Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Neil wakes with a pounding headache, and everything goes downhill from there.

He jerks upright as sensations bleed into him: cold seeping into his muscles through a thin layer of clothing, the murmur of voices just too far away to make out clearly, the ache of bruises blooming across his skin like a map detailing whatever had happened to him before he lost consciousness. 

When his vision clears—was he drugged? Is that why his mouth is so dry, why he feels hollowed out?—he takes in his surroundings: pale sunlight trickling in through a window, higher up on the wall than he is tall; uneven concrete boxing him in above, below, and to his left and back; the remaining walls comprised fully of thick, vertical bars with the sole purpose of keeping him prisoner. To his left, shackles, unused, hang embedded in the wall at roughly feet-and-head height, and for a moment he is endlessly grateful he didn't wake up in them.

He catches movement between the bars in front of him and jolts in surprise—he's not alone. And the sight that greets him as his eyes adjust breaks his heart. 

Andrew leans against the wall on the far side of his own cell, a cursory glance telling Neil they're mirrored. His head is tilted back against the concrete, hair disheveled but eyes open. His arms—bare of both his black armbands and the knife sheaths typically strapped beneath them—are propped up on his knees, hands dangling between them. To anyone else he would seem bored, disinterested, but Neil locks on to the clench of his jaw, the tense set of his shoulders. His eyes don't yet hold that vacant stare Neil’s become all too familiar with, which is a relief, but Neil knows if they don't find a way out of here soon he might lose Andrew to his own mind.

He shifts slowly, hoping to get Andrew’s attention without starling him, but when his gaze doesn't move Neil murmurs “Andrew,” as soothingly as he can muster with his heart pounding in his throat. Andrew doesn't flinch, but his lashes flutter, a sign only Neil would catch that his heart rate has just kicked up.

Finally, Andrew's stare slides to him. Neil tries for a reassuring smile but he doesn't know how well he pulls it off. “Look who's awake,” Andrew drawls, the barest tremor in his voice telling Neil he's just managing to hold himself together. “Get enough beauty sleep?”

“What happened?” Neil asks instead of gracing Andrew with a response, allowing him his attempt at coping with their situation. He has a gaping hole in his memory that sits right where last night's events should go, like someone had reached in and yanked a part of his mind out. No matter how hard he grasps at the jagged edges, he can't make sense of anything, can't bring any fragmented reminders of last night forward.

Lazily, Andrew clicks his tongue. “You should stop getting roofied at clubs,” he admonishes, and a couple of pieces slot into place. Yesterday, they had a home game. They won after Andrew, indulging him, shut down the goal to Neil’s promise that they could go out after, just the two of them. Aaron, Nicky, and Kevin hadn't been thrilled when Andrew scattered them to the wind, but they'd all found ways to entertain themselves. Andrew had driven all the way to Eden’s with his hand in Neil's, windows down and wind whipping their hair in every direction. Neil remembers feeling boneless and sated, remembers lips on his neck, remembers the buzz of a winning high carrying him through the night better than alcohol or drugs ever could. But he doesn't drink, so how could someone have…

Oh. “I had a soda,” Neil says in realization, the sweet aftertaste lingering on his tongue—or maybe that’s just his mind playing tricks on him, some remnant of the drugs still in his system. The memory is fuzzy, but he squints to try and recall, frustrated with his uncooperative mind. Andrew sitting across from him at a table, the exit over his shoulder where Neil can keep an eye on it—old habits and all that. Neil's hand wrapped loosely around a glass, bubbles dancing around ice cubes and condensation wetting his hand. A glass in front of Andrew, something thick and red inside of it. “You had a…” he falters. 

“Strawberry daiquiri,” Andrew indulges tonelessly, helping Neil fill in the missing details as if it were the most important thing they could be doing right now. Maybe it is; it's not like they have anything else to do.

Neil scoots to the wall and presses a hand against it to steady himself as he stands. His legs wobble dangerously, but once he's upright he manages to straighten them out, aware of Andrew's heavy gaze on him. He crosses to the other set of bars first, looking out into the room beyond.

The lighting is dim, a couple of bulbs dangling from the ceiling and flickering like they're seconds away from sputtering out. Through the wavering shadows, Neil sees a table, two chairs pushed back from it like they had been recently occupied. Confirming this, a card game sits half-complete atop the table, cards fanned out and facedown like something had interrupted their guards mid-hand. Neil doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. He'd have liked to get a look at their captors, see if he recognizes them or who they work for. Neil glances back toward Andrew, whose eyes have tracked him the whole time, knowing Andrew would have memorized the men's faces the moment he woke up. But if Andrew follows Neil's line of thought, he doesn't offer a description, and Neil doesn't ask for one. He knows they'll return eventually, and he'll get the chance to see them for himself.

He gives the bars themselves his attention, wrapping a hand around one to test the thickness, sliding along until he finds what seems to be the door to this cell. A lock hangs off a hinge on the outside, a lock he could probably pick if it wasn't out of reach. His own armbands, like Andrew's, are also gone, and Neil doesn't doubt they were both thoroughly searched in their sleep. The thought of malicious hands wandering over his body—over Andrew's body—heats his blood, and he grits his teeth against the rage that threatens to knock him over. Andrew, maybe noticing the way his hand tightens around the bar, maybe able to guess his thoughts, says “Shut up,” just loud enough for Neil to hear. He likely knows their guards aren't far away and doesn't want to alert them to Neil's consciousness. That thought doesn't comfort Neil, however—what do these men want with them, that they're waiting for both him and Andrew to be awake? He doesn't want to find out.

After a quick search of the room reveals no other possible means of escape—the bars are too solid, the window too high up to be of any use, and likely locked besides—Neil pads over to Andrew's cell on silent feet. Their shoes are gone, he notices distractedly. Andrew tilts his head to keep Neil in his sights and Neil stops in front of him, both hands wrapped around the bars. “Andrew,” he whispers, even though he already has the other man's attention. Andrew doesn't respond. “Come here?”

After a long moment, Andrew's lips part and he sighs quietly, rolling to the side and pushing to his feet. He goes smoother than Neil did, but Neil can tell that whatever laced their drinks still has an effect on him, his movements too measured as he fights for control of his own body. Neil's heart clenches at the thought and he pushes it away as Andrew approaches slowly. He keeps his hands at his side even as Neil leans in subconsciously, wanting to be near Andrew even with the bars keeping them apart. “Yes or no?” Neil asks, wanting to feel Andrew under his fingers—wanting to prove to himself he isn't here alone, that Andrew isn't something his addled mind cooked up to cope with being taken again.

Andrew’s lips pinch and Neil clarifies, “I need to know you're real. Yes or no?” Kissing Andrew—if that's even possible through the bars—is the farthest thing from his mind, and he needs Andrew to know that.

“I am real,” Andrew says, but some part of him must be wondering the same thing about Neil, because he takes a step away from the bars and says, “Hold out your hand.”

The gap between the bars is just big enough for Neil to fit his wrist through—Andrew's wouldn't have fit; he's always had the thicker wrists. The thought sends a memory jolting through him, of Andrew wrapping his whole hand around Neil’s wrist, fingertips meeting just below his palm, and Neil bites his tongue until the pain washes the image away.

Once his hand is through, Andrew laces their fingers together, his own hand warm and solid. Real. Neil sags against the bars in stark relief. “Not alone,” Andrew says, giving his hand a squeeze. “Not this time.” Heat bursts behind Neil’s eyes at the words and he turns his head, blinking violently until the threat of tears passes.

“Where are we?” Neil asks, as if Andrew would know, simply trying to change the subject. He doesn't want to think about the last time he was in a concrete room, back when he said goodbye to this life, never expecting to see Andrew again. He doesn't want this to be like that, doesn't want to see Andrew… he shakes the thought away. 

Andrew shrugs, as if to say how would I know? “Who have you pissed off recently?” he asks instead.

Frowning, Neil turns the last few months over in his mind. He's been… he wouldn't say he's been on his best behavior, but he's aware of the eyes that are on him at all times. He still mouths off in games, still says shocking things in interviews, but everyone knows that's just who he is. It's harmless. He can't think of anyone who would want to hurt him now—anyone who is still alive to do it. “I don't know,” he says finally, keeping Andrew's hand tight in his own. Andrew doesn't object, doesn't pull away.

Instead, he leans in until his forehead is pressed against the bars. Neil copies the movement, mirroring him, and their eyes lock. He opens his mouth to speak but Andrew beats him to it. “Shh,” he whispers, the sound accompanied by the ghost of a fingertip on Neil’s lips. Andrew tilts his head in the direction of murmuring voices. “Listen.”

In the quiet of the cell, Neil strains to make out a voice. He wonders if it is one he'll recognize, if that's why Andrew is asking him to do this. But as his focus narrows to the sound and it grows clearer, he realizes he's not going to pick out a voice he knows, nor make out any words to key him in to where they are.

He knows what language they're speaking, even if he can't understand it. It's a language that tells him of violence, of black and red, of hands circling his wrists and a noose around his neck. It's ownership, not freedom, because that's the price he had to pay to live. The dark stains on the concrete that he had originally dismissed in his sweep of the cell demand his attention now and his eyes dart to them as murmured Japanese fills his ears. “I haven't done anything,” Neil breathes, focusing back on Andrew. Andrew, who had likely needed only one glance at their captors to know who had taken them, and who let Neil come to his senses after startling awake in a strange place rather than immediately telling him they're screwed. “I haven't… I've kept up my end of the deal.”

Andrew's gaze is steadying, a rock in the midst of a raging sea. Neil clings to it desperately. “Then we wait,” Andrew says, “for an explanation. If you have done nothing wrong, then there is nothing to punish.”

But that’s not true, is it? There's always something. Ichirou Moriyama holds too much power for this to simply be a matter of right and wrong. And Neil really, really does not want to find out what Ichirou has in store for them. His breathing hitches in his throat and he swallows the sound it makes, desperate now not to catch the attention of whoever stands nearby. Andrew notices his panic and slowly lowers himself to the floor, pulling Neil with him using their still entwined fingers. He can't place a hand on Neil's neck with the bars between them so Neil does it himself, squeezing the back of his neck the way Andrew always does to calm him. “Stop it,” Andrew whispers harshly. Neil sucks in a grounding breath. This is not the time or place to be losing his mind. He needs to be alert, aware of his surroundings, able to talk their way out of this. He can do that, can’t he? His mouth is useful for more than the out-of-pocket things he says to reporters on the sidelines of games.

Andrew stands sentry as Neil slowly collects himself, tucking away ragged edges to examine later, when they’re safe. “I’m fine,” he eventually murmurs. They both know it’s a lie, but Neil can fall apart later. Right now, he needs to be fine. And Andrew understands this, so he doesn’t challenge the words, merely nods in satisfaction and sits back on his heels.

As Neil goes to speak again, Andrew’s gaze slides slowly up until he focuses on something behind Neil. His expression doesn’t change, but Neil knows that someone has appeared, meaning they are no longer alone. Andrew doesn’t even spare Neil a glance as he turns, not sure if he’s ready to face Ichirou or not.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to. The man standing in front of his cell has a face he does not recognize, beyond the features that mark him as a Moriyama man. Neil doesn’t know if this is better or worse for them—he had expected Ichirou to be the one who summoned them, not some no-name lackey. This could mean Ichirou wants him dead, but Neil assumed that if it ever came to that, Ichirou would want to be there for it.

The man stares at them but does not speak. Slowly, Neil disentangles his hand from Andrew's and stands, positioning himself so he's blocking Andrew from their captor’s view. “I want to speak with Lord Moriyama,” he demands, injecting more authority in his voice than he probably should. He has business with Ichirou, after all, and if he's here—wherever here is—then these men should be aware of that. Otherwise, they'd have had no reason to take him.

For a long moment, all the man does is stare at him. Then he turns his head and says something over his shoulder in amused Japanese. He laughs, loudly, as someone responds. A second man comes into view, this one no more recognizable than the first. Neil straightens at his appearance and waits to be spoken to.

It doesn't take long. “Good morning, Nathaniel,” this new man says in a heavy accent. “So kind of you to finally join us. Your teammate has been waiting so patiently for you.”

Something sinister creeps just under the words and Neil suppresses a shudder. What did they say to Andrew while he was out? What does Andrew know that he didn't tell Neil? “I want to speak to Lord Moriyama,” he repeats. “You obviously know who I am, which means you know what I am to him. I doubt he'd be happy you denied one of his investments an audience.”

“You are hardly an investment,” the man laughs. He seems perpetually amused at Neil. “Merely a deal made to keep a few loose ends happy. Happy is much harder to control than dead.” His eyes glitter with malice and Neil takes an involuntary step back, hitting the bars and leaning against them for stability. Andrew's fingers brush his shoulder and he's grateful for the contact. “Lord Moriyama is not here,” he continues before Neil can ask a third time. “He considered this visit beneath him. You are not going to die today,” he says quickly as Neil tries to speak again, effectively silencing him. “Your master merely wanted to give you a… reminder, let us say, of the length of your leash. And a request to not stray too far.”

Neil bites a snort at the word choice. Request. Nothing Ichirou Moriyama does is a request. It is a thinly veiled threat or an outright demand, one few people in their right mind would refuse. Neil is not used to being that person, but now he has to be, for the people he cares about—for Andrew, in the next cell over, at the mercy of Ichirou’s men. He tucks a hand behind his back, silently reaching for Andrew's fingers. Andrew tangles them together as best he can with the bars between them and Neil squeezes them in a silent thank you. “Don't break me too much,” he says boldly, doing an incredible job at hiding the tremor in his voice at the thought of enduring torture, at the thought of Andrew having to watch it this time. “I still need to be able to play.”

Andrew's fingers tighten around his; a warning to keep his mouth shut, maybe, or unhappiness at Neil’s one-track mind. The second man—the one in charge, Neil understands—barks something at the other in Japanese, and he begins to move out of Neil's vision. Neil shifts, wanting to keep them both in sight but unable to go far with his hand in Andrew's, and unwilling to let him go. The man in charge says, “Do not worry, Nathaniel. We were asked not to leave any… visible scars,” and Neil’s legs buckle, threatening collapse as the first man removes a key ring from his pocket, jangling it until he finds what he is looking for and slides a key into the lock of Andrew's cell. Andrew lets go of Neil's hand abruptly, his mind jumping to the same conclusion Neil's has, evidently.

“Hey,” Neil says, panic beginning to overtake him again. “Hey hey hey. Andrew isn’t… Andrew doesn’t belong to Lord Moriyama. You can’t touch him.” He’s so focused on the man entering Andrew’s cell that he doesn’t notice the man in charge has unlocked his own until he’s stepped inside, pulling something out of his back pocket. Neil goes still as the gun is pointed at his head, focus fully on the man pointing it at him now. He hears movement behind him but doesn’t dare turn, staring down the barrel of the weapon as the man approaches. “You said I wouldn’t be dying today,” he says, unable to keep the challenge from his voice. “Change your mind?”

He waves the gun lazily; Neil fights a flinch. “Incentive for you both to behave,” he explains. “You of all people should know, Nathaniel, how much damage a gun can do short of killing a man. As for Minyard…” he grins. “It is true he is not ours, but you know the consequences of speaking against us.”

“I'm going to kill you,” Neil growls. It's an empty threat, one he probably shouldn't have said in the first place, but the man seems more amused than anything else. Despite his bold words, Neil would rather not feel a bullet tear through his skin again, so he remains frozen even as he hears what sounds like a scuffle, then the tear of fabric, at his back. His hands clench at his sides as he fights to keep his rage in check.

The man raises a brow, still smiling. “You could try,” he goads. “Or you could turn around.” It sounds like a choice, but it isn't. The gun in his hand makes that obvious. Neil swallows; he prefers to have the weapon in his sights, and he doesn't really want to see what's happening behind him, doesn't want to confirm his terrible suspicions.

The gun goes off with a deafening bang and Neil jumps, bracing himself for the pain. When it doesn't come, he looks down and sees the chipped concrete between his feet. “You missed,” he says blankly, heart thundering between his ribs.

“Warning shot,” his captor says, gesturing with the weapon. “Next one will not be. Turn around, Nathaniel.”

He does. Before he's even fully turned, the gun’s barrel is pressed to the side of his head, just behind his ear, metal still warm from the last shot. Neil takes a deep breath to steady himself and moves his gaze to the sight that awaits him.

Andrew is on the floor, cheek pressed against the concrete, the man's knee digging into his back and one hand holding him by the wrist. His clothes are torn, but still on his body, like his attacker was waiting for Neil’s attention before continuing. He's facing Neil but resolutely avoiding his eyes, and Neil doesn't even blame him. “No,” Neil whispers, flinching back violently and slamming into the man behind him. He lurches forward immediately, gun forgotten, desperate to get to Andrew, but an arm winds around his middle and stops him dead in his tracks. “Stop this. Call him off and I will do whatever you want.”

It's this that Andrew reacts to, thrashing against the limbs holding him down. “Shut up,” he snarls in German, getting a twist to his arm for his troubles. He doesn't risk saying anything more, because the man's free hand has started wandering down his back, and he goes very, very still.

Neil makes the executive decision to ignore Andrew. He’ll have time to be mad about it later. Neil is not going to stand here and watch Andrew's assault when he could have done something about it. “I'm the one Ichirou has a message for, not him. Leave him out of this.”

“Whatever I want?” his captor muses. “What if I want you to watch? I feel like that will make the lesson stick.”

Neil can't breathe. “It won't,” he says, desperately fighting to be still. “I'm not a visual learner.” He's grasping at straws, keeping his man distracted so he can't tell the other to continue.

The arm around his middle tightens, drawing him flush against the man. “So you need a hands-on demonstration,” he says into Neil's ear. Neil shudders but nods. “Is Minyard a visual learner, then?”

“Yes,” Neil says, and hates himself for it.

The man releases Neil and he stumbles a few feet forward, righting himself before he falls. “On your knees, Nathaniel. If you ask me nicely, I just may honor your request.”

Neil’s stomach churns. He hates that Andrew will have to hear this, but if it keeps him untouched… Neil turns and slowly lowers himself to his knees. “Please,” he says, his throat too thick to swallow.

The gun is at the man's side now, but Neil knows better than to make a run for it, even with the open cell door beckoning him. “A poor attempt from someone so good at using his words. Try again, Nathaniel, and this time be specific. What are you asking for?”

Neil knows what he wants to hear, he just doesn't want to say it. “Please… please fuck me,” he forces between gritted teeth, stomach bottoming out at the sound of his own voice.

“Better,” the man says, and laughs. “I see why the young lord keeps you around. How exhilarating it is to see you begging on your knees.”

Nails digging into his thighs, Neil swallows the retort that comes so easy to him. His eyes burn but he does not give the man the satisfaction of a reaction.

His captor says something in Japanese to the man in Andrew’s cell, then switches back to English to say, “Hold Minyard still, if you have to. I don’t want him to miss a second of the show.”

Neil is going to be sick. He knows the man wanted him to understand his words, wants Neil to know how powerless he is. Except Neil already knows. He doesn’t need a reminder that he is at Ichirou’s mercy. He doesn’t need to be told that the moment he steps out of line, the people he love will be in danger. The point of making connections was so that he would seem like less of a flight risk, not to give Ichirou more people to threaten him with.

Fingers cup his chin, tilt his head up until Neil’s eyes meet his captor’s. “How do you want me, Nathaniel?” the man asks, and it sounds like a taunt.

Bleeding out at my feet, Neil thinks viciously, but all he says is, “However you would like to use me,” because he knows it’s what he’s supposed to say, even if the words burn on their way out. He doesn’t think about Andrew behind him, restrained and forced to watch this scene unfold. He doesn’t think about what is about to happen. All he does is sit on his knees and wait for further instructions. He’s going to take this one minute at a time until it’s over, and then he’s going to shove the experience so deep he’ll never have to think about it again.

The man reaches down and wraps two fingers around one of Neil’s wrists, and he lets it go limp in his grip. “A little birdie once told me you liked handcuffs.”

“You don’t need those,” Neil says, as docile as he can manage. “I’ll be good.”

He hums. “Best not take any chances. And it will be easier for us to play with you if we are not holding you down.” Us. Neil closes his eyes for a long moment until he can breathe again. “Do you agree?”

“Yes,” he whispers, his voice threatening to break.

“Good.” Tugging on his wrist, the man pulls Neil to his feet and over to the wall. Neil goes obediently, acutely aware of whose life hangs in the balance if he doesn’t, even though internally he is thrashing and screaming, wailing at himself for allowing this. The gun is long gone now, but escape is a distant thought on his mind.

They reach the wall with the shackles and Neil attempts to turn, but a hand on his shoulder stops him. “Hands up,” the man orders. Neil stretches his hands above his head. Either he misjudged the distance earlier, or these shackles were made with a more average-sized man in mind, because he nearly has to stretch the length of his body to reach. He’s unable to hold back a shudder as the cold metal rings lock around his wrists, and he half expects the man to chain his legs, as well. If he turns his head to the right, he can see half of Andrew’s cell, but Andrew himself is still out of sight. That’s almost too painful to bear, so he turns the other direction, resting his head against the concrete and forcing himself to breathe, each inhale like flames in his throat.

The man is speaking again, but in Japanese, so Neil tunes the noise out, focusing his energy on calming the trembling in his limbs. If he collapses, he knows the shackles around his wrists will hold him up, but he doesn’t want the metal to dig into his skin, so he needs to get his legs under him. A cold hand brushes under the hem of his shirt and he jolts, biting his tongue as fingers begin to wander. They slide up, probing at his uneven skin in fascination. “Tokens from your father?” the man asks, laughing at his bad humor. “Let us keep the shirt on, I think. The scars on your back must not be very appealing.”

Neil thinks of Andrew, straddling him, tracing each scar with an intense look of concentration lining his face. He thinks of the softness of his touch, the reverence with which he completes his task, as if there was nothing else he’d rather be doing. Neil remembers the way Andrew does not see his scars as something horrible but something to be loved, and he clings to that as the hands on his body wander lower, dipping beneath the waist of his jeans. “These, we can remove.” The man reaches around to unbutton Neil’s jeans, hand straying lower until it cups his groin. Instinctually, Neil jerks away but is unable to go far, pressed between solid concrete and the body of his assaulter. He bites his lip to keep quiet as his jeans and underwear are lowered and he’s commanded to step out of them. Once they’re gone, the man kicks at Neil’s legs, knocking them wider and making Neil’s arms strain. Neil clenches in anticipation, but nothing touches him below the waist just yet. Instead, fingers cup his neck and slide around, probing against his lips. “Open wide, Nathaniel. This will be as pleasant or unpleasant as you allow it. I recommend more saliva for an easier slide.”

Sighing, Neil allows his lips to be parted, closing his eyes as he forces himself to lick and suck around the fingers threatening to gag him. He doubts the men would’ve taken this much time with Andrew. He’s only being played with because it’s him. Maybe they would’ve been done by now, if it was Andrew, and he and Neil would already be halfway home.

He banishes the thought; he won’t let himself become bitter about his choices. He doesn’t regret what he did, even if Andrew will likely hate him for it later.

Once the fingers are sufficiently lubricated, they’re removed from his mouth. A hand cups his ass and Neil holds his breath involuntarily. The first finger circles his puckered hole before sliding in, still rough despite the amount of spit he produced. Neil only allows himself shallow breaths in an attempt to remain as quiet as possible. The words yes or no? echo in his mind like a taunt and he grits his teeth against them. He asked for this. He got down on his knees and asked this stranger so nicely to fuck him, knowing what would happen when he did. He could have done nothing, could have sat and watched and been perfectly fine. But he asked for this, and now he’s going to live with the consequence of that.

When a second finger joins the first, Neil shudders, plastering himself further against the wall. The man is enjoying this, he thinks, almost able to imagine the smirk on his face as he pumps his fingers slowly in and out, curling them as he searches for a particular place. “Feel good, Nathaniel?” the man asks, and Neil swallows, not trusting himself to speak. “No matter. We will get you there yet.”

Please, no, he thinks, unable to stomach the thought of coming like this. It’s in vain, however, as with the insertion of the third finger the man finds what he has been looking for. Neil’s breath hitches as something brushes his prostate, barely managing to swallow an embarrassing sound. “There it is,” the man whispers, almost in awe as he returns to the same spot and presses down. Neil bucks against the wall, releasing his breath in a long hiss.

His prostate is stimulated over and over again, and despite his desperation not to, despite his attempts at distracting his mind, Neil feels himself beginning to harden against the wall. Each jerk against the concrete is agonizing friction, and he’s starting to lose the battle against his own noises. “Want to make a deal, Nathaniel?” he asks. Neil is too busy trying to keep his body in control to respond. “If you come like this, I will use it as lubrication. Otherwise, the only thing you will have is my spit.”

And the last thing Neil wants is to come right now, but he knows spit makes a terrible lube. Learned that the hard way after a desperate night in Columbia, when they ran out of the bottle in the bedside drawer and were too deep to stop to get more. He ached for days after, and if anyone saw him limping in practice the next morning, they didn’t ask him why—though Nicky shot him a knowing look, which Andrew promptly shut down with a glare in return. He weighs the options in his mind, and he decides that if he’s going to be tortured with stimulation, the least he can do is make it more comfortable for himself. Ejaculation is not consent, his body’s reaction does not mean he wants this. He sags in the chains and stops fighting the build-up of heat in his lower belly, allows the caress of his prostate to rocket him forward. Andrew always teases his short fuse; now, it will be to his benefit. “I’m—” he gasps out, unable to give any more warning as he falls over the edge, spurting against both wall and stomach. The fingers still inside of him as a second hand wraps around his base, stroking him through the aftershocks and gathering his come to use as lube. Neil tries not to gag at the thought.

The second hand disappears and Neil hears the distinct wet sound of a man stroking himself. He does not do it for long and Neil is disgusted at the thought that someone could be aroused at the sight of his rape. “I think I have been nice enough to you,” the man says, his blunt tip rubbing at Neil’s entrance. “Do not be afraid to scream.”

That’s all the warning Neil gets as he slams in, making it almost to the hilt as pain ripples through Neil. He doesn’t scream but comes close, mouth falling open in a silent cry as his body rushes to adjust. The man doesn’t allow him that opportunity, already pulling out and snapping his hips forward. He quickly sets a punishing pace, seesawing in and out as Neil gasps, scrabbling for purchase against the concrete. Tears fill his eyes and spill over at the force rocking him. His prostate is assaulted and he’s rubbing against the wall with every thrust, but thankfully the pain is enough to keep him soft this time. The man seems to notice this and huffs, reaching his cum-slick hand around to attempt to jerk him back to hardness. After a while with no reaction, however, he gives up, placing the hand instead on Neil’s hip to impale him deeper. The stickiness of his fingers makes Neil gag.

He loses track of how long the man takes Neil from behind, loses track of his seemingly endless stamina. A haze settles over Neil’s mind and he welcomes it happily, desperate to be anywhere but here. Eventually, the man thrusts deeply and stills, body melded to Neil’s as he comes. That, too, seems to last forever, so long that Neil wonders how it is possible for one man to hold so much. Then he’s pulling out and Neil gasps out a single sob, collapsing against the wall as warmth trickles down his leg. He’s too exhausted to be disgusted.

Distantly, he hears rapid-fire Japanese and remembers with muted horror the man’s sinister us. So that was only half of what he must endure, then. He remains frozen as he hears the slide of a zipper, the clack of polished shoes against concrete, the scuffle of skin against skin. His mind is moving too slowly to process any of it, and he would not even realize it if Andrew was subjected to this, after all. The only thing he can do now is stand as still as he is able while he waits for the torture to continue.

“Look at you, all stretched and dripping for me,” someone says behind him. This is the first time Neil has heard the first man speak English, and his accent is even thicker than the second. “Such a pretty hole, flushed and twitching. Do you think Minyard will want to go when I am finished with you?”

His dirty talk is atrocious, Neil thinks with contempt. He shakes his head weakly at the man’s words. Bad enough that Andrew has to watch. Neil doesn’t know if Andrew can handle being complicit in his rape, even if it has always been yes with him. This might just be a line neither of them are able to cross. “A shame,” the man sighs. “It would have been hot to watch you two fuck.”

“Fuck you,” Neil spits, wriggling in his restraints like he has the strength to break free.

“Patience,” the man laughs. “I am getting there.” He places a hand on Neil’s hip, and Neil stills. No need to make this any worse than it already is. “Unfortunately for you, I am not as gracious as my friend here. I do not need to make you come to enjoy myself.”

“How terrible,” Neil deadpans despite himself. He’s crossed a threshold in his mind. It seems his coping mechanism is sarcasm, or something adjacent. He’s nearly delirious now, half out of his mind, unable to stop himself from making the situation worse by running his mouth.

The man merely laughs, and despite his promises of cruelty slides in slower than his friend did. He’s bigger than the other man, something Neil realizes with a pained groan, and Neil hates the gratitude he feels at the man’s gentler insertion. “Tight and wet,” he breaths with satisfaction. Neil grits his teeth as he clenches involuntarily around the man’s length. “Oh! You like that? Clenching around me so nicely…”

He keeps up a steady stream of filth in Neil’s ear, occasionally slipping into Japanese as his thrusts grow faster and more erratic. Neil does his best to tune it out, but he can’t help the way his body reacts to some of the things the man says.

When he finally comes, he bites down on Neil’s shoulder, ripping a scream from his throat. It’s the first time Neil has cried out during the entire experience, and he hates himself for it. His back arches in an attempt to get away from the man—in vain, obviously—and his legs kick weakly at the man’s.

“It seems I was unable to fuck the fight out of you,” he says with an amused chuckle. Neil merely groans, going boneless as the man pulls out. He sags, panting, his whole body hot and trembling, the shackles digging painfully into his wrists. His face is wet with what can only be tears, twin tracks on his cheeks. Crying is a distant memory, back when the man in charge drilled into him with force what feels like hours ago.

The sudden clang of metal on metal causes him to jolt, exhaustion keeping him from making a sound. Something jostles his wrists, sending new aches down his arms. They had fallen asleep forever ago, and now they’re waking up, pins and needles angrily traveling up and down the length of his arms. Neil releases a pained moan at the sensation. Then he’s falling, landing in a heap on the floor, where he curls around himself, gasping at the tightness in his chest.

A hand threads through his hair and yanks his head up but Neil does not open his eyes. “I trust that demonstration was… educational for you,” the man in charge hisses into his ear. “There are much worse fates than death, Nathaniel. Do not forget that.”

When he lets go, Neil’s head slams into the concrete, and he welcomes the rushing darkness with a smile.

He groans before he’s even fully conscious, the aches of his body the first sensation that returns to him. His arms and ass have it the worst, and Neil stays very still as the rest of him regains awareness of his surroundings. There’s a presence near him, close enough to touch but not doing so, and that is what brings Neil to finally open his eyes.

Andrew is sitting beside him, dark circles pressed into his chin and jaw, gaze dull but not vacant. A single glance tells Neil that they are no longer in the underground cells; they’re in a nondescript alley somewhere, Neil pressed against a wall and Andrew watching the entrance. Neil’s pants are draped over Andrew’s lap, and Neil realizes he’s naked from the waist down.

“Jeans,” Neil manages through the gravel in his throat, getting his tingling arms under him and leveraging himself into a sitting position. He feels too bare, too exposed, and he wants to cover himself before anything else. Their shoes are still missing, but he can deal with that later. At least Andrew has his armbands back, though Neil doubts their captors returned his knives.

After an endless, agonizing moment, Andrew’s eyes slide down. He says nothing as he holds out Neil’s pants, and Neil takes them from him, careful not to brush his fingers in the process. It is not hard to see that Andrew is quickly spiraling, and Neil needs to get him somewhere safe so he can unpack everything that just happened to them.

Once Neil is dressed, he uses the wall to stand, leaning against it to catch his breath. Andrew gets to his feet as well but does not otherwise move. Neil peeks out of the mouth of the alley and thinks he knows where they are. If this is the place the men dropped them, he’s damn lucky they just so happen to be mere blocks from Wymack’s house.

Andrew must know this as well. “Wymack?” Neil asks, offering Andrew the choice. Their only options now are the tower, Wymack’s, Abby’s, or Betsy’s—though Neil does not know where the therapist lives, and as it’s a Saturday, she’s not likely to be at her office—but three of those four are rather far, and Neil doesn’t know how far he can walk in this state. He doesn’t want to ask Andrew to carry him, doesn’t want to ask Andrew to touch him at all right now, so he hopes they can crash at Wymack’s, far from the prying questions of their teammates. They’ve been missing for well over half a day now, if Neil’s right in his estimate of it being mid-to-late-afternoon, and Neil has no doubt showing up at the tower like this will only cause chaos.

Andrew doesn’t respond, merely appraises Neil slowly before setting off at a casual pace. Despite that, Neil still struggles to keep up, and Andrew is forced to slow even more in order for Neil to stay by his side. They don’t touch, but Neil knows Andrew does not want him out of his sight for the foreseeable future.

When they reach Wymack’s front door, Neil’s legs shake uncontrollably, and he has to lean against the wall before knocking. The door flings open less than a minute later, like Wymack had been expecting someone, though the sight that greets him freezes him in the doorway.

“Hey, Coach,” Neil croaks out with a weak smile. “Can we come in?”

“Where the hell have you two been?” Wymack demands, stepping aside to let them pass. Neil propels himself toward the couch and barely makes it before his legs fully collapse under him. Andrew follows, silent. “The others said you went to Eden’s alone last night and never came home. Phone calls went unanswered, the—Neil, are you all right?”

“Fine,” Neil wheezes, struggling to catch his breath.

“Call Abby,” Andrew says quietly, the first words he’s spoken since Neil woke up in the alley. He doesn’t elaborate, and Wymack doesn’t ask any more questions.

His ear is to his phone before Neil finds the breath to add, “Bee, too,” and ignores the glare Andrew gives him. He knows Neil isn’t asking for her for himself. “And don’t tell any of the others we’re here yet. We need some time before we can deal with them.”

Wymack makes two calls and then points at Neil. “I want a full explanation.”

“Abby’s physical will be explanation enough,” Neil mutters bitterly, wincing as he tries to shift to a more comfortable position. Andrew has moved to his perch on the window, head tilted against the sill as he keeps his eyes firmly on Neil. “It wasn’t even my fault, this time.” Neil knows he’s losing Andrew to the depths of his mind and doesn’t want to recount the whole experience in front of him. Once Betsy arrives, he’ll be able to extricate himself from Andrew’s careful guard and give Wymack and Abby the full story in another room while Bee brings Andrew back.

Maybe Wymack understands some of this, because he doesn’t press for any more answers until the women get there. Abby flings open the front door, Betsy right at her heels. She stops when she sees Neil draped over the couch, and Bee nearly slams into her back, sidestepping at the last moment and redirecting to Andrew, who doesn’t react to her presence at all. A quick glance tells Neil he’s fully retreated into the recesses of his mind.

Abby crouches beside Neil and gives him her best nurse smile. He can see where it’s strained at the edges. “Hi, Neil. Do you want to do this here or in the office?”

“Office,” Neil says immediately. He rolls off the couch and to his feet, wobbling a bit. Abby reaches out an arm to steady him and he barely manages not to flinch at the sudden contact. “Coach?”

“Right behind you,” Wymack responds, waiting for Neil and Abby to pass before following. Neil catches the lingering glance he casts in Andrew’s direction.

Neil stops in the middle of the room, swaying, and doesn’t speak until the door has been firmly shut. “Our drinks were drugged,” he begins, “at Eden’s. Woke up in a cell who-knows-where.”

“Who?” Wymack demands.

“Ichirou.”

Wymack scrubs a hand over his face at the name. Neil continues. “He wasn’t there, though. Just wanted to pass along a message.” This is where his legs fail him and he starts to fall, but Abby is right there and catches him, tossing her bag aside to free her hands.

“What message?” Abby asks, her voice soft. Neil wonders if she knows already.

“I didn’t even do anything,” he says quickly, not fighting Abby as she guides him to a chair. “I’ve been good. I have.” He’s babbling now, losing the careful control he had on his mind. He can’t be falling apart; Andrew needs him. “They were going to… they were going to hurt him, Abby, I couldn’t let them… it had to be me.” The vice around his lungs makes it hard to breathe, harder to get the words out.

Abby shushes him gently. “Where are you hurt?”

And this is the part Neil’s dreading, but he needs her to look. Can’t tell if anything is torn; the pain is too constant. Unable to say it, he tugs at his jeans. Abby presses her lips together and turns away for a moment to compose herself. Wymack watches silently, but Neil can feel anger radiating off of him in waves.

“Can I take your pants off, Neil?” Abby asks, each word carefully neutral. Neil nods and lets her undo his button, his own hands shaking too badly to do it himself. She stands him up again, guiding his hands to her shoulders as she gently slides his pants off, careful not to touch him. His mind flashes back to mere hours ago, when this same thing was happening against his will. Wymack’s office is warm enough to chase the lingering chill of the cell, so Neil stays in the present as Abby finishes removing the bottom half of his clothes.

She keeps her reactions to a minimum, but Neil hears the unmistakable hitch in her throat as she examines him. “Blood,” she says softly. “Something tore. We’ll need someone to take a look. Do you need—”

“Testing,” Neil finishes thickly. “They didn’t…” he waves a hand listlessly, unable to finish the sentence and trusting them both to get his meaning.

Abby nods, and when she’s finished checking him, she asks Wymack to go find something more comfortable for him to wear. “Andrew?” she asks after he returns with a pair of sweatpants and what looks like brand-new underwear. Neil wonders if he keeps extras in his house for emergencies.

“Fine physically,” Neil says tiredly. “I intervened before it went too far. He had to watch, though.” He remembers the fingertip bruises on Andrew’s face, likely a result of forcing his head forward while he tried to fight it.

Wymack looks troubled. “Are they going to come back for you?”

Neil sighs. “I don’t know? Ichirou seemed set on reminding me that he still owns me, that he can take me out any time he wants.” Happy is much harder to control than dead, his captor had told him. “Are they still talking?” he asks, desperate to change the subject and wanting to be near Andrew again.

“Betsy is doing most of the talking,” Wymack says, scrubbing a tired hand over his face. Neil gets the urge to apologize to him for the stress he's caused, but this isn't even his fault. Mostly. If he hadn't made that deal with Ichirou this wouldn't have happened, but then he wouldn't be alive to be having this conversation. So he can hardly be to blame. “But he's still here. Maybe you can get something out of him.”

Or maybe the sight of Neil will lock him down further. Neil has a horrifying thought that the choice he made in that cell has ruined him for Andrew forever, that Andrew won't be able to look at him without remembering the slap of skin against skin and his pleading for a terrible man to fuck him. “They made me beg, Coach,” Neil said quietly, unable to look at Wymack or Abby. He stares at the rug’s fringe instead. “In front of him. I had to beg for it. Otherwise, it was going to be him. I couldn't let that happen.”

Wymack says nothing, and when Neil risks a glance up, his hand hovers over Neil's shoulder like he wants to touch but won't do it without Neil's explicit permission. Neil nods and Wymack wraps him in a hug. He's not expecting that so he stiffens, but the warm embrace of his coach eventually has him relaxing. He buries his face in Wymack's shirt and gasps until the tears dissipate. Crying into someone's chest doesn't count; nobody can see it.

“I want you to talk to Betsy about this,” Wymack says, his voice rumbling against Neil's cheek. He knows Wymack won't force him to if he doesn't want to, and his knee-jerk reaction is to refuse, but then he thinks of Andrew in the other room, who has talked about this same thing with Bee for countless hours, and wonders if it will help him.

“I'm fine,” Neil says, his voice muffled. Wymack's arms loosen and he pulls away, scrubbing a sleeve over his eyes quickly. “I'm… I'll be fine.”

Abby is staring at him with sad eyes. “You don't have to be fine, Neil. It's okay to need to talk to someone.”

Neil knows that; it's the only way Andrew has been able to cope. “I'll think about it,” Neil says. He raises a hand to brush through his hair and Abby sucks in a breath.

“Your wrist.”

“Oh.” He glances down at the raw skin layered over old scars. With everything going on, he had completely forgotten where the shackles had rubbed into his wrists. “They don't hurt anymore.”

But Abby's already grabbed her bag and she guides him back to the chair, kneeling in front of him and taking his hand. “Handcuffs?”

“I tried to tell him they weren't necessary.”

“I'll be good.” Andrew appears in the doorway, the door still open from when Wymack left to find clothes for Neil. His face is blank as he parrots Neil's words back at him, and Neil is too relieved at hearing his voice to care. “Your martyr tendencies are not cute.”

Neil allows Abby to switch to his other wrist and begin wrapping it. The cream she uses on his skin tingles but he ignores it. “I was not going to let you take my punishment.”

“That was not a punishment.” The only change in Andrew is a slight narrowing of his eyes, but Neil knows he doesn't appreciate the choice of words.

Abby speaks up before Neil can respond. “Hi, Andrew, what do you need?”

For a long moment, he doesn't move. Eventually, he tilts his head back to expose his neck to the nurse.

The bruises extend farther than just his chin, like Neil originally thought. They're starting to turn colors now, spaced out in the shape of a hand. Neil feels like he should look away, but if Andrew didn't want him to see it he wouldn't have done anything with Neil in the room. He watches silently as Abby studies his neck before asking “Can I touch you?”

Andrew clenches his jaw and nods once. Abby presses the bruises lightly, careful not to touch him anywhere else, and backs out of his space as soon as she's done. “Feels fine,” she says. “Ice them if they start to hurt, otherwise just let them be.” She looks like she’s going to add something else but she doesn’t. “Anything else you need me to check out?”

“No. I got off lightly.” Andrew meets Neil’s eyes as he says it.

Neil lifts his chin, refusing to look away. “I’m not going to apologize for that.”

A glint of anger flashes in Andrew’s eyes. “Your safety is not less valuable than mine.”

“It’s not,” Neil agrees. “And I’m not acting like this isn’t a big deal, but I don’t regret what I did.”

Andrew stares at him for a moment longer before spinning on his heel and stalking away.

“Do you need to go after him?” Wymack asks. Neil’s glad he doesn’t request an elaboration on the cryptic argument he and Andrew just had.

“In a bit,” Neil promises. “He needs some space. I think I crossed a boundary when I stepped in. I figured it would upset him, but I decided I would rather deal with him being angry at me rather than watch him go through that and do nothing to stop it.” Like he told Andrew, he doesn’t regret it. He would do it again a thousand times if he had to.

Wymack nods and then sighs. “Are you hungry?”

“We haven’t eaten since Eden’s last night,” Neil says, carefully stepping around Wymack’s question. He doesn’t have an appetite, sure he still hasn’t fully processed the assault he just lived through, but he knows they need to eat.

That’s enough for Wymack, who moves to the door. “I’m going to make some dinner and you’re both going to eat.” Neil knows better than to argue. “Abby?”

“I’ll be right there,” she says, and Wymack leaves. “Nothing will be open until Monday morning, unless you want to go to the emergency room tonight.”

“I can wait,” Neil says. He doesn’t want to go to the emergency room—doesn’t want to go to a doctor at all, but he knows he needs those tests. “Monday morning is fine.”

Abby nods. “David will be fine with you missing morning practice for this—that way, you won’t have to skip class. Do you know what you want to tell the others?”

He’ll have to tell them what happened sooner or later, at least the censored version. “I’ll figure that out before Monday.” He wants to make sure he and Andrew are on the same page, and he doesn’t want to say anything he’s not okay with.

“You should at least tell them you’re safe,” Abby suggests softly. “They’ve all been worrying.”

“I will.”

Nodding, Abby gathers her bag. “I’ll stay for dinner, if you’re okay with it.”

“That’s fine.” He’ll check with Andrew; Abby won’t mind if he wants her to leave. “I’m going to go find Andrew now.”

Abby nods, sucks in a breath. “Can I hug you?” When Neil stands with a nod, she wraps her arms around him, holding him delicately, like he might break. “I’m sorry, Neil.”

It’s fine, he wants to say, his knee-jerk reaction. “Thank you,” he manages instead. Her arms tighten around his shoulders and then she releases him.

Neil doesn’t actually have to find Andrew; he knows exactly where he went after leaving Wymack's office. The sun has started to set by the time he steps onto Wymack’s back porch, hair still damp from a quick shower—he couldn't stand the sensation of the dried come-and-blood concoction on his legs for another minute—where Andrew is sitting on the steps with an unlit cigarette in his hand. Neil stands behind him, knowing his presence has been detected and giving Andrew a chance to turn him away.

“I hate you,” Andrew says roughly. It’s not a rejection, so Neil steps forward and sits next to him, keeping a comfortable amount of space between them.

“You don’t want to hear an apology.”

“I don’t,” he concedes, tapping the cigarette against his chin. “I do not want you to treat this like a game.”

Neil shifts so he can see Andrew’s profile. “I’m not,” he says. “It wasn’t a game. I didn’t want—”

Andrew cuts him off with a soft shh. “You talk too much.”

He’s referring to all of the things Neil said in that cell, he thinks. “Isn’t that what you signed up for?” he tries to joke, the words falling flat. Andrew scoffs. “I didn’t make that decision lightly.”

“I know.” Andrew flicks his cigarette. “You need to talk to Bee.”

Andrew is well aware of his aversion to therapy, so Neil doesn’t bother reminding him. “I told Wymack I’ll think about it.”

“I am not going to put you back together when you fall apart because you are allergic to help.”

Neil huffs. “I’m not going to fall apart.”

Andrew’s only response is a glare. He tosses his cigarette aside—still unlit—and leans forward, forearms on his knees. “Yes or no?”

Neil blinks. “Are you sure?”

“I am not going to repeat myself,” Andrew says blankly.

“Then yes.” Neil tucks his hands under his thighs, which Andrew notices but doesn’t comment on. He reaches forward and cups Neil’s face with both hands, rubbing the burn scars on Neil’s cheek with a thumb. Neil closes his eyes, melting into the touch.

Andrew exhales before speaking. “I do not like control being taken from me,” he says in a low voice. Neil swallows. “I had no way to reach you and nothing to do but watch.” Neil thinks of the bruises on Andrew’s skin, physical proof of how hard he tried not to watch. “But I will not say that it was better than the alternative.”

Neil nods as best he can with Andrew holding him. “You always protect me. Let me be the one to protect you for once.”

“Not if it means you get hurt,” Andrew says, and it reminds Neil of something he said once. He opens his eyes and Andrew scowls, flicking his cheek. “Do not say it.”

Neil smiles. “I’ll keep my own well-being in mind in the future,” he promises.

Andrew hums like that answer is good enough for now and goes back to stroking Neil’s cheek. “I still hate you,” he says, but his voice has softened considerably.

“I can live with that.” Neil lets the silence envelop them for a bit, knowing he inevitably has to break it. It’s nice, being able to feel Andrew against his skin after going so long being separated by cold iron bars. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he sighs, the moment broken. “I texted Matt before I came out here.”

Andrew doesn’t falter. “Oh?”

He nods. “I told him we were safe and would explain later, but I didn’t tell him where we are right now. I’m sure someone will check in with Wymack or even come here themselves, so I don’t know how much longer we have before that happens.”

“Unfortunate, but inevitable,” Andrew sighs. “What do you want to tell them?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you.” Andrew drops his hands and Neil takes a moment to mourn the loss of warmth. “I think we should tell them who took us, especially for Kevin’s sake, but the rest can be up to our discretion, I think.”

It’s Andrew’s turn to close his eyes. He’s utterly still as he turns it over, and Neil doesn’t rush him. “The details do not matter to them,” he says finally. “All they need to know is the Moriyamas wanted to remind you of your mortality.”

“We can manage that,” Neil says easily. Then he remembers: “Wymack is making dinner. Since we haven’t eaten today.” Andrew hums. “Abby asked if she’s allowed to stay for dinner.”

When Andrew doesn’t object, Neil nods to himself and they lapse back into silence.

Neil doesn’t know who he’s expecting to find them first, but it’s not Kevin.

When Wymack steps outside to let them know dinner is ready, he’s frowning. “You have a visitor,” he says. “I tried to chase him away but he wasn’t having it.”

“Who do I have to strangle?” Andrew asks, sounding bored.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t choke me again,” Kevin says, appearing behind Wymack and crossing his arms over his chest. “What?” he demands at the look Neil gives him. “You hole up at my father’s house and expect me not to find out?”

Andrew sighs loudly. “You will not leave if we ask you to, will you?”

“Not until you tell me what happened last night.” At Neil’s exasperated huff, he continues. “Roland called Nicky when he left the bar around four in the morning because your car was still in the lot and he didn’t remember seeing you leave. Nicky totally freaked. Woke everyone up.”

“Oops,” Andrew deadpans. He stands and Neil follows him up. “I heard dinner was ready.”

Kevin huffs, trailing behind them as they head for the kitchen. “Do you not care?”

“We haven’t eaten since last night, Kevin,” Neil says, losing his patience. “I promise we’ll explain after we eat.”

Kevin grumbles but doesn’t argue. Wymack hands them each a plate and they join Abby at the table. Everyone is quiet as they eat, but Kevin’s heavy stare is making the back of Neil’s neck itch.

When Neil finishes his food, he sits back, and Kevin doesn’t waste a second before tearing into him. “What did they want?”

“Kevin,” Abby admonishes softly, but they both ignore her.

“What?” Neil asks dumbly.

“The Moriyamas,” Kevin elaborates with an eyeroll. “What did they want?” Neil glares accusingly at Wymack but Kevin adds, “Don’t worry, he didn’t tell me anything. I figured it out myself. It wouldn’t make sense to be anyone else.”

Neil sighs. He’s glad the rest of the team isn’t here for this conversation. As much as they’ve learned from Kevin and himself, they’ll just never fully understand all the intricacies of the yakuza the way he and Kevin—and Andrew, now—do. He glances at Andrew to see if he wants to be the one to explain, but he’s suddenly very focused on the remaining food on his plate, so it’s up to Neil. “Ichirou wanted to flex his power a bit,” he says simply. “Intimidate us, basically. I haven’t done anything to break our deal, so he had no reason to kill us. He just wanted to push us around and then he let us go.”

“You spoke to Ichirou?” Kevin asks, skeptical.

Neil shakes his head. “He wasn’t even there, just two men I didn’t recognize.”

“And they didn’t hurt you?” Kevin’s frowning.

They did, but Neil isn’t about to tell Kevin that. “No new scars,” he says truthfully. “Apparently Ichirou didn’t want to rough me up too badly.”

This whole time, Andrew has been staring fixedly at his plate. Kevin turns to him, seemingly not content with Neil’s responses. “He’s lying about something.”

“Drop it, Kevin,” Andrew says, not bothering to look up.

Neil jumps in again. “We told you everything important—everything you need to know. The rest isn’t necessary. I need you to trust me on that.”

Kevin’s frown melts into something more devastated, and Neil wonders if he’s guessed the truth, or something close to it. “Okay,” he whispers finally.

Luckily, Neil knows just what to say to distract him. “Oh, Kevin?”

“What?”

Neil grins. “I’m going to miss practice Monday morning.”

And the broken expression disappears immediately. “What do you mean, you’re going to miss practice—”

Chapter Text

Andrew does not enjoy the sensation of waking up from a drug-induced slumber.

He doubts many people would like to be drugged against their will, but it is especially unpleasant for him, dredging up memories of a time where he spent most of his waking hours in a mandated drug-fueled manic episode, his only reprieves during a sport he has no love for and the handful of minutes before bed.

There's still enough of the drug in his system that his vision spins and he has to remain vulnerable on the ground for longer than he wants until he's able to sit upright without the threat of upending his stomach. He seeks out Neil immediately, drawn to him like a magnet. The striker is only a few feet away, but he might as well be back in Baltimore for all Andrew can do to reach him. A curtain of metal bars, the kind used in torture dungeons on TV, separate them, making their relative nearness functionally insignificant.

After this unhappy realization, Andrew casts a glance around him, filing everything away he sees as unimportant and not useful for escape. His arms are uncomfortably bare, as are his feet, and he resists the urge to plaster his forearms to his stomach. Unsurprisingly, his knives are long gone.

He and Neil aren’t the only people in this basement-dungeon; on the free side of his prison cell are two men he doesn’t recognize, lounging on wooden chairs at a table while they play a card game. They’re conversing lowly in a language he doesn’t understand but that he does recognize—between that, and their general appearance, Andrew can pretty confidently say he knows who has taken them.

Andrew hates Ichirou Moriyama. The younger brother was always unpleasant to deal with, but besides terrifying Kevin and thinking he could touch Andrew’s things, Riko’s reign of terror was largely insignificant. Not so for the new head of the Japanese mafia. Ichirou poses a threat to the people Andrew cares about that Riko could only dream of when he was alive—a sort of power he spent his entire worthless life scrambling for, only to fall far short of. Andrew never felt anything towards Riko beyond a deep disinterest and annoyance, like one would feel for a fly. Ichirou, on the other hand, evokes a yawning pit of helpless rage in Andrew as he looms over the shoulders of Kevin and Neil, the ghost of him in every choice they must make. He’s the embodiment of the freedom they will never have, the cost of a life spent in invisible chains. Andrew wants nothing more than to see everything Ichirou stands for burn to the ground, and if he could safely rid the world of him without risking Kevin and Neil’s lives, he would do it in a heartbeat.

But he has just woken up in a cell with Neil in the next one over, and he knows this is some sort of sick power play, a reminder of everything he can’t do.

Presumptuous of Andrew to think this is for him; more likely, Ichirou has something planned for Neil, and Andrew is either here as collateral or because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He cannot seriously believe Ichirou sees him as a threat, no matter how badly he wants to be perceived as one.

Despite having not made a single sound since waking, one of the card-players notices he’s upright and points him out to the other. Andrew feels vaguely like an animal caged in a zoo as they have a rapid back-and-forth he doesn’t understand a word of, casting glances at him periodically.

“Minyard,” one of the men says. He’s wearing glasses, and the other man seems to defer to him. His hair has a good deal of gray in it but he doesn’t look old or weak. Andrew doesn’t respond to his name and he doesn’t meet either of their eyes. “Don’t want to talk to us?”

In his attempt to ignore the men, Andrew’s gaze returns to Neil. He’s sprawled on his back in the middle of his cell like he’d been dumped there, sweaty curls plastered to his forehead and lips slightly parted. His chest rises and falls shallowly. Andrew aches with the need to feel Neil’s pulse under his hand.

Glasses notices where his focus is. “You woke up sooner than we expected,” he says. “Seems you have a higher tolerance than your friend.”

Friend. Andrew grits his teeth but doesn’t say anything. Maybe if he’s quiet long enough, they’ll get bored and stop trying to talk to him. He doesn’t feel like discussing his drugging and subsequent kidnapping with his captors, especially when they work for Ichirou Moriyama.

They’re losing patience with him. “Do you want to know why you are here, Minyard?” the bare-faced man asks, exasperated at his lack of reaction. “We have big plans for you. You are going to help us give Nathaniel a message from his master.”

Rage curdles in Andrew’s stomach. Casting a glance over, he catches sight of a pair of sinister smiles on his captor’s faces. “We could start now,”  he continues, directing his words back to his superior. “Get him nice and pliant.”

A copper tang fills Andrew’s mouth as he bites his tongue in an effort to remain silent. He stares hard at the floor, palms sweating and heart pounding. He feels like a child again, huddling under his blankets and praying that the bedroom door stays closed.

Glasses says something vicious in Japanese, then scoffs and leans back in his chair. “Pathetic,” he mutters. “Cannot wait a few hours to get your dick wet. Go jerk off in the toilet if you have to, but do not make it my problem.”

Andrew's thoughts ping-pong in his head and a hot flush descends over him. He wants to hide from their oppressive gazes; as it is, all he's able to do is retreat to the far wall and curl against it, still able to keep an eye on Neil's sleeping form and their captors as the men, now bored of Andrew, return to their card game and lapse back into Japanese.

Like when he first woke up, Andrew feels dizzy, but he knows it's not from the drugs this time. He wraps his arms around his legs in an attempt to block out the rush of panic, but the sensation of skin on skin only makes things worse, so he drops his legs and tries to breathe.

If he had his knives, if he had something, he could possibly find a way out of this. If Neil wasn't unconscious and out of his reach, at the mercy of their guards—who undoubtedly have guns somewhere on them—he would be able to at least try to escape without fear of his actions rebounding on Neil. But he's unarmed and alone, Neil out cold and unable to be reached. Andrew can't even try to wake him and make a plan because that's what their captors are waiting for.

So he's stuck sitting here, waiting for Neil to wake up so his nightmares become reality. If he's lucky, they'll leave Neil alone. If Neil can just keep his mouth shut, maybe one of them can get out of here unharmed. Ichirou has already decided that's not going to be him, so maybe it can be Neil.

Andrew huffs. Since when has Neil been able to keep his mouth shut? Relying on that is asking for trouble.

Tilting his head back until it rests against the wall, Andrew fixes his gaze on Neil, watching over him while he sleeps. His mind drifts to last night, the memories coming in snapshots like an old-time movie: speeding down the road to Eden's, Neil staring at him from the passenger seat with a hideously soft expression; getting to the bar and navigating the crowd with a practiced ease; ignoring Roland’s attempts to flirt with both of them while he pours their drinks, only paying half attention to his hands; Neil settled in the booth across from him with a dopey smile on his face as he sips his soda; the burst of strawberry and alcohol on his tongue and then the tingle of Neil’s drink as he kisses the taste of Andrew's from his mouth in a shadowy corner of Eden’s; the prickling sensation on the back of his neck of being watched going ignored, passed off as paranoia—a mistake, in hindsight. He presses harder and thinks he remembers Neil slumping against him suddenly, two figures boxing them into the corner (also a mistake; Andrew knows better than to willingly put himself in such a vulnerable position) but that's where his recollection ends. He doesn't bother to try and remember any more; that's likely when he lost consciousness, and he's not going to have any more memories to recall after that. 

Andrew wonders what Neil did to piss off Ichirou bad enough to drug and kidnap them in public. He doesn't remember Neil being any more antagonistic than usual, nor does he recall Neil saying or doing anything to jeopardize the ridiculous deal he and Ichirou made. But he's not stupid enough to think Ichirou is fighting fair, and in the end this could have nothing to do with Neil’s actions and everything to do with Ichirou’s desires regardless.

Not a fun thing to think about, so Andrew dismisses it. He searches through the coping mechanisms he and Bee have explored and eventually settles on counting to a thousand in every language he knows, fingers itching for a cigarette. The nicotine would help soothe the urge to claw out of his own skin, but his pack and lighter were both confiscated along with everything else he had on him.

Neil is still out when he finishes counting, so he starts over again. Since he's keeping track of the seconds, he knows it's another three hours before Neil stirs.

It’s as he reaches the seventies in German for the third time that Neil wakes violently, jolting into a sitting position like he’s about to run. Andrew fixes his eyes on the far wall but keeps Neil in his peripheral vision, remaining silent as the striker gains an awareness of their surroundings.

Andrew knows the moment Neil catches sight of him, the confusion on his face falling, replaced by a heartbroken expression that Andrew doesn’t want to think about.

“Andrew,” Neil whispers, trying to get his attention. Andrew resists the urge to shush him. Their captors had left the room sometime during his mental exercise, but they’re still nearby, their voices audible from here. He takes a moment to relish the sound of Neil’s voice, slightly hoarse but not strained from pain. Andrew wants to try to keep it that way.

Eventually, he does look Neil’s way, and Neil gives him a grimace. There are so many things Andrew wants to say, like the Moriyamas have taken us and they’re going to hurt me, I’m scared, I don’t want that to happen and are you okay? but none of those things are helpful right now, so he settles on “Look who’s awake. Get enough beauty sleep?” He keeps a tight grip on his emotions, swallows down the fear. Andrew has always dealt with things using what Nicky calls his “desert-dry humor,” and this is no different.

As he suspects, Neil ignores the comment. Andrew expects him to ask where they are or why, but instead he says “What happened?” as if he doesn’t remem—

Oh. He doesn’t remember. It’s apparent in the blatant confusion he woke up in, the slow realization of where he is, the idle press to what are likely new aches on his chest and sides. “You should stop getting roofied at clubs,” Andrew offers in explanation, which is probably the worst way he could have said that. It seems to do the job, at least, as he watches some of the confusion clear from Neil’s eyes.

He’s quiet for a moment before suddenly blurting, “I had a soda,” and Andrew supposes he’s mostly caught up. “You had a…”

Not quite there. “Strawberry daiquiri,” he prompts, hoping it’ll jog the rest of Neil’s memories free. He doesn’t know how much time they have until the men return.

But it seems Neil’s done asking questions; he stands, still not fully recovered from the drugs they were given, and explores their prison.

Andrew could tell him he’s already done that and found absolutely nothing, but he sees the way Neil seeks out the exit points in every room they enter, knows how badly Neil needs to know his surroundings for himself. So he waits, continuing where he left off earlier in his counting until Neil is satisfied.

Unfortunately, Neil is a loud thinker. And Andrew is very good at knowing what he's thinking, so when Neil’s gaze goes to his bare arms, his brow furrows, and his hand tightens around one of the metal bars like he's going to crush it, Andrew has a pretty good idea of what's running through his mind. So he whispers “Shut up” harshly, both to stop Neil from getting lost in his thoughts and to turn his attention back to Andrew. It's too soon for Neil to be having a breakdown; Andrew needs him to get through the rest of this.

His tactic works, at least—Neil locks back onto him, and after a final glance around his cell (Andrew notices the way his gaze snags on the shackles in the wall; he's been doing his best to ignore those himself) he makes his way to the row of bars separating their cells. “Andrew,” Neil calls out, despite the fact that Andrew is already looking at him. “Come here?” He’s practically shoving himself against the bars, as if feeling that same magnetic pull to be near him. Andrew debates whether it’s a good idea to be within arm’s reach of him right now, but in the end his soft spot for Neil wins out against his self-preservation. Unfortunate for him, really. I hate you, Andrew thinks, glaring at Neil as he gets to his feet slowly. It’s the first time he’s tried standing since waking up, and he feels the effects immediately—each step has to be slow, precise, or dizziness will cause him to fall.

Keeping his gaze on Neil, Andrew stops a few inches from the bar. His skin prickles under Neil’s scrutiny, but he ignores it. “Yes or no?” Neil asks, and the irony almost makes Andrew laugh out loud. How terrible is it, that the one person who ever respected his no is trapped out of his reach not even a foot away, staring at him like nothing else matters and asking for his consent, when Andrew knows there are two men nearby waiting for the perfect opportunity to take that choice away from him. Just hearing Neil say the words makes Andrew grit his teeth as he fights to keep his face impassive. Clearly, he doesn’t do a good job, because Neil rushes to explain himself. “I need to know you’re real,” he says, and Andrew’s mind echoes with thoughts of hallucination and pipe dream.

Andrew wants to scream. I hate you are the words dancing on his tongue. “I am real,” is what he says instead, and then, because he can’t seem to punish himself enough, “Hold out your hand.”

He steps back, firmly out of Neil’s reach, and watches as he slips his arm between one of the gaps. When Andrew connects their hands, Neil’s shoulders slump like the weight of the world was just lifted from them. “Not alone. Not this time.” Andrew couldn’t be there when Neil faced his father in Baltimore, but he can be here now. At least this day will end in fewer physical scars.

The thought isn't any consolation, but thankfully Neil distracts him by changing the subject. “Where are we?” he finally asks as he turns his head, voice rough.

And Andrew could say “I don't know,” because he doesn't. He could say “Wherever the Moriyamas wanted to take us,” because that would at least tell Neil the who, if not the where. But instead he asks “Who have you pissed off recently?” to cover the why.

At the question, Neil’s eyes unfocus. He thinks for a long moment but comes up empty. “I don’t know.”

Now would be a good time to enlighten him, Andrew thinks. He leans into the bars and hushes Neil as he starts to speak. “Listen.”

It’s almost painful to watch his face melt from an expression of intense focus to something akin to terror as he identifies the language their captors are speaking. “I haven’t done anything. I haven’t… I’ve kept up my end of the deal.”

And that’s what Andrew thought in the first place, isn’t it? Neil has not done anything to warrant an intervention like this. He swallows the rage welling up and says what he can to calm the panic Neil is slowly succumbing to. “Then we wait for an explanation. If you have done nothing wrong, then there is nothing to punish.” He knows it’s a lie, knows Ichirou is too powerful for something as useless as fairness. Neil knows it’s a lie, too, but that isn’t the point. The point is to throw logic, however flawed, at this until Neil is able to think clearly. Since Andrew can’t reach him, this is the next best thing.

Except Neil’s panic is too strong for logic to overpower. The scars stand stark on his face as his skin pales, his chest stuttering as his breaths falter. When this happens, Andrew’s first instinct is to grab Neil by the neck like he’s a kitten and simply tell him to stop—not a conventional way to deal with a panic attack, but it seems to work. The only problem is that Andrew can’t reach Neil to do that. Thinking fast, he lowers himself into a crouch, tugging Neil’s hand to get him to follow. He goes without complaint, and to Andrew’s surprise, reaches back and grasps his own neck with a trembling hand. Andrew isn’t expecting that, so he’s frozen for a second before he remembers. “Stop it.”

After a moment, Neil inhales with a full-body shudder, gasping like he’s never taken a breath before. Eventually, he’s calm enough to give Andrew his favorite catchphrase: “I’m fine.”

There are so many ways to respond to that, first and foremost calling Neil a liar. They both know that already, though, so Andrew doesn’t waste his breath. He also refrains from responding because the murmuring has stopped, and over Neil’s shoulder a figure melts out of the shadows, stopping in front of the bars. Andrew shifts his gaze; not for his own sake—he wants to avoid looking at the men’s faces as much as possible, already cursed to remember them—but so Neil knows they have company.

They’re out of time. Neil is awake, which means their kidnappers can follow Ichirou’s orders, which means Andrew—

Nope. He’s not going to think about it. He refuses to think about it.

Neil has already turned to face their visitor. His fingers slip from Andrew’s—he has to keep himself from tightening his grip—and stands so that Andrew can’t see the bare-faced man. It’s not hard to see what he’s doing; he thinks that if they can’t see Andrew, they won’t try to hurt him. It’s too bad his efforts will go unrewarded.

He demands to speak to Ichirou, which the man promptly ignores in favor of calling to his superior. Andrew can’t understand him, but he knows it’s probably something about Neil finally being conscious. Neil flinches back at the man’s bark of laughter before standing up straighter. “Good morning, Nathaniel,” a voice says smoothly—Glasses has entered the room. “So kind of you to finally join us. Your teammate has been waiting so patiently for you.”

Andrew bites his tongue and wills Neil to not turn around. No matter how good he is at hiding how he feels, Neil seems to have a sixth sense for his emotions. He’s worried that a single glance will spell everything out like reading a book.

Thankfully, other than a slight stiffening of his shoulders, Neil doesn’t seem to react. “I want to speak to Lord Moriyama. You obviously know who I am, which means you know what I am to him. I doubt he'd be happy you denied one of his investments an audience.”

Cute, Andrew would say if his heart wasn’t in his throat. You still think you can talk your way out of this. It’s almost amazing, the depth of his hopeful delusion. Andrew feels sick.

Glasses laughs again. It’s a nasally, ugly sound that Andrew knows is going to reverberate in his memory for months. “You are hardly an investment, merely a deal made to keep a few loose ends happy. Happy is much harder to control than dead.” Neil’s back slams into the bars at that and Andrew slides his fingers through to touch his shoulder in order to remind him he’s not alone. “Lord Moriyama is not here—he considered this visit beneath him. You are not going to die today. Your master merely wanted to give you a… reminder, let us say, of the length of your leash. And a request to not stray too far.”

Master. Reminder. Andrew pulls his hand back like the words burned him, rage leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Violence simmers in his veins, with no outlet to release it, the desire to kill Ichirou Moriyama overpowering every other sense.

Neil’s fingers slip between the bars, the movement drawing his eye, a silent bid for support. Andrew obliges and his fingers are squeezed in gratitude. “Don't break me too much; I still need to be able to play.”

Gritting his teeth, Andrew crushes Neil’s fingers in his grip, hoping it gets his point across—that Neil is an idiot with an Exy obsession as bad as Kevin Day’s, and the fact that it’s the only thing he can think of at this moment makes Andrew want to hurt him. If it was meant to be a joke, it wasn’t funny, but Andrew can’t berate him any more than this.

Glasses orders his subordinate in harsh Japanese and he approaches Andrew’s cell door. Neil shifts but doesn’t drop his hand, and Andrew finds it hard to take in a substantial breath. Bare-face busies himself with a ring of keys as the other begins to speak. “Do not worry, Nathaniel. We were asked not to leave any… visible scars.” Andrew would vomit if his stomach wasn’t empty. He’s dizzy and faint, and the feel of Neil’s skin against his quickly becomes unbearable. He yanks his hand free and uses it to clench the hem of his shirt instead like he can keep the man from taking it off.

Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, Neil runs his mouth. “Hey. Hey hey hey. Andrew isn’t… Andrew doesn’t belong to Lord Moriyama. You can’t touch him.” Panic bleeds from his voice, like this wasn’t an outcome he saw as a possibility and is scrambling to turn the attention back on himself. Andrew’s attention is split in two as Bare-face finally enters his cell, leaving the door open, and Glasses unlocks Neil’s door and steps inside, reaching behind him for something. Andrew knows it’s a gun before he sees it, and he doesn’t miss the way Neil goes rigid at the sight, not even flinching when it’s aimed at his head.

After that, Andrew is no longer able to pay attention to Neil. Bare-face backs him into a corner, Andrew matching his steps, desperate to get away from him. The open cell door over his shoulder is a taunt, something Andrew can’t even entertain with a loaded gun pointed at Neil’s head.

And still, Neil won’t shut his mouth. “You said I wouldn’t be dying today. Change your mind?” Andrew half expects Glasses to shoot him for that, but he knows Ichirou wants them alive.

Glasses gestures with his gun-wielding hand. “Incentive for you both to behave. You of all people should know, Nathaniel, how much damage a gun can do short of killing a man. As for Minyard… It is true he is not ours, but you know the consequences of speaking against us.”

No one will believe you, a voice whispers in his mind. Even if they did, the Moriyamas wouldn’t just sit around and let Andrew make accusations against them. He’s right, that Neil and Andrew know better than to say anything.

Neil says, “I’m going to kill you,” and Andrew wonders if their captor can hear the undertone of fear in his voice. Andrew opens his mouth to tell Neil to shut his before he gets hurt, but the second he takes his attention off Bare-face, the man lunges, grabbing his shirtsleeves and pulling. It puts Andrew off balance and his shirt tears at the force as Bare-face knocks him to the floor. He attempts to roll away, but terror locks his limbs as a knee digs into his back. A hand circles his wrist, twisting his arm painfully and pressing it against his back just above the knee already there.

The roar of blood in Andrew’s ears drowns out the continued exchange between Glasses and Neil, but isn’t enough to muffle the sound of the gun discharging.

Fuck, he thinks, and attempts to lift his head, expecting the worst. A hand pushes him down, though, mashing his cheek into the floor. Neil’s voice breaks through the blind panic as he says “You missed,” and Andrew’s chest lightens a miniscule amount at the confirmation that he didn’t just get shot mere feet away with Andrew unable to protect him.

“Warning shot. Next one will not be,” Glasses says. “Turn around, Nathaniel.”

And Andrew doesn’t want Neil to have to see this. Doesn’t want his trauma on display for the one person who sees him as more than an object or a monster. But he knows Neil has no choice, and he does his best to not accidentally meet Neil’s gaze as he presumably obeys the order. “No,” he whispers, and Andrew swallows tightly at the horror in his voice. Now that Neil’s watching, there’s no reason to wait. He braces himself.

But Neil is just starting. “Stop this. Call him off and I will do whatever you want.”

As far as begging goes, it’s probably the worst Andrew has ever heard. The desperation bleeding from every word; Neil’s habit of putting himself in danger to get others out of it. It’s so awful that Andrew can’t help but buck against Bare-face in some pitiful attempt to get free. Neil needs to stop. He needs to take what the Moriyamas are giving him and be grateful that it isn’t worse. “Shut up,” he says hoarsely, speaking German so the men don’t understand him. He knows it won’t be appreciated, but the feeling of a hand dragging down his back has him freezing, not attempting another word. He hopes it’s enough to get Neil to stand down. In no world does Neil's talking not make this worse for him.

The hand travels lower, cupping his ass, and Andrew’s vision is filled with static. He squeezes his eyes shut—as if that’s going to make the man disappear—and forces himself to listen for Neil’s voice.

He’s still talking. “…Leave him out of this,” he’s saying, when Andrew is able to understand him again.

Glasses considers Neil’s offer. “Whatever I want? What if I want you to watch? I feel like that will make the lesson stick.”

“It won’t,” says Neil, and Andrew hates him for it. “I’m not a visual learner.”

A cold finger slides under Andrew’s shirt and he flinches, limbs trembling with the effort it takes to keep still. Glasses lowers his voice until Andrew can’t understand him, and he doesn’t know what Neil has just agreed to when he says “Yes” a few moments later.

“On your knees, Nathaniel,” Andrew hears, and his stomach swoops terribly at the words. “If you ask me nicely, I just may honor your request.” There’s a hand on his back traveling up, dragging his shirt with it. The cold air on bare skin makes Andrew shiver, biting his lip to stay quiet.

“Please.” Andrew wishes he could cover his ears. As it is, he’s forced to listen, the hand exploring under his shirt now teasing at his waistband. His heart is rabbiting against the concrete floor, breaths coming shallow and fast. His mind betrays him, playing memories of his childhood like a twisted movie. Good manners are important, Andy. I’ll stop if you say please. Now it’s Neil who’s falling for it, begging on Andrew’s behalf. Bile rises in his throat.

His first try isn’t good enough for their captor. “A poor attempt from someone so good at using his words,” Glasses says. “Try again, Nathaniel, and this time be specific. What are you asking for?”

What is Neil asking for? To take Andrew’s place? He has to know how vehemently against that idea Andrew is. Andrew opens his mouth to tell Neil off in German, but Neil makes another attempt to plead, cutting Andrew off before he can start. “Please… please fuck me.” And Andrew was wrong, earlier, when he decided Neil’s attempt at begging was the worst he’d ever heard. This is the worst. The combination of words is like a knife to the chest, digging in and twisting viciously, and hearing Neil ask for it… Andrew wishes desperately he wasn’t conscious right now.

He hears laughter and vaguely recognizes it’s from Glasses. “Better. I see why the young lord keeps you around. How exhilarating it is to see you begging on your knees.” He adds something Andrew doesn’t understand and then the hand and knee are removed from his back. Andrew remains motionless, still braced for something terrible. His shoulders are grabbed and he’s maneuvered into a sitting position; he doesn’t fight it. “Hold Minyard still, if you have to,” Glasses says, and Andrew can finally see him again. He’s grinning maliciously at Andrew. “I don’t want him to miss a second of the show.”

Andrew finds his fight, then. He pushes off the floor and attempts to stand—he doesn’t have a plan, all he knows is he needs to do something. But before he gets far, an arm snags the back of his torn shirt and he’s on the floor again, this time with Bare-face barring him from moving with his arm firmly against Andrew’s middle.

Neil is on his knees facing away from Andrew, the sight so awful Andrew turns his head away on instinct. A hand grips his chin, forcing his gaze back in Neil’s direction, and lips brush the curve of his ear. “Be a good boy, Minyard,” he coos in Andrew’s ear. “Or when it is my turn, I will fuck him until he bleeds.”

Horror is a vice grip around his throat; Moriyamas have a history of not keeping their word—Riko, promising Andrew’s protection if Neil does as he says—but in no world does Andrew do anything to further aggravate their captors, not with the chance of Neil getting hurt worse. He doesn’t even care if the man is lying. His chest heaves as he fights nausea born of revulsion, but his gaze remains fixed in front of him.

He’s forced to watch as Glasses takes Neil’s chin in hand almost gently, a stark contrast to the fingers digging into his own. “How do you want me, Nathaniel?”

Andrew expects Neil to respond with a cutting retort, but he’s fully compliant as he says, “However you would like to use me.” He’s gotten his way, so he has no reason to further instigate. Andrew hates him.

“A little birdie once told me you liked handcuffs,” Glasses says, lifting one of Neil’s scarred wrists. Andrew very much dislikes the idea that random Moriyama men are aware of Neil’s time spent in the Nest, hates that it seems to be common knowledge.

Neil’s voice is dull. “You don’t need those. I’ll be good.” It very nearly has Andrew thrashing against his own flesh-and-blood restraints.

“Best not take any chances. And it will be easier for us to play with you if we are not holding you down. Do you agree?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Not good, Andrew thinks, wondering if he could get away with closing his eyes. Not good at all. He decides it’s not worth the risk and watches as Neil is guided to his feet. He moves like he’s in a daze, not even fighting back as Glasses leads him to the shackles he seemed so afraid of earlier. “Hands up,” he’s commanded, and Neil obeys, limbs trembling as his wrists are cuffed to the wall. He turns his head away and Andrew’s glad Neil at least doesn’t have to see him during this. If he’s lucky, his mind will protect him and block out this entire experience. Andrew knows that sometimes happens to people when they experience traumatic events—not to him, though. Never to him.

Andrew’s eyes lock onto the movement of hands sliding up Neil’s shirt. He digs his nails into the meat of his thigh, the pain distracting him just enough to keep his mind from sliding into the past. “Tokens from your father? Let us keep the shirt on, I think. The scars on your back must not be very appealing.” The hands continue down until they reach Neil’s jeans. “These, we can remove.” And because Andrew loves Neil more than he cares about himself, he watches as Neil’s pants are removed, Glasses taking the liberty to feel around while he does it and finally getting a response from Neil as he jumps. Glasses moves his attention to Neil’s face next, ignoring his now bare bottom half. “Open wide, Nathaniel. This will be as pleasant or unpleasant as you allow it. I recommend more saliva for an easier slide.” Andrew is never going to unhear the noises of Neil wetting the fingers that are about to invade him.

Fixing his gaze on the hem of Neil’s shirt, Andrew watches as it begins. It’s terrible enough just watching in his peripheral as fingers slowly fill Neil one at a time. Andrew supposes he could be taking less time to prep Neil, but that thought is so far below the bare minimum that it just makes him angry.

“Feel good, Nathaniel?” Glasses asks, pausing for a response he never gets. “No matter. We will get you there yet.” He continues to pump into Neil, and Andrew continues to watch, until Neil jerks, pushing himself into the wall. “There it is.” He’s found a rhythm now, drawing muffled sounds from Neil as he works him open. “Want to make a deal, Nathaniel? If you come like this, I will use it as lubrication. Otherwise, the only thing you will have is my spit.”

Andrew shudders, closing his eyes for a long moment. Fingers pinch the hollow of his throat and he jumps. “You are supposed to be watching,” Bare-face hisses in his ear. He keeps them closed until he gets a second pinch in warning and opens them in time to see Neil curl over himself, a hand jerking him through completion.

He wonders how many times bile can rise in one’s throat before it becomes impossible to keep down, and then he wonders if Bare-face would let him go if he vomits. He doesn’t, though, watching as Glasses uses his newly come-streaked hand to pull himself free. It only takes a couple strokes to get him ready; a thought that endlessly disgusts Andrew. He says something in Neil’s ear that Andrew can’t make out as he lines himself up, then he thrusts inside in one practiced move that has Neil plastering himself against the wall.

The knowledge that it should be Andrew against that wall plagues him, a knife in his heart with each subsequent thrust. The hand holding his chin forward travels down to his neck and squeezes, apparently trusting Andrew not to look away. It’s enough to make Andrew gag at the pressure, forcing himself to stare at the shackles digging into Neil’s wrists instead of the place his rapist disappears inside of him.

Andrew feels untethered from the world, floating, the only things holding him here the arm around his middle—that pulls Andrew flush against the body behind him, something hard digging into his ass that he desperately doesn’t want to identify—and the hand wrapping his throat. A second hand pushes the collar of his shirt aside and lips make contact with his shoulder. Andrew’s eyes glaze over as he shudders, terror settling over him like a weighted blanket and keeping him immobile. At least now he can’t make anything out through his blurred vision, but Bare-face fills up time by leaving bruises across his shoulders and over his back with his tongue and lips. He feels trapped in his own body, like even if he tried to move he couldn’t. A buzzing fills his ears, rendering him unable to hear anything besides the beat of his own heart.

He comes back to himself when the hands on him are removed, his collar smoothed back into place and adjusted with too gently a touch. A deluded part of his mind thinks Neil is the one doing it, but he doesn’t allow himself that false hope.

Teeth bite at his earlobe and he jolts, breaths heavy. “Did you enjoy what you saw?” Glasses gropes at his groin like he’s going to find Andrew hard, and a high-pitched whine leaks from his pressed-closed lips. “Too bad. Nathaniel wanted so badly to show off for you that he begged to take your place. How ungrateful of you, Minyard.”

In the other cell, Bare-face has lined himself up behind Neil and begins to run his mouth. “Look at you, all stretched and dripping for me. Such a pretty hole, flushed and twitching. Do you think Minyard will want to go when I am finished with you?” Andrew’s head spins. He doesn’t hear a verbal response, but the man continues. “A shame. It would have been hot to watch you two fuck.”

“Fuck you,” Neil says with horror, mirroring Andrew’s thoughts.

Glasses is much better at keeping his hands to himself than his subordinate, to Andrew’s displeasure—he wishes he could dissociate properly, so he wouldn’t have to hear what’s happening to Neil in the neighboring cell.

“Patience. I am getting there. Unfortunately for you, I am not as gracious as my friend here. I do not need to make you come to enjoy myself.”

Andrew’s only solace is that his vision is so blurred he can no longer properly see anything, but he is not so lucky with his hearing. Neil says, “How terrible,” in a not half-bad imitation of Andrew, and Andrew hates it. He wants to tell Neil to shut his mouth, but there’s a good chance Neil is too far gone to care about self-preservation now.

Bare-face says something inaudible but follows it up with, “Oh! You like that? Clenching around me so nicely.”

Andrew wants him to shut up, but he doesn’t, continuing to narrate all the filthy things he’s doing like it’s not bad enough to simply watch what’s happening. At one point, Neil whines, and he laughs in delight. “What a pathetic noise! If only your father could see you now. He would have found a better use for you by selling you out as a whore than trying to give you to that useless coach for that useless game. Maybe if we ask Ichirou nicely, he will redefine the rules of your contract.”

After that, Andrew entertains himself with visions of all the ways he could violently kill these two men. The exercise does wonders, really, clearing his mind for the first time since Glasses started his assault on Neil.

Neil screaming rips Andrew from his murderous thoughts and he lurches on instinct, ripping free from the weak hold Glasses has on him and making it nearly to the open cell door before he’s roughly pushed to the ground. “Stop it,” he forces out. “You are hurting him.”

It’s a child’s plea, a pathetic bid for them to stop. “Behave, Minyard, or we will go for round two,” Glasses hisses. When he’s let go, he does not move.

His cell door is shut and locked and he tracks Glasses as he joins Bare-face in Neil’s cell. He crouches on the floor beside Neil, grabbing a fistful of Neil’s auburn hair and forcing his head up. Neil’s eyes remained closed, lashes fluttering against scarred cheeks. “I trust that demonstration was… educational for you. There are much worse fates than death, Nathaniel. Do not forget that.”

The sound of Neil’s head hitting concrete is sickening, and Andrew finally loses control of the contents of his stomach—or lack thereof—and hunches over, vomiting a string of bile onto his cell floor.

Glasses is back in his cell, smiling down at Andrew as he wipes his mouth. “I think that went well. Will you behave, Minyard, while we return you if I let you hold Nathaniel? Or do I need to sedate you?”

There’s nothing Andrew wants to do less than touch Neil after what he just went through, especially when he’s unconscious and unable to consent, but if the alternative is leaving both of their handling up to the men, then Andrew will jump through whatever hoops they command so he is awake to protect them both. “I will behave,” he mutters bitterly.

“Wonderful.” Glasses pulls a strip of cloth out of his pocket. “Come get your teammate and we will leave.”

He doesn’t delude himself into thinking they trust him; there’s a loaded gun pointed at him at all times. Andrew is sure that while Ichirou left orders to keep Neil alive, that sentiment wasn’t extended to him. It doesn’t matter, though; they’re so close to freedom he can taste it, and he’s not stopped as he crouches down and slips his arms under Neil’s unconscious body. “Forgive me,” he whispers in German, resolutely ignoring the way his skin crawls at contact with Neil.

Andrew gathers Neil in his arms slowly, careful not to jostle him in a way that could cause him any more pain. When Neil is secure, he stands and exits the cell.

Glasses leads him down a series of tunnels, Bare-face taking the rear and fiddling with his gun’s safety as if Andrew will forget there's a firearm aimed at his back otherwise. They enter what appears to be an underground garage and Glasses opens the back door of a sleek back car Andrew is too tired to identify. “Get in,” he’s ordered, and once he’s inside Glasses stoops down, fabric outstretched. Andrew doesn’t have to be told to know it’s for his eyes and he sits still as it’s wrapped around his head and bound tightly.

Andrew could probably memorize the turns they take and retrace their route; he doesn’t do that, though—besides the bone-deep exhaustion making the effort seem too enormous to be worth it, he knows wherever they were taken is a useless location to the Moriyama empire. Besides, he and Neil have already been reminded of the consequences of telling anyone what happened here. So he starts to count again, clinging to the numbers to keep him sane until Neil is awake and they’re both safe.

Eventually, the car rolls to a stop, the engine a smooth purr beneath them. “Out, Minyard,” Glasses says after opening the door. The blindfold isn’t removed, so Andrew slowly lowers his feet to the ground and stands. A hand takes his shoulder and he jerks, tightening his grip on Neil. “This way.”

All it takes is the loss of one sense to be completely disoriented and confused. Andrew goes where he is led, straining for any noise or smells to alert him to his new location. Neil is dead weight in his arms but he doesn’t let go.

“Sit here.” Andrew finds a wall at his back and uses it to lower himself to the ground. The first thing he does is set Neil gently beside him and release his hold on the striker. He hates that he can’t see Neil like this, but he hates having to touch him more. A lump of something lands in his lap. “Wait five minutes before removing the blindfold. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand.”

A huff. “Until next time, Minyard. Maybe then I will have my way with you.”

If I do not kill you first, Andrew thinks—a promise. He says nothing, though, and eventually hears heavy footfalls of the man retreating. The engine roars and tires squeal as it peels away.

Andrew doesn’t wait the full five minutes—he waits one, to be safe, and then rips the blindfold off, desperate to lay eyes on Neil. He’s still out at Andrew’s side, legs curled beneath him and back against the alley wall. Andrew hopes it’s not an uncomfortable position, because he’s not going to try and move him.

With that settled, he turns to the bundle in his lap. It’s Neil’s jeans, but when Andrew picks it up, a smaller roll of fabric tumbles out—his armbands. Unrolling that reveals both of their phones; he pockets his and stuffs Neil's into one of his jean pockets for later. Then he slides his armbands on and sighs at the additional security they offer. Neil’s are nowhere to be found, but that’s okay. They have more at home.

Now Andrew can finally case where they’ve been left. It’s an alley he recognizes immediately from the summer months spent living on Wymack’s couch. It would take them less than ten minutes to make it to his front door.

Andrew thinks about it and decides to stay here until Neil wakes. He knows Neil would most likely want to go to Wymack’s, but he’s had so much taken from him today that Andrew won’t take this decision from him, too. He doesn’t want Neil to wake up in Wymack’s living room and have to immediately explain himself. So he settles back to wait, counting until he loses his grip on his own mind.

Hearing Wymack’s voice, he thinks, is what drags him back to reality. He’s standing on his doorstep, Neil awake and upright beside him, and Andrew knows if he searches his memories he will be able to recall exactly how he got here. But he doesn’t have the energy for that, so he saves it for another time and follows Neil into the house as Wymack throws questions at them.

Whatever Wymack is saying is unimportant, but the second Neil tries to say he’s fine, Andrew contradicts him. “Call Abby,” he tells Wymack with the last dredges of his energy as he settles on the windowsill. He doesn’t look away from Neil, though Neil isn’t returning his gaze.

“Bee, too,” Neil adds, like he’s being helpful. Andrew glares, which is predictably ignored. He is not asking for Bee because he plans to talk to her, he’s asking for Bee because he thinks Andrew needs to talk to her. Even after this nightmare of a day, all he can think about is Andrew.

Andrew hates him.

“I want a full explanation,” Wymack demands after calling the calvary.

Neil scoffs and mutters something unintelligible. He tries to move and quickly discovers the consequences of that; Andrew guesses he’s going to be unable to sit without pain for at least a few days, if not a week. Maybe Abby will ban him from practice, if he’s lucky. “It wasn’t even my fault, this time.”

And that’s not an answer at all, but Wymack doesn’t push him. He settles into an armchair with a heavy sigh, watching Neil like he’s going to make a run for it if he looks away. As if Andrew isn’t already watching him, though for a much different reason—he’s waiting for the inevitable cracks to form, waiting for the moment Neil falls apart, when his mind starts to process the horrors and they quickly overwhelm him. Andrew is well aware of the signs because he’s lived it countless times, and he knows Neil will push it all down and try to convince himself he’s fine. Maybe he will run when that happens—maybe Wymack isn't wrong.

When Bee arrives, she makes a beeline to Andrew— Bee, bee line, ha. Drugged Andrew would have loved that. Would have laughed his head off. Sober Andrew just digs a nail into his palm and unfocuses his gaze, ignoring Bee as she greets him. “Hello, Andrew. May I sit with you?”

Why not? Nobody else has asked him what he’s wanted today. Andrew watches wordlessly as she settles on the arm of the couch a couple of feet away—far enough that he can get away if she tries to touch him, he thinks, and hates that that’s his immediate thought. Bee brings her leg up to her chest, resting her chin on her knee. It’s a disarming position, and Andrew knows she chose it deliberately but he can’t bring himself to care. Her cardigan is oversized, swallowing her up in a way that seems incredibly comfortable. If Andrew had the energy, he’d go digging through Wymack’s closet until he found a sweater that would give the same effect, but as he’s currently struggling to form coherent thoughts, he dismisses the idea.

Bee is silent for a long moment, giving Andrew the chance to speak first. When he doesn’t, she says, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Not particularly. But Bee knows about every demon in his mind, knows the worst of the things that have been done to him. She was there for him after Thanksgiving, when he was too out of his mind to even process it. She advocated for his medicated sentence ending early, and no matter how unpleasant the process was—of which she was there for him after, as well—he would never not be grateful for the lengths she went for him. While the idea of recounting the day’s events in full makes him want to tear his hair out, he wants to extend her an olive branch. “I counted,” he says tonelessly, the effort those three syllables takes immense.

“You used a coping mechanism,” Bee extracts easily. He should be unnerved at how well she’s able to understand him, but all he can feel is comforted. “Something triggered you to use one of the strategies we discussed.” At Andrew’s lack of objection, she continues. “Do you want to tell me, or do you want me to guess?”

Andrew tilts his head to glare at her. She returns it with a steady gaze, unflinching under a look that would have Nicky folding in seconds. “You can try,” he challenges, some of the heat returning to his voice.

Bee’s lips quirk up. “All of our sessions together, and you still doubt my skills.” She almost sounds wounded. Then the ghost of her smile fades and she’s serious again. “It has to do with Neil.”

“That is a given,” Andrew scoffs.

Bee acknowledges that with a nod. “I’m starting with what I know. Neil said something you did not like?” She sounds less sure now.

“Too vague,” Andrew says, bored. “He does that every time he opens his stupid mouth.” He thinks for a moment, then adds, “But that is part of it.”

“Neil did something you did not like.”

Andrew raises a hand in a kind of gesture.

“Something was done to him?”

And there it is. Andrew nods once, gaze unfocusing again.

Bee does not speak for a long moment. “Andrew,” she says eventually, waiting until he gives her his attention. “Was Neil sexually assaulted?”

And no matter how many times Andrew and Bee talk about this, no matter how many times he hears the words or says them himself to try and lessen their power, ice still trickles down his spine when they leave Bee’s mouth. “Say the word, Bee,” he forces out, his throat a desert.

“Neil was raped,” Bee says, and Andrew is appalled at the evenness of her voice.

“Give her a prize,” Andrew drawls, heart threatening to burst through his chest. His palms are clammy; he wipes them discreetly on his pants.

But it seems like Bee isn’t finished. “Do you need to stop for a minute, Andrew? Or can we keep going?”

Better to do it all at once, he thinks, and waves his hand to say go on.

“Were you present the whole time?” He nods. “Could anything have been done to keep it from happening?”

He knows why she asks this; in the past, when he’s unpacked other instances with her, it’s helped to go through the what-ifs: could he have prevented it? If so, how? That way he can be prepared in the event it happens again. If not, then he needs to acknowledge that. Generally, it’s the latter, especially the farther he travels into the past. But Bee is always adamant that it’s never his fault in any circumstance. Maybe one day he’ll believe her.

But the irony of this time is that what Neil did had prevented it. For Andrew. “It was supposed to be me,” Andrew says, and does not elaborate.

Bee blows out a breath; maybe that is enough for her to piece it together. “You said part of it was Neil saying something you didn’t like. Did he intervene and take your place?”

“How many prizes are you trying for, Bee?” Andrew asks hoarsely.

But she isn’t done. “And you had to watch.”

Andrew’s jaw tenses. “Looks like you ran out of questions.” He hears movement in the hallway and falls silent. Based on the footsteps, it’s Wymack, but he doesn’t enter the living room. A door opens and then closes a few moments later. Andrew hears Wymack’s steps again and waits until he’s back in the office. This time, the door doesn’t shut.

Bee lowers her leg and leans forward. The low murmur of voices drifts from the office, and despite Andrew’s desire to know what they’re talking about, he respects Neil’s privacy and blocks it out. “You’re mad at Neil,” she says, returning to safer ground, making a point to not phrase it as a question.

Andrew glares but allows it. “We have established this.”

“You’re mad at Neil because he regarded you over himself—”

“Do not tell me you agree with him,” Andrew interrupts, eyes narrowing.

Bee cocks her head. “Your health and safety is equally as important as his, Andrew. One is not worth more than the other.”

Andrew isn’t satisfied with that, but he doesn’t fight it. As long as Bee doesn’t think that what Neil did was the preferable outcome. “We are done for today,” Andrew says.

And Bee doesn’t push him. “We can unpack this more when you’re ready. We still have our session this week.” She hesitates. “Will Neil want to talk to me about this?”

Andrew’s unimpressed stare is answer enough. Bee sighs. “I can reach out to him this week—”

“I will mention it,” Andrew says, cutting her off. Even though Neil called Bee here for Andrew knowing he would tell her everything, he does not want Neil to start receiving messages from Bee about things Andrew discussed with her. That feels like a violation of his privacy.

Thankfully, Bee accepts that as a compromise. “And—”

Andrew sighs loudly, turning his head and staring out the window. The sun hangs low in the sky; it’ll be setting soon. He wants to go outside and smoke, but Bee is holding him hostage in here.

“You know I have to ask, Andrew.”

After a long stretch of silence, Andrew sighs and nods once.

Bee asks, “Are you having any thoughts of hurting or killing yourself?”

Andrew tilts his head further against the glass; his breaths create a circle of fog around his face. “Not myself,” he answers, deciding to be truthful.

“Neil is safer with you than with anyone else on this planet,” Bee argues, and he swears he can hear the smile in her voice. Andrew flicks his fingers at her in dismissal and she laughs. “Call me if you need me, Andrew. And have Abby check those bruises on your neck before she leaves, all right?”

Andrew hums noncommittally, which Bee accepts as a response, closing Wymack’s front door behind her with a soft goodbye. Briefly, he considers ignoring her request, but it will give him the opportunity to have Neil in his sights again, so he takes it.

As he approaches the open office door, he pauses for a moment, considering the thought that maybe Neil doesn’t want him in there. If that was the case, though, he would have closed the door. Besides, Andrew was present for everything that happened today. Nothing Neil is telling Wymack and Abby will be news to him.

“Handcuffs?” he hears Abby ask as he nears the doorway, as if to prove his point.

Neil’s response is immediate, if strained. “I tried to tell him they weren't necessary,” he says, and Andrew scoffs.

“I’ll be good,” he mocks, announcing his presence. Neil turns to him immediately, the expression on his face too vulnerable for Andrew to handle. “Your martyr tendencies are not cute.”

Andrew can’t tell if Wymack is avoiding looking at him out of fear or some misguided attempt to give him space. Probably the latter, but that still angers Andrew as much as the former would.

He watches intently as Abby tends to Neil’s wounds. “I was not going to let you take my punishment,” Neil says, once again having the worst choice of words. If Andrew could stand touching him right now, he'd slap a hand over his mouth to shut him up.

“That,” he says instead, “was not a punishment.” It’s all he can manage from the rage closing around his throat, the words cold and biting.

“Hi, Andrew,” Abby cuts in, as if she can sense the violent exchange forming and seeks to intervene before it goes any further. “What do you need?”

For Neil to die a slow, painful death, Andrew thinks, his gaze fixed on the object of his murderous desires. Rather than attempt intelligent conversation after that lovely thought, Andrew lifts his chin, directing Abby’s attention to his tokens from the day. They really don’t need her scrutiny; Andrew has dealt with superficial bruises like these all his life and this is no different, but Bee asked him so nicely, the least he can do is oblige her. The most he can do, really, after kicking her out of Wymack’s house like he did.

Neil’s gaze on the column of his throat is more oppressive than Abby’s presence mere feet away. The nurse extends her hand and asks for permission before touching. It’s so far removed from how the bruises were made in the first place that Andrew has to brace himself before answering. He would laugh if he had the capacity for it, make a joke about the irony of it all, but all he can do is focus on ignoring Neil’s piercing eyes and the way he watches Abby too intently, like he’s ready to intervene at a moment’s notice. Abby. Andrew can count on one hand how many people have respected his bodily autonomy, and three of them are in this room. Neil is braced to push Abby away if she so much as breathes wrong. The thought makes Andrew want to commit murder; no one should be this ready and willing to fight for him.

He’s so focused on his train of thought that he almost misses when Abby inspects his bruises with her fingertips, her touch as light as she can make it. It still makes him queasy, but he presses the sensation down. Once she has her diagnosis she steps away as if he’s going to stab her with his confiscated knives. “Ice them if they start to hurt, otherwise just let them be.” Exactly what he thought she’d say. “Anything else you need me to check out?”

Besides a dozen or so marks left on his shoulders and back, he’s unscathed. No thanks to Neil. But Neil doesn’t know about them, and Andrew knows how to deal with hickeys—he doesn’t need Abby to give him any pointers. He makes sure Neil gets the brunt of Andrew’s anger as he says, “No. I got off lightly.”

“I’m not going to apologize for that,” Neil retorts, not flagging under Andrew’s glare, every inch of him a martyr. Andrew should just put him out of his misery at this point.

But he’s not letting Neil have the last word. “Your safety is not less valuable than mine.”

“It’s not,” Neil says, agreeing with him. Andrew is hating him more by the second. “And I’m not acting like this isn’t a big deal, but I don’t regret what I did.”

With that, Andrew crosses his threshold of handling Neil. He has no response to that and no desire to stand here looking foolish, so he executes a dramatic turn and storms out of the room—not that he had made it farther than the doorway in the first place. Kevin would be proud of his theatrics.

Andrew scowls. He does not want to think about Kevin Day right now. Or ever, really.

He barely makes it to Wymack’s porch in time to fall to his knees and vomit in the bushes that line the concrete. The day has been a losing battle with his stomach, the drugs and lack of food and trauma and Neil making that task all the more difficult. He’s surprised he’s only thrown up twice today. At some point, he should probably eat, but just thinking about it makes him nauseous again, so he dismisses it outright to worry about later.

The sun is at the point in its descent where colors bleed across the sky and permeate the clouds, one last desperate grab for attention before it sinks below the horizon yet again. Andrew wonders what would happen if it didn’t rise in the morning. Chaos, probably. What happens when the one constant an entire civilization is built around disappears? Besides the obvious, of course.

Andrew’s nicotine craving hits him like a truck just then and he pulls out the pack he swiped on his way out the door—he has emergency stashes pretty much everywhere he might need them, no, it’s not a problem— and tips a cigarette into his hand before realizing, one, that he still hasn’t replaced the lighter the Moriyama lackeys had taken, and two, smoking on an empty stomach would absolutely make him sick again. He doesn’t feel like returning inside to search for a lighter and he doesn’t feel like throwing up a third time, however, so he settles for rolling the stick between his fingers, as if the simple act of holding it will stave off the craving.

That’s how Neil finds him an indeterminate amount of time later, lounging on the steps and cigarette clutched in his fingers like a child’s comfort toy. Neil doesn’t bother announcing himself with words, trusting Andrew to recognize him from presence alone. Andrew hates that he’s so well understood, and he says as much: “I hate you.”

Anyone else would have heard those words and immediately gone back inside, but not Neil. He treats them like an invitation, joining Andrew on the step and leaving a gap larger than he would normally bother with, and Andrew knows it’s deliberate. He would give Neil another I hate you for that, but he detests repetition nearly as much as he can’t stand the word misunderstanding, so he leaves it unsaid. “You don’t want to hear an apology,” Neil correctly guesses. Add apologies to the list of things Andrew hates, starting with Neil Josten written in bold, underlined letters at the top.

“I don’t.” He’s heard enough out of Neil’s awful mouth for one day. And before he can stop himself, he adds, “I do not want you to treat this like a game.”

It’s vague, and this could mean anything from whatever thing is between them they have yet to label to the stunt Neil pulled this morning, but Andrew trusts him to read between the lines. Neil may be oblivious at times but he’s not an idiot.

Neil seems to be following him perfectly. “I’m not. It wasn’t a game. I didn’t want—”

“You talk too much,” Andrew says before he can hear the rest of that awful sentence. I didn’t want it. How many times had he said that same thing to himself, having learned early on that nobody else would believe him? Hearing it out of Neil’s mouth might just be his breaking point today.

Neil’s lips twitch and Andrew braces himself for the next stupid thing to come out of his mouth. “Isn’t that what you signed up for?”

Andrew is not amused.

“I didn’t make that decision lightly,” Neil says when it’s clear his attempt at brevity crashed and burned, modifying his aborted statement from earlier.

And no matter how angry Andrew is at Neil, he never once thought that he’d done what he’d done on a whim. He knew too much about Andrew’s past—and cared for him anyway, what a novel thought—to do that. “I know,” he says flatly and makes a flicking motion with his cigarette as if he’s tapping ashes from the end. “You need to talk to Bee.” He knows the answer already, but he told her he’d mention it, so he is.

“I told Wymack I’ll think about it,” Neil says, and the lack of an immediate no almost has Andrew raising his brows in surprise.

He won’t reward that, though. “I am not going to put you back together when you fall apart because you are allergic to help.”

“I’m not going to fall apart.” And he’s back to lying—or at least, attempting to convince himself otherwise. Andrew doesn’t dignify it with a response.

He flings his cigarette into the growing darkness before them—a waste of a perfectly good cigarette, he thinks, but the dramatic flair is necessary—and leans toward Neil slowly, waiting for revulsion that never comes. It’s as pleasant a surprise as he's ever going to get, so he braces his arms on his knees and says, “Yes or no?”

Neil is as shocked as he is, evidently. Andrew watches his brain buffer before he finally manages, “Are you sure?”

“I am not going to repeat myself.” The list from earlier returns to mind, and this time repetition is underlined and Neil’s name is written in red pen.

That’s enough to convince Neil that he hasn’t lost his mind. “Then yes,” he says quickly, eagerly, attempting to discreetly trap his hands under his legs. It doesn’t escape Andrew’s notice, gaze catching on the movement, and he scowls. Neil doesn’t even have the decency to look sheepish.

Just like Neil in the cells that morning, Andrew needs to feel him to know he’s real. He brings both hands to Neil’s face, not missing the way his eyes flutter closed before Andrew’s even touched him— too trusting, he thinks sourly, and his heart clenches—dragging his thumb over the scars he’s become more familiar with than his own. He feels rubbed raw, all of his nerve endings shot from warring against his fight or flight for most of the day. What would be the harm in pushing himself just a bit more? “I do not like control being taken from me,” he says, and pauses. In his grip, Neil stills but doesn’t tense, and Andrew watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. Andrew continues: “I had to way to reach you and nothing to do but watch. But I will not say that it was better than the alternative.” He won’t do that to himself or to Neil, say that he preferred it this way.

“You always protect me,” Neil says, head jerking in Andrew’s hands in an attempt at a nod. “Let me be the one to protect you for once.”

Andrew frowns. “Not if it means you get hurt.”

If it means losing you, then no, Neil’s voice says in his mind. Andrew’s frown deepens at the recollection, and Neil clearly has the same thought because his eyes blink open and he fixes Andrew with an amused expression. Andrew flicks his cheek in a half-hearted attempt to wipe the smile from his face. “Do not say it.”

“I’ll keep my own well-being in mind in the future.”

It’s not the teasing Andrew expected from his mouth so he allows it, once more smoothing his thumbs over Neil’s face. He’s no longer sure if the touch is for him or Neil. “I still hate you.” It’s necessary to remind the smug striker of his place, if the self-satisfied grin he’s giving Andrew is any indication of what he’s thinking.

“I can live with that,” Neil says easily, like it’s nothing. Andrew briefly entertains the idea of killing him, but ultimately decides it will take too much effort. He’ll keep Neil around a while longer. For convenience.

Chapter Text

Neil’s world begins and ends in this tiny, confined cell.

He’s on his knees, Ichirou Moriyama standing above him, and he doesn’t have to look to know what is happening behind him: Andrew, pinned to the floor, watching while Neil begs to take his place.

“Please fuck me, my Lord,” Neil forces out, swaying on his knees.

Ichirou’s lips curl up in a sneer. “Not good enough,” he says, reaching forward to grab a fistful of Neil’s curls. “Time for you to learn your lesson, Nathaniel.”

Blood roaring in his ears, Neil thrashes, clawing at Ichirou’s arm until his hands are pinned behind his back, kicking out with his legs until knees pin them to the floor. He’s immobile.

Neil blinks, and they’ve swapped positions. Andrew is hanging by the shackles on the wall while Neil watches a guard work him open roughly. He writhes, but the body holding him down gives him no room for movement. Neil can’t tear his eyes away from Andrew as the guard slams their hips together, Andrew somehow remaining silent through it all. The moment Neil is free, he swears he’s going to kill all of them

Breath is hot on the side of his face. “Neil,” Ichirou says into his ear, and that’s wrong. Ichirou never calls him Neil. Ichirou has always called him Nathaniel, when he deigns to address him at all. “Wake up. Neil.”

“Abram, wake up.”

Neil throws himself upright, expecting to meet resistance in the form of Ichirou pinning him down and tumbling to the floor when he doesn’t. He groans, turning on his side and staring at the ceiling above him. “Fuck.”

Andrew gazes down at him, arms crossed over his chest and an unimpressed look on his face. “It’s a good thing you did not overreact.”

Scrubbing the sleep from his face, Neil uses his free hand to leverage himself upright. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

Andrew doesn’t bother reprimanding him for his apology; this is the third night in a row Neil has dreamed about the cells. It’s not the first time Ichirou has made an appearance, but he’s never had to watch Andrew… well. It’s a good thing Andrew woke him when he did.

“You always wake me,” Andrew huffs, but Neil can see the soft worry in his eyes. “Roof?”

“Yes,” Neil says, pushing himself to his feet and not bothering to grab his shoes before following Andrew down the hall and up the stairs. Normally, Andrew doesn’t bother asking; he just leaves and expects Neil to follow. But this week, they’ve retraced their steps, asking each other things that had always been easy yeses in the past. Neil won’t admit how much it’s helped.

Outside, the night breeze brushes the heat from Neil’s face, the concrete cold on the bottoms of his feet. Andrew sits on the ground and leans against the lip bordering the roof. Tonight is not a night to dangle off the edge of a tall building, it seems. “The begging is new,” he says once Neil has settled beside him. He has yet to go for his cigarettes, and Neil is quietly grateful. He doesn’t need any more reminders of the past right now.

“Begging?” Neil asks, stomach sinking.

Andrew inclines his head, gaze fixed on the sky above them. “Most of the time, all you do is scream.” It’s too close to sunrise for the stars to be out; the sky is still dark, but there’s a haze of light on the horizon where navy fades to something softer.

“Oh.”

If Andrew is bothered by Neil subjecting him to his pleas all over again, he doesn’t show it. “Did it work?”

“Did what work?” Neil asks, frowning. Andrew simply stares at him, not bothering to repeat himself or clarify for Neil’s sake. He retraces their conversation in his head until it clicks. “Oh. Not this time.”

Andrew hums, staring unseeing at the sky above them. He doesn’t respond, so Neil takes it as permission to continue. “I know it wasn’t real,” he says quietly, lifting a hand to mimic the way Ichirou had pulled at his hair. It stings, just like it had in the dream. “But Ichirou was holding me down, and I couldn’t get him off of me to reach you—”

“Ichirou?” Andrew interrupts, noticing and halting the beginning of the spiral before it takes over. Neil forces his shoulders to relax and nods, tugging his hair again. The pain grounds him.

He notices the way Andrew’s gaze drifts to his curls. “My imagination took a few liberties,” he explains. “It’s never the same dream twice.”

“How refreshing,” Andrew deadpans, something in his expression shifting. “Yes or no?”

Neil blinks, startled. He isn’t expecting the question, not while they’re having this conversation. Noticing his hesitation, Andrew clarifies, “Can I touch your hand?” and Neil realizes what he’s asking.

“Yes,” he whispers, and lets Andrew reach up and circle two fingers around his wrist, gently extricating Neil’s hand from his own hair. Neil’s fingers twitch, but he forces them to go limp as Andrew slides them between his own. This is nice. They’ve had a sharp decline in touching each other this past week, for obvious reasons, and Neil has missed the comforting weight of Andrew’s palm against his. He sighs as Andrew slowly brushes his thumb over the back of Neil’s hand. “Why am I like this?” he blurts before he can stop himself, the gentle touch making him vulnerable and soft.

Andrew stills for a moment before continuing his rhythm. “‘This’ is normal,” he says, impatient. “I know you spend too much time around Kevin Day, Josten, but you are not a perfect, emotionless stickball machine. Most people react negatively to experiencing trauma.”

“But I…” he trails off, frustrated. It’s hard to speak freely about this around Andrew, knowing his past. He doesn’t want to be responsible for bringing up unpleasant memories, doesn’t want to be the reason Andrew is hurt. Again. He’s already done that enough this week. “The dreams feel unnecessary,” he amends, moving away from what he actually wants to say.

Andrew doesn’t fall for it. “Let me decide what I can handle,” he says, like he knows Neil is censoring himself. “Talk. It will help.”

Maybe he’s only saying it to make Neil feel better, but he knows it’s more than that. For all of Neil’s dislike of therapists, he knows that talking to Bee genuinely helps Andrew. He’d had his usual session with her yesterday, in which Neil can only assume he discussed what happened with her, and while he’d come out of it exhausted and uncharacteristically quiet—which is saying something—it was hard not to notice how much calmer he seemed afterward, limbs still where before they had fidgeted with excess energy.

Neil hears the permission in Andrew’s words, and since he’s Andrew’s biggest cheerleader when it comes to his boundaries, he takes it without guilt. “But I asked for it,” he says quietly, the words still hard to hear out loud.

Beside him, Andrew doesn’t move, doesn’t shift or tense or pull away. Neil takes the silence as him gathering his thoughts, so he doesn’t interrupt, tracing the ridges of the rooftop with his eyes. The AC unit on the other end kicks on, a low, soothing drone. Above them, the sky continues to lighten in increments, as if allowing them to slowly adjust to the dawn of a new day. “You did not ask because you wanted it,” Andrew finally says, tone leaving no room for argument—his word is law. “Do not mistake your begging for consent.”

“But—” Neil tries, still unable to get past the fact that he asked them to fuck him.

“Stop saying stupid things,” Andrew cuts him off, somehow still reading his mind. “You may have asked with your words, but you did not want it. Tell me I’m wrong.”

It sounds like a challenge, but it’s really a question. Neil swallows, shaking his head. “I didn’t want it,” he admits, and it feels like something is stabbing him in the chest. “I didn’t want it,” he repeats, unable to draw a full breath. “I didn’t… fuck.”

“Neil,” Andrew says, voice small and far away. “Hand on your neck, yes or no?” Normally, Andrew wouldn’t ask before touching Neil there; it’s become an always-yes for them. Normally, Neil isn’t sitting beside him, verbally admitting he was raped. Normally, they aren’t both reeling from an incredibly traumatic event.

Andrew is waiting for his response, so he gathers enough presence of mind to choke out, “Yes,” relaxing almost immediately once Andrew has a grip on his neck. Once, Nicky caught Andrew calming Neil down like this and joked about Neil being Andrew’s kitten. He left soon after Andrew’s knives made an appearance. Still, the image of Andrew holding him by the neck like a mother cat with its baby is amusing enough that Neil stutters out a laugh, the tightness restricting his chest receding until he can breathe normally again. “Thank you.” It’s for more than just pulling him from the brink of a panic attack; it’s for everything. He doesn’t say that, though, letting it rest silently between them. Andrew will only berate him for it.

“Stupid things,” Andrew says anyway, voice flat. “Next time, I’ll let you choke on your own breath until you pass out.”

“How horrifying,” Neil replies, unable to stop the smile from spreading over his face. “What will Nicky say about you neglecting your kitten?”

Andrew uses his grip on Neil to shove him away, glaring. Neil laughs openly, tilting his head back as he shakes with it. “Done having your mental breakdown?”

“Yes,” Neil says once he’s calmed down. He doesn’t say thank you again, though he wants to. He can tell Andrew knows based on the single raised brow. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep anymore tonight. Will you be okay if I go for a run?”

Andrew mulls it over. “Is your phone charged?”

“Probably.” He left it on the bedside table, since he knew he’d be with Andrew the entire time.

Andrew grumbles under his breath. “Only if you keep it on you.”

Grinning, Neil taps his forehead with two fingers. That pushes Andrew over the edge; he stands without a word and heads for the stairwell, expecting Neil to follow him.

Like always, Neil does.