Work Text:
Halse
Bad news kids
My head’s fucking killing me so you’re gonna have to go without me tonight
Ethan
Boo you whore
Luca
You’re hungover at 9 PM? For real?
Ethan
Riley also says you’re a whore
Halse
Fuck off
I don’t have that bad of a drinking problem
Riley
LIES
I called you an old man
Andrew
If he’s a whore, what does that make me
Ethan
A supporter of local businesses
Halse
Thanks for the concern, guys
Don’t get into too much trouble
“The hell are you doing here?”
In spite of his greeting, Sam doesn’t look upset when Andrew lets himself in. He’s stretched out on the couch with the TV remote in one hand, a tumbler of bourbon in the other; the scene might have passed for any other Friday night if he hadn’t swaddled himself in about three different blankets and a hoodie.
Well, that and the fact that his voice cracks on ‘you’, the rest of the sentence a barely audible hiss.
“Riley said you’re probably sick if you ditch ‘cause of a headache,” Andrew explains as he toes out of his shoes, a plastic shopping bag looped over one arm. It’s his first time back at Sam’s place in a month, and only the second time seeing him in that stretch of time, but the room feels the same as it always did; the smell is familiar, the way he kicks his Vans perfectly onto the pile of Sam’s shoes is a retained muscle memory, the smirk on Sam’s face is the same one Andrew fell for what seems like an entire lifetime ago.
Sam rolls his eyes and takes a sip from his glass. “And did my meddling cousin also tell you I’m a huge pain in the ass when I don’t feel good?”
“Can’t be any worse than your usual.” After a quick trip to the kitchen, Andrew stands near the arm of the couch and rests a hand on Sam’s scalp, then slides it down his neck, onto his chest. Leaning over, he kisses Sam’s forehead, murmuring, “You take anything, or are you just planning on being drunk until you’re better?”
Sam tilts his head back and meets Andrew’s gaze. “Took an aspirin earlier. And the bourbon’s just for the cough.” His eyes, even the unseeing one, are glassy with fever, the scar over the left side of his face made more prominent by a slight flush.
“That so?”
“Mostly.” Cracking a smile, Sam nods toward the other end of the couch. “Get up here so I can see your pretty face without snapping my neck.”
As told, Andrew settles in, his legs bent and slotted between Sam’s—it’s not as much contact as he wants, but it’s something. “You seemed fine last night,” he says, finding Sam’s foot under the blanket and tracing circles over his ankle bone. Granted, they hadn’t had much in the way of conversation, reuniting after Sam’s weeks of withdrawal from the world—Andrew’s world—but he would have noticed if Sam’s voice sounded like this when he was pressing him into the mattress and telling him to be good and to wait and don’t I always take care of you, princess? and say it, say that you’re mine, Andrew.
Nodding, Sam sniffles and clears his throat. “Felt fine. Started feeling shitty after work, thought I could just sleep it off, woke up like this.”
“You eat?”
Sam nods, but Andrew stares at him until he heaves out a sigh, saying, “Christ, you’re annoying. Boxed mashed potatoes. And an egg.”
Through the blanket, Andrew gently squeezes Sam’s calf. “Your throat hurt?”
“Like fucking knives.”
“I brought popsicles.”
A look spreads across Sam’s face that Andrew can’t quite place—it’s like the way he looked at Andrew when he was getting dressed this morning: a quiet admiration, his features relaxed. “You’re sweet,” he says, rubbing a hand over the side of his neck. “Anything but grape, if you’ve got it.”
Andrew gets up, pausing to kiss Sam’s forehead again on the way to the kitchen. “And take another aspirin—you’re warm.”
“Not even gonna call me hot?” Pouting, Sam picks up the bottle of pills from the coffee table; when Andrew returns with popsicles, Sam’s setting his glass of bourbon beside the aspirin. “Thanks, princess,” he drawls when Andrew hands over the popsicle (red); Andrew’s cheeks flush and Sam smirks. “You like when I call you that, huh?”
“You fucking know I do.” Settling back on his end of the couch, Andrew tears open the package of his popsicle. “Not fair to tease me when you can’t deliver.”
Sam looks Andrew straight in the eyes and proceeds to take nearly the whole popsicle into his mouth. It would have been insanely arousing if not for the fact that a second later, Sam twists away, coughing against his upper arm. There’s not really anything Andrew can do beyond sliding a hand under the blanket and trailing his fingers over Sam’s bare shin, hoping to provide the tiniest bit of comfort. When Sam finally stops coughing, Andrew beckons him to sit up.
“You deserved that.” Fault aside, Andrew rubs Sam’s back with his free hand; his shirt’s tacky with sweat, body heat radiating through.
“Just a little,” Sam agrees, voice catching at the end as he coughs a few more times. After, he makes a pained sound, almost a whine, and closes his eyes. “Hurts like a bitch.”
“Sounds like it.” Andrew slides his hand to Sam’s opposite shoulder, tugging him a little closer. Hearing Sam admit to being in pain takes him back to the barn, to knowing Sam was hurting and being unable to help, unable to even hold him for fear of sharing his curse. It’s different now, of course, but still—Sam’s not the kind of guy to complain about nothing. “Maybe you should just call it a night and go to bed.”
Shaking his head, Sam gestures to the TV with his popsicle, saying, “After this,” before sticking it in his mouth and sucking on it in a way not intended to get Andrew hard, thank Christ.
It’s a legal drama, and coming in halfway through isn’t doing Andrew any favors in understanding it. He’s content to just sit with Sam, rubbing his neck and shoulders until Sam relaxes back to lean on the cushions, pinning Andrew’s arm in place around him. When he finishes his popsicle, he hands the stick to Andrew wordlessly before closing his eyes; Andrew would rather not entirely lose feeling in his arm while sitting on this ancient couch, but he’s not about to make Sam stay up to finish this stupid show. Gently, he squeezes Sam’s arm with his trapped hand. “Go to bed, Sam.”
Sam makes a sound of disagreement, settling even further in and resting his head on Andrew’s. “Once this’s over,” he repeats, sniffling and rubbing the cuff of his sweatshirt under his nose. “‘s the end of a two-parter.” With a huffed breath of a laugh, Andrew kisses Sam’s temple before settling their heads together again. When the show finally ends, he’s sure that Sam’s asleep from how heavily he leans against Andrew, but then Sam clears his throat and says, “Wasn’t worth stayin’ up for.”
“Sure wasn’t,” Andrew agrees. “Now go to bed. And I’m not gonna let you big spoon if you don’t change that sweatshirt.”
Getting to his feet, Sam downs his remaining sip of bourbon and returns the glass to the table. “Bold demand for a guy who invited himself over.”
Andrew’s protest stops mid-sentence when Sam heads down the hall without so much as a glance backward. He’s been so careful not to push his way back into Sam’s life, to understand that they—each of them individually, yes, but also them together—have been fundamentally changed. There are still times where Sam is distant, times like the last few weeks where he asks for space, when the memory rises out of his bones and keeps him from even touching Andrew, but he’s always kind about it; that doesn’t make it easy, though at this point Andrew knows he’ll come back eventually. But he wants to help, to take care of his boyfriend, to stay.
He’s mentally preparing himself to head back to the house on Capitol—home is a harder thing to define these days, but a house stays a house—when Sam returns, pulling a t-shirt over his bare chest. “Sweatshirt was kinda gross. Can’t promise I won’t still get my germs all over you tonight, though.” When his gaze lands on Andrew, his brows draw together in a frown. “Everything okay?”
Andrew swallows down the lump in his throat and gets up, pulling Sam into a hug for the first time since he arrived. It feels right, even though Sam’s too warm in spite of the aspirin. “Yeah,” he says, feeling Sam’s arms close around him. “Just thinking too much.”
“Clearly not thinking enough if you’re gonna spend the night with me.” Sam’s voice, lower than usual and congested, is still soothing, the words whispered into Andrew’s hair. “Got better things to do with your time than catch this.”
Sighing out a deep breath, Andrew sinks into the embrace, careful not to put all his weight on Sam. “I’ll be fine.”
“Doubt that.”
“I’ll manage,” Andrew corrects, forehead tucked into Sam’s neck. “You sure it’s alright if I stay?”
Sam slips a hand under the hem of Andrew’s shirt, resting a callused palm firmly on his low back. “Yeah,” he says, nosing through Andrew’s curls to kiss his head. “Spent enough time without you already—and I know that’s on me.” Stepping back enough to see Andrew’s face, he cradles his jaw in his other hand. “I’m still yours, Andrew.”
Before Andrew can answer, Sam twists away, sneezing twice against his upper arm. He shakes his head as he turns back to Andrew, still clearly expecting a response, bleary as his gaze is. Andrew takes a breath and lets Sam’s words sink in. “Yeah, you are.”
Sam keeps his hand on Andrew’s back as they walk to the bedroom, only letting go of him long enough for them to get under the covers before wrapping himself back around Andrew. “Glad you came by,” he says. “Probably woulda just fallen asleep on the couch if you didn’t.”
“Glad you didn’t come driving tonight.” Andrew puts his hand over Sam’s on his chest.
Sam laughs, then muffles a few coughs against the pillow. “Would not have been pretty.”
“Would’ve been an easy win for me, though.”
“What you’re supposed to say is that I’m always pretty, Blur.”
With a sigh, Andrew brings Sam’s hand up, mouthing kisses against his knuckles. “You’re really fishing for compliments tonight.”
“‘m sick, you gotta be nice to me.”
Andrew presses Sam’s palm back to his chest. “You’re very pretty,” he says, “and handsome, and fuckable, even though you’re gonna spend all night making gross sick sounds in my ear.”
“Thank you.” Sam’s lips press to the back of Andrew’s neck in a soft kiss. “G’night, darlin’.”
Closing his eyes, Andrew lets Sam’s words roll over him like a blanket, his accent broad and thick on the pet name. “‘night, Sam.”
Sure enough, Sam goes from awake and sniffling to asleep and snoring; his arm stays tight around Andrew, keeping him close even in sleep.