Chapter Text
It's just past ten in the morning when Andrew pushes the locker room door open and steps out into the lounge.
There's a slow procession of Foxes making their way across the room, yawning and leaning on each other and the furniture for support as they fight to keep their eyes open. They're waiting for Wymack to get back from locking the bus up so he can harass them some more about the game, but Andrew's not in the mood to stick around. In the past twenty-four hours, they drove to St. Louis, played a full game against the Falcons, then turned around and drove the twelve hours back instead of getting a hotel like normal fucking people because Wymack is a paranoid bastard and a sadist --or a masochist seeing as he was the one who drove them home through the night.
Andrew wrestles down a yawn himself, his jaw straining as he walks down the hallway to the side door and out into the parking lot. It's a still morning, dim with clouds that hang heavy and low like a drop-ceiling. The tops of Andrew's knuckles and the ridges of his cheekbones sting with cold by the time he makes it to his car.
The door sticks a little when he pulls it, like it had frozen over even though he hasn't seen any ice. It's definitely cold enough for it though. He gets in and immediately turns the car on.
He sits there, shivering even with the heater on full-blast, watching the window slowly fog as the interior begins to warm; waiting for the others. He gets a cigarette out. The window sticks a little too as he rolls it down a tiny, tiny bit, leaning close to blow the smoke out of the crack so as to not ruin all the hard work his vents are doing. The nicotine buzzes through his brain, but it's not enough to cut the memories as he watches the smoke slip through the crack.
It's been me this whole time.
He nearly snaps his cigarette in half as he pictures Neil's face at the rest stop with perfect clarity; the way his brow furrowed as the realization dawned on him, his eyes bright with hurt and shock, cigarette forgotten and burned out in his hand. Something rises up in Andrew. He feels unsettled by the image, the memory. Unsettled is a good word, like something Andrew once thought was immoveable, settled inside of him has shifted, leaving him off-balance and grasping for a handhold.
Andrew shoves the end of the cigarette through the crack, tapping it against the edge of the glass, watching ash roll down the window. The fog has cleared from the glass and Andrew can see the parking lot around him. It's empty save for the Maserati, Matt's truck, Jack's car, and a lone security squad car parked further down the line. It's quiet and void. The only movement is a couple pieces of trash brushing up against tires and swirling around in the breeze, crinkled leaves rattling in dead trees, falling down to dead grass. It's a desolate sight.
Andrew can almost imagine, if he takes a step back and squints a little, that the apocalypse happened somewhere between his walk from the court to his car, and he's the only person left -- and none of this matters because it's the end of the world and everyone is gone and there's no one left to come back for him. And there's a sort of relief in that, but there's an ache there too.
He takes another drag.
The illusion is shattered when the door to the Foxhole Court opens and Foxes spill out into the parking lot like ink on a blank page and people begin loading into the cars. The Maserati shakes as Kevin opens the back door and climbs in, Aaron and Nicky getting in on the other side. The cold brushes its fingers across the back of Andrew's neck and he shivers. Then the doors are shut and the car is warm again.
Nicky is talking, like always, but Andrew tunes out his complaints of the cold and pushes the used butt of his cigarette out of the crack. Kevin says something about smoking in the car under his breath. Andrew lights another cigarette. Matt's truck roars to life and pulls away.
Andrew watches the door across the parking lot. It opens, but the figure who walks out is not the last of Andrew's group, the missing occupier of his passenger seat. Jack stalks across the asphalt, phone in hand. There's tape on his scowling face, which has already started to turn purple around the eyes.
Andrew keeps watching him as he comes closer. He puts his hands on the wheel, and as Jack rounds the hood of the Maserati to get to his car, Andrew stomps a foot against the gas. The engine roars and Jack startles, dropping his phone. He stoops to pick it up and when he straightens, he looks over, his pissed expression smoothing out into one of fear for a split second as they meet gazes.
Andrew takes a slow drag of his new cigarette, eyes hooded. He can see Jack's throat bob as he swallows before scowling again and walking to his car, eyes on his phone once more. His scowl deepens and Andrew thinks with a little satisfaction that there's probably a new crack in it.
"You can't kill him," Kevin says, leaning forward to speak between Andrew's headrest and the door. "We need him for the line."
"Oh, come on. A little maiming never hurt anyone," Nicky says. "It's not like he wouldn't deserve it. It's creepy how much he reminds me of Seth." Andrew sees Nicky's exaggerated full-body shiver out of the corner of his eye. "It's like his homophobic ghost has come back to haunt me."
Aaron says, "Jack's Seth if Seth grew up in a mansion instead of a trailer park."
As if on cue, Jack's Corvette whips out of the parking lot coming close to clipping the Maserati before darting away. Andrew's gaze tracks the car all the way to the end of the street.
"We need him, Andrew. You know we do. You can't shut down the goal every game."
Andrew's hands on the wheel tighten for a fraction of a second before he lifts one to his mouth to take a drag.
Nicky groans. "Quit being such a romance killer, Kevin. Andrew is defending his precious Neil."
Aaron makes a sound of supreme disgust.
"What? It's cute," Nicky goes on. "It's like how he gave Neil the ice pack even when they're fighting, or how he gave you the jacket even though I haven't seen you two say a civil word to each other in years--"
"Nicky," Andrew says.
The backseat falls silent.
Kevin leans forward again, his voice low. "Neil can handle himself. He's the one who punched Jack, so stop being stupid."
Andrew, without looking back, sticks the burning part of his cigarette between the gap where Kevin's face is. Kevin curses and jerks back to avoid losing an eye, but the message is received. He lets go of Andrew's headrest and settles back into his seat. Andrew can see him scowling in the rearview mirror.
Across the parking lot, the door to the court finally opens and Neil steps out, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the wind; his breath huffing in barely-visible clouds in front of his face. When he's halfway to the car he looks up, and their eyes meet for a brief second. Andrew can't read the expression on his face before it's shuttered and then Neil's opening the door. There's the burst of cold, the car rocking slightly as he settles down, the slam. Neil keeps his eyes on the windshield. Andrew sees the muscle in his jaw flex.
"Finally," Nicky says, popping his head between the two front seats. "Can we go home now?"
Andrew ashes his cigarette through the crack in the window. He leaves it open, letting the wind buffer any attempt at conversation as he puts the Maserati in drive and heads for Fox Tower.
The others pile out of the car as soon as it's in park. They rush for the door to the dormitory, shivering and puffing. Neil is right behind them, hunched over again, jaw set.
Andrew opens his door and gets out. He stubs his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe and follows them. He stays right behind Neil --trailing him into the lobby, to the stairwell while the others take the elevator-- without thinking about it. It's not like Neil even seems to notice anyway.
The only sound is their shoes clapping against the concrete, falling in and out of sync as they go up and up --all the way to the third floor. Neil stops in front of the door to the hallway of their dorm. He stands there for a moment before abruptly turning, almost running into Andrew. He keeps his head down, mumbling a sorry as he pushes past, neatly avoiding brushing up against Andrew as he starts heading for the roof. His hands are still in his pockets, and Andrew can see that they're balled into fists.
Andrew listens to the slap of Neil's feet continuing up, the burst of the roof door, the slam of it closing shut. The stairwell, concrete and steel, is cold, but Andrew still stands there long enough that he hears the sound of the other Foxes heading to their rooms --voices muffled, doors opening and closing-- and, eventually, silence. Then he turns and steps inside the hallway.
It's warm and familiar. And Aaron is standing next to his dorm room, looking down at his phone.
Andrew walks right by him, ignoring him. Aaron is waiting for something else --not him. He's going to see Katelyn. Andrew can come to that conclusion based on the way Aaron's looking at his phone --not smiling, but there's something in his face that seems settled, resolved.
They managed to avoid each other almost all day yesterday. Aaron had corralled them into the same bus seat both on the drive there and on the way back, but they hardly acknowledged the other's existence. Aaron had spent the whole bus ride texting and when Andrew had glanced over, he'd already known he'd see Katelyn's name there on the screen. He expected that. He'd been a little more surprised at his brother's show at the end of the game --leaning over to kiss Katelyn's cheek-- but only a little. The happy couple was on the ups.
Good for them, Andrew had thought, and ignored the bitter taste in the back of his throat.
He doesn't look over at Aaron now, but as he reaches for the door, Aaron suddenly says, "Why did you do it?"
Andrew is tired. The exhaustion hits him all at once. The hall is quiet, what with the weather being perfect for staying inside and cuddling up with a blanket and hot chocolate, which is what Andrew plans to do. Or maybe he'll skip all the prep and just crawl into bed and sleep forever --he feels like he could sleep forever.
He spares a glance at Aaron. Aaron's face still has that resolved expression, his eyes hard and determined. Andrew is very tired.
He drops his hand and turns to Aaron. "Do what."
Aaron doesn't seem to have heard him. Or if he did, he's ignoring him. Andrew waits him out, mentally giving him to the count of ten.
"The jacket," Aaron says, just as Andrew hits nine. "The ice pack. Why did you do any of it?"
Andrew feels his shoulders stiffen a fraction. He stares at Aaron, his face blank.
"You hate me. You've always hated me," Aaron says, but there's a question there, too.
He is so tired.
He turns back to the door.
"Where are you going?"
Andrew pushes the door open a crack. "I have no interest in whatever crisis you think you're having, and therefore no interest in this conversation. You already made your choice."
Aaron splutters for a second. "What?"
Andrew doesn't answer him. He opens the door enough to see the dim interior; Neil's running shoes piled messily next to the door.
"Andrew, listen to me." Aaron's voice is hard. Andrew doesn't turn to him, but he doesn't go inside the room. He keeps his eyes on the shoes, the scuffed and worn leather around the heels, the muddy treads. He tightens his hand on the doorknob.
"I didn't choose Katelyn over you, is that what you think?" Aaron says it like Andrew is stupid to even have that thought cross his mind.
The doorknob creaks with how hard Andrew is twisting it. "Dear brother," he says, and gives in, gives up, and turns to look at him, "do not lie to me. That's how we dissolved our arrangement, in case you forgot. You have always chosen her."
Aaron scoffs. "I chose?" he laughs. "You're the one who picked--" He cuts himself off with a jerk of his head and takes a step forward. "Why does everything have to be so black and white with you --all or nothing? I say one thing and you take it to the fucking extreme--"
"That's because some of us actually stick to our word."
"It's your fault that we had to choose in the first place!" Aaron bursts out, face and neck flushed with agitation. "We didn't have to do anything --there didn't need to be a choice, Andrew. And newsflash, asshole," he continues, his voice cracking slightly, "if there was a fucking choice, I would have picked you. I always wanted--"
He cuts himself off again with a disgusted sound. He turns his head to the side, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Slowly, he takes a step back, and when he lifts his eyes to Andrew's they're just as blank and hard as before. "We didn't need to choose," he finishes.
Andrew stands there, hands slack at his side. His ears are ringing --with the buzz of a chainsaw, the blare of a car alarm. The sound slowly forms into words.
You don't have to choose.
Aaron's phone chirps in his hands and he looks down at it, his expression flickering. "I have to go," he says, but he doesn't immediately move. He stands there for a second, waiting.
Andrew stares at a spot on the wall, his thoughts swirling, swirling --too fast to grab onto.
The sound of the stairwell door opening snaps him out of the spiral. Aaron is leaving; going, going. Andrew's jaw flexes, but his mouth stays shut, clamping down on all of the words climbing up his throat.
But Aaron looks over his shoulder anyway, and Andrew is sure that his face is just as blank as it always is, but Aaron's expression shifts a little. Not something substantial enough to be given a name like melts or softens, but just --shifts. He gives a tiny nod, like maybe Andrew's expression also did not melt or soften, then he turns and lets the door shut behind him.
Andrew is alone in the hallway. It's quiet, except for the noise still ringing in Andrew's own skull. You don't have to choose.
He turns and opens the door to his dorm room, stepping over Neil's messy, dirty shoes. He pictures Aaron's shifted expression once more and allows the words to come to him. (What's the worst thing that could happen, Andrew, if you only admit it to yourself?)
I would have picked you, too.
Andrew is glad he had the forethought to bring his jacket as he opens the door to the roof. The added height has sharpened the wind's blade and its icy edge cuts neatly through Andrew as he steps out, right into its claws.
The sky is still a mass of gray-white with darker edges cutting through its blank face. Neil's red hair stands out against it like a match struck in a blizzard; a beacon for the wandering to find their way.
He's sitting very close to the edge, one leg dangling over the side, his chin resting on the knee of the other leg he has tucked to his chest as he stares out onto the empty and dead campus around them. The vibe is all very Emo Boy in a Music Video. He doesn't shift as Andrew walks up next to him, the toe of his boot a foot away from Neil's leg; a foot away from the ledge.
Andrew feels something, standing up here. A year ago he would've said all he could ever feel standing this close to the edge is fear --ingrained, rooted-- but now, he would say it's something more like anticipation. He looks down. His stomach swoops. He settles his gaze on Neil's face; always the cornerstone, the linchpin, the beacon guiding him back.
Andrew drops Neil's jacket next to him. Neil glances at it, but makes no move to grab it even though his cheeks are pink and his lips are bloodless.
Andrew shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets, curling his fists around the objects inside. "I can see that your sense of self-preservation still has yet to develop," he says. "Still not worried about dying of exposure."
"Don't," Neil says, his voice brittle. "Don't do that. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine, but don't pretend like everything's okay. I can't--" He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, dropping his other foot off the side.
Andrew's mind flashes with a vivid image of Neil pushing himself off the ledge, weightless for a moment, then dropping down, down, down. He barely stops himself from reaching out, grabbing onto Neil's collar and hauling him away.
Instead, he takes one of his hands out of his pocket and drops a folded, slightly crumpled piece of paper in Neil's lap.
A week ago, this would have felt like setting something off, ripping everything apart. But now, as Neil snatches Proust's obituary just before it can get swept away --it's just a piece of paper. A defused bomb that Andrew had carefully and meticulously picked apart, even if he didn't realize it, until it stopped ticking.
Neil gets a good look at it, and he pauses. He doesn't unfold it. Andrew didn't have any hope that this was all a misunderstanding, that someone else had somehow managed to slip the obituary into Neil's pillowcase unbeknownst to him --but if he did, Neil's reaction now would've killed it.
Andrew sits down, keeping his distance from the edge, and pulls out his cigarettes. He flicks open the pack and dumps his lighter into his palm. It's blue. He sticks two cigarettes into his mouth and lights them both, smoke curling at the edges of his vision. He keeps one and holds onto the other, resting it on his knee.
Neil is still looking at the obituary with a blank gaze. He's barely moved, only swaying slightly in the wind. Andrew waits.
Smoke curls out of the other cigarette, brushing up against Neil, caressing his face. He takes in a shuddering breath. "How..." he starts. Stops. Tries again. "How did you--?"
He shakes his head. Andrew can see the choice to dismiss that line of thought in Neil's face as his mind starts working again. Neil keeps the obituary pinched between his forefinger and thumb, holding it away from himself like he doesn't want to touch it more than he absolutely has to. The words written on the back are barely visible from this angle, bold and damning. Got it done.
Andrew takes a drag of his cigarette. He glances out at the campus and sees tiny flecks drifting in the wind. Only then does he feel a small pinprick on his cheek as a snowflake falls there, melting into his skin.
"I told him about Easthaven."
Andrew doesn't have to ask who Neil means, he hears it in the strain of Neil's voice, the familiar edge that he gets anytime he talks about the Moriyamas.
"When I made the deal for Kevin, Jean, and I, I told him that Riko had bought a doctor off." Neil's next words puff out in little white clouds, his eyes never leave the newspaper clipping. "Then at the Ravens match, my uncle came up to me and was talking about how the 'little boss' was cleaning house, looking for lawyers, doctors... So I asked if Proust was on that list. He said he'd look into it. I, I didn't think..."
He takes another deep, shuddering breath. Snowflakes have started to gather in his hair, settling onto the shoulders of his sweatshirt, but Neil doesn't seem to notice, even as a few catch in his eyelashes.
"Last August, someone slipped this into my pocket at Eden's." His fingers twitch around the paper. "I didn't see it until we got home. I didn't even notice."
Andrew remembers Neil being particularly antsy about Eden's for a while around that time. They hadn't been going out much, not with the trial going on in the background, but Neil had seemed more on edge whenever they did. Andrew chalked it all up to his usual diligence-bordering-on-paranoia, but honestly Andrew can't say he was paying much attention at that time.
He flicks ash, the red embers burn out immediately, drifting along with the snow in the wind, tumbling down.
"I didn't tell you because of everything with the trial," Neil goes on. "Then November came, then Christmas, and it was hard for both of us and I didn't know how you would react. I didn't want to hurt you. It wasn't intentional, Drew, not really."
Andrew takes another long drag. "Not really," he echoes.
Neil finally, finally looks over at him and it's like an electric shock. His eyes burn with that familiar fire; the hottest part of a flame; blue, blue, blue.
"Do you want me to say I'm sorry that he's dead? Because I'm not, I would have done it myself if I could have." The edge in Neil's voice is razor-sharp. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, then he throws the obituary off the roof. It drifts away, flipping over itself, quickly swept away to be buried and dissolved by the snow. Andrew watches it only for a moment.
Then Neil curls up, tucking his knees to his chest, burying his head. He takes a few shaky breaths. "I would have done it," he says, muffled and quiet. But the world is quieter, holding its breath. Neil shivers as a snowflake lands on the back of his exposed neck. "I would have done it if Stuart never did. If you never..."
He lifts his head, looking over at Andrew. His face is bright with pink and white and blue --miserable. "Isn't that the point?"
Isn't it?
Neil just gave him confirmation, admitted that he was responsible for the hit, no matter how intentional it was in the beginning. He doesn't regret it. Hearing the truth, that impacts Andrew, but not in the way he was expecting. He was expecting the dull roar of familiar rage, to feel burned and betrayed, hand on the hot plate and holding it there. Instead, he feels...
He looks out at the campus. The snow is just starting to stick, sweeping into small piles around the trunks of trees, the edges of tires. Andrew takes another drag from his smoke, the other cigarette, still resting on his knee. It's nearly died out.
Neil's eyes dip to it. He looks up, a question in his gaze. Andrew doesn't move. Neil waits. Andrew gives a small jerk of his chin, and Neil reaches out, careful not to brush their fingers.
Neil seems very aware of your boundaries --always has, even from the beginning.
Neil cups the cigarette like it's precious, watching the embers burn out instead of coaxing them back to life, tiny wisps of smoke curling in the air.
"Would you have?" Andrew asks.
Neil looks at him. Andrew doesn't look away, holding back a shiver as the wind passes over them.
"I would have wanted to," Neil says, his jaw flexing.
"Want and action are not the same thing." It's something Bee has told him many times, in many different contexts. It feels apt now.
"It doesn't matter." Neil makes a cutting gesture with his free hand. "I didn't explicitly ask them to kill him, but I may as well have, and I'm not sorry that they did."
Andrew reaches out and takes the cigarette from Neil, tossing it over the side. Then he puts his hand on the back of Neil's neck, skin warm against his chilly hand. Neil jumps, then relaxes, letting Andrew pull his head in. Andrew can feel Neil's pulse racing where his thumb rests just underneath the corner of his jaw, can see that the snow has melted on Neil's eyelashes and made them clump together into star-like points.
"I do not want or need your apology," Andrew says slowly. "And do not make the mistake of thinking I need your protection."
Andrew waits a second for the words to sink in, then he releases him.
Neil lets out a choked laugh. He leans his head back, exposing his throat, closing his eyes with a sad smile on his lips. "If it means losing you, then no."
Andrew's breath stutters in his chest. His hand burns, but it's because he can still feel the phantom heat of Neil's skin, the fast-tempo tattoo of his heartbeat against his palm.
Andrew leans over and grinds out his cigarette, smearing ash into the light dusting of snow. He leaves the mangled remains to roll around in the wind. Far below, he watches a group of students run around in the snow, their excited voices carried off before they can reach the rooftop.
"I'm not going anywhere."
He feels Neil's gaze flick to him, then hears his small, shaky release of breath.
They sit in silence for a few moments, watching the snow slowly settle over the campus. Neil starts shivering and Andrew shoves the jacket he brought at him, now a little damp from the snow, but Neil shrugs it on without protest, and neither of them move to leave to get out of the cold.
Then, Neil says, "I know what I want for my side of the deal."
Andrew glances at him, his mind whirling before retrieving the conversation they had at the locker room on Sunday, which feels like it was years ago --Neil's chin in his hand, the keys in his palm.
When Neil doesn't follow up with his request, Andrew flicks his fingers in a gesture to continue. Neil lets out a big enough breath that Andrew can see the white cloud of exhalation out of the corner of his eye.
"I don't want a deal at all, really," Neil says. "I don't want to have to make deals with you, not about things like this. I don't want to be contractually obliged to talk to you, or you to me, but -- I don't want to do this again. I can't sit there and watch anymore, Drew. I need you to tell me. I can't help you if I don't know what we're fighting."
Andrew leans his temple against his knee, feels his own heartbeat pounding, pounding.
"I want to do this together. Do you-- do you want that, too?"
Andrew swallows against the sudden lump in his throat and looks over. Snowflakes have caught in the stray hairs around Neil's hair. The end of his nose is red. He seems so alive. He's so close. Andrew reaches out.
Neil brings up his hand, looking up and checking --still checking-- before he laces their fingers together.
"Yes," Andrew says. "It's a deal."
Neil's smile is like the sun coming out, bright as sunlight reflecting off a bank of snow. His hand is solid and warming against his palm, his heartbeat pressed right up against Andrew's own.
It's not that easy, it's never that easy, especially for them, but it's almost like there was never any other way they were going to end this story: with them --Neil and Andrew, Andrew and Neil. Together.
"We'll be better," Andrew says, leaning into Neil's warmth.
"Better," Neil agrees and leans in to meet him.