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The dark of Wymack’s apartment is a small comfort that Andrew doesn’t want to think about as he makes his way through the building. The fridge light when he opens it stings his eyes, since they got used to the dark, and he immediately closes it with more aggression than he should be using at one in the morning.
“Minyard?” a gruff voice calls from a different room. Andrew knows that by now, the old man would know who breaks into his place in the middle of the night, but it still grates on Andrew’s nerves. He thinks maybe Betsy would say something about the feeling of being known, or the fact that Wymack cares enough to memorize his habits, but those are thoughts that Andrew doesn’t want to engage in, so he shoves them deep down and chooses instead to rummage through the pantry.
There’s a bag of Hostess donettes that he snags, jumping to sit on the counter. He doesn’t care where the crumbs fall as he eats, intentionally making as much of a mess as he can. He makes it through three donettes before a figure stands in the door of the kitchen. “Dammit, Minyard,” he says, but it doesn’t really sound angry. “Do you wanna tell me why you’re in my apartment at one in the morning, eating my food in the dark?”
Andrew doesn’t answer, instead answering through a venomous look he shoots Coach’s way when the man turns a light on. He looks tired, but that never seems to matter when Andrew visits, because he always gets up.
Andrew raises another donette to his mouth and takes an obnoxious bite, chewing with his mouth open. He feels Wymack’s gaze on him, but Andrew doesn’t say anything about it.
“What’s on your sleeve?” Wymack asks, pointedly looking towards Andrew’s arms. There’s a small something in the pit of Andrew’s stomach, something he doesn’t want to name.
When he looks down, there’s a dark patch on his gray sweater, and he knows it was a miscalculation on his part, He’d forgone his armbands in his haste to get out of the dorm. To get away from Neil and Kevin and anybody that would look at him. Instead, he’d ended up at the one place that never fails to look and see him.
“I’d say it looks an awful lot like blood, wouldn’t you, Coach?” he says, purposefully keeping his voice blank. He watches Wymack’s eyes go through about five different emotions before settling on blank.
“Blood,” he repeats like he’s tasting the word in the context of his most unshakeable player.
“Are you hurt?”
“Hurt’s a funny word,” is all he replies with, shoving a donette into his mouth whole.
“Andrew, this is serious. Did you hurt yourself?”
“Why don’t you ask your little girlfriend, huh? She’s seen all my scars, surely she can share just what I get up to.” Andrew debates jumping off the counter and driving back to the dorms to go to his bed, but ultimately decides that’s too much work. With a sigh, he tosses the empty Hostess bag on the floor. Powder falls out of the bag, and Wymack’s eyes visibly track it before he sighs.
“Kid, let me see your arms.”
“No.”
“You came to my house with multiple blood stains on your shirt. Now, I know I usually mind my pay grade, but this became my business the second you stepped in my apartment. Let me see your arms, Minyard.”
Andrew knows there’s only so many times he can say no, so he hops off the counter indifferently and puts his hand to his sleeve. It’s still wet, and looking at it now, there’s a lot more than he originally thought there was.
As he rolls both sleeves up, he can’t help but indulge in the bubble of laughter that rises in his throat. It’s not a conscious thing, the laugh he lets out. It feels forced by the fucked up wires of his brain, grating on the edges of his throat. Wymack doesn’t let himself react visibly, but he’s already looking at Andrew’s face when Andrew meets his eyes.
“Andrew, this needs to be cleaned.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“This is still actively bleeding,” Wymack says, reaching out to grab Andrew’s arm, when he yanks it back to his middle. He looks down and watches blood transfer from his arm to the light gray sweater. It’s satisfying in a way he doesn’t know how to explain. “Look. Will you just let me clean and patch this up? If you get blood on my floor, I’ll make you clean my entire apartment top to bottom.”
It’s an empty threat and Andrew knows it, but he just makes his way to the bathroom, feeling like he isn’t really in control of his own feet. Or mind for that matter. If he was, he would have made his way to Columbia to maybe call Roland up, or even eat some ice cream.
Wymack’s footsteps trail behind him, and Andrew sits on the toilet, watching Wymack grab the first aid kit.
He watches feeling nothing as Wymack runs a damp washcloth over his arms, careful not to push too hard. Andrew lets out a hiss when Wymack dumps peroxide over the cuts, but otherwise holds still, forcing his mind to stay in the present and not trail back to other touches from men older than him.
By the time Wymack finishes wrapping Andrew’s arms in gauze, Andrew is extremely tired and done with the day in a way he only feels after days like today.
“I won’t ask why you did it,” Wymack starts, ignoring Andrew’s scoff. “I know that you wouldn’t tell me anyways. That’s what you have Dobson for. But, it’s not a bad thing to let someone else see you, Andrew.” It’s the last thing he says before putting the first aid kit back under the sink and leaving the bathroom and heading to his room. Andrew sits with those words for a few minutes before leaving the room himself and making his way to the lumpy couch that he’s become too familiar with these past months.
There’s a blanket on the couch already that he barely gets over his body before he lets his eyes close, hugging his arms close to his chest.