Chapter Text
neil was late.
that, in itself, was nothing new, andrew supposed. the junkie had an amazing proclivity for being late to literally everything of minor consequence, and awfully early to everything of major importance. if it were any other day, andrew convinced himself, he would not care. he would just roll over and go back to sleep, or play with the cats and ignore neil out of spite for half an hour when he finally came back from his stupid, abysmal, unnecessary morning runs.
but that morning was different. he had woken up gasping, tangled in the soft knitted blanket renee had gifted him over two years ago, body drenched with sweat and hands shaking as he fisted them into his hair and curled over, wheezing. that morning, the sensation of fresh sheets underneath his skin had only set him off, had only taken him back to late nights spent desperately scrubbing out blood from identical white sheets. that morning, the sight of the tattooed scars on his arms only opened the barrage to a cascade of vivid, knife-sharp memories.
when he closed his eyes, he saw neil. prone, motionless, obscured by a familiar, tattooed back—one whose very memory made andrew lean over the side of the bed and vomit until his stomach cramped.
when he closed his eyes, he saw neil. eyes wide open, unseeing, dead in all ways except the one that truly mattered. numb, as andrew had been a thousand times before him, resigned to the utter agony, utter violation. his arms littered with scabbing scars that were pressed into mercilessly, bit into with sharp teeth, no—
andrew threw up again, until there was nothing left for his stomach to hurl. he was shivering so hard his teeth chattered. and when he managed to move himself enough to glance at the clock on their bedside table, terror filled up his lungs like lead.
it was half past nine.
neil should have been home an hour ago.
fear wiped andrew’s mind blank of all thought except his lover’s name. moved his limbs, stiff as a machine’s, off the bed and into the living room where he had left his phone the previous night.
the only sound that greeted him was the blank, monotone voice of an automated voice message, informing him that the rabbit’s phone was dead as always.
andrew could not breathe in enough air for his bottomless lungs. he dialled again. again. again. his fingers went numb, freezing up, and the phone thumped onto the carpet. it was with sheer force of will that he managed to move back into the bedroom, open the closet and neil’s safe.
everything was there, including the precious binder full of cash and the three passports neil had not handed over to the fbi.
for a single, blessed moment, the panic faded, and andrew sighed. he leaned his head against the cool metal of the safe and exhaled deeply, relief spreading through his veins like molasses.
and then he remembered binghamton. the dull despair in blue eyes made hollow with terror; the whispered caress of a final goodbye. the sight of the burn marks lining his lover’s arms, his fingers, his cheek.
andrew’s knees gave out. wheezing, he crumpled to the floor, struggling to drag air into his dying lungs. each breath was shorter than the last, his head spinning from the sheer lack of oxygen that reached it. his muscles were cramping, ears ringing with terror.
it had been years. years of watching neil turn his back over and over and biting back the urge to beg him to stay. years of bracing himself for the next disaster, the moment when he would lose that which was too good enough to ever last. years of struggling with the terror, the insecurity that plagued him. years of reliving every second of losing neil in the riots, the dreaded hours that had followed afterwards.
most of all, and most importantly, it had been years of living with the hard lessons a childhood spend in the system had taught him. nothing good never lasted, and little nobody boys like him could never receive anything but the worst of agonies. to want was to sign your own death warrant. to love was to hand over your heart on a platter. to trust was to offer a gun hilt-first with the nozzle pressing into your heart.
and no matter what, no matter when, no matter how—he would never be enough. nothing about him would ever be enough. he would only ever be of little consequence, little worth. nothing to cherish, certainly nothing to love.
and nothing about him would ever be enough to make another stay.
andrew didn’t realise he was crying until the sobs made his chest seize up, pain burning its way down his throat. he wept bitterly, with all the grief that only a lifetime of neglect and abandonment could bring; all the terror that only the most desperate love could ever induce. he curled his hands over his weeping, bleeding, shattering heart, and tried to hold the remains together. tried to be enough for his mind to survive. tried to be the protector the child in his mind needed, that the child of his past had desired.
but of course, it was never enough. nothing about him was ever enough. of course he could never protect neil. of course he could never keep neil. of course neil would tire of him, of course he would be exhausted with the desperate ways in which andrew tried to heave his heart up his throat. he had been a wanton fool, a desperate man hungry for touch, hungry for affection. it would only follow that he would never get all that he deserved.
when had he ever? when had broken, pitiful boys like him ever gotten what they wanted? no. there was nothing for him. nothing but the most abject, the most pitiful of miseries.
it was what he deserved. it was what he would ever deserve.