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The nightmare doesn’t end when Neil realizes he’s dreaming. It doesn’t end when Andrew’s body goes still. Neil is trapped in it, lost in it, as it morphs to accommodate the variety of horrors lodged in his memory.
It doesn’t end when he realizes he’s dreaming, and that’s the only new thing in all of this. It’s the worst thing. When he’s finally released, gasping and clawing his way to consciousness, this is the bit that sticks with him. It burns through his nervous system, the need to go, get out, escape. He puts a hoodie and his running shoes on, just for the salve of the option, but doesn’t stray further than the living room. His hands are shaking when he sits on Andrew’s desk next to the open window — he tries to light his cigarette once, twice, before warm palms cover his fingers.
Andrew holds his hands in place for a moment, quietly studying Neil’s face. There are lines pressed into Andrew’s cheek from his pillow. His hair is sticking up on one side, and his eyelids are heavy. Neil is angry at himself for interrupting his sleep.
Satisfied with whatever he sees in Neil’s expression, Andrew takes the cigarette and lighter. He sticks the lit cigarette between his own lips and inhales, holding it toward Neil’s face between drags so he can breathe in the secondhand smoke.
Neil stares out at the dimly lit path down the hill to Perimeter Road, arms wrapped around his legs, chin resting on his knees. He takes deep, even breaths, listens for the solid sound of Andrew’s occasional exhale, watches the cloud of smoke that follows as it dances and dissipates, waits for the dread clutching his muscles to loosen its grip.
It doesn’t work. Eventually, Andrew gets tired of waiting.
“Talk.”
Neil shrugs, and he sees Andrew shake his head in his peripheral.
“Bad dream.”
“Not unusual,” Andrew says. “Why can’t you move on from this one?”
“I will,” Neil murmurs, closing his eyes and tucking his forehead against his knees. “Go back to bed, I’ll come soon.”
Andrew doesn’t move. Minutes pass. Deep breaths. Exhale. The heady smell of burning ash.
“Neil.”
The name draws a shudder out of Neil’s spine, makes his fingers curl to fists.
“Neil,” Andrew says again, this time a command. Neil finally looks up at him.
“You were dead.”
“Okay,” Andrew says, expression calm as ever. “Did I at least get an interesting ending?”
Neil’s breath slices its way out of his throat as he looks away. The dark sky is tinged lilac on the horizon.
“Neil,” Andrew says, voice low with warning.
“It was me.” With effort, Neil meets Andrew’s gaze again. He reaches out with one hand, hovering his fingers over Andrew’s face. He can see the ghost of the burns he’d put, here, on Andrew’s temple — the slashes he’d made, here, on Andrew’s cheek.
The gash he’d left, here, across Andrew’s throat.
The imaginary weight of the cleaver in Neil’s hand is heavy enough to make his hand drop. Andrew catches it.
“Boring and uncreative,” he murmurs. Neil keeps his eyes on Andrew’s face, on the clean, unscarred skin there. No, not totally clean — there’s a small line of paler skin under Andrew’s left eye, a faint patch of acne scarring to the right of his chin. His narrow nose is ever-so-slightly bent to the left. All signs of things Andrew has survived, things Neil had no hand in.
The cigarette burns down to the filter. Andrew finally looks away from Neil to crush it in the ashtray. When Andrew pulls the window closed, Neil catches sight of his reflection. He flinches, but Andrew grabs his chin before Neil can look away, forcing him to meet his own eyes in the glass.
“This is your face,” Andrew snarls. His other hand comes up to trace the lines of scars on Neil’s cheek with a lightness that contrasts his tone and iron grip on Neil’s jaw. Andrew holds him there a bit longer before turning Neil’s face toward his own. “Do you understand?”
“It’s not that simple,” Neil whispers. Andrew lifts his thumb to Neil’s lower lip, pressing it so hard against Neil’s teeth that he thinks it might draw blood.
“Simplify it,” he says. Andrew leans forward, waiting for Neil’s small nod before he replaces his thumb with his mouth. Like this, it is simpler — only Neil’s tongue could move with Andrew’s like this. Only Neil’s nose could press into Andrew’s cheek like this. Only Neil’s hair would curl around Andrew’s fingers like this.
Andrew pulls away before the kiss turns to more. He slides off the desk, holding a hand out. Neil hesitates, eyes on the bedroom door, go, get out, escape. Andrew sighs. He turns to grab a few blankets folded up next to the entertainment center.
“You should go back to bed,” Neil says.
Andrew ignores him, shaking out the blankets and tossing them toward the beanbags. He turns on the TV, puts the volume almost all the way down, and crouches in front of the DVD collection. His fingers trail along the spines for a moment before he pulls a case from the shelf. The player swallows the disc and Andrew turns out the lights. Tinged blue in the shadows, he comes to stand in front of Neil again, hand extended in demand.
Neil finally uncurls, joints sighing in relief. He lets Andrew pull him to a beanbag and rests his head against Andrew’s chest. Andrew keeps an arm around Neil’s waist as the movie begins to play.
“Is the main character really a rat?” he asks after a few minutes. Andrew pinches his side.
“It’s Ratatouille.”
“His name is Ratatouille?”
“His name is Remy. Shut up and watch.”
Neil shuts up. He lets the soothing French music and the rise and fall of Andrew’s chest settle his fried nerves. Andrew’s fingers walk up the back of his skull, rubbing a steady pattern into his skin until Neil falls asleep. This time, he doesn’t dream.