Archive of Our Own ^beta

Andrew spends most of his childhood thinking he is a psychopath. He is not. 

There are things that Andrew does that don’t make sense to other people. Blank face, and blank eyes, and blank answers. He’s always been like this. 

Blank emotions are a dream. He didn’t use to want blank emotions. There was a time, long, long ago, where Andrew would wiggle his toes, and ask for things, and trust smiles. He would like to say this stopped at seven. That would be a lie. It stopped when he turned around, sirens ringing, face blank, and desperation oozing out of his pores. 

Fingernails dig into scabs. Then there are cuffs digging into fingernail indents. And Andrew thinks, head slamming into the top of a squad car, that it doesn’t matter. 

He has never once mattered. And he wishes that didn’t hurt. 

Aaron is his brother. Actually flesh and blood. One egg and 46 chromosomes. Andrew has taken worse for siblings without shared DNA. Has distracted, and hidden, and stood up for. Has cooked meals when others have forgotten, and tucked little toes under thread bear blankets, and whispered homework help into dark rooms to cover shouting. Andrew has been surrounded by people all his life. Foster siblings, and foster parents, and foster social workers. He’s gotten used to never having autonomy. To trying to salvage someone elses humanity. To feeling like a water droplet in a cloud of smog. 

Andrew has taken worse for siblings without shared DNA. Andrew has taken worse from siblings without shared DNA. 

--- 

Juvey is nothing. Except, juvey is also everything. 

Andrew has never been allowed to have a pension for violence. There’s never been a chance. But Andrew has always been good at blending in. Staying quiet, being good, learning fast what will get him hurt less. 

In Juvey, Andrew learns to punch. To hold a knife. To square his shoulders like his last growth spurt wasn’t three years ago. 

And when Andrew gets out, he buries the part of him that is still terrified of the dark, the part of him that wiggles his toes and trust smiles, deep enough that only he knows it’s there. He keeps his shoulders square, his knife in hand, and his eyes on the skin between eyebrows. 

--- 

Nicky and Aaron think that Andrew is a psychopath. Andrew wishes he wasn’t surprised, but he thought someone who shares blood, shares 46 fucking chromosomes, would be a little bit smarter. Andrew has the closest thing to photographic memory possible. Aaron can barely do his math homework. 

Andrew has always had a blank face and inappropriate reactions. Unless it’s something he cares about, he doesn’t care about it. People have never seemed to like that. 

But when Andrew cares, it’s all-consuming. It’s eating ice cream every night, and putting half a cup of sugar in his coffee, and keeping pixy sticks in the bottom pocket of his backpack. It’s the years spent looking up facts about jellyfish, and the queer theory papers he saves to his private bookmarks even though he has them memorized, and the books hiding in his shirt drawer with pages falling out of the seams. It’s cutting his arms open until there’s more scar tissue than skin, and three years spent in juvey, and making deals he knows only matter to him. 

Andrew brings up jellyfish once during the first week at the Columbia house. Nicky gives him an odd look. Aaron rolls his eyes. Andrew never brings up anything he cares about again. 

Jellyfish have, arguably, been alive for 700 million years. Andrew has been alive for 16. Sometimes, Andrew doesn’t think he’ll make it past that. 

When Andrew looks into the future, all he sees is black static. His arms hurt, and his legs feel heavy, and he’s watching a documentary in his room because the TV downstairs is for watching things people who matter like. 

--- 

Nicky doesn’t know him when they meet, but Aaron walks into their house in Columbia with an opinion. 

Andrew hasn’t planned for that. If he’s being honest - which he usually is, unless he isn’t - Andrew planned to die alongside Tilda. 

Yet, he’s holding his backpack (and it’s a backpack now, not a garbage bag), and Aaron thinks he’s a psychopath. Andrew doesn’t understand. The only thing he’s ever wanted from his abusers was for them to disappear. Tilda is gone. And Aaron doesn’t seem to think that’s a good thing. 

Nicky thinks Andrew is a psychopath after Andrew locks Aaron in the bathroom. 

Andrew’s arm bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds. Sometimes, Andrew wonders how he hasn’t run out of blood. 

There are things Andrew does that Nicky and Aaron don’t understand. Andrew locks his door before he goes to sleep. Andrew sleeps on the ground next to his bed, a knife under his pillow, and all his lights on. Andrew punches people when they touch him. 

It wasn’t this bad in juvey. The feeling of his skin crawling, shadows in bright rooms, minutes missing he should remember but can’t. Andrew thinks it’s because he’s in a house. 

Nothing good has ever happened when Andrew is in a house. 

Nicky gets worse after he adopts Andrew, and Andrew thinks - knows - it’s because he’s seen Andrew’s file. Bad grades, odd knowledge, weird smell. Andrew has never actually seen his file, but he’s spent his whole life listening to other people talk about him. Has spent his whole life realizing that people will ignore the lip-shaped bruises on his neck in favor of blaming his uncombed hair and erratic behavior on discipline problems. 

People see what they want to see. Andrew has never been what people want to see. 

When Aaron begins to give him looks over his cereal, and during practice, and when the TV is turned to something that isn’t about jellyfish, Andrew knows Nicky showed him Andrew’s file. For one fucking second, Andrew would like to have control over how people find out information about him. Would like to stop hiding away the actual parts of himself because someone stole his autonomy. 

--- 

Andrew hides his grades. 

School has never been hard. If Andrew was a normal kid, stayed in one place, behaved traditionally, he would have skipped seven grades by now. Would have been one of those kids in the newspaper who graduate from college at fifteen. Andrew is a walking encyclopedia Britannica. In the most literal sense. 

Andrew’s memory is a funny thing. There are some things he can replay like a film. Hands against his thighs, and his stomach, and his chin. Blood. Mouths where they’re not supposed to be. 

There are some things Andrew just remembers. It’s not like he can picture a book’s page in his mind, but he can pull out quotes verbatim. He knows every bullet point. Even if he’s only half paying attention, Andrew can recite his teacher’s lectures back with every ‘uhm’ and ‘like’ in place. 

Andrew has never lost anything. Knows the layout of each house he’s lived in with his eyes closed. Stores phone numbers, and room numbers, and barcode numbers. 

Andrew knows pi until the 3,000 figure, and can list the US, German, Mexico, Japan, Peru, and Angolia presidents in order, and can draw the periodic table of elements on command, atomic numbers and all. 

When Andrew was ten, he went through a hyper fixation where he memorized every country and its capitals. Sometimes, at seventeen, when Andrew is bored in goal, he’ll list all 196 in alphabetical order. 

Andrew doesn’t do his homework. This started when he was younger and making sure the rest of the kids were fed and grime-free. Then it was because he could barely move most nights. He does homework in juvey because he has to, but as soon as he gets out, Andrew stops on principle. 

His grades are fine. He’s never gotten below a 98 on a test. His grades are fine, but he is not, and tests don’t always make up for homework. 

Nicky, who sees his report card for the first and only time in Andrew’s second semester of senior year, thinks Andrew needs help. 

Andrew does need help. But Nicky disregards the touch-aversion, and survival habits, and negative word associations as Andrew being a fucking weirdo. Instead, he signs Andrew up for tutoring sessions. Andrew skips the sessions. 

Briefly, he wonders how Nicky doesn’t know a single damn thing about him after this long. Then he remembers Cass and adds three new scars to his collection. 

--- 

Andrew’s knuckles are cracked. His breathing is heavy, chest tight, and the sirens are louder than he remembers. Nicky stares at Andrew like he is both the next coming of fucking Jesus and something worse than Satan. Andrew is nether. He is, and always will be, just Andrew. 

There’s another squad car, a chair and handcuffs, bail paid in full. Andrew thinks he should remember. Andrew remembers everything. Andrew doesn’t remember. 

The world is fuzzy. There’s a ringing in his ears, and when his eyes focus, the lights are too bright. Nothing makes sense and then there’s Nicky standing at the doorway of the Columbia house with a look that says Andrew is off his fucking rocker. 

Like Andrew will snap. Will break everything in his path because all he is is anger. He doesn’t care about anything. Anyone. He can’t even smile. 

One day, Andrew hopes as he adds slices into the handcuff marred skin around his wrists, people will figure it out. Then, he laughs, because no. No. They probably never will. Hope has never gotten him anywhere. 

--- 

For the first three months of the pills, Andrew has a panic attack every single day. 

Andrew has had panic attacks before. Has had panic attacks a lot. This is something else entirely. 

Andrew’s not stupid. He knows who he is, what he has. But there’s a difference between complex fucking PTSD and avoidant personality disorder. 

The fact that some people - trained people with medical licensure - can’t tell the fucking diffrents is one of the stupidest things Andrew’s ever encountered. 

It’s also probably the worst thing he’s ever encountered. Andrew has spent his whole life being fucked over. There were times, at the Spears, where Andrew’s spine hurt so badly his legs wouldn’t work. But having a smile plastered on his face, mind racing like a hummingbird on crack, and words tripping off his tongue without control is torture. There’s no break. It’s just a constant, terrifying, up spin. 

Nicky believes the pills will make a difference. “I know it’s hard to imagine right now, but this is big. Feeling isn’t a bad thing, Andrew,” he says. Andrew thinks about the conversion therapy Nicky talks about fucking him up. Wonders why people think Andrew’s the one that lacks empathy. “You’re even smiling now and everything.” His hands are on Andrew’s shoulders like that doesn’t make Andrew want to flay his skin off. With the way his pills make him feel, he might just do that. 

He cut yesterday, and it was still bleeding when he woke up. Part of Andrew wants to throw his knives away. Because the meds make it seem like killing himself would be funny. Make him wonder if stabbing other people straight through the heart would be equivalent to painting a watercolor picture in elementary art class. Andrew has only ever tried to keep the things he cares about safe. But these pills make his self-control go straight out the window. 

And people think that’s a good thing. 

--- 

Breathing is hard. And standing is hard. And Andrew’s mind won’t shut the fuck up. 

He’s always been good at hiding panic attacks - shuts his brain onto auto function until he can be alone for an hour. Then he curls up in a corner, head between his knees, and tries to remind himself that he knows how to breathe. That if he breathed before he can breathe now, damnit. 

But Andrew can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. There’s a stupid smile on his face, stretched until it hurts his whole jaw, and Andrew can’t breathe. 

He thinks it’s stupid that people assume he doesn’t feel, because anxiety is Andrew’s permanent state of living. Panic attacks make tears stream down his face, and his fingernails dig into his scabbed arms, and his heart hurt like he’s dying. His fingers are numb. 

Yet, Nicky seems to think Andrew has never felt anxious in his life. 

Aaron, Aaron who’s mom was a piece of shit but who can go to sleep on his own bed because no one has ever forced their way into the private spaces of his body, is scared of spiders. Fucking, god damn spiders. Andrew laughs at this, because, honestly, at this point, Andrew’s medication would have him laugh at torture. Nicky isn’t pleased. 

“This isn’t funny, Andrew,” Nicky says while Aaron freaks out about the spider in his room. “God, I know you can’t process this kind of thing, but you need to learn how to feel empathy.” 

“Fuck you,” Aaron says because he’s a broken record. 

Andrew laughs, and laughs, and laughs. Because, apparently, he’s a broken record too. 

That night, Andrew forgets how to breathe all over again. He goes to bed with salt-crusted cheeks and the feeling of hands. There is a smile carved across his face. 

--- 

Nicky thinks that Palmetto State will be good for Andrew. Nicky hasn’t known Andrew for very long, but he wants the best for him. The meds are good. Better, at least. Andrew smiles now, and he’s got a college to attend, and he only snaps at Nicky half the time. 

The weirdo desperately needs to learn how to accept hugs. 

Nicky doesn’t like to think about it, but Andrew off his medication scares him. He’s violent. Nicky’s never seen him smile. And there are all the odd quirks. One time, Nicky caught Andrew sleeping on his carpet, bed untouched. 

At least on the meds, Andrew can actually be happy. Too happy, sometimes, but smiling is good for you. Smiling is normal. Nicky wants to give Andrew the chance to be normal. 

--- 

No one seems to think there is anything wrong with the medication. Andrew knows, can tell, that Bee is the best damn therapist he’s going to get, but even she doesn’t notice how out of place Andrew’s whirl spin of emotions is. 

Andrew has never wanted to die more than he does on these meds. 

He doesn’t talk to Bee about important things. She knows he hates exy, and she knows the skeletal basics of his childhood. This is all. Andrew finds it funny that Bee seems to think she knows everything now. Andrew finds it funny that no one has ever figured out the sheer amount of shit he’s lived through. Thinks no one would ever believe it. Because people without emotions, with blank faces, and blank eyes, and blank answers, don’t get raped. Andrew is 150 pounds of pure muscle with knives hidden in his armbands. That’s not the kind of person people pray on. 

When he was younger, at the start of his days with Drake, Andrew spent three hours on the internet searching, and searching, and searching for someone he could relate to. He read all the forums about date rape. About never trusting parties. About boyfriends who don’t listen. 

He finds two resources about men being raped by other men. He finds none about men being raped repetitively. 

Andrew doesn’t understand that sex is supposed to be consenting on both sides until this search. He doesn’t understand that it’s supposed to feel good until he gives some random kid in juvey a blow job. And even then, it doesn’t actually feel very good. His jaw aches, and he panics after a minute, and he hates that he’s fucked up enough to like the feeling of someone else in his mouth even after everything. 

Bee doesn’t know any of this. Hasn’t suspected. Andrew assumes she’s figured out he was abused. That’s not hard. Even Nicky claims Andrew’s life was ‘challenging’ before they met. But Bee focuses on helping him curb his anger issues instead of his complex trauma. 

Andrew wonders - when he lets himself be desperate - if he’ll ever tell anyone. Because Luther is the only person who holds that secret with him, and Andrew will slice his own neck before being told ‘misunderstanding’ ever again. 

--- 

Renee is a person, and Andrew thinks she could do, but yet again, she really couldn’t. He doesn’t mind her. They fight, and she tells him things, and he listens but doesn’t share. The team whispers about them. 

Renee is a lesbian, and Andrew is gay, and when Nicky bets $100 that they’re hooking up, Renee becomes the first person to see Andrew truly laugh. 

--- 

Kevin is the biggest damn pain in the ass. He bitches. Whines. Fucks Andrew over so many times. Andrew made a promise he knows Kevin won’t keep. 

No one can give him a future. Not when Andrew, real, raw, terrified Andrew, is a myth to everyone but Andrew himself. 

--- 

As much as Andrew hates it, Palmetto State University feels like the Columbia house. Not safe, no living courters has ever been safe, but comfortable enough that Andrew’s shoulders sink a fraction of a centimeter. 

Exy is a means to an end. He hates it. But he doesn’t. Exy is something. Something to do, something to focus on, something to stave off the emptiness. It’s not something he cares about, though. Andrew cares about jellyfish, and sugar, and his things, and this stupid University, and his stupid coach, and, this month, his brain has decided to care about a book series he hyperfixiated on four years ago. 

The fanfictions are passible. Andrew scrolls through fan art for six hours on Saturday night. Andrew hopes too high hell that his next interest isn’t revived from middle school. Because he’s as fixated as he is triggered. 

Andrew doesn’t hate Palmetto State University. And he doesn’t hate Coach Wymack. He doesn’t hate his team either, despite the fact that he should. They don’t like him. Andrew - because he tells the truth unless he doesn’t - doesn’t care what they think of him. They call him a monster. Flinch away when he speaks. Refuse to read body language. 

Andrew tells them not to touch him. They don’t listen. No one ever listens. 

Coach Wymack isn’t a father figure, but he is a figure. He lets Andrew steal his alcohol, and he only gives Andrew shit about some things, and he’s never touched Andrew at all. He’s a fucking asshole, but Andrew is only a hypocrite when it matters. 

At some points, when Wymack doesn’t give Andrew shit about picking his locks or drinking his whisky, Andrew imagines telling Wymack something. Nothing big. Nothing like Drake, or Steven, or, on Andrew’s worst nights, Cass. But he thinks Wymack would listen to him. Would care. 

Except Wymack cares about exy. And Andrew doesn’t care about exy. And, to the Foxes, exy comes before Andrew. 

--- 

Coach Wymack becomes the first person in ten years to see Andrew have a panic attack. It’s not on purpose. 

Andrew is on edge. Andrew already fell off of the edge, actually. He’s been falling all day for four days, and it ends when Matt and Dan pull Andrew away from a fight he wouldn’t have started without his meds. 

Hands wrap around wrists to restrain his arms back. Andrew’s entire body goes limp for a second. 

“Stop picking fights, Monster. What the hell?” Dan yells. 

Andrew’s brain doesn’t reboot. For once, despite the damn meds, Andrew’s mind focuses on one thing. One thing that isn’t real. 

At the age of seven, Andrew learned how to be plaint. It only gets worse if he fights. Hurts more, tears more, goes on for more. Andrew does not want more. He wants to pick up the broken pieces of himself in the dark like this is normal. 

Wymack must notice something because Andrew blinks and it’s just the two of them in the locker room. Practice has resumed, loud enough to be heard over the buzzing in Andrew’s ears.  

“Jesus Christ, you idiot, can you control your damn temper for one second?” Andrew can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. “I know you don’t do the whole team sport thing, but this is paying for your college carrier.” Andrew can’t breathe. He’s standing in the middle of a room with a tall, angry man. There is nothing at his back. He can’t feel his fingers. “You need to learn to let people in.” 

Andrew, because he can’t do this anymore, sits down on the bench, puts his head between his knees, and digs his fingernails into his scalp. Wymack goes on. And then he stops. 

“Kid, breath.” Andrew really, really can’t. 

He’s laughing. He always laughs when he panics nowadays. It’s a grating noise. It doesn’t match the tears, or the fingernails, or the way his ribs squeeze tight. 

“Fuck,” Wymack mutters under his breath. “Fuck, this is fucked up.” 

And Andrew, who still can’t breathe, or feel his hands, or calm the fuck down, thinks this is the first time anyone has ever meant that in a way that is truthful. 

--- 

Wymack starts watching him a little closer. He monitors Andrew when he’s off his meds at games. He seems to see something everyone else doesn’t. 

But he still asks Andrew to do things like Andrew isn’t as human as the rest of them. Playing Exy sucks. Playing exy off his meds feels like he’s dying in the worst kind of way. Andrew is good at exy. Stopping goals doesn’t require all that much effort. But stopping goals for an entire game while going through withdrawals is something people would only ask of Andrew. Because Andrew isn’t a real person. He’s an unfeeling, psychopathic, monster. So he can’t feel pain like the rest of them. 

Andrew thinks that if he swapped bodies with someone else they would end up killing themselves after an hour. Andrew has been in pain since he was seven. 

--- 

Andrew has back problems on top of back problems. His posture is phenomenal, but he hasn’t slept in a bed for six years. That’s only half the reason. 

--- 

The game Wymack trades Andrew’s soul for alcohol ends with people’s hands on his skin. Andrew should be able to tell the difference. He can’t. 

Wymack doesn’t notice this. Nicky doesn’t either. Andrew gave up on Aaron noticing anything a long, long time ago. Andrew doesn’t sleep that night. Andrew cuts deeper than he has in a long time. Smokes through a whole pack of cigarettes. Lets himself wish that people listened. 

But Andrew isn’t a human. So, does it really matter what he says in the first place? 

---

Neil Josten and his stupid fucking blue eyes and pretty fucking face is something Andrew can’t have. And then Andrew has it. 

This doesn’t make sense. 

Andrew’s second year of college is stupid. It’s Riko’s bullshit, and Neil suffering through Riko’s bullshit, and Andrew trying to protect his things from Riko’s bullshit. 

He’s not sure how anyone can watch him fight for Kevin, and Aaron, and Nicky, and Neil (idiot, junky Neil) and still think he’s never cared about anything before in his life. But by the end of the year - Neil returned from his father and Riko dead - no one is particularly thrilled to see Andrew get clean over the summer. 

No one but Neil. Because Neil is a god damn pipe dream. 

--- 

They’ve been something that isn’t something since January and something that is something since March. Six months. Andrew was off trying to get accustomed to a lower dose of his meds so that quitting wouldn’t be as horrible, and Neil went to Evermore for something that didn’t even matter in the first place. Andrew comes back with more back problems, and tearing, and bites. With the knowledge that even at 20, his muscles big enough to bench press twice his weight, men can take, and take, and take. 

Andrew is a bloodied, forced version of the giving tree. 

Neil picks him up looking like he got hit by thirteen trucks. 

Neither of them broke their deal. And at night, when Andrew no longer has to be high off his ass and they climb up to the roof, Neil exists all the same under the moonlight. 

He is a pipe dream. But he’s really not. 

--- 

For the first time, Andrew shares kisses that make him feel safe. 

--- 

Kevin is a metaphorical bastard, but he makes sense. Kevin cares about one thing unless he cares about three things. Exy, history, and people who care that he cares about exy and history. 

Kevin is a pussy, and he forgets that Andrew has a very different special interest, and he hides behind people a foot shorter than him like that’ll do anything. People don’t like Kevin because he does not think like them. He does not think like Andrew. But Andrew has never had trouble figuring Kevin out. Understands what he says and what he’s trying to say are not always the same thing. 

When Aaron moves out and Neil moves in, the dorm gets quieter. Nicky doesn’t like to stay in. Surrounds himself with the team, and peers from his classes, strangers anywhere besides the dorm he shares with his spastic cousin and his spastic wards. 

Andrew doesn’t mind when it is just him, Neil, and Kevin. 

Kevin says, “Do you want to hear every winner of the Kayleigh Day award in chronological order,” and Andrew gets that because the day before Kevin sat patiently as Andrew rattled jellyfish facts in an attempt to stove off a panic attack. 

Kevin is a metaphorical bastard, but he makes sense.   

--- 

“I fucking hate this,” Andrew whispers, face buried in Neil’s neck. 

No one is in their dorm. Andrew is riding through the coattails of his last pill of the day, smile on and mind constant. The two of them sit on the light blue bean bag. Andrew, because they’ve worked up to this, has his ass planted square on Neil’s crisscrossed legs, his own legs wrapped around Neil’s back. Neil’s hands are in Andrew’s hair. His neck smells like the cologne Matt insists Neil buys - vanilla hibiscus poised as sandalwood. 

They didn’t use to touch. For months, they only kissed. (And kissed. And then kissed some more.) Even after Neil gets taken (And Andrew flips his shit more than he has ever flipped his shit. And no one notices. No one ever fucking notices.) there wasn’t touching outside of thighs pressing together and “yes’s” that brought Andrew’s hands to places that made Neil gasp breathlessly. 

Neil doesn’t like doing things when Andrew is on his meds. Meds are like alcohol. Impaired judgment doesn’t equal consent. So, they start at night. Little things like Neil being able to touch Andrew’s torso when they kiss. Neil leaning into his side. Andrew’s bare chest against Neil’s bare chest. 

Then Neil has a flashback. They’re in their living room that time too, trying not to wake Kevin and Nicky, and Neil can’t grasp onto anything. Andrew’s hands are digging into Neil’s neck, but it’s not working. Nothing is working. 

“Can you just fucking squeeze me or something?” Neil strangles out between pants. 

Andrew, whose meds have worn off at that point, halts. He thinks ‘I’ve never done that before.’ Neil makes a keening sound. Andrew decides that at this point, after thirty minutes, he’ll do just about anything to get Neil’s horrible, pained gasps to stop. 

Callused hands hover over shoulders. Neil whines. Nods. Closes his eyes so tight his canthus wrinkle. 

Andrew, hesitantly, circles his arms around Neil’s back. Noby fingers interlock. Neil turns, so instead of curling up against the wall, knees to chin, his back leans against Andrew’s chest, nestled between Andrew’s stocky legs. 

Shuttered breathing sets Andrew on edge. They’ve done this enough to know that double panic attacks do nothing but make the spiral worse. Neil murmurs, “Yes,” again because he knows. And Andrew tightens his hold, rests his chin on Neil’s shoulder, and squeezes. And squeezes. And squeezes. 

It works. 

But the thing is, when they’re sitting on the roof the next morning, orange clouds and orange sun, Neil says, “I don’t think anyone has ever hugged me before.” 

Andrew takes his cigarette out of his mouth. Blows smoke at the orange clouds in an attempt to get rid of the color that’s permeated every damn corner. Blinks twice. “I don’t think anyone has ever hugged me either.” 

Hands on his shoulders. Hands at his back. Hands in his hair. Hands. So many hands. 

Andrew hated touch long before he turned seven. 

“Can you squeeze me again?” Neil asks. Neil always asks. 

Andrew thinks about saying ‘no.’ Thinks about vulnerability. Thinks about that one experiment with the monkey - about the touch-starvation pamphlets in Bee’s office. Thinks about how Neil will let him say ‘no.’ 

“Yes,” Andrew says instead. 

Squeezing Neil becomes a thing. And then Neil’s head is in his lap while they smoke, and Andrew’s spooning him in the nest of blankets that he sleeps on in Columbia, and they’re resting foreheads against foreheads and knees against knees as they whisper truths. 

Andrew, because he’s Andrew, prints Neil a whole damn packet on touch-starvation when Neil grits out panicked questions about why he feels the need to glue himself to Andrew’s side all the damn time. It’s a week after Andrew’s own crisis, but Neil’s always been incredibly stupid for all that he’s incredibly smart. 

He doesn’t tell Bee. Bee doesn’t know about any of it. Andrew trusts Bee, yet then again, he really doesn’t.  

Andrew is used to dealing with things alone. Learned a long time ago that the only person he can rely on is himself, and even then. So he spends a whole five hours glued to his laptop, appreciating Palmmeto’s Jstar access for the umpteenth time, researching why Neil’s touch makes him feel something close to settled. Calms the anxiety, and the phantom hands, and the ever-present ache in his back. Why he craves something that has never been safe before. Why Neil feels safe in the first place. 

Because Andrew doesn’t trust other people, but Andrew trusts Neil more than he trusts himself. Neil is a 5’3 weighted blanket. Neil is a tangible pipe dream. Andrew wants to hold him and never let go. 

And it is because of this, and because Andrew is to Neil what Neil is to Andrew, that touch is okay. That once they figure that out, that’s all they can do. And Andrew knows, because the University’s online library archive never lets him down, that this constant itch for physical contact will fade eventually. Knows that touch-starvation can be fed. But Andrew thinks that’s okay. He thinks, as long as it’s Neil, and only Neil, it’s okay. 

So, they try new things. And Andrew gives Neil permission to hold him even with the medication because, for some inconceivable reason, Neil’s arms around his waist make the flashing lights of a bad trip calm down. And they hold hands on the way to class, surrounded by people who don’t know them. 

Andrew gets off his meds in a week. 

The school year is over. Neil’s grades are fine, because of Riko and Spanish. Andrew honestly does not know why Neil picked courses he doesn’t care about. Andrew continues to have a 4.0. Criminal Justice is a walk in the park even if the boys in his class, their chinos bright and polos crisp, make him want to kill someone. 

(Sometimes, he thinks he should change his major. He chose Criminal Justice while wacked on the meds because he thought it would be funny. But the criminal justice system is so damn flawed that learning about it like it’s a good thing has caused him to drip blood into the shower more than once. Neil claims Andrew needs to stop doing things that actively hurt himself. Andrew might start listening.) 

The only person told about Andrew’s grades is Neil. Because Neil listens, and sees, and knows. He always knows. So, Andrew is trying to breathe, vanilla hibiscus inhaled at a fast pace, as Neil combs gentle, scarred hands through blond waves. Andrew gets off his meds in a week, but right now there are restless limbs, and dizzying noise, and fake smiles, and racing thoughts, and out-of-control words. Everything is out of control. 

Andrew hates this. He hates this. He hates this. 

“Hey.” Neil’s voice is soft. Andrew peels his fingernails off his skin. Takes his fingers out from under his armbands. Buries himself further into Neil’s neck. 

“I fucking hate this,” Andrew says again because there is nothing he hates more. 

“I do, too,” Neil says because Neil is Neil. “They don’t help,” he says because they’ve had this conversation before. 

“People are fucking stupid.” Andrew knows the script like the back of his hand. Has only ever had this script with Neil. 

“I’ll buy you a cake for when you come home.” Neil means home as in himself. 

Andrew thinks he’s never going to let Neil go, in any capacity, because Neil is the only person who looks to completion. 

--- 

Nicky won’t lie, Andrew coming off his meds is terrifying. But maybe something will have changed. The meds make him happy. Maybe that will stay. 

Despite it all, Nicky cares about his cousins. Aaron and Andrew are finally getting along, going to joint therapy and letting go of deals. Nicky still isn’t sure how that happened. When he asks Aaron, he seems equally confused. But the point is, things are looking up in Andrew’s life. He has Renee, and emotions, and is starting to make friends in small increments. At least, in Neil shaped increments. The two hang out a decent amount - Nicky counts this as a win. 

The thing is, Nicky doesn’t want Andrew to lose that. Andrew on medication could be loud, and impulsive, and, in all honesty, annoying as fuck, but he was happy. 

Nicky only ever wants Andrew to be happy. 

--- 

Andrew didn’t speak until he was six. He knew how, had a vocabulary much larger than any of his peers, but he couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth for things with more than one syllable. Andrew spends the first week off his meds at Abby’s. He’d already gone through the harsher parts of rehab when his dose got lowered, so he spends the rest of the month on Wymack’s couch. Abby’s house can’t be Andrew’s solace. There are other people to take care of, mouths to feed and humans to tuck in. Andrew isn’t human. 

Andrew doesn’t speak until week four. 

It must be weird for Wymack, Andrew considers, curled up and numb on Wymack’s couch. Wymack has only known Andrew on his medication. Has only known Andrew when he can’t keep his mouth shut. 

But Andrew, actual Andrew, doesn’t particularly like speaking. His boyfriend’s (because Neil likes that word - that reassurance) biggest defense is words. Neil rips people apart like speaking comes easy. Sometimes, Andrew feels like he doesn’t know how to make his vocal cords work. 

Neil is known for his words, but he has never minded Andrew when he is silent. He’s never minded medicated, no-brain-to-mouth-filter Andrew either because Neil is an idiot like that. But when Andrew is in between meds - more Andrew than on his meds but less Andrew than before his meds - Neil can sit on the roof with a cigarette between them in silence for hours on end. 

Wymack clearly doesn’t expect the silence. He doesn’t expect most of unmedicated Andrew. 

For the past several years, Andrew has been on an up that never ends. A rollercoaster that keeps rising until it hits the sun. And when Andrew’s forced upon wings catch fire, Andrew plummets like a hailstone. 

Andrew has been depressed for years. Can’t actually remember a time when he wasn’t depressed. It comes with the complex PTSD. Comes with the neurodivergents. Comes with a lifetime of abuse. Anyone that looks at his arms uncovered can guess that Andrew has never particularly enjoyed being alive. 

This isn’t like any depressive episode Andrew’s ever known. 

Because Andrew can’t feel anything. Not just emotion-wise. Andrew can’t feel his fingers, his toes, the tip of his nose. He can’t tell if he’s hungry, keeps forgetting to go to the bathroom, didn’t drink water for an entire day because there wasn’t a signal that he needed to. 

Despite everything, Andrew has always had something he cared about. Except for now sugar tastes like ash, and he can’t spare a single ounce of anything for Nicky, Aaron, or Kevin, and he tried to watch his comfort octopus documentary and fell asleep before the opening title. Nothing is interesting. Nothing is worth it. Andrew can’t even bother to open his eyes for most of the first week. 

The only thing he wants is Neil. But Abby banned visitors because she thinks she knows what’s best; so Andrew is left in Wymack’s living room, which isn’t safe, with Wymack, who isn’t safe, and his desolate thoughts, which isn’t safe. 

Andrew hasn’t cut since Baltimore, but there’s blood on Andrew’s wrists. Wymack is asleep. Andrew doesn’t bother sitting up, simply digs his knives out from under his armbands and slices. And slices. And slices. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t fix anything. 

When Wymack wakes up, Andrew is in the same spot. Slowly, ever so slowly, Andrew lifts his head to stare golden eyes at Wymack over the back of the couch. His head is heavier than the weights he bench presses. His ears feel stuffed with cotton. 

Wymack raises his eyebrows at Andrew’s stare. Andrew holds up his wristbands, knives and all. It takes Wymack too long to figure out what Andrew’s trying to convey. If Andrew was on meds, he would have made seventeen jokes by then. Would have laughed. But Andrew can’t get his voice to work. 

With great trepidation, Wymack takes the armbands out of Andrew’s grasp. Andrew slumps back on the couch, tucked in a fetal position under the white duvet. His hair is greasy and he hasn’t brushed his teeth in two days. Wymack gazes down at Andrew like he’s an alien species. Like this is more bizarre than Andrew’s cheek aching smiles. Then his eyes snag on the blood staining Andrew’s pillow, and spotted against Andrew’s duvet, and dried on Andrews’s arms. He sucks in a breath like he’s choking. 

“Oh, hell, kid.” Wymack sounds harsh like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to be angry. 

“They’re old,” Andrew says because most of them are. And because he tells the truth unless he doesn’t. It’s the first thing he’s said in four weeks. His voice cracks. His throat hurts. 

“Those sure as hell don’t look old,” Wymack says because, rather, unfortunately, he has eyes. “How the fuck? No, actually, why the fuck?” 

And since Andrew can’t feel anything, and hasn’t taken a shower in days, and can’t imagine being alive for the next five minutes, let alone tomorrow, he replies, “Controlled pain seemed better than the alternative.” 

“What alternative? That seems pretty dramatic, even for you.” Wymack gazes at Andrew’s wrists like he’s never seen self-harm before. He’s been the Foxes’ coach for five years, there’s no way this is new, but Andrew gets it. Cutting is for people with emotions. For people that aren’t Andrew Minyard. Andrew Minyard, who’s faced a ‘troubled’ youth, but troubled in the textbook sense. A few hits from foster parents, a round of emotional abuse or two, and maybe, if it was really bad, partial neglect. 

But really, Wymack should know better. Neil’s story is ten times crazier than Andrew’s. Ten times less believable. 

And maybe it’s because Andrew hasn’t felt anything but bone aching tiredness for going on five weeks. Because he wants to see if shock factor will give him something to go off of. Some spark of amusement. And maybe it’s a little because this is Wymack. Wymack, who has never seen all of Andrew, but at least realizes he is more than most people realize. Wymack, who knows he hates the word ‘misunderstanding.’ Wymack, who has never once touched him. Or maybe it’s just because Andrew is so, inexplicably, exhausted of bearing all the weight on his and Neil’s shoulders. 

Andrew blinks gold eyes heavily. Forces his mouth up into a shitty attempt at his medicated smile, and says, “Rape hurts a lot, coach. But you’re right, I’m a very dramatic person.” 

“What?” Coach has frozen, armbands wrinkling in his tight grip. 

“Mmm,” Andrew hums. He’s using all his words for this. Trying, desperately to feel something. Anything that isn’t this. “It started when I was seven. Did you know that? I actually thought it happened to everyone until I was ten. But it didn’t get really bad until I was thirteen. He’s a marine, but his mom baked me cookies. So I thought, maybe if I slice into my arm, it will distract from everything else, and I can stay. Because she baked me fucking cookies, Wymack. But there are some things that really aren’t worth it. And I thought - because I’m an idealist at heart - that it would never happen again. There are fishy people at Easthaven, Wymack. He took videos. I’m sure if you asked, he’d send them to you.” 

Wymack looks at Andrew like the world is crashing down, and Andrew doesn’t feel anything but the same, all-consuming numbness. He wasn’t ready to tell anyone that isn’t Neil that. Wymack has his knives. Neil would be proud that Andrew took preemptive measures. Self-harm can be done with words, though, so maybe Andrew didn’t really try at all. 

“Andrew, what?” Wymack sounds lost. Sounds like he’s grasping at something he never thought would exist. 

“Tell anyone, and I’ll fucking kill you,” Andrew says like it doesn’t take all his energy to turn on his side and bury his head under the duvet. 

He doesn’t speak for the rest of the day, even when Wymack pleads with him to say something. Anything. He doesn’t speak the next day either. 

--- 

Andrew doesn’t get to see Neil until the end of the fifth week. He still feels numb. Starts to wonder if he’ll ever feel anything but. 

Not having a hyper fixation is bizarre. Has never happened before. Because even in his darkest of days, Andrew has always needed a distraction. He needs a distraction now, but his brain refuses to latch onto anything. He feels like a rotting, hallowed-out piece of wood. 

Neil comes over because he is Wymack’s last-ditch effort. 

Andrew hasn’t spoken. He hasn’t eaten anything but a few cardboard-flavored protein bars in four days. Hasn’t slept in three. Wymack looks visibly concerned when he crouches down by the couch. Looks like he actually thinks Andrew is in trouble, instead of being mildly annoyed Andrew made trouble in the first place. 

For a fleeting second, Andrew thinks Wymack seems parental. But Andrew has never had someone be parental. Andrew raised himself until Nicky and then raised himself some more. 

“I’m going to call Betsy, kid,” he says, fingers twitching where they lay against his thighs as if itching to run through Andrew’s hair. 

No one has touched Andrew in five weeks. This would usually be a good thing. This is a good thing because Andrew has only seen Wymack and Abby, and he doesn’t trust either of them like that. But he and Neil have been feeding their need for touch for months, and Andrew craves comfort. Thinks if Wymack ran rough hands through his hair, Andrew would melt into the couch like ice cream in the sun. 

But Wymack doesn’t move his hands from his thighs. “This isn’t normal, kid. I mean, shit, when was the last time you showered?“ A week in a half ago, is definitely not the answer Wymack wants to hear. Andrew stays quiet, eyes half-lidded. “Should have called Betsy a week ago. She’ll know what to do.” 

“No.” Andrew takes several long seconds to realize the croaked voice is his own. Then he says it again. “No, no, no.” 

“Yes. Besty’s your therapist, kid. She knows more about this than you do.” Wymack’s eyebrows are furrowed. 

“Don’t call Bee.” Andrew sounds as close to pleading as he’s ever allowed himself to get. 

“Minyard, you haven’t eaten anything in who knows how long. You’re eyebags have eyebags. I’m calling your damn therapist.” 

And Andrew doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Bee. He’s never wanted Bee. Bee may be the best bet he’s going to get when it comes to shrinks. She’s listened to him spout bullshit for two years straight. And she’s patient, kind, nice. But. But. 

“She thought it was helpful,” Andrew gasps. The blankness is slipping away for the first time that month to something that burns. Wymack’s not listening to him. Andrew said ‘no,’ and Wymack’s not listening to him. “She thought the medication worked. And it didn’t work. Don’t call Bee. Don’t call Bee.” 

“Andrew,” Wymack huffs out, a mix between desperate and exasperated. 

“No.” Andrew forces himself into a sitting position. Pulls his knees to his chest and puts his arms in front of his face. “No, no, no.” 

“Okay,” Wymack placates. Andrew keeps saying ‘no’ even when he knows it doesn’t matter. It never matters with anyone that isn’t Neil. Andrew wants Neil. “Okay, no Betsy. But you need to drink some water or something.” 

“Neil,” Andrew says. Then, louder, “Neil.” And Wymack must be desperate beyond belief because he doesn’t ask, even after dialing. 

--- 

Something feels clearer when Neil flies through Wymack’s door, lock picked before Wymack has a chance to do things the normal way. Wymack stumbles to the side as Neil races to the couch. They haven’t seen each other in five weeks. Abby has his phone back at her house, something about Andrew needing to be free from distractions. Andrew has missed Neil like he would miss his lungs; and by the look plastered across Neil’s flushed face, eyes wide and lips parted, Neil has too. 

There’s a parallel in there somewhere, Neil’s hands hovering above Andrew’s cheeks, breathing frantic. Andrew thinks people should have realized during Baltimore. But people always see what they want to see. Andrew has never been what people want to see. 

“Hey,” Neil whispers into Wymack’s apartment. 

Andrew can’t breathe, fingers digging into the duvet Wymack wrapped around his shoulders when he gave up trying to coax Andrew into calming the fuck down. Andrew’s knees are pressed to his chest. Momentarily, he thinks that Nicky would lose his shit if he saw this. Aaron wouldn’t believe it. Andrew doesn’t exist like this to other people. The lost look Wymack sends to Neil like he’ll have all the explanations on what to do when Andrew Minyard loses his shit says Wymack agrees. 

Neil doesn’t pay Wymack any attention. He stares at Andrew with those bright blue eyes, hands still hovering. 

“Yes,” Andrew chokes out. 

Palms curve around Andrew’s chin, fingers against his cheek. Neil rubs his thumbs like windshield wipers. Tilts Andrew’s head but their eyes don’t meet. Neil likes eye contact as much as Andrew does. If science ever made it that far, Andrew is sure it would show one soul split between two bodies. 

Andrew has never been hard to read for Neil. Neil sees everything. Knows everything. So, he presses a kiss against Andrew’s nose, and whispers, “Squeeze.” 

Just as quiet, Andrew whispers back, “Yes.” 

Neil pushes himself up from his crouch, hands on his knees, and sits on the couch. Arms snake around the mass of blankets and curled limbs that make up Andrew. Neil’s face burrows into the junction between Andrew’s right shoulder and his neck. 

There’s no way Andrew smells good. His hair feels like slimy straw and there’s grease caked to his body like a second skin. Neil squeezes him until Andrew starts breathing steady. Squeezes him until Wymack sends them a questioning look before leaving for his office. Squeezes until Andrew falls asleep, feeling safe for the first time in a month. 

--- 

Neil doesn’t leave until they both do. Andrew showers, and sleeps more, and eats food that tastes a little less like ash. But he’s still numb when they move their stuff into the dorms. This year, it’s only Kevin and Neil rooming with him. Kevin has known they were in a relationship since before Andrew called it a relationship. And he’s a pain in the ass, but he doesn’t say anything about Andrew and Neil sleeping in one bed. About how, some days, Andrew can’t get up to pee, let alone play exy. He lets Andrew gain his bearings back, and Andrew is so, stupidly thankful for that. 

--- 

Nicky misses the smiles. Andrew seems calmer, somewhat, but he doesn’t speak anymore. The insistent medicated chatter was annoying, Nicky will admit. However, Nicky would take that over Andrew’s ignoring phase. 

He hasn’t said more than seven words to Nicky in the week he’s been back. Nicky can’t even pretend like that doesn’t sting. 

--- 

“Jellyfish have been to space,” Andrew tells Neil. 

“I have been to space, too,” Neil says back, though he looks like he wants Andrew to continue. To talk until he can’t talk anymore. Like any time with Andrew means more than Andrew has ever meant to anyone. 

Andrew knows his worth to others and his worth to Neil are two separate things. But, sometimes, he lets himself wish they weren’t. 

Andrew flicks Neil between the eyes. Hands his cigarette over. “On the run? Take a trip up to Neptune.” 

They’re sitting on the very edge of the roof, legs swung over the concrete barrier. Gravel digs into his legs. 

“Mmm,” Neil hums. “My mom didn’t think my dad would find us up there.” 

“Hotwired a spaceship.” Andrew links his pinky with Neil's. 

Neil squeezes. “NASA didn’t see it coming.” 

Andrew wishes they could stay up here forever.

--- 

Andrew is avoiding the people he shares blood with. The team skirts around him like he’s a ticking time bomb. Nitroglycerin. Caesium dangling precariously over open water. Andrew expected this. He expected Nicky and Aaron’s cautious glances too, so he’s not sure why that cuts through the numbness enough to send sharp spikes up his spinal cord. 

They have never understood. Never tried to. They don’t share a room anymore. Andrew only sees them at Columbia, and even that’s different. Because Andrew can’t drink much anymore. His tolerance is shit, to start, and Kevin’s trying to quit, so Andrew might as well be his pillar because Kevin is the only one outside of Neil that doesn’t act like Andrew’s the boogeyman hiding under the bed. Neil drinks the occasional shot Andrew sends his way. Together they could be the edge lord version of Renee. 

Andrew’s down to two addictions: sugar and nicotine. He read once (on the trusty library database) that neurodivergents and sugar cravings go hand in hand. It’s up there with his bizarre reaction to caffeine. They’ve switched to decaf in their shared dorm on principle. Kevin, the weirdest of the three, drinks it before he goes to sleep. 

Nicky and Aaron haven’t tried to talk to him past idol chatter since he got back. Haven’t tried to talk to him past idol chatter since they met, really. Aaron makes an effort in therapy, but that’s more so Aaron’s designated hour of bitching at Andrew for not caring. For not being right. For not doing the things Aaron wants him to do, no matter the fact that Aaron hasn’t bothered to do anything for Andrew ever. 

When they go to Columbia for the fourth time after Andrew gets back, Aaron gets in a row with Andrew about not talking. He yells, and blames, and looks like he’s about to throw things. Nicky calms him down, except then he agrees with Aaron. The two of them always agree. 

Andrew stares blankly. Neil and Kevin come home from a run to get breakfast, and Andrew’s still staring at them, quiet and blank. Always blank. 

--- 

Five weeks into the start of summer practice, when Andrew’s finally gained back some semblance of his taste buds, Neil shows up with a cake. It’s opera cream and strawberry flavored. The cake is small, only about five pieces worth, and the good kind from the bakery thirty minutes away instead of the Piggly Wiggly right off campus. 

Practice is over for the day. Andrew, hair damp from his fourth shower of the day, is reading a novel intently. He’s been doing that a lot. Reading to feel controlled emotions, because that’s his only good coping mechanism, but also showering. Some part of him would like to claim this is because he’s making up for the weeks where he didn’t. Moreso, it’s because Andrew keeps having nightmares that are real. He’s pretending if he showers enough the grime that’s stained his body for a century will wash down the drain. 

Andrew’s glasses are on, and after Neil sets the cake on the circular bar table they stuffed into the small kitchen, he bounces over to the beanbag Andrew is on and pushes the squared frames up Andrew’s nose. A kiss is planted on Andrew’s forehead. 

“Idiot,” Andrew whispers, closing his book. 

“Your idiot,” Neil says back, just as quiet before straightening. He steps back and shouts, “Kevin, you incompetent dickwad, come here.” 

Kevin, who was no doubt reading the biography he’d bought when they’d gone to the city that weekend (Nicky’s poor attempt at getting Andrew re-accustomed to society), stumbles out of their bedroom. His black hair sticks up in three places. He’s holding his biography like a frying pan. 

At the sight of zero danger, Kevin lowers the book. “Fuck you.” The words out of Kevin’s mouth are always a surprise. 

“We’re eating Andrew’s ‘I Got Clean’ cake.” Neil gestures to the table, eyebrows tilted down like he thinks Kevin should have figured that out. “Sit,” he says, and then, because Neil is Neil and Kevin is Kevin, he adds, “And then we can do extra exy practice.” 

Neil is not as predictable as Kevin, except when he is. 

Andrew and Neil’s stools are pushed close enough that when they sit, their thighs press together. Neither of them can touch their feet to the ground. The souls of Kevin’s worn Addidas miss the tile by four centimeters.  

Blue ceramic plates, and blue napkins, and the fancy blue glass cups Kevin insisted on buying to match, lay neatly on their placemats. They’ve got real silverware - aluminum and shiny. Kevin brought home flowers last time he did the grocery shopping. They sit in a blue china pitcher at the center of the bar table, wilted pinks and reds. This dorm, just the three of them, feels safer than anywhere Andrew has ever lived. 

“Shoo, fly.” Neil swats at Kevin’s hand as he picks up the dull dinner knife leaning against the cake box. “Andrew gets to cut it.” 

“Andrew’s going to cut pieces the size of your head,” Kevin whines, a 6’ tall child. 

“The cake is smaller than Neil’s head, Kevin.” Andrew snatches the knife from Kevin’s grasp. “Preferably, I’d cut the slices as big as you’re ego, but I don’t think it’s physically possible to make a cake that big.” 

“Was that a compliment?” Kevin sounds genuinely curious. 

The cake reads ‘Congratulations On The Crippling Depression’ in strawberry pink icing. Neil laughs, a light, breathy thing, as Kevin groans at the massive slice Andrew cuts for himself. They have a corner dorm this time, and the window at the back of the kitchen lets in the orange light of sunset. 

Despite everything, Andrew feels warm. 

--- 

Nicky comes to the realization that Andrew is lonely. Nicky has always hated being lonely. Has tried desperately to surround himself with people, and noise, and kindness. Joining the Foxes was a challenge. Staying with two cousins who treat humanity like Brussel sprouts was worse. But Nicky has made it to a place where he has a team. Dan and Matt find him at lunch, and he drinks with Allison, and he chatters with Renee. Neil and Kevin are harder. Harder to understand, harder to relate to, harder to find time with. But Nicky’s gotten used to Kevin’s one-track mind, and Neil is the cutest damn thing this side of the galaxy. 

Aaron spends most of his time with Katelyn, which Nicky understands. If given the choice, he’d spend most of his time with Eric. Andrew doesn’t spend his time with anyone. He stands to the side of the exy court, retreats to his room instead of going to dinner with the upperclassmen, hides in places Nicky can’t find him during lunch. 

One time, Nicky told Neil that exy couldn’t love him back. He meant that. Neil ‘I don’t swing’ Josten deserves to have people. To be happy. Andrew does, too. Especially because Andrew doesn’t even have exy. 

Nicky knows Andrew has Renee. The two talk often enough, but Renee spends an odd amount of time with Allison. Andrew is pushing her away. Pushing all of them away. 

--- 

Andrew thinks Neil knows they will probably never have sex. Real, penis up the asshole sex. Neil never asks for more than Andrew can give. Only wants the things Andrew wants too. Andrew doesn’t want to have real sex. 

Shared handjobs are fine. Blowjobs are better than usual. On a good day, Andrew lets Neil try things back. Lets him sink to his knees and take care of Andrew in a way no one has ever done before. 

Andrew didn’t know sex was supposed to go both ways for most of his life. He’s only been on the giving side. But Neil’s allowed to see all of Andrew in the same way Neil allows Andrew to see all of him. 

Andrew worries though, sometimes. Sex has been a critical part of Andrew’s life. Even in consensual experiences, the other partner wants things Andrew can’t give. Asks for more. Assumes Andrew was at their disposal after he didn’t say no the first time. Andrew is crafted to do what others want. 

And sure, Neil never asks Andrew for anything like that. Has never even tried. But Andrew worries. Always worries. 

It eats at him so much he considers going to Bee about it. They’ve started their sessions again, and Andrew will probably never trust her fully, but she listens to him talk about things that are just left of the problem. She tries. Andrew appreciates this even if she sees only slightly more than Wymack does. Or Wymack did. 

The tall man doesn’t treat Andrew differently in a negative sense. Except now he lets Andrew back out of group hugs, and removes him from fights before anyone can pin him, and checks in at their dorm when Andrew calls out of practice. It’s nice. It’s so different from Cass, but sometimes, when Wymack stops by their dorm late at night with groceries because Andrew’s limbs are too heavy to leave his bed, and Neil’s sleep-deprived and pushing himself into the ground, and Kevin’s curled into the corner trying not to drink his way through his third panic attack of the day, Andrew wishes Wymack found him earlier. He would have noticed. He would have cared. He buys Andrew jumbo pixy sticks, and Neil strawberries, and Kevin vegetable-based protein bars. 

Wymack  cares about his team. Is protective and close with them. Dan blatantly claims Wymack as her fake dad. Nicky calls him Dadmack to his face. But David Wymack treats the three of them a little differently. A little less like his players. It’s past his pay grade. Andrew can’t bring himself to think of that as a bad thing. 

Kevin starts to call Wymack dad the night he comes over to hide all their knives so Andrew won’t use them and Neil won’t see them. He watches patiently as they binge one and a half seasons of a comfort sports Anime on the TV. Makes sure none of them do anything stupid. Because Neil called him choking on air, and Andrew has salt dried to his cheeks, and Kevin’s been staring at his hand like its still got bones sticking out. Andrew raised himself until Nicky and then raised himself some more. But sometimes, Andrew really, really just needs an adult. And Wymack is the only adult he and the two disasters he lives with trust with shit like this. 

--- 

“I don’t want to have dick in the ass sex,” Andrew says, exhaled smoke hanging heavy in the humid August air. They’ve been dating for nine months. No one has ever waited longer than three weeks to ask Andrew for penetrative sex and Andrew is confused. 

He asked Bee about it yesterday. Sort of. He said he wanted to know about consenting sexual relationships as if he hadn’t spent most of his life in non-consenting sexual relationships. She doesn’t know about Drake. She knows a little about Cass. She will never know about anyone who came before. 

And Bee certainly does not know about Neil. 

Neil and Andrew are not hiding their relationship. Kevin knows. Kevin knows about many things at this point because Andrew has mental illnessed around him seventeen too many times for Kevin not to have figured shit out. Wymack knows. No one else bothers. 

Andrew would ponder their stupidity, but he doesn’t think stupidity is a strong enough word. Andrew doesn’t think there’s a lexicon with a word that is. 

Neil pulls his cigarette away from his nose. He doesn’t look disgusted or disappointed. Mostly he looks thoughtful, mouth twisted slightly to the side. “I don’t think I want anything up my ass at all.” 

“Mhhh,” Andrew hums. “Asexual thing?” he says because he’s been working with Neil on queer terminology. 

“Probably. It just, I don’t know, grosses me out a little bit. I like what we do now, but that’s more because I trust you.” Neil isn’t looking at Andrew and Andrew isn’t looking at Neil. The clouds are turning grey as the sun sinks. 

“No penis up the ass sex,” Andrew states, but they both know it’s a question. 

“No,” Neil replies, and they know the weight words hold. 

Andrew figures this wouldn’t make sense to other people. That this conversation alone is one Dan would call vulgar, and Allison would call weird, and Nicky would call not understanding the benefits of a good homosexual fucking. 

Their relationship has never been normal, though. Has never been for other people. Andrew figures it’s alright if they make their own rules instead. 

--- 

Two months into Kevin being completely sober, Neil and Andrew go to the bakery Neil got Andrew’s cake from. They buy a low-calorie quiche stuffed full of spinach. In chopped baby tomatoes it reads ‘Congratulations On Your Gum Addiction’ because Kevin has been chewing seven packs a week to replace vodka. The sentence barely fit on the quiche. Kevin almost cries. 

Two weeks later, Neil hurts his arm during practice and actually admits to it. Kevin comes home from class the next day with a strawberry pie. ‘Congratulations On Big-Kid Words’ is spelled in blueberries. They eat the whole thing after dinner. Andrew holds a bag of frozen peas to Neil’s shoulder, and Kevin talks about his Ancient Tea and Coffee class, and Neil’s smile pops his dimples. 

It becomes a thing. By the time Andrew gets a cheesecake with ‘Congratulations On Becoming A Father’ across the top after he finishes a six-person group project by himself, the staff at the bakery knows their names and credit card information by heart. Kevin and Neil giggle (actually fucking giggle) about Andrew’s disgruntlement for days. The cheesecake is the best thing Andrew has ever eaten. 

--- 

Nicky sees Neil leaving Andrew’s room at the Columbia house the Saturday after the first game of the season. 

It’s early - like the sun hasn’t come up yet early. Nicky is a rise after the sun person, but he had to pee and then couldn’t fall back to sleep. He resigns to drinking seven cups of coffee instead. 

Neil creeps out of the room by the stairs, the one Nicky’s never stepped more than three feet into, dressed in running shorts and a t-shirt two sizes too big. He stops in the doorway to slip on sneakers. Nicky can’t see Andrew asleep in the big bed. The sheets are made as if they’ve never been touched. 

“What the fuck?” Nicky whispered. He’s always thought Neil slept on the couch across from Kevin. The kid rises earlier than fucking god, and as Neil’s bright blue eyes snap to meet Nicky’s brown ones, Nicky realizes he’s never seen Neil asleep. Nicky’s eyes lower. “What the fuck?” Nicky practically screeches. 

There’s a bang. The sound of scuffling. Andrew’s messy head of white-blond hair pops up beside Neil, knife in hand, eyes darting around the room. Nicky gapes between the two. Andrew lowers his knife. 

Neil’s got hickeys lining his collar like bug bites. They wouldn’t be noticeable if Neil’s shirt wasn’t so big, but the loose color hangs off one shoulder. The shirt is black with a band Nicky remembers from middle school tie-died onto the center. It’s very clearly Andrew’s shirt, except it’s also probably not. Andrew treats color like he treats deep conversation. 

Beside him, Andrew is wrapped in a blanket. He’s got hickeys too, Nicky is horrified to realize. They crawl up from the base of his shoulder to under his ear. In the living room, Kevin snores like Nicky’s world isn’t collapsing. 

“What the fuck?” Nicky really does screech this time. 

Aaron stumbles down the stairs. “Can you stop fucking shouting?” he says. 

“Ya, Nicky.” Andrew’s face doesn’t move even though his tone sounds like a condescending sneer. “Shut the hell up.” 

“You two are fucking?” Nicky chokes out. The thought of Andrew and Neil is so bizarre that Nicky considers walking away. Except Nicky has never turned away from drama before in his life, and all his bets are being torn apart. Well, most of them. “I knew you were gay, Josten.” 

“I’m not gay,” Neil responds. His left shoe is only halfway on, but he’s paused. Frozen completely. Andrew nudges Neil’s side with a blanket concealed knee. Neil finishes putting on his shoes. 

Nicky points at Neil’s hickeys and then Andrew’s. “Honey, it’s okay. We can see.” 

“For someone who claims to be the pentacle of homosexuality, you’re really lacking on your queer inclusivity.” Andrew leans further into the wall, eyebrows slightly raised. “For shame, Nickolas.” 

“It’s called demisexuality, loud ass.” Kevin props his chin on the back of the couch. There are gubies in the corners of his squinting eyes and he sounds three steps from murdering Nicky for waking him up. 

“Wait,” Aaron says, because he understands Nicky more than the rest of the monsters. “Josten’s having sex with Andrew?” Nicky chalks the grossed-out tone of his voice to Andrew being his brother. He’ll give Aaron the benefit of the doubt on homophobia. 

Nicky’s always been an idealist. 

“We’re not having sex.” Neil sounds genuinely confused. 

“Sure, kiddo,” Nicky is still pointing at the hickeys. “Sure.” 

“We’re not fucking,” Andrew echos, lips in a straight line. 

“Can we stop having this conversation?” Aaron grumbles from the stairs. “It’s gross. And obviously they’re not together. It’s Andrew and Josten.” 

“I didn’t say they were together, Aaron.” Nicky waves his hands about, trying to convey what should be obvious to his grumpy cousin. “I said they were fucking.” Because this is Andrew, and Andrew doesn’t do people. Andrew, even on his meds, is incapable of caring deeply enough to let someone in like that. “This is obviously hate sex.” 

“We’re not having sex,” Neil’s voice rises. 

“Oh my god,” Kevin says, head disappearing behind the couch back once more. “I’m going back to sleep.” 

This is dumb, Nicky thinks. This is so dumb. Because it’s obvious that Andrew and Neil are taking their frustration out on each other in a sexy kind of way. Andrew claims he hates Neil constantly. They probably think this is a great way to go at it without fighting or something. Neither of them is known for holding their tempers. 

The more Nicky thinks about it, though, is this really the smart thing for them to do? Neal gets attached to people, deserves to have people he can be attached to; Andrew has never been attached to anything other than a bad attitude. Is this a good thing? What if Neil catches feeling? Is Andrew thinking this through? Neil’s so innocent, he doesn’t even know what a crush is. And Nicky has no doubt that Andrew doesn’t do crushes. Nicky didn’t even know Andrew was gay, and they’ve lived together for years. Which is weird. Andrew should have told him. Nicky wouldn’t have cared. Though, Renee. So maybe Andrew’s not actually gay. Maybe he’s taking his frustration out on Neil in some weird alpha male heterosexual way. And Neil’s probably never had sex before. 

Actually, has Andrew had sex before? Nicky can’t imagine Andrew letting anyone see him in a vulnerable position. Who’d he even have sex with? Apparently Neil, but that’s beside the point. 

“Andrew, are you still a virgin?” Nicky blurts out because he’s got too much going on in his brain. 

Andrew gives an ugly, strangled sort of snort. Neil, who has taken to leaning on the doorway opposite the blond, wacks him across the chest. The duvet makes a puffing sound as the back of Neil’s hand smacks into it. “Virginity is a holy construct. Did you know that Virginia was the tenth state?” 

“You’re the only one that thinks this is funny, Andrew,” Kevin hollers from behind the couch back. 

“We all know you traded your sense of humor to be an exy prodigy, Kevin,” Andrew says, ignoring Nicky’s spirling concern completely. 

A middle finger is jabbed over the couch back like a sock puppet. Neil whispers something to Andrew that makes Andrew uncase his left hand from the blankets to flick Neil between the eyebrows. Neil smiles a tiny, sentimental thing. 

Nicky thinks that this hate fucking thing can only end badly. 

--- 

Aaron believes Andrew’s relationship is a discussion topic, one akin to ‘how’s the weather?’ or ‘what have you been up to?’ Aaron told Bee. Andrew is beyond pissed. 

Mostly, though, he’s tired of people spreading around his information like it’s up for grabs. Tired of having to hide away the actual parts of himself because someone stole his autonomy. 

The hate fucking thing is the biggest rumor this side of North Carolina. Neil finds it just as funny as Andrew except when they don’t. 

Dan tells him to cut the whole thing off because Neil’s clearly a child who can’t think for himself. Allison is smug about something, but also has been glaring at Andrew for a week straight. Renee probably knew. Matt seems supportive, if not hesitant. Nicky started this whole damn thing in the first place. 

Aaron is, unsurprisingly, a dick. He whines at Bee about how Andrew should have told him. Throws out slurs casually. Claims Andrew is unfeeling, uncaring, something other than Aaron himself. His brother is a biology major, yet he’s forgotten that Andrew and he share chromosomes. That if Andrew is something other, Aaron is too. 

People want answers Neil and Andrew can’t give. Keep asking the wrong questions about the wrong topic like it will solve the wrong problem. Like Neil and Andrew are inconceivable. And Andrew knows, fuck does he know, that what they could give to the others wouldn’t be listened to. Andrew is not allowed to be someone who holds one person close to his heart. Who shares cigarettes in the dark, and wraps arms around waists for hours, and kisses slow under the soft glow of the fairy lights Kevin hung up in their dorm living room. At the same time, Neil is naive. Doesn’t swing because he doesn’t know better. Can’t tell Andrew’s lack of feeling from the bullshit he grew up with. Abuse cycles like dirty laundry, after all. Andrew is destitute to become an abuser and Neil is on a preemptive path towards victimhood. 

And people say that Andrew is the one who lacks empathy. 

--- 

“Drew,” Neil whispers into the quiet of their dorm bedroom. Curly auburn hair tickles Andrew’s nose. In the left corner beside the door, Kevin’s exy ball night-light glows orange. “Drew, I can’t sleep.” 

Andrew squeezes tighter around Neil’s waist, forearms parallel against Neil’s stomach, his back flush with Andrew’s torso. “516 percent, Josten,” Andrew mutters into Neil’s hair. He’s recently been introduced to conditioner. (Andrew can’t believe he let a man who used two and one kiss him.) His curls are soft and fluffy, and they smell like strawberries. 

“When do you think they’ll realize,” Neil says. Andrew knows it’s been bothering him. It’s been bothering Andrew, and Neil cares a lot more about what other people think. 

“Never.” Andrew wishes he didn’t think this was true.  

“Kevin figured it out.” Neil begins to play with Andrew’s fingers. 

“I would hope so,” Andrew says. “Even he’s not that stupid.” 

“I just.” Neil pauses, furrows thick eyebrows into a frown. “I just don’t understand. We make sense. It’s like, relativistic effects.” 

“No decidedly, it is not.” Andrew hates math because Neil has changed his major to mathematical science, but he’s learned enough from the nights Neil gets to pick the TV topic to know that Neil is making shit up. 

“No, it’s not.” Neil sighs, long and shaky. “I don’t get it, though. How can they think we’re… I don’t know… not important to each other.” 

“You’re not important to me. I hate you, remember,” Andrew says because Neil always knows. 

“Of course you do, Drew,” Neil says because Neil always knows. And he burrows back further into Andrew’s chest like the only place he’d ever want to be is right by Andrew. 

--- 

Words have never come easy to Andrew, yet they are burned into the deepest part of his soul. Psychopath. Monster. Fuck up. Too quite. Too loud. Too short, too strong, too much, too little. A.J. A good boy. Princess. Baby. Faggot. Whore. 

Monster. Monster. Monster. 

Andrew is many things, yet then again, he’s not. He is, and always will be, just Andrew. 

There are times in the shower that Andrew envisions telling his brother, his cousin, the whole damn team that he hears them. That he remembers. Because Andrew remembers everything. Could write a list of every name anyone has ever called him. 

On it, amongst the thousands, lies Drew. On it, amongst the thousands, this is the only one Andrew likes. 

Andrew has been many things to many people. He has only been Drew to Neil. 

--- 

“You’ll never guess what tonight’s topic is,” Kevin says, collapsing into his beanbag. 

Andrew inherited both bean bags in the divorce. In their old dorm, the one with Andrew’s real blood instead of fake blood, they belonged to whoever got there first. Now, the dark blue one is Kevin’s and the light blue one is Neil and Andrew’s. They have a couch too, encased in a cotton duck cover the same shades of blues as the rest of their dorm because Kevin craves order. It would be the more logical place to rest, but the three of them are destitute floor sitters. 

“It’s something from the BBC history program. It’s always something from the BBC history program.” Neil tosses the remote to Kevin. 

“Yes, well, we ruled out Exy.” Kevin frowns, turning on the flat screen and shuffling to the browser. 

Andrew stretches his arms out, fingers hesitating an inch above Neil’s shoulders. Neil nods. Andrew pushed him down on the light blue bean bag. There’s something in Neil’s eyes when he gazes up at Andrew - a softness, an insurmountable amount of trust - that makes Andrew’s chest clench. Neil is very much real. And yet, Andrew can’t comprehend how. 

“Yes or no,” Andrew says while Kevin picks a show about Irland’s wetland fauna. 

Neil, because Neil always knows, makes grabby hands towards Andrew’s shirt. They’ve finished night practice and course readings - the exhaustion hangs like a heavy blanket. Neil’s in Andrew’s thickest sweater. Kevin’s got a comforter wrapped around his shoulders. Andrew plops down between Neil’s thighs, lets scar-covered arms encircle his waist, and pull him close. 

Andrew feels secure. 

“Ah, the wetlands.” There’s a smirk in the tone of Neil’s voice. He leans them back on the bean bag. Buries his chin in Andrew’s neck. 

“Really connecting to you’re heritage there, Kevin,” Andrew says, entangling his arms with Neil so they can hold on to each other. His armbands are off so his skin can breathe and Neil starts to run rough thumbs across the scars. “You do kind of look like the pygmy shrew.” 

Kevin huffs. “You didn’t complain about Neil’s ten-part series on the history of math, but you give me shit for wetlands.” 

“Neil is infinitesimally cuter than you, Day.” 

“We should re-watch Queens Gambit , next,” Neil mutters as the documentary flashes opening credits. “We all enjoyed that. Something for everyone.” 

“Bold of you to assume we’re not watching Search For the Giant Octopus again,” Andrew says. 

They have a schedule for this. Monday, Wednesday, Sunday. Neil, Kevin, Andrew. The three of them have light class loads on Tuesdays and Thursdays so they have less homework on Monday and Wednesday. Friday and Saturday are reserved for Columbia, so Andrew gets Sunday nights. Despite himself, Andrew likes this. Having a routine; having people that actually feel like his people. 

“Again? We’ve seen it seventeen times.” Kevin stares incredulously at Andrew as if that will get Andrew to change his mind. 

“At least I don’t look like a pygmy shrew.” 

“Fuck off.” 

Andrew can feel Neil’s quiet laughter on his back. Secure. Andrew feels secure. 

--- 

Andrew’s brother is the worst offender. Because Nicky, though dumb of ass, is, well not pure of heart in the slightest but he does try to be something close to friendly. Four inches off from nice. 

Normality is something Aaron craves. It is something Aaron can not have. 

Nevertheless, Aaron tries to get rid of the things in his life that deviate from his preserved construct of the American Dream. Andrew will never be a picket fence. Aaron threw him out with the rest of the oddities a long, long time ago. 

Aaron doesn’t get it. Has never figured out that Andrew has depth. It doesn’t bother Andrew, yet, then again, it really does. 

Andrew has done a lot for his brother - Aaron has never done anything for Andrew except force him into a mold Andrew will never fit into. He wants Andrew to be like the rest of society. But Andrew is a blank face, with blank eyes, and blank answers. He thinks maybe it’s tragic, that Aaron will never get answers filled with color. 

Because Andrew’s colors have never been the same as everyone elses. 

--- 

Neil listens. He listens to the lines between Andrew’s sentence fragment. Listens to Andrew list facts, and memories, and nightmares. Listens to Andrew’s silences. 

Neil listened to Andrew spout bullshit about jellyfish for an hour once. It was the longest Andrew has ever talked in his life. 

Neil listens, and Neil cares, and Neil. And Neil. And Neil. 

--- 

Kevin listens too, in his own way. He is the second closest thing Andrew will ever have to a best friend. The giant monstrosity is a disaster. But he’s trying. 

Kevin and Andrew are fundamentally different people, yet, then again, they’re not. Andrew may not care about exy and Kevin may not understand Andrew’s inherent dislike for exy, but they get that there are things that wiggle the brain. Understand trauma out of construct, and blank faces disproved by busy fingers, and the horrifying ordeal of navigating through a world meant for other people. 

Kevin listens too, in his own way. And Wymack tries. And Andrew will never fully trust Bee, not after the medication, but she has potential Andrew may exhaust. 

--- 

The rest of the team catches on slowly. They’re still stupid. Still see Andrew as a culmination of every devil written, and Neil as something smaller. Something fragile. But they catch on to fragments. To kaleidoscope images. 

Matt doesn’t need much help. Neil tells Matt things, and Matt comprehends them like a clogged sugar strainer. It’s not that Neil talks about Andrew, because Neil avoids gossip with fervor, but also because he knows Andrew’s problem with autonomy. With sharing secrets among people who shouldn’t have been told the secrets at all. Neil does drops clues though, a trail of strawberry seeds miles long. 

Neil says things like, ‘In Andrew and I’s bed,’ and ‘When we graduate,’ and ‘We might get cats,’ and ‘Andrew keeps telling me to sleep more.’ Matt follows the strawberry seeds, picks them up and examines them under a microscope. Andrew watches the confusion in his eyes when he looks at them melt into a look on the edge of soft. 

The girls watch Andrew talk Neil down from a panic attack after Allison puts on a movie she really should not have. Renee finds Andrew, frazzled and worried, against Dan and Allison’s wishes. 

The two scowl, huff like Andrew doesn’t belong around vulnerability. Like Andrew has never felt vulnerable in the most intimate of ways around people who forced it upon him. But Andrew has never been important, and Neil will always be important, so Andrew puts his fingers on Neil’s neck, and talks in tones as close to gentle as possible, and lets the junky lean his forehead on Andrew’s shoulder. And sqeezes. And sqeezes. And sqeezes.

None of the freshmen see anything, but the freshmen have not ever been anything close to relevant. Aaron ignores the truth. Andrew has learned better than to try and change Aaron’s assumptions. 

Still, it is something. Lessens the tension in Neil’s shoulders ever so. Andrew takes what he can get because Neil deserves to have friends that see. 

--- 

In October, Andrew receives a book-sized coffee cake that reads ‘Congratulations On Being Scab Free’ in diced walnuts. He hasn’t cut since August. Neil’s ‘Congratulations On Stupididty’ strawberry tart after he gets a mild concussion from rebounding a ball into his own head during practice, earns Kevin and Andrew irritated side glances for a week. They share Kevin’s ‘Congratulations On Being A DARE Leader’ rhubarb crisp for Kevin’s five months of sobriety with Wymack. He looks at the three of them like he can’t believe they’re the kids he saddled himself with. Andrew piles chocolate ice cream on top of his crumble, and Kevin shoves Neil off his barstool for talking shit about Kevin’s favorite pro team. 

When the three of them visit the bakery for a ‘Congratulations On Competancy’ carrot cake after they finish a game they unanimously agree was won only because the three of them carried the team on their backs, the little old lady who owns the place gives it to them for free. She smiles at them. Tells them to eat more because they are growing boys (they are not), and worries over their exy bruises, and ruffles Neil’s hair ten times over. She lets them know, once again, that her staff love when they visit because the bakers get to have fun. 

She makes the best sweets Andrew has ever had. He added her to his list of people a long time ago. 

--- 

Nicky figures out later than most because he ignores the small increments - the shared cigarettes, and whispered ‘yeses’, and lip-twitched smiles. And, really Nicky will probably never know because Andrew and Neil are as easy to understand as the fabric of the universe and as easy to observe as a unicorn. And because Nicky misses things always. 

Near the start of his hate fucking theory, Nicky asked Kevin for his opinion. Kevin replied, “I don’t know. They’re like my short, white, overbearing parents,” without looking away from his textbook. This should have been Nicky’s first clue. He stalworthly ignores it. 

It happens in November, just short of the twins’ birthdays. Nicky gets metaphorically sock on the doored, and Aaron is off doing straight people things with Katlyn. Naturally, Nicky texts Kevin if he can find refuge in their dorm. Andrew would say no, and Neil would say to ask Andrew, but Kevin texts ‘It’s Sunday, so we’re watching a movie,’ which Nicky takes as invitation enough. 

Nicky has been in his cousin’s dorm twice this semester, which is a change-up from living together. All the furniture is blue and, as Nicky blinks to get used to the lighting difference, so is the crockery. There are labels above the coat hangers, and flowers on the bar table, and framed posters tacked to the walls. They have a corner dorm, and the dimming orange sunset and fairy lights hung from the living room ceiling cast a soft glow through the dark room. 

“I thought you said no,” Nicky hears Andrew whisper shout to Kevin. Nicky’s attention is stuck on the organized shoe rack set up by the door. 

Nicky slides off his slippers as Kevin replies, “I said we were watching a movie,” to Andrew like that was supposed to be a deterrent. And then, to Nicky, he says, “Can I unpause? We just got past the title sequence.” 

Nicky places his shoes on the top of the rack. He wants to see if they have any vodka around or something, to really make the night young; but he thinks the three of them will get pissy if he asks. Instead, Nicky pivots, taking in the living area for the first time that night in an attempt to find a comfortable place to sit. Which isn’t challenging because the whole couch is open. The whole coach is open because three people have squeezed themselves on two bean bags. 

There is something delicate in the way Andrew and Neil are lying. A fragile package that Nicky desperately hopes not to drop. He has never seen his cousin like this, never even fathomed the possibility. 

Andrew sits, cross-legged and drowning in a hood that might be Kevin’s, tension in his shoulders half-collapsed, like it only exists because of Nicky. Neil rests in his lap. He’s got his armbands off, his fingers tangled with Andrew’s against his thighs. Andrew’s chin leans on Neil’s shoulder, and his nose is buried in Neil’s neck. 

It’s a move Nicky and Eric do, yet then again, it really isn’t. Because there’s something about Andrew, who doesn’t let Nicky give him high fives, and Neil who trusts in increments so diminutive they’re immeasurable, cradled together like comfort is a person instead of a feeling. 

And this is Andrew. Andrew doesn’t do this. This isn’t supposed to be a ‘this’ in the first place. Because this was hate fucking, not, well, not. But there’s Andrew and there’s Neil, and then there’s Nicky who thinks he knows, but really doesn’t know at all. 

Kevin huffs an agitated breath like Nicky is the biggest inconvenience he’s ever faced. Like Nicky should be anything other than shocked. Like this was conceivable. 

“Kev,” Neil says, easy and soft. 

Kevin fiddles with the remote. Unpauses the film. An octopus swimming through seaweed in murky water plays across the screen. 

And then, as one, the three of them recite monotonously, “The ocean’s mysteries will draw you to their depths. One mystery will seize you. Body and soul. It is a creature long demonized a monster. Now an international team will risk their lives to reveal the truth behind the myth, of the giant octopus,” as though this is something they have done a thousand times before. 

--- 

Neil holds Andrew’s hands in his own. Andrew’s forehead is pressed into Neil’s shoulder hard enough to hurt. The fabric is wet. Andrew’s pretending like it isn’t. 

He had his criminology class today. His professors talked about statistics as if they are not among his students. As if victims are ephemeral and survivors are others. There are scratches on Andrew’s wrists. But there are not cuts. 

“Hey,” Neil says, letting go of Andrew’s fingers to place his hands on either side of Andrew’s cheeks. The waist and up are a ‘yes’ until it’s a ‘no.’ Neil rubs his thumbs along Andrew’s cheekbones. Lifts his chin so they stare at each other, nose to nose. “Hey,” Neil repeats, voice impossibly soft. “I’m proud of you.” 

It is the first time anyone has ever said that to Andrew. And, against all odds, Andrew believes him. 

--- 

Andrew becomes human in small increments. 

It’s in silent hours spent with Neil, and night practices, and Andrew saying no to celebratory back pats and the Foxes listening. 

They start to lean against each other after games, Andrew and Neil, shoulder to shoulder. They get looks until they don’t. 

They stay at Abby’s for winter break because Kevin and Neil can’t be away from an Exy court for longer than two days. Nicky gawks every time he catches them indicating physical affection, and Aaron pretends like he’s the only person with needs, but Andrew doesn’t mind. 

For Christmas, Kevin gifts him a heating pad that stays warm for two hours. Andrew pretends like he doesn’t keep taking naps with it splayed across his lower back. 

On New Year, the three of them eat cupcakes. Each says, ‘Congratulations On Being Alive’ in cursive. Kevin drinks sparkling grape juice, and Neil teaches them to hide cards, and Andrew manages a laugh sometime around the early hours of the morning. 

For Neil and Andrew’s anniversary, Kevin leaves them alone with a ‘Congratulations On Being Monogomus’ cheesecake (Andrew’s favorite) and a ‘Happy Anniversary To My Parents’ card. When they show Wymack at practice, he snorts. They end up getting him and Abby the same card. 

They spend a good amount of February trying to hook Kevin up with the TA in his Ancient Scripts course he swears he doesn’t have a crush on. It ends with Neil and Andrew forcing Kevin to sit through a very detailed PowerPoint on Bisexuality complete with comic sans and horrible transitions, and Kevin being annoyed at the internalized homophobia pamphlets they hide around the dorm, and the two of them dropping Kevin off at a coffee shop off-campus. Neil wraps a scarf around Kevin’s neck, and Andrew lists date talking points like any of them are good at small talk. It ends with Neil and Andrew pretending they are not sitting four tables away, watching Kevin blush around a conversation with a dark-skinned boy who smiles something gentle. 

(If Kevin calls them the most embarrassing people he’s ever met for the next week, well Andrew really doesn’t care.)

Dan invites them over for a game night during the second semester. They play trivia and Neil, Kevin, and Andrew win by more points than the other teams have combined. 

“How the hell do you remember this shit?” Aaron says, cleaning up the cards. Katelyn id stretched out next to him. 

Andrew rolls his eyes. “The real question is, how do you not? You’d think twins would share a photographic memory.” 

Nicky titles his head. Matt mutters something about how he and Dan deserve more than three points. 

“You don’t have a photographic memory,” Aaron tells him like that is a bizarre concept. 

“Oh right,” Andrew whispers to Neil, holding his hand up as if to keep things private. “I forgot. I’m the dumb twin.” Neil stifles a smile. 

“Andrew, you don’t have a photographic memory.” Aaron sounds annoyed. Katelyn rests a palm on Aaron’s thigh. 

“No.” Andrew does not have a photographic memory. Not exactly. “But do you want to hear me recite all 195 countries and their capitals?” 

Neil shoves his face in Andrew’s clavicle. Aaron frowns, mouth twisted like Andrew is a strange swamp creature. The rest of the Foxes raise eyebrows and tilt heads. 

And Kevin, because Kevin is Kevin, and because they’ve rubbed off on each other, begins to recite, “Afganistan, Kabul, Albania, Tirana, Algeria, Algiers….” 

Andrew sits with Neil on the roof as they pursue through Palmetto’s major catalog, Andrew’s laptop balanced between their thighs. The wifi on the roof is shit, but not as shit as Kevin’s suggestion that Andrew change his major to marine biology. They live a half-hour out from the ocean. Andrew would have to drive from practice to fieldwork to practice. Neil clicks on the major requirements anyway. 

In March, they share a massive strawberry shortcake that reads ‘Congratulations On A Year Without Torture,’ with the whole team. Neil whispers soft things into Andrew’s ear, and Kevin distributes even slices, and the rest of the team pretends like they came up with the cake idea themselves. 

Andrew and Neil have started playing hand games while waiting for matches to start. Sometimes, when he’s too anxious or not anxious enough, Kevin joins them. They’ve gotten unfairly good at slide.  

Andrew becomes human in small increments, as though he hasn’t been human all along. 

--- 

They are in therapy, Andrew and Aaron. Identical, but then again, not. Aaron is back at it again. Andrew should show more emotions, care more about everything, talk more about things Aaron want him to talk about 

Fingernails dig into scabs. And Andrew thinks, as Bee asks what Aaron thinks the solution to this - to Andrew being Andrew - is, that it doesn’t matter. 

He has never once mattered to Aaron. Not in any way that counts. And he wishes that didn’t hurt. 

Aaron is his brother. Actually flesh and blood. One egg and 46 chromosomes. Andrew has taken so much for him. From him. 

“There has to be some way to regulate it.” Aaron seems to this Andrew can’t make decisions about himself. Like Aaron has the key to Andrew’s being. Andrew is so fucking tired of other people stealing his autonomy. “What about medication? We could try that again.” 

It is annoying to be talked about but not talked to. But they’re just words. Andrew has taken worse from siblings without shared DNA. 

“We might be able to find something. The medication from last time might not be have been the most appropriate, but their others that could work. Andrew, would you be open to that?” Bee asks. 

Andrew has told Bee some things, but he has not told Bee all things. She’s missing so much. Hasn’t gone past the event horizon. 

“No,” Andrew says. 

“Andrew.” Aaron doesn’t get it. He never gets it. “This kind of apathy isn’t normal. Medication would be the best choice.” 

“No,” Andrew says again. He has gotten used to ‘no’ mattering. He needs ‘no’ to matter. 

“Look, you don’t get to make these decisions. We learned about this stuff in phycology. I know you may see this as a justified way of life, but this is for other people. Avoidant personality disorder -” 

“I’m not a fucking psychopath, Aaron.” Andrew’s voice is the same steady tone as ever but his blood feels like it’s boiling. His hands shake. 

“Andrew, you don’t care about anything.” Aaron is shouting. “I was there when they gave you that medication.” 

“And the medication was wrongly prescribed.” 

“Now, boys,” Bee interjects, placating as always. “Maybe we should take a minute.” 

“No,” Andrew says. He says it and he means it. “No. Bee, no. Because you thought those meds were a good thing, too.” 

Bee frowns a small thing. “Well, they weren’t ideal, but I think a much lower dose -” 

“No.” Some part of Andrew tells him Neil would be proud. Another part begs him to shut the fuck up. “No. Those meds made me want to literally kill myself. I had panic attacks every fucking day. They fucked me up so bad that when I got off of them I was diving off the deep end depressed for a month.” 

Aaron holds up a hand, like Andrew is going to stop for him. “I don’t think-” 

“No. I still have nightmares about that medication. Ask Neil if you don’t believe me. Because he’s sure as hell talked me down more times than you have, twin o mine.” 

“We can find other meds, Andrew. But from my phycology class-” 

“I’m not a fucking psychopath.” And Andrew is angry. Actually angry. His voice is monotone but spite drips out of his pours like carbon monoxide. 

“You’re ignoring the signs.”  

“And you’ve apparently never heard of Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I hope you treat your patients like this in the future. Such a good doctor you are.” 

“Why would you have CPTSD, Andrew?” 

“Why would I -?” Andrew thinks his brother has lost his mind. Then he thinks about how Aaron only sees through picket fence-tented sunglasses and takes a deep breath. “I was a foster kid, Aaron. Tilda dearest might have been a train wreck, but mommies who hit you and feed you drugs aren’t the only thing that can happen in a house. Pay attention to someone else besides yourself for once. Maybe you’ll figure it out.” 

The conversation isn’t over. It will never be over. But when he runs over the meeting in his head, curled up against Neil, who is warm, and whole, and safe, Andrew realizes it is the first time he has ever stood up for himself. 

--- 

Andrew spends most of his childhood thinking he is a psychopath. He is not. 

There are things that Andrew does that don’t make sense to other people. Blank face, and blank eyes, and blank answers. He’s always been like this. 

But Andrew has his own people now. A Neil, who listens. Who bundles Andrew up in hugs that feel like safety. A Kevin, who understands Andrew even when he doesn’t. A Wymack, who is an adult when Andrew needs one. He has a therapist, who knows some things, but not all things. A cousin, who sees except when he does not. And a twin, who might have potential after all. 

And Andrew is, because he always will be, just Andrew.