Ask and you shall receive. Thank you for the love! Stay scrunching babes.

Here are Part 1 and Part 2 of the high school AU for your reference, but this can still be read as a stand-alone 🙂

CW: Mild violence, underage drinking, implied self-harm, mention of a sexual relationship between a sixteen year old and a nineteen year old 

****

The thing about Andrew is that he finds it incredibly difficult to say no to Neil.

When he says he wants to steal a car and frame a senior for drug abuse, Andrew says okay. When he says he wants to watch Megamind again because it’s just so ridiculous and fun, Andrew says fine. When he says he wants to try out for the track and field team and asks Andrew to join him, Andrew says you owe me one.

The sun is blinding white. Sweat drips down his brow and soaks through his armbands. The sunscreen Neil made him put on is melting off his skin like butter. Summer is abhorrent, but he supposes it beats contracting hypothermia and frostbite. Winter is his least favorite season; it’s Neil’s favorite though, because he is a heathen. 

Neil winds down to a stop near him, face flushed and hair sticking to his forehead. He’s the kind of person who doesn’t keel over after running a long distance, and Andrew rather hates him for it. 

“Time?” he pants out. 

“Three-twenty-one.”

Clicking his tongue in displeasure, Neil rests his hands on his hips. His chest heaves as he tries to regulate his breathing. 

Andrew passes him his water bottle and he guzzles it down. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyebrows scrunched together. “It’s not good enough.”

He looks captivating, red-cheeked and glistening with sweat. He wears anger well too, his eyes lit up even through the brown contacts, his plush lips hardened.

“Your sprint times are far above average.”

“But if I want to make the cut -” 

“You will have to be able to run 800 meters in less than three minutes,” Andrew interrupts. “I know.”

Neil huffs, looking away. 

“You do not need to be the fastest runner in order to join the team.”

Neil’s face unfolds, his anger slowly drained out of him like air from a punctured tire.

“You have been practicing and steadily improving over the past few weeks.”

Andrew curls a finger into the fabric of Neil’s damp t-shirt.

“Stop worrying so much. You will get grey hair by the time you’re eighteen if you don’t.”

Neil turns his face towards him, eyes twinkling with amusement. Quiet triumph rushes into Andrew’s chest like a rising tide.

“Such an inspiring pep talk. Ever considered a career as a motivational speaker?”

“I should start charging you for my services.”

“Are Snickers bars an acceptable form of payment?”

Andrew hums, tugging Neil’s shirt as he pretends to consider it.

“Only if you add a few Mars bars.”

“I’ll even give you some Whatchamacallits as a bonus.”

Neil places his bottle on the ground, starting his cool down routine. He does another circuit along the running tracks, jogging slowly. A few paces away from Andrew, he bends forward to touch his toes.  

The thing about Andrew is that he is always watching. This has never been a problem, but this – this thing with Neil – 

It’s definitely a problem.  

He is sweating profusely now, a different kind of heat snaking around his body like poison ivy. 

It’s cumbersome, he thinks, being sixteen.

When Neil finishes his series of stretches and straightens up, Andrew shoves the stopwatch into his hand. 

Neil pockets the watch, raising an eyebrow. “So? Have you decided what you’re trying out for?”

“Who said I was going to try out?”

“You did.”

Andrew exhales through his mouth; an inaudible sigh. They could have been sparring at the gym instead of wasting time here on the school field. But Andrew has yet learned the complex art of saying no to Neil, so here he stands, getting sunburnt and telling Neil that he might try the shot put or discus throw.

Sweat sluices down Neil’s temple and cheekbone, dripping off his chiseled jawline. Most of them are still shedding off their baby fat; Neil, on the other hand, looks like he could use some more meat. 

“You’d be great at them,” he says with a nod. “You have really strong arms and shoulders, after all.”

Andrew doesn’t know how he can say that with a straight face and mean it. He also doesn’t know when Neil has become more accustomed to telling truths than lying. A few months ago, prying truths out of each other had been excruciating, like a pickaxe to the teeth. Nowadays, they trade honesty like a second language. 

“Do you want to ask the office if there’s a way we can borrow the equipment?” Neil asks, because he’s a single-minded fool when he’s determined. No kid in their right mind would spend their summer conditioning themselves for a track tryout.

Andrew gives the ghost of a shrug. Going to an air-conditioned indoor space sounds appealing enough.

The lady at the office, however, peers at them over her glasses and states that the gym and all of the field equipment are not for use during summer break.
Andrew exchanges a glance with Neil. Neil then plasters on a charming smile and thanks the clerk.  

Outside, Andrew tosses Neil’s wallet at him – he had been holding onto it for him when he ran. Neil is now fishing out a folded napkin from it; Andrew knows that it contains two pins. After slipping his wallet into the pocket of his shorts, Neil leads them towards the store room where all the sports and field equipment are. 

Ten minutes and one busted lock later, they’re back on the field, this time at the discus cage. Andrew tests the weight of the disc after a light warm up. He gives it a few throws, letting his body get a feel for the motion. 

“What do you think?” Neil asks.

Andrew hums, non-committal. 

The tryouts are at the beginning of the upcoming semester. Bizarrely, they’re important to Neil. They’re not important to Andrew, but he’s made Neil a promise. 

So he lets his sweat drench through his clothes and lets the sunlight kiss his skin – because it’s the tail-end of summer, because he is a boy. 

*

They both make the team. 

Neil draws attention with his 100-meter and 400-meter dash times, as Andrew had predicted. The coach says that with a proper conditioning and practice regime, not only will he be able to qualify for regionals – he will also be able to literally leave other runners in the dust.  

Andrew draws attention with his inability to expend a single fuck. Apathetically, he had hurtled a shot put ball and a disc during tryouts. He had been drafted into both events, but he could tell that it almost hurt the coach to sign him on. Truly, his reputation precedes him. 

The good thing about making the team is that it’s made Neil happy. And when Neil is happy, Andrew is… well, he isn’t unhappy. 

The bad thing about it is that while he is straggling near the shot put area, Neil is on the other side of the field with the rest of the sprinters.  

He doesn’t appreciate having to stand under the sun for an extended period of time without Neil by his side to whisper scathing commentaries about their teammates and keep him entertained. 

He does, however, derive some satisfaction from being able to eye Neil from a safe distance. He thanks the person who is responsible for the invention of short shorts and whatever deity up there that is responsible for Neil’s inclination to wear them. 

He and Neil usually shower after the rest of them have left. Sometimes, they just change out and take showers at home. 

He knows Neil has scars on his body. He’s seen them once; Neil had dragged him to a swimming pool in the middle of the night two weeks into summer break. Neil’s hands had been shaking, clutched around the hem of his t-shirt – but there had been a firm set to his features. He had taken the t-shirt off, and his eyes had been steady and clear when they met Andrew’s.

Neil knows Andrew has scars on his forearms. He’s shown them to him once; Neil had slept over and Andrew had purposely left his armbands on the dresser. His pulse had been snarling like a wounded animal, blood roaring in his ears – but there had been a calm set to Neil’s features. He had flicked his gaze over the thin, systematic marks on Andrew’s arms, and his eyes had been steady and clear when they met Andrew’s. 

Neil’s locker is still across from his. He sees him there every morning before the bell rings, his books tucked under an arm as he waits for Andrew. 

This morning, he has company. Kevin Day – a senior with a superiority complex – towers over Neil with a thunderous expression on his face, backing Neil into a corner. 

It’s an instinct – an automatic decision, embedded deeply into his particles – to haul Kevin by the scruff of his neck and slam him against the lockers. 

Light bounces off the blade of Andrew’s knife, glinting like silver. It’s a switchblade, similar to Neil’s penknife in terms of deadliness. He gave it to Andrew not long after Andrew gave him a copy of his car key. 

When Kevin opens his mouth to speak, Andrew presses it harder against his throat. There is already a crowd forming around them, buzzing with morbid curiosity and mild horror. Andrew’s attention, sharp as his knife, is directed solely towards the terror in Kevin’s green eyes.  

“Andrew.”

One word, and Andrew’s attention is snapped cleanly like a bone. 

“Andrew,” Neil says again. “Hey, it’s okay. We were just talking.”

Andrew tilts his head towards Neil. He can feel him hovering beside him, right within reach.

“Really, we were. I’m not hurt or anything.”

Blood wells onto the edge of the blade, trickling down Kevin’s throat when Andrew pulls back. Wide-eyed and pale-faced, Kevin slumps against the lockers, breathing in heavy relief. Andrew stows his switchblade before any nosy teacher could arrive, and the crowd disperses, disappointed at the anticlimactic resolve.  

Andrew fists his hand in the collar of Neil’s shirt, examining him and making sure that he wasn’t lying about not being hurt. Neil keeps quiet as he takes his fill, and only talks after Andrew releases him.  

“Quite a show you put on.”

Smart-mouthed asshole.

“Next time, let’s save the killing until there aren’t any witnesses around.”

“Next time,” Andrew retorts evenly, “try not to get into trouble.”

“I wasn’t in trouble,” Neil argues. “Besides, I’m perfectly capable of defending myself against Kevin.”

“I am right here.”

They both turn towards Kevin. His face is now contorted in righteous indignation rather than fear as he cups his neck protectively. Andrew’s initial impression of him – back when he was a freshman and Kevin was a sophomore – was that he was handsome. But then he heard him talk and all sense of attraction was effectively snuffed out. 

“What is wrong with you? Who brings a knife to school, anyway? Don’t you know it is against regulations?”

Case in point.

Neil gives Andrew a look, lips twitching. He schools it back into a neutral expression before addressing Kevin. “What were you saying again? Make it quick. I have trig in five minutes.”

“I was saying,” Kevin says through gritted teeth, “that you need to focus on building your endurance. Stop letting other things distract you.”

“And I was telling you that I’m not distracted.”

“You are. You should be spending more time on the field.” Visibly gulping, he darts an anxious glance at Andrew. “Instead, you’re gallivanting around with -”

Andrew takes a cool, threatening step forward. Kevin flinches back, banging his head against the locker. He rubs the back of his head, wincing in pain. Andrew is unsympathetic, and neither is Neil. 

“I didn’t know that being the captain of the track team means you have complete jurisdiction over your athletes’ lives,” Neil says, flat. His hands, though, are balled into angry fists. “Newsflash, asshole: you don’t get to decide how I live my life; I do. Coach thinks I’m doing fine – better, even. I’ve cut down my times by a whole lot, and we’re not even halfway through October yet. Just stick to your pole vaulting and get off my dick.”

Neil storms away. Andrew throws a mocking salute at Kevin before following him towards the front doors. 

The bell rings. Neil is fuming, lips twisted and shoulders squared. He’s pacing back and forth in the parking lot, clenching and unclenching his hands. 

Andrew grabs his elbow, and he immediately goes still. His jutted chin makes it look like he’s pouting. Andrew would be lying if he said that he doesn’t find it endearing.

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Neil says, waspish.

“The other thing that he told you.”

Neil works his jaw, eyebrows knitted.

“He told me to control you, told me to get you to start taking practice seriously. So I told him to fuck off, because you’re not some – some thing that can be owned and controlled like that. And then he starts spouting bullshit like how I shouldn’t be spending so much time with you because you’re a distraction that’s going to get me – and I quote – derailed from achieving my goals.” 

Neil does a good imitation of Kevin, Andrew will give him that.  

He puffs a strand of hair from his eyes, shoulders sinking now that he’s aired all his rage out.

“Andrew?”

Andrew makes a noise of acknowledgment. 

Neil scuffs his sneakers against the gravel, kicking a pebble under someone’s car. His eyes are downcast. 

“I know you tried out because I asked you to, but you don’t have to stay on the team if you don’t want to. I would never force you to do anything against your will.” 

It’s exactly because he says things like this that Andrew doesn’t say no to him. He has always given Andrew a choice, and Andrew has chosen him. 

Andrew reaches out, skimming the tip of his fingers under Neil’s chin. He looks up, and their eyes meet. 

“I know,” Andrew says.

Neil’s eyes soften, pooling with something like relief, something like warmth. Andrew wishes he would stop wearing his contacts.

Andrew drops his hand. Neil steps closer, lightly knocking his knuckles against Andrew’s. 

“You know, we haven’t gone to Five Guys in a while,” Neil says with affected nonchalance. 

They spent a lot of their time there during the break, tossing the free peanuts into each other’s mouth and sharing a tall glass of milkshake and a plate of fries. Andrew didn’t bring Neil around to the house much because Aaron was at home most of the time.

Andrew lifts an eyebrow. “And your precious trigonometry class?”

Neil smiles; a tiny, soft thing that he never shows other people. “I’d rather spend time with you, I think.” 

He meant it to be sarcastic, Andrew knows, but it still makes butterflies flutter up a storm in his stomach. 

It’s exceedingly cumbersome, he thinks, being sixteen and gay. 

*

Working as a busboy at Eden’s Twilight has its perks. 

For one, the higher-ups don’t mind that Andrew and Aaron are under eighteen. For another, Roland occasionally sneaks them free drinks. 

Nicky pretends to be aghast by this, bemoaning the illegality of it all, but he doesn’t put a stop to it. He probably thinks it’s better to have the twins drinking small amounts under his watch than to have them going to wild parties and chugging down a keg of beer.  

Andrew mostly needs the money for his medications, since his insurance doesn’t cover them. The court mandate and misdiagnosis had him ingesting antipsychotics that jumbled his brain chemistry more so than they fixed it. A proper diagnosis after the year-long sentence ended had finally directed him to the help he actually needed, and it had been his choice whether to take it or refuse it. 

He had his reservations, but it was either taking the drugs or drowning in the cesspool of his depression – and the choice had been clear. 

He had surprised himself, with his willingness to give recovery a chance. It’s not like he wants to die; it’s just that he isn’t entirely ecstatic about the idea of being alive. 

The club is packed tonight. Andrew has never been more glad to take his break, skulking off through the backdoor and into the alley. Leaning against the brick wall, he fiddles with the cigarette stick he pilfered from one of the bouncers. 

He had stolen a pack from a foster parent once, when he had been twelve. He had lit one up with a matchstick, taken a single drag, and wrecked his throat with a coughing fit. His eyes had still been watering when he stomped out the cigarette under his fraying sneakers and chucked the rest of the pack into a dumpster. 

He has been thinking of trying it again. He isn’t sure what’s stopping him; maybe it’s because he doesn’t have a lighter, or maybe it’s because he knows Neil wouldn’t be happy about it, since it would be detrimental to his performance on the field. 

Knowing who he is though, he probably wouldn’t ask Andrew to quit. 

With a flick of his wrist, Andrew pitches the cigarette into the trash can beside him. 

The door creaks open. Roland steps out into the night, smiling his cocky smile. He mimics Andrew’s posture, propping a foot against the wall behind him. 

A few weeks after Andrew turned sixteen last November, he had dragged Roland into the store room and blown him. He had choked and gagged, and he had had to use his hand to finish Roland off. 

Before him, Andrew had only ever made out with one boy. It was before the court mandate, back in middle school.  

Experimenting with Roland is safe; he’s easy on the eyes, he understands that there are no strings attached to this arrangement, he knows not to touch Andrew, and he has been patient with Andrew’s inexperience. Andrew could make do without all the amused snickering though.  

The last time they hooked up, however, had been back in February. He knows that Roland has been wanting to know why, his dark blue eyes brimming with curiosity as they follow Andrew around the club on some nights.

“You’ve been distant,” he says. “You don’t owe me an explanation of course, but I have to admit I’m curious.”

Andrew doesn’t even spare him a glance. “And you will remain as such.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t be like that.” Roland’s voice is as light and playful as it always is. “I’ll give you an extra shot tonight if you tell me.”

So much for getting some peace and quiet during his break, Andrew muses detachedly.   

His phone vibrates in his pocket. He swipes it open to find two new texts from Neil.

Fell asleep at my desk reading The Great Gatsby. It’s a stupid book and I don’t understand why we need to read it for class. 

Hope you’re having more fun than I am at work. Good night.

Fondness spreads through his chest like water ripples. It’s an odd sensation, quiet and non-destructive. It’s a novelty he hasn’t learned to shake off, despite the amount of time he’s spent with Neil. 

“Oh,” Roland says beside him, “so that’s why.”

Andrew gives him a blank look, turning his phone screen off. 

Roland holds his hands up in a I-mean-no-harm gesture, lips pulled into a wide grin. 

“Okay, okay, I’m not gonna say anything about it. But I’m happy for you, y’know?” He sighs, wistful. “I remember when I was your age. Those were the days.”

Andrew does not point out that Roland is only three years older than he is. He leaves him in the alley and trudges back to the kitchen, where he narrowly bumps into Aaron.  

He looks at Andrew like he has something to say, but then he hastily averts his gaze and tightens his jaw – a pattern that’s becoming increasingly frequent in the past couple of months. He ducks out for his own break, and Andrew really cannot be bothered to micro-analyze his brother right now. 

There is still a few hours hours left before his shift ends. He has school and field practice tomorrow, and aside from lunch period, he and Neil won’t be able to spend time together – just the two of them – until the weekend. 

Andrew breathes in, then breathes out. 

The thing about him is that he doesn’t really care about staying alive. 

But it’s junior year. He is turning seventeen in less than a month. At the axis of his small universe is a knife-wielding boy with a disarming smile and a scar-littered body. 

Somehow, it doesn’t feel too bad.  

****

Idk how this ended up as a track & field au

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