Archive of Our Own ^beta

Andrew casually flicks the ash from his cigarette before taking another drag, but the smoke does nothing to settle him. It's hot as fuck. It feels like breathing in exhaust.

He's standing outside Fox Tower, watching Wymack and Kevin fuss with the bungee cords that criss-cross over a pile of their stuff in the bed of his truck so it doesn't fall out on the way to Columbia. It's whatever wouldn't fit in the Maserati; the beanbag chairs, boxes of Nicky's extensive movie collection, all of Kevin's shoes and Andrew's clothes, Aaron's books (What can he say? His group is materialistic --all except one, that is.)

Nicky's flight was early in the morning so he's already gone, as well as all of the upperclassmen. The parking lot is thinning out as all of the students follow suit. The RA for their floor --some football douche-- has been attempting to rush them out, and kept complaining about how Andrew's dorm room smells like cigarettes, but Wymack stepped in before Andrew could gut him and the guy has wisely left them alone since. 

They probably could've been gone a few hours ago. Everyone had been packed by the end of the week, except Neil. He'd severely underestimated the amount of stuff he has and the amount of time he would need to pack. He helped the others, but not himself. Andrew isn't his mother so he didn't nag him about it when he saved packing for the night before, but he didn't hide his annoyance either. Neither did the others; Kevin gave him a ten minute lecture about time management and the best way to fold clothes for maximum efficiency, and Aaron rolled his eyes and complained loudly about the delay.

The process of it was almost too hard to watch; watching Neil scramble for boxes to stuff his things in, trying to organize it, clearly getting overwhelmed when he saw the amount of things, procrastinating, staring into space, getting a far away look on his face. Andrew had eventually given up on him and let him do his own thing while the rest of them all continued to haul their shit down stairs.

Across the parking lot, Wymack finally gives up and lets Kevin adjust the bungee cords by himself, waving him off. Kevin adjusts the cord by a fraction, doing whatever calculations in his head with the same burning intensity he gives exy. 

Wymack turns to the Maserati. "Minyard."

Andrew looks at him from where he leans against the driver's side. Aaron sticks his head out of the open back door. 

Wymack grunts and points at Andrew. "That one." 

Aaron rolls his eyes, and ducks back inside the car.

Wymack hooks his thumb over his shoulder toward the dormitory. "Go and make sure that idiot isn't trying to find the best way to fling himself off the roof, will you?"

Andrew raises an eyebrow. 

Wymack just looks at him. Andrew crushes his unwanted cigarette under his boot and pushes off of the car. 

"Tell him to hurry the fuck up and finish having his panic attack already," Aaron calls after him. "Some of us want to leave sometime this century."

Andrew ignores him. He's feeling irritable because he's supposed to be picked up by Katelyn later and doesn't want to be late. 

"Let me know if you need back up," Wymack says as he goes past. Andrew waves him away. 

He takes the elevator. He's gone up and down the stairs more than enough times that day, and Kevin's not there to give him shit about the state of his lungs. When he gets off, he briefly considers checking the roof first, Wymack's words bouncing around in his head, but he goes to their room instead. 

There is something about the empty suite that feels weird. A liminal space; something transient about it, impermanent. Andrew has existed in a lot of places exactly like this, he should feel right at home. Places he can't actually make any kind of mark on, places that transform back to their original states the moment he turns his back --a thumb pressed into soft dough, bouncing back the moment he moves away.

He finds Neil in the kitchen, duffle slung over his shoulder, reaching on his tiptoes to run his hand along the bottom shelf of a cupboard. Andrew leans against the doorframe, watching him. He knows Neil knows he's there by the way his body shifts towards him, reorienting itself automatically, which is annoying. He doesn't say anything, so Andrew breaks the silence as Neil moves on to the next cabinet.

"Did you hide another half a million dollars in a forgotten cereal box?"

Neil doesn't look up. "Just making sure we didn't leave anything behind," he mutters. His shirt gapes as he reaches, exposing a thin stretch of golden skin on his hip. 

If it wasn't a little amusing to watch Neil try as hard as he can to fight against his genetics and reach the top shelf, tongue poking out between his lips in concentration; if it wasn't for the far away look lingering in his eyes, Andrew might've walked up and ran his finger across that silver. Might've slid his palm farther up if Neil let him, back him up against the counter and kiss him until the tension bled from his shoulders. 

Andrew doesn't move from the doorframe.

When Neil finishes with the topmost shelves, he crouches down and starts at the bottom cabinets. What could they have possibly left down there? One of Kevin's cardboard protein bars? A ball of lint? 

Neil's movements are quick, efficient, almost like he's moving on autopilot --he is. Andrew knows exactly what he's doing. 

He walks over, and grabs the open cabinet door. "Neil."

Neil doesn't look up. Andrew closes the door. Neil barely pulls back in time to avoid getting his fingers smashed. He looks up then, blinking like he's coming out of a haze. His eyes are duller than usual, almost gray in the dim light, and his stare is empty. 

Andrew reaches down and grabs his chin. The blankness shifts. 

"We're coming back," Andrew says. "You are coming back."

He waits a moment to let the words sink in. A moment goes by, then Neil lets out a shaky breath. Andrew lets go and steps back, sticks his hands in his pockets. He jerks his head toward the front door. "Let's go." 

He turns, not waiting. He hears Neil move to follow him, his steps right behind him as they leave the dorm room. Andrew only pauses to look back in the hallway when he hears the lock slide home on the suite. 

Neil is clutching the key in his palm. He looks up and meets Andrew's eye. He nods, and they walk down the stairs to the parking lot together.

Andrew is sitting in Bee's home office. 

Most of her patients that need continued therapy after the semester has ended either transfer to phone calls or video calls, or they might come here if need be. Andrew had come last summer since he always stays in town and has nothing else to do. Since it's another boring summer, Andrew has found himself here, in Bee's home office, once again.

The walls here are a pale yellow instead of standard-issue tan. There's the warm scent of candles versus the aromatherapy humidifier she has in her real office. The furniture is arranged all wrong; her fluffy patterned armchair and a suede couch sitting in the wrong corner, next to a funky lamp with tassels that reminds Andrew of a certain type of dog for some reason.

He doesn't like dogs.

Her figurines are not there, her bookshelf is stuffed with different book titles than the ones he's memorized, and the space is smaller, more crowded and cluttered and stuffy, though still nice and neat. The only thing that isn't different is that Bee has the hot chocolate ready when he gets there, and her noise machine is going --a low sort of white noise that cancels out the sound of the air conditioner, the other people in the apartments, dogs barking. It's soothing. 

Andrew doesn't like that he's being soothed. 

Some days, Andrew wakes up sideways, like everything in his mind has been shifted a bit to the left. The light slants in through the windows in the wrong shade, casting elongated shapes across the walls. 

Today, he woke up in the guest room of Abby's house. He'd been there before, had been staying there for almost a week and a half, but he still wasn't used to the feel of the too-soft sheets wrapped around his ankles, the blue hue of the walls, the stillness of house with it's unfamiliar cracking joints and rumblings, and random sound of suburban life outside --car doors slamming, birds chirping, kids yelling, the distant trill of an ice cream truck. And then there was the foul taste of nightmares lingering in his mouth, sweat dried to his skin, making his shirt stick to him in the airless room.

He stared up at the not-moving ceiling fan (he can't sleep with it on, it squeaks) and knew that it would be a difficult day; one where words got stuck behind his teeth and grew sharper and sharper until swallowing them down felt like choking on glass. A day where he floated around -- just a head, no body, like a specter haunting his own life. 

And now he's in Bee's home office, not the Reddin one, and the furniture is all wrong and her figurines are gone, and that's just another slanted slat of light on the wrong wall.

Once the pleasantries are out of the way and they're both seated with their hot chocolate even though it's over a hundred degrees outside, Bee starts the session as she always does, by asking him if he feels safe. 

He thinks about it. His brain still feels like the sticky surface of a bug trap, every thought struggling to pull free. Bee waits patiently. 

Eventually, he says, "No." 

Bee doesn't blink. "Would you like to run through some exercises that would help?"

The exercises are supposed to help him relax, put him inside his own body, make him aware of where he is and that his body is a solid thing. It's all mindfulness and meditation that she's been teaching him for the past couple of years. The routine of it does settle him --a bit. 

Afterward, Bee asks again and he thinks on it again. Thinking is still like trying to drag a dog down the street when there's a mailman on the other sidewalk. But he does feel more in control, more active instead of being dragged along so this time, he says yes. 

She doesn't ask about it, but that's because she doesn't have to guess. Bee cuts right to the chase. "How did moving out of the dorm go?" she asks, shifting to a more comfortable position in her armchair. "Everyone has split up for the summer this time, yes? Nicky and Aaron are already gone?" 

Bee already knows the answers to these questions. She also knows that Andrew's relationship with the two of them is complicated, especially after their joint sessions with Aaron, and so her questions are really just a probe to a deeper topic than moving out and summer vacations.

Andrew chooses not to indulge her, at least not out loud. He does consider it. Nicky wasn't a big deal --he was never officially under Andrew's protection and there's a slim chance that something will happen to him because Erik is there, but also because even if something did happen, Nicky would probably immediately call and tell him. 

Aaron, on the other hand... 

This is the first time they'll be separated for more than just the Easthaven stint since they reunited when they were sixteen. Aaron had seemed eager to go, clearly ready to be with his cheerleader and out of his brother's presence. They'd talked about the trip to Katelyn's parents' summer beach house in their last joint session --where Andrew had said he didn't care, and their deal was over, and Aaron could do what he wanted-- but before he left, Aaron stopped Andrew and pulled him to the side.

It wasn't like Andrew was expecting some profound goodbye, but the fact that Aaron only wanted to hound him about the hearing they had in three weeks to set the official date for the trial, and that they had to meet up with the lawyer a couple days before, pissed him off more than he thought it would. What, did Aaron think he would forget?

Andrew just stared at him, and Aaron scowled. "You know, it would be a lot easier if your boyfriend would grow a pair and testify. His dad's dead. There's no reason he can't do it."

Andrew said nothing.

"I could go to prison." There was real fear in his eyes.

Andrew said nothing, just stared at him. 

Aaron let out an annoyed sound and took a step back, yanking on the handle of his suitcase. "Just don't fuck around and miss the date. I'll be back a couple of days before then." He stabbed his finger at Andrew. "Be there."

Then he turned and left. Andrew had stared after Katelyn's car for a long time. 

If he really thinks about it, he can almost feel the distance between them like an invisible thread stretched out across the miles, as thin as spider's silk, sharp as a razor. He feels tangled in it, the slack pulled tight. A nasty voice in his mind whispers that he's never coming back. He's happier without you. Andrew pushes it down.

"I've been thinking about impermanence." 

Bee makes a face like she's listening. 

Andrew tries to pack up the bubbling feeling inside him in neat words even as it slips through his fingers. He says, eyes on the dog-lamp, "Everything ends."

He means the season, the semester, the school year, but also more than that. He feels like something huge has ended --and it has. Everything with the Ravens, the Moriyamas to an extent, and his deal with Aaron. But things end all the time. He's no stranger to ending things --houses that are never homes, people who never stay-- so, why does this feel different? 

Bee makes a thoughtful sound. "In what context?"

Andrew looks at her. Oh, Bee. Never one to let him get away with anything.

Instead of elaborating --not really wanting to open that particular can of worms-- he changes the subject. "Neil wants to go on a road trip," Andrew says, ignoring the fact that technically he was the one who proposed it in the first place. "We're leaving on Saturday. Be gone for a bit. Might have to cancel an appointment."

Bee takes the change in stride. She perks up. "Oh? That sounds like it could be fun." 

'Could be' being the operative words there. Could also end with Neil having a complete breakdown from too many memories from being on the road with his mom. Bee's always been an optimist.

"Do you have anything in specific planned or are you just going to go wherever the road takes you?" She makes it sound like it's a magical fucking fairytale adventure. 

"Drive," Andrew says. "Sleep at some shitty hotels, eat shitty diner food. Drive some more."

Bee nods. "And Neil? What does he think about it?" 

Andrew shrugs. Neil had said yes. The few times they've talked about where they're going to go, Neil seemed interested. He got that burning look in his eyes like he does when he sees the court, when they're about to play a game --excitement maybe; wanting. 

"He's pathetic enough that anything that resembles the word 'vacation' makes him spontaneously combust."

"And how do you feel about it?"

Andrew knew that question was coming. Bee has gotten predictable these past couple of years. He looks into his mug, takes a sip. Bee picks her mug up and takes a sip, ever patient. 

Andrew feels something writhing like a serpent through his gut; dread maybe. He thinks about the duffle bag that he keeps packing and unpacking. He thinks about points on a map --here, here, and here-- leaving a mark on something, or passing through; pressing his thumb to the dough to watch it rise again. 

He thinks about being gone. He thinks about coming home. He thinks about waking up with Neil in a strange city, miles away from their home, never being alone. He thinks about being alone with him for the first time. The serpent writhes.

"I don't feel anything."

Bee frowns like she expected him to say something else. "You don't feel anything, or you just don't have the language to give it a name?"

That's not the first time she's said that. It annoys him just as much as it did then.

Andrew takes a look at the serpent, gives it a name.

"I'm... interested in going."

Bee smiles. "That's good. I'm glad that you can admit that to me and yourself." She stops just short of saying the word 'progress'. He can see it sitting there, shining in her eyes. The look reminds him of the junkie.

He downs the rest of his hot chocolate. "It's nothing so poetic, Bee. I'm bored. The idiots aren't nearly entertaining enough."

Bee lets him have the deflection. Two in one day. She must know it's a bad one. "Will Kevin be joining you on the trip?"

Andrew's fingers twitch on the mug. "No." 

Bee hums. "So he'll be staying here with Abby and David?"

It's a question, but not the one that it was framed as. Andrew gives in and drums on the empty mug, the porcelain clinking hollowly under his fingertips. "Kevin's a big boy. He can handle himself. The others will be there to pick any pieces up." He sets the mug down on the coffee table between them. "He's not my problem." Anymore.

Bee knows about the deal with Kevin. The nature of Andrew's deals was brought up in the sessions with Aaron, and further discussed in his individual therapy. Bee said something about his desire for control; manipulating the nature of the relationships around him. Said something about setting up terms, controlling just how close or far someone can get. Said something about self-preservation.

With Aaron, it was about the idea of having a brother, even one that hated him. With Kevin, it was the promise of something worth living for. And Neil...

It was trying to hold onto a dream.

And, wouldn't you know? All of Andrew's deals had been broken; none of them fulfilled. People really were disappointing. 

"Do you think of your arrangement with Kevin as the only thing that was keeping the two of you together?" Bee asks. "You never considered him as a friend?"

"I don't have friends."

Bee doesn't acknowledge this. She's in full therapist-mode now. "How do you categorize the people in your life?" she continues. "How do you differentiate your relationship with Neil from the connection you have with Kevin? Or the one with Kevin from the one with David or Nicky or Aaron? Not in a rank of who is the most important to you, but just --what makes them different? Is there a label or a name to give it?"

I don't have a relationship with Neil, he wants to say --the rest of that was too stupid to address. There are people he would protect, and there are people he wouldn't --that's all there is. 

Bee holds out her hand palm up. "You don't have to answer that. It just might be something to think about. I wanted to come back to the first thing you said, 'everything ends.'" She tilts her head. "Were you including your connections with other people in that?"

"Everything generally means everything, Bee," Andrew says. 

Bee nods like that's what she thought. She takes a long sip from her mug before she continues. "I think the notion that our lives are just beginnings and endings is too black and white. When we look back on our lives, it's easy to see the phases, even in the present moment. It may be easy to identify an end, but I think to assign life to that binary system negates all the little things that are important."

She sounds like a mixture between a textbook on grief and a hallmark greeting card.

Andrew gives her a look. "You're trying to tell me to focus on the little things." 

Bee lets out a soft snort and furrows her brow in thought. "I guess that is what I said," she admits. "What I meant was that, yes, things end. People leave, people change, people die, and there's no way to have complete control over that --so all there is left to do is accept it when it comes. But if you spend every day waiting for the end, you end up missing the middle, which is where life happens. And if you never even let things begin in the first place..." She lets the end of her sentence trail off.

Yes, yes, he sees her point. The idea that he's been living in a strange sort of limbo for years, living a half-life, waiting for the end --it all checks out. The thing he doesn't agree with is the middle part, the 'life' part, being the part worth risking it all for. He'd done it before. He'd held onto the good part so hard, even knowing it could never stay --and then it ended, and he'd been left with nothing. It wasn't worth it. 

But he doesn't say anything, and Bee moves the conversation forward after the silence stretches out too thin. Andrew looks at the light slanting in the wrong way across the wall, and waits for the session to end.

After his session with Bee, Andrew goes back to Abby's house. The front door is unlocked like usual, which means Abby must've been the last out. Andrew checks over his shoulder and yup, her car is gone. She never locks up behind herself --it's a miracle she hasn't been robbed or murdered.

Andrew makes sure to lock the door behind him as he steps inside. He dumps his things on the table in the entryway, keys clattering in the decorative bowl painted with delicate green leaves. He hears noises from the living room and he follows it to find the strikers watching exy matches on the TV --not surprising.

What is surprising is that Kevin is on the couch and Neil is sitting at Kevin's feet, a bowl of popcorn in front of him --and a billion fucking tiny ponytails in his hair. 

Andrew doesn't make a noise, just stares at them. Neil must feel him because he looks over and his face goes a little pink. He makes an aborted reach for his hair before his hand falls into his lap.

"Kevin wanted to see how many we could fit in my hair," he admits, a little sheepishly.

"It's thirty-seven so far," Kevin says, barely looking away from the TV, grabbing another rubber band with one hand and demanding the popcorn with the other.

Andrew walks out of the room. He goes out on the back porch and pulls his cigarettes from his pocket. He sits down on the steps leading out into the grass and lights a cigarette.

When Kevin came back from the funeral, he insisted Wymack drop him back at the dorms. He showed up late on Tuesday night looking like he was already wasted, stumbling inside the room. It was finals week. Neil was studying at his desk and Andrew was smoking. They silently watched as Kevin stood in the doorway to the living room, looking lost, a million miles away. 

He dropped his duffle on the ground, like he didn't have the strength to hold it anymore. He gripped his left hand, massaging the palm. His face scrunched like he was in pain before clearing. He turned and went into the kitchen.

Neil got up and followed him, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, frowning. Kevin brushed past him and came back into the living room with a full bottle of vodka. He sat down in one of the beanbag chairs, downed a third of the bottle, then stood. He started pacing, drinking, flexing his hand periodically. 

Andrew kept smoking. Watching him, waiting.

Neil looked at Andrew. Andrew spared him a glance. Neil waved his hand dismissively, the motion saying he's your problem now, and went into the bathroom to start getting ready for bed.

Another long stretch went by. Andrew finished his cigarette and lit another one. Just after he finished his first drag, Kevin stopped and turned to Andrew, more than half the bottle gone, plus whatever else he'd drunk already. His eyes were glazed and glassy. 

"Take me to the court." 

Andrew blew out a breath of smoke.

Kevin tightened his hold on the bottle. "Andrew." He ran a hand through his hair, creating more chaos in the already-bedraggled strands. "You don't get it, I need-- I need to--" He started breathing faster, sliding into panic. "Fuck." He turned and punched the wall, leaving a dent. "Fuck."

Kevin cradled his left hand, letting the bottle drop to the floor, rolling around, spilling onto the carpet. He half-fell, half-slid down the wall, gasping in hitching breaths, almost like sobs.

"Andrew," he gasped, "please--" 

Andrew stubbed out his cigarette, grinding the ash into the white paint, nearly burning his fingers. He slid off the desk, grabbing his keys on the way, and walked over to Kevin, kicking at his shoe. "Get up."

Kevin didn't look like he could remember his own name, much less stand. He tried anyway and Andrew watched as he got to his feet, using the wall as a crutch, still cradling his left hand. It looked like the vodka had already dulled the pain. His knuckles were red and puffy, but it was likely nothing was broken.

Andrew turned and walked toward the door, stooping to grab Kevin's bag. He didn't look back, but he knew Kevin followed by the uneven thud of his shoes on the stairs behind him. They walked to the Maserati in silence. 

Andrew put the bag in the trunk, slammed it, and pulled out his phone to send off a text. In that amount of time, Kevin only just managed to get the passenger door open. Andrew got behind the wheel as Kevin lowered himself down. He let out a sigh and closed his eyes, looking like he might pass out.

Andrew didn't go easy on him, driving fast and taking sharp turns. Kevin had one hand on the back of his neck, the other braced against the door, his head between his knees. Andrew would've removed his extremities from his body if he'd thrown up in the car, but he managed to make it all the way to their destination without incident. 

As soon as Andrew put the car in park however, Kevin flung open the door and puked into the gutter.

Andrew looked out the windshield, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel while Kevin spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then Kevin sat up and looked around and saw where Andrew had taken them. 

He turned to Andrew, anger and betrayal in his eyes. "What are we doing here?" 

Andrew didn't answer, watching as a pair of headlights came closer down the street, then pulled into the driveway of Abby's house. Wymack's truck grumbled and went silent, then Wymack opened the door.

Andrew met Kevin's eyes.

"Fuck you," Kevin snarled, his voice breaking, and Andrew saw Aaron --superimposed over Kevin's image, snarling and vicious. Then he blinked and the image was gone.

Andrew opened his door and got out, slamming it behind him. Kevin stayed in the car, stubborn and pouting and wasted.

Andrew popped open the trunk and got Kevin's bag out, slamming it shut just as Wymack reached them. Andrew dropped the bag at his feet. Wymack wasn't dressed for bed, which explained why he even saw Andrew's text in the first place. He got there in record time --he must've already been out. 

Wymack looked from Andrew to the bag at his feet. Andrew stared back. 

A car engine roared and echoed somewhere nearby. The porch light flicked on, and they both turned to see Abby standing in the doorway in her bathrobe, squinting at them.

Andrew raised an eyebrow at Wymack. His clothes, how he got to Abby's so quickly --he must've come back after dropping Kevin off at the dorms. 

Wymack raised one back, daring.

Andrew shrugged. 

Then there was a thud from the Maserati. Andrew turned to see Kevin had tried to get out of the car, but he'd only gotten halfway on to the sidewalk, his other half still in the car. There was a moment where neither of them moved, then Wymack sighed and started toward the car. Abby was already halfway down the lawn, but Wymack got there first. He pulled Kevin to his feet while Abby hovered by, hands flapping like a flighty bird. 

Wymack slung Kevin's arm around his shoulder and started for the house, Kevin's head lolling against his shoulder. He pointed at Andrew when it became clear he wasn't going to follow them inside. "Don't leave."

Andrew waved a hand. He went back to his car, leaning against the trunk and lit a cigarette. The front door shut behind the trio. The silence of the night filled the sudden void. Andrew pulled out his phone and saw that Neil had texted. 

junkie: There's vodka on the floor

junkie: And a dent in our wall

andrew: yes

junkie: Kevin? 

andrew: took him to abby's

A moment went by before the next text came in.

junkie: I see

Andrew could tell Neil wanted to ask more, but Andrew wasn't in the mood so he pocketed his phone and watched clouds move across the black sky.

The door eventually opened and Wymack came back out. He walked up to Andrew and stuck his hand out. Andrew tossed his pack of cigarettes at him. 

Wymack opened the box and took out the lighter and a smoke. He lit up and passed the items back. He blew out a breath, the white cloud billowing from his nose and mouth. 

"Tossing him out isn't going to make him get better faster."

"I don't care." 

"It looks to me like you're punishing him."

"Does it," Andrew deadpanned.

Wymack flicked ash onto the sidewalk. "Cut the bullshit," he said. "We all know Riko was a bastard that deserved what he got --even Kevin knows that."

Andrew looked at him. Wymack looked back. He pointed at the house behind him. "That kid had nothing for most of his life except the court and Riko. After he broke his hand, he lost the court."

"Riko took it away," Andrew corrected.

"And you gave it back," Wymack countered.

Andrew looked off to the side.

"No." Wymack stabbed at him with the end of his cigarette. "You did. He wouldn't have ever stepped back onto a court if it wasn't for you. Even if he did, he wouldn't have stayed there. Riko would've crushed him again and that would've been it. And now Riko's gone. 

"I won't even pretend to understand that fucked up relationship, and I don't want to," Wymack continued, "but Kevin hasn't been his own person in a very long time. He was only just learning how, and then Riko died."

"What exactly do you want me to do about it?"

"I'm not asking you to hold his hand. I'm saying give him time."

Andrew crushed his cigarette under his boot. "I don't think you are listening to what I'm saying," he said. "I don't care. Riko is dead, Kevin can do whatever he wants. It is not punishment. It is only that I have no interest in waiting around watching him drink himself sick and wreck our dorm room." Andrew flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture. "You can have that luxury."

Wymack ran a hand over his face. When he spoke again, he sounded tired. "He wrecked the dorm room?"

"Put a dent in the wall."

Wymack sighed and crushed his cigarette. "Probably should get him in with Betsy," he muttered. "The only problem is that he hates therapy almost as much as Neil." 

Andrew pushed off the car. "Maybe you can try family therapy."

Wymack narrowed his eyes. "You can recommend that, can you? It's going well with Aaron, then?"

Andrew gave him a flat look.

Wymack waved at him. "Yeah, yeah --above my pay grade and all that. Get out of my sight."

"Already going." Andrew walked around the back of the car to the driver's seat. 

"Drive safe," Wymack called. "I saw you blow past me earlier, you fucking dumbass. There's these things called speed limits--"

Andrew slammed the door and peeled off the curb.

He and Kevin haven't spoken more than a couple of words to each other since then. Kevin finished out finals week at Abby's, then moved most of his stuff to Columbia with the rest of Andrew's group's things. Then, while everyone else split off, they moved into Abby's. Kevin had already been spending every free moment he had at the court, dragging Neil whenever he was free. Now that classes were over, they spent a majority of their day there.

Andrew followed them to the court to sit in the stands only once. He almost died of boredom. He hasn't been back since. Instead, he takes drives, parks out in the middle of nowhere and smokes until he feels withered by the sun and can't stand sweating anymore. He goes in and out of the shops downtown; coffee shops, bookstores. Some of them are closed for the summer, but there's still a few holding out for the summer classes. He goes to Bee's, he bothers Wymack.

According to Neil, he and Kevin run to the court, do warm ups and practice for a while. Then, when they get bored of the regular drills, they become children on the court, making up ridiculous games and challenges; shooting the ball at the ceiling, doing a full spin and trying to make it into the goal when the ball comes down; blindfolds. Neil tried shooting with his left hand just to show Kevin he could do it. 

It keeps both of them occupied and tires them out like puppies, so it's not Andrew's problem --except when they bring it home sometimes, shoving each other out of the way for shotgun. They fight like siblings. Wymack had to break up a wrestling match when they nearly broke Abby's coffee table. Neil regularly challenges Kevin to a race (and wins of course). It's fucking weird, but it seems to be pulling Kevin out of whatever funk he'd been in.

It's not that Neil has forgiven Kevin and Andrew hasn't --there's nothing to forgive since neither of them cared in the first place. It's just that Neil's obsessive tendencies match Kevin's and they both have a competitive nature that morphs any and everything into a challenge.

The sound of the back door opening pulls Andrew out of his reverie. He's still sitting on steps leading from the back porch to the grass.

Neil steps out, letting the screen door slam behind him. He sits down. Andrew barely glances at him. His hair is a riot, the curls puffy and wonky from the bands, even though it looks like Neil removed most of them. 

Andrew gazes out across the backyard. "You missed one."

Neil reaches up and scrubs a hand through the mess, fingers snagging on the straggler. He starts to pull it out, wincing when the plastic grips his hair, unwilling to let go without taking a few casualties with it. Neil yanks it out and looks down at the band; rolls it between his finger and thumb, his other hand rubbing his scalp.

"I think these left bald patches."

Andrew blows smoke. "Stupid."

"Yeah."

Neil takes the pack of cigarettes that Andrew set beside him. He doesn't get one out, just messes with the box, flicking the lid open and closed. "How was therapy?" 

Andrew glances at him.

Neil shrugs. "You've been quiet lately." 

That's arguably the dumbest thing Andrew has ever heard. So dumb, he doesn't say anything for a moment.

Some days, Andrew wakes up sideways, and has to fight for every word. Some days, Andrew goes quiet because that's all he can do; tuck and fold his words away, shoving them down until the sharp edges cause him to bleed out. No one ever notices. He stopped speaking for an entire week after the championship game and the only person who noticed was Bee, but that's only because he sat in her office in silence for an hour. 

Just Bee. And Neil.

Neil, who clocked his silence almost immediately; who never pressed him to speak; who never asked why. He just let Andrew unfurl on his own time.

Andrew wants to reach inside Neil's skull and rip every single piece of knowledge Neil holds on him there. He stubs out his cigarette, throws it into the rose bushes. He reaches out, but grabs Neil's collar instead. "Yes or no."

Neil doesn't hesitate. "Yes." 

Andrew kisses him, hard, like maybe if he uses enough force, he can give Neil memory loss. When they pull away, Andrew's lips feel bruised and he can taste the butter from the popcorn Neil had on his tongue.

Neil looks dazed, at least. Andrew takes his hand, stealing the rubberband he was still fiddling with. He pops Neil on the back of the hand with it.

"Ow." Neil pulls his hand protectively to his chest. "What was that for?"

Andrew shrugs. "Your face annoys me."

Neil grins, making it even more annoying. Andrew looks away.

They hear the sound of a car door slamming out front. 

"Abby's back." Neil stands, stretches, showing a sliver of his skin where his shirt rides up. Andrew's staring, but it's right at Andrew's eye level —what's he supposed to do, not look at it?

When he looks up at Neil's face, Neil's grinning again. Andrew stands up, bumping him out of the way. Andrew hears Neil snort just before the screen door slams shut behind him.

Neil and Kevin have a competition to see who can carry in the most groceries in one trip while Abby chides them about not squishing the bread or breaking the eggs. The four of them unload everything, Andrew helps Abby cook, they eat, and then they clean up. 

Neil and Andrew do the dishes (because Neil and Kevin will ultimately break something if they do it together). It's fine. Neil doesn't mind washing, while just the thought of touching slimy, wet food makes Andrew's skin crawl. Drying and putting away dishes is easy. The rhythm they fall into is easy. Neil's shirt sleeves are rolled up and he doesn't have his armbands on so Andrew can watch the tendons move in his wrist as he scrubs, watch the muscles in his forearm flex as Neil uses a plate as a shield when Andrew flicks water at him.

He tries not to think about Bee's words, but they buzz around in his skull all night.

The three of them play video games afterwards while Abby finishes something up in her home office. Then Kevin and Neil want to watch more stupid exy, but Andrew takes the remote after ten minutes and makes them all watch a movie. 

They complain, but end up liking it anyway, even though Kevin is overly-critical and Neil laughs at random, inappropriate times and comments on how badly the actors are holding their weapons and how inaccurate the gore looks. It's a franchise movie and they watch the first three of the series. Abby joins them and watches the first one with them, nodding off on her armchair before excusing herself to bed. They turn the volume down, and put in the next one. 

It's after one in the morning when they give up, more out of boredom than anything --at least in Andrew's case. Kevin goes to bed; he and Neil are sharing a room (it felt like it was in poor taste for Neil and Andrew to share a room under Abby's roof, and Andrew liked being secluded and Kevin liked not being secluded and Neil didn't mind sleeping on the cot so it worked out for everyone).

Neil doesn't follow Kevin to bed. He and Andrew sit on the couch with the TV off and only the floor lamp as a light. There's a clock in the kitchen they can hear ticking all the way in the living room. They can hear Kevin moving around upstairs as he gets ready for bed. 

Andrew gets up and goes for his wallet and keys by the door, and Neil follows him.

Andrew glances over his shoulder. He nods his head toward the front door, as good as any invitation. Neil starts pulling on his shoes.

They leave silently. Andrew locks the door behind them (it was unlocked again, seeing as Abby was the last one in with the groceries) and they go to his car. Andrew gets in the driver's seat, Neil in the passenger. They pull away from Abby's house. 

The streets are deserted. The neighborhood is quiet. There are no college kids out and about and all of the old people in their cookie-cutter homes are safely tucked into their beds. 

Andrew drives them to the interstate, rolls down their windows, and takes off going southeast on 385 --then north on 26, then west on 85, making a loop. When they come back to Palmetto, it's almost two-thirty. Andrew exits and they start driving on quieter streets. The night seems louder now without the buffering of the wind on their ears. 

He drives them to the water tower. Right across from it is an elementary school, and Andrew parks in the parking lot and turns off the car. They can hear the crickets and the air is wet and a little cool like it might rain. The moon is hidden behind the clouds; a dim light shining through a gauzy curtain.  

Andrew looks up at the tower and imagines standing on the railing. He shivers when a tiny raindrop hits his hand that’s hanging out of the window.

Neil lets out a breath and slouches in the seat, his eyes closed. Andrew turns to him. "What?" 

Neil rubs his eyes. "Tired. Kevin wanted to run the stadium steps. Twice. My legs feel like concrete."

"Sucks to suck."

Neil huffs a tiny self-deprecating laugh, dropping his hands. Andrew holds his hand out the window, feeling two more drops land on his open palm. 

"Thea called him this morning."

Andrew glances over, pulls his hand back inside. Neil is fiddling with the strings on his hoodie. "Just after we finished at the gym. She was at the funeral, you know. They talked about her coming to South Carolina to visit. She's flying in tomorrow." 

Andrew watches a few raindrops gather on the windshield, but the wind is changing. The storm's already fading before it really began. There's a rumble in the background and it could be thunder, or just an engine.

"What if we left right now?"

Andrew looks over at Neil. He's tying knots in the strings. 

Andrew doesn't need to ask him to elaborate --he knows Neil means the road trip. What if it started now? They'd planned on Saturday. Their bags were at Abby's, presumably packed (Andrew couldn't remember if he'd repacked his after the last time he unpacked it). Their chargers, the map they'd marked with potential places, and any snacks or other useful items. It would be stupid to leave now. No one would know.

Andrew pictures going back to Abby's, locking and locking the front door, going into the room with the squeaky fan, alone; waking up to the wrong sunlight. 

Or he could leave right now in the middle of the night, driving on an open road, no sunlight. With Neil. 

It feels more right than it should. 

He starts the car, leaving the windows down, and pulls out of the parking lot. He takes them back to the interstate, going southeast on 385 again, but he's not aimless anymore. He has to roll up the windows after about ten minutes because they are apparently driving right into the storm that passed them by. 

The rain fills the silence. Neil dozes off miles before they pull off at an exit in Columbia. Andrew starts winding them through the damp city until the big buildings drop away to smaller and smaller houses, then they're pulling up at their house. 

It's four in the morning. It's pouring outside. They need sleep. They need clothes and other things that they could pay for, but Neil doesn't carry his fanboy binder on him all the time anymore. This way is easier.

Neil sits up as soon as Andrew stops the car. He blinks at the house, but doesn't ask any questions about it. Andrew gets out of the car. The grass is spongey and the rain is relentless. Andrew gets the front door unlocked and shoves it open. 

The house looks the same as they left it a little over a week ago when they dropped their stuff off. The air smells musty. They turned the AC off thinking that they wouldn't be back to see it in at least a month. Andrew can see the shadow-forms of boxes stacked on top of each other peering out at them from the living room. He kicks his shoes off and they thunk against the wall. The lock clicks as Neil locks it behind them. 

Andrew walks into the kitchen and turns on the light. Neil's footsteps squeak on the tile behind his. Andrew turns and sees that Neil is soaked --he looks like someone tried to drown him. (Andrew wonders briefly if someone ever has tried to drown Neil. Can he swim? It doesn't seem important to ask right now.) Andrew feels water drip down the bridge of his nose and knows that he looks the same.

The rain pounds the windows. Neil runs his hands through his hair and starts shrugging off his hoodie. Andrew digs under the kitchen sink for the hoard of plastic bags they keep there, and untangles one from the mess. He opens it and Neil deposits the soaked hoodie in there so it won't drip all over the house, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand.

The rest of Neil is relatively dry so Andrew leaves him in the kitchen while he takes the bag upstairs to the laundry room. He tosses the hoodie in the dryer, peels off most of his clothes and puts them in there as well, grabs a towel for his hair, then walks to his bedroom to put on some sweats and a t-shirt from the dresser. The clothes feel soft and warm against his rain-damp skin. He leaves his bedside lamp on as he goes back downstairs.

Neil has barely moved. He took his shoes off, and the trail of water leading from the door to the kitchen is gone --and so is whatever Neil used to mop it up. Neil is just turning at the sound of his footsteps when Andrew hurls the towel at him. It hits him in the face, wrapping around his shoulders, muffling the oof sound he makes. 

Neil peels it off. "Thanks." 

He starts toweling his hair dry. Andrew sees the clock on the oven and it reads: 4:27. Once Neil's hair is more puffy than damp, Andrew reaches out and grabs the hem of Neil's shirt, tugging him along. 

As they pass all of their boxes and furniture piled in the living room, Neil drags his feet. "What about my clothes?"

Andrew turns and looks at him over his shoulder, one foot on the steps leading upstairs. He tugs again, and Neil shuffles after him. 

Andrew gets clothes for Neil and shoves them into his chest. Neil blinks bleary eyes at him, then heads for the bathroom. He comes back dressed --they're similar to what he had on, except Andrew gave him a t-shirt instead of a hoodie and the sweatpants aren't nearly as baggy since Andrew's sensible and buys clothes that actually fit him.

Neil rubs his eyes like a little kid. His hands are empty; the wet clothes are gone. Andrew raises an eyebrow and Neil says, "I put them in the dryer. The towel, too." He yawns. "I went ahead and started it."

Andrew stares at him. Neil drops his hands. The house is silent except for the rain, but Andrew can hear the dryer going, the clothes tumbling around, the clack of the zipper on Neil's hoodie as it hits the metal walls. The air in the room is chilly, but stagnant. Andrew should've turned the AC on. He should go downstairs, they left the kitchen light on, but it's late and Andrew doesn't want to go back downstairs.

Neil reaches out first, hands framing Andrew's face but not touching. Andrew waits, but Neil seems content to stand there with his hands up, eyes roaming over every inch of Andrew's face. 

Andrew gets tired of waiting, so he asks the question when it becomes clear Neil is too occupied to do so. He reaches up and grabs one of Neil's hands, pushing it into his own hair, then snags at Neil's (his) shirt collar. "Yes or no?"

Neil adjusts his hand on Andrew's head, cupping the back of his neck and breaths out a yes. 

Andrew pulls him forward and Neil stumbles into him, noses bumping, chins rubbing until --finally-- their lips meet. Neil's mouth immediately opens up to him and Andrew sinks into the kiss, clenching his fist in the soft material of Neil's (his) shirt.

Andrew walks them backward, tugging Neil with him until the edge of his mattress brushes the back of his knees. He turns them until Neil is the one in front of the bed and then he pulls back. 

This has always been two parts. The beginning --the kissing, the touching, the yeses-- and the end, when it's all over. The time between when it starts and when it ends is something Andrew always tries to push through like diving through a tidal wave; like if he can just grit his teeth and shut his eyes, nothing will affect him and he'll come out the other side unscathed. He keeps it shut down and doesn't allow enough time for anything to rise up --for anything to grow.

It works most of the time. Their lives demand immediacy. Between sharing a dorm room, and their nosy and stubborn teammates, quick and rough works for them. Or at least, it works for Andrew, who uses it like a shield to protect himself, and it doesn't seem to bother Neil.

But they're alone now. The house is empty and quiet. There's a locked door between him and Neil and the rest of the world. No one even knows they're here.

"Andrew?"

Neil is still standing in front of him. In the dim light, his half-damp hair looks more brown than red, his scars are flashes of pink on his face, mixing in with the flush that has risen to his cheeks.

Andrew reaches out and slowly presses on Neil's chest until he sits on the edge of the bed. Neil goes willingly, scooting backward into the pillows at the headboard when Andrew's hand directs it. He lays there, hands at his sides, and looks up at Andrew --waiting.

The house is empty and quiet, and the rain dulls the outside world even further. Andrew climbs on to the bed. Straddles Neil's thighs. He doesn't put any weight on top of him, but hovers.

Neil reaches up. "Can I?"

Andrew takes one of his hands and holds it, pressing it down into the mattress. He takes the other one and holds it, too. He doesn't move it into his hair, where Neil was reaching. Instead, he tugs it to him, holding it to his chest.

Neil goes still.  

The first time Andrew put Neil's hand to his chest, he hadn't really thought it through. Neil's words had been ringing in his head, how can you stand me? how is this okay?, and he'd done it without thinking about the mechanics of it. He didn't consider the fact that he was lying down with a body hovering over his; hadn't considered the way it would feel like being pressed down, held down, even when Neil didn't put any weight behind his palm.

This time is different. This time it's Andrew's bed in Columbia, not a beanbag chair at Fox Tower. This time Andrew's on top and gravity is on his side as the weight of Neil's hand is however light or hard Andrew wants it to be. The door is locked and the house is empty and no one knows they're here.

Andrew opens Neil's hand, spreading his fingers out until his palm is flat against his t-shirt. Neil starts to pull back, but Andrew says, "It's fine. Don't move." He presses himself further into Neil's open palm as he leans over him. "Yes or no?"

Neil still hasn't moved other than his attempt to pull back. For a moment, Andrew thinks he read the moment wrong and Neil is no longer interested in going any further. But then Neil blinks, his blue eyes bright as they flick over Andrew's face. "It's a yes for me. Is it for you?"

"Yes." Andrew leans down and captures Neil's lips with his own. Neil's hand doesn't even twitch and Andrew almost forgets that it's there, except he can feel the faintest echo of Neil's heartbeat in his palm, pressed right up against his own.

Andrew doesn't know how to slow down. Doesn't know how to drag it out, make it last. Doesn't know if he wants to. The longer he stays here, in the in-between, the more time he gives for the memories to come in, for the feelings to rise.

But the house is empty and quiet. The only world that matters is the one they've created in the space between them, and Andrew allows himself --as the kiss grows deeper and mouths start moving and more yeses are breathed into the air-- to exist, only here, in the in-between.

In the middle part, where life happens. 

The middle part is this:

A gas station --with chickens. 

It's in the middle of bum-fucking-nowhere off a rough, two-lane highway somewhere in Georgia and the chickens --real, live chickens-- are running around on the gravel, pecking at things in the yellowed grass, ducking underneath trucks. They belong to the gas station; Andrew can see their enclosure peeking around the back of the store. Though what service they provide other than running amok is unclear. The pay-at-the-pump doesn't work but Andrew and Neil need to go inside anyway to buy a few things that weren't found in their boxes back in Columbia. It's at least nice and cool inside, and the bathrooms are clean.

(When Andrew comes back from using the bathroom, Neil has disappeared. The plastic bags holding their new toothbrushes, deodorant, and other toiletries are on the floorboard. Neil's coffee is sitting in the cupholder next to Andrew's blue slushie. His phone lays abandoned on the seat. There's a moment, only a split moment, where Andrew hears the roar of a crowd, feels phantom pain lance through his skull, sees Neil's gear bag on the ground, his phone-- 

But no. Andrew sees a flash of orange out of the corner of his eye, through a thin line of trees off to the side. He slams the car door and ducks between branches until he comes out on the other side.

It's a cemetery. That's all there is in these small towns --gas stations and cemeteries. Andrew's sure there's something there, some kind of symbology --pit stops on the way to another destination.

Neil is standing over a headstone, the engravings gunked-up with dirt, the stone pale from weather. He has his back turned to Andrew, the letters of his PSU sweatshirt blazingly white against the neon orange. Andrew wonders what he's thinking. Maybe he's thinking about his father and how he should've been dead at the end of the year. Maybe he's thinking about Mary and a beach in California and a sandy grave without a marker.

Andrew doesn't make a sound, but Neil suddenly turns to him like he knew he was there the whole time. There's nothing on his face to show he was thinking about anything. 

Andrew nods toward the grave. "He an old friend of yours?"

"No."

Andrew doesn't sigh. He kicks a rock off into the dead grass. "Come on, junkie. You're edgy enough without loitering in abandoned cemeteries."

Neil follows Andrew back to the car.)

The middle part is this:

A diner. It's so nondescript, there's no sign out front to proclaim its name, or if it was once written on the awning outside, it has now faded into obscurity. It might not have a name. It might not need one. They're in another small town that has about four fast-food restaurants, a Dunkin's, and this place. Maybe it's just The Diner. If you know, you know.

The laminated menus are water-stained and the upholstery of their booth is cracked and digs into Andrew's thigh. The waiter looks like he was there when this town was founded in the early 1900s, and he'll be here long after it goes under and becomes a ghost town.

(He doesn't write their orders down --sunny-side-up eggs, bacon, and black coffee; a stack of chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream and a milkshake. 

"I don't know how you still have teeth," Neil says when the waiter's gone. He pushes a trail of spilled salt (or sugar) around the table until it's a small mound.

Andrew watches him press the pad of his thumb into the mound, squishing it flat. "Yeah, well, at least I have taste buds."

Neil smiles without looking up, just a quick flicker on the sides of his mouth. He's got a far away look in his eye --has had it since they left Columbia. Andrew has a bad feeling that his prediction of a breakdown wasn't merely cynicism. This --sneaking off in the middle of the night, no destination, no plan, just endless hours on the road-- must be scraping at the thin layer holding back a wave of memories.

He thinks he can see one of those memories rising to the surface in Neil's blue eyes. When Neil opens his mouth, Andrew expects to hear some long-winded tale of trauma about what terrible thing caused Neil's lack of a sweet-tooth --and braces himself.

"I've never liked sweets." Neil shrugs. 

That's it. That's all there is.

Andrew picks up a little single-serving coffee creamer. He slides it back and forth between his fingers on the table, then he flicks it at Neil. Neil barely manages to catch it before it goes sliding off the edge of the table and into his lap. He sets it back on the table, then flicks it back.

That's how the waiter finds them fifteen minutes later, their (surprisingly correct) order balanced between his arms. Neil snatches the creamer up to allow the man to set the plates down, effectively ending their little game, then adds it to his coffee while Andrew drowns his pancakes in syrup.

The Diner is pretty adequate.)

The middle part is this:

The hotel pool. "Hotel" is a strong word for the place they decided to stay the night, but it is only one step up from a motel, so there's not really another word for it.

The pool is technically closed for the night and neither of them have the mental or functional equipment for a dip in the green-blue water, but that doesn't stop them. They hop the fence and pull a couple of weathered pool chairs into the corner where Neil says the security cameras won't be able to see them in the dark and listen to the cars drive past. It smells like chlorine and cat pee and there are giant June bugs flying around the single light, but there's a gentle breeze that softens all of the hard edges.

(Andrew's smoking. Neil's checking his phone. The upperclassmen have been sending him updates on their vacations ever since they left Palmetto. Neil reads them out loud while Andrew's driving, even though Andrew couldn't care less. Most of it is boring things like what they did that day, what joke made Matt laugh so hard that soda came out of his nose, and endless questions about Neil's break --as far as Andrew can tell, Neil rarely answers back.

The most exciting update was the one detailing how Allison got stung by a jellyfish while on the coast --she thought it was a piece of a plastic bag floating in the waves. Neil's phone has been buzzing nonstop with messages about it. 

"She asked Renee to pee on it. Renee told her no."

Andrew's lying flat on his pool chair, one arm behind his head as he looks up at the sky. It's matte black; the lights are too bright to see any stars. "That whole thing is a myth. Ammonia just triggers more venom being released."

Neil looks over at him. "Really?"

Andrew blows out a cloud of smoke.

"Huh. What does help, then?" he asks, like Andrew would know.

"Vinegar."

The pool chair squeaks as Neil leans back. His chair is propped up so he's sitting up. Andrew can see out of the corner of his eye that he's looking out beyond the fence, to the parking lot. Andrew knows there's a question bubbling under the surface --they haven't played their game in a while. He's not sure he feels like a trade tonight.

"I lived in California for sixteen years." Three of those years were in juvie, but still. 

"Did you ever get stung?"

Andrew flicks ash from his cigarette. "I never liked the ocean."

"That's not really an answer." 

And it's not really the truth.

Once upon a time, when he was at a younger and more wishful age, Andrew entertained the idea of studying the ocean and the organisms living in it. His teacher showed a marine life documentary in class and the job 'marine biologist' became a fascination of that younger Andrew. He'd had a window in his foster home that showed a thin stretch of the bay (it was the first home he'd ever been in where his room had a view) and something about seeing the flat stretch of blue and knowing it held an entire world just under the surface called to him.

He stole the documentary from his teacher's desk and watched it when the adults in his house were out. He talked his foster mom into taking him and the other kids to the library so he could read books about different species (he especially liked the jellyfish). 

Then he'd learned why he'd been able to have that room with the view, down the hallway from the other kids.

Suddenly, things hiding entire worlds under their surfaces were no longer something Andrew was fascinated by.

Neil's phone buzzes with another text. "Allison said the medic told her about the vinegar thing. It was the only thing that helped." 

Andrew leans over and grinds his cigarette into the concrete. There's an ashtray set up on the table near them --another sign that this place is in the limbo space of motel-hotel. He's ninety percent sure real hotels don't have plastic ashtrays as decor.

"Are you ready to head back inside?" Neil asks.

Andrew flicks his cigarette butt into the pool. "Yes.")

The middle part is this:

A farmers market. 

(Andrew made the mistake of letting Neil drive. The lack of sleep from the past couple of nights finally caught up to him and he got into the passenger side of the car instead of the driver's the next time they stopped for gas that morning. He nodded off against the window after a couple hours on the road.

He wakes up when he feels the car come to a stop. He blinks out of his shallow sleep, and he sees the stalls. He sees vendors sitting in their tents with little boxes of bright fruits and vegetables on the tables before them. He sees families with 2.5 kids, with leashes and strollers and giant straw hats. 

"Did you sleep okay?" Neil asks.

Andrew sits up. It feels like his head is full of cotton, there's a crick in his neck from the way his head was pressed against the window. His mouth is dry and his body still hums with the rumble of the road even though they're stopped and the engine is off.

And they're at a farmer's market.

Andrew looks over at Neil.

Neil shrugs. "I wanted strawberries."

"There are these things called grocery stores. They're usually inside, with air conditioning and broader selection than just the produce aisle."

Neil's smile is lightning quick, and just as bright. He opens his door. "Come on. It looks like it might rain soon. We should be quick."

Andrew gets out of the car. He walks over to Neil. "You're never driving again."

Neil is unperturbed. "Think you might break into hives around all of this healthy food?"

Andrew turns and walks into the first row of stalls.

A farmer's market is just a bunch of random people sitting under tents, selling shit that they grew or raised in their backyard, but Neil seems fascinated by it. It's subtle, but Andrew can see it in his eyes as he looks around --they way they burn. For fruit. 

The clouds that were just a flat silver with a bit of darkness at their edges start to grow thicker and darker by the time Neil purchases his over-priced strawberries. The smell of water in the air mixes with the scent of dirt from the produce as they exit the market, but they don't head for the car. Neil goes to an empty section of a nearby curb and sits down. Andrew follows suit.

Neil pops open his container of strawberries and bites into one. A part of Andrew finds him disgusting --for being so content with his stupid destination and his stupid fruits that he didn't even fucking wash before digging into-- but another part of him is focused on the movement of his lips as they wraps around another strawberry. Neil piles the green stems in the top of the container.

Andrew takes a strawberry just for something to do with his hands. He bites into it. It's good, he guesses. It's a strawberry --it tastes a little sweet and a little sour and the seeds get stuck in his teeth.

"We should set up rules," Neil says. 

Andrew takes another berry from the box, tossing his stem into the gutter. "About me not stealing your strawberries?"

"No," Neil says and, as if to prove his word, tilts the container toward Andrew. Andrew takes another one even though he hasn't eaten his last one. "I was thinking while you were sleeping."

"While driving? You could have killed us both, Josten."

"I was thinking about the zombies."

A low rumble of thunder rolls across the sky. The strollers and leashes and straw hats start getting packed away in their minivans. Andrew puts one of his strawberries back into the box.

"Like, how did it all start?" Neil asks. "Disease? Genetic mutation?"

"Radiation." Andrew points to a deformed, three-headed berry monstrosity laying near the bottom of the container. 

Neil picks it up, pinching the leaves between his fingers. It's nearly the size of his palm. "Sure. But then how is it transferred? I'm assuming it has to be contagious somehow or else it wouldn't be an apocalypse."

They discuss the rules for their made-up zombie apocalypse until Neil has eaten almost half of the container and a few raindrops have started to fall. Not wanting a repeat of the night in Columbia (at least the part where they got soaked), Andrew leads them back to the car. They're only slightly damp by the time they've closed the doors and settled in their seats.

The rain starts pouring down a moment later.

"Andrew."

When Andrew looks over, Neil's gazing back, eyes bright in the dim light of the storm outside. He has the strawberries cradled in his lap, so Andrew makes it easier for both of them and leans over the console.

Andrew brings his hands up and places them on either side of Neil's neck, his thumbs pressed into the sharp line of Neil's jaw. Neil's pulse thrums through his fingers. Their breath seems loud in the small space between them. It's just a couple inches, but it feels like forever when Andrew traverses across it to press his lips to Neil's.

Neil tastes like strawberries and rainwater and the outside world is hushed.) 

The middle part is this:

Andrew pulls into the first ice cream parlor he sees. The theme here is a little mixed. The sign out front comes off as a little scary, or it's supposed to, with a little cartoon monster beneath the logo. But the inside is pink and blue and bright, even from the curb where Andrew parked. It's like they can't decide what kind of audience they're pandering to: little kids who love ice cream, or adults who love ice cream and cheesy ice cream parlors. Two more hand-painted signs proclaim that they have free kiddie scoops on Tuesdays for everyone ages six and under, and they sell alcoholic ice cream.

It's that last part, and the fact that this is seemingly the only ice cream shop around, that sells Andrew.

("Is this revenge for the farmer's market?" Neil asks as he follows Andrew into the store.

"No."

It's revenge for the farmers market. 

They both get two scoops in small cups with little spoons. Neil forgoes his spoon at first and bites his like a heathen --it's mango sorbet, which just adds insult to injury. Andrew orders the boozy salted caramel cheesecake and gets a brain-freeze, which Neil says he deserves for being judgmental.

Andrew would never admit it, but when they get back in the car and he pulls them back onto the road, he thinks of the farmers market and he almost misses the taste of strawberries on his tongue.)

Eventually, Andrew knows, this will come to an end and their road trip will take them back home. This dream will end and he'll wake up back in Abby's house with the light slanting through the windows. But it'll be a different day and maybe the sun will be hidden by clouds; maybe Andrew will close the blinds.

But that's later. For the moment, Andrew is in the middle part, the life part. And he lets himself entertain a tiny, stupid thought --just a spark in the back of his mind, fighting hard not to be blown out:

Not everything ends.