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Neil’s past was a bitch, always waiting to remind about itself in the most unpredictable moments.
He was in Columbia with Andrew. It was the first week in what felt like forever that they had to themselves, just the two of them. Yesterday they’d beaten the Jackals, who were this season’s favourites.
The whole team was so stressed about this match that when it ended with their victory, Kevin ordered a week-long holiday for all of them.
Neil doubted it was for their sake. More than anyone, it was Kevin who looked like he needed the escape. Planning the match tactic and training took so much energy from him that Neil wasn’t sure how Kevin managed not to die from exhaustion.
It led to this moment of Neil lying still in the quiet hush of night, eyes fixed on Andrew as he slept beside him. Sleep eluded him, but he didn’t dare move in fear of waking Andrew up by getting out of bed. So he stayed where he was, sinking into the silence, hoping that if he waited long enough, sleep might eventually take pity on him.
They were not lying close to each other. In fact, the only point of contact between them was their joined hands. Andrew had moments when old ghosts clawed their way into his dreams, when touch, even from Neil, felt like a threat, so they usually avoided closer contact while he slept.
Neil watched him in the dim light, and a wave of affection surged through him. He didn't say it to Andrew, but he was sure he was the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, no matter how long it was to be.
There had been a time, not so long ago, when Neil lived day by day, never sure he’d see the next sunrise. Back then, the future had been a luxury he couldn't afford. Now, he was daring to build one with Andrew.
Andrew didn’t speak of feelings, his own or anyone else’s, but he always knew. Knew when Neil needed grounding, when the surrounding silence grew too loud. He was steady in ways words could never be, and soft-hearted, though he’d deny it to the grave.
Thinking of him always eased something in Neil. The storm in his chest settled, and before long, the pull of sleep wrapped around him. And this time, he didn’t resist.
His peace of mind, however, did not last long.
Even if he was able to push the unpleasant memories away from him when he was awake, everything came back while he was asleep, and Neil couldn't even defend himself.
He dreamt of his father finding him and his mother. He saw the lifeless bodies of the Butcher's victims, whose empty eyes stared back at him. He looked at the burning car on the beach with his mother inside. Flames roared louder with every heartbeat, the heat curling against his skin, suffocating, consuming. Fire. Ruin. Death. Always death.
He woke up with a jolt and a hammering heart, his whole body seized by panic. His hands were slick with sweat, shaking uncontrollably. He tried to breathe, but each inhale only seemed to feed the terror rather than ease it.
He slipped out of bed as quietly as he could, because he didn't want to wake Andrew. He padded to the kitchen. The quiet hiss of the tap broke the silence as he poured himself a glass of water. He started thinking about his father and Lola again. He saw the sharp knife she was holding in her hand.
The splash of cold against his fingers startled him. He blinked. The glass was overflowing, water spilling over the edge, pooling on the counter. He shut off the tap with a sharp twist and drank, trying to wash the thoughts down, but still, the fear clung to him.
He decided it was time to go for a run.
Neil didn't even change into different clothes. He just put on his shoes and walked quickly out of the house, the cool air slapping against his face. He let the movement become an escape; the rhythm of his footsteps was the only thing louder than the screaming in his head.
For Neil, running was something that allowed him to feel liberated. It was a kind of feeling that swept away every weight and worry. He thought of nothing else when all he felt at that moment was speed, freedom and the coolness of the night air. Metres turned into kilometres, and he continued to feel no fatigue; after all, he had been running all his life. Running was in his blood.
He didn't know what time it was when he got home. The only thing that indicated the passage of time was the quiet singing of birds.
On the front steps of the house sat Andrew, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. When he heard Neil's footsteps, he raised a bored look.
“I didn't know rabbits were nocturnal animals. I thought they slept at night instead of running around,” he said, not taking his eyes off Neil.
Neil sank down beside him, drawn to the quiet warmth radiating from Andrew’s presence. The chill creeping into his skin after the run made the proximity feel urgent, necessary.
“I needed to clear my head,” Neil said.
“You have pockets in your trousers. Your phone could be in there. Just a suggestion.” Andrew said and turned his head to look Neil straight in the eye.
“I’m sorry,” Neil pouted and looked back at Andrew. “But I’m-”
“...fine. Yes, I know.” Andrew cut in, then after a pause, added with a shrug, “I don't care.”
“Not at all,” Neil countered, a sly grin tugging at his lips. He edged closer, fingers finding Andrew’s hand. Andrew sighed but didn’t pull away—his other hand soon tangled in Neil’s hair, a silent acknowledgement between them.
The next day unfolded in quiet stillness. Neil was worn out, the miles he’d clocked under the night sky finally catching up with him. Neither he nor Andrew had the energy to pretend at productivity, so they stayed in—sprawled on the couch, watching shitty cartoons with the volume low and the curtains half-drawn.
The day seemed perfect, spent quietly in the comfort of Andrew’s presence. He lay stretched out on the sofa with his head resting on the soft pillow and legs draped across Andrew’s lap. On the other side of the couch sat Andrew, his hand absently stroking his leg, tracing slow patterns on Neil’s thigh.
As time passed, the clear blue sky outside the window blended into warm hues of crimson, amber and gold, before finally dimming completely and allowing the gleaming stars to appear in the dark night sky.
Neil knew they should be going to bed by now when Andrew yawned for the hundredth time that evening, and his hands, gently touching Neil's skin, grew more languid and lazier. He rose from the soft couch and took Andrew's hand in his. He kneeled next to him on the couch and looked at him. Then, with a quiet tug, Andrew’s fingers curled into the collar of Neil’s T-shirt, pulling him just a breath closer.
“Yes or no?” asked Andrew with eyes fixed on Neil’s mouth.
“Yes, Andrew, fuck—” began Neil, but suddenly Andrew’s lips crashed into his, stealing the words straight from his tongue.
Kissing Andrew was like breathing—essential and instinctive. Neil was certain that if he were ever denied it, he’d suffocate. And he wasn’t even overdramatic. Andrew’s lips, soft and warm, moved against his with a tenderness that made the world blur. And at that moment, Neil could think of nothing else—nothing but the dizzying, perfect sensation of being kissed like this.
Neil felt Andrew's hands find their way under his T-shirt, the sudden contrast of cold skin against his warmer own sending a jolt of heat through him, and he could only whimper at the sensation. His hands tangled in Andrew's golden hair and stayed there obediently until Andrew’s voice cut through the haze, low and breathy:
“Shoulders”, sighed Andrew
He quickly touched the broad shoulders and tightened his hold on them when he felt Andrew's lips on his bare neck.
“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, the pleasure increasing with every passing minute. The heat became almost unbearable, and he fumbled for the hem of his T-shirt, lifting it over his head.
In an instant, Andrew’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him flush against his chest. His lips found their way to Neil’s chest, leaving dark bruises all over his torso. Each sound that came out of Andrew’s mouth was low and desperate, almost lewd.
Neil felt overwhelmed, light-headed. He got lost in the pleasure and then—
Then, the phone rang, and just like that, the moment was gone. Andrew groaned, and the warmth vanished as he leaned back and grabbed the phone. He answered without even glancing at the screen.
“Oh my God, Andrew, you won’t believe what Kevin’s just said to me!” a loud voice filled the quiet room. It was unmistakably Nicky’s voice. Despite the phone not being on speaker, Neil could hear him clearly. Andrew rolled his eyes and ended the call without a word.
“I will kill this idiot one day,” he muttered, letting his head fall back against the couch.
“No, you won’t,” smiled Neil. Then, he reached for Andrew’s hand, tugging him to his feet. “Shower with me?”
Andrew said nothing, but the answer was written in the way he followed Neil into the bathroom without hesitation.
After a shower—a very hot one—they found themselves in bed, fingers laced, the world slipping away in hush and warmth.
This time, it was Neil who surrendered first, worn down by a restless night, lulled by the quiet rhythm of breathing beside him.
No matter how calm and easy the day was, the night remained unpredictable and terrifying, sending one nightmare after another.
Neil saw Riko, eyes full of hatred, taking a swing at him with an exy racquet. That familiar, paralysing and crushing feeling of helplessness ran through his body. He closed his eyes and opened them to see Lola toying with a dashboard lighter and smiling viciously at him.
Then the scene shifted again, and he was seven years old, trapped in a child’s body, forced to watch as his father slaughtered his mother with a butcher’s knife.
He stumbled forward, and something red soaked his sock. Looking down, he saw a pool of blood, thick and crimson, and in its reflection, his own scarred face stared back at him with the number four carved into his cheek.
Hopeless.
Defeated.
Defenceless.
He woke up with a scream, his clothes soaked through with his sweat and his heart hammering. He couldn’t breathe—he tried, but he couldn’t. The more he reached for air, the less his lungs obeyed. That was the end. He would suffocate in his own bed.
His head spun. His hands, trembling uncontrollably, rose to cover his face. Dark spots bled into his vision.
Then—
He felt a hand on his neck and tried to shrug it off, to escape its touch, but to no avail—the hand stayed in its place, cool against his hot skin. Firm but gentle.
He tried to regain his composure, but his head felt heavy, and sounds from his surroundings were muffled and inarticulate, like he were underwater.
He remembered a hand on his nape, cool, anchoring him.
At some point, his own hands slipped from his face. Or maybe someone moved them—he wasn’t sure. His vision still swam. His mind flickered.
Why can’t I calm down?
How can I calm down?
“Breathe with me,” he heard a faint voice cut through the haze. It was calm, steady, and familiar .
“I—,” he tried to say, but he just couldn’t. The words caught in his throat.
“Breathe in with me,” the voice—Andrew’s voice said. Neil tried to inhale, but his lungs still stuttered, catching on the inhale. “Now breathe out,” said Andrew, unwavering.
He focused on the rhythm of Andrew’s breathing, tried to mirror it. It wasn’t immediate, but slowly, painfully, his chest began to rise and fall with something closer to control.
“Easy, rabbit, easy” said Andrew and pulled him into a warm, grounding embrace.
He didn’t fall asleep for the rest of the night.
The next day felt even more draining than the previous one. Neil wasn’t exactly surprised—but that didn’t make the exhaustion any easier to swallow. It made him vulnerable and weak, and somewhere in the back of his mind, his mother’s voice whispered with cool insistence: You have to stay alert.
He didn’t silence the voices so much as drown them out, at least temporarily, when Andrew took him out for dinner. It wasn’t anything upscale or showy, just a cosy, family-owned place tucked between local shops. That was exactly the kind of place Neil preferred: small enough to keep his surroundings in check, and quiet enough to keep his nerves from fraying.
He wasn’t really hungry. His enchilada suffered the consequences, being stabbed repeatedly by the tip of his fork as if it had committed a personal offence.
After nearly ten minutes of silent tortilla carnage, Andrew finally asked:
“Are you trying to make a sieve out of this tortilla, or is this your way of showing me you’ve never learnt how to use a fork properly?”
Neil pouted, lips twitching at the corners, but didn’t say a word. Andrew’s sarcasm didn’t deserve a real answer.
Andrew didn’t ask about the nightmares. Neil knew he was just patiently waiting for him to open up on his own. Never demanding, always understanding.
Neil, on the other hand, didn’t feel like there was something to talk about. It wasn’t the first time that the nightmares haunted him at night. True, it was the first time something like this happened two days in a row, but there always has to be a first time for everything, wasn’t there?
Or so he told himself.
They got home around eight, and Neil felt so exhausted that the only thing he did was change his clothes for a worn-out T-shirt and boxers. He immediately fell asleep when his head hit the soft pillow. The only thing he registered were Andrew’s quiet steps moving around the room.
The nightmares didn’t come immediately.
The dream started off gently—comforting, even—with Neil finding himself in different moments in time, always with Andrew by his side. They were training on the exy court, changing clothes in the locker room, eating pancakes in a small roadside diner, holding hands at the amusement park, kissing naked in the backseats of Andrew’s Maserati.
Then, they were in the kitchen. Arguing.
Neil didn’t even know why rage boiled up in him, but it did, and it terrified him.
The next thing he knew, he was on the floor of their dorm bathroom. Something wet and warm pooled under his head. He opened his eyes and met Andrew’s lifeless stare. His breath hitched, and he rose immediately, and found the whole floor covered in blood that spilled out of Andrew’s slashed stomach. And in Neil’s hand was a butcher’s knife.
He tried to stand, but had to grab the sink for support. Seeing his reflection—those auburn strands and piercing blue eyes—stopped him cold.
He looked just like him.
Just like his father.
He fell to the ground and couldn’t move. He didn’t know who he was any more.
Had he done this?
Was it him or his father?
Or were they the same person?
He stared at Andrew’s body and felt bile rise in his throat. He stumbled to the toilet and emptied his stomach. When he was done, he looked again, clinging to the hope that Andrew wouldn’t be laying on the floor, but the motionless body was still there.
Neil returned to the cabinet and took out the bandages. He kneeled in front of Andrew’s corpse and started to bandage the wound, but the bleeding didn’t stop. The gauze soaked through in seconds, yet he refused to give up. He couldn’t.
He didn’t expect a cold, sudden grip on his wrist.
It was Andrew’s hand holding his wrist. Neil looked up to see Andrew’s dead eyes locked on his.
“You killed me,” he said, and Neil felt the next wave of nausea hit him.
“No, no, no,” mumbled Neil, but what if it was he who killed the only person who truly mattered?
“Just like your father,” said Andrew. “You’re just like him, you look like him, you kill like him. Like father, like son, they say”
“No, please, don’t say that. Please, I’m not like him—please, stay awake, I’ll save you, I’ll fix it, please,” the words tumbled out of Neil's mouth, raw and panicked. He knew Andrew hated the word please , but he couldn’t stop. His chest heaved. His vision blurred.
He startled awake and sat up on the bed. Andrew was sleeping peacefully beside him.
Safe.
Alive.
But it wasn’t enough to calm the storm inside him.
He got out of bed and ran to the bathroom—the same one where Andrew had bled out. He approached the mirror cabinet and looked at his reflection. All he could see was auburn hair and blue eyes.
Too similar.
Just like him.
He was abhorrent, revolting. He couldn’t look at himself any more when his disgust rose. He shattered the mirror and looked at the pieces of glass falling into the sink. His loathsome reflection stared back at him from the broken glass, fractured but still unmistakably his. He took the sharp piece and brought it close to his hair. He wanted it gone.
A hand caught his wrist and took the glass away.
That same hand from the dream. Only now, it was real.
Andrew tugged him close without a word, wrapping his arms tightly around him. He tucked Neil’s head into the crook of his neck and held his hand on the nape of his neck.
“I murdered you,” Neil choked with a sob. “In my dream. With a butcher’s knife. You were dead.”
“You’d need more than a knife and an idiot runaway to kill me,” said Andrew, but his hold on Neil grew tighter, and he started to gently stroke his hair.
“I’m just like him, Andrew,” Neil whispered. “My hair, my eyes—everything. I see him in the mirror. Every fucking time!” Neil didn’t even register Andrew’s answer, if there was any. His mind was occupied by the remains of tonight’s nightmare. He couldn’t say anything else when a sob got out of him.
He didn’t want anyone to see him like this—a crying mess. Anyone except for Andrew. He was the only one who knew him better than he knew himself; he was the one holding him with tenderness.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. They’re all dead—Riko, Lola, my father—but they still haunt me. Even now, after their death, they find a way to get to me.” His voice cracked. “But this dream—this one—I killed you. I can’t unsee that look in your eyes. I just—what the fuck is wrong with me?”
“You didn’t do anything,” Andrew said. “Aside from running yourself into the ground and staying awake for far too long.”
He was quiet for a beat, then moved towards the door, still holding Neil’s hand. “Come on.”
“I won’t fall asleep right now. I don’t think I can.”
“Then we won’t sleep. We’ll watch TV or something.”
Neil nodded wordlessly, grateful for the distraction.
They went together to the living room. Andrew disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes, returning with two mugs of hot chocolate. He put them on the coffee table and sat down next to Neil. He covered them with a soft blanket and put his arm around Neil’s body. When Neil put his head on his shoulder, Andrew’s hand found its way into silky auburn hair. He hoped that opening up about the nightmare, along with Andrew's closeness, would finally let him rest peacefully.
After sitting there for two hours and watching yet another shitty cartoon that happened to be on TV right now, Andrew heard soft snoring.
“Stupid rabbit, your neck will hurt like a bitch tomorrow,” he sighed and made Neil more comfortable with his head laying on Andrew’s lap.
For the first time in three days, Neil slept peacefully.