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It’s been a year, Renee thinks, looking at the calendar on the fridge. A year since Binghamton. A year since two days without sleep, since the feeling of quiet apprehension and dread she hasn’t quite felt since her teenage years. A year of Neil being lost and found again.
A year since Renee broke a man’s jaw for the crime of grabbing Allison, a year since Allison threw an elbow to defend Renee’s right side. Just under a year before they realized, curled on a couch together, in a cabin far away from PSU, that yeah, they cared about each other more than they realized. Just under a year since Allison pressed a feather-light kiss to Renee’s cheek, followed by Renee kissing her on the mouth, escalating to them holding each other tight, falling asleep on the bed that Allison had claimed, Renee’s face buried in Allison’s hair, breathing steadily until they both found rest. They woke up a tired tangle of limbs, Allison’s hands fisted into the back of Renee’s shirt.
A lot has happened in a year. At the same time, not much at all. So many things are the same, down to the setup of their dorm, where they’re relaxing with each other after classes, Dan absent, having a “captains’ meeting” with Neil over coffee. For the time being, they’re neglecting homework, content to laze about on opposite sides of the room. Renee is folding pages of a magazine she found in the recycling into cranes, and Allison’s upside down on the couch, reading a book about the development of postmodern fashion. Not even for a class. Her reading glasses are hanging off her face, dangerously close to falling on the floor.
Renee smiles, ripping out another page. They’re both delightfully unguarded, and she’s feeling much lighter than she did a year ago. A small army of cranes surrounds her, a pile of paper scraps in her lap. Allison said she had an assignment to make a bodice piece with an “alternative” material, and she offhandedly mentioned using scrap paper and origami. So Renee is folding cranes.
Allison swings her legs over the back of the couch, pivoting to lie down across it. She bookmarks her spot and sighs, dropping the book on the floor. “Baby,” she groans, and Renee puts down her crane. “Another guy in my graphic design class tried to give me his number and got pissed when I told him I had a girlfriend.”
Renee pushes down the ugly feeling in her gut, the possessive, dangerous and slimy, that threatens to creep out when she hears about someone laying a hand on one of her own. It’s an old habit, but it dies hard. She has it on a leash now, but it still rears its head on the occasion. Did you stab him? Her brain says, but what comes out of her mouth is, “How did you get him to go away?”
“I told him I’d smash his nuts if he tried again.” The darkness settles at the pit of Renee’s stomach and purrs at her girlfriend standing up for herself. Renee mentally whacks it with a stick. Down .
“That’s one way of doing it,” she opts to say instead. Working through her knee-jerk reactions has been a process, but it’s slowly gotten easier for Renee to distinguish between being a bad person and the initial thoughts she has.
Allison twirls her hair around her finger. “I was considering stabbing him.”
Renee hums. Jokes like these are common, it’s just a part of the dynamic of the Foxes, collateral of being friends with Andrew. It’s harder for her to find these things funny. Exposure has helped, but it still brings unpleasant memories to the surface. Allison lifts a leg off the couch to nudge Renee’s shoulder.
“Have you, uh,” she starts. “Stabbed anyone?”
“Yes.” It’s pointless to lie. Renee made peace with it years ago. “My knives are from a man who assaulted me. I killed him.” Saying the words brings a strange disconnect like her hands aren’t the ones that did that. Apparently, the body replaces itself every seven years. Therefore, these hands haven’t ever moved with malicious intent. Yet, her gut still twists, she still has to convince herself, every morning, that she is better.
Allison shifts, uncomfortable. She grabs her water from where it rests on the ground and takes a long sip, looking at Renee. She doesn’t look wary. She just looks… unnerved.
“I’m not proud of it,” she continues, “but there are things in my past that I cannot run from. I have done terrible things. I still have dreams, not nightmares, of hurting those who have wronged me. I am a bad person, trying to be better, I know this.”
Allison inclines her cup in Renee’s direction. “Were.” She says, matter-of-fact. Renee’s confusion must be evident on her face. “You were a bad person. You changed. You atoned or whatever the fuck. You’re a good person now, you just haven’t always been. I haven’t been either. We’re all flawed.”
Renee tears out a sheet of paper and starts crumpling and smoothing it back out, methodical. This one isn’t making it into the bodice. “I get jealous,” she says, slowly. “When you talk about guys hitting on you. It’s illogical, but I want to hurt them.” Allison’s brow furrows, and Renee smooths out a particularly stubborn crease in the paper. “Something in my brain gets very possessive and tells me that you are mine. I know you are a fully realized human on your own. My possessiveness is not a good thing.”
“I mean, you don’t act on it,” Allison says, like it’s all that simple.
“I guess,” Renee mumbles.
Allison pokes her again with her foot. “Are you trying to push me away?”
Renee thinks. And thinks some more. She is. It’s a bit of an issue she’s noticed. Presenting the worst, nastiest aspects in the most upfront, polite way, just to make it clear from the beginning that she is not soft, she has just sanded herself down. She has enough. Stephanie won’t drop her, Wymack has let her stay. She has enough. Maybe that’s why she’s pushing Allison away, the same way she did with Andrew. “I think,” she starts, and stops. The words aren’t there today. “I think I am trying to warn you of the worst parts of myself so you’ll be justified in pushing me away.”
Allison takes another sip of water. She does it when she’s uncomfortable. “Is that the worst of it?” Renee shakes her head. She sighs. “If you want to tell me more, I’m here. I’m not leaving.” She lifts a foot off the couch and lays it on top of Renee’s leg, their Achilles tendons pressing against each other. She’s warm.
Renee takes a deep breath. And another one. And another one. Therapy, church, Stephanie, a hundred sleepless nights, they’ve all distilled this story into a package. Neat and clean, wrapped in a simple box and taped shut. So Renee cracks it open, as she’s prone to do, makes a neat slice through the layers of packing tape, and spins a story full of knives and blood and fear and impossible choices. There’s too much death, for that age, too much pain for her to bear. False loyalty and making dumb promises. “I can’t leave that part of me behind,” she finishes, closing her eyes and closing the box back up, packing every memory back up in newspaper and tucking it into its spot.
Allison reaches forward and rests her hand on Renee’s shoulder, stroking her thumb back and forth across her shirt. “It’s a part of you. Whether you like it or not, and it’s shaped you. But you have a choice, right now. You can drag all of that weight by yourself, or you can break it up and find people to share the load. I can help you. Dan can help you. Bee and Abby and Wymack can help you. Stephanie can help you.” She looks into Renee’s eyes, unflinching. “You’re not alone in this.”
“I haven’t told you the worst parts,” Renee mumbles, again. “I don’t think I can.” Those aren’t in the box. They’re in a vault, a door she slammed and threw away the key to and is never, ever going to go back to.
“You don’t need to,” Allison says, earnest and blunt as she always is. “I don’t think any less of you. Actually, I think you’re more incredible because you’ve dealt with all of this shit in your life and still have the audacity to be kind and empathetic and help everyone you meet. You try to be good every single day and I think that’s what counts more.” She lifts her hand to wipe tears collecting in Renee’s eyes. “You’re a good person because you’re choosing to be good in spite of parts in your brain telling you to be bad. It’s so, so easy to spiral and be the monster under the bed.” She slides off the couch and sits, cross-legged, in front of Renee. “You don’t give in, and you make yourself and everyone around you try to be better.” Her hands come up to hold Renee’s shoulders, and she squeezes in time with her words. “ You are good.”
Renee laughs, weakly, and cups Allison’s face in her hands. “I don’t deserve you.”
Allison shrugs. “That part’s irrelevant. I chose you regardless.” She tugs on Renee’s shoulders, and Renee hits a breaking point. Her entire body slumps, exhausted, and she curls up in Allison’s arms. They sit there together, on the floor, wrapped up in each other, Allison’s book on the couch, Renee’s army of cranes around them, just sitting. Existing.
Renee’s eyes drift closed, with Allison’s hands in her hair. Every time she talks about her past, she sleeps like a rock and moves like a ghost for a few days. But normally, she’s weathering the storm alone.
Allison taps her shoulder, bringing her back from a hazy half-sleep. “Baby,” she says, gently, “your stomach just growled. Wanna get takeout?”
Renee hums, and Allison shifts, and picks her up, carrying her bridal-style to their bedroom. Renee wraps her arms around Allison’s neck and stays quiet until they’re curled up in bed. “Thank you,” she whispers into Allison’s chest.
“Always,” Allison whispers back, threading her hands into Renee’s hair.
---
The house in Columbia is quiet around the holidays, especially this year. Kevin’s staying with Wymack over break, Aaron’s gone home to meet Katelyn’s family, and Neil bought Nicky a ticket to Germany, so he’s with Erik.
It’s just the two of them, lazing around the house. Neil goes on runs in the morning, coming home to Andrew making breakfast. Pancakes, omelettes, whatever they want. Andrew is a surprisingly competent cook, and he spends some afternoons finding recipes, going to the store, and making them. They watch too many shitty movies, Neil lies on the floor and does homework assigned over the break, scratching out equations while Andrew taps away at assignments, slouched on the couch, his laptop resting on a pillow. Some days, they do nothing. They watch movies or Neil pillows his face on Andrew’s stomach and watches him play games with many, many different types of guns that all make vaguely the same sound effect. He’s warm and lets Neil nap on him, so no one’s complaining, until Andrew has to get up to pee.
Some days, though, they have bad days. The holidays have always been rough for Andrew, so some mornings Neil goes for a run and makes his own breakfast, leaving enough for Andrew. They don’t touch, and Neil will sleep in Nicky’s room.
On Neil’s bad days, he gets jumpy. Andrew will clatter around in the kitchen and Neil’s leg will bounce, the gunshots from the TV will make him leave the room, sucking in a long breath and holding it until his skin stops crawling. Any touch feels like another cut, another burn, even though he knows it’s not real, the pain lances through him again.
He’s on an upswing today. Things hurt a little less. He was able to sleep in the same bed as Andrew last night. It’s cold, but the house is warm enough, especially if they layer themselves in enough blankets.
Which is what they are doing. Andrew is in a fucking cocoon of quilts, his eyes on the TV as they watch reruns of a cooking show, doing nothing for the hell of it. Well, that, and the fact that Neil’s muscles feel like unset gelatin when he tries to walk and the scars on his hands are pulling. Andrew had ordered him onto the couch, a water bottle tucked onto the cushion beside him, and draped three different blankets around him, tucking them in until Neil nodded, warm enough.
He’s a little restless now. But he doesn’t want to move. Andrew’s shoulders are relaxed, his face lazily neutral, and he’s been messing with the strings of his sweatshirt for about ten minutes, tugging them absentmindedly.
That’s one of the things Neil has noticed about Andrew, despite his still, blank persona. When he’s relaxed, his leg starts to bounce, he chews on the insides of his cheeks, he spins pens with alarming accuracy. He shreds paper and turns it into stars, then throws them into Neil’s hood or aims for the words he’s typing. It pulls tension out of his hands, his jaw, and he sleeps stiller now, Neil has noticed, now that he’s started to fidget.
He’s half-watching Neil as he always does, vigilant as ever, not a watchdog, just a person. Maybe not vigilant, just attentive. So he notices Neil pushing one socked foot against his, wiggling under his blanket until he finds Andrew’s calf.
Andrew takes one of his feet, pushes Neil’s feet back, until they’re aligned, heel to toe. He pushes, gently, until Neil’s leg pushes back with a little resistance. His attention is fully on Neil, now. Testing to see if this is okay.
Neil pushes back. Just a little. His legs still feel shaky and bad, but this isn’t too much, it’s proof that they still work. It’s okay, he realizes, because nothing bad has ever happened to the soles of his feet. No one has ever touched there. No scars to pull, to stretch, to burn with phantom pain. Only calluses.
Andrew pushes his other foot against Neil’s, and they push and pull against each other. Andrew is warm, he’s solid. They just push back and forth, together, for a while. Neil huffs a tiny laugh at the mundanity of it all, Andrew raises an eyebrow at him, and Neil shrugs, uncapping his water and taking a few sips. His hands have warmed up under the blanket, so it doesn’t hurt or pull too much to open it. Andrew was smart to put the water next to him on the couch. It’s cool enough to not be disgusting to drink, but the cold of the bottle doesn’t hurt his hands or his throat. Nothing too shocking, today. Just neutral.
It’s the little gestures that make him feel warm. On his bad days, Andrew cuts fruit up into bite-sized pieces and knows to shut the door quietly and keep Neil out of the kitchen when he needs to use knives to cook. He helps Neil massage his scars with the cream Abby got for him, ties his shoes when everything gets tight. He holds Neil, pressed up against his chest, when his hands won’t stop hurting and shaking. He traces the backs of Neil’s knees and reassures him that he is intact, he survived, he can walk.
He looks at Neil funny when he gets lost in his own thoughts. “Hey,” Neil says gently, his thirteenth word of the day. Andrew cocks his head. “We did it,” Neil admits. He’s a bit sappy, but that’s apparently what the holidays are for. According to Nicky. Who could be wrong, but Matt verified it.
Andrew pushes his glasses up his nose. “Did what, rabbit.” But his toes curl against Neil’s, only a little bit, but enough to be there.
Neil leans into his apparently blunt nature. “We made it. We’re recovering.” Andrew starts fidgeting with the strings of his sweatshirt, wrapping them around his knuckles and untangling them, systematic.
“Huh,” he says, monotone. “We are.” It’s two words. But it’s an admission that they have nights where neither of them have nightmares until the wee hours of the morning, that Andrew can handle Neil pushing a foot under a blanket, seeking him out, that they can go out to dinner in Columbia and see a chef with a butcher knife and Neil won’t flinch so violently. They still have a long, long, way to go, but it’s a start. Betsy had told Neil, at their meeting in the fall, that the first step was the hardest. That it would get easier. They have proof, now. That this, the concept of recovery that seems to run circles around them, is finally in their grasp.
“Thank you,” Neil says, and Andrew’s head snaps up. “For giving me a reason to stay. Every morning, when I wake up.” It’s another promise. Neil wakes up before Andrew. He does nothing, solidly asleep, and that’s still reason enough.
Andrew turns to look back at the TV, but his hands are methodically tying knots into the strings of his hoodie and his brow is furrowed. Neil zones back out, letting the sound wash over him and letting Andrew think.
“Thank you,” Andrew says quietly, after a few minutes. “For helping me find reasons to care.”
Neil pushes his foot against Andrew’s one more time, then sinks further into the cushions, sliding back into their easy silence. Andrew pulls at one of the strings on his sweatshirt, and all of the knots come undone at once.