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Flying, in and of itself, was already unpleasant. Flying with Kevin was the worst.
The fact that planes functioned as liminal spaces in which traditional social norms, such as refraining from excessive day-drinking, did not apply, was one the man took full advantage of.
Which meant that Andrew, in addition to trying to keep his own breakfast down, was stuck on babysitting duty the whole trip back to South Carolina.
“Ignore him. He’s had enough,” he told the flight attendant who was about to make Kevin another gin and tonic.
Kevin glowered, slumping against the window next to him.
Maybe the situation wasn’t entirely bad, since it prevented Andrew from ruminating too much on his…enlightening conversation with Jean.
He touched his arm bands instinctively, then ignored the jolt of panic that resulted from finding them empty. He had carved out slots in the heels of his boots to smuggle his knives through TSA.
Bee would attribute it to the sensation of looking into a mirror, and she would probably be right, but Andrew had hated being around Jean Moreau. Oh, he had hated it so much. He hated his abortive neck-scratching and grimace-like smile and trembling voice.
If the circumstances were different, Andrew would have been able to avert his eyes and go about his business relatively unscathed. But with Aaron’s trial, and the fact that they were in fucking California, every flinch seemed to burrow deeply under his skin and stay there. It made Andrew want to scratch the scars on his own wrists, an urge he had not experienced in a long time, and had not indulged in longer.
So, while he sincerely hoped Jean’s nightmares would fade and the Sunshine Captain would know to keep his hands to himself, Andrew was beyond ready to fuck off back to where he came from.
What awaited him there, however, he was less certain about.
Andrew wanted to believe Jean was telling the truth about Neil’s time in the Nest. The alternative— he couldn’t think about the alternative. Not until he heard a confirmation from Neil’s own lips.
An announcement that the plane would soon be landing crackled over the intercom. Andrew downed the rest of his drink.
It made sense that Neil would want to keep the FBI and his mafioso uncle far away from the team, but it was surprising that he would risk having Johnson killed during the short window he was also in town, and that it was apparently no difficulty to orchestrate.
Questions stacked up in his mind like Jenga blocks, interlocked and precarious.
Was it the first time Neil had done this? Has he done it since? Just how much loyalty did Jean Moreau command? Was he dealing in favors? Money? Was he starting to work with Stuart Hatford, playing the mafia game? Would he tell Andrew if he was?
Andrew looked down at his glass, at the ice melting at the bottom of it.
He thought about Nathaniel Wesninski, a beautiful, haunted boy he thought had been laid to rest in Baltimore.
*****
When Andrew finally arrived at Fox Tower, he only stopped to drop his bag off at the dorm before heading for the roof.
Neil was already waiting, legs dangling carelessly over the ledge, unlit cigarette in hand.
He turned at the sound of Andrew’s footsteps.
Something that Neil was probably not aware of, and that Andrew would certainly never tell him, was that he had the exact same reaction every time Andrew entered a room.
His shoulders loosened, infinitesimally, impossibly. Like now that Andrew was there, he could relax. Let his guard down. Breathe.
It made Andrew murderous. It made Andrew want to kiss him with an intensity that he had never allowed himself, for fear that it would feel too much like something else.
Today, one corner of Neil’s mouth twitched up into a half-smile. The late-afternoon light should have made him look softer, but somehow, it didn’t. It made the red in his hair look like fire, and the blue of his eyes look like ice.
“You survived the flight,” Neil said.
Andrew refused to grant him the satisfaction of annoyance. He sat down on the ledge, lit a cigarette from his own pack, and used the end of it to light Neil’s.
He took a few drags. “Kevin almost didn’t. Practically had to scrape him off the runway.”
Neil nodded knowingly. “It’s hard, with Jean.”
Which was the understatement of the year, but also the most concise way anyone could have put it.
“Is it hard for you?” Andrew asked.
He tried to exude his usual boredom, but the amusement ghosting over Neil’s face told him it hadn’t worked.
“Subtle.”
“Should I be? Do you have something to hide? Now that I think about it, it’s been a while since we played a round.”
Neil took the jab easily. He had to have known it was coming, after all.
“No, Andrew,” he sighed. “I don’t have anything to hide. I’ll give you any truths you want for free.”
“Good. Grayson Johnson.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, but it didn’t need to be.
Neil’s fingers tightened around his cigarette. He started tapping the back of one heel against the side of the building.
“I found out he attacked Jean. I found out it wasn’t the first time. That was all I needed to know. Ten minutes later, I asked my uncle if he had anyone willing to take on local work. Johnson was dead in the morning, and I wired over the money in the afternoon. That’s all there is to it.”
Andrew steeled himself, feeling the nauseating height of the ledge for the first time since he sat down.
“Is it?”
Neil’s brow furrowed. “Is it what?”
Andrew pushed away the memory of an earlier version of this exchange: being drugged out, hurting everywhere, trying to make sense of the blood on his brother’s clothes.
“All there is. You didn’t have a personal reason for wanting him dead?”
He could see the exact moment Neil understood.
“No. Fuck, I should have realized— No. He didn’t touch me. It was for Jean, I swear.”
And just like the first time, Andrew’s relief was overwhelming. He considered getting up, walking away. Anything to stop sitting here with Neil’s wide-eyed guilt.
But there were still things he wanted to know, and Neil could hardly deny him details now. Andrew stubbed out the rest of his cigarette, lighting a new one.
“Okay. What’s your deal with Moreau? Seems like a big risk to take for a guy who watched you get tortured for two weeks. Not to mention covering for him with the Feds.”
Neil blinked. Gave his head a minute shake, as if clearing it.
“Things worked differently in the Nest,” he said carefully. “Jean looked out for me the best he could. He didn’t have to, but he did.”
I wouldn’t have given him to you if I’d known you would just throw him away so carelessly.
Neil hesitated, then flicked the last of his cigarette away. “I’ll explain it like this. Your family, Kevin, and I are under your protection, while Renee is responsible for the upperclassmen, right? Well, Jean…is one of mine.”
Andrew turned that over in his head.
“Is he under your protection, or Nathaniel’s?”
Neil winced at the name. “How can you be so sure there’s a difference?”
“You’ve always said there was,” Andrew reminded him.
He turned and stared into the distance, going quiet for a moment.
“I wasn’t lying when I agreed to leave him behind in Baltimore. I wanted to. I really did. But there are things I just can’t do as Neil. Dealing with the Moriyamas, for one.”
Neil turned back to Andrew, his eyes both pleading and adamant.
“You don’t have to like him. I don’t. But Nathaniel has kept me alive until now, and now he’s helping me keep my family alive. Neil Josten couldn’t have this life without him.”
Andrew considered that too.
Losing a small battle with himself, he reached out and brushed a stray curl away from Neil’s face.
“Then he and I want the same thing,” he finally said. “I might have given you the key, but I won’t turn him away from my door.”
The smile that Neil gave him in response was incredulous and warm and entirely too sharp. Andrew couldn’t find it in himself to care.