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Andrew sat on the couch and refused to acknowledge the tiny ball of fluff that was pawing at his leg. One of them was a lot smaller than the other, but they still acted like kittens from the same litter: needy, clingy, constantly crying for attention and unhappy when apart. It was why they’d brought home two in the first place.
Andrew sighed, letting the littler one climb onto his thigh, the little claws of the calico cat pulling at threads of his sweater. It liked to perch on Andrew’s shoulder and nuzzle behind his ear.
His phone started ringing. The uglier one stared at it, where it was half tucked under Andrew’s thigh, entranced by the idea of an inanimate object moving of its own volition. Andrew picked it up and answered unthinkingly.
Neil peered curiously through the screen, before smiling a brilliant smile. “Is Sir on your shoulder?”
Andrew refused to acknowledge the cats by the ridiculous names Neil had let Nicky christen them with. “Hey to you, too.”
Neil grinned. “Hi. How are you?”
“Any reason you’re calling?”
“Wanted to know how they were settling in,” Neil said, softer than he had any right to be. “How you liked the company.”
“They’re alright,” Andrew conceded. “The ugly one keeps jumping on the table and trying to eat my food when I have dinner. It’s disgusting.”
“Don’t call King ugly,” the idiot chided, propping his hand on his chin. “When do you think I can come see them?”
“What, don’t want to come see me anymore?”
Neil grinned. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to say sappy shit. Like, ‘I miss you’. Or ‘I wish I could be there with you, playing with the cats instead of sitting in my shitty, cramped apartment, where the water pressure sucks’. Or ‘I wish I could get on my knees and suck you off’.”
“Don’t start getting emotional on me, Josten.” Andrew muttered, flushed. It never failed to make him just that little bit flustered when Neil was blunt and articulate about exactly what he wanted, after so many years together. “And don’t speak so crudely: The children are here.”
Neil just laughed and cooed into his screen at King, who had decided to nose up to where Neil’s image was periodically blurring and shifting around. King definitely liked Neil more. Scarred facial features made for a good bond between the two of them, and Andrew admittedly liked watching Neil nap on the couch, King curled up on his stomach.
“I do miss you, Drew.” Neil said, softly. “I wasn’t joking.”
Something like a cotton wad jammed up Andrew’s throat. “I know.” After a moment, he took in a deep breath. “I miss you, too.”
Neil smiled like the fucking sun.
Outside his apartment was a loud bang as someone slammed the door, and indeterminate yelling. Andrew sighed.
“The fuck was that?” Neil inquired.
“Rowdy neighbours,” Andrew grunted. “I’ll go glare at them to make them shut up. Be right back.”
Usually Andrew didn’t involve himself with affairs like this, but the cats hated the noise, staying curled by Andrew phone where he left it on the couch. Neil kept trying to soothe them through the phone as Andrew marched to the door, wrenching it open.
“…do you really think that’s decent? In public?” The man said, stood outside his apartment door. Andrew had seen him come and go occasionally. He was in the later stages of middle age and bright red with anger. “You think I want to see that shit?”
Two women were stood outside their apartment door, holding each other’s hands. One of them—Amy, Andrew was pretty sure—looked to Andrew, stricken. The lesbian couple had brought over cookies when Andrew had moved in, and weren’t moved by his stoic behaviour. He didn’t mind them as neighbours, but it seemed that their other floor-mate did.
“What’s going on,” Andrew demanded, arms crossed.
“Bloody fucking making out before they could even get through the door,” the man snarled. “Didn’t realise I signed up for the dyke show. It’s fucking hideous that the two of you live together, anyway. Fucking fags.”
“The fags outnumber you, three to one, asshole.” Andrew stepped further out of his doorway, taking a leaflet from Neil’s book. He would love to be here and rip this jackass a new one. The thought made Andrew smile a little, a slow smirk. “So you’d best just be moving on, and leaving them alone.”
The man snarled, anger guttural and foul. “You too? Fucking Christ,”
“Didn’t think we’d be faced with this sort of bigotry in the middle of a metropolitan area,” Amy’s girlfriend, Linda, said.
“It’s Denver,” Andrew advised, voice flat. “They’re always in the shadows.”
“Idiots,” Amy agreed.
“What did you just call me?” The man roared, raising his fist. “Idiot? I’ll fucking show you, whore-spawn. I’ll fucking show you—!”
“Show them what?” Andrew pulled a knife out of his armband and pointed it at the man. His eyes widened to beady moons, looking at the sharp blade. “Your pathetic perception of morals? The right and wrong of the world? I don’t think so. Go inside and leave them alone. Better yet, go fuck yourself.”
He was shaking with anger, hand fumbling for the door handle. Amy nodded at him, grateful, so Andrew tucked his knife back into his armband and turned away to head back inside his apartment.
In hindsight, he shouldn’t have turned his back on a furious neighbour, one of whom was only going back into his apartment to grab a gun stored in the drawer of his entrance hall’s dresser. Neil wasn’t here to watch his back: he should’ve kept an eye over his shoulder.
Being shot was slower than Andrew thought. The man was barely two metres away, so Andrew watched as the bullet tore out of his stomach, blood everywhere. The cats, crying. The girls, screaming.
And somewhere, still on the phone, was Neil. Neil, who wouldn’t have been able to hear the whole thing, but would’ve definitely heard the gun shot. Neil, who was silent and terrified, waiting for Andrew to come pick up the phone again and tell him that it was fine, it was just a door slamming closed. Neil, who knew better than to assume that anyone was perfectly safe.
Everything went black before Andrew could even acknowledge he was falling to the floor.
“Fuck you. He’s my boyfriend. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Sir, we always ask visitors to leave when we’re doing check-ups—“
“Did you not hear me? I’m not a visitor. I’m family. And you’re not doing anything on him without me here to supervise.”
The sigh was weighted. “You’re not making this very easy, Mr Josten.”
Silence.
Andrew’s body felt like someone had laid a concrete slab on top of him. He couldn’t move, could barely twitch a finger, and his eyes felt glued shut. Sewed shut, even. He made a strangled noise, hating the smell of hospital-grade bleach and the stiff sheets on his bare skin, imagining unwanted hands across his skin.
Warm fingers held the back of his head, lacing through his hair. His head was tipped up slightly, eyes fluttering open. Andrew saw the familiar divots of burn scars, the little crescent moons of the dashboard lighter, and the tiny stitch-holes that lined the knife cuts from eye to mouth. He let out a trembling breath. Neil.
“Hi,” he said, stricken. “It’s me. It’s just me. Okay?”
Andrew nodded weakly, settling back against the cushion. Neil brushed his hair out of his eyes.
“Henry Hornbull, your neighbour, was arrested for shooting you. The police already have clear witness statements from your other neighbours, but they still want the OK from you to press charges. They thought you mightn’t want to make a big deal out of it, being famous and all.”
“Is it really the right time to be telling him all of this?” Someone unfamiliar asked, stood in the corner of the room with a clipboard in one arm. “He’s confused and in pain—“
“Fuck off.” Andrew said, voice hoarse. The doctor went a little pale.
“‘Drew?” Neil cupped his hand over Andrew’s cheek. “I can go grab the paperwork from them. They’re just down in the lobby.”
“How long—“ He coughed. Neil immediately lifted a glass of water to Andrew’s lips and let him take a few sips to clear his throat. “How long have I been out?”
“You went into surgery yesterday, late evening. By the time you got out I was here. You’ve been asleep for about fourteen hours since. It’s Tuesday afternoon.”
Ugh. Andrew tried to wriggle into an upright position, but the numbness in his stomach wouldn’t let him. His whole body felt a little cotton-like. He fucking hated hospitals.
Neil pressed the remote for the bed into his hand, and a kiss to his temple. “Amy was very nice. Brought me breakfast this morning, asked how you were. She also gave me your armbands: Her girlfriend hid them before the police got there.”
“Smart.”
“I wish I had good neighbours.” Neil said, wistfully.
“You will.” Andrew nudged their foreheads together. “When you move in. The cats miss you.”
Neil grinned. “Right.”
“Mr Josten,” the doctor tried again. “I really need to—“
“Go.” If Andrew was able to lift his arm, he would’ve pushed Neil’s mangled hair out of his eyes. He definitely wouldn’t have slept in the last twenty-four hours. Andrew couldn’t wait to go home.
The doctor bustled around, asking if he felt things, asking about his pain and propping him up to unwind his bandages and check his stitching. Andrew’s torso was swollen. Internal bleeding. He’d grazed an intestine tract, which was why the wound was more severe than it should’ve been, but Andrew was healthy and would heal just fine. Neil came back and perched on the side of the bed as Andrew’s IV was changed.
“You had to have a blood transfusion,” Neil whispered, leaning his forehead onto Andrew’s shoulder. “I was so fucking scared.”
“I’m—“ Neil looked at him, eyes narrowed. “Okay. I’m okay.”
He nodded, drooping against Andrew’s side. The medication was beginning to kick in, making Andrew drowsy, so he wiggled over the best he could and let Neil lie on his side, fingers trailing across his bandages with a butterfly touch.
It was soothing enough to lull Andrew towards a dreamless sleep, with thoughts of cats and home and Neil. Always of Neil.
Even with a bigot’s bullet in his stomach, he lived a pretty decent fucking life. Maybe his standards were low. Maybe it didn’t matter.
He slid an arm under Neil’s waist and pulled him close. It was everything he wanted, everything he needed, and he was never letting go.