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Riko had the racquet— Neil’s racquet, somehow— raised again in an instant, even though the clanging of the last hit against Andrew’s still rang in Neil’s ears. He swung in one sharp movement. Neil watched Andrew’s skull cave in.
Neil sat bolt upright in bed, a gasp of Andrew’s name dying on his lips. He was alive. Andrew was alive. Riko was dead. These were things he knew, and he still felt like keeling over the edge of the bed and throwing up until he tasted blood. Instead, he pinched his eyes closed and covered his face with his hands, digging his nails into his hairline and raking them down his cheeks.
There was a shuffle of sheets somewhere behind him. A hand came to rest on the back of his neck a moment later in the way he knew. Andrew tapped the back of Neil’s hands until he relaxed them, though a part of Neil missed the sharp sting the scratching provided. Neither boy said anything for a while, Neil still trying to breathe properly as his lungs rattled. Andrew’s other hand came to rest inbetween Neil’s collarbones. Checking his pulse, maybe, given how Andrew tightened his grip. Neil kept his eyes shut.
“Neil,” Andrew whispered. He said Neil’s name so infrequently that it made the boy stop breathing completely, just for a moment, until Andrew tapped his neck once. Neil’s eyes were still shut, but he could feel that his cheeks were wet. Was he crying? How long had he been crying? God, he couldn’t look at Andrew if he was crying.
“Neil,” Andrew repeated, sterner. Neil said nothing. He lolled his head back slightly until Andrew’s hand was the only thing holding it up, asking for something he didn’t know how to name. Andrew knew anyway. He made no effort to wipe the tears away, but he held Neil’s head up and was gentle doing it. They sat like that for a long time. Neil was too afraid to open his eyes, but he felt the shift in Andrew’s position on the bed and he knew the question that was coming.
“What—”
“You died,” Neil said simply. “I watched you die. I watched Riko kill you.” He left out the part of it being with his own racquet, but he wondered if Andrew knew that just from knowing him.
“I’m not dead.” Andrew said it so simply, so matter of factly, like the idea alone was impossible.
“I know that.”
“Then open your eyes.”
Neil did as he was told. There had been no enormous shift in Andrew’s features, his expression has neutral as always, but Neil had stared at him enough to know. There was the tension in his jaw, the barely formed wrinkle on his forehead. He looked right at Neil in the way he always did, like he could pull his soul out of him without blinking. He probably could.
Looking at Andrew only made him feel slightly better, since he remembered the way his skull had cracked. Neil tried not to wince and shut his eyes again.
“Neil, I’m not—”
“Shut up.”
Andrew said nothing, but he pulled his hands back to his lap. Neil, unwittingly, let out a strangled noise, something panicky and frantic flashing in his eyes when he opened them again, something he tried to hide for fear of making Andrew feel… something. He didn’t reach for Andrew, instead choosing to put his own hands in his hair and tug at the red curls like it would help. Andrew was still silent.
“I’m s—” Neil stopped, reading the stare Andrew leveled at him. He looked down at his lap. Honesty. He would try for honesty. “I know you’re not dead. I’m looking at you. But I need you to shut up because I need to be able to hear you breathe. I think. I just need—” his voice faltered, so he dared to look at Andrew’s face again. It had softened, maybe, but Neil might have imagined it. A stranger would say he looked the exact same. Neil was not a stranger. Neil nodded and tried to focus on the boy sitting in front of him and not the dead one in his dream.
Andrew tapped Neil’s hand again. He said nothing, just tugged gently until Neil’s palm was almost against Andrew’s chest. Neil nodded. Andrew pressed his hand flat, holding it there with his own. It was a position Neil was becoming familiar with, but he didn’t know why Andrew offered it now until he focused on the slow, measured breaths Andrew was taking, forcing his chest to rise and fall more dramatically than it did on its own. Neil’s lip quivered. He felt suddenly overwhelmed again by the whole situation, even as his breathing slowed to a reasonable rate.
“Better?” Andrew asked, voice barely a whisper.
Neil nodded. He tapped three times on Andrew’s chest and pulled his hand back, though he left it palm up between them. Andrew laced their fingers together and tapped the back of his hand three times, too. “Thank you,” Neil said.
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Andrew,” he murmured.
“Neil.”
“Thank you,” Neil repeated.
Andrew must have noticed something in his expression, because he nodded and said nothing else.
They sat like that for a while, hands intertwined, the night silent around them, Andrew tolerating Neil’s staring. Eventually, Neil yawned and Andrew let go. They laid back down.
“By the way,” Andrew muttered. “I would have never let Riko kill me.”
It surprised Neil enough that he laughed. He dreamt of Andrew’s almost smile in the dark.
To sleep— perchance to dream.