Chapter Text
Neil wakes screaming, the first night.
He did not exactly submit to sleep; Seth noticed, watching the way Neil would jerk his head as he started to nod off in Abby’s small back room.
Seth thought Neil should sleep. He thought it was best to stay silent. To watch.
For perhaps five minutes, he is right—and then Neil bolts upright, a scream tearing from his throat. His body hums with unreleased magic but his scars are dim. He is forcing it back, years of practice keeping it all at bay, and Seth hates that.
“Neil. Neil.”
The scream thins to a whine and Seth clambers onto the bed, doing his best to avoid Neil’s injured body. The magic did a lot to fix things, but not enough. Never enough.
Magic, Seth thinks. And the ruin it brings.
Neil gasps, sucking in breath, his eyes wild and flat as he scans the room. He is looking for those creatures, Seth knows. “Neil. Look at me. It’s me. Look.”
It takes a long while for Neil to meet his eyes, gaze sliding like blood that rolls from a slick surface. When Neil finally manages to look, his eyes focus and his breathing evens just a little.
“Seth.” Neil breathes, presses his eyes shut tight and opens them again. As if he expects everything to disappear.
Seth wonders how many times Neil did that, in the cellar of that rotted house.
“Yes. I’m here,” Seth says patiently. “You are safe. Sleep.”
Neil’s hand curls around Seth’s on the sheets. He is stronger than he looks and warm, too, like a furnace. Or perhaps like the fire inside him, eating him alive. The magic.
He needs to let it out, Seth thinks. More than just in anger or need, like he has before. With them.
“I know,” Neil whispers. Seth leans in, waiting. “Here is safe.”
“But it doesn’t matter,” Seth finishes. Because nightmares follow where footsteps can’t.
Well. He’ll just have to silence them.
Seth shifts, pulling himself closer to the head of the bed. He is much taller than Neil and it is awkward to curl himself around Neil’s smaller body, but that doesn’t matter to him. What matters is the way Neil shifts toward his warmth, still distant and bleak but closer, his hands curled near his chest.
Maybe it will help; maybe it won’t. At least this way, he is closer. “Sleep,” he tells Neil again, quiet. “I will be here.”
Neil’s eyelids are already drooping. He exhales heavily and closes his eyes. He is silent for a long time and Seth is almost asleep when he hears Neil’s quiet whisper.
“I will be here, too.”
Nicky makes Neil so many pies that Neil thinks he won't be able to move when he finally rolls out of bed. Allison determinedly checks on his scars with Renee; they both offer to work on fixing them, but Neil doesn't mind. They are reminders. Aaron just lingers, quiet, a passerby that allows Neil the silence he needs, sometimes.
Dan sings him to sleep, sometimes. Neil wakes to Matt petting his head.
In the end, it seems that the Foxes are not quite the uncouth, ragtag guild that the city imagined them to be. Neil cannot find it in himself to complain.
Andrew comes a few times. He stays to watch Neil sleep or guard the door. He never says anything, and Neil is always too tired to force himself awake. Most times, it is simply quiet.
He tries not to be disappointed. Tries not to want more, from Andrew or himself. They are at a strange place and besides, Neil has something else he must do. Magic.
Magic heals quickly, and Neil has always been quick to recover, anyway. Three days after the cellar, he walks out of Abby’s bedroom.
“Hey. No,” Wymack says from the bar, immediately moving toward Neil.
Neil easily skirts away from the man, following the opposite wall toward the front door. “I am—”
“You are not fine!” Wymack yells. He is cursing as he tries to clamber over the bar. “Hey!”
He is right, of course, but Neil has something to do.
He is still alive. Neil is alive but so is Riko, somewhere in the city, and Neil knows the truth. Knows Riko wanted to send the executioner after the Foxes.
This will not stand.
Neil has been saving up his magic; he has been pushing away every rise he has felt since he was taken. Hiding the scraps beneath his torn skin and in the spaces of his cavernous heart. He has built a well of magic, roaring for release, and he is quite certain who he is going to turn it on.
Perhaps he should have expected it. He only makes it halfway toward the markets before there is a whisper of darkness ahead of him, swirling like smoke out of the shadows.
Neil considers splitting his magic. If he must, he thinks it will not be an issue.
Ichirou has always been more pleasant to deal with. Perhaps by virtue of his absence. Neil rarely saw the elder brother, but he is aware of what Ichirou can and will do. Every exchange is a calculated game. There is always an answer that will win him, but it is rarely what one wants to give.
“They were successful. I doubted,” Ichirou murmurs. He is still half-shadow, edges swirling and blurred. He seems distracted.
Neil could kill him, then.
“You told them,” Neil says instead.
Ichirou tilts his head. It is as close to a shrug as he can imitate. “Riko was stupid. Indiscreet. He has never been the pinnacle of our achievements; I only thought time would instruct him.”
Well. Neil doesn’t know how to respond. Yes seems too agreeable, so he simply nods, letting Ichirou guide the conversation. This is not what Neil expected.
“This morning, Riko was preparing another attack,” Ichirou says bluntly. He pulls his hand out of the shadows and suddenly—
—suddenly, Riko is there, a silent snarl on his lips and a frenzied light in his eyes.
Riko has never been physical intimidating. On his knees, he is even less so.
Ichirou stares down at his brother as if he is staring down at a dog. A street mongrel. “He was prepared to bring even more scrutiny upon my family—not just the Ravens. I am sure you are aware the guild is being inspected.”
Neil does not answer. His heart is jammed in his throat. He knows where this is going; he can see, and yet he cannot turn away. He cannot leave.
“I have come to you in a show of faith,” Ichirou says patiently. “This ends here.”
No, Neil thinks hysterically, those are not good words to hear, they aren’t—
—and then Ichirou steps from the shadows and reaches forward, his hand curling almost delicately in the air, and he—
—snaps his brother’s neck, sudden and loud, the echo reverberating in Neil’s ears. There is no touch, no blood, no careless violence; only the contained fury of a directed attack and the instant loss of life.
“It is done.”
And Ichirou steps back, the shadow taking him and Riko but leaving all the darkness in the world. It is not enough.
Am I shaking? Amusing. Maybe it is the magic, Neil thinks, frustrated at being robbed its chance to burst free. Maybe it is the voice he cannot let out, although his mouth falls open. He stands, and he shakes, his eyes never moving from the cobblestones, and life goes on beyond him.
The people beyond the alley continue to move. The Foxes are somewhere, carrying out assignments or perhaps browsing shops in town. Wymack is probably grumbling to Abby about Neil’s departure. Life just moves, and Neil doesn’t.
He can’t.
“—il. Neil.”
Andrew. Neil looks up to see Andrew, the displeased line of his mouth and the sharpness in his green-brown eyes. Andrew, with the bracers on his arms and the black cloak on his shoulders. Safe.
The voice hiding in Neil’s chest comes out in a gasp. “Andrew.”
There. It is a flicker—a tiny flame, Neil remembers, from the cellar—and it says more than just worry or care. It is buried so deep Neil could never hope to dig it out; wouldn’t want to, for fear of pain. Yet it is there and when Neil sees it, he wants to speak it again.
Love.
“Please—”
“Don’t,” Andrew says sharply. He reaches out and his hands find Neil’s face, resting on his cheeks, holding him steady. “Do not use that word. Do not beg from me.”
“Will you hold me,” Neil chokes out. “Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
Neil does not realize, until Andrew’s arms are tight around him, what he missed. The sensation of drifting—the unreality of everything, since the cellar—seems to fall into place. Neil is grounded, finally, except not entirely. He feels unearthed; dirt falls from his mouth, a ragged sob as he sucks in the fresh air around him for the first time.
It is, Neil thinks, what being alive feels like.
“It’s done.” Neil sits next to Kevin on his bed, trying not to look too hard. If he does, he can see the cracks, and—
—well. Neil can only carry so many at a time.
Kevin looks bleakly down at his hands. “Is it?”
The question is how much to say. Tell. Neil thinks about the alley; about Ichirou in the shadows, Riko with his snarl and violent eyes—
—the sound—
—right. Cracks.
“He is dead.”
Kevin flinches. Looks to Neil, the little line between his brows deepening. He whispers, “Do you know?”
“I do.” I saw.
Silence. Kevin does not live in it the way Neil does; he wears so much on his face. It his hunched shoulders and pressed lips.
Neil has never known how to comfort, perhaps because he was never comforted. Yet he thinks now, he knows a little. Can think of Seth and Andrew and what they have done for him.
It is harder to start, but Neil has suffered enough not to care. “Can I touch you?”
Kevin looks at him, startled, and there is a small fear in his gaze that Neil recognizes. The look of someone who thinks they have been discovered. Oh, Kevin.
Neil pulls Kevin in. They are two cracked statues, he thinks, pretending to be immovable and staunch and perfect. But Neil feels Kevin come back to life in his arms, soft, the cracks giving way to the curl of Kevin’s fingers in Neil’s shirt and the way he tucks his head into Neil’s shoulder.
“We are alive,” Neil says, although he still isn’t sure. He is still one foot in the grave, the basement weighing heavy on his shoulders. “You will survive this.”
Kevin laughs, quiet and broken and perhaps half-real. Half is more than none. “Not if I can help it.”
“Dramatic,” Neil mutters, but he holds Kevin tighter. “You are not going anywhere. You still owe me a job.”
“Sure,” Kevin says. Neil thinks he may be smiling. “And more than that.”
Eden’s is not where Andrew thinks Neil should be, but Neil was persuasive.
That, and he came out of his room dressed, as if he were defying Andrew to say no when he was wearing a nearly-sheer shirt.
The Foxes are not quite content, yet. They are all still vibrating on another frequency, like a glass that has been struck and still echoes its ringing note. At least at Eden’s, they can ring into the din. Perhaps lose some of that painful note.
Neil lounges in his chair, peering over the crowd with lidded eyes, and Andrew forces his gaze back onto his glass. Not now.
“I have a question.”
“Fantastic,” Andrew mutters into his glass. He starts to drink, avoiding Neil’s gaze for just a moment longer. Stupid. He is not going to avoid those black-rimmed blue eyes for long.
I should tell Allison to keep her kohl to herself.
That is absolutely a lie.
Neil shifts in his seat. “Do you still want me?”
Andrew comes dangerously close to choking. By some grace, he manages to hide his stumble. He instead carefully sets his glass on the table, watching the liquid ripple. When he finally looks up at Neil, he is unsurprised.
Someone that charges to his death could be classified as fearless. Or stupid.
“Why are you asking this?”
“That’s another question.” Neil smiles. “That’s not how the game works. But—I ask because I need to.”
“Why would you need to?” Stop asking questions.
Neil’s gaze sharpens. “You know. Things have changed.”
“Then, it should be you who answers,” Andrew says shortly. He blames the alcohol; blames Eden’s for his loose tongue and the way his heart thuds. He has not been avoiding this conversation, but. “Do you? Still want this?”
Neil seems displeased. It’s the this that does it, Andrew thinks. He watches Neil stand from his chair, beckoning.
Andrew has never followed Neil—not exactly—but then, Neil has never led. Andrew ghosts his footsteps, watching the way Neil threads his way through the crowd as if it is water and not a bustling mass of bodies. He is careful and watchful, avoiding elbows and laughter and sloshing drinks.
They arrive in the bedroom. The bedroom. Neil closes the door behind them and walks to the window, perching on the sill as if he is preparing to leap. Some irrational part of Andrew’s mind thinks it is true—or perhaps not so irrational; he remembers the key—and so Andrew steps forward, unthinking, his hand finding the back of Neil’s neck.
Neil looks up, surprised. Andrew’s instinct is to pull away, burned; he has not touched, not since the cellar, and for a good reason—
—but then Neil tilts his head, pushes into Andrew with heavy eyes like a cat, a pleased curl to his lips. He unwinds just a little, the potential hum of his magic lowering.
This is, and it should not be, and Andrew cannot ask anything but, “Why?”
“Why,” Neil echoes, his voice a murmur as he nuzzles Andrew’s hand. God, he really is a cat. “Why do I want you? Your kisses. Those are good.”
“That’s not—”
“Your eyes,” Neil continues, his voice still low, as if he is confessing something secret. As if they are not already alone. “They are sometimes green and sometimes brown and always both. Did you know?”
“I know what I look like,” Andrew says, but his voice shakes and he does not know how to stop this; the endless flow of truth. He cannot think why this matters or why he feels it so much.
Neil grins. “You don’t. Not how beautiful it is when you blush—you do—and I kiss you. I want you because of your blush. Because of your frown, because you try to pretend, and you can’t—”
“Lies. Slander,” Andrew manages, but his voice seems distant. Maybe it is, but he is here; his hand feels molten and Neil’s skin is velvet underhand, soft and inviting.
“I want you because of your hands,” Neil whispers. He is on his feet and Andrew does not recall when this happened; all he knows is that Neil stands before him, a breath away. “Your hands. Strong—but not hard. They keep me. I never have to worry about them and I—I only wonder where they are if they are not with me.”
Too much, Andrew wants to say, but it’s not enough. Andrew does not have the words to respond. He cannot think of how to begin, except for the heat he wants to chase into Neil’s mouth.
So, he starts where he always does. Where it began.
“Yes or no.”
“Yes,” Neil whispers, the little smile curving his lips. “I want you, Andrew.”
It feels as if Andrew has been waiting—maybe since before the cellar, even. This should not feel so momentous and yet it does. Neil’s hands curl on the windowsill and Andrew pulls them onto his waist, watching the flush on Neil’s cheeks as he leans in.
Gravity, again. Like leaping from a roof to catch a key, or bumping into each other on the street, or Neil pushing Andrew out of the way of an arrow. Anything and everything, just them, the universe finally sliding into place.
Cinnamon and vanilla. Neil tastes like cinnamon and vanilla—like the little vial—and also honey, curling sweet on his tongue. Andrew thinks there is a hum in his throat he cannot control and when it reverberates between them, Neil’s fingers curl in his shirt, a pleased sigh escaping his mouth.
They are slow, because they have all the time in the world, now. Neil shifts back onto the windowsill, his legs parting to allow Andrew closer. They are intertwined, arms and legs and something invisible. Andrew curls his fingers through Neil’s hair and slides his tongue along every moan that escapes.
There is a hum in his blood. It is not dangerous, but it distracts Andrew enough to pull back.
Neil follows him like a drunk idiot and Andrew has to concentrate very hard on not kissing him again.
“What?”
Andrew looks down. Neil follows his gaze—
—right to the pleasantly earth-orange glow emanating from his scars, making his golden skin luminous.
“Oh,” Neil breathes. He flexes his fingers experimentally, as if they are not his. “What…”
“Do you think—” Andrew stops to clear his throat. His voice is too low. “Does it…change.”
“What?” Neil looks up, brow wrinkled. Andrew wants to slap himself. You chose this for yourself.
“When—with what you feel. Does it change,” Andrew bites out.
A smile twitches on Neil’s lips. The bastard. He knew. Neil at least has the grace to duck his head apologetically, wiggling his fingers. “No. It’s never changed.”
Andrew does not know what to make of it. But then—
—then again, maybe it doesn’t matter. Neil’s hands are just the same and Andrew never cared much for the blue, anyway. It was bright. This—
— “This is better,” Andrew says plainly, as if it is not a change they cannot explain. Another thing that Neil does not know about himself and should not have to figure out alone. “It suits you.”
Neil’s eyes widen, and the smile returns, fitting perfectly under the redness of his cheeks. “Andrew. I do believe that was a compliment.”
“Shut up.”
“Keep my mouth busy,” Neil challenges, the smile curling into a wide grin, and so Andrew does.