I'll take a drug to replace it. Or put me in the ground

The first thing he feels when he comes to is a weight on his chest. Something is pressing down hard, not allowing him to take a breath. He tries again, but the air is dense, smelling of petrichor. This means that wherever he is, it has recently rained. He tries to breathe slowly, opening his eyes, but there is only inky darkness before them. He wants to move, but his body is compressed, and there is something thick on his face, roughly touching his burnt skin. Then the pain comes. He feels his face burning, his hands numb, and his fingertips feeling as if they are buried in snow. His whole body aches from being motionless for so long. He tries to move again and bend his legs, but they push against something hard. He tries to feel the space around him, guided by sensation. Is he still in the trunk? Or has he been moved to his father's basement? But his fingers bump against roughly processed wood instead of the rough material of the trunk. Where is he? He explores the space further, along the sides, as far as his hands can reach, then slowly straightens his legs all the way until they press against something. All this time he tries to breathe slowly, resisting the panic that is already rising in his chest. So far, he concludes that he is in some very limited space made of rough wood. He can straighten his legs but not lift his arms. He is so squeezed at the sides that his shoulders touch the walls when he inhales. And there is something covering his head. Perhaps a sack, which makes breathing increasingly difficult. The air that still somehow manages to reach his lungs is permeated with damp, wet earth and waterlogged wood. Suddenly, all the pieces of this gruesome puzzle click into place. Darkness.  Confinement.  Dampness.  Earth.  He is in a coffin.  Underground.  His father has buried him alive.  His heart turns into a furious, deafening drum, beating against his ribs. The pounding of blood in his ears fills the silence with a dense, persistent noise. The knowledge is searing until terror embraces him with its clawed paws. He is in a coffin, underground, and it's unknown how deep. It's unclear how long he has been here, but if there is still air, it can't be too long. He is alive, but not for long. He won't return to the Foxes. He will never see Andrew again. He will die here, in an unmarked grave, and no one will ever find him. He will never tell his truth, forever remaining just a piece of lies and scars. Maybe it's a good thing that his father buried him alive? His body will never be found, which means the Foxes will never know the truth. They will think he simply left, ran away. At first, they will hold onto hope for his return, but then, with each passing year, he will become just a memory until only a shadow in photographs and a whisper in crowded rooms remains. In any case, dead, he won't be able to put the Foxes in danger. It soothes him. The panic subsides, leaving behind only the emptiness of catharsis in his chest. His breathing evens out, conserving tiny particles of oxygen. The coffin was no longer a prison — it had become a final refuge, where neither fear nor pain could reach him. He no longer needed to run and be afraid. He would remain here, in the darkness, where no demons could find him. Where there was no need to worry about the past, the present, or the future. His body would decompose, and then become food for the worms. He was no longer a fighter, a runner, an exy player, or even a nothing. He was just a body, ready to leave this world. In the deepest part of his mind, which was already preparing to plunge into the abyss of non-existence, a single, final thought flares up. It was something sharp and raw. It wasn't about fear, it wasn't about love, it wasn't about unbearable, searing regret for words that were never said, not about an argument that remained unfinished, not about the guilt he would carry to his grave. It was about joy. About the happiness that overwhelmed him on the field. About the satisfaction he felt at team meetings. About the serenity in the silence of the roof. It wasn't about fireworks and seven seconds. It was a single tear that rolled down his cheek when he took his first real breath and began to fight for his new life. The first thing he needed to do was to once again feel his dungeon. It was narrow, he couldn't lift his arms or legs. This meant he could only rely on the strength of his already wounded, but still whole, torso. He pressed his feet against the bottom of his coffin, tensing his entire body to intensify the thrust he delivered with his shoulders and chest against the coffin lid. The pain immediately blurred his vision, but it didn't matter. A dull, muffled thud. The coffin was crudely made, but solid. He repeated the attempt. Nothing. Again. And again. And again. His shoulders ached, the weight in his chest was heavier now, but he did not give up. He hit and hit where he expected weakness until he finally heard the long-awaited crack of wood and the sound of falling earth. He struck again, and the sound grew louder, and there was more earth. He took a deep breath and made one last lunge, tensing all the muscles he had gained under the warmth and affection of the Foxes, and delivered the final blow. The lid cracked, and wet earth rained down on him. He felt the suffocating weight of the soil. The sack saved him from instant drowning, but the wet earth pressed against the fabric. He was finally able to move his hands, grabbing the wood with his burned fingers, breaking it even more until only splinters remained of the lid, freeing himself. Then he began to dig through the wet earth, despite the pain, throwing it off his face and body, carving a path to freedom. He kept his breathing slow, inhaling only when necessary, moving inch by inch, reclaiming vertical space. He writhed with his whole body, using his back muscles to move his shoulders and push his way up. After an agonising, drawn-out time, he felt his head and shoulders press against looser, but still damp, soil. He was at the surface. He made one last, blind, desperate lunge. And there it was. Coolness and air. He pulled out his hands and ripped the sack off his head, then began to dig away the wet earth around him until he finally crawled out of his failed grave. He lay on the edge of the torn-up grave, exhausted and bloody. His hands were bleeding through the dirt, and the wet, sticky earth was everywhere. He had survived. Now all that remained was to stand up. Why hadn't his father killed him? Why hadn't he buried him deep enough, why hadn't he tied his hands so he definitely couldn't get out? Did he hope to come back for him and finish what he started? He shook his head, trying to clear his senses and inhale more deeply, greedily catching the free, night air, which carried the distinct scent of rain and pine needles. He needed to get out of... But where was he? He lifted his head and looked around, but it was just a forest in the middle of nowhere. No sounds except the chirping of cicadas. No signs of civilization, not even moonlight. Only absolute blackness. It was a blind, primal darkness, inescapable. The feeling of exhaustion lulled him, but he needed to get back to his Foxes. He had so much to say and tell, he needed to confess and apologize. And if they still wanted him, he would allow himself to stay and slow down. But right now, he needed all his strength to return. He slowly got up, feeling the nearest trees with his hands. Every step was a struggle against weakness. There were no sounds in this forest except the rustling of his own unnatural body and the cicadas. He began to move, guided only by gravity. It wasn't a walk, but an agonizing slide. He walked, trying to feel the slope of the soil with his feet, as his mother had taught him. Trying to maintain a relatively straight direction to avoid aimless circling in the dark. He felt for the nearest tree trunk, memorised its shape, and barely letting go, reached for the next. Upon reaching the second, he stopped. Then, feeling the ground with his feet, he envisioned an invisible line connecting these two trees, and chose a third trunk as far as possible along that line. It was agonizingly slow and dangerous. He crawled, shuffled, stumbled, but did not allow himself to deviate from the imaginary line. The night turned into an unending torture of monotony. He moved like a mechanism with only one command: straight ahead. Tree after tree, step after step. Hours stretched into eternity. He fell, got up, choked on the pain, but remembered the Foxes to whom he owed the truth, and got up again. And then, just as the pain was nearly eclipsing his consciousness, he heard it. It wasn't the sound of a stream, nor the rustling of leaves, but a steady, low, distant hum. A monotonous, continuous sound that the forest did not create. The sound of cars. It was a road. A large, human artery that was his salvation. He redoubled his efforts, moving towards the sound. As the night finally began to lose its inky density, turning a dirty gray, the hum grew louder. And then he saw it. Through the last, sparse tree trunks, on the edge of the forest, a straight, even strip appeared. And above it, distant but steady, a dim, yellow light flickered. His body collapsed onto the gravel as soon as he crossed the invisible line of the forest. He was on the outskirts of a town. The hum of cars, which had been a distant roar in the forest, here turned into a deafening, alarming chorus. Around him, instead of trees, loomed dimly lit warehouses and sparse, neon signs bathed in cold light. It was night, but not the absolute darkness from which he had emerged. He needed to find a payphone. He would call Andrew, and finally, they would find him. Staggering, he moved along the road, his gaze clinging to every corner, to every sign. Finally, against the wall of an old, shabby gas station, under a blinking lamp, he saw it: a payphone booth. He made it to it, leaning against the cold metal to search his pockets. Nothing. Not a single coin, not even a miserable quarter. He bent down and feverishly searched the dirty floor with his ripped hands, trying to find something, anything. To survive his father, dig himself out, and then die at a piss-stained abandoned gas station from cold and exhaustion because he couldn't find a quarter for a payphone. Mary would kill him if he died such a stupid death. And behold! Apparently, all the gods or whatever unknown force was dealing them such cards had taken pity on him, and with his nearly numb fingers, he found a coin in the furthest corner. It was small change, just one coin, but it held all his hope, a tiny key to the door leading out of this hell. Every inch of his skin ached from burns and wounds, and his muscles, numb from being underground, refused to bear his weight. He looked like an animated corpse, a clay figure clumsily set on its feet after being pulled from the earth. He knew who to call. The person who always answered the phone. The person who was slowly and surely becoming his home, where he didn't have to lock doors and hide under the bed. The coin in his hand felt immensely heavy, hot with tension. He brought the quarter to the payphone. His hand was shaking so badly he nearly dropped it. Finally, with a dull, encouraging clang, the coin dropped. The sound tore through the silence of the night, ringing in his head like a death knell, placing an undue burden of destiny on this moment. He dialed the number. The number he had already memorised. Breathing heavily, he leaned into the receiver, his pale and burned face illuminated by the faint light of the indicator. A lump was in his throat; the words wouldn't come out. He silently prayed for the call to go through. The seconds stretched like centuries, filled only with unbearable ringing. Each ring was a stab in the back, like another knife. And then, just as he was ready to give up, there was a click. And silence. He could hear Andrew's heavy breathing on the other side, but he didn't say a word. So he gathered his last strength and forced out a pathetic: "Andrew?" A strange, almost hoarse sigh came from the other side, so unlike Andrew. "Neil?" God, Andrew's voice was so raspy, as if he'd been either shouting or crying for the past few hours. Neil closed his eyes, a solitary tear rolling down his cheek. He never wanted to hurt him. "It's me." "Neil, they said you were dead." "I... no... Andrew, he buried me alive." The silence on the other side was deafening. Then Andrew finally found his words. "Where are you?" "I... I don't know. Some town, I guess. I just got out of the woods and found a payphone at a gas station." "Look around, what do you see, maybe some signs or anything." Neil turned his gaze to the broken window of the booth and looked closer. It was pitch black all around, but on a lamp post, an old, wind-battered advertisement for a gym was fluttering in the wind. Jarrettsville. He was ten hours on foot from Baltimore. "I'm in Jarrettsville. It's..." "I already know where it is," Andrew interrupted him. "And I'm coming to get you. Just stay put and try not to die again." "No way, that's only for you," Neil said with a smile. "Shut up, Neil," Andrew's voice softened. "Just wait." Then the call ended. He leaned against the cold metal and began to wait. Somewhere out there, in the distance, the city was slowly waking up and inhaling the smell of petrichor, buzzing with people getting ready for work and school. And here, in the space between life and death, Neil inhaled the scent of salvation. He slowly, agonizingly pushed himself away from the phone booth and stumbled towards the abandoned gas station across the street. It was an island of concrete and rusty metal. The canopy that had once sheltered the pumps looked like the skeleton of some prehistoric animal. The glass in the cash register window was shattered, and withered grass pushed through the cracks in the asphalt. Every minute spent here felt like madness. The night was cold and indifferent. He sat down under the canopy. The damp air penetrated his blood-soaked and earth-stained clothes, chilling him to the bone, but the heat from his burns kept him from freezing entirely. With every second, his hearing sharpened. The sound of the wind turned into a suspicious rustle. The creaking of the old advertising sign seemed like footsteps. Exhaustion and pain mixed with growing paranoia. He couldn't believe he had survived. Had his father given up so easily? And Lola, she certainly wouldn't have left him like this without even cutting his tendons. He had a feeling they couldn't have given up so simply. They must be looking for him. Every moment of silence was just a pause before they found him. He lowered his head, breathing heavily. His gaze was fixed on a single point — the bend in the road beyond the dark silhouettes of the trees. The highway leading to Baltimore. And when it finally seemed that he couldn't bear another second of this drawn-out silence, when his pulse drowned out all other sounds, he heard it. The roar of an engine. Headlights tore through the darkness; a car approached at tremendous speed until it stopped almost at Neil's feet, leaving tire marks on the asphalt. Andrew got out of the car, an old, battered sedan with a broken window. He looked like a man who had returned from a hunt. His clothes from yesterday were wrinkled, stained with blood in places. He had a bruise on his temple that had bled into his eye. But his gaze. It was a look Neil had never seen before. It was a mixture of fury, relief, and something deeper, but currently unreadable. Andrew walked up to Neil and grabbed his hoodie. His eyes scanned the ripped wounds on his arms and the burns, the dirt and blood covering the hoodie, and then moved to his face. He didn't look at the burn and the cuts. He only looked Neil in the eyes. "You look like you've been doing some soul-searching," Andrew said, still not taking his eyes off him. Neil rolled his eyes. Andrew said nothing more, just yanked his hoodie towards the sedan. "Let's go." "Where did you get the car?" Neil asked. "Borrowed it. Now shut up and get in." Neil obeyed and silently climbed into the passenger seat. He examined the car: a broken window, wires sticking out. Well, let's hope it wasn't too important to be reported stolen. Andrew got into the driver's seat, quickly connecting the contacts. The car moved, and in Andrew's strange, yet somehow dangerously-safe manner of driving, Neil found solace. He leaned against the window and stared at the streetlights. The car was quiet, and he finally had time to think. He would have to tell the truth. Not just to the Foxes. He needed to find out what happened to his father and his people. And what to do if they were alive? Find out how he got from the trunk of a car in Baltimore to a coffin 30 miles from Baltimore. But that was for later; now he had time to breathe out and let Andrew's driving lull him to sleep.  

***

Andrew drove, panic warring with acceptance in his mind. Neil was alive. Right here, in the passenger seat. Cut, burned, buried, but alive. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, focusing on the shimmering yellow lights of the highway, trying to keep his hands from shaking. Neil was asleep, leaning against the window. What Neil had survived was beyond any comprehension. Andrew felt a knot tighten in his throat. He had to focus on driving. His thoughts were like shards of glass. Over and over, he saw the empty stadium parking lot, saw the stomped-on bag, saw how his hands had found Kevin's throat. You were always going to lose him. The bastard deserved his bruises. He saw the FBI tell them that no trace of Nathaniel was found in Nathan Wesninski's mansion basement. How they said he was most likely dead. That his father had gotten to him first and already disposed of the body. They said they were sorry. That they offered their condolences.  Andrew had nearly ripped out their throats. And then the call came. Neil's voice. For a second, he thought he was back on drugs. He would take a drug to replace it. Or put him in the ground. But Neil's voice wasn't a drug haze. And now, his personal nightmare, his piper dream, was sitting in the car with him, looking like he'd been extracted from the most impossible hell. Andrew had almost lost him. This simple, terrifying truth lay like a heavy stone in his chest. He imagined them burning him, the blade going across his skin, the earth raining down on his face while he was still... He exhaled sharply and forced himself to look ahead. He couldn't get distracted, not now. Later. Later, in a room with crystal figurines and hot chocolate, he would allow himself to fall apart. He would let Bee's gentle, patient hands put him back together. But now he had to stay focused. Every mile, every passing streetlamp was a victory. His goal was the motel in Baltimore, the place where the Foxes were collecting their fragments. It was the only thing preventing him from stopping, taking Neil, and hiding him from the world, so no one could ever hurt them again. Lock the locks, close the shutters. A monster-proof vacuum. A home where no one would enter without permission or touch without consent. He cast a quick glance at Neil. His fingers were tightly clenched into fists on his knees. Dirt and something darker were visible on his hoodie. Guilt felt like cold poison. Why had he broken the deal? Why hadn't he realized sooner that Neil was missing? He should have protected him. Now he was taking him where the Foxes could curl around Neil in a cocoon of warmth and safety. This was his mission. He could smell burned skin, damp earth, and blood in the car, and the smell was seared into his memory. He wasn't driving a car, no, he was carrying a precious, newly returned burden through a hostile world. He clung to that feeling. It was his only redemption. Andrew felt a surge of relief when the bright lights of Baltimore appeared. They were almost there. He pulled into the motel parking lot. The sign with the name flickered. He parked the car and slowly turned off the engine. Silence reigned for a moment, heavier and thicker than the highway noise. He turned his head. Neil was not awake. His breathing was steady and calm. Andrew sat, unmoving, just looking at him. Right now, he was just his, asleep and whole. He wanted to reach out and touch him, to make sure it wasn't a dream. But he didn't want to wake him. Andrew opened the door and got out, walking around the car. His movements were precise and quiet, like a personal bodyguard to the most precious diamond on Earth. He gently tapped on the window near Neil's head, and Neil woke up, jolting. Panic flashed in his eyes, immediately followed by recognition. Andrew opened the door for Neil. He got out of the car, and they walked toward the motel together. They didn't need to touch, even if both seemed to crave it. Not now. Neil's figure was uneven, lopsided, but strong. A survivor. Andrew followed him. He would walk behind. He would cover his back. He would be there when Neil met the Foxes. He would be his anchor until Neil learned to swim again. He had driven him here. Now he had to keep him safe.  

***

  Neil stood in the doorway, and the light of the motel room momentarily blinded him, turning the furniture into dark silhouettes. His body wasn't his own. It was alien, assembled from pain, fire, and cold earth. Every nerve in him was vibrating with tension, but behind him, he felt Andrew's solid presence. He took a step forward. The room was tiny, one double bed, a TV on the wall, and a bathroom. Neil turned around: "No Foxes?" Andrew nudged him further into the room. "Not now." "Why?" "They're asleep, idiot. And afraid of me." Neil frowned but didn't resist, walking further into the room. All he dreamed of now was sleeping in a bed. He was about to lie down when a strong hand stopped him. Neil pouted, turning around. "Why?" "I don't sleep with a zombie. Into the bath." "How am I supposed to take a bath with my wounds?" Neil asked, frowning. He could twist and turn, but his fingers were almost numb from pain and cold. Andrew rolled his eyes. "Obviously, I'll help you, dumbass. Get in the bath." Now it was Neil's turn to roll his eyes. He walked past the much-desired bed and entered the small bathroom. Despite the size of the room, there was a bathtub, not a shower stall. The light came from a single ceiling fixture in a frosted shade. The tiles were dull. The plumbing was standard, and surprisingly, not rusty. It was a bathroom that didn't offer an escape but provided a necessary respite. Andrew followed, locking the door. In his hands was an extra set of clothes. Something gray and white-and-orange. His face was unreadable, but he had removed his bandages, exposing his scars. The smell in the room was heavy, earthy, and metallic: thick and damp from the raw earth, mixed with the acrid scent of blood and sweat. Neil turned to him. For the first time since last night, they stood so close. He wanted to kiss him, run his fingers through his soft hair, and hold him tight. To feel the warmth of a living body so close when the memories of the earth's weight on the coffin lid still clung to his mind. But now was not the time. His body felt unnaturally heavy and immobile under the layer of dried mud. The mud was everywhere: in his hair, on his face, in thick crusts, embedded in every torn, open wound on his arms. It was a sight of exhaustion, not beauty. Andrew's movements were almost clinical. He helped Neil remove the once-orange hoodie, now stained with mud and blood. Then he helped him out of his jeans, shoes, and underwear. There was nothing sexual about it, only an act of trust and care. Andrew turned away to turn on the water. The water flowed with a weary hum. Then he turned back to Neil and offered his hand. Neil slowly took it, waiting to let go if Andrew said no. But no did not follow. As Neil lowered himself into the warm water, a muffled sound of relief mixed with pain escaped his chest, which was instantly drowned out by the noise of the running water. The water around him instantly darkened, turning into a thick brown slurry. Andrew paid no attention, starting to wash his hair. The touch of warm, familiar hands on his hair made Neil close his eyes in pleasure. After the hair, Andrew moved to his body. Still maintaining a clinical gaze. No wandering hands, no unnecessary touches, even if they were desired. It was an act of retrieval — the restoration of human appearance, performed by careful hands without a single superfluous word. The smell in the bathroom changed. Instead of damp earth and blood, it became floral, like shower gel, mixing with the peachy scent of the shampoo. When the water finally ran clear, Andrew turned off the tap and grabbed a fluffy towel from the sink. It wasn't from the hotel, but one Neil had seen in the Foxes' locker room. He helped Neil get out and, with quick but gentle patting motions, dried him: first his back, then his chest, stomach, and legs. Working on his hands was the most careful: he wrapped the towel around the burned forearms and hands, allowing the fabric to soak up the moisture. Then came the clothes. Neil could now see that they were gray sweatpants and a white-and-orange hoodie that Dan made the Foxes wear to games. This particular hoodie had an orange number three on the back. For some reason, it felt softer and warmer because of it. The bathroom was left behind, its damp, now sweet air replaced by the dry, warm silence of the room. He walked slowly, his body still wooden from the ordeal, but now clad in soft, nicotine-scented clothes, it was easier to breathe. The room was dimly lit — a single bedside lamp cast a yellow, diffuse light that softened the harsh shadows. Andrew settled him onto the bed, with his back against the headboard. On the bedside table was a first aid kit: plasters, gauze pads, bandages. A jar of antiseptic and some kind of healing ointment, clearly past its prime. Andrew sat down beside him, starting with his face. The cold antiseptic touched the cut on his cheek, but Neil didn't flinch. He was used to the sharp smell of alcohol mixed with blood. It reminded him of Mary. In the dim light of the room, Andrew's eyes looked almost golden. Neil closed his eyes, soaking in the warm breath on his face. Then the careful, almost gentle, hands moved to the wounds on his hands and forearms. They required more attention. There were marks from handcuffs, jagged cuts from Lola, and ominous blisters from the cigarette lighter. Neil gritted his teeth; he didn't make a sound as the antiseptic touched the numerous injuries. Andrew worked methodically, applying a thick layer of ointment to the burns. His gaze was fixed on Neil's hands, but he never flinched. After everything — bandages. In the dim light, they quickly covered the abused skin, creating a sharp contrast with the flesh. After tying the final knot, Andrew did not let go of his hands. He simply held them, then looked up. It was proof that someone saw Neil's pain and decided to alleviate it. Finished with the bandaging, Neil climbed onto one side of the bed, leaving the other for Andrew. The mattress accepted his weight with a dull, soft sigh. They weren't touching, not entirely. A significant, unspokenly defined space remained between them. But when Neil's attempt to pull up the blanket failed, Andrew helped him without a word. Andrew's posture was stiff and straight, like a soldier's, his arms motionless at his sides. He was equally exhausted, but alert, his entire body poised for defense. The silence of the room was broken only by the steady, deep breathing of one and the sporadic, cautious breathing of the other. Then, quietly, almost imperceptibly, Andrew's hand slipped under Neil's pillow. And with the familiar feeling of a weapon beneath his head, Neil sank into a deep sleep.  

*** 

He woke up suddenly. Not gradually, yielding to the light, but with a sharp, physical jolt. The first thing Andrew felt was the coldness of the sheet beside him, where a familiar, warm body had lain an hour ago. His eyes instantly focused on the empty space. He propped himself up on his elbow. The room was flooded with gray, early light from the loosely drawn curtains. This light was too calm for the panic churning in his head and heart. His breath caught in his throat. It wasn't just anxiety, but a primal, animal terror. His body reacted faster than his head. Panic surged in a cold wave: from his stomach to his throat, making his abdominal muscles clench. Neil was gone. No, Neil had been taken again. Yesterday's nightmare, which he thought he had left outside their room, returned with double force. The bath, the clean clothes — all were just a temporary illusion. Then he heard the sound of water in the bathroom. He sharply threw off the blanket, jumping to his feet. Blood hammered in his temples with a loud, insistent rhythm. He took a step toward the bathroom door, his bare feet thudding dully on the cheap carpet. In that second, he felt utterly exposed and defenseless. The single task he had set for himself, keeping Neil safe, had suddenly failed. He silently threw open the bathroom door, ready to see the worst. The outside world shrunk to this small, tiled space. But instead of blood or emptiness, he saw Neil: he was standing at the sink, leaning over it. He was still wearing Andrew's clothes. Just as soft and comfortable, with now soft, fluffy red hair, only his constrained movements resembled a person who had survived torture less than a day ago. In his hand, Neil held a toothbrush. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Andrew asked, trying to suppress the panic. Neil spat the toothpaste into the sink and turned around. Yes, still so sweet and domestic. And an absolute idiot. "I'm here," Neil said. "I'm not going anywhere." "Yeah, and brushing your teeth for I don't know how many hours was a necessity?" "Sorry I scared you." Oh, well, fuck Neil and his ability to read Andrew like an open book. "You were dead, Neil. And then it turned out they actually buried you. Alive," They should have talked about it, and there's no time better than now. "But I didn't die. I got out," Neil countered, as Andrew stepped closer. "Almost. Almost got out. Almost died," Andrew replied. "The FBI told us that when they arrived at your father's house, you were no longer there. They said your father got to you first." Neil raised his eyebrows: "The FBI was at my father's house?" "Yes, they raided it after an anonymous tip. Your father and several of his men are dead." Neil exhaled. All the tension in his body melted away, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. "So, no one is chasing you now, not the son of a serial killer," Andrew added, but Neil seemed so euphoric that he paid no attention to the nickname. "Now tell me how you got out." Neil looked him in the eyes. Ocean meets forest. "I broke the coffin lid, and then crawled out. I followed the trees to the gas station and called you." Andrew pursed his lips. "I hate you." "Of course," Neil smiled, like the idiot he was. Andrew raised a hand, freezing before the bandaged burn. Neil tilted his head and leaned his cheek against the palm, and then kissed it. His eyes were gleaming, as if Andrew was the only thing he wanted. No one had ever wanted him. Everyone passed by, turned away, and pushed him away. And then this lying liar who lies appeared. With blood on his hands and a desire to run in his eyes. He pointed at Andrew and said, He, I only want him. Andrew raised his other hand to run it through his hair, making Neil sigh. "125 percent, Neil." Neil merely smirked. Damn, Andrew would kill for that smirk. He knows there's only one way to wipe it away. He felt Neil's warm breath on his face from how close they were standing. The next thing Andrew realized, he was pressing Neil against the wall and kissing him. He poured all his pain, all his care, all his love into that kiss. Bandaged hands tangled in his hair. These hands never pulled, these teeth never bit, this mouth never spoke forbidden words. "I'm not going anywhere," Neil said when they separated to breathe the now useless air. "You're staying," Andrew nodded, pulling him closer.