Chapter Text
The sun has already climbed high enough to begin its slow descent by the time Andrew’s eyes snap open. He is still on the sofa, his neck stiff from the awkward angle of the cushions and his legs tangled in a wool throw that smells faintly of Sir’s dander.
For a few seconds, he just stares at the his coffee table. The "Mud" hasn't swallowed him whole today, but the water level is rising. His brain feels like it’s being stirred with a heavy spoon—slow, thick, and resistant to any form of clarity. He doesn't move. Moving requires a reason, and at 2:30 PM on a Wednesday, the world hasn't offered him a single one.
The book he spent the early morning hours dissecting is facedown on the floor, its spine splayed open in a way that would probably make the "bat" at the shop twitch. Andrew looks at it with a flat, dull sort of resentment. He remembers reading until his eyes burned, tracking a protagonist who made too many speeches and not enough executive decisions.
He reaches out a hand to find the bookmark. His fingers sweep the top of the sofa, then dig into the crevice between the cushions. Nothing. The blank, white sliver of cardstock is gone, likely swallowed by the dark void beneath the sofa frame during one of his restless shifts between nightmares. He doesn't go looking for it. It’s just paper. It’s not worth the effort of moving the furniture.
Sir, the white Maine Coon, chooses that moment to launch himself from the top of the couch onto Andrew’s stomach. The air leaves Andrew’s lungs in a sharp, pained wheeze.
"I am going to turn you into a rug," Andrew rasps, his voice a dry scrape against the silence of the room.
Sir doesn't seem concerned. He lets out a loud, demanding trill and begins to knead Andrew’s hip with paws the size of dinner plates. The cat is a cloud of white spite, and he is clearly past the point of polite requests for breakfast.
Andrew pushes himself upright, his head swimming for a second. The apartment is too bright. He’d forgotten to close the heavy curtains in the living room before he fell into that final, fitful sleep, and now the afternoon light is punishing him for the oversight. He stands up, his joints popping, and makes his way toward the kitchen.
Feeding the cat is a mechanical process. Scoop, dump, rinse the water bowl. Sir dives into the kibble with a ferocity that Andrew almost admires. At least the cat knows what it wants.
Andrew, on the other hand, stands in front of the open freezer. He doesn't want toast. He doesn't want eggs. He needs something that will bypass his taste buds and go straight to the reward centers of his brain. He pulls out a pint of double-chocolate ice cream—the kind that’s mostly fudge swirls and regret—and grabs a spoon.
He eats it standing up, leaning against the cold granite of the counter. It’s freezing and cloyingly sweet, a sugar-induced jolt to his system that does absolutely nothing to clear the fog in his head, but it’s a distraction. He stares at the wall, watching a dust mote drift through a beam of light, and tries not to think about the fact that he has nothing to do for the next eight hours.
The silence of the apartment starts to itch. It’s too quiet. It’s the kind of quiet that lets the echoes of the past start to get loud.
He sets the empty ice cream carton on the counter and heads for the bathroom. He needs to move. He needs the "Mud" to recede just enough so he can survive the inevitable interaction with the rest of the world.
He strips off his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the tile floor, and steps into the shower. He turns the handle until the water is scalding, hot enough to turn his skin a bright, angry red.
As the steam fills the small room, the sensation starts. It’s always there in the transition between sleep and wakefulness—the phantom weight of hands that don't belong to him. They aren't real, he knows that, but his skin remembers things his mind tries to delete. He can feel the lingering, oily pressure of fingers on his shoulders, the ghost of a grip around his wrists, the suffocating proximity of bodies he never invited.
He grabs the loofah and the harshest soap he owns. He scrubs. He starts at his arms, rubbing until the skin stings, not caring one bit about the scars there and moves to his chest, his neck and then his back. He works with a frantic, rhythmic intensity, trying to peel off a layer of himself that feels contaminated. He doesn't stop until his muscles ache and the phantom hands are finally washed down the drain along with the soap suds.
He stands under the spray for a long time after that, his forehead pressed against the cold tile. The heat of the water is a grounding wire. It’s the only thing that feels honest.
Finally, he kills the water. He dries himself off with a towel that’s seen better days and catches a glimpse of himself in the fogged-up mirror. He looks the same as he did yesterday. Same blonde hair, same flat eyes, same scars. No magic transformation. No sudden burst of "inspiration." Just Andrew.
He pulls on a clean pair of black jeans and a fresh hoodie, the fabric feeling once again like a suit of armor as it settles against his damp skin. He goes back to the bedroom and drops onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling fan as it spins in slow, lazy circles.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. He doesn't look at it. He knows it’s probably Kevin, or maybe Nicky with another "fun" update about their surprise visit. He doesn't have the energy for them. He doesn't have the energy for anything.
The phone buzzes again. Then a third time.
Andrew doesn’t move. He stays anchored to the mattress, staring at the ceiling fan until the white blades blur into a singular, hypnotic disc. He counts the rotations, or tries to, but the numbers slip through his fingers like sand. Time in this apartment doesn’t move in a straight line; it pools in the corners, stagnant and thick.
He waits for the silence to return, but the device on the nightstand is persistent. It’s a vibrating intruder, a reminder that people exist and that those people—unfortunately—have his number.
Finally, he rolls over. The movement is slow, his muscles protesting the sudden demand for action. He reaches out and snatches the phone, the screen flare biting into his eyes even with the brightness turned down and the bright room.
It isn't Nicky. It isn't Kevin.
Aaron: Katelyn wants to grab lunch. We’re near your place. Don’t be an asshole. 13:30 at the deli on 4th.
Andrew checks the top of the screen. It’s 13:14.
He stares at the words "Don't be an asshole" and feels a familiar, sharp spike of irritation. It’s rich, coming from Aaron.
The twins haven't lived under the same roof since the day after graduation. The "Fuck off" Aaron had hurled at him as he packed his bags hadn't been a heat-of-the-moment outburst; it had been a long-overdue eviction notice. Aaron had spent his years at Palmetto State feeling like Andrew’s shadow, a permanent resident in a forced proximity was a thing of the past, Aaron had chosen Katelyn and a clean, sterile life in a different zip code.
They were supposed to be "fixed" after the Moriyama threat vanished and the secrets were out after a very surprising Thanksgiving that ended with a dead body, Aaron taken to court for murder and Andrew off his happy pills, but trauma doesn't work like a math equation. You don't just subtract the villain and get a positive number. You get two people who look exactly alike and have absolutely nothing to say to each other that doesn't sound like an accusation.
Aaron is trying now, in his own jerky, staccato way. He’s a surgeon-in-training, so he views their relationship like a complicated procedure—something that can be repaired if he just applies enough pressure and follows the right script. He doesn't realize the patient has been dead on the table for years.
Andrew types back a single character.
Andrew: No.
He drops the phone back onto the nightstand. He has no intention of sitting in a cramped booth and watching Katelyn try to "bridge the gap" with soft smiles and leading questions about his mental health. He doesn't want to hear Aaron’s clinical tone or the way he prefaces every sentence with a hesitant breath, as if he’s waiting for Andrew to pull a knife just for mentioning the weather.
The phone vibrates almost instantly.
Aaron: I’m already in the parking lot. Katelyn bought you those stupid lemon tarts from the bakery you like. Just come down. Ten minutes.
Andrew closes his eyes and exhales a breath that tastes like chocolate ice cream and bitterness. The lemon tarts are a low blow. Katelyn is far too observant for his liking; she’s figured out that his one consistent weakness is a sugar high, and she uses it like a tactical weapon.
He stands up, his knees clicking in the quiet room. He could stay. He could ignore them until they give up and drive away. But the "Mud" is doing that annoying thing where it turns into restlessness—a jittery, uncomfortable hum under his skin that tells him if he stays in this room for another hour, he might actually start talking to the cat.
He grabs his keys and his wallet. He catches a glimpse of the "dumb" book on the sofa as he passes. It’s still facedown, looking abandoned. He thinks about the blank bookmark lost somewhere in the cushions and feels a fleeting, irrational urge to go digging for it before he leaves. He squashes it instantly. It’s paper. It doesn't matter.
The hallway of his apartment complex is dim and smells like floor wax. He takes the stairs, his boots hitting the metal treads with a rhythmic, hollow sound. By the time he pushes through the heavy front door, the midday sun is high enough to make him squint.
The deli on 4th is exactly as he remembers it: a chaotic, over-lit box full of people who talk too loud and smell like mustard.
The air is humid with the steam from the soup station and the collective breath of fifty office workers trying to cram a thirty-minute lunch into a twenty-minute window. It’s a sensory assault—the clattering of plastic trays, the shrill ring of the cash register, and the fluorescent lights humming at a frequency that makes the back of Andrew’s head ache.
He stands by the door for a moment, his hands buried deep in his pockets, fingers curled into a fist. He scans the room with the practiced detachment of a man looking for an exit, but instead, he finds the back of a blonde head that looks exactly like his own.
Aaron is sitting in a corner booth, his posture stiff, shoulders pulled high as if he’s bracing for an impact. He’s wearing a button-down shirt that is far too crisp for a Wednesday afternoon, the sleeves rolled up precisely two turns to reveal a watch that looks like it cost more than Andrew’s first car. He looks like a "Success Story," a clean-cut medical student who has successfully scrubbed the Palmetto dirt off his skin.
Next to him is Katelyn.
Andrew’s gaze lingers on her for a fraction of a second too long. Her hair is a vibrant, natural auburn, caught in the harsh overhead light and glowing like a warning sign. She’s leaning forward, her blue eyes wide and attentive as she says something to Aaron that makes him offer a tight, abbreviated smile.
For a jarring, nonsensical heartbeat, Andrew’s brain glitches. He looks at the curve of her jaw, the shade of her hair, and the startling blue of her eyes, and his mind tells him there is something missing. He expects to see something else there—white lines, jagged puckers of skin, a map of violence written across her cheekbones. The absence of it makes her face look unfinished, strangely blank.
He blinks, the thought vanishing before he can even name it. It doesn't matter. Katelyn is just Katelyn—the girl who stole his brother, the girl who still looks at Andrew as if he’s a puzzle she can solve if she just finds the right piece of encouraging advice. He’s hated her for years, and even if the "hate" has simmered down into a lukewarm, permanent irritation, he still doesn't want to be in her perfect little zip code.
He moves toward them, his boots thudding heavily on the linoleum.
Aaron looks up first. The look in his eyes is a complicated cocktail of relief and immediate defensiveness. He doesn't say "hello." He doesn't stand up. He just gestures to the empty side of the booth.
"You're late," Aaron says. His voice is clipped, the vowels short and jagged. This is their baseline now—a series of staccato interactions that feel like a high-speed collision in slow motion.
"The sun was in my eyes," Andrew says, sliding into the booth. He doesn't look at Katelyn, but he can feel her shifting, her energy radiating a desperate, saccharine kind of hope that he finds exhausting.
"Hi, Andrew," Katelyn says, her voice soft and carefully modulated. She’s trying to be the "peacemaker" again. She’s been trying for years, seemingly unable to accept that the bridge between the twins wasn't just burned; it was salted and paved over. "I'm glad you came. I brought you something."
She pushes a small, white paper box across the Formica table. It has a logo from a bakery three blocks away.
Andrew looks at the box. It’s a plain white cube, the light reflecting off its surface in a way that makes it look like a void sitting between them. He thinks of the napkin dispenser to his left, filled with stacks of identical white rectangles. He thinks of the way things look when they haven't been touched by ink yet—clean, quiet, and completely empty.
"Lemon tarts," Aaron mutters, as if the words are a secret code. "She remembered you liked them. Don't be a dick."
"I'm always a dick, Aaron. It's my primary personality trait," Andrew says, his voice a flat drawl. He doesn't open the box. He just stares at it.
"It’s okay," Katelyn says quickly, her blue eyes darting between them. She’s intimidated; he can see it in the way her fingers twitch against her water glass, but she’s persistent. "We just wanted to see how you were doing. Nicky said you haven't been answering the group chat."
"Nicky says a lot of things. Most of them involve emojis I don't understand," Andrew replies.
"He’s worried, Andrew," Aaron says, leaning in. His clinical side is taking over, that patronizing "I'm a doctor" tone that makes Andrew want to reach across the table and rattle his teeth. "We all are. You're living in that apartment like a hermit. Kevin says you haven't been to the gym in four days. Are you sleeping? Are you eating anything that isn't made of sugar?"
"I ate a protein bar yesterday. It tasted like sugared cardboard. I assumed it was healthy," Andrew says.
"Andrew, seriously," Aaron’s jaw tightens. The "Fuck off" he’d given Andrew at graduation still hangs in the air between them, a ghost that won't leave the table. He’s trying to patch things up, but he’s doing it with the grace of a sledgehammer. "You can't just drop off the map because the season ended. You have commitments. You have a life."
"Do I?" Andrew tilts his head, his eyes settling on Aaron’s face. "Because it feels more like I have a twin who can't mind his own business and a teammate who thinks he's my parole officer."
Katelyn reaches out, her hand hovering near Aarons’s on the table before she remembersit miht not be the best idea and pulls it back. She knows what Andrew thinks of her but she still tries to "reach" him with her words.
"We just want you to be happy, Andrew," she says, and the sincerity in her voice is so thick it’s nauseating. "Or, not even happy. Just... okay. We know it's been hard, the transition and everything. If you ever want to come over and just sit, you don't even have to talk. I can make dinner. Aaron says you like that brisket recipe."
"I'd rather eat my own shoes," Andrew says.
He watches the way her face falls. It’s a slow, painful wilting. He should feel bad, he supposes, but his brain is currently occupied by the noise of the deli. A child in the booth behind them starts crying—a high, piercing wail that feels like a drill in Andrew's ear. A waitress drops a tray of silverware, and the clatter-bang makes his shoulders lock.
It’s too much. The people are too loud, the lights are too bright, and the two people across from him are prying at his skin with their "concern." They want to fix him. They want to turn him into a version of Andrew that fits comfortably into their suburban, medical-student lives. They want him to be the "good" brother, the one who comes over for Sunday dinner and talks about his feelings over brisket.
"You're doing it again," Aaron says, his voice cutting through the noise.
"Doing what?"
"Checking out. You're sitting right there, but you’re not in the room. You have that look in your eyes, Andrew. The flat one."
"Maybe the room is just boring," Andrew says. He grabs the white tart box and tucks it under his arm. "Thanks for the sugar. I'm leaving."
"The food hasn't even come yet!" Aaron stands up halfway, his face reddening. "We’ve been here for ten minutes. Sit back down."
Andrew’s hand is already on the edge of the table, his body coiled to slide out of the vinyl booth and disappear into the humid gray of the afternoon. He looks at Aaron—really looks at him. He sees the pulse thrumming in his twin’s neck and the desperate, jagged edge of his frustration. It’s a familiar sight, but there’s a new layer to it now: a pathetic sort of hope that Andrew will, for once, follow the script.
"Sit," Aaron repeats, his voice dropping into a low, commanding register that he probably uses on unruly interns.
Andrew doesn't sit. Not because Aaron told him to, but because Katelyn makes a sound. It’s a small, sharp intake of breath, a hitch in her lungs that betrays the fact that she is vibrating with a sudden, cold fear. She’s looking at Andrew’s hands, which are currently resting flat on the Formica, still and heavy. She knows he doesn't make empty threats. She knows that when Andrew is finished with a conversation, he usually finishes it with a finality that leaves bruises.
Andrew stays suspended for a heartbeat. He hates the word please, which is likely why Katelyn hasn't used it yet, her instinct for self-preservation override her desire to be polite. He also hates liars. If he leaves now, he’s confirming that he has something better to do, which is a lie. He has nothing. He has an empty apartment, a cat that doesn't care if he lives or dies as long as the kibble is served, and a "Mud" that is waiting to swallow him the second he stops moving.
He slowly, deliberately, slides back into the center of the booth. He doesn't do it for Aaron. He doesn't do it for Katelyn. He does it because the chaos of the deli is marginally more tolerable than the vacuum of his own head.
"Ten minutes," Andrew says, his voice as flat as the table. "If the food isn't here in ten minutes, I'm burning this place down with you in it."
Aaron exhales, a ragged sound of relief that he tries to mask by grabbing his water glass. He sinks back into his seat, but the tension doesn't leave his shoulders. He looks like a man who just successfully defused a bomb and is now realizing he still has to carry it home.
Katelyn’s hands are shaking. She tries to hide it by smoothing the napkin in front of her, her fingers tracing the edges of the white paper rectangle over and over again. The silence that follows is different from the one before. It’s sharper. The air in the booth feels thin, like they’re all breathing through a filter that’s being slowly clogged with dust.
"So," Katelyn starts, her voice a fragile thread. She doesn't look Andrew in the eye. She looks at the box of lemon tarts sitting like a white tombstone between them. "Aaron mentioned that the professional league is considering a new defensive strategy for the upcoming season. Something about the backliners' rotation?"
"I don't talk shop on my day off," Andrew says.
"Right. Of course," she says, her face flushing a pale, blotchy pink. She’s uncomfortable. She’s more than uncomfortable; she’s shrinking. Every time Andrew shifts his weight or taps a finger against the table, she flinches. It’s an involuntary reaction, a deep-seated recognition of the violence he carries like a concealed weapon.
"Leave her alone, Andrew," Aaron says, his voice weary.
"I haven't said a word to her," Andrew counters.
"You don't have to. You’re doing that... thing. You’re existing too loud."
Andrew tilts his head. "I'll try to breathe more quietly for the sake of your little girlfriend’s nerves. Should I stop my heart as well? It might save us all some time."
Aaron’s eyes flash with a momentary spark of the old fire—the twin who used to scream back, the one who used to fight for his right to be a separate person. But the fire dies out quickly, replaced by the clinical, exhausted mask of a man who spends his days looking at families reunited after accidents and realizing he can't fix his own family.
"Nicky wants us to come to Germany in the winter," Aaron says, pivoting back to the only safe topic they have. "He’s already looking at rentals in Berlin. He sent me a link to a place with five bedrooms. He thinks we’re going to spend Christmas there."
"Christmas is a holiday for people who like their families," Andrew says. "Nicky is a masochist."
"He just wants us to be together, Andrew," Katelyn tries again, though her voice is barely a whisper now. She’s leaning away from him, her back pressed hard against the vinyl of the booth. "He talks about you all the time. He tells Erik that you're doing well, that you’re finally... settled."
"Settled," Andrew repeats the word as if it’s a foreign curse. "Is that what we're calling it? I live in a box and wait for the sun to go down so I can justify being tired. If that’s settled, then a grave is a retirement home."
Katelyn flinches again. This time, she actually looks at him, her blue eyes shiny with a mixture of pity and genuine distress. "It doesn't have to be like that. There are people who want to help. There are programs, Andrew. Aaron has colleagues who specialize in—"
"If you finish that sentence, I will make sure you never have to worry about my mental health again," Andrew says. His voice hasn't risen. It hasn't changed pitch. It’s just cold—a sudden, absolute drop in temperature that makes the condensation on the water glasses feel like ice.
He doesn't lie. He doesn't make idle threats. Katelyn pales, her mouth snapping shut so hard her teeth click. She looks at Aaron, a silent plea for help, but Aaron is staring at his own hands. He’s stuck in the same loop he’s been in since they were kids—wanting to protect the people he loves while being terrified of the person who shares his DNA.
The waitress returns with their food. She slides a plate of pastrami in front of Aaron and a salad in front of Katelyn. She looks at Andrew, who is still staring at Katelyn with a look of bored malice.
"You still want that milkshake?" the waitress asks, her voice the only normal thing in the world.
"Yes," Andrew says, finally breaking eye contact with Katelyn. Aaron must have asked for one before he arrived. Sneaky bastard.
The waitress nods and leaves. The arrival of the food should provide a distraction, a way to fill the silence with the sound of chewing, but no one moves. The steam rises from Aaron's sandwich, smelling of salt and fat, but he doesn't pick it up. He just stares at the bread.
"Eat your lunch, Aaron," Andrew says. "You're paying for it. It would be a waste of your hard-earned surgical money."
"I can't eat when you're being like this," Aaron says, his voice cracking slightly.
"Like what? I’m sitting. I’m staying. I’m doing exactly what you told me to do. Isn't this what you wanted? A family lunch?"
Andrew picks up a plastic fork and begins to draw lines on the table. He makes a series of sharp, intersecting angles. He’s not thinking about anything in particular, but his mind keeps returning to the sensation of the loofah against his skin this morning. He can still feel the ghost of the hands, the oily pressure that won't go away. The noise of the deli—the clatter, the voices, the scraping of chairs—is starting to blend into a singular, vibrating roar in the back of his skull.
He looks at a napkin sitting on the edge of the dispenser. It’s a plain, white rectangle. No markings. No purpose other than to be used and discarded. He reaches out and takes it, smoothing it over the damp spot on the table where he was drawing. The paper soaks up the moisture, the white turning a dull, translucent gray. It’s empty. It’s a void.
"Andrew?" Katelyn says. She sounds like she’s speaking from the bottom of a well. "Are you... okay?"
"Define okay," Andrew says, not looking up from the napkin. "Because by your standards, I’m a disaster. By my standards, I haven't killed anyone today. It’s a matter of perspective."
"You need to leave," Aaron says suddenly.
Andrew looks up. Aaron isn't angry anymore. He just looks tired—bone-deep, soul-crushing tired. He’s looking at Katelyn, who is practically trembling in her seat, and then he looks at Andrew with a gaze that is full of a mourning that they both know will never end.
"You told me to stay," Andrew reminds him.
"I was wrong. Go home, Andrew. Go back to your apartment and your cat and your silence. We’ll tell Nicky you were busy. We’ll make something up."
Andrew stares at him. He hates liars, but he knows Aaron is offering him a way out—a chance to escape the mustard smell and the blue eyes and the "please" that’s been hovering on the tip of Katelyn’s tongue for twenty minutes.
He stands up, but he doesn't leave immediately. He picks up the box of lemon tarts. He doesn't say thank you. He doesn't say goodbye. He just looks at the two of them—the surgeon and his girlfriend, the people who are trying so hard to be whole—and feels a wave of something that isn't quite pity, but isn't quite hate either.
"The tarts are probably stale by now," Andrew says.
He slides out of the booth, his boots hitting the floor with a finality that makes Katelyn jump. He walks toward the door, weaving through the crowd of office workers and screaming children. He doesn't look back. He knows if he looks back, he’ll see Aaron putting a hand on Katelyn’s shoulder, trying to comfort her from the failed “brother project” he can't get rid of.
He doesn't wait for a reaction. He doesn't want to see the look on Aaron’s face—that specific brand of exhausted grief—and he definitely doesn't want to see Katelyn's shoulders drop in relief. He just turns and pushes through the heavy glass door of the deli.
The transition from the air-conditioned, mustard-scented box to the humid street is like hitting a wall. The city is loud, messy, and vibrating with an energy that makes Andrew want to peel his skin off. He starts walking. He doesn't have a plan, which is a state of being he usually avoids, but right now, his apartment feels like a trap and the deli was a battlefield. He just needs to move until the noise in his head settles into something manageable.
He walks for blocks. Every time people bump into him he feels his skin crawl. He crosses at green lights without looking at the drivers, a habit that is less about bravery and more about a complete lack of interest in his own longevity.
As he nears a small, paved plaza with a few stunted trees, a movement to his left catches his eye. A man in a jogging suit is struggling with a dog. It’s a black Labrador, large and powerful, but the similarities to anything disciplined end there. The animal is straining at the end of a retractable leash, its claws skidding on the concrete as it barks at a passing pigeon. Its tail is a frantic, whip-like blur, and its ears are pinned back in a way that suggests it has the IQ of a rock.
Andrew stops, watching the spectacle for a second. Something in his chest shifts—a tiny, microscopic adjustment of his internal gears —but he squashes it before it can even form a thought. He just feels a sharp, biting irritation. The dog is a chaotic mess. It’s loud, it’s unpredictable, and it’s dragging its owner around like a rag doll.
Pathetic, Andrew thinks, his inner voice as dry as always. If you can't control the beast, don't buy the leash.
He looks at the way the dog’s eyes roll in its head, wide and whites-showing, and he finds himself making a silent, clinical comparison. This animal is a nervous wreck. It has no focus. It doesn't know how to exist in a space without filling it with noise. He thinks, briefly, that a dog should be a shadow, not a landslide. Then he realizes he’s spent thirty seconds thinking about a stranger's pet and moves on, his boots clicking a sharp, dismissive rhythm against the pavement.
He finds a concrete bench near the edge of the plaza, tucked away from the main flow of pedestrians. He sits down, the white bakery box balanced on his knees. He opens it, the cardboard lid popping up with a soft creak.
The lemon tarts are perfectly round, their yellow centers dusted with a fine layer of powdered sugar. They look like three small, artificial suns trapped in a cardboard cage. Andrew picks one up. It’s slightly chilled, the crust crumbling under his thumb.
He takes a bite. The tartness hits the back of his throat, sharp and acidic, followed by a wave of sugar that makes his teeth ache. It’s exactly what he wanted—a chemical distraction. He eats the first one in three bites, staring at a dumpster across the street.
There’s a flyer taped to the side of the dumpster. It’s a plain, white rectangle of paper, the ink completely washed away by the rain until only the shape remains. He notices it. He doesn't think about "nothingness" or "voids"; he just notices that it’s a blank space where information used to be.
He picks up the second tart.
A bus pulls up to the curb, hissing as the air brakes release. On the side of the bus, there’s an ad frame that’s missing its poster. It’s just a large, white plastic sheet behind a scratched acrylic window. Another white rectangle.
Andrew chews slowly. He’s starting to notice them everywhere now. It’s like his brain has been tuned to a specific frequency, one that filters out the neon signs and the graffiti and only highlights the gaps. A blank business card dropped on the sidewalk. A white sticker on a lamp post that someone had peeled the label off of. A discarded envelope stuck in a storm drain.
He finishes the second tart and reaches for the third. The sugar is starting to hit his bloodstream, but it’s not bringing the "high" he usually gets. Instead, it’s just making the "Mud" feel heavier, like wet sand filling his boots. He looks at the third tart and decides he hates it. He hates the yellow, he hates the sugar, and he hates the fact that Katelyn bought it for him.
He closes the box and stands up, leaving the last tart on the bench. Maybe a bird will eat it. Maybe the frantic, stupid black dog will come back and choke on it. He doesn't care.
He leaves the third tart on the bench like a sacrifice to the gods of poor life choices. It sits there, a bright yellow eye staring at the gray plaza, and Andrew doesn't look back. He has enough sugar in his blood to feel the jittery, hollow vibration of a crash waiting to happen, but not enough to actually feel good.
He starts walking again. His apartment is several blocks away, a concrete box filled with a cat and the lingering scent of his own boredom. The prospect of returning to it is about as appealing as another lunch with Aaron, but he’s running out of sidewalk. The "Mud" has reached a steady, lukewarm level, thick enough to make his boots feel like they’re made of lead but not so deep that he’s ready to drown just yet.
His route back is mechanical. He knows these streets; he knows which intersections have the longest lights and which alleys smell the most like rotting produce. He finds himself turning left onto a familiar stretch of pavement, the one that houses the dry cleaners and the hole-in-the-wall deli. It’s the logical path home, or at least that’s what he tells the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like his own skepticism.
He doesn't go to the café. The thought of more liquid sugar makes his stomach turn a slow, resentful somersault. Instead, his pace slows as he approaches the storefront nestled between the high-end stationery shop and the deli.
The Archive.
He stops. He’s standing on the same patch of cracked sidewalk where he stood yesterday and the day before, but the view is different. The windows are dark. Not just "dimly lit for atmosphere" dark, but absolute, void-like black. There is no warm amber glow spilling onto the pavement. There is no silhouette of a man moving through the stacks. It looks exactly like it did the first time he saw it—like a tomb for forgotten thoughts.
Andrew glares at the glass. He’s spent the last four hours being suffocated by people who won't stop talking, brothers who won't stop prying, and a city that doesn't know how to shut up. He had expected—not wanted, because he doesn't want things—but he had expected the shop to be open. He had some vague, jagged idea about returning the book and telling the "bat" that his taste in fiction was as good as his eyesight.
He stands there for a full minute, just staring.
Idiot, Andrew thinks. His inner voice is practically sneering. The man is a disaster. He probably forgot the sun went down. Or he’s asleep in the back because he doesn't know what time it is.
It makes sense, in a way. If Neil doesn't need the lights to navigate the maze of cedar and ink, why would he remember to flip the switch for the rest of the world? He exists in a different geography, one defined by the sound of boots on rugs and the smell of Earl Grey. To him, the shop is always the same. The darkness is just a lack of data for everyone else.
Andrew finds himself moving toward the door. He doesn't know why he’s doing it. Usually, if a door is closed and the lights are off, Andrew takes the hint and moves on. He’s not a solicitor or a neighbor looking for a cup of sugar. But the memory of the quiet inside—the specific, deliberate silence that didn't demand anything from him—is pulling at his heels like a magnet.
He thinks he’ll just check. He’ll tell the guy the lights are off, watch the crooked, sharp-edged grin appear on that scarred face, and then he’ll leave. He’ll go home, feed Sir, and forget that this place exists.
He reaches out and grabs the brass handle. It’s cold, the metal sapping the heat of his palm through the skin. He expects it to turn. He expects the small, tinny chime of the bell to announce his arrival.
He expects it to turn. He expects the small, tinny chime of the bell to announce his arrival. He expects the immediate shift from the humid, exhaust-filled air of the sidewalk to the cool, cedar-heavy stillness of the shop.
The handle doesn't turn.
It hits a hard, metallic stop after a mere fraction of an inch. Andrew’s hand stays gripped around the brass, his knuckles white against the dark metal. He applies more pressure, a slow, deliberate shove that should have forced the mechanism to yield. It doesn't. The door remains a solid, unmoving barrier between him and the interior.
He tries it again. It’s a repetitive, almost mindless action, and he catches himself doing it with a flick of irritation. He isn't a person who rattles doors. He isn't a person who stands on a sidewalk like a confused tourist waiting for a museum to open. Yet, here he is, trying the handle a third time as if the lock might magically decide to cooperate if he just asks nicely enough.
The shop is closed.
Andrew lets go of the handle and steps back, his boots making a sharp clack on the concrete. He looks at the glass. It’s a dark, reflective void, showing him a distorted version of the street behind him and his own silhouette. There are no lights on. Not the warm amber glow from Tuesday, and not even a stray flickering bulb from the back. It’s just black.
He checks the time on his phone. It’s barely past three in the afternoon. On a Wednesday.
"Great," Andrew mutters, his voice a low, dry rasp that is immediately swallowed by the sound of a passing bus. "Fantastic business model. Open when you feel like it, close when the wind blows the wrong way."
He stands there, his hands shoved deep back into his pockets. He feels the lingering jitter of the sugar from the tarts he’d polished off on the bench blocks away. The lemon is still a sour aftertaste in the back of his throat, a reminder of Aaron’s stiff shoulders and Katelyn’s watery blue eyes. He hadn’t come here for the bookstore but somehow, he still ended up in from of it.
Now, he’s just standing on a sidewalk, staring at a locked door like an idiot.
The "Mud" is still there, sloshing around his ankles, making every second he spends standing still feel like he’s sinking. He should move. He should turn around and walk the final few blocks to his apartment, feed Sir again just to shut the cat up, and stare at the ceiling until the sun finally has the decency to go down.
But he doesn't move. He looks at the "Closed" sign. It’s a small, wooden plaque hanging by a suction cup. It doesn't give hours. It doesn't give a phone number. It’s just a statement of fact.
He wonders, with a biting edge of sarcasm that serves as his only internal defense, if Neil is currently sitting in the dark in there, completely unaware that it’s mid-afternoon. It wouldn't be a stretch. If you can't see the sun, time is just a suggestion. Maybe the "bat" had decided he was done for the day at noon. Maybe the dog had decided it was nap time and Neil had simply followed suit.
It’s a ridiculous thought. A man running a business generally needs to, well, run the business. But Neil isn't exactly a standard variable.
Andrew’s gaze drifts to the lock again. He could pick it. He has the tools in his pocket, nestled right next to his knives. It would take him less than thirty seconds to bypass the cylinder and step inside. He could sit in the armchair, wait for Neil to emerge from the back, and then deliver a scathing review of the shop's operational hours.
He doesn't do it. Not because of any sudden respect for the law—Andrew doesn't give a damn about the law—but because the effort feels monumental. The "Mud" is heavy today. The lunch with Aaron had drained whatever reserves of "trying" he’d managed to scrape together this morning.
A group of teenagers walks past, their laughter loud and abrasive. One of them bumps into Andrew’s shoulder, a glancing blow that makes his skin crawl. He doesn't look at them. He doesn't snap. He just tightens his jaw until his teeth ache and waits for the noise of them to fade.
Everything is too loud. The city is a constant, vibrating roar of people wanting things, people saying things, people being or going places. The Archive seemed like an exception. It felt the one place where the volume was turned down to a manageable hum.
Instead, it’s a brick-and-mortar rejection.
He thinks about the book sitting on his sofa at home. The "sluggish" protagonist and the forest of teeth. He’d finished it, or at least read enough to know that the ending was going to be a disappointment. He’d planned to tell Neil exactly that. He’d planned to use the blank bookmark as a prop, maybe flick it onto the counter and ask if the "bat" ever bothered to put words on anything, or if the whole shop was just an exercise in minimalism.
Now, the bookmark is probably wedged under a sofa cushion, and the shop is a dark box.
Andrew shifts his weight, his boots shifting on the grit of the sidewalk. He feels a strange, localized itch of annoyance. He doesn't like being thwarted. He doesn't like it when the world doesn't align with the few, small expectations he allows himself to have. He’d made the trek here, endured the twins, and walked through the humid heat and when he ended up here, he thought that maybe he could get a few minutes of peace. So to have the destination be locked is an insult.
Go home, Minyard, he tells himself. The cat is probably eating the curtains by now.
He looks at the door one last time. The brass handle is dull in the afternoon light, no longer gleaming with the promise of entry. He thinks about the way Neil had looked on Tuesday—the scars, the ice-blue eyes that saw nothing, the way he’d moved through the stacks with that eerie, practiced grace. He thinks about the dog, Filly, and the way she’d watched him like she knew exactly what kind of person he was.
Maybe something happened. Maybe the dog got sick. Maybe Neil tripped over a stack of "History" and was currently pinned under a pile of books about the fall of the Roman Empire.
Andrew’s mind tries to spin a dozen logical reasons for the closure, but he cuts them off. He doesn't care. It’s not his problem if the shop is closed. It’s not his problem if the "bat" has decided to retire at twenty-five or something.
He turns away from the door, his movements stiff. He starts walking toward the end of the block, but his pace is slower than it was when he left the deli. The urgency is gone. The goal has been deleted.
He passes the stationery shop. He passes the dry cleaners. He doesn't look at the people he passes. He just focuses on the rhythm of his own breathing and the way the air feels against his face—heavy, damp, and smelling of impending rain.
He reaches the corner and waits for the light to change. A car idles next to him, its bass thumping so hard it vibrates in Andrew’s chest. He hates it. He hates the noise, he hates the heat, and he hates the fact that he actually feels a tiny, microscopic sliver of disappointment.
Disappointment is a luxury he can't afford. It’s a cousin of hope, and hope is the most dangerous thing in the world. He had hoped just a second for a quiet room and a sarcastic conversation, and the world had reminded him that he doesn't get to have things just because he wants them.
The light turns green. He crosses the street, his head down, his hood pulled up.
He’s halfway to the next block when he stops.
He shouldn't go back. He should keep walking. But his brain is looping back to the dark window and the "Closed" sign. Wednesday. It’s Wednesday. Who closes a bookstore at three o'clock on a Wednesday?
He lets out a sharp, frustrated exhale through his nose. He isn't going back. He’s going home. He’s going to eat more sugar, watch a show where people scream at each other, and wait for the "Mud" to recede.
He continues walking, but the image of the locked door stays with him, a sharp, metallic ghost in his mind. He’s still outside. The city is still loud. And the Archive remains a dark, silent mystery that he hasn't solved yet.
He reaches the entrance to his apartment building. He looks at the heavy glass door, then looks back the way he came. The street is a gray blur of traffic and pedestrians.
"Stupid," he mutters.
He doesn't know if he’s talking about the shop, the "bat," or himself. Probably all three.
Andrew decides he doesn't care either way.
The stairwell of his apartment building is a sterile, Echoing space that smells of industrial citrus and the lingering smell of someone’s burnt dinner. Andrew takes the steps to the second floor two at a time, his boots heavy against the concrete. His skin still feels too tight, a leftover side effect from being perceived by Aaron and Katelyn for too long. He’s spent the last hour being or at least trying to be a person, and now he’s ready to stop.
He fumbles his keys out of his pocket, the metal cold against his palm, and slides the deadbolt home the second he’s inside. The click of the lock is the only thing that’s made him feel remotely settled since he woke up.
Sir is waiting in the hallway, looking like a disgruntled cloud of white fur. The Maine Coon doesn't move when Andrew walks past, merely following him with a pair of judgmental yellow eyes.
"I know," Andrew says, not looking back. "The service is terrible. Write a review."
He heads straight for the kitchen. He doesn't take off his hoodie or his shoes. He just grabs the bag of premium kibble and dumps a generous amount into Sir’s ceramic bowl. The sound of the dry food hitting the dish is like a rainstorm in the quiet apartment. Sir trots over, his tail a thick, white plume, and begins to eat with a focused intensity that Andrew usually reserves for staring at walls.
Andrew stands there for a moment, watching the cat. He thinks about the "bat’s" dog, Filly. He thinks about the way she sat perfectly still, a silent presence in the dark shop. Sir is the opposite of a silent presence; he’s a chaotic variable that demands tribute and offers nothing but shedding in return.
The "Mud" is still there, rising. Andrew can feel it in the way his movements have slowed, the way the simple act of standing in his own kitchen feels like an endurance test. He should go to the bedroom. He should pull the curtains shut and wait for the day to end.
Instead, he wanders back into the living room.
He doesn't have a plan. He’s just drifting, his feet moving on autopilot while his brain tries to process the fact that the bookstore was locked. It shouldn't matter. It’s a shop. Shops close. But the inconsistency of it—the lights being off on Monday —even if he did find out why —, and then the whole place being a dead zone on Wednesday—is a splinter in his mind. He doesn't like things that don't follow a pattern.
His gaze drifts to the far wall, where a set of built-in shelves dominates the space.
He hasn't really looked at these shelves in a long time. They were one of the reasons he’d picked this apartment—the sturdy wood, the height, the way they looked like they could hold the weight of thousands of things and would hold. When he first moved in after graduation, he spent a whole afternoon organizing his book collection. He’d lined them up by genre, then by author, then by the specific way they made his brain stop grinding for a few hours.
Now, they’re just furniture.
He walks closer, his boots silent on the rug. A thin, greyish layer of dust has settled over the spines, a dull film that blurs the titles. It’s a visual representation of how long it’s been since he actually cared about a story that wasn't his own. He’d progressively stopped reading after the Foxes scattered. Without the constant, buzzing noise of the team to drown out, the need for escapism had dimmed, replaced by a flat, static boredom that even the best fiction couldn't fix.
He runs a finger along the edge of a shelf. It leaves a clean, dark track in the dust.
His eyes skip over the heavy History tomes he’d bought during a brief, misguided phase of trying to understand why the world was so complex. He ignores the thrillers with their loud, embossed covers. His gaze stops on a series of paperbacks near the bottom.
The spines are faded, the corners rubbed white from being carried in his duffel bag during away games. It was a series he’d started back at Palmetto—something about a world where the stars were actually eyes, and the people living below had to find a way to blind them before the universe decided to blink. It was dark, strange, and entirely nonsensical, which was why he’d liked it.
He remembers the third book vividly. He’d read it on the bus back from a match against the Ravens, his jaw aching from a hit he’d taken on the court and his mind buzzing with the leftover adrenaline of a win he didn't care about. He’d reached the final page only to find a cliffhanger that had left him staring out the window for three hours.
The fourth book hadn't been out yet. And by the time it was, Andrew had graduated, moved into this apartment and stopped looking for the next chapter.
He reaches out and pulls the third volume from the shelf. It’s light in his hand, the paper smelling of old glue and the specific, musty scent of his own history. Thanks to his eidetic memory, the entire plot rushes back to him with the clarity of a high-definition recording. He remembers the protagonist’s name—Vane. He remembers the way the magic system worked, based on the frequency of shadows. He remembers the exact sentence where Vane realized the king was a ghost.
He remembers wondering, for weeks, what happened next. Did the stars close their eyes? Did the world fall into the void? Or did the protagonist just give up and let the light burn everything away?
He looks at the empty space on the shelf where the fourth and fifth books should be. By now, the series has to be complete. It’s been years. The story has an ending sitting in a warehouse somewhere, or on a shelf in a dark shop on a street he’d just walked away from.
He wonders what happens next.
It’s a strange feeling, a tiny, localized spark of curiosity that feels like a foreign object in his chest. He doesn't "want" to know. He doesn't "care" about Vane or the stars. But the thread is there, dangling in the back of his mind, unfinished. It’s a gap in his data.
He thinks about the bookstore again. He thinks about the way Neil had navigated the stacks by touch. He wonders if Neil has the rest of the series. He wonders if the "bat" knows how the story ends, or if he just sells the books without ever knowing what’s inside them.
Andrew slides the book back into its spot. The dust he disturbed hangs in the air, dancing in the late afternoon light that’s filtering through his window.
He hates unfinished things. He hates doors that stay locked when they should be open. He hates people who give out blank bookmarks and then disappear on a Wednesday afternoon.
He turns away from the shelf and looks at the living room. It’s clean, quiet, and entirely too empty. Sir has finished his food and is currently grooming himself on the rug, his white fur a stark contrast to the dark pattern. Andrew watches him for a minute, the cat’s tongue making a rhythmic, sandpaper sound against his paw. It’s the most productive thing happening in the apartment.
Andrew’s stomach gives a dull, dissatisfied growl. The sugar from the lemon tarts has long since peaked and crashed, leaving him with a faint headache and a hollow feeling that isn't quite hunger but needs to be addressed regardless. He doesn't want to cook. The idea of standing over a stove and watching water boil feels like a task he isn't ready for at the moment.
He goes back to the kitchen and opens the pantry. It’s mostly stocked with things that don't require effort—cans of soup he never opens, crackers that are probably stale, and a box of cereal that’s been sitting there since the last time Kevin came over to lecture him about nutrition. He settles on a sleeve of chocolate cookies. It’s not dinner, but it’s caloric, and at 6:45 PM, that’s his only criteria.
He eats them standing up, leaning his hip against the counter. One by one, he taps them against the granite before shoving them into his mouth. They’re dry and taste like artificial vanilla, but they fill the gap. Sir wanders in halfway through, looking up with an expectant chirp.
"You already ate," Andrew says, his voice flat. "Don't look at me like I’m the one with the memory problem."
S ir lets out a soft, indignant "mrp" and begins to weave between Andrew’s legs. The white fur clings to his black jeans instantly. Andrew doesn't move. He just finishes the sleeve of cookies, tosses the plastic wrapper into the trash with a flick of his wrist, and drinks a glass of water straight from the tap.
The apartment feels too large. The shadows are stretching across the floorboards, reaching for the furniture. Usually, he’d turn on the TV, find a rerun of a documentary about deep-sea creatures or a cooking competition where everyone takes themselves too seriously, and let the noise fill the cracks. Today, he can't be bothered. The memory of the deli—the clatter, the voices, the way Aaron kept trying to "check in" on him—has left him with a low-grade sensory hangover.
He heads for the bedroom.
He doesn't check his phone again. It’s sitting on the kitchen counter, probably buzzing with more texts from the group chat about Nicky’s trip to Germany. He doesn't care. If the world decides to end between now and tomorrow morning, he’d rather be asleep for the finale.
In the bedroom, he kicks off his boots. They hit the floor with two heavy thuds that echo in the small space. He peels off his hoodie and his jeans, tossing them onto the chair in the corner where a pile of "not quite dirty, not quite clean" clothes has been accumulating for a week.
He pulls on a pair of loose gray sweatpants and a t-shirt that’s seen better days. He doesn't look in the mirror. He knows what’s there: a man who spent his afternoon failing at a family lunch and staring at a locked bookstore door.
Sir follows him in, jumping onto the bed with the grace of a creature that weighs twenty pounds but thinks it’s a feather. The Maine Coon settles on the left side of the mattress, right on top of the duvet, and begins the process of circling three times before flopping down.
"Move," Andrew says, though he doesn't actually push the cat.
Sir stays exactly where he is. Andrew sighs, a short, sharp sound, and climbs into the other side of the bed. It’s barely 7:00 PM. The sun hasn't even fully set yet, the sky outside the window a bruised, darkening purple. It’s a ridiculous time for a twenty-five-year-old man to go to sleep, but Andrew has never been particularly interested in what’s "normal."
He pulls the covers up to his chin. The sheets are cool, smelling of the unscented detergent he buys specifically because it doesn't smell like anything. He rolls onto his side, facing away from the window, and watches Sir. The cat’s ears twitch as he settles in, his eyes half-closed.
Andrew’s mind is still spinning, though the gears are jammed. He keeps seeing the dark window of The Archive. He keeps feeling the way the brass handle didn't move. It’s a stupid thing to be hung up on. Shops close. People go home. Maybe the "bat" has a life outside of smelling old paper and letting people read magic books for free.
He thinks about the series on his shelf—the stars with eyes, the shadows that had frequencies. He wonders if the protagonist ever found a way to win, or if the story just ended with everyone sitting in the dark, waiting for something to happen.
It feels familiar.
Sir lets out a long, contented purr that vibrates through the mattress. It’s a low, steady hum that acts as a sort of white noise, dampening the sound of the city outside. Andrew focuses on it. He follows the rhythm of the cat’s breathing, trying to sync his own heart rate to it.
He isn't tired in the way people are after a long day of work. He’s tired because his social battery—who has a very low capacity as it is—has already run out despite having done almost nothing today. And the "Mud" is thick tonight, a heavy, gray blanket that’s pulled up over his head.
He closes his eyes. He doesn't think about his twin. He doesn't think about the "bat." He just thinks about the silence. He wants the silence to be as absolute as the darkness in that shop. He wants to stop being a "brother project" and a "teammate" and just be a body in a bed—preferably alone in that bed.
The apartment is quiet. The only sound is the hum of the refrigerator in the other room and the occasional distant siren from the street below. Andrew lets himself sink into the mattress, the weight of Sir next to him a grounding presence.
He doesn't fall asleep immediately. He stays in that weird, blurry middle ground where thoughts don't have a real purpose. He thinks about the blank bookmark. He thinks about the way it looked when Neil handed it to him—a white rectangle of nothing. It was the most honest thing he’d seen all week.
Eventually, the darkness of the room matches the darkness behind his eyelids. He doesn't have a dream, or if he does, he doesn't remember it. He just disappears into the sleep, leaving the dusty books, the locked doors, and the lemon tarts behind.
Tomorrow is Thursday. The "Mud" will still be there, and the shop will maybe still be a dark box on a busy street. But for now, Andrew is just a man in a gray room, and that’s as much as he’s willing to be.