Work Text:
13 years before Suit
The drought was the very worst. (Oh-oh, oh-oh). When the flowers that we'd grown together died of thirst.
—
Nathaniel padded silently down the hallway towards his mother’s room. He had ensured that his father had left the house before he made his way through the winding halls of their mansion. It had been almost two years since his mother’s failed attempt to escape, and Nathaniel was growing increasingly worried about her.
The first year that they had been dragged back, the fights throughout the house were neverending. Nathaniel finally knew why his father had picked a house with so much land. No one could hear them screaming. The second year, Nathaniel had watched as his mother had withdrawn more and more, until she finally seemed to shut down.
Nathaniel had worked up the courage to ask her to come sit at the piano with him again, just like they used to when he was younger. He could show her the new songs he had been learning, and maybe he could tell her that he had been practicing the guitar as well. Maybe he could tell her that he was starting to write his own melodies. Simple, plucking notes out one at a time, but still, they were his.
He tapped lightly on her door, hovering anxiously in the hallway. “Mom?” Silence met him, and Nathaniel frowned silently. He glanced down at the floor, and saw the light was on in her room. He knocked louder this time. He was still met with silence.
—
It was years and years of back and forth. (Oh-oh, oh-oh). You're still all over me, like a wine-stained shirt I can't wear anymore.
—
1 week after Loverfest LA closing night
Neil made his way through the apartment, carrying the heavy box he had found on the stoop. He was nervous about receiving a package on his and Andrew’s front door, but after making some calls, Stephen said that the lawyers were apparently aware of it.
None of that made much sense to Neil, but he trusted Stephen. His head of security stood at his side as he placed the box on the kitchen counter. Stephen passed Neil a knife and he sliced the tape open. They both peered in cautiously, and seeing nothing suspicious off the bat, they both relaxed.
“Who did legal say it was from again?” Neil questioned, picking up the folded letter on top of the contents.
“They didn’t,” Stephen replied, texting on his phone. “I’m still attempting to get some answers.”
“I mean, it looks-” Neil felt an icy wave of ancient fear wash over him as he recognized the handwriting. ‘Nathaniel’ was written on the front of the envelope in a short, fine print that Neil hadn’t seen in over a decade. Glancing down, Neil suddenly recognized all of the items in the box, like a picture sliding into focus. He dropped the letter.
“Are you alright,” Stephen said, his voice tense. He looked ready to grab the box and throw it out onto the street.
“It’s from my mom,” Neil said, faintly. “I think she sent me some stuff from my childhood.”
Stephen quickly started typing out a new text. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“The raid,” Neil said, placing both of his hands on the counter, trying to suck in deep breaths.
His mind supplied him with hazy images of his mother leaning over his stretcher, handcuffs around her wrists. Whispering to him to not give up any information, that she would come for him soon and that they would settle in England with Stuart. When Neil had next woken up, Agent Browning had told him that his father was dead and his mother was being extradited back to England. He hadn’t spoken to her since.
“Andrew and Joe are on their way,” Stephen said. “Do you want to wait for Andrew?”
Neil took a breath and pulled the box towards him. “No. I’ll be in the music room.” He hefted the heavy weight into his arms and walked purposefully down the hall. He placed the box on the couch, and grabbed the letter. Ripping open the top of it, Neil sat down in his armchair.
Nathaniel, the letter began. His heart clenched at the sight of his mother’s handwriting.
It has been some time since we have spoken. I recognize that this is my fault and I understand that apologizing would not be enough. I have been watching your career since you began and I am incredibly proud of you. When I saw the news of your engagement, I wanted to buy you a present. Something that you could not receive from anyone else. In this box are all of your demos and journals from your father’s house. As part of my plea deal, I insisted that I receive all the hard copies of your music and your words. I hoped to give them back to you in person one day, but I can see that the proper time is now. Additionally, I have bought back your masters from Edgar Allen Company. I cannot say much, but I believe that it would be beneficial for you not to have ties to them in the near future. All of your work is now in your hands, and all of your words now belong to you. You have no responsibility to respond to this, but know that I am proud of what you have done without us.
Mary
Neil felt his throat tighten.
—
Hung my head as I lost the war and the sky turned black like a perfect storm.
—
“Neil?”
Andrew’s voice called him back to the present. He looked over at the doorway and saw a brief look of shock pass over Andrew’s face before it slid back to its usual neutrality. Neil knew that he must have looked like a wreck. Tears had started streaming down his face when he finished his mother’s letter, and he hadn’t been able to stop them. He wordlessly held the letter out to Andrew.
Andrew crossed the room quickly, and took the letter from Neil’s hand. As he read the letter, Andrew wrapped his hand around the back of Neil’s neck, pulling him into his side. Neil rubbed his face on Andrew’s sweatshirt, taking a deep breath as he breathed in Andrew’s comforting scent.
“Do we need to push back opening night?”
Neil startled at Andrew’s voice, breaking the silence. He took a shuddering breath, shaking his head; his hair catching on Andrew’s sweatshirt.
“No,” he replied after a few moments, his voice catching. Andrew’s grip tightened. “I need the distraction.”
Andrew hummed in understanding.
—
Rain came pouring down. When I was drowning, that's when I could finally breathe. And by morning, gone was any trace of you, I think I am finally clean. (Oh, oh, oh, oh)
—
Neil listened to his younger voice pour out of the speaker, the recording was old and faded from the years. He felt himself hurting for his past self, the pain clearly coming out in his trembling voice. The demo was only a few lines. Neil had written it as part of a potential chorus, and then his father had shut it down.
He sighed tiredly, staring at the box. It was full of warped memories and old songs. He still wasn’t sure what to do with any of them. They laid there all week, ignored and abandoned. Just like they had for the past decade.
A knock at the doorway brought him from his memories. Andrew wandered in, seemingly drawn to Neil’s younger voice. The demo continuously repeated on loop. The same words repeating themselves over and over. “ When I was drowning, that’s what I could finally breathe.”
“When did you write this?” Andrew settled himself into the couch across from Neil as he asked the question.
Neil sighed, unhappily. “Around first year after I started touring for my first album. I just-” He cut himself off, taking a shaky breath. “I wanted to be done. With my father, with my music, with everything. I wanted to be free. I wanted to be clean of the stain he left on my life. And, I kept trying to picture what that looked like, and I couldn’t.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I felt like I would drown in the freedom, and I kept telling myself that when I was free, I would finally be able to breathe. But, I didn’t think it would ever actually happen.”
“But it did,” Andrew said firmly.
Neil couldn’t bring himself to respond. He felt drained, depleted, hollow. Memories of being trapped under his father’s iron control were sliding across his mind like grease. He tried to swallow the bile slowly rising in his throat.
“Neil,” Andrew said sharply, bringing the room back into focus. Neil glanced up at Andrew. The blonde seemed on the verge of getting out of his seat and coming over to Neil. He waved Andrew off and reached for his guitar.
“I need to write. Will you stay with me?” Neil asked, while tuning his guitar. Maybe it was time to finish what he started all those years ago.
“Always,” Andrew replied.
—
There was nothing left to do. (Oh-oh, oh-oh). When the butterflies turned to dust that covered my whole room. So I punched a hole in the roof. (Oh-oh, oh-oh). Let the flood carry away all my pictures of you.
—
Neil sat in front of the box full of demos, his mother’s letter in his hand. Some part of him felt the need to call her, to hear her voice after all these years. Remind himself that he was alive in part to her teaching him piano and giving him his love of music.
The other part of him wanted to scream.
He sighed, and leaned over the box, poking around through the contents. There were several old journals that he had hidden under the floorboards of his room. He idly wondered how his mom knew that they were there. Many of the tapes had lyrics written down on the outside, instead of song titles. Many of them hadn’t even made it to the naming stage. So many had just been fragments that Nathan had shut down.
He flipped through some of the contents, reading the words on the tapes. ‘This night is sparkling, don’t you let it go.’ ‘There’s something ‘bout the way the street looks when it’s just rained.’ ‘The battles in your hands now, but I would lay my armor down if you said you’d rather love than fight.’
Neil sighed as he read over the old lyrics. The letter crumpled a bit in his hand, and he set it down gently on the table. He read over his mother’s words for the twentieth time. He had memorized parts of it at this point. But, he still had no idea what he was going to do.
—
The water filled my lungs, I screamed so loud, but no one heard a thing.
—
Neil jerked awake in a panic. He shoved himself out of the bed, falling onto the floor in a disjointed heap. His chest heaved as he pushed himself in between his nightstand and the mattress. Trying to find safety in the hidden alcoves of the room. Neil’s eyes darted around the room, trying to find the weak points and where his father would enter from. Trying to find where his father would storm in and drag him screaming down the hall and down to the basement where he would-
“Neil!” Andrew’s voice shot to him through the haze, clearing the past from his eyes.
Neil looked up, and saw Andrew hovering tensely over the side of the bed. His knuckles were white where they were buried in the sheets. He was desperately holding himself back from grabbing onto Neil during his panic attack. Neil blindly reached out a hand to Andrew, who quickly grabbed it in response. Andrew ran his thumb over Neil’s knuckles in a rhythm Neil knew that Andrew wanted him to match his panicked breaths to.
He took a shuddering breath in, his throat feeling raw and ragged. After several minutes, Neil unfurled himself from his hiding place, stretching out his legs and crawling gingerly back onto the bed. Andrew scooted back to give him space, and Neil curled in on himself.
“I dreamed I was back in that house,” he said, quietly. Andrew watched him unwavering, allowing Neil to continue speaking. “I dreamed,” Neil paused, his throat growing tight. Andrew held out his hand, and Neil took it. He held Andrew’s hand loosely in his lap as he tried to center his breathing.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” Andrew said, the blankness on his face was betrayed by the fury laced in his voice.
“I dreamed,” Neil went on stubbornly, “that I was back in that house. And that I kept calling out for help, but no one would answer. And I heard you through the walls, calling my name. But whenever I tried to open a door, it was locked, or it led to another empty room. All the while, he was chasing me through the house.”
Andrew squeezed Neil’s hand tightly, and Neil pressed a quick kiss to the back of Andrew’s hand. The pair sat in silence for a few minutes, and Neil felt his heartbeat slowly return to normal. His body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep again tonight.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he said, lamely.
Andrew glared at him. “What do you need, rabbit?”
Neil sighed and took stock of himself. “Writing would help,” he finally admitted. “But, you can stay-”
Andrew snorted, cutting him off, as he began to clamber out of bed. “Let’s go, junkie,” he called over his shoulder, as he left the room. Neil felt something within him settle with the knowledge that Andrew wouldn’t leave him alone tonight. Breathing felt easier.
—
Ten years sober, I must admit. Just because you're clean, don't mean you don't miss it. Ten years older, I won't give in. Now that I'm clean, I'm never gonna risk it.
—
Kevin sat in Neil’s music room, bobbing his head to the music pouring through his headphones. Neil watched him silently from across the room, his guitar in his arms. Andrew had been called to a rehearsal today, his next play was opening shortly after Neil’s closing night in New York. He had insisted that Kevin keep Neil company.
Neil had insisted that he would be fine.
Andrew had glared at him and left the room to call Kevin.
“You have some great foundations in here,” Kevin said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Neil shrugged. He knew that he did. He had always been able to write a catchy lyric or a hook. Building the song in its entirety took work, which he often didn’t have time for in his father’s house. Or the freedom. He gripped his guitar tightly, and strummed a few chords lightly.
He was still thinking about the lyrics he was slowly working on forming back together. I think I am finally clean. He wondered if he would ever truly feel that way. He let his eyes roam over the music room, the afternoon sunlight was filtering through the window, setting the room awash in a glow. His eyes stopped, as they often did, on the floor to ceiling corkboard he had had installed when he and Andrew had first moved into the apartment. It was covered in music notes he and Kevin had made, inspirational photos of costumes Dan had pinned for him, and many photos.
The photos ranged from Neil on various tours, cut outs of glowing reviews from newspapers, photos of his friends out and about, and several photos of Andrew. Andrew’s eyes watched him balefully from a photo Neil had taken of him with both Sir and King perched on his stomach. Andrew’s eyes watched him calmly from their porch in Colorado. Andrew’s eyes watched him from behind the barricade at the Lover concert in Los Angleos, admiration clear on his face.
Neil felt something warm settle in his chest.
“Neil,” Kevin said. Neil glanced up and saw worry lacing through Kevin’s eyes.
“I’ll be alright,” he replied, after a few moments of silence. He began to strum again.
—
And by morning, gone was any trace of you, I think I am finally clean. Finally clean. Think I'm finally clean (oh, oh) Oh-oh, oh-oh (Oh, oh, oh) Think I'm finally clean.
—
Neil let the last chord ring out from the piano, and then he slowly turned to face Andrew and Kevin. Kevin had a brilliant gleam in his eye, and Neil knew that the cogs in his mind were whirring a million miles a minute. Andrew had a proud gleam in his eyes and Neil felt his cheeks flush in response.
“I like it,” Andrew said, and Neil felt his heart skip. A smile bloomed across his face as he looked into Andrew’s eyes. Andrew rarely told him point blank that he liked one of his songs. He always found pieces to admire, and made his admiration known in other ways.
“It’s nearly perfect,” Kevin said, “but have you thought about making it less acoustic?”
Neil groaned good-naturedly. “You always want to make everything a pop song.”
“Because it would sound good!” Kevin cried, throwing up his hands. Andrew snorted, and settled back onto the couch. Neil hadn’t even noticed him leaning forward while he had been singing. Kevin was still dicussing the merits of producing Clean as a pop ballad, when Neil cut him off.
“I have an idea,” Neil said, Kevin’s words trailing off. He cleared his throat nervously, and glanced over at Andrew. His warm, golden eyes watched Neil steadily, and Neil felt himself settle.
“I want to revisit my old work,” Neil started, turning to face Kevin and Andrew from his perch on the piano bench. “All the songs that I’ve lost and regained. The memories that keep me up at night. I want to rerecord all my old songs and release them onto one album.”
He glanced at Kevin nervously. “The album wouldn’t be cohesive at all, and to be honest, people may not like it. But, it would be mine again.” Kevin’s brow furrowed as he seemed to consider this pitch. Neil looked to Andrew, who had a pleased look on his face. He nodded once at Neil in approval and Neil felt the tight ball of anxiety in his chest lessen.
“Fuck it,” said Kevin, clapping his hands on his knees and standing up. He seemed itching to go back through the box of old records. “Let’s do it. We already have 16 Grammys between us. Let’s take back your music and make a project for you.”
Kevin pulled the box of Neil’s old music towards him, and started rummaging through it excitedly. Neil knew that Kevin would have a million ideas by the end of the day, and he felt a swell of affection for his oldest friend.
Andrew made his way over to stand in front of the piano bench, and Neil grinned at him. Andrew reached out and ran his fingers through Neil’s hair. “I’m proud of you,” he murmured softly, privately.
Neil pressed his forehead into Andrew’s stomach, as Andrew twisted his fingers through the short hairs on the back of Neil’s neck. Neil’s cheeks were beginning to hurt with how much he had been smiling. The weight that had been dragging him down the past few weeks was finally leaving. He felt lighter than he had in weeks, maybe years.
“What will you call it?” Andrew asked, lifting Neil’s head up to look him in the eyes. Kevin perked up behind him, anticipating Neil’s response. Neil grinned in excitement, he had been mulling the name over in his mind for a few days now, and he had finally made a decision.
“Midnights.”