Chapter Text
Dean always thought that he and Aidan were binary. That they were two objects orbiting around the same center of gravity, always moving in the same direction.
Then filming ended, and press ended. It was all ending and Dean felt like the biggest chapter of his life was closing.
He fights with himself, tells himself he shouldn’t just let good friends drift into that space of acquaintances. That awkward and in between. Especially not Aidan.
The first week is ok, and so is the second. He thinks that he can do this.
The third week isn’t the best.
By the end of the first month Dean is in his own hell.
He is agonizing over emails and text messages. Wondering what time it is in Ireland, if he should bother sending anything at all.
He thinks that Hey is too informal, Hello is too formal and Hi doesn’t seem to look right there on the screen staring back at him. He hits the delete button more times than he should. Wears down the keys on his keyboard. Thinks that somewhere out there in space there is a pocket where all of these deleted words are going.
He doesn’t know how this is supposed to work. Long distance. Doesn’t understand the miles of ocean and land and how technology is just supposed to make up for all of it.
He finally shoots Aidan a text after he sees a spread of him in a magazine wearing a shirt that says MY FACE IS UP HERE. Dean smiles when he sees it, know that his dimples are showing.
I’m sure the whole world knows where your face is.
DELETE.
Dean sighs, knows that it shouldn’t be this hard.
How much Guinness did you drink after you finished the first season of Poldark?
SEND.
He knows the shape Aidan was in for filming, may have saved a photo or two to his computer. He also knows how much it probably killed Aidan to cut back on his favorite things to keep that body.
He puts his phone in his pocket, thinks about turning off all of his notifications. The phone vibrates as soon as it’s tucked away. Dean pulls it out.
I got absolutely smashed! I also went to my mums and ate so much food that I couldn’t fit into my pants for about a week.
Dean laughs harder than he should.
Dean starts keeping his phone closer and with the volume on.
Had to travel into London today. Please tell me you remember that time you got so lit that you tried jumping off of the bridge by parliament?
Aidan I swear we both remember that night very differently.
Dean does remember that night. It’s hazy and comes to him in bits and pieces. How Aidan’s curls blew in the night wind as they stood on the bridge looking out over the water. He remembers feeling so happy that he thought he could fly.
You were talking about how you could fly.
You were wasted as well Turner. I do remember you being so drunk that you took a piss in the church yard.
I bought a camera today. Thought that you would be proud of me.
Please don’t start asking me how to develop prints.
You’re the best photographer I know!
Aidan, I’m the only photographer you know.
Also I don’t think rainy photos of the Guinness factory are what people want to see pictures of.
The sun is out today, thank you very much.
I’m not even going to ask why you happen to be there.
Personal invite :)
It’s easier than Dean thinks, this back and forth. He gets to keep Aidan but on his terms. With Aidan so far away he never really worries about rejection, or Aidan finding out how Dean really feels when he notices that maybe Dean’s gaze flicks to Aidan’s mouth a little too much.
Sometimes I forget how things looked in New Zealand.
Yeah well maybe you should come out here sometime.
Dean wants to delete it, to pull it back across the earth and never even have thought of it.
Yeah? I think it would be good to refresh my memory.
It’s a maybe of a plan but Dean feels himself clinging to it. It’s why he never wanted to say anything in the first place.
Dean tries not to make texting Aidan a habit, tries not to make it a regular addicting occurrence.
He lets the days fall into weeks without texting.
What are you doing Deano?
Taking some pictures.
Isn’t it like 1am there?
Yeah it is.
What the hell are you taking pictures of?
I have an art show coming up in a few weeks.
You didn’t tell me!
It’s not that big of a deal, just a small gallery in Wellington.
Ok well since it’s not that big of a deal then what are you taking pictures of at 1am when you should be sleeping?
If I should be sleeping then why did you text me in the first place?
I had an idea.
And what was this idea Turner?
That we should see each other.
They don’t text for a few days after that. Neither one of them wanting to know what that text really meant. Dean spends an exuberant amount of time going back to his phone and looking at that text.
Dean finds an older photograph of Aidan.
He finally let’s go of whatever has happened and calls Aidan.
Time dwindles down and Dean gets lost in working on the pieces to his gallery showing. Before he knows it he is standing in the middle of a room as he is surrounded by strangers looking at his photographs.
He tries not to make it obvious. Tries. Tries. Tries. Fails. Dean guesses it's obvious, that here in this showroom filled with his photographs how much he wants Aidan.
There was a theme to the photos once, he supposes, something completely different than what he is currently looking at. It’s all turned into vast sweeping landscapes of New Zealand. He supposes it’s because he had the intention of sending them to Aidan in an email after they gallery with an attachment that read. Since you forgot what it looked like.
There is a photo that everyone seems to be looking at. It's an older photo from a premiere in Paris.
Dean had knocked on Aidan's hotel room door to see if he wanted to go explore the city. The dirtier parts, the parts you don't hear about when people talk about their holiday trip. Graffitied walls telling stories and trash-filled streets.
Aidan was shirtless, his pants hanging low from his hips with a cigarette dangling out of his plush lips. Dean had looked away, rubbed the back of his neck, tried not to focus on the sight of him.
Aidan had walked to the balcony; sunlight streaming in the open door. He turned to face Dean. It was obvious he had just woken up, acknowledging Dean with only a nod of the head. Aidan had taken a drag of his cigarette, parting his lips while keeping the cigarette between his teeth to blow out the smoke. Dean snapped a picture. He couldn't explain to Aidan why, but Aidan was used to Dean and his camera by now.
So Dean just mumbled sorry and then asked if Aidan wanted to sight see with him. Aidan agreed, while tossing on a shirt. They spent the day learning the city together; just learning the avenues and metro stops, standing on the crowded train cars, falling into each other with each jerky motion. They went to cafes with the strongest espresso they had ever experienced and a wine bar where he and Aidan were more knocking back glasses than experiencing wine from France's famous vineyards.
Now Dean is standing in this gallery, showing off his work, and he's trying to think about why he thought it was a good idea to show this picture.
It's black and white, the sun hitting behind Aidan's hair to form a halo, as tendrils of smoke get caught in the sun's rays. The curve of his hip bones and tempting trail of hair leading down underneath his pants making a long inviting line. Part of Aidan's face is covered with smoke. He's half angel, half devil and all sin. Dean thinks this picture is something he should go to a confessional for.
He asked Aidan if he could put it in the gallery, asked if Aidan wanted to see it. They were on the phone when he asked, and Aidan said he trusted Dean's judgement. Dean swore he could hear the smile in Aidan's voice.
This picture was a way to relive the memory. He thought he was moving on, until he saw it framed and hanging for all to see.
All of a sudden Dean wants to rush to the photo to throw something over it. He wants to protect it, wants to be the only one to see it, and wants the memory to stay his.
Yeah, this is failing, Dean thinks to himself.
Dean puts on a smile, a show, thanks everyone who compliments him, and never gives the truth about the photo. He listens to everyone's commentary on it. It looks like a promise, one person says and Dean feels this crushing ache deep in his chest.
There should be more like this.
There's something about it. It's very intimate. Like maybe I shouldn't be looking at something so private.
Everyone wants to know how he captured the image.
How many photos were there like this one? How many hours did he spend trying to get it?
It's an anomaly, Dean wants to say, I took it on a whim when Aidan didn't know. Dean wants to craft a lie so intricate that not even he will remember why he took this particular photo.
The truth: Friends don't take pictures like this of their friends.
The staggering truth: Dean feels like he's the Statue of Atlas, frozen and sentenced to carry the weight of the universe on his shoulders. He wonders if anyone thinks he looks like carved marble. He feels he is.
It's coming to an end. There was a reporter for a paper, a few bloggers; the turnout was bigger than Dean had anticipated.
He's standing in the middle of this vast room, looking at the photo; how light is bringing out details he's never seen before. When he closes his eyes the image is still burned into them.
The catering crew is cleaning up. The owner of the gallery is talking to a few other people.
He senses something, a paradigm shift in the universe. It’s as if the air is different, crackling with memories of filming as Dean feels nostalgia of those times wash over him. Dean turns to see Aidan standing there, mouth slightly parted, hair an array of dark curls.
“Aidan.” It's tumbles from Dean's lips, out into the space between them.
Neither one of them move. They stand there with what feels like continents between them.
"I didn't know that's the one you were going to use."
"I asked if you wanted to see it," Dean might be a little defensive.
"It's fine, it's not that. I'm not upset or anything. It's nice."
There is something lingering between them, growing and taking shape. Dean wonders if anyone else saw the elephant enter the room.
"I didn't know you were coming," Dean wants his voice to sound steady, but it's rough with emotion.
"I wanted it to be a surprise. Plane got delayed. I was supposed to be here sooner. I haven't even checked into my hotel yet."
They haven't seen each other in months. Only the occasional phone call or text message. There's the urge every day to ask Aidan how he's doing. To send an email about his day. To send photos that he took. He's afraid of the novelty of it, that whatever he may have felt would disappear through fiber cables and cell phone towers.
There's an overnight bag shoved haphazardly under a table in the corner of the room and Dean tries not to smile. "We can move your bag out to the floor and claim its modern art."
The tension that seemed to be between them breaks with Aidan's laughter.
They stay until it's just them. The owner has gone to their office but everyone else has packed up for the night. They're looking at a photo. All of it is different from Dean's other work. More sweeping landscapes, abandoned buildings. The only portrait was of Aidan.
They're standing in front of a picture of a mountain, it’s a time lapse of the night sky. There's thousands of stars against dark purple.
"I've never seen anything like it." Aidan whispers.
"I'll have to show you some time." Dean smiles when he sees Aidan shining at him with all the intensity of the sun. He immediately regrets it. He wants to catch the words and pull them back into his mouth; swallow them down, even if he chokes on them.
"I'd like that."
They leave it like that, no time stamp on it. Just a maybe.
They agree to go to a bar for celebration. Dean wasn't going to do anything after tonight. His plans consisted of laying in the dark and pining. This, this he thinks is much better. And worse.
They're smashed.
Aidan is telling a story, arms flailing around wildly. "I was driving. No listen! Listen. I was driving."
"You're pissed." Dean laughs as Aidan crinkles his nose.
"Maybe a little."
They both laugh harder than they should at this.
Aidan tells Dean a story about how he drove his car onto the sand at the beach and couldn’t get it back out. Dean can barely catch his breath by the end of it.
Their laughter dies down.
"The beaches in Ireland are different than New Zealand. I think I like yours better."
Dean wants to ask more, wants to ask the exact difference; ask if he can narrow it down to the grains of sand. Aidan is looking at Dean, eyes moving rapidly. Searching.
Dean takes a swig of his beer and looks away. "Now I know you are drunk."
Clinking glasses. Muffled laughter. Too much noise but none of it coming from either of them. It's like the building is crumbling around them, tearing away at the structure and letting in the reality of everything. Dean takes a breath but feels like it's not reaching to his lungs.
He can't bring himself to look at Aidan again, but he feels his eyes on him. Dean is creating a chasm. Chipping away at the space around them and making it bigger. Big enough that he can fall into it and let it swallow him.
Dean looks at his watch and realizes the time.
"I missed the check in at the hotel." Aidan is sheepish. It's partly Dean's fault, he realizes; that Aidan missed the check in, sitting here pretending that time doesn't exist.
"You can stay at my place." Dean doesn't pause, doesn’t skip a beat. He let's the words flow out as if he's said them a million times.
"I don't..."
"Aid. Aid. It's fine. Not a problem at all."
Aidan smiles. He hadn't heard Dean say his name like that it months and it rings with something familiar and new all at once.
"Alright."
Dean carries Aidan's bag inside. He isn't that smashed that he can't carry it, Dean just wanted to feel the weight of it in his hands. Wonders what sorts of things Aidan brought on this small trip.
Dean only turns on one light, keeping the room illuminated just enough to see. He leaves Aidan in the living room as he carries the bag to his guest bedroom. Dean looks at the bed for a moment, thinking that after tonight it will smell like Aidan. He shakes his head, tries expelling that dangerous thought from his mind.
He tries to ignore this feeling in the pit of his stomach, the one trying to reach the corners of his mind. The one telling him there's something else going on here.
Dean has never been one for getting his hopes up and he isn't about to start.
"Would you like a drink? It doesn't have to be alcoholic." Dean calls over his shoulder as he makes his way into the kitchen.
Aidan is there backing him against the wall, looming over him. Dean realizes his apartment is smaller than he thought. Thinks about looking at the layout for it and square footage because right now it seems infinitely smaller than when he purchased it.
Aidan is crowding him, conquering the space between them. He exhales and Dean swears his breath smells like spring.
Their lips meet.
It's hard, crushing; a clash of teeth. It's messy and the most beautiful thing Dean has ever experienced. Aidan's hands are cupping his face as he presses himself against him.
It's everything Dean’s wanted.
He thinks of stellar collisions and if this is what two stars must feel like when they meld into each other.
It's too much.
He feels the panic rising in him with the future looming around him. He wants this too much, too wildly, for either of them. His mind races in a hundred different directions. He feels a piece of his heart breaking off with each new thought. It's then he realizes that he can't do this. He can't want Aidan like this, not with how much he truly wants.
He wants everything.
He wants them reading in bed as they look over scripts for each other, lazy Sundays, late nights driving with the windows down with nowhere to go. How he wants to tell Aidan every secret he has ever had. Wants to learn every language in the known universe just so he can tell Aidan how much he wants this.
It's a life that wouldn't give Aidan as many opportunities for his career.
Dean breaks away, turning his head away from Aidan.
Both of them are breathing heavy. Dean feels himself breaking with each exhale.
"I can't do this Aid." God he can, he knows he can, but at what cost? He would consume Aidan and it scares him.
"What do you mean?" Aidan has his eyebrows knitted together. Dean can see his temper rising. He wants to pull him down, place a kiss between his eyes, smooth away the wrinkles.
"Us." Dean doesn't give details. Knows that if he goes into the specifics of it, that Aidan will form an argument; find a way to convince Dean that this is a good idea. Dean knows that he wouldn't be able to stop if it started again.
Aidan looks at Dean, really tries to look at him. Dean can see what is happening, that Aidan is trying to dig for a truth under these words.
There isn't a big fight, no screaming, no arguments. It's worse.
It's silence. It's a look on Aidan that Dean has never seen before and he is the one that put it there.
Aidan pushes past Dean into the hall to go grab his bag. Dean stands there with his back against the wall, eyes closed, as he starts counting the seconds.
1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.10.
He wonders what time will mean to him now.
Aidan is at the front door. He doesn't turn, doesn't say anything. Just opens the door and slams it shut behind him.
It’s retrograde motion.
There is a picture on the wall, the photograph of Aidan in the hallways to one of the hotel's they had stayed in, looking into the mirror. It rattles, falls off the hooks, slides down the wall and shatters.
Dean thinks the whole thing is rather fitting.
He spends days avoiding his phone. Turning it over so he can't see when the screen lights up from a notification, intentionally not charging it just so he doesn't have to look at it.
Aidan never calls. Never texts. He doesn't even send a lengthy email telling Dean how much of a twat he is.
1,123,200 seconds.
Dean decides time shouldn't matter anymore.
He realizes he does not like the city.
Does not like the crowds of people.
Does not like watching everyone.
Does not like that it is not him and Aidan.
He looks at the wall in his apartment way too frequently for his own good. Plays the scene out over and over. Pours salt in the wound every day.
He remembers everything. Which suit he wore to which premiere. How their arms would touch from standing too close as they shoved their hands in their pockets. The urge to grab Aidan's hand and put it in his. Dean remembers every single one of those times.
The plaid shirt from the time he and Aidan went to go get halal chicken because Dean was swearing to Aidan how much better it tasted.
His oatmeal colored sweater from when they were doing press junkets. How much Aidan made him laugh that day.
There's a small red stain on one of his white T-Shirts from where Aidan begged and whined to go eat Italian even though Dean told him it was a bad idea for lunch. The way that Aidan threw his head back and laughed when Dean dropped sauce on his shirt.
He contemplates just for a moment if he should burn all of his clothes.
Dean wonders if this is what a haunted house really means.
2,332,800 seconds.
Dean decides he needs to move.