Chapter Text
“I heard Neil Josten’s apartment building burned down.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
___
Their mortal enemies to the Northeast, the Vultures, await them at the end of an hour’s ride in the school’s athletic bus. Loading gear and equipment onto it is a well-oiled ordeal that Neil is unlucky enough to be drafted for. By the time Neil follows Jean onto the bus, the front third is full of sophomores and the upperclassmen have claimed their usual spots at the rear, with the other Juniors forming a narrow buffer. There’s an empty seat in front of Kevin for Jean and Neil, but Jean sails right past it, his chin up, his sunglasses holding back the curls that frame his forehead. Neil watches, dumbfounded, as Jean strides confidently to the back and slides in next to Andrew.
None of the noise ricocheting off the walls dampens, but every one of Neil’s friends’ heads turn to watch. Matt braces a hand against the seat in front of him, ready to move. Renee more discreetly sets her book aside and twists her body towards the aisle. Even Jeremy pops up, his head swiveling towards the potential disaster like one of those fucking meerkats in a nature special. Neil’s just not sure if Jean knows he’s the gazelle.
The only one of them who seems uninterested is Kevin, who turns immediately back to Neil and waves him forward. “Sit down. We need to talk about their pathetic defense.”
Neil drops himself onto the bench beside Kevin and asks, “If it’s pathetic, why do we need to talk about it?”
“Oh, sorry,” Kevin says. “Were you hoping we’d skate through just assuming we're always better?”
Behind them, Neil hears Jean say, “So, Andrew.”
Renee’s foot slides its way a little further into the aisle.
Andrew says nothing.
Neil can feel the back of the bus holding its collective breath, but Kevin charges right through it. “Their seniors barely know how to hold their sticks, but they’ve got this Junior, McKenna, who’s worth watching.”
Undaunted, Jean dials up the charm in his voice and tries again. “I don’t think we’ve ever really talked.”
“It was my favorite thing about you,” Andrew says, bored. “Now you’ve ruined it.”
Kevin says, “She hasn’t been playing long, but Dad has some tape of her first game.”
Neil tries desperately to tune Kevin out, to turn the eager recitation of stats into white noise so that he can hear what’s happening in the seat behind them. What he catches is the end of Jean’s new approach: “so we should get to know each other better. For Neil.”
From across the aisle, Neil hears a stifled, gleeful giggle. Allison.
“This is my fault,” Neil whispers to Kevin. He’d told Jean to apologize to Andrew because he couldn’t help himself, but he didn’t mean like this, in front of all these people, where Andrew can’t escape.
“What?” Kevin asks. “You’ll be able to get past her. You just need to pay more attention to her left.”
“For Neil?” Andrew echoes quietly.
“Yes,” Jean says. Neil can hear the blinding wattage of his smile in the word. “We’re coming up on two months together, and I feel like you and I hardly know each other. Not your fault, of course. It’s the boyfriend’s job to get to know his beloved’s friends.”
Neil hears someone whisper “beloved” with hushed awe.
“Are you listening to me?” Kevin asks. “Being a Junior doesn’t mean you can afford to be indifferent to scouts.”
“Kevin,” Allison calls sweetly. “Kindly shut the fuck up.”
Kevin scowls and crosses his arms over his chest, slouching down in his seat. Neil feels bad, he really does. On any other bus ride, he’d be more than happy to sit with Kevin and fill the entire hour with conversation about the minute details of their opponents' techniques. Today, though, he’s waiting with bated breath to see if the scene behind them turns violent. The silence left behind by Kevin’s chatter should mean that Andrew’s next words will be audible to everyone, Renee speaks up first. .
“Hey, Calla?” she calls to one of the other juniors towards the middle of the seats. “Can you turn that music up?”
Something Neil has been told is the Jonas Brothers pumps a little louder through the bus. It might be enough to block the sound for people beyond their immediate grouping, but Neil can still hear Andrew’s monotone correction, “Six weeks.”
“Give or take,” Jean answers blithely. “So, what do you say?”
“You have ten seconds to get out of this seat before I sharpen my knife on you.”
Jean, incredibly, unbelievably, recklessly, laughs. It’s loud and bright and eclipses the crooning coming from Calla’s phone speaker. Neil braces for impact. “I know better now,” Jean says, sounding for all the world like a man confident in his warm reception. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I wouldn’t hurt some people,” Andrew corrects flatly. “You, I’d happily stab.”
Before Jean can do something stupid, like continue to pester Andrew, Jeremy half-stands and leans against the back of his seat. “Jean,” he calls. “I have to show you this video of lobsters playing the piano.”
“Lobsters?” Jean says, directing the question at Andrew. Is he—is he asking if Andrew wants to go with him to see the video? No one can ever call Jean a coward again.
Andrew’s response must come in the form of an unamused (or worse) glare, because Jean waits only a beat or two before standing. “We can talk more later,” Jean says, and then he’s out of the bench seat. Neil thinks he might even hear whistling.
Jean walks briskly, even with the movement of the bus, but Neil manages to snag his sleeve before he gets too far. “What are you doing?” Neil hisses in French.
Jean’s answering smile is as brilliantly smug as it had sounded during that entire conversation. “Research.”
The despair and awe Neil feels at that answer are entwined. Inseparable. Neil admires the nerve even as he hopes Jean calls off whatever insane pester-Andrew-into-transparency plan he seems to have. It’s ballsy, but it could and likely will put Jean on the list of people over whose flaming bodies Andrew would make popcorn.
There’s nothing concerned in Jean’s body language as he walks, swaying with the gentle rocking of tires on the road, and eases into the seat beside Jeremy. Jean ducks his head so that only the frames of his sunglasses are visible, but beyond him, Neil sees Riko; he’s turned in his seat, watching the scene with cold, calculating eyes.
Neil had completely forgotten about him. It’s not that he thinks of Riko often, but the oversight makes him uneasy, because from the look on Riko’s face, it’s evident that he hadn’t forgotten about them at all.
___
No one approaches Andrew for the rest of the bus ride. Neil is prepared to tackle anyone who tries, but the opportunity doesn’t present itself. He spends the time coaxing Kevin out of his sulk with an in-depth conversation about other sports that would improve exy skills. Hockey and lacrosse are out, of course, but Neil makes what he thinks is a pretty solid argument for snowboarding. Kevin suggests fencing and looks pityingly at Neil when he asks if that’s a sword Kevin is willing to die on.
They broach tennis for the goalies exactly once and drop it when Andrew kicks the back of their seat viciously.
The Vulture’s gym is black and red and obviously very proud of the knobby, clawed foot motif that’s stamped on way too many of their walls and floors. It’s the Foxes’ first away game of the season, so everyone is bristling with energy and the high of invading someone else’s territory, victory already a phantom taste on their tongues. Unloading the bus, changing, gearing up—it all moves a lot faster than it does when they’re on their home turf. Add that to the fact that it’s the night before Halloween and, well. Tensions are high in the best ways—and some of the worst.
Jean strides over and wedges himself in between Andrew and Neil at the bench they’ve chosen, nearly knocking Neil’s bag off when he drops his own. “This will be a good game,” he declares.
Andrew’s eyebrow lifts.
“Stop,” Neil says to Jean. “You’re going to—” make Andrew want to prove you wrong. “Jinx it.”
“Look at Kevin,” Jean says brightly. “Does that look like a man who’s willing to lose tonight?”
“It’s a team effort,” Kevin calls from a few benches down. “Or, it should be. I can’t carry all of you.”
“Carry us? That’s quite a claim,” Riko says. The words are light, but the smile on his face is cold and a little too toothy.
“Speaking of ‘us’,” Kevin says, turning to face Riko. “Have you been meditating on that teamwork we talked about?”
A cowardly ooooooooh creeps its way out of one of the further corners of the locker room. The longer the o stretches, the brighter the spots of color on Riko’s cheeks become. Neil could step in—maybe should step in—but Kevin’s defiance is oddly thrilling.
“Yes, well. It’s difficult to play with a team when they can’t keep up with you,” Riko says shortly.
Kevin’s smile befits the cover of a magazine. It’s so wide and pageant-ready that it presses a rare half-dimple into Kevin’s cheek. He calls out, “Hear that, everyone? Let’s all give Riko the support he needs tonight.”
The twin spots on Riko’s cheekbones burn like torches.
“Neil,” Kevin says, turning back to face him. “I’m counting on your speed.”
Because Neil lives happily in the middle of a sports movie, Jean slings an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in so that Neil’s head knocks against his chest piece. The fresh laundry smell of Jean’s uniform mostly covers the sweat that you can’t seem to ever fully clean off the gear.
“That’s our boy,” Jean says. “And with Andrew backing us up, how can we lose?”
That reckless boldness is enough that Neil reluctantly pulls his attention away from the savage gleam in Riko’s eyes and ducks around Jean to see how Andrew is reacting to this praise. Unsurprisingly, he’s not. Reacting.
“Andrew,” Neil says. All he gets is a flick of the eyes towards him, but that’s good enough. He switches to German and says, “Are you going to throw it to spite him?”
“Nein,” Andrew says dismissively. And then, “Maybe.”
“You know the stakes. Happy Kevin drinks, angry Kevin lectures.”
The decisive lift of Andrew’s middle finger is a positive sign. Neil chooses to translate it as Andrew acknowledging the consequences of his actions.
The last moments in the locker room mark conversation’s lowest tide. Any words are murmured, washed over by the sounds of lockers opening and closing, zippers sliding, and the thuds of shoes and equipment being tossed against the thin metal.
By the time Neil takes his first step into the Vultures’ gym, the whole team is vibrating with anticipation. Something about Kevin’s dismissive take-down of Riko seems to have energized the younger players, Neil included, and the promise of a second win in a row is intoxicating.
Wymack starts Kevin and Seth as strikers, with Renee on goal and Jean and Aaron as backliners. It leaves Andrew, Riko, and Neil to watch from the sidelines. Neil paces as close to the Vultures’ goal as he can, watching their goalie’s moves, watching their backliners try to counter Seth’s brute force and Kevin’s ambitious, carefully planned shots. When he retreats to their bench, he finds that Riko has made his way to its far end, the maximum distance from Andrew. Riko’s jaw is set, his expression a little too tight to be calm. Neil doesn’t like the look of that.
“Did something happen?” he asks Andrew.
When Andrew just shrugs, Neil turns his attention back to the game and asks, “Will they be able to score on you?”
“You can’t,” Andrew says.
“Ouch,” Neil says lightly.
“But you think they could?”
Neil turns back to the court, this time watching the strikers try to work Renee’s weak spots. Number 18 has a lot of fancy footwork, but his shots seem to always triangulate through a spot above Renee’s right shoulder. The other, 8, takes whatever opening he can find, throwing the balls hard, if not quite fast enough.
“No,” Neil says. “Not unless you let them.”
At the end of the first half, they’re ahead 3-1 and Kevin stalks through the court door like he’s Zeus descending from Mount Olympus, the entire world held in the ball he’d expertly, almost lovingly snuck through the crook of the goalie’s arm.
Neil offers a high-five, electrified as much by Kevin’s haughty return as he is by the disgruntled looks coming from across the court. Kevin hits his hand so hard it stings, but grips Neil’s and holds on instead of letting it rebound. The two layers of gloves between them are bulky; their fingers can only interlock to the first knuckle, but Neil feels the energy Kevin is trying to transfer to him anyway. It plucks at his bones until his entire body is humming in tune.
“They’re putting on McKenna. Number 5. Remember, she’s left handed. Watch for those swings in your blind spots. Their goalie—”
“Sucks at underhand, I saw.”
Kevin’s answering smile is feral. “Don’t hold back for Riko’s sake. If you can do it faster and better, do it.”
Neil’s usual playing-with-Riko strategy is to keep to his side of the court and not expect Riko to send him the ball unless there is literally no other choice. He keeps an eye on the ball as a matter of course, but, unlike with Kevin and Seth, doesn’t try to move in such a way that he could be easily passed to. Even though Riko tends to ignore him, there’s no question that Riko’s arrogance doesn’t preclude his constant awareness of where everyone on the court is located. He whistles when he wants Neil to pass the ball, warns him off of things he wants for himself, and swoops in to get control of the ball if he thinks (incorrectly) that Neil can’t possibly make it there in time.
Neil would do the usual tonight, except that Kevin’s uncharacteristic ‘off with his head’ attitude has Neil buzzing with adrenaline. Add in the challenge of the new Vulture backliner, and Neil’s feet barely touch the ground as he flies around the court, ducking blocks and leaving McKenna spinning to chase after him. He ignores most of Riko’s whistles, too, passing the ball only when the flow of the game recommends it.
Neil scores, and then Riko scores, and then the ball arcs through the air at the midpoint between them. Riko is closer, but slower; even though Neil has to cover fifteen more feet than Riko does, he knows he’s the only one who will get to it before it hits the ground. So, he runs. He runs hard, ducking the Vultures’ attempts to block him, and scoops the ball into his net before it can hit the ground, low enough that all he has to do is keep the swing of his shoulder straight and the ball arcs up again.
Before he can see if it gets past the goalie, a freight train hits him. Neil knows he’s going down, so he adjusts for the fall—what he can’t adjust for is the vicious lance of wood against his stomach. It catches on a knot of newer scar tissue, lighting it up with pain, and knocks all of the wind out of him. It hurts too much for him to brace. Hurts too much to be a dull object. Hurts like it did when he got stabbed the first time.
The floor rises up to meet him and he hits it hard, knocking a dull ache through his bones and into his teeth; he barely notices it because he can’t, can’t take a breath. His throat seizes. Everything in his chest and stomach grows claws so that each breath he tries to take feels like it’s ripping him apart from the inside.
He panics.
The racquet clatters from his hands as he curls into the fetal position and tries to rip off his helmet. All he can think is danger and air and this is it. His hands fumble with the straps at his chin and he gets it off, purely by luck, sending it spinning across the court floor so he can search for his racquet again to arm himself.
Someone touches him, grabs him, and Neil reacts. He kicks out blindly, his vision blurred by the involuntary tears leaking from his eyes. The hands grab again, fingertips bending the skin of Neil’s arms. He hears his name, a worried, admonishing, “Neil,” but he doesn’t recognize the voice.
He does recognize the sharp, “Move,” that follows it. The grabbing hands disappear and then he’s being lifted, pulled up and onto his knees by his chest plate. He tries to stumble to his feet, but a hand wraps around the back of his neck and keeps him down. Like a cat, he thinks. Like he’s a kitten. The idea of it sends an inappropriate jolt of amusement through him.
The next, “Neil,” is close, in Andrew’s calm, steady, familiar voice. The hand gripping his gear keeps him from falling forward; the one on his neck stops him from falling back. As impossible as it seems, he is held up.
And Andrew is there. Neil tries to say his name, but chokes on the first syllable. He can’t hear much through the rush in his ears. All he can see are blurry shapes, dark edges, and bright spots.
“You’re fine,” Andrew says. “Calm down.”
Neil gropes for something to hold onto. He lands on Andrew’s jersey; he grabs a handful and tries to focus on the texture of it, on the tight grip of Andrew’s hand on his neck. He drags in a harsh half-breath and then another, his chest heaving.
Somewhere, a woman’s quiet voice says something. Andrew says, “Not yet,” and pulls Neil a little closer; his knees slip over the smooth court floor and bump against Andrew’s.
Neil finally pulls in a whole breath. The air is dense and overheated and smells like sweat and aggression, but it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. He exhales hard and sucks in another, slumping forward in relief. Andrew aims Neil’s head towards his shoulder and lets him rest there, breathing in the still-clean scent of Andrew’s uniform.
“Riko took you down,” Andrew says against his ear. “He didn’t stop.”
“His racquet,” Neil says. He presses his fingers to the tender spot beneath his ribs. Andrew reaches and nudges Neil’s hand out of the way, replacing Neil’s fingers with his own. Neil knows he must be referencing his mental map of Neil’s scars. This one is messy and gnarled and still pink. It throbs with the phantom pain of the knife that made it.
From above them somewhere, Abby gently says, “Andrew.”
“Ready?” Andrew asks.
When Neil nods, Andrew shoves him off and stands, hauling Neil onto his feet too. Up, with his vision cleared, he sees his team clustered around looking worried and angry. Kevin is close, scowling, with his racquet braced against Riko’s chest to keep him back.
“So sorry,” Riko says. “I just couldn’t stop in time.”
Neil leaves Riko to the dangerous look in Kevin’s eyes and blinks at the little cluster of players around them. Jean is posted behind Andrew, his hands tucked away, his face guilty and worried. It must have Jean that Neil kicked at earlier. Jean whose well-intentioned hands sent Neil deeper into a spiral.
“Let’s get you checked out,” Abby says.
“I can play,” Neil protests. “He just knocked the wind out of me.”
Abby smiles. “I’m sure you can. Come drink some water.”
He drinks the water and sits out the rest of the half. His only consolation is that Riko is out, too, sulking at the other end of the bench in a deep freeze. It’s infuriating being out after playing no more than a quarter. If Neil’s being honest, though, the bench is where he should be right now. It takes the whole of Abby’s exam (and then some) before breathing doesn’t feel like rolling through broken glass.
And anyway, they win. The final score is 8-3. Maybe Riko’s bullshit lit a fire under the team, maybe the Vultures were freaked out by Neil’s panic attack, or maybe the two teams aren’t really in the same league.
Whatever the reason, they win, so the stakes of Riko’s bullshit stay low. Neil is fine. Andrew shuts down the goal. They come out ahead.
Afterwards, Neil heads to the less populated girls’ locker room the way he usually does. They have a rough, mostly unspoken routine worked out: the girls shower and change fast; Neil showers and changes even faster. The space is empty when he steps out of the showers, so he wastes no time in pulling on his postgame sweats over his hastily toweled legs and shoving his feet into his crocs. He’s just tugged his hoodie down over his stomach when he hears the door creak open and Riko steps into view.
Which is. Well. Weird. What the fuck.
“What do you want?” Neil asks bluntly.
“To apologize, of course.”
“Try again,” Neil says. “Neither one of us believes that.”
Riko shows Neil his teeth. It’s not charming, but Neil is too tired of Riko’s shit to be worried about what it means. Smoothly, Riko says, “You wound me.”
All at once, Neil has had enough. He’s been bumping up against enough for a while, but he’s already developing a bruise on his stomach and he had to sit out most of the game and generally, he’s just over it. “Listen,” Neil says impatiently. “Whatever your fucking problem is, just say it and get it over with. Is this about Jean? Are you pissed that I ‘took’ Jean from you or whatever?”
“I’d say you’ve taken more than that.”
Ludicrous, Neil thinks. “This is your chance,” he says. “I’m listening. But I’m not interested in your weird, cryptic movie villain thing, so if you’re not going to say anything, just get out of the way.
“No,” Riko spits, straightening out of his unconvincing lean against the lockers. “You don’t tell me what to do. You think you’re such hot shit, but you’re nothing. You’re just a distraction. An empty, shiny thing that everyone will get sick of looking at. You’re not even good at Exy, you’re just fast.”
“Then why do you care?” Neil asks. “If you’re better than me, go be better than me and leave the rest of us alone.”
“The rest of us?” Riko laughs coldly. “You show up out of nowhere and you think there’s an us and that it includes you? You think everyone feeling sorry for a stray means anything? You think all of this attention is going to last? It’s desperate. They’re going to realize you have nothing to offer them.”
Neil hears you’re nothing and you have to be forgettable and you don’t get to have friends, Abram. He’s under the spray of the shower again and this time it’s ice cold, snaking into his veins and cracking him apart as it freezes. Is any of that true? Maybe? There’s a part of him that latches on and whispers at him about his worthlessness, but on the other hand...Riko is saying it, so it can’t be true. Neil tries to imagine any of his friends being here, hearing this, and then his brain finally catches hold on something: attention. Riko, saying ‘all of this attention.’
“Shit,” Neil says, understanding breaking sharply through his instinctive retreat. “Attention.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re jealous.”
“Of you?” Riko scoffs. “Hardly.”
“Not of me-me,” Neil says dismissively. “Of the attention. You think I have too much of it.”
“You do. You don’t deserve any of it.”
“But that’s not the point, is it? You think that if they weren’t giving it to me, they’d be giving it to you instead.”
Riko’s answering glare is silent, but it tells Neil everything he needs to know.
“Jean picked me,” Neil says slowly. “Kevin picked me. No one picked you because you’re an asshole.”
“You’re a novelty. They’ll get bored.”
“Wow,” Neil says. “This is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Fuck you,” Riko snaps.
“It’s pathetic,” Neil says matter-of-factly. “You try to cultivate this reputation, this evil mastermind thing or whatever, but it’s bullshit. There’s nothing to you. No amount of attention is going to make you a real boy.”
Riko takes a step forward, his eyes narrowing. He says, “You watch your mouth.”
“Fuck off already,” Neil retorts. He tosses his towel towards the hamper and scoops his bag up and onto his shoulder. “If you need to make me your nemesis to fill that void inside you, go for it. Just don’t expect me to play along. I have better things to do.”
“I can ruin you,” Riko warns.
“Sure,” Neil says. “If it makes you feel special, have fun with that.”
He has to walk right by Riko to get to the door, which he thinks should probably put him on some kind of edge. Riko is vibrating with anger, overloaded, his teeth clenched, his face red. But Neil doesn’t give him the satisfaction of skirting around him cautiously—he just walks. There’s nothing Riko can do to him that hasn’t been done before. And Riko doesn’t have the balls to do it, anyway. He’s the kind of cruel that has to hide away in the shadows.
Neil pushes through the door and almost runs into Andrew, who steps back just in time to avoid getting hit in the face. His goalie reflexes are all that save him from a broken nose.
“Hi,” Neil says, smiling. Whatever Riko had tethered himself to inside Neil’s mind has slipped the knot; Neil lets him fall down and away easily. “Were you coming to check on me?”
“We can’t leave without you,” Andrew says. “Coach said no.”
“I got held up,” Neil says lightly. He pushes the door further open and steps through it, shifting sideways so that Andrew can see Riko still furiously hunched by the lockers.
Andrew looks from Riko to Neil, scanning him quickly. A question trembles through his expression then falls, crushed beneath the press of Andrew’s ready anger. It’s just that Riko isn’t worth it. He’s not worth the air it would take to insult him, the bruises to the knuckles to hit him, or the raised heart rate to yell at him. Neil cups his hand loosely over Andrew’s shoulder to stop him from stepping through the door.
“Don’t bother,” Neil says. “What are you going to buy me for dinner?”
“You played for fifteen minutes,” Andrew says, his eyes still on Riko. “Why do you think you deserve dinner?”
Neil spends the walk through the gym and to the bus trying to annoy the dark look out of Andrew’s eyes. It works, mostly, though Andrew still turns on him expectantly after he slides in after Neil on the back bench of the bus.
“It’s not even worth talking about,” Neil says. “Honestly.”
Riko is the last to board. Neil doesn’t know where he ends up sitting, because Neil doesn’t care enough to watch. He’s much more interested in slouching against Andrew, fitting an earbud into his ear, and letting Andrew shush him every time he tries to talk over the music.
___
Neil’s apartment is thankfully off the table for the Halloween party. This is a small gathering of friends only, but he’s still a little traumatized by the loud, oppressive crowd of the last one.
After a lengthy and savage group chat argument about whether or not they’re all too old to go trick-or-treating, Allison had announced that she was having a Halloween movie marathon at her house, and that the dress code would be ‘costumes, but barely.’
Which is how Neil comes to find himself standing in front of Andrew’s bedroom mirror in jeans and a baseball jersey.
“I hate baseball,” he complains.
“Yes.”
“You know I won’t keep this on all night, don’t you?”
“Oh, no,” Andrew says mildly. “What a shame.”
Neil makes a face at himself in the mirror, then gives up and resigns himself to an evening in this unholy garment. He says, “I’ll wear it. But you have to back me up on Kevin’s costume.”
“I won’t need to. He’ll be into it.”
Andrew is right. Kevin is into it—he glides from his front door to the Kia with his head high and his giraffe onesie zipped only halfway up his chest, revealing the thin texture of his undershirt. What might be baggy on other people fits snugly on Kevin’s tall, lean frame. He has to take the hood down to fit himself into the back seat of the car. Neil is so pleased with himself he thinks he might bite through his lower lip in his efforts not to grin too smugly.
“You look ridiculous,” Andrew says.
“Fuck you, I look great,” Kevin counters. “Here’s yours.”
He hands over a small paper bag, from which Andrew pulls a headband embedded with thin wires that support a white ring of feathers.
“A halo?” Neil asks, delighted.
“He’s got the hair for it,” Kevin says. He reaches through the two front seats at tugs at a wayward lock of Andrew’s hair, snatching his hand back quickly when Andrew moves to slap at it.
Neil knows Andrew won’t protest. He knows that, despite the scowl on Andrew’s face, he’s amused by Kevin’s self-satisfied glee. Andrew tosses the empty bag in Neil’s direction and flips the rearview mirror towards himself, ducking and angling his head until he has the headband on and halo fluffed according to his specifications. One of the feathers droops low enough to tease at one of Andrew’s tousled waves. Neil’s fingertips buzz with the desire to smooth one away from the other.
“No one will recognize you,” Neil says, faking admiration. When Andrew raises his middle finger right in front of Neil’s nose, he grasps it, grinning when Andrew, instead of pulling away, twists his hand and curls their fingers together.
Jean awaits them on his corner, posing in his American flag t-shirt, sweatpants, and socks with slides costume. It makes Neil laugh and Kevin grumble about how long it’s been since the French won the Olympic game. Neil thinks he should probably swap with Kevin and sit in the backseat with his boyfriend, but Andrew’s pinky is still hooked around Neil’s on the gearshift and there are pretty few scenarios in which Neil would give that up.
The mood in the car is light as they wind their way through the residential streets. Andrew drives as carefully as Neil’s ever seen, stopping often to let small children in store-bought costumes to run recklessly across the street. It’s toeing the line between late afternoon and evening when they pull up to Allison’s sharp-angled, contemporary house; she meets them at her front door in leggings and a t-shirt with a giant dick painted on it.
“Um,” Neil says. “Are you Kevin?”
“Big dick energy,” Andrew says drily.
Grinning, Allison taps at what Neil belatedly realizes is a power outlet drawn into the dick just above her right boob.
“So, yes,” Kevin sniffs.
“There’s too much there to unpack,” Allison laughs. “Come in. Matt’s making fancy mocktails. Seth is doing a whole thing. Jean and Jeremy are going to have to sit next to each other all night. You’ll see.”
The expansive entry is quiet other than the echoes of laughter coming from deeper in the house. Neil follows her past any number of expensive modern art pieces with their own lighting and through a large, airy formal living room before they make their way into a section of the house that’s more casual. A little more casual. Seth pops out of what looks like a laundry room as Allison leads them through the halls. His legs are bare beneath his trench coat. Neil thinks flasher, and then Seth stage-whispers, “Hey, little boys,” and tugs the tie around his waist open. When the coat parts, there are several flasks and at least a dozen assorted shot glasses stuffed into his pockets.
Flasker, Neil mentally corrects.
“Which one is vodka?” Kevin asks.
They leave Kevin and Seth pretending they’re doing some kind of illicit drug deal, and follow Allison into a room with an enormous sectional occupying two walls and an even more enormous TV taking up a third.
The room is dim, just a faint glow coming from the ceiling and the flickering of dozens of flameless candles dotted around. A cheer goes up when they enter. It’s a joyful, welcoming sound, so new to Neil that he feels the urge to step back from it, keep it contained in its original packaging and preserve it. He lingers at the threshold until Andrew’s fingers whisper against his back, nudging him forward.
Once they’ve waved hello, the flurry of smaller conversations picks up again. Laila and Sara—in a rainbow shirt and sparkly gold shirt respectively—turn back to Katelyn, Aaron, and Marissa, deep in some sort of debate that requires a lot of wild gesticulation. Neil still has no idea what Aaron said to Andrew to get him to agree to the twins arriving separately and, frankly, he has no intention of asking. Further down the sofa, Jeremy stands, his face glowing with delight—Neil clocks the striped shirt, beret, and baguette in his hand, and gets it. Jeremy and Jean have unintentionally dressed up as each other.
Andrew murmurs, “Subtle,” close enough to Neil’s ear that the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Neil wants to know what he means, but Andrew keeps them walking, stepping over a blanketed form on the ground and leading them towards the snacks.
“Neil!” Matt calls as they approach. “Caramel apple cider?”
The drink is tangy and smooth. Neil leaves Andrew to Matt’s enthusiastic mixology demonstration and works his way through the clusters of his friends, accepting their sympathies on the disturbing horror of his costume. He is pulled around the room by the tide, moving in and around and with the others until he finds himself wedged onto the sectional between Jean and Allison. The sofa is deep, a soft, cushiony microfiber that resists Neil’s jeans just a little as he scoots as far to the back as he can. One his right, Allison pokes at the remote. On his left, Jean lifts both arms above his head, making room for Neil—and Jeremy, on the other side—to nestle in under them.
At the other end of the couch Matt says, with a tilt of his bottle towards Jean, “You’re in two different couples costumes.”
Neil looks down at himself, then to Jean and Jeremy beyond him. America and baseball. America and France.
“I am America,” Jean says grandly. “Of course I want more than my share.”
Half of the individually-wrapped candies aimed at Jean end up in Neil’s lap, battering him like hail. He only barely manages to catch the full-sized chocolate bar Kevin sends flying at his face before it hits him; he flips it quickly between his fingers so he can snap it towards Andrew instead.
“Stop showing off,” Allison says. “We drew names earlier for movie-picking order, and Aaron, you’re up.”
The next volley of ammunition hits Aaron and Katelyn after he says, “Zombieland.”
Neil raises his voice over the groans. “Well I think it’s a great choice, Aaron. Good job.”
“Yeah, go fuck yourself, asshole,” Aaron calls back. “And the rest of you can suck my dick. This movie is great.”
“So great,” Neil agrees. “Robbed at the Oscars.”
“Stop helping,” Aaron says, narrowing his eyes threateningly. “I swear, Josten, I will hurt you.”
“But will you?” Matt muses. “Or are you too afraid of Andrew?”
Aaron grimaces exaggeratedly. “Fine. I’ll shave his head.”
“But will you?” Matt asks again. “Or are you too afraid of—”
“Oh my god,” Allison says loudly. “Boys, shut up so we can make fun of Aaron’s stupid movie.”
The movie is actually very good. The fact that he can praise it and irritate Aaron with his praise at the same time makes Neil so happy that his joy bubbles dangerously in his chest. At some point, Allison pulls his legs on top of hers. Neil’s spine lines up neatly against Jean’s ribs, and Renee throws a blanket over all four of them when Allison whines for one. Andrew occupies a space at the edges of Neil’s vision, pulling his attention with every tiny movement.
They catch eyes again and again. The weight of Andrew’s gaze is heavier than that of Jean’s arm. It seeps into Neil’s skin, gathering into a dense mass at his core that thickens his blood.
Neil is flushed with something more than the radiating warmth of Jean’s body or the shared heat he and Allison are sheltering beneath the blanket. By the time the credits on the movie roll, Neil’s fingertips are buzzing. He’s claustrophobic in his own skin.
He thinks he may need Andrew the way Andrew needs cigarettes.
The buzzing turns to itching, so Neil lifts his legs out of Allison’s lap, slides out from under Jean’s arm, and picks his way over everyone’s legs, heading out the door as the others get up for bathroom breaks and refills.
He dimly remembers a loft area upstairs, so he aims himself in that direction. The large, plate glass windows reveal the vivid lavenders of the sunset, which fade into the deeper plums and eggplants and creep to the other side of the world as night falls. He jogs up the aggressively modern stairs and steps into the conversational nook off the landing, choosing a curvy leather chaise with a view over the garden for a seat.
Andrew will follow him, or he won’t. Either way, Neil needs a minute to corral the wild happiness that resists his efforts to compartmentalize it. It’s getting too big for him to hold in. He’s not sure what he’ll do if he loses control of it.
The only thing that gives Andrew’s approach away is the slightest squeak of his heel as he transitions from the marble landing to the carpeted area of the lounge. Neil tips his head back over the edge of the chaise and watches Andrew approach sideways.
“Those boots are designed to be loud. It’s in the name,” Neil observes.
“And yet you got snuck up on,” Andrew says mildly.
Neil thinks about sitting up, making room for Andrew, or moving to the couch, but before he can do any of those things, Andrew is swinging his leg over the chaise and settling into Neil’s lap.
“Hi,” Neil says quietly.
“You’ve been eye-fucking me for an hour.”
“Yeah,” Neil agrees. He holds his hands up, palms a breath from Andrew’s chest, until Andrew leans into them, pressing close enough for Neil to kiss him.
It’s hushed and drowsy, paced to match the slow shift of shadows around them as the sun slips fully beneath the horizon. Neil kisses Andrew’s chin, the corner of his mouth, and lets his hands skim the harp slope of Andrew’s lats. He traces the planes of Andrew’s back, hands wandering high enough that Neil can curve his fingers over Andrew’s shoulders and press them into the hollow space above his collarbones. Andrew shivers when Neil’s pinky brushes his pulse point. Being able to move Andrew like this, to make him react, is the headiest thing. The tiniest shiver, the hard bob of his adam’s apple, the needy grip of his fingers in Neil’s hair, it’s all dizzyingly potent.
Neil kisses under Andrew’s ear, bites lightly at the line of his jaw, and kisses him again. Into the scant space between their mouths, Neil mumbles, “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?” Andrew whispers back.
“That this was an option.”
“This?” Andrew asks, drawing back a little.
“You and me. The—the physical part.”
Andrew sits fully upright. Neil tries to chase him for another kiss, but Andrew leans back and plants a hand against Neil’s chest to hold him in place.
“No, I wasn’t,” Andrew says. He keeps his arm braced and locked so that Neil gets nowhere when he tries to lean closer again.
The unexpected seriousness in Andrew’s tone draws Neil out of the haze of touching. He tries to run through his mental catalogue for possible meanings of that statement, but he comes up with so many options he might as well have none: Andrew wouldn’t have told him because he didn’t really want to do it in the first place; Andrew wouldn’t tell him him because he thought it would make things weird; Andrew wouldn’t tell him because knew it would go bad; Andrew wouldn’t tell him because he didn’t want Neil to feel pressured; Andrew wouldn’t tell him because he thought it was Neil’s job to figure it out for himself. Neil can usually read Andrew pretty fucking well, but not when it comes to this stuff.
Does it mean Andrew doesn’t care if they’re doing this? Neil can’t fit that theory between them, actually. There’s no space for it.
But he wants an answer badly enough that he asks, “Why?”
“You weren’t interested. It was a non-issue.”
Neil frowns. “But when I realized it was something we could do, I was interested.”
“You don’t invite someone who doesn’t swing to the playground,” Andrew says blandly.
“There are things other than swings at the playground.”
“Not the literal playground, idiot.”
“Yeah but I never really got to go to a metaphorical playground that had swings.”
“Stop saying the word playground,” Andrew orders.
Andrew’s braced arm is still keeping them apart. Neil settles in for an extended not-making-out period. He shouldn’t have poked this hornet’s nest, but he didn’t expect a serious answer. He should have.
Neil drops his hands from Andrew’s sides and loops them low around Andrew’s hips instead, his fingers loosely tangled to keep his arms in place. He admits, “I don’t understand.”
“You are—” Andrew starts, then stops, frowning, and rubs at his jaw. “Important to me. Not because of sex. You are unfairly hot and this—this is good. But I didn’t need it to happen. I didn’t need it to be an eventuality. Our...dynamic was not incomplete without it.”
Andrew looks very serious in the slants of light let in through the windows. The stupid halo is still on. Andrew is backlit—Neil can see the delicate, ragged edges of the feathers but Andrew’s eyelashes are cast into shadow. Does Andrew allow anyone else this close to him? Close enough to see the suggestion of freckles on his cheeks. Close enough to see the flecks of brighter gold in the amber of his eyes.
Is it proximity that allows Neil to see Andrew’s many complexities? Whatever it is, Neil thinks he can parse most of the stilted explanation that Andrew gave. It’s about pressure and boundaries, about Andrew’s faultless respect for Neil’s, about how confusing Neil himself must have been. Hindsight has given Neil a different view of the way he’s always gravitated to Andrew, always tried to put himself into the closest orbit Andrew would allow. The thrill of riding behind Andrew on the motorcycle having been less about the speed of the bike than about Neil’s racing heart pounding its rhythm against Andrew’s back. His protectiveness has always been more about the instinct to bite and claw at anything that threatens something so precious to him than it was rational defense.
Neil thinks about all the things Jean has told him about love and relationships and realizes how much more complicated than he’d realized his feelings had been. More than he’d realized they could be. He thinks about how his wild desire for Andrew ran through deeper layers than he’d known he had. About the delicacy of the ways they’d first touched each other, starting with the tentative brushes of fingers ready to be burned.
Before he can figure out how to say any of that, before he comes up with even a first word, the sound of yelling elsewhere explodes loudly enough that the pattern of it reaches the loft.
“Ignore that,” Neil says.
Andrew raises an eyebrow but doesn’t stir, and Neil has hope that this can be a story they hear later, when they’re done talking. But then the shape of the yelling clarifies itself into his name and he reluctantly climbs off the chaise after Andrew. It just gets louder as they walk quickly back through the house, finally coalescing when they get to the kitchen and find Allison planted in front of Jean and Jeremy, scowling.
“He is in the same house,” Allison says angrily. “It would be shitty anyway, but this is next level.”
“Allison,” Jean says, his voice a little too loud to be calm. “It’s not what you think.”
“It’s not you and Jeremy making out at a party you’re at with your boyfriend?”
“Oh, shit,” Neil blurts out. Everyone turns to face him. Most of the faces are uncertain, with a few exceptions: the uncomfortable guilt of Jeremy’s, the outrage of Matt’s, the awkward stiffness of Jean’s. Neil turns his attention directly to Jean and asks, “Jeremy?”
“I—” Jean starts. He raises his hands helplessly.
“No, that’s awesome,” Neil says. He means it. “If only you’d realized this six weeks ago.”
Jean grins at him, his face flushing. Next to him, Jeremy looks as though he’s trying to sink through the floor. Understandable—Neil’s going to assume Jean at least told Jeremy the truth before they started making out, but Neil can see how that certainty could subside beneath Allison’s indignant anger.
When a heavy thud sounds, Neil pulls his attention from Jeremy’s crimson ears and returns it to Allison. She’s standing over one enormous cookbook and has another chunky volume in her hand. She points it between Jean and Neil and says, “You have some explaining to do.”
“We weren’t really dating,” Neil says. “We were pretending.”
“Pretending?” Matt asks.
Neil nods. “Jean was having a problem with someone who wouldn’t back off, so we just said he was dating me instead. But now, you know. Jeremy.”
“Okay,” Dan says, clapping her hands. The whistle over her athletics shirt bounces high enough that she has to catch it and set it still. “We’re not going to ask for details—”
“Aren’t we?” Allison mutters.
Dan raises her voice and keeps talking. “If Neil and Jean weren’t really dating, then Jean isn’t cheating on him.”
“How not-dating were you?” Matt asks. “Not to be weird, but—”
“But there was evidence,” Allison chimes in. “That there was someone.”
“Was there?” Neil asks, surprised.
“You need to pay a lot more attention to your necklines,” Allison says. “Are you saying that wasn’t Jean?”
“We don’t want to push Neil to tell us something he’s not comfortable with,” Renee says gently.
“What Neil told us is that he doesn’t swing,” Allison says. “And then he does Jean this favor or whatever and starts looking like he’s finally getting laid. And now Jean is somehow, something, whatever with Jeremy. But what about Neil? What if Neil had feelings?”
“Oh, I don’t,” Neil interjects helpfully. “None at all.”
“Well, I call bullshit on it being all fake,” Allison announces. “We’ve all seen the signs.”
“Yeah,” Aaron taunts. “We have. You haven’t been very discreet, Josten.”
The discomfort Neil had seen painted on Jeremy and Jean’s faces creeps its way onto Neil’s. He can’t out Andrew, so he’ll have to create another lie. Except that, unlike Jean, Neil doesn’t have the time to corner someone else at their locker.
“So we know Neil is dating someone,” Allison says decisively. “Or at least hooking up.”
Neil considers his options. Kevin would probably back him up if he claimed they were secretly together, out of sheer, stubborn loyalty if nothing else. He could say it’s Aaron, turn it into a joke and get a little payback for Aaron selling him out like that. There are a couple of non-team people who might do him this kind of solid if he could get to them before any of the others did. He could even say it was Riko and transform this whole thing into absolute chaos to bury the truth.
“Neil?” Allison asks, exasperated. “Do you need me to kick one of their asses?”
“Down, girl,” Dan says cheerfully. “Neil, what I think Allison is asking is, does this mean you actually are on the market?”
“So many people have asked me about you,” Allison says. “If you need to get over Jean, I’ve got you covered. That hot senior in the theater program is an option, at least three of the cheerleaders, and, oh, there’s this one guy who graduated last year and is so good looking, he texted me about a month ago blatantly fishing for information. Just say the word.”
Neil perks up. This is an unexpected but profoundly appreciated escape route. If he says yes to being set up, he can bypass the ‘who’ question altogether. Faking first dates can’t be harder than faking a committed relationship, right?
Before he can take her up on that smokescreen, he hears Andrew’s flat voice say, “No.”
“No?” Allison echoes, blinking in surprise.
Neil is so used to Andrew at his side that he hadn’t consciously registered it—had been too focused on Jean’s plight and then the onslaught of questions. This isn’t the kind of thing Andrew usually interferes in, anyway, unless he’s thought of a way to mock it, so Neil is to be forgiven for not thinking to look to Andrew for help.
But it’s not really help that Andrew seems to be offering. The hand he splays on Neil’s back could be comforting, but there’s something more assertive in the way he slides it around Neil’s waist and tugs him closer. Neil goes, easily, willing to move with whatever Andrew’s plan is, even if he has no fucking idea what it may be.
“Not unless you want us to have a problem,” Andrew answers easily. His hand dips lower, tucking around Neil’s hip in a gesture that leaves even Neil with no doubt as to what Andrew is really saying.
Neil stares, astonished, at the familiar angles of Andrew’s profile. Predictably—probably the only predictable thing happening—Andrew ignores him in favor of levelly watching the play of realization on the faces of the group around them. It seems to be a fairly short journey for everyone—much shorter than Neil thinks is appropriate. Dan’s isn’t a journey at all. She immediately beams, her eyes bright, her face glowing with self-satisfaction.
“Ugh.” Allison sighs. “We do have a problem. You just cost me a hundred bucks.”
“Two hundred,” Dan corrects smugly. “You forgot about the second part.”
Neil turns a little into Andrew, putting a little weight on the embrace to see if Andrew withdraws. He doesn’t. Neil ignores the low chatter of “I told you so” and ‘wait, “how much do I owe you?” and turns a look of silent question on Andrew. Why? And also, what?
“No more fake boyfriends,” Andrew says. “I do have limits.”
“Only real ones?” Neil asks.
“Limits, Neil,” Andrew says sternly.
“No one looks as surprised as I feel,” Matt complains. “How many of you knew about this?”
The number of hands that rise take Neil aback: Kevin, Aaron, Dan, Jean, and Jeremy.
“I tried to tell you,” Dan tells Matt.
“I’m with Matt,” Allison says. “This is bananas.”
Aaron cuts in quickly, grinning widely. “Well, I’m very happy for you two. We should double-date sometime. I believe you already know my girlfriend, Katelyn?”
Neil almost trips over his own tongue in his haste to reply. “Oh, that sounds awesome. Is tomorrow night good for you guys?”
“No,” Aaron says. “Fuck off, it’s not happening.”
“But you just said—”
“God, I hate you,” Aaron says, sighing. “I was doing a thing.”
Across the island, Kevin pushes his giraffe hood down, revealing the tipsy flush on his face. “Can those of us who have eyes go watch a movie and let the rest of you process on your own time?”
“Fine,” Allison grumbles. “It’s Renee’s turn to choose.”
Neil keeps expecting Andrew to release his hold, to push Neil away, to fold under the scrutiny, but he doesn’t. The arm he has around Neil stays loose, his hand tucked comfortably, his thumb absently stroking Neil’s side. Maybe it’s only Neil who feels a little exposed, like everyone will know now how much he thinks about Andrew, how little space Neil keeps between them in his mind, how grasping and bloodthirsty his feelings for Andrew really are. He lets that fanged thing flap around in his chest and leans into whatever ease Andrew has that keeps him solid and calm at Neil’s side.
The first scenes of The Cabin in the Woods send light flickering over rearranged piles of Foxes. Both of Jean’s arms are around Jeremy this time, back in the spot Neil shared with them before. At the other end of the couch, Neil has his own arm draped over Andrew’s shoulder and across his chest, with Andrew tucked in close enough that the press of fabric makes Neil’s skin prickle. On his other side is Kevin, his back against the arm of the couch, a bottle held in both hands, his feet kicked up across their laps. It’s perfect other than an unruly halo feather that Neil has to keep blowing away from his nose.
No, strike that. It’s perfect, feather and all.