Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Andrew Doe didn't often feel like he fit properly into the world he lived in. It was like a puzzle, and he was some weird, amorphous thing that didn't fit into any of the slots. On gray-ish October days, though, Andrew occasionally felt, for brief moments of time, that maybe he had a place. Somehow, in the morning chill and under the bleak, gray clouds, he felt as though he was meant to be walking there along the jagged sidewalk. The world was just as black and white as he was, and the light drizzle that pattered down from above was fitting to his mood. 

The thought was a good one—uncharacteristically good, as Andrew’s thoughts didn't usually seem to wander around the ‘good’ side of things—but it didn't last long, as Andrew suddenly remembered what he would be forced to do in literature that day. A partner project. A project for which Andrew would need to work with one of his classmates. Maybe he could convince his teacher to let him work alone. There was an odd number of students in that class, so there would have to be either a single student working alone or a group of three. Andrew was almost positive he could convince his teacher of the former if he tried hard enough. Still, the simple thought of having to speak to someone at all further dampened Andrew’s naturally damp mood. 

The crowded hallways didn't help, either, of course, but that wasn't any different from every other weekday since the beginning of school in August. Andrew hated it, of course, but he had come to be somewhat acclimated to the environment filled to the brim with smelly, hormonal, poorly behaved tweens.

Compared to the hallways, Mrs. Bolt’s first hour literature class was like a safe haven. Andrew hated that room, too, as he hated every room in this school, but a room was better than the hallway. 

As he always did, Andrew dropped his things on the floor next to the desk in the back corner and plopped down into his chair. It didn't matter how much Andrew liked the subject or the teacher; his spot was always in the back corner of any given classroom—so long as the teacher allowed students to pick their own seats, anyway. The back corner was safe. It kept him separate from all other students, who wouldn't dare sit next to the very scary Andrew Doe, and it also allowed him to see anyone and everyone who dared approach him. It was usually only Mrs. Bolt who dared. Andrew, at an astonishing 4’10”, was less than scary to the adults in his school. The other students, though? It was easy enough to intimidate them with harsh glares and threats muttered through clenched teeth. Andrew hadn't yet actually hurt any of his classmates, but he would if he had to; that threat alone was enough for his peers to stay far, far away from him.

Mrs. Bolt, persistent as ever, shot Andrew a friendly smile when she looked up from her papers long enough to notice him, just like she did every morning. At the beginning of the year, Andrew had only glared at her in return, and after a few weeks, it turned to Andrew avoiding looking at her at all. Now, though, almost two months deep into the school year—two months of being smiled at almost every morning—Andrew looked back at her blankly each day. He didn’t smile in return. He would never do that, not in a million years. But he wasn’t glaring, and he wasn’t ignoring. He was acknowledging, and that was enough to make Mrs. Bolt’s smile grow the slightest bit wider. Andrew pulled his book—The Outsiders was what they were all reading—out of his backpack and placed it on his desk, taking to brushing the edges of the pages along his thumb repeatedly until the classroom filled up and the final bell rang. 

Mrs. Bolt quieted the class down and passed around half sheets of paper with a quick write activity on them. It was a question about the chapter the students were meant to read the night before. If Andrew were one of the many students who did not do their assigned reading, he would be panicking, but he actually didn’t hate reading as much as he hated most things (which was the closest he would ever get to liking something), so the question was easy for him. Besides, this wasn’t his first time reading The Outsiders. 

The class had five minutes to write, and just as the timer on Mrs. Bolt’s desk went off, the door to the classroom suddenly opened. One of the secretaries—an almost obnoxiously nice old lady with jewels on her cat-eyed glasses—walked into the room, and behind her, a brown-haired boy trailed, seemingly trying to make himself even smaller than he already was. Mrs. Bolt beamed at the secretary and then at the boy. The boy’s eyes stuck to his shoes, and his hands stuck to the pockets of his worn-out blue hoodie. 

“Class,” Mrs. Bolt said, sounding more giddy and excited than Andrew could believe was genuine, “we have a new student today!” She turned to the boy and gestured toward him. “This is Alex. He just moved here, and he’ll be joining our class. I know you're all probably very excited to meet him,” Mrs. Bolt said, and the class looked… enthused, “but go easy on him for now. It's only his first day. Everyone, say hello to Alex.”

The class let out a very monotonous chorus of, Hi, Alex’s. Alex gave a weak wave.

Mrs. Bolt put a hand on Alex’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m very excited to have you in our class, Alex. You can go ahead and take a seat at one of the empty desks.”

There were two empty desks in the class: the one right next to Mrs. Bolt’s desk and the one right next to Andrew. 

Alex quietly made his way to the back of the classroom, seemingly unaware of all the overly wide eyes suddenly being drawn to him as he sat down beside Andrew. Andrew stared at Alex, too, against his better judgment. But he wasn't staring because Alex had the gall to choose a spot next to Andrew, like all the other kids were. Andrew found himself staring at Alex just to get a good look at the kid’s face. His eyes were a muddy brown. There was a scar biting into his left eyebrow, and a light dusting of freckles across his nose. His hair was messy and curled around his ears in a way that, for whatever reason, made Andrew’s stomach clench uncomfortably. 

Alex did not say anything. Andrew forced his eyes to his paper and scribbled in the corners until the graphite turned the white paper shiny, but even that little activity couldn't distract him from the new kid’s presence beside him. 

A minute later, Mrs. Bolt was standing right in front of Andrew’s desk, and he hadn't even noticed her approaching. What the fuck was wrong with him? How could a single person sitting beside him distract him enough not to notice someone walking up right in front of him? He sat beside other people in other classes with assigned seats, but he wasn’t distracted in those classes. Maybe it was simply the fact that the new kid—Alex, what a goddamn idiot—chose to sit beside Andrew. What a stupid thing to be distracted by, Andrew thought.

“Andrew,” Mrs. Bolt said, tapping a finger on the edge of the blond’s desk. He looked up at her, making sure to keep his face blank. “Do you think you could help Alex catch up on the book and work with him on this project? I would ask another student—I know you like to work on your own—but something,” she said, emphasis on something, as she waved the stack of half sheets she'd been collecting in her hand, “tells me they haven't really read what they were supposed to.”

Andrew looked back down at his paper and continued to scribble at the edge, his other hand rising to rest his head on and to tug lightly on the roots of his hair. He did not say anything. 

“I won’t force you, but I would very much appreciate it. I’m sure Alex would, too,” Mrs. Bolt pressed gently. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew could see Alex sinking further down into his seat, tugging anxiously at the sleeves of his sweatshirt. Andrew knew what it was like to be the new kid at school. He had gone through too many schools to count on one hand, with how many foster homes he had been tossed between. Being the new kid was never easy. It was easier to be the new kid, Andrew had learned over time, when you made yourself unapproachable. No one would bother you if you made them believe there would be painful consequences. This boy, though, didn’t seem very capable of putting up that act. He looked like a kicked puppy the second he stepped into the classroom. 

Andrew didn’t care for the kid, of course. He didn’t give a shit if the other kids picked on Alex. But the way he chose to think about it, Andrew did not have anything better to do than to help this kid catch up on the book, and maybe even teach him to make himself less of an obvious target. 

So, begrudgingly, Andrew hummed.

 Mrs. Bolt’s eyebrows raised. “That’s not a yes or no, Andrew.”

Grumbling, Andrew lifted his head and looked up at the ceiling. “Yes,” he said, his irritation clear in his tone. He did not want to do this. Not really. At the same time, though, yes, he really, really did want to do this. Perhaps the truth was that he didn’t want to want to do this. With a huff, Andrew finally allowed his head to turn to face Alex—it’d been aching to, though Andrew couldn’t place exactly why. Alex had shrunk himself small by burying his face in his arms on the desk. He peeked out at Andrew through the crack between his shaggy hair and the crook of his elbow. Andrew swallowed back the ball of something in his throat before saying, “There’s a library a block from where I live. Oakland Public Library, or something. Meet me there after school, and I’ll catch you up, or whatever.”

Mrs. Bolt was beaming again. “Thank you so much, Andrew.” She took Andrew’s half sheet off his desk, adding it to the stack in her hands, and replaced it with a full sheet. The instructions for the project. It was a good thing she was handing them out, considering Andrew hadn’t heard any of her explanation on it. She gave Alex a sheet, too, as well as a school copy of The Outsiders. “Let me know if you two have any trouble,” she added before finally turning away and leaving the two boys.

Andrew glanced at Alex once more. He was fidgeting with his new book. “We’re only on chapter five, if you want to read up to that point. Otherwise, I can just tell you the important things and you can start on chapter six when everyone else does,” Andrew murmured, voice as flat and uninterested as ever. 

Alex nodded. Andrew, thought so, anyway—it was hard to tell with Alex slouched down on the desk and everything. Andrew turned back to the front, but he could see Alex move slightly beside him. 

Then, in a very quiet voice, “Thanks.”

Andrew only hummed. 

-

As it turned out, Andrew and Alex had a lot of classes together. Literature, of course, but also language arts, science, gym, and lunch. In all of these classes, Andrew couldn’t not notice Alex. He couldn’t not notice the way that Alex’s tense shoulders seemed to relax in the slightest when he would walk into the room and see Andrew with a nearby open seat to sit in. In every class they had together, Neil sat in the closest open seat to Andrew’s. 

Maybe it was a coincidence. 

Maybe it was not. 

Either way, Andrew was furious. His skin felt hot every time he saw the stupid, horrendous mop of fried dark brown hair in the hallway, when Alex’s eyes would catch onto Andrew’s own for half a second before flickering to the floor, when Alex would trail behind Andrew like a moth to a flame. An idiotic moth drawn to the first flame that it ever saw. 

Andrew was not going to be Alex’s friend. He was not going to be the person Alex could go to. He was not going to be anything but Alex’s partner in this stupid project. Andrew could only hope Alex understood that; that he would stop this clinginess by the time they finished the project. 

Speaking of this project, it was stupider than Andrew could have imagined. He read the question five times, hoping that maybe on the fifth read, it would change to something better, but it didn’t. It stayed the same. And the worst part was that this project was continuous. It wasn’t one that they could knock out in a single afternoon at the library. Andrew and Alex would have to work on this project together for the next few weeks, as the class worked through the whole book. 

One more time, Andrew read the prompt:

After Johnny kills Bob at the park, Johnny and Ponyboy decide to run away for the time being. Was this a wise decision? As you read the rest of the book, note down the decisions Pony and Johnny make and how those choices affect them. What would you do differently from them? With your partner, put together a better plan for Johnny and Ponyboy, using evidence from the text to support your choices. 

So, what? They were supposed to imagine they had killed some asshole and decide what they would do in that situation? Andrew almost scoffed, but didn’t, as his attention was quickly pulled to something else. 

Through the doors to the library walked Alex, eyes darting every which way and hands tugging at the straps of his backpack. God, the boy reeked of nervousness. Andrew almost felt bad for him. Almost.

Andrew stood from where he’d been sitting against the wall and walked over to Alex. Alex almost jumped when Andrew stepped out in front of him. Skittish, Andrew thought. Like a rabbit. “This way,” Andrew said before turning. 

Alex walked very quietly, his footsteps even more silent than Andrew’s own. Andrew wouldn’t know whether Alex was actually following him if it weren’t for the soft swish of the other boy’s baggy jeans sliding against each other with each step. Andrew led him to the far back corner of the library, full of math books, where hardly anyone ever cared to look, and plopped himself down on the floor, legs crossed over each other. Alex sat down across from him, hugging his backpack to his chest. 

From this close, Andrew could see the muddiness of Alex’s eyes a bit better, and even under the dim lighting in the corner of the library, he could see the faintest hint of blue. Weird, he thought. Same as the strange, unhealthy texture of Alex’s hair. And the overall shitiness of his clothing. Andrew almost wanted to ask, but reminded himself that he didn’t care. 

“Did you read the instructions?” Andrew asked instead. 

“Yeah. It’s… stupid,” Alex murmured awkwardly. Andrew nodded in agreement and pulled his copy of The Outsiders as well as his ELA notebook out of his backpack. Alex pulled his copy out of his backpack, too, and there was a bright pink sticky note poking out of the top, at least twenty pages deep, if Andrew had to guess. Andrew’s eyes moved from the book up to Alex’s ugly eyes, eyebrow raising in question. “I read a little during lunch,” Alex explained. Andrew had seen him pulling the book out of his bag before going outside for lunch, because Andrew preferred to eat where everyone else wasn’t. “I got to chapter three. I’ll read the rest tonight.”

“You already know what happens if you read the instructions,” Andrew pointed out.

Alex shrugged. “I still want to read it.”

Andrew opened his mouth to ask, ‘You like reading?’ but luckily caught himself before the words could come out. “You heard Mrs. Bolt. Nobody really reads it all.”

“You do,” Alex countered.

Andrew wanted to hit him. Or something. Instead, he placed his book and notebook on the floor beside him, crossed his arms, uncrossed his legs, and let himself sink a bit closer to the floor, lounging more comfortably. Alex shifted to the side, making room for Andrew to stretch his legs out straight if he so pleased, but Andrew didn’t so please. Still, he appreciated the gesture because it meant that Alex’s face was no longer blocked from Andrew’s sight by his own knees. No, that wasn’t why Andrew appreciated it. He appreciated it because of something else. Something he couldn’t think of right now. It had nothing to do with Alex’s face. Nothing.

Digging his fingers into his arms through his black sweatshirt, Andrew grumbled. He wasn’t angry at Alex, he thought. Or maybe he was. He just hated him. Or himself. Or both. Probably both. Andrew needed words to spit, and they came to him soon enough. “Why the hell did you show up, then, if you’re just going to catch up on your own, anyway?” he asked, tone flat. 

Again, Alex shrugged, infuriatingly indifferent to Andrew’s attempt at aggression. “You were expecting me to,” he said. 

“Well, we can’t work on the project until you're caught up, so you can just go,” Andrew said, hazel eyes narrowed. 

Alex’s eyes left Andrew’s to gaze across the library, down the aisles, over to the posters on the walls, up to the dim lights on the ceiling. “I don’t really want to,” he said eventually. 

“Why?” Andrew growled. The library was his spot—especially this little corner, where hardly anyone ever bothered to wander through. He didn’t need this new Alex kid trying to claim it as his own. 

Alex shrugged again, and Andrew wanted to break his collarbones to prevent him from ever shrugging again. “The apartment my mom and I are staying in doesn’t have heat,” he explained. Then his gaze settled back on Andrew, and Alex gave the blond a questioning look. “Why don’t you want to leave?” It sounded almost accusatory.

Andrew never said he didn’t want to leave, but he hadn’t gotten up to go or packed his stuff away, either. He’d actually absentmindedly grabbed his book and opened up to the page he left off on, ready to pick back up as soon as Alex fucked off and left him alone. That may have indicated that he planned on staying, too, but Alex didn’t have to notice that, let alone comment on it. God, Andrew hated him very much already. 

And there was no chance in hell Andrew was answering that question—not from Alex; not from anyone. So, he said, “Leave me alone.”

“Okay,” Alex said, and he didn’t even act butthurt about it. He just picked up his book, slung his bag over his shoulder, and left Andrew alone in the corner of the library without another unwanted word. 

It was exactly what Andrew wanted, yet it still infuriated him. His skin burned so hot he was sure he must have been red with anger. His stomach was churning with fury. His heart beat so quickly, Andrew wanted to rip it out of his chest and throw it across the room. 

Alex sat down across the room. 

He sat himself down at one of the tables the library had set up and opened up his book. Andrew could see him if he leaned forward a little, and every few minutes, he caught himself doing just that, just checking to see if Alex had left yet. He hadn’t. 

It took much longer than usual for Andrew to finish the next chapter of The Outsiders. He couldn’t seem to focus. He kept having to reread sentences, lean forward, feel his skin burn, lean back, and reread again. By the time he finished the chapter, the sun had gone down, and Andrew knew Cass must have been expecting him back for dinner soon. Alex was still there, sitting at that table, though, and Andrew would have to pass by him to leave. It felt too difficult a task to manage, but Andrew forced himself to his feet anyway. And he forced his feet to step, step, step, and step until he stood at the end of the table Alex sat at. 

Andrew was a quiet walker, and Alex seemed to be so absorbed in his book that he didn’t look up at Andrew’s presence, so Andrew kicked the leg of the table. Alex flinched, head thrashing up and muddy eyes widening. The brunette swallowed so hard that Andrew could see it in his neck. Not that he was looking there for any reason. It was impossible not to notice the movement.

“Give me your phone number,” Andrew said, expressing the most intense disinterest he could manage. Alex looked lost. “To text. For the project,” Andrew clarified. What else would he want this idiot’s number for? Absolutely nothing, he told himself. 

“I—I, um, don’t have a phone,” Alex stammered. “My mom won’t let me until high school.”

“Stupid,” Andrew muttered. 

“You could just tell me in class when you wanna meet,” Alex suggested, though his voice sounded hesitant. 

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Okay,” Alex said. There he went again, acting unbothered by the sorts of things that most people were offended by. Andrew thought he could tell Alex he wanted him dead, and the idiot would shrug his shoulders and say, ‘Okay.’ Alex ran his finger over the side of his book, letting the pages brush over his thumb. “Write it in a note, then. Give it to me, or—I don’t know—put it in my locker. 310. My locker number. Old-fashioned texting, right?”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Finish catching up.” He gestured to the book. “Then we can start the stupid project and you can stop wasting my time.”

“Okay.”

God, Andrew hated him.

For good measure, Andrew kicked the leg of the table once more before turning and walking off without another word. 

“Bye,” he heard Alex say after him. 

Immediately after saying it, Andrew hated himself more than ever, but he couldn’t stop his lips from forming the word: “Bye.”

Chapter Text

Alex was the most irritating person Andrew had ever met, with his easy compliance, stupid face, and suspiciously well-thought-out plan for running away after accidentally killing a rotten Soc, but Andrew kept finding himself by Alex’s side anyway. 

It had been two weeks since Alex showed up at school, and still, the only times he didn’t seem intent on making himself completely invisible was when he was sitting beside Andrew in literature, or science, or language arts, or when he was walking silently beside Andrew around the track in gym class instead of participating in whatever game the gym teacher had thought up, or when he was quickly eating his disgusting school lunch across the table from Andrew, who picked through and ripped apart pieces of his meal at a snail’s pace. When Andrew spotted Alex in the hallways, the idiot always had his shoulders hunched up, a death grip on the straps of his backpack, and a tense look on his face—until he spotted Andrew, at least. Once he spotted Andrew, he would, for whatever stupid reason, ease up and allow a faint smile to grace his lips. 

Due to this clinginess, Andrew hated Alex. The problem was that that didn’t really make much sense, because Andrew knew that the moment he told Alex to go away, Alex would make himself scarce either until the next day or until Andrew definitely unintentionally found himself beside Alex again. If Andrew really hated Alex for the clinginess, Andrew could just tell him that, and Alex would leave him alone. No one knew that but Andrew, though, so he could use the excuse all he wanted. Just as long as he could trick himself into ignoring the cognitive dissonance. 

Every day after school, Andrew and Alex would work on their project at the library. After a week of Andrew arriving at the library ten or so minutes before Alex, Andrew, for no reason whatsoever, waited for Alex to walk with him to the library. They did not do much talking on these walks, which made them somewhat tolerable. 

Andrew was beginning to notice odd things about Alex. For instance, Alex had a terrible habit of rubbing his eyes until they were red and irritated, for no discernible reason. Andrew had told him to cut it out once, but Alex just grumbled that his eyes were itchy and carried on. Also, Alex wore one of two pairs of pants to school every day, switching between the two pairs daily. One was a pair of baggy jeans so worn they were a pale blue, and the other was light brown Dickies cargo pants that were long enough that Alex had torn up the ends by stepping on them. He also did not seem to have a jacket. Even when it was raining, Alex wore that same blue hoodie. 

He was wearing that hoodie, now, and he looked very, very cold, his arms wrapped tight around himself as he walked beside Andrew on the sidewalk. It was late October, now—only a day away from Halloween—and the winter air was making an early appearance. 

Andrew glared at him out of the corner of his eye. “Why don’t you wear a coat?” he asked, irritated. Alex was pathetic.

For a moment, Alex didn’t say anything, like he was hesitating. Then, he huffed and said, “Old one’s too small now. My mom doesn’t have the money for a new one yet.”

It seemed like there was something else he wanted to say, and part of Andrew wanted to pester him until he said it, but he reminded himself that he didn’t care and sped up his steps. They were coming up on the library now, and it was cold, and they needed to get inside. Despite his fast steps, Alex was quicker. He rushed past Andrew, unwrapped one of his arms from around him, and pushed the library door open. He held it open for Andrew, too, but Andrew didn’t thank him. He only made his way to his spot in the back of the library. Alex followed quietly, rubbing his hands up and down his arms as if it would warm him faster. 

In the back of the library, Andrew pushed himself into the corner and got out his book. Alex sat down across from him, as he always did until Andrew banished him to the other side of the room. That was happening later and later on recently, though. Andrew told himself it was because it was coming up on the due date of their project, so they were spending more time working on it together rather than reading separately. 

“I finished the book last night,” Alex said as he unzipped his backpack. 

“Yeah. Mrs. Bolt assigned the last chapter,” Andrew said, like it was obvious because it was. He pulled his book and notebook out of his bag and placed them on his lap. 

Alex glanced over at Andrew in a way that made Andrew want to banish Alex to the other side of the room early. He fought the urge, though it was incredibly difficult. Alex sighed a sigh that was so quiet and inconspicuous that it could be passed off as a normal breath if Andrew weren’t as terribly good at noticing things as he was. 

“The project will be done soon,” Alex said needlessly. Of course it would be done soon; they just read the last chapter. 

“Yeah, today, as long as you don’t take forever writing your part,” Andrew spat. 

Alex took longer to do literature and language arts assignments than he did to do math worksheets, Andrew had noticed. At lunch, Alex would sometimes pull out his math and work on it for five to ten minutes before sliding it back into his folder, finished. Andrew took at least half an hour to do his math homework. He wasn’t bad at math; he just found it insufferably boring. Andrew looked up from his notebook to see if Alex had started writing, but he hadn’t. He was flipping through the pages of his book without looking at the pages, only staring absently at the carpet in front of him. 

Andrew felt a weird churning in his stomach that made its way all the way up to his chest, where it finally stopped, still, and tugged at him. Before he could stop himself, he was speaking. “Do you go trick-or-treating?”

What a stupid, awful thing to ask. Now Alex was going to think that Andrew went trick-or-treating, which was, one: completely embarrassing, and two: so incredibly not Andrew that even the possibility of Alex just imagining Andrew going up to someone’s door in a stupid costume and saying, ‘Trick or treat!’ made Andrew nauseous. Alex could not imagine Andrew that way. It was excruciatingly out of character. Andrew felt his skin burning. 

“Um, no,” Alex said, now picking at the seam of his pants—the light brown Dickies, today. “I never really have. My mom thinks it’s too dangerous. You know, going up to knock on strangers’ doors and trusting that they didn’t slip razor blades into the Snickers they give you. She’s a little paranoid, sometimes… Do you go trick-or-treating?”

“No,” Andrew said immediately, setting the record straight. He was far too old and cool to go trick-or-treating nowadays. Even if Cass thought he should go, Andrew refused. He would rather stay at home and watch a terrible horror movie, eating a bag of candy bought directly from the store. There would be no knocking on strangers’ doors, then, and ensured razor-blade-less Snickers bars. So, there Andrew went again, letting his mouth move before he could stop it: “Come to my house. We can watch The Haunting and eat candy until we throw up.”

Andrew very intentionally kept his eyes on his notebook page instead of looking up to see the abhorrent grin he could sense growing on Alex’s face. 

“Okay,” Alex said, of fucking course, since ‘Okay’ was all he ever said when Andrew told him to do something. Andrew could hear the excitement in his voice, too, and it made his skin burn worse. 

Andrew kicked at Alex’s thigh and said, “Do your work, idiot, or we’ll never get done with this stupid project.”

“Okay,” Alex said again, and Andrew wanted to kill him. 

-

The next morning, Andrew woke with a weird feeling in his chest. He, somehow, felt the corners of his lips acting up, twitching and quirking every which way without his permission. He had to really, really focus to keep his face blank at breakfast. It was easier when he was shoving spoonfuls of Count Chocula Cereal into his mouth. 

He hadn’t asked his foster parents if Alex could come over yet, and he was dreading it. They were going to think Alex was Andrew’s friend, which he most definitely was not. He was more of a barnacle, growing at Andrew’s side without his permission. But Cass and Richard would never understand that, of course, because no matter how nice they were compared to the other foster parents Andrew had ever been placed with, they did not understand Andrew, and they never would. They would not be able to see how Andrew could hate someone so vehemently and still invite them over to watch a movie on Halloween. 

“Cass,” Andrew spoke through a mouthful of cereal. The Spears didn’t like it when he spoke with his mouth full, but he had to this time because his mouth happened to be full the one moment he finally managed to work up the courage to ask. It was then or never. 

Cass turned to him with a soft smile. “Hmm?” she hummed in question from her spot by the counter, where she was brewing coffee. Andrew wished she would allow him to have some, but she insisted caffeine was not allowed on school days. 

“IsitokayifIhavesomeoneovertonight?” Andrew asked in a mess of nearly unintelligible words. 

Lucky for him, Cass had understood him, so he wouldn’t have to repeat his question. Unluckily for him, Cass’ soft, morning smile was growing wider. “Who is it? A girl?” Cass asked, excited. 

“No,” Andrew said instantly. He was never interested in girls and he wasn’t sure if he ever would be. He had been choosing to ignore that fact for a while now. It didn’t bother him. He simply didn’t care. But he wasn’t going to tell Cass something like that, because he still wasn’t sure if it would change. “Someone from my class. He’s my partner for the stupid literature project I’ve been doing.”

“Oh! That’s wonderful, Andrew. I’m glad you’ve made a friend,” Cass said, smiling as she filled a cup with coffee. 

Andrew grimaced. Alex was not his friend. 

“So, that means yes?” he muttered. 

“Yes, of course, honey. You can have friends over whenever you’d like.” It was the type of thing Cass said when trying to say without saying that Andrew should really try to make friends. Andrew knew she worried about him being so secluded, and it sort of made him feel bad, but he couldn’t just magically make his classmates tolerable enough to call them friends just to please Cass. 

Andrew finished his last bite of Count Chocula and got up to put his bowl in the sink and fill it with water. “Thanks,” he said as he passed by Cass. She was still smiling that knowing smile, looking as proud as ever. Andrew pretended not to see. “Time to go,” he said and headed to the door. 

At the front door, Cass pulled a coat on over her morning comfy clothes and grabbed the car keys while she waited for Andrew to tug on his boots. Once the laces were tied, Andrew stood and pulled a black jacket on. Then, he paused. He thought of Alex, his ugly blue sweatshirt, and the way his arms curled around his body in a desperate attempt to warm himself as they walked to the library each day. He did not care about Alex’s comfort, but Andrew hated that terrible blue sweatshirt and supposed an old jacket he didn’t wear anymore would do a good job at covering it up. So, Andrew yanked an old, dark blue jacket from where it was hanging, unused, on the coatrack and hurried out the door. It wasn’t like he was ever going to wear the jacket, now that he had a black one, and if Alex liked blue so much, he could just have it. Whatever, Andrew thought. 

“Two coats?” Cass questioned as she unlocked the car. 

“Donating it. I don’t wear it anymore,” Andrew said, sliding into the passenger seat. 

Cass gave another knowing smile, and Andrew cleverly avoided seeing it by staring out the window as Cass drove him to school. 

-

The school day passed by slowly. Andrew kept catching Alex smiling, when he usually looked like a dog that had just been yelled at, and it was infuriating. Andrew considered revoking his invite, or maybe taking his coat back (Alex had not taken it off since Andrew shoved it into his arms that morning, even though the school was heated) but he figured Cass would question him about that, and he didn’t want to talk about Alex with her at all, so he kept his mouth shut and only glared at Alex’s grins. 

By the end of the day, Alex was jittery and impatient. In science, their last class of the day, Andrew kept seeing Alex look back at the clock, over and over, leg bouncing up and down, up and down, up and down. Andrew had never seen him so not-invisible. Usually, Alex was quiet and small and inconspicuous. Today, he was acting like any other middle schooler would—energetic and anxious to get out. 

Andrew sat across from Alex at their table. When the bouncing leg got too obnoxious to bear, he pressed his boot down on top of Alex’s sneaker to stop it, but his other leg picked up at the same pace. Andrew pressed his other foot down to stop that leg, too. 

“What is wrong with you?” he hissed. 

Alex rubbed at his eyes and leaned back in his chair, unable to sit completely still. “I don’t know,” he murmured. His lips quirked up into a small smile—not as insufferable as his earlier grinning, but still terrible. “I’ve never celebrated Halloween before. Not even just to watch a movie. My mom doesn’t really do holidays.”

“Your mom sounds boring and terrible,” Andrew said blankly. 

“Boring, maybe.” Alex shrugged. He leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on the table and pressing his hands into his cheeks enough that his face looked a little smushed. Andrew had the inexplicable urge to press his pointer finger into the freckled skin, but instead busied his hands by writing the alphabet at the top of his notebook. “What movie are we going to watch again?” Alex asked.

It took Andrew a moment to process his words. He still hadn’t pulled his feet away from Alex’s, and he wasn’t sure whether or not it would be weird to now that they had been pressing down against Alex’s for a good few minutes. Moving his feet would reveal that he was thinking about the fact that his feet were pressed against Alex’s, and Andrew didn’t want Alex to know that. Because he wasn’t supposed to care. He didn’t care. Instead of making any move regarding his boots and Alex’s sneakers, Andrew boredly said, “The Haunting. The terrible 1999 one. Not the old one.”

“I haven’t seen either,” Alex said, chewing on his lip. 

“Of course you haven’t.”

“Why are we watching it if it’s terrible?”

“Because that’s the point,” Andrew said, like it was obvious. He couldn’t say he was surprised that Alex didn’t understand the fun in watching a shitty horror movie. Part of him wondered if Alex had ever seen any movie at all ever. “You get to make fun of all the stupid shit that happens. It’s fun, or whatever.”

“Oh,” said Alex. He considered it for a moment before starting to tap his pencil against his notebook. Andrew fought the urge to lean across the table and pin Alex’s hands down, too. “I’ve never done that before.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Andrew said for a second time. 

Suddenly, a shadow appeared over the table, tall and grouchy. Andrew looked up, eyes narrowed, and Alex sank deeper into his seat. Their science teacher, Mr. White, looked less than happy, his arms crossed over his chest. “Do I need to separate you two?” he asked, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

Andrew did not say anything, and Alex forced out a quiet, “No, sir.”

“Can you tell me what we were just talking about?” tested Mr. White. 

“Newton’s Third Law,” Alex practically whispered. 

“Which is…?”

Alex looked like he wanted to disappear. Not the same way he looked alone in the hallways, all anxious and flighty, wanting to go unnoticed. This look was different. Alex looked terrified. Andrew pressed down harder on Alex’s sneakers before turning to glare at Mr. White. “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction,” he said as disrespectfully as he could while answering a teacher’s question. “You’ve been explaining it for fifteen minutes. It’s really not that complicated.”

Mr. White opened his mouth, probably to reprimand Andrew for his attitude, but before any words could get out, the bell rang and the class jolted to life, chairs scraping against linoleum and shoes squeaking. Mr. White’s attention slipped away as he quickly turned to the rest of the class, shouting an announcement about some homework sheet before anyone could escape the classroom. 

When Mr. White turned back around, Andrew and Alex were already gone. 

-

Cass was the one to pick Andrew and Alex up from school that day. It was excruciatingly awkward, sliding into the backseat to sit beside Alex in silence while Cass grinned in the driver’s seat, going on and on about how happy she was that Andrew had made a friend, because he always seemed so grumpy and now he seemed a little bit less so, and blah, blah, blah. Alex was smiling softly in his seat, his backpack pressed against his chest, but he didn’t say anything, only listening to Cass’ endless praise. Andrew tried not to look at him too much. 

When they got back to the house, Andrew rushed Alex out of that torture box of a car as quickly as he possibly could. He would have preferred to go straight up to his room, but Alex, for whatever reason, lingered in the entryway, looking back at Cass. When Cass caught up to them, coming inside but lingering by the door, Alex cleared his throat. 

“Um,” he started, voice so quiet it could barely be heard at all, “would it be okay if I used your phone to call my mom? I forgot to tell her where I’d be going after school today.”

“Oh, of course, sweetheart. Andrew, go show him where the home phone is, will you?” Cass said, nodding her head toward the kitchen, where the home phone sat. Cass stepped back out the door. “I’m gonna run out to the store to see if I can pick up any candy left. I bought a bag last week, but I assume you’ll be stealing that for yourselves, so I need something for the trick-or-treaters. I’ll be quick! Don’t get into any trouble when I’m gone.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” Alex said, disgustingly polite. 

Andrew turned and made his way toward the kitchen, Alex quietly following behind. His excitement seemed to have turned to anxiety, Andrew thought, watching Alex’s eyes dart around the room. Alex tugged on the sleeves of his—Andrew’s—jacket, which he still had yet to take off. Andrew pretended not to find that funny or endearing and handed Alex the phone. 

“You never had to call your mom about the library,” Andrew said. 

Alex shrugged. “She knew I’d be there, those days, ‘cause I already told her. Not on the first day, though. I didn’t get home until late, and she nearly cut off my head. Now I have to call her and tell her where I am, so she knows where to find me in case of an emergency,” he explained, bored-sounding. Andrew watched Alex’s bony fingers press numbers into the phone and hold it up to his ear. As it rang, Alex shifted to lean against the counter, and Andrew shifted to stand next to him, watching the small change in expression on Alex’s face when someone finally picked up the line. Alex looked like he had just popped a slightly sour candy into his mouth. The change was small, probably unnoticeable to anyone else, but Andrew saw it, and he didn’t like it at all. 

“Hello? Who is this?” a woman said through the phone. The volume was quiet, mostly, but from where Andrew was standing, so close to Alex, he could hear just enough to make out the words.

“Mom. It’s me,” Alex replied.

“Abram?” the woman spat immediately. Whoever the hell Abram was, Andrew didn’t have a clue. “Where are you calling me from? Whose phone is this? Did something happen?”

Alex cringed. Andrew watched Alex’s eyes dart to him and then to the floor. “No. Everything is fine. I was just calling to tell you I’m at a…” Alex’s eyes darted to Andrew again, unsure. “...friend’s house. It’s really close to the library. I’ll be home by nine. I promise. If—if that’s, um, okay.”

“Abram,” the woman said again, but this time it sounded like a warning. 

Andrew had the sudden urge to rip the phone from Alex’s hands and throw it across the room. Instead, Andrew tugged obnoxiously at the hood of Alex’s—his—jacket. Alex’s gaze lifted from the floor to look at Andrew again, eyebrows raised and eyes open wide. Questioning. “Lie,” Andrew mouthed.

Alex’s face soured further at that, but he didn’t look away as he spoke into the phone to say, “It’s for a school project. Please, Mom.”

“Fine,” Alex’s mom said. “Home by nine. No later.” And then she hung up. And Alex handed the phone back to Andrew. 

“Hate that word,” Andrew grumbled as he over-aggressively shoved the phone back into its holder on the kitchen counter. 

“What word?” Alex asked.

“The one you said, very pathetically, before ‘Mom’.”

“Oh, pl—? Never mind.”

“Come on.” Andrew stole an unopened bag of Halloween candy from the counter and led the way upstairs. 

The house wasn’t particularly big, but it wasn’t particularly small, either. It was much better than most of the houses Andrew had been in throughout his time in foster care. Cass and Richard were the best foster parents Andrew had ever had, anyway, so even if the house was shitty and small, he wouldn’t have cared one bit. Andrew only wanted parents, and Cass and Richard were great at that job. Every house, though, no matter how good it seemed, had its cons. This house’s con was the bedroom across the hall from Andrew’s and the man who stayed in it whenever he visited. 

Andrew ignored that room’s existence, mostly, but he caught Alex’s eyebrow raising at the sight of the room. Its door was wide open, and it was obvious someone inhabited the room, even if it was only for brief visits every couple of months. Alex didn’t ask, though. He simply followed Andrew into his own room and, once inside, stood awkwardly in the center of it. 

This was Andrew’s room, and Alex being there didn’t change anything, so Andrew did as he usually did: he dropped his backpack on the floor by his desk, kicked his shoes off without a care for where they landed, and crawled onto his bed, pressing himself into the corner by the wall. He had taken his jacket off downstairs, but Alex was still, of course, wearing the blue one Andrew had given him that morning. 

“You can take that off, you know. I’m not going to take it back the moment it is no longer on your body,” Andrew said, gesturing to the jacket. 

Alex hummed awkwardly. He gingerly placed his bag beside Andrew’s and shrugged the coat off before draping it over his backpack. Still, he stood like a deer in headlights in the center of the room. 

Andrew hopped off the bed and stepped past Alex to look through the stack of rented movies on his desk. He could feel Alex’s stare on the back of his head, but he decidedly ignored it. Once he found The Haunting, Andrew opened the disc case and slid it into the DVD player before turning on the TV. Even when Andrew returned to his spot on the bed, beside the wall, with the remote in one hand and a giant bag of candy in the other, Alex still stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. 

“If you take off your shoes, you can sit there,” Andrew said, pointing at a spot on the opposite side of the bed from him. 

“Okay,” Alex said. And, of course, he did as he was told, sliding his shoes off and placing them neatly by his bag and jacket before hesitantly taking a seat on the edge of the bed. 

Alex sat criss-cross while Andrew pulled his knees up to his chest, leaning back against the pillows. Andrew put the bag of candy between them, but Alex didn’t make a move to take any, so Andrew didn’t yet, either. He began navigating the DVD menu, trying to think about anything else than the name Abram and failing entirely. 

Once the TV started playing movie trailers—the ones that Andrew would usually skip through but didn’t this time—Andrew shifted to sit across from Alex, his back to the TV. Andrew kept his face blank as he asked, “Who is Abram?” Skin growing pale, Alex sort of shrank in on himself like he sometimes did when teachers would get a bit too close for comfort in class. Alex very obviously didn’t feel comfortable answering that question, and Andrew didn’t want to make him do anything he didn’t want to do, even if he hated him, so he quickly added, “If you answer my question, I’ll answer any question you ask in return. That way it’s fair.”

For a moment, Alex remained silent, probably considering the offer, before finally making his decision. “Okay,” he said. Though he still sounded unsure, Alex sat up a little straighter and said, “If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone. Ever.”

“Okay,” Andrew said. Who would he tell, anyway?

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

“Okay.” Alex took a deep, shaky breath before leaning in the tiniest bit closer. Andrew tried to ignore the way it made his heart beat faster. “Alex isn’t my real name,” Alex—not Alex—practically whispered. “It’s a fake name. My name changes a lot, every time I move somewhere new. I can’t tell you my real name, and I hate it, anyway, but Abram… it’s, um, my middle name. My real one.”

Andrew couldn’t imagine what reason Alex had to change his name every time he moved somewhere new, but he couldn’t ask that until Alex asked him a question in return, and even then, who was to say whether Alex would be willing to answer another question.

It was easy for Andrew not to give a reaction. His face was typically naturally blank, anyway, so it wasn’t hard for him to hide the fact that Alex’s answer had sparked a thousand little fires in Andrew’s brain. With practiced disinterest, Andrew just nodded. 

Alex took another deep breath and tugged on the sleeves of his ratty blue sweatshirt. “So,” he murmured, “I ask something now?”

Again, Andrew nodded. 

“Whose room is that?” Alex asked. 

Andrew couldn’t say he wasn’t expecting that question, but he hated it all the same. He didn’t look at Alex when he answered, instead choosing to tear open the candy bag. “Foster brother’s.”

“Where is he?”

That was technically another question, but Andrew didn’t mind. He would likely ask another question later, too. “He’s a marine. He only comes home between deployments. He’s an asshole, though, so it’s good that he’s not here. I wouldn’t have invited you over if he were.”

“Why did you invite me over?” was Alex’s next question. 

His expression had gone from curious and anxious to some other emotion or feeling that Andrew didn’t know how to identify. Hopeful? Andrew wasn’t sure. Either way, it made Alex look a little bit more pathetic than he already naturally did. Part of Andrew wished he had an answer that would please Alex, or, better, an answer that would peeve Alex, but his head was coming up empty. So he shrugged. Alex nodded, like the shrug was a real answer. 

The opening credits of The Haunting began to play. Andrew moved back to lean against the pillows again, but a little closer to Alex than he had been before. He put the candy bag between them. As the opening scene began to play, Andrew found his eyes shifting back and forth between the screen and Alex’s profile. 

When he worked up the nerve, he finally asked, “Can I call you Abram when no one else can hear?”

Alex turned his head to look at him, and something unidentifiable passed through his face. “Okay,” he said. “Only when no one else can hear.”

“Okay.”

They sat back and watched the movie, making snide comments about the poor realism, dramatic screaming, and unrealistic gore. Andrew went through half of the candy bag by himself, and Alex—Abram—ate one Snickers bar before deciding he didn’t want any more. 

At 6:30, Cass brought two bowls of macaroni and cheese and a plate of apple slices and carrots up for the boys to have for dinner while they finished the movie. At 7:00, the movie ended, and Andrew and Abram spent the next hour rating the costumes the kids wore outside. At 8:00, Abram listened to Andrew talk for an uncharacteristically long period of time about a book he read and obviously enjoyed. At 8:25, Andrew stuck his copy of said book into Abram’s backpack and insisted that he read it. At 8:30, Richard, who had gotten home from work sometime while the boys were watching a movie, let Andrew and Abram into the backseat of his car, despite the fact that Abram insisted he could walk home himself. At 8:45, Andrew watched Abram disappear into a small, dingy apartment building. At 9:00, Andrew stared at his ceiling and reevaluated everything he thought to be true about himself, and found that he was a liar more to himself than to anyone else. 

Chapter Text

It was funny, Andrew thought, the things teachers did and didn't notice. Because it was becoming clear to him that his teachers were beginning to notice his friendship—not friendship; Abram was just another classmate who Andrew happened to tolerate slightly more than his other classmates—with Abram. In the classes where seats were assigned, teachers were adjusting their seating charts to place Andrew and Abram beside each other, and when group projects were given, Abram and Andrew were always put in the same groups. It seemed their teachers were noticing that Andrew participated more when sitting next to Abram and that Abram looked a little less like a frightened puppy when he was sitting next to Andrew.

And yet.

Andrew’s teachers hadn't noticed when he was wearing long-sleeved shirts even on the warmer days in August and September. Andrew’s teachers hadn't noticed when he came to school with a slight limp at the beginning of October, and they hadn't noticed his hesitance to sit down, either. They hadn't noticed any of the things they were supposedly trained to notice.

More infuriatingly, they hadn't noticed that Abram came to school yesterday sporting a faint bruise on his cheekbone. Abram insisted he had walked into a doorframe in his early morning haze when Andrew gently pressed his thumb against it and slightly raised his eyebrows, but Andrew suspected it had something to do with the fact that he and Abram had lost track of time at the library after school the day before. The two of them were quietly snickering at a video on a computer in the back corner of the library (Andrew’s eyes were definitely on the screen and not on Abram’s grinning face) when Abram’s smile suddenly dropped into the most scared and mortified look Andrew had ever seen on his face. 

Andrew had turned to see a brown-haired, brown-eyed woman marching right toward them. She looked beyond furious. Abram had shot out of his chair, his whole body tensing. “Mom?” he had stammered out, voice so high he sounded like a much younger boy than he really was. 

Abram’s mother hadn't said a word as she violently yanked Abram’s backpack off the ground beside their chairs, then grabbed Abram by the arm in a similar fashion. A second later, and Andrew was alone, and the video on the computer screen was boring, and he felt entirely hollowed out. 

Needless to say, Andrew didn't sleep well that night, and he didn't sleep well last night, either. Which meant that he was in no mood for a second day of Abram’s lying bullshit. He wanted to break something, or scream, or grab Abram by the shoulders and shake him until he understood that the way his mother treated him was not normal and not okay. Andrew had mentioned it to him before—that he thought the way Abram spoke of his mother made him think she was abusive—but Abram continuously insisted that his mom wasn’t abusive; she was just overprotective, worried, caring. That all she wanted to do was keep him safe. 

But now Andrew had seen it. He had seen it with his very own eyes. Abram’s mother had stormed into the library and grabbed Abram by the arm with a grip that was undoubtedly bruising, and Abram had come to school the next day with a faint bruise on his cheek. Andrew knew without a shadow of a doubt that the bruise was given to Abram by his mother’s hand. 

“Andrew, seriously, it’s no big deal. I ran into the doorway. I’m an idiot, remember?” Abram was whispering in the back of their first hour classroom.

He was leaning closer into Andrew’s space, and if Andrew were in a better mood, maybe he would lean closer, too, but he wouldn’t—not with Abram’s ignorance. No, Andrew wouldn’t respond at all the Abram until he told the truth, and Abram, that day, was nothing but a lie dispenser. So Andrew sat face forward, chin in hand, staring blankly at the back of the head of the kid in front of him. 

“Andrew. Come on,” Abram pleaded. “What can I do to make you stop ignoring me?”

With a huff, Andrew finally turned to Abram, because that, he supposed, was not a lie. It was a question. A desperate one, too, and Andrew ignored the slightest hint of pride that filled his chest at the thought that Abram so badly wanted his attention. He didn’t let any pride show on his face, which he let fall into a glare as he leaned closer and gripped the sleeve of Abram’s blue sweatshirt. “I will stop ignoring you when you tell me the truth, Abram,” he said, voice low.

Abram’s eyes widened as he looked around them, shrinking smaller and pressing his finger against his lips. “Shhh! Don’t—you can’t call me that here, Andrew. You really, really can’t,” he hissed. “If someone heard you—”

“What?” Andrew challenged, scowling. “Your mom would hit you again?”

Frantically, Abram shook his head. “No! Just stop it! Pl—ugh!” Abram huffed and pressed his hands against his eyes for a moment before looking around the classroom once more. His gaze caught on something for a second, and Andrew turned to see what had caught that tiny fraction of Abram’s attention. 

Mrs. Bolt was walking towards them. 

Andrew turned to Abram again and tugged his sleeve harder, gaining his attention once more. “I am going to tell her,” he said, and it was a promise, “unless you give me a reason why I shouldn’t.”

He watched the panic grow on Abram’s face, the boy’s muddy brown eyes darting back and forth between Andrew’s face, only inches from his, and Mrs. Bolt, maneuvering her way through the rows of desks crammed into the small classroom. Mrs. Bolt was ten steps away. Seven steps. Five. Three.

“I’ll trade you at lunch,” Abram finally whispered. “Like we did on Halloween. I promise.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. 

One. Mrs. Bolt was in front of their desks. “You boys all right back here? Have any questions for me before class ends?” she asked, smiling her smile that somehow seemed both genuine and practiced at the same time. 

Abram looked up at the woman, but Andrew’s eyes didn’t leave the other boy’s face even for a second, studying him, watching for a single hint of a lie, of a broken promise in the making. He couldn’t find anything. 

“We’re okay,” Abram said, his voice soft and shy like it always got when he was talking to adults—a trait Andrew had noticed only a few days after meeting Abram, and one that he was certain had been drilled into Abram by heavy hands. “Don’t have any questions,” Abram added a second later, undoubtedly waiting for Andrew to look away from him and give Mrs. Bolt a response. 

“Andrew?” Mrs. Bolt asked. Finally, Andrew accepted Abram’s promise, and he turned to face his teacher. “Any questions?”

“No,” Andrew said. 

Mrs. Bolt nodded, looking between the two boys. “Although I’m always happy to answer questions, I can’t say it's unexpected for you two not to have any. You did marvelously on your project last month. You’ll have those back by the end of the week, by the way, but in case you're wondering, you got an A. So much thought was put into your work, I almost couldn’t believe it. Most kids didn’t write more than a page or two, but you both put in so much detail, I thought you must’ve thought about this before. You said you had already read The Outsiders before we did in class, didn’t you, Andrew?”

Andrew nodded. “A couple times.”

“Was it your idea about the colored contacts, or was that Alex’s? No other student had ever included that thought before.”

Abram was tap, tap, tapping his foot anxiously, like that little rabbit from Bambi. Andrew pressed his boot onto Abram’s sneaker to get him to stop. “It was Alex’s,” he said. 

Andrew hadn’t put too much thought into Abram’s contribution of the colored contacts idea to change appearance when running away, but now that he was thinking more about it, he wondered where Abram had gotten the idea. He wondered if it had to do with the muddy color of Abram’s eyes, which just wasn’t quite right. Unnatural. He wondered if it had to do with the way Abram was always rubbing at his eyes until they were all red, claiming they were just itchy. Andrew pressed down harder on Abram’s shoe, his jaw clenching tight. 

“That’s a brilliant idea, Alex,” Mrs. Bolt said. Alex forced a smile. “I never would have thought to change my eye color. Hair color, sure. That’s very noticeable. But people don’t really realize how identifiable eye color can make someone, especially for Johnny, with how Ponyboy described his eyes as being so dark. Giving him lighter contacts would change his look a lot.” Abram nodded along, as if these weren’t things he had written about himself in their project. “Where did you come up with that idea?” Mrs. Bolt asked.  

“Um…” Abram looked at Andrew when he answered, “It was my mom’s idea.”

It seemed like a truth heavier than what Mrs. Bolt was asking about. 

“Well, you must have a very smart mom.” The bell rang, signaling the end of class, and the other students scrambled out of their seats, chairs screeching against the floor. Mrs. Bolt turned and started to shout about finishing the assignment she had given them before coming to class tomorrow. 

Andrew shot out of his seat, and Abram followed him out of the classroom. When Abram turned right to start on his way to their next class, Andrew grabbed him by the hand and tugged him in the opposite direction. Abram spouted out questions, but didn’t resist as Andrew led him down the hall, ignoring other kids’ stares and tuning out the voice of one boy who called out, “Fags!” It wasn’t the first time the two of them had been called that since they first glued themselves to each other’s sides, and Andrew doubted it would be the last, but he didn’t have time to care right then. 

Around the corner, to the end of a hall that was mostly empty this time of day, Andrew pulled Abram into the bathroom and, after ducking to make sure no one’s feet could be seen beneath any of the stalls, twisted the deadbolt lock on the big, wooden door. 

When Andrew finally looked at Abram, all he saw was a surprising trust. Andrew had dragged him by the hand through the hallways, had been nothing but abrasive all morning, had locked them in this bathroom together, and all Abram looked at him with was trust. God, Andrew hated him. His heart pounded behind his ribs. 

“Andrew?” Abram whispered, back against the wall.

“Let me see your eyes,” Andrew demanded. Abram sighed, but didn’t resist as Andrew put one hand on his cheek and the other on his jaw. Andrew held Abram’s head still as he leaned in close—so close he could feel the gentle puff of each of Abram’s breath against his cheek, but that was neither here nor there—and stared at Abram’s muddy irises. Unsurprisingly, there was a thin, almost unnoticeable line of blue surrounding the iris. Contacts. “Everything about you is a lie,” Andrew said, releasing Abram’s face and taking a single step back. 

“I never said I didn’t wear contacts,” Abram said, crossing his arms. “You just assumed.”

“Lie by omission.” Andrew crossed his arms, too. “Take them out.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I can’t,” Abram said again.

Andrew wished Abram’s mother dead. “Your mom isn’t here, Abram. It’s only me,” he reminded Abram, voice calmer and more even than it had been before. Not soft, really, but as close to it as Andrew could ever get. “You can put them back in after. I just want to see. Once, Abram. Just to see.”

Abram stared at Andrew long enough for Andrew to consider retreating, to consider running off and hiding where Abram couldn’t find him until his heartbeat returned to its normal pace, but then, Abram sighed and stepped away from the wall. Andrew’s eyes trailed Abram as he made his way over to the sinks and leaned in close to the mirrors to carefully remove his contacts. Andrew waited, wringing his hands together behind the pocket of his hoodie, until, finally, Abram turned back around. 

His eyes were a bright, icy blue and cold enough to give Andrew goosebumps all over. 

The look on Abram’s face was sour, worried, like it looked on Halloween when he was talking to his mom on the phone. Andrew could tell that his eyes were not something he wanted anyone to see. Not something Abram wanted to see himself, maybe. 

“I hate them,” he said. “They’re my father’s.”

Andrew, in a moment of impulsivity he prayed he wouldn’t later regret, pulled up his left sleeve and turned his wrist outward. Along his wrist, there were white and pink lines carved into his skin. Some were old—years old—and the most recent marks were from the beginning of October: the last time Andrew’s foster brother had visited home. 

“Hate them,” Andrew said. “But they’re mine.”

Abram took a step closer, and his icy eyes followed along the length of Andrew’s forearm for just a moment before he raised them to meet Andrew’s. “Why are you showing me?” 

“Trade.”

“You didn’t have to if you didn’t want to.”

“It’s a trade. It’s fair, now,” Andrew said, his tone returning to that fierce tone it had before Abram’s, I can’t. Andrew tugged his sleeve back down and gestured to the sinks. Abram turned back to the mirrors and put his brown contacts back into place. When Abram returned to Andrew, looking just a bit calmer than he had without the contacts, but still not totally comfortable, Andrew reminded him of what he said in class. “Your promise. You can tell me now, or we can wait until lunch, like you said.”

Abram worked his jaw for a moment, shaking his head to himself like this was the stupidest promise he had ever made. But Andrew knew that he would follow through on it, because it was either that Abram would tell him the truth, or Andrew would tell Mrs. Bolt that the bruise on Abram’s cheek came from his mother.

Tugging at the sleeves of his sweatshirt, Abram finally said, “I told you Alex isn’t my real name. I told you I can’t tell you my real name.” Andrew nodded. He couldn’t forget the night that Abram had told him that—not that Andrew could forget anything, but that night stood out in his memory because it had been one Andrew intentionally relived when he was having trouble falling asleep at night. “It’s because I am hiding from my father. He is a bad person—a really, really bad person—and if he finds my mom or me…”

Abram didn’t need to fill in the blank. Andrew could do it himself. 

“If you tell Mrs. Bolt my mom hit me, she’ll go to CPS, and she can’t go to CPS. The government gets involved, my dad finds me, and I’m gone—either dead or leaving here, and I don’t want to leave this place,” Abram explained in a rush of words. Andrew heard the words Abram didn’t say, but said all the same: I don’t want to leave this place, because this place has you in it. “Okay? So you can’t tell anyone. You can’t.” 

Andrew, at this moment, knew that he should have been thinking about a thousand things other than what he was thinking about. He should have been thinking about Abram, and his fear, and his mother, and his father, and how he could help Abram, how he could somehow free him from a life on the run, how he could keep Abram safe. But the one fact that was standing out in Andrew’s awful, greedy mind was that Abram, despite the weight of this confession, despite his fear, despite all the risks, trusted Andrew with his secret. 

And this all started because Abram couldn’t stand the thought of Andrew ignoring him one more day. 

It was the middle of November. It had been barely longer than a single month. But Andrew was quickly realizing that Abram was becoming a part of his life that he wasn’t sure he could breathe without. He simultaneously hoped and feared that Abram felt the same way.

“Andrew,” Abram said, and Andrew snapped back into focus. “Promise me. You need to keep this a secret.”

Andrew nodded with zero hesitation. “I promise,” he said, firm. 

Abram’s shoulders sank down, all the tension that had previously pulled his muscles tight easing out of him at the sound of Andrew’s promise. Then his eyes met Andrew’s again, and he said, “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”

Andrew furrowed his eyebrows. “We made a deal,” he reminded Abram. “When I make deals, I follow through on them.”

“Okay,” Abram said, sounding enough like his usual self again that Andrew felt some of his own tension drain out of him, too. 

Andrew swallowed and averted his eyes to their shoes. He needed to say this out loud. Abram wouldn’t make him, of course, but it would be good for Andrew to admit it, he thought. But, God, getting his voice to work was a feat that felt almost impossible. His hands felt clammy, and he returned them to his pocket to keep wringing them together in secrecy. A minute ticked by quietly, and Abram waited patiently with no care for the fact that they would inevitably be late to their next class. 

Finally, Andrew scraped the words out of his throat: “On Halloween, you asked about my foster brother, Drake’s room,” he started with. Abram nodded, but Andrew couldn’t see it because his eyes were still on their shoes. He thought about pressing his boots against Abram’s shitty Converse and wondered if Abram felt calmer when he did that. Andrew did. Fuck, he hated Abram—or, rather, hated that he didn’t hate him. “Do you remember what I said?” Andrew asked.

Abram nodded again. “You said you wouldn’t have invited me if he were there. ‘Cause he’s an asshole.”

“Well, he’s also a rapist.”

Silence. Weighted, aching silence. Andrew felt nauseous, and he was sure Abram did, too. Most people did when people confessed these sorts of things. 

Then, Abram spoke, and his words, Andrew had to admit, were not at all expected. 

“Do you want me to have him killed?”

“What?”

“Do you want me to have him killed?” Abram asked again, like this was a normal question that Andrew should have already had the answer to. “My mom knows people. People who help us keep away from my dad. If I tell her Drake’s a problem, all she has to do is make a call, and he’ll be dead by the end of the week.”

Andrew stared at him, mind spinning so violently he almost felt dizzy. He thought, Drake Spear, dead. Gone. Dead. And, Andrew safe. Untouched. Safe. Then, Cass mourning. Broken. Mourning. 

Cass wouldn’t be the same if Drake died. Andrew wasn’t positive that she or Richard would be willing to keep him if that happened, and even if they did let him stay, he was sure that they would be different. Colder, maybe, or angrier, or hostile, or just flat out lost. Nothing would be like how it was—how Andrew, though he would never admit this, liked for it to be. Everything would change, and Andrew might lose the only chance at a good mother he would ever get. He wasn’t willing to take that risk. This exchange, in his mind, was worth it.

“No,” he said.

Abram looked angry in a way Andrew hadn’t seen before. “Why not?” His voice was tense, like he was holding back from shouting. Abram didn’t usually ask why not. He usually said, Okay, and smiled his bashful smile, and moved on. 

“My foster parents love him. If he died, they’d be lost. I don’t want to lose them,” Andrew admitted, his voice nothing more than a whisper. “I’d rather live through this and keep the good I have than give it all up just because one piece of it is bad.” Andrew met Abram’s gaze, finally, and though he didn't usually stammer, stammered through the question, “Does—does that, um, make sense?”

Though he didn’t look very pleased about it, Abram nodded. He closed his eyes. “That’s why I love my mom, even though she…” He gestured to the bruise on his cheek. “Because she keeps me safe. My safety, to her, is more important than anything in the world. She is good to me, mostly, I think, but sometimes she’s, y’know, harsher. But… you know.”

“The good outweighs the bad,” Andrew supplied. 

“Yes. I guess so,” Abram agreed. “This is the best chance I’ve got.”

Andrew nodded. “Okay,” he said. 

Abram smiled a soft, delicate smile. “You sound like me.”

Pretty, Andrew thought, and immediately shoved the word to the very back of his brain. Andrew hated Abram. “Shut up. Idiot.” With nothing else to say, Andrew unlocked the door and left the bathroom, Abram following only a step behind him.

It made more sense, then, why Andrew and Abram were drawn to each other like magnets. They both understood that life had things they had to endure if they wanted to hold on to the little specks of warmth. But enduring didn't seem so bad when Abram strode up beside Andrew, elbows brushing together as they quietly made their way to their next class. 

Chapter Text

Andrew’s image was being ruined and tarnished and burnt and destroyed, and it was all stupid, lovely Abram’s fault. Andrew hated him, but he really, really didn’t. 

The way the other students in Oakland Middle School perceived Andrew before Abram’s arrival could be boiled down to one word: fear. No one looked at him too long. No one sat near him. No one dared speak badly of him to his face—he was sure that they did it behind his back, because he was anything but stupid, but what mattered was that no one had the guts to say anything to him at all. And now all that had changed. Because of Abram.

Abram was like poison, Andrew thought. With Abram beside him, Andrew occasionally found himself smiling, sometimes even laughing. It was horrible. Mortifying. He liked to pretend that Abram was the one clinging to him like a leech, but Andrew clung to Abram equally as much.

Most of their classes they had together, but in those few classes, when Andrew would look to his left and see an empty desk instead of Abram’s (completely average and definitely not stunning) profile, Andrew would get a weird feeling in his chest. It felt a little like loneliness, maybe. He wasn’t entirely sure. All Andrew knew was that he often found himself turning to whisper something to Abram, or sliding his shoe over to tap it against Abram’s, or snickering at something his teacher said and checking to see if Abram was snickering too, and in the classes they had separately, all Andrew was met with was an aching feeling inside of him. But when he would leave those classes, he would meet Abram in the hallway outside, and all that aching would fade away into something that might have been warmth. 

The other kids were catching on to this new development in Andrew Doe, and it was causing a lot more problems than Andrew would like for it to. Ideally, people would ignore Andrew and Abram and mind their own business. Middle schoolers, however, were notorious for sticking their noses into other people’s business. That was how the whole school found out the sixth-grade social studies teacher was dating a woman who worked at Hooters, which, of course, gave the immature sixth-graders a, well, hoot. 

So, as Andrew honestly should have expected, he and Abram’s classmates were sticking their noses into their business. 

If Abram hadn’t ruined Andrew’s image, the other kids would be too scared to stick their noses into Andrew’s business, but now that Andrew smiled and laughed and whispered things into Abram’s ear when he thought no one was looking, the other kids weren’t so afraid anymore. 

Hence, the names they were called in the hallways every day. Andrew and Abram had been ignoring them, for the most part. Or at least they had never talked about them. 

Sometimes, secretly, the words stung Andrew. Because sometimes, secretly, they were just true. 

A word they were often called was freaks, which didn’t bother Andrew so much because being a freak, in his eyes, wasn’t so bad. He had always been one. His favorite movie and book characters were usually called freaks. That one didn’t hurt at all. 

But another one was retards. Andrew knew what the word meant, medically speaking. It was a medical term for a while, but it morphed into an insult, into a slur. Andrew knew that he was quite different from most kids and that he always had been. He didn’t know if that made him one or not. He didn’t know if there was really a difference in his brain or if it was simply a difference in the way he chose to present himself to the world. He didn’t know. The word didn’t really hurt him, honestly, but he didn’t like it, of course. And, more than that, Andrew hated seeing the way Abram would always shrink in on himself when it was shouted. Andrew wondered if it was a word Abram’s mother sometimes used. Or maybe even Abram’s father. Andrew and Abram were weird. Andrew was well aware of that. He wondered if Abram knew that, and if the fact bothered him. 

The third word, however, was one that infuriated Andrew, no matter how much he told himself that words didn’t matter. Because the third word was faggots. Andrew knew what that word meant. It meant a guy who liked guys. And Andrew was beginning to realize—fuck—that he was one of those guys. After everything that had been done to him, after all those hands roamed where they were not welcome, after all he did to try and fight men off of him all his life, Andrew was gay. He was that word.  

It was a realization that had been creeping up in the back of Andrew’s mind for years, really, but was only now becoming so crystal clear that Andrew couldn’t ignore it anymore.

It was in that bathroom, with Abram’s face so close to his as he examined the contacts in Abram’s eyes, that Andrew decided he could not ignore it anymore. Because, in that moment, peeking out in the back of Andrew’s brain was the unignorable fact that Andrew very badly wanted to kiss Abram. He had shoved the thought down then, too focused on the bigger problem at hand, which was Abram’s lies and their later exchanged truths. But when Andrew got home that night, he thought about Abram until he fell asleep. It was startlingly real, that feeling he had nuzzling around his chest. 

So Andrew had thought about it. He thought about Abram, he thought about being gay, he thought about Drake, he thought about being raped, being abused, and he thought about whether or not the abuse he faced had any influence on his sexuality. Was he born this way, or had the abuse he endured shaped him into something unnatural? He researched it. In the library, after school, while Abram was engrossed in his math homework, Andrew would log onto the computers and read article after article on the topic before clearing the search history and spending the rest of Abram’s math homework time skimming through whatever books he could find about it. Everything Andrew found, much to his dismay, said remotely the same thing: no one knows for sure. 

Many sources said that there was a correlation between same-sex childhood sexual abuse and same-sex attraction, but they also said that it couldn't be deciphered whether the abuse caused the same-sex attraction, if it simply revealed same-sex attraction that had already existed, or if homosexuals were predisposed to being abused in that way. Besides, Andrew already knew from science class that correlation did not equal causation.

Most importantly, though, Andrew found in most sources that, regardless of why he was the way that he was, it was okay for him to be the way that he was. It wasn't unnatural or unhealthy. It wasn't something to shy away from. And it wasn’t Drake’s or anyone else’s doing; it just was. 

It was a truth; a truth that belonged to Andrew and no one else. 

Andrew accepted that. Wrote it down on a piece of paper ten times over before tearing up the evidence and tossing it away. 

What he hadn't quite accepted yet was that it was Abram whom he liked. 

Because Abram didn't feel the same way. Well, maybe he did. But Andrew was too utterly terrified of losing Abram if the answer was no to ever risk asking the question. So, quietly, he would wait, and wait, and wait. Maybe Abram would never give any sort of hint or make any sort of confession, and that would just have to be okay. Because Andrew would rather keep Abram at his side as nothing more than a friend than lose him because Andrew wanted more than Abram did. 

That was why, when other kids at school began to shout the word fags at Andrew and Abram in the hallway, Andrew would tense up, and his insides would burn. Because, sure, they were technically right about him, despite the word’s harshness, but not Abram. No, not Abram. Andrew was terrified, each time, that Abram would turn to him and ask if the other kids were right. If Andrew was a fag, and if he liked Abram. 

So far, Abram hadn’t acknowledged any of it. Sometimes, Andrew wondered if Abram knew that it was them who were being shouted at, just because he seemed so entirely unbothered by it. 

That was, at least, until one day, at lunch, a certain asshole named Trevor meandered over to the table Andrew and Abram sat at the end of. Trevor was the tallest eighth grader in the school, and he was incredibly popular, mostly because he was the basketball team’s star player. Why anyone gave a shit about a middle school basketball league, Andrew didn’t know, but apparently, all one had to do to be widely liked by the student body despite being a living, breathing piece of actual shit was be good at basketball. 

Trevor had bothered Andrew and Abram before. He was one of the handful of culprits who shouted things at the two smaller boys in the hallways, and he sat behind Andrew in social studies—one of the few classes Andrew didn’t have with Abram, which already made it nearly unbearable even without Trevor’s presence taken into consideration. Trevor spent most of his time in social studies tossing balled-up paper at the back of Andrew’s head and kicking the back of Andrew’s chair. 

Honestly, Andrew didn’t know what had gotten into him because two months ago, Andrew would have done something to stop Trevor, whether that be using his fists, or threatening him with a knife, or picking up his chair and throwing it at Trevor the next time he kicked it. But with Abram around, Andrew felt impossibly calmer. Just the knowledge that all Andrew had to do was get through that one unbearable hour with Trevor, and then he’d get to see Abram in gym next class, kept Andrew still in his seat, breathing in and out, in and out, in and out. Hurting Trevor would mean suspension, which could mean days without seeing Abram, which would mean aching. So Andrew ignored Trevor. 

At lunch that day, however, not punching Trevor’s lights out became an almost impossible feat. 

Trevor sidled up behind Abram, who flinched when Trevor tugged on the hood of his favorite blue hoodie. Abram turned to face whoever had tugged on his hood, and when he did, Trevor dumped his carton of milk right onto Abram’s head, down his face, into his eyes. 

“Faggots,” Trevor said, amused smirk plastered on his face as his group of worthless friends cackled two tables away. 

As Trevor turned and began to walk back to his friends, Andrew shot out of his chair, ready to hit Trevor’s face over and over until all he could see was blood. But before he could get to Trevor, Abram’s hand shot out and gripped Andrew’s, tugging him closer. Abram was breathing too heavily as he tried to wipe the liquid from his eyes with his one free hand. With every drop he wiped away, another would drip down from his hair, and he’d have to squeeze his eyes shut again, wiping more. 

“Don’t leave,” Abram said between bated breaths. His voice was steady but tense enough that it made Andrew’s stomach clench. Abram was fighting off panic, and Andrew could hear it in his voice, see it in the shakiness of his hand as he wiped away milk, feel it in Abram’s grip on his hand. Abram tried to open his eyes again, but more of the liquid dripped in, and he was forced to squeeze them shut again as he rubbed at them furiously. “I can’t see,” Abram said, the sound of his panic slipping through as his voice broke. 

Abram spent his life running from the monster that was his father. To be unable to see, unable to check each entrance, unable to know if his dad would be there in front of him when he next opened his eyes, must have been awful, Andrew thought.

Andrew didn’t know what to do. Fury was burning a hole through his chest. His instinct was to hurt Trevor. It was the only thing he knew how to do, really. But it was clear to him that Abram needed his help, now, and he couldn’t do two things at once. 

Forcing his hand to stay steady as he raised it, despite the anger wracking through him, Andrew brought his hand up near Abram’s face, hesitating before really doing anything. His heart was beating too fast. He wasn’t good at this. He couldn’t be properly gentle, especially not in a moment of panic like this. Could he? He needed a guidebook, he needed rules, he needed to be told what to do, but no one was there to tell him. No one had ever shown him how to be truly comforting. He needed to know what Abram wanted. 

He thought of Mrs. Bolt, that first day he met Abram, when she asked Andrew to be Abram’s partner. That’s not a yes or no, Andrew, she had said. And that, Andrew realized, was what he needed. He needed to be told that it was okay, what he was doing. 

So, Andrew squeezed Abram’s hand back, just like Abram was squeezing his, to gain his attention and then asked, “Can—can I move your hair?”

“Yes,” Abram said. 

Andrew pushed Abram’s bangs out of his face so they would slick back, and little droplets of milk would stop dripping down into Abram’s eyes. Abram rubbed at his eyes again, and he was able to keep them open a bit longer this time, but he had to keep blink, blink, blinking, every second. Andrew remembered the contacts. He wondered if they made the stinging of liquid in the eyes worse. 

“I’m going to take you to the bathroom, okay?” Andrew said. 

“Okay.”

Andrew kept his hand in Abram’s as he pulled him out of the lunchroom and down the hall to the nearest boys’ bathroom. When they got inside, Andrew pulled Abram over to the sinks and let go of him as he checked under the stalls for feet. In the very last stall, there was a pair of ugly, neon orange sneakers. 

Andrew kicked the stall door. “Hurry up,” he demanded. He tried to sound normal, but his aggression was slipping into his voice. “Hurry up and get out.” The toilet flushed, and the stall door swung open. The boy inside looked annoyed as he slid past Andrew to get to the sink, side-eyeing a soaked Abram. Before he could turn on the water, Andrew grabbed the back of his shirt and shoved him toward the door. “Wash your hands in a different bathroom, you fucking idiot!” he spat, patience worn thin. When the other boy finally left, Andrew slammed the door shut and flipped the lock on it before returning to Abram by the sinks.

Abram was still breathing heavy, working his way through his panic. “I don’t—I don’t like not being able to see. I can’t—” He shook his hands, flinging droplets of milk onto the floor. “I can’t think,” Abram said desperately. 

“It’s okay,” Andrew said, trying his hardest to sound calm despite the pulsing in his veins. “Can I help you?” he asked. Abram nodded frantically. “I’m going to take off your hoodie, and then you’re going to wash your hands.”

“Okay.”

Andrew tugged down the zipper of Abram’s sweatshirt and pulled it off of him, leaving him in a t-shirt that was only slightly less drenched than the hoodie. He dropped the hoodie into the next sink over and then turned on the faucet of the sink Abram stood in front of. 

“Wash your hands, and then you can take out your contacts,” Andrew said. Abram nodded and dipped his hands under the stream of water. As he washed his hands with a roughness Andrew wasn’t used to seeing in Abram, Andrew rinsed Abram’s hoodie in the other sink. It wouldn’t be sufficiently clean, of course, but milk would stink after an hour, and the more they could get out of it, the better. 

“Andrew,” Abram said, making Andrew’s head snap to him. Abram had that desperate look on his face still, and Andrew wanted to kill Trevor. “The contacts. They’re—they’re fucked. I’ll need to clean them before I can put them back, and I don’t keep the solution on me because—because what if someone saw it? But I can’t go back out there like this,” Abram rambled, words all warped and strung together in a way that made them difficult to make out.

“Take them out. Now,” Andrew said. Abram turned back to the sink hesitantly and looked into the mirror, still blinking away the burning in his eyes. “We can leave. There’s a door, like, ten feet away from this bathroom. We can get to it quick, and we can go to my house or your house. We’ll leave our stuff in our lockers; we’ll be back tomorrow anyway. No one will see you, Abram. It’s okay. Take them out now. They are hurting your eyes.”

Abram did, finally, take the contacts out of his eyes and place them carefully on a paper towel. Andrew tried not to look at the stunning blue, knowing that Abram hated it. 

“Rinse your eyes, and then we’ll go,” Andrew said. 

“Okay,” Abram whispered. He tucked his head into the sink and let the water run over his eyes while Andrew pulled paper towel after paper towel from the dispenser on the wall. 

When Abram straightened, Andrew, after a nod for permission, pressed paper towels around his face. He let Abram dry his own eyes, but helped around his hairline, where some of the milk had accumulated and was starting to dribble down again. 

“Okay?” Andrew checked. 

“Okay.”

When they were done, Andrew went to toss all of the used paper towels into the trash, and when he turned back around, he saw Abram trying to straighten his hoodie back out to wear. “Stop. Stop,” Andrew said, yanking the soaking wet hoodie from Abram’s grasp. Abram frowned, looking like a sad puppy. “Idiot.”

“I need my hood up,” Abram said, eyebrows furrowed. “No one can see my eyes, Andrew. It’s not a joke. No one can see.”

Gnawing on his bottom lip, Andrew grimaced. It was cold outside, nearing Thanksgiving in late November. His house was a fifteen-minute walk from the school, at least. He hadn’t gone outside without sleeves since he first met Drake. But this was Abram, panicked and desperate, standing in front of Andrew and looking at him like he somehow had all the answers. 

So Andrew pulled off his own hoodie and held it out for Abram to take. 

“Take off your shirt before you put it on. I’m not letting you get milk all over my favorite hoodie,” he grumbled. Abram seemed to freeze at that, so Andrew huffed and turned around. “Not looking,” he said. “Tell me when you're done.”

A moment later, Abram confirmed that he was done, and Andrew turned to see the boy with his hood pulled up, covering as much of his face as he could get it to. The hoodie was already slightly too big on Andrew, because hoodies were always more comfortable that way, but on Abram, it looked even bigger. They were both small, but Abram was scrawnier. He drowned in the hoodie, and Andrew had to remind himself to turn away before any pink could appear on his cheeks. 

Andrew gathered Abram’s soiled hoodie and t-shirt and made his way to the door. “Come on.”

Abram stopped him by the door. “We can go to my house. It’s closer.” Andrew examined Abram’s expression, checking to make sure that this wasn’t Abram putting himself in danger by inviting Andrew into his mother’s house. “My mom won’t be home until six, at least. My house.”

Finally, Andrew conceded. “Lead the way.”

-

Abram’s house was a short, seven-minute walk from the school. It was a run-down duplex, and the neighbor's dog barked obnoxiously at the window as Abram and Andrew climbed the front steps. Abram pulled a key out of his pocket, stuck it into the lock, and let himself inside. 

Once inside, Abram disappeared down the hall, leaving Andrew alone in the living room with the promise that he’d be right back. Andrew looked around the living room, then the kitchen, but there wasn’t much to see. The place was pretty empty and dull. The only evidence that anyone lived in it at all was the half-full garbage can in the kitchen and the short stack of recently folded clothes on the end of the couch. Other than that, the place was pretty empty. 

Fifteen minutes later, Abram finally returned to Andrew. He was in fresh clothes, his contacts had been replaced, and his hair was wet from the shower. Andrew followed him down the hall to the laundry room and watched as he tossed the dirty clothes into the machine and pressed start. Then, Andrew followed Abram to his bedroom, where he gave Andrew his hoodie back. 

“This is your room?” Andrew asked as he tugged his hoodie back on and pretended not to think about how Abram had been wearing it less than twenty minutes ago. Abram nodded and sat down on his bed, which had a single thin blanket on it along with one pillow. “You don’t… have anything,” Andrew murmured. 

Abram shrugged. “Can’t,” he said. “We need to be able to pack up our stuff and leave as quickly as possible, in case he finds us. The less we have, the easier it is to pack.”

Andrew frowned and sat down on the bed beside Abram. He hoped Abram wasn’t planning on leaving any time soon. It would wrench a hole through Andrew’s heart if the one friend he had made had to disappear from his life after only getting to spend a few months together. He wondered what Abram’s mother would do when she inevitably got a phone call saying that Abram was missing from half his classes that day. Andrew knew he could tell Cass the truth, and she’d be fine with it—maybe even proud, that sap. But Abram’s mom wasn’t like Cass. Maybe Abram’s mom would make him leave.

“I’m going to beat the shit out of Trevor tomorrow,” Andrew said, glaring at his boots. 

“Don’t,” Abram said. The seriousness in his voice said that his reasons for choosing to ignore Trevor were similar to Andrew’s: suspension meant separation. What Abram was really saying was, Don’t make me face it alone. 

Andrew sighed, clenching and unclenching his fists in his lap. “Okay,” he said, and hated it, because he sounded just like Abram. 

“I don’t understand,” Abram suddenly said. 

Glancing at him, Andrew asked, “Don’t understand what?”

“Why people keep calling me that,” Abram supplied. “I don’t know what it means.”

Oh. Fuck. What was Andrew supposed to say to that? Was it better to tell him the truth or to simply say that it didn’t matter? On one hand, telling Abram what it meant could lead to Abram asking questions that Andrew didn’t necessarily want or know how to answer, but on the other hand, not telling Abram could leave him to wonder what the hell it meant, whether or not they were right about it, if he deserved it, or what it meant about him. 

“I mean, I’ve heard it before, at other schools, but no one ever called me it until now, so I never paid any attention to it,” Abram began to explain. As he talked, Andrew thought, and he thought, and he thought, and he came to the conclusion that he should just wait, and listen, and if Abram asked him something, he would answer with honesty. “I have math with Trevor. And Spanish. He calls me that like it’s my name, and I don’t understand why. And… can I, um, say something you might not like?” Abram turned to look at Andrew, who was now lying back on the bed with his legs hanging off the edge at the knees. Andrew hummed and gave a nod. “I wanted to ask you about it, kinda, but you always get all… tense, I guess, when he says it, and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything, so—”

“Do you want to know what it means?” Andrew interrupted, sitting back up. 

He didn’t want to tell Abram, of course, but if Abram wanted to know, Andrew would tell him. He hated Abram for holding back from asking in the first place, only because he did it for Andrew’s sake. Andrew didn’t need pity. Not from Abram, not from anyone. And he hated that Abram could see through him so easily, that he noticed Andrew’s tenseness. It was all so infuriating, mostly because Andrew couldn’t stop himself from feeling, but he forced himself to shove those thoughts aside and focus on Abram beside him, all shaky hands and fragile questions. 

“If… if you want to tell me,” Abram murmured. 

Andrew thought of Mrs. Bolt again and said, “That’s not a yes or a no, Abram.”

“Yes, then.”

Andrew clenched his jaw, unclenched it, then said, “It’s a slur for gay people.” He slightly narrowed his eyes and turned to look at Abram. “You know what gay means at least, right?”

Abram scoffed awkwardly, tugging on the hem of his shirt. “Yes, Andrew. I’m not that sheltered.”

“Well, I couldn’t be sure. You’ve seen, like, two movies your whole life and didn’t know what the F-slur meant.”

“So, what, they think I’m gay?” Abram asked, ignoring Andrew’s dig on how incredibly uncultured he was. “Why would they think that? I’ve never—I haven’t kissed anyone, so how would they know if I was?”

Andrew rolled his eyes at Abram’s stupidity. Did he really have to spell it out for him? “They think we’re both gay, stupid. They think we’re dating,” he said, keeping his voice as flat and bored as he could manage. It was difficult, though, because his heart was beating way too fast and his stomach was doing somersaults, waiting for Abram’s reaction. Abram furrowed his eyebrows, but he didn’t look angry—more analytical, Andrew thought. He watched Abram roll the words around in his brain for a moment, then, when he couldn’t stand it anymore, asked, “Does that bother you?”

And Abram shrugged. “Not really. I don’t care what people think about it; I just wanna hang out with you.”

Andrew let out a heavy breath, letting the tension slip from his shoulders. 

“Does it bother you?” Abram then asked. 

It took a solid thirty seconds for Andrew to come up with an answer, and another thirty seconds for him to work up the courage to say it out loud. And when he did, he explained it all in a monotone, detached sort of voice, like he was a scientist explaining his findings. “Sort of,” he said. “Not that they think we’re dating, I mean. I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about me or us. But the F-slur, I guess, does bother me. It doesn’t hurt me; it makes me angry, because I know that it is meant to hurt me and you… and other people like me, I guess, but I don’t really care about other people. It’s mostly that I don’t like that word, and I definitely do not like him—or anyone—using it to try and hurt or bother you.”

God, what a disgusting sap Andrew was becoming.

Andrew couldn’t bear to look up at Abram and see his reaction, either to the confession that the name-calling only bothered Andrew because he knew they were trying to hurt Abram, or the confession that Andrew very slyly slipped in there that he was gay. 

It took about ten seconds (Andrew was most definitely not counting) for Abram to come up with something to say, and when he finally did, Andrew braced for impact, but all that came out was: “Well, it bothers me that they’re trying to hurt and bother you, too, by the way. I just didn’t think you wanted me to say that.”

“You should say what you want to say, not what you think I want to hear,” Andrew told him, irritated because he didn’t need Abram tiptoeing around him because of his feelings, of all things. 

“Okay,” Abram said, in his usual Abram way. He shifted on the bed until he was sitting criss-cross in front of Andrew, just like Andrew had done to him on Halloween. “So, you are, then, right? Because you said, ‘people like me’. That’s what you meant?”

Andrew shrugged, the picture of nonchalance as if his insides weren’t screaming at him. “Yes,” he answered. His voice came out quieter than he would have preferred, but there was no going back now. “Does that… make you uncomfortable?” Andrew asked, and this time his voice came out as a real, genuine whisper, and it was mortifying, but Andrew could hardly feel his embarrassment with how much adrenaline was running through his veins. 

“No,” Abram said instantly. 

Andrew could finally breathe right. 

“What about you, then?” he asked when he got his voice working again. 

Shrugging, Abram answered with, “I don’t know yet.”

And that, Andrew thought, was perfectly okay. 

He didn’t have to know, right then in that moment, whether Abram would someday like Andrew the same way Andrew liked him. He had the knowledge, at the very least, that Abram wasn’t disgusted by Andrew. That he wasn’t uncomfortable with Andrew. That Abram wasn’t going to push Andrew away because of who he was. Abram didn’t know yet who he himself was, and even if, in time, Abram realized that he liked girls and girls only, that would be okay, because he would still be there. Andrew would still have the privilege of standing there beside him and sitting with him in every class.

It was strange, really, how much lighter Andrew felt. 

Even after he’d come to accept his attraction—to accept that his sexuality was his own, regardless of how and by whom it was exploited—he still had this terrified feeling tugging at his heartstrings. What if I lose him? What if he hates me? 

With Abram sitting across from him, quiet and content as ever, like nothing at all had changed, Andrew found that the fear was gone.

Chapter Text

It was Thanksgiving break, and Andrew and Abram had the whole week off. That should have meant separation, which would have meant aching, but Abram was getting riskier and riskier when it came to breaking his mother’s rules, so he had been spending Thanksgiving break at Andrew's house while his mother was at work. 

The day after Andrew and Abram skipped the second half of their school day because idiotic, dipshit, brainless, asshole Trevor dumped a carton of milk all over Abram, Abram came to school with another red mark on his face. It wasn’t quite a bruise, and if anyone asked about it (not that anyone really did), Abram’s plan was to tell them that he had fallen asleep studying and woke up with a red mark on his face. 

Andrew knew before Abram told him that Abram’s mother had given the mark to him. It made Andrew want to show up at their house, now that he knew where it was, and threaten Abram’s mother with a knife to her throat. 

He didn’t, of course, because he and Abram had an understanding. Andrew didn’t do anything about Abram’s mother, and Abram didn’t do anything about Drake. It was an awful exchange, really, allowing the other to be hurt and not being allowed to stop it, but Andrew wasn’t going to take it back now. He couldn’t.

Drake would be back on Wednesday night for Thanksgiving on Thursday. If Andrew did something about Abram’s mom, Abram would have every right to do something about Drake while he was in town. Andrew didn’t want Abram anywhere near Drake—not for the sake of Drake’s life, but for the sake of Cass’s heart, and more than that, for the sake of Abram’s safety.

Andrew would do anything—fucking anything—to stop Abram from ever being touched in the ways he was. 

It was Tuesday. Drake wouldn’t be back in town until the next night. 

Abram had spent all of Monday (or at least until 5 PM, when he decided he had to go back home because his mother would return at 6) at Andrew’s house. Cass had taken them to Family Video and let them pick out movies to watch, because Andrew had told her about how painfully uncultured Abram was. Andrew picked out an '80s slasher film, and Abram picked out The Fox and the Hound. Andrew made fun of Abram for picking out a kids’ movie like that, but they both ended up much more engrossed in that film than they were in the slasher. 

The very worst of it all was that, while Andrew and Abram were sitting on the couch together, shoulders pressed together as they stared at the screen, Cass had taken a sly photo of them without them knowing. 

She showed it to Andrew after Abram went home that night, and when he expressed his disdain for the picture, Cass said that she was just glad Andrew was making friends. Andrew nearly threw up on her feet at that, but rather than destroying her shoes with the contents of his stomach, he snatched the photo from her hands and ran upstairs, shouting that it was going in the garbage. 

It did not go in the garbage. 

It got tucked away in the pages of the book on Andrew’s bedside table, now being used as a bookmark. 

Tuesday morning, at 9 AM, Cass left to go volunteer at a soup kitchen, spending her time off work doing more work, and Richard went to work because his break didn’t begin until Wednesday, leaving Andrew home alone but with permission to have Abram over. At 11 AM, Andrew, bundled up in a jacket over a t-shirt over a long-sleeve, ventured out into the cold. Winter wasn’t usually so bad in Oakland, but the wind made it feel a lot colder than it really was. It bit at his cheeks as he meandered down the sidewalk toward Abram’s house. 

Abram’s house was an eight-minute walk from Andrew’s, but it felt a lot longer in the cold. By the time Andrew made it to Abram’s, his fingers were all numb, but that was okay because Abram slipped out of his front door the second Andrew set foot on the porch, wearing the blue jacket that used to be Andrew’s. 

Abram stared at Andrew for a moment and then said, “You look cold.”

“You think?” Andrew deadpanned. 

“Come on.” 

A second later, and Abram was darting off the porch, down the sidewalk, and around the corner. Andrew chased—well, speed-walked; he wasn’t doing any running for this idiot—after him. After a mean glare from Andrew, Abram finally slowed his pace and walked by Andrew’s side. He led them to a nearby coffee shop, rambling the whole way about why he thought Thanksgiving was a stupid holiday and how he didn’t understand why he couldn’t come over the rest of break. 

The excuse Andrew had given Abram was that Cass wanted the holidays to be family only. In reality, Cass told Andrew that he was welcome to invite Abram over for Thanksgiving if his own family didn’t have any plans. Andrew knew that Abram’s family definitely didn’t have any Thanksgiving plans, but he told Cass that Abram was going to visit his grandparents for Thanksgiving. 

In reality, Andrew simply didn’t want Drake to ever be in the same room as Abram, or even in the same house, in the same neighborhood. He didn’t want Drake to ever see Abram, to look at him or to lock eyes with him. 

But Andrew couldn’t tell Cass that for obvious reasons, and he couldn’t tell Abram that because Abram would just insist that he could handle himself, and that he wanted to be there so that he could keep Drake away from Andrew. Andrew knew that it wouldn’t work like that. Somehow, deep in his chest, he could feel or sense that Drake wouldn’t back down just because there was another witness. He would just turn one victim into two. Andrew couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t. So to Cass, Abram was visiting his grandparents for the holidays, and to Abram, Drake wasn’t coming home for Thanksgiving, and Cass didn’t want anyone over. 

Andrew didn’t like lying, especially not to the two people who were kindest to him in this world, but he couldn’t let Abram get hurt. 

Andrew tried not to think about any of that as Abram pushed open the door to the coffee shop, a bell chiming above their heads. Warmth enveloped both of them, enough that Andrew’s skin, which was previously numb, began to burn a little in that nice way hot showers made him feel. 

Abram went up to the counter and ordered them both hot chocolates with the little pocket money he had managed to scrounge up from Andrew didn’t know where. Andrew picked a little table for them to sit at in the back corner of the coffee shop, where they could both see the entrance. Abram came to the table with two hot cups in his hands and put them down with a small smile on his face. 

He was softer outside of school, Andrew thought. It wasn’t that Abram didn’t smile in school—he did, sometimes—but he didn’t smile like that in school. The way Abram was smiling in that coffee shop was the same way he smiled at the library and at Andrew’s house. It was smaller, softer, and made more of calm content than full-on glee. Andrew liked it very much, except he also hated it a million times more. 

“It’s stupid. Cass seems really, really nice. Why don’t you just ask her again?” Abram was saying as Andrew sipped on his hot chocolate. 

“You’re an annoying nag,” Andrew told him. “And pathetically clingy.”

“I’m not clingy!” Abram insisted. Andrew tried not to laugh at the way Abram’s face heated, giving his skin a faint undertone of soft pink. “I just want to hang out with you. I’m not clingy.”

Andrew rolled his eyes and pressed his cheek into his hand, leaning his elbow on the table as he sipped his drink. “Drink your hot chocolate. It’ll shut you up.”

Huffing, Abram picked up his cup and sipped at it slowly, like he was unsure about it before even trying. After a single sip, Abram’s nose scrunched up, and he shook his head. “I don’t really like sweets,” he said. He slid his cup across the table so that it sat right next to Andrew’s. “You can have it.”

“You’re weird,” Andrew told him, but accepted the extra hot chocolate without complaint. 

“Andrew,” Abram said, his voice lower than usual. Andrew looked up from his hot chocolate to see Abram staring at him rather intensely. He looked serious. It was funny, sort of, but also a little concerning. “Is Cass saying no or are you saying no?” the dark-haired boy asked. 

Andrew knew why Abram was asking. He would respect Andrew’s no. He would say, Okay, and be done with it because he was Abram. If it were truly Cass’s no, though, Abram would probably encourage more nagging. Andrew could tell that Abram didn’t like being home alone. He felt bad that he was forcing Abram to spend half their break by himself in that house with, really, nothing at all to do. Abram’s house was almost completely empty. It must have been torture sitting around there all day. But it was a safer bet than risking him a spot in Drake’s presence. 

“Both,” Andrew answered. 

And Abram nodded, of course, and said, “Okay.”

“I hate you,” Andrew told him.

“Okay.”

Andrew drank both of their hot chocolates as they chattered about a variety of different things—class assignments, idiots at school, the movies they watched the day before, how Abram would occupy himself without Andrew there to hang out with—and once both cups were empty, they ventured back out into the harsh November chill and made their way back to Andrew’s house. 

-

Andrew flipped the deadbolt lock on the front door behind him before slipping off his jacket alongside Abram, who was still talking about The Fox and the Hound, and how he had had some dream about it the night before that almost made him cry, it was so sad. Andrew was only half listening, really, but he got the gist of the dream. Mostly, he just made fun of Abram for liking the movie so much, even though Andrew himself had sat and secretly enjoyed the whole thing just the same. 

As Andrew was hanging up his coat, Abram’s rambling suddenly stopped as he went dead silent. Andrew turned back toward Abram, brows furrowed. Abram was staring at him, wide-eyed. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Andrew murmured. 

A bad feeling was swelling up inside of him. He didn’t know if it was simply the effect of having Abram look at him with such panic in his eyes, or if it was some kind of warning his body was giving him. He felt the urge to run, to hide, or to march into the kitchen and grab a knife. He didn’t, though, because nothing was wrong. It was only Abram and Andrew there, and they were perfectly okay. Abram was probably just worried about his mom again or something. 

“Abram,” Andrew said. 

“I heard something,” Abram whispered, eyes still all big and wide. He inched closer to Andrew and reached up to get his jacket. He pulled it back on as he went for the door. “It—maybe it’s them. We have to go. Now. Come on.”

Them, Andrew didn’t fully understand. He knew that Abram was on the run from his father, but that would be a him, wouldn’t it? Did Abram’s father have more people on his side than Andrew knew? How big a danger was the guy?

Andrew stepped in front of the door, blocking the lock. “There’s nothing. You are being paranoid. You’re safe,” he said. 

Abram took a deep breath, in and out, looking at Andrew like he was his lifeline. “I think we should run, Andrew. Pl—” Abram cut himself off and turned away, looking toward the entrance to the kitchen. “I don’t feel good,” he whispered. 

The tone of his voice, or maybe the shakiness of his hands, was really starting to put Andrew on edge. He knew, logically, that Abram was probably just being paranoid, but the other part of him thought he needed to believe Abram. That even if Abram was just being paranoid, he needed to listen to him, anyway, so that Abram knew he could trust him. At the same time, however, Andrew didn’t want to go back out into the cold; he wanted to sit on the couch and watch another movie with Abram. A little anxiety wasn’t enough for Andrew to want to completely ruin their last day of break together. 

“Let’s look, and you’ll see that no one is here but us. Come on.” Andrew slid past Abram and made his way to the kitchen.

“Andrew. Andrew, stop it!” Abram hissed, right on Andrew’s heels. 

Andrew rounded the corner, and then he froze. 

Abram came up beside him, his hand reaching up to grip Andrew’s sleeve. He tugged, but Andrew couldn’t move. “Andrew, come on,” Abram whispered in Andrew’s ear, panic evident in his voice. 

The man in the kitchen spun around to face them, grinning from ear to ear. 

“AJ!” he greeted, as if he weren’t a monster, as if he hadn’t been the subject of every nightmare Andrew had had since moving into the Spear household, as if he weren’t the cause for each mark on Andrew’s arm. Andrew couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He could feel Abram’s hand slide down from his sleeve to his hand, and then he could feel Abram’s fingers intertwine with his, and nothing else. Everywhere else, every inch of Andrew’s body, went numb with panic. Drake took a step closer, still grinning, and Abram’s grip on Andrew’s hand tightened. “And you’re Alex,” the man said. Andrew squeezed Abram’s hand back. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I saw the picture of you two that you had hidden away in your room, AJ. Real sweet. I have to say, though, Alex, you look much better in person.”

Andrew’s autonomy came back to him in an instant, and he tugged Abram slightly behind him, though it did little to hide him. Besides, the damage had already been done. Drake had seen Abram, had looked at him, had thought about him. It was already far too much of an intrusion. 

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Andrew said, his voice coming out weaker than he wished.

“Till tomorrow, I know,” Drake said, still smiling that soulless smile of his. “But Mom and I thought it’d be fun to surprise you. Besides, it gives me a chance to meet your little boyfriend before he’s off to his grandparents’, right?”

Abram pulled Andrew’s hand, but it did little to actually get Andrew’s feet moving. “Come on, Andrew. Walk me home,” Abram said—fuck, pleaded, really. 

“Aww,” Drake said with mock disappointment. “Mom said you’d be here till five. Don’t leave so soon.”

“Uh, my mom got off work early. She wants me home,” Abram lied. He pulled Andrew harder, this time getting him to stumble a single step backward. “Andrew, walk me home,” he pushed. 

Drake took another step forward, and this time, it was Andrew moving, pushing Abram back. “It’s so cold out,” Drake reminded them, as if they could forget. “I’ll give you a ride, Alex, if you just do me a quick favor. Twenty minutes.”

“Fuck off,” Andrew spat. His heart was pounding against his ribs, his whole chest tight. He felt like the blood running through his veins was getting clogged, slowing his thoughts, putting pressure on his brain. He needed to get out—he needed to get Abram out. Abram was never, never, supposed to meet Drake. But there Drake was, standing across from Abram with that same hungry look on his face. 

“We’re fine walking,” Abram said, voice tense but level. “I wanna go now, Andrew. Walk me home.”

Slowly, Drake’s hungry grin dropped into a scowl. “Oh, AJ. You told him, didn’t you? That was supposed to be our little secret.” Bile rose up in Andrew’s throat, but he couldn’t be sick now. He couldn’t let himself be weak. He needed to protect Abram. “That’s okay. I was hoping he’d join, anyway. Now he just has a preview.”

Drake lurched forward the same moment Andrew did, but while Drake reached out to wrap a firm hand around Andrew’s bicep, Andrew zipped past him, throwing himself toward the opposite counter, where the knife block sat. Andrew pulled the biggest knife out of the block and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. He had never killed anyone before, no matter how much he may have threatened to. The thought of sticking this knife into Drake’s flesh both nauseated and relieved him. He wanted him dead, truly, but he knew nothing would be the same when it was over.

Cass would never look at Andrew again. Andrew would go to juvie. Maybe Abram would, too. Maybe they would be separated. Maybe this was the last day they would spend together. Andrew hated that thought. He hated it more than he had ever hated Abram. But if he needed to kill Drake to keep him from hurting Abram, then that was what he would do. 

When Andrew turned around, knife in hand, he saw Abram with Drake’s arm wrapped around his chest, pinning his back to Drake’s chest. “Come on, AJ. Don’t ruin our fun.”

Abram was squirming in Drake’s hold, whimpering like a trapped animal. Andrew wished he could warn him that struggling always made it worse.

“If you hurt him, I will kill you,” Andrew said, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

Drake laughed. He fucking laughed. “You'll kill me, huh?” he mocked. “No need. I'll be gentle. Promise.”

“Get your hands off of him.”

“You know how this works, AJ. Fighting will only make it worse.”

Abram suddenly twisted himself around in Drake’s arms and kneed the man hard in the crotch. Drake's hold wavered as he reeled back in pain, and Abram took that opportunity to shove himself away from the man. He rushed toward Andrew—not the door—and Andrew wanted to scream. Abram only made it three steps before Drake caught hold of his leg and yanked him down to the ground. Abram’s cheek hit the ground hard enough that Andrew worried it might've fractured, and knew there would at least be a nasty bruise left behind. Abram let out a pained cry as Drake crawled over him, pinning him down to the ground.

“Get the fuck off me!” Abram screamed, voice breaking. 

Andrew had thought he'd heard Abram’s panicked voice back at school, when Trevor had dumped milk all over him, but no, this—this was something else entirely.

“This is your fault, AJ. Maybe if you didn't tell him, I could've let him go,” Drake growled furiously, elbows digging into Abram’s back. Andrew stepped closer, his grip on the knife tightening. He was really, truly about to kill Drake. He was about to kill. “But now,” Drake went on, “he has to learn. To learn that this is me being nice. And that if he tells anyone, it'll only get worse. Right, AJ?”

“Drake, get off of him right now, or I’ll kill you,” Andrew warned. He stepped forward again and again until his boots were directly next to the two on the ground. All he had to do was reach down and swipe the knife across Drake’s neck. “I’ll kill you!”

Drake laughed.

He reached for his belt, and that was it. 

Andrew’s hands moved on instinct. In a second, he had one hand on Drake’s face, shoving his head back and exposing his neck, and the other hand using the knife to slice a line deep into Drake’s flesh, hitting what Andrew hoped was the carotid artery. Blood spewed out violently, and Drake threw himself as far from Andrew as he could get in one movement, hands flying up to his throat as if he could stop the bleeding. He couldn't. Blood sprayed out of him.

But that didn't matter. Not at all. What mattered was Abram, breathing heavily—maybe even crying—as he scrambled toward Andrew, who dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor. Abram stopped beside him. “Andrew,” he breathed out, almost inaudible. But Andrew heard him, and Andrew knew what he was asking for. 

Andrew dropped the knife at his side and instantly grabbed Abram, pulling Abram towards him and wrapping the other boy in his arms. They watched, breathing heavy and curled around each other against the kitchen cabinets, and Drake bled out on the floor on the opposite side of the room. Within thirty seconds, Drake was unconscious, and within two minutes, Andrew was certain that the man was dead.

Nothing.

Then, “Andrew, the—the blood,” Abram whispered.

It could have been minutes, could have been hours, could have been years that Andrew spent there with Abram in his arms, staring at his rapist’s dead body. Andrew’s brain only snapped back into his body when Abram whispered his name. He adjusted himself, pulling away just slightly so he could look at Abram. 

Crimson red blood covered the floor, the wall across from Drake’s body, and Abram. 

Andrew jolted into action, shooting up off the ground and pulling Abram with him by the hand, not allowing him to get more than a foot away. He led them past Drake’s body like it was nothing, without even sparing another glance, and guided Abram to the upstairs bathroom.

“Shower. I will bring you clothes,” Andrew said, voice entirely blank and emotionless.

“Okay,” Abram replied, because despite everything, he was still Abram. 

Andrew left him there in the bathroom to shower with a sense of deja vu. Only a week ago, Andrew had taken Abram back home to shower after he was drenched with milk in the lunchroom. God, he was furious about that, then, but compared to this? It seemed juvenile. Now, rather than washing milk out of his hair, Abram was washing away blood, and rather than gathering up milk-soaked clothes, Andrew was gathering blood-stained clothes. It was cruel and whiplash-inducing how quickly things could take a turn for the worse. 

Andrew felt almost like he was outside of his own body as he walked himself through the little tasks he had to get done while Abram cleaned up.

While the water ran, Andrew first grabbed clothes from his drawers for Abram to wear, then took a plastic bag from a cleaning closet outside the bathroom before heading back into the bathroom. He could hear the water running and he wondered how red it must have been on the other side of the floral shower curtain. He placed the clothes on the back of the toilet, let Abram know that that was where he was putting them, hooked a towel on the bar directly outside the shower, and gathered the bloody clothes into the plastic bag before leaving again.

While Abram got dressed, Andrew went down to the kitchen again and plucked the knife off the ground, tucking it into the bag with the clothes. 

He waited for Abram in the hallway outside the bathroom. It took two minutes for him to emerge, eyes almost as blank as Andrew’s.

“Is that the clothes?” he asked, gesturing to the bag hanging from Andrew’s fingers.

“Yes. And the knife.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“We’ll dump it somewhere far away from here,” Andrew said. “You were right. We should run.” 

It was his fault. They should have run from the beginning. Andrew should have trusted Abram’s instincts. Maybe if he had, Drake wouldn't have seen Abram at all, let alone laid a hand on him. Pinned him to the ground and—

“What about Cass?” Abram asked. Andrew didn't understand what he meant. “I can tell my mom about this. She knows people who can make it all go away. No one will know it was you, and you can stay with Cass and Richard.”

The offer seemed nice at first, but Andrew knew better. Cass and Richard were kind, and they did treat Andrew like he was their own son, but they were also either oblivious or ignorant. Sometimes, Andrew thought that they had to have known what was going on in their own house. Maybe they knew, but they didn't want to believe it. Besides, would they even want to keep Andrew? Maybe their grief would rip them apart, and they wouldn't want to have a kid in the house anymore. What were the chances Andrew would just go right back into the system, straight to another abuser?

More than that, what would happen to Abram if he told his mom about this? She would hurt him; he was sure of that. If she would hit him for staying late at the library, she would surely beat him for involving himself in the awful, disgusting mess that was Andrew’s life. 

Would Andrew ever see Abram again?

“I want to go with you. I don't want to stay here—not without you,” Andrew said.

“Andrew, are you sure?” Abram asked, eyes wide.

“Yes. Yes.”

“Okay,” Abram said.