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“Bluebird.”
They were sitting, as they often sat, on the edge of the roof at Fox Tower, the sky in that slippery space between night and dawn.
“Hmm?” Neil asked. He was bleary with exhaustion and a sleepy satisfaction; a warmth that, improbably, hadn’t dimmed in the weeks since the season ended.
“Bluebird," Andrew repeated. His arms were slung over the newly-installed metal railing, a lit cigarette dangling from one hand. Eyes trained on everything and nothing.
Neil looked out over the parking lot, frowning. “Where? I don’t see one.”
Andrew flicked his cigarette ashes in Neil’s direction without looking. “Listen, junkie.”
Neil closed his eyes, uncharacteristically amenable. He hadn’t had much call to listen to bird song in his life, neither this one nor the one that came before.
For a minute, he didn’t hear much of anything. The low hum of a car on the highway nearby, maybe. The steady sound of Andrew breathing beside him.
But there—was that?
It was soft, coming from the east. A few trilling notes, not really a song at all. But there was something in the sound. Something light that drew a faint pressure in his chest, an emotion he couldn’t really name.
He opened his eyes and looked closer at the trees beside the lot. There—a flash of blue in a Carolina pine.
Neil pulled his knee up, resting his chin there as he watched. "Pretty."
Andrew snorted. “Weak. If a sparrow, even a starling, comes, the parents won’t stay to protect the nest. Even if there’s eggs; even if they’ve hatched.”
The crease deepened between Neil’s brows. “What do the sparrows do?”
Andrew shrugged. “Kill them. Build their nest on the bodies, sometimes.”
“Naturally.”
The bluebird flew away, but the moment stretched on.
The blonde turned his gaze to him, level and unasking. Neil understood anyway.
“Yes,” he said, not lifting his head from his knee.
Andrew reached out with his free hand, threaded his fingers through Neil’s hair. Still auburn, but lightened by the sun as the weeks slipped toward summer.
They’d spent a lot of time on that roof, since the season ended. Midnight practices went later now that finals were over. And more often than not, Neil found his feet carrying him towards the stairs rather than to his room afterwards, no threat of classes or early morning practice calling out for better judgement. Sometimes following Andrew, sometimes of his own accord—though where Neil went, Andrew would inevitably follow.
It was still May, but the low country heat already lasted well into the night and they didn’t bother changing from their practice clothes. Their overheated skin cooling against stone was a welcome relief, the air humid and heavy as it washed over them.
The campus lights drowned out some of the stars, but not all—not the brightest. Neil pointed out his favorites, the markers and constellations his mother had forced him to learn not for their beauty, but for their usefulness in case he got lost. In case he needed to run with nothing but the clothes on his back, and the knowledge in his head.
The memories felt closer in the night. But there was safety there, too. A feeling like they were the last two people on earth, an island of concrete in the night. Each touch was amplified by the leftover energy of the court, the cooled air, the privacy the darkness brought.
But the mornings…those were sweetest. When the light crept over campus in the east and the few students coming and going through the night had all but disappeared, Neil no longer felt they were an island, but no longer felt the loss of it, either. As the buildings of campus took shape and the orange walls of court were gentled in the light, Neil felt deeply settled. Deeply himself. I am here, his body seemed to say, I exist.
Surrounded by the people he’d chosen, the place he’d claimed as his own, the dawn was an affirmation. Another night lived through, another day won as Neil Josten.
He wasn’t sure if Andrew felt it too, but he knew the man was aware of his reaction to the day. Would turn his stare on him as the sun began to rise, as if cataloging every reaction, every emotion that passed through his eyes. And when the last traces of night had left the sky, Andrew would turn wordlessly to the door and lead him back to their room, the touch of a hand on his wrist or the warmth of him against Neil’s back guiding him to sleep.
This morning was the same, Andrews fingers curling familiarly in Neil’s hair, tugging him close enough to nudge his nose against Neil’s; press their lips together, just once. He pulled back and let his hand fall, fingers hooking on Neil’s frayed collar. Still quiet, but assessing. Confirming, Neil thought, that he was still real, still solid, not some trick of the light.
Satisfied with what he saw, Andrew tugged once, pushed himself off the ground and, like so many mornings before, led them back to bed.
…
After that morning with the bluebird, Andrew began pointing out others. Not all the time, not in front of the others. But when they were alone and still. No questions asked or answered, just existing quietly, together. There was the thrumming, hollow call of a mourning dove, nesting outside their window. The wren in the rafters of court, too joyful by half for the normal Fox crowd. Even an absurdly crowned little gray thing that had perched outside Andrew’s favorite ice cream shop, a call so unremarkable Neil was skeptical it wasn’t some cleverly disguised camera. A tufted titmouse, Andrew had called it, which did nothing to help its case.
“So, are you going to tell me what the bird thing is about?” Neil asked finally, feet up on the dashboard in the Maserati as they headed towards Columbia.
The semester officially over, the Foxes were summarily kicked out of the dorms. The upperclassmen had scattered across the country, with promises to reunite sometime in the summer. Kevin had elected to stay with Wymack for the first month, then a week or two in Houston with Thea before joining the rest of the Monsters.
Aaron and Nicky had nodded off minutes into the early-morning car journey, the twin leaned against the window with Nicky sprawled half in his lap. Andrew drove with his jaw set, hands gripping the wheel a touch tighter than they needed to. Neil knew what it cost him, agreeing to let Kevin stay with Wymack. Even if their deal was, officially, fulfilled, Kevin was still his, just as surely as the idiots dozing in the back and twice as crisis prone.
But Neil also knew that this was something that Kevin had to do—understood what it meant to need for the one parent you had left, even if Andrew couldn't. But he’d agreed in the end, and that was the important thing.
But agreeing to something in theory and actually leaving him behind were two different matters entirely, and Neil watched as the tension built in Andrew through the night and into the morning, bruised circles blooming underneath his eyes. He’d scoffed when Neil had offered to drive, ripping the keys out of his hand, but he didn’t take it personally. This was something Andrew either could or couldn’t handle, and they'd know the answer soon enough.
But distraction was always on the table, and Neil was bored.
...
Neil knew Andrew had heard him from the slight shift in the set of his shoulders, but the silence stretched out.
“Of which ‘bird thing’ do you speak?” Andrew said, finally. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“You know, the thing you do. With the birds.”
Andrew arched an eyebrow.
“You are intentionally being difficult, ‘drew.”
The eyebrow maintained its silence.
Neil rolled his eyes. “How you appear to be on friendly terms with every bird in the greater Palmetto area. Enough to be able to recognize them by call.”
“We didn’t all grow up outside of the public school system, Nealan. Perhaps this is a ‘you’ problem.”
Neil snorted. “Here’s the thing, I tested it out with Nicky the other day. Played him some bird call videos on Youtube. He thought every one was an eagle.” He frowned a little. “I don’t even think eagles sing.”
“That proves nothing. Nicky is an idiot.”
It was Neil’s turn to stare in silence.
Andrew half-turned, considering. “What will you give me for it?”
Neil scoffed. “What’s so secret about birds? Mob ties? Trained assassins? No wait--the birds work for the bourgeoisie. C’mon ‘drew, this is hardly a trade-worthy secret.”
Andrew shrugged. “That depends entirely on your trade.”
Neil sat up straighter in his seat, letting his feet drop to the floor. They didn’t trade secrets often anymore, the things that needed to be shared long unveiled. But they made a game of it, sometimes. Partly for the familiarity of it, more for the endless, competitive desire to win the better deal.
“One week of dish duty, and a pint of that sorbet you like from the store. The expensive ones, in the clear jars.”
Andrew tilted his head, weighing the offer.
“One month and four pints.”
“In your dreams, Minyard. Two weeks and two pints.”
Andrew tipped his hand back and forth in the air, and Neil sighed.
“AND I’ll let you pick the next documentary we watch.”
“Sold.” Andrew smiled then, in his own way. Just a hint of a thing at the corners of his mouth, like laughing aloud on anyone else.
“The answer to your question, young Josten, is that I’ve spent a lot of time near windows.”
Neil narrowed his eyes. “I beg your pardon.”
“Windows, Neil. The tempered glass walls you’re currently surrounded by?”
“I’m familiar with them, yes.”
“Ah, but you aren’t familiar with the windows I am. Say, for instance, those within juvenile detention centers in forested coastal climates. Northern California, for example.”
“Sounds cushy.”
“Wilderness is very good for troubled youth, Neil. All the best books say so.”
“And was it good for you?”
“Not in the slightest. But watching what happened out there was marginally more diverting than what was happening inside. Thus, the birds.”
Neil snorted, but caught how Andrew’s hands had relaxed minutely on the wheel, the slightest drop in tension that confirmed his hunch. Kevin would be fine, but now he knew Andrew would be, too.
“And the songs?”
“Thin walls. A liability for a toddler prison, you’d think.”
Neil cocked his head; a habit Allison had cooed over last time he’d seen her. “That doesn’t explain how you know their names, though.”
“Ah, that would be the sublime funding of the California carceral system. The library was donated by the estate of one Walter Munchausen. Infamous recluse, big into taxidermy, avid birder.”
“Surprised you didn’t go for the taxidermy.”
Andrew turned a level gaze on him. “Who says I didn’t?”
“Is that where you learned about the sparrows and the bluebirds?”
“Correct. Also the birds and the bees. Different book, though.”
Neil huffed out a laugh. “How many of their songs do you remember?”
Andrew was silent for a moment. “Enough. I was there for a long time.”
Neil considered this. Filed it away. “Alright, ‘drew.”
He patted the dashboard near Andrew’s hand, not quite touching. “As long as you know you’re the prettiest bird of all.”
“I will push you out of this car, junkie.”
…
That summer was the kindest Neil had ever had. There was always hot coffee in the morning, and the sounds of Nicky and Aaron moving about the house, familiar enough to recognize by the tread of their feet. There was a side of the closet that was his, and clothes enough to fill it (though he hadn’t bought any of them, himself). There was exy for the afternoons and game shows at night, movie marathons watched from the floor, bracketed by Andrew’s legs.
And there was Andrew, everywhere. Throwing his feet in Neil’s lap while he read, or tossing Neil’s book away when he was tired of not being paid attention to. Staking a claim with fingers hooked in his collar when someone smiled a little too brightly at Neil at Eden’s. By his side when he fell asleep, a steady warmth when he woke.
It was Andrew’s gentle breathing, his steady heartbeat that colored the start of Neil's days. If it were a nightmare, he’d count the beats until his own pulse steadied to match. If it were a pleasant dream, all the better to wake, knowing that this life he fell into was so much more than anything he could have dreamt.
But the best parts, by far, were the afternoons. Those long, low country afternoons when the mercury stretched beyond 100, and the humidity laid like a blanket against Neil’s skin. Those afternoons where any thoughts of training fell away, and all they could do was stretch out on the back porch, limbs loose and heat-drunk in the hammock Nicky bought as a gag. Together if Andrew could stand it; Neil napping below if not. Either way, able to close their eyes with the knowledge that the other is safe, and close by; free to lose themselves in the haze, the sound of a far-off lawnmower or the lazy crunch of a passing car over gravel.
And occasionally, very occasionally, the sound of a bluebird, nestling in the pines.