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There are two sets of very large hands pinning Andrew against a brick wall. He can feel the stonework scraping at the skin on his lower back, where his t-shirt has risen up, leaving him exposed. One set has a hand pressed firmly against his sternum, the other locked tight around his elbow, keeping his arm flush along his body. The other set has one hand grinding the bones in his wrist against the wall beside his head, and the other wrapped securely around his throat, crushing his windpipe as it holds him up. His legs burn with the effort of kicking out, but the position they hold him in is awkward, and his body is heavy with an evening’s worth of Eden’s liquor. The toes of his boots scuff uselessly against the ground.
The hand locked around his throat shifts enough to run a thumb along the edge of Andrew’s lower lip. He snaps forward, sinking his canines into the offending flesh. Iron explodes on his tongue and the resulting howl echoes around the alley. Surprised, the hands release him from their confinement and Andrew drops to the ground. For a single second, he is free.
A solid, blood covered fist is colliding with Andrew’s cheekbone before he even has the chance to steady himself on the balls of his feet. The force of the blow snaps his head to the side and the edge of his temple meets the brick wall with a sickening crunch.
When he blinks open his eyes, everything has shifted. The world has turned horizontal, and the grim floor of the alley presses unforgivingly against Andrew’s skin. Pain burns like tendrils of pulsing acid through his skull, and his shoulder strains uncomfortably from where his arm is twisted beneath his slack body. A pale hand lies limply in the centre of his wavering vision. Beyond the hand, two sets of blurry sneakers step closer. Andrew blinks once. Twice. His eyes roll lazily upwards, slowly tracing the outline of two shadowy figures looming over him. Fear grips his heart like a vice.
“Andrew!”
Neil, Andrew’s sluggish mind supplies. That’s Neil.
Neil. Junkie. Rabbit. Help me. Neil.
Andrew paws his limp hand against the dirty ground. Limbs disconnected and movements uncoordinated, he shifts enough to set both hands underneath him and pushes his heavy torso up. The world tilts vertically, and Andrew’s stomach tilts with it. He bites back the threatening nausea through gritted teeth.
Colour and sound distort around him as shadows collide together with dizzying momentum. Prying his eyes open, unsure of when they had slid closed again, Andrew finds himself staring at the back of Neil Josten’s thighs. He blinks slowly. Had Josten’s thighs always looked like that? He’s wearing the black jeans Andrew had purchased for him the last time they had made the trip down to Colombia, the denim stylishly ripped and hugging the lean curve of leg muscle in a way that makes Neil’s short 5”3 frame look like it could extend forever.
Something sharp gleams in Neil’s hand. Danger, Andrew thinks. Protection. Conflicting concepts perfectly combined in a single red-headed boy. No longer the rabbit running scared. Now he was a fox, fighting. Fighting for Andrew.
“Stay the fuck away from him!”
Shadows recede at the edge of his vision as Andrew sways through another slow blink. He struggles against heavy eyelids and when he opens his eyes again Neil is crouched in front of him. Concern creases the space between his eyebrows.
“Drew…”
“Yes.” The word tumbles out of Andrew’s mouth like a loose pebble. Neil huffs an almost-laugh, warm air brushing along Andrew’s cheek.
“I haven’t asked anything yet.”
Doesn’t matter, Andrew wants to say. It’s always a yes with you. But he knows the words would taste like lies the moment they rolled from his tongue. They are a wishful truth that would never be fulfilled in Andrew’s mind. Neil would understand regardless. He was another lost boy fluent in listening where others only hear. Because no will always be an option, but right now it is a yes. Right now it is; I don’t feel safe. I need you to help me. Protect me. Save me.
Footsteps scuff against the ground. Panic floods his veins, the urge to run, hide, attack screaming along his nerves. Andrew twists his hand into the front of Neil’s hoodie.
“Holy shit, is that Andrew?!” The panicked squeak of his cousin echoes around the alley. Andrew flinches at the sound, a full body reaction that takes him by surprise. Everyone stills.
“Jesus fuck Andrew.” Kevin whispers, voice low and harsh.
Someone takes a hesitant step closer. The movement wavers at the edge of his vision. Andrew tightens his grip, the fabric twisting around his fingers. He wants to twist himself completely into Neil’s hoodie; let it consume him, submerge him, hide him. The movement stops.
“Andrew.” Neil’s voice is soft and calm. He lifts his hands slowly, palms open and unthreatening. Andrew blinks. Neil’s hands hover, framing Andrew’s face but not touching, guiding Andrew’s line of sight to his own face. Andrew blinks again. Vivid memories overlap with hazy reality. “Andrew, will you let Aaron check your head?”
The meaning of the words are slow to penetrate the thickening fog permeating his synapses. Someone needs to get closer, someone needs to touch you. Repulsion ripples under his skin. He feels weak. Vulnerable. Exposed. But God does his head hurt. He rasps out a quiet “don’t touch me” that Neil interprets with ease. Look, but don’t touch.
Neil’s eyes are a sea of cerulean blue that Andrew resolutely fixates on as Aaron crouches by his side. He allows Neil to carefully guide his head left and right, as instructed by his twin, all without a single touch against Andrew’s skin.
“He needs a hospital.” Aaron firmly concludes.
Wrong answer, Andrew thinks. Try again.
Neil shakes his head. “No hospitals.”
“Shut the fuck up, Josten!” Aaron snaps. “Look at him! A fucking blind man could tell you he needs a hospital! At best he needs stitches and at worst he needs an x-ray to confirm if his skull is cracked. Whatever issues you two have, now is the time to get the fuck over them!”
The words are spat viciously at the striker and Andrew growls in warning. Back off. He’s mine. Know your place. The effect is not as intimidating as it normally would be, with the way his eyes won’t focus and the sticky coating of blood cooling against the side of his face, and Aaron, to Andrew’s complete surprise, in anger or worry or fear, bares his teeth and growls back.
Neil looks between them, frowning again. Andrew wants to press his thumb against the crease between Neil’s eyebrows and push, compress all his worries flat and force them out the other side of his skull. But there is enough blood around them tonight, and Andrew is so very, very tired. He closes his eyes as the world tilts backwards; no, as he tilts forwards, his head meeting Neil’s chest with a soft thump.
“No hospitals.” He rasps out, smoke and alcohol and detergent filling his mouth.
“Concussed people don’t get to make decisions!” Aaron snaps.
“If he says no hospitals...” Nicky starts.
Andrew gives a sharp, choking tug at Neil’s hoodie. His mind is spinning with thoughts of I don’t want to go, tell them no, take me home, but Andrew can’t articulate the words around his uncooperating tongue. But Neil - clever, protective, understanding Neil - is a natural at reading Andrew, so the translation is flawless.
“No hospitals.” Neil states again, an edge of finality lacing his words that threatens violence in response to any protest that stands in his way. “We’ll take him back to Palmetto; to Abby’s. Nicky, go pull the car around.”