Chapter Text
Epilogue: death (have mercy)
“There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.”- Bram Stroker
***
Against the snow, Andrew was almost camouflaged, the only thing giving him away was the soft shiver of his fur in the wind and the burnished gold eyes that were as intent as they were intelligent. Focused on the little white house, he watched as the day nurse arrived and busied herself opening up the windows and the blinds, setting the coffee station and toaster to ready. Her footprints to the front door lay like a clutch of words strewn over white paper.
He waited in the cold, waited for a sign of the man who spent his days alone in this house. He’d been sick for nearly half a month now, the day nurse coming and going, coming and going, the only sign that the man was still alive. She would arrive and make breakfast, set a table that was never sat at, play the radio for a few hours, turn the lights on and run a bath that Andrew’s finely tuned ears could just about pick up as water burbled into the tub.
He never caught a peek of the man though, the person he was trying to visit, trying to check on.
Maybe today, he thought, left ear twitching as snow began to fall once more.
The nurse left the kitchen and lights turned on upstairs, so Andrew took a couple steps backward in order to see higher up the house. Andrew would do anything for even a glimpse of mussed hair or a stooped shadow, any sign to let him know how the patient was doing.
Waiting was something he had good practice in – waiting and watching and keeping the monsters at bay – but experience didn’t make this any easier. The last few weeks it had been hard to fend off the bad days, to keep away the memories that splintered like ice off an artic shelf, their broken floes bringing with them flashbacks of Ichirou Moriyama standing with the barrel of a gun to Neil’s temple, wondering whether or not to pull the trigger.
“You are not Nathan Wesninski,” Ichirou had said thoughtfully, and Andrew remembered those awful seconds as Neil’s lips dripped with blood, his breaths rattling from froth-corrupted lungs. Andrew had nestled as close to him as possible – curling his body around Neil’s head, placing his snout in Neil’s fingerless hand. Neil had looked like ruination. Ichirou had watched them like a revelation.
You’re not alone. I’m here. Andrew had tried to tell Neil without words, sure that it wasn’t enough. He could feel Neil’s physical pain like it was his own, could hear Neil’s jackrabbiting heart beneath his skin.
Watching the house felt like those interminable seconds - those seconds that could have been hours for all that they were full of eternity.
For the nineteenth day in a row, however, there was no sign of life from the house – just the bustling of the nurse as she prepared soups and teas, up and down the stairs all day, until a car pulled up the drive and the cycle started anew. Andrew let himself feel the disappointment. Let himself hurt, just a bit. He was improving at that: allowing himself to feel. Neil’s influence – no matter how reluctantly acknowledged – was still indubitable.
As dusk fell, Andrew slipped away from the loneliness and the soft and delicate, dark snow. Tomorrow would be a fresh page.
He used the twilight to hide his shadow, padding into the shade of the forest and then vanishing between worlds, shedding his fox as easily as water dripped from pine needles. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back into place, and began the short walk back towards Fox Tower.
The waste land was a far quieter place now that the night-ghast didn’t leave the Valley to hunt and feed with the same regularity; most of the Hollow Men were destroyed that night in Baltimore – their mortal bodies consumed by the fire set by Matt and Dan – and Riko couldn’t control the demonic hoards without them. The court had lost Moreau and Williams and Jenkins, as well as several lesser Hollows that Renee and Dan had done their best to guide across to the Other Side. Jenkins hadn’t made it – his spider body being devoured by the ghast before Renee could reach him – but the others, from what Andrew bothered to remember, had made it. Jean had even said thank you, his human face beginning to shine through as the Rift carried him onwards.
The same couldn’t be said of the Butcher and his men – they might have banished the Foxes back to the waste land with their bullets and their knives, but in the underworld, the foxes didn’t have to be Ferrymen. Like sirens they could lure men to their final ends, down into the dark and leave them at the mercy of the night-ghast. And for once that was exactly what they did – first Romero, then Lola, then DiMaccio, and finally the Butcher himself woke up in the waste land, and Allison, Matt, Nicky and Kevin were ready. They skulked in, prowling around those wretched souls, guiding them straight into the hungry maws of the night-ghast. There would be no afterlife for them. Some people simply didn’t deserve a redemption arc, a chance of salvation or reincarnation or whatever happened when souls crossed the Rift.
Andrew was almost sad to have missed hearing their final screams, seeing them going under. From what he understood, none of the Foxes ever felt worse for it.
But regret was for other people. And going back to Neil, pushing once more through the veil and finding his way to Neil’s side was never something he would regret. He might have missed the Foxes taking their vengeance (which in his opinion was simply repayment in kind for all the evil the Butcher had wrought upon so many hundreds of people, Neil included), but he’d been with Neil as he desperately clawed through the grass away from the Wesninski house. He’d been with Neil as Ichirou’s polished boots gleamed against every step in the ash-coated drive. He’d been with Neil as the sun blazed down on them both, as the sky burnt blue, and as Neil faced his death yet again.
When Ichirou had lifted the gun from Neil’s temple, when Neil had let out a broken sob at the quick end being denied him, Andrew had never wished more to be alive again, to have a body in the real world. His beautiful broken boy was beyond pain, beyond hope, tired, so goddamn tired. Why couldn’t Ichirou just pull the trigger?
“You’re his son. I don’t have to kill you,” Ichirou had said. “You’ve been to the underworld and returned, I’m sure we could find a use for you.”
Walking back across the waste land, Andrew closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, counted to ten, exhaled.
Unlike the Foxes who slept easily at night, content with their decision to see the Butcher and his legacy ended, Andrew regularly found his waking thoughts riddled with the memories of those moments – when Ichirou offered Neil life and Andrew could only nudge his nose at Neil’s bloodstained skin because he would never ask anyone to choose death. Not for him.
Andrew pinched his brow, tried to push the memories away.
Things were different this time. This wasn’t the same thing. He kept telling himself over and over, kept telling himself he wasn’t actually hoping to see a soul crossover.
Fox Tower loomed large, its shadow reaching out to him as if in welcome. He could hear chatter on the wind – laughter – careless, care-free sounds that seemed at once familiar and entirely alien in the otherwise empty landscape. His shoulders beginning to ease the closer he came to the tower, he could see Nicky and Erik in their window waving down and he raised a jaunty two fingered salute. He entered through the side door, taking the stairs two at a time. With every step, he felt a little less like he was standing on the brink, threatening to fall; a little more like his memory was the moonlight to illuminate the path home.
The apartment was silent when he arrived, but not empty.
A small red fox was curled on the sofa, black paws and tufted ears twitching in sleep. Its muzzle was scarred, a white patch like a cloudburst over one eye. It was one of the oddest-looking foxes Andrew had ever seen. He still wanted to scoop it up close and run his hands through the thick, soft fur like he had a hundred times the winter previously.
Carefully, Andrew stopped the door from slamming and tiptoed across the room to perch on the end of the sofa, brushing along the fox’s left leg with one finger. The animal was awake in an instant, its uncanny blue eyes sharpening on Andrew as it startled to its feet, teeth showing. Less than a second later, it was almost like the small creature was smiling, sitting back on its hind legs and curling the full, black tipped tail around to its front with a proud expression in its gaze.
“So you cracked it,” Andrew said. “Took you long enough.”
The fox tipped its head, tongue flicking out to lick its own nose. Despite the scars and the odd patterning, the fox was slim, long-legged, handsome. And clearly far too smug with itself.
“Preening doesn’t suit you.”
The fox rolled its eyes and stood to butt its head first against Andrew’s leg, then up against his jaw. It was nice. It wasn’t enough.
“Turn back,” Andrew said.
Neil did. One minute there was a long snout and pretty whiskers brushing Andrew’s chin, the next a slightly crooked nose and skin warm enough to feel despite the distance. Neil pressed a tiny kiss to Andrew’s jaw before pulling away with a wide grin.
“I can do it without getting stuck now,” he said simply, like it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world.
“Well done,” Andrew drawled.
Neil wasn’t fazed by Andrew’s lack of apparent interest, he could hear the affection. And it really had taken Neil an age to crack the transformation – an unfortunate side effect of being suspended between life and death one too many times, electrocuted, and shot in the head. It had meant that the previous winter Neil had spent almost all of his time stuck in the shape of a fox, and taken Wymack weeks to figure out the magic that allowed Neil to turn back. Since then Neil and Coach had spent hours trying to work out a way that meant the newest fox wasn’t incapable of transforming back and forth as easily as everyone else. Finally, it looked like Neil was really one of them, his magic stable, his soul steady.
Andrew reached out and smoothed back the curls from Neil’s face, letting his hand rest there when Neil nuzzled into his touch.
“How was Aaron?” Neil asked, letting his head be guided to rest against Andrew’s thigh.
Andrew hummed. He didn’t know what to say. Aaron was ill. Katelyn was doing her best. They were both old though and even their youngest kids were grown-ups with grown-up jobs that meant they couldn’t come to visit as much as they wanted. Aaron had done a good job with them, his tribe of foster children, making them into a real family. In that sense, he was like Coach, handing out second chances like some kind of bleeding heart to people who didn’t even appreciate until it was almost too late. Still, the fact that Aaron hadn’t even made it downstairs since his operation… it made Andrew’s chest tight.
“Bad day?” Neil asked.
Andrew nodded.
“Do you want me to give you space?”
Andrew shook his head, reached out a tired hand. “No. Stay.”
They stayed curled together, Neil’s head in Andrew’s lap, Andrew’s hands in Neil’s hair. No one else was ever witness to this part of their relationship, and Andrew would never say out loud how much he liked that they could be soft, that someone understood and respected his quiet. However, when Andrew heaved his fifth sigh in as many minutes, Neil stirred enough so their eyes could catch and hold.
“You know it’ll be okay. You said Katelyn and Andrea seemed pretty positive when you overheard them the other week, that they caught the problem in time and he’ll be alright.” Neil said, voice barely a murmur. “He’s going to be okay.”
Andrew hummed again, stroking his fingers through the unruly auburn waves. He knew all this, logically, but, “I don’t know what I find harder – the idea of him dying or of him being fine.”
They were big words, full of feelings that Andrew wouldn’t express to anyone except the man at his side. How could he explain to anyone else how much he wanted his brother to live, yet also how much he yearned to close the distance between them at last?
“I think that’s okay too,” said Neil.
Maybe it was. Maybe Andrew just wasn’t used to things being so simple when conflicted, to emotions being so messy and yet still perfectly acceptable. He was a decisive person, he knew himself. Or he had until Neil. “You bring out the worst in me,” he said.
Neil grazed the top of one finger along Andrew’s forearm, “Personally, I disagree.”
Andrew took the moment to shift their positions, to drop down into the seat and rearrange Neil so he was sat astride Andrew’s legs. Neil was loose-limbed and pliant, going where he was guided, happy to let Andrew be in control. He cupped Neil’s chin.
“Kiss me,” Andrew told Neil, thumb stroking along Neil’s lower lip.
Neil did, leaning in and pressing his hungry mouth to Andrew’s.
Over the last two years, Andrew and Neil shared thousands of kisses – some desperate, some bruising, some gentle, some healing. All of those kisses made Andrew burn, made him feel full with desire, complete like a key turning in its lock. Sometimes they just kissed for the sake of kissing, kissed because they could and they wanted to, kissed because they needed to know the other was there, was solid and real. Sometimes they kissed because they wanted more – and those kisses inevitably led to Neil becoming a weak mess under Andrew’s touch, Andrew’s starving and vicious mouth taking Neil apart and holding him on the edge until neither of them could take it any longer.
The kiss Neil gave Andrew today was one of those that bordered the line between affection and neediness. And as Andrew palmed over Neil’s thighs, tugged hips closer by belt loops, they both knew exactly where it was going.
Shirts were quickly discarded, lips trailing over clavicles as hands danced down scapulas. Yes. They moved in unison, seeking out the familiar lines and ridges of each other’s bodies; Neil had never stopped being enamoured with Andrew’s shoulders and biceps, Andrew couldn’t get enough of Neil’s thighs and ass. Yes. Fingers traced over scars, ragged edges soothed by sandpaper promises and months of letting each other push behind their walls. Yes. Neil was the first to let out a little gasp as Andrew grazed the sensitive bud of his nipple, suckled on the spot below his ear. Andrew was the first to take it further, to find Neil’s zipper and push jeans down narrow hips, to push his hands into Neil’s boxers. Yes. Andrew ground his palm against Neil and relished the mewl that escaped those lips; of course, there was no way that Neil wasn’t going to play his part as a natural instigator, and dragged his mouth down Andrew’s throat with a quiet question: blow me?
Andrew had plans far larger than a blow job but the thought of Neil’s cock in his mouth was one he was never unhappy about – he shoved Neil so their positions were reversed and then sank to his knees between Neil’s parted thighs. Fuck he loved those thighs. He dragged Neil’s jeans off entirely, thankful not to be hampered by shoes or socks. Neil panted above him, eyes the blue of flax fields, the scars across his abdomen wimpling like wind between wild stems.
Andrew directed Neil’s hands to his hair. “Shoulders and above,” he said, before his hand set a rhythm that his mouth quickly followed, cheeks hollowing, tongue assured.
Neil came apart like rigging after a hard voyage, expert hands uncoiling his lines, loosening his sails. He submitted under Andrew’s tongue, threw his head back, hands stroking and clutching at Andrew’s hair. It didn’t take long for before Neil’s hips stuttered, every other breath catching between a moan and a whimper. This was what Andrew adored. In so many ways, they were opposites. Neil was the unstoppable force, Andrew the immovable object. Yet when they met in the middle it was irresistible – not because there were explosions or world-ending collisions, but because when they pressed against each other it was an act of surrender, because Neil would stay for Andrew and Andrew would bend for Neil. And god did that feel good.
When Andrew pulled his mouth away with a small pop, Neil’s grip became painful.
“Using my fingers, yes or no?” Andrew asked.
Neil’s eyes fluttered open, smile at the edges of his mouth. “God, yes.”
Andrew rolled his eyes at the phrasing but snuck his hand into the drawer of a side table where they’d left lube only days before. Lowering his mouth back to the pink head of Neil’s dick, he licked along the crease and bobbed down, his cool fingers dipping lower. When Andrew pushed inside, Neil shivered and tensed briefly before Andrew’s mouth distracted him enough to relax. This was still new to them – sex still being something they worked up to and were cautious with – but Neil was a fast learner and responsive in a way that Andrew found as fascinating as he did erotic. The noises Neil made, the way his body twitched and tensed, the way he totally gave himself to the moment and to Andrew.
The noise Neil made when Andrew hit that spot inside him made Andrew hum with satisfaction, sending Neil’s hip up and his cock deep into Andrew’s throat. He swallowed around him, humming again and Neil lost his grip on language. Started to babble words that could be prayers or curses or Andrew’s name. Andrew shifted and pulled Neil’s legs over his shoulders to achieve a better angle and all Neil could do was writhe and swear, words hitching like a sob.
Andrew was hard in his pants, uncomfortably so, and he used his free hand to take himself out, to start stroking in time with the push of his fingers inside Neil.
When Neil heard the tell-tale sound of Andrew’s zipper, his eyes slitted open, a look crossing his flushed face that was all want, all need. “Andrew, will you fuck me? Do you want to?”
Even now, he avoided that word, even though it was written plain as the stars in the sky.
“Yes.” Oh yes, Andrew was going to take Neil slow and hard, take him to the brink and make him beg.
Andrew added another finger and Neil’s spine arched off the cushions, his perfect hips, his perfect fucking legs.
Shunting them both round so that Neil ‘s body wasn’t half off the sofa, Andrew shucked his jeans to the floor and gave Neil the time to place a pillow beneath his lower back. They were lined up, Andrew rubbing right where Neil wanted him to without penetrating.
“Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.” Neil once said that he felt his heart was trying to tattoo Andrew’s name on the inside of his ribs. Andrew had kissed the stupid words out of his mouth, silently admitting that Abram was a name as true to him as the stars, as the Rift, as the sunset dipping pink over the horizon.
He pushed into Neil with care, stroking along Neil’s legs with his hands, kissing the calves thrown over his shoulders, making sure never to leave that weeping cock alone for too long. Neil exhaled and let him in, his body taking Andrew like it was the most natural thing in the world, for two people to be so close, so intertwined.
A glutton for sensation, Neil was the one who rocked downwards, driving Andrew deeper and making both of them hiss with a mix of pain and pleasure. Andrew’s eyes met Neil’s, and the shiver that ran between them was summer rain and winter sun, an arc of iridescent colour through fog, something impossible and otherworldly, the kind of awe that made you want to believe in god.
“Fuck,” Neil said as he tensed around Andrew and made Andrew’s eyes narrow. “God, move, Andrew, move.”
True to his silent word, Andrew set a pace that was punishing slow, he found the angle to drive Neil into pure wantoness and hit it over and over. Tears began to prick along the edges of Neil’s lashes, his skin glimmering dew-damp and golden. Andrew leant down to kiss a bead of sweat as he rolled down his jugular, felt the pulse hammering there and smirked. Neil’s hand caught his hair and guided their mouths together, the angle awkward but perfect and Andrew’s breathing became heavy. He pushed forward and drove harder, capturing the keen in Neil’s throat as it rose.
Andrew’s jaw ached, his shoulders and spine feeling tangled and tight, but he stayed to kiss Neil, to keep stealing those delicious sounds from Neil’s mouth, to stop the floodgate of filth that he knew was just waiting to escape. Neil’s mouth would be the end of him, he was as sure of that now as he ever was.
But then Neil gasped, made a sound that Andrew knew meant he was close to the edge and he pulled back, pressed his fingers against Neil’s. It was a sight he’d never tire of, a feeling of that tongue wetting his fingers, sucking and hot – Andrew’s pace faltered but he found it again a moment later when Neil nipped at his index. It was enough. With a spit slicked hand, Andrew fisted Neil’s cock.
“Feels so good, so fucking good, you’re so good. Andrew. So hot, so good.”
Neil had far too much grip on the English language for Andrew’s liking and his thrusts became faster, harder, pounding with a beat that was strong enough to move the sofa a couple inches.
They flew for a moment – their world narrowed down to the places where their bodies melded and melted and moved together. Neil’s hand reached for Andrew’s shoulders, dragging him in closer, deeper, his eyes wild and so bright. They both hit their peak at the same time - with a cry, Neil babbled something nonsensical, let out a cry and came undone with Andrew following him over the edge moments later with a groan that he felt the whole way through his body.
When they came around, maybe moments, maybe hours later, Andrew felt like he might have seen the Other Side. He felt hazy and heavy, complete inside Neil. Neither of them moved as their breathing evened, as their hearts slowed to a matching rhythm.
Not for the first time, Andrew realised that he had changed – he wanted to hold Neil closer, to keep him tight against his chest where he’s safe and warm, his skin flushed a delicate pink, his freckles like constellations that he could spend eternity memorising.
But Neil pulled away first, not going far, just easing his legs off Andrew’s shoulders, wriggling to wrap his arms around Andrew’s back. Andrew’s head rested on Neil’s scarred chest, his cheek against the iron brand. Neil’s hands carded through his hair, gentle and happy. There was a smile on his face when Andrew peered upwards, so sweet that Andrew’s chest squeezed with an emotion that was everything he never thought he’d have.
“Do you want me to come with you tomorrow?” Neil asked, finally. And the emotion only grew stronger. So much stronger it almost hurt, exquisitely.
Andrew eased himself onto his elbows so he could look down at Neil, the impossible flame of his hair, the guileless blue of his eyes, the too-muchness of Neil Abram Josten – runaway, fighter, fox. Andrew nodded. “Yes.”
Neil’s joy matched the sunrise – gentle colours and full of warmth – and Andrew traced his jaw with one thumb. There was a silent question in the gesture and Neil closed his eyes and leant in to give his answer. The kiss was brief as a butterfly and just as beautiful.
Tomorrow, he and Neil would pad their way to the world of the living, Andrew white as the snow and Neil with his carnation red coat and scarred muzzle. They would traipse across the paper-white earth, leaving behind a looping and twined trail of tiny paws that printed their story into the snow as they crossed over the lip of the world together.
Perhaps Aaron would finally look out of the window or come out to see the snow. Maybe he would look out across the fields and see the two foxes. Maybe he would raise a hand to them and smile, as he had the winter before, when Katelyn pointed them out to him. Maybe he’d know his brother was still here, still happy to wait. Maybe he would see the bright gold eyes and recognise them as the twin of his own.
Andrew wondered what Aaron would think of Neil when they met. Would they get along? Would Neil drive Aaron as mad as he did Andrew? Andrew looked askance and his rabbit and rolled his eyes. Of course, he would, there was no one in the world as irritating as Neil – and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Andrew kissed Neil’s nose, smiled when he felt Neil’s huff against his throat.
And Andrew, for once in his long, long death, acknowledged the warmth in his chest as purest, sweetest, happiness.
Outside, winter hung on the horizon, fresh and clear and glittering.
It was forever, ready and waiting.