pastelanxiete-deactivated201809:
one angsty andreil, just for you, my lovely friend! a little lighter on the fluff than i was aiming for, but what can ya do. also on AO3.
Andrew opens his eyes to the pitch black of their dorm room, unable to move, barely able to breathe. His back is to the wall, his hands are clenched in the sheets, and he is struggling not to bite through his bottom lip. Images of demons past play behind his eyes, so he does his best not to blink. Andrew jumps when Neil makes a small noise in his sleep, and he feels like the walls are closing in on him.
He climbs over Neil, careful not to touch him, and silently makes his way toward the door. He thinks he hears Neil call after him, but Andrew knows he will give him some space. At least for a little while. Andrew leaves the room, fully aware that this is just a feeble attempt at outrunning his own mind.
Neil’s weight beside him is now familiar and can even be a comfort, sometimes. But on the occasions when Andrew’s senses are on overdrive and the smallest movement feels like an avalanche, an earthquake, a fucking planetary realignment, Neil knows better than to take Andrew’s abandonment personally.
Neil’s hoodie is thrown on the back of his desk chair, so Andrew makes his way over to dig out the pack of cigarettes from the pocket. He thinks he could light it with just the fire on the edge of his tongue, but he grabs a lighter from the drawer just in case.
He opens the window with so much force that the glass vibrates harshly for several seconds. Andrew is unconcerned. He watches with disinterest as a small crack forms at the bottom of the windowsill. Whatever. It’s still functional.
He climbs onto his desk and pulls his knees up to his chest, leaning back against the wall before lighting his cigarette and taking a long, slow drag. Andrew wonders if maybe the smoke will clear out the tar in his lungs, if he’ll be able to breathe again. Probably not.
Time passes, and Andrew doesn’t notice. An hour, maybe two. His breath fogs up the window. He stares outside as the sun slowly illuminates the parking lot below. The Maserati begins to take shape, and he has the sudden urge to drive until he can’t anymore. Maybe through the mountains, maybe off a cliff. Who knows.
He must be spending too much time around Neil.
Andrew distracts himself by recalling the highest points of elevation in the United States from a geography book he read in high school. He isn’t even halfway through the list when he hears the bedroom door open. He doesn’t look, but the sound of the door closing lets him know that it’s just Neil. He never lets the door click back into place; he turns the knob and shuts the door, releasing it only when the door is fully closed and will make no noise. Andrew isn’t sure whose sake he does this for. Maybe Kevin’s, maybe his own.
He keeps his gaze trained on the parking lot until he feels Neil approach him. He slowly flicks off the ashes from his cigarette into the small pile he has made on top of Kevin’s history book. Ancient Rome or something equally as useless. Andrew doesn’t care enough to look. He turns his head to see that Neil has stopped a few feet away, running shoes in one hand and a hoodie in the other. He doesn’t say anything, but he extends the hand holding the hoodie, the same one that was on the chair. Andrew looks back to the window and takes note of the layer of frost on the outside. It’s probably a bit above freezing. Funny. Andrew hadn’t noticed.
He reaches out and takes the hoodie. Stares at Neil. Prepares to pry open his jaw and force out a reply to whatever Neil is about to say.
Nothing but My Aching Soul 