Chapter Text
Someone will cook a full pot of rice tonight
Someone will heal a ringworm sore
Someone will draw a house and a child
Someone will know two plus two
Someone will teach someone who will teach others
Someone will have for sure not only today but also tomorrow.
— Himani Bannerji, "revolutions".
We work too hard
We’re too tired
to fall in love.
Therefore we must
overthrow the government.
We work too hard
We’re too tired
to overthrow the government.
Therefore we must
fall in love.
— Rod Smith.
The coffee is cold, the chatter is old, and Neil Josten’s current shift ends in about three and a half minutes.
What a world there is to three minutes, what a world there is to the remaining half — he watches his hands clean over the counter, scarred and scrubbed raw from labor, and tries not to zero in on the seconds that remain as his wrist watch ticks slowly into eight, two hours early by default. It works just as well as Neil had imagined it to when he got it for a handful of dollars at a thrift store, worn out by time and nurture, though today it seems to be even slower than usual, pointers forever stuck into a clumsy, ever-dragging tango.
He tucks the cloth under the counter once done with his wiping, stepping away from the cash register and neatly avoiding getting slammed by the coworker just about to take his place, their routine automatic by now. Neil reaches over for his jar of tips before Matt can do it for him, clutching it with strong hands, and tucks it under his arm as he steps out of Matt’s way.
“Not going to steal it, Josten,” Matt clicks his tongue, eyeing the jar with disdain. It is fairly full, a decent shift if Neil ever had any, but that is not where Matt’s disdain lies. “Maybe worry more about those prejudices of yours.”
Neil stumbles back, flustered. “It’s not— I know you won’t.”
“Mhm,” he hums, a service smile already plastered on his face as another customer slides to the front of the line. “Go home, Josten.”
Neil shoves his free hand on the pockets of his apron, stubborn enough to wait through Matt’s current customer to prove himself innocent, but the lines in Matt’s eyes soften soon enough. “Seriously, Neil. Go home. You look like shit,” he advises, cutting the conversation short to belt out a chirpy, “Good evening, Ma’am, what would you like to order today—”
Another coworker, newer to the shop and unused to their clockwork, shoves him to the side while reaching for one of their vanilla pumps, pushing Neil away from Matt and into the busy crowd of their fellow baristas. He neatly side steps getting slammed in the head by a coffee machine, though it is a near thing, and has no choice but to let their disagreement go as he struggles through a way out of the kitchen. Neil is already out of his apron by the time he reaches the break room, and can barely stand the scent of too-sweetened coffee as he pushes through the front door, late afternoon light sticking to his work clothes through a sheer layer of sweat.
“Fuck,” he curses softly, taking his first breath of the day. The smell of a parking lot is not ideal, but Neil has had worse — he lets the air fill him up and make him anew, the tension of labor slowly dwindling down into a familiar exhaustion. “Shit. Fuck. I hate this job.”
It is not entirely true: Neil does not hate this job.
He does not hate it on the basis that it keeps him alive and out of the streets.
He does not hate it on the basis that it could be worse.
He does not hate it on the basis that Neil has had worse.
But he still hates it, in the same way one hates the roof over their head or the food on their plate — not with gusto or pride; but ashamedly, ungratefully, unsure of how to stop once it begins.
He is still sighing out the heaviness of his lungs as he walks into his apartment, a small saltbox under a postal code no one would envy. It is as old as it is worn out, and yet Neil could not afford it alone: the proof is in the books and plants scattered around the place, courtesy of Renee, the roommate Neil barely sees between work shifts and band practice. He kicks out his shoes at the doorway, shirt not coming short as he throws it over the couch and heads straight for the shower.
Renee wouldn’t mind, because Renee is never home when he is — like failed magnets, Neil has seen more unpaid bills this month than he has seen her, though the comradery between them was fairly self-sustaining. He fidgets with the shower handle for half a minute before being able to get it lukewarm, the scalding water failing at getting a reaction out of Neil as he forces himself to take what could be the shortest shower anyone has ever taken, barely getting to dry out his soaked hair as he zooms through the front door once again.
Neil is always late for something, so he is always running to something: today, as Nicky had previously reminded him through three voicemails left this morning, is family dinner with the rest of The Monsters, a small and raggedy garage band that somehow could pay Neil enough to keep him afloat at the end of the month. It had been three weeks since Neil’s biggest goal had gone from pretending The Monsters didn’t exist outside of work hours to accepting that their cordiality — or lack thereof — was a direct result of well-meaning yet misplaced pity.
I have food at home, if that is what you’re worried about is what Neil had said to Nicky once the invite had been given, just two days ago while he fixed the pedal of his drums. I don’t care had been Nicky’s response, too busy to deal with Neil’s pride issues or too old to care. You are part of this family, so you’re coming.
So he came. Or, at last, forced himself to — as much as Neil would have liked to get any rest at all, couch surfing for three years before settling down has taught him not to ever recuse free food, especially if it’s homemade. As he waits in front of Nicky’s doorstep, he starts to wonder if it’s time to reconsider that rule.
“Neil!” Nicky greets him as soon as he swings the door open, a huge smile splitting his face from ear to ear. “Oh, good, good, you’re just in time. We were about to leave, yeah?” He turns around abruptly to belt out, “Aaron Michael Minyard, where are you? Do you want to be late?”
“Fuck off. Andrew lives next door,” comes out from inside the apartment, muffled but still inegably Aaron.
“You can still be late if you live close,” Nicky yells back, but doesn’t waste time arguing. He slams the door closed just in time for Neil to step away from it, and turns another smile to him as they stand in the hallway. “You haven’t mysteriously crashed to the ground yet, that’s very nice. I was worried you would.”
Neil rolls his eyes. He likes Nicky, for all it’s worth. “Do I need to tell you again that I have food at home?”
Nicky hums in acknowledgement, barely walking three steps before he reaches the door to Andrew’s apartment with Neil in tow. “Food at home does not mean light in your eyes, sweetheart,” he draws out into a disarming Southern accent, leaning against Andrew’s doorway.
“Oh, fuck off.”
He grins, all teeth, as he knocks against Andrew’s door. “Kindly, you first.”
“Kindly, you can go fuck yours—”
“Language,” Andrew deadpans, cutting their conversation short once the door is fully open.
Nicky’s sharp grin softens. “Baby cousin.”
Andrew looks at him up and down. “Coworker.” He turns his gaze to Neil, unmoved. “Stranger.”
“Andrew,” he greets, meeting his dead stare and offering one of his own back.
Andrew Minyard is not what anyone would expect of the bassist of a fairly punk-adjacent band: where Nicky is sharp and alive as can be, Andrew’s entire existence is one year long inertia, the tedious space between words. There is not much Neil knows about him, given the man is a wall of stone made human, but what he does know is that Andrew, for all of his enthusiasm or lack thereof, is fairly more talented than anyone would give him credit for.
They all are, The Monsters — Nicky had told him over coffee that their band had started out as nothing more than a Juvie daydream, the three cousins more prone to trouble than anyone Neil has ever known. With their pasts problematic as they were, it took them about two years of on-and-off gigs for them to be even reasonably known in the local music scene, especially with no big label to support them in that journey. Nowadays, what Neil is sure of is that The Monsters reject music labels left and right out of sheer pettiness, which does not sound uncharacteristic to what he’s gathered from their personalities so far.
Andrew takes a step to the side to let them in, stone-faced, and Neil keeps his hands and eyes to himself as he walks into Andrew’s apartment for the first time. Being Nicky’s blood, Neil hadn’t expected Andrew’s home to be so neat — with white walls and fine tapestry, it felt odd to think that apartment belonged to someone so profoundly apathetic as Andrew, whose personality fell as flat as his expression. Some books were sprawled over the dinner table, the only part of the apartment that showed any sign of messiness at all, and Neil peered at their covers as Nicky and Andrew slid into the kitchen.
He’s not sure what type of books he thought Andrew to enjoy, but Neil hadn’t been expecting revolutionary theory. The covers are somber, more modest than usual, but look perfectly well taken care of, even rather treasured: with no creases or rips along its material, the books looked fresh out of the library, barely touched by human nurture. Neil touches the spine of a few of them before settling on opening the smaller one, a pocket version of what he supposes is a larger, heavier book.
The pages barely looked like they belonged to the same book Neil saw the cover of — whereas the covers had been perfectly maintained, the insides revealed the story of a book that hadn’t just been read before, but also thoroughly scribbled on and well-loved. Most of the scribbles weren’t in a tongue Neil knew or spoke, a mix of Mandarin syllables with Arabic letters around the margins as if someone was trying to learn both languages at the same time. The few scribbles in English weren’t written by Andrew, but rather addressed to him: Neil squinted through small, boxxy handwriting just enough to get out the words “And here, when he says this — what he means is that revolution is nothing without love, Andrew. It’s what I told you about.”
He’s about to dive into another set of scribbled pages when someone’s rough coughing keeps him from it. Neil looks up to find Andrew by the other end of the dinner table, arms crossed but shoulders relaxed, an amused glint to his dead eyes.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Neil says, equal parts curious and dumbfounded. He traces the Arabic words with the tip of his fingers, quite as if he could understand their meaning through the touch, and watches Andrew’s face for any sign of a reaction.
There is none aside from a dry once-over. “And I thought you’d know better than to pry on other people’s things.”
Neil offers him a sharp smile, more menace than mirth. “It was right there. If you didn’t want people to pry, you should put it somewhere else.”
Andrew hums in agreement, not an ounce bothered by the so-called prying. He doesn’t step closer to Neil, but his eyes slowly fix upon the line he’d been tracing over and over, eyes seeing beyond Neil’s hopeless gazing. “Arabic saying,” is what he chooses to announce.
“Oh,” Neil replies. “What does it mean?”
“‘What is coming is better than what is gone’,” Andrew says, finally stepping forward to slam the book closed so Neil couldn’t pry any further. His fingers barely miss Andrew’s hand, but it would not have hurt too much either way — Neil is caught wondering if this is Andrew’s way of trying to make a friend out of him.
“You speak Arabic?” he asks, if just to keep pulling on Andrew’s loose ends until his apathy unravels into something easier to understand.
“No,” Andrew answers, falling into silence as he reorders the books Neil had touched. For a second he thinks this is all he will get from him, but Andrew continues after a moment, “Kevin does.”
Neil blinks. “Who’s Kevin?”
The bassist stops before eventually replying, “You’ll meet him,” and pushing through Neil in the direction of the hallway, leaving him behind to pry to his heart’s desire or find Nicky for another distraction.
Neil chooses the last if only for practicity, not knowing if Andrew would forgive him for messing up his books a second time. He finds Nicky in the kitchen, stirring a big pot of tomato sauce with a wooden spoon and a distant gaze, most surely daydreaming.
Nicky smiles once Neil comes into his line of sight. “Getting acquainted with Andrew?"
“Who’s Kevin?” Neil asks instead of answering, stopping just a few steps from the oven Nicky had been cooking on.
The drummer’s smile doesn’t waver, but it dims slightly. “Kevin,” Nicky hums, splitting his attention between their conversation and the task at hand, “is Andrew’s boyfriend of two years.”
“Oh,” he says. “So Andrew’s—”
“Gay, yes,” he replies, keeping his eyes to the tomato sauce. “Kevin’s… a saint. Truly. Bless his soul.”
“A saint,” Neil repeats. “Why?”
Nicky motions vaguely with his free hand. “Not that kind of saint. Think more… Joan of Arc: less heavenly light, more kicking and screaming. He’s all about changing the world through direct action.” He purses his lips for a moment, then laughs to himself, “He can be a little… Rough. It’s what you’d expect from Andrew’s partner.”
“Oh. Those books were his, then.”
“Ah, yeah, for sure,” Nicky absentmindedly agrees. “Kevin practically lives here. Before him, listen — this apartment felt like a psych ward. Andrew didn’t hang shit on the walls.” He finally lowers the oven's flame, half-covering the pan with a clear lid and turning to Neil. “Surely you didn’t think a white man had chosen such a beautiful tapestry for himself?”
Neil huffs. “It didn’t feel like Andrew’s choice, yeah.”
“It was a gift from Kevin’s father,” Nicky tells him. “He used to have this tapestry shop, you know, and it was super cool, but now he opened a restaurant with his wife. It’s where we usually eat on the weekends. That man’s luqaimat is… Divine. Simply divine.”
“Nicholas, I’m leaving,” Andrew calls from the living room. “Don’t burn the sauce.”
“Won’t do!” Nicky yells back. “Drive safe!”
There is no response from Andrew, though they hear the front door opening and closing after a few moments. Nicky checks on the sauce again, a worried frown to his features, before going back to his conversation with Neil. “And, yeah — that’s the deal with Kevin. Why do you ask?”
“I thought you said Andrew likes nothing and no one,” Neil questions.
Nicky motions noncommittally. “Figure of speech. The more you try to understand Andrew, the less sense he’ll make.” He leans over the counter on his elbows, gaze flickering. “I think Andrew likes Kevin, if that’s what you’re interested in knowing. He’s very… Protective.”
“Protective,” Neil echoes. “You mean jealous.”
“No, not jealous,” Nicky disagrees, straightening up as if Neil had burned him. “Kevin is… It’s not my story to tell, but he’s gone through some shit. Like, real shit. We don’t even fully know the extent of it, but — they both get angry if you bring it up. It’s touchy.” He fidgets with the hem of his shirt for a moment before completing, “Just don’t step on Kevin’s toes and he won’t step on yours. Try not to get a black eye, mind you?”
They are quiet for a few minutes, the sound of Nicky’s spoon meeting the walls of the pan only distracting enough to get Neil’s mind out of the new information and into a more abstract take on Nicky’s advice.
“I’m not scared of Andrew,” he says, at last and matter-of-factly, because he isn’t.
Nicky huffs into the silence of the room. “I’m not talking about Andrew.”
Neil opens his mouth to reply, eyebrows raised up in challenge, but is cut off by the sound of the door unlocking and a new voice thundering through the apartment, low and vibrant.
“They said they’re going to reopen those meetings soon for volunteers who want to try community-based educational aid,” the voice says, more passionate than Neil has heard from anyone else in this band. “I mean, it's only fair we go.”
A second voice — Aaron’s — snorts. “I don’t think they want someone who went to Juvie teaching the kids, Kevin.”
“They’re not kids, Aaron,” Kevin replies, footsteps approaching the kitchen. “They’re seniors in High School. They’re old enough to discern that the criminal system is inherently immoral—”
“Hello!” Nicky cuts Kevin’s argument short, swinging the kitchen door open.
What happens to stare back at Neil is a trio of familiar faces, though one’s origin is blurrier than the others’. Kevin, as the story behind him didn’t suggest, looks nothing like what Neil had expected from Andrew’s partner — in a long, pastel blue coat and a delicate white turtleneck, the man seemed to have walked straight out of a children’s book, shoulder-length hair tied into two braids on each side of his head. Too tall for anyone’s comfort, Kevin’s skin is a warm brown, two or three shades lighter than Nicky’s as he steps under the kitchen lights with just one hand free, the other intertwined with Andrew’s.
“Hello,” Kevin replies, a low, tender murmur. He looks over at Neil curiously, giving him a slight once over, before introducing himself, “I’m Kevin. Kevin Day. You must be Neil.”
Neil thought that name — Kevin Day — was too familiar to be a stranger’s, but couldn’t find out why. “Neil Josten,” he replies, still, taking Kevin’s offered hand firmly.
Kevin’s hands are warm, big: had Neil’s hands been proportional to his height, they would have been absolutely engulfed by Kevin’s the way Andrew’s were. “Nice to meet you, Neil Josten,” Kevin greets, not particularly chirpy but not aloof enough to be impolite, either. He retrieves his hand. “Nicky, did you know they’re reopening the youth center for public readings again?”
From behind him, Andrew scoffs, though Neil notices he does not let go of Kevin’s hand even as he shrugs off his coat. “Are they, now?” Nicky answers. “They’re letting you do your reenactment of Das Kapital to seventeen year olds?”
Kevin rolls his eyes. “Very funny. No, they’re not. I’m trying to convince Aaron and Andrew to go back with me, but they’re not being very nice about it.” He turns around slightly to glare at Andrew, though it feels more light-hearted than not. Andrew stares back at him blankly, Kevin’s hand still clutched in his. Kevin turns back around. “I was hoping you could convince them to go again, since you convinced them the first time.”
Nicky scoffs. “I didn’t convince Andrew to go, I convinced Aaron. The fact you made friends with him and ended up banging his twin is not my fault, thank you very much.”
“I went for the Anti-racist workshop,” Aaron intervenes, walking past them with a bag of chips on hand. “That Kevin was there was just a coincidence.”
“Not a coincidence,” Kevin disagrees, scrunching up his nose. “It’s in my best interest to not be racially profiled, you do know.”
Aaron motions his hand vaguely in what seems to be lousy agreement, popping a chip into his mouth. “Either way,” Nicky says. “Andrew, why do you not want to go back? You met Kevin there, isn’t going back supposed to be romantic?”
“Not romantic,” Kevin starts. “It’s giving back to our community—”
“Because I’m not a babysitter,” Andrew interrupts him, cutting Kevin’s reply short, “and, likewise, I have more to do.”
"Andrew, it's not babysitting," Kevin replies, though his tone gets softer; more delicate. He turns to Andrew without severing their joined hands, murmuring something under his breath, and Andrew rolls his eyes in response. "Andrew," he insists.
"Okay, enough," Nicky interjects, shoving against Kevin's back and pushing him into Andrew, who barely moves. "Go do your weird telepathic shit in the living room."
Neil hears Kevin's annoyed puff of breath, but his eyes focus on something else: Andrew's hands, which had been still for a while now, reach around Kevin's waist to tug him out of the way and outside of the kitchen, leaving Neil and Nicky once again alone. Neil gulps quietly, turning his head back towards the latter, and tries not to think too much of it.
It had been the first time Neil saw Andrew willingly initiating physical contact with anyone, and he's unsure of whether it makes sense or not that Andrew's touch was this gentle around Kevin's waist. It seems like too irrelevant of a thought, but then again, Neil has always been observant — many times before his well being had been purely dependent on Neil's observation skills, and the habit has yet to relent now that he is stable enough to not need to observe anymore.
"So, that was Kevin," Nicky prompts after a moment of dead silence. He studies Neil carefully, eyes dark and sharp like an eagle's, and eventually says, "You didn't tell me you were into men."
Neil frowns. "Where did you get that from?"
Nicky raises an eyebrow. "Dude, you were totally ogling at Kevin just now. You should be more self-aware."
"I wasn't."
"Bullshit."
"I don't ogle," Neil insists. "Fuck off, Nicky."
"And I say that's bullshit. You were staring." He stops for a moment, then sighs, "Look, I get it. Kevin's hot. If it was anyone else, I'd tell you to go for it — but Kevin and Andrew really are going to be together forever. Like, really. They'll be eighty and bickering about that youth center."
"I don't— want him," Neil splutters with a frown, slightly offended. "I just think I know him from somewhere."
Nicky's face, which had been open wide like the sun up until now, suddenly falls stoic. "I see," he replies, turning back to the pot of tomato sauce. "Alright, then. I believe you."
The sudden retreat is suspicious at best, Nicky's forehead softening as if in faked nonchalance, and something curious — and mistrustful — tingles at the very back of his stomach. Deciding against asking for the time being, Neil announces, "I'm going to the living room," before sliding out of the kitchen.
Andrew’s living room is neat enough to show that someone cares to clean it, but messy enough to make it seem well-loved; worn out; the ever-changing picture of passing days. The TV is turned on to a low murmur as Aaron lies across a bright orange bean bag, legs spread gracelessly. He bites off a piece of his thumb nail, anxious fidget of his Neil has gotten used to by now, and replies to something Kevin says. Andrew himself seems quite fond of the room, feet propped up on the coffee table with Kevin sitting by his side, the two of them tucked around each other a slight inch closer than what platonic affection would require.
Neil stills by the doorway, unsure of himself at sudden once he finds himself Nicky-less, though the doubt doesn’t last long. Andrew notices his awkward standing soon enough, looking up at Neil over Kevin’s head and motioning him closer with a nonchalant flick of his fingers. His other hand, the one resting on Kevin’s knee, strokes a thumb down the inside of Kevin’s leg, the action so small Neil wondered to himself why it caught his attention at all.
At last, he takes upon Andrew’s offer, fitting himself on Andrew’s other side — though not even half as close to him as Kevin is — and propping his feet onto the coffee table. Be it as it may, this might be the first time Neil got around to rest ever since he started his day: he hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until now, a deep ache hammering through his muscles. The calm, as well as the quiet chatter and the low rumble of the TV, felt suddenly too nice; perhaps even comforting.
He is close to dozing off when Kevin abruptly turns to him, looking over Andrew’s head to say, “So.”
Neil blinks, blank-faced, and clears his throat. “Yes?”
“I’ve seen you play,” Kevin prompts, his voice a quiet rumble now that he’d been softened by the atmosphere. “Your guitar looks like shit, but you have potential.”
“Thanks,” Neil replies, unsure of what else to say.
Kevin stares for a second, crooked nose up-turned and curious, and Neil thinks he’s pretty. The realization takes him by surprise, an unusual conclusion to any interaction, and Neil looks away if only so he could make sense of it. Nicky had wormed into his brain, clearly. “You know,” Kevin starts, “I have an old guitar rotting in my basement. Electric. It’s yours if you want it.”
Andrew’s hand, which had been on Kevin’s ankle ever since he turned to sit cross-legged, slid up the hem of his pant leg absentmindedly. Neil doesn’t want to look at it once it disappears under Kevin’s jeans, so he looks at Kevin instead.
“Why?” He asks.
Kevin shrugs. “I already said it. Your guitar looks like shit.”
“I don’t have enough money for a new one,” Neil snaps back, a tingling sense of irritation boiling over his head.
The tone does nothing to Kevin, except perhaps unimpress him. “And that is why I am telling you you can have mine, if you want. I don’t use it and I’ve been meaning to get rid of it.”
“I don’t need donations. Save it for Goodwill.”
If Neil knows anything about anyone in this band, is that one rebuttal is enough to end any conversation — unfortunately, Kevin seems to be an outlier. “I don’t care about whatever pride you have left in you,” he replies, not exactly unkindly but not with the same warmth he’d used to speak to Andrew either, “take it. Your technique is mediocre at best and you’ll need a better guitar to fit into The Monsters’ sound if you plan on still getting your share of profit from gigs and merch.” He leans back into Andrew. “And don’t talk to me like that.”
From the bean bag, Aaron snorts.
Neil frowns. “How much do you want for it?”
“Nothing.” Kevin checks his nails. “It’s yours if you want it.”
A pause. “What do you want in return?”
This time, the question annoys Kevin more than anything else. His face is sharp, though not chiseled or boxxy like Andrew’s — with high, prominent cheekbones, a long nose and round lips, Kevin’s face was soft; well-meaning. The irritation looked out of place in his features.
“Again, nothing," he repeats. “It is yours, if you want it.”
“Fine,” Neil cedes, at last. “I want it.”
Andrew whistles in faux-cheer.
“Alright. I’ll get Andrew to give it to you next time you have rehearsal.”
“Are you done?” Andrew asks, flat. He does not look any the happier about having to play mailman for Neil, but then again, Andrew barely looked like anything at all. Likewise, he doesn’t look at Neil as he suddenly says, “Quit your day job.”
The shock gives Neil enough leverage to accidentally elbow Andrew’s side, receiving another, harsher elbow in response. “Don’t touch me,” Andrew says with finality. Then repeats, “And quit your day job.”
“What?”
“You heard,” he replies.
Neil looks at him in incredulity. “Why the fuck would I ever do that?”
Andrew does not look in Neil’s direction even as he reasons, “Because the band can pay you more, and you are of no use to us if you are exhausted the moment you hit the studio.”
“The band can’t pay me more,” Neil disagrees in the same breath, barely waiting for Andrew to be done with his sentence, “and it’s not a stable income.”
“No,” Andrew agrees, finally fixing his gaze on Neil. “But you will make more in one gig than you will make in a month at the coffee shop. You are used to living on a budget, so you will know how to save up that money and make it last between gigs. If you need a stable income, we sell enough merch to keep you afloat. In the worst-case scenario, you might have to lose your Starbucks employee discount.”
Everything Andrew said was true and factual, but the condescendence of it made Neil’s blood boil. “None of that is stable or guaranteed.”
“It is guaranteed because I am guaranteeing you it will happen.”
“You’re not even signed to a label,” Neil spits out, “what if one day you decide you don’t want me in your band anymore? What safety is there to that?”
Andrew lifts a hand, the universal gesture for silence. “Do not speak of things you don’t understand. A record label is not needed.”
“Not needed or not wanted?” he asks. “As far as I can see, you don’t seem to care all that much about making it big if all you do is hinder the band’s progress by denying labels left and right.”
Kevin freezes from Andrew’s other side, hand still in the air as he reached for his phone. The sudden stillness is only as unnerving as the silence that falls upon the room, tension growing in sprouts all over Neil’s joints.
Andrew clears his throat, his tone taking up an iron-like vice. “I gave you my conditions. You either quit your day job or the band. You are of no use to us when you are doing both.”
Neil fumes. “That’s not right.”
“I,” Kevin starts, still frozen. “Andrew.”
“You have two weeks to choose,” Andrew informs him, seemingly already done with this argument. “I do not promise things I cannot give people, Neil Josten. If you want to doubt that, do it at your own risk.”
“Easy, Andrew,” Aaron intervenes, dragging the bean bag nearer. He reluctantly turns to Neil, as if niceness was too hard of a thing to achieve, and lays out: “House rule: we don’t discuss labels here. If you want to do it, ask Andrew in three months and he will tell you why. For now, trust that we know what we’re doing. Alright, rookie?”
Neil grits his teeth. “Alright.”
“Good.” Aaron leans back. “Second thing: whatever issues you got with money, we will figure out. You are the first person to join this band that we are not related to by blood, and we want to keep you. We cannot do that if you’re busting your ass off for a minimum wage when we can easily adjust your share of the profit to fit your needs, and we have no plan of kicking you out if you try and not cause a lot of trouble.” He joins his hands behind his head. “Understood?”
Again, Neil grits out, “Yes.”
“That’s really the only requirement,” Nicky says, walking into the room out of nowhere and sitting on the other available bean bag. “Don’t get into trouble you can’t get yourself out of and don’t mention labels. Seems easy enough to follow.”
It is quiet for a moment. Neil agrees with Nicky, but there is too little trust in them yet — he could not risk homelessness again, no matter the cost to keep himself stable, and without the band he wouldn’t be able to keep up with his part of the rent. In the end, the decision was certain, but restrictive: to depend on The Monsters’ good graces was a recipe for disaster, and yet Neil found himself with no other choice but to trust a group of three — four with Kevin — practical strangers.
Four strangers who had gone out and invited him for their family dinner, though. One stranger that had offered him a guitar, for free, so Neil could remain a part of The Monsters. Another that was his friend — if he could even call Nicky that — for the simple sake of it. Another who took a dead look upon Neil at first meeting and decided, with no roundabouts, that he was good enough to be part of his band. Three strangers that had allowed Neil into their personal lives as well as just their band, taking as much of a risk in trusting Neil as Neil would take in trusting them. Four strangers who believed sincerely that Neil could be more than what he is.
He walks into the thought that maybe he should stop calling them strangers.
At last, he sighs and turns to Andrew. “Okay. I’ll quit my job.”
Nicky cheers right away, clapping out in excitement, and a small smile takes up Kevin’s face. It’s barely anything, that small, jubilous expression of his, but Neil liked it, somehow: it sat rightful in his features, fitting to them much more than the previous anger.
“But,” Neil starts, and the cheering subdues, “I want you to write out a document, or something, and sign it, so I can have something if you suddenly decide to throw me out.”
“You can’t throw a person out,” Kevin softly points out.
Neil ignores it. Andrew considers him for a moment, then relays: “Or something. Very well. You type it out and I sign it.”
“No, no,” he disagrees. “You all sign it. Kevin included. All witnesses have to sign it.”
Andrew looks at him, then, a final and stoic gaze. A statue came alive. “No,” he says, leaving no room for argument. “Aaron, Nicky and I will do it. You will leave Kevin out of this.”
Neil hesitates. “Why?”
“Kevin’s had enough legal problems for a lifetime,” Aaron replies, as vague as he is unfazed by their dispute as he checks his nails. Kevin huffs.
He supposes three people are enough for his case. “Fine,” Neil relents, softening his forehead at last. “I’ll take three signatures.”
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Aaron deadpans. He stretches his arms out, lazy like a cat, and prompts, “Anyone else wondering if Nicky burned the sauce yet?”
Nicky’s face falls. “Fuck."
“It’s not much,” Nicky murmurs a lifetime afterwards, showing Neil around his apartment, “but I guarantee it’s comfy.”
The rest of the dinner had gone well — so well, in fact, that it had been too late for Neil to take the bus back home, being personally invited to crash at Nicky’s and Aaron’s apartment instead. He didn’t trust Aaron, not yet, but Nicky had proven himself as well-meaning enough for Neil to not immediately reject the offer, the weight of the day’s exhaustion crashing upon him like high tides the second he’d dropped onto Nicky’s couch.
Neil isn’t expecting much more than this: years of couch surfing had given him enough intimacy with the idea of sleeping on a couch for it to not be troublesome, though he can admit it is more familiar than it is comforting. He props his ankles over the arm of the couch, socked toes looking back at him, and crosses his arms in the face of his exhaustion, eyes falling closed.
“Here, I got these from Andrew. They’re not much but they’re the best we have—” Nicky stops short, making Neil’s eyes shoot open on instinct. “Neil, no. You’re not sleeping until we get you some blankets and a pillow.”
From behind him, Kevin snorts. He’s holding two pillows as a compliment for the big, rolled out comforter Nicky has in his hands, the two of them standing in front of the couch with mismatching expressions. Nicky looked horrified, but Kevin seemed to find Neil amusing.
“It’s fine,” Neil says, sinking into the couch some more. “I’m fine.”
“No,” Nicky objects, simple and final. He unrolls the comforter with sly hands, throwing it over Neil rather ungracefully, and boasts out of the room with promises of a pillowcase.
Neil closes his eyes again, almost unminding the blanket, but this time it is not for long. He hears Kevin’s footsteps approaching the couch before he sees Kevin himself tucking the comforter across Neil’s shape, gentle hands making it so Neil is completely covered and well-tucked in, not a bit of skin prey to the Autumn cold. It is as unnerving of an act as it is odd, unexpected — the sudden kindness turned Neil inside out, eyes tightly shut in case he opened them and Kevin’s hands retreated.
“Lift your head a bit,” Kevin murmurs. There is a bit of an accent there, though it is nothing Neil’s known or heard before: as little of a talker as Kevin is, he realizes this is the first time he got to hear Kevin’s voice clearly, with no external interruptions or the polish of a first greeting.
He does as Kevin says, and hears a pillow being fluffed before it is slid under Neil’s head, more comfortable than what he has in his own apartment. Kevin doesn’t touch him — Neil has a feeling he wouldn’t —, but the kindness is still there; omnipresent and almost ceaseless, impersonal in a way that told more about Kevin than it told about Neil. “Your feet now, please,” Kevin asks again, and the accent is a bit more clear now; a mix of what Neil thinks is Irish with the strong consonants of a vaguely-formed Arabic accent.
Neil lifts both of his feet and Kevin places another pillow under his ankles, a smaller one this time. He takes a step back afterwards, moving away from the couch, and Neil felt something inside of him tear irreparably at the sudden severance, but maybe that had more to do with his own loneliness than with Kevin.
“I’ll tell Nicky not to bother you any further,” Kevin announces at last, voice low. The silence that follows makes Neil think that Kevin finally left, but then he quietly prompts, “Neil.”
And there is something about his voice that makes Neil open his eyes to stare up at him, though he later realizes it is familiarity, as if Kevin was an apparition Neil has been haunted by before. His face is not near enough for Neil to consider why, and yet the feeling remains as Kevin says, “Don’t hate Andrew too much. He means better than he lets on.”
“Quite of a way to let on,” Neil replies.
Kevin’s response is a small, dry chuckle. For some reason, Neil wanted to make him laugh again. “Yes,” he agrees, “but he doesn’t want you to be miserable. Your job made you miserable.”
“All jobs do. That’s why they’re jobs.”
Again, a small huff. “I know,” Kevin hums, deep and tender. He takes a seat by Neil’s ankles, careful not to touch him as he leans against the arm of the couch. “I’m a part-time librarian. The other half of my time is dedicated to being a substitute teacher at a daycare. If you want another job, I can ask around.”
Neil stills. “I thought your boyfriend didn’t want me to have a day job.”
“My boyfriend doesn’t want you to be miserable and exhausted at the end of the day,” Kevin argues, fierce in his protectiveness for Andrew. It was quite touching. “You have got to admit there are worse motivations to have.”
There is a small pause in conversation as Neil digests the new information, but it is just long enough for him to finally ask, “Why are you doing this?”
To his surprise, Kevin shrugs. “It’s not in my best interest for people like me to suffer more than need be.”
“People like you,” Neil echoes.
“Like us,” Kevin corrects. “There is a them, so there must be an us, don’t you think so?”
Neil purses his lips. “I’ve been by myself my entire life.”
“So have I,” he replies. “Doesn’t that make us birds of a feather?”
He can’t find a reason to disagree. Sometimes that is the closest to another human being Neil can get.
“I’m tired,” Neil says, and he feels like a child all over again — whiny and infantile, as small as his world is. “I want to sleep.”
Kevin runs a hand through his own hair, long strands falling over his face now that the braids had been taken off. “Don’t let me stop you,” he hums, stepping away from the couch once more. “Goodnight, Neil.”
Neil doesn’t answer, but he’s not sure if Kevin was expecting him to — he leaves sooner than Neil can close his eyes again, but lingers even if he doesn’t mean to, a familiar pull to something Neil can’t touch; can’t have. It has been years since the last time Neil had the time to think of something as adolescent as the thought of an us, and yet Kevin had said it freely, as if it was the opposite of a lie. There is a them, so there must be an us, don’t you think so?
It had been too long, too, since Neil last felt that pull of attraction for anyone else. He thinks he might be coming down with something again, but the feeling is still too blurry; too hard to achieve. He doesn’t get to have this.
Neil falls asleep safe, lulled by what threads but doesn’t tear.