stilljustandrew | [ainmhianverse] same as it ever was

"Because --"

It's like being asked why he would think dropped objects fall to the ground; he's visibly floundering for an explanation.

"Because that's your bed."

"Yeah, it's mine. And I can choose to share it with anyone I want, can't I? You won't be the first I've slept next to here, I promise."

Max gets up and motions for Andrew to follow. "Come on. There's no way I'm letting you sleep on the floor. I told you, I'm a doting Master."

He pulls open his wardrobe and pulls out an oversized tank top. "Here, you can sleep in this too."

He follows immediately at Max's gesture, and takes hold of the offered garment like he's been handed something impossibly precious, bundling it to his chest.

"Thank you, my l -- Max. Max," he repeats, lower, trying to fix it in his mind.

"You'll get the hang of it," Max says with some amusement, to mask the inner turmoil still roiling in his belly every time Andrew almost calls him Lord or Master.

He needs to get used to the idea. He needs to truly accept this role he's taken. But it still leaves an acrid taste on the back of his tongue. Eventually, he'll get the hang of it too. He has to.

"Go ahead and change, okay?"

Max pulls out a near-identical shirt for himself. He takes it a little distance away to the bed and starts undressing. Removing everything down to his black boxer briefs. Then he throws on the tank top and checks to see how Andrew is doing.

"Don't worry about folding your clothes. The fae have a laundry service."

Andrew undresses to change without much in the way of physical modesty, except for turning away to face the wall, which might be as much to not watch Max undress as anything else. Under the newbie linens, his body is pale and soft and unmarked by any scar -- except for those bands of withered skin around his wrists.

The tank top falls well past his waist, almost covering the briefs he's left on. Something about that, or maybe that in combination with his too-long hair and his hesitant posture, makes him look impossibly young.

He glances up at Max's reassurance, and nods. "Where should I put them?"

Andrew undresses with no hint of shame, which is both a comfort and not. Max takes a moment to discretely check him over for more signs of trauma like those marks on his wrists. He's relieved not to find anything else. At the same time... that proves nothing.

Max's own skin is free of blemishes and marks, save for the brand he bears. So, he knows precisely how easy it is to heal the outward marks. And how sometimes that makes it worse because when it's all said and done, there aren't even scars to prove what you've gone through.

"There's a hamper by the bed. That should do." He points to a wicker basket in the corner opposite Andrew. "Toss them in there and climb in."

He will wait until Andrew actually gets in the bed before he does himself. He's still half-afraid the man will try to get on the floor at the last minute.

He drops his clothes into the hamper, and slowly makes his way to the bed.

There's an impulse, a strong one, to curl up at the foot of the bed like a dog -- but he's already coming to understand that Max wouldn't approve. So he takes a breath, and climbs up as though getting into a bed of his own, and sits there with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them to wait for his master.

"Good," Max praises. He saw Andrew fight that impulse. Already that's progress.

Max slides in under the covers and turns over to look at his--Pet. Images of how he and Erik used to lie together every night flood back unexpectedly. Max never hated that part...

"So you know, if you feel like you want to snuggle close or anything, that's okay. I'm okay with that. If it would comfort you?"

A hard lump rises in his throat, and his eyes burn, and for a moment he can't make a single sound. He can't move, either, can't make himself believe it's possible to move.

It's too much, too good, how could he possibly be allowed this --

Finally he manages to nod, and to keep nodding as vehemently as he can.

There's that terrifying moment where Max thinks he's made another grievous misstep. The Andrew starts nodding, and keeps doing it until he looks almost like an absurd bobblehead.

"Okay. Come here then." He opens his arms and beckons Andrew in. "I never really liked sleeping alone."

Andrew crawls into Max's arms and clings close, buries his face in his chest. He can feel his own chest hitching and struggles to suppress it; it'll upset Max if he cries again, he doesn't have any reason to cry, this is good --

He isn't aware that he's trembling, just the smallest bit, with the effort to stay silent.

Andrew feels like a leaf shaking in the wind. Max pulls him in tighter.

"I know this is a lot all at once. I don't blame you for being overwhelmed. Just know that you're safe here. Whatever happens, I'm going to make sure you're okay. Okay? so if you need to cry, cry. And I'll hold you just like this."

This time, if he can't keep from crying altogether, at least he can cry silently. Or near-silently, with no more noise than irregular stifled breaths. It feels like a release this time, a comfort in itself, made almost sublime by the added comfort of Max's strong arms around him.

It feels so good that slowly, gradually, it brings the fear back. This can't possibly be allowed; this can't possibly be true.

And with all his defenses down, all his resolve exhausted, he can't stop himself from voicing it, in a low hoarse whisper: "Please don't go. Please be real, please, I -- I'm afraid I'll wake up and you'll be a dream."

For the longest time, Max says nothing. He holds Andrew and listens to the soft crying, trying his damndest not to add his own tears to it.

He can remember nights like these when he first got to the city. He'd cried in his lover's arms, and felt that same wonderful release. Now he can pay it forward.

"I'm real. This is real. You're finally safe." Max caresses Andrew's tearstained face and stretches forward to kiss his crown. "You can rest. I swear, I'll be right here tomorrow morning. So sleep. Sleep." Max says a little firmer the second time. A gentle order.

"I'll be right here."

As though the command has freed him of every other possible worry or consideration, Andrew lets out a long sigh and relaxes completely, bonelessly, in Max's arms.

"Yes, Max," he whispers, eyes closed, already sounding halfway to sleep.

It isn't very long before he's all the way there.

Max lets out a relieved breath the moment he feels Andrew go limp in his arms. As gutwrenching as ordering the poor man still feels, he's glad he can use it for good. He's glad he can be here for Andrew.

Max lets that thought carry him off to sleep too. And, thankfully, it will be a gentle slumber, not filled with the all too frequent nightmares he's used to. Having someone to sleep next to helps those.

The next morning, at 5:30, Max's phone goes off. He quickly plucks it up to turn it off, trying his best not to move too much in a possibly vain hope of not rousing Andrew yet. He's kicking himself for forgetting the alarm. Just this once, they could afford to sleep in, couldn't they?

The first blast of the alarm is joined by a blurred, muffled bleat from Andrew as he's kicked into consciousness. He struggles blindly against the enveloping arm and blanket, with no clear idea where he is, only that it isn't where he's supposed to be --

And then he twists around and blinks up into Max's face, and goes utterly still.

"Damn," Max says with an apologetic note. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." That scared bleat is enough to break Max's heart all over again. Maybe he should find a better alarm tone.

He holds Andrew loosely, not wanting to make the struggles worse by seeming to keep him too trapped, while also not wanting him to accidentally fall out of bed. When the man finally looks at him and freezes, all Max can think to do is smile encouragingly back at him.

"Good morning...? Sleep okay?"

Andrew blinks, then smiles, small and wondering -- the smile of someone waking to find, beyond all hope, that a beautiful dream hasn't vanished on waking.

"Yes, m-Max. Good ... good morning?"

"Morning."

Max is struck by the absurd urge to kiss Andrew good morning on the forehead. Would he like that? Would it be too much? He just looks so... happy. In such a pure way. Max resists, thinking it better not to overwhelm him.

"Hungry? I can make us something to eat before I head out for my exercise routine."

He feels happy. And for right now, at least, it's a wholly uncomplicated happiness.

"Yes, please. I -- can I do anything? To help, or ...?"

(It's not something he would ever have asked Lucifer, but Max doesn't have a household of servants already handling every mundane chore; maybe there's something useful he could do.)

Max's immediate inclination is to say no. He doesn't need any help. But, then he reconsiders. Would sitting and being waited on be more torturous than relaxing? Would it help Andrew if he felt helpful?

"Sure. You know how to start the coffee machine? If you could get us a pot going and then make the bed for me after, that would be great."

He sits up and stretches, with a lazy yawn. Then, he'll head into the kitchen and start gathering supplies for an omelet.

"I'll look," he says, and shifts to the other side of the bed to get up.

(He doesn't let his eye linger on Max when he stretches. It's an automatic, unthinking avoidance; he may not even be aware he's doing it.)

The coffee machine isn't the same model he used to know, and it's been years, but the function is similar enough and simple enough that it doesn't give him any trouble. He finds the ground coffee and filters, prepares the pot, starts the drip going.

It's a strange feeling, both pleasant and anxiety-inducing, to be doing this. He has to fight the urge to ask Max to check his work.

Max doesn't notice his avoidance immediately, he's still shaking off the last of his own weariness and focussed on the task ahead of him.

He does look over with approval when the rich scent of coffee starts to fill the air. "Mmmm," he hums, "smells good already."

His eggs shape up quickly too. He flips it once then adds a little spring onion, some bacon crumbles, and cheddar in. Soon after, he'll be plating the first omelet and sliding it before Andrew.

"Go ahead and start eating that so it doesn't go cold. I'll have mine done soon." It's spoken as a friendly gesture but it remains to be seen how Andrew will take it.

Andrew's still working on making the bed, and hesitates before stopping -- but no, that was a clear order, and so it doesn't go cold is unequivocal in its immediacy. "Yes, Max," he says, drops the sheet untucked, and makes a beeline for the counter and his breakfast, pausing only to add a hurried "Thank you" before picking up the fork.

At the first mouthful he makes an involuntary sound of pleasure. It's good, hot and savory, the contrasting flavors and textures perfectly balanced.

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