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People didn’t get it, Andrew thought to himself. It had nothing to do with fucking pain. It had nothing to do with being sad. It had nothing to do with seeing red rivers flow across his skin, a reminder that he was still breathing. It had nothing to do with empty promises or tear-stained cheeks under angsty music. It was about slowing his thoughts down to a speed he could actually breathe in, releasing all his pent-up energy through a couple of well-placed slices. It was about pushing down just a little bit to feel the gasp he let out as skin split beneath his fingers.
It was about closing his eyes and pulling, slowly, because the blood actually made him a little bit nauseous to look at.
It was about the fact that his thoughts had been racing so quickly that he didn't even know how he got here. One second he was sitting in his bed, wrapped in last night's clothes, with an unending stream of words floating through his mind. The next, his hand was wrapped around his favorite knife, and his armbands pulled off, his skin disinfected.
People always thought about the scars, Andrew thought to himself. What a fucking attention whore, spit at him under breaths, over traffic, behind closed doors. They didn't think about how many times Andrew had pushed down in places people would never see, tops of thighs, sides of hips, soft skin of bellies. How many times he’d drawn blood, but not scraped deep enough to leave a mark. They didn’t think about how his stretches were a little bit stiffer today because his shirt was rubbing at his stupid healing scabs and he didn’t want them to notice.
He was methodical about it. There were no hysterical sobs as razorblades sunk into soft connective tissue. No. This was about slowing down. This was numb apathy with nothing left to give. This was wiping down blades, and rubbing circles, outwards, alcohol wipes piling up in the trashcan, because nothing gives you away faster than a stupid infection.
People always think you just want to kill yourselves. And he did want to, he thought. But, he didn’t want to die. That was childish. Death was not an answer, he knew that. But he did want everything to stop . And what more permanent a pause than simply, not waking up in the morning? But this was not about that. This was unrelated. Self-harm. Cutting. All stupid names for a stupid coping skill that didn't really serve him anymore. But still, here he was, four years clean ruining it all for something so fucking stupid .
It never really helped, he thought. It calmed him down for an hour, a day maybe. But it was addicting. The rush, the crash, the wind-up. Everything about it was intoxicating.
Andrew was fucked up, he knew that. For once in his life, he finally had things to hold onto and yet, still, he was tearing himself to shreds to be able to make it through the day. Like he was a fucking teenager again. Shouldn't he have grown out of this by now? Got some real self-destruction like an actual adult and developed a drug problem, maybe gamble away some life savings. Hmm. He’d already gone down that road before, years on uppers, and one shiny life insurance policy sitting in the parking lot.
Guess he’d sped run being a waste of fucking oxygen. Maybe he should kill himself? Finish off his bingo card. Go for a blackout.
But not tonight. No. Tonight he would scrape a few more lines. He’d take deep breaths as he did it, feeling more centered with every press. And he would wash off his blade, letting the evidence of his actions run down the drain, taking his overwhelming thoughts with them. And he’d clean up the cuts, tending to them as if he didn't just spend every ounce of his focus creating them. He had nice neat little rows for a reason.
And then he’d bandage them up, tight rows of gauze and tape circling his skin. And he’d pull his armbands back on, the friction of the fabric pulling at the wounds and making him hiss. And he’d smoke a cigarette, make himself smell like nightmares, not a hospital room before falling back into his bed.
Or at least, that was the plan. He didn’t account for Neil Josten. He never did. Even now.
“Drew?”
He heard Neil through the door. His voice muffled with sleep and through wood. Andrew froze. His arm was bleeding. And his hand was still holding his knife with laserlike focus. And he wasn’t done .
“You ‘kay?”
Andrew's heart sped up. This wasn’t how things were supposed to play out. Andrew was supposed to do this, for himself, by himself. And then he was supposed to pretend that he didn't and go back to bed. Neil wasn't supposed to care enough to get up, to notice.
“Can I come in?”
No . That was the first thought in Andrew's head. In no universe would Neil find out what Andrew was doing. This was his shit to deal with. And he would. Deal with it, that is. Or he’d kill himself. Either way, Neil was not supposed to know.
“Andrew?”
This time Neil's voice was stronger. The last of his sleepiness fell off the vowels. Andrew squeezed his eyes shut. The bright fluorescing of the bathroom's overhead lighting was making him dizzy. Or maybe that was the blood. It didn’t matter. He felt like he was spinning out of his body. His brain was about five seconds from pulling the ripcord and causing him to fully dissociate.
“I’m going to come in unless you say no Andrew.”
Andrew's eyes squeezed tighter. And so did his hands. The hilt of the knife dug into his palm, heavy, uncrushable, warmed with his skin.
But he couldn’t say no anymore. Neil knew. He didn’t know what he knew, but he was well aware now that something was wrong. And that was almost worse. The not knowing. Allowing Neil to create his own nightmarish fantasy would lead to questions. Would lead to theories. Would lead to sideways glances and soft prodding to just call Bee, you know she’ll make you an extra appointment .
So he let Neil come in.
Andrew kept his eyes closed as he heard the soft click of the door opening. He’d locked it, but that didn't mean anything to a dorm full of criminals. It was easy enough to pop if you knew what you were doing.
“Oh.”
Purples and blues swirled against the tightly shut skin of his eyelids, his brain creating a light-show illusion of shadow and colors.
The door clicked closed again. Andrew heard the lock fall into place, engaged once again. He heard as Neil shuffled closer, and as his body hit the ground next to him, probably sitting cross-legged.
“Drew?”
“Hm?”
“Open your eyes? Yes or no?”
The lack of syrupy sweet concern or pity forced Andrew to comply. He didn’t want to look at Neil. But he needed to see his face. Needed to see if it was twisting in disgust, or crumbling with hatred, or blinking out with emptiness.
He enjoyed one more second in the safety of his body and opened his eyes.
Just as he predicted, Neil was sitting on the floor next to him, criss-cross applesauce. He was wearing the clothes he’d fallen asleep in, with the addition of an oversized hoodie thrown on top, his .
Andrew traced his features with his eyes, the slope of his nose, to the curve of his jaw to the crease of his mouth.
All of it was written in soft concern. In understanding. In the same things they always were when Neil looked at Andrew. Neil wasn't flinching. He wasn't calling Bee with 911 on the other line. He wasn't running away. He was just there, present like he always was.
Neil allowed the silence to sit for another few moments, likely cataloging every inch of Andrew's expression.
“Whatcha doin ‘Drew?” he asked, his head tilting to the side. Andrew wanted to laugh. It was pretty fucking clear what he was doing.
“Practicing.”
Neil frowned, the corners of his mouth tugging down the slightest bit.
“What for?”
Neil really wasn't going to let this go, was he? No. He had to drag out more of Andrew's secrets, pry them from beneath his skin as he literally bled onto the tile between them. A sigh wracked Andrew's body.
“Can we not do this Neil?” Neil watched him. Andrew didn’t move. Barely breathed.
“Andrew.”
“Neil.”
“Let's bandage those up. Then go back to bed?”
Andrew sighed again. All of the hyperactive energy that had made this feel necessary in the first place was flooding out of him, leaving him empty and tired.
“Fine.”
He allowed Neil to take the knife from his hand and watched as he rinsed it mechanically like he was doing the dishes. And he watched as he dried it carefully, and handed it back.
Andrew took it back gratefully, if not very confused by it. Neil had just watched what he’d done and he was giving it back? His hesitation must've been obvious as Neil looked at him, perceptive.
“Are you going to kill yourself in the next 24 hours?”
“No.”
“But it will help you sleep, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can have it back,” he paused. “I’m not okay with you hurting Andrew, but this will heal, so if it means you'll wake up tomorrow? Then I guess I don’t really have the power to stop you, do I?”
Andrew thought about that. No one had ever let him choose before. Nicky had cried and cried and cried the first time he’d found out back when he was still Andrews guardian. Andrew was good at hiding it, but back then he'd been far from perfect, and it only took one second for the veil to slip.
Abby had nearly overflowed with maternal pity during his first full-body check-in. But he'd been drugged to the high heavens at the time and has mostly found it funny. Sick humor wrenched itself from his lungs as he laughed.
And Wymack. He’d had another interesting reaction. He hadn’t gone so far as to literally hand Andrew a knife back as Neil had, but he’d had a blanket understanding and tolerance for Andrew's antics that still confused him. He mostly tried not to think about it.
But here was Neil, giving him a choice. Always asking . And Andrew knew it wasn't okay. Knew it wasn't sustainable. Knew it wasn't going to change anything. But the vice grip of fear that he'd have to stop bled away.
“Bandages?” Neil asked softly, interrupting his train of thought.
“Yes.”
Andrew watched as Neil disinfected and wrapped the cuts with a clinical detachment that made Andrew's blood slow down a little further. That soothed the nitrogen rushing in his ears, and bubbling in his lungs. He treated it like any other blood-stained midnight they'd shared before, exy bruises and sparring lacerations. Just another session of patching one another up. And Andrew could breathe .
Once Neil was satisfied with his wrap job, he removed his hands, careful not to touch Andrew at all when unnecessary, and set about cleaning the space. He threw away wrappers, and wiped off small drops of blood from the tile, rubbing it off the graying grout.
Andrew watched silently. Normally this was his job. Was part of the routine. He could feel phantom sensations tugging at the newly covered slices. Could imagine exactly how they would pull and fester at each movement.
But he couldn’t feel it. Not really. Because Neil was here , and he was helping , and he wasn't asking Andrew why he'd done it. He was just putting things back where they belonged.
With the last drop wiped up and the last bandage set back in its box, Neil stood.
“Bed?”
Andrew creaked as he stood slowly. Everything in him still felt tight, but the crash was really starting to hit him.
“Yeah.”
Neil led the way. Pushing the bathroom door open, letting light spill into the dark hallway. It felt like another world. A place untouched, not yet tainted by Andrew and the poison within him. Andrew took a deep breath before stepping out.
Neil was never more than a step ahead of him, walking slowly yet purposefully to their empty room. Kevin was at Wymacks for some good old father-son bonding so the space was all theirs. Maybe that was where Andrew went wrong. Without Kevin to act as an obnoxious buffer Neil had only one thing to focus on, him.
They entered the bedroom, Neil moved to slip into bed automatically. Andrew took a moment, slipping off his now dirty joggers and shirt to replace them with a set of clean ones. He pulled out a clean pair of armbands as well, slipping them over his forearms before shuffling over to the bed. Neil was in his own bunk, but his eyes were open, watching Andrew.
Andrew watched right back, their eyes locked on one another in the dark. Andrew took stock of his body. Searched for the rapid boil of anxiety that had been overflowing earlier. Checked on his breath, wondering whether it was a hurricane fighting to leave his body or if it was an afternoon breeze. Felt how his skin, torn to pieces, was pulling as he stood.
“Share?” he asked quietly. He didn't feel good. But Neil had seen, and he hadn't run, and Andrew could really fucking use his calm presence right now. Someone needed to be able to handle how broken he was, and clearly, it wasn't going to be him tonight.
“Okay.”
Andrew laid down, pressed his back to the wall, and breathed out as Neil's body sunk into the mattress. This was familiar, this was safe, this was correct.
Andrew wasn't okay. Was far from it. But just for tonight, he could breathe. Tomorrow he would call Bee. And they'd make an extra appointment. And maybe Andrew would do it again. Maybe he wouldn't. But he would work on it. And he’d beat his record of four years clean someday. Or at least he’d try. And he'd be okay. He’d never be fixed, not really, not all the way. But he would be okay.
Neil would keep opening the door. And asking. And standing unflinching. And he would keep helping Andrew pick up the pieces. Andrew's arms would heal, the new lines fading to blend in with all the others, a thousand seconds of feeling too much on the quest to feel nothing at all.
And Andrew would be okay.
He breathed out into the night care and pressed a soft kiss to the back of Neil's neck where it pressed up against him.
“Thank you,” he whispered, but Neil was already asleep.