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Game nights are nerve-wracking, then adrenaline-pumped, then endorphin-fuelled as they all gather at Abby’s house for a celebratory dinner (and on those rare occasions where they lose - rare , these days, and Neil couldn’t be more happy with their performance, the freshmen good for being freshmen and the team more united than ever save for Jack and Sheena - they gather to mope and drink themselves silly). Tonight is one of those celebratory nights, and really, everything is perfect. All of the original Foxes are gathered, not yet lost to graduation, and the freshmen save for Jack and Sheena (and thank God, honestly, that they decided to fuck off somewhere else) have elected to join them after being brought into the fold. They’re not nearly as important to Neil as those first eight who’re still around since he met them, and they probably never will be, but they’re kind, and funny, and they work hard . Neil can respect that, if nothing else.
Abby roped him and Aaron into helping the second they crossed the threshold, so Neil’s tending to a pan of meatballs drowning in tomato sauce while Aaron grates parmesan into a pile the size of a small mountain that probably still won’t be enough to last them through dinner. Neil scrapes along the inside edges of the pan to keep anything from burning, adding another pinch of oregano, as he tunes into the conversations happening in the living room behind him. He can’t make most of them out, mostly hearing Nicky tell his funniest anecdotes (which Neil’s heard fourteen times over, by now, but no one has the heart to tell him to shut up about them - and, well, they usually are funny), but Dan is bellowing loudly, and when he glances over his shoulder Matt looks proud and giddy so he’s probably the reason, and below that, in lower tones, Andrew and Robin are saying something including the words ‘best’ and ‘work hard’ and ‘try’. Neil struggles to imagine Andrew giving a motivational speech (mostly, Andrew motivates Neil by telling him he ‘can do it’, he’s ‘capable’ and ‘strong’, but in a voice like this is already obvious and Neil is an idiot for not believing it already - which does work) but smiles at the idea. Andrew’s really taken Robin under his wing since she arrived and proved herself worth working with. They have some sort of deal, but it’s none of Neil’s business so he’s just letting them handle it.
“What’s got you so zoned out?” Aaron asks, in an almost not-unkind voice. Neil considers it progress.
“Just glad to be here.” And he really is. He almost can’t believe he expected to be buried in fifteen separate, unmarked graves by now just last year, except for on his bad days where the reality and the memories and the feeling of inevitable, premature death become all too clear.
Today, however, is a good day. He’s in awe of his own good fortune.
Aaron looks like he wants to roll his eyes but can’t bring himself to. Neil thinks, again, progress . “Whatever. Aren’t those done by now?”
“I think they are”, Abby says as she waltzes into the room. “Let me check on them for a second. And Aaron, I think that’s enough parm.”
“For Matt and Matt alone, yeah”, Aaron snorts, but lets go of the grater.
“These are perfect”, Abby says about the meatballs, pleased smile warming her expression. “I’ll tell the others to get seated, would you two mind helping me bring the food in?” As if they could ever tell her no.
Everyone’s pulling their chairs in and excitedly tapping with their silverware against the dining room table when Neil comes in to set down the pan. Wymack, sitting in the middle on one side, leans to the side to let Neil place it on the charred wooden trivet, and that’s when it happens.
“HOLY SHIT!” Nicky screams, and it startles both of them. Neil jumps back from the table, pan still in hand, and Wymack raises his arm. The collision is unavoidable, and Neil sees it coming in the third-of-a-second before it does.
He’s seven years old, and he’s sitting on two pillows piled, one on the other, on his chair so that he can reach his cup comfortably. It’s four PM, tea-time in the Wesninski household, and most of his attention is focused on the platter of sugar cookies just out of his reach.
“Patience, Nathaniel”, his father says. He’s got papers spread out in front of him, eyes never leaving the words written on the pages, words Nathaniel knows he wouldn’t understand even if he could read upside-down. His father does very important work. He’s always working, never has time for anything else besides at tea-time most days, so this is one of few times Nathaniel ever sees his father happy. The other times… The other times, he’s inconvenienced him, or he’s slighted him, is his father is simply, plainly bored.
Nathaniel rubs his chest uncomfortably at the thought. The material of his sweater chafes against the bandages wrapped around his ribcage, but he can’t remove them because his momma would get mad and sometimes, when she sees what’s underneath, she cries. She’s been in such a good mood today and Nathaniel doesn’t want to ruin it. The air is rarely this breathable at tea-time - there’s simply so many things he might end up doing wrong, and if he does then he’s got his father’s iron-like grip around his arm pulling him down the stairs and Nathaniel hates being down there so much, hates punishment so much.
So he’s trying to be good. He’s doing well, too, and his father smiled at him when he entered the room and got seated at the table, even said “well, aren’t you handsome today”, and Nathaniel preened and has tried not to run his fingers through his styled hair the whole time he’s been here.
To his left, his momma smiles at him. She’s holding her cup properly, pinky lifted and all as she brings it to her lips. After taking a sip, she says “I think the tea has cooled down enough for you now, Nathaniel”, and “you can have three cookies, okay?” and Nathaniel, understandably, is more interested in the latter part.
He leans forward too quickly, the pillows underneath him shifting unexpectedly and propelling him farther than he meant to go, chest colliding with the end of the table and arm jostling the cup so much it tips over.
He watches, almost in slow-motion, as the hot liquid splashes across his father’s hand, his papers. Watches it soak those incredibly important pages, color his father’s skin a light pink.
Tries not to scream.
His father roars, though, and it’s so loud but Nathaniel doesn’t know how to move, anymore. “You piece of shit!” he yells, picking up the cup and throwing it right at his son. Nathaniel whimpers as it strikes him in the forehead, pressing his face down into the tablecloth, willing himself to stop existing.
He’s wrenched violently from the table, hands unconsciously grabbing hold of the table so that his father has to tug him loose, throwing him to the floor for his troubles. Nathaniel’s head strikes the edge of his chair and he doesn’t fight much, after that.
After he’s strapped to that other table, he can’t, even if he wanted to.
He spends an eternity down there, that day. Three times, a servant descends the stairs and hands his father boiling water. Three times, it’s poured onto his skin.
That’s not really the worst of it.
“Ow, shit!” Wymack exclaims, retracting his arm. Neil stands, frozen, feeling like time itself has stopped. But if it had, then Wymack wouldn’t be moving in his direction and -
The pan clatters to the floor, and Neil is several feet away before he realizes he’s moved at all. But suddenly, he’s half-lying on the floor. He stares at his arms, thrown up in front of him as if to protect him, and on the other side of them is Wymack, looking down at him as if he’s just seen somebody die. No one else is moving, except, someone is, and a familiar flash of blond helps ground him somewhat, helps his heart wrench free of his throat’s clutches.
Andrew moves to stand between him and Wymack, facing him, staring him down with golden-brown eyes and an intensity that sears Neil down to his bones.
Slowly, he brings his arms down. He doesn’t want to move - doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, say, how to explain, how to exist right now - but then he becomes aware of the silence and the over a dozen pairs of eyes on him, and he gets up on shaky legs.
“I…”
“Let’s go outside”, Andrew says, then, in German, “get them talking about something else”, before leading the way out of the room.
The look in Wymack’s eyes is so pained that it steals the breath from Neil’s lungs. “I’m sorry”, he says, then hurries through the open front door, letting it fall shut behind him.
It’s cold outside, but then again, it’s November. Neil doesn’t feel like standing, decides to sit down on the doorstep, brings his legs up to his chest and hugs them close. He presses his forehead to his knees and wills his heart to slow down, his lungs to stop burning. “Fuck.” He wishes his voice didn’t come out so weak.
Andrew settles beside him. Neil can feel that stare burning into him, actually wants to meet it, so he turns his head and does.
Andrew’s gaze is indecipherable, not because it’s apathetic or blank but because there’s so much in it that Neil can’t identify any one thing. It would be easy to just say ‘anger’, but Neil knows that’s not all there is to it.
“What?” he croaks. Andrew doesn’t say anything. When the storm in the other man’s eyes grows to be too much, Neil looks down and notices that Andrew’s hands are shaking. He heaves a sigh and runs a hand down his face. “I fucked up.”
“Shut up”, Andrew demands. “Don’t you fucking -” He takes a deep breath. “Don’t.”
“Is Wymack okay?”
Andrew lifts one trembling hand and forms a fist, looks like he wants to land it in Neil’s face. Neil knows he won’t. “He’s fucking fine, Neil. Jesus Christ.”
“I thought I was - I thought. Fuck.”
“What?”
“I thought I moved on from it. You know that my first week here, living with Wymack, I thought he was gonna hit me? I flinched and he said he’d never hurt anyone who didn’t come for him first. And I - I thought I was past it, my fear of - but - apparently fucking not .”
Andrew hunches his shoulders, pokes at a pebble by his feet. “Of course not. It’s the same as -” here, he takes a deep breath, doesn’t finish the sentence, but Neil knows. “It doesn’t have to make rational sense - it’s not about making sense . It’s about what’s - who’s - hurt you before, and everything at all similar…” He sighs. “It’s not even been half a year since Baltimore, Neil, of course you’re not past it.”
“But Wymack would never hurt me. I know that.”
“Like I said, it has nothing to do with reason. And before you say that stupid thing you want to say, no , Wymack’s not going to be offended , or hurt , or whatever the fuck, so don’t worry about it.”
Neil forces his fingers through his hair. “I just - I - something similar happened before, back then, and I…” he presses his fingertips to his left cheek. “They’re dead, he’s dead , I don’t want him to still affect me like this”, he whispers.
Andrew places his hand on the concrete between them, palm up. An offering. Neil takes it, weaving their fingers together, holding on tightly. Quietly, so quietly he might’ve imagined it, Andrew says,
“I know.”
Then,
“Do you want to go home?”
He waits patiently while Neil thinks it over. “No. I don’t want to - I just. I’m not afraid of anyone here, there’s - I want to be here.”
“Can you be?”
He thinks for another minute. “Yeah. I can.”
Conversation dims for a few seconds when Neil and Andrew enter the room, but then Nicky - with an almost desperate undertone - starts recounting a prank they pulled on Kevin over the summer, for what must be the seventh time, the second time tonight , even, and the others, also almost desperately, cling to the tale.
There’s no meatballs on anyone’s plate, nor are there any on the floor, so they must’ve cleaned up quickly. Everyone’s eating spaghetti with parmesan alone, mixing it in with the salad, and Neil’s amazed that not a single one of them stares at him (they’re staring at each other, or their plates, or random parts of the wall or table, but not at him , and he supposes that’s good enough) as he gets seated, Andrew beside him, across from Wymack.
Wymack casts a quick look at him, and Neil smiles with only some effort, giving a slight nod.
Wymack nods back, solemnly.
When they’re leaving for the night, usually subsequent Columbia trip cancelled, Neil stays back for a little bit. He returns Andrew’s inquisitive look with a steady one, and Andrew makes sure to get the rest of their group to the car.
Abby seems to notice what’s going on, because she moves into the kitchen, and then it’s just him and Wymack.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever completely move past it”, Neil admits, kicking lightly at the carpet.
“No one’s expecting you to, kid”, Wymack responds.
“It’s just, it’s so stupid because - you’re nothing like him.” Neil waves a hand. “You’re not, and I trust you, and I know you’d never hurt me, but.”
“I’m glad to hear that”, Wymack says. When Neil raises his gaze, Wymack is smiling warmly. “I’m sorry I startled you.”
“Yeah, well… I did burn you.”
Wymack shakes his head. “I moved my arm into the way of that pan, that’s what happened. No one’s to blame. Besides, there’s barely a mark, it’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
Neil nods. “Okay.” Then, “What was Nicky yelling about, anyway?”
Wymack huffs a laugh. “He remembered he has an assignment due midnight tonight. Apparently he hasn’t even started it.”
“But he stuck around anyway?”
“He feels guilty, thinks it’s his fault what happened. And he was worried about you. We all were.”
“Well, I’m fine”, Neil says. When Wymack rolls his eyes, he insists. “I am! Just… Well, I’ll get there, anyway.”
Wymack slowly raises his hand, and Neil follows its path with his eyes. It’s a habit they’ve all gotten into, at least with him, to make sure no touch is unexpected. When it lands on his shoulder, he doesn’t flinch, or freeze. The squeeze is reassuring, and it’s nice to be able to feel that way. It feels like progress.
Wymack smiles. “Finally you say something I can believe.”