Chapter Text
Andrew Doe picked at his cuticles as he stared at the sky, the moon sitting right above his head, he knew there was probably buckets of sand in his hair and stuck to his clothes by now, but he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to get up. He raised his hand above his head, pretending to grab the moon, it was only after realising he’d picked his nail beds to bleeding that he could haul himself off the ground and shake the park sand off his body.
He didn’t want to go back to that house, this new foster family was as bad as the last one, drunkard white collar husband who needed a kid to take his anger out on and a meek wife who refused to see the bad in her darling hubby despite the violent intoxicated rage. They disgusted Andrew, but he couldn’t exactly run away, he’d tried that before with a different family, it never ended well, he’d be caught by the police and sent right back for the beating of a lifetime, so he compromised, he went out as soon as they were asleep and sat somewhere under the stars until dawn. Andrew would rather pluck his own eyes out than sleep near those people.
He pressed a hand to the bruise blooming on his forearm, refusing to let himself wince at the pain it caused. Andrew can feel every wound on his body, a bruised ankle where his foster dad grabbed him too hard, a welt under his ribs from being shoved into their dining table, small cuts all over his feet and legs where he was hit with the broken glass of a freshly empty beer bottle, he’s learned to move with it. He’s done it since he was four, pulled himself through even when his body burned and ached, doing it now at seven is no different, he has gotten better at it though.
Andrew dopped down onto a swing and let it sway back and forth softly, looking back up at the sky yet again, he watched the stars glitter some millions of miles away, they were just about all the entertainment he had out here, he could sit for hours and admire the shapes they formed. A crunch of feet on leaves yanked him back to reality and he felt his stomach twist high and tight. He jumped up off the swing and spun on his heel, sneakers digging into the sand, his cuts burned at the pressure.
Where he expected some pig trying to drag him back to his foster family, or some junkie coming up to beg him for money, he found a kid. A boy barley bigger than Andrew himself, with soft auburn hair, messy and out place paired with bright blue eyes that reminded Andrew of the sky on a sunny day. What really caught Andrew’s attention was the big purple bruise marring his cheek, Andrew had had enough of the same injuries to know it was fresh, the beginning stages of swelling was all too familiar. They stood there and stared for a while like they were caught in a spell; Andrew was first to break the silence.
“Did your parents do that?” Andrew kept his voice low and steady. “Did you run away from them.”
Andrew didn’t get a verbal response, just an intense stare and then a slow, wary nod. Andrew walked closer, as slow as he could to avoid scaring him off. As Andrew got closer, he realised the boys’ whole body was shaking, he couldn’t tell if it was fear or the nighttime cold causing it. Andrew’s voice is slow when he speaks again.
“Are you cold,” he took another step forward as the boy nodded. Despite his better judgement Andrew shucked off his jacket and held it out for him. The boy looked surprised, staring at the jacket like a deer in headlights, Andrew sighed. “You can take it, I’m not gonna hit or yell.”
Andrew could see the shaking better with his hands now in view, his fingers were almost blue from the cold.
“Thank you,” the redhead muttered, body sagging in relief when he tucked his arms into the jacket sleeves still warm with Andrew’s residual body heat. Andrew stared at the pink dusting the boy’s cheeks and nose from the cold and felt something hot and unfamiliar bubble up in his stomach.
“Do you wanna-,” he paused suddenly feeling awkward as those bright blue eyes locked onto him. He cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “Do you wanna sit on the swing or something.”
The boy once again didn’t give Andrew a verbal response, instead choosing to smile and sit on the swing next to the one Andrew had been on before he showed up. Andrew was caught off guard by his movement for a second, frozen still for a beat too long before speed walking after him and setting himself down in his swing.
They sat silently together and watched the moon carve a path lower and lower down the sky as each minute passed, at least Andrew did. He didn’t think that this kid looked at the anything other than Andrew himself for the past however long they’d been there, his stare was unnerving. Andrew tried to ignore it, he didn’t want to confront the kid and spook him, but it was hard to do anything with the intensity of those eyes on him.
“You’re staring,” he settled on saying, not sparing the kid a glance. In his peripheral he saw his head snap to look at the ground, embarrassed.
“Sorry,” he muttered, Andrew finally turned to look at him, his hands in his lap fingers fidgeting with the zipper of Andrews jacket, fitting just a little too small on his long arms. Andrew found he wasn’t mad.
“What’s your name,” Andrew asked without thinking, curiosity taking over. When he doesn’t get a response, he starts talking again. “Mine is Andrew.”
he figured offering up a secret of his own would earn him a little more trust, it was unlikely he’d get an answer from such a skittish guy but trying wouldn’t hurt. He turned where he sat, hauling his right leg over the seat of his swing to sit on it sideways and face the other boy fully. It worked; he could tell the kid was considering it by the way he picked at his nails thoughtfully. It didn’t take long for a response this time.
“Abram,” he glanced up from where his hands sat in his lap at Andrew with an unfamiliar look on his face. It was almost warm, the bare bones of a smile on his lips. “My name is Abram.”
Andrew couldn’t help but freeze up at that admittance, he wasn’t really sure if he- if Abram, was telling the truth, with the weathered look pulling at his eyebrows he could tell there was something going unsaid. He should question it, the name was ridiculous, he doesn’t know why anyone would name their kid that, and the kid was clearly hiding something, but he could tell it wasn’t a complete lie, maybe Abram was a nickname, he wasn’t sure what name Abram could be nickname for, but it was the only possibility. So, in the end the only response he could find was.
“You don’t look like an Abram to me,” Abram giggled, leaning against the chain of his swing and looking over at Andrew, an amused smile on his face.
“that’s because I’m not actually an Abram,” Andrew was about to open his mouth and say something about liars before the kid pushed on, “Abram is my middle name, I’m named after my dad, so I’d prefer use my middle name instead.”
“Oh,” is all Andrew could respond with, he was so shell shocked by his honesty that he let his expression slip, eyes widening and eyebrows shooting up before he schooled to its regular boredom. “You don’t like your dad?”
Abram went quiet again, pulling his coat closer around him, nodding slowly, and pressing a hand to the swelling bruise still darkening with every minute they were there. Andrew felt something hot and angry burn in his stomach, the mere mention of Abram’s dad made him shrink, made him look frail and terrified.
“Must be an asshole,” Andrew got up off the swing and walked over to Abram, stopping between his knees so that they were a breath off from contact. “Lucky for you he’s not here, it’s just you and me,”
Abram blinked at him, then smiled, small and personal. Andrew shoved his hands in his pants pockets and motioned with his head for Abram to follow him, Abram followed obediently, barley a step behind but half a head taller than Andrew. The height difference would be enough to piss Andrew off if not for the fact that he was visibly more muscular than Abram.
Andrew sat down on a small patch of soft green grass and shifts to lay down, watching Abram follow suit right next to him. Andrew could see him following his movements out of his peripheral as he tracked the patterns of the stars. He’s not sure how long they sat there, quiet, and still, but it was long enough that the sun was in view, peeking just so over the grass marking dawn. He looked over to his right and saw Abram staring at him, his eyebrows pulled up sadly.
“What’s wrong with your face?” Andrew asked crassly, raising an eyebrow and pushing himself up to sit instead of laying, looking down into those bright blue eyes again.
“I just-” he cut himself off, deciding to sit up as well before continuing, fiddling with the hem of Andrews hoodie. “I don’t want to leave yet.”
Andrew sighs, resting his arms on his crossed legs, he can finally feel the cold of the September night lessening, he ran his hands up and down his arms gently to coax away the goosebumps covering his flesh.
“Well, I’ll be here again tomorrow night, I’m here most nights,” he couldn’t explain what came over him, why he offered it, but he said; “So if you want to see me again, Abram, I’ll be here.”
He didn’t wait for a response, pushing himself off the ground and walking down the park path back to his foster house, not daring to glance back at Abram after an letting that vulnerable slip to a total stranger.
-
Andrew sat on his foster family’s porch; a piecing of gum chewed half to death and the headphones of his stolen Walkman resting comfortably on his head. His Walkman was by far one of his most valuable steals, he remembers the day down to the detail, he remembers most things that way. It was February 3rd, his current foster care worker, Annie Fowler, had finally come for her check in 3 months late, the only good thing she did was get him out of that disgusting house.
The moving process barley took an hour, Andrew didn’t own much, he’d learned how pointless that was after the first few houses, he always left as soon as Annie’s second check-up, sometimes even the first. On his way out the door he swiped his ex-foster mothers Walkman and stuffed it deep in the duffle Annie gave him the day he was sent there. He didn’t have any album CDs to listen too with it at the time, but it didn’t take long to steal a couple of those too. He wasn’t picky with his music at first, just needed something to pass time with and turn his brain off with.
His taste has developed since then; he’s moved on from listening to whatever pop album he could hide in his shirt and sneak out of the store with to whatever punk or emo album he could hide in his shirt and sneak out of the store with. Some of his favourites currently is the Rancid Out Come The Wolves CD and Summers Purl CD, both stolen from the same store. They’re loud and overpowering and quiet his thoughts, a couple of his foster families, mostly the religious nuts who want to save and fix the kids they foster with their bible thumping bullshit, have told him his music is vile, of the devil, shit like that, that he was inviting Satan into his mind with such evil music.
They obviously assumed instilling some fear of hell would motivate him to grow and change into a good Christian boy or something because they were surprised when his response to their critique was to spit on their shoes and call them thick headed Jesus freaks. Andrew would say it’s their fault for having that stupid saviour complex in the first place.
Andrew breathed out, almost a sigh, a minty taste heavy on his lips as I Wanna Riot blares loudly in his ears. He spits out his gum onto the grass, dragging himself up from the step he’s sat on and shoving open the house’s front door, letting it bang into the wall. He ignores the withering look sent his way by Millie, his foster mother, and slams his bedroom door shut, locking it from the inside.
Music is still blaring in his ears he stares out the window at the faint glow of the moon barely visible in the sky against the suns blazing brightness. Its evening, he doesn’t have a clock nearby, but he can guess that its almost half past six. Almost time for dinner, almost time for bed, almost time for Andrew to sneak out his window and go to that park, where Abram will be waiting for him.
He and Abram had been meeting up every day for about two weeks now, every evening they sneak away from home and talk for hours on end, passing time and sharing things with each other they haven’t had the opportunity to share with anyone else. Andrews not sure how it all happened so fast but in just a week he’s started to feel a little excitement as the hours of the day pass, he watches the clock silently begging for the hour to tick by faster. Andrew has felt nothing but dread and melancholy for years, simmering anger under an expressionless face, this excitement was unfamiliar and out of nowhere, disorienting, but he liked it. The bubbles of anticipation in his chest rising to the surface as soon as he saw the clock hands hit his new favourite time.
He heard Millie fretting in the kitchen and the tell-tale crashing around of Derek, her husband, stumbling around too drunk to see. That’s always how he knew, as soon as Millie had to usher that drunkard to bed it was his opportunity to slip free. He pulled a black hoodie over his head, a matching beanie following right after before he shifted his window open gently, mindful of the noise as he quietly yanked its screen out of place, slipping his Walkman into his hoodie pocket and crawling through and onto the grass of the front lawn.
The walk there wasn’t long, his foster house was relatively close to the town park, only four streets separating them. By the time he arrived he guessed it was about seven, maybe half past and Abram wasn’t there yet, he never was. Andrew always got there first, he usually passed the time listening to whatever CD was already in the player and staring at the stars as he waited or eight thirty to arrive. It wasn’t a bad wait, he didn’t mind sitting with his music and staring at the stars until his company showed up, it’s what he did every night before he knew Abram even existed after all.
The time went by fast with Rancid in his ears blocking his thoughts out, he was so zoned in on the sky and his music that he didn’t even realise Abram was there until he felt a hand shake the chain of his swing ever so gently. Andrew looked up to see those familiar icy blue eyes, his slight panic subsiding as fast as it came when Abram smiled at him warmly, hand still on the swing.
“Hey-,” Andrew cuts himself off as he gets a better look at Abrams face, a purple bruise covering nearly all of his left cheek. It was fresh, couldn’t have happened more than an hour ago, an hour and a half if he was being generous. “Your dad...?”
Abram nodded, uncomfortable. Andrew took that for what it was, Abram didn’t wanna talk about it, not yet at least, and he would respect that. Andrew got up from his swing and walked off to the park benches, assuming Abram would follow. He assumed right, the boys’ footsteps tapping softly at his heel. He dropped down carelessly onto the seat, draping an arm across the back and gesturing an invitation for Abram to sit with him. Abram conceded and sat down, leaving he and Andrew a breath away from touching just like always.
For a while they don’t talk, they sit together and stare at the stars. Andrew can feel Abrams eyes on him, he always does this when he wants to say something, like he’s weighing out the pros and cons. His hesitation makes the tension of their closeness thick enough to slice in half, so Andrew decides to cut his worrying short.
“Spit it out, Abram, your anxious fiddling is going to give me a migraine,” he keeps his eyes on the sky as he says it, letting Abram pull himself together before turning to him. Abram isn’t looking at him; he’s chewing on his lip and staring at the grass to their side. Andrew almost debates giving up and changing the subject when Abram turns to him with a determined look in his eyes despite his fidgeting hands, Andrew almost smiles. Almost.
“My dad has been making me learn how to throw knives,” Andrew blanches, barley resisting from recoiling. “He says I have to learn how to be a real man, that I have to learn to be like him, Andrew, I don’t want to, I don’t want to be like him.”
“Then don’t,” Andrew responds, finally finding his voice again. “don’t be like him, you don’t have to be strong like him if you don’t want to Abram.”
“I don’t have a choice, Andrew, he’s forcing me,” Abram’s voice is tight, strained, Andrew can hear the fear so thick he has to white knuckle the back of their seat to keep himself steady. The way he says it, the way his voice shakes as he says he’s being forced, given no choice, it cuts deeper into Andrew than he’d like to admit.
“Abram-,” he cuts himself off to take a breath, pausing to cool the tension in his body, unclenching his hand on the seat. “Do you not want to be strong.”
Abram is quiet for a beat before shaking his head. Andrew stares for a second, debating, before reaching his hands over, grabbing Abram’s wrists gently. He runs his fingers over the scarred skin oh his forearm in the most comforting gesture he can muster. Abram freezes tensioning up briefly before melting into it.
“Then you don’t have to be,” Andrew is surprised by the determination in his own voice. “I can be strong for you.
“If you can’t fight, I’ll fight for you, okay,” The look Abram sends him only steels his determination. Andrew grips the back of his neck and pulls him in to rest Abram’s head on his shoulder. He feels Abram sigh into him and rest his eyes against the juncture between Andrew’s neck and shoulder, slotting in like the space was made for him. Andrew drags his hand higher until its tangled in auburn locks, curling it around his fingers gently.
Andrew feels his breathing halt at the softness of their contact, its unfamiliar, the way Abram rests his hands in his lap, careful not to touch Andrew because he knows his aversion to hands on his body. The way Abram breaths slower, calmer, more docile the longer Andrew plays with his hair. Even just the way they seem to slot together like puzzle pieces, like a lock and key, the base of Andrews palm resting perfectly against Abram’s head, the curvature of Abram’s nose falling perfectly into place against Andrew’s collar bone. It’s something Andrew has never experienced, but he revels in it, he likes shielding Abram from the elements, putting his body between him and the world. It makes Andrew hug him just a little tighter, resting his head on Abram’s, nose in his hair.
“Thank you, Andrew,” Abram mumbles into his skin, quiet and shy. “Thank you, I don’t want to fight, I don’t want to be like him, thank you.”
“Shut up, don’t thank me,” is all Andrew can muster up in response, willing himself to finally let go of his grip on Abram. He can feel a smile move against him through the fabric of his hoodie as Abram pulls back. Andrew can’t stand to look at that blinding smile on his face, crossing his arms and looking into the horizon instead. He can feel Abram’s gaze burning into his skin long after they pull away.
“Staring,” he huffs, refusing to react at the soft giggle Abram let out, he can feel static underneath his skin when Abram looks away, choosing to watch the stars instead of Andrew.
“you’re more interesting than anything up there, Andrew,” he says it like a secret, a whisper meant for no one’s ears but Andrews. It’s enough to make him turn, looking up at Abram, who’s eyes are glittering under the moon’s strong midnight glow. He knows he’s stared too long when Abrams eyes meet his. He has to forcibly tears his gaze away, glaring at the sky. Andrew didn’t get it, Abram was so loose with everything he said, he didn’t hold his words to his chest he didn’t sugar coat anything, he just said what he felt. Abram was so entirely unlike anyone he had ever met, he had this weird duality, keeping so much close to his chest, not letting himself tell Andrew everything, the makings of a natural liar, but Andrew didn’t mind, because he was somehow open and honest despite that, he didn’t pretend, it was comforting in a way.
“My mum says she’s a liar,” Abram said abruptly, eyes still locked on Andrew’s face. “she says I should be too, that it’s the only way to survive.
“She’s been teaching me, she says telling anyone the truth is dangerous,” it’s then that Abram smiles, small and private, just for Andrew. “But I don’t want to lie to you, I don’t want to think you’re dangerous.”
Andrew scoffs, “I am dangerous,” he pauses, watching a frown tug at Abram’s lips. “Not to you idiot, I already said I’d fight for you didn’t I, if I’m not dangerous I wouldn’t be able to keep that promise.”
Andrew feels his chest tighten when that smile returns, he leans forward, arms resting on his thighs. Neither of them speak again for the rest of the night, but they walk, they wander around the small Baltimore town in comfortable silence.