stilljustandrew | [ainmhianverse] same as it ever was

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.

Ah. That answers that question. Even the slightest suggestion is enough to be taken as an order. Max is going to have to watch how he phrases things. At least there's no harm in this one.

"Glad you like it," Max says in answer to that noise of pleasure. "If you are still hungry after you finish that, please tell me?"

He finishes cooking his own meal and settles down in place next to Andrew. As he does so, he thinks about what to do next. Where do they go from here?

"Do you exercise at all, Andrew?"

A faint tinge of red stains his cheeks, and he lowers his eyes to his plate.

"Not really," he says, low. "I, I used to, like ... enough so I wouldn't be totally useless in a fight? But that was ..."

He cuts off another bite of omelet with the edge of his fork, focusing closely on the movement as though needing it to be perfectly precise.

"That was a long time ago."

Max pretends not to notice that blush. Instead, he'll try to make it a little more clear why he's asking.

"That's okay. I wasn't trying to make you feel bad or anything. I just thought since it's something I do every day if you wanted to join me you could.

"Would you like to?"

He pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, looks up uncertainly.

"... Maybe? What, um ... what kind of exercise do you do?"

"Well... okay, what I do is pretty intense, so we'd start you off a lot slower. Just, so you know." He wants to make that clear upfront because Max's workout is... a lot.

"I start with a three-mile run. Then, I do weights. Then I finish out with some martial training. And stretches. I wouldn't ask you to do all that, but if you like jogging we could start there?"

Even with the disclaimer, the litany of Max's daily workout makes him shrink visibly in his seat, shoulders hunching slightly. He opens his mouth to answer, stops, starts again, stops again.

"You said," slowly, timidly, "you said I should -- I should be honest with you? About what I like?"

Ah. Okay. That's not a great reaction. It's not as if Max hasn't seen it before. He did say it was extreme.

When Andrew gapes at him that way, Max is sure he's going to have some kind of objection. But, it's a question instead. One Max is eager to answer.

"Yes. I did. So, please, tell me."

He looks down at his plate again, and when that's not enough to brace himself, he shuts his eyes.

"I really don't like jogging," he says in a rush.

"Oh." Max laughs, and then catches himself. It's just that Andrew said it like some kind of confessed sin but... it's really not.

"Is that all? Andrew, that's fine. Tons of people don't like jogging. I'm not going to make you."

Max actually isn't sure even he likes jogging. But he does it anyway out of habit.

"I'm just throwing out ideas. But, if you have one you can offer, I'd love to hear what you would like doing."

He looks up again at Max's reassurance, relief plain on his face.

"... For exercise? I don't know. I ... weights, maybe? And I, I could try martial arts again, even ... even though I've probably forgotten everything I used to know."

A pause, and then lower: "I don't want to fight for real, though."

"Those both sound like excellent ideas to me. What kind of martial art did you practice? I know two, which I'd be willing to train you in." More than willing.

He keeps is tone gentle when he adds, "That's the nice thing about this world. There's no need to fight for real. As long as you stay out of the wilds, there's no real danger. Nothing you'll need to defend yourself from." Sure, there are people, but the majority of them manage to stay non-confrontational and he can't see anyone having a reason to attack Andrew, of all people. They'll be hearing from Max if they do.

"I've never lived in a more peaceful place."

"I don't ... if it had a name, what I used to do, I don't remember it. But I'll learn whatever you want to teach me. Whatever would --"

His eyes are suddenly bright. Eager isn't quite the word for the look on his face; fervent might be closer.

"Whatever would make me a good companion for you. That's what I want."

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