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When Andrew’s brain finally snapped back into focus, he was in the bathroom surrounded by a hoard of blood-soaked tissues.
Fuck.
This was a major fuck-up. He hadn’t brought a blade to his own skin in over 5 years. He’d resisted the urge for 5 whole years, and now all that progress had washed down the drain along with the blood he’d just shed.
Fuck.
Why had he even done it? He hadn’t really been feeling that terrible, all things considered. It was definitely a far cry from his ‘bad days’, as Neil tended to call them, and yet he’d stayed strong through those. Today he’d just moped about the home he’d made with Neil, only Neil wasn’t here right now. But he wasn’t far away - he was just spending a day with Dan and Matt while they happened to be in the same state. It really wasn’t something Andrew had been worried about. As much as they cared about each other, they were self-sufficient enough to spend some time separated without falling apart.
So why had he fallen apart today?
He shifted his gaze from the tissues to his arm and felt a wave of revulsion roll through him. This was weak. He was weak. Weak and stupid and worthless and awful and - he screwed his eyes tight shut in an attempt to halt the thoughts of self-hatred rushing through his mind. Instead, he focused on what he needed to do next. Fetch the first aid kit from the kitchen. Bandage up the open wounds to prevent infection. Flush the bloody tissues and scrub the sink clean of any remaining scarlet.
A list of tasks was better than a list of insults aimed at himself.
Fifteen minutes later, when he was all patched up and the bathroom sparkling clean again, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. The band-aids stood out on his pale forearms: a beacon to the weak and plainly stupid thing he’d just done. Andrew could admit to wanting things these days, but right now all he wanted was to not see the evidence. He went searching for a jacket, a long-sleeve t-shirt, anything but his armbands to cover up his arms. He hadn’t worn his armbands in his own home in nearly 2 years - he wasn’t going to let this one mistake change that.
Ignoring the slight stings of pain, he curled up on the sofa with a book, swaddled in a woollen cardigan, and waited for Neil’s return. Andrew knew he needed to tell Neil about this, regardless of how loudly his brain screamed at him to keep it a secret. They’d promised each other honesty, and either way, he’d never been the liar in this relationship - he wasn’t about to become one.
70 pages into his book, the lock clicked, and Neil strode in through the front door, a grin lighting up his face that made Andrew’s heart stutter a little. Andrew put his book down, mentally noting the page number, before opening up his arms, a clear invitation. An invitation Neil immediately accepted, collapsing onto the sofa and burying his face into Andrew’s chest, letting out a contented sigh when Andrew wrapped his arms around him. He tilted his head forward until his nose was brushing Neil’s red curls, breathing in the faint fruity scent of the shampoo he must have used that morning.
“How was your day?” he murmured.
Neil shifted until he was looking into Andrew’s eyes. “It was really good. I haven’t seen Matt and Dan in ages,” he said, adorably sleepy already. “Glad to be back home with you though.”
Andrew had to shut his eyes as he felt his heart stutter. He loved Neil so much. Seeing him so content and happy, especially at the prospect of just being with him, was enough to make him feel dazed.
He couldn’t bear to ruin Neil’s good mood, couldn’t bear to replace that gentle smile on his face as he nuzzled closer to Andrew, with one of worry, concern, disappointment.
No. This confession could wait until morning.
***
Andrew awoke to an unpleasantly hot, humid sensation across his whole body. Usually, the nights when he woke up drenched in sweat, nightmares were to blame. But tonight, he’d had an uninterrupted sleep, at least until now. No, tonight, the culprit was the long-sleeved pyjamas he’d worn to bed. The last time he’d worn these was in February, when he’d needed the extra warmth to get through the freezing nights. In June, however, they just made him overheat.
Trying not to disturb a peacefully sleeping Neil beside him, he rolled over to check the clock on his bedside table.
5:52 am.
It was hours earlier than Andrew would usually wake up on a Sunday morning, but he couldn’t face the idea of trying to fall asleep again, not all gross and hot and sweaty as he was. Suppressing a groan, he pulled himself out of bed, grabbed some clothes and a dressing gown, and traipsed to the guest bedroom down the hall. He would shower in the guest bedroom’s ensuite this morning. The last thing he wanted to do was wake Neil up, who was having his one morning a week where he didn’t set an alarm ridiculously early to go out running. Not that it was likely he’d lie in that long anyway, the early bird that he was, but Andrew didn’t want to risk the chance of Neil getting a full night’s sleep.
Half an hour later, he tucked himself into an armchair in their living room, draped in his cotton dressing gown. He had picked up his book, intending to continue from where he’d left off yesterday, but the lack of sleep was forcing his eyes to drift shut.
He didn’t fall back asleep, but he was definitely dozing off from time to time. A series of quiet rustling sounds came from his and Neil’s bedroom - it seemed he had awoken at last. For Neil, this was a pretty good achievement. He’d managed to sleep until half 7. Andrew smoothed out the gentle smile that he’d let slip of the thought of Neil looking after himself and actually getting a healthy amount of sleep for once. He couldn’t afford to smile right now. He had a horrible conversation ahead of him, and by the sound of the doorknob turning, it seemed it would be happening soon.
But when Neil appeared through the door, he was already wearing an expression of concern on his face. Andrew frowned - he wanted his contented, relaxed Neil back.
“Andrew?” Neil called, worry leaking into his tone.
In response, Andrew poked his hand over the top of the armchair, letting Neil know where he was. Immediately, Neil made a beeline for him, lacing his fingers with those on Andrew’s own - Andrew couldn’t help but bring their clasped hands towards him, leaning his cheek on them once they were close enough.
“Why are you out here so early, love?” Andrew pretended he didn’t melt at the pet name. “Did you have a nightmare?”
The anxious tightness of anticipation in his chest returned - he knew he should tell Neil about last night, especially when he already suspected something might be wrong.
Andrew simply buried his head further into the nook between the soft fabric of the chair and the calloused knuckles of Neil’s hand, letting out an indeterminable hum in lieu of actual words.
Neil let his pinky stroke gentle patterns on Andrew’s cheek. “Andrew?” he questioned again.
Andrew gathered his breath, preparing to spit the words out at last. He sighed one last time, and then -
“Just couldn’t sleep.”
What. That was not what he meant to say. He needed - wanted - to tell Neil the truth. It was Neil. He could tell Neil anything. And Neil wouldn’t be happy about it, but he would want to help him with this, he was sure of it. If only he could get his mouth to co-operate.
Just before he could try again, Neil began talking instead.
“If you’re sure that’s all it is, love.” he murmured, pinky still tracing his cheek softly. “I can make you some breakfast if you want? Pancakes?”
Andrew did want. Now that the offer was out there, he wanted breakfast more than he wanted to shatter this moment with his stupid, pointless angst. Anyway, he could always tell Neil later. After all, he wasn’t exactly lying to Neil yet, just waiting for the right time. Yes. Breakfast could come first.
“Mmm pancakes. With chocolate chips.” he said, punctuating his request with a brush of lips against the back of Neil’s hand.
Neil gave a soft chuckle and bent over the back of the armchair to press his own lips to Andrew’s forehead. “Chocolate chips it is.” He tried to untangle their entwined fingers, but Andrew didn’t let him yet, instead electing to follow him into the kitchen, where they finally separated, Neil moving between the various cupboards for ingredients, and Andrew choosing to perch on one of the bar stools at their kitchen island.
He lay his head on his crossed arms and watched his boyfriend cook in an almost peaceful silence. Unfortunately, Andrew found himself being distracted by his own thoughts again. As Neil whisked the pancake batter, he couldn’t help but feel a lump of guilt settle in his chest. What business did he have fucking up and hurting himself when he had this life? This perfect fucking life he never dreamed he’d be able to have? With his beautiful house and beautiful Neil and mornings like this? Being able to want and care and love more openly than he ever thought was possible? A life where he had nightmares maybe once or twice a month rather than once a twice a night? A life where he felt he had been able to move on from the scared little boy, move on from the angry teenager, the apathetic twenty-year-old, to become a real person at long-last? For fuck’s sake, he was supposed to be better, healed, recovered, whatever, now. So why was he relapsing for no fucking reason, after 5 years of hard work? Maybe he was always destined to be a disappointment, a fuck-up. Maybe he’d never get over this.
Fuck.
He decided to close his eyes. He couldn’t let Neil see the tears that had collected in his eyes that threatened to spill over.
***
Andrew had managed to grapple his thoughts back into placidity, and they’d enjoyed a lazy morning together, eating pancakes and kissing on the sofa. After a few hours, he decided he should probably get dressed - they did need to go grocery shopping that afternoon if they wanted to be able to cook dinner like they usually did, and he could hardly do that in his dressing gown.
He made his way to their closet, and searched through his clothes, and was about to grab a t-shirt when he remembered his need to cover up his arms. There was no way he would be able to wear his armbands without Neil catching on - he hadn’t worn them in so long that Neil would immediately guess the reason for their reappearance, and he needed to talk about this entirely on his own terms. No, another long-sleeved shirt would have to do. That would be cooler than wearing a jacket anyway. But either way, it was one of the hottest days of the year so far, and whichever he wore, he would be a sweating mess after 10 minutes. He just had to brace himself for the heat.
Half-way through their shopping trip, Neil seemed to notice Andrew’s predicament. He stopped halfway to lowering a loaf of bread into the shopping cart.
“Are you sure you aren’t too warm?” he asked, tilting his head to the side subconsciously. “You look so hot.”
Andrew levelled him with what he hoped was a deadpan stare. “Surely you can resist me while we’re still in public.”
A rosy flush appears on Neil’s cheeks, and he averts his gaze as Andrew’s words register. “I meant, literally hot, Andrew,” he corrected. “Hot, boiling, overheating.”
“I’m just a normal temperature.”
“Hmmm, a normal temperature,” Neil said, with more than just a hint of sarcasm. “And I’m sure when you pass out it will be because you’re a normal temperature, right?”
Andrew just hums in acknowledgement, but it seems Neil isn’t ready to let this go quite yet.
“Did you seriously think long sleeves were the best option in this heat?” Neil does a good job at disguising this question in a layer of humour, but Andrew knows him too well not to recognise the worry in its foundations.
He’ll tell him once they’re home, he decides.
“Just didn’t think about it. And who are you to judge my fashion choices, Mr. ‘All my clothes can fit in a duffle bag’?”
“Hey, I’ve gotten better!”
And just like that, they move on, walking to the freezer aisle to replenish Andrew’s ice cream stock, but he can’t help but think Neil steered them towards the cooler end of the store on purpose.
***
Hours later, when they are back in their living room, after cooking a pasta bake and eating it together, and Andrew back in the trusty dressing gown he relied on all that morning, he recognises that he is running out of ‘tell him later’s. Any longer and this will officially become a secret, something he is actively trying to hide from Neil, after he’d promised nothing but honesty and trust between them.
He cannot even lay a finger on exactly why he is so reluctant to tell Neil this. It’s not like it’s the first time he has relapsed with Neil by his side. But all those times were back in college, when a success story was a few weeks between incidents, not years. They’d not dealt with this problem in so long that Andrew had almost believed they never would have to again. He’d been 5 years clean. He’d barely even felt the urge in over a year. Until now.
Neil won’t be angry with him. Neil will take him to the bathroom and reapply the dressings, check there is no sign of infection, and kiss over the band-aids. Neil won’t shout, won’t cry, will just offer comfort and support. But he can’t shake the feeling that Neil would be disappointed in him, and he can’t face that. Can’t face the idea that Neil would think he’s not as strong as he believed, not happy with the life they have made with each other.
But Neil would be even more disappointed in him if he found out he’d lied to him.
He supposed he didn’t have much of a choice but to just spit it out.
He spends a few minutes watching Neil type on his phone with his pointer finger, probably texting Kevin his thoughts about the last exy game he’d watched. Ignoring the pang in his chest at how Neil would react to what he was about to say, he shut his eyes, and took a final, steadying breath.
“Neil,” he said quietly. Andrew hadn’t intended his voice to sound so small.
“Yeah?” came Neil’s response. Andrew must have hesitated a second too long, because Neil was speaking again.
“What is it?” Neil said, sounded slightly less relaxed than he had initially.
Andrew opened his eyes, finding Neil’s full attention was on him. He looked back down at his lap, the concern in his boyfriend’s eyes a little too much to bear right now. Across the room, he heard as Neil stood and moved across to the sofa where Andrew was sitting.
“Can I sit next to you?”
Andrew began nodding. “Yeah,” he croaked, barely above a whisper. As soon as Neil sat down next to him, he tucked his head into the crook of Neil’s neck, hiding away from reality, if only for a moment: he knew he couldn’t escape it for too long.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Neil asked, always thoughtful, always considerate of his boundaries, handing Andrew the reigns of the conversation.
Andrew nodded again, moving his hand to grasp Neil’s, who immediately began stroking gentle patterns across his skin with his thumb. With his eyes still closed, he took one last deep breath, and decided to just get this over with.
“I cut myself last night.”
Andrew felt as Neil momentarily tensed, the thumb caressing Andrew’s hand ceasing its movement. His breath seemed to catch in his throat for half a second, before regaining his composure and releasing an exhale that was only slightly shaky.
Andrew braced himself for Neil’s reaction, the disappointment he would hear in his boyfriend’s voice, maybe frustration seeping into his actions, disbelieving of Andrew’s weak will. But Neil just relaxed his posture again and resumed the calming motion of his thumb across the back of Andrew’s hand.
“Okay,” Neil said, and Andrew couldn’t detect even a hint of resentment, pity, anger, anything in his tone. Opening his eyes, he turned to look at his boyfriend, only to find Neil’s eyes on him already, a steady but gentle stare. “Did you take care of them?”
Nodding, he rolled the sleeves of his dressing gown up to his elbow, displaying the clean band-aids he’d put on them this morning, before hiding them underneath the soft cotton again.
Neil hummed in acknowledgement, clearly satisfied that Andrew had looked after the wounds. “Did something happen yesterday?”
This was the question Andrew had been dreading: why had he done it? Because he knew fine well that nothing had happened yesterday, not really. No flashbacks, no nightmares, no crippling depressive episode. Just a little niggle in his brain, something mildly troubling, mostly indescribable. A vague bad feeling that he couldn’t seem to shake. He had no idea how that had led to the heavy feeling in his chest as he picked up the blade.
It took a minute or two for Andrew to find the words to answer, but Neil waited patiently, letting him formulate his thoughts with no pressure to hurry up.
“Not really,” Andrew murmured eventually. “Just this weird, not-good feeling I couldn’t get rid of. I don’t really remember my thought process. I don’t think there was one.”
“That’s okay, love,” Neil replied, his voice somehow simultaneously strong enough for the both of them and so soft it could melt. “Is there anything I can do to help? Either now or for next time?”
Andrew frowned to himself. Was that really a good enough answer for him? A pathetic ‘I don’t know’ and he was just accepting it? Where was his actual reaction?
“Is that it?” Andrew said curtly, just short of snapping at his boyfriend. “Aren’t you upset? Or mad? Or- Don’t you think I’m fucking stupid, or weak, or… something for doing this, and for basically no reason-”
“Andrew,” Neil cut him off, a trace of horror slipping into his tone now. “You’re not weak for relapsing. It wasn’t stupid because you can’t figure out the exact reason why you did it. You know that, right?”
Andrew just gave a weak non-committal grunt.
“You’re healing, Andrew. No one expects you to never struggle ever again, just because you’ve been getting better.”
“But I thought I was past this now.” Andrew hated how small his voice seemed.
“Think about it this way, love. Do you feel like you’re back to square one? Are you back how you were 5 years ago?”
He knew immediately that he wasn’t. 5 years ago, every time he felt even slightly out of control of his life, he itched for a blade in his hands again. 5 years ago, he couldn’t tell Neil how much he loved him, or bear to be touched by him so freely. 5 years ago, he spent more time in hazes of depressive episodes than out of them. No, he was doing much better than he was 5 years ago. He had healed. Or so he’d thought.
Neil seemed to be following Andrew’s train of thought. “You haven’t healed fully because you never will. There is no fully recovered. There is just better and worse, and we both know you are better now, happier now, than you were before. So yeah, you slipped up, but we just keep moving forward, yeah? Together.”
Fuck Neil for having the words to put his mind at ease, his mind that had been warring against itself since yesterday, and so quickly and simply at that. How could he ever think that Neil would be anything less than completely and utterly supportive and understanding? After all, Neil had his own fair share of recovering and healing
to do and had had his own setbacks to deal with.
This one relapse didn’t negate all the times he’d overcome the compulsion to hurt himself. It was just one step back after hundreds forwards.
No, this wasn’t disastrous. He was still okay, and Neil was still with him, and they still loved each other more than words could express. They could still keep moving forward, could keep healing further, side-by-side.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Together.”
***