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The sounds of the riot muffle Andrew’s silent scream as he reaches down to find a cell phone sitting in the strewn open mess of a ratty duffel bag. Neil’s cellphone. Neil’s duffel bag.
Neil never leaves his cell phone anywhere. He always has it with him. Same with his duffel bag and that precious fucking Exy-obsessed binder that he has. Andrew’s mind hasn’t set into panic yet, but his body seems to have reacted quickly enough that when he brings his hand into his line of vision, he can see it faintly shake. His knuckles are stained white and shine bright under the harsh streetlights with a layer of sweat. Andrew hates it when this happens. He hates it when people get under his skin like this; when they can make him feel this way, and cause these reactions.
It’s not a normal occurrence for Andrew Minyard. Somehow it’s become more and more frequent since the entering of one Neil Josten into his life, which has annoyed him to no end. Neil disrupts everything; the very nature of chaos itself. And Andrew doesn’t know where he is, and is holding his cellphone.
Neil would have only left the cellphone if he wanted it to be found. If he wanted someone to know that he didn’t have it. That something was wrong. The world tilts on its axis underneath Andrew’s feet.
He opens the phone and presses in the stupid code that he knows for some stupid reason he can’t remember, and scrolls through Neil’s messages -- the only function of the phone he knows Neil actually uses. Andrew finds an exchange with an unknown contact, and reads through the messages, forgetting how to breathe.
Numbers. Counting down, day by day. A single “Enough” from Neil.
A glaring “0” under today’s date.
A countdown. To today. Neil was gone, and he had known this was coming. And he didn’t say shit. And for some goddamn reason, that is the most infuriating part of the entire thing. Why hadn’t he run? He could have run, and he didn’t. Andrew had told him to stop being the rabbit, but now the memory of the words taste sour in his mouth.
Andrew can hear Nicky’s voice faintly over his shoulder, calling out his name over and over and over again but the sound of his panic drowns it out and the world narrows into this dumb fucking cell phone in his hand and the “0” that glares back at him from the screen and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he needs answers he needs answers-
Andrew’s eyes fly open.
“Andrew,” Nicky says one more time, but it doesn’t sound like Nicky. “I’m here. Andrew,” the voice pleads once more, and Andrew feels too exhausted to move but somehow manages to glance up at who’s calling his name.
In the end, it’s the eyes. It’s always been the eyes. Even when he wore his colored contacts, Neil’s eyes always drew Andrew in. Right now, the harsh, icy blue seems so out of place when his freckles are warm and his hair is ruffled and his voice is hoarse and low.
Andrew focuses on his eyes, and they bring him back to reality.
He’s learned enough technical terms and explored his supposed “emotions” enough in therapy to understand that he currently is on the brink of a panic attack. He feels the edge of anxiety buzzing under his skin, and a wave of nausea rolls in his stomach. When he swallows hard, Andrew’s heartbeat sounds throughout his entire body. Each time it thuds in his head he sees the blank “0” on Neil’s phone screen, he remembers what it felt like to realize that Neil wasn’t there, that Neil was gone-
But Neil’s there now, his brain dimly registers. Andrew looks up again and Neil’s leaning over him, propped up on an elbow, hair mussed from sleep. He looks stupid, wearing one of Andrew’s oversize hoodies, and not for the last time, Andrew reminds himself that he hates Neil. Somewhere, distantly, in the back of his mind, he knows it’s not the truth.
One of Neil’s hands is raised above Andrew’s chest, hovering in midair while Neil takes deep breaths, in and out, in and out. Neil knows better than to touch Andrew when he’s waking up from a nightmare. There are always boundaries between them, and Neil has never been dumb enough to cross them. Stupid, the voice in Andrew’s head reminds him.
“Do you want me to go?” Neil asks quietly, his tone just above a whisper. Andrew deliberately ignores the pang in his chest (something Andrew might call weakness; something Bee or Renee might call love) at Neil’s simple drawing of boundary lines. There are some days, after nightmares, or panic attacks, or just bad days in general, where Andrew can’t take it. He can’t be around anyone. Those are the days Neil leaves. Sometimes he takes the cats too. On those days, Andrew drives the Maserati until he can’t breathe anymore or sits in the apartment, tracing his fingers over the scars on his arms until he starts to feel again.
This is not one of those days.
“No,” Andrew says gruffly. “Stay.” Neil smiles one of his stupid, quiet smiles, and some of the anger in the pit of Andrew’s stomach subsides.
But Andrew is still on the edge of his panic attack, and Neil’s presence still isn’t registering in his mind, and so Andrew reaches a hand up and roughly grips the back of Neil’s neck. He feels Neil shudder under his touch and makes to take his hand away, the voice inside of him screaming what are you doing you didn’t ask for permission you’re so stupid but then Neil says, “It’s a yes.” Andrew keeps his hand firmly planted on the back of his neck and breathes a little easier.
Neil is real. It processes in his mind. They are here together; Neil is not in Baltimore getting cut up or burned half to death; he is not being interrogated by his father, his father is dead, Riko is dead, the threat is gone, the threat is gone, the threat is gone.
Andrew lays like that, his hand on the back of Neil’s neck, locked with Neil’s eyes, for what feels like hours; it could be minutes or days. Andrew waits until his breathing steadies, and then his eyes wander aimlessly around the room. Bee had once taught him that when faced with extreme anxiety, he should focus on his surroundings. Andrew counts the shirts tossed haphazardly on the back of the chair -- 8. He focuses on the sound of the rain pattering outside their window -- the droplets hit the window every half second. The light is still hazy outside -- it seems like the sun has just come up. Andrew looks down the hallway -- he can see the swish of the cats’ tails as they walk through the apartment.
He’s still in the little apartment he and Neil bought together. The sheets are cool under his touch. The world is a little blurry without the aid of his glasses. Andrew grunts and nods his head towards the shared bedside table -- God, even thinking the words “shared bedside table” is too domestic for comfort -- where his glasses rest. Neil reacts immediately and carefully picks up the thin wire frames without twisting too much, letting Andrew’s hand still stay secure on the back of his neck. Neil slips the arms of the glasses onto Andrew’s ears and his vision clears. Neil still looks as beautiful stupid as ever.
Andrew’s mouth is dry, and his breathing is steady, and he feels relatively fine, and he wants sugar. He removes his hand from Neil’s neck, and the loss of contact leaves him feeling empty. Reluctantly, he swings himself out of the bed, and stands up too quickly. The nausea in the pit of his stomach rolls again, and he focuses on taking more deep breaths until it passes. Bee would be proud of him for using his coping techniques. Stupid.
He walks down the hall and into the kitchen. Andrew throws a glare at King, who is currently seated on top of the toaster. He finds a day old pot of coffee; now cold, and not as strong, but he doesn’t care. The first mug he can find is a stupid PSU Foxes mug: bright white with a blindingly orange fox paw in the center of it. He hates it, and it reminds him of Neil, and that makes him hate it even more. He pours the coffee in, followed by an amount of milk and sugar that is far too much for any one cup of coffee. Andrew thinks of how Kevin would frown and adds more.
As he takes the first sip, Andrew can hear Neil’s footsteps coming closer as he comes into the kitchen as well. Andrew knows Neil will join him, so he walks over to the window and opens it with a faint creak. He’s still breathing. He pushes the window up and maneuvers himself onto the fire escape, barely managing not to spill his coffee on his way out. When he lands on the fire escape and flattens himself against the wall to protect him from the rain, Neil is already hopping over the ledge to join him. Andrew scoffs.
But he also smiles. Andrew’s been doing that more. Neil doesn’t comment on it, but when he sees Andrew smiling one of his rare smiles, he’ll smile back, and give him a quiet kiss on the forehead when they get home. Andrew hates it. It’s a lie.
When Neil shuts the window behind him and rests against the wall a comfortable distance from Andrew, Andrew feels himself start to smile. He doesn’t know why it happens, and he drowns the expression in more coffee before Neil can see it.
Andrew holds out the coffee mug for Neil to take, and he takes it happily. Neil sips the coffee and sugar mixture and grimaces at the excessive sweetness, before taking another sip. They sit there in silence for several minutes, the rain louder now that they were outside. Andrew counts the raindrops that fall onto the railing and smears them across the metal until the tips of his fingers grow wrinkly.
With every minute that passes, Andrew can feel Neil’s unanswered question. Neil never asks and happily accepts anything Andrew wants to tell him, even if it’s nothing at all, but Andrew has become annoyingly accustomed to Neil’s microexpressions and emotions that he can still see the curiosity in his face. He doesn’t blame Neil for wondering about the nightmares; Andrew himself is always vaguely interested when Neil wakes up from one of his own nightmares.
And today is a day for truths, so Andrew willingly offers up, “Baltimore.” A beat passes, full of unanswered questions and unspoken truths.
“Baltimore,” Neil repeats, not quite a question.
“When you,” Andrew starts, then has to cough. “When you were gone.” On the last word, his voice sounds shaky and vulnerable. He hates it.
They wait there for a while. Andrew tries to fend off the voice in his head, the voice telling him Neil doesn’t care about you, you’re being a fucking idiot telling him these things about yourself, why would you ever be so stupid as to tell someone the truth. He distracts himself by drinking more of the coffee, and the sickeningly sweet taste on his tongue spreads warmth throughout his body.
Neil says quietly, “I’m not gone now,” and that’s what does Andrew in.
Andrew swings himself around so he’s face to face with Neil, only tilting his head up a little bit to account for the three inch height difference between them. “Yes or no?”
“Always yes with you.” Neil smiles, and Andrew hates him before closing the distance between them.
For some reason, Andrew thought the kiss would be hard and bruising, a reminder to both of them that they were here, but it’s not. It’s slow, and it’s gentle, and it’s soft and strong and Andrew keeps inhaling Neil’s scent, and he feels home, he feels home.
It’s a foreign concept that he’s still not used to yet. Home.
Andrew wraps his arms around Neil’s neck and trails fingers lazily across his back. Every touch of his hands onto Neil makes him feel energized, and he wants more. Andrew pulls Neil closer into him, never breaking the kiss, while pressing their bodies flush to each other, head to toe, perfectly aligned. He can feel Neil smile into his lips, and it pains him to admit that he returns the gesture with a small smile of his own.
Andrew feels a hunger for touch; an ache for Neil to hold him, to prove to him that he’s real, that he’s here, that he’s not going away. It scares him how easily he’s able to name these emotions, but it also fills him with some sense of relief. Andrew lived so much of his life never knowing how to feel, and he still doesn’t, but he can understand it a little more now.
Andrew pulls back only to grasp Neil’s wrists with both of his hands. He holds them up in front of Neil’s face, and says, “It’s a yes until it’s a no.”
Neil’s slightly shocked expression doesn’t surprise Andrew; he’s only given blanket statements such as this on very rare occasions before, but today Andrew wants Neil to touch him and he wants to touch Neil and pretend that they’re normal people for once. Normal people that didn’t go through a mafia war, that don’t have extremely fucked up lives and all kinds of traumatic pasts and Exy practice the next morning.
Andrew just wants to be; and he wants to do it with Neil.
Neil still looks hesitant, so Andrew tries to sooth his worries by saying, “I’ll tell you if it’s a no. Promise.” With that, Neil looks content to carefully wrap his arms around Andrew: one fisted in Andrew’s hair, one stretched out on the wide expanse of Andrew’s back. But instead of going in for another kiss, Neil takes to resting his head on one of Andrew’s shoulders.
It’s still new for them. The hugs. But Andrew would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy them. For this brief moment, Andrew wants to let himself try to be happy, and so he tightens his grip around Neil and strengthens the hug. They haven’t done this for months, and it surprises him to find that he missed it. He missed the feel of Neil’s arms around him, holding Andrew tight so the wind couldn’t blow him away. Andrew can hear the distant resonance of Neil’s heartbeat in his ear as Andrew leans onto Neil’s shoulder. It makes him think of his own heartbeat when Neil was taken, and he holds Neil even tighter at that.
A thunderstorm has been steadily growing behind them, and at a particularly large flash of lightning and clap of thunder, Neil pulls back to kiss Andrew softly once more and then whispers “Let’s go inside.” Andrew is glad to comply, since his coffee is running low and the hoodie he’s wearing is insubstantial for cold weather.
Neil goes through the window first, and Andrew waits a minute before following suit. When he arrives back inside, Neil has poured himself a cup of disgusting, unsweetened coffee, and is happily petting King, who is sleeping and purring in Neil’s embrace. Andrew scoffs.
“You need to stop coddling them,” Andrew says, refilling his coffee mug and adding his desired sweeteners.
Neil makes a comical frown and turns King’s face towards Andrew. “He can hear you.”
“If he can hear me, then why hasn’t he stopped pooping outside the litter box?”
Neil folds King’s ears down and makes a shushing noise before giving the cat a quick kiss on the nose, then looks back up at Andrew and whispers, “Stop being mean. He can hear you.”
“He’s a cat,” Andrew rebutts with. “He sleeps 16 hours a day.” But Andrew knows Neil can see through the faked disdain when Andrew comes over to pet King and kisses him on the top of his fuzzy head. Neil smiles at that. Andrew merely feigns a look of disinterest. Andrew takes one more gulp of coffee before setting his mug down and beginning to walk down the hallway. “Follow me.”
He enters the bedroom and can hear Neil’s footsteps close behind him. When they are both in the bedroom, Andrew points to the bed and makes a silent request. Neil smiles -- God, does he ever stop smiling -- and gets into bed, propping himself up on two pillows and curling himself into the sleeves of Andrew’s stolen hoodie.
“Yes or no?” Andrew asks once more, for good measure.
“Yes,” Neil replies, near instantaneously. “Still a yes for you?”
“Yes,” Andrew says, and then climbs into the bed.
Andrew positions himself so that one of his arms is thrown across Neil’s chest and one of his legs is slotted between Neil’s. He takes his time getting comfortable, slowly resting his shoulder in the crook of Neil’s neck. He presses himself fully against Neil, and after a moment, Neil responds with so much tenderness and care that something in Andrew’s chest tightens. Neil carefully puts an arm underneath Andrew’s neck for extra support and brings him even closer, stopping only to press a light kiss to Andrew’s lips before continuing on.
When they are both comfortable, Andrew allows himself to breathe. He takes in the warmth of Neil’s breath on his forehead, of Neil’s hand on his back. This -- cuddling, Andrew thinks through gritted teeth -- is also new. But Andrew feels so secure. He can’t remember a time in his life where he has felt safer than wrapped in Neil’s embrace.
And to think that on that night, when he saw the duffel bag, and the cellphone, and the “0” on the screen -- to think that that night might have taken away Andrew’s chance to do this, fills him with a fierce kind of protective rage he has only felt a few times before. He stretches up to meet Neil’s lips again, and this time, he kisses with fervor and heat; a passion that fills him with warmth. Neil responds just as vigorously, and Andrew leans back enough to whisper, “Junkie,” before going in again.
They spend the rest of the day like that.
Around noon, Neil gets up to cook them both grilled cheeses; a dish Kevin would never approve of, but one simple enough that Neil has perfected his method for cooking them in 10 minutes flat. Andrew burns his tongue, and Neil melts the sting away with a kiss.
They feed the cats, and drink more coffee, and Neil waters the houseplant he’d bought a few weeks prior. Andrew stays in bed and tries to appreciate that Neil is real, distracts himself from seeing the night of the riot again. It’s disgustingly domestic, and Andrew loves it.
And it’s still a bad day, and Andrew doesn’t truly relax even through the evening, remaining on edge and worried that he will wake up from his nap and Neil will be gone. He works hard and uses his coping mechanisms to keep the anxiety at bay. He tries to name his emotions -- fear, vigilance, tenderness -- and accept them for what they are, instead of pushing them down like he had done for decades.
And in the light of the sunset, Neil’s hair glows rose-gold, and Andrew is overcome with a feeling he can’t quite place. When he kisses away Neil’s smirk, he lets the sun carry him home.