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one.
He's there, every morning, on the balcony.
He's got hair the colour of sherry cask whisky, and his eyes are electric; they're jewels, a beacon. He's more often than not dressed in grubby grey sweats, sometimes a blanket hangs over his shoulders. And he's scarred, Andrew notices. The marks adorn his face like short white ribbons.
Pretty, Andrew thinks, when their eyes lock, and then he shakes his head, lets out a small huff of disgust. Pretty is not a word he uses, but there it is. It's the first thing that pops into his head. It's probably a result of the drugs.
The drugs which are, apparently, working quite well, because he can stand Nicky's presence long enough to walk all the way to class with him. When did that happen? (Maybe taking medication because he wants to is what makes it different from last time. Maybe.)
Nicky chats away, but Andrew is looking up at balcony boy. He's smoking today, or not smoking, it would appear. The ash flies into the wind, graceless, and the ember-red of the cherry is dim as it eats away at the paper, the tobacco, the nicotine.
Andrew wants a cigarette. But he quit already, so he can't. He swallows, resists the urge to bite the inside of his mouth until he can taste blood, settles for staring.
They're nearly past the house now. Balcony boy holds the stare, doesn't smile. Andrew thinks he likes that about him, the unsmiling. He probably doesn't take any shit. But then, why's he always out on the balcony? Every time they pass he's there, as silent and as still as a dream.
Smoke billows across the street, through the trees, escaping.
They're a way away from the house now, and yet, Andrew can't stop thinking about it - that big, big house with its chipped, pale-pink paint, and those trees, the way they make the breeze smell sweet. He can't stop thinking about that balcony, the way the black iron of the metal curls into thick, tight spirals.
He gets to class, and he and Nicky part ways. He concentrates on legal jargon, the feel of his pen against paper, assignments. He tries to forget.
He walks home with Nicky. The day is slightly darker and of course he's still there. He's there every day. He's sitting now, hands in his lap. He looks sleepy, quiet, ravenous. He's so permanent it sets Andrew on edge.
Nothing is permanent. Even the sun goes down.
This is stupid, of course. Realistically, balcony boy must climb into a bed at night, go to sleep, but Andrew doesn't see this, so it... irks him. The whole thing irks him.
He walks home, plays video games with Nicky, eats, stares into space, takes his meds, naps, plays video games with Nicky, goes to bed. He tries to forget.
By the time he almost manages to, the morning comes around.
two.
His hair is longer; it's the colour of autumn, the colour of tarnish. He leans against the balcony railings, chips away at the black paint. He's thin, bundled away in those old grey sweats, and he's bored, Andrew realises. Who wouldn't be?
Nicky is away, hooked up with some random last night and never made it home. Lucky. And Andrew realises he doesn't actually like heading to campus alone. That's new, and it feels like a weakness. He grits his teeth, digs his fingers into the straps of his backpack, glares at the boy on the balcony.
The boy glares back.
Andrew slows but doesn't stop.
Nicky meets up with him after class, can't stop gushing about getting laid. It's exhausting. Andrew listens, nods. They approach the house. He stops listening, stops nodding. Nicky's lips twitch into a smirk.
"He's cute," Nicky says.
"Who?" Andrew replies, looking forward.
"Rapunzel," Nicky teases, and it's perfect, yes, so perfect for a beautiful boy who's trapped in a tower.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Andrew lies.
"What do you think he does all day?" Nicky wonders out loud. "Should we yell at him?"
"No," Andrew answers.
Nicky shuts up, looks to the boy on the balcony, winks.
Andrew shakes his head and speeds up, suddenly wanting to get away from the house, from the street, from everything.
three.
Nicky starts dating the guy. Years back, this might have annoyed Andrew. Now, he doesn't mind.
But it's quieter. It's quieter, and he feels the silence slip in, through the crack under the door, as he sits alone on the couch. Sometimes, silence is comforting. Other times? Deafening. He avoids mirrors and wears his arm-bands to bed.
He contemplates flushing his meds down the toilet. Doesn't. Sleeps.
So he's alone. No, not entirely. There are a few minutes out of the day he stops, and he looks up, and he feels this irksome pull.
They still glare, don't smile. Some days Andrew feels cocky enough to take Nicky's lead, shoot him a wink. Other times he wants to scream. He does neither, walks on.
It's raining. His fingers are thin, wrapped around the rain-slick metal, knuckles red. His hair is longer, wet now, obscuring his eyes. The rain is heavy, relentless. His sweats are soaked through and he doesn't care. (Andrew doesn't care either, but it's annoying to look at.)
"Hey," He's shouting without thinking. "Inside."
The boy on the balcony startles, tosses his wet curls out of his face, looks down.
"It's pouring," Andrew says. He doesn't think balcony boy hears him, so he points towards the open doors behind.
Rapunzel shakes his head, shakes the raindrops from his hair.
"Fine," Andrew mutters, walking on. "Catch your death, then."
"I can't hear you," The boy calls after him, and his voice; it sounds like magic. It's all tangled in the breeze, a cat's cradle.
Andrew keeps walking, but he can't stop thinking.
four.
Nicky comes back, all guilty smiles.
"You should date," Nicky presses and Andrew's hands curl into fists. He doesn't date.
"What's happening with you-know-who?" Nicky urges.
"Nothing," Andrew replies. He's tired.
"You need to get his number," Nicky continues. "Being cooped up in that house all day, I bet he's dying for a good conversation. Hell, I bet he's dying for a good fuck."
"I doubt he even has a phone," Andrew says drily. "Maybe I'll send a carrier pigeon instead."
Nicky laughs, loud and clear, and heads to bed.
Morning creeps around. They walk to campus. Nicky talks. Andrew listens.
They pass the house. The trees smell sweet. The smoke from his cigarette melts into the breeze. He's cut his hair, just a little. It's messy; Andrew likes it.
He frowns when he sees the two of them looking up at him, purses his lips. There's a bandage on his cheek - a clean, white square - and it makes Andrew slow to a halt. Nicky walks on a few paces, waits.
Andrew acts without thinking, lifts his hand to his head so that his thumb points to his ear and his pinkie points to his mouth - a phone. He raises his eyebrows, lingers for a second, before catching up with his cousin.
Andrew finds it difficult to concentrate in class, looks out the window instead; rain again. He thinks of the balcony, the water streaming off the edge of it, and of the boy and his rain-soaked curls. He taps his pencil against the desk, irritated. He tries to convince himself he doesn't care. He doesn't.
He hopes balcony boy got the message.
He doesn't expect much, and yet, the next day there's a number written across a piece of A4 paper stuck to the balcony doors.
He has to squint to make it out.
five.
He and Nicky are spread out on the couch. Nicky is playing a video game, and Andrew can't put his phone down.
He writes message after message, hits delete, starts again. The phone glows in his hand, lights up the room.
Nicky scoots across the couch cushions, looks over Andrew's shoulder.
"Is that- it is-" Nicky blusters, pointing at Andrew's phone. "No way in hell you got Rapunzel's number."
Andrew ignores him, tap-tap-taps away at the screen.
"Does that make you the fairy-tale prince?" Nicky asks, grinning slyly.
"Yeah," Andrew says with a snort, "and he's the princess in dirty Nikes. What does that make you?"
"The hot sidekick," Nicky answers, before reluctantly going back to his game.
Andrew keeps typing.
why don't you leave, he writes, hitting send before he can back down. The wording isn't right, but it will do. For now.
There's no reply, not for hours.
It's midnight. Andrew can't sleep. His pillow feels like a brick and his mind is racing, cascading; he wishes for an off-switch. His phone beeps, vibrates, lights up and turns the entire room dark blue. He reaches out, snags it free of the charger.
can't, is the single word reply.
Andrew tosses his phone aside, closes his eyes.
He falls asleep thinking of that bandage, all neat and tidy, on balcony boy's cheek.
He dreams, but in the dream, it's all stained red.
six.
On weekends, Andrew doesn't know what to do with himself. He wakes late, lifts some weights, contemplates going to the store to buy peanut butter cups. Doesn't.
He's sitting on the couch flicking through Nicky's Netflix recommendations when his phone jingles.
there's nobody home.
Andrew stares hard at the message, wondering what it means. Coming from the boy on the balcony it could mean anything from why don't you come over to something is very wrong, please come rescue me.
Andrew pulls on his coat, wonders what he's doing, heads out the apartment door before he can talk himself out of leaving.
He's leaning against the balcony, his body all right angles. His hood is pulled up, though it's not raining, and his hair spills out from the grey fabric like fire. There's an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, and he's focusing, twitchy. He doesn't see Andrew approach, just goes on fidgeting with the lighter he's holding. When Andrew slows, stops, he looks up.
He looks surprised, for a second, before his lips quirk into a tiny smile. Andrew raises his eyebrows questioningly. Balcony boy holds up a finger, as if to say wait, and disappears inside.
Andrew folds his arms across his chest, waits. His phone beeps, vibrates in his pocket. He grabs it.
i didn't think you'd come.
Andrew frowns, doesn't respond. His phone informs him that balcony boy is typing. Three little dots.
i can't get out of this room.
Andrew's grip tightens around the phone.
so i can't let you in.
...
sorry.
...
thanks for coming anyway.
Andrew still doesn't respond, looks up. The boy is lingering at the balcony doors, half-bathed in shadow. Andrew shoves his phone back into his pocket, strides towards the gate.
The gate is locked, but it isn't tall, and Andrew's strong. He grabs the bars, hoists himself up and climbs until he reaches the top. He kicks his legs over, jumps, lands easily on his feet.
Now what, he wonders as he wanders around the side of the house, stands below the balcony, and it's embarrassing. It's like Romeo and Juliet, something out of a fairy-tale, and he wonders why doing this. Balcony boy is wondering the same thing, as he stares down at Andrew, fists tightening on the balcony rail. Everything about him is all tension and panic.
"Front door?" Andrew asks.
"Locked," Balcony boy replies, shaking his head. "Alarmed."
Andrew sighs and looks around. There's a garage, and there are trees in the garden, but neither of those things are tall enough. There's ivy, climbing up the wall, a wooden lattice setting it in place, and that could just about work. And then, at the back of the house, nestled against the rear garden wall, is a ladder. Andrew lifts it and carries it back with him. He straightens it, steadies it, leans it against the balcony rail.
Balcony boy is on it in a second, and he climbs quickly down. His running shoes hit the ground and he looks stunned, dazed. He looks like he can't believe his luck. He looks like he might pass out.
"We have to go," He manages eventually.
"The ladder-" Andrew starts.
"Doesn't matter," Balcony boys says, shaking his head. "We have to go - now."
Andrew nods and heads for the gate. He turns to offer a hand but balcony boy is climbing up the gate with ease. They both twist over the top of it, jump to the ground, and then they're off, walking fast. Balcony boy pulls his hood up again, casts a wild glance over the street. Andrew strides after him. They keep walking.
"I don't-" Balcony boy starts, after they're a distance away from the house, "I don't have anywhere to go."
"My apartment is close," Andrew replies, and he knows. It's what's been bugging him the whole time. Something is very off.
"Is that okay?" Balcony boy asks.
"As long as you talk," Andrew replies. "You need to tell me what's going on."
"I don't know where to start," Balcony boy tells him with a mirthless smile.
"Start with this," Andrew says, pointing at the bandage.
"This is nothing."
"They were keeping you locked in that room, right?"
"Yes."
"Food?"
"They had a hatch installed. I got food."
"How often?"
"Often enough."
"How long?"
"Eight months, maybe more."
"Why?"
"That's what I got for running away the second time."
"And the first?"
"Just a lot of hurt."
"And this is the third?"
"Yes."
"And if they catch you this time?"
"I think they'll just kill me."
"Why keep you locked away?"
"To punish me, to remind me I'm nothing, useless."
"Who are they?"
"My father, and his men."
"But who are they?"
"My father is The Butcher - you've heard of him?"
"I have."
"Then you know they'll find me."
"No, they won't."
"They always do."
"Your mother - where is she?"
"He killed her, burned her body. This was after the first time, when we ran together."
"How long were you running?"
"A few years."
"And the second time?"
"A few weeks."
Andrew reaches into his pocket, grabs his keys. They run up the stairs and balcony boy follows him into the apartment. Andrew locks the door behind him, slides the chain across the door, breathes in and out.
The first thing Andrew does is grab some of his clothes from the wardrobe. He tosses them across the couch pointedly. Balcony boy heads to the bathroom, changes. He takes a while. Andrew feels like smoking, settles for digging his fingers into his thighs.
Balcony boy emerges from the bathroom. Andrew's sweatpants are too short for him, but they're so loose at the waist they slide down, exposing jutting hip-bones.
Andrew stands, walks over to the freezer and pulls out two tubs of ice cream. He snatches two spoons from the drawer as he walks back over to the couch, hands one of them to balcony boy as well as a pint of cookie dough.
"Eat," Andrew instructs as he twists the top off his own pint of mocha.
Balcony boy slides his spoon into the ice cream, brings it to his mouth, grimaces.
Andrew narrows his eyebrows.
"Too sweet," Balcony boy explains. "Switch?"
Andrew grabs the cookie dough and ditches the mocha.
As they eat, balcony boy keeps talking. He talks about running, and the butcher, and the fire, and the knives; he talks about his uncle too, his uncle whose number he's never called. When the tub is empty, he stops talking.
"What's your name?" Andrew asks finally.
"Nathaniel," Balcony boy says, spitting it out like it's a curse.
"But you don't like that name," Andrew says.
"No."
"Then what would you like for me to call you?"
His blue eyes widen, and Andrew suddenly worries he'll sink in the seawater of them, come up gasping for air, or worse, drown. Balcony boy hesitates.
"Neil," he says finally, and his voice is all soft chimes. "Call me Neil."
"Okay," Andrew says with a nod. "Neil."
Neil. And Andrew likes it, likes the weight of it in his mouth. One neat syllable, smooth and round; it's a pebble, a coin.
Just then, a key enters the door. It opens just a sliver, before stopping, straining against the chain. Neil startles and gets to his feet fast.
"It's just my cousin," Andrew tells him. "He lives with me."
"What's going on?" Nicky shouts. "Do you have a boy in there?"
Andrew scowls, annoyed, before walking over to let Nicky in. Neil is still standing by the couch, looking rattled.
"Holy shit," Nicky says when he sees Neil. "You do have a boy in here. Holy shit!"
"Nicky-" Andrew says warningly.
"And it's Rapunzel! Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit-"
Andrew puts a hand over his mouth.
"He's staying with us," Andrew tells Nicky. "Ask no questions."
"If I'm going to stay here," Neil says, approaching them, "he should know the truth. He should know what he's getting into, who he's going to live with."
Nicky looks from Neil to Andrew questioningly.
"Fine," Andrew says eventually, releasing his hand. "You can explain when he gets back."
"Gets back?" Nicky repeats.
Andrew shoves a fistful of cash into Nicky's hand.
"Go get him some new clothes," Andrew instructs. "A mix of everything, size small."
Nicky looks down at the money, confused.
"Now," Andrew says firmly.
Nicky still looks puzzled but he leaves the apartment. Andrew fastens the chain once more. While they wait for Nicky to come back, Neil naps, curled up in a ball on the couch. Andrew turns on the television, turns the volume down low, tries to concentrate on whatever inane show is on. Can't. He keeps looking at Neil out of the corner of his eye. He watches the rise and fall of Neil's chest as he breathes in and out, and he can't believe it; he can't believe he's even real, this starved, scarred runaway who is asleep on his couch.
Nicky returns, and Neil jolts awake at the first sound of the key in the lock. He watches, breathless, as Andrew methodically walks over to the door, unhooks the chain, opens it fully to allow Nicky to enter.
Nicky puts the shopping bags on the floor next to the couch and sits next to Neil.
Andrew makes himself busy with washing the dishes in the kitchen as he listens to Neil tell his story again. Nicky is more animated than Andrew had been. He keeps gasping, shuddering, keeps staring at Neil's scars in horror, keeps asking questions.
They aren't dirty, but Andrew washes all their sharp knives, lines them up on a towel, stares.
Nicky storms into the kitchen, flustered.
"Are you sure about this?" He asks.
"Yes," Andrew replies.
"He's a mobster baby." Nicky hisses.
"I'm aware," Andrew responds drily.
"How long is Rapunzel going to be in hiding?" Nicky asks, shooting a concerned look over his shoulder.
"Don't know," Andrew tells him. "Oddly enough, don't care."
Nicky bites his lip worriedly, and Andrew goes back to drying dishes.
"Andrew," Nicky says eventually. "You can't-"
"I can't what?" Andrew counters, glaring at Nicky.
Nicky shuts up, continues to squirm. Andrew slips past him and goes to join Neil on the couch.
After a while, Neil falls asleep once more. Nicky wordlessly gets him a blanket before heading to his room. Andrew switches off the TV and goes to his own room.
He tries to sleep, but the inside of his head is too loud, too busy. He can't shut it off, and at some point, the sun comes up.
seven.
Andrew comes home from class and Neil is pacing. The tension rolls off him in waves, fills the room; it's overwhelming. Andrew blinks, forces himself not to feel it, all that anxiety and dread, crackling and fizzing in the air, a riot. He folds his arms, shoots Neil a blank, unimpressed look. It works.
"What?" Neil asks, irritated.
"You tell me," Andrew counters.
"This is stupid."
"You'll have to be more specific. A lot of stupid going on in here just now."
"I'm going to get us all killed. You, me, your cousin. We're all going down if they find me."
"They won't."
"It's not a matter of if, Andrew. It's a matter of when. I can't stay here."
"They'll find you more quickly if you leave."
"I can't just stay here, on your couch, forever."
"Why not?"
Neil sighs, as if to say Andrew is being impossible, and it's annoying.
"I'll kill them if they come anywhere near this apartment," Andrew tells Neil. He thinks he means it too.
"Look," Neil says, and his tone is annoying, "it's not a matter of protection. There is no protection, not from this."
"Then what is there?"
"Just this. Hiding, running, maybe forever, the threat of imminent death hanging over your head."
"So?"
"So? So do you really want that in your life?"
"Life is boring," Andrew says, like that settles things.
Neil sighs again, flops onto the couch, and Andrew feels like punching him. Doesn't. He wordlessly goes to his room, slams the door, locks it behind him. He takes two sleeping pills right there and then, hopes it will shut off the noise, stop the thinking.
It does, and he sleeps.
When he wakes, he feels like he's been out for decades. His legs are heavy, shaky. His head is foggy. He hears hushed voices coming from the next room. Nicky must be back. Andrew sits up.
"See, Andrew's mom - my aunt Tilda, she's um, she's in jail," Nicky is saying and Andrew freezes. "She- she killed him. My cousin, his twin. He- Aaron. So that's- Andrew lost his twin."
And it's so stupid, so stupid Andrew feels like he might throw up. Lost, he says, like Andrew lost his keys, or his notebook, or his favourite sweater. Lost, like he lost his god damn mind after it all happened.
(He could have stopped it. He could have stopped it. He knew, he knew one of them would end up dead eventually. He should have killed her first.)
Andrew runs a hand over his face, grits his teeth, refuses to feel anything at all.
"What does that have to do with this?" Neil is asking, and Andrew nearly laughs at that.
"Oh Neil," Nicky says softly. "That's why he feels the need to-"
Andrew stands up, walks over to the closet and opens it, slams it shut again, and Nicky shuts up. The other room grows silent.
Andrew goes back to bed, stares at the ceiling until the dark makes everything melt.
eight.
Andrew picks up takeout on the way home.
They sit together on the couch, the dim blue light of the TV illuminating the space around them. Neil is eating his noodles slowly, carefully, and Andrew waits.
"I think I want to go outside," Neil says finally.
Andrew presses the mute button.
"Not here," Neil clarifies. "But somewhere."
And Andrew nods, unmutes the TV.
He'd been wondering, about that. Neil has been calmer, but he's still... locked in, unable to leave.
"You want to run?" Andrew asks after a while.
Neil looks surprised, but nods. Andrew knows, has seen Neil lace his running shoes, jog around the tiny apartment, frustrated.
So the next morning, they drive. They drive for hours, away from anywhere Neil might be spotted.
The car is warm. Neil messes with the car radio until Andrew bats his hand away. Neil settles for staring out of the car window, watches the world pass by him. He chats to Andrew about the sights, criticises his driving.
It's something close to... nice, Andrew thinks, and then presses his foot down hard on the accelerator, hating himself. Nice is not a word he enjoys using; it's meaningless, temporary. He supposes what he means is it feels something like safety, something like peace. But then, those words feel wrong too. It's like they're forged for someone else. Andrew stops thinking about it, listens to Neil chatter away.
They make it to the beach. It's deserted, grey; Neil looks at it like it's the best thing he's ever seen. He peels off his slim-fitting black sweatshirt and tosses it on the sand. Andrew sits down next to it, contemplates folding it up. Doesn't. He leaves it, wishes he had a cigarette, settles for a lollipop instead. Neil stretches out next to him, readying himself for a run.
As Neil runs along the shoreline, Andrew leans back against the sand. The air is salty and cool against his face; he drifts away.
Neil runs up to him, panting, sweating, his hair slick against his forehead. He leans down, grabs the bottle of water that is nestled in the sand, drains the whole thing in huge gulps.
"I'm not strong enough," Neil bites out, and then he throws the bottle. It bounces violently across the sand.
"Don't throw a tantrum," Andrew tells him.
Neil glares at him, clenches his fists, then looks to the sea. For a second, Andrew is sure he's going to run right into the waves, disappear.
"It'll come," Andrew says eventually, and Neil relaxes a little.
They walk back to the car in silence.
"It'll come," Andrew repeats.
Neil doesn't respond, tucks his knees to his chest, looks out of the car window.
It starts to rain.
nine.
Neil can change like the weather or like the seasons. He can change like the shades of the sky. One day he's unstoppable, but the next? Another Neil has taken his place, smiling cruelly at his own reflection. Finally, he's a different Neil entirely, static and unable to look at himself anymore, shocked by the past into silence that lasts for days.
There's only so much Andrew can do to ground him. After all, they don't know each other too well, and there are still gaps. They don't know everything yet, don't know how far their shadows stretch behind them.
The nightmares are like ghosts; they're unwelcome, disruptive.
Andrew thinks it's easier to just stay awake sometimes.
But Neil... Neil is a mess. He's all quivering, trembling limbs, and Andrew knows what he's dreaming about. He's dreaming about being chased, the unspeakable things that happen when he's caught.
And Andrew feels powerless, annoyed.
The next night, he leads Neil to his room, throws a hand towards the bed.
"Sleep," Andrew tells him, and Neil looks like he's going to argue. Doesn't. (When he's tired his eyes get bluer. It seems impossible, but isn't.)
Andrew folds his arms, leans against the door as Neil climbs into his bed. He thinks, thinks about there is no protection, not from this, because Neil has said it countless times now, and he thinks. He thinks about how if he cannot protect, maybe he can run. They could run together. Anywhere. He doesn't pick a place, imagines some nameless city, some hotel room, imagines the sunlight dribbling through the window, imagines Neil smoking at the backdoor, on the balcony, anywhere.
It feels like... something, and he knows it's not real, and he wouldn't run, not ever, but still. Still. And Neil looks at him, and shakes his head, and it's like he's reading Andrew's mind.
"You can sleep," Neil mumbles, turning on his side. "Here. Too. If you want."
And Andrew slackens, pushes off the doorframe, walks towards the bed. He climbs in, and they lie there.
The pale-yellow afternoon light filters through the slats in the blinds, illuminates the dust.
It's silent.
They sleep, and it's dreamless.
ten.
They drive places.
The drive anywhere, everywhere, return to the beach, stop at diners for waffles, for black coffee. Neil keeps his hood up, is always on guard, even when they're miles and miles away, and Andrew can tell he's wondering about it. He's wondering about disguising himself, whether that would work, whether he could relax. Andrew wonders that too. Neil isn't the relaxing type. He's a boy on a wire.
On the way back they pick up a box of cheap hair dye, pick out contacts. The dye is dark brown, almost black. Andrew immediately hates it, but darker will work; it'll cloak him, turn the autumn leaves caught in his hair to mulch, to slush. The contacts are brown too, and Andrew thinks they're even worse.
Even so, he snakes a hand into Neil's curls, tugs his head back, wets it. It flattens, soaks. He covers it with the dye and the smell is sour, sharp, a chemical burn. He watches the dark spread through the auburn, an oil spill. Neil closes his eyes and Andrew studies the freckles scattered across his face as he washes his hands, dries them. Neil grimaces.
"Stings?" Andrew asks.
"A little," Neil admits.
The next time they leave the apartment, Neil puts the contacts in too. Andrew looks at the tiny ring around Neil's irises, tries to spot a flash of blue. Doesn't.
"Looking good, Neil," Nicky says later, shooting him finger-guns. "Loving the makeover."
Andrew scowls at him. Nicky's not wrong. Neil does, Andrew thinks. Look good, that is. Always, but... it's different. It's not Neil. All his colours have faded away.
And then, that night, it's just them. They face each other in Andrew's bed, and Neil takes out the contacts and puts them on the bedside table.
He looks at Andrew with questioning blue eyes.
"What?" Andrew mutters.
And then, Neil kisses him.
It's only one kiss, and it's brief, chaste even.
It's only one kiss, but relief, Andrew thinks, and the word doesn't feel bitter, alien. It feels like it was forged for him.
Months go by. They drive. Neil runs, Andrew eats. They go to bed, kiss, explore each other. Andrew goes to class, they drive. Neil smokes a cigarette, doesn't smoke the next. Andrew skips class, they stay in bed all day. They drive, they kiss, take each other to pieces.
Months go by. The centre holds.
Until it collapses.
eleven.
They're being watched, followed maybe.
It starts like this: there are two people in the street. Two guys in neat, black suits. It's not weird, not at first, but then-
"They keep walking past," Neil says, lifting the blind with his pinkie.
Andrew walks over, joins Neil at the window, watches as the guys walk past the building.
"They just looked up," Neil hisses.
"Because you're spying on them," Andrew says, and he brushes it off.
But Neil keeps watching.
"They're back again," he says.
And he chews his bottom lip until it bleeds.
"So they work near here," Andrew replies with a sigh. "Who cares?"
Nicky's key in the lock nearly makes Neil jump out of his skin, and then Andrew is on his feet. He unhooks the chain, lets Nicky in. Then he grabs Neil's coat, throws it at him.
"We're going out," Andrew tells him.
"We can't," Neil protests. "We're being watched."
Nicky gasps at that, and Andrew glares at him.
"We are not being watched," Andrew says firmly. "You're being paranoid."
Neil pulls on his jacket and grabs one of Nicky's hats on his way out. He pulls it low, obscuring his face, as they walk to the car.
Andrew drives down to the end of the street, pulls onto the road that will lead them to the store. A silver car pulls up behind them. Andrew's eyes flick to his rear-view mirror. The windows are too dark; he can't make out the driver's face. He frowns.
Andrew takes a sudden turn-off, and the car easily follows them. All the way to the store and all the way back it follows. They're being tailed.
Neil slouches low in his seat, goes white.
"Are we being followed?" He asks.
Andrew tightens his grip on the steering wheel, looks to his rear-view mirror again, glares.
"No." He lies.
twelve.
Finally, it happens.
The locks stop them, for about two minutes, and Andrew calmly walks over to the kitchen, grabs the sharpest knives. Neil jumps to his feet, throws a window open. He sticks his head out, measures the distance, assesses the risk of jumping. Andrew hears him curse.
Two minutes, then the door is destroyed, spitting splinters of wood to the floor as it breaks in two.
Men storm the apartment. Outnumbered, Andrew thinks. He starts slicing through the air anyway, manages to take two of them down before a third head-butts him.
The world immediately goes dark and he can't tell if he's dying, or is already dead.
He hears Neil shouting, fighting, hissing threats, and he can't. He can't believe he's letting this happen again. He tries to move but his body isn't working. His head is heavy, glued to the floor.
Everything has gone oddly silent.
And it's happening again, Andrew thinks. He couldn't- and he's ruined. There's nothing left now. Nothing left but sink into that dark nothing, make it even darker.
He dies, he thinks. That, or dreams.
When he wakes up, he's cold, unable to breathe, but alive. There's blood - his blood - pooling on the floor, and Nicky is crouching at his side, crying silently.
"The- the ambulance-" Nicky is murmuring over and over.
"No time," Andrew says and he gets to his feet, walks over to the kitchen. He grabs a towel, presses it to his bleeding head.
"Blood, Andrew," Nicky is saying. "So much blood-"
"Not all mine," Andrew bites out, and he's searching. Neil's phone. Where is it?
He storms into the bedroom, yanks it from the charger, flicks through the contact list.
He finds Stuart Hatford and he crushes his thumb into the screen.
He calls Neil's uncle and calmly explains the situation, tells him to head for the house with the pink walls.
He's not done, not yet. He cleans himself up, ignores Nicky's crying, pulls on his boots and his jacket.
And Andrew heads for the house with the balcony.
thirteen.
Andrew wakes up in the hospital.
Everything is foggy, hazy, hurt.
His eyes flutter open and he looks over at the bed next to him. Neil. The memories drift to the surface.
Here's how it happened: he meets with Hatford, others too. Things start to fade in, fade out. His head throbs. They give him a gun, show him how to shoot it. When they storm the house, it's eerily quiet. They find Neil's dad torturing him with a hot poker. He's burning shapes into Neil's face, melting the skin, melting the freckles. Andrew raises his hand, squeezes down on the trigger, and the rest is dust and nothingness. The rest is... waking up in this hospital bed and Neil.
Neil is in the bed next to him, a mess, a brilliant, glittering thing. He turns to Andrew and smiles, and the smile must hurt where he's burned because he's grimacing. And Andrew reaches out, grabs his hand. No more. He presses his fingertips into Neil's knuckles.
"You saved me," Neil says, and Andrew supposes that it's true. He shrugs.
"What was I supposed to do?" He asks. "Let them murder you?"
"You- you and my uncle and his men- they got them," Neil is saying. "Not all of them, but most. And my dad - you shot him in the neck-"
"I remember," Andrew says. And he did. He'd do it again in a heartbeat.
"They want to take me away," Neil says then, and he doesn't let go of Andrew's hand. "They want to put me somewhere, I don't know, safe I guess. And I just want to say- thank you, for the ladder, and the couch, and the drives, and the kisses, and for-"
"You're very loud for someone who just nearly died," Andrew says.
"But-" Neil goes on.
"You," Andrew says, and he's exhausted. "You stay."
"Stay?" Neil repeats, like it's a fairy-tale.
Andrew studies him out of the corner of his eye. The dye is still there, but his eyes are blue. They're simple; they're a blue sky, a calamity. He's wearing a hospital gown and he's covered in scars, in bandages. There's one neatly stuck across his left cheekbone. He's looking at Andrew like he's an impossibility, like he's not an impossibility. And Andrew draws his arm across his eyes, shuts out the light.
"Stay," He says again, and it's a beautiful word; yes, it's a beautiful word for a boy, who once lost half of himself, to say to another boy, who was once trapped, all alone, in a tower.