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Sometimes, Andrew misses it. The routine of opening the orange vials, popping off the white lid, and placing the two bitter pills into the palm of his hand, swallowing them dry. Granted, it was nauseating when he was on those meds. The psychosis it induced, the mania, he never wanted to experience that again. His thoughts were constantly muddy; he was susceptible, vulnerable, to others. And Andrew Minyard despised being vulnerable. However, as he stares into the mirror after another morning without the cocktail of his antipsychotics and antidepressants, he's starting to realize maybe why he was given them in the first place.
He's heard enough of Aaron's medical knowledge to know that what was given to him is generally regarded as ‘medical malpractice.’ But it's easy to miss something when it's been long enough that you forget why you hated it so much in the first place. Especially so when getting off this specific medication has given him some of the most gruesome withdrawals he's ever dealt with; he often contemplates whether it would be easier just to kill himself.
Proust had done a number on him. The most obvious of that he does not have the energy or willpower to think about this early in the morning. But the sudden withdrawal of the medications Andrew had taken for the past three years was almost lethal. It's been a little over a month now, and while some of the symptoms, like the constant nausea and vomiting, have lessened, some persist. Mainly, the disturbing brain zaps from the sudden discontinuation of his antidepressants, and the constant insomnia, and recurring suicidal thoughts from the sudden discontinuation of the antipsychotics.
Neil is fast asleep in their shared dorm room, and Andrew does not want to wake him up, especially knowing he has late-night practice with Kevin again. Andrew closes his eyes, takes in a slow breath, and lets it out. The urge to do things to forget, at least for a moment, comes to him immediately. He remembers Bee telling him ways to ground himself. To breathe in and out. Five things he can see. Four things he can touch. Three things he can- actually, fuck that. Andrew can not think of a single time when that bullshit coping mechanism has ever worked.
He resorts to sitting on the floor of their small bathroom, playing with one of his blades that hide under the black armbands of his. In all honesty, as much as those medications messed with his already screwed-up brain, at least they got rid of that heavy, inescapable numbness. He was so high most of the time that he didn’t have time to think about anything. He misses that. Because as he sits on the floor of his bathroom, the dim morning light peaking into the room, he doesn’t see a reason for any of it. For waking up, going to Exy practice, god, even sleeping next to Neil. He doesn't see a reason. None of it would matter if he would just take the fucking blade and drag it deep enough to where he knew he couldn't come back from it. There's a slow, draining sensation that washes over him every morning when he wakes up. Its hard to focus on anything but that early in the mornings when he gets like this. He pulls out a cigarette, lights it with the lighter he always keeps with him, and takes a drag. Breathes out. Repeats the motions until the bathroom smells like sharp, acrid smoke.
It isnt enough. The feeling he gets is overwhelming. Bee calls it the urge to relapse, but it feels less like an urge, more like a prickling, physical sensation on his skin. A need to release. A need to feel something other than this constant, unceasing numbness.
The first time Andrew had cut himself, he was nine years old. He had seen it from a character on TV, a clean drag, blood trickling, a sense of relief on their face. He wanted to know what that felt like. He’d slammed his head into walls before. Dug his nails into his skin until it bled to try and forget the feeling of his foster brother's hands on him. But this, something so intentional, no plausible deniability, he had never tried. Miss Spear had more than enough eyebrow razors to keep count; he had seen so in the bathroom cabinet himself.
Andrew knew, as he tried it, that Drake would laugh when he found out. Grin and pull up his sleeves further to get a better look. Urge him to go deeper. Andrew thought he could stop after one time. He underestimated how relieving the feeling could be. It started as a one-time escape, only after his nights with Drake, to try to forget. Then once a week, when the feelings were too overwhelming, the memories too suffocating. Which turned into once a day, which turned into something he couldn't stop. One small slip-up, one small inconvenience, and it was enough of a push to start again, dragging the lines across his forearm again and again until there was barely any space left that his black bands could cover up.
As Andrew takes his blade and makes a clean, horizontal cut, his mind finally calms down. The spiraling thoughts and the overwhelming feeling of being worthless, disgusting, and helpless like he had always been as a child fizzle out, if only for a moment, as his brain focuses on the sharp stinging pain, and nothing else. He watches as the red line appears, watches droplets of dark red fall from the cut, constant, like a trickling waterfall, until it dries up. He does it a few more times to help alleviate the prickling numbness he feels. He doesn't know how long he has been sitting there. Relishing the familiar feeling of finally, finally, having a good release again.
He doesn't realize Neil's arrival until the door to the bathroom is fully pushed open, the groggy redhead looking down at him, wearing the t-shirt he had stolen from Andrew's closet last night.
He hates that expression on Neil's face. The almost imperceptible shift in his eyes that he gets when he's worried about something. Or someone. Neil is about to take a step towards Andrew, open his mouth to ask those irritating questions he always does, when all Andrew says is “stop,” and Neil does.
There's a moment of silence, and Neil takes a step back. He hesitates and then makes way for the opposite side of the bathroom, sits, maybe about six feet away from him, just outside of arm's reach, and is quiet as he looks at Andrew, and then his bloody forearm.
Andrew tilts his head and looks at Neil with a bored expression. “You’re up early.”
“Its five. Coach wants us there by six today. Why are you up?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“Ask me something. I’ll answer.” An exchange. A secret for a secret. Even now, living together, Andrews ' proclivities for an equal trade never change.
“Scar near your collarbone. You wouldn’t tell me about it last night.”
Neil grimaces, “My mom. Got mad at me for talking to a girl in Europe. Happy?”
Andrew hums, “boring.”
“Why are you up?” Neil asks again.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
This answer gets Neil to clench his jaw, which Andrew always finds amusing.
“Bullshit answer,” Neil says, focusing on Andrew's forearm. “Can I help?”
“Thats two questions.”
“Can. I. Help?” Neil says again, quietly. “Andrew.”
Andrew hates that tone in his voice. He never uses it anywhere besides when talking to Andrew, and it's so hard to ignore. It's soft, but almost desperate. Andrew only likes it when Neil uses it when they're in bed. He doesn't like that he's using it now. Thinking it will work. Because it does.
Andrew pretends like it has no effect on him and shows off his forearm. “Well? Patch me up, doctor.”
“Don’t call me that,” Neil mutters as he gets up to dampen the hand towel and kneels in front of the blonde. Neil looks up at Andrew, waiting for the small nod before he touches him, gingerly holding his wrist while he drags the damp towel across his forearm, wiping away the excess, dried-up blood. Andrew is only focused on Neil. He looks so concentrated, wrapping the bandages around his arm. How a boy so delicately pretty ended up at the mercy of Andrew Minyard, he himself would never find out.
Andrew continues staring at him when he finishes wrapping the bandages. Neil doesn't look up, for some reason, focused on the white gauze around the boy's arm. This goes on for a few minutes before Andrew gets tired of the boy's stillness and grabs his chin with his free hand so he can look up at him.
Oh. Neil Josten’s pretty blue eyes are on the verge of tearing up. Unexpected for something so early in the morning.
“All this for me?” Andrew says quietly, with a mocking tone, but the hand lingering on Neil's chin is enough to imply that he cares. Not that he would ever say so.
“Shut up.”
Andrew digs his fingers slightly, causing Neil to wince.
“I was worried. Okay? You worried me, I thought-” Neil gestures. “For a moment I thought-” Andrew lets go of his chin, rolling his eyes.
“Boring and stupid.”
Neil scoffs, “Fuck you.”
They sit in silence for a moment before Neil moves forward, resting his forehead on Andrew's shoulder. Andrew's fingers automatically go to Neil's soft hair.
It's silent until Neil breaks it with a quiet request. “Can you promise not to-”
“No,” Andrew says immediately.
“Can you promise to try?”
Andrew is silent for a moment. “Okay.”