#it also says neil used 'dark' hair dye and yet we know that's not black

[foxstens]

so what color is kevin's hair actually?

[shesdangerace]

I learned from my pain

Happy belated Valentine’s Day! Tumblr hates us all and might make this super hard to post here SO. I’m going to post as much of it as I can, and if you like it, you can check it out on AO3 (also linked at the end). I now present to you, a very Andrew Minyard Valentine’s Day. -

He remembers the colour of the sky outside the window.

He remembers the tree branch swaying in front of the glass.

He remembers the breeze that day.

He remembers the hands, the quiet, the pleading.

AJ’s first Valentine’s Day.

Andrew’s eyes feel heavy.

Allison gave Renee roses today, a question written out in cursive with a kiss on the end. Matt was talking about his plans in the locker room. Nicky has been beside himself thinking of Erik coming to visit.

Andrew is leaning outside of his open mesh-free window trying not to think. Cigarette burning down in his hand.

Andrew never got asked. Andrew never got elaborate plans. Andrew never got giddy anticipation. At least, not his own.

And now, he doesn’t want those things. Can’t want them. Doesn’t see a point in them.

It always came at a price, is the thing. And it was never enough.

Love meant crying without making a sound so she wouldn’t know. Love meant bleeding so his twin wouldn’t have to. Love meant throwing away the chance of it. Love meant cut brakes.

That was the love he was taught anyway, when his ‘family’ told them they loved him as they crept into his room at night, asking Do you love me? Do you love me?

Andrew was taught that love was cruelty. Pain. Bloodshed. A blind eye. Vengeance. Sacrifice. Loss. Responsibility. More bloodshed. He never knew what love was meant to feel like.

And now all Andrew knows how to feel is nothing.

There’s a knock on the door frame, firm and assured.

“Hey. Time for practice.”

Neil, standing there like a memory of a different life. Auburn and dressed all in grey.

The cigarette falls slowly from Andrews’ hand, swaying back and forth by the light February wind until it touches the ground of the car park below like a distant feather.

-

The cheerleaders are here. They’re being loud and it’s unnecessary.

Andrew doesn’t know why the cheerleaders are here. Honestly, it doesn’t matter. It matters that they are and that they’re being loud.

She’s here too, of course. She’s also a cheerleader after all. Not quite so loud though.

That may be because while Andrew is not looking at her, he’s looking at Aaron, and Aaron is looking at her. He’s willing to bet she’s looking back.

Aaron looks happy. Wistful. Awed almost. Where did he learn that? How did he manage to learn how to feel like that?

Andrew doesn’t look at him.

He hits balls and waves his heavyweight stick around for hours, while Kevin yells and Neil cusses out the baby Foxes and Nicky laughs like a demented hyena and Aaron feels all over the court floor.

Andrew doesn’t look at him.

And then Katelyn comes wafting over, blonde ponytail bouncing and hands wringing and smile matching the quiet one on Aaron’s face. A smile Andrew has no clue how to replicate on his own. And then she asks him, and he grins at her and says yes, obviously, and then she kisses him on the cheek and giggles and her ponytail bounces away.

Andrew tilts his head away and doesn’t look at him.

He looks at Neil. He doesn’t really have a choice.

He’s standing right in front of Andrews line of sight, close but not close enough to touch Andrew, smirk almost as sharp as his eyes. Batting his eyelashes like an idiot, hands wringing and toe nudging against the floor.

“Be my Valentine sugar plum?”

That cocky smile, that exaggerated posture, that orange bandana, that mess of hair, that shock of bright blue, that stupid, stupid idiot.

“Fuck off.”

Neil just laughs, that huff of gentle sound, and Andrew looks at him and can’t seem to stop. And Neil can’t seem to either, looking right back, smile just strong enough to bring out the subtle dimple on his right cheek.

How did he learn that?

How did he learn to dimple like that from bruises? How did he learn to look at Andrew like that from a lifetime of running? How did he learn to laugh for Andrew after knives and cleavers and flames and irons?

Andrew just looks at him.

Neils’ hands on his Exy stick are strong and unwavering and deliberate. Careful. Reverent.

Andrew just looks at him.

---

It’s two days before Valentine’s Day.

They’re at the coffee stand. The three of them have classes in 15 minutes but no one cares. Neil stands beside him, staring as disinterestedly as Andrew.

It’s pink. It’s stupid. There’s large lettering in altering colours of red, green, and yellow. There’s three black silhouettes like bathroom door signs. A red cross. A green heart. A yellow question mark. A lot of pink. It’s a poster.

It’s a traffic light party.

“Neil please, come on, it’s literally perfect and you’re the only one who can convince him.”

Andrew thinks about the colour red.

“No.”

It’s so vicious and ugly, so glaring, a screaming no that Andrew has had painted on his hands and his lips and his skin for years now.

“Neeeeil come on!”

Andrew has been red for a long time.

“Nicky, you have a long-term partner. Why would you need to go to this?”

Neil sounds tired. Neil is right to be.

“But Neil, that’s the point. Not only do I get to declare myself as taken, I get to show off my hot German husband.”

Red is not as simple as a t-shirt or a badge. It’s sticky and it festers and it stains like dye and you don’t get to change your mind once it’s on you.

“You know you haven’t even asked him to marry you yet right?”

Green is an unrealistic colour. It’s bright where red is dark, joyous like red is angry. A garish neon sign declaring yes. Yes, I’m here and I’m alive and I’m okay and I fucking want this.

Andrew doesn’t think he could ever be green having been red.

“Fuck you, Neil. It’s understood, it’s an inevitability, and the world needs to know!”

Green can start pure and be muddled and abused until it’s ugly and brown enough to be red anyway.

“The world does know. You’ve been talking about him non-stop for days. It’s annoying.”

There’s a coffee cup in his hands. When did that get there? Latte, caramel and vanilla. Neil’s name is written on it.

“Okay, can we please get back to the point? Which is the party? And that we should go?”

The sun is out today, and there’s no breeze. The skies are clear and still. Neil is walking beside Andrew, staring at him under his lashes every now and then as Nicky pleads his case. He’s walking close enough to Andrew that Andrew could touch him if he asked.

He’s wearing yellow. It’s a logo, on his grey hoodie. The drawstrings are yellow. Bright, like the sun. Hopeful.

After a while, after Baltimore and Riko and several screaming panic attacks in department store changing rooms with Allison’s guilty voice over the phone, Neil started to touch colour. Gentle prods, careful explorations.

He has an emerald green shirt now. Long sleeves. He has several Fox-orange articles of clothing that he wears in the dorm, the house, or with Andrew around campus. He has accents of colours on his shirts or his hoodie or his hat in the winter.

He has no blue brighter than navy. He has no red either.

Today, he is quietly yellow. Sipping his black coffee with one sugar and studiously ignoring Nicky in favour of watching Andrew ignore Nicky.

When Andrew asks and Neil says yes, in an alcove five minutes late to class, his fingers wind their way into those sunshine yellow drawstrings. He swears it stains his fingertips just a little.

-

Nicky is singing. A little bit drunk, a lot off key. It’s pop music and it’s incessantly loud. He got a phone call half an hour before. He did not take it well.

Erik has to stay in Germany for another day. A despondent Nicky had explained to them, and Kevin, that this means he’ll be flying in on Valentine’s Day instead of tomorrow, and this means that he’ll miss most of their first Valentine’s Day together in forever and Kevin would you please pay attention?

“Fuck men, seriously, Ari is so right you know? She just fucking gets it like, she understands and you know what I mean right Neil? Back me up Neil.”

Neil is in no condition to be anyone’s back up. He’s wrapped up in the embrace of the beanbag chair next to Andrew’s and he’s exasperated and exhausted. Nightmares. Not Andrew’s this time. The yellow was a particularly bold a choice today. But Neil is smirking in amusement all the same.

“Thank you, more like no thank you sir- “

In the corner, Matt is trying to film discreetly. On the couch, Kevin is paying absolutely no attention, waiting for his phone to ring.

As Nicky dances to the same song over and over, and Kevin bolts out of the room to answer Thea’s call, and Matt fails at discretion, and Neil radiates sleepy warmth next to Andrew like a furnace, Nicky bleeds.

He’s haemorrhaging love, the good and the bad and the ugly need of it. With the clarity of experience and many Wednesday sessions Andrew can see it. He can see the dark edges of Nicky, the sadness underneath his exuberance, his pain. He sees Nicky’s own sharp memories poking out from beneath his grin.

When he looks back at Neil, he sees the same understanding in those perceptive blue eyes.

It’s not about some pointless day in February. It’s about months without him. It’s about not knowing love without pain before him. It’s about conditions and fear and confusion and self-loathing and conversion. It’s about finally getting to hold someone’s hand knowing that he’s safe.

“I’m just saying I’m a fucking catch and I don’t deserve this, and you know what?”

Nicky stops here, stares at Neil balefully, then at Andrew, then back to Neil, gesturing with his whole body for the peanut gallery to speak.

Neil sighs and gives in.

“What Nicky?”

“I’ll tell you what Neil! I’m so fucking ungrateful for this treatment! That’s what.”

He trips.

And then, from his pile of slumped limbs and tired bones, Neil laughs. A true sound, a warm rich low sound.

Something in Andrew stutters for a moment. And then Nicky is throwing himself at Neil.

Nicky with his explosive love. Neil gifting his affection in laughs and smiles where there used to be none. Kevin breaking his single-minded devotion at the drop of a hat when Thea calls. Matt texting all the videos to Dan no doubt. All of them, loving each other out loud.

Andrew closes his eyes.

Nicky haemorrhages for hours.

---

It’s the day before Valentine’s Day. They’re at the traffic light party.

Nicky is bright red in the face from dancing, bright red in the face from alcohol, bright red in his shirt. He’s smiling almost as wide as he was when Andrew loomed over him in the locker room and said they were going.

Neil is wearing a black and neon-orange hoodie because he lives to be contrary and confusing. Andrew is wearing black because so does he.

The music is loud enough that Andrew almost can’t hear his thoughts. Almost. But of course, Andrew could never be so lucky, nor could Neil be so merciful.

The lights of the club are passing over his face like real traffic lights, sharpening and softening his face and colouring his eyes different shades. They could almost be in the Maserati, driving a touch too fast, Neil looking out of the passenger window, lounging like he belongs, smiling softly at Andrew’s reflection under the cover of night.

But they’re not. Neil is standing there like a living, breathing fuck you, glaring down anyone who gets too close, staring blankly at those who mistake his orange for yellow and then laughing to himself when they scuttle away. He looks gloriously alive, and completely unreal.

They’ve lost Nicky.

Neil looks at Andrew, really looks at him. Face like a storm.

The music gets improbably louder. Bass heavy. Rumbling. Growling.

Neils eyes get impossibly darker, his face impossibly sharper, his presence impossibly brighter.

He raises his eyebrow at Andrew.

Are you red or yellow or green?

Andrew steps closer and hooks his fingers into Neil’s collar.

Neil takes him by the edge of his black denim jacket, turns away, and Andrew follows the glowing shape of him through the thick crowd of sweat and mistakes.

By the time they reach the wall in the corner Andrew’s vision is all traffic lights and neon and storms.

Neil leans his head back against the wall, the bass louder still. He smirks at Andrew, but his eyes betray him and it becomes a smile. Warm and mischievous and foolhardy. He tilts his chin up at Andrew.

“So does black mean you’re taken?”

Andrew doesn’t dignify this with a response, just breathes.

“Should I take that as a yes or a no?”

Aside from the sharp roll of his eyes, Andrew doesn’t respond to this either.

“Andrew. Yes or no?”

Neil isn’t joking anymore. His eyes are softer than they have any right to be in lighting this sharp and dangerous. He’s searching, he’s already accepted Andrew’s answer.

The growling, rumbling bass around them is eclipsed by Andrew’s own growling yes, Neil’s lips brushing his like a promise. Neil kisses him like he’s desperate, not for his own sake but for Andrew’s. Like he’s been waiting. Like he just wants Andrew to know that Neil is there. Like he just wants Andrew. Whatever that means at any given time.

Right now Andrew doesn’t know what it means.

Neil tastes like midnight. And that makes no sense and it’s fucking stupid.

The lights are still flashing but the bass is different when Neil leans his head back against the wall. For some reason Andrew follows, can’t seem not to, rests his forehead against Neil’s. He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and neither does Andrew.

And then.

“Andrew, can I hold your hand?”

It’s a wonder Andrew hears him over the sound of this stupid party. Andrew says yes because honestly, he’s mildly curious to know what happens next.

Neil’s hand is warm. Firm. Scarred and unafraid and gentle and soft and calloused and it holds Andrew’s so tenderly. Like a rose and not a thorn.

Andrew doesn’t understand it and doesn’t understand why he doesn’t understand it because it shouldn’t be complicated. He doesn’t understand how Neil can look at him and feel. Because he so clearly does and Andrew can’t seem to hide from it.

Are you red or yellow or green or –

“Fuck, there you guys are! Come dance with me!”

And Nicky grabs Neil’s hand and pulls and Neil, as sharp and observant and devoted to his Foxes as he is, would never say no.

---

Andrew wakes up slowly and way too late in the day, to see Neil still asleep. His face is half crushed into his pillow, eyebrows relaxed, hair skewed in every direction like hellfire. His mouth is soft in sleep, his cheeks flushed with warmth.

There’s something so different about Neil when he sleeps.

When he’s awake, Neil is all winter stillness, observant and contrary and dramatic. Ferocious and disinterested and loyal. Loose and honest when Andrew kisses him. Defiantly, viscerally alive.

When he sleeps he is just as still, but unguarded and vulnerable. Almost awake almost always. Soft and quiet, warm like a summer morning.

The February sun is streaming in through the dorm room window, and the sky is clear and crystal blue.

Nicky is beside himself with excitement outside the dorm room somewhere. Eriks’ flight lands that afternoon.

Because it’s Valentine’s Day.

It’s also a Saturday and that’s much more meaningful to Andrew. It means he’s not missing anything Kevin can annoy him for.

Eventually, Neil’s eyes open, and he sniffles at Andrew like a kitten.

It’s so rare to see Neil so taken with sleep. Andrew doesn’t often see this, Neil all strung out on the feeling of being only half awake, soft and malleable like taffy.

Andrew sighs and asks quietly:

“No nightmares?”

And Neil smiles, and that dimple is back on his right cheek. Such a rare sight indeed in February. And to have seen it twice already is almost hard to believe.

“No nightmares.”

Andrew nods.

Neil edges closer, just the tiniest bit. He’s almost nose to nose with Andrew, and Andrew is almost there. He’s on the precipice of something.

One of the worst things about being Andrew Minyard is that apathy makes feeling almost painful and hard to ignore. Andrew has no choice; he can’t lie and he can’t hide and he can’t run and for some god forsaken reason he doesn’t particularly feel the need to.

He gives, and lets himself feel the warmth of Neil. He whispers his name in the scarce air between them, and kisses him. Soft. Unyielding. Bee would be so proud if he would ever tell her.

Neil whispers right back. Kisses right back. Runs his fingertips between Andrew’s on the sheets without touching them. Andrew nods his answer and he feels Neil all around him like the winter sun. Sharp and painful and bright and vital.

Neil is awake, and so is Andrew.

---

At sunset, everything in the Maserati is cast in purple and blue and pink. Neil is lounging like he belongs, smiling at Andrew’s reflection in the glass of the passenger seat window. He looks dreamlike, like he’s feeling that feeling Andrew can’t name.

He turns to Andrew and asks. Andrew says yes and then Neil is holding his hand. He grins at Andrew and for fucks sake. How can he look at Andrew with that much feeling? Who was it that taught him how to feel it at all?

The sounds of the road echo in Andrews ears, the sounds of Nicky’s happy crying from a couple hours earlier in Erik’s arms, Neil’s laugh, his cutting remarks, his questions. Neil’s lips brush Andrew’s hands like a prayer and it’s possible somehow.

Somehow, despite all reasoning and logical experience, it’s possible that Andrew is capable of more than nothing.

When he tells Neil this, laying in the grass off the highway in the last rays of purple light, the look in his eyes and the depth of his kiss are evidence enough.

ao3