Work Text:
Neil Josten wasn't a real person.
He was a fabrication, a lie so far away from himself that his original identity became hard to reconcile, hard to think of. But it wasn't as difficult as it seemed to be now, at first.
At first, he still knew. His name might not have been the name he wore on the outside, his hair might not have been the colour it was on the outside, but close to his heart, he still knew the truth.
It became blurry somewhere along the way.
He woke up in the morning, or in the middle of the night, it didn't matter. He woke up, and that was what was important. He woke up and he didn't know who he was, it took a few deep breaths to realize again. He was himself, always had been.
Then came the nights and mornings and days when he couldn't remember who that was. He was still himself. His face in the mirror told him that himself, whoever that was, had to be there. Well hidden, underneath everything that'd helped him to stay alive, but there, all the same.
The looks into the mirror grew more and more apart. A day, a week, a month.
He had started as himself. As the time went, it became an abstract concept.
Now, after so many years, the knowledge escaped him. Was he ever himself?
There were people on his back, and he was running through a city that seemed familiar. Yet he was sure he'd never been there; he would've never made such a reckless mistake. There were people tailing him, just behind the corner, and his chances faded with every step he took.
Hide in a plain sight, told him a voice in his head, inexplicable, apathetic. He was sure that he'd never met the person whom the voice could've belonged to. He listened to it, nevertheless. It was a voice that accompanied him for as long as he remembered.
The city where he was, what state, again? The city was filled with tourists, the sun was just past its highest point in the sky, and it was summer.
It was the first summer of Neil Josten.
There were people crowding in the middle of a square, hundreds of them. Something seemed to be in the middle of their common interest.
Hide in a plain sight, the voice repeated, as if it hadn't made their point clear before.
Neil sprinted, he was a quick runner, he sprinted towards the crowd, hoping to make it in time. There were people going after him. And they were close.
He elbowed a man in the ribs to open up his way through the impenetrable wall of tourists, the probable witnesses of his failure. The man yelled something. It didn't matter.
Slow down, said the voice. Neil had learned to appreciate it, with time. Maybe it was his crooked preservation speaking up to him, trying to save him from danger that seemed to follow him his whole life. A short life.
Neil Josten had birthday on March 31st. He was twenty-one years old.
When was his birthday? How old was he?
He didn't seem to remember, anymore. Certainly not old enough.
Slow down, the voice insisted. It was amused, scolding a child that got too close to a stranger.
Neil slowed down, a walking pace, still too swift for the people on vacation, families with kids. Adrenaline circulating in his veins insisted he ought to be running.
There was a group of tourists with a guide, a vibrant pink umbrella raised into the air, for all of them to see. The woman spoke some language, Neil didn't know which one. He understood it without trying.
How many languages did he spoke? Too much. He was almost certain his first language was English.
Joining the group had been easy, and the voice in his head kept its silence with a quiet contentment. Neil tried to look interested in what the woman was saying.
"-but the first mentions of Protector date back into the 15th century." Neil adjusted his pace to match; they were steadily walking forward the centre of the square. "The poem is just one page long, but it's truly a moving story, not only from the historic point of view."
There was no sign of those people that were following him. It had to be a trap.
The voice in his head didn't say anything.
"We have the original manuscript preserved in the Museum of Arts and Science, just two streets down from here, and it's disclosed to the public. It's been translated into sixteen languages, as of now."
Neil stopped trying to look behind the corner. There was nothing to see now, just a sea of tourists; a sea waiting for the best opportunity to drown him.
"The author of the poem has signed his work as A.M., which makes it a first signed work from 15th century found in this area. In the 17th century, a prominent historian named Kevin Day had made a connection between a doctor that-"
It was half past two in the afternoon. The best curse of action was to stay with the group a while longer, just until they made it to the other side of the square. Then, he could continue.
Continue where?
Away. That was the only direction. Far, far, far away from wherever he was now.
"-heart-wrenching story has been adapted into equally beautiful movie starring Allison Reynolds and Renee Walker as the two lovers. The movie is called 'Guard My Back' and it has a vastly different ending than the original-"
The place looked all too familiar. No, not looked, he was sure he'd never been there, that he'd never set a foot onto the square. It felt familiar.
He could see a silhouette of a statue from white marble at the centre of everyone's attention – the main attraction of the city. The guide was retelling a story of star-crossed lovers into her headset, and Neil listened with one ear.
A Protector, she said. The statue looked like it couldn't protect itself from pigeons, let alone another person. It was made from a pristine marble, a flawless block of stone, but that was all for its beauty.
The guy looked hardly taller than Neil was, even standing on a pedestal. He had one hand extended towards them, like he pointed to the invisible enemies of his lover with a pocket-knife, the other hand behind him, as if shoving someone behind his back.
Really, it was almost disappointing. A heart-breaking story, the guide said. Sure.
"Please, stand to the side and don't go behind the statue. We'll have time to take photos right after this group finishes. Don't worry, there will be enough time for everyone."
There was a young girl currently standing behind the Protector, her body half-hidden behind the marble. She was laughing. Neil focused on the face of the statue. The statue seemed to look right back at him.
Eyes without pupils, white on white, a stubbornness imprinted into the stone.
Come closer, the voice in Neil's head said. It was such a stupid request that he didn't even consider obeying.
"Is it true that the Protector will come to life when someone needs his help?" asked a child wearing a bright red hat. Neil moved to stand a little bit more on the edge of their group, away from the bright colour.
"It's said that he'll sense when his lover is in danger," the guide dodged the question.
"But isn't his lover dead?"
"Maybe she'll come back to him when she's born again."
"How will she find him? He's so short!"
"Chris!" the parents of the kid ran over. "You can't ask that! We're so sorry."
"It's alright," the guide laughed and swirled her pink umbrella in the air. "It's a fair question."
Neil risked a look over his shoulder, in the direction from where the danger was supposed to appear. It was heinous to have his persecutors sticking to his heels – but it was worse to not know from which direction they could strike.
What took them so long?
"Don't worry, I'm sure they'll recognize each other when the time comes," the guide half-heartedly answered. "He got turned to stone for her, after all."
Come closer, the voice pushed, and Neil decided it was a time to get the fuck out of there.
Rabbit.
A trap, of course.
What else could it be?
There were people looking for him, on every corner of the city, in every bigger street, at the train station. The night was slowly falling onto the damned square. He wasn't sure he was going to survive until morning.
The square was well-lit with public lights, a yellowish colour against the darkest shades of grey. The tourists were gone. Just a couple was walking hand in hand down the street.
It was a dead city at night. Dead, exactly like he was going to be. He had nowhere to hide, nowhere to run to, and there was just too much of them. Why were they after him?
Did it even matter, anymore?
Maybe they were playing the game for so long not only he forgot why it had started in the first place.
Hide in a plain sight, the voice said, ever so helpful. The brightest spot in the whole city was the Protector, standing in the middle of the square, proud and flawless. A reflector bathed him in white light, painting a picture of power and fearlessness.
There was a pigeon sitting on his head.
A sound of a heavy boot sounded through the silence louder than a bell, and Neil knew there was no other choice than to run. So, he did.
He ran, and he was quick, which was a good thing for someone leading his kind of life. His footsteps echoed on the interlocking paving, loud. Too loud. There were no hiding spots at the square, no other than the Protector, a stupid name for a stupid hideaway.
Someone had a twisted sense of humour. Maybe he did, too, since he found it funny. But there was no better place to go to - the shadows bellow the buildings were a double-edged hiding place. If he could take cover there, they could too.
The Protector it was, then.
He could hear two or three man running towards the square. How he knew the number? Experience. A whole lot of experience. They were after him, not for the first time.
Quicker, the voice said. It sounded strangely urgent in a way it rarely was.
Fuck you, Neil tried to send back with no visible results. He was going crazy. The pigeon startled and flew somewhere into the night.
Neil entered the circle of light, the reflectors pointing right into his face. A shining beacon, a lighthouse bringing him nothing but damnation. He saw the men enter the square and stilled in his place, but it was too late.
His plan wasn't that bad. He was just too slow, or they were too quick. Maybe the light was too bright. Either way, he locked eyes with one of the men, a stupid mistake, really, and it was a game over.
The voice in his head didn't tell him to take cover, so he took a step forward. He stood in front of the statue, almost like he was planning to protect the Protector, and he-
- was looking into the faces of men that were send out to kill him. There were three of them, three of them and he was alone, chances for survival close to zero. He-
-wasn't dumb, he knew where it was going. Two men from the sides, one man from the front, all of them armed. He didn't have anything but a knife on him, one purchased in a hurry, since the airports and-
-the guards of the Foxden wouldn't have let him trough with a more damaging weapon. There was no point in drawing attention to himself, not more than he already managed to in a daily life. He took-
-another step forward. If he couldn't run, he was going to fight, no matter the odds. The man coming towards him slowed his pace to savour the moment, drawing out a gun. Neil was wanted dead or-
-dead. The only one who wanted him alive, who actively tried to keep him alive was himself. And he couldn't, he wasn't going to stop now. So, he took his stance, and he was going to fight, a knife against-
-a gun. Not a fair game. It's never been. The man aimed and shot, the bullet grazing Neil's shoulder, a touch as light as a caress. He didn't feel the pain, there was no time for it. The man was-
-taking his time, in a contrast to the hurry with which he chased after him. A purposeful miss,-
-prolonging the inevitable. Neil contemplated throwing the knife at him, but-
-that would've just been giving away his weapon, wasn't it? A flash of magic had struck again, missing again-
-and Neil took cover behind the shoulders of-
-his protector. When did he get there? His body was half hidden behind him, the-
-white marble shielding Neil's own skin. The voice in his head didn't keep quiet anymore, it-
-called him a-
-"Rabbit."-
-and he felt a wave of hope well up inside him, together with-
-confusion? The voice didn't stay in his head, where it belonged. He wasn't supposed to hear it with his own ears, he'd never met the person. Apathetic,-
-amused, familiar, a voice he would've recognized anywhere, even on that god-forsaken piece of land. There was someone who was trying to keep him safe apart from himself. They were alright as long as they were together. But the magic flashed, green and white, accompanied by the sound of-
-a bullet flying, striking-
-Andrew in the chest. Abram watched as the body of his protector, his soulmate, changed into a stone. Slowly. Inescapably. White marble, beautiful, cold, dead. There was no sign of remorse congealed on his face when he shielded Abram from the blow. There was no other emotion but-
-surprise, as the statue came to life right before Neil's eyes, the bullet harmlessly sliding off the marble before it had the chance to become skin. The transformation was slow, but not slow enough for the men to react in accordance with the sudden switch in dynamics. Neil was quicker. He didn't wait for anything and-
-he leaped forward, killing the man that shot Andrew in one desperate swing of his knife. Killing him, stabbing him once, twice, ten times. There were no tears in his eyes, it wasn't the time or the place, he could break down later. Somewhere else. Now, now he had to survive-
-and surviving he knew. He turned from the body laying on the ground, blood pooling on the pavement, his knife red. The statue that was no longer a statue made itself useful and took care of another one. Two down. The third one was running for his life, to get backup. Neil threw the knife after him, hitting the bullseye,-
-and then he crawled, slowly and painfully. Bloody. Injured. Shaken. He crawled because he couldn't walk, he crawled because he couldn't run. He crawled because it was the fastest he could go, and he needed to get away.
Neil needed to get closer. The blond hair, honey eyes looking at him with amusement and something fierce, something deeper; he knew it. He recognized it. Looking at the man was like looking straight into the reflectors, straight into a fire. It hurt his brain, and yet he couldn't stop.
Brain damage wasn't excluded. But the pedestal was undeniably empty.
"Hey?" he said for the lack of better things to say. The man looked at him without a word. "Thanks for the help."
Neil didn't get further than that before cold lips clashed with his in a bruising kiss, an unexpected response. Kissing strangers wasn't between his top priorities while standing on a crime scene, it really wasn't.
But the world seemed to start turning around a new axis. Everything tilted a little bit sideways, and yet the perspective was a one that he knew, one that took his breath away; the first time, and this time again. How could he ever forget about this?
How could he ever forget about him?
"You're hurt," said Andrew, and Neil looked at him with wonder, a thousand questions on his mind. He couldn't bring himself to word any of them, not there, not standing in the column of light, not besides the empty reminder of their agonizing past.
"Andrew," he said instead as if it was an answer to all of those questions running through his head. In a way, it was one.
It had to be because he knew who he was now, who he'd always been.
"Abram," said Andrew, confirming what Neil remembered, his voice almost firm in the dead of the night. He tugged Neil's face to the side, examining the scars that were imprinted there. Neil let him.
He wasn't preserved in stone; his enemies had written their signatures on his skin with blood.
Andrew's fingers were as cold as his lips, and he touched Neil with an unrestrained urgency, convincing himself, convincing them both that he was tangible, real.
They kissed again, and Neil wasn't sure who initiated it, just that there was nothing that could stop them. They kissed, and for the first time in a long time – perhaps for the first time in that life – he didn't think about the future.
His world ended and started there, in a city he didn't care about, in the middle of a square that had just lost its landmark.
He didn't think about the men that might've lurked inside the shadows, nor about the departure of the first train, and he certainly didn't think about-
-Aaron, who was going to find a well-preserved corpse of his brother, three additional bodies and Abram's bloodied knife. No. He couldn't think of that.
His life wasn't worth the price that'd been paid for it.