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Andrew watches as Neil twists, turns and writhes, fighting with the sheets. The movements only manage to restrict him more.
Neil feels as if he has been swallowed by an enormous snake, feels trapped in its body heat, no way to escape but its mouth, but fighting his way through venomous teeth sounds exhausting and he is already so tired. He goes still in the belly of the beast.
When Neil has given up struggling Andrew peels some of the restricting covers off him. Neil radiates heat and it feels like a warm breath hits his skin as the warmth rolls off him in waves. He is still breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly, but he lies scarily still.
Stillness feels like defeat for someone that sees running as freedom, so only when Neil starts twitching again can Andrew feel the weight of worry fall off his shoulders.
He strokes Neil’s jaw and traces the facial scars that adorn him, left there by his own flesh and blood. Andrew occasionally wonders how it would feel, to be placed between the jaws of a father.
Would it carry the same warmth as an embrace?
He wouldn’t know how a father abuses, is it different from the way half a brother does?
Can you blame him? Andrew wonders if he means the father or himself for pondering, it is not completely clear to him either.
Neil groans and turns away from him. His back towards Andrew and his face toward the wall. His favourite sleeping position, old habits die hard. Andrew closes his eyes and lets sleep overtake him.
-
Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Neil knows this by heart.
He has to eat the grain that is cut for him by his father's sickle, taste the metallic unease in the bread, for bread and burdens shall be shared. Eat from the hand or get turned into food by the hand.
The sickle is hooked around his neck as he is tugged forward. He feels blood dripping like sweat, thick, warm and sticky. It oozes from the wound he can’t see.
“Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses.” Neil tells him. Nathan smiles down at him, seemingly pleased by the modification of an easy prayer. He is his creator so he is his god.
Don’t cut the hand that taught you.
Skin the animals his grandmother bore, look into their eyes as they go from fearful to dull. Don’t waste anything. Don’t waste the lesson, improve immediately after feedback, don't dare to make mistakes. There is no learning curve, be instantly good or he is not seen as a son of his father, and he knows what will happen then.
Eat or get eaten, You must devour before the opponent can even open their mouth, Father and Lola taught him with smears of blood around their stained mouths. Feed and take.
Take and run. His mother, Goddess of the God, has deceived his father. Got him out of bed and wrapped a stone in his blankets. Yesterday he played Exy with Riko and Kevin. Neil got a reminder and they got a lesson from his father. To endure and to eat, to consume entirely. But that was yesterday and today he is leaving.
He leaves his room behind with its nice clothes, stuffed animals, drawings and the ancient map of Crete on the wall. He thinks he leaves his life behind, but that is not true. It will follow him to the ends of the earth.
-
Night practice. Andrew sits in the stands, he has refused to join them. He hears Kevin yell commands at Neil, but Neil doesn’t bother to listen. Neil runs gracefully across the court. Andrew is observing the way his muscles move as he jogs, the way his shorts move. He likes to watch without being seen.
Underneath the bright light everything seems sterile in a way. Bright light disinfects. The well oiled court floor and their skin is shining. They’re gleaming with sweat. Andrew watches Neil shine, normally only his scars catch under the light. The white raised skin protruding from its otherwise soft and smooth surface.
Scars brought to him by the butcher, like a lamb to the slaughter. Does the butcher eat his own work? Does a father eat his own son?
If he did, where would you like him to start? Your head, so your unavoidable end comes sooner – or your arms, so you can feel his way of loving longer?
Andrew shrugs to himself, shakes his head and watches Neil and Kevin clearing the pawns. Their helmets are off, and he watches Neil drag his hand through the hair that is currently plastered to his forehead, pushing the sweat drenched strands back.
Andrew stays in his seat in the bleachers for at least a few extra minutes, before he drags his body up and down to the court, to the dressing rooms. When he gets there, Kevin is already busy getting dressed, his wet hair dripping small droplets on his shirt. He still hears the shower running.
“You should join us next time.”
“I’d rather die,” he says as he makes his way towards the shower stalls, ignoring whatever Kevin says about it being good for him.
There is only one shower door completely closed and Andrew raps his knuckles three quick times against the wood.
“Andrew?”
He makes a sound of acknowledgment. There is the telltale sound of a door unlocking. The redhead opens the door and Andrew takes a second to take him in, watching the droplets slide down from his face to his neck to his chest. Neil’s lips quirk up into a tiny smirk.
Andrew raises his brow in question. “Yes, always yes” Neil opens the door wider so Andrew can enter. The blond closes the door behind him and Neil immediately closes in on him. Blue eyes are the only thing he can perceive right now. He feels Neils breath on his lips, can almost already taste his tongue in his mouth and feel his hands on his waist.
“Andrew,” Neil says. He doesn’t say please. Of course not, he knows better than to beg.
-
Forever an only child, but still having to compete for your father’s approval and love. Earning it, claiming it, fighting for it like a bloodthirsty animal for the last piece of meat. It’s only a piece of dead flesh you’re after and you know it, but disgust doesn’t make your stomach coil like hunger does. It never does.
-
Maybe father does this out of fear, maybe he is just like his father, but being like his father means that you’ll never have the chance to be like father.
Andrew knows what longing feels like. He is familiar with a want that makes his finger tips burn with need.
Andrew is filled with desire and it repulses him. Desire makes you human, it makes you vulnerable.
To desire, to need, to want, to breathe, to eat, to live for.
To die for.
Neil, the highest honour. Kissing him can feel like it is not enough. Andrew wants to consume, become one. He is tired of pretending he doesn’t know whose legs belong to whom when they’re tangled up in each other.
He kisses Neil deeper, strokes his thumb over their intertwined fingers. Whatever he can’t say out loud he hopes he can convey in this way.
“Andrew,” Neil says. He doesn’t say please. Of Course not, he knows that whatever it is Andrew will give it to him.
-
Father does this out of fear.
(To kill is to protect in some sick way, but what are you protecting? (yourself or your family))
Fear that your love for him will not be stronger than your lust for murder.
Or your urge to be just like father.
Neil uses his body as if it’s an offering. Andrew could eat and eat and eat and never get tired of his taste.
Everything eats and is eaten, time is fed.