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Andrew Minyard always wanted to be Medusa. Lock himself away and turn anyone, predator or prey, into cold stone. To be feared, he thought, was much better than being wanted. Being wanted left your thighs bloody. Being feared just left you lonely.
Andrew thought it was equally dangerous – to want and be wanted. They rusted over time, really, turned to copper in his mouth and the distinct taste of blood from biting down his tongue. It was better than the alternative, though; to scream from the rooftops about how much he wants to be loved, to burst through doorways, to offer himself up on a silver platter, to plead and beg just to be held. He’d take the copper.
If there was one thing, he learned about himself overtime, is that tragedy followed him around like an abused dog who won’t stop coming back no matter how many times you beat it. Tragedy begs you to love it, to set yourself on fire so that pitiful, fucking pathetic dog can feel your warmth. It begs you to pet it, and when you finally reach out, it tears your fingers off. Tragedy is love abused; tragedy is love beaten; tragedy is love buried.
Andrew thought he was awfully similar to tragedy. He turned the page in his book of Ancient Greek myths, pleading his brain to forget the syrupy sweetness of the tale of Medusa. It’s lost in him how many times he said please.
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It’s a no, today. To Neil, to himself, to everyone. It reverberates in his head, like it always did in those late nights with extra weight in his bed and wetness between his thighs. No, no, no, no, no. It takes over every second of the day. He wakes up, it’s a no, he grabs a bowl cereal, it’s a no, Neil goddamned Josten smiles a sickly-sweet smile, it’s a no.
Andrew knows that Neil knows. He keeps his distance, but not too far, telling Andrew that he can ask if he needs to.
It’s not a no because of anything but his own failures. Not because heavy hands stain his skin, not because he feels breakable, it’s because he’s dirty. Too heavy with filth and muck and dirt and sin to stain someone like Neil, he won’t let his hands turn heavy, he won’t let himself be like them. He won’t. But, like a compass pointer finding north, he finds Neil.
He’s sitting on the roof, like he knew this would happen. When he hears Andrew open the door, he smiles again. It makes Andrew want to cry, want to burst with joy, but he just bites his tongue. Chants in his head, that the loneliness is better than the wanting. Then being wanted.
“Hi, Andrew.” Neil says softly. Andrew just grunts, and Neil accepts that.
They just sit there for a while, smoking matching cigarettes, just in each other’s orbit. They are orbiting each other. It’s a reckless one, and he’s flinging too close to the sun. Maybe Neil is the sun. Either way, Andrew is crashing.
It’s dangerous, and this wanting is going to leave Andrew bloody, as it always does. This type of wanting is the most horrific wound Andrew has ever experienced. He thinks hope is an awful sort of infection.
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It takes until they’re sitting on the couch, mindlessly eating ice cream and watching TV, for reality to come back to Andrew. He wishes it doesn’t, because now he has to deal with the sickening feeling of being away from Neil. The soft fabric of his sweatshirt traces the ridges of his spine, and he can delude himself to thinking it’s Neil’s calloused, scarred hands. They left the window open, and the breeze feels like Neil’s breath on his cheek.
Sometimes it feels like the only thing he can do to impact Neil is miss him. To just- remind him, that if he ran, Andrew would remember him.
The weakness brings a manic laugh to his throat. This is exactly what will get him killed. He’ll place his head in the guillotine if it means Neil will say his name. He’ll be a goddamn lamb to slaughter if it means that Neil will smile at him again.
He sulks in anger for the rest of the night, sleeping in his own bed for once. He pretends to know that Neil is not saddened by his absence. He tries not to kill him for that.
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Andrew goes back to reread the story of Medusa. This morning was better. Not good, by any means, but...better. He doesn’t glare at hard at Kevin. He doesn’t glare at all at Neil.
He rereads the story of Medusa. He knows the passage word for word, of course he does, but it feels better to sit with the book in his hands. It brings bile to his throat, but he rereads it. Poseidon brings Medusa to Athena’s temple. Poseidon rapes Medusa. Athena curses Medusa. Or maybe it’s a blessing. Andrew thinks it’s a blessing, but the author makes it seem like a curse.
The author doesn’t know the yearning to be stronger. He doesn’t know that Andrew laid in bed and wished for a locked door and a knife. A knife that could cut through monsters, not just veins.
This type of wish, of fear, is one reserved only for prey. This anger is not one of something dangerous, just something that wants to be. Andrew’s wrath is one of a stag staring down headlights. The type of anger where you’re backed into a corner, and you know you’re going to die, and you have nothing left. You have nothing left so you are going to march foreword, at least to stain the headlights, to leave something behind in your wake. Something to remember you by. Most of the time it’s a wound. The fear rots away slowly, rusts in the wake of teeth. Behind every emotion of prey is rage; Andrew Minyard is angry enough to die.
Or he was. Now, he thinks, he quite likes living. It's a realization he will no doubt stew in for hours, but right now, he is walking out the library to his partner, and the sun is shining, and there are no hands on him. It’s still a no. There will always be no’s. But he finds he is looking forward to the yeses.