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Neil looked around the small table, crowded over by Foxes. He brushed his thumb over the shot Andrew had poured for him and stared out into what would've seemed like a sea of strangers, if not for the past year.
Now, he knew their names, their stories, their unwavering determination, and their inexplicable willingness to hold on to him, holding him tight with fierce words and fiercer glares at the things he'd been running away from all his life.
Neil had never known family. He'd known blood, sure, known his place as the Butcher's son, carried his father's name in his own, an unescapable shackle on him, and he'd needed to run, to get away, to change it, but not in the ways that mattered.
Blood was a curse, an inconsistent axing pendulum that'd he'd known since birth, and he'd run away from it all his life.
"It's dangerous." His mother's vicious snarl seeped into his bones whenever he stepped out of line, and they ran, always ran, because they hadn't had a choice, had they? But they stopped.
The smell of his mother's burning body on the beach still wrapped its tendrils around his head during the night, but if he had the control to smother his grief, he'd feel almost happy for her. She stopped. It was forced, sure, and Neil knew the tremor of force rushing through his legs a forced stop brought better than anyone. But she stopped.
Neil did too. He'd chosen it, over the terrified safety, over the lonely nights, over his mother's whispered memories.
"It's dangerous. "
Neil had the proof carved into his body. He curled his fingers around his shot, ignoring the sharp bursts of pain at the burns, and tilted his head back to let the alcohol fall down his throat. The burn in his throat distracted from his wounds, and he looked up at the Foxes again.
Matt, ever amiable, ever protective, had his arm around Dan, rubbing soothing circles into her back as he smiled, honest and relieved and so damn open that Neil felt the same relief bubble inside him. Dan was bared fangs and sturdy pillars of support, holding up a team that was like a raggedy old shack, all rotting planks and broken pieces that would've crumbled if not for her.
Renee and Allison were fierce stories wrapped in their own versions of redirection; Renee with her soft words and kind stare, and Allison with her perfect makeup and her flawless wardrobe. They'd both given Neil so much honesty it scared him.
Nicky downed shots like water, dancing to a nonexistent beat as the jokes and quips and cheerful smiles seemed to flow out of him, and Neil appreciated the mindless sunshine he always offered, even if he never laughed at his jokes. Aaron and Kevin stood to the side, a clump of exasperation and cynicism, even if Kevin was too drunk to roll his eyes properly.
Neil had been given their stories, even if they didn't offer them, and the two had never been especially good at transparency. But they'd fought for themselves alone for so long, and Neil would join their battle if it was ever offered to him.
The picture of happiness in garish orange and white colors in the nicest kitchen Neil had ever seen would've made him feel like a passing onlooker, the way he'd been for such a long time, if it wasn't for the way Andrew's intent stare fell on him.
A year ago, it'd look the same to Neil as his other stares. The Neil now had the memory of Andrew's lips on his, his steady hand on the back of his neck, his keys and a phone weighing his pockets down. The Neil now knew all of Andrew's expressions even when Andrew didn't, because somewhere along the line, Neil had stopped running because Andrew was home.
Andrew quirked an eyebrow up at him, an almost imperceptible question. Neil pushed his shot glass towards him in response, and Andrew rolled his eyes before placing the bottle of whiskey in front of him.
“Staring,” Andrew mouthed to him, but no explicit complaint followed. Neil tried not to smile as he poured whiskey in his shot glass and knocked the swallow back.
Neil had never known family. He knew the definition of it in four different languages and knew the word for it in twice as many. He never understood it, and probably never would.
But, looking out to what seemed like a sea of people in one room, looking into the eyes and the faces of people who would fight for him, people who he would fight for, and home , in the form of blonde hair and an uncaring stare that was a cocktail of both, he guessed that perhaps it would feel a little like this.
The heat from the whiskey traveled from his throat and settled in a pleasant lump in his stomach, warmth pooling in his chest. The warm tears slipped out before Neil could process it, and he saw Andrew immediately stiffen, the familiar feeling of calloused fingers on the back of his neck before he could blink.
The rest of the team reacted in a ripple, Matt immediately noticing and concern spilling across his face before it reached his lips, and the girls noticing the shift in Matt’s expression before softening at Neil. Nicky silenced, and Kevin and Aaron watched from the sidelines, inscrutable. Andrew knelt down in front of him, and Neil watched their gaze flicker to Andrew in varying degrees of interest as they backed down.
Neil looked at Andrew, his expression deceptively blank as concern shaded his eyes. There were gears turning behind them, Neil knew, a list being formed of the people to hurt and the people to kill, coldness directed towards Neil’s enemies, never towards him, but always for him. He looked at Andrew’s hazel eyes, his pupil focusing on Neil with pinpoint precision, always looking at him, at Neil Josten, never Nathaniel Wesninski.
“Are you okay?” Matt asked from behind Andrew, his words tinged with worry. Neil nearly gave him the automatic “I’m fine,” but the words stuck to the roof of his mouth as he swallowed and tasted whiskey, physical proof of his decision for honesty, of the trust he’d been given and finally returned.
Neil felt the beaming smile spread on his face as he placed his hand on top of Andrew’s on the back of his neck. A wet laugh escaped him, and he recognized the sound as genuine happiness.
He watched the team freeze in surprise and looked at all of them as he spoke.
“I can’t believe I get to see you all again.” Neil felt the tears stutter on their way down over his smiling face. The alcohol had loosened his tongue, but it was still startling to hear the truth in the air.
He’d held his self-directed grief for his future inside him for months, and the relief was washing over him in waves. He watched his team soften in front of him, watched the same smile cross their faces as they looked at each other and cheered him. Nicky and Matt had started crying openly, while Renee and Dan blinked at misty eyes. Allison grinned while she poured Neil another shot, and Andrew got up but didn’t leave his side.
The next shots went down smoothly, as Neil leaned into the conversations around him, Exy-related or not. His mind was pleasantly fuzzy, his tongue loose and his expression looser, as he savored the hum of the alcohol, because he could, now that there was nothing he had to hide.
He’d zoned out of a particular conversation about the actors both Nicky and Eric agreed were on the “list,” and found himself observing Andrew again. He studied his broad shoulders, that Andrew had let Neil collapse on after Christmas at Evermore, his hands and calloused fingers that would rake through Neil’s hair, that would wrap around Neil’s body while the cigarette smoke on the roof swirled around them, the lips that tasted like smoke and ice-cream and chocolate, and Neil hated all three things but treasured the taste that he’d come to associate with Andrew.
Andrew, with the soft tufts of blonde hair that glowed in the sunlight, that Neil loved to thread his hands through. Andrew, with the hazel green eyes that shone green in the center and faded to caramel brown near the edges, the eyes that offered him his demons, and the black armband covered arms that accepted his.
“...pretty,” Neil breathed and watched Andrew’s eyes widen in surprise by a millimeter. He savored the way Andrew’s hands stilled over the shot he was pouring, and the way the confusion squinted his eyes. Neil smiled, and let his cheek rest against his hand. “You’re so pretty, Andrew.”
A hiccup followed, and Neil ignored it.
He was vaguely aware of Nicky, choking on a high-pitched squeal behind him, while Allison smirked, snickering at Dan and Matt as they both beamed.
“You’re drunk,” Andrew responded in German, and his cheek twitched in a way Neil had learned to interpret as amusement. Neil blinked slowly, as if comprehending his words, before he switched to German after him, and counted off his thoughts on his fingers.
“I like your eyes,” Neil started, and a wave of fondness rushed through him at the way Andrew rolled them. “And your arms. And your hair. And the way you play Exy.”
“Junkie,” Andrew interjected.
Neil felt a surge of something in his chest, a warm feeling that settled in his heart and helped weigh him down, and the dopiest smile spread itself across his face. There was an inexplicable urge to convey the feeling to Andrew, but the words were stuck in the warm syrup in his chest.
Three words. He’d heard them before, in the panicked whispers of his mother right before he passed out from the pain of her beatings. He’d remembered them in his bruised wrists, his bleeding wounds, in the shape of his mother’s back as she dragged him behind her, protecting him from everything but herself.
He didn’t want to put those same three words to Andrew, who stood behind him, instead of in front, who told him to stop running, who promised to protect him and pressed warm keys into his hands. He had offered him trust, he had given him a home. It was unique, this thing they had, and so, the words that fell out, almost naturally, were just so.
“I hate you,” Neil let the words escape and heard the way they were covered with the syrup in his chest and studied the way Andrew almost smirked, wanting to burn the image into his head.
Nicky was translating his words to the upperclassmen in the background, while they murmured in bewildered excitement. Andrew flicked a cool gaze over them, non-threatening and observing, and they quieted out of habit.
“I want to touch your hair. Yes or no?” Neil made sure his words came out in a crisp and steady German, and Andrew’s responding nod got him out of his seat immediately, nearly tripping over the counter in his haste.
He buried his hands in Andrew’s silken blonde tufts and raked his fingers through the strands. Neil watched Andrew sigh, exasperated, and the surge of warmth engulfed him again, only encouraged by the whiskey in his veins.
Neil thought of Andrew, and the last game he’d seen him play; sweat glistening under the artificial light, slamming away every shot at goal the Bearcats made, focused gaze analyzing each player, perfectly matching them to memories of plays and strategies he’d watched weeks before. Neil remembered what he thought was his last look at Andrew, that he’d burned into his head, a panting, exhausted Andrew, beautiful even then, as he’d told him “Thank you,” and “You were amazing,” while imagining his kisses and his protection and his truths and Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.
“I can’t believe I get to look at you again,” Neil let the free token of honesty hang between them, and Andrew only stared at him blankly before replying.
“You already said that.”
“Not to you,” Neil countered, and let himself drink in Andrew’s hard edges that kept him grounded, and the glimpses of softness he’d catch in between.
“You’re staring,” Andrew repeated.
“You let me.”
“I don’t ‘let’ you do anything.” Andrew sighed, his tone deceptively blank. Neil took the sentence as the rare admission it was, the little peek of softness in his roughness. Giddiness pumped through his veins.
“You want nothing.” The smile on Neil’s face threatened to tear his face in two, pulling on his burns and cuts, but he couldn’t stop it. “You really do. You want nothing.”
Neil caught the start of a small smile on Andrew’s face, followed by a derisive snort and a glance towards the Foxes, who were staring at them intently, varying degrees of excited surprise in their expressions. Nicky, particularly, looked close to tears, as he continued rambling translations to a hyperfocused Allison, Dan and Matt, while Renee looked towards them fondly.
“Yes or no?” Andrew leaned in closer.
“Always yes.”
Andrew pressed a chaste kiss to Neil’s lips, and the familiarity of it did nothing to contain the ripples of heat that spread through his chest in response. When Andrew pulled away, Neil unconsciously followed him, leaning further in. Neil was acutely aware of the tinge of amusement in Andrew’s face, and the high-pitched squeal of a drunk Nicky behind him.
Andrew walked towards the door, whispering a quick “Bedroom,” in Neil’s ear before leaving.
Neil turned to the Foxes and began a clumsy “Uh, I think I need to, Andrew’s gonna, I might just--”
“Neil. You are fooling literally no one. It might just be the alcohol, but you’re smiling so wide I think your stitches are gonna pop. Shoo,” Allison waggled a perfectly manicured hand at him.
Dan and Nicky were snickering to each other beside her, and Matt looked so happy for him that Neil felt a prickle of embarrassment seep into his cheeks. He looked towards Kevin, who was being held upright by an annoyed Aaron.
“Um,” Neil started eloquently.
Aaron got the message, shifting under Kevin to hold him more easily. He huffed out a despairing sigh and looked straight at Neil. I’ll take care of Kevin, his expression said. Neil was shocked into stillness for a second before Aaron snapped out a frustrated “ Go, you dolt.”
Neil went.
Andrew was waiting for Neil on the bed, already tucked under the covers with a book in his lap. He flicked a bored gaze over Neil and made no move towards him. The picture was startlingly domestic, a shot from passing glances at family magazines in convenience stores Neil had ducked in and out of growing up.
That idealistic image of a two-person bed, of having someone safe to fall asleep next to and someone to wake up to, was in reach for him now, just two steps away from him, in the form of Andrew bathed in moonlight reading a book, his eyes greener in the blue light, his hair softer.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Andrew said, after a long moment. Neil didn’t know what he looked like. “We’re not doing anything today.”
Neil finally made the two steps, changing into the comfortable pajamas he found in the closet before slipping in the bed beside Andrew. He hummed in response.
“I don’t mind,” Neil replied, and he meant it. Andrew’s presence beside him in the too-soft bed wrapped him in a feeling of safety he thought he’d forgotten, and his body gave off a pleasant heat. He felt the sleepiness settle into his bones, aided by alcohol, and vaguely wondered if Andrew didn’t want to do anything because it wouldn’t be the best for his recovery to immediately return from a rough place to another, albeit much safer, one. He wondered if Dr. Dobson had told him that.
“Not Bee,” Andrew spoke from beside him, and Neil knew he must’ve been murmuring his thoughts out loud. “Tonight was my call.”
Neil burrowed deeper in the blankets beside him, relishing the warmth inside him, the warmth beside him, and pressed his lips to Andrew’s neck gently before pulling away. It was barely a second, but, for once, Neil didn’t feel Andrew stiffen beneath him, and the triumph in his chest made him huff out a small laugh. It was the thank you that Neil didn’t need to say, and he knew Andrew understood.
“Let’s go to the beach next time,” Neil murmured into the pillow, and he knew Andrew would catch all the meanings hidden behind it.
Stuart could very well fail in the negotiations, and the chance of Neil being killed by the Moriyamas was still very real. The if there is a next time went unsaid.
Neil had told Andrew about his mother’s cremation on the beach, had known that Andrew caught the way he stiffened whenever the place was mentioned, but he also knew that Dr. Dobson had suggested to all the Foxes to try to overwrite their bad memories with good ones, ones worth remembering. The threat of the Moriyamas was still palpable, but Neil had decided to stop running months ago, had decided to ditch his future for the present.
In the room, beside Andrew, Neil went one step further, and let himself imagine a future. He imagined falling asleep beside Andrew for the rest of his life and blinked slowly, watching the way his eyes raked quickly through the blocks of text in the book. He imagined nights of Andrew finishing books and starting new ones, of nights of snuggling into his warmth and his safety.
He let himself fall asleep, feeling home, and hoped, like he had never hoped for anything before, that he could keep it.