#i have neil’s pretty much figured out but andrew’s is still a work in progress | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ravenvsfox · 6 years ago

Text

rockband chapter 5 babey 😈🤘🏻

Neil tilts a record out of the stacks, and the sun catches the sleek surface and shows him his reflection.

“You’re not even in the right section,” Kevin calls. He’s two rows away flipping through rock-punk CDs, looking exhilarated when they fall towards him like dominoes.

The whole store is no bigger than a spacious bedroom, and the shop front is all boxy windows, letting in honeycombs of late-afternoon light. Kevin’s never looked so relaxed, dragging his fingers along the spines of albums, inspecting the equipment behind the till, smiling and chatting with the owner.

“There is no right section,” he mutters, sliding the album back into its slot. “It’s all music.”

“Right,” Kevin says. Neil glances up and finds him unexpectedly close, mouth pursed reluctantly with amusement. “Except we’re not here for all music.”

“What are we actually here for again?” Neil asks, distracted. He can see Andrew waiting outside with his back to them and his arms crossed, serious and stock-still as a bodyguard.

“Inspiration.”

Neil watches Kevin’s face. The crease that’s usually between his brows is only suggestion now, a slouchy, un-tensed line. He’s tolerable like this, Neil thinks, almost impressive, choosing music to feed his creativity.

“You love it here,” Neil accuses. “This is a vacation for you.”

Kevin scoffs. “Like you’re not the same.”

Neil shrugs. There’s an upright piano on the wall and he wants to squeeze the keys in his hands like fingers in a crowd. The sound of voices and tires on asphalt from outside spreads like frosting over the crumbling drumbeat from the stereo. The rusting brown of the wallpaper behind the counter looks almost orange with the full force of the sun on it.

He could live and die in a place like this, head down, hands full of bright new music and dark classics, never in silence, never alone.

"Come look at this,” Kevin says. Neil follows him to the far corner of the shop where there are picked-over alternative CDs and peeling tape labels. He plucks an album from the stack and wiggles it at Neil. “Old school Ausreißer.”

Neil squints at the cover art. “You look like a bad metal band.” The original four are caught in the middle of a set, dressed in all black under a red spotlight, mid-howl. The word Ausreißer is so stylized that it’s almost illegible.

Kevin rolls his eyes and puts the CD back in its slot. “Things change. When we found you you looked like you were on day ten of a bender.”

“I can go back to that, if it’s the look you’re going for. Wouldn’t want to stand out in a band full of junkies and burnouts.”

“Funny,” Kevin says flatly. “Just bring that smart mouth to song writing.” He gathers his little stack of music and a clear box of sturdy picks, and drops them on the front counter to be checked out.

Neil hesitates, swaddled in the darkest, warmest corner of the store, reluctant to splash back out into the cold. He can already see how it will play out: Andrew’s silence and Kevin’s focus, the way they take up so much of the sidewalk that Neil has to fall in behind them or walk in the gutter, the drive home like a never-ending commute to nowhere at all.

He’s listless without a stage, and Kevin won’t let him forget that he’s not a natural born songwriter. He’s waiting for inspiration like that second raindrop after you swear you felt the first one.

His eyes wander and catch on a lurid red flier stapled to the bulletin board above the stacks, and he does a double-take. Foxes. Township Auditorium. Friday, January 25th.

“Dan’s group is playing this Friday?” Neil wonders aloud, and Kevin looks at him over his shoulder, handing bills off to the cashier.

“Oh yeah, the Township gig. I think they’re hanging out in town for a week or so, too.”

“We should go.” He thinks of the way the girls had laughed about their public personas and plastic recognition. He wants to hear them for real, as magnetic and driven as they were at Abby’s, assuring him that they do pop like he’s never heard in his life.

“Waste of time,” Kevin says, accepting his bag with one of his frozen, ken doll smiles and making towards the exit.

“We’re not touring right now,” Neil argues, catching up. “We can take two hours off from the new album.”

“We can,” Kevin says, “but we shouldn’t.”

“And yet you find the time to drink six hours a day.”

“The creative process looks different on everyone,” he grits. They push out into the sunlight and Andrew looks vaguely in their direction, his face chapped from the wind.

“Great. Mine looks like going to local concerts and supporting our label, and you know full fucking well that Wymack would agree with me.” They start walking, Neil leading them in a frantic triangle down main street. Andrew doesn’t ask or care about what they’re arguing over, which is why Neil tells him, “I want to go to the Foxes concert on Friday.”

“Then go,” he says. He’d been chain-smoking while Neil and Kevin were in the shop, and he looks irritable and sick. His pallor has been almost bruised lately, like something’s wringing him out and leaving marks behind.

Neil flips Kevin off and walks further ahead of the group, buoyed by the opportunity to be part of an audience again. He loves the silky anonymity and sway of the crowd almost as much as being doused in lights and held up by a mic stand.

Kevin’s still talking about accountability and wasted talent, but he’s lost his audience.

Neil reaches the van first, parallel parked at a wicked angle. He waits for the muted click of the unlock button, then climbs into the passenger seat. There’s a parking ticket folded over the windshield wipers and Andrew sets them going so that it flutters down onto the street.

“It’s not going to be the same in the crowd as it is onstage,” Kevin says calmly from the backseat.

Neil turns his head. “I know.”

“The fans know who you are now, and I’m not sure you’re ready for what that actually looks like.”

“I’m pretty good at blending in,” Neil says, eyes narrowed.

“You’re not,” Andrew says, pulling jerkily out of the spot without looking and nearly catching a hyundai by the nose. “You’re loud.” Car horns blare on all sides like a chorus of agreement.

“You draw attention,” Kevin agrees grimly. “I’d rather you stick it out in the studio where you can’t get into trouble. And Wymack would agree with me about that.”

Neil watches pedestrians swarm and cars criss-cross beyond the window. “So what, I join a band and now I’m on full-time house arrest?”

“Shouldn’t you be used to keeping your head down, runaway?” Andrew taunts. His hands flash as he makes a left turn, ink spelling yes over no over yes. Neil gives him a look.

“You’re not talking about staying on the move, you’re talking about hiding. And in my experience, your problems catch up with you when you sit and wait for them to go away.”

“I’m not talking about your fucked up past,” Kevin says irritably. “If you want to stumble into the nearest concert, you can, but if you misrepresent us or pull some stupid shit to distract from the set, Wymack will kick your ass. If Dan doesn’t get there first.”

“Don’t worry Kevin,” Andrew says, glancing away from the road to fix Neil with a cool, knowing look. “He has winning impulse control. Right Neil?”

Neil clenches his teeth and ignores him. “I realize that you don’t trust me, but I need you to understand that I don’t care. I’m not going to stay in the cage until you figure out if you’re ready to unlock it or not. I’m not going to live that way anymore.”

“You’re on a team now, and you have to care,” Kevin argues.

Neil scoffs. “Tell that to Andrew.”

Kevin looks pained. “He’s—“

“What? An exception? I’d love to know why I’m held to a higher standard than the person with concealed weapons and an unreliable drug dependency,” Neil says, fuming. Andrew pumps the brakes so that Neil topples forward into the dashboard, then he’s thrown back again when they accelerate. He grips the headrest and seethes, “you’re fucking psychotic.”

“You—“ Kevin starts.

“Kevin,” Andrew says, toneless, barely there, and Kevin stops short. Neil recognizes that easy power, that tongue-biting obedience.

They collapse into strained silence, Andrew looking infuriatingly tranquil, the air around Kevin vibrating with how badly he wants to speak.

Neil thinks about the corner of the music store and that old album, an Ausreißer from back when Neil was still lost in between hotel rooms, when his mother was alive, and she could change the course of his life with just the tips of her fingers. He thinks, things can be so easy and so ugly at the same time.

They get out at Palmetto, Neil wrenching doors closed behind him, trying to feel like he has a raft to himself for once, like he’s not always sharing, feeling for someone else’s shifting weight.

Nicky’s spread between two chairs when he gets to the studio, and Neil’s relieved to see the easy smile on his face. It fractures when he gets a good look at him.

“Oh no. Was it unbearable? I thought music shopping would mellow Kevin out, at least.”

“It was fine,” Neil says, rolling a chair towards the table where they left all of their notes and stray music. He sweeps everything off the table, feeling a vindictive shock when it all settles on the floor; every dangling idea, stagnating chord progression, and experimental piece of garbage.

“Yeah, you seem fine,” Nicky says sarcastically.

“Better,” Neil says, rummaging in the heaps of wasted work until his hand closes around a discarded pen. “I’m inspired.”

_____

The dye burns cold on his scalp. He paints the wispy place above his ears, and tucks it up into the rest of the gummy mess. There’s a dark streak on the porcelain of the sink, and he rubs it with one gloved finger.

Someone knocks at the door, and Neil reaches behind himself to open it. There’s a beat, and a flutter of movement, and then his eyes meet Andrew’s in the mirror.

“Brown,” Andrew remarks.

“You wanted me to tone it down,” Neil says, focusing on smothering his auburn roots and pointedly ignoring the rest of his reflection.

“Don’t put Kevin’s words in my mouth.”

Neil meets his eyes again. “What do you want?”

Andrew doesn’t reply for a long moment, and then he starts to peel down his armbands. It’s like watching a snake shed its skin, and Neil’s so startled to see it happening that he turns around to watch him directly.

He’s expecting the thatch of scars, but it still knocks the wind out of him to see them, tender pinks and whites that nudge all the way up to the ink on his wrists and hands.

Andrew plucks the brush out of Neil’s limp hand and scoops up a mound of colour that looks black in the weak light.

“Head down.”

Neil complies, chin towards his chest, and feels Andrew smooth the dye from just below his ear up into the coil of loose, wet hair. He can feel the damp heat from Andrew’s bare wrists, smothered for most of the day.

“Who put you in a cage?” Andrew asks, and the hair on Neil’s neck stands up.

“What—“

“You said: I’m not going to stay in the cage until you figure out if you’re ready to unlock it. I’m not going to live that way anymore.” He says it robotically, like an automated recording.

“I know what I said,” Neil snaps, starting to look up, but Andrew grips his neck and steers his head down again.

“Then you should be able to explain what you meant. Without lying to me.”

Andrew’s initiating one of their trades, he realizes, baring a secret and nodding at Neil do to the same. He closes his eyes, flinching when the brush makes sudden contact with his neck.

“My mother.” It’s an easier answer than the reality--a web of injustice too thick to see through. A childhood spent escaping from one cell block to another.

The brush stops midway through a glide towards his hairline. “She hurt you?” Andrew asks, low.

“It’s not that simple.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You know better than anyone that protecting someone can get bloody. Our circumstances weren’t--they were never good enough for us to have a decent relationship. But she kept us moving.”

A bare hand curls in his hair, and Neil’s eyes open. His breath catches when he recognizes the hateful look on Andrew’s face.

“Did she hit you, yes or no?”

Neil swallows thickly, trying to focus on the feeling of Andrew’s hand against his scalp. “Yes.” The hand tightens painfully. “But she’s dead now. My parents are dead.” He doesn’t know what drives him to say such a hasty, partial truth, like it has any bearing on the way it felt to be forced to the ground and pinned until his arm broke. Death gets rid of the person, not the memory.

Andrew’s hand drops altogether. He moves into the space at Neil’s side, hip to hip, and rinses his hand under the tap. “If she was beating you, she wasn’t protecting you.”

“You don’t understand what people are capable of when they’re struggling to survive.”

Andrew steps slowly and lethally into Neil’s space. “Yes, I do,” he says, nearly whispering. Neil’s eyes hitch down to his destroyed wrists.

He nods, and Andrew backs off. He feels a strange, remote disappointment watching him move away, like climbing out of a roller coaster and watching it take off without him.

“We’re not keeping you locked up,” Andrew says. “We do not own you.”

Neil shakes his head a little, running a hand over his hair under the guise of checking for dry patches, trying to reclaim the tingling, grounding feeling of Andrew’s fingers.

“Contractually, you do.”

“You’re with us,” Andrew says, “until the second someone abuses your contract, then you leave. We both know you could outrun me if you really wanted to.”

“Maybe,” Neil says, on the blunt edge of a smile. “But you might be able to outlast me.”

Andrew looks at him in the mirror for a long while. “You’re disgustingly stubborn,” he says. “And dense. I wouldn’t count on my ability to put up with you for that long.”

Neil shrugs. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I won’t leave. We have a deal.”

“I just told you—“

“Not the contract. You and I have a deal. And I’m not ready to give it up,” Neil says, and he means it. The tenuous promise of protection, the give and take, the lure of the stage. He’s only grown more and more obsessed with the whole thing.

Andrew wavers. He reaches for his discarded armbands, and takes his time rolling them back up. Neil feels a painful rush of recognition at seeing his scars swallowed up, and he reaches out impulsively to hold him by the wrist. Andrew’s fingers are still ruddy with dye.

“This isn’t a cage. You’re nothing like—it’s nothing like my mother.”

At Abby’s, he’d told Andrew he reminded him of home, the most nightmarish insult he could lay his hands upon. And for a jarring second, Andrew’s commanding relationship with the band had looked like the dynamic between himself and his mother, ceaseless authority meeting senseless devotion. He’s been stupid enough to mistake Andrew’s promises for Mary Hatford’s threats.

At length, Andrew tugs, and Neil lets go of him.

Long after he’s gone, and Neil’s hair is washed out and limp, wet brown, he can still feel the raised scars underneath the fabric of the armband, and beneath that, a curiously rabbiting pulse.

______

And “monster” does not begin

to cover bolts and stitches in my skin

sinew held with safety pins

but you made me

the creature not the man, right?

but this lab coat’s fitting pretty tight

and if you’re living out of spite

are you a person or a feeling,

and would it hurt to look at you directly?

gunshots speak louder than words

but the warning shots you heard

don’t work for people who’d prefer

to die than to live on their knees--

“It needs workshopping,” Kevin says, tossing the notebook onto the coffee table.

“I think it’s great, Neil,” Nicky says. “The Frankenstein stuff is cool, our fans eat that shit up.”

Neil shrugs, and he gathers his notes back up from the table, out of reach from prying eyes. They’re assembled in a loose square in the living room, with Andrew at the window, a cigarette burning delicately between two fingers.

“You call yourselves the monsters so— I don’t know.”

“It works,” Kevin sniffs. “They’ll get it. They’ll like it.” It’s a more generous response than he was expecting, and he knows it’s the most approval Kevin can bring himself to show. “How soon can you match it musically?” he asks Andrew.

“I already have a melody,” Neil interrupts. He stands, walks over to the keyboard Kevin insists they always keep on hand, and presses the ‘on’ button. “It’s not very complex,” he says, walking his right hand over a couple of keys until the power catches up and the notes start to voice.

He plays the song through once, low arpeggiated chords and a sustained, high tenor line. He sings when he can’t help it, crooning until it gets too high to sing softly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Andrew’s fingers drumming against the windowsill.

“You’re right,” Aaron says when it’s finished. “It’s not very complex.”

“Downer,” Nicky accuses. “It’s just keys right now, we can amp it up.”

“Is it worth it?” Aaron complains.

“Yes,” Andrew says, leaning over to put his cigarette out in the ashtray balanced on the arm of the couch. They all look at him expectantly, and he gets up, grabs the music directly out of Neil’s hands, and disappears into his room with it.

“Well that’s a good sign,” Nicky says, bemused. “Guess we’re going to that concert, Neil.” When Kevin opens his mouth to protest, Nicky says, “Wymack signed off on it. Plus we’re making headway on the b-side tracks, and Andrew’s actually working.”

“I’m not going,” Kevin says, crossing his arms.

“Me neither,” Aaron says. “Allison will have our balls if we pull focus from her.”

“So we won’t,” Nicky says. He ropes Neil in by the shoulder and tousles his newly dark hair. “No one will even know we’re there.”

______

Later, Nicky sends Neil to ask for the car keys, and he finds himself standing in the dusk outside Andrew’s room, delaying the inevitable confrontation.

Andrew comes out before he can knock, wearing boots and a black baseball cap, keys clenched in his fist. They nearly collide, and Neil staggers back a step.

“You’re coming with us?” he asks dumbly.

“You and Nicky can’t be trusted alone,” he says. It’s an insult, but it hits Neil like warm water from a shower-head, like relief.

“Did Kevin ask you to do this?” Neil asks, but Andrew ignores him, brushing past into the living room, then the entryway. Nicky pushes off from the back of the couch where he’s been waiting, looking back and forth between the two of them nervously.

“We’re all going?”

“Apparently,” Neil replies.

“Cool. Weird. Shotgun.”

“Neil’s sitting in the front,” Andrew says, cranking the screen door open.

“Family really means, like, nothing to you when Neil’s around—“ Nicky’s saying as he follows Andrew out into the night.

Neil breathes out, lacing his shoes and listening to Nicky chatter circles around Andrew, who is steady and silent, already fixed in the driver’s seat.

He’s been picturing the Foxes concert as that same ambiguous darkness from before he joined the band, skulking in the back of bars and hoping to be caught. Now he imagines Andrew and Nicky propping him up like brackets, a drink he actually paid for, the hair-raising knowledge of what it feels like on the other side of the performance.

Wind shivers through the front door and underneath Neil’s collar. He jams his hands into his jacket pockets—the leather already stiff and unyielding from the cold—squares his shoulders, and opens the door.

______

They’re smuggled in through a door backstage, already late. Nicky clings to Neil’s sleeve so tightly that it pulls down over his hand.

Renee comes to greet them, as unnervingly pleasant as the last time he’d seen her. Neil keeps expecting her even-keeled demeanour to clash against Andrew’s like icebergs meeting, but they only seem to thaw around one another.

Andrew greets her, and she knocks her knuckles into his hand and smiles.

“I’m glad you guys came. Don’t tell her I told you, but Allison’s raring to show off.”

“I bet she is, competitive bitch,” Nicky says good-naturedly. “All you foxes are such a handful.”

Renee seems to be considering whether or not he’s joking when Dan appears at her elbow. “Walk in the park compared to your lot,” she says, smiling sharply. Her eyes flit to Neil and she softens. “Still doing okay, Neil?”

“She means, have we ruined your life,” Andrew says in German.

“Quick, tell her how saintly we are,” Nicky says.

“And lie?” Neil asks in exaggerated German, as if scandalized. “I’m fine,” he says to Dan. “Excited to see a Foxes set.”

It’s a bigger venue than he’s used to, and the energy is intimidating, people whisking past them and calling instructions to one another.

Her smile quirks, and she lets her arm drape around Renee’s neck. “We’ll try our best to impress, then. As usual.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nicky says. “You’re a big deal, we get it. Don’t you have warm-ups to do?”

Dan snorts. “Time off is making you a little mean, Hemmick. You better watch him, monster.”

Andrew stares blankly back at her, and Nicky says, “you try living with Kevin 24 hours a day and tell me how personable you’re feeling.”

Dan winces. “Point.” Someone ducks close and whispers in her ear, and her face flickers through several shades of confusion and annoyance. “Okay, shit. One of Allison’s pegs came loose and her tuning is all over the place. Sound check’s in five, and Matt’s on the wrong side of drunk, but um. The show must go on, I guess.”

Renee ducks out from under Dan’s arm, excusing herself, and Dan squeezes Neil’s shoulder in parting. “See you out there. Try not to get into trouble.”

“Yeah right,” Nicky says, and she aims a kick at his shin. He falls back a step, laughing, as she jogs after Renee. “Hey, rock and roll, Dan,” he calls. “Or whatever it is you guys do.”

He’s still beaming when he loops his arm with Neil’s and steers them towards the door. Neil looks anxiously back at Andrew, but he’s a step behind them as usual.

They wait for a lull in passersby, and then they’re out in the thick of the crowd, pushing conspicuously from the front of the stage to the side of the room. Eyes linger on them and narrow, and his throat starts to constrict until he feels Andrew’s hand thread into the shirt under his jacket, keeping him tethered.

Nicky can’t resist dancing a little to the opener, as obvious as they already are, and he bobs through the aisles, shooting furtive looks back at Neil to see if he’s enjoying himself. The band on stage is too high energy for their low energy song, jumping and twisting to a half-time rhythm.

Andrew’s hand tightens at the small of his back, and Neil glances back to see him eyeing the thrashing drummer with distaste.

“I thought you didn’t care about technique,” Neil tells him over the music, and Andrew tears his eyes away. He’s frowning, and Neil relishes that off-guard little furrow of emotion.

“I don’t,” Andrew says, “I also don’t listen to bad music if I can help it.”

“Guess we must be pretty good, then,” Neil says.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” Neil agrees. “You didn’t.” He knows that it’s true, though. Somewhere past the layers and layers of bandages that Andrew wears, there must be raw flesh. It’s just that Neil can’t tell if he’s healing or rotting underneath it all.

They come to a stop close to the stairs up into the stands, and Nicky gestures at an empty patch halfway up. Most of the crowd is standing already, chaotic, but they climb up into the mess and find their seats, Nicky on the inside and Andrew in the aisle, with Neil sandwiched in-between.

“Our fans are louder,” Nicky leans over to say smugly.

“That’s because they’re trying to keep up with you,” Neil says. “Decibel for decibel.”

“Fuck you,” Nicky laughs. His eyes are bright, and he grips the seat in front of him to get the leverage to see through the masses.

They ride the energy of the crowd to the end of the song, and then the group is hollering goodbyes and filing offstage, and people start to sit down or escape to concession. Nicky relaxes back into his seat and pinches Neil for his opinion.

“I don’t think we missed much,” Neil says.

Nicky shrugs. “Yeah, but we were like that once. You got to skip Ausreißer’s adolescence, Neil, you lucky shit. It was not pretty.”

“Kevin showed me your first album,” he tells him.

“Oh, Jesus,” Nicky groans. “Those were dark times. I used to wear leather biker gloves on stage, like a tool.” He rustles in his inner jacket pocket and produces his flask. “Drink to forget?”

Andrew reaches across to pluck it from his hand before anyone can drink. He unscrews the cap and points it at Nicky. “I know you’re already fucked, Nicky.”

He scoffs, making a messy grab for it that Andrew dodges. “Hardly.”

Andrew swallows a generous shots worth, then passes the flask to Neil. This is familiar by now, sharing space and booze and drugs as a means to an end. They get drunk like they’re grappling down a cliff-face together, connected by rope.

Neil hesitates. There are strangers on all sides and the sick smell of sweat and beer in the air, but there’s something about his back to the wall and a concert ahead that he trusts. This is how he spent the years after his mother’s death, anonymous and drunk, losing control in measured doses like taking medication.

He drinks, the mouthpiece still wet from Andrew’s mouth, and screws his face up at the tartness of the flavour—a salty, lemony vodka. Nicky tries to steal the flask halfway through his sip, so Neil pushes him away by the face.

He and Andrew share the rest of the liquor, and he puts the back of his hand to his face to feel it warming up. It’s a relief, to feel his edges shaved off. It’s like he’s less defined this way, less likely to be recognized.

Stagehands are fiddling with amps onstage and taping wires down, and the buzz of the crowd is suddenly deafening.

“What’s the deal with Renee?” he hears himself asking.

“What d’you mean?” Nicky asks.

“You like her,” Neil guesses, jabbing Andrew with the base of the flask to get his attention. “But she’s nothing like you.”

“She’s one of us,” Andrew says.

“But she’s not, though,” Neil says, half-frustrated and half gawking at his own lack of composure. He wants his curiosity back inside where it can fester and wonder in circles and die. “I thought Wymack only took in strays. Charity cases.”

“You have met her twice,” Andrew says coldly. “How well do you think you can judge a person’s character in that time?”

“Pretty well,” Neil says grimly. He thinks of the cross around her neck and the prim lace of her collar, attention-grabbing hair offset by dark, serious eyes. He saw Matt’s track marks and Allison’s rage before Dan had even whispered their stories to him, but he can’t read anything on sweet, prim Renee.

“Lucky she doesn’t care what anyone thinks,” Nicky interjects. “She’s waiting to be judged by God, I think. Everyone else’s opinions are just… noise.”

He can’t imagine anyone who was really like them believing in God like that, but he bites his tongue.

“Little orphan Neil Josten gets in some trouble and he thinks he knows what rock bottom looks like,” Andrew muses, and Neil’s stomach sinks. “You haven’t even hit it yet.” He looks unfocused, and it occurs to Neil that he might have taken something before they left.

“You’re right,” Neil says. “But you promised that you’d be there when I do,” he reminds him.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Nicky asks. “Neil?”

“Neil?” someone else says, and Neil looks over to see a woman and a couple of scruffy looking dudes frozen halfway up the stairs. His eyes drop to the shortest of the two, who’s wearing elbow-length armbands identical to Andrew’s. “Andrew! Nicky! Oh my god,” he says.

Nicky puts on a winning smile. “Hey!”

“I can’t believe you’re here—like, for real, there were rumours, but—oh my god— “

“He’s completely obsessed with you,” the woman gushes.

“Katie,” he hisses, and his friend shakes him good-naturedly by the shoulders.

“He’s afraid to say it, but—“

“Fuck off—“

“—every single album—“

“That’s very cute,” Nicky interrupts, cocking a flirtatious grin at the guy who’s holding his own cheeks, dismayed.

“We couldn’t believe you were just, like, changing your sound completely,” the taller guy says. “But Neil, man, I see why they’d take a chance for a voice like yours. It’s sick, dude.”

“Thanks,” Neil says stiffly.

“He’s not used to being recognized, yet,” Nicky says apologetically. “You’re taking his fan virginity.”

They titter, and the woman says, “we’re honoured.” She nudges her friend and widens her eyes meaningfully.

“We can’t really hang out though, sorry guys. Low profile tonight,” Nicky says. His smile is less believable by the second.

“Totally,” they chorus.

“I just quickly want to say, Andrew,” the first guy starts, breathless. “I know you get this all the time, but your lyrics saved my life. I couldn’t believe someone understood me like that, and—and you’re my--you inspire--I mean. I’m sorry, I’m so tongue-tied, I—“

“I didn’t write them for you,” Andrew says.

The fan’s face crumples. Nicky looks at Neil, panicked, and then he forces a loud, incongruous laugh.

“Wow, good one,” Nicky says. “He doesn’t mean it, obviously.”

“Don’t I?” Andrew says.

“We appreciate it,” Neil interrupts. “But we can’t talk anymore.“

“Right, sorry, I’m so—“

They urge one another up the stairs, apologizing and thanking them, the one guy looking on the verge of tears through the bars of his friends’ arms, until they disappear up to the next level of seats.

“You could’ve pretended to be human,” Nicky hisses as soon as they’re gone.

“They call us monsters,” Andrew says. “What do they expect?”

Nicky groans. “Please can we have fun, and not ruin anyone else’s night, especially our fans? People are gonna egg our car.”

Neil’s stomach squirms, and he crosses his arms over it. There could be well-meaning, invasive people like that everywhere, and now he’s tipsy and angry and stuck.

The house lights go down a few minutes later, and the whole crowd sucks in a collective breath before they plunge headfirst into cheering.

Neil’s arms loosen. Nicky stands up at his side, hooting, and everyone follows suit, craning towards the stage, wanting to be the first thing the band sees.

Dan comes out first, waving with both hands, and Matt follows, winking at the crowd and sliding his guitar over his head. Allison and Renee emerge from either side of the stage, Allison towering in high heels and glowing under the lights. Renee’s hair is wild, and her face is different, tongue caught in her teeth, almost cocky.

They fit behind their instruments like joints cracking into place, and they play their first chord in perfect unison, all of them operating different parts of the same body.

The crowd roars their approval. Neil sits upright. He’s surprised to feel Andrew standing up beside him, stepping into the aisle to watch. He follows without thinking.

The jangling, bopping drum line doesn’t wait for the strings to catch up, and Renee doesn’t need to watch to see that they’re following her. Her wrists are supple, and she’s lost to the music like she’s been playing for hours and not seconds.

The room goes up in flames when Dan starts singing, like the fans are all hungry, dry wood, and she’s a spark. She works the microphone free from its stand and starts running with it.

“Fucking excellent, right,” Nicky shouts, and Neil nods, mesmerized. The crowd moves together even separated by sections and rows of seats.

It’s nothing like an Ausreißer concert, where boiling blood turns into wine, and everyone turns their desperate faces up to the stage like they’re waiting to be healed. Foxes sing like they’re in love and they fought for it.

Neil can admit that they’re as musically proficient as the monsters, too, making up for lack of technical flair with a complete understanding of their sound.

Matt smiles dopily down at his guitar and then at Dan, like he can’t decide which deserves his attention more. When she floats towards him, he gets springy with it, teasing her with guitar licks, carving shapes into her oaky voice. Allison’s hand goes protectively to her tuning pegs whenever she has a break in the music, but her bass is rich and in tune.

They do an old-fashioned crescendo like it’s a classical piece, and Dan is almost conducting, hitting the air when Renee smashes the cymbals, gesturing for more when Allison starts a slippery solo, so fast that she laughs and tosses her hair, exhilarated.

Neil makes a hurt noise that gets swallowed in the din, but Andrew looks at him anyway. Neil looks back, studying his wide black pupils and wondering why he only bothers to pay attention when he’s stoned.

He remembers the wide eyes of the kid with the armbands, the agony of his disappointment, and he forces himself to look back out at the band.

One song finishes and another climbs on its back. People move and mill out of their seats towards the stage. He feels like he’s seeing double, like he’s watching a long pilgrimage that’s somehow been condensed or played back.

The first break in the music, Dan laughs her way out of the song, takes a swig of wine, and says “how was that?” into the mic, pointing out towards the place where the monsters are standing. Nicky puts two fingers to his mouth and whistles.

Her stage presence is unparalleled. She’s funny and a little hard on her audience, begging them to sing louder, drive her offstage if they can. Neil can see why she’s in charge, unofficially. She paces circles around the stage like she’s boosting morale. She barely needs the microphone to be heard.

They topple back into their set without warning, a trust fall of a count-in where Renee bangs out a few warning shots and everyone’s hands fly to their instruments.

Somewhere in the thicket of fans, Neil hears someone call, “Andrew!” He sees an incongruous flash, turned towards the audience and not the stage.

“Nicky, Nicky Hemmick! Nicky, over here—“

“Andrew,” Neil starts.

“We love you, Neil,” someone screams.

“Don’t—“

Neil’s jostled down a stair, and Andrew yanks him back up.

“Ignore them,” Andrew says viciously.

“Yeah,” Nicky agrees, but he’s clearly rattled. “What are they gonna do?”

Neil struggles to get his bearings. A few of them are still shouting, recording them with their phones or fighting their way through the crowd towards them. Nicky motions for them to stop, but a few people get close enough to beg for autographs or snap blurry photos of themselves with the band members in the background. He wonders if it was the fans from before, upset enough to tip off the whole crowd to their seat numbers.

“Bet you didn’t think we were this famous, huh?” Nicky jokes nervously.

Andrew has no problem with shoving people away, and Nicky frantically apologizes as many times as he can before he just starts shaking his head. Neil is forced painfully into Nicky’s side, and he can hear people in their row restlessly asking what’s going on.

Most of the audience is oblivious, still focused on Foxes’ raucous energy, but the three of them are surrounded for another ten minutes before people start to get frustrated enough to give up. The rest of them are shoulder-tapped by security, and the throng dwindles to nothing.

“You okay?” Nicky asks. Neil nods, but when he blinks he can still see pinholes of light from camera flashes. He knows that the photos will end up online where anyone can see him as he is right now, and they can guess at his habits or zero in on his location if they want to.

He’s been reckless for a long time, but standing pooled in stage lights feels entirely, chokingly different from wading down into the crowd and feeling the attention slither around him like seaweed.

Andrew crushes a hand to the back of his neck, and Neil inhales all at once.

“Kinda ironic that crowds freak you out so much when you sing for one every night,” Nicky says. He’s standing half in front of Neil, eclipsing the concert still unfolding in the background.

“It’s not the crowd.” Neil shakes his head to clear it. “It’s—they all know who I am.”

‘They think they do,” Nicky corrects firmly, fingers curling into Neil’s arms. The harpy tattoo peers out from under his sheer sleeve, a monster in a veil.

“They want to,” Andrew says, gaze tossed out to the back of the venue. His face is so blank and washed out under the lights that it’s like it’s been chemically stripped of colour. “You’ve caught their attention.”

Neil pulls free from Nicky’s arms and sits heavily in his seat. “I don’t want it.”

“You might not have a choice,” Nicky says, sitting next to him, smothering the distance Neil keeps trying and failing to cultivate.

“You always have a choice,” Andrew says, and when Neil looks up at him, he’s holding out his right hand with its painted yes. Neil accepts it gingerly, and Andrew drags him to his feet.

They watch the rest of the concert from backstage.

Andrew sits propped up on an amp, and Nicky alternates between trying to get the band’s attention from the wings, and mimicking Matt’s solos with vigorous air guitar. Neil suspects he’s trying to get him to laugh.

Neil has enough distance now to feel stupid about locking up during such a minor incident and proving Kevin right. The crowd has already forgotten them, or never knew they were there. The show goes on.

They’re coming up on their encore performance when Neil feels a buzzing at his hip.

He fishes an unfamiliar cellphone out of his pocket and stares uncomprehendingly at the message lingering on screen, sent from a number he doesn’t recognize.

A neat little ’60’ and nothing else.

#neil sure is mistaken about many things #the foxhole court #andreil #tfc fanfic #aftg #rockband au #mine #abuse tw #alcohol tw #self harm tw #this chapter did not want to exit my mind and I'm sorry about that #peep the love letter to dan wilds halfway through this klhgjfhdfgsf

583 notes · View notes

vikingpoteto · 8 years ago

Text

Summary: Matt likes to think Neil is done saying things that will get himself killed. Andrew disagrees.

Relationships: Matt & Neil, established Andrew/Neil

Warning: This is very pointless and the proof that I can write fluff and crack of anything.

Word Count: 1474

Read on AO3

“You know what? I’m really proud of Neil,” Matt says, breaking the silence.

Everyone else in the room rolls their eyes. Nicky groans. It’s common knowledge that all of the foxes like Neil very much (though Aaron is still a work in progress) but none of them can stand Matt bragging about Neil anymore. There are two bottles of vodka, one of them empty and another halfway there (he isn't sure he suggested taking a shot every time something exploded on the screen, but boy, does that move have explosions) and drunk Matt can and will use every moment of prolonged silence to remind them how fast Neil improved on court, how Neil is doing great this weak, how Neil, unlike other people (cue a pointed look at Nicky), is a good roommate that doesn’t leave wet socks in the bathroom.

It’s movie night, which means all of the foxes are huddled together in Matt’s room in front of the TV. Neil has left the room to pick up a call from Wymack and they paused the movie to wait for him, even though Neil had told them there is no need. Everyone was quietly waiting for him to come back when Matt decided it was a perfect time to discuss how great Neil is.

“What?” He asks.

Dan and Allison ignore him pointedly. Aaron looks a little disgusted. Nicky and Kevin give him identical condescending looks that makes him think that Kevin is spending way too much time with the cousins. Andrew, however, stares at Matt from the corner of his eye and, though he doesn’t say anything, that’s the biggest interaction they had in weeks. Renee is too nice to be upset at Matt for saying something positive about his best friend, so she asks:

“What for, Matt?”

Matt grins at her, ignoring everyone’s groans now that he has the permission to explain: “He’s been taking better care of himself lately! I’m pretty sure he hasn't said anything that will get him in trouble in weeks.”

“Are we supposed to be impressed?” Allison raises a perfect eyebrow.

“Yes!” Matt insists. “I think he’s actually growing a sense of self-preservation!”

Now Andrew is staring directly at him. Kevin snorts sarcastically.

“Are you kidding me? Neil has still zero sense of self-preservation,” Kevin says, sounding like he’s actually distressed by Neil’s recklessness. “He’s just as stupidly suicidal as before.”

Matt pouts again. “No, he isn’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

There is a beat before Matt even realizes who has just spoken. He didn’t see Andrew’s mouth moving and he hasn’t heard his voice in so long he barely forgot what he sounds like – a little like Aaron, but lower. The only reason Matt doesn’t assume he’s just imagined the proposition is that every other fox in the room turns to face Andrew.

Andrew, who is sitting alone on the couch, because there is an unspoken agreement that the seat by his side is Neil’s. Andrew, who never talks to anyone outside his makeshift family and Renee. Andrew, who has never, ever had a single friendly interaction with Matt, is sitting there, looking bored, and calmly proposing a bet as if it is something he does everyday. Maybe Andrew is already drunk. Matt is too shocked to answer.

Thankfully, Renee comes to the rescue and asks curiously: “What are the terms of the bet?”

All of the foxes perk in their seats at that. As unusual as Andrew’s participation is, a bet is a bet and it’s just their tradition to take bets very seriously.

“50 bucks Neil still does and says stupid shit without thinking twice and that thoughtless mouth of his is going to get him killed one of these days,” Andrew says simply.

“Fine,” Matt says, “I bet Neil is much more careful now and he won’t say anything too risky easily.”

Everyone else takes sides. Nicky and Kevin agree with Andrew without thinking twice. Allison joins them right after. Dan looks divided for a moment, before she finally says that Neil has been much more tactful lately and it has been a while since he last started drama with anyone (Matt can’t shake the feeling that she’s just trying to support him, though.) Renee gives him a gentle smile and says that she believes Neil is doing much better regards his attitude problem, so she sides with Kevin. Aaron takes a while longer to make up his mind, clearly divided between the urge to bet against Neil and the need to disagree with Andrew. Finally, he seems to decide losing money isn’t worth going against what he actually thinks, and he finally sides with Andrew.

Dan is writing down everyone’s names on her phone and the terms of the bet, but before she can ask how they are going to settle this one – are they going to wait until Neil’s next fight and decide whether or not it was over something worth starting drama for or over some reckless impulse then? Is there a time limit for each of them? – Neil is back still checking something on his phone. His cheeks are flushed and he's obviously a little more than tipsy, judging by how he furrows his brow in an effort to comprehend whatever he's reading.

Despite being found by Andrew in Baltimore, Neil’s dumb flip phone didn’t survive the riot and Neil was forced to by an actual decent smartphone for himself. They needed to bully him into realizing he needed one and he was about to buy another flip phone like he’s some sort of drug dealer when Kevin solved things for them by reminding Neil that he would be able to watch Exy videos on a smartphone. Matt helped him with the transition and tried teaching him how to use it properly, but in the end Neil just downloaded a bunch of Exy related apps. He keeps forgetting to carry his charger with him and his phone is out of battery more often than not, making Matt think the flip phone and its durable battery were a better option, after all.

When Neil comes back to the room, he doesn’t realize all the eyes are on him, too engrossed in something on the phone screen. The fact that he's trying to read even though he's a bit drunk says that whatever he’s looking at has something to do with Exy – probably something the coach has sent him – but it also says how comfortable Neil is around them. Last year, Neil was like a stray cat, fighting to not be noticed and wary of every small interaction. The fact that he can walk into a room calmly without even realizing he’s being stared at proves Matt’s point that Neil is, in fact, much better now.

Kevin waits until Neil is seated by Andrew’s side again before he murmurs: “Do it, Andrew.”

“Neil,” Andrew says, “I’m gonna murder you.”

“Uh huh,” Neil says without batting an eye or asking for a reason, “okay, babe, just let me finish this first.”

Dan lets out a pained groan while Allison and Nicky start laughing hysterically. Aaron makes a disgusted sound and Kevin turns his smug look to Matt, who begrudgingly fishes his wallet from his pocket.

Neil, bless him, finally looks up from his phone and to his teammates, drunkly confused and probably trying to figure out what bet has he just accidentally settled.

(Matt decide not to dwell on the fact that all the foxes collectively agree that calling Andrew Minyard “babe” is a wish for death, especially because Andrew is his best friend’s boyfriend.)

(He does, however, kick aside his reservations towards Andrew after movie night is over. He waits until Kevin pulls Neil aside to discuss whatever Wymack sent him and he approaches Andrew subtly.)

“How did you know?” Matt asks and, when Andrew gives him an empty look in response, he adds: “How did you know Neil was going to say something so stupid?”

Andrew stares at him for the longest moment. Matt is sure that he’s going to be ignored, but apparently Andrew is drunk enough to humor him a little more.

“One time I told him I 90% of the time I wanted to skin him alive,” Andrew says. “He looked at me and asked me about the other 10%.”

Matt blinks once. Twice. Finally he buries his face in his hands and groans, making a mental note to later talk about kinks out of hand and safety with Neil, because holy shit.

Unimpressed with his frustration, Andrew turns around and walks towards Neil and Kevin instead, leaving Matt alone.

He still has best friend privileges, but, as he watches Andrew easily drag Neil away from Kevin, Matt promises himself that he will never, ever bet against Andrew again. Not when the subject of the bet is Neil.

#all for the game #matt boyd #neil jonsten #andrew minyard #andreil #i just can't stop thinking about the foxhole court help me #i needed to get this out of my system #so here have it #poteto writing

159 notes · View notes