Archive of Our Own ^beta

A few months after Neil leaves for the second time, Andrew decides to break his first writing rule and starts working on a sequel to Der ausweichende Winter. 

He made sure to give the story a definite, well-rounded ending, but for some reason the characters just won’t leave him alone.

And if he catches himself replacing Isa Holle’s name with Neil’s more often than he cares to admit, well. No one has to know.

Wymack does a poor job of hiding his surprise. Still, given the book’s success, he can only encourage it. It appears Fuchsbau Verlag has been receiving a steady influx of kids’ letters asking for more of Isa Holle’s adventures ever since the book came out. Most of them are for Andrew, but a respectable number are addressed to the characters themselves.

It takes Andrew by surprise.

He’s received letters before - but never that many, and never have his readers (no matter how young and impressionable) written directly to his characters.

It’s flattering.

Wymack promises to have Renee deliver the letters the next time she’s in town - which, according to hers and Andrew’s latest call, should only take a few days. He knows Wymack will probably send Renee with instructions to figure out Andrew’s plans for the book as well, but he doesn’t object.

Let her try - he’ll reveal as much as he wants to, and nothing more.

Keeping Neil out of his mind is difficult. Andrew is reminded of him every time King saunters into the room and nuzzles against his ankles. Whenever he thinks about his book. While he writes. Every fucking evening as he steps outside to smoke.

Every time Andrew looks out the window, he can’t help but picture Neil opening the balcony door to drag snowflakes and white breaths inside with him.

It’s a nuisance.

It chips away at his concentration until he’s glancing at the cigarette pack lying next to his keys more often than he’s finishing a damn sentence.

By the point Renee finally comes back to Stuttgart, he’s about ready to throw his computer out the fucking window.

Needless to say it’s a welcome distraction.

Renee notices, of course, because she knows him better than anyone. But since she’s a good person, she has the decency to wait until after their sparring session to mention it - once Andrew’s sore and centered and lying on the ground, feeling more himself than he has since Spring took over.

Neil throws him off-kilter. Pulls him out of axis and into his own orbit with an ease that’s less of a surprise than it has any right being.

It’s dangerous. And it’s gotten worse.

The first time Neil left, Andrew had been fine. He’d thrown himself into his work with little more obsession than he always did, had drunk more coffee than he probably ought to, but he’d been fine. Spring and Summer and Fall hadn’t all sounded the same.

He wasn’t counting, wasn’t waiting - would not set himself up for disappointment.

But he had grown used to Neil the second time around.

He had let him worm his way into his life - slowly but surely, the shape of Neil huddled on the couch reading with King in his lap had become part of his routine. 

There were other things too. Because of course there were.

There were quiet conversations in the night that smelled like smoke; there was a mug that was only ever filled with warm water; there was frost blooming on the window every morning -

There were mingled breaths clinging to bitten lips and a different kind of warmth curling all around them, slow and careful and heady, and yes’s that left him dizzy and hands that stopped at his command.

There was someone to make him coffee while he was working and hot cocoa when he was not.

Andrew had known it was dangerous, but he’d let it happen all the same. And he hates Neil for it. Hates himself most of all, for letting it get this far, for being unable to squash the weak and fragile hope that Winter cradles now in its arms - a snow-white, fleeting flake, as delicate as it is razor-sharp.

When Andrew’s breathing has finally settled, Renee holds out a hand for him to take. She pulls him to his feet, grasp slippery with sweat but steady all the same, then spins around and settles herself on the bench, uncapping her water bottle with a small tilt of her head. If he didn’t know better, Andrew would think it was choreographed - not a single movement out of place, not a breath lost or step unsure. In fighting as in life, Renee moves like a dancer.

A lethal one.

Andrew joins her on the bench and picks his own water bottle up.

“Wymack told me that you’re writing a sequel,” she says. Andrew shrugs and takes a generous swallow. The water feels good running down his throat. His body is wild, abuzz with endorphins - he envies Neil’s flying abilities for a split second. The fantasy is short-lived however, and he quickly brings the bottle back up to his lips. Still, thoughts of the void cause his stomach to squirm, so he taps the ground with the tip of his foot to make sure that it’s still holding steady, and briefly relishes in its safety. “I thought sequels were the mark of the Unimaginative?” Renee goes on, then gets up.

“Imagination isn’t lucrative,” Andrew deadpans. "Maybe capitalism finally got to me.”

Renee taps her chin with one finger and a smile. “That’d be unfortunate. But I don’t believe you.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” Andrew says, then follows her up so they can start to stretch. Renee takes the hint. They bend and twist their muscles so and so in silence, and in the wishful hopes that they won’t feel sore come morning - or not so much that they won’t be able to walk, at least, in Andrew’s case.

(Sure, he stays in shape. He has a yearly membership at the gym and makes good use of it. But that level of exercise is as good as a stroll in the park compared to a sparring session with a pro MMA fighter.

Which Renee still is, official retirement be damned.)

“I’m tired of surviving, Andrew,” she’d said. “There are better fights than those we lead for our own sake. Fights that give, instead of fights that take. And I’m finally ready to give back.”

Andrew had taken a drag of his cigarette, aiming for nonchalant. He’s not sure it’d worked. “I thought that’s what praying was for.”

She’d smiled, because she always did.

“Faith without following through is like a cup without water. Useless, unless you plan to hit someone with it.”

“You sound like a fortune cookie,” he’d said, because he’d been buzzed and his best friend (not that he’d admit it) was leaving - and because Andrew liked a good metaphor, too, and that just hadn’t been one.

She’d left the next day with the Peace Corps. One week later, Andrew had received a package: a glass jar, filled to the brim with hollow, ravioli-shaped biscuits as tasteless as the ‘wisdom’ within it.

He’d thrown out the cookies because they were awful. He’d kept the jar because it was practical. (In the bottom left cupboard, beneath the sink. He’s been using it to store Sir’s dry food ever since she’s learned to torn open the sturdy plastic bag it comes in.)

He’s never told her, about the jar - the cookies he’d taken a picture of after he’d thrown them in the trash, and had sent it with the caption: ‘It was an insult’.

(‘You shouldn’t waste food, Andrew.’)

(‘This isn’t food. At best it’s cardboard.’)

Nowadays however, Renee has been leaving less and less. She’s always divided her time between volunteering and earning actual money - whether it was from beating up an infinite amount of people in a ring or doing whatever it is Fuchsbau Verlag pays her to do hadn’t changed that - but the proportions seem to have been reversed as of late, if only slightly so. She doesn’t leave for a full year anymore, and when she does spend most of one away, she never fully breaks contact.

Andrew tells her that, in his own words, on the way back to his place. Renee hums. Andrew knows not to take that for an answer, so they walk in silence until Renee’s done turning her thoughts into words. (And this is another reason why Renee’s his best friend, Andrew thinks. She knows the weight of words. The importance of choice.)

It takes a few minutes, but her voice is clear and steady when she speaks. “When I left for the first time, I thought I was finally ready to be good - truly good. I wanted to find redemption, and I thought that was the way to go about it: throw myself out there fresh out of the ring, and let helping be my healing.”

She pauses. Looks at her hands, loosely curled into fists in front of her. The index finger on her right hand is crooked, bent to the left from a vicious fracture. Her eyes linger on it.

“And it worked, at first, or at least I thought it did. The ring didn’t call to me anymore, not in the way it used to. I didn’t need my fists to stay sane. But I still needed to fight.”

She looks up, and finds something in the clouds, and blinks.

“I told you that fighting for others was better than fighting for myself, and it was - but better isn’t good.” She shakes her head. “I told myself I was helping, but really it was just another ring. I wasn’t giving back - I wasn’t even healing. I was just trying to forget.”

She smiles, then, because of course she does. “Retiring helped, but not as much as I’d hoped it would. It just wasn’t right. I asked Wymack for a job and he gave it to me. And it did help.” Her eyes find his, gentle, open, sincere. “The thing with stories is... they can reach even the most hidden scars in ourselves and pick at it. And I hadn’t healed right, so I needed to bleed again.”

There’s another pause. Andrew surveys the clouds for chances of rain and decides that it’s not for today.

“If I can heal through stories, then I want to try and help others do the same.” She says it like an evidence. A relief. Andrew knows the kind. 

He feels it too, sometimes. This sense of direction. This meaning. This there’s a purpose for me here. He’s not sure he has the right.

They reach a street corner that marks the limit of what Andrew has come to think of as his part of town. His neighborhood, as much as the word doesn’t suit him. (There is always an itch where home is. Nowhere can wholly be truly safe, or so Andrew has come to learn. But it’s not as bad as it used to be.)

“How are King and Sir?” Renee asks him with a voice that hints at something else, disturbing Andrew’s thoughts.

Stuttgart’s early spring sky is white today, like a thin sheet of ice. Andrew shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “Irritating.”

Renee hums, playing with the hint of a smirk on the edge of her lips. She doesn’t ask why he keeps them around, then, because she knows. Instead she moves on, as Andrew knew she would. “How’s Mia?”

Andrew throws one of his deadpan looks that’s really a glare her way, just to make a point. He knows Renee’s immune to them by now, but it’s the principle. He has to at least pretend to be difficult.

He lights up a cigarette because he wants to annoy her.

“She’s having nightmares.”

The smoke curls up, volatile and barely there, almost tangible for a second before it’s gone. Vanishing into thin air. Like you. Andrew makes a fist of his free hand. “It’s always the same nightmare,” he pushes on. “Always the same boy, asking for help. But it’s becoming clearer. And the boy is starting to explain.”

“Can I ask who he is, or is that classified?”

She’s teasing. Andrew taps the ash off his cigarette and takes another drag, because that kind of information shouldn’t be easy to ask for. Stories take time. Fortunately for her, Andrew never seems to be able to reach the bottom of Renee’s patience, and she just waits for him to speak.

“Alberich, Prince of Nightmares,” he exhales with the smoke. (And how fitting is it, for this fleeting little prince. Curling away in the breeze.) “It’s in the first chapter.”

Renee smiles, a knowing curve to it. “Where did you take him from?”

“Das Nibelungenlied and some old Dutch poem, Karel ende Elegast. Mostly,” Andrew answers, punctuating it with a vague gesture of his cigarette-holding hand and a scowl. “For now. I need more material.”

Renee nods. She’s still smiling. “Will Isa be back?”

Andrew takes a deep cancer-filled breath, making a point not to look at the wreaths of smoke. His gaze ends up drifting upwards anyway.

He hums a yes.

Renee hums back, pleased and appreciative. Andrew is honest enough to admit that her approval feels nice. “I liked him - and so did your readers, judging by the letters they sent. I brought them with me, as you asked.”

Andrew nods. They’ve reached his block; he can see his door, his windows. The balcony.

“He’s a good character,” Renee goes on while Andrew opens the door. “He and Mia make quite the pair.” Andrew closes the door behind them. “Their relationship is an interesting one.” They climb up the three sets of stairs. “I don’t think you’ve ever written a character quite like Isa, to be honest. It almost feels like he’s actually real.”

Andrew puts the key in and turns, opening the door to his apartment. A soft thump, and Sir’s meow greets them both at the door. His tail is a question mark, a welcome home, where have you been? that Andrew answers by letting her smell the outdoors upon him. She saunters over to Renee then, curious and friendly, the known scent rising up from the shallow depths of her feline memory.

King, on the other hand, goes straight for the shoes. It gets a surprised laugh out of Renee.

“You never did tell me how you got that one.”

Andrew shrugs, shucks his coat off and goes about making tea. He doesn’t have to ask - the only reason he even has any in his flat is because of Renee, though he’s not about to admit it.

“Found him on the balcony freezing his fur off.”

“And you kept him.”

Technically it’s a statement, so Andrew chooses to ignore the implicit question there.

Renee doesn’t pry. She gets her tea and makes a neat pile of the letters Andrew and his characters have received on the coffee table, next to the yet-unopened book on German mythology Andrew’s been meaning to get into. He’s already gone through the other books he has on the subject, has combed every entry on the seasons, on winter - everything white-hair, ice-eyes, cold-hands.

(Where should I take you? Where do you fit?)

The myths are old and paper-worn. Any kind of new ink wears out under their weight, their dust and their mazes. They are enigmas kept alive from mouth to mouth, hungry voices to hungry ears. Humans and their stories. Andrew spins old texts through the spindle of himself and weaves a role for those threads of him that he cards out.

( It’s not you, it’s me. All I ever write is me. Take this image of you, shred it with your too-cold fingers, let me twine your story within mine.

Would you mind if you knew?

I made yourself a piece of me.)

Most of the letters are about what he expected. Kids who identify with the characters, kids who wonder whether Isa Holle is real (Have you met him? Does he really make snow fall? Did he teach you to talk to the wind like he does? and the answers on the tip of his tongue sing yes yes and no), kids who share their own stories with him, memories about winter, about snow, how they’ve learned to appreciate the cold weather more. There are a few from parents, too, who read the book with their children and found themselves enjoying it, and even one from a grandmother.

And then there are the letters that were written to Mia, or to Isa, and all of those kids believe in his story, and there’s even a few of them who say they’ve seen him.

It’s a lot.

Andrew leaves the letters on his coffee table and gets out. He’s not sure he could stomach smoking on the balcony right now.

Here’s the thing: Andrew knows he’s never written anything better than this damn book. He knows. He poured his damn soul into the thing. And he hates that he did.

The story is simple: a lonely girl makes a friend, and together they save the day.

Except it’s a little more complicated than that. Mia, a teenage girl, starts looking for Winter, because it’s the one season she loves and it’s late. So she falls into a well that leads her above the clouds, where she meets Oma Holle - Bringer of Cold, Destroyer of Pillows, Retiree Extraordinaire, and grandmother to the current Winter: Isa Holle, white-haired runaway on a vacation across worlds. Of course, once Mia finds him, she quickly realises that he is not, in fact, on a vacation, but is being chased by a pack of Sunlit Wolves. Shenanigans ensue, and she’s somehow roped into helping him trap them somewhere, and in the middle of adversity a beautiful friendship is born.

Except that it’s not just that, is it? Because Isa’s mother never wanted him and left, and his father is the one trying to get him killed. Because Mia is adopted, and the disconnection she feels towards her loving family is what ultimately drives her to Isa. Because their friendship is founded in part in a strong, mutual understanding of what it feels to be alone.

Bee, of course, is thrilled. She loved the first book, and cannot wait to see how Andrew will continue the story. It would have been a shame to drop such well-rounded characters, after all, although she understands why Andrew is - partially - reluctant.

“Exposing ourselves is hard, and it’s something we both know you struggle with. I’m proud of you for being so vulnerable with your readers in this book, Andrew, even if it was unintentional,” she tells him from over the steaming edge of her cocoa cup. Her smile is as warm as her drink. “The fact that you are now able to lower your guard as you did, though it can be frightening at times, is ultimately a good thing. It shows real progress.”

“I’m not sure I can do it again.”

“And that’s okay. But you won’t know unless you try.”

Andrew has a feeling she already knows something else is keeping him from writing, except that something is gone and never was here in the first place, so he leaves it at that.

Except that he was here, wasn't he? He was there on the balcony and on his couch, at his table. Andrew can’t write it off this time, not now, not ever because this time they touched, because Neil had become more real than a dream and Andrew had made him that way, had brought him that much more into his world by just writing about him. And even though he didn’t want to believe that he did, because they’d tested it, and a whole plane of Andrew’s life doesn’t make sense anymore.

Writing is a mess. The fleeting line between fiction and reality, stupidity and sensibility, magic and logic - he can’t tell where it’s gone. He doesn’t know what he believes in anymore. Stories are supposed to be safe. They’re supposed to bring you somewhere else for a while, somewhere where you can learn and play and hope all in the safety of your own mind. You aren’t supposed to bring anything back. You cannot bring anything back, and definitely not someone, definitely not him, of all things. The savior of trapped strays, riding the wind and clearing up a path for all lost kids. Those kinds of things don’t exist.

(In his weaker moments, Andrew often wonders why he couldn’t have been one of those kids. Where had his escape route been when all he’d had were bruises to cover and fairy tales to cling to?)

Andrew never should have been allowed to write about kids. It would have only been fair. He’d never been allowed to be one, after all.

So why does he keep doing it?

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never save me.

But they had.

Hadn’t they?

Andrew writes.

Not as fast as he’d like to, not as right. But he writes anyway. He pushes through the quiet whirlwind freezing his inspiration over. It’s a slow process, and thankless besides; Andrew has to fight the urge to delete and rewrite every sentence he produces, which is already trying on its own, and whatever he does manage not to frustratingly erase just leaves his lower eyelids twitching in distaste. 

He hasn’t felt this solidly blocked in a long time. Usually this is cause for pride - or at the very least, satisfaction - but right now it just means that he isn’t equipped to deal with his own mess, which aggravates him in just that special kind of way.

It just figures that his ever-so annoying cousin would choose precisely this Thursday to hold one of his Mandatory Family Dinners.

Andrew would skip, but then Nicky would never forgive him, and he can’t have that.

(This isn’t true. Nicky would forgive him in a heartbeat. But there would be a look in his eyes, an old carefulness in the way he would move when Andrew’d be around, and that particular mess would take months to undo.)

Nicky’s flat is in Stuttgart West, a little ways off from the center where Andrew lives, on the third floor of one of those older, modernised buildings tourists take pictures of. It takes about one second and a half after Andrew's ringed the bell for Nicky to open the door with a smile bigger than his own face. “Andrew! You made it. Can I hug you?”

“No.”

Nicky shrugs and moves aside to let Andrew step in, megawatt smile absolutely unmoved. “I hope you like carrot salad because Katelyn brought, like, ten kilos worth of it.”

Andrew makes a face. Nicky snorts at it.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have your Schwarzwälder. Erik spent the whole evening on it.”

“Good.”

Nicky rolls his eyes. They join the others in the living room, where Aaron is busy telling Erik everything about his latest hospital story. He’s interrupted once Erik notices Andrew and immediately rises from the couch to greet him.

“You’re just in time for dinner, Andrew! I hope you didn’t have too much trouble parking.”

“You’re late,” Aaron supplies.

Andrew lets go of Erik’s businessman grip and nods at Katelyn, who nods in return and smiles, deliberately saving Aaron for last. “I had trouble parking.”

“You could have taken the tram.”

“He’s here,” Katelyn chimes in with a pointed look towards Aaron. “That’s all that matters.”

She still has her American accent, but even Andrew has to admit that it's barely noticeable anymore. She'd barely known any German when she'd arrived in Berlin years ago on that cultural exchange program, a weakness Andrew had taken advantage of immediately. The fact that he can’t anymore is irritating, but impressive.

Nicky emerges from the kitchen then, steaming dish in hand, cutting both Andrew's thoughts and Aaron's retort short. “Meal’s ready and I’m starving, so you all children will have to bicker later!”

Aaron huffs, but gets up to sit at the dining table with Katelyn in tow and a big salad bowl. Andrew is distracted by a movement in the corner of his eye, and watches Erik take a detour on his way to the kitchen to plant a kiss on Nicky’s cheek. “I’ll get the wine.”

Andrew looks away to sit as Nicky lets out an aggravated sigh. “Yes please.”

Erik snorts and they part ways, Nicky’s smile back in place as he puts the dish down in the middle of the table.

“Tada! Braised chicken with asparagus and baby potatoes, a la Nicky Hemmick-Klose. You’re welcome.”

“It looks delicious Nicky,” Katelyn beams.

“Wait til you taste it!” Nicky grins, sitting down.

Erik soon reappears with a bottle of white that he pours into everyone’s glass before taking his seat, right between Andrew and Nicky, and the chicken starts making its way around the table for everyone to grab a serving. Katelyn’s carrot salad goes around, too, but Andrew passes it along fast enough that he almost knocks Erik’s glass down. Small talk creeps its way across the table as everyone starts to dig in, so Andrew falls silent.

Watching Aaron interact with Katelyn, watching Nicky interact with Erik, listening to them all talk about coworkers and house chores or whether they want kids, Andrew is content to retreat to the sidelines.

When Aaron first had told him about Katelyn over Skype (and hadn't that taken his brother a long time to do), Andrew had felt like destroying the world. They'd been damn lucky Bee had talked him out of using all of his money on a plane ticket across the country. (“He's allowed to make his own decisions, Andrew. You don't have to protect him the way you did before.”) When Aaron had finally brought her back over with him for Christmas, Andrew had had enough time to mull it over that he'd only wanted to choke the life out of Katelyn.

Erik… Erik was different. Erik had saved Nicky's life and thus, the twins'. He'd gone out of his way to make sure the three of them could come back and settle in Stuttgart. He'd given them space. Andrew had hated him for stealing his cousin away from him when Nicky had graduated from college, but he'd only had to glance at Nicky’s smile upon hearing the news to let it slide.

(The fact that Erik could bake had helped his case. Sweetened the deal, Nicky would say.)

At the end of the day, Erik and Katelyn are - distantly - family. But allowing them in has disturbed Andrew's balance, and he still isn't sure if he'll ever gain it back.

Andrew knows, of course, he knows, from countless sessions with Bee, that there are many ways to make a good life. To find balance. And Andrew does like his life, for the most part.

Still, there’s a voice he can’t quite shut up in his head, that likes to sing whenever they’re all gathered like this.

(They don’t need you, and you know that, the voice whispers. They’re all safe now. They’ve even found their happiness. So why haven’t you?)

Andrew opens the kitchen window and lights a cigarette. The smoke fills his shell with a strange kind of heat, one will-o’-the-wisp flickering in the wind.

Eventually Nicky joins him. The night is vast outside, dark and thick and starless, wool-clouds heavy like blankets high above. They watch the city in silence: lonely passing cars and straying pedestrians in the dark, orange electric lights, whispering trees, nocturnal birds. Andrew surveys it all and then Nicky, one shoulder pressed against the wall, his chest leaning in slightly and his neck arched, eyes wandering out the window. They’re crowding the space, the both of them. This rectangular kitchen with its square window and barely room enough there for two.

Still, they’re not touching. Nicky made sure of it.

(They’d had a conversation here, when Nicky and Erik had just moved in. They’d been standing just like this. Andrew had rapped a knuckle on the window sill and Nicky’s gaze had drifted back inside.

“Are you happy?” he’d asked.

Nicky’s eyes had widened for less than a second, then his expression had settled and he’d smiled, quietly. “Yes. I’m happy.”

Andrew had nodded. Nicky had looked at him with that face he still makes when he wants to pry but isn't sure he can. Andrew had taken a drag out of his cigarette and blown the smoke outside, eyes trailing after it.

“Aaron is too,” Nicky had finally ventured.

Andrew had let a few seconds of silence pass before he’d said, “Good.”

“Are you?” Nicky’d asked then. He’d still been looking at him, on his face a smaller, more careful kind of smile. Caring. Andrew had been tempted to leave.

In the end he’d opted for honesty and said, “I don’t know.”

Nicky had opened his mouth, then closed it when Andrew’d glared at him. Then he’d sighed and said “Okay.”

Andrew had finished his cigarette in silence after that, and they’d gone back to the living room and kicked Erik’s ass at Mario Kart. It had been, all in all, a not-so-terrible evening.)

Nicky is the first to break the silence this time. It’s about the book, of course.

“A little birdie told me you’re writing a sequel,” he says. He’s grinning, and looks way too pleased about it. Andrew throws him a glare.

“Who told you?”

“No one!” Nicky says, holding both hands up in defense. “I’ve just got amazing detective skills.”

“Renee told you.”

Nicky’s grin becomes brighter in the face of Andrew’s statement and he shrugs, looking entirely too unapologetic. “Okay, she did. We had coffee together a few days ago and she knew that you’d never tell me yourself.” Andrew frowns. Nicky dismisses it with an eyeroll and a huff. “I’m not going to tell everyone, Andrew. I can keep it secret if you want me to. Give me at least a little credit.”

Andrew raises his eyebrows. Nicky mock-glares at him.

“I raised you,” he says accusingly, pointing at Andrew with narrowed eyes. It quickly morphs into a pout, however, as he goes on. “Shouldn’t that make me one of the first people you tell big news like this?”

“You’ll be the first to know when I run for Chancellor.”

Nicky snorts, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “Don’t try and pass this off as if it’s nothing, Andrew. You never write sequels.”

“I just did,” Andrew says, and blows smoke out the window.

Nicky rolls his eyes at him again. “Alright, be difficult. One day you’re gonna get out of your teenage rebellion phase.” Andrew looks at him with a blank face. Nicy sighs, mockingly aggravated. The effect is utterly lost when it all melts into a smile. “I’m glad you are, though, Andrew. Writing a sequel.”

“Thanks,” Andrew says ironically.

Nicky huffs. “Seriously,” he says, and holds Andrew’s eyes with a sincerity that makes him want to look away. He doesn’t, though, because Nicky deserves better. Because he does, too. “I’m proud of you, Andrew. You know that, right?”

Andrew breathes smoke in then out, and in again. “I know,” he says, the words spilling out with the fumes.

“And I’m glad you found characters worth sticking around for,” Nicky adds.

Andrew frowns, but doesn’t respond. He finishes his cigarette in silence while Nicky waits, gazing out the window with a smile. 

Erik still sucks at Mario Kart. Katelyn has upped her game, though, and Andrew only takes first place by a hair’s breadth. It’s not the worse evening he could’ve had.

Eventually Spring goes by. Andrew spends most of the Summer holed up in his flat, either writing or researching obsessively.

Renee comes around a few times but she’s busy with her brand new girlfriend, a friend of Nicky’s from oversea with blond hair and a wallet that’s probably the size of the whole country. She looks happy, though, so Andrew’s mostly okay with it. He’s tempted to make sure Allison Reynolds (‘Allie’) isn’t a threat, but Renee’s more than capable of defending her own heart and he’s neck-deep into Der Albtraumprinz anyway.

There are a few check-ins with Wymack, obviously. A few texts from Aaron. Monthly sessions with Bee. Nicky blowing up his phone with pictures of his wedding anniversary trip. Kevin even manages to drag him to a museum once while he’s in town.

Before he knows it the first leaves are already starting to fall.

It’s right in the middle of October when Andrew decides to tell Bee.

He doesn’t tell her everything, obviously. Only the realistic parts.

That there’s… someone. That they met two winters ago. That he left, and then came back, and left again. And yes, Neil came back, once, but what’s to say that he’ll find his way here again?

“Why wouldn’t he?” asks Bee. Andrew has about a thousand answers to offer, but he knows those aren’t the ones she wants him to find. So he searches, beneath the layers over layers of deflection and defense. It takes a few minutes. But here it is.

“There’s nothing worth coming back for.”

Andrew speaks the words matter-of-factly, like it’s nothing. Bee takes it in stride.

“Is that what you believe, or what you think?”

“Both.”

Bee nods, understanding as ever. “Very well. What makes someone worth coming back for, then?”

Andrew is tempted to cut the session short. He’s done it before, and he knows Bee won’t hold him back. But in the end he stays, and forces himself to think about it. He picks the question up and turns it around, examining the responses it creates in his mind. There’s a common factor there, so that’s what he focuses on.

“Protection. Safety.”

Bee hums. “Is that why he came back the first time?”

Andrew shrugs.

“Alright. Let’s try to look at this differently then. Why do you want him to come back?”

Andrew frowns. Bee is smiling over the rim of her cup, a small, patient smile she always has when she’s waiting.

Andrew opens his mouth. “He’s... interesting.” Bee raises his eyebrows at him, encouraging him to expand. Andrew’s fingers itch for a cigarette. “Every time I think I’ve got him figured out, he does or say something surprising and I have to reset my expectations. It’s irritating.” Andrew huffs. It only makes Bee’s smile warmer. “He respects my boundaries,” Andrew adds, because that had surprised him perhaps more than anything else, and because Bee will know. “Doesn’t question them, doesn’t push.”

“Does that make you feel safe?” Bee asks.

“No.”

“Why?”

“He’s a liability.”

“Because you’re not sure he’s coming back,” Bee says. It’s not a question. Andrew nods, even though it’s more complicated than that. But Bee knows this too, and he’s too on edge to explain. “Does he make you feel safer than Roland?”

Andrew frowns. He was not expecting that name to come up. “He’s nothing like Roland.”

Bee hums. “How so?”

Roland wasn’t a dead winter spirit with flying powers, Andrew doesn’t say. He leans back instead, crossing his arms. “Roland was a means to an end. I couldn’t have cared less about him.”

There. He says it with defiance, daring Bee to remark on it. Andrew’s fingers are digging into his arms.

And it’s true. Roland had been an opportunity, useful while it’d lasted.

Neil, on the other hand, is a risk.

This isn’t what he said. Not really. But it is what Bee will understand anyway.

She lets a few seconds pass, waiting to see if Andrew has anything to add. When it’s clear he doesn’t, she leans slightly forward with her elbows braced on her knees. “There’s nothing that you can do that will make Neil come back. That is entirely up to him. What you can do, however, is focus on the fact that you want him to and why, and what it means.”

That’s exactly what I don’t want to think about, Andrew almost says. But he knows that’s exactly the point.

It’s the middle of October, and outside the leaves make a carpet of red and brown. The whole world will be white in two months.

Andrew finishes Der Albtraumprinz’s definitive draft at about the same time that the last dried leaf reaches the ground. As he’s walking to Fuchsbau Verlag with the whole thing printed out, Andrew notices a new sharpness to the cold air blowing South. It bites into his cheeks and the tip of his nose, turning his breaths into small, white-as-the-sky-above-him clouds.

A gust of wind howls into his ears, blowing past his coat to stick something between his ribs. Andrew grits his teeth and pushes on.

It’s the 14th of December and Stuttgart’s Weihnachtsmarkt is in full swing when Andrew finally caves. Nicky has been harassing him into going with him to the Christmas Market for days, but the promise of Renee’s presence is the only reason why Andrew ends up agreeing to the 'evening of Christmas magic and late night shopping' Nicky’s planned.

As Andrew suspected, it ends up involving a lot more gawking at Christmas carols and wandering around than any actual Christmas errands. Nicky always buys all his gifts in November anyway, so does Renee, and Andrew tends to order it all online. So really, there’s no practical reason why they’re here, other than Nicky’s love for the festivities and Erik’s cross-ocean business trip.

So they wander. Nicky bribes Andrew with his weight in sweets, Renee adds a few handmade trinkets to her collection, as well a some decorations for the Fuchsbau Verlag office, and Andrew ends up purchasing a tiny felt donkey he’ll add to Bee’s present.

(It’s a bee-themed teapot. Bee broke hers months ago and has been using a plastic kettle since. The lid has antennas and the whole thing is probably one of the kitchiest objects Andrew has ever seen, so he knows Bee’s going to love it.)

They’re busy buying Würstchen at a snack booth for dinner when Nicky gasps, then starts jumping up and down and pointing at the sky. Andrew follows his gaze absentmindedly, expecting some kind of light display, and feels his whole body become rigid all at once.

It’s not a light display. It’s not even fireworks.

“It’s snowing,” Nicky gushes next to him. “We’re at the Christmas market and it’s snowing!”

And he’s right. There’s no mistaking the fine powder fluttering down into the light from the starless sky above, powdering the pavement like icing sugar. Andrew watches as the first snowflakes touch the ground and instantly disappear, physically unable to tear his gaze away.

It’s like looking into the void.  Like vertigo. A part of Andrew desperately wants to look away, but the rest of him is determined to stare, unblinking, as the fear takes over in his guts. 

Renee’s voice breaks Andrew out of his spell, making him flinch. “I guess Winter’s early this year.”

The cliff’s edge is gone. Renee stands close to Andrew, smiling softly with sparkling lights eyes and rosy cheeks. A snowflake has caught on her scarf and refuses to melt.

There’s something caught between Andrew’s ribs and it hurts.

Snow doesn’t make a sound as it falls.

They’d had melted snow several times since the end of November. Heavy drops of liquid ice that would beat the world into pulp and then vanish as quickly as they’d arrived. Andrew would listen to them pound against the window with a warm cup of coffee or cocoa cradled in his hands and relish being inside, where it was dry and warm and comfortable.

Where the rain is a hit, however, the snow is a caress. It blankets the world in silence, covering everything with soft whiteness. It crunches harmlessly under your steps.

But snow doesn’t come alone; ice and frost are never far behind, and those will cut and crush what the snow has mollified. And the wind will yowl, and the cold will burn, and children will laugh as they play in it all.

Andrew is shaking by the time he makes it back to his flat. He’s taken his gloves off to smoke and the tips of his fingers are frozen red, brighter than the flame he had to cup in his hand to light his cigarette. Brighter than the Christmas lights dangling in the air, too.

He doesn’t take his coat off once he makes it inside. Doesn’t even bother with his shoes, and won’t that seem stupid when he’ll have to clean up. He can hear Sir meow at him from the living room, but not the pat-pat-pat of her paws on the floor. There is no sign of King. The space between his ribs grows bigger.

Andrew makes himself walk into the living room.

His two cats are waiting for him there. They meow at him from his desk, walking to the edge but not crossing the distance, attention focused on something else entirely. It’s only after Andrew has made it close enough to pet each of their heads that he forces himself to look up.

Light spills from the streetlights into the room, casting strange shadows on the floor. Upon the window that lets the light in, something glitters.

As soon as Andrew has set his eyes on the tiny snowflake it blooms, tracing the outlines of flowers and stars, and strange geometrical shapes he doesn’t recognise. It’s beautiful. It covers the glass in a layer that’s thin enough that a feeble light can filter through, but it’s not nearly enough to keep Andrew from bumping into a chair on his way to the door.

As he opens the door, his ribcage starts to ache.

There, standing on the railing with his hair flying around his head like a wild crown made of snow, is Neil. His eyes flicker from the window to where Andrew stands and he smiles. It feels like falling.

Andrew focuses on the feeling of cold steel against his skin and clutches the handle tighter in his hand.

Neil says: “Hi,” and floats down onto the balcony. His smile widens again.

Andrew lets go of the handle and unclenches his teeth, willing the pain between his ribs to fuck off.

“You’re early.”

The smile on Neil’s face wilts a little. He shrugs, looking away, and there’s a lie there. “Climate’s changing. Everyone knows that.”

Andrew tilts his head. “Is that so.”

“Yes,” Neil says, and meets his gaze. Andrew almost swallows his own tongue. “But I also didn’t want to wait.”

Andrew takes a step closer, almost entering into Neil’s space. He watches as Neil takes in a sharp breath, eyes flickering down almost too quickly for Andrew to notice. But then Neil looks down again and this time he lingers, dragging his eyes up slowly enough that it’s obvious what he’s asking. Still, he speaks.

“Yes or no?”

Andrew’s answer is a final step forward and a hand to Neil’s neck, bringing him down.

Kissing Neil is like trying to lick lightning. The inside of his mouth is a storm and Andrew can feel every cell of his body rattling with electricity, buzzing with it from his lips down into his chest where it pools, melting the ice between his ribs like dew in the summer. Andrew chases it, this electricity, brings it from Neil’s mouth to his, holds it in the space between his palet and his tongue where it’s warm. He doesn’t care about the cold or the wind anymore - all he’s interested in, all he cares for is right here. Andrew wants to devour him.

Which is why he stops.

A deep breath through his nose and he exhales, lips still brushing against Neil’s. His hands are framing his face, holding him there, and he can feel his warmth seeping into Neil’s skin.

Neil’s eyes are closed. His lashes are white as snow and flutter open slowly, taking flight. A dazed smile grows upon his face as his eyes meet Andrew’s and hold them.

Andrew swallows. “Staring.”

Neil’s smile brightens. He looks breathless and flushed, and way, way too alive for someone who should have died five years ago.

“I wasn’t sure you’d wait.”

“This is my flat.”

Neil rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean,” Neil says, and holds a hand up slowly to his face, letting it hover near one of Andrew’s own, still holding Neil’s cheek. Andrew flicks his gaze back to Neil’s face without moving his hand, so Neil covers it with his. “This. I didn’t know if I could expect this, or even hope. I didn’t know if I was allowed to.”

There is… something in Neil’s eyes that unsettles him, as he says it. A vulnerability he had never noticed before. Andrew steps away from Neil like he’s been burned and shoves his hands into his pockets. 

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Neil asks, frowning now.

“I’m not your answer,” Andrew says, biting the words out.

“No. But you’re the one thing I’ve been looking forward to for nine months. So what does that make you?”

Neil’s fist is balled at his side, his right hand clinging tightly to his staff. They stay like this, glaring at each other, until Sir scratches at the balcony door to be let out and Andrew breaks it off.

Neil doesn’t follow inside after him, so Andrew turns around and arches an eyebrow at him until finally he steps inside, shutting the cold air out. King immediately starts rubbing against Neil’s legs, meowing at him to be picked up. Neil crouches down and gathers the ball of fur in his arms, softly smiling down in disbelief as King immediately starts to purr. Then Neil looks up and catches him staring, so Andrew makes his way to the kitchen.

He gets two small pots, fills one with milk and the other with water, and turns the stove on. As the pots heats, he goes to fetch two mugs, and drops three spoons of cocoa powder in his. Neil watches it all from where he’s standing in the middle of the living room, a smile on his face as soon as he notices Andrew looking back. Only then, as if he’d been waiting for Andrew’s attention, does he start looking around. Neil takes it all in frantically, avidly, jumping from the carpet to the couch to the coffee table, but lingering upon the desk and the bookcases.

“Those are new,” he says, gesturing at one of the many plants Renee peppered around the apartment in honor of Andrew’s birthday. It’s a maidenhair fern, spilling over a bookshelf from its pot.

“Your sense of observation is noted,” Andrew deadpans.

Neil huffs, smiling still. Andrew distantly wonders what it would take to break it and looks away, letting Neil wander around without his supervision. The water is close to boiling anyway, so he pours it into Neil’s mug, doing the same with his when the milk follows suit. Then he walks up to Neil, who looks away from the bookshelf he was scanning to take the mug and thank him, wrapping both hands around the warmth with a sigh.

“I missed this,” he says, eyes trailing after King as he saunters off, then back up to Andrew’s. “I missed you.”

“It’s just water.” Neil snorts. Andrew takes a sip of his cocoa, mulling the words over in his mouth, and says: “I wrote another book.”

Neil blinks. “What?”

“I wrote a sequel to Der ausweichende Winter.”

Neil blinks again and then grins, a flutter of color brushing his cheeks. “Can I read it?”

Andrew sips at his cocoa again and then turns, walking to his desk where a small package sits, already opened. He takes the book, a test-copy, out, and holds it out for Neil to take. On the cover stands Isa, facing away from the reader, Mia right by his side with a sword in her hands. Isa has his staff, and on his left stands a figure cast in shadows. They’re holding hands.

Neil looks at the cover then at Andrew, then back at the cover when Andrew just stares at him.

“Der Albtraumprinz,” Neil reads out loud. “Mysterious. Is that supposed to be you?”

“I’m not a teenager,” Andrew says, throwing a blank stare at him.

“Neither am I.”

“Good to know.”

Neil huffs, rolling his eyes, but refrains from further comment. He turns the book over, reading the synopsis in silence, then flips it back and opens it. The first few pages he barely even glances at, skimming over the By the same author at Fuchsbau quickly - and then he stops.

Andrew doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know why. His books rarely have a dedication page, but when they do it’s always on the seventh, right before the actual story starts.

“To the wind that blows the Winter to and fro,” Neil starts reading. “You better come back soon.”