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“Yes,” Neil says, and thinks that he must have done something good in a past life to end up here with Andrew. Andrew, who kisses his neck, sucking at Neil’s pulse point as Neil shudders. His hand hovers over Andrew’s shirt, before Andrew rolls his eyes and takes Neil’s hand in his own, placing it on his abs. Neil slides his other hand into Andrew’s hair, taking the invitation for what it is. He draws Andrew into a deep kiss that’s immediately reciprocated, and soon Neil can’t at all.
“I’ve gotta be at least less than eighty-five right now,” Neil says offhandedly, playing with Andrew’s fingers. Andrew’s free hand is in his hair, stroking it gently.
“Eighty-three and rising,” he says, and Neil grins up at him lazily.
“That’s not so bad. I’ve gotten over a hundred before and I’m still here, right?”
“Rising,” Andrew says. Neil laughs at him and kisses his palm. Andrew says softly: “I hate you.”
“Take that hatred to the court,” Neil suggests, and snickers when Andrew makes a face at him. “Utilize your emotions for Exy! It’s an actual strategy that—”
“One more word about Exy and I will stab you,” Andrew warns, and Neil can’t help but snicker again. He settles down, though, nestling closer to Andrew.
He’d never imagined he could have anything like this. Safety, and friends and family who are there for him and don’t hit him when he talks about something they don’t like, a place on a winning Exy team, and—most of all— Andrew.
He knows the others don’t understand what Neil sees in him. He knows they don’t understand the way their relationship works, but Neil doesn’t care. Why should he? It’s his relationship, his and Andrew’s and no one else’s.
He falls asleep to Andrew pressing a tender kiss to his temple.
He wakes up cold.
Andrew is gone, and there’s a blanket draped carefully over Neil’s body that he doesn’t quite feel. He gets up carefully, noting the slight disconnect he feels.
Distant.
Floaty.
Drifting, he called it when it had happened in the past. Where he knows his body is moving and he knows people are talking to him and he responds but he doesn’t quite register anything that happens.
He’s lost anywhere from a few minutes to over five hours in the past. It should scare him more than it does, he thinks distantly. He blinks and he’s in class, taking notes. He blinks and a classmate is coming up to him and asking for his notes with an embarrassed chuckle. He blinks and he’s on the roof, legs dangling over the edge with a cigarette pack he doesn’t remember bringing up. He doesn’t remember coming up to the roof in the first place.
Andrew isn’t here.
Neil doesn’t know where Andrew is. He has cigarettes but no lighter, and there is a knife in the sheath of his armband. He pulls it out and twirls it idly, hating how easy it is. He presses the tip to his arm lightly, wondering what it would look like streaked with red. He drags the knife down, not hard enough to break skin but enough that lines form from where the knife had been. He does more, drawing red with the knife, a distant sort of curiosity leading his hand.
He doesn’t know how long he does this.
Long enough that he breaks skin by accident, blood beading at the edge of the knife. He digs it a little further, and wonders if he breaks himself open enough if he can bleed out everything his father has left in him.
And then a shadow falls over him and a hand is in front of his face and Neil looks up at Andrew, whose mouth is open like he’s been talking. Neil can’t hear him if he is, though, ears ringing like there’s too much water in them.
Andrew frowns at him, gesturing towards the knife. Neil stares at him blankly, and then shakes his head, tightening his grip. The knife goes in the tiniest bit deeper as a result, coating a little more of the blade in Neil’s blood. He wonders if this counts as spilling his father’s blood. He wonders if it counts as atonement, if he spills enough.
“--the knife, Neil,” he hears Andrew say. He’s not sure what Andrew means at first, but then he glances down at his arm and realizes he’d cut even deeper. He thinks that’s supposed to scare him. He’s supposed to feel something when a knife is digging into-under his skin, right? He’d certainly felt something when Lola had done it. Maybe it’s different because he’s the one doing it to himself, now. He has control over it.
Except does he really?
Because he keeps dragging the knife over his skin dispassionately but Andrew is watching him with an ever-growing concern in his eyes and Neil wants to fix that. Andrew shouldn’t look like that, let alone directed towards Neil.
Finally, Andrew seems to lose patience, taking hold of the knife but around the hilt, keeping the tiniest bit of space between their fingers. Neil frowns.
“Let go,” he hears himself say. He tightens his hold.
“You first,” Andrew returns, and Neil blinks slowly. There's a dull ache in his arm but it’s not really hitting yet. He doesn’t want to let go. But Andrew ghosts his fingers over Neil’s cheek, and Neil blinks again and when he opens his eyes Andrew seems more…stable. Or—less hazy?
Neil figures it’s like glasses versus no glasses for those who need them.
His fingers twitch, and Andrew gently tugs the knife out of Neil’s grip, throwing it to the side where it clatters on the floor.
“Andrew,” he rasps, and he stares in horror at his arms. How deep have the claws of his father sunk into him that he can do something like this?
“Your name is Neil Josten, you’re nineteen, you’re a striker on the Palmetto Foxes Exy team.”
“ Andrew,” Neil repeats, and a low whine escapes from him. He shuts his eyes and leans towards Andrew, waiting for a no.
“Yes,” Andrew says instead, and Neil collapses into his arms.
“Sorry,” he mutters, “sorry—I’m fine, i just—”
“Junkie,” Andrew says, flicking his forehead. “Shut up.”
Neil buries his face into Andrew’s neck and breathes in his scent.
“Thank you,” he whispers, and Andrew only tightens his arms.