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The air is cold and brisk, and the hour is certainly too late to be up, but Neil pays it no mind when he sits down in his usual spot on the roof.
As it often happens these days, he’s not able to sleep. Every time he shuts his eyes, he feels Death’s long, bony fingers digging into his skin, and even though Neil has felt its breath on his neck for far too long to be truly uncomfortable, it still keeps him awake.
You could also say that he’s surprised that Death is patient enough to let him stay alive for a little longer.
He supposes he should feel grateful for that; for every precious second, every sunrise and sunset; but the truth is this – he is afraid. Sometimes Neil thinks that it is one of the few things he was really sure of in his life.
While on the run, the list went something like this:
1. He will run.
2. He won’t be anyone for too long.
3. He is afraid.
Somewhere along the way, between signing the contract with The Foxes and his first disastrous interview, the first two were slowly abandoned. They blurred and then faded, leaving behind only the familiar metallic taste on his tongue, and a hollow space in his mind.
The third one isn’t really the same as the others. It isn’t a rule his mother drilled into his brain with the impact of her fist during their countless, bitter days together. It isn’t a lesson he learned when he got shot or injured or stabbed by one of the men his father sent after them.
It was a recognition of the feeling that always seemed to follow him - a name for something nestling in his bones. Perhaps it was a little comforting; his fear had become a part of him, no longer a companion, but a part of his body – his ribs, his veins.
Even now, Neil falls back on it, as if too exhausted to muster up anything more vicious. He could be angry; he could be furious or full of grief; restless, determined. But Neil Josten is as good as dead already; there is no point.
At the end, he has this – fear, and he finds, while looking at the parking lot below him, some kind of resigned, shaky acceptance. And that, well– that’s the weirdest thing of them all.
How did it happen? How did he, the shaky outline of the boy on the run, a survivor, get distorted into the person who would die rather than flee?
It’s stupid, but Neil knows that if faced with another chance, he would do it all again. Those last months were the best in his entire life, and Neil thinks they might be the only reason his survival is worth something; he is finally truly alive. It is the best gift the Foxes could have given him.
He wonders what will happen when he’s gone; he avoids thoughts about their reaction - not ready to confront the fact that they may feel too betrayed to be anything else than apathetic towards his fate. Instead, he thinks about their next year and their future careers, and the lives they have ahead of them.
He thinks about Andrew and the way his brows twitch when he can no longer contain an emotion; about his silence and his truths. He thinks about those little moments that he stores in his heart and about their constant back and forth. Neil will miss all of it even if Andrew won’t.
He lets his mind spin stories about things he’ll never experience, and memories he’ll never get to make. Oh, how he wants; it almost drowns him. A weird sense of grief weighs his heart down, contracting violently, and Neil has to fight to keep his breathing even and deep.
As he often does in moments like these, he looks up at the cloudy sky; it’s void of any stars, but that doesn’t deter him from imagining them. His knowledge of constellations isn’t extensive, but knowing that they are there, even if hidden from plain sight, helps him to ease his strained posture. He breathes in and then out.
Just as he closes his eyes, muscles completely loosening, the screeching of metal doors nearly startles him out of his skin. He looks back and settles a little upon spotting the familiar silhouette. Andrew's blond hair is swaying in the wind, falling into his eyes, when he sits down next to Neil. He rummages in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a half-empty pack of cigarettes; he lights the first one and hands it to Neil, keeping the second one for himself.
They sit like that for a while; the silence coats Neil’s senses; the beat of his heart is steady, and Neil allows himself a glance in Andrew’s direction. His eyes are focused on the scenery ahead, his expression blank. He looks almost content, less tense than usual; it must be a good night – Neil can’t stop the relief that floods his veins.
“Staring,” says Andrew after four heartbeats.
Neil smiles, hoping it won’t be as noticeable in the dark, and shrugs. “Guilty.”
Andrew narrows his eyes as he lets out a puff of his cigarette; the smoke twists and swirls in the air. “The polite thing to do when you’re caught is to stop.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not really the model of an ideal citizen.” Neil says, his grin widening.
Andrew turns his unimpressed stare on him before tapping his fingers on the ground and sighing mockingly. “Idiot.”
Neil shrugs again, bathing in the short-lived warm feeling in his chest, and turns back to the parking lot. There is no soul in sight, and Neil isn’t sure if that’s weirdly consoling or just unnerving. As the cold seeps back into his bones, he allows his mind to drift off again slowly.
He wonders how many words he has left; he thinks about which ones will be his last and who will hear them. Maybe he’ll be lucky enough to die quickly, before the pain overwhelms him to the point where he’ll start begging. The idea of his final words being a plea to whoever kills him– he shudders.
Nevertheless, he knows it’s a naïve hope; there’s no painless way out for him, there never was.
Neil closes his eyes and tries to shove everything out of his mind; he focuses on the slight breeze ruffling his hair, on the familiar smell of smoke, and the presence of another person. He tries to welcome the cold and forget about how its absence feels; he’s gotten too comfortable this year. He stifles his urge to run and counts his heartbeats. He is alive.
He is afraid. But he’s still alive.