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After a few weeks of knowing about their existence, Andrew figured it out. Abram was the youngest. Alex, Stefan, and Chris were of varying ages, having formed over time on the run with their mother. However, Andrew didn’t know what to think of Nathaniel. Nathaniel was the quietest of Neil's alters. According to Neil, who Andrew had prodded for answers, the most aggressive, too. This didn’t help Andrew. While he hadn’t met Alex, Stefan, or Chris, they didn’t grab his attention like Nathaniel did. Not because they weren’t interesting, but because they hadn’t fronted in years. Nathaniel was around often. He just didn’t speak to anyone but Kevin.
Andrew didn’t know what to think of Nathaniel. Until he did.
1.
Finding out about Neil’s D.I.D. had been an accident, not something willingly shared. Andrew had woken up one day to frantic whispering in the living room of his dorm, causing the blonde to sit up with a glare at the door. When the whispering didn’t stop, Andrew sighed and got up.
He opened the door to his room slowly, not very surprised to see Neil over. But, considering Matt was over too, which did surprise Andrew, something was wrong.
Neil looked wide-eyed and panicked, like he didn’t know where or who he was. Andrew didn’t like that.
“Neil, it’s okay…” Matt said softly, “I promise. It was just a plate—I’m not going to hurt you.” Matt said softly, holding out his hands in a soothing way but not getting any closer to the other. Nicky stood behind him, chewing on his lip nervously, but also not getting any closer. Andrew didn’t know if they were just trying not to get stabbed or not to scare Neil.
In the end, nothing they did mattered.
Neil’s head snapped to Andrew’s door as he heard it open, and the ginger launched himself through it, practically pushing Andrew out of his way in his panic. Andrew sighed, as if this was the greatest punishment he had ever gotten, not a usual routine when Neil needed a hiding place that wasn’t the roof.
Andrew shrugged at Matt and Nicky before he turned around.
“Make sure he’s okay.” It was the only thing Andrew heard Matt say before he closed the door behind them.
Neil was sitting between the wall and Andrew’s bed, as per usual, but he stared up at Andrew with eyes that couldn’t comprehend who was in front of him. The other’s gaze put him on guard. He looked like Neil, he instinctively ran into Andrew’s room like Neil, but Andrew couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t Neil at all.
“Neil…” He said softly, not moving from the door. Neil shot him a glare.
“That’s not my name.” The blue-eyed man snapped. Andrew held up his hands in defense, confused as all hell.
“Then what is?” Andrew prompted.
“Abram.” Nei– Abram answered. Andrew was confused, naturally, but just went with it.
“Okay, Abram. What’s going on?” Andrew asked, moving to take a seat on the bed. Abram tensed up before relaxing as Andrew settled and didn’t get closer to him.
“You can’t tell the therapist lady,” Abram said, hugging his knees tighter. “Nathaniel said I shouldn’t. He says you’ll make it worse.”
“Nathaniel?” Andrew asked. Abram nodded.
“You have to promise. Cross your heart,” Abram said, his blue eyes seeming to look into Andrew’s soul. His voice got very serious. Andrew nodded and crossed his heart. The gesture was half-mocking, but Abram must’ve understood that he agreed, promise and all. Abram took a breath. “There are five of us here.” Andrew cocked his head to the side.
“Where?”
“In here,” Abram said, tugging at the string of his Palmetto hoodie. He pointed to his own chest. He didn’t seem to be annoyed by the questions, just subdued. Like this was a police interrogation. “All squished together like... like crayons in a box.”
This is where it clicked.
There are five of us here. Nathaniel doesn’t want me to tell you. That’s not my name.
Neil had Dissociative Identity Disorder.
“Does Neil know?” Andrew asked Abram. Abram nodded.
“I come out when something bad reminds him of... stuff. From when we were little.” Abram paused. “I take over so he can hide for a bit. So he doesn’t have to feel it.”
It made sense. Andrew couldn’t shake one thing, however.
“Then Abram, how old are you?”
“I’m eight,” he said quietly, like he was worried the number wasn’t right.
Andrew’s expression must’ve changed, because Abram’s next words came with a sudden scowl.
“Don’t look at me like I’m a baby.”
His facial expression then grew even darker.
“Leave him alone.” The animosity change in Abram’s voice told him it wasn’t Abram he was talking to anymore.
“Nathaniel,” Andrew said. The other didn’t answer beyond a glare. “You know you’re in my room, I could kick you out at any moment.”
“But you won't,” Nathaniel said boldly. Andrew had no argument for that. He was right. It was obvious that Neil or Abram needed to take a breather, probably due to dropping a plate, if what Matt said was true. Andrew knew the feeling all too well. A broken plate in his foster homes meant a beating more often than not. It had definitely been the same with Neil and his– identities(?, Andrew would do more research when the other was okay). He knew what Neil’s parents were like by now, and he knew he probably got much worse than a beating if he dropped a plate.
Nathaniel’s jaw clenched. His entire posture screamed hostility, like Andrew had already said the wrong thing without realizing it. But he wasn’t looking for a fight—he was just ready for one, as if that was all anyone ever gave him.
“I don’t care what he told you. Neil doesn’t need you digging around in this,” His voice was cold, measured, like a blade pressed to a throat. “He’s not some broken thing for you to fix.”
Andrew stared at him. And for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. And then…
“Good,” Andrew said, his voice flat. “Because I don’t fix people.”
Nathaniel blinked. That certainly wasn’t the answer he expected. His mouth twitched, like he was deciding between another glare or a smirk, and ended up with neither.
“Just don’t push,” he muttered. “Don’t make him worse.”
“I’m not the one who dropped the plate, if you recall,” Andrew replied.
That earned him a glare, but Nathaniel didn’t bite. He just exhaled sharply through his nose and stood, brushing off his jeans.
“He’ll be tired when he wakes up,” Nathaniel said, already walking toward the door. “Don’t ask him about this.”
Andrew didn’t move from the bed.
“Are you always this much of an asshole, or is it just me?”
Nathaniel paused at the door, glancing back with a hollow smirk.
“Only to people who don’t know when to quit.”
Then he stared at the wall for a few seconds, and just like that, the tension in his shoulders disappeared. The set of his jaw softened, and his arms fell to his sides. His eyes lost the sharpness that had been there only a second ago.
Neil blinked up at Andrew, dazed and confused.
“…What happened? How did I get here?”
Andrew didn’t answer right away.
“Nothing you have to worry about. Not tonight,” he said as he leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
And even as Neil frowned, even as his eyes clouded with the sense that he was missing something big, Andrew stayed there—silent, steady, still here.
And that was enough, for now.
2.
“You’re a nosy little thing, aren’t you?”
“Hi, Nathaniel.”
Andrew didn’t flinch at the snarling attitude from the other. By now, he’d done his research. He knew what alters were and why they existed—trauma, early childhood fragmentation, all of it ugly. All of it earned. And it made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t like. He thought he’d already understood Neil’s past. He’d seen the scars, the way Neil flinched at certain tones, the way he never let himself laugh and rarely smiled. Hell, he knew exactly who his parents were and a lot of what they’d done. But this was different. This was Neil’s psyche, shattered like glass and rearranged to survive, like a porcelain plate someone had dropped and then tried to glue back together.
And Nathaniel was part of that survival. The angry part. The sharp edge.
He wasn’t supposed to talk about it. Nathaniel had made that clear. But Andrew had gone against Nathaniel’s instructions and asked anyway—waited until Neil was rested, until his hands had stopped shaking the next morning—and Neil had looked at the floor, ashamed.
“I don’t care. I just want to know.” Andrew cut in, “Make it a truth for a truth.”
Neil had explained slowly. Abram, Alex, Stefan, Chris. Finally, Nathaniel.
“The most aggressive,” Neil said. “He took the worst of it—Evermore, Baltimore. Stuff that would’ve destroyed me.”
Andrew stayed silent.
“He only talks to Kevin,” Neil added.
“He talked to me.”
“Yeah. I don’t know why.”
Now, Andrew stood in Neil’s room, watching Nathaniel dig through the mess of drawers like a pissed-off raccoon. He was looking for the knives. Of course he was.
Nathaniel dug through the mess like a man on a mission—fast, careless, and strangely methodical. Socks and receipts hit the floor. A broken keychain clinked against the wood. The desk drawer groaned in protest.
Andrew stayed leaning against the doorframe, watching silently. The way Nathaniel moved wasn’t Neil—his gestures were tighter, his stance more defensive, like he was preparing for a fight even here.
Andrew grabbed a shirt off the floor and lobbed it at Nathaniel’s head.
“He’s not going to take care of them. You know that,” Andrew said.
“You think I don’t know how to take care of and handle a blade? Please. I’m the reason Neil still has fingers.” Nathaniel caught the shirt, rolled it up, and tossed it aside with one hand. He went back to digging, movements sharper now. He didn’t look at Andrew, but Andrew could see the tension in his shoulders, the little hitch in his breath when he found one of the knives.
He didn’t just set it aside. He inspected it—flipped it once, checked the dull edge, and weighed it in his hand. He was comfortable with the weight of danger. Too comfortable.
Andrew leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“Then why are they in this condition?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Nathaniel didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed as he kept rummaging, yanking open a drawer with too much force.
“Because I let him believe he’s safe,” he muttered, so low Andrew almost missed it. “And safe people don’t need sharp things.”
That pulled something in Andrew’s chest tight. He didn’t show it.
“You don’t believe he’s safe,” he said, instead of the thousands of things he wished to.
Nathaniel gave him a look. Not angry—tired.
“Do you?”
Silence stretched between them. A challenge. A confession.
“I believe he could be,” Andrew said eventually. “But you don’t get to make him bleed every time he lets himself hope.”
That hit. Nathaniel stiffened. Not much, but enough.
“You think you’re clever. You think you see everything,” he snorted.
“No,” Andrew said. “Just more than you want me to.”
For a moment, Nathaniel looked like he might say something real. His fingers paused on the handle of a pocketknife. He blinked. Then it was gone.
“I don’t like you,” he said flatly.
“You like Kevin.”
“Kevin’s smart enough not to try to get close.”
“Too late.” Andrew shrugged and finally stepped away from the door, crossing the room to stand beside him.
Nathaniel didn’t reply. He just turned the knife over in his hand, checking the edge with a precision that made Andrew wonder how often he’d needed it.
They both reached for the bottom drawer at the same time. Their hands brushed—barely—but Nathaniel flinched like he’d been burned. Just barely—but enough for Andrew to catch it.
“You’re really not used to people helping, are you?”
“I’m not used to people meaning it,” Nathaniel said, almost too quietly.
The two of them lapsed into silence. After a moment, Andrew stepped back across the room, returning to the doorway—not retreating, just giving space.
When he finally spoke again, it was quiet.
“He gets hurt because of you? I don’t come out to fix it. I come out to end it.”
“Duly noted.” Andrew met his eyes.
Nathaniel gave a small nod—maybe approval, maybe warning—and tucked the knife into his jacket. Then, without another word, he slipped past Andrew and left the room.
Andrew stayed there for a moment, staring after him. Then he looked down at the mess of drawers, the scattered pieces of Neil’s life.
“You deserve to feel safe, too, you stubborn bastard,” he whispered.
3.
At 3:07 a.m., the world felt too quiet. Andrew hadn’t meant to stay awake this long, but he couldn’t turn his brain off.
Ever since meeting Nathaniel, he and Neil were always rolling around in his brain. Neil being there was normal, but Nathaniel was new. He didn’t know what attracted him to the other, besides the fact that the other was a mystery just waiting to be solved.
His hoodie smelled faintly like Neil’s shampoo. He didn’t know why that stuck in his mind, but it did. Maybe because it wasn’t his.
The clock on his nightstand glowed in the darkness, and the dorm felt like it was holding its breath. Every creak of the pipes and hum of the fridge had grated on his nerves. He was acutely aware of Neil’s body missing from his bed. Eventually, the silence got too loud to ignore.
He always ended up on the roof when sleep refused to come, chasing silence and open air like they could loosen the knots in his chest—but tonight, the weight hadn't lifted. The concrete was cold against his ass, the sky above stretched wide and cloudless, offering no comfort. And he wasn’t alone.
When he’d climbed up, he caught the thin curl of smoke immediately, and then the faint click of a lighter. Nathaniel sat about ten feet away, half-shadowed, his posture tight but not closed off, the cigarette burning between two fingers like a fuse that hadn’t been lit yet. Neither of them said anything. Andrew hadn’t moved closer. Just sat down, slow and deliberate, letting the silence do what it needed to.
It wasn’t the first time Andrew had run into someone on the roof this late. Kevin had shown up once, high on pain and liquor. Nicky sometimes came up to cry. But Nathaniel was different. Nathaniel didn’t strike Andrew as the kind of person who ran from anything—not even his own thoughts. That made the silence between them feel heavier. Like it had teeth.
It was an hour before Nathaniel looked at him, holding out the pack of cigarettes. They weren’t the kind Andrew usually smoked, most likely the ones Neil and Nathaniel’s mom smoked, but Andrew’s hands itched for one anyways.
Nathaniel held the box out with two fingers, gaze unreadable. Not expectant. Just offering. A truce or a challenge—Andrew wasn’t sure.
He hesitated for one second too long. That was all it took for Nathaniel to smirk.
“I’m trying to quit,” Andrew said defensively at the other’s facial expression. Nathaniel rolled his eyes.
“For Neil?” he asked. Andrew stayed silent, and he sighed, shrugging, “Sharing one with me won’t hurt, but I won’t push you.”
“I don’t want to leave him here alone,” Andrew admitted, standing up and walking over to Nathaniel. Nathaniel handed him a cigarette, lighting it without hesitation.
Andrew put it to his lips and took a drag. Nathaniel grinned, his scarred face almost seeming to crack with it.
“One won’t hurt,” Nathaniel repeated.
They lapsed into silence for only a minute before Nathaniel broke it. Andrew wasn’t surprised. It seemed to be a common factor in the alters sharing Neil’s body—not being able to shut up for long.
“So what’s up with you and Neil, anyways?” Nathaniel said, breathing in the smoke. Andrew almost choked, considering he had decided to take a hit right as the question was asked. He managed not to embarrass himself, though.
“Why do you care?” he said carefully. And then immediately closed his eyes in embarrassment. He had to deal with them. Of course he cared.
When he opened his eyes again, Nathaniel was grinning.
“Shut up,” Andrew said. Nathaniel laughed.
“I mean, you sleep in the same bed,” Nathaniel said, staring at him.
“You’re staring,” Andrew griped, his words lacking any heat.
“Answer the question.” Nathaniel rolled his eyes.
“There was no question since the first one,” Andrew smirked.
“Ha, ha,” Nathaniel said dryly, “What about you sharing the bed then?”
“That doesn’t mean anything.” Andrew looked away, obviously bluffing.
“Oh, you’re back to the nothing thing? He lets you touch him. You let him talk.” Nathaniel scoffed.
“Still doesn’t mean anything.” Andrew’s jaw tensed.
“It does to him.”
Andrew didn’t respond. He focused on the smoke curling off his cigarette like it might strangle him first.
“You’re not just blowing and kissing him,” Nathaniel said it like a fact, not an accusation. “But you haven’t told him either. So he’s stuck wondering if he’s the only one pretending it’s just physical.”
Andrew’s shoulders stiffened. He didn’t flinch, didn’t breathe, but his fingers twitched like they wanted to dig into the concrete.
“It’s complicated.”
Nathaniel didn’t speak right away. Just took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled smoke like judgment.
“It’s cowardice,” Nathaniel said. “But hey. He doesn’t ask for much. He’ll wait.”
“You don’t get to act like you’re protecting him,” Andrew snapped.
“I’m not,” Nathaniel replied coolly. “I’m protecting you from being a goddamn idiot.”
Andrew didn’t respond, but he didn’t walk away either. Which, annoyingly, meant Nathaniel had a point.
Nathaniel watched him for a beat longer, like he was debating whether to push. Then he sighed through his nose and flicked ash off the edge of the building.
“Let’s change the subject, then,” Nathaniel said calmly, “And I’ll ignore you pining over Neil without saying anything official about it.”
“I fucking hate Riko Moriyama.” Andrew mused, changing the subject as instructed. Nathaniel laughed, which Andrew considered a win.
“Me too, Andrew. Me too.”
Andrew didn’t say anything. But for the first time in a long time, the tightness in his chest eased just a little.
4.
“Hey, Neil—can you grab me some stick tape?”
The words Matt had said, in themselves, weren’t anything terrible. Casual, even. But Andrew saw Nathaniel flinch all the same. It was such a small, almost invisible reaction, and yet Andrew caught it immediately, like a sixth sense. He didn’t know when exactly he’d started recognizing the shift between Nathaniel and Neil, but he had. Maybe he was far more in tune with the subtle differences between them than he’d ever admitted to himself.
Nathaniel’s hand hesitated longer than necessary on the supply closet door handle. It hovered there, like he was weighing whether to say something or perhaps bracing for what might come next. Andrew’s eyes stayed locked on the door until Nathaniel disappeared inside. The quiet murmur of chatter on the court resumed around him, but Andrew didn’t look away.
It wasn’t just the flinch that caught him. It was the way Nathaniel swallowed it down—like bitter poison, sharp and unpleasant. The way his back had gone ramrod straight, every inch taut with tension, as if steeling himself for a repeat of the mistake. The way Nathaniel held it in afterward, jaw clenched so tightly Andrew could almost hear the grind of teeth, shoulders squared as if bracing for battle. Like he expected to be called Neil again, and like he’d already accepted it as inevitable. Like he’d convinced himself that it was easier to let it slide than to correct anyone.
Andrew’s gaze drifted back to the court.
Matt was laughing at something Nicky had said, completely unaware. He hadn’t meant any harm—he’d just seen the face, heard the voice, and filled in the wrong name. Easy mistake. Still a mistake.
Andrew felt that wrongness like a splinter under his skin, sharp and impossible to ignore. It was one of those tiny fractures that kept growing until it demanded attention.
His lips twitched downward in irritation.
“Don’t refer to him as Neil during this practice,” Andrew warned lowly as he passed Matt, his voice barely above a whisper but firm enough to carry the weight of unspoken reasons. Matt blinked, confused, but nodded without argument.
Later, long after practice had ended, Nathaniel stormed into Andrew’s room without knocking. The tension in his stride made it clear he wasn’t there just to talk casually.
Practice had been over for about an hour and a half by then. Andrew had already returned to the dorms, showered, and changed. He was sitting by his window, absentmindedly running his knife over and over in his hands—a nervous habit he hadn’t managed to shake. When Nathaniel appeared, Andrew looked up with a bored expression, not particularly surprised or concerned.
“Nothing,” Andrew said dryly, deflecting without effort. Nathaniel didn’t look like he believed him for one second. That was fine. Andrew didn’t need him to.
“Bullshit.” Nathaniel snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “None of them need to know. What did you say?”
Andrew sighed, tired of the same predictable confrontation.
“They wouldn’t care.”
Nathaniel’s glare hardened, dangerous and sharp. “Your brain has truly been affected by Neil if you think that’s true. Especially after how they’ve treated you—how they’ve treated your mental illness.”
Andrew wanted to argue. He wanted to say Nathaniel was wrong. But the truth weighed heavier. He just shook his head quietly.
“I’m not you,” he said simply, voice calm but firm. “I told Matt not to call you Neil for the practice.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Nathaniel said, crossing his arms over his chest, a clear challenge.
“You wouldn’t even let yourself do it, so I’m aware.” Andrew’s voice softened just enough as he slipped his knives back into their armbands. Nathaniel’s face flushed red with anger, but Andrew held his ground.
“Why did you do it?” Nathaniel’s voice cracked with frustration, cheeks and neck burning with a mix of shame and rage.
Andrew turned fully to face him, placing his hands on either side of the windowsill behind him. His tone was even, direct.
“Does it bother you when they call you Neil?”
Nathaniel didn’t answer. He stayed silent, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like his teeth might grind through his skin, eyes deliberately avoiding Andrew’s gaze as if looking away could make the whole conversation disappear. The tension hung heavy between them, thick enough to suffocate, but Nathaniel said nothing, choosing silence over confrontation, or maybe over admitting something deeper.
“Exactly,” Andrew said quietly. “Because you’re you. That’s why.”
Without another word, Andrew slowly rose from his spot on the windowsill, the weight of the words he’d said still lingering between them. He moved deliberately past Nathaniel, who remained rooted in place, his presence a quiet challenge in the dimly lit dorm living room. Andrew didn’t look back as he made his way out the door and into the cool night air, heading toward his car with a steady, measured pace.
Nathaniel didn’t follow. He stood there, looking contemplative, eyes dark with thoughts Andrew couldn’t read. Andrew didn’t know if Nathaniel genuinely didn’t know how to respond, or if he’d simply held himself back.
Nathaniel didn’t say thank you—but for the first time, Andrew could tell he almost wanted to.
5.
The crash came first—sharp, sudden, and loud enough to make Andrew’s hand tighten around the knife he wasn’t even holding a minute ago. His eyes flicked toward the hallway like it had pulled a string in his spine. For a few seconds, he just sat there on the beanbag in the dorm’s living room, letting the quiet that followed stretch. But it wasn’t a real quiet. It was tense and suspended, the kind that came before another blow.
Sure enough, a second crash rang out—harsher this time, something heavier. It was enough to get him moving.
He stood in a smooth motion, all restraint and calculation, and made his way into the hallway. No hesitation. Just muscle memory and a growing knot low in his chest. His feet were silent against the dorm carpet, but his mind wasn’t. He was already cataloging possibilities—Neil in a spiral, an accident, someone picking a fight—but the silence between crashes told him something else. This wasn’t panic. It was containment.
He stopped outside Neil and Matt’s door, reached for the knob, and found it unlocked. Of course it was. Neil had stopped locking it weeks ago.
The hinges creaked softly as Andrew pushed the door open. He didn’t call out. He just walked in like he had every right to—because he did.
The suite was dim, lit only by the low hallway bulb seeping through the window. Matt’s absence was immediately obvious—no movement, no music, no half-eaten protein bar on the desk. It was too quiet, the way it gets when someone doesn’t want to be overheard.
Andrew crossed the common space, already narrowing in on Neil’s room. The door there was cracked, like someone hadn’t cared enough to shut it all the way. Andrew paused just long enough to register the next thing he heard—breathing, shallow and ragged, like it had just come down from a scream.
He pushed the door open fully.
Inside was chaos. The kind that didn’t happen all at once but built like a storm. Clothes lay tangled in piles on the floor, drawers had been yanked out and overturned, and an old Exy racquet—one of Neil’s from the beginning of the year—was embedded in the drywall like someone had tried to nail the past to the wall.
And in the middle of it all stood Nathaniel.
Chest heaving, hands clenched at his sides, eyes not tracking anything in the room—just seeing through it. The light caught the edge of his jaw, sharp and tight. His mouth was parted slightly, like he couldn’t catch his breath but wasn’t letting himself try.
Andrew hadn’t spoken yet. He just leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and took it in—the trembling in Nathaniel’s arms, the flush of heat on his face, the way his body looked frozen mid-fight with a ghost that wouldn’t stop swinging.
“They’re going to charge you for that, you know,” Andrew said dryly, leaning against the doorframe and nodding toward the racquet lodged in the wall. Nathaniel shot him a dirty look, not looking even remotely surprised that he was there.
Nathaniel’s eyes snapped to him, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t surprised Andrew was there, just annoyed to be seen.
“Is this what you want?” Nathaniel said, looking away from him and at the mess on his floor. Andrew raised an eyebrow. Nathaniel, despite not looking at him, must’ve expected him to, because he continued. “Are you happy I’ve hit my breaking point? Gonna make a deal with me? Gonna fix me? C’mon, Andrew, you only stay because broken people make you feel less fucked up. You’ve gotta be having a field day right now.”
Andrew stayed silent. The words weren’t true, and Nathaniel knew it as much as Andrew did.
But Nathaniel wasn’t finished.
“You act like you’re protecting him, but let’s be real, he’s the one doing all the work. You–” Nathaniel moved over to him, moving as if to poke him in the chest, but he never touched him, “–didn’t save Neil. You just showed up late and took credit for the cleanup. This, whatever this is, was never about you. He just needed someone. You just happened to be there. You don’t get to act like you understand me. You’re not the reason he’s still standing. You’re just the guy he lets blow him when I’m too tired to be awake.”
It stung. Andrew couldn’t deny it stung. He didn’t even know if he flinched or not. It was fine. Nathaniel didn’t need to be paying attention or looking at him to know how his words hurt the other.
The silence that followed wasn’t a victory. It wasn’t even satisfying. Nathaniel turned his back like he’d won something, but his hands were clenched too tightly, and his shoulders were too high, like someone bracing for a counterpunch that never came. Andrew didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The quiet settled in like dust, heavy and hard to breathe through.
Nathaniel paced once, then twice, like the energy had nowhere to go. He spun back toward Andrew, eyes dark and jaw set.
“If you really knew what he needed, you’d leave. But you’re too selfish for that.”
Andrew didn’t flinch this time. He just stared, unblinking, like he was waiting for Nathaniel to stop hiding behind cruelty and say what he actually meant.
Nathaniel’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his voice low and shaking with something that wasn’t anger—not just anger.
“I’m a trauma holder,” Nathaniel snapped, “I hold trauma.”
“You’re also a protector.” The words stopped Nathaniel in his tracks.
“You keep Neil safe,” Andrew continued, “You always have, taking the brunt of the trauma for him.”
“I–”
“Now, are you done hurling insults? Because I’m still here.”
Nathaniel didn’t answer.
He didn’t yell again, didn’t slam a door, or throw another cruel line across the room like a knife. He just stood there for a long second, fists clenched at his sides like he was still holding something back. Then he turned away—slow and stiff, like anything more would break him—and walked out without another word.
Andrew didn’t follow.
He stayed where he was, spine straight, expression blank, the silence settling over him like dust. He didn’t move even when the echo of Nathaniel’s steps vanished down the hallway. He just waited. Because Nathaniel wanted him to leave. And he wasn’t going to.
Hours passed.
Andrew didn’t think about it much when he opened his locker the next morning and found the folded square of paper inside. No name, no note. Just the song title scrawled across the front in sharp, very Nathaniel-esque letters. “No Children” by The Mountain Goats. Obvious. Dramatic. Typical. But still.
It meant he’d come back. It meant he’d thought about it.
And that was enough. For now.
+1.
It didn’t happen during an argument. Not after a fight, or in the aftermath of something violent or sad. That would’ve been too easy. Too obvious. Too them.
It happened on a Thursday, late enough to be technically Friday. The kind of night that didn’t feel like anything at all—no weight, no foreshadowing, no cinematic thundercloud hanging overhead. Just stillness. The dorm was quiet in that particular way shared spaces get when everyone else has gone to bed and left their ghosts behind. Outside, the streetlights hummed, casting soft amber bars across the carpet through half-closed blinds. Somewhere in the distance, a car engine turned over, then faded into nothing.
Andrew didn’t know what time it was—only that it was long past when he should have gone to bed, and longer still since sleep had felt like a viable option. The clock on Kevin’s desk blinked, stuck at some meaningless hour. Its numbers had lost significance the moment the silence settled in for good.
He was sitting on the floor of Kevin’s room, back leaned against the bedframe, legs stretched out like he might be comfortable, but wasn’t. One hand rested on his knee, fingers tapping an erratic rhythm, the other splayed flat against the hardwood as if anchoring him there. The ceiling hadn’t moved in over an hour, not that he’d expected it to. But his eyes had stayed fixed on it anyway, like it might offer something. Clarity. Distraction. Anything.
Kevin, himself, was visiting the Trojans, and Andrew needed a place where people wouldn’t bother him. Hence, Kevin’s room.
The floor creaked behind him, soft and deliberate. A shift in the air. Not loud, not rushed. Just enough to let him know he wasn’t alone anymore.
And that’s when it happened.
“You always sit like that when you’re thinking?” Nathaniel’s voice came from the doorway—sharp, but not mocking. Just curious.
“Are you stalking me now?” Andrew didn’t turn to look at him. He didn’t have to. The air told him who it was. Nathaniel always entered a room like it owed him something.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Nathaniel walked in slowly, barefoot, shoulders loose. “You’re just loud in your silence.”
Andrew said nothing. He heard Nathaniel sit down beside him. Not next to him—just close enough that if either of them moved, it would mean something.
“You ever get tired of pretending?” Nathaniel asked after a beat.
Andrew’s jaw tightened. “You ever get tired of asking questions you already know the answers to?”
“Sure.” Nathaniel leaned back on his hands, staring at the ceiling like he could see through it. “But it’s nice to hear someone say it.”
Andrew exhaled through his nose. “What is it you think I’m pretending?”
“That you don’t want more than what you have.” Nathaniel’s voice was quieter now, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard. “That the lines you’ve drawn are still the ones you believe in.”
“You talk like you know me.” Andrew glanced sideways at him. “You’re not Neil.”
“No,” Nathaniel said. “But I know what it looks like when someone wants something and won’t let themselves touch it.”
Andrew’s stomach twisted, but his voice stayed flat. “And what, you came in here to talk about feelings?”
“I came in here,” Nathaniel said, turning his head to look directly at him, “because you look at Neil like he’s a fire you’re not allowed to get close to. And you look at me like I might burn the same way.”
Andrew didn’t reply.
For a long minute, the silence returned. Not sharp. Not awkward. Just a kind of stillness that neither of them usually got to live inside.
Nathaniel shifted. The movement drew Andrew’s gaze instinctively.
“You always this quiet when you want something?” Nathaniel asked again, this time softer. Like he wasn’t just talking about tonight.
“You think I want something?” Andrew asked back.
“I think you want someone,” Nathaniel said. “I just don’t know if you’ll let yourself have him.”
Andrew turned his head fully this time. Their knees were almost touching.
“Why are you even here?” he asked.
“Because you’re not the only one losing sleep,” Nathaniel said.
There wasn’t a right answer to that. Andrew didn’t try to find one. He just kept looking, watching the way Nathaniel’s eyes flickered—guarded, but not closed.
“You ever gonna kiss him?” Nathaniel asked suddenly. “Or are you too scared of what happens after?”
“Don’t do that,” Andrew muttered.
“Do what?” Nathaniel challenged.
“Use him to get at me.”
“I’m not,” Nathaniel said. “I’m using you to get at you.”
Andrew huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a sigh. Something inside him uncoiled, slow and reluctant.
Then Nathaniel leaned in—slowly, like it wasn’t a decision but a magnetic pull.
“Stop me,” he said.
“Kevin,” Andrew said, low.
“He knows,” Nathaniel murmured. “Doesn’t care.”
Andrew stayed still.
Their mouths met—careful, not hesitant. Just deliberate. Like neither of them was sure how much they were allowed to want this.
When Nathaniel pulled back, barely an inch, his voice dropped. “Thought so.”
Andrew stared at him, not with shock, but with something closer to recognition.
“Say something,” Nathaniel said.
“I’m not sorry,” Andrew murmured.
Nathaniel gave a tired, lopsided smile.
“Good.”
Andrew leaned forward again and kissed him, this time deeper, slower, anchoring it in something he hadn’t let himself name yet.
When they parted, neither of them spoke. They just sat there. Breathing in the same space, sharing the same weight.
It wasn’t a resolution.
But it was a beginning.