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Andrew’s skin was itching. It was four in the morning the Saturday before Thanksgiving weekend. A whole year later. He wasn’t going to try and get any more sleep, not with the shadows lurking, waiting. He slipped out of bed holding his breath, hoping he didn’t wake anyone, particularly the redheaded shortass who could wake up from someone breathing too loud. Slowly, Neil’s body seemed to be processing that he was in a place safe enough to properly relax, but it was definitely taking its time.
Miraculously, Andrew didn’t wake anyone as he tiptoed out into the main living area. He would have a couple hours before the rest roused themselves. But now, alone and awake, Andrew’s mind whirred with no outlet.
He didn’t have many “traumaversaries.” Once the bad shit becomes your norm, there’s too many days to call each a traumaversary. Everything Andrew grew up with mostly bled together. But things were different now, and had been, for a couple years. Once he moved in with Nicky, stability that felt destabilizing from how unnatural it was to Andrew began to fill his life. He didn’t necessarily let his guard down, but the knife beneath his pillow didn’t find a use. The lock on his door wasn’t fought against.
That’s not to say that things were in any way perfect. There was the incident when he defended Nicky, there were many brawls he was involved with on the team, and the meds he had been forced to take made him spin horribly out of control, on display in a way that disgusted him. But he was out of the Hell that were those foster homes. He had made it out. Free.
Until last Thanksgiving. Last Thanksgiving was an abrupt and violent reminder of his past, the soil of his rotted roots. He’d never let anyone know how much that night undid what he talked about with Bee. How much he had learned was true about himself growing up, that had been confronted in sessions, the beginning of unraveling, only to find it was all truer than ever. Everything about him that made all of those people do those things, the way Drake so easily–
Andrew heard the door’s lock click shut before he realized he even entered the bathroom. He gripped the counter with hands that definitely weren’t trembling and stared into his reflection, his face carefully masked even when alone.
His skin still itched.
His armbands were right there.
It would be such a pain to explain to Bee why he relapsed today. He already felt the shame creep up his neck at the thought of having to bring up what happened a year ago with anyone. He needed to be alone. He needed the day to be over. He needed to forget– how strong Drake’s grip was as he dragged Andrew to the bed after hitting him over the head with that bottle– how familiar the weight was on top of him– how his vision swam, blood trickling into his eyes and past his lips– how Drake kissed him, harsh and dominating, one more thing to rob from Andrew– how the restraints cut into his wrists– how it felt like he was torn in two, pain blinding and all-to familiar– how Drake wore same cologne all these years later– how he fought the nausea and swallowed the bile as he jolted– how the bed thumped rhythmically against the wall–
He needed it all to stop. And he knew how to make it stop. He was done holding out. It’s not like he would’ve been able to completely give up this vice anyway.
His armbands were next to him where he fell to his knees on the tiles, knives slipped out of their sheaths.
The first cut felt like a deep inhale soothing the burn in his lungs. Finally. Everything around him fell away and he kept cutting around old scars, white and red, raised and not. Parallel wounds, wide and gaping.
Eventually, the buzzing in his skin eased, his head full of cotton. He brought his forearms over the sink and watched the blood mix with water from the tap. He held pressure on each forearm, waiting for the bleeding to subside to the point where he could safely bandage them without them bleeding through. He slid his armbands over the bandages, knives sheathed underneath. They were tighter than usual, but the compression of the fabric was stretchy enough to make it look normal. His armbands being black also helped with this. He washed the tiles of the bathroom and looked down at his black sweats and shirt. The sweats had blood on them, but it was hard to tell. He wore them to bed specifically because blood never showed up too much on them when he got surprised by his period. He’d wash them in cold water. Luckily, his shirt seemed to be spared in how he positioned himself. He decided to brush his teeth and get ready while he still had the empty bathroom to skip the usual morning mayhem.
He left the bathroom to find Neil sitting on the sofa in the living room. Andrew glanced at his phone. It wasn’t even half past five yet. Neil was up early.
“Morning,” Neil said, voice still gravelly from sleep, but his eyes sharp and fixed on Andrew’s face, searching. “Bad dream?”
Andrew gave a curt nod. Not technically a lie. He was woken up by a nightmare. He then jerked his head towards the door of their bedroom, silently saying he would be quick. Neil seemed to understand and nodded.
Andrew quickly grabbed the most worn-down pair of jeans he owned, a soft cotton long-sleeved black shirt, boxer briefs, and a pair of Neil’s socks. He walked past Neil to change in the bathroom like he usually did. But, after, he put his pyjamas directly in the washing machine on cold. Something Neil would surely pick up on and ask him about. Andrew was already exhausted, talking about anything close to the truth only felt more exhausting. The sun hadn’t even risen yet. Too many invisible hands imprinted onto his body.
When Neil tried to ask, Andrew gave him a look that told him to drop it. And he did. Oh, Neil. So quick to respect Andrew’s boundaries. Even when he didn’t deserve it.
Andrew sat next to Neil leaving a wide berth between them. He wasn’t ready to try any type of touch today. He felt overdramatic. The whole thing happened a year ago. Shouldn’t time passing make him feel better? But this date had him trapped, pinned, like no time had passed. Like Drake was still alive. The trial loomed in the future. How would Andrew handle that, if this one date could do so much to him?
He wondered if Aaron remembered the date.
When the rest of their dorm woke up (Kevin needing to be dragged out from under his blankets by Neil and Nicky), Andrew drove them all to practice. He put little effort into warm-ups, which wasn’t too unusual for him. Wymack barely even tried to convince him this time to do more than the muscle stretches he decided to do, hoping to feel a bit more ownership over his body. He watched Aaron warming up, quieter than usual. His twin wasn’t all that talkative anyway, so it probably didn’t stand out to anyone else. But it stood out to him. And made his skin crawl: Aaron knew what date it was. Aaron was also thinking about that night. And he knew that Andrew knew the date, too.
Too much.
“Heading out, Coach,” he said as he walked out of the court. He needed to be invisible, not observed by his brother who knew exactly what was going through his head. On repeat. All day. The shame crept back up his neck.
“Hey, you can’t just leave practice, Minyard–” Wymack yelled, jogging to catch up with him.
“Already did. See ya’.” He gave a two-fingered salute and forced his body not to run to the locker rooms, adrenaline surging through him. That would bring too much attention to himself.
He hadn’t worked up a sweat yet, but showered in a stall regardless. He had the urge to scrub his skin over and over, rubbed raw in vain to get the memories off of him, but he needed to get out of here as soon as possible. So he settled for a couple cycles of scrubbing his skin clean, watching the pink water circle the drain. He packed first aid in his backpack and rebandaged his arms in the stall.
Neil, Aaron, Nicky, and Kevin could grab rides with Matt and the others, Andrew decided as he turned on the ignition in the Maz.
He drove himself back to the dorms.
And, suddenly, he shadows in his peripheries were sharp-toothed and clawed and all the cuts he had made earlier weren’t enough to dull the memories.
Which is how he found himself in just his boxers in the bathtub covered in more, most even deeper than this morning’s.
Bee was going to have a field day.
He really should call her.
But Andrew was in no rush to gouge open and expose his emotional wounds for anyone.
Nor was he in a rush to bandage and hide away these physical ones. Instead, he watched the blood seep from them, pooling from rivulets on his arms. Time seemed to slow, his head getting fuzzy again. Perfect.
He heard the door open, chatter filling the dorm, breaking Andrew from his daze. Fuck, he realized. He had stayed here too long.
He couldn’t seem to get his legs to push him out of the bath. But he had to, he had to clean everything up, hide his arms away under bandages and armbands. He had to disappear the evidence of his unraveling–
“Andrew?” Aaron called out.
–especially since Aaron knew. Aaron knew what today was, and he was too discerning of Andrew’s thoughts and feelings, their shared face another way he was exposed. Everything about today made Andrew feel too exposed. He had been banking on the dignity of privacy, of being able to go through today without anyone peeking behind his mask.
He didn’t know what to say, but the urge to hide overtook whatever else was there.
“Showering,” he yelled. “Fuck off.”
Andrew heard Aaron say something too soft for him to make out and Neil reply, equally muffled.
And now Andrew felt panic that was quickly accompanied by anger. He didn’t get the one thing he needed today: to be invisible. To get through this without anyone remembering his exposed body, just attacked and raped by his foster brother.
He turned on the water and went under, not bothering to take off his boxer briefs. They were not spared from the blood. He didn’t care.
Andrew looked around and realized he made a mess. Blood was everywhere. It was still flowing from his cuts. He needed to clean the floor and counter and sink but doing so now would only smear more blood around. He’d have to stop the bleeding.
The purpose of the self harm, to bring a moment of silence, to ease the hands all over his body, was rendered useless again. His body was ruined, skin dirtied by all of them in his childhood. By Drake that night a year ago. A week before Thanksgiving.
He sat under the water, watching water mix with the ever-flowing blood from his arms.
“Drew?”
Neil. Andrew stared at the porcelain, pinned by the memory. Pinned by Drake.
“Drew, can you unlock the door?”
“Fuck off,” he growled back over the sound of the shower.
“Drew–”
“Leave me alone.” He could hear the tremble through the growl in his voice.
Andrew couldn’t tell if Neil was talking to anyone, the shower too loud. He wasn’t paying attention anyways.
They needed to leave him alone. He was dirty. Exposed. Unsafe. Violated. Anyone existing near him was liable for infection. He was used by too many people in too many ways.
Silence stretched out on the other side of the door. Andrew did nothing to stop it or the bleeding.
He watched as his body began shivering, goosebumps prickling his skin. The cold water was beginning to be too much for his body, but Andrew didn’t care. It was the only thing keping him remotely grounded, resisting the urge to give in and slit his fucking throat.
A knock on the door.
Andrew sucked air into his lungs, ready to shout at whoever it was to go away, to use a different bathroom–
“Drew, I’ve sent them all away,” Neil called out. “It’s just you and me.”
The words he had prepared died in Andrew’s throat.
“Can I come in?”
Andrew said nothing.
“Aaron told me what day it is.”
Fuck Aaron. Fuck him for knowing Andrew too well. For killing Drake and, in doing so, risking his future, his freedom. For Andrew? Come on.
“And?” Andrew forced out, gripping onto his uncaring facade like a lifeline.
But Neil always saw through it, even when it wasn’t as fractured as it was now.
“I’m worried. I want to help, Drew. Can you unlock the door?” Desperation leaked into Neil’s words, his fear humming out of him through the door.
So Andrew gave in. “Fine.”
He didn’t grab a towel, trying to mitigate the mess at least somewhat. He unlocked the door naked and shivering, body turned away from Neil, his forearms wrapped around his torso.
Andrew didn’t even have it in him to be dysphoric in this moment. There was too much flooding his brain about his body. And, anyways, Neil knew what it was like, living in a body that rebels against you, defiant to who you know yourself to be. Neil told him when he guided Andrew’s hands beneath his shirt for the first time.
The door closed behind them and Andrew heard Neil suck in a breath as he took in Andrew’s current state. Facing away from him hid absolutely nothing.
“Can I see your arms?”
Andrew didn’t respond. He moved over to the sink and revealed his arms over it, trying to minimize the amount of blood on the tiles.
Andrew kept his gaze fixed just beyond his arms in the bowl of the sink.
“A lot of these need stitches.”
The words Andrew absolutely did not want to hear but knew were coming anyway. He said nothing.
“Can I call Abby to give you stitches?”
“You’ve given yourself stitches before,” Andrew retorted. “Why not do them on me?”
Andrew knew why, but he was asking anyways.
“I can’t, Drew. I know how to do them as a means of survival, they’d suffice but wouldn’t be good for long-term scar healing at all. And there’s already enough scar tissue around them. You wouldn’t let me give myself stitches, right?”
Andrew grumbled an affirmative under his breath.
“So,” Neil continued. “You need stitches. Abby is your best option. She’s not going to do anything you don’t want her to do. Can I call Abby?”
Andrew nodded. Neil waited.
“Yes,” Andrew sighed, giving the verbal consent Neil was waiting for.
“Okay.”
Neil flipped open his phone and thumbed down his contacts until he got to Abby’s number. Andrew wasn’t surprised the number was saved in his phone because Andrew had been the one to put the contact in there, Neil too much of a danger magnet who would never call 911 to be left alone without a contact that could get him immediate medical care. Neil trusted Abby more than any of the alternatives.
It only rang twice before Abby picked up.
“Neil? What’s wrong?” Andrew heard through the phone.
“I’m fine– I mean, I’m okay,” he started, correcting himself before Andrew or Abby could. “But I need you to come to the dorms right now. Andrew needs medical attention.”
“What kind of medical attention, so I can know what to bring? Does he need the Emergency Room?”
“No, no Emergency Room needed. Bring wound care materials and stuff to give him stitches.”
A pause on the other end of the line. “Do we need to involve Bee?”
Neil’s eyes darted to Andrew who quickly shook his head.
“No. Knock loudly when you get here, we’re in the bathroom so it might be hard for me to hear you.”
“Okay, will do. See you in ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks, see you soon.” Neil flipped his phone shut and put it back in his pocket.
He turned his attention back to Andrew. Andrew refused to meet his gaze.
“She’ll be here soon.”
“I heard.”
“You don’t want to involve Bee.”
It was a question phrased as a statement. Andrew “wanted” to be petty and say nothing, to deflect. But he nodded his head.
“Why?” Neil asked.
Why? Why would Andrew want to involve Bee, is the better question. Too many people knew what the day was, too many people who could remember Andrew’s shame and disgust, how he was violated. Helpless. Exposed. Drake was on top of him. Had overpowered him easily, a single swing of a bottle rendering Andrew’s carefully concealed knives useless. So many things he never wanted to remember, least of all see remembered in the faces of others. He had been laughing, the court-mandated medicine’s effects on him, disarming him, part of the whole nightmare.
“So many reasons.”
“Okay.” Neil wasn’t going to push his boundaries, a fact that was nauseating in this moment. It felt unreal, to know Neil would never take what Andrew wouldn’t give him.
“I’ll catch her up tomorrow,” Andrew compromised, the words leaving his mouth before he realized what he was saying.
Neil let out a small sigh of relief. “That’s great, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Andrew muttered.
“Alright.” Neil’s attention turned to Andrew’s still-bleeding arms. “Let’s put pressure on these with the towels while we wait for Abby.”
Andrew decided not to protest about dirtying the towels. He didn’t care about them, he just cared about there being evidence of this breakdown. But he trusted in Neil’s skills in getting blood out of fabric after all those years on the run.
“Can I touch you to help hold pressure?” Neil asked.
“Yes.”
They held pressure on his wounds together, and the silence grew, but not uncomfortably. Andrew slowly let his gaze move from the sink to Neil’s hands over his arms, not gripping where they shouldn’t, the perfect amount of pressure while making sure Andrew could easily escape his grip if needed. His eyes traveled up Neil’s scarred arms to his neck, fading hickeys and more scars littering it. Finally, he looked up at Neil’s face. And it hit Andrew that Neil would never look at him like something revolting, to be pitied and held at a distance. Neil would never look at Andrew and only see his worst moment in the same way that Andrew would never do so for Neil. Neil’s eyes were filled with worry, yes, but not the revulsion or disgust Andrew felt for himself, felt he deserved. The adrenaline left his body and he slumped onto the ground, Neil quickly following him down.
“Andrew, are you oka–”
“Yes,” he replied, his throat tight. He wasn’t okay, but Neil knew what he meant. He had an overwhelming urge to ask Neil to hug him, but he knew that this was the wrong time. Andrew would undoubtedly be triggered back into flashbacks, only worsening the situation. The vulnerability in wanting a hug was overwhelming, terrifying, even disgusting. Andrew had worked hard to not “want” anything. So he settled for sitting next to Neil, his hands applying pressure to Andrew’s arms, until Abby arrived.
When Abby got there, Neil went to let her in and led her to where he sat on the floor. She had a lot of questions, and Andrew answered the medically necessary ones, unwilling to dig into anything psychological. She only felt comfortable leaving them without getting Bee when Neil promised her they’d talk to Bee tomorrow.
Andrew changed into comfy clothing and put the towels and his clothes in the wash while Neil cleaned up the blood. When he finished, Andrew’s drained body ached to rest in the dark where he wouldn’t be disturbed when everyone returned. He stepped into the bedroom and images of him in the bed as Drake cuffed him– forced him– flooded his mind. He quickly stepped out and sat down on the end of the sofa, bringing his knees up in front of him.
After a while, Neil finished cleaning. The guilt of letting Neil do that alone bubbled up in his stomach, but he ignored it for now. Neil came to sit down on the sofa next to him, close enough that Andrew could reach him if he wished while leaving space so that he wasn’t boxed in. It was infuriatingly considerate and understanding of what was going through Andrew’s head right then.
“The others are gonna be out for a while. Kevin’s gone to the court and will probably go see Coach after, Nicky’s gone to the mall with the Upperclassmen, and Aaron’s with Katelyn.”
Andrew shot a half-hearted glare in Neil’s direction at the mention of Katelyn, but, deep down, Andrew hoped she would be helpful for him in some way today.
“Hey, she’s part of his life now,” Neil reminded him.
“Because of your meddling.”
“True,” he smiled softly. “Do you want to stay here or go to the roof for a smoke?”
God, did Andrew need a cigarette.
“Talk on the roof, then we come back.”
“Okay.”
The day was still horrible, and Andrew had to fight the urge to hide away from the prying eyes of his teammates and the world at large. He couldn’t escape the memories smothering his body, the flashbacks, the dangers lurking in a dark bedroom. He couldn’t escape the reality of what he had done to his arms, the conversations that would bring, what Bee would say. He couldn’t escape the traumaversary or its consequences. But he could feel the cold breeze on the roof next to Neil, trading cigarettes and truths.