Andreil - Blog Posts
Three years later it becomes clear: squid-boys never stood much of a chance breathing on land.
''Is he awake? The tranquilizer is loosening. Oh, he moved. Did you see? Left fingers.''
Your shoulder – right, you hit a rock. A set-up of metal walls glistens in the corner of your vision. You can't move. Some wetness in your throat makes you despair, makes you cough, involuntary and chokey and wet. Your muscles just don't move the way you want them to.
''Hey. Are you awake? Back away, I think he's scared.''
''Binary gender is a construct,'' a voice says, light, somewhat serious, somewhat self-aware.
''Oh, I'm sorry. Are they awake.''
Fuck you, you think. This happened just fifteen minutes after waking up. If this were to happen later, maybe you would be less out of it and more situation-wise, more windbreaking skin. More teethful. Wetness should be at your side and not pool where it shouldn't. Wetness should drown things when you willed it to.
They carry your limp body into the metal box, as you knew that you would, carried to the truck door and packed away neatly. Your body feels particularly insensitive, even when gloved hands touch it, maybe in the enlightenment of death, or something death-like.
In the box, the only way to look is upwards at the glass cover plate. It doesn't move when you push against it, and none of the other walls do. When the light in the space of the truck is cut off, you stop pushing at the upper plate, because it makes you feel flattened, or something that can be flattened with force, in the way of soft-tissues invertebrates. It makes the air in your chest twist into impossible illusion shapes, looped into themselves.
And then the truck screeches to a stop. When it does, abrupt in the way of accidents, you think of the gods you've been learning to despise in the practise of eighteen years. You would think your spite is more polished by now, better refined, with how raw and disgusting it has felt. But now your ears are ringing with divine working in one's life shall become apparent as an ineffable experience; divine working—
Your ears are ringing with Andrew and eyes burning with the image of the hell-made saviour of him. You hear shouting. The truck sways with the force of something, and you go with it, like unrooted watergrass. If this is Andrew, he must be sating the hunger of his hyper-grin. A new image blazes into you: out of water, in the air of land, bloodied hands remain bloodied. You are used to water washing blood from your skin, the skin remaining stainless, shedding impurity and grime and violence right off. If this is Andrew, he must look like a terror.
But there is a godly part in this. If this is Andrew, he has brought what you have always wanted: difference without novelty and novelty's stomach-digesting discomfort. The truck sways again and you are still holding your breath.
*
It has been over a week since Andrew removed his arm from around your shoulders, and you both fell in the water of a flooded basement, comrade-like, collapsed and breathing fast in the aftermath of things. He dragged himself to the staircase and spread over the length of a step, legs up on the railing, the weight of his cement-bag body sagging. The thump of his head falling back against the wall made you want to urge forward. But you didn't. His clothes were soaked past his waist, black jeans abyss-black. His head lolled to look at you and you felt all too transparent, like he could see right through your skin and muscle, liver and intestines and all your soft organs. You were still spiked-up, body still ready to rush. Too tender when he was looking like this.
It has been over a week of you dragging your body through the ecosystem of the basement. The water is shallow enough to make the basement a crawl-space. You crawl around the pillars, wondering if you can do it in an utterly random pattern. Don't think too hard. You think you're going crazy. From aloneness. All the other beings in the flooded basement are small and timid. Don't think too hard.
Andrew comes every day, every second day, every few days. Irregularly. He brings stacks of food.
''It's not this dark outside,'' you tell him the next time his boots settle with your eye level, ''The windows are tinted. It's darker in here.''
He brings you a flashlight. You don't use it. To what, target yourself? A predator with nothing to prey on. A predator with nowhere to go.
He sticks his feet in the water and reads with your flashlight. He brings you games of multiplication and these little metal wire shapes to disentangle. You get better than him at chess quickly. It surprises him. It doesn't surprise you. You have been thinking about mathematical perfection and formal proofs your whole life. You have spent your whole life over-chewing your people's stories; it makes you a good social learner; a learner from mistakes, yours, others'.
''I am going to promote my pawn,'' you observe. He brings his hands up, all fingers meeting in a point aligned with the centre of his chest and then he pulls his hands apart and spreads his fingers into something open and empty-handed.
''I don't care,'' he says, then huffs and laughs meanly until he swallows it down, and then bolts upstairs. You can hear him rage there, the thumping of what you imagine is hands hitting the frame of a doorway as he enters a room, pushing empty drawers shut, throwing himself on a bed. You don't understand his theatrics, or his rage.
Most of the time he is gone, though. It would be okay, that nothing ever happens, if nothing happened inside of you, too. You just feel disused, as a person. Your skin is pale without bruises and your head is empty. Andrew has brought you a waterproof phone, a metal little thing. He's been gone for days, and you've been existing amongst clutter, a being in the ecosystem, an object in stasis. This water tastes different. It leaves a dirty taste in your mouth that you try to get rid of by licking your lips. It doesn't work, but you keep catching yourself doing it anyway.
You call him.
''I feel sick,'' you say.
He brings you aspirins, more food, a radio.
He hasn't been saying much. This isn't what satisfaction looks like, you think as he expressionlessly tears a second packet of salt into his food box. His quiet leaves you feeling alone in un-novel ways, even though most of your aloneness is new. To be fair, you have only found dissatisfaction to be unkind; not intrinsically, not out of necessity, but out of something more spiteful – maybe stubbornness. Anyway. Anyway, maybe you shouldn't think of quiet as unkind. What else can you expect. Being low-maintenance feels kind of right.
*
Somebody is in the house.
When the steps come, they come slow, and with foreign wilfulness. You still. You watch your breath skate over the surface. You know that you wear suspicion the way Andrew wears the relaxed slope of his shoulders, but you're right, you're right.
You are right. After minutes of soft thudding, a corrosion-of-a-boy appears at the top of the basement staircase and deflates in front of your eyes. He peeks downwards quickly, then half-turns, his eyes again jumping around in the way of sweeping: thorough and clearing. The semi-dry sepia shrubs outside the window, the unopening front door of abandon, the end of the hallway you only saw once. He stops. He deflates. He exhales, exposing the wear of him, then covers his eyes with his wrist. He stops like that.
You are watchful. You make yourself unseeable and now that he doesn't see you by how he continues walking downwards. You watch as he crouches his anaemic-looking body on the last step above the water, looking around in a glazed way, with clumsy attention. His eyes are shadowed by the downwards tilt of his head, so you set your gaze to the tight pull of his shoelaces and the triple knots of them. Slow enough to be soundless, you lift some more of your body out of the water.
''Psh,'' you say, and the boy stills. Stops breathing, until he leans his head forward, a little, squinting, and you think about a fish hook.
''Merman?'' he asks, stupid.
He looks a thought away from bolting, a distraction away. Haunted? you wonder. Fast as someone would be if they had something sharp snipping right by their neck. For a moment, you worry that Andrew has installed cameras, but he wouldn't.
''Are you with Andrew?'' you ask, and have him scrambling up – and it rolls a terrible terrible sense over you. A sense of Andrew's hyper-grin. A sense of his red-dripping hands. An unpunctuated question of things Andrew could do.
You don't want him to go. ''Wait, wait. Do you have an aspirin?''
He stops in something surprise-like. Continues looking undecided. He looks like a person who only trusts himself. Who wonders whether he himself is trustworthy.
''Black hair,'' you address him. It seems to stagger him further.
''I don't,'' he says, then clears his throat. ''I have needles. Some alcohol?''
''Alcohol is a very ineffective drug.'' Drugs know you, you know drugs. You say this to skirt the edge of things, because some basicity is growing inside of you. Psychotropics have always meant skirting things, for you. People have always only responded to the wrong ugly aspects of you using them, and they have responded in an ugly way, when they did.
''Is he the one keeping you here?'' the boy asks lowly, with horror. Andrew wouldn't. The boy probably doesn't know Andrew specifically. He is probably just wary. Trustless. He absently wipes a hand under his nose and looks at his hand as it comes away clean.
''No, no. He helps,'' you say, throat wound up in a familiar way.
The boy's gaze doesn't linger on the un-land-suited parts of you. What must you look like? Hiding in a vacated house, now un-vacated, now a whole new ecosystem. You dragging your body around it purposelessly in the manner of dethroned kings. In religious stories, evil is described along the image of decadent, scorching beauty, or ugliness, never ordinary. What are you? Stale, now; touch this – this; ah, pfh, in the hold of gloved hands. Are you ordinary. Can you be unordinary in a good way. Please. Suddenly, you feel the crash of some alien plea, fully, mouthfully in a way extraneous things can't be.
The boy stands up, scanning the basement around you, the misplaced wooden boards and pillars and the handles of some exercise equipment above the water level. The place you scavenge. The place where electronic devices make your eyes hurt. The boy shakes his head.
''Does Andrew—'' he starts, then reconsiders, ''did Andrew—'' stares at you wordlessly, before he glances over his shoulder and grips the strap of his bag with both hands.
''Are you in a hurry?'' you ask.
His eyes are a little wild when he turns back to you, and his nodding is shaky. ''He will be back, right. Andrew.''
The air isn't right. You twist your arms under the hunch of your shoulders. ''Are you really?'' you ask after a moment.
''I don't know how to tell the truth differently,'' he evades the question; you notice things like that. You stare. You stare. He sharpens under your gaze. His grip on the strap tightens. His eyes narrow when yours do, and his face is tightening up with something wild and exposed and almost breathless.
''Look, I'm just asking, okay?'' you roll the words out carefully. ''You don't have to, I won't— It's just me here, okay? But are you— are you—do you know Wes—''
''No. No. I'm. I'm Neil and I don't know anyone here,'' he says, then runs back up the stairs, and you think: fuck.
*
''What have you done,'' you accuse Andrew right as the door at the top of the staircase gapes wider, more late-afternoon orange light seeping in. You don’t know if you should tell him about Neil. Andrew halts and untenses with a controlled exhale before he even fully tenses. He turns his head before he turns his body, the slit-eyed mechanism of it.
You watch him pull down his large brown-knitted sweater from where it has creased at his waist. This is the softest you have seen him. In his mechanical way. He walks down.
''What do you mean,'' he asks blankly. You lift your eyebrows. You don't want to prompt his answer. You want to squeeze out his hiding space until he is forced to expose himself. Something tells you he has not been sufficiently challenged, lately, that he has been glaring his way through people's curiosity until they took their questions back.
''I will stay here now. I needed the foster address to get a job. I don't need it anymore.''
''You work?'' you ask, dumbfounded.
''Warehouse stock control. I'm getting machinery training. Forklift truck. Vroom vroom'' his tone mocks himself. He doesn't answer your question. He lifts his mug above his open mouth and nothing pours out, which he must have known before he lifted it and did it anyway.
''So what did you do,'' you ask. You imagine he squints his eyes, but he doesn't do anything, really, you just see the questioning of it.
''I left and now I'm moving here. What do you think I did? Oh thee who inquires with an accusatory tone.'' He sits down, then stands up enough to pull a pen from the pocket of his black jeans. ''What will you charge me with, officer?''
''Okay,'' you say carefully, raising your hands. ''Were they bad? Wherever you were staying.''
''Sure.'' He gives a not impressed look at your raised hands, then pulls a sudoku from this jacket pocket, and you think: how can this be the thing that bores you the least. He has this unasking about him: he doesn't wonder about your life, or about its past, or about its pastness. How you sometimes wanted to be one of the little beings that scuttle inelegantly, instead of a self, and how you now drag your body around in patterns. You still don't know to where he disappeared for two years, and he doesn't ask about the gelatinous ways in which life unfolded in that time. He doesn't bite into pasts. It's very uninviting.
''So why were they bad?'' you ask, then watch him build things inside of himself. Stories, lies, napkin-houses that fold the dirty sides inwards.
''They don't read social cues,'' he says, finally. You wonder how carefully crafted this answer is. But who are you to judge? You haven't told him about Neil.
''And I read things fine, for you?'' you ask.
Andrew's eyes trace the line of your shoulders. You turn a little, into something more invisible, and Andrew nods a little.
''You wear your body like it's soft,'' he says.
You feel a strike of something pulpy. You look down at your body, water surface wavering around it. The stricken feeling is illusionary; it reminds you: Andrew's curiosity is just selective. Just one of the on-off things he switches, like his energy and benevolence. It's selective in the way of not knowing things that are easy to know, like knowing to list your body organs, and on the other hand saying, you wear your body like it's soft.
''This doesn't work,'' you say. Twitching your head sideways to indicate the space of the basement.
''I know,'' he says after a moment, taut. I'm sorry, he doesn't say.
''I can't even move.''
''I know,'' he says. I'm sorry, he doesn't say.
*
Andrew should be sleeping upstairs when you hear a crash, some crashing, and then quiet. An accident, you imagine immediately, your mind attuned to likely narratives, bad things, extrasensory things.
''Andrew?'' you ask tentatively. It's something bad. It's always something bad. But then the quiet is broken with more crashing, scrambling, the noise of something desperate. The sound has moved down the hallway, where you can hear more clearly. Andrew is saying something through his teeth, softly, melodically, always teethfully. You hear a gasp.
''Neil?'' you say.
''Neil?'' Andrew pronounces carefully. He pushes the weight of something unwilling to the basement door. A hand in Neil's hair is pushing his hand backwards, harshly, and a knife glistens by his throat artery. Andrew isn’t grinning, but you can’t unsee him grinning.
''Why did you come back,'' you say to Neil, who is forced to look at the ceiling, one hand around each of Andrew's arms.
''Come back,'' Andrew repeats blankly, looking between you and Neil.
Neil uses both hands to push at the arm with the knife and suddenly knife is held by them both, away from their bodies and struggling for a swing, both breathing hard with faces sharp. You imagine red-dripping hands. You don't want the knife to swing. You don't want it fiercely.
You open your vocal cords in the right way and a shrill blooms from the resonating spaces in your cheekbones, outwards, hitting Andrew and Neil with the force of soundwalls breaking. It's piercing to your ears, too, and you know it doesn't even compare. You're the predator, then, and they are prey-like. Neil falls down the stairs. Andrew falls to his knees and elbows, hands closed around his ears.
Neil is staggering, touching his ears, spitting water away from his lips, wild. You offer a hand and he stares at it, then moves further back. He bumps into a pillar and startles, before walking around it to take another step back.
Andrew cracks his neck sideways, both sides, glaring at you, then slowly takes two steps down to pick up the knife.
''Neil came back, Aaron? Is there something you aren't telling me? Try not to lie.''
''What,'' Neil asks, then covers and uncovers his ears again, panicked, looking between Andrew and you. His hearing. It probably hurts. It's probably disorientating.
Andrew snaps his fingers three times. Neil doesn't respond. Andrew keeps snapping rhythmically; the more times he does it, the higher up the clog of eeriness in your throat climbs. Neil pushes his hair out of his face, breathing hard at his reflection. He's cupping his ears, shaking his head, shaking the ringing out, until he looks up at Andrew, and Andrew stops snapping and drops his arm.
''What?'' Neil asks again, quick, twitchy. Andrew tilts his head. Neil takes another step back. ''Who are you on the market? Are you resistance? Is this how you know?'' he looks at you.
''The market. Food?'' Andrew says, just as you ask, ''Criminal?'' Neil is talking about the criminal market. He is talking about prized items like you. You know from stories; you just hear big names, as a lesson for avoidance. There is nothing familiar about the way Neil looks. But his hauntedness; it might look like something familiar.
''Liars, liars,'' he Andrew smiles, syllable by syllable. ''You're staying, then,'' he says to Neil. ''You have overshot your runaway runway, huh? We have something to talk about. I see we'll be dining finely tonight. The plentiful company of the three of us.''
Andrew carries himself like a punchline, when he talks. It's annoying.
''He's patronising to everyone. Don't think you're special,'' you tell Neil.
Neil smoothes his hair back and wipes the water off his face. ''Who are you?'' he asks tautly. ''Resistance? Nobodies don't hide Others in abandoned houses.''
''Your turn to share, squid boy,'' Andrew says, both reappearing and coming down. Neil is in Andrew's clothes, dark and monochromatic. Andrew ceremoniously offers a metal fork to Neil, and then hands out a plastic one to you. You pull it out of his hand.
''We are not. You both. You both say these statements. As if you knew. Nobodies don't do this. Nobody knows anything for sure, okay? Tentativity can be enjoyable sometimes.''
''Pescatarian, anyone?'' Andrew asks, pleasantly. ''Come, Neil. You can't stay in wet clothes. We'll talk.''
They disappear upstairs. In the way of denouements, you feel a resolution unfolding. Or hoping for one, anyway. You press the feels of your palms over your eyes. They will probably talk about you, too. And then Neil will appear in Andrew's clothes, dark and monochromatic, and it will make you think of the cosiness of monochromatism, of how homewise it is. It will make you think of when your cousin was glancing at you with a frown and your aunt told her, leave him, he's just brooding, and the cousin still went to him, calling out Aaron Aaron Aaron.
They keep sneaking glances at each other. Neil's dark hair and Andrew's face so much like your own make you think back in time, back to the few days before the metal box and dismal circumstance. I like your hair, you signed to the girl the name of whom you had been trying not to think, drawn to things that are too dark to shine. She was lingering by the mosaic in front of the growth of your rock opening that you had deliberately let become overgrown, something one pushes through with spicy feeling. Thank you, she signed, I like your face. That sounded like a really bad comeback. I do like it, it's very symmetrical.
Neil and Andrew's eyes meet, and you think: you two assholes are too self-absorbed to not do this staring contest.
*
Andrew's phone rings. He turns to bore into Neil's eyes. He moves the phone away from his ear, and says: ''Nathaniel?''
And Neil panics.
In the way of narrative complications, the three of you end up in Andrew's warehouse car.
You are in the backseat, covered with two blankets, feeling yourself frown as you readjust your grip on the four two-litre water bottles you are hugging to your chest.
''This is clearly idiotic,'' you inform them, again, because apparently neither of them senses the threat of a looming climax. The so many things that will go wrong, because nobody has any sustainable plans.
Andrew is loosely gripping the wheel with faux laziness and Neil glances around full-bodily, alert, before returning to zooming in on google maps on a new phone he just had in his bag. He destroyed Andrew’s.
''This doesn't work,'' Andrew repeats your words so wholly blankly that it is no-doubt mockery.
''Not nearly the stupidest thing I've done,'' Neil mutters. Andrew flicks his eyes at Neil. You squint as you flick your eyes between them. Andrew is tapping his fingers on the wheel. Neil is hunching low in his seat, scowling at the screen. Andrew reaches over to Neil's side to pull sunglasses from the glove compartment, and Neil leans away to make space without looking from the screen.
''So you two are friends now?'' you ask, something strange and foreign tinting your tone. ''Or have you guys started—''
''He's a benefit,'' Andrew interrupts. The sunglasses render his thoughts further invisible. He is a thing of well-fitting black placed within American-spaced property and nothingness. He evades the friend part with his answer. Like so often, he is making himself into invisibility and insinuation.
''You smell like excitement,'' you tell him and watch as his face jumps a little.
''You can smell feelings now?'' He snatches the phone from Neil's hands, maximally zooming into the location that Neil has been inspecting for minutes. Neil keeps looking in the empty space of the phone, hands hanging around phone-shaped air, before he drops them and buckles his seat belt. And you think: theatrics on the road.
You shrug. You can still sense Neil's panic.
''You smell like wet,'' Andrew retorts, looking who knows where. Having learnt from exposure, you know Andrew looks down on things he feels, and you soak in them. Leave him, he's just—
''Just start the engine,'' Neil says.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/15099911/chapters/35012867
Ah. It's a joke. The joke of the meadow. The location for the economy of life choices: a bright and blossoming meadow. You feel played already. Stale air, too hot, and your distressed feelings. The chilling lightness of butterflies.
You're not here as a joke. Nobody comes here as a joke. Calling coming here a summoning has been a fatal insult. You wonder if all your tension is in the tissue around your nerve cells, making you slow. Invisible, you hope. You've heard of someone who went to make a deal, then never returned. Someone who made one, then never woke up in the morning.
''You can use yarrow for tea,'' the fae says, making you spin, springing backward, feeling the grip of the keys in between your fisted fingers. ''Ribwort plantain, too.''
''I come accompanied by friendly spirit to make a deal,'' you say, the words having looped around your mind for weeks, now feeling your heartbeat in your fingers. ''I bring an offering and hope not to trespass across the separating—''
''It's easier to make tea,'' the fae says. He looks your age, maybe; it might be unsayable, because of the smudgy quality about him. Light hair, some dark knowing in his light eyes. Shorter than you, you feel played. A dream make-believe. One just accepts the indefinition.
''I offer five years,'' you say. Rehearsed. Determined and inwardly desperate.
''Five years,'' the fae is nodding ambiguously, agreeing or not. You can't tell. It's stupidly performative. Very flashy, the fae whispers: ''Are you lifting a curse?''
You aren't really lifting a curse. Or is that what it is? It is: avoiding eye-contact. Meaningful sighs, the wordlessness you hate. Running, we’re nothings. Abram, do you hear me. You know you can’t build anything here. Anything anywhere. Running, then midday crashes like narcan, like countering opioid overdoses. Crashes. Crashes. Lingering in dimmed half-underground spaces, thinking I can't think, writing lists of protologisms, for what, thinking I can't think, not finding what you need.
You hate it, and there's more: faulty cause and effect, infinite repetitions, chronic secrecy. Look at the shape of that finger burn, someone laughed, passing you kitchen serviettes. That's not how you meant it, right? That's nonsense. It's funny, actually. It's like a nursery rhyme, look. You didn't find it funny. You are a not-being. A nothing. You look for devices of sense and only find devices of nonsense. You can't think.
''Can you help me?'' you ask.
The fae sits down. Seemingly unbothered by the sun, seemingly unbothered by the power relations implied by the difference in the height of your eyes; by looking upwards and you looking downwards. Of course, though. Of course the implied power is foolish. A pretense. A guise for your amusement. You shield your eyes from the sun.
''What can you offer if you die tomorrow,'' the fae says, not a question enough, eyes too still to be really questioning.
''Wait. Wait. Can you—'' you didn't know the fae can tell, nobody has said, you don't want to know, you don't– the fae deals in life years, you know that, anyone like you knows that; after all the leeching on life, nobody knows how old he is. But nobody's ever said anything about prophecy. ''Since when can—''
''Just asking,'' the fae shrugs. You exhale like okay. You breathe out like alright alright alright. Stabilising yourself.
Breathe in, breathe out. ''Can you help me?''
''Are you sure that would help you?'' the fae asks. He tilts his head. Actually, he fits – with the butterflies. It's eerie. He fits with the sweet-smelling meadow into a single morph.
''Do you take the offer,'' you correct yourself. Again, you think the asphyxiating presence of omissions, of avoiding eye contact. You hate it.
''No,'' the fae says calmly, and you say, ''What?''
This isn't how the word goes. The word goes: you come, you deal, you die younger. Win some lose some. Sometimes you lose some more, things you don't foresee. As a bonus, a little treat. You've come prepared, you’ve always expected it: an early death; it’s heavy in your pockets, it’s the shape of a butcher knife. But you won't – do that, you won't lose to inaction.
''I'm not giving you more years,'' you bite. And then you sneeze, which feels greatly innapropriate. ''Allergic to pollen,'' you say, somewhat angrily, distantly, empty-handedly.
''So indoors would be more suitable next time,'' the fae is nodding. ''Here, I'll give you a phone number.''
Whose, you think, and feel like dying a little. You think about more disposable phones before you think: I’m not doing that.
''I'm not asking you again, and I'm not giving you more years. That's five years for you. Do you take it?'' You sound unnerved. Not calm. You don't want that to flatter the fae.
''No. You can pick the spot. I'll show up, probably. If I'll be interested.''
''I think you'll ditch,'' you say, maybe against some recommended judgement, maybe to be interesting. ''A cafe,'' you add.
The fae shrugs. ''Text me.''
https://archiveofourown.org/works/25281928
you can buy uhhh a sticker or something and help me thrive !
a low quality gif and just a painting for @doctorkot
@aftgexchange
@korakos
i have decided to dip my toes into the fandom
(insta is @snugbug.ink)
AFTG au where everything is the same except Neil and Andrews attempts at gifting each other CRAZY FUCK-OFF expensive things is somehow ratcheted up another notch until someone (Nicky) notices them spending their literal life savings on each other and calls them out on their mutual attempt at making each other their sugar baby.
(Neil is confused as per usual, Nicky is fuxking delighted at these disaster gays competing to make the other their baby without a single word, and the rest of the foxes are internally screaming about how dumb the whole scenario is because neither will admit something more is going on. Aaron just doesn’t want to think about his brother fucking anyone let alone the suicidally stupid sugar baby who has the mafia after him)
(Andrew is contemplating murder more than usual while simultaneously looking at bigger houses in Columbia because Neil just upgraded his car that fucker)
hello friends! here is my piece for the aftg big bang, hosted by @aftgbigbang , which i was so happy to participate in 😊 this piece is paired with an amazing fic by @stop-breathing-its-annoying which you can find here 💗
a sweet sunset andreil moment is good for the soul 🧡😌 soft andreil can be something so personal
you can find this (and more) here on my E*tsy!
please DONT repost my art, but DO follow me on instagram! 🧡
sorry im constantly forgetting that tumblr exists 😳 pls take this wintry andreil as an apology 🛐
please don’t repost my art but DO follow me on insta ! 💗
oop kinda forgot about tumblr for a second there.
Please have this Vampire Neil and Vampire Hunter Andrew for spooky season to make up for it! 😌💗
Please don’t repost, but do follow me on instagram! I post more frequently there 💓
andreil 😌 my love for them is insane I wish them all the happiness
ig: oliviaillustrations
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard Characters: Andrew Minyard, Neil Josten Additional Tags: Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, Neil Josten Needs a Hug, Andrew Minyard Takes Care of Neil Josten, suggestions of suicide Summary:
"You're amazing." Neil's words are the breath of a whisper, barely there. Andrew scrunches his nose in distaste.
"Don't say that." Andrew deadpans, but Neil is still staring at him like he's the center of the universe.
You know whats sad to think about, when Andrew was searching the stadium for Neil after the riot, if he had tried calling him and thats how he found his bag/racket/phone, it would have been the ringtone on repeat of the lyrics "runaway train never going back" when he found out neil was kidnapped. I bet that haunted him, he was high when he made that ringtone, as a joke, Neil was a little rabbit always on the run, but he gave him the phone as a way to stay and that option was dropped, left in the dirt and blaring at him that Neil isn't coming back, and then theres kevin in his ear.
"Where is he?"
"Its too late. If his fathers men found him hes dead already."
"Where is he!"
"You were always going to lose him."
I bet it was the first time he ever regretted something. Letting him go. He promised to back down, to let him loose and now he's gone. Those words probably echoed in his head, "I need you to let me go." He had agreed, but never to this, never to him being taken. But Neil wasn't his, there was no 'this', Neil has no ties to Andrew, but he still wanted to tear the world apart to find him because losing him was not an option.
Dare I say Andreil
The sentence "whats your favorite color? Mines math." Is so Neil Josten, I about died trying not to burst out laughing in the break room at work.
That is literally how it goes though, Andrew reluctantly being attracted from afar until he tell Neil and then Neil being an endless cycle of puppy eyes and seeking affection.
something about andrew developing very complex and very not-casual feelings for the mysterious, dangerous, temperamental new boy and just being like "yeah. i'd fuck you. what abt it" only for neil to respond with "omg really?? u mean it?.?? that's so cool. what's ur favorite color. mine's math. ur so pretty. i think i love you. we're boyfriends right"
meanwhile andrew maintains his stance of "please die" but he absolutely knows he got himself into this and will not be getting out
This song is both Andreil coded and Jeaneil coded. Andrews POV to Neil and Neils POV to Jean. Its all i can think of everytime i hear it
"And if somebody hurts you, I wanna fight
But my hand's been broken one too many times
So I'll use my voice, I'll be so fucking rude
Words, they always win, but I know I'll lose"
Andrew having lost Cass, the only person he considered family for so long. He gave so much of himself up and let himself be ruined just so he could have a mother. Not sure how love a person because life has been an endless cycle of hate and hurt.
Neil having seen everything Jean went through, wanting so desperately to protect him but he failed before he even knew him. Knowing of the ruthless, never ending suffering Jean indured alone, being his misplaved forever partner, not even knowing he abandoned him.
Both wanting to fight, willing to do and say anything for his sake. Andrew willing to go against the literal yakuza. Neil putting a hit out in Grayson. Ready to meet the ends of the earth, but its so difficult because of everything that happened in their pasts.
I am rereading aftg and I got to Neil asking Andrew to get out of their deal and its got me thinking that that scene might be the most desperate we ever see Andrew (outside of the obvious lol)
"Im asking you to break it" Andrew heartrate spikes.
I can imagine whats going on in Andrews head.
.
.
This cant be happening. "No." Not like this.
"You said you'd stick with me if I kept Kevin south, but Kevin doesnt need me anymore-" Fuck Kevin, hes not the one I asked to stay "...theres nothing else I can give you in exchange for your protection." Im not a reason for you to stay, I never was , not really. I knew that.
"I dont want you to." He doesn't want me. "I need you to let me go" I'm losing him, hes going to run.
"I'll think of something." Dont leave, I can still protect you, it was never about Kevin, its you, you fucking idiot. Stay, stay, stay.
"Give me one good reason" I cant let you go yet, Ive only just gotten you.
"If I'm hiding behind you I'm still running" I'm begging you, stay.
"I want to stand on my own two feet. Let me do that. None of this means anything if I dont" stand next to me, dont run, dont disapear.
Neil sits back and relaxes into the beanbag, closing his eyes, letting Andrew think it over.
How can you do this? How can you be everything I need, everything I want and ask me to let you go? How can you respect every boundry, even my silence and say you have to walk away? You are all you need to give me, just stay.
.
.
.
You cant comvince me Andrews "ill think of something" isn't his way of telling Neil 'i need you with me' because Andrew doesnt believe people are willing to stay without a deal or protection or some kind of benefit. He doesnt have friends, not really. Nicky is family, looking out for them, the deal with Aaron, Kevin's deal, even Renee gets stuff out of their relationship, though its less of a deal and more of just mutal benefit. He doesn't expect Neil to stay if he isnt protecting him, and hes scared of losing him, of the kisses stopping, of their game ending. At least that how I see this scene now that ive read it and i know more about them. This is Andrew clinging to Neil and he doesnt even know it. Because in Neils eyes, hes keeping him safe by ending the deal, Andrew wont get hurt trying to save him, but for Andrew, hes losing the one person who he wants to choose him and he didnt know if Neil would make that choice if there was other options.
I imagine this is what goes on in his head the whole time he has an empty stare 😭
i hate you
you were supposed to be a side effect of the drugs because obviously someone could never look at me like you do. nobody could SEE ME the way you do. nobody else would dare to step into a viper pit on the off chance that it might protect me because nobody else has ever considered that i’m a real person. and that means you cannot be real. because there isn’t a single person who would try to protect me. i’m the only person who can save myself and i haven’t wanted to save myself in a very long time. i cannot be saved. but then i saw you standing there with auburn hair and blue eyes… jesus christ you cannot be real. because you are a terrified runaway and now you’re telling me that instead of running away like i told you to, instead of letting me take the fall like i expected to, you somehow ran directly into danger for ME? unreal unreal unreal you are a hallucination and a pipe dream because you’re saying things nobody has ever said to me and there is a catch in your voice that i’ve never heard before and it’s all because you were worried about me and it makes me sick because nobody should ever make you feel that way, least of all me. i see every piece of myself and my pain directed back at me, reflected in the ocean of your eyes and it makes me want to burn down the world, it makes me want to destroy myself, and yet you keep telling me that i deserve to live. you see me and you won’t let me tear myself apart but you don’t see that in offering yourself up to be slaughtered you are ripping me to shreds. you cannot be real. you cannot exist. and yet here you are, standing in front of me, bruised and bandaged and more alive than you’ve ever been. and i’m so terrified to want any piece of that because it’s impossible. you’re impossible. you don’t listen. you won’t back down when i tell you i’m not worth it. you’re a dream. you’re all the hopes i threw away when i was a child. you’re not my savior. i wish you would save me. i wish you could. i’m terrified that if i look at you too long, you will.
i hate you.
andreil meet cute where andrew is a wizard and has a successful curse business (nonfatal but willing to maim for the right reason/price) and someone random is like "hey i need u to curse this asshole in my statistics class for me bcus we have an exam next week and i cant take another one of his stupid cocky smirks after getting an A" so andrew is like okay sure whatever, ez peasy. except he shows up to the cursee's dorm and it's warded to hell and back? what the fuck what kind of nerd wards their college dorm room against evisceration spells AND disappears only ur left sock spells?
so andrew is obviously Very Intrigued and gives up on his plan to break in and just knocks, except the most gorgeous man he's ever seen answers the door AND he's glaring at andrew like he can kill him with his eyes (which the quality of those wards? yeah maybe he can...). anyway andrew falls in love at first sight, and his first words to neil are "what the fuck is wrong with you"
Half-time just ended. Everyone is retaking their positions on the court, Neil and Andrew lock eyes for a moment, just blankly staring at each other. Neil cracks a small smile, then winks at him before turning away. Andrew is immediately flustered, which means he's pissed. Hot red ears and furrowed eyebrows, he almost misses the sound of the buzzer, but he can't let anyone know that he is currently weak in the knees and deciding if he wants to punch him or kiss him. He watches Neil get body slammed before the ball comes hurling to the goal, Andrew snapping to its targeted location catching the ball. Instead of rebounding or passing, he launches it, letting out his bottled frustration and embarrassment. The buzzer sounds and the goal lights up red, leaving Andrew slightly suprized, he didn't even aim. Leaning on his racket, he takes a deep breath, fully calming himself and deciding he will kiss him when this is over. Neil gets off the ground with a smug expression, causing Andrew to ignore him, the game starting again.
I have so many random ideas of Andreil being found out by the media in the strangest ways. My personal fav so far is them going pro and being on different teams. They end up playing against each other and everyone starts to think their rivals because Andrew keeps launching the ball at Neils helmet. After like 7 headshots from across the court Neil swears at him in german something along the lines of "I know you're doing that on purpose quit being a bitch for the sake of your entertainment or I swear I will empty your candy drawer" and of course Andrew's just there with his blank expression leaning on his racket, knowing Neil will forget all about it when they're home. However, all the fans see is Andrew targeting Neil over and over no matter where he is on the court so everyone thinks they hate each other until some weeks later an article is released with pictures of them grocery shopping together. Andrew is in the cart eating candy he hasn't even bought yet while Neil scans the aisle with a hand in Andrews hair. Another picture of them loading everything into the car, Andrew with a hand on Neils waist as he opens the backdoor. The article is titled something like "rivals or lovers : a deep dive into their history" and it brings up points like Andrew protecting Neil from Riko and Neil getting Andrew to shut down the goal with just a few words (ones no one knows), but also points of them shoving each other and getting in each others faces (tbh they were just flirting but from an outside prospective it was violence because they are never normal) all of the fan theories come to a head when Neil gets interviewed.
"What is your thoughts on the rumors about you and Minyard?"
"Rumors?"
"Yes, the ones about you two being teammates turned rivals turned lovers. Many fans are speculating what your relationship is and several articles have become very popular over it."
"We were never rivals??" Neil is absolutely lost at this idea, complete confusion.
"Really? Never once over the years?"
"No? And what articles? I don't understand how this has anything to do with Exy."
"Its about your career in the sense that Andrew Minyard has been a challenge for you." Neil smiles at the idea of Andrew being a challenge. "There was a really big article that shared some photos of you two together at a grocery store. It's rather unusal to see you two in a domestic setting, can you tell us about that? Many are wondering why you shop together." The first photo is pulled up on the big screen and Neil just stares for a moment, unsure of when it was taken.
"1. Its creepy that that was taken without us knowing. 2. I don't know what you want me to tell you, Andrew's not allowed out of the cart because he's a mence to shop with or maybe he refuses to let me go alone because I constantly forget things. Its just normal every day life, same as everyone else. 3. Because we live together?? I still don't see the relevance any this has to Exy. Many spouses go against each others teams, it's a part of being pro's."
"Spouses? So you are confirming you and Minyard are married?"
"Not on paper. Fundamentally yes. I thought this interview was supposed to be about how our season is going?" Neil sits back, baffled but also slightly smug from the look of shock on the interviewers face.
Meanwhile Andrew is at home with the cats eating a tub of ice cream while watching the interview thinking to himself 'yeah, fucking tell her. Noisy ass drama seeker.'
Andreil is still on my brain
After they've both gone professional, they've been separated for at least a month, but todays the day Neil goes to pick Andrew up from the airport. Neils been scanning the crowd for the last 20 mins, looking for that familiar blonde hair among dozens of people. Then he spots him, facing the other direction with a suitcase in one hand. Neil can't help but stare for a moment, taking in the broadness of his shoulders in his tight shirt, the thickness of his arms, the black armbands in their usual place. Neil pulls out his phone and texts him a 'yes or no'. He watches as Andrew looks down at his phone, then glances up looking around, not noticing him yet. Then he looks back down and Neil feels his phone vibrate, seeing a 'yes?' In response. Neil all but sprints, Andrew turning to him last second before Neil lifts him up into a hug, squeezing him to his chest. Panic floods Andrew for a second before he lets excitment take over, hugging him back. Andrew grips him tightly around his neck, burying his face in the cloth of his hoodie, taking in his smell, cigarette smoke and black coffee. He can feel Neil smile against his neck. Neil squeezes him once more before lowering him to the ground, loosening his grip to put a few inches between them. Andrew glares up at him, the smallest trace of a smile on his lips.
"115%" Andrew grumbles out.
"I'm okay with that." Neil says, looking down at his lips. Andrew doesn't hesitate, kissing him without a care for who might be watching. Neil melts into the kiss, placing his hands in Andrews hair. A moment later they break away.
"Welcome home, Drew." Neil stares down at him, that glint in his eyes and Andrew decides maybe he can look at him like that, just this once.
There are too mamy itches in my brain. Andreil. Its a peaceful Saturday morning and they're sleeping in, sun just barely filtering through the window as they cuddle together. Neil's pressed against Andrews side and Andrew has an arm around him laying on his back. The phone rings waking them both and Andrew goes to turn it off but its a call from Aaron, a FaceTime. So he answers, groggy and half asleep. He wakes up more after noticing that Aarons been crying.
"You're still in bed" chuckles from the other end of the phone
"Its the weekend, you're crying?" Andrew cuts the small talk and Neil peaks open an eye out of curiosity.
"We have some news" Katelyn wiggles her way onto the screen standing behind Aaron. "We're pregnant" she give a small happy dance. Andrew stares blankly for a moment.
"Youre going to be an uncle." Aaron says, clearly a bit nervous but mostly proud.
"How long?" Is the only response he can think of.
"I'm currently eight weeks, so give or take another 32 weeks, but theres more."
"More?" Andrew sits up a bit dragging Neil with him.
"Twins" Aaron finishes. Neil muffles a laugh into Andrew's shoulder.
"Good luck with that. If they are anything like you, your hands will be full."
"Shut up" Andrew and Aaron say in sync. Neil just laughs again with a shrug.
"You're not saying much." Aaron presses, fiddling with a pen.
"He's excited" Neil says, looking up at him. Andrew scoff and pushes his face away "he's got that look in his eyes, he happy" Andrew shoves Neil off of him.
"If you ever need anything," Andrew mumbles grumpily to which Aaron nods.
"We will be posting updates on our socials, but we wanted you to know first" katelyn says before disappearing off screen.
"Yeah okay." They talk a bit more before hanging up. Andrew stares at the black screen, processing everything.
"Whats on your mind?" Neil whispers crawling back over to him.
"I'm going to be an uncle. He wants me to be apart of it. Of their lives."
"Of course he does, you're his brother."
"A year ago, I would have never gotten that phone call." He drops the phone on his chest, letting it lay face down. Neil lets him be lost in thought for a moment, then reaches out and brushes the hair from his face.
"You two fixed your relationship. Of course he wants you to know his kids."
"Have you ever thought about it?" Andrew picks at his nails, not looking at Neil.
"About what? Drew, what are you asking?"
"Kids. Have you thought about it?"
"I think I'd make a terrible father. I didn't think you were the type to want kids"
"We dont have to be parents. We could foster. Its just an idea, i dont know." Andrew sits up, tossing his legs over the bed. "I don't even think kids would like me." Neil sits up too, watching Andrew's back.
"Do you want to foster children?" Andrew just shrugs at the question, not facing him.
"We could, it would be one more good house in all of the bad ones. Kids might not like us but theyd have their own room. A warm bed and a safe place to be." His words are quiet, contemplating. "Its just a thought."
"We can always look into it. I wouldn't mind."
"An uncle. He wants me to be an uncle." Andrews thoughts go full circle and Neil cant help but smile. Their future seems bright, and possibly filled with young laughter and toys. Neil inches his way to him and whispers "yes or no" a mumbled yes and Neil trails little kisses down Andrews neck, hugging his back to him.
"This also technically makes me an uncle, think Aarons upset about that yet?" Andrew rolls his eyes at him, earning another laugh.
help I've fallen (willfully tumbled) down a rabbit hole (fem andreil/ trans aftg) and can't (refuse to) get up
anyways thanks to @togemythia and @neilsdimples for single (double??) handedly fueling my abysmal sleep patterns
Neil knows how to follow directions-- until Andrew starts giving them. Suddenly, "left" means "right," and Kevin's smug superiority is crumbling as fast as Neil's ability to keep a straight face.
Part 2 of AFTG Flufftober
Neil and Andrew have never met, but their cats—Sir and King—decide today is the day that changes. When Neil’s disaster of a cat, King, leads Sir astray, it’s a showdown of sarcasm and simmering tension in the least likely of places: an alleyway cat hunt.
Part 1 of AFTG Flufftober 2024
“Yeah, murder for hire is surprisingly affordable,” says Neil.
Kevin stares at him.
“I get a discount,” Neil justifies.