Andrew’s prostate dead on. He howls, face wet with tears as he tries to be within reach of the elder. Fletcher relents, gently caging his body over Andrew’s–hands bracketing his head. 

In a gravelly timbre, he drawls, “Because it doesn’t matter if you’re alive and well or pushing up daisies, I’ll use you to my heart’s content. ‘Cause only I own you, Andrew. Since the day we met, you were mine. Understood? Even in death, you belong to me.” Andrew cries crescendo until he can’t take it anymore, craving to close what little space is left between them. He throws his arms over Fletcher’s shoulders to bring him down into a deep, passionate kiss. Fletcher returns the kiss in full, slowing to a leisurely pace as he sucks on the boy’s tongue, swallowing each and every moan from his chapped lips. The acrid taste of metal festers. 

They continue making out as Fletcher slithers a fist around Andrew’s length. He pumps deftly, strokes syncing to the pace of his thrusts until he feels an explosion of warmth covering both their middles. Fletcher fucks him through it, striving to chase his own release. Oversensitivity makes Andrew whine in protest.

“D’you hear what I just said? How I could have you in any way I please?” He growls in his ear. Andrew frantically nods up and down like a bobble head. No further complaints received, he plows away, being as ruthless and cruel as he likes. Although he’s sore, Andrew attempts to give back here and there; Eyes clenched shut as a breathy mantra of pleas spills out, unruly and fast. 

Fletcher is so proud of him–of his endurance. It’s all too much: The sex, the sensations, them as a whole. Every cell in his body is on fire. He doesn’t want to overexert himself too much. They have a long, awful day ahead of them, though it’s easier said than done. The surplus of emotions that Andrew never fails to arise out of him overflows; The overachiever he molds himself to be solely for him adds greater fuel to the flame. What lies beneath the teacher is so much more than a body. He is a blessing, a curse, his very own monstrosity. The only person in the world who understands him and the only person in the world who chooses to be with him. His breath of fresh air. His eventual undoing. There’ll never be another like him. Never. Never. 

“I know, I know. It’s okay, I’m here. Doing so well for me right now. You always have, I made sure of that.” He wheezed, burying his face snug against Andrew’s hummingbird pulse. Instantaneously, a dam breaks. Inklings of truth metamorphosing to reckless confessions–surging from his open mouth before he can try and choke them down. “I couldn’t help you when it mattered, and I’m sorry. I still need you-I fucking,” At this, Andrew cries out, holding Fletcher’s head close to his neck, as if he held him firm enough they could somehow forge together. Become one. “Stay with me. Fuck, Andrew-!!”

***

………

It’s a miracle he didn’t have an aneurysm yet. 

He finally comes to as the ringing in his ears disperses. His steadily cooling body is slumped over Andrew’s, half on top of him, while his feet are still planted on the carpet. Doing his best to be as delicate as possible, he pulls his softening cock out from his ass, watching his seed dribble onto the bedspread in silence. He grabs a tissue from the nightstand to clean off most of the excess. Then, after he disposes of it, he sits on the edge of the mattress, ruminating over what he did.

Dread creeps in his veins and coils in his gut like a serpent. What was it that possessed him to say all that shit? What caused him to just disembowel himself so carelessly, vomiting up his insides? An overwhelming sense of guilt? Being stirred up from the physicality? Regardless, it’s out there, draped over his shoulders. More weight to carry.

Breaking his thought process, he peers back to see Andrew lying boneless, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest. The light shines on his face as he studies the ceiling, unconsciously beckoning Fletcher to reach out, stroke back the stray set of curls glued to his brow. Instead, the impulse to get away from him lodges in his brain like a bullet. He could leave right now, detach himself from this plight, migrate to his armchair, and sleep there. Nonetheless, it’s gone as quickly as it came, self-discipline and obligation solidified in his psyche. It’s nowhere near restitution, but it still matters, don’t it? It has to.

Lugging Andrew from the bedroom to the bathroom was a bitch, but at least they can shower now. As the lukewarm water rains over their heads, all of the dried-off sweat, blood, and cum washes down the drain. Fletcher scrubs shampoo on Andrew’s scalp while the latter leans back in his hold facing the nozzle. He’s too enervated to muster a single word, but he can tell that he’s trying to catch his eye, eager to soak up any semblance of comfort he can give despite the walls he’s rebuilt as a last-ditch effort. It shouldn’t pierce Fletcher this sharply, but it does–unwanted and ugly. So he obliges, providing gentle, soothing touches before the pit in his stomach grows any larger–massaging soap bubbles into every patch of skin he can reach as he reflects, taciturn.

Straight after, the taps are shut and they step out to dry. He towels off Andrew till he sees no more drops. In the course of drying him, Fletcher notices the small bruises he made when he was strangling him; A mulberry purple, parallel to the hickeys he left. His cheeks are no longer pink, but the split lip is prominent. Christ, he’s a mess. He’ll fetch some ice before they sleep. Jim’s gonna ask what the hell happened, of course, so he’ll have to weave a plausible explanation and have the kid recite it to him in the car. ‘Yeah, man, he just ran off and got mixed with a bad crowd. It’s tragic what cocaine does to people. All the trouble it brings.’ Or perhaps he can stop at a store and browse the makeup aisle for concealer. He’ll bring it to the register like it’s a gift for his daughter; Definitely isn’t the foundation of a domestic abuse PSA or anything.

Satisfied, Fletcher finishes up, wrapping the towel around his waist and guiding Andrew back to bed. He pulls back the covers and lets him plop down, but when he goes to tuck him in, Andrew immediately sits up to latch onto him, arms circling his damp torso.

“What do you think you’re-”

“I’m sorry.” Andrew apologizes over his upper abdomen, tugging him closer. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything, I mean it. I play so bad I can’t stand it and I wanna die, but I need to be better again–I know I can prove it, so just please, please don’t send me away. I can’t anymore, Fletcher, I can’t.” He finishes wetly, on the brink of tears.

Fletcher frowns at the sight, chafing away at his heartstrings with a knife. He was too busy running on autopilot to notice how upset he was. Sighing, he reaches out, rubbing his hunched shoulders up and down. “There’s nothing else I can do, Andrew. I can’t help you at all. I thought I could, but” He pauses and turns away, cringing inwardly. Look where it got you, you fucking idiot. “My hands are tied. I can’t have you like this anymore.” His palms travel higher and higher until they cup Andrew’s face, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Maybe you thought the drugs helped at first, but they don’t. They don’t help at all. Do you like being in this sorry state for weeks on end? Do you enjoy being dog shit?”

“N-No, but I…I need them. I need them, I can’t do anything without-” 

He clicks his tongue. “No, you think you need them, but you’re wrong. Even a numbskull like you knows they don’t do shit. It’s self-sabotage. Nothing more, nothing less. Do you realize how close you were to being demoted to an alternate? Or fucking dropped entirely? It doesn’t take a brainiac in that band of yours to know you’re high 24/7. Even if I never made that phone call, you’d be kicked to the curb eventually.” Andrew automatically flinches at that, but Fletcher’s hold keeps him rooted in place. “Ah-ah. You’re facing this once and for all. No more running, no more fighting, no more sex and drugs to drown out the fucking noise in your head. It’s time to get a goddamn grip and face it.”

“Yeah, right,” Andrew sneers like a child as he captures the hands on his face with his own. “As if I’d be dumb enough to be stuck at some tacky halfway house wallowing in a dirty-ass cot surrounded by other mental patients while you’re out there ready to get your grimy mitts on some other young plaything! It’s true! Admit it, you decrepit bastard!!” He screams in a guttural tone, nose bumped against his. 

Ha! Ah, shit, there really isn’t a light at the end of this tunnel, is there? He could tell Andrew everything he wanted to hear five more times in five other languages, and yet it still wouldn’t be enough; Insecurity after insecurity after insecurity. Once tonight ends, nothing will ever really change, no, not for people like them. Yesterday merely extends to tomorrow and beyond, swallowing the two in a bottomless sea of grey for the rest of their lives–art and suffering forever remaining. Truly befitting for the pair. 

Fletcher wipes away the stream of droplets staining the younger’s visage. On top of that, he leans forward until his lips press against his scalp to beg, somber and hushed: “I don’t want anyone else, you nutcase. Remember what I said back there? All of it’s true, you’re it for me. It’s you, it’s always been you. Please,” He presses kiss after kiss to matted locks, desperate to sell the point, so uncharacteristic of him it’s scary. Fletcher can hardly worry about being too earnest with his words. You can’t dig any deeper once you’ve hit rock bottom. He’d rather abandon his own pride just to preserve what’s left of his boy. It’s the furthest notion he wants to display right now, but he can curse himself in the morning. “Please…” He whispers over and over until his throat goes hoarse.

Finally, he feels him nod beneath his chin, succumbing to his mentor’s silver tongue with ease, as though it’d always come to this conclusion–a predestined fate. “…Okay, alright, fine…I’ll try.” He sniffles. Fletcher feels his muscles ease in relief, kissing him one last time in gratitude. “Gh, my head…” Andrew winces, letting go of him to clutch his temple.

“Mm. I’ll get you an Advil and water. Don’t–hey, don’t look at me like that, screwball, you’re the one who hid shit to begin with! As I was saying, don’t fall asleep yet, I have to ice your bruises.”

Andrew tries to object, but then his migraine agitates him worse, putting a pin to his clinginess. “Please be quick.”

He rolls his eyes in response and makes a beeline to the wastebasket sitting in the corner, placing it next to Andrew’s side of the bed as a precaution before ruffling his hair and slinking away to the kitchen for the required essentials. Temporarily escaping this mausoleum of a bedroom.

On the way there, Fletcher stops midway through and leans against the foyer wall, fatigue catching up to him. As his gaze lowers, he takes sight of the disregarded picture still on the floor. Undeterred by the semidarkness of the room, he walks to where it lies, wistfully recalling the moment in which it was captured; Him parading an adrenaline-shot Andrew around the lobby with a hand on the small of his back, a condescending, victorious grin tattooed across his face for the rest of the night. For as long as he was alive, he could proudly say that Carnegie was the only day in his life that he could label as ‘glorious’. And he knew that nothing else would ever compare to that day again. Not earning his degrees, his dream job, meeting his ex-wife, or becoming a father. It was that blissful understanding the two of them shared that made everything he learned, preached, and sacrificed all the more worth it. And by God, it was. Newfangled and petty, at first, but ultimately unforgettable. Exhilarating.

The most substantial piece of jazz in the twenty-first century. 

It made sense for him to try and channel that sentiment as much as possible; Recreate that performance again and again through the perfect vessel known as Andrew Neiman. And they did, originally. 

But Fletcher was a tactless individual, born and bred to be the workhorse–destined to wither and rot alone. He didn’t have the emotional capacity to realize when the seed of doubt planted itself in Andrew’s brain, and before he knew it, they were here, stuck in the doldrums. Even if he noticed a wee bit sooner, he surmises that he wouldn’t be able to alleviate his troubles. He did a fucking fantastic job with this, didn’t he? So much wasted time; Time they’ll never get back. If anything, he can only blame himself for this. He plagues everyone with his presence, poisoning them until they get the common sense to run, never return. Everyone except him. He corrupted him, and he fought back, and they knew; They’re one and the same. Except he wasn’t immune. Andrew may have been able to stomach it for this long, and yet, like every other person, nature took its course–it had to eventually. And he’ll be right on his heels when it happens.

A part of him itches to pick up the photo, pluck it off the ground, and find another frame–give it the care it deserves, but he refuses to do so at the last minute. What’s the use? He doesn’t need a reminder of what’s to lose when the empty side of the bed next to his will be all that’ll haunt him.