Chapter Text
June 7th, 2006
There's something poetic about being killed by your own mother. Something Shakespearean, Andrew would dare to think.
Mother; who gives and takes life.
Mother, a six letter word just like in weapon, just like in harrow, just like in plague…
Six letters, like in misery and deadly.
(Andrew was good at spelling, not that Tilda ever knew. )
It's okay, as Andrew bleeds out in the grass, he really feels like it's okay.
Martyr is a six letter word too.
Everything feels so cold, but Andrew is familiar with the feeling.
Life is dripping from his body. It feels more familiar than a mother’s kiss.
The darkness, the numbness, the void.
The last thing Andrew sees before giving up his final breaths, is a beautiful white wolf running away from him…
That's Aaron. That's his brother. That's the reason Andrew is dying.
But it's okay, you see?
Because Aaron is alive. Because Aaron is free from the evil witch. And the evil witch, Tilda, is dead.
A son killing his mother… that is rather ironic.
A son, Aaron, losing his mother… that's a story as old as time.
Andrew got to see his brother one last time, it feels like a good ending.
Aaron will be okay. Nobody can hurt him anymore.
Andrew’s last heartbeat is accompanied by the song of wolves and a fresh summer breeze.
No date
“What are you drawing?” Andrew hears a boyish voice over his shoulder and he doesn’t know why, but he feels embarrassment washing over his face as he clings the paper page against his chest. Oh, right, he was drawing something.
He used to draw a lot when he was younger.
“Nothing,” Andrew lies, because that’s what he does the best. It feels right and familiar. He doesn't want this mysterious person to see the paper.
Then, the boy appears before Andrew. The boy has a blurry face, like a bad dream, like being drunk feels, probably, Andrew hasn’t tried alcohol yet.
Wait. Blurry faces aren't normal.
Andrew realizes he’s dreaming. Which is rare, as he never dreams. Nothing good to dream about, he has always thought. Only nightmares that he’d rather forget, even when they taunt him when he’s awake.
So, yeah, he doesn't dream.
But now, Andrew is dreaming. He knows he’s dreaming because his hands are tiny and everything looks so big. And yeah, he’s not that little anymore. He’s seventeen and just went away from juvie, “mom” finally picked him up from careday.
It seems like he’s dreaming about being a kid again, but here's the thing: for some reason it doesn't feel like a nightmare.
“It doesn’t look like nothing,” the boy says, slowly, suspicious, but not threatening in the slightest. “I want to see it, Drew.”
The word Drew hits Andrew’s chest with the force of a thunderbolt. Nobody calls him that, he’s just Andrew Doe, or Andrew at best. He doesn't get “son", or “brother", or “Drew".
He’s Andrew Doe, nothing more.
But this boy calls him Drew and it doesn’t feel like nothing.
“No.” Andrew replies, harshly, and tucks the drawing inside his red hoodie, the one with a car design he loves so much. Yeah, he used to have a red hoodie when he was what? Ten years old? He liked it until he lost it. “No. I don't want you to see it."
No —The magic word, the forbidden word— for a moment, Andrew thinks the boy is gonna insist, people don't care when Andrew says no.
Instead, this boy just shrugs and replies:
“... Fine, I’ll leave and give you some privacy so you can finish it.”
It’s not a threat, doesn’t feel like one. It’s almost sweet, careful, like he’s trying to respect Andrew's decision. It must feel nice, but the taste is so close to rejection. Andrew doesn’t know how this boy looks, but something inside him is screaming for this boy to not go. So Andrew holds the boy's forearm, maybe too strong, maybe too harsh, maybe he doesn't care as long as he stays with Andrew.
“Stay,” Andrew doesn't trust his own voice, so small, so childish, so vulnerable.
He can’t see the boy's face, but Andrew knows he’s rolling his eyes as he huffs. But most important: the boy stays.
Andrew tries to look into the boy’s face, but he can’t see him. At least his hands are crystal clear, tanned forearm, a simple t-shirt with a fox in it. The boy has a little mole on his pinky finger.
Andrew doesn’t realize his own pinky is meeting this boy’s until it’s too late and his face feels hot and his tummy feels uneasy. He can sense how the other boy is smiling, but he just keeps looking at those hands. They stay like that for what feels like ages, in silence, Andrew can hear songbirds behind him and can smell fresh summer breeze, flowers and green.
Green.
“Hey,” whispers the boy, his voice all soft and sweet and, somehow, Andrew can hear the embarrassment dropping in that nice voice. “Would you draw me a picture?”
“Yes.” Andrew wants to say, because deep down, even in this dream, it feels like he wants to give this mysterious boy the whole world and more. But the boy doesn’t need to know that. So instead, Andrew replies: “Maybe.”
The boy looks around suspiciously, this feels familiar, like it is not the first time the boy gets a “maybe” instead of a “yes” Like this is a game they played before. “Tell me what you want,” coaxes the boy, with a knowing voice, like they had done this a million times before. And it does feel like that, because Andrew can feel a sense of mundanity in this charade.
“Do you want a big drawing?” inquires Andrew, as he collects all his colorful pencils.
“Yes,” says the boy, and he sounds so eager that Andrew almost feels himself blush. To want a picture from him so badly, something made by him, something that his other foster families used to ignore and drop into trash cans. Oh, this boy wants a picture drawn by Andrew.
This boy is something different, is someone special. Andrew needs to see his face, but he can’t. And yet, it feels like he doesn’t need to see who the boy is to feel like everything is okay.
This boy isn’t just a boy. This boy feels like The Boy, whatever this means.
“A big one and with the new pencils mommy brought you,” clarifies The Boy, as he touches the pencils with just the tip of his fingers.
“He doesn't want to touch them because the pencils are yours, and he won’t touch your things unless you say so,” Andrew thinks, as he takes one of the pencils, his new pencils, the one that The Boy’s mom bought for him and that he likes very much, they feel familiar and comfortable between his fingers.
“Uhm. That’s very pricey…” declares Andrew, because it is the truth, for The Boy at least. Andrew knows that The Boy won’t take anything from him for free. Not now, not never.
“Do you want a promise or a secret?” offers The Boy and something inside Andrew seems to click.
This feels good. This feels familiar. This feels… like control.
Andrew likes this game. Nothing is free, but none of them have money, they’re just kids after all. The Boy wants a picture, Andrew wants something in exchange.
Nothing in this life is free, there’s always a price to pay. And that’s good, that’s perfect, because Andrew can calculate the value, the risk and all the things that came along with every little action. The Boy can pay with promises, to do something for him with the same value that drawing a big colorful picture could have. Or…
“I want a secret, Kevin” Andrew demands, because he doesn’t feel like promising right now. Not for Kevin.
Kevin. Yeah, sure, The Boy’s name is Kevin.
“Okay,” accepts Kevin, nodding before looking over his shoulder, like he’s making sure no one is close to them. Just like that, Kevin makes a little gesture for Andrew to get closer. And Andrew doesn’t like to get closer to other boys, he knows that, but it’s a dream, remember? It’s a dream and in this dream, Andrew feels like he can trust Kevin with everything. There’s something powerful, something special.
So Andrew leans closer to Kevin, turning his face, offering his ear for Kevin to whisper.
Kevin gets closer and his breath makes Andrew feel weird, but not bad weird, not uncomfortable weird. But the kind of weirdness that makes his tummy feel crazy and his heart to ache… and lean closer.
“I know how to bring back memories, I know how to get into someone else mind,” Kevin confesses, voice trembling, so soft that Andrew almost can’t hear it.
Oh but he does, and he knows it’s a big secret. Way too big for a nobody like Andrew to know it. But he knows, oh, he knows.
Andrew knows Kevin and his mother are witches. Andrew knows magic is real and he sees it every time Kevin smiles and the room feels fresh and green and full of life and summer. Andrew knows Kevin’s mom is powerful and that she can erase memories and he doesn’t like that, because if he can’t trust his own memory, what can Andrew trust then?
“Kevin, you can always trust Kevin,” a voice in his head sings.
“Doesn’t seem complicated.” Andrew lies, because he doesn’t want to make it a big deal. He wants to get a reaction from Kevin.
“Andrew! It’s a big secret,” Kevin complains, so childish, so funny, so pretty. “Mom already knows, but she says the Moriyamas can’t know, never ever. Nobody needs to know.”
“I already know,” Andrew replies, smug, it gives him the illusion of being something important, the illusion of being powerful, somehow.
“But I know you won’t tell,” Kevin pouts, yeah, Kevin is pouting because Andrew can see the lower half of his face, with a missing tooth and a little mole under his lip.
“You’re the worst at keeping secrets, Kevi,” taunts Andrew, because it’s the truth. That’s how Andrew learned about magic, witches, and werewolves, because Kevin couldn’t shut up since the first time they met.
It’s as refreshing as it is dangerous, but it’s okay, as long as Andrew can have all of Kevin’s secrets, everything could be okay.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m not!”
“Yes, you, are,” Andrew finishes and he can see Kevin’s mouth forming a perfect line. “You are the worst secret keeper in the world, Kevi.”
Kevin pouts. Kevin pouts a lot, like he knows he can get the world with just that “funny little mouth of his" .
“I just told you secrets because you’re my tether, ” Kevin mumbles, biting his lower as he extends his hand to Andrew and Andrew takes his hand because it’s Kevin's hand.
Kevin is using that word that makes Andrew feel something so akin to ecstasy and sorrow at the same time: tether. "You are the light that guides him in darkness", Kayleigh likes to say…
Right. Kayleigh, that’s Kevin mom's name. Kayleigh was the one that explained to Andrew about magic and witches, and wolves, and packs, and mates… and tethers. Andrew is Kevin’s tether, the one person in this world that kept Kevin from losing himself in his magic. The person that helps Kevin to keep being an human.
“It’s not like I’ll be telling this to everybody,” Kevin explains as he intertwines his fingers between Andrew’s and he feels his face going red. When Kayleigh explained tethers to him, he never thought he could be a part of that, or packs, or anything. “You’re special.”
“You’re lying,” Andrew replies automatically, evoking the same words he repeats to himself every night, when he looks at the twin bed in his… in their bedroom, where Kevin sleeps and dreams like there’s nothing wrong in the world. “I’m not like you, Kevi, or your mom or her people.”
“Drew…” Kevin calls, like his name is a magic word or maybe, like his words are a spell, warm, nice, fresh like summer. Kevin holds Andrew’s face between his hands and caresses his cheeks like they are made of porcelain or something… “You’re special.”
And then, this doesn’t feel like a dream anymore, Andrew’s heart feels so heavy that it may drop from his chest.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes. You. Are. Because my tether is the most special person in the world, and that person is you.”
Kevin says the stupidest sappiest shit all the time. Andrew hates him for that, because Kevin is everything caring, honest and stupid in the world. And Kevon talks like he doesn't know he’s messing with Andrew’s mind.
“You just think I’m special because I’m your tether. That’s stupid.”
Ah, witches and wolves are stupid creatures, driven by magic, by the moon.
“You can be so stubborn," Kevin sighs, and he sounds tired, and Andrew wants to take that tiredness away but he can't, not right now. " You’re my tether ‘cause you’re already special. I didn’t feel it when we first met, but now I just feel it everywhere.”
Kevin is holding his hand so tight, like he doesn't want Andrew to go.
“When your mom doesn’t want me around anymore, what then?” Andrew asks, because he knows. He’s just like the chewy toy for a dog. Kayleigh took him because Kevin got attached to him and nothing more.
It's only a matter of time for Andrew to be left behind. It's just a matter of time for Kevin to let go of his hand.
“Mom loves you too!” Kevin complains, so scandalized that he sounds like a girl and Andrew almost laughs.
That’s a lie. He may only be nine years old, but Andrew already knows how his story end. Someone leaves him, no one comes looking for him. Andrew doesn’t even believe Kayleigh loves Kevin as much as she says. Mothers are such a complex concept. If so, why does Kayleigh want Kevin to be another Moriyama Witch? Kevin hated them. Kayleigh never talks about why she stopped being —The Moriyama Witch of the Moriyama pack—, but now she keeps talking about Kengo and Tetsuji and Riko.
Ugh.
Riko.
The name makes Andrew feel sick.
Kevin doesn’t belong to them, he belongs with Andrew. Kevin’s soft voice, Kevin’s gentle hands, Kevin’s nice and welcoming heartbeat when they share a bed on stormy nights.
“Kevin.”
“Andrew.”
“Why do you want me to draw something for you?”
“I…” Kevin stutters and Andrew catches that quickly enough to realize Kevin is uncomfortable.
“No lying,” Andrew dares as he looks at Kevin's mouth, the way it twitches.
“I read one of mom's letters, from the Moriyamas,” Kevin says, like a life sentence, like a death sentence. Andrew must be imagining things, because he almost felt how Kevin’s hand starts feeling colder.
“What did it say?” Andrew asks, trying to hide the anxiety, trying to hide how fast his heart is beating right now. But Kevin doesn't answer, and Andrew knows Kevin is biting the inside of his cheek. What a nasty habit, Kevin should be one of the kind that hurt themselves. “Kevin."
“They’re going to give me tattoos this summer," Kevin deadpans. “I want you to design them. It… it can be whatever you want.”
No.
No, no, no, no.
Witches get tattoos that are connected to their magic, it help them to control it better. Tattoos means to be ready, to being mature. Being ready means to be useful. And being useful for the Moriyama means…
“You’ll go," Andrew whispers and he frees Kevin’s hand like it's burning, like it's poison. Andrew doesn't realize he’s collecting all his things and dropping them on his bed, away from Kevin, until he feels that familiar hand in his shoulder.
Andrew beats it away and feels his stomach twitch when he hears Kevin gasps.
“You’ll come with us, Drew,” Kevin says and it sounds like pleading, so much that Andrew feels like he wants to hit him in the face.
He doesn't want to leave this house, full of Kevin and him.
“No," Andrew replies, finite, stubborn as Kevin always complains. He crosses his arms in his chest, hiding his hands, because Andrew is at his weakest when Kevin holds his hand. "I don’t want to go with them. Do you?”
There's more face he can see right now. Kevin’s face is all red and he has more moles and a nice nose. Even when Andrew can't see his eyes, Kevin looks miserable.
Slowly, sorrowful, Kevin let go a soft: “There’s no other option…”
Andrew cuts him right there. “Do you want to go with them? Yes or no?"
Andrew catches in real time how something inside Kevin breaks, how he flinches like something hits him and Andrew feels the familiarity of this deep in his bones.
No, this is wrong.
“You know I don't want to go!” Kevin screams, but not an angry scream like the one Andrew is used to from his previous home. No. This is something that sounds like hurting, like exasperation, like sorrow. He can sense how bad Kevin wants to cry.
“I like our family just as it is,” Kevin whines, like a little pathetic baby Andrew wants to protect. “I don’t like Tetsuji. I don’t like Riko. He says I’m his tether but he’s lying, I just know. He doesn’t treat me like somebody with a tether would…”
Andrew wasn't made for comfort, he knows that all too well. He’s not something soft like a pillow for people to cry over or fragile like the tissue paper people use to wipe tears away. He never knows what to make when Kevin cries, because oh boy, Kevin is a professional whiner. Too sensitive for his own good. Too fragile despite his magic.
And yet… Andrew craves that from Kevin, to be the one Kevin wants to cry in front of.
Kevin is still crying when Andrew holds his hand and drags him to the pillow fort in the corner of the room, the one that only Andrew and Kevin have access to, the one with Kevin’s little fox plushie and all of Andrew's favorite car toys. Sometimes, Kevin call this place “their nest”.
“Crybaby…” Andrew sighs, finally, when he passes Kevin his plushie and the other boy grabs it to hug it tight against his chest. The sobbing and the tears slowly stop.
“I’m scared, Drew,” Kevin finally whispers, voice wet and changed with uncertainty. “I know mom will be there too, but she travels too much and I just…”
Andrew feels how his eyes sting, so he rubs them with his forearm. And just like that, like he’s removing a magic band from his eyes, Andrew can finally see what Kevin’s face looks like.
Too pretty for his own security. Too pretty for Andrew’s poor heart.
“I need you by my side, protecting me,” Kevin pleads, yes, pleads.
Between a whole pack of powerful wolves and their witch, Andrew feels like Kevin is making a bad bet at believing in him. But you know what? He doesn’t care. Andrew huffs, and he goes right to poke Kevin’s forehead, just over that cute mole over his eyebrow. “You’re the one who can do magic and stuff, but you want me to protect you.”
“Yes. I want you to protect me.”
They sit in silence for what feels like an eternity, Andrew can’t stop looking at Kevin’s face. It does make something weird in his stomach, something tight in his chest. Oh, Kevin was a face nobody could ever say no to.
The most stunning green eyes Andrews has ever seen. He feels bewitched, or something like that.
“Clovers,” Andrew finally says and it takes Kevin a moment to understand. And when he does, oh, that smile is worthy of all the messy thoughts that Andrew is pushing into the back of his skull.
Green, like Kevin’s beautiful eyes.
If they're gonna do this, they're gonna do it on Andrew’s terms.
“I would love to have clovers on my skin,” shyly, Kevin replies, hugging the plushie… Mr. Fox against his cheek.
Kevin smiles like he doesn't know he could shatter Andrew's soul with a word.
June 10th, 2006
Before Andrew opened his eyes, the smell of clovers and honey filled his lungs. Just like a fresh summer breeze.
When he wakes up, he can smell everything. Not only that, everything around him feels like too much.
The colours in the ceiling.
The aromas around him.
The sound of heavy breaths and whispers.
And that is not…
Ah.
The realization hits him like an arrow.
He shouldn’t be alive.
He died.