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“You came.”
“You called.”
Nathaniel’s lips part—
And fall close again as every letter shrivels on the tip of his tongue.
Andrew's tone is as calm as a frozen lake, as usual. As if it’s the most natural thing in the universe to show up unconditionally after a month of sudden radio silence. But Nathaniel knows it’s not, and the sense of guilt hurts like a physical ache somewhere in his chest.
His arms are loosely folded behind his back as he leans on the wall, so nobody notices how his grip tightens around the snapped-shut cell phone but him. Not that anyone else but them would be here to notice anyway, since they’re all supposed to attend the fall banquet.
Electric blue eyes observe every centimeter of the crammed parking lot with the precision of a hawk. Luckily, there aren’t any athletes or coaches around — just an avalanche of buses and a few security guards at the entrance who don’t give a shit about them.
Nathaniel made sure to pick a hidden spot for Andrew and him to hit up. Or as hidden as it gets, at most. It’s not that he’s familiar with the layout of Blackwell University’s Exy Stadium, so he found this spot rather by coincidence after Riko was … done with him.
He’s aware of how risky, if not downright stupid it is for a Raven and a Fox to secretly meet in the midst of the annual fall banquet. Especially after the, uh, well, little stunt he pulled roughly an hour ago that has everyone stirred up. Andrew must be aware of that, too.
Nonetheless, he came. Despite the silence he had to endure without any explanation for several weeks straight, and Nathaniel never felt so fucking undeserving. It reminds him that he still owes Andrew a reaction. That he should finally say something. Anything.
“Have you seen the dumb look on Riko’s face?” Nathaniel tries for a smug grin.
Andrew, however, isn’t doing him the favor of playing into his act.
Of course. Of course, he doesn’t.
Nathaniel’s smugness deflates like a popped balloon. The back of his head rests against the wall as he drags his gaze back to the horizon, and watches how the sun’s rays keep melting out of the darkened sky while cascades of red lighting run over the streets like blood.
Silence unfolds, seconds go by, and a sense of nostalgia carries him away. It’s odd. It’s odd because one shouldn’t feel nostalgic about things they aren’t familiar with. And since the Nest operates on sixteen-hour days, he never had an opportunity to dwell in a sight like this.
Neither did he have the opportunity when his mother attempted to flee with him a couple of years ago. They never talked about his looks because he resembles his father, and he is painfully aware of that. But in rare moments, his mother used to mention how his auburn hair reminded her of the sunset.
It looks like fire, she said.
Fire.
Flames.
Death.
Nathaniel’s eyes widen briefly as the memory of a burning car with his mother’s corpse in it strikes him like a knife in the chest. Instead of a pained scream, however, a quivering breath is the only thing that manages to escape through the small gap between his busted lips.
All of a sudden, the chilly autumn air is thick with black smoke, and the distant horizon is no longer the only thing that’s ablaze as the Butcher’s – his father’s – inner circle murdered his mother along with the only glimpse of hope that Nathaniel ever dared to have.
His past is too real. Too close. It feels like he’s drowning in blood and flames. Deeper and deeper and deeper, descending to a somber place where it’s impossible to breathe — until the sound of approaching steps nudges on the far surface of his consciousness.
When Andrew strolls into sight, Nathaniel’s heart skips a beat. His transfixed gaze follows every movement as his whole world narrows down to the person in front of him. He couldn’t bring himself to care for anything or anyone else, not even if he tried to, not right now.
The evening’s dimness makes Andrew’s pale blond hair look like molten gold. It looks warm, but not the kind of warmth that reminds Nathaniel of flames and death. It’s a comforting kind of warmth. The kind that makes him feel sheltered in a way only Andrew’s presence could.
Nathaniel blinks. Resolves his trance-like state. Is met with hazel irises, and the reflection of the infamous black four that’s tattooed onto his left cheekbone. The oh-so-spooky Japanese death number — a reputation to which he had always loved to live up to.
Another thing he notices are the Butcher’s electric blue eyes staring right back at him. Fear makes his throat go bone dry in under a millisecond, but just as he attempts to reflexively turn away, his chin is trapped between a thumb and a forefinger. Carefully, but resolutely.
Nathaniel bears it because Andrew doesn’t know anything about his father yet. He seizes the opportunity to observe his face as a whole. Andrew is calm. But it’s not his typical calmness that roots in his emotional apathy. No. This calm right here is deadly.
If he wouldn’t know it better, he’d say that Andrew’s resentment was directed at him. But Nathaniel has seen this white-hot hate that’s effortlessly burning through his indifference too many times by now. Often enough to know to whom it’s actually directed to.
Andrew breathes slowly. His eyes are unblinking as his piercing glare observes every inch of Nathaniel’s bruised face. It’s as if he was full of gasoline; Riko’s cruelty was the match, and it takes every ounce of self-control that he can muster to not let these two things collide.
Nathaniel doesn’t know when exactly it happened. When Andrew started to care. To show concern about the traces of Riko’s abuse during their … something that they refuse to name. Or maybe he simply looked away on purpose because it made everything so much easier.
“I’m fine.” Nathaniel offers the worst excuse of a smirk.
Whatever is left of Andrew’s apathy, cracks.
“It’s not as bad as it seems,” Nathaniel explains, as if it would make anything better. “I can still play Exy.”
“Careful now, Wesninski,” Andrew drawls. “You sound so much like Kevin it makes me want to punch you.”
“You’d never do that.”
Andrew’s left eyebrow quicks up. “Sure?”
Delighted by the tease, Nathaniel can't stop his lips from curling into the vague idea of a smile, even when it hurts. Andrew’s eyes scurry over his face as if they were harvesting every piece of joy they can find, and the seething rage in his irises has dimmed a bit.
A movement in his periphery forces Nathaniel to snap out of the moment. Every fiber of his demolished body tenses, like a beaten mutt that’s ready to defend itself. His attention immediately jerks to the impending danger. That’s when he notices that it was only Andrew releasing his chin.
Nathaniel stares, dumbfounded.
As the realization sinks in, he huffs out a scornful noise; could be interpreted as a self-mocking laugh, at best. He wants to say that Riko isn’t in charge. That this fucker doesn’t own a single part of him, and he hates how moments like these always prove him wrong.
“Yes or no?” Andrew asks dryly, without a trace of mockery or judgment.
“Yes.” The answer comes right away. As if a rope had been wrapped around it and yanked it right from his tongue.
Nathaniel allows himself to get lost in the familiarity of those heavy-lidded, hazel eyes. This time, he doesn’t wince when fingertips brush along his jawline, carefully avoiding all of his bruises, as if he’s a human being who deserves to be handled with care.
It’s remarkable how the touch of someone who’s capable of so much violence can be so incredibly gentle — a gentleness that’s nothing more than a myth to the world, and a knife disguised as vulnerability that Andrew trusted him with.
Nathaniel’s chest does that horrible clenching thing again. He never took that fragile trust for granted, but he knows that he betrayed it. He knows that he still owes Andrew an explanation, and he knows that he doesn’t deserve his tenderness.
He knows that he should pull away instead of closing his eyes and leaning his cheek into Andrew’s palm. He knows that he should stub out the warmth instead of dwelling in it. He knows that it would be for the better. He knows. But he doesn’t do it. Can’t do it.
“Going to kill him,” Andrew grits out with a certainty that otherwise only death holds. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“Don’t bother. I’m doing it myself.”
Andrew scoffs, “By acting like the King’s Court jester?”
“Come on.” Nathaniel’s lids fly open. A cocky smirk is etched into the left corner of his lip, “You’ve enjoyed today’s show, too.”
Andrew’s gaze hardens, fixating on his black eye. “I for sure as hell don’t enjoy this.”
Nathaniel’s smirk dies.
He thinks closing his eyes will make it easier to detach his cheek. It doesn’t, so he forces himself to pull back and to lean the back of his head against the wall again. A cold autumn breeze makes him painfully aware of the absence of Andrew’s warm touch.
He tries to sort his next words on his tongue before speaking, which is easier said than done. He was made to play Exy. He was made to be a money machine for the yakuza. Not for … not for this, or for anything else in general, and he never felt so far out of his element.
“Riko and I are two sides of the same coin.” He keeps his voice steady and emotionless as he directs his attention back to whatever is left of the sunset without looking at anything at all. “We aren’t worth a damn off the court. If we lose, we get killed.”
Andrew stares at him, waiting.
“But at least it makes it easier to drag this fucker down to hell with me.” The corners of his mouth twitch upward in a rush of smugness. Being the bane of Riko’s existence has always been the only thing that brought him a spark of joy in this hellhole called the Nest.
It always feels like a small victory to catch a glimpse of Riko’s distress whenever Nathaniel sabotages his performance on the court, or when he utterly humiliates him in interviews. Or during banquets, like he did today. “And his little punishments are nothing compared to that.”
“Until he kills you.”
Nathaniel shrugs it aside, “I’d rather die fighting than continue living on my knees.”
Andrew scowls, “Shut the fuck up—”
“No,” Nathaniel recoils, a little sharper than he meant to. “You know that I can’t outrun my fate.”
Andrew's expression turns into something cold and dangerous.
Nathaniel meets his gaze dead-on. “Choosing how to die is the only freedom I’ve ever had. I—”
When Andrew’s gaze deepens, however, something inside Nathaniel tears.
He doesn’t know what. It just tears. Hurts.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I’m so fucking sorry—”
“Stop,” Andrew intervenes. “Stop fucking apologizing for something that isn’t your fault.”
“No. I’m sorry, I—”
Whatever just tore somewhere in his chest expanded into a black hole within milliseconds, a heavy emptiness that eats his composure away. Inwardly, he takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself, but that didn't work out even half as well as he hoped.
“I’m sorry—” Nathaniel tries again, voice thick with vulnerability, and he grits his teeth because of how pathetic he sounds.
All of a sudden, for some reason he can’t quite put a finger on, his memory carries him years back to when he and Jean patched each other’s wounds up. They aren’t exactly friends, yet Jean was the only one for a very long time on whom he could rely on.
Ravens operate on a partner system, which means that both will be punished equally for one’s poor performance. And what he is experiencing now is kind of similar to what he felt when they both needed to pay the bloody price for one of Nathaniel’s fuck-up’s.
“I’m sorry that I make you endure all that,” Nathaniel says as soon as he manages to even his voice. Jean made him aware that his I’m sorry’s are useless and won’t change shit, but it's the only way he knows how to channel whatever is going on inside of him.
“I’m sorry that I made you care. I’m sorry that I didn’t stop us before it was too late,” Nathaniel goes on and huffs out a sharp, disdainful laugh. Maybe it’ll ease his desperation. Maybe it helps him to regain control over his trembling hands. It doesn’t.
“I’m sorry that I’m not strong enough to let you go.” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry that I’m not strong enough to protect your heart, and—” he trails off, cutting himself short as he notices that he is rambling. I’m sorry that I’ll make you watch me die.
The silence that follows is deafening, and his whole body goes limp as a sudden numbness overcomes him like a tide. Despite the haze of his outburst, however, his tired gaze finds Andrew’s immediately. Like a compass to the north, always magnetizing in his direction.
The day is still bleeding out, still teething the night. Everything is tinted into a dark blue-ish hue that weaves somewhere between dimness and twilight, and only a faint, red glow on the distant horizon bears witness to the existence of the sun.
Engulfed by the approaching darkness, Andrew looks like a phantom. The only movement coming from him is when his hair gets brushed out of his face by a feather-light gust of wind. Otherwise, he is completely motionless, attention fixated on Nathaniel alone.
Nathaniel attempts to continue, but closes his mouth when he becomes aware that he doesn’t need to. Andrew had already put the puzzle pieces together by himself. He understood why the radio silence occurred. What Nathaniel tried to archive through it.
Andrew didn’t look away while he spoke; he didn’t even blink, not even once. His eyes harbor that certain gleam that makes Nathaniel pause for a moment, that makes him feel like he is being read like an open book, like he’s actually been seen and not just looked at.
“I can’t believe how incredibly stupid you are sometimes,” Andrew eventually deadpans. “Yes or no?”
“Yes.” Yes, yes, yes. A thousand times yes. It’s always yes with you.
His eyes follow Andrew’s hand as he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the left pocket of his black suit trousers. He looks hot in a suit, Nathaniel notes. Awfully hot. He wonders whether he wears it voluntarily, or if the Foxes somehow managed to force him into it.
“You know,” Nathaniel points out, “You’re the only one who ever looked at me like that.”
Andrew flicks him a glance, putting a cigarette between his lips, “Like what, idiot?”
“Like I’m a human being and not a property. Like I’m someone worth saving.”
The lighter clicks. Andrew takes a drag. The tip of his cigarette glows up, flickering through the young night. Then he closes in without saying anything in return, and when Nathaniel feels a warm hand on his neck, he gives himself to Andrew without hesitation.
Nathaniel tips his head, lets his eyes fall shut, and slightly parts his lips for him. Their closeness makes his heart pound like a war drum, and his breath hitches when he feels a trail of smoke creeping through the gap between his lips, before slowly inhaling it.
The contrast of cold autumn wind on his skin, leaving goosebumps with every touch, and hot acid burning down his throat has him swaying. His arms are still folded behind his back, and his fingertips twitch, urging him to hold onto Andrew and to bury themselves into blonde hair.
Nathaniel, however, would rather chop off his own hands before overstepping Andrew’s boundaries. So he keeps them where they are and falls into the sensation with only the hand on his neck anchoring him, and that’s enough. Andrew has always been more than enough.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed as he lazily opens his leaden eyelids. The orange lighting from the view streetlamps that reaches them in their hidden corner mingles with the otherwise colorless smoke, making it seem like dancing flames in the dark.
Behind the dissolving trails, he’s met with a heavy-lidded pair of eyes that were glancing down on his lips before looking back at him. Sprinkles of orange lighting warms those familiar hazel irises, revealing a desire that’s as rare as it’s soft.
Nathaniel lets himself get pulled in, and the smokey warmth from Andrew’s lips gut-punches the breath right out of him. His heart is in his throat as he returns the kiss, and he’s convinced that he has never been that vulnerable around anyone, let alone around a Fox.
The only Fox for whom he actively allowed himself to feel anything that could be somehow associated with care, would be Kevin — and that only because they grew up in the Nest together before Riko destroyed the wrist of his dominant hand and forced him to leave.
And then there’s Jean. His partner. The two Backliners know how to keep their emotional distance, though, because if they showed any sign of mutual care, Riko would use it against them. Yet Nathaniel wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for him.
His critiques are harsh and merciless when it comes to Exy, but at some point, Nathaniel noticed that Jean never lost a syllable when they were equally punished due to reputation-damaging behavior, and he caught on quickly.
Jean is a survivor. Nathaniel is a rebel. That has always been the one thing that differentiated them the most. But letting Nathaniel run wild like a battering ram and willingly enduring the consequences could be an act of the last spark of rebellion that Jean had left.
Nathaniel is bound to live and die on the court, and he decided to perish together with Riko by being an extra annoying pain in his ass. That’s the only reason why he agreed to secretly hit Andrew up in the shabby restrooms of Eden’s Twilight.
He spilled everything to Andrew he could think of. New Raven drills. Their line-ups. Strategies. Weaknesses. Just everything from what he thought could make it easier for the Foxes to come up with a winning strategy and to destroy the Raven’s on the court.
Andrew was convenient. Andrew was nothing more than a tool to stay in touch with Kevin, and to accelerate the process from his own inevitable death. He wasn’t meant to be the one who showed Nathaniel that he was a human being. That he is capable of feeling and receiving love.
Those rare, shared moments in hideance were all they had. All they were allowed to have. All they will ever have. The hourglass turns over as soon as their gazes meet, and, once again, it makes them painfully aware of how limited their shared time is.
There are bruising kisses and demanding tongues, hitching breaths and lips tugging until it draws blood — a fire so hot it burns white. Nathaniel kisses Andrew like it's their first and last time and, considering his circumstances, it actually could be.
Nathaniel’s grip around the snapped-shut cell phone tightens, like a desperate attempt to hold onto the grains that slip through the hourglass. But they keep falling and falling and falling, and, for the first time, he wishes that his death wouldn’t be so close.
He neither knows nor cares how long they kiss until their fire starts to fizzle out. It begins with their tongues settling for a slow dance instead of an eager fight, melting into lips lazily moving on top of each other, until Andrew resolves their kiss and unceremoniously pulls back.
Nathaniel follows the warmth of Andrew’s lips, like a starved dog a treat until he’s able to stop himself. When he opens his eyes, he’s met with a usual, bored expression. Like nothing ever happened.
Andrew casually leans his elbow on his shoulder while he just smokes. He studies his face with heavy-lidded eyes, but when their gazes interlock, Nathaniel recognizes that their fire is still crackling somewhere behind his apathy.
“I’m glad that your kissing doesn’t suck as much as your team,” Nathaniel deadpans, not even bothering to sieve the teasing sub-tone out of his voice, and the corner of his mouth creases into a playful but smug grin.
Apparently a little bit too smug for Andrew’s liking, since he narrows his eyes. He lets the cigarette burn for a while without taking a drag before he says, “And I would be glad if your fucked-up communication skills wouldn’t suck as much as yours.”
“Touchè.”
“No one-sided rescue actions anymore.”
Nathaniel nods, relenting.
There’s nothing for a while.
Then,
“Come with me?”
“Can’t”
“Why?”
“Jean.”
Andrew doesn’t respond to anything while holding his gaze, but Nathaniel understands him anyway. Jean accepts his punishments when it comes from damaging Riko’s reputation and vice versa, but they never considered that one of them would just … go.
Nathaniel knows that would let Jean run away. He doesn’t know if Jean would survive when being left on his own in this hellhole, though. It’s not like they’ve ever talked about it. Or talked about anything that isn’t connected to Exy. Their relationship doesn’t work like that.
The cherry glows when Andrew takes a final drag before stubbing the cigarette out. “When you’re so hellbent on dying, then fucking die,” he states, without any emotion in his tone, and Nathaniel watches how he lets his hand purposefully slide into his right trouser pocket.
“Never do shit half-heartedly. You need to bare your teeth at all times, and don’t you dare to stop until Nathaniel and Riko are dead,” Andrew goes on, while pulling something out of his pocket that Nathaniel can’t see because his fist is closed around it.
“And when it’s all over, I need Neil Josten to come back to me,” Andrew continues, and Nathaniel goes as rigid as ice as that name drops. His attention, however, is quickly occupied when Andrew’s hand searches his, resolving his folded arms.
“Because Neil has something that Riko doesn’t. Never forget that.” Andrew concludes, intertwining their fingers. “You heard me? Don’t you ever fucking forget that.”
Nathaniel blinks in disbelief, and his scarred lips quiver while he searches for an answer, but he gets distracted by something small and metallic in his palm. Andrew runs his thumb over the back of his hand, and pauses when he feels the other’s busted knuckles.
He turns their hands around and arches an eyebrow, “You made a wreck out of your hand.”
“I said that I accept Riko’s punishments,” Nathaniel explains flatly. “But I never said that I’d take it without a fight.”
“One hundred and three percent, Wesninski.”
Nathaniel breathes out the faintest of laughs, before he resolves their hands. “You know,” he teases, while straightening Andrew’s tie since it got a bit loose. “I wonder what the press would say if they found out that the Psycho Andrew Minyard can be that soft and loving.”
“Your death wish is extraordinarily high today.”
“And you like it,” Nathaniel responds, and a genuine smile appears on his torn lips when Andrew clicks his tongue in annoyance and rolls his eyes.
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“Shut up.”
Once again, Nathaniel feels warm fingertips on his neck. He lets himself get pulled in, but instead of kissing him, Andrew gently leans their foreheads together. Nathaniel watches how his eyes fall close, and he returns the trust by doing the same.
Neither of them knows how many grains of sand are left in the hourglass, but they let them tickle away in shared silence. Nathaniel lets himself fall into the moment for the time being, and traces the shape of the small object that Andrew shoved into his palm with his thumb.
It’s a key.
A key that’s meant for Neil Josten.
A key to a future.
And to a home.