We Could Be So Good

by Cat Sebastian

And he wants Andy. God, he wants Andy. He’s been trying not to think about it, but there’s really no avoiding it, not with Andy there every morning and every night. His heart’s already a little broken, so why not break it all the way through.

He meant what he said when he told Andy that they were always going to be okay, and he thinks Andy feels the same.

Nick wakes to an empty apartment. It’s quiet. Peaceful, even, without Andy dropping cans of shaving cream and begging for more coffee. Nick hates it.

He gets a chicken salad sandwich (which makes him miss Andy, because he is ridiculous)

He doesn’t feel like carrying him downstairs, so instead he opens a can of tuna fish and puts it on the floor, then watches the cat scream bloody murder at the can before realizing that it’s food. Even the company of the world’s least competent cat is better than no company at all.

A month ago Nick would have laughed at the idea, but at this point he doesn’t have much doubt that Andy is attracted to him, at least a little, at least in theory.

“I know,” Nick says, because he does. “It’s too quiet here, too.” That’s the closest he can get to telling Andy that he misses him—both because of the operator who might be listening in and because he doesn’t trust himself to say it calmly. I miss you seems like the key to a door that he doesn’t know if he ought to open.

“Andy?” “Yeah, Nick?” “I’m really glad you called.” “Me too.” Nick sits on the floor, holding the phone long after the line goes dead.

“I missed you.” Nick feels shy saying it, even though it isn’t even close to the sappiest thing he’s said to Andy, or Andy to him. But now I missed you carries an extra weight that’s new and a little unwieldy.

the fact of the matter is that he’d rather have an unpleasant conversation than risk hurting Andy.

Nick has no idea what’s going on, but Andy’s pleading with him and it doesn’t matter what he’s asking for; Nick will give it to him.

anyway, the one thing I do know is that I want to be with you.” He takes a deep breath. “And you didn’t believe me.”

And with Andy sitting beside him, cradling a stupid jar of sauce, occasionally flicking pleased, shy glances in his direction, he’s almost prepared to believe good things, however far-fetched.

Andy twists them around so it’s Nick’s back against the wall, which is not a position he’s ever spent much time in, but with Andy it’s fine. Andy can shove him into however many walls he pleases.

“Nick,” Andy says, half laughing, but with this shuddering little rasp in his voice that makes Nick glad he has the wall to prop him up.

“How are you so calm about this?” Nick asks. “I once saw you almost hyperventilate when the supermarket was out of your favorite brand of applesauce. But having a gay affair doesn’t even ruffle your feathers?”

But that’s already impossible, with Andy upstairs and his old desk empty and uncluttered for the first time in a year, not so much as a gum wrapper in sight. Nick can hardly look at the thing.

And that’s too bad, because Nick has never heard of that world, but Andy looks so earnest and lovely and righteous that Nick has to kiss him.

okay, that’s probably a hundred-dollar coat sitting in a puddle on Nick’s floor, and nobody cares. All that matters is the grip of Andy’s hands, the slide of his mouth over Nick’s jaw, the press of his hips.

He’s thought too much about this, imagined Andy in every possible way, and the reality of him flushed and naked in Nick’s bed, the reality of his hands on Nick’s body, completely undoes him.

Now when he looks at Andy, he doesn’t even see his component parts unless he makes himself pay attention. Instead it all coalesces into the shape of Nick’s favorite person.

“Every time you loosen your tie or unbutton your shirt, I can’t look away. I love that spot.” He reaches up and kisses it. “I couldn’t be in the same room as that spot without eventually considering whether I might be at least a little queer. And then when I moved in here, I saw it every day, because you don’t understand shirts, and now I’m committed to lewdness and homosexuality. And probably communism. We’ll find out, I guess.”

He’s a little breathless, and he’s definitely looking for a compliment. Nick will give him compliments until his throat goes hoarse, if that’s what he wants.

Andy would eat a bowl of motor oil if Nick put it in front of him and it’s completely insane that Nick doesn’t seem to already know this.

Andy falls asleep to the feel of Nick’s hand stroking his hair, and he can’t remember if he asked Nick to do that or if Nick somehow knew.

But Andy wants this—he wants Nick’s warmth, he wants the feel of Nick’s solid body pressed against him, he wants Nick’s gentle words and the kiss he absently drops on the top of Andy’s sweaty head. He’s miserable and sick and inexplicably sad and he doesn’t have enough strength to go away.

Around lunch, he runs out of orange juice, which is presently the only thing giving him a will to live.

One floor down, there’s a dog who loses her mind when her owner comes home, running in circles and letting out little yelps of delight as soon as she hears the key turn in the lock. Lying on the sofa, Andy can hear the owner try unsuccessfully to quiet the dog. This, minus the running in circles, is how Andy feels when Nick comes home.

Nick leans back to regard him skeptically, which is fair since Andy would probably have said he felt better even if he were on fire.

Nick says, and it doesn’t even sound like an admission, just a fact freely offered up for Andy’s satisfaction. Surely Nick knows what Andy was getting at with his questions, but he let Andy have it anyway, held out his own morsel of vulnerability in exchange for Andy’s.

When he looks at Nick, merrily puttering away in his kitchen, he has no idea whether Nick views what they’re doing as fooling around or as a prelude to something else. Because he can feel it, that possibility of something else—there might not be a wedding or a house in Connecticut, there might not be children and a Labrador and the settled vision of life he’s always longed for, but Andy knows in his heart that he could hold on tight to Nick and keep doing what they’re doing and have that be it.

“I swear to God, Andrew Fleming, if you use the word canoodling one more time, my dick will never get hard again.”

He isn’t sure why he isn’t having a crisis about this. Maybe he’s just full up on crises and doesn’t have time for another.

The worst is when Nick says Andy, sweetheart, and Andy says nothing at all because the only words his mouth could possibly form are I love you and he can’t say that.

He says it like it’s an actual question, like he doesn’t know the answer, when to Andy it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He doesn’t know how anything between them could be anything but good.

“Oh yeah. Sure, it’s right over by the— No, I fucking don’t have any Plato in my apartment, for fuck’s sake, Andrew.”

Nick answers, and, honestly, somebody speaking a language that literal millions of other people speak shouldn’t affect Andy in quite this way. In fact, there’s the butcher speaking Italian right now, and Andy in no way wants to push that man against the counter and do lewd things to him. It’s just a language! Jesus.

If Nick wants flowers, then Andy will fill the apartment with every bouquet and posy and arrangement he can get his hands on. He’ll raid a florist. He’ll break into a funeral home—which, all right, maybe not that.

“I got these for you.” Andy makes himself tag on those last two words so Nick will know this wasn’t an errand; it’s a gesture. It’s someone bringing flowers to the person he loves. Simple as that.

“What do I wear?” Nick stands in front of his closet. “No tie. Gray pants. Sleeves rolled up.” Nick shoots Andy a skeptical look over his shoulder. “Sleeves rolled up? That’s part of the dress code?” “Yeah. It would be bad manners for you to hide those away,” he says, gesturing at Nick’s forearms. “Sorry you didn’t know that.”

“Anyone who brings out a bongo will have me to answer to,” Nick says darkly, leaning in the kitchen doorway. He hadn’t been in the room when Andy came in from the fire escape and now Andy feels himself smile up at him, helpless and fond.

“You jilted me,” answers Andy. “I’m only dancing with people who haven’t jilted me.” He blows her a kiss and she sticks her tongue out at him. He catches Nick’s eye over Linda’s shoulder, and he’s looking fondly between Andy and Emily, and something gives way in Andy’s heart, some final defense he hadn’t known he still had.

Families might usually be bonded by blood, but maybe sometimes they’re bonded by shared secrets, by a delicate mixture of caution and faith, by the conviction that hiding together is better in every way than hiding alone.

“Earlier,” Nick says, “I wanted to dance with you.” Andy had wanted that, too. “You weren’t missing out on much.”

“This is all my fault,” he says, wrapping his arms around Nick’s neck. “I thought you understood. But I forgot that you’re a goddamn idiot.” He kisses the corner of Nick’s stupid mouth. “I love you. I love you and I’m in love with you. I don’t know how to make this clearer. I’m not biding my time here. I’m here.”

“Listen to me.” Nick’s voice is low. “Sweetheart, listen.” But Andy doesn’t want to listen. “I don’t want you to leave me.” “Baby, I’m not leaving you. I told you, I didn’t accept the offer.”

He’s been fixating on the notion of settling down, of having someone to come home to, but that’s only possible in a world where you’re allowed space to settle. Maybe Nick’s known this all along.

He doesn’t care if the world wants to give him space to make a life. He’s going to push and shove until he and Nick have the space they need and then he’s going to build the kind of life they want. If he wants someone to come home to, and if Nick wants to be that person, then Andy’s going to make sure they have it.

You’ll be loved by the best person you know. And that’s—Christ, it’s not enough, but it’s enough to start with.

Now when he thinks of where Andy belongs, he sees bare feet on the old green sofa, and he doesn’t know whether he’s deluding himself.