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writingpuddle · 3 years

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The other night best friend and I (yes, that best friend) were riffing on trans Neil headcanons over the phone, but a realistic trans treatment of aftg gets dark real fast, so without further ado:

~The Mafia May Be Sexist (But It’s Not Transphobic!) AU ~

(tmmbsbintau, if you will)

Does this premise make sense? No, but if Nora can write about made up mafia sports, I can write a nonsense AU where transphobia doesn’t exist okay this is my party and ill be self-indulgent if i want to

We open with baby Neil, who was named after his maternal grandmother or smthg idk

Now lets say Neil is one of those “I always knew I was trans” kids

So even at a fairly young age he was like, nope this is wrong

For the most part his dad basically ignores him (what use is a girl to me???) but if he makes the mistake of getting in the way it’s the usual shit with knives and hot irons and basically Neil’s bog-standard Traumatic Childhood

His mom signs him up to play Exy to get him out of the house, and he loves it, because of course he does

Now tiny Neil may be terrified of his father

But remember transphobia isn’t real

So he when he’s about ten years old he tells his parents over dinner

His mom just puts her fork down and says that’s alright

But Nathan

Nathan

Nathan’s eyes start to glow

He has a son? Not a useless daughter?

He’s practically levitating with glee

And Neil, poor Neil, who has never had any positive reinforcement—from either parent, Mary, you’re not innocent in this—he soaks it up

Nathan puts both hands on his son’s—his son’s!—shoulders and dubs him Nathaniel

His son, his heir, his legacy

Mary takes one look at the possessive look in her husband’s eyes and thinks oh hell no

For the next few days Nathan absolutely showers Nathaniel with affection

He takes him to the hairdresser and buys him a whole new wardrobe, neglecting his mafia duties in order to dote upon his new son

It is possibly the happiest week of Nathaniel’s life

And then he wakes up in the night with his mother’s hand on his mouth and is given less than a minute to pack his things

Now he’s grown up in a criminal household; the notion of making a run for it isn’t exactly foreign to him

But it’s not until they’re in the car that Nathaniel realizes that his father is nowhere to be seen

Where’s dad? He asks

Shut up, his mother hisses, and slams the car into gear

From then on, he is never Nathaniel

His mother is 100% on board with his transition, but…not really anything beyond that

After all, people will be looking for a woman and a trans boy, which means Mary’s investment in Neil’s gender pretty much starts and ends with him passing as cis

She gets him all the medical treatments he needs (on the black market, since they’re on the run)—puberty blockers when he’s younger, testosterone when he’s older

But he’s never allowed to acknowledge being trans whatsoever

Not to his classmates, not to his teachers

He never gets the chance to have a queer community, or explore the nuances of his gender, because the only presentation they can afford for him to have is Masculine Cis Boy. The restriction is stifling. It’s suffocating.

Neil hates her for it

His life was, so briefly, perfect

He had his father’s love and approval for a day, a week, and he is both old enough to remember his father’s cruelty and young enough to believe that it could end

Nathan is incandescent

When he realizes what Mary has done he goes to the Moriyamas in a storm of fury

She stole my SON! He bellows

Now the Moriyama’s didn’t particularly care about Neil back when they thought he was a girl

Girls in the mafia are basically just for child-rearing, so he wasn’t a threat

So once they figure out what Nathan is talking about (this takes a sec, owing to Nathan having not previously gotten around to telling them about Nathaniel’s revelation), their first thought is that look, we might do the nepotism thing here in our family, but underlings don’t get to do the nepotism thing. Sorry, them’s the breaks

Obviously, Mary has to die—nobody’s disputing that, a woman who robbed her husband and stole his son? Only death will right that wrong—but Kengo tells Nathan that he’ll help find Nathaniel on the condition that he’s given to the Ravens upon capture

Nathan is utterly confident that his son—his son!—will perform admirably. He accepts the deal without a second thought

So they’re on the run for years and years, and Neil’s resentment towards his mother festers, but he never acts out too much, and he doesn’t contact his father

He almost does a couple times, but then he presses his hand to the iron scar on his shoulder and he can’t quite make himself go through with it

He’s sixteen when Nathan catches up with them in Seattle

There’s a shootout and Mary and Neil almost get away

But

Nathan arrives

Nathaniel! He shouts. My boy!

And Neil lurches to a stop

There is his father, walking towards him, his eyes still shining with the same fierce love and pride from when he was ten

Nathaniel, his father says. Hasn’t this gone on long enough?

Come home.

Mary is trying to drag Neil away, but he’s too fixated on his father

Can I? Neil asks. Can I really?

Of course, Nathan says. Everything is forgiven. I’ve even secured you a place on the Ravens. Didn’t you always love Exy? Come home with me, Nathaniel

Neil can barely believe it. His father is offering him everything he ever wanted. His mother has been keeping him from this, his whole life?

Why would they run?

And through this whole exchange Nathan has been getting closer, and Mary is pulling Neil back, and now he’s close enough to touch and the sound she makes is like something physical tears when she finally releases Neil and tries to flee

She isn’t fast enough

Nathan’s grin is as wide as the sun when his cleaver bites into Mary’s waist

Blood pours out

Neil screams

Mary clutches her side, staggering away, but it’s obvious she won’t make it far

Dad, no, Neil says. Don’t—

Shh, his father says. Don’t be afraid. She kept us apart all these years. She deserves to die.

And Neil—

Neil has hated his mother for most of his life

But he looks at the woman who has struggled so long to protect him—who has failed as often as she succeeded, but who fought anyway, everyday—and the man whose eyes are bright with glee at her pain

And he makes a choice

He only has a split second to see the betrayal in his father’s eyes before the pipe in his hand slams into his head and he pitches forward, unconscious

Neil does not wait to see if he survives

He grabs his mother and they run, her arm locked on his shoulder and her palm pressed to the wound on her side

Neil puts her in the passenger seat and jumps in, throwing the car in gear

You need a hospital, he says, frantic

No, she hisses, pinning a towel to her side. No hospitals

Guilt floods through him as he looks at her pale face

Sticky red handprints smear on everything she touches

I’m sorry, mom, he says, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—

Enough, she says. Drive

He drives

He drives, and drives, and he follows her instructions, and later he wouldn’t have been able to say if he actually thought she would survive; he believed it, because he had to, because he had never been without her; he knew better, because gut wounds are slow, but they are inexorable

He parks on the beach and there are tears pushing at his eyelids but he chokes them down

I’m sorry, he said, I never should have believed him. I’m sorry—

You never would have been enough for him, she says, and Neil flinches

Her hand finds his chin and she yanks him down to meet her eyes, her gaze fierce.

He never loved you, she says. He would have made you in his image, and when you failed he would have torn you apart. I would not—I would not watch him try to make my son a monster. Don’t—don’t waste it

Mom, what are you saying—

Promise me, she says

Promise you won’t go back to him

She is dying

Neil can’t refuse

He promises

She releases his face and her red fingerprints on his face burn like brands. He can feel them hours after the tears wash the blood away.

Her last few breaths are jagged as broken stones before she rattles to a stop, and Neil is alone

He burns her body and staggers out onto the road and he keeps moving, he keeps moving, because he knows if he stops he’ll shatter

His hesitation has cost him his mother’s life

But his action costs him his fathers love

In one blow, Neil broke the golden image Nathan had of his perfect son, and now all Nathan wants is to destroy him

He finds his way to Millport almost on instinct alone

He finds one of Mary’s contacts who can supply him with the hormones he needs to continue passing and squats in an empty house and speaks to none of his classmates

When the Exy team tryouts are announced, he goes, intending to only watch from a distance

Perhaps it is inevitable he’s sucked in

There is so little light in his life

Can he be forgiven for wanting one little spark?

The Foxes come for him in May, and Kevin doesn’t recognize him, because how would he? Even if they met as kids, Kevin never saw Neil post-transition

Wymack ends up telling him something about Kevin’s past and the truth about the Ravens, and Neil pales a little bit, remembering how his father had said he’d gotten Neil a place on their line-up and finally understanding why

And sometimes he looks at Kevin with blinding jealousy for the life Neil didn’t get to have, and sometimes he sees him nearly comatose with fear and drinking vodka like it’s water, and his stomach hurts thinking how cheerfully his father would have consigned him to the same fate

So canon proceeds and Neil still bitches Riko out on live TV, and Riko still manages to acquire Neil’s fingerprints

And would you believe that? The Foxes mouthy new rookie is [deadname], Nathan Wesninski’s brat?

Well, well, well

At the banquet Riko pokes and prods until Neil finally snaps, and as Dan drags the team away from the wreckage Jean grabs Neil’s arm and says, low and fast in French, You’ll meet with us later

Why the fuck would I do that? Neil demands

Because otherwise everyone will find out that the Butcher is your father

Neil can’t hide his flinch and Kevin’s eyes go wide

They flee the scene, but before they even reach Coach, Kevin is already rounding on Neil

Is it true? He croaks

Not now, Neil says

But Kevin reads confirmation in Neil’s deflection

I didn’t know [deadname] had a brother, he says

Now here is the thing

Names are obviously a touchy subject with a lot of trans people, and certainly with Neil in particular

But with everything that just happened, Neil is a bit preoccupied, and it’s been a long time since he’s associated himself with that name

Since before he stopped using it, truthfully

And so his response is out of his mouth before he can even think twice

“Who?”

Kevin nods seriously, because he is wise to the ways of mafia bosses, and it’s not exactly shocking that Nathan Wesninski had a mistress and a secret second child, especially considering his first child had been a girl

It’s several moments before Neil puts two and two together and realizes that he has inadvertently slipped through a perfect loophole

He’s failed his mother so many times, but at least this secret is still safe, and he clings to that

Neil’s gender doesn’t really affect his interpersonal relationships with the Foxes—he’s already changing out separately, so this isn’t even a whole other thing

It’s harder to hide his testosterone when he’s living in shared dorms, but he has everything in the safe and figures out the safest schedule to open it up when he’s sure Matt will be in class

Andrew finds out when they start hooking up

But remember transphobia isn’t real so it’s sort of more like Andrew goes to undo his pants and is like wait your dick is removeable? Okay.

And then he just gets on with it

So Binghamton and Baltimore happen as canon, and if Neil had ever harboured hopes that his father would forgive him and love him again, they’re broken for good when his father stalks in and sees him shivering and just grins

It is the smile of someone who has torn someone off a pedestal and is going to enjoy reducing them to dust

Nevermind that Nathan had been the one to put him on that pedestal in the first place

Stuart deus-ex-machinas us out of the maws of death and we end up back in that classic Baltimore scene with the Foxes, and they still claim him, and they still take him home

He tells them all about his mafia father and life on the run, and it doesn’t really click until later that he forgot to mention the trans thing

Not like he, you know, has to tell them, and being trans is hardly an issue in Exy since it’s co-ed, but it would probably be nice to see a real doctor instead of keep buying his hormones illegally

And moreover, he wants the Foxes to know him

So they hit the cabin in the mountains and everyone knows Neil doesn’t drink, but when Andrew pours him a shot, he takes it

Ooh, Nicky says, Is Neil about to start spilling his secrets?

Allison snorts. What secrets does he have left?

Uh, Neil says

Wait, Allison says. There’s more secrets????

Yeah, he says. Um, I’m trans

There’s a pause

Well, that’s no good, Allison said. We didn’t have a bet going on that

Everyone laughs, and Neil smiles, and he looks at the sunset and remembers his mother, and he remembers a life filled with hiding, and secrets, and loneliness

Bats swoop in the twilight beyond the cabin, and he turns towards the warmth and light inside, and he does not look back

#self indulgent trans au is self indulgent #my writing #aftg #andreil #trans neil #trans headcanons #this is actually a bit angsty be warned #i was so high on the transphobia doesnt exist part #that i forgot neils whole life is a goddamn tragedy for a seconde #tmmbsbintau

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aftgficlibrary · 3 years

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Avatar aus

yeah -maz

Avatar: The Legend of Neil by wematch (T | 35,794 | 11/11)

For many years, the four nations lived together in harmony.

Then, everything changed when a conspiracy to start a war began.

Only the avatar, master of all four elements, could stop it, but when the identity of the new avatar was found, he vanished.

Many years passed without anyone knowing where he was. Then he appeared on a farm in the Earth Kingdom, disguised as a firebender named Neil. And although his bending skills were weak when he got there, with practice he grew stronger every day that passed.

Now with a war looming by, Neil must find his own path into becoming the new avatar and bring balance to the world.

oh, the world still deceives you as it turns by wyverning (T | Incomplete | 3/?)

The Avatar, bender of all four elements, should bring peace and harmony to the four nations. The Avatar should serve as a beacon of hope across the world. The Avatar should be an omnipresent, mediating power, though it's been nearly twenty years since the previous Avatar died and still no successor has arisen. The Avatar definitely should not be Neil Josten, who does not give a single damn about anything but surviving while on the run.

Seeking Guidance by corns (T | 4,257 | 1/1)

Neil spent all of his life avoiding the responsibilities of being the Avatar, which included learning how to bend. Now that he's on his own, he has to fend for himself and prepare for the inevitable: Facing the Moriyamas and his father. He's as far from Moriyama sympathizers as he could manage, which lands him in the Skypeak Mountains in proximity to an probending training gym run by David Wymack. He can't afford the attention that comes with training under Wymack, so the coach turns him to a trouble case hellbent on ruining the lives of every recruiter that came to his gym for an earthbender.

i.e. Neil has to convince Andrew to train him. Inspired by Aymmidumps Avatar AU :D

The Rabbit Becomes the Fox by Leahelisabeth (fortheloveofcamelot) (T | 2,508 | 1/1)

Neil has been on the run all his life. As the Avatar, he has a lot of enemies. But it's time for him to stop running.

Book One: Truth by sushiba ( T | Incomplete | 7/?)

Nathaniel Wesninski pushed away his identity as the Avatar ever since he was 10 years old. His mother told him it was too dangerous to be a bender, that people would want to take advantage of him like his father had tried to so many years ago. It wasn't until he joined Kevin Day's pro-bending team that he thought he might actually have a chance at living the life he wants to live so badly... All with the Fire Nation's royal family breathing down his neck, that is.

Iron and Ember by darkbluebox (M | 32,713 | 9/9)

Prompt: "AU where Neil is the Avatar who was born as a firebender."

“Feel this?” Andrew digs two fingers into the dip of Neil’s neck, tapping his pulse-point in time with the roar of Neil’s blood. “I can. I can feel every tremor that passes through the earth. I can feel your every footstep, your every flinch, every tap of your rabbity little heart. I know when I’m being snuck up on, and I know when I’m being lied to. You would be wise to avoid both from here onwards.” The rhythm of Andrew’s tapping speeds up to match pace with Neil’s quickening pulse as Andrew’s words rip the ground from beneath him. Andrew’s lips twitch cruelly at the sight of Neil’s expression. He leans in, shifting his hand to wrap it around Neil’s throat. “Want to hear my theory?” Andrew’s gaze is intent, the pressure of his hand light, but twitching with underlying threat. “You’re a firebender.”

/Graphic Depictions of Violence

Hope Is Something You Give Yourself by piives (T | Incomplete | 1/?)

Neil Josten was supposed to be a simple firebender from a small town. He wasn't supposed to get noticed. He wasn't supposed to be Pro-bending. Yet here he is, in the spotlight and he can't seem to let go of the new life he's found. He's breaking every promise he's ever made and his past is catching up to him. His last hope is that no one finds out about him being the long lost and almost forgotten Avatar.

The Avatar the Last Airbender/Legend of Korra AU that I've been thinking about for a long time and finally decided to write.

/Graphic Depictions of Violence

All The World In His Palm by jemejem (M | Incomplete | 2/4)

Kevin doesn't know who Neil Josten is, but his mentor Hernandez swears he's perfect for the Foxes, benders who fight crime in Palmetto city. He's a strong earth bender, who's in desperate need for some direction, Hernandez said.

Little did they knew that Neil wasn't just an earth bender: Born of two fire benders under the Fire Nation's Moriyama regime, Mary stole Neil away as soon as he showed signs of his talents. She's never taught him what an avatar is, knowing that his father would find them if anyone ever found out. Knowing his father is on his tail and without his mother, Neil's running out of options. If he could master all elements, he'd be safer.

Kevin Day, the last known air bender, could help him. Right?

/Graphic Depictions of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Sweep Me Off My Feet by rosesofenvy (T | Incomplete | 7/?)

Neil is running from his past, and it ends up confronting him in a way he didn't expect. Can his ruse hold up enough to keep him alive? Avatar the Last Airbender AU/Legend of Korra AU

/Graphic Depictions of Violence

Bloodmoon by synfy (M | Incomplete | 3/?)

The Fire Nation is once again on the path to war, this time targeting all other benders. Nathan Wesninski sold out every waterbender in the Northern Water Tribe to the Fire Nation in exchange for the privilege of becoming the Firelord's butcher. Neil's been on the run with his mother ever since. Running is what's kept him alive. He never paused to imagine what it might be like if he stopped running, and he certainly never imagined what it might be like to find a family of rebels, teach the Avatar, or fight alongside an earthbender tougher than emerald.

/Graphic Depictions of Violence

114 notes · View notes

jemej3m · 4 years

Text

trial (objection p.2)

i love htgawm connor is such a problem child

“So your father was already incapacitated when you murdered him,” Andrew deduced, leaning back in his chair. He spun the land-line’s coiled cord around his finger, looking over the ceiling sconces of his office. The place was definitely built at least half a century ago, and the remnants of its previous occupations were everywhere, from the covered-up fireman pole holes to the sound-proofed insulation.

“When I killed him out of self-defence, yes,” Neil returned. His portion of the conversation would always be under surveillance.

“Way to make my job harder, Wesninski.”

“What good would I be, otherwise?” he retorted. “Also, please don’t call me that. I’m figuring out a new last name. How does Neil Smith sound?”

“Dreadfully boring,” Andrew said. “Don’t say that word. I don’t like it.”

“Which one, exactly?”

Andrew grit his teeth. “Please.” It still sent shudders down his spine. “There’s no time for pleasantries.”

“Fine,” the man said. “Is that all you wanted to waste my time on? The position my father was found in, when I - when he died?”

“Considering that there are extremely graphic photos of his predicament for the jury to gawk at, yes. How is it self-defence if there’s no threat?”

“He wasn’t cuffed there: I was. The DNA evidence was tampered with to remove traces of the skin tissue that the cuffs had scraped away. Have you even looked at those photos? His wrists are clearly free. I thought you were talking about the eyes.”

“What about them?” Andrew hedged.

“They’re gouged out,” Neil muttered. “I hate that our eyes are - were - the same.”

“You did that whilst the two of you were fighting,” Andrew suggested. “Unless its clear you did it with a knife?”

“All I had was his cleaver,” Neil said. “I used the handle. That’d look like fingers, right?”

“Right,” Andrew agreed, just as Wymack appeared at his doorway.

“Could you keep the gruesome mutilation discussions off the worklines?” the old man demanded. “Matt just threw up into Dan’s paper-shredder.”

“I’ll have to call you back,” Andrew said, vastly unimpressed.

“I was going to say,” Neil said, sounding vaguely amused. “You have quite a stomach. Till next time, Andrew.”

“Bye, Neil.”

Wymack had his arms crossed when Andrew threw the phone back onto the receiver, his glower shrouded and unknowable.

Andrew gave it right back to him, refusing to stand as he mirrored Wymack’s stance. “What?”

“First you viciously reject the case,” he said. “Then you drive to see him. Now you’re calling him every day?”

“He’s in prison,” Andrew said. “I can’t just invite him over to interview him and gather evidence.”

“There is no valid reason for you to buddy up to Wesninski like this,” Wymack objected. “You barely speak to your clients unless they’re escapin’ juvie.”

“You’re asking no questions, so I’ll give no answers,” Andrew responded cheerfully. “Have a nice day, boss.”

Wymack pointed at him. “No murder talk on the worklines. Three strikes and you’re out, Andrew.”

Andrew swivelled back around in his chair, knowing true and well Wymack had warned him about upwards of 72 different infringements of people’s delicate psyche. He had a job to do: if someone got in his way, he wasn’t going to be nice about it.

Not for the first time, he wondered if Neil had a contraband mobile phone. It’d make his life a hell of a lot easier. For about twenty minutes he scrolled aimlessly through emails from desperate idiots convicted of white-collar crime, simultaneously considering how he might get a mobile phone to Neil next time he visited. He could go on the weekend, after Nicky’s godforsaken family night.

Oh, shit, Andrew thought, when he noticed he’d lost an hour of his day making plans to see Neil again.

Maybe Wymack was on to something.

“You do seem awfully invested,” Betsy suggested, leaning on the porch railing as Andrew smoked through a second cigarette. She’d come along to Nicky’s Friday night fiasco at his request, seeing as Aaron had Katelyn and Nicky had Erik. It seemed a little ridiculous to being his old therapist, who was much more of a mother than a therapist, but Andrew’d wanted to talk to her anyway and their schedules clashed too much to meet up for lunch.

“His case is simple,” Andrew objected, glaring at an owl that’d settled on the gangly tree in Nicky’s front yard. “He’s got physical evidence of his father’s cruelty, even though it’s been a decade. I’ve uncovered the DNA evidence tampering. Neil clearly acted out of self-defence. It’s open and shut, but no one’s going to want Wesninski’s child out on the streets.”

“Jury?” Betsy inquired.

“Jury,” Andrew confirmed sullenly. He fucking hated jury catering. When a case was on thin ice, it was up to selecting the perfectly biased (or prejudiced) people that’d think with their heart, not their head. Andrew was an excellent judge of character, but emotional evaluations were taxing and laborious.

“You’ll do great,” Betsy promised, smiling her all-knowing smile. “You always do.”

Andrew hummed gently, taking one final drag of his cigarette. Before he could chuck the butt into Nicky’s shrubbery, Betsy pinched it between her fingers and dropped it onto an ashtray atop a rickety windowsill.

“It’s an interesting story,” Betsy continued. “There’s every reason to be intrigued by it.”

Andrew just grunted.

“Though,” she remarked. “I figured that case between the young girls was even more perplexing and intricate, but you seem rather enamoured.”

“Shut up,” he mumbled.

“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you about professionalism,” she said airily.

“No,” he agreed. “You don’t.”

But - damn it all to hell - Neil was interesting. He was only a year younger than Andrew was, intelligent without seeming overbearing or arrogant, confident but reserved, a man of constraint taught by hardship but also a man of growth and reflection. Andrew was rambling and he knew it. Neil Wesninski was attractive, intriguing and completely out of Andrew’s reach. Even if he were just your average guy walking down the street, he wouldn’t look at Andrew twice.

Andrew was fine with that. He didn’t need someone chasing after him, just like he didn’t need emotional intimacy or empathy or gentleness. It was like those nerve-endings had been scoured till they were numb and useless. The pathways were still there, but they echoed a nothingness that he’d never really figured out.

Whatever. Whatever. Neil was just a challenging and well-paying case. That’s all he’d ever be.

He was getting existential and over-contemplative. Betsy knew this and smiled, letting him take her by the elbow inside for a cup of cocoa. It was late when the other four finished their game of Monopoly and Nicky finally permitted everyone to leave. Betsy let Andrew walk her to her car again, warmth crinkling her eyes.

“If you’re seeing your Neil tomorrow,” she said, with a wink. “Tell me all the juicy details.”

“You’re a leech,” Andrew declared, pushing her car-door shut. She waved out the scrolled-down window as she careened off, leaving Andrew to his quiet but volatile thoughts.

Your Neil, she’d said.

Now wasn’t that a confronting idea.

“Suppose you are a danger to society,” Andrew drawled. They were sat opposite one another at another metal table, handcuffs dangling off one of Neil’s wrists, his blunt key being fiddled with in the other hand. “Suppose you are just as marvellously unhinged as dear old Dad. What then?”

“Why bother entertaining the possibilities?” Neil cocked an eyebrow. “We both know I’m fine.”

“You are the furthest thing from ‘fine’,” Andrew retorted.

“You’re no paragon of mental health yourself,” Neil laughed, and Andrew wondered how the fuck he’d got himself here.

Two months ago he’d met Neil for the first time. In two weeks his trial would begin, in his lovely hometown of Baltimore, Maryland. It’d be less of a drive for Andrew, so he didn’t mind.

In two months, Andrew had found himself hanging onto every conversation. At first he clung on with apprehension. A wariness born out of unfamiliarity: he’d never been in the realm of wanting to associate with someone. Wanting someone’s company, their thoughts and opinions, their attention. It was ridiculous. Neil was a convicted murderer in a max-security prison.

Then again, Andrew was the one who knew that Neil was undeserving of that title best. At most it was manslaughter. In reality it was a blessing. Ridding the world of the Butcher, a renowned and horrifically twisted serial killer, was a service to the public rather than a hindrance.

And so Andrew had found himself in a strange position, between professionalism and exceptionalism. He almost couldn’t help it. He wanted to know what happened behind those ocean blues.

“Someone’s been bored again,” Andrew accused, lighting a cigarette. That was illegal but he didn’t give a fuck. Neil gazed at where it rested between his lips, conflicted.

He shrugged, caught out. “You’re an interesting person. Would it scare you to know we’re similar in more ways than one?”

Andrew let a small smirk twitch around his smoke. “You should be more scared than I should be.”

“Maybe I’ll go to law school when I’m out,” Neil leered, grinning. “Beat you at your own game.”

“You can try,” Andrew said. “You’ll lose.”

Neil hummed. His shackles jingled as he reached over the table for Andrew’s cigarette, his fingertips brushing over Andrew’s lips as he snatched it away. For a moment he watched the cherry’s glow, before letting it rest at the corner of his mouth.

Unimpressed, and also oddly flushed, Andrew glared.

“That sounds like a challenge,” Neil said, returning to the conversation like he hadn’t just stolen the cigarette out of Andrew’s mouth. Like Andrew hadn’t just let him. “If you get me out of this hell hole, I’ll prove you wrong.”

“And if you don’t?”

Neil grinned. “Then you lose anyway. Don’t worry: I won’t cry.”

“Good,” Andrew muttered, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest.

Neil filled the rest of their valuable time with inane chatter about the more twisted happenings within a male max prison: Andrew had heard of similar stories and worse, but seeing as Neil instigated most of the fights, he still found it rather entertaining to be told.

Before he knew it, their time was up. He stood, plucking the butt out from between Neil’s lips.

“Till next time,” Neil said, a forlorn look at the cigarette between Andrew’s fingers.

“I’ll text you about trial prep,” Andrew said, pointing at him. “Read it.”

Neil sighed. “Not like it’ll help me in any way. But fine. I’ll waste my limited credit and battery on the shitty flipper for court etiquet.”

“You’d better, you ungrateful shit. I got you that phone.”

Neil just winked and blew him a kiss. At Andrew’s scowl, he laughed.

The laugh haunted - no, teased - Andrew all the way out of the stupid prison complex, across the car park, even as he blasted music on the way home.

Andrew took one look at the woman who squirmed in her chair, leaning anxiously away from the middle-aged man next to her. It was instinctive and ingrained in her behaviours. An abusive father, then. Or, perhaps an abusive husband, if the twisting of her wedding ring was anything to go by.

“Accept,” Andrew declared.

“Do you have any qualms about gang violence?” the prosecution asked a balding man, lounging in his chair.

“It’s a toxic function of our society,” he answered.

The lawyer looked to the judge and smiled. “Accept, your honour.”

Fucking hell, Andrew thought. He glanced back over to the table, where Neil was cuffed to the iron loop. He didn’t smile, but simply tipped up his chin. An acknowledgement. Confidence in, well. Andrew.

Something in Andrew’s stomach settled. He turned back to the man that the prosecution had accepted. “So you have heard of the Wesninski case?”

“It was ten years ago,” he objected.

“What did you think of it?”

“It was well resolved,” he said.

“So you still garner some form of opinion against Wesninski?” Andrew eyed the Christian Society badge pinned to the strap of his messenger bag. “Surely your god would have some qualms with your inability to forgive,”

“Mr Minyard,” the judge insisted. “That’s enough.”

It didn’t matter. The man was already spitting mad, going bright-red in the face. He pointed at Neil and hissed “He’s a monster, just like his father. God should’ve had him killed!”

“Denied,” Andrew drawled. The man shuffled out of the jury box, frothing mad.

By the end of the selection process, Andrew was sure that at least half of those sitting in the box would think emotionally rather than pragmatically. He settled back at his desk, ignoring the prosecution lawyer’s filthy glares, and tapped his fingers on Neil’s file.

“I didn’t miss this,” Neil muttered, picking at the skin of his cuticles.

From Andrew’s pocket he drew out Neil’s favourite key, of which he’d swiped after they’d searched Neil from head to toe. The man looked at him with undeserved awe, taking the blunt key and spinning it between his fingers.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Shut up,” Andrew retorted.

The court was called to stand: Neil’s hearing had begun.

FUCKs sake i was gonna try do this in three parts but the trial will be a whole part and the post trial too..... dammit lol

next we find out: what does the prosecution have up their sleeve? how will neil’s testimony go? what chaos will andrew cause in the courtroom? whose key does neil continually trace?? will neil be inevitably driven to distraction by andrew’s dope-ass suit?

#andreil #lawyer!andrew #felon!neil #law au #law firm!foxes #andrew minyard #neil josten #david wymack #betsy dobson #all for the game #aftg #hope u like this disaster of a fic lol #can someone please tell me what to name this au #i cant call it the htgawm au #(how to get away with murder)#unless?#idek #jem writes

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nekojitachan · 4 years

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Hmm, another chapter update! We’re starting to get somewhere. I think after the next chapter there will be a time jump (that or the one following). Yes, plotty things.

Anyway, here you go. More ‘The Real Thing’, the Andreil Raven soulmate fic that does or does not exist.

Some twinyard drama, some spilling of tea, some of Nathan’s terrible parenting skills.

Previous chapter can be found here (and which links to other chapters).

*******

“So, off to some fancy party this weekend?”

Andrew gave his brother a look of long suffering which made Aaron grin. “Right, try not to have too much fun,” Aaron teased before he ran off to catch up with his friends. Andrew clicked his tongue then went on his own way, displeased at being reminded about the damn banquet that weekend.

The Ravens would have their fifth game of the season on Friday, and it was time for the northeastern district’s fall banquet; Andrew wasn’t pleased to deal with either things, but at least the first was a home game (against Binghamton) and would only last a couple hours, while the second was an overnight ordeal at Penn State.

He suspected that Tetsuji wouldn’t let them off-campus to have ice cream and hit a few bars.

At least Andrew shouldn’t have any problems shutting the goal against the Bearcats, who weren’t nearly as good as they liked to think they were. He was mentally reviewing some of their players’ stats when he met up with Ben on the way back to the Nest, who complained yet again about the fact that they weren’t allowed to take any dates to the banquet (‘I mean no offense, if I was into guys you would be… okay, you’d still terrify me but you’re not half bad looking, but I’m nineteen and it’s such a waste of a paid hotel room’).

They studied in their room for a while then went off to practice; Andrew was surprised to find Nathaniel (and Moreau) hovering by his locker, both of them already in their uniforms, hair slightly damp and mussed as if they’d recently practiced.

“Ooh, look at the two lovebirds,” Loiseau called out, which made half the locker room snicker.

Federov leaned over from his own locker to leer at Nathaniel. “What, is shorty not giving it to you good enough, Nate? You need-“

Andrew didn’t look away from his soulmate as he grabbed the prick by the throat. “Do you have any complaints?”

Nathaniel’s blue eyes widened slightly, while Moreau was quick to hide a faint smile. “None, other than your snoring.” He had to speak up a little over the choking sounds Federov made.

Andrew huffed as he clenched his fingers deeper into Federov’s throat. “I told you, you’re imagining things.” He finally looked at the backliner, whose face had turned a bright red. “See, no complaints. Now go away before I cut your tongue out for lying.” He dug his fingers in even more for a moment before he let go then shoved a gasping Federov away.

There were various mutters of ‘crazy’, ‘headcase’ and the like, but Andrew didn’t care, not if the others finally learned to leave him and Nathaniel alone. “You need to get your hearing checked out,” he said as he pulled off his shirt.

Nathaniel was looking away with a slight blush to his cheeks when Andrew glanced back, his red undershirt in hand (interesting). “My hearing’s fine. Enough lame jokes.” Once the shirt was on, Nathaniel looked back at him and leaned forward. “Be careful,” he said in a quiet voice not meant to carry far. “Riko and Kev are already out on court, and it’s not going well.”

Andrew glanced at Moreau, who gave a slight nod, then grinned, the expression wide and a touch sharp, as he reached out to pat his soulmate on his tattooed cheek. “Later, sweetpea. Your honeypie has to work first before we can have our fun,” he said out loud to throw off the Ravens still watching on.

If Andrew was a more delicate soul, he might be a bit perturbed, even downright unnerved, by the chilling look Nathaniel gave him just then. “I know how to debone you as if you’re nothing but a big fish,” the redhead threatened before he spun around on his heel and stomped away.

Moreau didn’t bother to hide his smile (a true rarity) as he nodded. “He does, too.” He gave Andrew a jaunty wave before he went after his partner.

Aw, apparently, they’d moved on to the flirting stage, how sweet.

Despite the threat, Andrew appreciated the warning when he finally got out on court, where he found a scowling Riko and a quiet Day doing drills; it appeared they had a contest going to see who could knock over the most cones. Judging from the numbers Akagi called out, Riko was in the lead… but Andrew saw at least one shot that Day usually had no trouble nailing any other time that he somehow flubbed just then.

Oh well, Kevin Day wasn’t any concern of his.

Tetsuji seemed to be ignoring the contest going on between his nephew and protégé, and called the Ravens forward to start practice; after warm-up exercises and drills, Andrew found himself part of a scrimmage with Nathaniel and Moreau in front of him while Engle and Saunders attempted to score goals.

It wasn’t so bad when Andrew didn’t have to deal with Riko, but he wisely kept that thought to himself, especially when he could hear the way that Riko’s ‘teasing’ remarks to Day crossed the line from friendly to vicious. He noticed how Nathaniel would tense at the mocking laughter and the various versions of ‘you suck’s, but for once the redhead seemed to be listening to his own advice since he kept his mouth shut and focused on Exy.

Riko and Kevin were still whacking balls when practice was over.

Andrew caught up with Nathaniel on the way to dinner to (slowly, making his intent clear all the while) ‘pin’ his soulmate to the wall, a scant inch between their bodies and Moreau a glowering presence nearby. Pretending to nuzzle Nathaniel’s left ear with his hands on the wall next to the younger man’s hips, he breathed out the question that had been on his mind the last few hours. “What’s going on with them?”

Nathaniel drew in a slow breath and raised his left hand toward Andrew’s head, only to loosely cup it when Andrew nodded. “Press asked Kevin more questions after their pro game last night,” he whispered. “He got more airtime.”

Andrew arched an eyebrow at that ridiculous bit of information, which prompted a slight nod from his soulmate. Well, someone had a fragile ego, didn’t they? Before he could say anything, though, he fought not to shudder as Nathaniel’s fingers tentatively slid into his hair.

That… shouldn’t feel so damn good.

“If you two don’t mind, I would like to eat soon, while I still have some miniscule appetite left,” Moreau sneered.

Andrew jerked away from Nathaniel, whose face flushed with embarrassment while he snapped something sharp in French at his haughty partner. “How about you try to eat with a broken jaw?” Andrew asked with a ‘smile’.

“Fillet you like a fish,” Nathaniel warned as he motioned for Andrew to follow him and Frenchie into the dining hall.

“I knew you liked me,” Andrew taunted as he tagged along.

“You have a death wish,” Moreau muttered while he shook his head.

Perhaps.

So did Ben; he gave Andrew a bright smile and a two thumbs-up gesture when he noticed that Andrew ate at the same table as Nathaniel and Moreau, even if he had to suffer through the two of them talking about the statistics of various teams and how best to manage the new drills that Tetsuji had sprung on them. Used to being ignored (at least by his soulmate), he was surprised when Nathaniel pulled him aside after dinner to talk to him privately.

“Be careful at the banquet this weekend,” he murmured while Moreau stood guard. “Riko always has to put on a show, to prove he’s in charge. Don’t give him a reason to do that to you in front of everyone.”

Before Andrew could say anything, Nathaniel whisked himself away, leaving only a feeling of warmth and a craving behind – a craving for Andrew to dig his fingers into dark auburn hair, to brush his lips against a full bottom lip that taunted him….

Perhaps it would be a good thing, to get away from his soulmate for at least a night.

Nicky sent along various types of articles on how to behave at a social gathering, which Andrew basically deleted without reading.

Friday’s night game went the way he expected it to go; the Bearcats played dirty, but they weren’t anywhere near the Ravens’ skill level so were sent home with an embarrassing loss. Andrew once again put in more effort than he liked while out in the goal, but somehow it was worth it when Nathaniel sat next to him on the bench during the game and joined in on mocking the opposing players, when he let down that prickly guard of his and acted like an almost normal teenager.

When he teased Andrew about his snoring when they were back in Nathaniel’s (and Moreau’s) room later that night, when he once again reminded Andrew to be careful at the banquet and (jokingly – Andrew realized that by the way the left corner of Nathaniel’s mouth hitched the slightest bit) asked him if he knew the difference between a salad fork and a teaspoon (one has these spiky bits and one is all smooth, you know) until Andrew threatened to smother him with a pillow.

(He may have fallen to sleep with the sound of his soulmate’s laughter ringing in his ears.)

Tetsuji, the bastard that he was, made the team do their usual workout and morning practice before they cleaned up and piled into the buses that were to drive them out to the middle of bumfuck PA for the banquet. Nathaniel fussed over Moreau and, surprisingly, Andrew before they left (Tetsuji also made them dress in their black and red dress clothes since they were to appear ‘perfect’ upon arrival), and snuck a few of the ‘good’ energy bars into Andrew’s left pocket before he walked away.

It wasn’t often that Andrew gave much thought to the whole ‘soulmate’ bs, but… but maybe there was a reason why he was stuck with Nathaniel Wesninski.

Maybe.

He slept most of the time on the bus, and read one of Nicky’s ‘suggested’ books the rest of the trip (it was another A/B/O novel, a sappy affair about a strong, blond Alpha swooping in to protect a struggling brunet omega which in no way reminded Andrew of Erik and Nicky). Once they reached Penn State, Riko made them line up per their numbers and inspected them, demanded that they straightened out their clothes and fixed their hair until they were ‘Raven’ perfect before he ordered them to fall in step per the way they’d practiced (actually practiced, oh how Andrew had blamed his laughter on the meds that day) before they headed into the stadium.

(The prick also took a moment to remind them to be on their best behavior that night, his attention lingering on Andrew as he tapped three fingers against his chin.)

Riko was arrogance personified to Penn State’s captain, who didn’t appear to care for him (or the Ravens), either. Yet they were stuck at the same table as their division ‘rivals’, which meant that Andrew sat next to Moreau while Riko and Day (along with various other Ravens) traded insults with the pussycats. It was almost enough to make him want to stab salad forks into his ears (and yes, he knew what a fucking salad fork was).

Better yet, stab a salad fork in someone else’s ear….

He was picking at his bland chicken breast and steamed vegetables (he would gladly maim someone for a pizza right then) when the pussycats’ captain gave a mocking laugh and nudged the young woman sitting at his side. “What did I tell you? No one wanted to come as dates for these stuck-up bastards.”

She laughed as well, as did the majority of the pussycats; Andrew noticed that most of the players had a guest beside them, which meant there were almost double the amount of people on their side of the table compared to the Ravens’. “Probably don’t even have any soulmates. Who would be unlucky enough to be stuck with someone like them?”

“Yeah, tied to an Exy-playing machine that doesn’t know how to have any fun for the rest of their lives, who would want that?”

“How could they even tell which one is their soulmate? All their symbols would probably be an Exy racquet or something equally boring!”

Andrew propped his chin up on his right hand while the pussycats continued to make fun of the Ravens, while beside him, Moreau huffed quietly but didn’t show any emotion. However, Riko didn’t seem to be handling the jabs as well (perhaps because prick knew he was a piece of shit and didn’t have a soulmate of his own).

Normally, anything that made Riko feel bad was a good thing in Andrew’s book, but he inwardly tensed when that one smile came over the prick’s face; judging from the murmured curse in French and the way Day stilled, he wasn’t the only one to realize that things had taken a turn for the worse.

Riko leaned forward as if to tell a secret. “The reason we’re champions, unlike your team, is that we know when to remain focused and when to indulge ourselves. Right now?” He cast a disparaging look at the young woman in the deep blue dress who sat next to the pussycat’s captain. “Even though you and the others don’t present much of a challenge,” he sneered, “we don’t allow ourselves to be distracted during the season.”

One of the pussycats’ backliners scowled and shook his head. “You just won’t to admit that no one wants you.”

That prompted a laugh from most of the Ravens. “No one wants us?” Riko clapped Day on the back, who scoffed at that statement. “When we’re already on a pro team, unlike any of you? When our seniors already have teams offering them contracts?” Federov and others grinned and nodded while more pussycats scowled. “We could have our choice of dates and already have our soulmates waiting for us, but this is work and so there’s no need to inflict so much boredom upon them when it’s not necessary. It’s bad enough that we have to do endure it.”

“You’re an asshole,” Captain Pussycat snarled, which was the truth but not much of a snappy comeback.

“An asshole who’ll beat you yet again this year,” Riko said with a pleased smile.

“An asshole who probably doesn’t have anyone to celebrate the victory with,” a dealer shot back as she rubbed the soulmate mark on her arm; she was too far away for Andrew to make out the symbols. “You need a soul for that to happen, and it’s clear that you Ravens don’t have any.”

Riko’s smile took on a too-sharp edge while various Ravens laughed. “Again, why inflict losers like you upon them? Since they’re our soulmates, they’re just as driven as us and are busy, but you’ll see one of them soon enough. Isn’t that right, Andrew?”

What the hell was the prick doing now? Andrew sat up, the drugged smile flattening as he gave his ‘captain’ a blank look. “It’s right that there’s no need for him to have to deal with these assholes,” he said, a clear warning in his voice.

“Hmm, but dear Nate will have to deal with them next season, just like Thea dealt with them until she graduated, isn’t that right, Kevin?” Riko sat there and outed their soulmates as if it wasn’t a big deal, when he had no right to; Andrew’s left hand clenched around the pathetic knife provided for dinner when he felt a kick to his right ankle.

“Don’t,” Moreau whispered. “Nat.”

Andrew almost stabbed the French bastard for interfering, almost told him to mention his soulmate’s name… but the damage was already done, wasn’t it? Riko had deflected the pussycats away from the fact that he didn’t have a soulmate, and now the other team (and soon the rest of the division once word spread) was busy talking about which other former Ravens might be soulmates.

Andrew would much prefer everyone was busy talking about Riko’s ‘unfortunate’ death, but was held back (barely) by the clear warning to Nathaniel (and by extension, to Aaron).

(He was also disgusted about how part of him felt a bit smug over how everyone knew Nathaniel was his soulmate.)

Ben took one look at him when they were finally allowed to return to the hotel at the end of the too long night and didn’t ask him to share any of the alcohol he’d brought along.

Moreau made certain to stay between him and Riko the entire time they were at Penn State and on the drive back to Edgar Allan. It was a good thing (for everyone stuck on the bus with him) that Andrew had just taken a fresh dose of his ‘happy’ meds before he received a text from Aaron, who had somehow heard about him finding his soulmate (word traveled fast, it seemed).

There was a lot of swear words and angry emojis, and eventually Aaron got to the point; if Andrew was messing around with his soulmate (he wasn’t), then Aaron was free to search for and have a relationship with his soulmate (when found). Andrew reminded his twin about his many terrible decisions made in the past, about how Andrew had to clean up so many messes, and received another furious text.

/U can’t keep me from her/

Andrew turned off his phone, unwilling to deal with such stupidity at the moment.

He just wanted to crawl into his bed and sleep the rest of the day (actually, he wanted to beat the shit out of something), which was unlikely since Tetsuji would put them through at least one practice before calling it a day, but upon entering the Nest, Moreau mumbled something about finding Nat and went off in such a rush that Andrew found himself following without any thought.

(Just for the hell of it, he wasn’t worried or anything.)

Nathaniel was in the room he shared with Moreau, seated at his desk as he studied. At first, he didn’t react to them entering the room, then finally raised his head from the book he’d been reading when Moreau called out his name. His partner hissed as if in pain upon seeing the bruises which marred Nathaniel’s pale skin, the blackened left eye and split lower lip, while Andrew felt a rare fury rail against the drugs swirling around in his veins.

“Nat, what-“

“Get out,” Andrew told Moreau as a manic smile tugged the corners of his lips upward as if hooks had been implanted in them. When Moreau stared at him in confusion, he grabbed a fistful of black material and shoved Moreau toward the door. “Get. Out.”

“Who do you-“

“Jean, just go,” Nathaniel said, his voice quiet and stripped of almost all emotion except a hint of exhaustion. “It’ll be fine.”

Moreau paused for a moment before he clicked his tongue and yanked his t-shirt free from Andrew’s grip. “Don’t hurt him,” he warned before he left.

As if that was possible; oh, Andrew wanted to hurt someone, all right, but not his soulmate. Oh no, he wanted to tear apart whoever had left those bruises on Nathaniel.

“Who was it?” he demanded to know as he forced himself to go sit on Moreau’s bed instead of on Nathaniel’s desk; he suspected that his soulmate needed the space right then (he needed the space right then).

Nathaniel was quiet while he bookmarked the page he’d been reading then leaned back in the chair; he began speaking before Andrew repeated the question. “My father was here this morning.” He winced as he skimmed his fingers over his bruised cheek. “Word got out fast about us being soulmates soon after someone posted it on an Exy forum last night.”

Andrew considered that for a moment while his hatred for Nathan Wesninski grew even more potent. “He beat you because I’m your soulmate.” Nathaniel gave a slight nod. “Why?”

“Because… because,” Nathaniel sighed as he got up to fetch something from the minifridge between his and Moreau’s desk; a fresh ice pack, which he wrapped with the towel he’d used on an older pack set on the desk. “He already knew you were my soulmate, Tetsuji told him after you were recruited, he was just… annoyed, I guess you could say, that the news got out.” He didn’t look at Andrew as he applied the pack to the left side of the face.

There were likely one or two explanations for that. “Is he angry because of my past or that I’m a guy?”

The question made Nathaniel look at him. “Uhm, the latter.” He toyed with a pen left on his desk as if nervous. “I mean, it’s not a big deal, two guys being soulmates, but he’s… well, even though he’s washed his hands of me, I guess he still thinks it makes him look bad. Makes him look like less of a man, somehow.”

So he made himself feel better by coming here to beat up his son, what a ‘man’. “My cousin’s father is like that,” Andrew confessed. “Has some weird belief that Nicky’s soulmate being a guy is a bad thing. He’s doing much better now that he’s living with Erik in Germany.”

For some reason, that bit of truth made Nathaniel smile, just a sliver of a curl. “Really? Are… are they happy together?”

“Disgustingly so,” Andrew admitted. “Once he finds out about you, he’ll be hounding me for information because he believes all soulmates should be happy together.”

“Oh.” That seemed to confuse Nathaniel; he glanced down at his lap and attempted to nibble on his bottom lip before he remembered why that was a bad idea. “Jean… Jean told me that there were good soulmate bonds, but I only know my parents and….”

“And it’s not good,” Andrew guessed; he better understood why Nathaniel had freaked out on him that one day.

“No.”

“Nicky and Erik have a good one.” Such a good one that he thought that the universe was mocking him with his own mark, was showing him something so perfect that could never be his.

Now… now he was beginning to wonder.

As the anger gave away to something warm and aching, he found himself on his feet, which made Nathaniel stare at him. “I have to go unpack.” He motioned to his duffel bag, which he’d left by the door.

“Yeah, practice will start soon.” Nathaniel gave him a weak smile. “Back to Penn State for an away game.”

More fun time with the pussycats; Andrew would have to put some real effort into that game, and wouldn’t get much time alone with Nathaniel while off his drugs.

Still, everyone knew Nathaniel and him were soulmates now (for good and bad), knew that Nathaniel was off-limits. He just… he just needed to figure out what do next.

(He knew what part of him urged him to do, which didn’t help things. He needed to be smart about what he did next, and for some reason… he didn’t feel very smart when around Nathaniel.)

*******

Yep, we’re getting somewhere.

Did you know that the pro team that Kevin and Riko played on while in university was called the Baltimore Wildcats? How many times I’ve read the Kathy Ferdinand interview scene and hadn’t realized that Nora did actually name that team? Oops. Which makes one wonder WHY Baltimore, hmm? Weren’t they signed with another team as well? Besides the US Court (which wouldn’t have demanded time until the Olympics). This is another reason why I don’t think the whole 18 hour days make any sense....

Anyway, thanks to those who do read this.

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darkblueboxs · 4 years

Text

Where the Night Takes Us

Mafia & Hitman AU, Inspired by butcher!Andrew discussions on Twitter

Sequel to Blood Beneath your Fingernails (But can be read as a stand-alone)

Read here or on AO3 (Check AO3 for content warnings)

Nathaniel Wesninski – or Neil Josten, according to the forged papers Andrew procured for him - was more trouble than he was worth.

This was the mantra Andrew repeated to himself as he stalked across his study to where Neil waited for him, slouched on his couch with a false nonchalance that said, I’m sitting like this by choice, and not because I’ve lost too much blood to keep myself upright. He flinched as Andrew approached, but stilled when Andrew seized his chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning Neil’s face from side to side to inspect the damage. It was as though Andrew’s touch melted something stiff and glacial in Neil’s core, and he visibly softened, reassured by Andrew’s protective grip.

Neil showed none of the fear or anger one might expect from someone Andrew had recently pulled, unconscious, from a car full of bullets and corpses.

The kidnapping had been clumsily planned and clumsily executed; it had been child’s play to track the gleaming black Lexus as it roared north out of the city, likely headed to a convenient dumping ground in the wilderness. Wrecking such a nice car had prompted more regret from Andrew than any murder ever had.

The car was quiet in the ditch it had rolled to a stop in, although a bloody handprint glowed on the rear window. Having confirmed that Neil was alive and largely in one piece, Andrew neatly disposed of two of the three kidnappers with a knife drawn swiftly across their throats. The blood spilled hot and heavy over his fingers as he worked, but the faint twitches and jerks the assailants gave as they bled out on the leather upholstery ultimately left him unsatisfied. Andrew wasn’t used to feeling much of anything in the wake of a kill, but the adrenaline of the chase mixed with the dark fury that came from the knowledge that they had laid hands on something of his simmered uncomfortably beneath his skin like an itch in need of scratching.

Leaving the third kidnapper alive was more… challenging than Andrew had expected. The sight of blood oozing from the criss-crossing slits carved into Neil’s skin drew something primal to the surface of Andrew’s mind, something that threated to spill over him and wash away the neat suits and refined tastes and cool, calm efficiency of his methods. Andrew didn’t want the man dead; he wanted him destroyed. It was a dangerous path from which there was no return, but the strain of hauling himself back from it left his hands shaking as he carried Neil back to the Maserati. The blood would be removed from the seats easily enough, although Andrew would remember the shape and distribution of the bloodstains with pin-point precision until the day he died.

And, back in the safety of Andrew’s study, Andrew had Neil’s blood on his hands for the second time that night. He removed his hand from Neil’s chin before the congealed stains could stick them together, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together. The familiar heat of Neil’s blood seeped into his callouses as he contemplated the damage. “Care to explain why the Moriyamas are after you?”

Neil smiled. His face split itself open all over again. “I suppose they don’t like the look of me.”

“Understandable,” Andrew agreed, “But wrong. You should know better than to lie to me by now, Abram.” The sound of his given name was enough to dent Neil’s smile. It was his father’s smile, and for that reason Andrew detested above all else the heat it bit through his gut.

“How did you find me?” Neil said, as though he honestly believed Andrew would be so easily distracted. Andrew indulged only because letting Neil believe he had the upper hand occasionally was entertaining, and dissuaded him from seeking out a real victory. Andrew leaned in, knee dipping into the sofa cushions as he slipped a hand under the lapel of Neil’s jacket. Neil held his gaze as Andrew’s fingers worked their way across his chest. He could feel warmth radiating through the thin fabric of Neil’s shirt, but refused to let it distract him from his mission. He found the miniscule disk sewn into the lining of Neil’s suit jacket and yanked it free without regard for the seams and stitching he tore along the way.

He held the tracker up for Neil’s inspection. It could be mistaken for a button if one didn’t know what they were looking for. “If you were better at keeping your phone on you, this wouldn’t be necessary.”

“And here I was, thinking you bought me this suit because you wanted to treat me.” Neil crossed his legs, and barely twitched at whatever pain the movement must have caused him. “Or because you thought I’d look good in it.”

“Making you fit to be seen in public with me was a welcome side-effect.” Andrew dropped the tracker into Neil’s lap. “Keep your phone with you.”

“Why bother? The tracker has proven itself.”

“The tracker can’t text me back,” Andrew snarled. “Now, circling back to this.” He punctuated the sentence with a jab to one of the thin slits running the length of Neil’s cheekbone, “Shall I get my answers from you, or from the man chained up downstairs?”

Neil’s eyebrows twitched, as close to surprise as his face would admit. “You took one of them alive.”

“I had a feeling my other captive would be reticent with information.”

Neil snapped forwards with an agility that the night’s events should have denied him, crowding into Andrew’s space. “I’m not your captive.”

“True.” Andrew didn’t blink as Neil’s face eclipsed his field of vision. His eyes were as electric a blue as the day they met, raising the hairs on Andrew’s arms with the efficiency of a static shock. “You could walk out of those doors right now and never look back. Your father’s men would tear you to shreds, and I would be free to enjoy my whiskey in peace.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Why not? We both know you won’t.”

Neil was the first to blink. “The Moriyamas think I should have gone to them after my father’s death. Apparently, I’m quite a valuable asset.”

Andrew hummed. “Does that make me the lesser of two evils?”

Neil snorted. “You think highly of yourself. I’ve lived with evil. You go through the motions to keep up appearances, but you have no real interest in the business of evil. You don’t live the life you live because you enjoy it. You don’t enjoy anything but expensive suits and fast cars.”

Two out of three wasn’t bad, but Andrew wouldn’t admit it. Neil’s assumptions had opened a far more interesting line of enquiry. “And why do you do the things you do, Neil? You’re hardly an angel yourself.” Andrew slipped two fingers under the hem of Neil’s sleeve to check that the knives he had lent him were still securely sheathed in his armbands. His fingers flickered across warm metal and came away damp. This time, Andrew doubted that it was Neil’s blood. “You should really clean them before you put them away.”

“I was in a hurry,” Neil muttered.

“No more evading. You have hit your limit for evasiveness for tonight.” Andrew slipped a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from his hands. He offered it to Neil, who scrubbed it half-heartedly across his jaw. “Do you kill because you have to? To keep up appearances? Or because, like your father before you, you enjoy watching a man bleed out on the end of your blade?”

Neil flinched. Silence hung heavy in the air as he handed Andrew his handkerchief back. Andrew rolled his eyes, held Neil’s head in place as he wiped away the streaks of dried blood Neil had missed. Neil tracked the movement of his hands as though trying to connect the careful movements to the man before him. He tilted his head to the side to grant Andrew access to the vulnerable underside of his jaw, and Andrew felt the muscles of Neil’s throat flex as he swallowed.

“I don’t know,” Neil answered quietly. “I don’t want to be like him, but I feel… I feel something of my father in me. His temper.” He swallowed again. “The henchman said that once he was finished with me, he would come back here and do worse things to you unless I stopped fighting back. I wanted to… I don’t know what I wanted to do, but I wanted to do it.” Neil’s eyes flicked to Andrew, heavy and unreadable. “I’m not losing you.”

Four simple words, but Neil didn’t know, couldn’t know, the effect they had. Andrew clenched his jaw, schooling his expression into something along the lines of his usual blankness before Neil could read too much into it. Andrew protected Neil, as was their arrangement. The last thing he needed was his fool of a runaway getting delusions of heroism.

“Would you like to find out?” Andrew’s question ploughed a furrow into Neil’s brow, so he elaborated. “Would you like to find out what you wanted to do to him?”

Neil’s eyes fixed on Andrew’s mouth as though Andrew had offered him eternal life, or perhaps eternal damnation. “Yes.”

Andrew lead and Neil followed as they made their way down to what Andrew privately called his workshop. It was a small building with insulated walls, separate from the main house, easily mistaken for a garage, and it was labelled as such on planning permission forms. Andrew didn’t often have cause to bring his work home with him, preferring to dispatch with his enemies as neatly and quickly as possible, but sometimes circumstances demanded a little more time with the kind of tools that weren’t easily transported to and from a potential crime scene. This was where Andrew brought victims in possession of information that they would not easily part with. Until today, Neil had never stepped foot within the workshop.

He was not the man Andrew had first believed him to be, that much was certain. Nor the second, third, or even forth. Looking at Neil was like staring into a maze of mirrors, impossible to discern which images were reflections and distortions and which was the real person concealed within the labyrinth. Their first meeting had been a headlong sprint into reflective glass, leaving Andrew bruised, disorientated, but itching for a fight. At first, Neil had been the suave inheritor of his father’s fortunes, a mini-butcher in the making. Then he had been the scarred victim of his father’s violent tendencies, trapped and desperate for escape. Then he had drawn his knife and pressed it to Andrew’s throat with all the ease of breathing, and the reflection shimmered and distorted itself all over again. Andrew had taken Neil on in the vain hope that he would reach the end of Neil’s maze or lose interest, yet neither event had yet occurred. No, the more Andrew learned, the more interesting Neil was, and while he remained as dangerous as the day they met, it was now for entirely different reasons.

Tonight, Andrew suspected, they would crack through another layer of glass.

He keyed his twenty-digit code into the keypad – Neil rolled his eyes – and flicked the lights on before tugging the door shut behind them, checking for the usual clunks of numerous locking mechanisms sliding back into place.

Most men in Andrew’s line of work would have guards, lackeys, minions – whatever one wanted to call them. Andrew personally found that the issue with hired muscle was simply that – it was hired. What could sway a guard to work for Andrew could just as easily sway them to work for anyone else. If Andrew was to be double-crossed, he would rather it was by his own blood, however expanded his definition of his blood might be. The workshop, despite and apart from his captive, was thus unoccupied.

The man was where Andrew had left him, which was to be expected, considering the numerous restraints holding him there. Andrew hadn’t genuinely expected him to know anything of interest, but there was a slim chance that Neil would have no earthly idea why the Moriyamas were after him, at which point a surviving kidnapper would be of help in filling in the gaps. Unluckily for the man, whose name Andrew would never learn, he had outlived his worth.

Neil showed little interest in their prisoner. He touched one of the carving knives hanging on the wall, flinching as it clanged against the neighbouring blades.

“Show me his face,” Neil said quietly. Andrew obliged, tugging the gag and blindfold down around the man’s neck in turn. He screwed up his eyes against the sudden light, sweat beading on his forehead despite the room’s chill.

“I have information,” he panted. “Valuable information.”

“Don’t care.” Andrew ran a hand across his cuffs, checking they were sturdy and untampered with. “Neil?”

“Yeah,” Neil said, and Andrew stepped back when he saw the axe swinging at his side.

As much disdain Andrew held for the others in his chosen profession, the irrefutable fact was that Andrew had a type. Neil, armed to the teeth as though he could be any more of a hazard than he already was, sharp smile and sharp weapons and sharp tongue, was Andrew’s type. Andrew wasn’t sure what he wanted Neil to do to him, and whether the axe should be involved, but he knew he wanted something.

Neil Josten was, undeniably, more trouble than he was worth.

“Hey,” Neil crouched before the captive. “Remember me?”

The man was stupid enough to nod.

“I never liked axes.” Neil tossed it from hand to hand like a running baton. “My father’s thing, really. You know, he threatened to hobble me with one of these? Nearly slit my ankles once, too. Figured I’d be less trouble if I couldn’t run.” Neil levelled the sharp end at the man’s head. “I can’t say I understood the weapon’s appeal. Blunt, imprecise, unwieldy. But that was the point, wasn’t it?”

The man’s head twitched in aborted movements, as though unable to decide whether he should be nodding his head or shaking it.

Neil pressed the edge to the same place his own face had been sliced open. A trickle of red wobbled down the man’s cheek before dripping onto his shirt. The stain blossomed on the white fabric like a miniature gunshot wound. The man quaked.

Neil abruptly raised the axe, inspected the thin sheen of red on the blade, and tossed it aside. He straightened to meet Andrew’s gaze.

“That’s what I wanted to do.”

“All out of your system?”

Neil smiled thinly. “It seems I am not my father after all.”

Andrew smoothed a thumb across the cut healing on Neil’s cheek. “I’m going to kill him, now.”

An unsteady breath shook itself from Neil’s lungs as he nodded. He had a particular way of looking at Andrew when he was working, gaze intent and pupils dilated, as though Andrew’s actions were poetry written for him alone. Andrew’s principles of detachment were never closer to shredded than when Neil looked at him like that.

Driving them home, Neil on the backseat and the kidnapper in the trunk, Andrew had played out this moment in his mind. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened to chase the endless trembling from his fingers, which twitched with impatience in aborted movements towards the knives secreted in the folds of his suit. The anticipation sliced through his veins with the efficiency of molten iron, hot and furious and growing stronger with every glance Andrew caught of Neil’s form in the rear-view mirror. He had curled in on himself in his unconscious state, hair ruffled and sticking up in every direction at once, dark eyelashes standing out against his copper skin. His features were smoothed out in sleep, his brow freed of its usual pinched worry, and were it not for the blood streaking down his cheeks Andrew would have said he looked far younger for it.

Before that night, Andrew had not believed he had a truly vengeful bone in his body. He did not cause pain for the sake of pain; he caused it as a warning, a deterrent, a statement, an affirmation of his place in the world and the consequences that would meet anyone who wished to remove him from it. Andrew had left his statement for the Moriyamas in a Lexus filled with dead men, but he wanted more. He wanted to hack and tear and slice until there was nothing left. He wanted to remove every finger that had dared touch Neil one after the other and work his way inwards until there was nothing left of the surviving kidnapper that wouldn’t fit in a matchbox.

That Neil made Andrew want to do these things – that Neil made Andrew want at all – brought with it a kind of fear that Andrew had long believed was dead and gone, buried under years of betrayal and pain and loss. Wanting was as strange an ache as he remembered it being, more so when the object and instigator of that want was standing before him, looking at him as though Andrew could hack a thousand men to pieces before his eyes without prompting so much as a flinch.

Andrew wanted the man ruined, but he wanted Neil more. He promised Neil his protection, and he could not protect Neil if he became the kind of man both of them would rather forget. The kind of man who revelled in losing control.

Andrew killed the man. He died quickly, quietly, unremarkably. It wasn’t what he deserved – it never was, with his kind – but he owed Neil that much.

After, Andrew washed the blood from his hands, stilling as Neil chased a stray fleck from his clavicle with the pad of his index finger. Neil used the point of contact to turn Andrew to face him, allowing him access to refasten the top buttons of Andrew’s shirt. In the chaos of losing Neil and finding him again, Andrew couldn’t rightly say when they had come undone. Neil’s knuckles brushed Andrew’s neck as he did so, and Andrew repressed a shiver, remembering the day Neil pressed a knife to the same spot.

“I can help clean up,” Neil murmured, casting a sideways glance to the mess behind them. Andrew rolled his eyes as he tugged Neil’s lapel back into place. It was the same suit he had been taken in, and it showed, scuffed and rumpled and sporting several loose threads and dried bloodstains. Andrew would have a new one hanging in Neil’s wardrobe before sunrise, although Neil certainly wouldn’t appreciate it.

Andrew flicked a wayward tuft of Neil’s curls from his forehead with a roll of his eyes. “Worry about cleaning yourself up. You’re a mess.”

Neil shot him a flat look, but left to do as he was told. It wasn’t long before Andrew followed him back to the main house, checking his clothes as he went for stray flecks of red, knowing he would find none. The night air was cool after the stuffy, stale workshop, which was now choked with the thick odours of cleaning chemicals. The light in Neil’s room was still on, and Andrew squinted up at the tell-tale twitch of curtains that told him his return had been awaited.

Andrew took his time, holding a cigarette between his lips until the smoke drowned out the lingering smell of disinfectant. He knew from the tingle on the back of his neck that he was still being watched, but knowing it was Neil did something warm and pleasant to Andrew’s stomach, something that nipped. Andrew was particular about the kinds of attention he did and didn’t welcome and found that Neil’s faceless vigil was one which he, in fact, did. He pursed his lips around the cigarette, rolling his shoulders as he looked back up to the house, keeping his stance loose and relaxed as though he were returning from an evening stroll instead of a crime scene.

He waited Neil out, listening to the quiet chirp and rustle of the garden around him. Finally, the orange glow from Neil’s window flicked to black, and Andrew went inside.

His post-kill routine began, as it always did, with the longest, hottest bath he could stand. He threw handfuls of bath salts and goop into the claw-footed tub without much regard for the conflicting scents. He felt little need to wash off the grime, as it were, of a murder scene, but did so as a courtesy to anyone he might encounter in the immediate future less acclimatised to the scent of dry blood. When his skin was bright pink and scrubbed soft by the salts, he hauled himself from the tub, shaking water everywhere as he slipped into a grey silk bathrobe and returned to his room.

He found Neil waiting for him on his bed. This was not part of Andrew’s routine, as much as he might have fantasised otherwise. Face freshly scrubbed and his suit jacket abandoned somewhere between then and now, Neil was halfway towards looking human again. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, and Andrew made a conscious effort not to let his eyes catch on the exposed stretch of Neil’s collarbone. Andrew did not like people sitting on his bed, or being in his bedroom, or behaving unexpectedly. Neil was doing all three, yet somehow it didn’t bother him.

“That is expensive Japanese linen. Do not get blood on it,” Andrew said. Neil’s wounds were cleaned and sealed, but it was wise to err on the side of caution where the runaway was concerned. Andrew wouldn’t be surprised if Neil had found someone to infuriate to the point of homicide between his room and Andrew’s. He was gifted that way.

Neil picked at the sheets. “They’re not even soft.”

“Can I help you, Neil?”

“It smells like hibiscus in here. And lemon. And lavender?”

“We have talked about your evasiveness quota for the night.”

Neil sighed. “I just don’t understand why I’m here.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Fate, destiny, a horse, who cares?”

“I mean, why you brought me here. Why you protect me. It would have been so much easier to kill me. It’s what you do¸ and you’re good at it. What makes me special?”

“This couldn’t wait until morning?”

One of Neil’s eyebrows slid upwards. “Now you’re being evasive.”

Andrew exhaled heavily. “You said I don’t enjoy anything but expensive suits and fast cars. You were wrong.”

Neil wrinkled his nose. “Clearly, you enjoy over-perfumed baths too.”

“Concentrate, Neil.”

“It’s hard to think when you smell like you’ve just robbed a florist.” Neil was too busy complaining to notice Andrew’s approach. Andrew kneeled in front of him, hands braced in the bedding on either side. Neil blinked.

“You’re interesting,” Andrew said simply.

“Interesting? Are you serious?”

Andrew shrugged. “It’s not often that I’m…interested.”

“Interested,” Neil repeated, and suddenly his eyes grew wide. “Oh.”

Andrew snapped his fingers in front of Neil’s face to regain his attention. “Now. If you want, you can walk out that door right now and go back to whatever plans you had for your evening. Your place under my protection will be unaffected.”

Neil did not, against Andrew’s expectations, look to the door. “Or?”

“Or you stay here, and I blow you.” Andrew had never been one for flowery propositions.

“Oh,” said Neil again. His eyes flicked across Andrew as though he were the mirror-maze reflection instead of Neil, and another layer of reflective glass had just been torn down. “You like me.”

Andrew fixed Neil with the most disdainful glare he could manage.

“Is it because…” Neil gestured vaguely over himself. “Because I’m the son of the butcher?”

“No,” Andrew replied. “It’s because you’re not.”

A new kind of understanding dawned in Neil’s features. He leaned in until their faces were inches apart. Andrew could smell Neil’s crisp aftershave, not one of the expensive brands Andrew preferred but compelling all the same.

“Kiss me,” Neil whispered, and Andrew was happy to oblige. He buried his hands in the sheets either side of Neil’s legs and kissed him until his lips were numb and they were both breathless. Neil gasped, and Andrew drew back, scowling when he noticed a thin scar cutting across Neil’s upper lip had re-opened.

“I don’t need medical attention,” Andrew mocked. “I’m fine.”

“I am,” Neil insisted. His tongue darted out to lick across his upper lip, and Andrew had to tear his gaze away. “It’s a scratch. It doesn’t hurt.”

“You said that about a stab wound last month.”

“You can’t tell when I’m lying yet?” Neil asked innocently.

“Stop talking.”

“Make me.”

Andrew was careful, the coppery taste of Neil’s lips setting long-abandoned parts of his mind alight, but Neil chased Andrew’s mouth with such fervour that Andrew soon gave in to the rough slide of their lips against each other. Neil, always so careful where it really mattered, dug his hands into the sheets so hard that Andrew wondered how he hadn’t torn right through them, leaving Andrew to dictate the points of contact between them.

Andrew nudged Neil onto his back as he climbed onto the bed, pausing to check for Neil’s consent before slipping a hand under the hem of his shirt. Neil gasped into his mouth, but as Andrew’s palm dragged across his ribcage Neil tensed, a bitten-off sound jerking from his chest. It wasn’t a good kind of sound.

“Neil,” Andrew said carefully. “You said your only injuries were on your face.”

“They were. I’m fine.”

Andrew retaliated with a light press to the side of Neil’s ribcage. Neil’s breath hitched, his face twisting. “Looks like it.”

“Fine. Fine, I think I broke a rib. It’ll heal.”

“Anything else I should know about?”

“No. Yes. No.” Neil winced. “It might be two ribs.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this because…?”

“You were upset.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. A dangerous swirl of emotions churned in his stomach. “Was I?”

“Yes,” Neil replied. He said it with such ease, like he didn’t know what his words did to Andrew, staring up at him, open and exposed and caring, and for a moment Andrew couldn’t stand it.

I hate you¸ he wanted to say, but instead, “It is not your job to protect me. It is mine to protect you. Don’t lie to me again.”

“Can’t it be both?” Neil’s eyes traced the length of Andrew’s body, fingers twitching but still fisted into the sheets. “I’m not made of glass, Andrew. I’m the son of the butcher. I know how to fight. Let me fight for you.”

Andrew bit back a curse. He cupped Neil’s cheek in his hand, thumb running across the chapped skin of his bottom lip. “One condition,” he said at last. “No more lies.”

“Done,” Neil agreed, so easily, too easily, and yet Andrew couldn’t help but believe him.

He guided Neil’s hands to his hair before kissing him again, rough and hungry, and waited until he had succeeded in pulling a desperate moan from Neil’s chest before pulling back.

“Now, we are going to the ER, and you are going to get an X-ray, and I am not going to hear a peep of complaint about it.” Andrew ducked to press a kiss to Neil’s pulse-point.

“And afterwards?”

“And afterwards,” Andrew said thoughtfully, lips moving against Neil’s skin. “I suppose we’ll see where the night takes us.”

Neil smiled. It was not his father’s smile, not anymore. Neil had claimed it as his own.

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought.

#aftg #andreil #all for the game #the foxhole court #tfc #my fic #butcher!andrew #blood tw #injury tw #the family business #death tw

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ravenvsfox · 4 years

Text

Rockband AU Chapter 11

we’re back and badder than ever, join me in the latest instalment of the band au in which there is no actual music unless you count screaming as music :)

The first slit is paper thin, a fissure in the centre of his tongue. Even superficial, his mouth fills instantly with ripe, oily blood. He swallows painfully, and peers up at his father though one eye. There’s sweat at Nathan's temple, just a brush of it, as if daubed on with a dry brush.

Nathaniel puts his hand around Nathan’s wrist, like he used to when he was a very small child, too young to understand why he was being hurt.

“Stop,” he tries to say. Blood wells past his lips and bubbles down to his neck. He’s smudging red so bright it looks orange, ketchupy, all down Nathan’s sleeve. The knife clicks across his teeth and slips down into the gum.

“I won’t have you biting anymore,” Nathan says. He starts to wedge the knife into the bed under his molar until Nathaniel hears a crack. It feels impossible, this shard of his jaw knocked out of place, like a whole continent drifting away.

Someone pounds on the upstairs door. The perspiration on Nathan’s brow accumulates into a single droplet, and Nathaniel waits for it to fall, holding his breath.

All of the pressure is removed from his mouth at once.

Nathan sits back on his heels. “Someone deal with that.”

DiMaccio cracks his neck, agitated.

“Police, open up,” a muffled voice says, raised over the din of the pounding.

“For god’s sake,” Nathan says, rolling his eyes and standing. “Lola,” he says silkily. “Keep him warm for me.” Nathaniel melts back into the concrete. He licks blood from his lips, staring hazily into the overhead light so he doesn’t think about the changing landscape of his mouth.

“With pleasure,” she says. She’s holding her ribs, and Nathaniel knows he’s done some damage. Even her robust good mood has been dented.

She kneels. Nathan sheds his over-shirt and washes his hands at the sink in the corner of the room. DiMaccio climbs the stairs. It’s like they're tinkering around at the office, while he’s smeared out on the floor, pulsing with blood and pain and hatred. He remembers what Lola said before, that Nathaniel’s indiscretion had boosted him to the top of his father’s to-do list. He is a task. He will be crossed out.

“Open wide,” Lola says. Her head is just blotting out the light.

“Open up,” the cop upstairs reiterates.

Nathaniel’s face is so soaked, and so swollen. He doesn’t recognize the feeling of his own features.

Once, the band had been trapped in an endless soundcheck at a sweltering venue. Andrew had been spread out at the lip of the stage, foot dangling over the edge and arm over his eyes, tattooed ‘yes’ turned delicately towards his face. Nicky had maneuvered himself under the piano, and the rest of them wilted to the ground after him, glad to be off their feet. For a while, they had all been breathing the humidity in together, dropping off to sleep or looking up at the lights.

He hears DiMaccio open the door and gruffly say “not a good time”. Lola’s claws hook in his lower lip. He thinks — sleep? Or follow the lights?

Nathan’s at the top of the stairs now too, and he’s playing charming.

“Something I can help you with?”

“Wesninski,” the cop says familiarly. “I know you’re not causing trouble again.”

Nathaniel’s thoughts race and fall all over each other. Is this another dirty cop? Is Nathan paying him off? If Nathaniel screams, and the cop knows to look the other way, Nathan will only be more enraged, only kill him slower.

“No more than usual,” Nathan replies.

“Glad to hear it. We’re just investigating a tip-off. I’m sure you won’t mind if we have a look around?”

“Like my assistant said, you caught us at a bad time,” Nathan says, less smoothly.

“It’s funny how many times I hear that on house visits.”

“No, really, I can’t entertain any more guests.”

Nathaniel can hear him moving to block the door, and there’s a sound like weight scuffing against wood. He’s coming inside? He can’t believe it.

Lola pulls his lower lip even harder away from the gum. Her composure is a little wrinkled, which is how he knows that this wasn’t in the plan. He can hear his father talking intricate circles around the officer, but he can also hear the voices getting closer.

He swallows. Swallows again, and closes his eyes, thinking of the domino line-up of threats stacked back as far as he can remember. Don’t you dare cause a scene. Holler and I cut your tongue in half. Tell them how well I treat you. You can either be useful or dead, your choice Junior.

He twists out of Lola’s grip, rolling gracelessly onto his stomach. She grabs his hair with both fists.

“Help!” he shouts. It comes out thick through his warped lip, wobbly tooth, and all the blood, but as soon as he’s opened his mouth, he can’t stop screaming. He wants to live so badly.

Lola wrestles with him, pressing her forearm to the side of his destroyed face. He thrashes against her, sobbing, “please, they’re killing me, please, please, please.” It’s not even a performance. He can’t stop.

“Shut up,” Lola hisses.

There are fast footsteps coming down the stairs, and Nathaniel’s heart claws for his throat. Lola puts the gun to his mouth and the metal knocks painfully against his front teeth.

He looks up just in time to see Nathan following the cop down the stairs at a clip, teeth bared. He reaches back towards DiMaccio and comes away with his favoured cleaver. As it crests in the air, Nathaniel is hit with the cruellest deja vu imaginable. He knows what has to happen next.

“No,” he whispers.

“It’s okay,” the cop says. His eyes are wide as he takes in Lola, crouched over him like an animal, Nathaniel’s skin split open and spilling.

“Don’t—“

Nathan cuts the officers throat, so quickly that Nathaniel’s not sure if he really saw it happen. He falls awkwardly on the stairs, his knees folding and his head drooping forward like it might slide clean off.

Lola makes a noise that might be a laugh, and stops fighting Nathaniel down. It was barely a fight anyway, he’s so weak now. The hand with the gun in it goes lax.

“That was close,” she trills. Nathaniel wraps his hand around the barrel of the gun. She doesn’t even look down. She’s so delighted by the spectacle of senseless murder that she can’t see him.

“That was unacceptable,” Nathan corrects. He tosses the cleaver to the ground next to the officer, who is crumpled up like a scrap of wet paper towel. “You—“ his eyes float to Nathaniel and settle.

He’s holding the gun.

For a long moment, they stare at each other.

“How cute,” Lola says.

Nathaniel turns and shoots her in the chest. The sound of it is muffled—too quiet, certainly, to come from a pistol. Her mouth is round and wet with surprise. Her chest blooms.

Impossibly, she looks down and spreads her own wound like she intends to perform surgery. She laughs giddily at her own pain, wheezing, then falls backwards. When she hits the floor, it’s the loudest thing he’s ever heard.

No one moves. A pale cloud comes over Nathan; he looks thunderstruck, washed out. Nathaniel’s never seen him look this way before. It’s—his gun-toting hand starts to shake—It might be pride.

He can’t stand it. He fires the gun again, and it clips his father in the neck. He watches him stumble, sees the blood splatter and froth. He’s unable to wrap his head around the reality of it. He shoots him again in the stomach, then the chest. He clips his hand, and a finger flies off.

Der Ausreißer, he thinks wildly. The stray bullet.

DiMaccio lunges teeth-first, like a panther, and Nathaniel shoots him too.

He spasms violently, squeezing the trigger even after the bullets are gone. Eventually, the gun drops like a stone, and he slumps to his hands and knees.

He’s not sure how long he stays like that, head hanging down between his caved-in shoulders, panting. He knows, distantly, that he needs to leave. There’s gore streaking out around him in every direction. Inevitably, there will be more police, somewhere out there in Baltimore, mobilizing.

He feels like two separate people. Everyone in the room has been ripped in half, and he will always be one of them. He was staring a death sentence in the eye for so long, and just as he eased into the electric chair, his jailer dropped dead. His path cleared. His wrung-out body was suddenly his own. He was Nathaniel, and then he looked up and he was Neil again.

He staggers to his feet.

His sneaker skids sideways in Lola’s blood, and he windmills, touching the ground to steady himself. He looks at his handprint in all that red.

I’m an orphan, he thinks. He starts to laugh. His tooth is still trying to escape his gum. The sweet iron smell of blood burns his nostrils, and the silence rings like alarm bells. Somehow, all of his senses are intact. He is the only surviving Wesninski.

He limps to the metal cabinets on the far wall, and riffles through the meticulously organized shelves. It’s been years, but he remembers watching Lola lining up cleaning products, sheets of plastic, sharpeners, and ammo. It’s difficult to see without the use of both eyes, but he quickly finds the vital red of the jerry can. He laughs again, merrily.

He shakes gasoline out over the perimeter of the basement, not lingering on anyone, not really looking. He doesn’t know what it would mean if he did.

He pointedly ignores his failing body. At one point, he feels an unhealthy crunch beneath his heel and realizes he’s squashed his father’s stray finger.

He takes the stairs one at a time, hands on both bannisters, hair hanging down into his panting mouth. It’s a herculean effort, staying on his feet. The gasoline is wedged under his arm upside-down, trailing a path up the stairs. As soon as he reaches the plateau of the still-open side door, he lets the jug droop from his grip. He wrings the doorknob, redoubling his efforts to stay vertical.

The digital clock in the living room blinks at him, and he blinks back. 6:38 AM. He was on stage not even ten hours ago.

He breathes in and out, fast, bracing himself, then limps onward towards the kitchen.

He knows there used to be a blowtorch in the drawer next to the oven, and he heaves out a sigh of relief when he finds it there, untouched.

He tries not to linger on the familiarity of the living room, furnished with self-satisfied plum and mahogany. He blinks, and for a moment he sees his mother at the window, holding her dressing gown closed over a broken collarbone. There was a crescent of Nathaniel’s blood hidden by the heavy coffee table before his father had the good sense to rip up all the carpet. He remembers crouching in the walk-in pantry with his mother, hands over each other’s mouths. He can see them in all the saddest corners of this house.

Burning it down won’t be enough. He could raze and build and raze again, and cruelty would still live here.

He drags himself back to the door, which is blown wide open now. It’s like the whole wide, breezy night knocked it aside to get a look at him.

He stoops, sets the end of his gasoline trail alight, and ducks away from the roar.

Nathaniel walks out of his childhood house for the very last time.

Looking blankly at the police cruiser still parked in the driveway, feeling the brutal, burning heat at his back, he thinks,

I’m going to be Neil for the rest of my life.

_______

He’s wandering the freeway when a minivan slows to a crawl on the shoulder next to him. A petite, greying woman rolls down the passenger side window.

“Hey, are you okay?” she calls.

Neil squints at her, woozy. She recoils when she sees his face, then reaches for her seatbelt. It’s a testament to her strength, really, the way her disgust hardens into resolve.

“Oh my god. Wait right there,” she says. He shouldn’t have stopped; he’s drooping to his knees. “Jesus.” She wrenches open the driver’s side door and leaves it hanging there, cocked into oncoming traffic. “Jesus,” she insists, her moccasins skidding through uneven gravel.

She crouches in front of him and takes hold of his upper arms. Her grip is as gentle as the snuffling wind.

“I’m an orphan,” he tells her. He’s not sure why he says it. He wonders if it will ever not be the most focal thought in his head.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly.

“Oh, no,” Neil laughs. “No, no. I killed him.”

She looks disturbed for a moment, and her mouth twists reproachfully, like he’s telling a joke in poor taste. “I’m sure you didn’t.”

Neil shrugs.

“You—you really need to go to the hospital.”

“Yes,” Neil agrees.

“Are you strong enough to stand?”

“No,” he says, coughing. It’s too much for his body to withstand, and he doubles over. When he looks back up into her concerned dark eyes, he thinks abruptly of Dan. Then without pausing, he hurtles over that thought, and straight into Andrew.

“Hey,” he pants. “Uh…”

“Mary-Anne,” she supplies.

“Mary-Anne. I need to borrow your phone.”

_______

The drive to Baltimore is endless.

The road is a jammed zipper, and Andrew is forcing it. He doesn’t care what breaks.

“No, he’s—no. Maybe 5’3”. No, that’s not him. Call me back if—okay. Thanks anyway.” Nicky hangs up and throws his phone at the windshield so hard the battery pops out. “We’re never going to fucking find him.”

“Call Saint Agnes,” Andrew says.

Nicky hesitates. “It’s the last hospital in the city,” he says. “If he’s not there—“

“Call.”

“Andrew, I’m worried you’re—“

“Keep your worry,” Andrew hisses, “for the man with a serial killer for a father.”

Nicky flinches. “I’m scared too, you know,” he says, stricken.

Andrew wants to say, I’m not scared. I can’t be. I’m the bar where the four horseman of the apocalypse come to drink themselves stupid. I’m a vessel for tragedy.

“Call,” he says instead.

Nicky sighs and passes the phone back to Aaron. “I can’t hear no again,” he says. “It’s killing me.”

Andrew watches Aaron’s furrowed face in the rearview mirror, his endlessly puckering brow. He’s surprised to see how scared he looks, as he reunites battery pack and cell phone. Kevin is nearly catatonic next to him, face pressed clean to the side window even though every bump in the road rattles his skull against the glass.

Wymack is driving Abby and all of his Foxes in the van, while the Monsters took Wymack’s fast little car. They all fit neatly, without Neil.

“I’m looking for someone named Neil, or maybe Nathaniel,” Aaron says into the phone. “About 5’3”, dyed brown hair, blue eyes. Has anyone come into emergency tonight—Yeah, whatever, I’ll wait.” He holds his hand over the receiver and shakes his head.

It’s impossible, to feel any worse.

Then Andrew’s phone rings in his pocket.

For a suspended second, his eyes flit back to Aaron’s, and he knows the thoughts in their heads are precisely the same. Aaron’s expression is a forgery of Andrew’s, snagged with panic.

“Andrew.” It’s Kevin, looking suddenly alert in the backseat, flushed as if with fever. “It might be bad news.”

“Who cares,” Nicky says, reckless. “It’s news.”

Andrew finds himself nodding, or shaking, he can’t tell. He lets go of the steering wheel and fumbles for the source of the buzzing.

Nicky grabs hastily for the loose wheel as they coast towards the ditch at unfathomable speed. He just barely manages to swing them back into their lane before the gravel crunches into grass, and they topple out into the darkness.

Andrew’s fist closes over the phone, and it splits open like a fortune cookie in his grip.

“Neil?” he asks.

“Um,” A woman says.

His disappointment is quicksand; his foot sinks reflexively down onto the gas pedal. Nicky has to grapple again with the slippery steering.

With crushing effort, he asks, “who the fuck is this?” The words hit with the compact burn of splattered fry oil—he can hear her flinch through the phone.

“Sorry, is this um—Andrew? I’m not sure I caught that right, before he…”

Before he—what? Andrew’s imagination rips itself in half before he can take the thought any further. He is so tightly braided with terror and relief.

“He’s with you?” he chokes, but she’s still half-talking, high and traumatized.

“I’m sorry, I really—I don’t know where to start—“

“Andrew, pull over,” Aaron says.

“Put him on the phone,” Andrew says faintly. He is leaden, and his foot is pressed flat to the gas. They’re screaming along at almost 100 miles per hour, and it still doesn’t feel like his body is moving as quickly as his thoughts.

“I can’t,” she wails. “He passed out. I don’t know what to do, there’s—he’s—I don’t know his name, I don’t even know if this is the right—“

“It’s Neil,” Nicky says, from where he’s already pressed close to copilot the car. “Brown hair, blue eyes, right?”

She shifts around noisily, and there’s a soft, muffled curse. “I—I can’t tell.”

“What do you mean you can’t tell?” Andrew asks sharply. Headlights flash and swerve out of their treacherous path.

“Slow down,” Kevin says.

“There’s… so much blood, I don’t know. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, he’s not in good shape.”

Nicky meets Andrew’s eye miserably. “That’s Neil, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t reply. His foot sags off of the gas altogether.

Nicky has to wrestle them to the side of the road, half-crying, and by then, Aaron has plucked the phone from Andrew’s loose grip.

“Yeah, no, not the first time. Is he breathing? No. Right. Oh. Do me a favour, don’t call the cops yet, okay…? Mary-Anne? Okay. Yeah. Thank you. Maybe two hours? Okay. Thank you.”

He hangs up. The car is quiet and crackling, like they’ve just survived a wreck. They breathe and blink owlishly at one another, and Andrew knows they’re waiting for his next move.

He can’t feel his hands. He’s so singularly, mind-numbingly enraged.

“She told me he said—” Aaron swallows a couple of times, then continues, “—he said he killed his father.”

“Jesus Mary. Just offering that up to passer’s by, is he?” Nicky says. “I guess Jean wasn’t lying.”

Andrew feels his anger transform to account for new, more vivid colour. He can’t keep up with it. If he felt out-of-control fast before, now he feels slow; he’s being rewound, paused, and randomly scene-selected, an overworked VHS. He needs to fast-forward. He needs to unravel all the way to Baltimore. He needs to reroute his fear into violence or he’s going to be torn up.

“If the butcher’s dead, then everything’s—okay, right?” Nicky continues.

“Sounds like he got in some last minute butchering before he died,” Aaron says darkly.

Andrew turns the engine over, and it whines thinly. “Where is he?” he asks.

“Someone else should drive,” Kevin says.

“Where is he,” Andrew repeats. He keeps picturing what kind of damage would have to be done to make Neil’s striking colouring unrecognizable. How fragile his untrusting body would have to be to droop unconscious in front of a stranger.

He needs to thrash this highway to death. He won’t believe Neil is alive until he’s in front of him. If he never touches him again, he knows, he knows his hands will ache for the rest of his life.

“Passed out on interstate 83, right now,” Aaron says slowly. “She’ll call back when the ambulance comes.”

He pulls brusquely away from the shoulder, threading the car back into the middle lane. “Call her back first.” He feels like it’s all he can say. Call him. Find him. Bring him back. I will not be here while he is there. It is my responsibility to slosh above deck, through the twitching eye of the storm, and toss a line out for him.

“What good is it going to do? You want to listen to your boyfriend bleed out from a hundred miles away?” Aaron says it to be mean, but he looks upset. He twists the ring on his thumb, the one he thinks Andrew doesn’t know Katelyn gave him.

Nicky looks nervously over at Andrew. Usually, he wouldn’t take the bait. He would barely notice it being laid out for him.

“Aaron,” he says, and there’s no room for argument. “Call.”

He doesn’t say please, but Aaron flinches anyway. He shakes it off, as always, and begins to click back through to the disconnected call. Before he can dial, the phone rings again in his hands.

He blinks dumbly at the caller ID, then hits ‘answer’.

“Wymack?” Aaron asks. He looks up at the others while he listens, then recites, “half the block Neil grew up on is on fire.” He waits, brow furrowed, then adds, “at least four casualties.”

Kevin fumes. “God, exactly the kind of visibility we don’t need.”

“Don’t think it was a publicity stunt, Kev,” Nicky says thinly.

“Self-defence,” Andrew murmurs.

“Overkill,” Aaron say. “And now the cops are going to be looking for him, because they just got eighteen panicked long-distance calls about the Butcher’s son.”

“They will not find him,” Andrew says.

“You think he’s gonna bolt?” Nicky asks.

“What other choice does he have?” Kevin asks.

Nicky shrugs. “He’s got us.”

Aaron covers the receiver. “Even if he could physically run, he wouldn’t,” he says, looking at Andrew. “He’s selfish.”

Andrew ignores this and keeps driving. He can’t stop. He feels—underwater, parched and disoriented, and if he doesn’t break the surface soon, he never will. Behind him, Aaron tells Wymack what they know, then hangs up.

“He’s alive, Andrew,” Nicky offers, in the quiet. “He’s okay.”

“Don’t,” he chokes. He looks at his hands on the wheel, the way the inked yes and no are both distorted when his fists are clenched. They haven’t looked clear since Neil was taken.

The closer they get to Baltimore, the more everything else starts warping to match, and his vision narrows to a pinprick in the deep, dark horizon.

_______

Neil half-rouses in the ambulance, enough to understand that his injuries are real, and many of them have reopened in transit. The medicinal tang in the air is crisp and pungent. The sheets beneath him are streaked red; his hands struggle for purchase in the slickness of them. His chest feels watery and full.

“Where’re you taking me,” he demands hoarsely. “I need to go to Columbia.”

“That’s a little outside of our jurisdiction,” a paramedic says. There are two of them looming over him, passing supplies back and forth over his prone body, taping him into a cats cradle of wires and machinery. “Can you tell us your name?”

“You have to let me out,” Neil says, suddenly frantic, sitting up until his injuries cramp and hiss and push him back down.

“Oh-ho, okay, we’ve got a runner. Can we get some soft restraints on him please?”

His chest is a whirlpool, spinning and devouring itself. “No restraints,” Neil begs. “Don’t, please.” His wrists are wreckage already. “Don’t tie me down.”

“Okay, okay,” the other paramedic says gently, her hand to his chest. “Then you’ve gotta calm down, kid. You’re gonna undo all our hard work.”

Neil looks down at her dark hand on his bare, scarred body, the gauze encasing both freshly maimed arms, the productive pinch of the IV. Embarrassment crushes him, chased hotly by fear.

“My hands—“

“You’ll keep ‘em,” she assures him.

“I’ll be able to play piano?”

“Don’t see why not. Most of the cuts are pretty superficial.”

He can’t believe it. They are taut with agony. He tries to hunch over the jungle of wires to get a look at them.

“Woah, easy,” the first paramedic says. He’s very pink and very blurry, and Neil can’t focus on him. He can focus on sitting up. It should be easy, and it’s all he can think to do to take control of his body.

He falters when the pain in his ribs whines and holds him at a distance again, and he puts a hand loosely over his eyes as if it will block out his feelings.

“I need to speak to my band.”

“You need to stop moving around so much.”

“I need to speak to my band,” he repeats. “Let me borrow a phone.”

“Look, from what I hear, your friends are already on their way. Ms. Thomas took care of that for you.”

“Ms. Thomas,” Neil repeats dumbly.

“Yes sir. Sounds like you owe her a hell of a gift basket.”

He vaguely remembers those dark eyes swimming above him, her little red phone drooping out of his hand, his temple colliding with gravel. He feels robbed, furious at himself, and wretchedly grateful.

“She spoke to them for me?” he whispers.

He hums, flicking at a syringe so the bubbles settle. “She did more than that. Might have singlehandedly saved your life, you know?”

Neil disagrees, quietly. Not singlehandedly. He’s been saved in almost as many ways as he’s been hurt, now. He sinks back into the messy sheets. Somewhere, outside of the antiseptic rattle of the ambulance, his family is coming to find him.

“Don’t—let me sleep,” Neil says, disjointed.

The paramedics exchange a meaningful glance. “Uh-huh.”

“I have to—I can’t—I have to see—“ he swallows dryly. His consciousness is slipping out from under him like loose bedding. “Don’t let me sleep.”

“Neil,” one of them says. “You’re safe. Sleep.”

_______

Andrew leaves Wymack’s car strung haphazardly between two spaces, the driver’s side door flung open, keys in the ignition.

Afterwards, he couldn’t tell you what the hospital looked like, who he spoke to, or how long he was running.

The flimsy hospital protocols try to catch at his clothes and hold his hands behind his back, but he keeps sprinting, floor to floor, stairwell to stairwell, and everything else is inconsequential. He feels like he’s been chasing after Neil’s shadow for twenty-four hours. Maybe longer. Maybe he’s always been trying to keep pace with shadows.

He keeps saying Neil’s name to strangers and waiting for the flash of recognition that will mean he can stop. He reels in orderlies for questioning and ducks into private rooms. He can hear the others toppling after him, joining the hunt, straightening out altercations with hospital staff before they can drag Andrew down.

“You’re them,” someone says.

Andrew slows, and the others jog up behind him. There’s a mousy woman just beyond a wall of windows, standing in the world’s saddest waiting room, clutching a red phone.

“Mary-Anne?” Nicky asks.

She nods, swallowing.

Andrew prowls towards her, and Kevin grabs ahold of the back of his shirt.

“He’s okay,” she says quickly. “They’re worried about infection, but he’s—he’s.” Her face crumples.

“What?” Andrew demands.

“Nothing, nothing, I just don’t know who would do something like this.”

Andrew bucks forward in Kevin’s grip. “Like what,” he repeats, red-hot.

She trembles, trying not to say whatever she’s so obviously thinking. “Rip—rip someone apart—like—“

Andrew makes a choked, gummy noise, and Aaron and Nicky instantly crowd him. It’s disorienting, that they are for once trying to protect him and not someone else from him.

“Andrew,” Wymack’s voice calls. When they turn to look, he’s down the hall, Dan is hugging Neil’s duffel bag and looking murderous, and the rest of them are scattered on the floor or in green vinyl seats. With their phone-call detours and near-accidents, the van must have skipped ahead of them. “Stop terrorizing everyone in the damn hospital.”

“This is the last time I will ask to see him,” Andrew says, striding over to meet them all, “before I lose my temper.”

“I’d hate to see that,” Wymack says, somehow sarcastic and regretful at once. “From what I hear, they’re still bandaging him up.”

“What room?”

Down the hall, on cue, there’s a clattering sound like an overturned gurney, and then a calamity of raised voices.

“… fuck, again? Where’s—somebody stop him—”

“Lie back down, Mr—hey, come on, turn off the—no, I’m serious this time, I’m calling security.”

A metal basin skitters out into the hall, and a wooden door pops and splinters.

Someone skids sideways out of an exam room, and catches himself heavily on the opposite wall. He winces, slides down half a foot, then braces himself to keep running.

Andrew’s terror falls to the ground and covers its ears. His anger puts up its fists. The whole sickening mess of his feelings for Neil won’t stop bleeding; he’s not sure they’re going to make it.

Neil looks up, and between one laboured breath and the next, he spots them. His face comes alive.

“Andrew,” he breathes. He takes a pitiful step forward. Andrew hates him so desperately for what he’s done that it loops all the way back around and becomes obsession, the kind that drives the wayward eagle to swoop down for Prometheus, day after day.

Neil is drenched in bandages. The blood has been recently and imperfectly scrubbed away, but he’s obviously been tortured, tumbled and sliced and spit out different. The reality of it sends Andrew lurching forward stomach-first. He can feel the others scrambling behind him. Two strangers in scrubs grab for Neil’s arms, and it corrodes Andrew’s brain to think of someone else touching him; he hisses with smoke.

“Don’t,” he snarls. He is sharpened to a point, sailing over the squeaky tile as if released from a bow.

“Just let them... do this,” Wymack is saying. “Okay?”

The nurse puts his hands up and steps back, and the shrewish medical student follows, at length. “Just don’t let him go any farther. The cops want to talk to him, and I’m not going on another wild goose chase through pathology.”

As soon as they’ve surrendered, Andrew forgets their presence completely. He doesn’t have the capacity to care about them when Neil is in front of him again, wounded and haughty.

He reaches him, finally, and puts his hands to his neck. His thumbs come up naturally to bracket his jaw. Neil sinks almost involuntarily into a stray waiting room chair, and Andrew follows him down, crouched between his knees so that they’re level. Neil blinks at him. One glacier-blue eye, the other swallowed by tape and gauze.

At the sight of it, he crushes his left palm to the back of Neil’s neck, and with his right he traces the bandage, searching for a seam.

“You, too, huh?” Neil says, ghosting a hand over Andrew’s bruised eye. “Percussion is a dangerous sport.”

Andrew doesn’t respond.

He peels the tape back, and finds Neil’s face in pieces. He was braced for it, but it draws and quarters him. His eye is moving sluggishly under the paper-thin lid, but something has nearly pierced through it. The deep gauge in his brow forks like lightning over his lid and sweeps down to his cheekbone. It’s difficult to imagine sustaining an injury like this and staying conscious.

Behind him, Dan gasps, “Oh my god, Neil.”

Andrew steadies his breathing. A panic attack puts a gun to his head, and he fights to disarm it. He puts the bandage down on the chair next to them, bloody side up, then reaches for the smaller tan patch over Neil’s chin. Underneath there are little abrasions mostly, criss-crossing down to his neck. The bulk of the damage is obviously to his eye and wrapped arms, and when Neil licks his bloodless lips, he can see that there are cuts inside his mouth too.

“Open,” Andrew commands.

Neil does, and Andrew holds his chin aloft, index finger nestled in the corner of his mouth. He’s missing a molar, and his piercing. His tongue has some loose pale skin at its heart, where the stud was clearly yanked on and sliced around, but it will heal quickly.

He probes the stitches under Neil’s eye, and Neil’s clean white-bandaged hands come up to hang off of his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Andrew’s thumb presses down too hard into the bloody seam of Neil’s skin, and he has to snatch his whole hand back before he rips something. He’s shaking with fury. He knows now that he dissolved their deal while Neil’s feet were dangling over the shredder; as soon as he let him go, he was torn to ribbons.

“Don’t.” It’s all he can say. He puts his arm to Neil’s throat threateningly. “Don’t ever—“ His vision is ruddy, red. He could put Neil in the ground for what he let them do.

Neil’s head lolls backwards; his gaze is ice you can jump up and down on without breaking through.

Andrew imagines himself as a wick that curls and blackens and liquifies everything around it, and then he lets his arm relax. When he does, it smooths down Neil’s chest and comes to rest across his lap.

“Careful with him,” the med student complains. “If we have to stitch him up again, you’re paying for it.”

“Oh, go to hell,” Allison says. At the same time, Andrew jerks towards the whole crowd of gawking hospital staff with intent. In pieces, Neil coaxes his attention back where it belongs. Both of his swaddled hands are raised close enough that if Andrew turned, his mouth would press flat to Neil’s wrist.

“If you continue to interrupt us,” Neil says, “You will be paying for it.”

“Don’t threaten—“

“Don’t bother,” Neil counters. “You can keep pretending that you have any authority and see what happens, or you can get out of our sight and keep those delicate physician’s hands of yours intact.”

To her credit, she bares her teeth before she turns tail, shoving the nurse ahead of her and marching them both down the hallway.

“Ten minutes, or we call security,” she calls behind her.

“I don’t think so,” Neil calls back. It’s such a relief to see Neil’s wounded mouth still spitting. He’s righteous as always, larger-than-life without meaning to be, beautifully bitter.

Andrew keeps being struck by the haunting, muffled feeling that finds you when you’re watching footage of the dead. Neil’s here, in motion, but for the last twenty-four hours, he’s been dying in Andrew’s imagination.

“Threats, threats,” Andrew says flatly. “You are your father’s son.”

The jab lands. Neil’s jaw works, and he looks down at the hands still hovering about Andrew’s neck. His fingers are always finding the heads of Andrew’s hydra when they kiss, each digit eclipsing a ravenous mouth.

“Not anymore,” he says. Without ever making contact, he lowers his hands to his lap. Andrew’s fingers twist immediately in the loose bandaging at his wrist. He is angry, but he needs to be close to Neil so the cold, lucid nightmare of today can warm into a pipedream again.

“You have a knack for killing him. Resurrected and struck down again in 24 hours.”

“I was going to tell you,” Neil says lowly. “The countdown—“

“Do not lie to me.” He thinks of Neil tossing feverishly in bed, waking often, holding his face with the root of both palms. Neil catching his own reflection in the hall mirror and flinching back painfully into the doorframe. All along, it was his father. It’s always family. He should’ve known.

Neil looks vicious for a second, and Andrew is relieved, again, at his fire. “I told you more than I ever thought— I gave you all the pieces but one. You don’t get to—“

“I get to,” Andrew hisses. “I get to ask you whatever the fuck I want.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Neil doesn’t look at him.

“The security, at the show, they worked for my father. They were in the audience, backstage, everywhere. I was trying to keep you safe by going quietly.”

“Quietly,” Andrew repeats.

“I didn’t know they were storming the stage,” Neil says. “If I’d known they were going to hurt you anyway…” he touches the very edge of Andrew’s injured eye. “I might have stayed and fought.” Even as he says it, he doesn’t look like he believes it.

“Your self-sacrifice is getting very old.”

Neil smiles. It’s a hole-punch expression, there and gone, but it leaves a perfect hole. Andrew peers through it and into his racing thoughts.

“I know. But I’d do it again.”

“If you try, I will kill you.”

“I’ll risk it,” he says, lifting his jaw. “How did you find me?”

“Jean Moreau,” Andrew replies. Neil obviously wasn’t expecting it, and he squints, waiting for an explanation. “You told me Riko knew things about your past. Turns out it’s common knowledge among Ravens.”

“You talked to Riko?” Neil asks, hushed.

“You disappeared,” Andrew reminds him. Then, because it’s as unbearable to avoid as it is to look at, he asks, “what happened to your eye?”

Neil shakes his head, so slightly that Andrew’s not sure he knows he’s doing it. “Vegetable peeler.”

Nicky gags, somewhere behind them, and Aaron mutters something low and disgusted.

“They didn’t,” Matt wonders aloud. “Neil—“

Neil swallows, then looks properly towards the sound of his voice. Matt reels back a step, covering his mouth. He and Dan are holding onto one another, and she has to squeeze his shoulder to keep him from falling back further. Kevin makes a small, sad noise, and turns around completely.

“Jesus. What the fuck. Can you see?” Matt asks.

Neil taps his right eye. “Some.”

“Gnarly.”

Andrew is quickly growing impatient. From the periphery of his vision, he can see that the med student has returned, and she and Abby are speaking in hushed tones. They keep glancing sideways at where Neil and Andrew are tangled together. His fingers loop tighter on Neil’s wrists.

“Neil,” Abby calls softly.

“No,” Andrew says.

“Please,” Abby says. Andrew puts a hand on the unblemished side of Neil’s face, gathering his focus again. He looks into that unchanged eye and breathes. “He has bruised ribs. He should be in bed.”

She moves delicately closer, and his anger spikes, hits a ceiling, and sloshes back down over him.

“Get away from us,” he says clearly.

“They’re not done with him,” she says, nervous but insistent. “We have to let him get treated or we have to leave the hospital. Those are the rules.”

“I don’t care,” he says, “about the rules. Come closer and you will be glad you’re in a hospital.”

“Andrew,” she tries. “Neil needs—“

“Abby,” Neil says. “I need this, first. I’m not going to be any less hurt when this conversation is over. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But—“

“It’s okay,” he says firmly. Then, softer, “we’re okay.”

Andrew hears Abby melt back into the rest of the Palmetto crowd, and there are some more restless murmurs exchanged between her and the hospital staff. His thumb swipes through the grey space under Neil’s good eye.

“You know what happened?” Neil guesses quietly.

“You tempted a butcher to violence.”

Neil turns his face just a little into Andrew’s hand. “Whatever I did or didn’t tell you before,” he says, “I’m an orphan now.”

“Self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“I didn’t think—I never thought he could be killed like that. They kept me on the line my whole life and all I needed was—a second—just—one second with the upper hand, and they’re gone.”

“All of them?” He thinks of the woman in the pencil skirt, the shadowy security.

Neil hums. “A police officer, too. Wrong place, wrong time, I guess.” He shrugs, like he’s not talking about a macabre parade of casualties.

Andrew shakes his head. “Right place, right time.”

Neil searches his face, then sags with understanding. “You called them,” he says. It’s obvious that this thought hadn’t occurred to him before—that his friends could have risen up to save him, could’ve guessed right, could’ve been in that house with him all along.

Andrew doesn’t answer.

“Thank you,” Neil whispers.

“They’ll be after you, now.”

“Someone always is,” he says wryly. He looks smudgy and sad for a moment. “I’m glad I got to see you again.” It’s such a pathetically earnest goodbye.

“We won’t let them take you,” Andrew says.

Neil’s face droops, and Andrew can tell he’s fighting through all of his pain and exhaustion for composure. They’re both doing it, poorly.

When he speaks again, it’s in coarse German: “I don’t understand. My father was a big enough player to orchestrate the riot that give you that black eye. It’ll be Riko, next. He assured me he would come for us, and you know he doesn’t care who he puts in danger. I’ve been a liability since day one. I stayed in the band even when I knew what damage my visibility could do.”

“You’re on our contract for a reason,” Andrew says.

A laugh bubbles from somewhere helpless and acidic in Neil’s body, and it seems to hurt his mouth on the way out. “What possible reason could you have?” he asks. “You’ve always, always known I was a runaway.”

“Exactly,” Andrew says. “We knew, and we wanted you anyway.”

They both wait, but nothing breaks, once this heavy truth has been splattered out between them.

Neil says, in jittery English, “I want—I know it’s ridiculous, I know what I’ve done, and what it cost, but I want to stay with you. I want to keep this for as long as I can.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Andrew agrees. He thinks of him ebbing out from where Andrew has him pinned, floating out of this hospital, snipped and slippery as a stray balloon. It’s impossible. Losing him doesn’t make any sense. The thought tries to keep its balance but it just slips and falls and slips and falls.

“What are they gonna do, arrest you?” Dan asks. “It’s pretty obvious to me who threw the first punch.”

Neil shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. I covered my tracks back at the house. There’s not much evidence.”

“Then we’ll find witnesses,” Matt says. “Fuck, I’ll testify.”

The corners of Neil’s mouth twitch. “We’ll see,” he says quietly. Andrew knows he’s thinking of Riko, the whole other lobe of this problem that no one else can see well enough to dissect. He looks warily towards Wymack, who scoffs.

“Don’t look at me if you want off the hook. I signed you knowing full well how much of a mess you’d be. Palmetto is richer in problems than it is in talent, look around you,” he says.

“Misfits,” Nicky says winningly. His arms are crossed in such a way that Andrew can tell he’s trying not to reach out to them. “You’re Ausreißer’s frontman, remember? You’re our family.”

“And you still have a tour to finish,” Wymack says. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Neil says quietly.

“Then that’s it,” he says. Neil slumps, fatigued with gratitude, and Andrew fists his hospital gown.

“Get patched up, okay?” Dan says. “Tell the police what a bastard your father was. Come home with us. We’ll figure things out.”

“Thank you,” Neil says. He taps Andrew’s shoulder, and Andrew shifts his hands to Neil’s waist to maneuver them both to standing. “I’ll—you deserve the truth, all of you.”

“We’ll channel all that hurt and betrayal into lyrics,” Allison says, waving a hand. “Seriously.”

“Worry about explanations later,” Wymack says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t want to be getting into the nitty-gritty when security comes.”

Neil nods once. He’s remarkably steady as he walks through the tunnel of living, thrumming worry his friends have made of the hallway. Dan passes him his duffel bag and swipes an affectionate thumb over his bandaged wrist. Nicky reaches for his shoulder, can’t decide where to touch, and gives him a thumbs up instead. Matt tugs on a lock of his hair as they pass.

Andrew walks alongside him; he will not leave until he’s been asked. He’s been searching for Neil with such single-minded intent that keeping pace is all he can do.

“Going with him, are you?” Allison asks Andrew snidely. There is a brown bruised shadow on her cheek where Andrew slapped her.

Renee jostles her good-naturedly. “Take care,” she says, to both of them. To Neil, she reprimands, “you scared us.” She’s tugging her cross back and forth so it cuts into her neck a little, an uncharacteristically nervous gesture.

“Sorry,” Neil says dumbly. All of their affection is unfamiliar to his palette, but especially Renee’s. He usually swirls it in his mouth like wine and spits it out, but this time he considers its vintage, finishes the glass, then buys the whole bottle.

They reach the end of the hall together, stepping over the discarded basin and scattered instruments. Andrew watches Neil compensate for his pain, favouring one side so his posture can’t crush his ribs, reaching out to the doorframe so his depth perception doesn’t fail him.

There’s almost nothing about Neil in tatters that is easier than Neil, missing.

Together, they look out on his kicked over bed, toppled IV stand, and overturned plastic bag of unwearable clothes. There’s a pill bottle and stout tub of ointment on the bedside table.

“Did you find my key to the house?” Neil asks.

Andrew swallows. He imagines he can feel the shape of it against his thigh through the denim. He often grazed it, in passing, over the course of their rabid, nighttime chase, thinking of how many times Neil had done the same. “It’s how I knew,” he says simply.

Neil breathes out, easing himself onto the side of the other bed in the room. “I thought so. You know I wouldn’t—“

“I know.”

Neil unzips his bag and produces a soft, blue shirt. He looks at it for a long moment, and then he starts to cry. “Oh,” he says. “Don’t let me,” he reaches for his ruined eye, and clenches his teeth, choking, “I can’t—cry.“

Andrew crosses briskly to the bed and slides a hand over the back of his neck. “Breathe,” he commands. He plucks the shirt from Neil’s loose hands and holds it to his eye like a compress. “Breathe.”

The uncovered side of his face is flushed and twisted. “I never thought they’d let me come back.”

“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” Andrew snaps.

He frowns, looking somehow fierce and leonine in his grief. “No,” he admits. “I was afraid of getting attached to—to Neil, to everything he represents.”

“Well I’m not interested in Nathaniel,” Andrew says, watching Neil’s face travel over complicated hills and valleys with words like interest and Nathaniel. “He is long dead. It’s always been Neil who nobody could touch.”

“Not nobody,” Neil whispers. Andrew closes his eyes. They sit together, in the windowless white room, hip to hip.

“Neil Abram Josten,” Neil says, wondering, perfect, like he stole the name from a fantasy.

Andrew opens his eyes, and it’s like waking up from a bad dream.

#kubrick wishes he were me #the foxhole court #aftg #andreil #rockband au #tfc fanfic #mine #violence tw #for real for real for real #gore tw #im sorry this is so late grad school got me #anyway she loves an em dash

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wematch · 5 years

Text

Avatar: The Legend of Neil

For many years, the four nations lived together in harmony.

Then, everything changed when a conspiracy to start a war began.

Only the avatar, master of all four elements, could stop it, but when the identity of the new avatar was found, he vanished.

Many years passed without anyone knowing where he was. Then he appeared in a farm in the Earth Kingdom, disguised as a firebender named Neil. And although his bending skills were weak when he got there, with practice he grew stronger every day that passed.

Now with a war looming by, Neil must find his own path into becoming the new avatar and bring balance to the world.

***

A/N: I remember watching atla in nickelodeon way back in the day and I still love watching it. So one day, when I saw art about Neil being the avatar my mind went crazy thinking about that world and how these characters would fit there... I originally planned on writing a one shot about it, but when I started to write I just kept going.

For those of you who still remember watching atla, I tried to make the same structure of the series. Each “book“ here will represent a part of Neil’s journey to master a new element. As far as the other elements go I took some creative liberties here and there, hope it’s okay! Enjoy!

A huge thank you to @jsteneil for being an amazing beta! Your feedback made all the difference <3

This fic was inspired by this amazing piece of art by @aymmidumps, go check it out! [here]

You can also read it on [AO3]

***

Book 1: Air

Chapter 1: The Beginning

When the new cycle of the avatar begins, Nathaniel is born into the Wesninski family. His mother belongs to an ancient fire nation family, and his father is a powerful and ruthless firebender that has built his reputation working for the Moriyamas, helping taking care of unwanted resistance against their plans.

The Moriyama family is an old and very wealthy family that has gained their power through war many generations ago. They control most of the transactions with the other nations and any business in the city outside the law is also connected to them. Ichirou, head of the Moriyama family, is always looking for ways to expand their territory to have more power, so Nathaniel grows up hearing whispers of conversations in his house of their plans to make it happen. The problem is that the current council and the Firelord were wary of the idea of expanding their territories into the other nations. They didn’t wish to start a war when the fire nation is prospering like never before.

However, it doesn't take Ichirou long to realize that that isn’t reason enough to stop his plan. Nathaniel is shocked when he listens through the wall about what plan they want to put into motion: if the council and the Firelord don’t want to take part in this change in history then they would have to be taken down.

To make something like this work required careful planning and discretion so Nathaniel keeps seeing more people come and go to their house. He can feel everyone on edge, too afraid of the repercussions if their plan fails. And if the plan was to succeed, they couldn't be linked to it.That could cause the fire nation to be divided between not wanting to go to war for those who had just killed their Firelord and the ones who supported the idea. And a civil war was not the purpose of it. Ichirou needed the full support of the fire nation to bring his plan to life. And he needed someone they could manipulate as Firelord so that they could then use the full army to conquer the other nations.

Time continues to pass and even though there’s no big developments on how to achieve this plan, regular meetings keep happening. One winter night a reunion is held at the Wesninskis’ house that has the presence of most of the advisors of Ichirou, and that caughts Nathaniel’s attention. So once the reunion starts he goes to the stairs to listen in. The advisors don’t waste time and are quick to explain their newest idea to form the Ravens, an elite team of skilled firebenders trained to serve them as private, disposable soldiers that could execute the plan when the time came. Tetsuji, Ichirou’s uncle, will run the academy. Training young firebenders owned by them under the disguise of being a private restricted school.

Before the reunion is over his father walks out of the room and Nathaniel is caught listening in. He has never seen him more furious. Nathan has a murderous expression on his face as he drags Nathaniel down the stairs spitting insults and threats for him to never embarrass him ever again. Nathan throws him against the wall and attacks him. It all happens so fast that Nathaniel only has the time to put his arm up to shield his face when the fire hits him.

***

Months pass, and Nathaniel knows that the Moriyama family is growing impatient because of the lack of results. And he knows that that didn’t bode well for either him or his mother: his father frustrations were often released on them. At least it meant that they hadn’t come up with a way to dethrone the current Firelord without causing complete chaos over their nation.

However, everything changes when Nathaniel arrives home from school one day and the fire sages are waiting for him. They declare him to be the next avatar and shock runs through him. Nathaniel doesn’t know how to process what he has just heard so he looks around the living room. He can see that his mother is trying to disguise it but he knows what that look means: she’s terrified of what this could mean. His father, though—his father is smiling coldly at him, showing all his teeth, and that’s what really scares Nathaniel too.

When the Fire sages leave, Nathan takes him into the Moriyamas’ academy and goes to talk to Tetsuji while Nathaniel waits outside the door. Nathaniel looks around and notices a boy with dark hair train firebending on the field to his side. The boy must be his around his age and seems to be practicing advanced movements. Nathaniel moves to the side to be able to watch him more closely and as he moves he begins to hear his father’s voice in the background. He scans the building and notices a window on the far corner and continues to walk towards it. He doesn’t take more than two steps when his father’s voice begins to rise and Nathaniel starts to understand what he’s hearing and realizes that it’s not anger that’s making his father raise his voice, quite the contrary.

“If it’s the avatar conquering in his name, what do you think the firelord will do? Refuse the new territories?” Nathan throws in the air. And Nathaniel feels like an ice bucket of water has been thrown at him. They want him to start a war?

“No, he will not,” Tetsuji agrees. Nathaniel cannot believe what he’s hearing. He looks around feeling panic rise in him and that’s when he notices another boy getting closer to him with a cold expression on his face.

“A new era will soon start, Admiral.” Tetsuji continues. Nathaniel steps away from the window in direction to the boy. “Ichirou will be very pleased to hear this. You must go now. I will call and emergency meeting to tell him about it.”

The boy steps closer, and looks down at him.“ Are you coming to study here too? I’m the best student they have here.”

Nathaniel looks up and instantly dislikes the look of arrogance the boy has. “I’m not sure,” he answers.

“I’m Riko, and you are?”

A door opens and they both look to the side. His father exists and keeps walking. “Lets go, Nathaniel.” Nathaniel is quick to jog to catch him. And when he’s about the exit the property gates he glances at the building once again and sees Riko still watching him. And Nathaniel hopes he never sees him again.

On the same day that Nathaniel finds out that he’s the new avatar, Mary takes him away and they vanish.

***

Nathan is quick to send his most trusted soldiers to find them and bring them back. Through the years Mary and Nathaniel have had a few close calls but always manage to escape them. But Lola and her team are persistent and eventually one morning comes when they’re finally caught.

That morning, Nathaniel is walking back from the lake when he hears an explosion. His mother had still been asleep when he left not too long ago. Fear and panic settle in and he starts to run toward the house they have been staying in.

He starts to see the flames and the smoke rising to the sky. As he gets closer, he sees Lola’s team circling the house, and freezes. From where he is he can see Lola’s cold grin. “He must be close, search the woods,” she shouts to the others.

Nathaniel starts to feel his control slip away as rage overpowers him. They’ve found them, and he quickly realizes that her gloating means only one thing: his mother is inside the burning house.

In a moment his control is gone. Nathaniel feels power run through him like never before. All of a sudden he’s getting higher into the air, moving fast towards Lola and the others. The earth shatters to his will and boulders begin to rise, then he throws them to where they are staying. Lola and the others start to run to find cover and try to block his attacks and that's when they see him flying towards them. Nathaniel can see the hesitation in their eyes when they realize what is happening, but they don’t run. They start to fight, shooting blasts of fire at him but Nathaniel can easily predict their movements and easily block their attacks as well, using all the elements. And one by one Nathaniel knocks them out unconscious. Lola is the last one still standing but even she can't fight him like this and soon he sends her towards the wall of the burning house, knocking her out too.

Nathaniel regains control over his body and drops to his knees, feeling weak. He looks at all the destruction around him in shock. Uprooted trees are thrown around and the house is still burning, creating a big dark cloud above his head. The smoke in the air is making it difficult to breathe, and three unconscious bodies are scattered around the area.

And his mother is gone.

Nathaniel tries to calm down. He clenches his fists and bites his lip until he can taste the blood. For a moment he just stares at Lola’s unconscious body in front of him, wishing that he had killed her. Wishing he was strong enough to get up now and do it. He knows he’s just entered the avatar state, but it wasn’t on purpose, and he had no control of what he was doing at that moment.

He hates that he was the new avatar now more than ever before. He didn’t ask for it. He can’t even control it. That power inside of him just got his mother killed. And now he is all alone.

Nathaniel begins to cough and slowly gets up. He spares a moment to look at the unforgiving fire burning down the house and turns around. His mother is gone. There's nothing he can do for her now. He runs back towards the lake. Tears start rolling down his face but he pays them no attention. He needs to get as far away from this place as he can. Lola and her team will wake up soon enough and he needs to put as much distance between them before that.

Nathaniel begins to run, on his mind the constant reminder of what his mother kept telling him when they managed to dodge his father’s men: never stop running.

So he runs, and runs, until he finally approaches the nearest village. There he looks for an ostrich horse to steal. Once he finds one tied near a fence with no one around, he jumps on his back and pushes it to run as fast as it can through the night. Tears keep falling down but he keeps going. Because stopping means he is going to get captured and delivered to his father. It means he is going to be punished for running away, and be sent to train as a Raven. It means he would be forced to start a war. And he would rather die too than let that happen.

#myfic #aftg #neil josten #andrew minyard #andreil #atla!au #atla au #nathaniel wesninski #avatar #tfc

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ao3feed-thefoxholecourt · 5 years

Text

An Unkindness and Earth

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2W00jvF

by b00boo_the_fool

With the school year over and a month-long break from his Foxes, David Wymack is looking forward to a handful of weeks without any major crises. He should’ve known that wouldn’t happen the moment he began this goddamn team.

Or: Nathaniel Wesninski stumbles to the Foxhole Court and no one knows what to do with him.

Words: 2034, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Characters: Neil Josten, Andrew Minyard, Aaron Minyard, Nicky Hemmick, Kevin Day, Danielle "Dan" Wilds, Matt Boyd, Renee Walker (All For The Game), Allison Reynolds (All For The Game), Seth Gordon, All For The Game Ensemble, David Wymack, Abby Winfield, Riko Moriyama, Tetsuji Moriyama, Jean Moreau

Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard

Additional Tags: Raven!Neil, Nathaniel Wesninski - Freeform, uh oh, looks like this is gonna be about trauma huh, same warnings as in the books, will update tags as this goes along, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Pre-Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, i'm literally the worst at tagging so we'll go through this journey together huh, neil is nathaniel btw but imma call him neil in the tags because im too lazy to write out nathaniel, you know, like a writer, neil is an angry lil bitch, andrew isn't the only stabby bitch anymore, lmao did i mention that riko is a piece of shit, also i have a deep love for jean moreau so get ready for that, Angst, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Mentions of Rape, Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Trauma, just all the trauma, i cant spell please be patient with me

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2W00jvF

#ao3feed #fanfic #all for the game #the foxhole court #tfc fanfic

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romickey · 5 years

Text

trans neil au, pre-canon

-When Neil finally comes out to Mary, she thinks about it for a few minutes, a few endless minutes, then says, "that could work in our favor." That response has never settled right with Neil. When he’s recognized time and time again, regardless of the changes to his face and body, he flinches at the way his mother looks at him, and he wonders if she regrets all the effort spent. She never had the time to be an understanding mother, Neil always tells himself.

-They bluff medical documents and steal prescription hormones, but Neil is never sure if he'll have enough to last until they settle in the next safe place, and how long it will take to forge papers there. He squeezes the last doses smaller and smaller until they’re gone too soon. It's like that, rationing until the drought, over and over again, and he learns to live without the security of his own body being his.

-The first move after he’s able to pass is such a liberating experience, despite the threat that forces them out. He finally gets to choose his name and his story and the kind of person he is, the kind of boy he is. But then they move again, and again, and it gets old. He goes through names and hair colors and clothes until not only does he feel nothing like his childhood self, he no longer knows who he is at all. He chose his favorite name first, then had to give that up, took the next one on the list and then had to ditch that, and so on, until he's more lost than ever. He thought transition would help him feel some sense of stability, some sense of identity, but largely that is wasted, because Nathaniel Wesninski is a lie and what he truly is is a collection of movable parts, and nothing more.

-As he slowly metamorphosizes, he waits patiently for the day when he will recognize his own face, his true face. He wonders if he will still look like his mother. He wasn't prepared for looking in the mirror and seeing his father. He thinks he sees Mary jump at his voice sometimes, scowl at the way he takes up space the way his father did. So he learns to cover up, cover up his eyes and his hair and his words and his masculinity. He tries to keep both of them safe from the nightmares.

-Mary is keen on the idea of top surgery, not favoring the idea of him getting caught unawares and discovered. They go through a rather sketchy line of underground contacts and have it arranged, and there isn't enough time to properly heal as they're on the run within the month. But Neil has recovered from worse. These scars are just two to add to many, the only ones chosen, the only ones good.

-He thought Mary was cruel about the “staying away from boys” message, drilling into him all the ways men are fucked up and will always deep down want to hurt you, but she has even more to say about resisting the temptation of women, now that he's a man and all. She thinks she's protecting him from what he wants, but Neil doesn't know what he wants, or if he wants anything at all. If she just asked, if she ever took the time to just sit down and talk about it, maybe he could've explained that to her.

-The bottom line is that identity had never been a thing Neil had felt he was entitled to. It had always been a commodity to trade for survival, and he had made that trade so many times now that he was numb to it. Palmetto state is a haven in so many ways, with their stalled locker rooms and no questions asked. But after all the fights have been fought and the dead are not coming back, after he gets everything he could have ever wanted and so much more, after he signs on the dotted line as “Neil Josten,” a person that exists and is real, he is finally allowed to look at the broken pieces of his life and ask, "what makes me feel like me?" He's allowed to start the journey of unraveling everything he's ever been told about who he is and everything he's ever told himself he was in order to survive. He can start to repair the damage, build his own life and his own identity, so that someday he might finally be able to see his life laid out and say "I understand now." He's allowed to grieve, and he's allowed to grow.

#aftg #neil josten #the foxhole court #all for the game #trans #transmasculine #i wrote this a while ago in a fever of inspiration #some of this im like damn did i write this?#fic #neil #my posts #neil's story is such a trans parallel #that writing stuff like this is easy #and so meaningful #my writing

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thespacebetweenworlds · 5 years

Note

idk if you’ll care about this but your thing about the whole “fiction is just fiction” and “fiction doesn’t affect reality” argument is actually not true at all because let’s just say for example: having lgbt, poc, disability rep in books or media isn’t all that important because it doesn’t affect reality.... when it does? it makes a HUGE impact on people. but yes I see where you’re coming from and as a person who hates incest with a passion, I don’t think u guys deserve these threats AT ALL.

Thank you for not thinking I should die a violent death. And thank you for this ask! I love being asked things. And to respond to your point, that fiction does affect reality, with the example of how representation is pretty awesome: that’s a freaking good point you have there, that I agree with - partially.

This Essay is titled: Fiction and Reality and How the everloving Fuck do they interact and what by nathan wesninski’s underpants does that have to do with fandom discourse?

So, beyond the read more you’ll have a compilation of my thoughts on it (that didn’t take several hours to write and edit). I’ll talk about:

1. Definition Of Fiction, Definition Of Reality

2. (How) Does Fiction Affect Reality?

3. Representation In Fiction

4. Who Judges Fanfic?

5. ”this content is problematic,” says you. ”please don’t mention power dynamics,” replies I

6. Censorship

7. A Brief History Of Why Fanfic Is Awesome

8. Links to stuff that might interest you

I’m just gonna. Quickly do that part in radioactive with the deep breath.

To start this, I want to clarify that in the response I made to transneiljosten’s post, I never explicitly said “fiction doesn’t affect reality” or “fiction is just fiction.”

What I did say is this: “Incest in fiction is just that: incest in fiction. It’s. not. real.” And: “I believe everyone should be allowed to write/create what they want - as long as it doesn’t hurt people in real life.”

But yes, the phrases “fiction is just fiction” and “fiction is not reality” have been used often when discussing freedom to write fanfic and when defending content another might call immoral. Not many people have elaborated beyond that, and to be fair - it’s a super big fucking field of study with so many subjective ways to look at it that it’s difficult to put into words.

But I’m gonna go and explain what people mean with those two phrases anyway.

Disclaimer: Remember how I called this a super big fucking field of study? I am no linguist and I have not studied literature. All my knowledge comes from years in fandom and internet research of the topics I personally found interesting. I may be wrong about things I say here, and I am always learning, so feel free to message me. I try my best to discuss controversial topics thoughtfully, respectfully, considerately and carefully, but I am only human and do not know everything. You are welcome to join the discussion.

1. Definition Of Fiction, Definition Of Reality

Going to https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/ to properly look this up:

Reality: The state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional idea of them.

Fiction: Literature in the form of prose, especially novels, that describes imaginary events and people.

So I say I don’t study literature (I really don’t) but just a few weeks ago I was in a lecture on the absolute basics of literature science, where I learned this dope sentence:

Die Wirklichkeit in der Kunst ist nur eine auf die außerkünstlerische Wirklichkeit verweisende Wirklichkeit.

Which is German, yes I know. Basically we have the starting point that literature is art, so it’s: "the reality in art is only a reality that refers to the reality outside of art" or, in other words, fiction is only ever fiction and not reality, no matter how close they may seem to be.

In summary, what we can say for sure: Fiction does not equal Reality. They are not the same. Fiction exists because Reality exists.

2. (How) Does Fiction Affect Reality?

Reality affects fiction. But does Fiction affect Reality?

Allow me to quote tumblr user shinelikethunder, who put it very nicely:

“Fiction affects people. And people affect reality.”

Tumblr user muchymozzarella made an important addition (and the blog is really pretty) so to read the post, klick on this link: https://muchymozzarella.tumblr.com/post/167137950299/fiction-is-not-responsible-for-reality

If you read the above post, further reading that might interest you are texts by Immanuel Kant and Arthur Schopenhauer on Free Will. But that wouldn’t be fandom anymore, so like, find philosophy books in your local library and talk to you friends about it.

3. Representation In Fiction

But let’s come back to your question, dear anon: “... the whole “fiction is just fiction” and “fiction doesn’t affect reality” argument is actually not true at all because let’s just say for example: having lgbt, poc, disability rep in books or media isn’t all that important because it doesn’t affect reality.... when it does? it makes a HUGE impact on people.”

You have a great point. Representation in books matters. (If you rec me some nice wlw books I’ll love you forever, there are not enough.)

I am, however, gonna quote my friend of mine, who says it better than I ever could:

“There is a difference between media affecting behaviour and representation in media. Like, violent video games don't actually make you violent. Watching gay cinema isn't going to turn you to the lgbt side unless there was already a disposition there.

People read and write immorality constantly, and even when it's shone in a good light it's usually expected that we as human beings know right from wrong, know fiction from reality. Humanity has explored the happy shiny purity of the universe and the horrific grittiness since... Well probably forever, for a variety of reasons. And in recent years the way we consume media has intensified drastically. Our consumption is interactive, our interaction is globally influenced and sometimes that is good, but we've also given ourselves the right to witch-hunt without a lot of information, or because things don't go as you planned. Real people are always more important than fictional people.

Stand up for representation. Stand up for good representation. But if you're smart enough to understand morality in reality, that isn't going to suddenly go away if you read some incest fics... And hey if you do suddenly want to kiss your brother, that's something for you to deal with and it isn't fan fiction's fault.”

Representation in books matters. Why does it matter? Because the real world is so much more diverse than popular media might make you think. Fight against the patriarchy, not against random people on the internet.

4. Who Judges Fanfic?

Fanfic is written by fans. It’s also written for fans, but more than that, it’s written by fans. I’m not gonna say only teenage girls write fanfiction, because that’s not true. Fans write fanfiction. And everyone can be a fan.

Ozhawkauthor said:

“You are not paying for fanworks content, and you have no rights to it other than to choose to consume it, or not consume it. If you do choose to consume it, do not then attack the creator if it wasn’t to your taste. That’s the height of bad manners.

Be courteous in fandom. It makes the whole experience better for all of us.”

So why are “antis” suddenly here, declaring this ship and those characters off limits and to be hated on?

Specifically, what the fuck are fans that attack or judge other fans on?

To quote shinelikethunder (again): “Fiction needn’t be educational and fiction doesn’t always have clear-cut endorsements of who’s in the right. But the discussion that happens around fiction can include both.”

But to answer the question above: Who Judges Fanfic? Not. You.

5. ”this content is problematic,” says you. ”please don’t mention power dynamics,” replies I

Hypothetical situation:

I write a fanfic. My protagonist is Riko Moriyama, who is, in canon, a sadistic asshole that is so morally black that his own brother, Ichirou, who is also morally black, kills him in the end. It doesn’t matter what I write, or who I ship him with, in this hypothetical situation.

You appear, you read the fic or you don’t read the fic. You say: “This content is problematic.”

I quiver. I know you don’t like Riko Moriyama. I know you don’t approve of my shipping choice. “Please don’t mention power dynamics,” I reply.

“This relationship is toxic,” you say. “There are unhealthy power dynamics at play.”

And like, fuck, I know? I wrote it.

Obviously. Obviously I could reply with that ancient, age old phrase “Don’t Like Don’t Read.”

But I already made a similar post about that.

6. Censorship

I’m writing this post to fight against censorship in fandom. (The day I am typing this up on was the day I went to a demonstration against articles 11 and 17, earlier 13, in the copyright reform in the EU, and to protest for a free internet.)

Censorship.

What does that even mean? The Oxford English Dictionary says:

Censorship: The suppression or prohibition of any parts of books, films, news, etc. that are considered obscene, politically unacceptable, or a threat to security.

Here’s the wikipedia article.

In my opinion, every person, regardless of whether or not they call themselves “anti” who tells someone else that their fanfic is disgusting and wrong and should be deleted, based on subjective ideas of moral, is trying to enforce censorship. So don’t. Don’t do that.

“But,” you might say. “Riko is not a good person.”

And you know what? You’re absolutely right. He’s not. Neither is any of the Foxes.

And this is why none of the antis make sense. In one post, they condemn Roland - a perfectly normal minor character, and in the next post they call Andrew Minyard their soft angel child. Y’all. Not to hate on Andrew Minyard, but he literally drugged Neil? Even though he’s so big on consent, he drugged Neil?

So by saying this and that are problematic and should not be written and the people who do write it should be blocked, you’re kinda hypocritical. Because the All For The Game trilogy is one fucked up piece of media by itself.

And have you ever read a book?

Most books have characters that aren’t completely morally white or morally black, events that aren’t always sunshine, butterflies and rainbows.

And you know what else? That’s a good thing. Because the world isn’t like that either. And more often than not literature addresses topics critically.

Remember The Hunger Games? Exactly.

7. A Brief History Of Why Fanfic Is Awesome

In the beginnings of fanfic and fandom as we know it, slash was illegal in the USA. Fanfiction.net was made in like 1998, and during the first few years when fanfic got more attention with the rise of the internet, restrictions were made.

Much like tumblr in december 2018, except worse, fanfiction.net purged explicit content. Livejournal, the journaling platform where lots of fandom stuff happened before tumblr, is known for strikethrough, a big, unannounced deletion of fannish content. Because of those purges and restrictions, ao3 was originally made. I’m not trying to paint ao3 as the heroes that saved fandom, well I kinda am, and they are doing great things so that fanfiction can exist and remain accessible.

I think fiction is not just fiction. But fiction is just fiction in the sense that it doesn’t have any direct influence on the real world. We are all allowed to write whatever we want.

Disclaimer: We are all allowed to write whatever we want, except when we call for violence towards others in real life. Further disclaimer: Calling for violence towards others is illegal. Hate speech is illegal. Violent threats are illegal. Promotion of self-harm is illegal. Death threats are illegal.

To come back to fandom: Shipping or not shipping something has nothing to do with morals. Hating on people who ship “unhealthy power dynamics/problematic ships” does not give you the moral high ground. It makes you an asshole. For the love of Riko’s stinky socks, use the blocking feature.

My friend iknowwhoyouaredamianos said: “Hating people irl, lashing out against them, that's the real cruelty. That's so much worse than writing about something fictional.”

If you hate on real people, there is no trigger warning. You can’t don’t-like-don’t-read hate. It will affect that person’s life negatively, whether you intend to do so or not. Don’t be assholes, dears.

Thank you to my friend, and to iknowwhoyouaredamianos for letting me quote you and joining the discussion; and to foxsoulcourt for so many reasons.

Who knew that writing over 2000 words on fandom would be fun?

Dear anon, I hope I answered your question.

I’m gonna conclude this post with the Three Laws of Fandom:

I. Don’t Like; Don’t Read.

II. Your Kink Is Not My Kink.

III. Ship And Let Ship.

8. Links To Stuff That Might Be Of Interest

If you read all of the above and still feel like you don’t understand, have this awesome post by destinationtoast: How to not like fictional things (and not be a dick about it)

Podcasts on fandom culture by fansplaining:

Episode 84: Purity Culture

Episode 85: Age and Fandom

Episode 86: The Money Question

Episode 87: What we discourse about when we discourse about the discourse

Fandom positivity posts I reblogged (because y’all need it):

short post on staying positive in fandom

when discourse gets too stressful

important advice especially for those of you younger than 15 (but also older)

Tumblr user freedom-of-fanfic is writing lots of essays on lots of fandom things, here are some those more or less directly relate to this:

On criticising: Free to write whatever, free to criticise whatever?

A post on Fiction & Reality that answers a question very similar to the one I answered,

and Why fanworks are such a convenient social scrapegoat (kinda a socioeconomical discussion of USA-centric fandom)

There is also a very extensive FAQ by freedom-of-fanfic, with lots of very important writings on fandom culture on tumblr.

Unrelated, but if you’re interested in more of fandom, fanfic, and statistics of both:

http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/stats

Interesting stuff on Fanlore: Purity Culture in Fandom, AO3 & Censorship, The Advantages of Fan Fiction as an Art Form.

An article on the free speech debate in fandom

Dreamwidth’s Diversity Statement, and Ao3’s Diversity Statement

A cool (and unrelated) thing: Femslash can save the world if we let it

Happy reading, and I hope you learned something.

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jemej3m · 4 years

Text

a comprehensive set of rules (part 1)

light and breezy!! (this is not a b99 au)

this is...long.

plot?????? what?????????

January:

“So you’re telling me,” Aaron repeated. “You’re pretty sure this guy is into some organised crime shit?”

Andrew made a noise, rolling over on his bed to press the phone between his ear and the pillow. Usually their calls were short and succinct, as was tradition ever since they departed from college - Andrew heading to Baltimore for policing academy and Aaron to Chicago for med-school - with Aaron doing most of the talking and Andrew occasionally humming in response.

Tonight Andrew was riddled with questions. Usually his moral compass was simple and easy to adhere to, but this was - to put it mildly - fucked. He didn’t care about authority, or loyalty to his police oath, but he couldn’t just screw a guy whilst suspecting him of murder. Or whatever Neil had gotten himself into.

You can’t talk, his own brain reminded him, so kindly, so gently. He made a scathing noise and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“A woman tried to kill him and talked shit about his family. You should’ve seen how bone-white he went at his father’s mention.”

“So - you’re just going to excuse him? On the basis of what, an inclination to murder is genetic?”

Sometimes it was genetic. Andrew almost laughed. Aaron heard the irony in his own words, too and grumbled out a low ‘Shut up.’

“He said he couldn’t date a cop, anyway.” Not that Andrew was interested in dating.

It did appear as though he and Neil was very incompatible: Neil didn’t do sex and relationships, was criminally inclined and had yet to text him since their disaster of a second date.

Andrew was only emotionally ready enough for casual sex, one-night-stands and loveless hookups, and didn’t exactly know whether or not he could ignore Neil’s background, seeing as every day he went in to work and interrogated perps with gang tattoos and blood still drying on their hands.

And yet.

Andrew still wanted to see Neil. See he was alright. Talk to him. Spend time with him. Andrew still wanted to try and set something up, something that’d benefit both of them, maybe a way that Neil could escape from his current life, a way for Andrew to get invaluable knowledge.

Andrew still wanted to try and have something with Neil. Not romantic. Not a relationship, or sex, or even friendship.

Just - something.

“That’s that, then.” Aaron said, unhelpful. “Nicky was all screechy about it on the phone. Said that the guy was cute. I bet he has no clue.”

“No,” Andrew agreed, making a mental note to check out ‘Allison’ and ensure his cousin was safe. “No clue at all.” He sighed, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. “It doesn’t matter. I doubt we’ll ever see each other again.”

February:

“Shit,” Andrew muttered as coffee dribbled down his vest. The taser tucked into its pocket made an odd sound, as though it were drowning or something. He fished it out and sighed: Kevin, another fresh-faced detective who seemed to think he had the right to criticise Andrew’s every move, wouldn’t let this go. Andrew seemed to always be needing new equipment, so much so that Kevin had decided to photocopy the request forms and pin them snootily to Andrew’s desk.

Andrew hated Kevin. Renee had forced him to be civil, though, and he trusted his partner enough to listen to her advice.

“Didn’t see you there,” came a familiar voice. Andrew’s head snapped up: canvasing the truly miraculous sight that stood before him. “So sorry.”

Neil’d had his haircut since Andrew had last seen him, but he bore purple shadows under his eyes, his skin pale and sickly. A hood was drawn up, the sweater too large on Neil’s wiry frame. His jeans were loose too. He was far from the well-dressed bad idea Andrew had gone on two dates with, just over two months prior.

“Come into this cafe, officer,” Neil said, voice flat. “There’s a bathroom.” With that, he spun on his heel and marched back into the coffee-shop that he had no doubt been waiting outside of for Andrew to pass by.

Andrew followed silently, ignoring the lukewarm coffee that was dripping down his chest. There was a tiny bathroom with two cubicles, of which Neil somehow had the key for. He spun around and leant against the door, eyes dark.

“Neil,” Andrew said. “What the fuck?”

“I can’t be seen with you, or talking to you,” he managed, voice slightly raw. “Things are - not great, right now. I’m sorry I vanished.”

“You have to give me context,” Andrew insisted, stepping closer. “What the hell is going on?”

Neil shut his eyes. “If I promise you that I’ll explain everything, afterwards, will you help me?”

“I take my promises seriously,” Andrew warned.

Neil nodded weakly, wringing his fingers. “I know.”

Andrew sighed, taking some paper towel from next to the sink and patting himself dry. “What’s happening?”

Neil swallowed. “My father’s going to court, based on charges of tax evasion and money laundering.”

Andrew gestured for him to continue.

Neil hung his head. “I’m going to usurp him, him and his closest allies. I need a cop I can filter information through to, so that they can be locked up permanently. All five of them.”

“Someone once told me that they’d never be safe unless the threat was dead,” Andrew said, voice low. “You can’t fool me into thinking you just want them in jail.”

Neil had the audacity to look surprised, like maybe he thought Andrew wouldn’t remember. He’d learn to assume Andrew knew everything soon enough. “He has enough enemies that it’ll be taken care of, for me. Honest enough for you, officer?”

Andrew straightened out. “And when he and his crooks are gone? What then?”

Neil’s smile was almost sad. "Then I will take his place.”

“You could dismantle it entirely,” Andrew argued. “You don’t have to follow his footsteps.”

Neil just shook his head. “There are higher powers at work, Andrew. It’s my legacy: I have no choice." He in a shuddering breath. “If I could abandon it all, I would. I don’t want this life. I don’t want his name, or his smile, or his bloodthirst. I don’t.”

“Neil,” Andrew warned.

The man squeezed his eyes shut. “You know I watched him kill my mom? She didn’t want this life either. He was going to kill me too. Maybe he should have.”

“Neil.”

Andrew had the man’s chin pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He opened his eyes.

“I’ll help you,” Andrew said, against better judgement. “Tell me your name and I’ll help you.”

Neil’s swallow was constricted, weighted. He took out a tiny slip of paper and tucked it into Andrew’s pocket. “I'm still Neil.” His inhale was desperate. “I am still Neil.”

Andrew nodded slightly, stepping back and watching as the man unlocked the door and slipped out.

Slowly - carefully - Andrew unfolded the little piece of paper.

It was a business card, the logo embossed into the paper.

Nathan Wesninski and Co. it read, accented with gold.

March:

“How the fuck...” Dan said, flicking through the file. She, Wymack and Renee all sat opposite Andrew, peering over his work with trepidation.

Under a strictly Need-To-Know policy, Kevin was excluded for his previous ties to Riko Moriyama, who was the son of a yakuza boss (though that was not widely known). Matt was excluded on the basis of too many mouths to control, though Dan would probably fill him in. Seth was excluded because he sucked and Andrew hated him. That left his partner, his captain and his sergeant, all of whom were mildly shocked that Andrew had picked up such a large and intricate case independently.

“How did you find all this?” Dan demanded, recoiling from the contents of his file. Beside the many photographs laid a dried chunk of flesh in a sealed bag, of which DNA tests would confirm to be Mary Wesninski’s, who vanished over 14 years ago. Neil said he’d cut it from the branching aorta of his mother’s heart, of which his father kept in a small container, alongside her tongue and eyes, seeing as his father would miss a whole organ, but not a chunk of the underside. He didn’t get his name the Butcher for nothing.

“Unless we have a weapon, or something with prints that connects Wesninski to that-” Wymack pointed to the piece of Mary’s heart. “It’s still circumstantial without your CI coming forward as a witness.”

“They will die,” Andrew said calmly. “I’ll keep working for a connection, but nothing about my CI gets published. Nothing.”

“Okay,” Renee agreed, smiling warmly as she rounded the table. She waited for his nod to drop a hand on his shoulder, rubbing small circles of warmth. “We’ll figure something out, Andrew.”

“I can’t believe we have a chance against Wesninski,” Wymack muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Not yet, we don’t.” Dan reminded him.

Not yet, Andrew agreed.

April:

Neil walked a slow circle around Andrew’s apartment, eyeing the windows and doors, the fire escape, the kettle, probably even the fucking toilet paper. Andrew watched as he toed off his shoes, pulled his sweater sleeves over his hands and finally joined Andrew in the living room.

“Got bored of figuring out the best point of exit?”

Neil scowled, settling on the couch beside him. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Well, yours wasn’t exactly an option, was it?”

Neil just drew his knees up to his chin, curling into a small ball on the couch. “The trial’s been set for late September.”

“I know,” Andrew agreed.

“You haven’t brought any evidence to the prosecutor yet.”

“I haven’t.”

“Was what I gave not good enough?”

“No,” Andrew grimaced. “A chunk of Mary’s heart tells us she’s dead. Without prints, or a weapon, or DNA evidence surrounding her body, there’s no way to connect Nathan to her death.”

Neil winced, teeth biting into his lip. The minute rocking back and forth was beginning to get on Andrew’s nerves. “I can’t...I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Andrew insisted. “We solve crimes for a living. There’s always an answer.”

Neil scoffed, body still shaking. “You’re probably aware of 20% of what goes on in this city.”

“So tell me the other 80.”

Neil stared.

Andrew gestured vaguely. “The different gangs, the territory lines, shoot outs and brandings and who’s having an affair with who. I don’t care. Just talk.”

“What good is gossip?” Neil wondered aloud.

“You’d be surprised,” Andrew said lightly, like this wasn’t completely for Neil’s benefit. He needed to get Neil out of his head. It looked like the man hadn’t sleep in weeks, his nails bitten down to the quick and body stiff with bandages. The fact that Andrew couldn’t help him much more than this - at least not now - was putting him through the wringer.

“Fine,” Andrew huffed when Neil wasn’t forthcoming, getting off the couch. From under the TV he grasped a random DVD and shoved it into the player that Nicky had bought for him a few years ago.

“What’s this?” Neil blinked, owlishly.

Andrew just dropped back down onto the couch. “Do you trust me?”

Neil looked at him, eyes narrowed.

Andrew reached out to push the long fringe away from Neil’s eyes. “Neil, do you trust me?”

“I...” he looked down to his hands. They slowly curled into fists. “I want to.”

Andrew tilted his chin up with the tip of his finger. For a moment there was nothing else, just blue and gold and fate and future. “Then believe me when I say I will find a way.”

Slowly, Neil nodded.

May:

“Dimaccio, Plank, and the Romero siblings,” Andrew leant on the table with his fists, the fies splayed out around them. “We lock them up, one by one. Nathan loses his circle, loses his security. He’ll put out the wrong foot without anyone else to fall back on.”

“Who should we start with, then?” Wymack inquired, letting Andrew steer this investigation down to the very last report signature.

Andrew arched an eyebrow, momentarily recalling the jagged scars on the inside of Neil’s elbows.

“She’d wanted to cut my tendons, once,” he said, before yanking down the sleeves again.

“Ladies first,” he told Wymack, picking up the photo of Lola Malcom and pinning it right into the centre of their case-board.

June:

Dimaccio snarled as he was lead away in shackles, hair shaved close to his skull. He was probably double Andrew’s height and width and had three police escorts shoving him into the back of a wagon. Across the back of his hand had been the characteristic X, the one Neil bore, the one Lola had worn too.

Two down, three to go, Andrew thought, something like pride grinning wolfishly within his chest. These were only the bail hearings: proper convictions wouldn’t be till the new year. It didn’t matter: so long as they were locked up, Andrew could move forward. Wymack stood beside him, thumbs hooked into his belt loops.

“Nice work, kiddo,” the chief acknowledged, shaking out a cigarette and gesturing to the exit. Andrew followed.

Leaning against the courthouse’s sandstone exterior, Andrew stared up into the cloudless sky with an accusatory squint, till Wymack nudged him.

“Your phone’s ringing,” he muttered, cigarette drooping with ever syllable.

Andrew fished out the burner that he always kept tucked into his back pocket. He flicked it open immediately: there was only one person who had this number.

“Andrew,” Neil panted. “Thank god. Okay. Hi.”

“N -” Andrew glanced at Wymack before turning away. “What’s going on?”

“The chances of me being able to contact you from now on will be slim to none: with two of them gone, I have to step in.”

“Christ,” Andrew muttered, stubbing out his cigarette. “Where are you now?”

“Bathroom,” Neil muttered. “Some stupid event thing for his business front. I’m not who matters right now. Do you have family that’s traceable to you? A next of kin?”

“You’ve met Nicky and Erik,” Andrew said, suddenly cold all over. “My twin and his wife live in Chicago.”

“They should be alright,” Neil murmured. “But Nicky and Erik have to go. Can they win a flight overseas? I’ll wire you through money if you need it -”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll sort it out.”

“You need to be careful,” Neil insisted. “He’s going to come after you. That’s twice your name’s been on the front of the arrest records. I’ve sorted something out, okay?”

“Forgive me if that sounds less that appealing.”

Neil laughed weakly. “It’s not a pretty solution, but it’ll work. You have to keep working, and if I can’t keep interacting with you without blowing this whole thing over, then our only choice is...”

“Allison,” Andrew muttered. “Jesus Christ.”

Neil hummed in agreement. “She’ll pick you up from yours in an hour. Be ready.”

“How does she know where I live?”

“Like she doesn’t track my every move, Minyard. She’s my accomplice. Gotta go, now. He’ll get suspicious.”

Something twisted in Andrew’s throat. “Stay safe.”

Neil paused, then mumbled “You too,” and disconnected the call.

Wymack was watching him with an arched brow.

Andrew shrugged. “My CI’s quick.”

“Unpredictable asshole,” his boss muttered, shooing him off with a derisive flick of his fingers. Andrew saluted him as he departed, before twisting on his heel and jogging back to his car.

“Guest room, guest bathroom, living room, kitchen, blah, blah.” Allison waved her hand around emphatically, her manicured nails glittering with rhinestones and pearls. They were probably real, if her apartment was anything to go by.

Everything was white, grey or pink, aside from the dark-oak parquetry on her floors. The marble countertops were polished to sparkle, every device in her kitchen practically unused. It was Nicky’s dream penthouse.

“It pays to murder, doesn’t it?” Andrew wondered when he’d inherited Neil’s loose tongue.

The look Allison gave him was withering. “I don’t murder. I clean up.”

“Because complacency is so much better than participation.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe Nicky didn’t tell me you were a fucking cop. Would’ve never set you up on a date if I knew.”

“I’m going to have his father in max security by the end of the year,” Andrew reminded her. “Don’t make me abandon the case.”

She grinned. “You wouldn’t. He’s got you wrapped around his finger.” At Andrew’s glare, she waved him off. “Don’t worry: he’s just like that. I never said that I ain’t wrapped around his finger too. It’s impossible to not want to shield him away, wrap him in copious amounts of blankets, kiss his forehead and tell him it’ll be okay. I tried it once,” she grimaced. “It didn’t work.”

Andrew didn’t picture Neil, a mobster’s son, wrapped in blankets on Andrew’s couch, smiling (genuinely) as Andrew pressed a kiss to the corner of his eye. He did not picture that. He did not.

“For what it’s worth,” Allison said, in a voice softer than Andrew thought she was capable of as she looked out the enormous windows that overlooked Baltimore’s busiest district. “I’m glad he trusts you. And I’m glad you’re helping us.”

“Don’t get sappy on me, Reynolds,” he pointed at her in warning. “I’ll lock you up too, if you give me a reason to.”

Her laugh was pearlescent, her grin cat-like. “Neil would scalp you before you could even say my full name. Don’t forget, Minyard,” she winked. “I’ve got him wrapped around my finger, too.”

this will continue in p.2 with july-december!! after that we’ll go back to our regularly scheduled softness and humour. i’ve already got another one-shot planned around kevin and neil.... :D

#andreil #mobster/cop au #pre-slash #plot!!!!!! what??????#neil josten #andrew minyard #butcher!neil #cop!andrew #p.1 #allison reynolds #david wymack #cop!foxes #this was getting too long i had to cut it half way #all for the game #aftg #im so gay for allison can u tell #jem writes

450 notes · View notes

nekojitachan · 4 years

Text

Hmm, got a new story idea the other day (actually, have had a couple in the past couple of weeks, but this one requires world building). I might be playing around with this a little - I never do too close a retelling of canon because... well, I like to shake things up a bit and make them interesting, but it’ll probably start out a little similar to TFC and then the changes will snowball from there.

I think this gives an idea of some of the world building, though.

*******

I Am Fire

******

Nathaniel stood near the old sedan while it burned, while the acrid stench of burnt plastic and rubber didn't quite mask the sickening odor of his mother's body slowly breaking down beneath the flames under his command. For a moment he almost made them burn even hotter, made them reduce her thin, worn body to nothing but ash (like he should, like she'd always told him to do if the worst ever happened... like it had happened) but the thought of losing her so completely made him banish the flames before they finished their job. Some still licked at the metal frame of the car as he reached into its ruined shell to fetch his mother's remains, the heat inconsequential to a Fire as powerful as him (not powerful enough, never powerful enough when it came to his father), to gather her charred remains.

He used a broken piece of metal from the car to help dig a hole in the sand as the waves washed onto the shore, then buried what was left of Mary Jamilyn Wesninski (nee Hartford) in the shallow grave, smoke rising from the remains. Once the sand was hastily smoothed back in place, the cold Pacific water lapping at his heels, Nathaniel used his power to turn it to glass, to seal the unmarked grave and give his mother as peaceful a resting place as possible. He bowed his head for several heartbeats, not so much in memorial as an impromptu breakdown, as despair and bone-deep weariness bore down on him.

Then he forced himself onto his feet and to take a step forward, to take another one and another, to keep moving because that's what his mother had told him to do - to keep running and to never stop. He only paused to gather the backpack he'd assembled from both their supplies before he'd set fire to everything else, which contained what he needed to survive for the foreseeable future (except a phone, which had been reduced to melted parts in the car), should help keep him alive long enough to buy a new ID in Reno. Then he unleashed the flames on the car once more, let them feed until the damn thing would be nothing more than a twisted hunk of metal and walked toward the nearest leyline without another glance.

*******

Andrew hummed in boredom as he rolled the handle of the striker’s racquet (Josten’s) he’d picked up to play with between his hands – bored and hyped-up and oh so done with everything already.

“Put it down before you break it,” Kevin ordered, perched on top of an entertainment center and busy reading through Josten’s stats yet again, as if he hadn’t memorized them in the last few days.

“Oh, what a shame if that happened,” Andrew drawled while he grinned, while he swung the racquet through the air just to annoy the bastard. When Kevin’s green eyes took on a golden cast, his grin widened and ice began to form on the racquet; two could play that game. Mindful of the reason they were in this shithole of a town and their ‘beloved’ coach’s instructions to ‘behave’ while he went off to talk to their quarry, Kevin quickly stifled his power and shook his head.

“Don’t do anything to scare Josten away, Hernandez warned Coach that he’s a bit… squirrely.”

“I’m not the one who started it,” Andrew reminded the arrogant bastard as he resumed spinning the glorified stick between his hands. “And so what? Just find another rookie,” he needled with a faint shrug.

As expected, Kevin took the bait. “Another roo- we were lucky to get Josten’s tape, dammit!” he hissed, mindful to keep his voice pitched low. “You think we’re going to find another striker who’s a fire elemental, any fire elemental out there at this point who’s unsigned, let alone with half his potential?”

“What potential?”

Kevin shook his head at Andrew’s unimpressed scoff.

“No, it’s there, it is,” he swore. “Hernandez said the Dingoes haven’t gotten this far in years, not until Josten showed up. That he hasn’t seen a Fire with his potential in all his time coaching, even if he’s still rough on the court.” Something hungry flashed across Kevin’s face for a moment as he set the papers aside to rub his scarred left hand. “He’s right, too. The way he plays, the way the team comes together whenever he’s out on court… it’s there, that promise. The Foxes need it, while Coach and I will make him better. You’ll see.”

So boring – Andrew had already heard this over a dozen times before, back when Kevin had argued for Wymack to chose Josten to replace poor, poor Smalls (maybe not so ‘poor’ since she didn’t have to suffer the Foxes now) and then as they flew to shithole Millport, Arizona. He already knew that his life was one big joke, but the past week had been a never-ending punchline of ‘oh wait, let’s really rub it in, shall we?’

Oh well, at least he could sit back and watch Gordon’s reaction when the asshole realized that Wymack had recruited a fire elemental more powerful than the homophobic druggie. The senior should have been replaced ages ago, except Fires weren’t easy to find, so any of real talent were scooped up by the many, many better teams out there.

Which made one wonder, why was such a diamond in the rough like Josten just waiting for Kevin to find him like this?

Just a little suspicious, yes?

Mistrust merrily bubbled along with the drug-fueled euphoria and boredom inside of Andrew’s head, which didn’t help with the whole ‘must not start smashing’ things. Oh, Wymack and Kevin owed him for this, yes they did.

He was swinging closer and closer to the racquet stand when there was the pitter patter of swift feet – was the little squirrel pulling a runner? Oh, clever boy, to want to get as far away from Wymack and his do-gooder self as possible, but Andrew had suffered on this fool’s errand for a reason, so that meant squirrelly-boy (or perhaps ‘rabbit’) would suffer, too.

Now things were getting fun.

Andrew braced himself in front of the nearest exit, the door leading out to the parking lot, with the ‘borrowed’ racquet held in both hands ready to lash out, but he literally felt rabbit-boy near – felt a rush of fire from the panicking kid (rabbit indeed). The tingling sense of pulsing heat laced with a simmering anger/threat made his own water magic rise, made the surrounding chill as it prepared to protect him.

A vague, shimmery shape propelled itself forward, toward the door, only to slid to a halt as fire and water slammed into each other; Andrew lashed out with the racquet but their elements, their magic, created enough of a buffer between them that the end of the stupid stick barely brushed against the kid’s chest.

Huh, maybe Kevin was right about Josten being a powerful Fire.

Andrew wavered on his feet from the backlash of their elements smashing together, somewhat inured to it after a year of collegiate Exy, of dealing with Kevin, of being somewhat prepared for the rabbiting Fire rabbit, while Josten ended up falling down hard onto his ass. He stared up at Andrew with dark eyes wide as his power receded, the shimmering effect around him fading away to reveal the lean, underfed kid with overgrown black hair and baggy, worn clothes and too-attractive features in the one picture which Hernandez had sent.

“Water,” Josten choked out as he gazed up at Andrew, as Andrew felt a traitorous flicker of interest overtake the boredom, both over that too-pretty face and the lingering feeling of intoxicating warmth from Josten’s element.

Uh-oh.

“Goddammit, Minyard, this is why we can’t have nice things!” Wymack bellowed as he and Hernandez finally caught up to the little rabbit, his dulcet voice echoing through the lounge as he took in Josten sprawled out on the floor and Andrew leaning against the racquet. “Are you all right, kid?” he asked and held out a hand to help Josten off the floor, which of course was ignored.

“Oh Coach, if he was nice then he wouldn’t be of any use to us.” Andrew ‘grinned’ at Josten, who managed to stand up on his own, his attention focused on Andrew with a wariness which made it clear that he’d an idea of just how powerful Andrew was, even though Andrew had only used a fraction of his talent. Huh, someone wasn’t adding up, not if he sensed Andrew so easily, not if he’d recovered so quickly, not if he made Andrew want to lean forward to soak in that odd, tingling sense of warmth….

“Besides, he looks good as new. Or, well, second-hand new,” Andrew said with an exaggerated grimace as he motioned to the kid’s outfit, as he leaned away instead of closer.

“Fuck off,” Josten muttered as he clutched at the handles of the battered duffel bag slung over his left shoulder. “And what’s with the racquet?” His wary look morphed into a glare after a brief flare of recognition. “Hey, that’s mine!”

“So grouchy,” Andrew complained then once more grinned. “Here you go!” He iced the racquet before he threw it at the kid, and felt a rare spark of amusement over the way that Josten cursed beneath his breath as he fumbled to hold on to the slippery object.

He also noticed how quickly the Fire negated the ice without blasting everyone with steam, which required skill along with power.

“What the hell?” Hernandez demanded as he approached Josten (who skittered out of reach, which was also interesting). “You okay, kid?”

“Andrew’s a bit raw on manners,” Wymack said in an attempt to smooth things over as he got between Josten and Andrew in a clear sign for Andrew to back off and stop with the ‘fun’ tricks. “But he’ll behave from now on. So what about it, Neil?” Over on the entertainment center, Kevin, who had been oddly quiet the entire time, leaned forward in interest.

Josten shook his head and once more clutched at his duffel bag (hmm, security blanket or something more?) while he shoved the racquet at Hernandez. “I’m fine. Just let me go,” he insisted as he shook his head again.

“We’re not done.”

“Coach Wymack.” Hernandez seemed rather protective of a certain rabbit – how odd, especially since he’d ratted him out in the first place.

“Give us a second?” Wymack somehow summoned a measure of charm (and a good dose of his earth magic) to put Hernandez at ease (Andrew sensed a weak amount of air magic in the man) which made the Dingoes coach grumble and agree to leave after giving his precious striker one more look and a promise to be back soon.

As soon as he was gone, the rabbit found his voice again (could a powerful Fire be a rabbit? Something to ponder). “I already gave you my answer, I won’t sign with you,” Josten insisted as he gazed at the door as if desperate to go through it, too.

Sighing as if tired already (Andrew knew that he was, and eager to hit up the pathetic minibar in the hotel), Wymack rubbed along the back of his neck "You didn't listen to my whole offer," he said slowly as if in hopes that the words would sink in that time. "If I paid to fly three people out here to see you then the least you could do is give me five minutes, don't you think?"

There was another flare of fire magic as Josten must have finally realized that it wasn’t just the three of them in the room, as his face paled and ugly dark eyes widened yet again while he searched around the room as he stepped away from Wymack (oh, yet another fascinating and suspicious reaction). “You didn’t bring him here.”

"Is that a problem?" Wymack’s earth magic pulsed out in an obvious attempt to calm the panicked kid (to keep them all from being flambéed – well, Andrew could protect himself, and he supposed Kevin).

"I'm not good enough to play on the same court as a champion." The kid sounded as if he believed that – and about two seconds away from the flambé thing.

"True, but irrelevant.”

Ah, finally, Number Two had spoken, and as usual, didn’t appear impressed with what he saw. Yet he added his earth magic to Wymack’s, though it didn’t appear to calm down Josten at all.

"What are you doing here?" Josten asked while he continued to edge toward the door, which Andrew moved to block once again.

"Why were you leaving?" Kevin countered as he leaned forward, his attention focused on the Fire with an intensity reserved only for Exy.

Josten didn’t seem to care for that intensity – that or for Kevin. "I asked you first." Oh, wasn’t that mature?

"Coach already answered that question.” Kevin sounded a bit testy over having to point that fact out, while Andrew was almost amused over the exchange – almost. He’d need another dose of his medicinal chains soon, judging from the way his skin itched and stomach churned. "We’re waiting for you to sign the contract. Stop wasting our time."

"No.” Both Kevin and Wymack appeared stunned over that flat denial, especially Kevin, Exy’s precious Number Two. "There are a thousand strikers who'd jump at the chance to play with you. Why don't you bother them?" Oh, Andrew might have an iota of respect for the pain in the ass, but he just wanted to go back to the hotel and start drinking instead of suffer through this scintillating wordplay.

“None of them are fire elementals,” Wymack said as he folded his tattooed arms over his chest. “We want you.”

"I won't play with Kevin,” Josten declared as he once more eyed the door. “And you already have a Fire.”

"He’s not good enough, and you will," Kevin shot back without pause, which earned him a brief glare from Wymack.

"Maybe you haven't noticed, but we're not leaving here until you say yes,” Wymack warned Josten once he finished giving Kevin a dirty look for insulting Gordon. “Kevin says we have to have you, and he's right." The kid didn’t look happy about that.

Kevin opened his mouth again, definitely to argue more with the kid, most likely to insult him a good bit (the true Kevin Day way), maybe, just maybe to mention that the rookie striker did have some potential beneath the roughness, had one hell of a drive while out on the court (there was a reason for them to come out after him, after all, and not just because of his element), but Andrew was tired and bored and needed to get away from a certain too-attractive Fire enigma right then.

“Coach is right, he’s not going to let this go, so why don’t you, someone who supposedly plays as if he has everything to lose, save us all a lot of time and jump on the chance to get out of this boring hellhole, hmm?” Agree to sign, and then Andrew could spend the summer figuring out just what Josten was hiding, why a Fire with so much potential was hiding in Millport, of all places, and appeared freaked out by Kevin.

Was this a Moriyama trick? Planted bait?

“But… but I’m not good enough,” the kid tried to lie even as his distasteful magic kept making Andrew’s insides tingle in a disturbing counterpart to the damn drug’s withdrawal.

Kevin jumped onto his feet but one look from Andrew kept him from approaching Josten. “Not yet, but we’ll get you there. Give us some time to train you and your talent, and you will get there.”

When Josten stopped eyeing the door to focus on him, Wymack piled it on as well. "It actually works in our favor that you're all the way out here," he argued. "No one outside of our team and school board even knows we're here. We don't want your face all over the news this summer. We've got too much to deal with right now and we don't want to drag you, some unknown Fire, into the mess until you're safe and settled at campus. There's a confidentiality clause in your contract, says you can't tell anyone you're ours until the season starts in August."

Josten was quiet for a few seconds before his shoulders slumped forward, a sign that his defenses were weakening. "It's not a good idea,” he announced after he looked away from Kevin.

"Your opinion has been duly noted and dismissed," Wymack said while Kevin grinned in victory. "Anything else, or are you going to start signing stuff?" Just in case, Wymack ‘pushed’ a little with his talent, gave off soothing waves as if to calm Josten.

The kid was quiet for a few more seconds before he mumbled some bullshit about needing his mother’s permission, even though Hernandez had warned Wymack out how Josten’s parents were never around and might be abusing the striker. When he kept going on about them, Wymack glanced over at Andrew, who gave a quick shake of his head.

The kid was lying – he was interested in the contract, but it was pure bullshit about him needing his parents’ permission, from what Andrew’s magic could sense.

Wymack’s lips thinned before he told Andrew and Kevin to go wait in Hernandez’s SUV, which would take them back to the hotel. Kevin wasn’t happy about the command, but as (almost) always, obeyed their benevolent tyrant which meant that Andrew followed.

“Is he going to sign?” Kevin asked once they were outside.

Andrew cocked his head to the side and ‘thought’ about it for a moment; water elementals weren’t exactly precogs (or the majority of them weren’t), at least not beyond a vague impression of the future and people. His ability lay in knowing if someone was telling him the truth or not, if they were ‘safe’ or not – and the impression he got from one Neil Josten?

LIARLIARLIARLIARLIARLIARLIARLIARLIARLIAR…..

Yet he’d felt something toward the end there which led him to believe that the young man would show up at PSU, after all.

Now that he thought about it… it was probably an impending sense of doom.

“He’ll sign,” Andrew sighed as he went to the back door of the SUV to fetch the bottle of water he’d left with his backpack while motioning for Kevin to throw him his bottle of pills, all the while ignoring Hernandez. Josten would show up just to annoy the fuck out of him, he was certain.

He used his talent to chill the water, which was warm from sitting in the vehicle for the past half an hour, then forced himself to take the pill, biological clock all fucked up (ha, more than just that) because of the time difference. After a few minutes and a cigarette, Josten finally left the building with Wymack and Hernandez at his heels, and when Josten made to walk past the SUV, Andrew opened the back door with a wide grin and a slight, mocking bow. "Too good to play with us, too good to ride with us?"

The Fire gave him a cool look (ha!) before breaking into a run; Andrew had to admit he made just as pretty a picture fading off into the distance with that lean form and long legs. Hmm, as much as Exy annoyed Andrew most days, he had to appreciate its effects on the human physique.

“Well?” Kevin snapped at Wymack once they were in the SUV, in what probably was meant to be a demanding tone but contained too much anxiety, considering that they had to sign a new striker or else.

Wymack picked up on it, too, considering how he pushed more of the ‘soothing’ bullshit while he shook out a cigarette. “He’ll be spending the summer with us, as soon as he graduates.” He twisted around in the front passenger seat to glare at Andrew. “No rough shit with the new kid, do you hear me?” Next to him, Hernandez radiated displeasure while he drove. “He’s a Fox now.”

Mindful of the non-Fox in the car, Andrew merely bared his teeth and gave his coach a two-fingered salute before he slumped back into the seat as the drug began to take effect. He hummed a little and closed his eyes while he thought about the alcohol awaiting him in his hotel room, and tuned out Kevin and Wymack arguing about the best way to go about training a rookie Fire.

Wymack could bitch and moan all he liked, but the more Andrew reflected back on his encounter with Neil Josten… oh yes, too many pieces which didn’t fit together. Someone was a too-attractive, too-powerful liar, which meant that Andrew had a new toy to play with that summer. A toy he would poke and prod and twist about until either all the pieces fit, or it was broken badly enough that any danger to him and his was all gone.

As he thought about that sharp-boned face and addicting tingle of magic… he hoped it was the latter.

*******

#aftg #aftg fic #aftg au #neil josten #andrew minyard #kevin day #david wymack #nekojitachanfics #elemental magic #of course it'll be andreil

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ashrelfury · 5 years

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(1/2) If you're still taking prompts, I'd like if you could write something about Andrew really jealous; it's like, since the Andreil is living together (maybe post-canon), Andrew took a liking (not that he's going to admit anytime soon) for carrying Neil, lifting him off the ground and putting his arms around the redhead.

Just Don’t: Part One (Yeah, you read that right. It’s in two parts, baby. Look forward to it!)

It started the day they won the Olympic Gold.

A promise he’d made in passing that he now had to allow Neil to cash on.

“If we win, can I hug you? Yes or no?”

Andrew scoffed, “If we win, I’ll pick you up and spin you around.”

And they did win. Which opened a door Andrew wasn’t sure he’d ever wanted opened. He never noticed before how very light Neil was. There was muscle in that lithe body, but it didn’t really lend much to contribute to his weight. No wonder the idiot was taken down so easily when someone actually managed to get a hit on him.

When the final buzzer sounded, and the US Court was up by 2, Andrew knew it was coming. He looked out into the court and saw the wet dark red hair, already plastered to the idiot’s face with sweat and his helmet, and that blinding grin that made his icy blue eyes shine like the sun had hit them just right to brighten them up from the inside.

Ignoring everyone around him, all who were trying to get his attention because of course it had been Neil who scored the last goal of the game, Neil dropped his racket right there on the floor and took off in Andrew’s direction, full tilt.

Andrew had a few moments to let go of his own racket, take off the bulky goalie gloves, and brace his feet under him, before a 5′3, 128lb man came barreling into him like he’d been shot from a cannon.

The momentum would have thrown Andrew off his feet, but just as he promised, he’d used nearly all of it to swing Neil in a few circles.

There was laughter in his ears, arms around his neck, legs wrapped around his waist, and brightness trapped in his chest.

He was tired, the game wasn’t easy and everything hurt and he needed to lay the fuck down, but he didn’t think he would have put Neil down right then for any deal or promise in the world.

That’s when it started really.

Since that incident, something that, unbeknownst to both men, had been caught on camera for all the world to see; Andrew had picked up the strange habit of... well... picking Neil up.

It was always at random to get the best reaction possible. Sometimes there was a laugh. Others it was the yelp of surprise. And rarely, very rarely, there was the kiss.

When Andrew wrapped his arms around Neil and lifted him off the ground, it was a yes. Andrew had already told the idiot that. And it worked for these moments. Moments where Andrew felt soft, felt gentle and wanted to show it.

He’d grab Neil by the small of his back, sweep his feet out from under him, and hold him like those movies. The Princess Carry, Nicky had called it when he’d seen Andrew do it during their visit to Germany for the wedding. Andrew didn’t care what it was called, it was a protective hold and it felt good to have Neil’s arms wrap around his neck and then lips met his own and it was as close to coming home as anything had ever felt.

The yelp of surprise always came when Andrew grabbed him from behind. Not that Andrew really understood why, he always gave warning. A noise or something to let the idiot know who it was and that he would be safe. He knew that they both still had issues with someone coming up behind them, but years of relative safety had made them lose a lot of their formidable edge. Andrew didn’t mind the mock-surprise though, because Neil always smiled afterwards.

Yet, it was the laugh that tore him up inside.

The laugh happened when he picked Neil up to end an argument or to annoy him. It never accomplished either, but it always made Neil laugh. They would be facing each other, Andrew reaching for knives that were no longer there as an instinct he just couldn’t curb, and when he noticed what he’d done, he’d growl and advance.

His arms would go around Neil’s waist, and as if on reflex, Neil’s arms would encircle his shoulders. As soon as Neil’s feet were off the ground, Andrew would spin him, shake him, twirl him around. Aggression without being aggressive. No matter what had led to it though, it always made Neil laugh. It cracked him open in moments and any anger, or fear, or anything that had been there before was overridden like a rejected program.

It was one of the things that came so very close to making Andrew smile.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

Because someone else was holding Neil in their arms.

Someone else had rushed to Neil, wrapped him up, and plucked him right off the floor.

Someone else was making Neil produce that laugh that belonged to Andrew.

He didn’t want to smile. He didn’t want to even think about smiling. He wanted his knives and a new place to bury a body because the building downtown had finally finished being built and he couldn’t just throw the asshole into the wet cement like he’d been planning to do.

It only lasted a heartbeat.

Neil was picked up. Neil laughed. Neil started pushing, Neil was let go. But it was long enough.

Something like acid was burning Andrew’s tongue, his usual bouts of anger suddenly doubled, no tripled without warning. His throat closed up around the intense emotion and his stomach clenched in something close to fear. Too close. Uncomfortably close.

He didn’t stay to see what else happened, he turned and walked away.

Fuck, if he saw anyone, even fucking Josten, he was going to start swinging and asking questions never.

He needed a moment. Needed to calm down.

He needed Bee.

It’s not like this was new. He’d felt jealousy before. It was fucking hard not to when you were dating someone pretty and mysterious, and dense. Usually though, it wasn’t bad and it didn’t last long. Neil always noticed and was always so quick to reassure.

Now though, he was in the arms of another one of their teammates. Another person was picking Neil up, but this time there was no laugh.

Andrew could hear protest and he stopped in his tracks. Half way out of the court.

“Seriously, Collins, let me go!” Neil’s voice was calling.

Andrew turned back around, and took the scene in.

Collins and Peterson were standing facing each other, and between them, Neil. Collins had his upper body, Peterson his legs. They were going to throw him and Andrew saw it now.

Panic.

Blind, paralyzing panic.

Neil started to struggle.

“Fuck, Josten! Come on! You let Minyard pick you up.” Collins argued, struggling to keep his grip on Neil. His fingers digging into muscle.

Andrew saw Neil’s mouth open, ready to scream or curse, or... it didn’t matter.

Andrew was there.

Without a fucking word, Andrew rushed the two man hanging onto what was his. His fist struck the back of Collin’s knee and it buckled, the bigger man going down so fast, his grip on Neil faltered, but Andrew was there, catching the red-head’s upper body even as his leg kicked out at Peterson.

“Fuck! Minyard you crazy shit!” Peterson yelled.

Andrew didn’t care.

One second Neil’s stiff body was in his arms, then he was on his feet. Andrew’s back to him, protecting him. This is what he was here for, this is what he did better than anything else in the world. Protect. Keep safe.

Protect.

“You should have let him go.” Andrew said. Voice low.

No knives, he didn’t have a weapon, but he had his fists. It would be enough.

He raised them, ready to move in, but a hand laid itself against his upper back. Neil.

“Andrew. Don’t.”

Andrew didn’t.

He didn’t because Neil needed him not to.

Collins picked himself up, confusion and anger on his face. “What the hell was that for, Minyard.”

There was threat there, but Andrew wasn’t going to fall for it.

“You should have let him go.” Andrew said again. “Don’t touch people without their permission.”

“Fuck, man. I was congratulating him.” Peterson complained.

“You grabbed a man with PTSD and wanted to swing him around by his arms and legs.” Andrew pointed out.

That got the two bigger man to pause.

They knew Neil’s story. Everybody did, even to this day, the news still probed at what had happened to The Butcher of Baltimore. What happened to cause Nathaniel Wesninski’s scars. What happened to cause ‘Neil Josten’.

“What, you’re fucking jealous? We can’t touch your man?” Peterson sneered, but stopped when Collins put a hand on his arm. “What the fuck?”

“Dude. Don’t. He’s got a point.” Collins said, sympathy on his face. Andrew hated that look.

“Don’t give me that. We weren’t doing anything.”

Neil’s hand rested gently on Andrew’s shoulder, but Andrew had already made up his mind to speak.

“Yeah. I was jealous. Stay the fuck away from him.” Andrew’s glare was menacing, his reputation more than enough to keep most people away.

Not Peterson though.

He was just lucky Collins was his friend. Anyone else would have just let what happens happen.

Instead, as Peterson opened his mouth to speak, Collins’ hand covered it.

“Alright. It’s alright, Minyard. I get it. We’re fine. Come on, man. Let’s go.”

As Collins pulled Peterson away protesting, Andrew’s shoulders finally relaxed.

“So... you were jealous?”

Neil’s lilting voice teased at Andrew, but Andrew wasn’t about to feel shame or regret. He’d done away with those useless things a long time ago.

“Yes.” Still, just because he could admit to it, didn’t mean he was going to explain why. Not that he needed to. Neil didn’t even ask.

“Okay. Come on, I know we still have some ice cream left at home and Sir and King probably got into our room again.”

When Neil reached out, a question in his touch, Andrew’s finger intertwined with his in answer.

It wouldn’t be the first time he got jealous.

Fuck, next time they saw Boyd, the asshole will probably pull the same shit Peterson did, only Neil would react better to Boyd than he did to the two assholes.

Andrew sighed, almost resigning himself to it now that the idea popped into his head.

Hell, maybe he’d get to pop Boyd in the jaw. It’s been a while since he did that.

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