Chapter Text
Andrew doesn’t even know how he’d found that bar, in the end.
It’s not his style at all, he hasn’t even heard music like this since—
It doesn’t matter.
Indie music is blasting from the speakers and flannel jackets line the seats, but he figures alcohol is alcohol no matter where you get it. And he’s been in desperate need ever since Eden’s closed for renovations.
So there he sits—wildly out of place in his all-black alt attire—nursing a double shot of Johnnie Walker and trying to tune out the god-awful banjo folk music and conversations that echo throughout the bar. Only once in his life had he wanted to know the lyrics to this music, and there would not be a second.
It’s not until the music cuts off that he realizes there’s someone on the small stage in the corner. He’d barely paid attention to it when he walked in, just glad he wouldn’t have to endure live music on top of it all. The sudden silence had made him look up, though, to see who had finally spared his eardrums. Instead, he finds a man sitting on the previously vacant stool, settling his guitar over his leg and adjusting the microphone. It seems he’ll have to suffer after all.
Once the man’s face comes into the spotlight, Andrew stares, unable to look away. There’s something about him that Andrew can’t quite place, but with his memory it’s not abnormal for him to feel that way. The man doesn't even look up or introduce himself as he tunes his guitar. Andrew is already turning back to his forgotten drink, but then he starts playing and,
Oh.
Andrew’s eyes dart back to the lone figure, his body curled over the guitar as he plays. The auburn hair doesn't match nor do the scars lining his face, and he can't see his eyes from the bar, but Andrew knows this song. Knows that voice. He’d know this song until the day he died, cursed memory or not. He'd been there when it was written.
Andrew had been sitting in his usual spot under the bleachers one lunch when he’d first heard the careful chords filtering out of what was supposed to be an empty classroom. Normally he wouldn’t care—it was probably just some dedicated band kid getting in extra hours. But the more he listened, the more he enjoyed the melody. It was choppily played, like they were out of practice, but it was exactly Andrew’s taste.
So there he found himself, climbing the stairs and waiting to hear the now-familiar guitar again so he could search out the room.
He found himself at the end of the hall watching a boy he’d never seen before through the window. His brow was furrowed as he played, hands fast as he changed chords and fingers unsure as he strummed the choppy melody. His brown hair shone in the afternoon sun. In a moment of weakness he’d evaluate later, Andrew pushed the door open.
“Are you new here?”
The boy startled badly, eyes flying up to the doorway and a horrible sound filling the room as his hands faltered on the guitar.
Before he could comprehend what he was about to say, Andrew was speaking again. “You know there’s a better place to play, out under the bleachers. No one goes out there during lunch and the acoustics are great.”
“And what would you know about acoustics?”
Andrew huffed. “Why don’t you come and find out?”
The boy shrugged and lifted the leather strap from his neck, standing to presumably follow Andrew.
“I’m Andrew by the way,” he said as he turned to lead the boy out of the classroom.
“You can call me Neil.”
After that Andrew met him every day, soon unable to remember when stilted words had turned into their easy conversations. Into truths traded between them under the bleachers. He told himself he was only refusing to give up his lunch spot each time he returned, but by the end of the week he gave up lying to himself.
Neil told him he was too busy to meet up after school. He also didn’t have a phone, so Andrew settled with those 45 minutes of lunch and short conversations in the halls and didn’t let himself think about why he wanted to spend so much time with him.
Weeks later when he worked up the courage to ask “Yes or no?”, Neil was already leaning in. The next day he opened his locker to a sticky note stuck to his backpack.
Meet me after school in our spot.
The feeling in his chest as he read our spot was too foreign to name. Instead, he focused on the note, placing it in his English folder to deal with later.
That note was the first of many, placed in his locker and somehow on his desk, even stuck to his second-story window one morning. It seemed Neil had worked out how to communicate without a phone.
Sometimes they went out for ice cream or just for a drive, but mostly they spent their time curled on Andrew’s couch or in his bed, dozing to whatever movie Andrew had chosen that day.
Andrew didn’t think he’d ever been this happy.
Until one afternoon when he had woken up alone, a note stuck to the arm of the couch.
Forgot mom wanted me home early. Sorry I had to leave without saying goodbye. I’ll see you soon.
-Neil
p.s. Thank you. You were amazing.
Andrew waited by his locker until the warning bell the next day. Sat in silence under the bleachers, turning at each noise hoping it was a footstep. He read and reread the note.
"You were amazing."played on a loop in his head.
At the end of the next day, he went to the front office.
"Neil? He was unenrolled a few days ago, something about a sudden job opportunity for his dad."
Andrew never saw him again.
Andrew watches Neil as he plays. Sees it now, in the deep way he strums, hears the years behind the lyrics. Knows the look on his face—in his eyes—without needing to see it himself. Wonders how he didn’t recognize him before.
By the time the song is over, Andrew hasn’t moved, his eyes still locked onto Neil’s figure. He stays rooted to his seat and contemplates if he should bolt out the door or make his way to the stage. He wonders if Neil would even want to see him.
Finally, Neil’s eyes open and he looks out across the crowd and opens his mouth to address them. That is, until icy blue eyes lock with Andrew's, widening as they hold each other's gaze for a fleeting moment before he's tearing off the stage and out the back door. Andrew is out of his chair in seconds, his feet carrying him through the crowd and backstage before his mind can catch up. He watches Neil tear through the backdoor, as fast as he had ever been.
By the time Andrew catches up, he’s long gone. It seems he got his answer.