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Chapter Text

Andrew wakes and his arms are bleeding. 

Except he has been clean for four years. And when he rinses the blood away the sink stains red with it, but his arms are bare of even a scratch. 

He has a mess of scars, most systematically placed but others more frantic in their pattern. But nothing new enough to bleed from. He blinks away the sleep from his eyes and peers closer at the skin. 

There are two scars he does not recognize, cut close and vertically to his wrists. They look freshly healed but badly, pinker among than the rest and deep enough to have needed stitches. 

He wraps his arms in gauze and calls it a trick of the light. 

Aaron almost runs into him when he steps out of the bathroom. His eyes widen when he takes in the sight of Andrew’s bandaged arms, the only tell of concern and a rare one at that. 

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” 

“You didn’t—”

“Don’t be stupid,” Andrew says. “Go back to sleep.” 

Aaron frowns and shoves past him into the bathroom, a more typical gesture than the carefully concealed concern from a moment ago. 

“Whatever,” he says before slamming the door. 

He won’t fall back asleep now even if he tried. So he grabs the keys on his way out of the front door. 

Despite now being summer, it is still cold this early in the morning. Andrew leaves the windows down anyway, his face and hands chilled to pink and his eyes wind burnt. 

He runs a red light because the road is empty and because he’s feeling stupidly reckless, and is just beginning to turn onto a new street when someone inexplicably materializes in front of his car. 

His foot hits the brake pedal but not quite fast enough. The front of his car bumps the person and sends him flying forward. He lands with an audible thud. 

Andrew has never killed someone (not without meaning to at least). He does not want this to be his first. 

“Shit,” he says to himself. Then he opens the door and gets out of the car. 

The person, or boy as it seems, is already rising from where he’d been knocked onto the pavement. He has a nasty scrape on the side of his face, and he wobbles precariously on one foot before finding his balance. But he isn’t dead. 

“You ran me over,” the boy says. His tone is more observant than accusatory. He reaches for an old duffel strewn a few feet away. 

“You came out of nowhere,” Andrew says. 

The boy looks directly at him then. His eyes glow in the grey of the early morning, enormous and bright blue, and so familiar Andrew almost asks him his name. 

“Maybe,” the boy says. 

His answer is disconcerting. So is his nonchalance. 

“Do you need a hospital?” Andrew says, watching the boy pull his duffel close to his body as though it were an infant to be protected. 

“No,” he says. “I’m fine.” 

“Okay,” Andrew says. “Bye.” 

He moves then to get back into his car and drive away, to write the entire morning off as a self-induced hallucination. Except the boy hobbles over closer to him, duffel held awkwardly in his clear discomfort, unsteady on his feet. 

“Wait a second,” he says. “Do you know how to set a shoulder?” 

No. He did not know how to set a shoulder. 

“You said you were fine,” Andrew points out. 

“You ran me over.” 

“I barely tapped you.” 

“I flew thirty feet.” 

“Not quite, dramaqueen.” 

“I can teach you how,” the boy says. “I just can’t do it myself.” 

Andrew looks at him carefully. The color of his eyes does not match the muddy brown color of his hair. His clothes are too big for him. He hides his pain well. 

At length he agrees, out of guilt, or because of some odd familiarity about the kid, or maybe because of something else entirely. 

“Where do you want me?”

The boy directs him towards the hood of the car, a solid surface, and then guides him through the motions. He easily muffles the sound of his pain when Andrew makes the final motion to pop his shoulder back in place. 

Andrew releases him quickly, stepping a distance away, and resists the urge to steady him when he wobbles. 

“Thanks,” he says, rolling his shoulder. 

“You don’t need a hospital,” Andrew says for clarification, even though he does not usually repeat himself. 

“I don’t need a hospital,” the boy confirms. 

“And you won’t sue me for malpractice?” 

“I think you need to be a practicing doctor.” 

“Then for running you over.” 

“So you admit to it.” 

“Not on record.” 

“Don’t worry,” the boy says. Andrew is annoyingly taken by his smile. “I’m not going to sue you.” 

“Okay,” Andrew says. He leans down to pick up the boy’s duffel. He takes it from Andrew quickly and swings it over his good shoulder. 

“Well, see you later,” the boy says. 

This was unlikely. Although Andrew finds himself thinking he wouldn’t mind. He nods anyway, gets into his car, and watches the boy for just a little longer, as he crosses the street and makes his way to the nearest bus stop. 

Then he drives away. 

He parks his car at the top of a hill near the hospital, with a view of the city, where families come for picnics and teenagers to make out, but which is empty now. He sits on the hood and watches the sun begin to rise. The orange of the light casts the trees’ branches in a pretty glow. 

He smokes through a quarter pack over the course of a few hours. He will reek of cigarette later and Aaron will undoubtedly whine about it. But his fingers won’t stop shaking. 

Eventually, he hops down from the hood, and immediately puts a hand out to steady himself. Suddenly his eyes burn and his head feels split, and his skin is itchy in a way that makes him want to rip it off like a piece of clothing. 

When the feeling subsides, he opens his eyes. 

A doppelganger watches him from a few feet away, his expression amused. He sits just as Andrew had a moment ago, perched on the hood and with a cigarette held lightly between his fingers, which are wrapped in dirty white sports-tape. 

It must be Aaron. Or perhaps a long lost triplet. He might laugh at the absurdity. 

The doppelganger looks like Andrew had years ago, hollower, skinnier, more dead than alive. But there are lines in his face Andrew does not recognize. There is an emptiness he does not know. 

“Hello,” the doppelganger says. 

“Hi,” Andrew says. Maybe his cigarettes are laced. Or he never woke up this morning and this has all been a dream. 

“It’s not the smoke,” the doppelganger says. “And you’re not dreaming.” 

“So they misdiagnosed me.” 

“Probably. But you’re not hallucinating either.” 

“You’re me.” 

The doppelganger shrugs. He tosses his cigarette to the ground. 

“Not totally. We are each a consequence of random variation. But we share most of the same basic elements.” 

Andrew searches his face. Something is clearly more wrong with this person than he himself is familiar with. This scares him in the way that heights do, because Andrew is familiar with most forms of tragedy but he does not recognize the kind in this man’s eyes. 

“What is wrong with you?” 

The doppelganger looks confused for a fleeting moment. He hides the surprise quickly. 

“Nothing you wouldn’t already know about.” 

“No,” Andrew says. “This is different.” 

“Oh,” the doppelganger says. “Maybe Abram.” 

“Who?” 

The doppelganger laughs. The sound is empty. 

“You’re a little behind. Maybe you’d know him as Neil?” 

“No.” 

“Tiny, redhead, weird eyes.” 

Oh. Maybe. His hair did not match his eyes. His clothes were too big for him. 

“You know him,” Andrew says. 

“Not anymore.” 

Andrew recognizes the dismissiveness in his voice as something entirely but. His expression is flat but his body holds itself carefully, as though any sudden movement might break it. 

“Explain,” Andrew says. The doppelganger smiles. He doesn’t recognize the gesture. 

“He’s dead.” 

“So?” 

The doppelganger looks carefully at him, curious, realized. 

“You don’t know who he is to you yet.” 

“He isn’t anyone.” 

The doppelganger flicks his fingers in dismissal. “He’s flighty at first. Don’t let him run.” 

“Should I care?” 

“We shouldn’t. It can’t be helped.” 

Everything could he helped. He wants to punch himself in the face. 

“You make no sense.” 

“Does anything?” 

When on the receiving end Andrew hates his own crypticism. 

He is about to respond, to ask another question, maybe force a real and honest answer, when the doppelganger puts a hand up to stop him. 

“Feel that?” 

Something tugs at him then. Like a thread tied around his stomach being pulled. His heart pounds. His body aches, its every bone bruised down to the marrow. 

“You’re being rejected,” the doppelganger says. “Your timeline isn’t close enough to stay any longer. That’s lucky. Maybe it will be different for you.” 

“I’m not done,” Andrew says. But it is no use. Whatever pulls at him is stronger than he is. 

“Find him,” the doppelganger says. “He’ll explain.” 

“And then what?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

Andrew opens his mouth to say something but it is too late. Something like water but thicker rushes around him, filling every space of his body, swallowing him from the inside out. 

When he opens his eyes the doppelganger is gone. Andrew feels empty. Like every organ has been scooped out from inside, leaving him a bloodied pit of nothing. 

Find him , he had said. 

Fat chance. 

Andrew spends the rest of the morning and afternoon roaming the third-floor halls of the hospital. 

He tapes a dollar with sticky tape and uses it to steal half the contents of the vending machines. He leaves what he doesn’t like on the waiting room seats for wailing families to feed themselves and eats the rest. 

“Go away,” Aaron says when Andrew makes his way to his department. He is hovering over the front desk, scanning a pile of papers and looking a dipshit in his bright blue scrubs. 

“I’m bored,” Andrew says. 

“Be bored somewhere else.” 

“I did that.” 

“Then go home.” 

“I don’t feel like it.” 

“Christ,” Aaron says. “I’m busy. Go watch people cry in intensive care or something.” 

“Contrary to popular belief I’m not a sadist.” 

“You could have fooled me.” 

Andrew does not grace him with a response. He flicks him in the arm and walks away. 

He does make his way to the intensive care unit, not because he enjoys watching people suffer over the tragic failures of modern medicine, but because they have the best vending machines in the building. 

He is just picking up his three packs of bubblegum when out of some astounding miracle he spots something out of the corner of his eye – a head of familiar moppy brown rounding the far corner of the hallway. 

He is beginning to think something unlike coincidence is at hand. 

The boy is quick. He scans the hallway and then slips inside a door with the swipe of a key-card that most definitely does not belong to him.  

Andrew is also quick. His foot slips into the crack before the door fully shuts, and he shoves it open with a heavy shoulder. The door slams into something solid and bounces off. Someone makes a noise of both pain and irritation. 

Andrew closes the door behind him. 

“That hurt,” the boy says, rubbing his cheek. “Why do you keep doing that?” 

“It’s better than a car,” Andrew says with a shrug. 

“I guess,” he agrees. “What are you doing here?” 

“You’re stealing,” Andrew says. 

It’s more an observation than an accusation. The boy has plopped his unzipped duffel onto the floor and was beginning to scour the shelves for supplies to fill it with. 

“I’m borrowing,” he corrects. He holds a roll of gauze in one hand and a mysterious bottle of clear liquid in the other. 

“No one is going to want your bloody bandages back.” 

“Then I’m stealing.” 

“So then you are hurt,” Andrew says, as though he has already denied the very notion. 

“No,” he says as expected. “I just fell.” 

“Earlier you said you were fine,” Andrew says. 

“I am,” he says, and after a moment of hesitation, “our little meeting might have exacerbated things.” 

“You didn’t say anything.” 

“I didn’t want to.” 

“Still.” 

“Andrew,” he says in exacerbation. “It’s fine.” 

And then Andrew shoves him against the nearest wall and presses a knife to his gut. He has not used it in a long while but the weight is familiar in his hand, and he is not afraid to. 

“Ouch,” the boy says. He winces when Andrew presses the blade closer, not enough to break the skin, but enough for him to know it’s there. 

“I don’t remember telling you my name.” 

“Lucky guess?” 

“Funny,” Andrew says. This close he can see the flecks of blue in his eyes. The auburn color of his lashes. He can feel his chest rising and falling. 

“Would you believe I just had a feeling?” 

“Tell me who you are.”

“Guess.” 

“No.” 

“Because you already know.” 

Andrew jostles him. He hates the sound he makes at the pain in his shoulder and also that he right. 

His name sits easy and familiar at the roof of his mouth. It had since they first met that morning. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but that made no difference now. 

“Explain.” 

Neil smiles. Or grimaces. Andrew presses closer, pinning him to the wall with his own weight. The warmth of his body is familiar. He wants to be disgusted but Neil does not look afraid and the knife between them feels benign. 

“I only know as much as you do.” 

That’s a lie. Andrew is about to say as much when Neil’s body flickers like static underneath him. 

He steps away. Neil lands softly onto the ground and keels over, hands to his gut. For a moment Andrew thinks he mistakenly left the knife stuck in his belly, but a glance downwards easily proves him otherwise. He slips the knife back in between the fabric of his armbands and the layer of white gauze. 

“Shit,” Neil says. 

“What’s wrong with you?” 

“I’m unstable.” 

“In the head maybe,” Andrew says. Though he is beginning to suspect that accusation may apply more to himself. 

“Shit,” Neil says again. 

“Are you going to explain what’s happening?” 

“I don’t really feel like it.” 

“Do it anyway.” 

Neil makes a sound like irritation and then slides down on the wall to the floor. He breathes heavily. Andrew goes to his knees in front of him. 

“Give me a second,” Neil says.

“Tell me where you’re hurt.” 

“I’m fine.” 

Andrew wants to smother him. His own hands shake hovering over Neil. “Neil, where?” 

Neil makes a general motion with his hands. His chest heaves. Andrew puts a hand close to his stomach and waits for Neil’s nod of affirmation before touching him. 

He remembers this feeling from earlier but it shocks him still. His stomach is in his throat and every bone in his body is on fire. He turns away from Neil and dry heaves. 

When the discomfort passes, he turns back to Neil. Neil is looking at him with something like an apology in his eyes. He is still in pain. Andrew shifts closer to him. 

“Sorry,” Neil says. “I’m not in a lot of control right now.” 

“In control of what?” 

“Look where we are,” Neil says. 

Andrew looks. 

They are exactly where they had been. Except everything had been just slightly changed. The differences were only enough to notice if you paid attention to the details. 

The door was painted a darker shade of blue than before. The light was brighter. The shelves were one shelf shorter. Neil was bleeding. 

“Let me see,” Andrew says, a question framed as a command. Neil nods and Andrew carefully lifts the hem of his shirt. 

His torso was caked in dried blood. A line of stitches spread from one end of his stomach to the other, keeping closed what looked like someone’s attempt to gut him. But it had split open and was leaking blood. 

“It doesn’t feel awesome,” Neil admits. “My hands were shaky.” 

Andrew ignores the implication of that latter part. There was no other way to interpret it, but it was absurd to think Neil had stitched his own wound closed. 

“Hold still,” Andrew says. He removes his sweater and uses the sleeves to slow the bleeding. 

“You’re bleeding, too,” Neil says. He puts a finger to Andrew’s wrist where the gauze began. Andrew’s arm had grown warm. The white had bled through to become rusty red. 

“I’m not hurt,” Andrew says. 

Neil closes his eyes. His fingers move to rest gently on Andrew’s, which press to his wound, carefully but firmly. 

“This isn’t your first time doing this,” Neil says. 

“I can honestly say I have never attempted to fix someone’s home-sewn stitches.” 

“Not that,” Neil says with a small smile. “Jumping.” 

“That sounds stupid,” Andrew says. 

Neil shrugs and opens his eyes. “That’s because I made it up.” 

“Then it makes sense.” 

“Are you going to keep insulting me?” 

“Do you want my help?” 

“Yes,” Neil says. 

“Then, yes,” Andrew says. “But first you need to explain what this so-called jumping means.” 

“Okay,” Neil says. “Do you feel that tug at your gut?” 

“Yes,” Andrew says. 

“Right now we’re in a kind of variant of our  own timeline. That tug means we’re about to be pulled back to our own.” 

“Okay,” Andrew says.

It was an impossible thing but so were his arms bleeding from nothing, and a copy of himself sat on  the top of his car, and knowing Neil’s name without ever having heard it aloud. 

“The timeline will always recognize when something doesn’t belong. That’s the tug.” 

Neil puts his hand out, bloodied at the fingertips. Andrew takes it, the other still pressed gently to where he is bleeding. 

It hurts less returning than going. 

“Okay?” Neil says. 

Andrew says nothing. He lifts the fabric of his sweater sleeves from Neil’s stomach. The bleeding has stopped. 

“Now what?” Neil says. 

“Now we go home.” 

Andrew’s arms stop bleeding through the gauze in the car. But his hands are sticky with it. They do not speak on the drive home. 

He rinses his hands using the outside faucet before taking Neil inside. The door is unlocked. He hates to remind them to lock it but they always seem to forget. 

Aaron is already home, seated on the couch with a tray of half-devoured chicken nuggets on the coffee table. He does not acknowledge them at the door but speaks as they are about to make their way up the stairs. 

“Who is that?” He says. He is looking pointedly at Neil. 

Neil stands uncomfortably with one foot on the first step. 

“I ran him over,” Andrew says in lieu of some other more intelligible introduction. 

“So you brought home roadkill.” 

Neil makes an offended sound. Aaron looks at him, and after a moment gestures to the side of his own head with one hand. 

“You deaf?” 

“Hard of hearing,” Neil says. 

Andrew looks from his brother to Neil and then back again. He wonders when he became so unobservant he hadn’t noticed the hearing aids in Neil’s ears. He also wonders when Aaron became so observant he had. 

“Cool,” Aaron says, as though that were not borderline offensive. Maybe it wasn’t, because Neil smiles awkwardly and says nothing of it. 

“We’re leaving now,” Andrew announces, and gestures for Neil to follow him. 

In his bedroom, Andrew directs Neil to sit on his bed. Neil does as told, setting his duffel by his feet. 

Andrew begins with his face. He disinfects the scrapes on his cheeks from where he hit the pavement. They will scab but not scar. Then he slaps a bandaid on one side. 

He moves to Neil’s stomach next. He unwraps the rushed wrapping he had done at the hospital, then carefully disinfects the wound. 

Neil sits still, working his bottom lip with his teeth but otherwise making no indication he is in pain. Andrew rebandages his stomach and steps back to examine his handiwork. 

“Not very inconspicuous,” Neil says, gesturing towards his bandaged face. 

“Do you want it to be?” 

“I would prefer to blend in.” 

“I don’t think that’s likely.” 

“Why not?” 

“You aren’t the blendable sort.” 

Neil frowns, and then he plops onto his back, arms spread to his sides. 

Andrew sits beside Neil and lowers himself onto his back. As a child he used to look for shapes in the rough paint of the ceiling. To distract himself. Now he does not need to. 

“I know this ceiling.” 

Andrew says nothing. 

“And this house. This town. You.” 

“You said before there’s more than just one timeline,” Andrew says. “So we’ve met many times before. Maybe that’s why.” 

“Yeah,” Neil says, and then he laughs. It is a tired laugh, fatigued and beautiful and familiar as everything about him is. 

Andrew takes the floor. It is not even evening yet but they would both sleep easily. 

Andrew wakes and the sheets are too soft and the light is too golden. There is a cat curled up by his chest. He reaches to touch it and it lifts its head and makes a chirping sound. 

Someone walks into the room. His hair is wet and he is dressed in sweatpants and a soft looking t-shirt, both of which are too big for him. His arms are heavily scarred. His face is more so. 

“Oh,” Neil says, toweling off his hair. “I thought I heard you in the kitchen.” 

He speaks not aloud but with his hands, signing the words in the air in front of him. Andrew understands him though he does not know how or why. 

He says nothing. Neil looks at him for too long a moment before something like recognition settles into his expression. 

“You’re not my Andrew,” he says, speaking aloud now rather than signing. 

“You’re not my Neil,” Andrew says. 

“No,” Neil agrees. 

The scars on his face are drastic, three long slashes on one cheek and a collection of burns on the other. They have been healed for a very long time. 

“Where am I?”

“Home,” Neil says. “Or it will be. Shit. Sorry, it’s been a while. I wasn’t supposed to say.” 

“Too late.” 

“Yeah,” Neil says. “But it doesn’t matter so much if you’re from a more divergent timeline.” 

He means the statement as a question. 

“I don’t think so,” Andrew says, because there is no tug in his gut. He feels settled and safe here, comfortable despite himself. 

“Where am I ?” Neil asks. “In your timeline.” 

“Sleeping.” 

“Oh, cool.” 

Someone else walks into the room then. Andrew has met a counterpart of his own before, but this version startles him more than the first and for an entirely different reason. 

“Neil,” he says. “You have a guest.” 

“Andrew,” Neil says. “This is Andrew.” 

“I gathered.” 

“I think maybe they just met.” 

“How nostalgic.” 

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Whatever,” Andrew says, although his voice is something like fond. “Why are you here?” 

This is directed at Andrew. 

“Accident.” 

Andrew, who is older and stockier and less pale in the face, softer around every edge, makes an annoyingly knowing face. 

“You can’t control it.” 

“Can you?” 

Older-Andrew shrugs. “I was taught.” 

“By who?” 

“By him,” Older-Andrew says, gesturing towards Neil. 

“He doesn’t trust me,” Andrew says, because he knew it was true though his own Neil had not said it, and because out of anyone in the world he would only trust himself to admit it to. 

“He will,” Neil says before Older-Andrew can speak. “Try Abram.” 

“I don’t want something he hasn’t given me.” 

“Smart,” Neil says with a solemn nod. “Except it will end the same regardless.” 

“Badly?” Andrew says.  

“Depending on your definition,” Older-Andrew says. He looks at Andrew as though he understands him completely. Andrew supposes he must. 

“I need to go back.” 

“It’s not really a conscious effort,” Neil says. “It will happen on its own if you stay too long.” 

Andrew looks at him. The cat jumps down from the bed and rubs itself against Neil’s legs. He bends down and runs a hand over its back. 

“Your face,” Andrew says. 

Neil does a good job at hiding his surprise. Perhaps it was a universal trait. He waits for the cat to walk away, tail held high, before speaking. 

“You’re so behind,” Neil says. He sounds almost nostalgic. And a little sad. 

“And you’re so old.” 

“Twenty-three, actually. You’re probably just a year away.” 

“Spoilers, Neil,” Older-Andrew says. He does not sound too upset about it, though. 

“So what happened?” Andrew says. 

Neil shrugs. “I didn’t run.” 

“Sounds fake.” 

“People change.” 

“Not in my experience,” Andrew says. Except despite everything he wanted that to be true. If for anyone, than for himself. 

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough,” Older-Andrew says. “Feel that?” 

“Shit,” Andrew mumbles. His stomach lurches. 

“Your time is up,” Older-Andrew says. 

“See you later,” Neil says, and waves. 

Neil is still sleeping. Andrew readies himself quietly so as not to rouse him. But he is apparently a light sleeper, because he rustles when Andrew bumps against a drawer and wakes a moment later. 

His hair sticks up at odd angles. He rubs his eyes and blinks in the light of the early morning. Andrew waits for him to put in his hearing aids, a quick task done with practiced hands. He ruminates on the notion that Neil felt safe enough to take them out to sleep in the first place. 

“Morning,” Neil says. His voice is groggy with sleep.  

“Morning,” Andrew says. 

Andrew leaves him to fully awaken on his own. He pours himself a generous helping of frosted flakes and skips the milk. Aaron gives him a scrutinous look, as though his dietary choices were any superior to his own. 

“Who’s your guest?” Nicky asks from the stove, and then yelps when only one half of his omelette lands inside the pan. 

“Neil.” 

“Where did you get him?” Nicky says. His omelette tears tragically in half in his attempt to salvage it. 

“Nowhere,” Andrew says. 

“You brought him home,” Aaron points out. 

“Yes,” Andrew says. 

“So then where did he come from?” 

“I simply could not tell you.” 

“I hate you,” Aaron says. 

“Thank you,” Andrew says. 

Nicky laments over his omelette. Andrew pours himself another serving of frosted flakes. Neil arrives. 

He has not bothered to change out of his sweatpants or even wrestle down the bird’s nest that is currently his hair. He does, however, now have brown eyes rather than blue, and eyes Aaron and Nicky with a sort of wariness Andrew recognized as distrust. 

“Good morning,” Nicky says with a smile too bright for so early in the morning. 

“Um, morning,” Neil says. 

“I’m Nicky.” 

“Neil. Thanks for having me over.” 

“Of course,” Nicky says. He elbows Aaron in the ribs. 

“Welcome to the shithole,” Aaron says whilst glowering at Nicky. 

“Frosted flakes,” Andrew says, nodding at the box on the countertop. 

“Do you have something less sugary?” 

“Picky eater,” Andrew says. 

“You’re welcome to go through the fridge,” Nicky says. 

“Thanks,” Neil says. To Nicky’s dismay he does not. Instead he settles for a too brown banana and a black coffee. 

Disgusting. 

Neil goes for a run. He says to help him get to know the neighborhood, to rid his body of restlessness. It makes Andrew nervous. He wasn’t healed. And the words of his earliest met doppelganger echo relentlessly in his head. 

He’s flighty at first. Don’t let him run.

He lets him run. He steals Aaron’s laptop and takes it upstairs with him. The password is easy to guess. His search yields far too many videos to choose from, so he clicks on the first one and settles into the pile of pillows. 

His hands move clumsily in the air. The woman on screen signs that while the motions of your hands are important, facial expression is just as essential, and gave more meaning to everything. 

The latter would be the more difficult part. Everything else was intuitive, and his memory helped him to remember the signs easily enough. 

“What are you doing?” 

Andrew closes the laptop. 

Neil is pink in the face and watching him. His fringe falls onto his forehead with sweat. 

“Where have you been?” Andrew says in lieu of an answer. He was not embarrassed. That feeling was foreign to him. Rather he was uncertain how Neil might react given the truth. 

“I wasn’t going to leave,” Neil says. As though he could read Andrew’s mind. This was a rather disconcerting thought and one Andrew refused to entertain despite its realistic possibility. 

“I didn’t think you would.” 

This was not strictly true. It was not a complete lie, though, so Andrew felt less bad about saying it. 

“I can teach you,” Neil says. “If you want.”

“I don’t want anything.” 

“I can still teach you.” 

“Fine,” Andrew says. 

“I’m gonna shower first,” Neil says. 

He takes his duffel with him. Andrew busies himself with a new video about helpful medical signing vocabulary.

Neil is quick. He steps back into the room with bare feet and wet hair that falls prettily onto his forehead. His shirt and sweats look faded and too big for him. The image reminds him of another Neil, with a scarred face and a cat and a kind of contentedness to him that this Neil did not yet have. 

He shifts to make room for Neil on the bed, who settles easily, sitting cross-legged in front of Andrew. His knees almost but don’t quite touch Andrew’s own. Andrew tosses him a pillow, which he places onto his lap and rests his forearms on. 

“How much do you know?” 

“My name is Andrew,” Andrew signs, slower in the spelling of his name. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

“It’s good to meet you,” Neil signs with a small smile. 

Andrew signs the rest of his learnt vocabulary. Neil watches him carefully and responds slowly so Andrew can interpret him easily. 

“You know so much,” Neil says aloud. ”Did you just start?” 

“It’s mostly intuitive.” 

“Yeah,” Neil says. “But people still don’t pick it up as quickly.” 

“Sign something new,” Andrew says. 

“Run,” Neil says aloud as he signs it. He waits for Andrew to mimic the motion. 

“I will not run,” Neil signs. 

“How do you sign liar?” 

“Dick,” Neil says and signs. 

“You don’t need to reassure me. I don’t care.” 

“You don’t care,” Neil repeats. 

“Yes.” 

“I think you do,” Neil says. “Or some version of you does.” 

Andrew plops down onto his back. “Maybe if you taught me how to control it, I would know for sure,” he says. 

He cannot see Neil’s expression, but the tone of his voice is easy enough to interpret. 

“I can’t.” 

“Then tell me how to do it.” 

“Why do you want to?” 

“Maybe I’m bored here.” 

“But you’re not reckless. And that’s what jumping is.” 

He could not disagree. He could easily imagine the ruins people would bring about given the chance to do what they could, the things they might steal from one world to bring to another. Out of greed. Out of grief. 

If he were someone with lesser self-control, of which he had only in recent years developed, he could think of a few things he might take himself. 

“So why do you do it?” He says. 

“I don’t,” Neil says. “Not unless I’m forced to.” 

“Why would you ever be forced to?” 

Neil sighs and lays beside Andrew, leaving a comfortable space between them.

“I can’t tell you just yet,” he says. 

When Andrew turns to look at him, his eyes are closed. He looks so tired. The purple of the skin beneath his eyes, the grim line of his mouth, the clench of his jaw, working his teeth to dust. 

He is also beautiful. 

Andrew looks away.

Neil falls asleep. Andrew leaves him to rest and wanders downstairs. Nicky is seated on the couch playing a shooter game. Andrew takes a gallon of ice cream from the freezer and sits at the opposite end to eat. 

“Where’s Neil?” Nicky says, thumbs fiddling angrily with the controller, but his expression perfectly tranquil. 

“He’s napping,” Andrew says. The ice cream hurts his teeth. He presses his tongue to them. 

“Good,” Nicky says. “That boy looks like he hasn’t slept properly in years.” 

“Yeah,” Andrew agrees. 

“He’s nice,” Nicky says. “He’s a little cagey, though. He reminds me of a feral cat. A cute one.” 

“Careful,” Andrew says, pointing a spoonful of ice cream at Nicky in warning. A drop of it lands on the sofa. He wipes it with his leg. 

“Hey,” Nicky says. “I’m just being observant. Promise I won’t bother him. How long is he staying, anyway?” 

“As long as he lasts,” Andrew says. 

“Are you afraid he won’t be able to handle us?” 

“It’s not him I’m afraid for.” 

“Oh,” Nicky says. He pauses his game and looks at Andrew, suddenly far more interested than before. “Is he a wild child?” 

“You could say that,” Andrew says. 

“Well, I hope he stays,” Nicky says. “I love him already.” 

Andrew snorts. And then chokes on ice cream. 

Nicky’s wish comes true. Neil stays. 

They do not broach the topic. Maybe for fear of jinxing it. Andrew buys an air mattress and Neil takes the bed permanently. 

They spend their time wasting it, but without any sort of guilt that might usually accompany doing absolutely nothing. Andrew drives them to viewpoints and they sit silently to watch the sun set, sharing a cigarette or a joint. 

Neil buys fruit too ripe to last long and then scrambles to eat it before its spoiled. Andrew buys lemonade and hot cheetos and the sorts of food he reserved for the summer months.

Neil grows skilled at annoying Aaron. His video game strategy is in fact no strategy, and to Aaron’s dismay, this results in his winning approximately nine times out of ten. 

Nicky cleans the house and cooks and calls Erik at least three times a day. Andrew works the dishes at Eden’s and Aaron works long hours at the hospital. 

Sometimes Neil is gone when Andrew comes home, and Andrew sits on the couch with the television on, trying to not think the worst until Neil comes walking back through the door. 

What he does while out is a mystery to Andrew. He rarely bothers to ask. 

Neil teaches him more sign. He picks it up quickly, as though it were a language he had always been fluent in. And maybe it was. 

He helps Neil to dye his roots that gross muddy brown. He attempts to get him to throw out his colored contacts, but to no avail. 

He ruminates over the things he already seemed to know about Neil, that were so familiar to him already it was like they were about himself. Like how he bit his bottom lip when anxious, how he tried to hide the pain in his sore feet after running too long in the morning, how he liked fruit but only when they grew too ripe. 

He would only sit on the outside of a restaurant booth. Would not smoke with anyone but Andrew. He did not untie his laces when removing his shoes. He did not sleep well. 

These were things only noticed and learned after years of companionship, but Andrew noticed them and knew them without ever having been told. Andrew did not think too hard about why that might be. And Neil would not talk about it either. 

Mostly Andrew indulged in the lazy way of summer. 

It had always been the most difficult part of the year. Time would slow. His skin would burn. His arms would itch beneath layers of bandages and long sleeves. He could not seem to eat. 

There was no school to excusably keep him away from whatever foster family he happened to be living with at the time. There was too much time. Too little to occupy himself with. He would hurt himself twice as often. 

He hadn’t been intent on self destructing for so long. Still, the urges were there, the reminders faint aches where he’d once dug a razor into his skin and watched it bleed. 

He does not bleed again, not as he had mysteriously that first day he had met Neil. But his arms will ache and sometimes he will not know if it is from the memory or from something else. He does not ask Neil of it. 

And now he does not mind the summer season so much. The sun left him lazy and slow. The air was syrup. He felt like going out. He stubs his cigarette out in the soil of a potted plant and goes inside. 

Neil is laying on the couch with the television on. His feet are elevated on a pillow, which means he ran for too long and they are hurting him. He signs hello to Andrew when he sees him. Andrew signs back. 

Then he tosses a paper bag onto his stomach. Neil makes a dramatically discontented sound. The wound on his stomach healed weeks ago. Andrew had acted nurse throughout the entire healing process. So he knows Neil is not hurt. Just dramatic. 

“Get dressed,” he says. 

“What, now?” 

“Yes, now.” 

“You couldn’t have mentioned going out earlier?” 

“Do you have something better to do?” 

“Asshole,” Neil says, because the answer is no and they both know it. Still Andrew spots his tiny smile on his way to get dressed. 

He is driving distracted. 

He can see Neil in the rearview mirror, staring absently out the window. Nicky chose the outfit well. Andrew won’t say it but he appreciates the all-black ensemble, the mesh cut outs, the fittedness of the fabric. 

Neil does not look particularly excited to be dressed irregular to his usual drab clothing. But he does not look uncomfortable. Andrew had yet to convince him to remove his absurd colored contacts, and he vaguely mourned the possibilities. But he appreciated the look still. 

Neil catches his gaze in the mirror. 

“Okay?” He signs, mouthing the word with the motion. 

Andrew nods. Then he adjusts the mirror to remove Neil from view and grips the wheel a little tighter with one hand. 

At Sweetie’s, Andrew places a small stack under the pile of napkins at the table, and watches Neil realize the exchange. He says nothing, and refuses Andrew’s bowl when he nudges it towards him. 

“I don’t like ice cream,” he says. 

“Your loss,” Andrew says, and shovels down the soupy half he had thought to save for Neil. 

Before leaving Nicky demands help with his makeup in the bathroom and drags a disgruntled Aaron along with him. Andrew and Neil wait in the back alley with the car, sharing a cigarette and listening together to the passing cars on the freeway. 

“Dust?” Neil says when he passes the cigarette over. Andrew had expected the question, so it does not take him long to deliberate over an answer. 

“Aaron,” he says simply. “Dust is better than the alternative.” 

“He uses,” Neil realizes. Or maybe he had already known. It was not a difficult thing to guess. 

“You couldn’t tell from the track marks?” 

Neil shakes his head when Andrew offers the cigarette back. 

“He works at a hospital,” Neil says.  

“He stopped using in high school,” Andrew says. “They don’t know. He would lose his internship.” 

“Is that why…” 

Andrew understands the meaning of the question immediately. His arms begin to itch underneath his bands. 

“No,” he says. 

Neil does not ask for elaboration. Nicky and Aaron arrive only a moment later. Andrew watches Neil carefully as he walks back to the car. He had a slight limp and leaned too heavily to his right. It was hardly noticeable – practiced until the pain was entirely forgotten. 

He puts out the cigarette and follows.

Once they arrive, Andrew goes straight to the bar and orders a round enough for everyone. Neil refuses his drink when Andrew offers it, and so Andrew has it for him. 

Overhead, a mishmash of music plays and cannot be blamed on a bad DJ. Something like a ballad melds into something more techno into something orchestral. Andrew blinks and the room is empty. He blinks again and the room is full. 

He ignores it. His arms ache for the first time since that day weeks ago but there is no tug at his gut. Neil makes no indication he is sharing the experience, and Andrew does not feel like asking. 

“I’m going to dance,” Nicky announces, and then pulls a reluctant Aaron along with him to the dancefloor. 

“Go,” Andrew says to Neil, who is nursing a soda and who eyes the room like it is some place to escape from. 

He was always pretty to look at. But Neil was particularly gorgeous in this awful club lighting. 

“I don’t really dance,” he says. 

“Then don’t,” Andrew says, and then leaves to find Roland. Because he can't stand to look at Neil right now. Because his stomach hurts and his eyes burn and the music is too loud. 

“Hi, Andrew,” Roland greets. He spots Andrew before he can think to change his mind and return back to Neil. 

“Hi,” Andrew says, seating himself on an empty stool. 

“It’s been awhile,” Roland says, his hands easy-moving as he pours Andrew his regular. 

He had seen Roland just yesterday when he came in for his shift. But Roland meant something else. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“You look good tonight.” 

Andrew says nothing in response. Normally he wouldn’t allow Roland such easy compliments. Today he does not care. 

“Should I take my break?” 

Perhaps any other night Andrew might have said yes. And he had just three weeks ago, tens of times before that, too. Roland was easy to please and followed orders. And when his hands got too curious Andrew was quick to stop him and he was not offended by it. 

Any other night Andrew would have said yes. His stomach wanted it. He wanted it. 

“No,” he says. 

“Okay,” Roland says easily. He pours Andrew another drink, though he has not finished his first one. “Let me know if you change your mind.” 

Andrew stays a while longer at the bar. He watches Roland pour drink after drink and flirt with every other customer. His own drink tastes like gasoline and his head hurts. Eventually he leaves the counter to find the others. 

He maneuvers through the mess of people in search. He spots Neil quickly, moving sloppily on the dancefloor. He looks confused and unhappy. Andrew moves more quickly towards him. 

Someone is beside him, hands on his waist and tugging hard. Neil moves to get away but the man leans over him and whispers something into his ear. Neil grimaces but his body sags. 

Andrew reaches them. He twists the man’s wrist until it is just ready to snap and no further. 

“Fuck!” The man says, his cry heard even over the bass overhead and the many bodies jumping to its beat. 

Andrew releases him and tugs Neil closer to him. 

“What the fuck, dude!” 

“Leave,” Andrew says, because if he does not Andrew will kill him right there and leave his blood to stain the dancefloor. 

“Does he belong to you?”  

Andrew uses one hand to shove the man backwards, the other still twisted in the hem of Neil’s shirt to keep him close. 

The man retreats. Andrew pulls his attention back to Neil, who sways underneath Andrew’s hands, his faux brown eyes glassy. 

Andrew drags him into the bathroom and seats him on a toilet lid. He is easily moved, pliant underneath Andrew’s hands. Andrew wants to punch something. His arms burn. 

“Neil,” he says. 

“Yeah.” 

“What did you drink?” 

“I hate drinking.” 

“It was spiked.” 

“My head hurts, Andrew.” 

Andrew moves the hair from his eyes with gentle fingers. His skin is damp and cold.

“I’m going to help you.” 

Neil nods but his chin falls to his chest. His body flickers. Andrew is in front of empty space and then in front of Neil once again. 

“Neil,” Andrew says, easing the panic knotting in his gut. “You cannot jump right now. Control it.” 

“I can’t,” Neil says. He sounds so young, his voice like a child’s voice, hurting. His head falls into Andrew’s open palm and his eyes shut. 

“Abram,” Andrew says. 

He told himself he would not use something Neil had not given him but he does not know what else to do. He could not lose him. Not now. 

Neil stills where he had been shaking. His body, once flickering like static, stabilizes. 

“How do you know that name?” He says, voice tired and words slurred. 

“You’re not the only one who’s paid visits to our lovely counterparts.” 

“I didn’t get your name from another timeline.” 

“I know.” 

Neil groans and falls forward. His forehead plants onto Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew holds him up. He contemplates forcing him to throw up, but sticking his fingers down Neil’s throat right now did not seem the most ideal. 

Instead he takes Neil with him to the counter. 

“Roland,” he says. “Water.” 

Roland was not stupid enough to hand him a glass. He tosses Andrew a capped bottle instead. Andrew listens for the click that meant it had not yet been opened and then gives it to Neil. 

“Who’s the guy?” Roland says, eyeing him with curiosity. 

“No one,” Andrew says, taking the bottle back from Neil before he spills water all over himself. 

“He’s cute.” 

“He doesn’t swing.” 

“What, with the way he’s hanging off you?” 

“His drink was spiked.” 

Roland turns white in the face and leans backwards away from them. “Oh, shit.” 

“I need you to turn off the backdoor security cameras.” 

Neil mumbles something incoherent beside him. He sounds angry and looks as though he is about to pass out. 

“Okay,” Roland agrees. “Just be careful.” 

Andrew takes Neil with him to find his family. They are easy enough to spot. Aaron is sweaty and miserable in his usual sad corner of the club. Nicky is dancing not far from him. 

Neither of them are sober enough to argue with Andrew when he demands they leave. 

“Where are you going?” Nicky says once they are seated in the car. Andrew folds a dirty sweater messily and places it underneath Neil’s lolling head. 

“I’ll be back,” Andrew says. “Make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit.” 

“What should I do if he does?” Nicky says. He looks concerned but confused. He has one hand wrapped around Neil’s forearm, the other clenched into a fist in his lap. 

“Call an ambulance.” 

He finds the man inside and drags him to the back alley. 

The only thing that stops him from killing the man is knowing Nicky and Aaron are not sober enough to get home alone. Or to make sure that Neil stays okay. 

He leaves the man crying on the pavement, and nurses his own bruised knuckles on the way back to his family. 

It had been a long time since he had felt that sort of pain. 

On the drive back home, Aaron watches him carefully from the passenger seat. He sobers quickly. Enough to be angry but not enough for much else. 

“What the fuck was that?” 

“Nothing,” Andrew says. 

“Don’t play dumb. That is not your own blood.” 

Aaron means the red stained on Andrew’s knuckles, which is beginning to dry and flake off onto his lap. Andrew says nothing. Aaron will continue talking regardless. 

“You’re on parole. Have you forgotten what happened last time you beat the shit out of somebody?” 

“He got what he deserved.” 

“And what about you?” 

“Concern doesn’t suit you.” 

“Fuck you,” Aaron spits. 

“I know what I’m doing,” Andrew says. He means to reassure but it sounded more condescending. 

“What changed?” 

Again, Andrew says nothing. Neil stirs in the backseat. Maybe Aaron was smarter than Andrew gave him credit for. 

Or maybe Andrew is just getting predictable. 

“Neil,” Aaron says. There is understanding in his voice. And disdain. 

“Don’t,” Andrew starts. 

“Don’t what?” 

“Just don’t.”

Aaron laughs, a bitter and drunken sound. “I don’t trust him. And I’m surprised you do.’ 

“I know what I’m doing,” Andrew says again. 

“But he’s still here.” 

“Yes,” Andrew says. “And trust me when I say he would not be if I did not allow it.” 

“I’m not going to sit around while you play with your little boy toy and make excuses about it.” 

“That is not what he is.” 

“Then what is he?” 

“I will kick you out of this car.” 

“It’s a ten mile walk.” 

“Then you better stop talking.” 

Aaron mumbles something underneath his breath, but silences. 

He wakes Neil with a tug at his sleeve and helps him to unbuckle himself. He slumps in Andrew’s arms, failing to keep himself upright. 

“Sorry,” he says. It is barely coherent but he signs the word, too, one hand fisted to his heart. 

“Don’t be,” Andrew says. 

Nicky leaves the door open for them and clears the pathway to Andrew’s bedroom. 

Andrew guides Neil up the stairs and deposits him onto the mattress. Neil flops his head onto the nearest pillow and makes a noise of discomfort. 

Andrew manages to get a trash can in front of him before he empties his stomach all over the bed. He leaves to bring him back a glass of water. Neil spills half of it down his shirt. 

“What happened?” 

His words are less slurred now. Maybe Andrew should have forced him to puke his guts out earlier. 

“Somebody drugged you.” 

“Oh,” Neil says. He looks up at the ceiling, his eyes watery and the wrong color. Andrew hears him swallow. 

“You know,” Neil says after a long moment. “You’re a really fast learner.” 

“Okay,” Andrew says.

“I mean it. But you pretend you don’t care. I hate it.” 

“I hate you.” 

“I believe you,” Neil says with a lazy smile. “But I think you like me, too.” 

“Think again.” 

“I don’t want to,” Neil says. “It hurts my head.” 

He slumps forward. Andrew steadies him with two hands to his shoulders and lays him back down with his head on the pillow. 

“Why did you give me the bed?” Neil says.

“Because,” Andrew says. Because he is not sure what else he would have done. Uncertainty seemed to be a common theme of his nowadays. 

He wished he would say. And rarely was anything worthwhile enough to provide an answer for. Except, apparently and always, Neil. 

“Thank you,” Neil says. His lashes flutter as his eyes struggle to stay open. “It beats park benches.” 

“One day soon you’ll have to explain that to me.” 

“As if you don’t already know.” 

“Tell me anyway.” 

“Okay,” Neil says easily. “I trust you.” 

“Go to sleep,” Andrew says. 

“Goodnight,” Neil says. 

“Goodnight, Neil,” Andrew says, and turns off the lights. 

Andrew wakes in some kind of office. The windows are shuttered and the walls are bare. The floor is cold beneath his cheek. He rises. Neil sits with his feet on the desk. 

“You weren’t what I was hoping for,” Neil says. 

“What were you hoping for?”

“Me,” Neil says. 

Andrew takes a moment to look at him. He looks the same but meaner. Less caring. More reckless. More violent. Again his face is scarred. These scars looked less healed than those of the first alternate version of Neil he had met. 

“I can relay a message,” Andrew says. 

“Can you now?”

“What do you need him to know?” 

“Tell him that they’ve been here looking for him.” 

“Who’s they?”

“He will know,” Neil says.

“For my sake, then,” Andrew says. 

Neil seems amused by this. He puts his feet down from the desk and sits up straighter in the chair. 

“I’m surprised he hasn’t told you yet. Most of us are quite sweet on you.” 

“And you’re not?” 

Neil flicks his fingers in dismissal. Something about the gesture is stiff and fake. 

“You died before I ever got the chance to be.” 

The words were too honest, too soft, for who this Neil was trying to be, or who he had become in this world. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Andrew says, for no other reason than compulsion. He knew nothing except that it was the truth. 

Neil hides himself well. His face is blank, his body loose, but his eyes are hooded, and his pupils too blown. 

“Leave,” he says. “And tell him to stop jumping. Everything is coming apart.” 

“He has stopped.” 

Neil looks surprised at this. “Good for him. But they haven’t. And that’s his fault.” 

Andrew did not understand, so he says nothing. 

 “Best to go now,” Neil says. 

“Okay,” Andrew says. And he goes. 

“You suck,” Andrew says at Neil trying and failing to cut a mango. 

“Then you try,” Neil says, annoyed but not really. 

Andrew takes the knife from Neil. He almost stabs himself three times, to Neil’s amusement, before Nicky makes an entrance into the kitchen. 

“You’re both awful,” he says, yawning. He steals the knife and gently hip checks Andrew out of the way. Andrew scowls but takes a seat at the counter beside Neil. 

“How are you feeling, Neil?” Nicky asks. 

“Fine,” Neil says. “Just a headache.” 

“Good,” Nicky says with a satisfied nod. “I can’t believe people sometimes.” 

“Yeah,” Neil says. 

“It’s lucky Andrew saw you.” 

“Yeah,” Neil says again. Nicky does not seem to notice his lacking in response. He contentedly continues the task at hand. 

“My mom and I used to fight over who got the pit,” Nicky says, neatly slicing cubes out of the mango and depositing them on a plate. “I always won. I think she let me.” 

“Probably,” Neil says, because he is an asshole and also threw up twice this morning. 

Nicky does not seem to mind. Maybe he was used to assholiness. 

“What about you?” He says. 

“What about me?” Neil says. 

“I don’t know. Do you have siblings? Parents?” 

Neil’s body stiffens. Only for a second but Andrew easily catches it. His shoulders relax quickly but in a practiced way, and he shrugs with the nonchalance of someone who had nothing interesting to say. 

“There’s not much to talk about,” he says. “They worked a lot.” 

“Where are they now?”

Nicky’s complete lack of tact had always been the bane of Andrew’s existence. Now he was instead grateful for it. 

Except that Neil lies. 

“My dad died a few years ago. My mom works overseas. We don’t communicate that often.” 

Andrew had no basis for knowing this was a lie. But he knew. 

“Oh,” Nicky says, and sets the knife down. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Neil says, his smile easy and faux. 

“Mango?” Nicky offers in apology. 

“Thanks,” Neil says, and then eats the entire plate in a minute flat. 

There was a lot to ask and only so much dishonesty Andrew was willing to listen to. Neil would wiggle his way out of a few honest answers, maybe not for lack of trust anymore - at this point it was more likely just a force of habit. 

He waits for Neil to get back from his run, for him to shower and lay down on the bed, before he addresses him. 

“I jumped,” he says. 

Neil lifts his head up from the pillow and looks down at Andrew laying on the mattress beside his bed. 

“When?” 

“Last night,” he says. “While you were sleeping.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“I met another you,” Andrew says. 

“Oh,” Neil says. He sits up fully now. Andrew watches him carefully, but he gives nothing away. 

“He gave me a message to give to you.” 

“What was the message?” 

“He said to tell you they had been there looking. That you would know what it meant.” 

Neil is silent. He closes his eyes. His hands clench around the fabric of the sheets. 

“Hey,” Andrew says. “Come here.” 

Neil slides down from the bed onto Andrew’s mattress on the floor. Andrew sits up and across from him. He puts a hand up to his face. 

“Yes or no?” 

“Yes,” Neil says, and then leans into his open palm. 

Andrew traces the pattern exactly, as though it was there in front of him -- three slashes down one cheek, a swirl of burns on the other. Neil watches him with lidded eyes. 

“He had scars on his face,” Andrew says. “Someone had done that to him.” 

Neil shudders. Andrew pulls his hand away and it falls between them to rest. 

“Neil,” he says. “What’s the truth about your parents?” 

“My mom would have had me kill you by now,” Neil says. 

“Tell me about her,” Andrew says. 

Neil is quite for a long moment. 

“She spent her entire life trying to keep me safe,” he says finally. “I’m breaking every rule just being here.” 

“But you stayed anyway,” Andrew says. 

Neil nods. His hands shake so Andrew takes them in his own and holds them. 

“In some ways they made perfect sense,” he says. “She was brutal, too. Just better at hiding it. Their only difference was me. My mom chose to protect me. He didn’t.” 

“Your father,” Andrew understands. “He hurt you.” 

“Yes.” 

“So you ran,” Andrew says. “You’re still running.” 

Neil squeezes Andrew’s hands. 

“I’ve jumped so many times trying to get away from him, sometimes I can’t remember what’s from my own timeline and what’s not. I don’t remember what you have told me or what I just already know. I’m tired, Andrew.” 

Andrew understood tiredness. This was the bone-deep sort. Where to move was through syrup. To speak was through stitched lips. To breathe was through the thickest smoke. 

“So stop running,” he says. 

As though it were that easy. As though he hasn’t already. And was not risking everything for it. 

Maybe they could stay in this house forever and his father would not find him. They could drink rainwater and snow. They could live off each other. 

“I want to,” Neil says. 

But to want something meant nothing in this world. It meant nothing in every version of it. And they both knew it.