Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air was thick with a weight unknown to the Living. A cold that seeped through even the deepest shadows, clinging like a whispered threat. In the corners of the Between, hushed voices stirred — low, uneasy, and edged with something long absent, a disturbance not felt since ancient times.

Down a long hallway, too dark for the flickering lanterns to truly pierce, two figures stood in silence. Their cloaks pooled like ink on the stone floor, faces veiled beneath heavy hoods that swallowed the light. Not a sound escaped them, save for the faint rustling of their robes — an almost imperceptible shift against the stillness that held the space captive.

One of them moved, just enough to break the illusion of statues. In the dim glow, a voice rasped low, carrying the weight of centuries yet eerily familiar to the hollow echoes of fate.

"He was meant to be taken later.” A murmur. “But… leaving him there would have been a damnation."

"He won’t find peace," the second figure said, voice colder than the void between them. "The path to the Afterlife is closed. A soul taken before its time — without sanction, without purpose — cannot pass."

A pause. Meaning settled between them, heavy and absolute.

"And yet, he will no longer suffer."

"True," came the measured reply. "The torment ends, but the journey... severed. His fate is sealed."

"What shall become of him now?"

"It is not for us to decide."

Silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding, as if the Between itself was holding its breath.

"Who would commit such cruelty against a child?" the second figure asked, voice low.

"It was his father."

Chapter Text

answer

noun

a solution to something uncertain; often found before it’s understood, and searched for without knowing the question

(Found underlined in Nathaniel’s school book A Sentry’s Guide to the Celestial Spheres.)

Nathaniel

Sunlight poured over the world, bright and weightless.

Nathaniel’s boots were quiet as he stepped onto the rooftop, his long black cloak dragging over the rough concrete as the now-familiar stillness of his existence settled around him. He pushed back his hood, blinking against the light after the darkness of the Between.

Above him, the sky stretched wide — soft blue, pale at the edges, endless. The air was thick with warmth and the distant sound of children.

A school, he realized. In itself not surprising — he was often sent to collect children, something about making use of his youth for as long as it lasted. Apparently, he was less frightening for young souls than being greeted by one of the ancient ones. Or something like that — Nathaniel had long given up on trying to make sense of the neverending list of rules and guidelines the ancient sentries had come up with over the centuries.

It was his first time collecting a soul on a rooftop, though. Usually, he picked them up on streets and sports fields. More often, in hospitals and family homes.

Below, a playground sprawled across cracked asphalt, faded hopscotch lines barely visible in the sun. Someone had dropped a juice box near the fence, a pair of trainers lying forgotten beside it. The rooftop itself was barren except for a few air vents, pipes snaking along the edge, and a soda can crushed flat, long abandoned.

He knew why he was here: a life was near its end, a soul waiting. That was how it usually went — an accident, a crash, something so sudden they barely had time to register it. Their path ended, and Nathaniel was there to make sure they moved on.

The gentle chime of the guiding bells faded into the background of his mind, signaling that he had arrived where he was meant to be. He was still getting used to the pull of it, the way his feet knew where to go before he did.

Nathaniel had died when he was ten. A year ago, maybe more, maybe less. Time blurred in the Between, the space between Life and Afterlife. He didn’t remember much of the moment when it happened. His father looming over him; pain; not much more. Vaguely, he thought his mother had been in the room with them, but couldn’t be sure.

Memories faded after Life.

He knew, however, that his death had been unforeseen by the Path — the force that supposedly governed all things. With nowhere for him to go, they kept him in the Between. Put him to work. A sentry. A guide. Not passing, not living. Just... here.

Death, if you will.

There hadn’t been a new one of their kind in decades, maybe centuries. They weren’t immortal — they aged, grew older, but after a while it happened at a pace so slow it barely seemed to matter. Some of them were ancient, the kind of old that belonged to forgotten times. A few looked like a strong wind might finally finish the job. So it made sense that new sentries weren’t exactly common.

And yet, here Nathaniel was. Look at him, all special.

Clearly, they hadn’t been prepared for him — judging by the confusion when he had arrived. The whispered "A new one?" and "Already?" and "Him?" had followed him around for months. Someone had to be found to explain this new... world? Whatever the Between was. What he was, what was expected of him. Why.

Not that anyone ever really answered the why. They only ever talked about his interrupted path, and about how it would all make sense when he was older.

Thinking about those old geezers, Nathaniel wondered just how old they expected him to be before that happened.

The best explanation he’d gotten came from Stuart, a British sentry who talked like a king and moved like everyone else was wasting his time. His cloak was heavier than Neil’s, hanging off him like it had always been there, the fabric threaded with gold stitching. His walking cane had a handle shaped like a wolf’s head that was polished smooth with age. He looked to be in his forties but was probably older than Britain.

His face was all sharp lines, but his gaze was steady — the kind that looked straight through people, like he’d seen too many versions of them before. Stuart had recognized Nathaniel as a fellow Brit by blood alone, despite Neil never having stepped foot outside the US, and had promptly taken him under his wing.

He had described their world as a threshold — the final step where souls crossed into the Afterlife, reaching their destined end and finding true rest.

Now, instinctively, Nathaniel turned away from the loud voices and moved to the far side of the roof. If he focused just right, he could feel the breeze, faint against his cloak.

It was peaceful.

He scanned the rooftop. 

He didn’t know anything about the person he was here for — just a name.

Andrew Doe.

That was all they ever got. Names, nothing more.

Not that it mattered. They didn’t speak to the Living, and there wasn’t much they could say to the dead. He didn't know any details, only ever arrived when it was already time to go.

Some souls still asked, though.

Why me? Why now? Just five more minutes?

No. There were never more minutes. Death was final.

Except— 

Something didn’t sit right.

Nathaniel’s brows furrowed as he took in the rooftop, stretching empty before him. Just debris scattered across the gravel, wind hissing softly between the gaps. A crumpled fast food bag tumbled past, caught in a gust — fluttered straight through his ankle without resistance.

He continued forward, footsteps near-silent against the stone, untouched by the noise and weight of the living world.

No body. No blood. Nothing.

He took another step. Then another— 

And then he saw him.

A boy stood at the edge, staring down at the world below.

The bright summer sun caught in his hair, turning it into a pale, shining halo. Nathaniel squinted, momentarily thrown off by the image of the boy against the light. 

He knew why he was here — he always did — but something about this didn’t fit. Usually, his arrival meant a soul was ready to move on, barely tethered to its mortal existence. But this boy—

He was still standing. Still here.

Nathaniel lingered, waited. Unsure what to do.

The longer he watched, the more wrong it felt.

The boy stood with his back to him, shoulders drawn too tight. His fingers gripped the too-long sleeves of his hoodie, tugging them down like it could shield him from the wind — or the world.

His head bowed slightly, just enough for Nathaniel to catch the unsteady rise and fall of his shoulders. His breathing was shallow, choppy, as if he was trying to stay quiet, but every few seconds a sharp, wet hiccup broke through.

Finally, Nathaniel slowly moved closer. The Living couldn’t see him — he could have stood inches away.

There was a tension in the boy that no child should have. Nails biting into his palms, lips pressed tight to keep them from trembling. His entire posture seemed to curl inward, like he was trying to disappear.

Nathaniel's attention caught on his eyes — bright gold, wide, unyielding, fixed on the cracked pavement far below as if it was calling to him.

Somewhere behind them, past the metal fire escape and empty backlot, the sounds of children filtered up from the other side of the school — laughter, shouts, carefree noise, so far away it might as well have been another world.

Nathaniel swallowed.

Pain rolled off the boy in silent waves, folded into him so many times as if it had become something he carried without thinking. Settled deeper than skin, deeper than bones. The kind of hurt that came from waiting — bracing — for whatever came next.

Nathaniel knew that kind of waiting.

The memory felt distant, like something he had read in a book long ago. Death did that, made the past unravel until all that remained were echoes of a life that no longer belonged to him. He couldn’t recall his father’s voice, only that it had been loud, even when he whispered. He didn’t remember the shape of his fists, only the way they had lingered in the air, a threat more permanent than the bruises he left behind.

The boy’s breath hitched, and Nathaniel forced himself back into the present. His memories were from a long time ago. A life ago.

But looking at this boy, barely older than Nathaniel, it didn’t feel so distant.

The faint chime of bells continued softly in the background of his mind, only interrupted by the boy’s terrified breaths.

Just then, the wind tugged at the boy’s clothes, making him sway forward, over the edge.

Nathaniel’s heart skipped.

The boy was going to fall— 

Nathaniel reacted without thinking.

He reached out— 

His fingers closed around fabric. Solid. Soft. Warm.

He yanked the boy back.

They fell onto the rooftop, hitting the ground hard.

The boy gasped, scrambling upright, chest heaving, eyes wide. Nathaniel remained frozen, sprawled beside him, too stunned to move.

He could still feel the contact. The weight of it. The impossible resistance of a body that shouldn’t have been within reach.

What had he done?

Why had it worked?

Why had he even tried?

The boy wasn’t dead.

He was supposed to be dead.

Nathaniel stared at his own hand, the one that had reached through the divide and touched something it shouldn’t have. He wasn’t meant to interfere — wasn’t able to. His presence was intangible, his form invisible. The Living moved through him, saw nothing, felt nothing.

But the boy was here. Breathing. Shaking. Alive. Completely unaware of how close he had come.

Or maybe — Nathaniel looked at his face, at the slight furrow of his brow, the way his hands twitched before he balled them into fists — maybe he was aware. Maybe that was the problem.

The boy blinked once, then again, dragging a hand through his hair, brushing himself off and getting to his feet like he hadn’t just been yanked back from the edge of death by something unseen. His eyes flickered to the ledge, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and something darker. Disappointment, maybe. Fear. 

But not fear of falling. 

He looked more unsettled now than he had standing on the edge. Nathaniel could only stare back. A moment ago, the boy with hair like a halo and eyes the color of the setting sun had been inches from death. And yet, he almost seemed more afraid now that he was safe.

With one last glance at the spot where Nathaniel had pulled him back from, he turned and headed for the door, leaving Nathaniel alone in the stillness of the rooftop.

Chest tight, the echo of impact still rattling through him, Nathaniel slowly stood up and looked around. No one had seen him. No one ever did.

He should have let him go.

And yet — his hand had closed around fabric. His body had met weight.

It had been an accident.

The wind picked up, stripping the heavy heat from the air, but it did nothing to shake the unease that surrounded Nathaniel. With a last glance at the ledge, he turned and stepped back into the Between, hoping he would never see the boy again.

The Between was always quiet. Not silent, not fully anyway, but the kind of quiet that stretched, pressing in from all sides like a thought you weren’t supposed to have.

Nathaniel adjusted his cloak as he walked down a long passage, fingers brushing over the worn fabric. The weight of the day clung to him, like the scent of something burnt, lingering at the edge of memory.

Stone arches lined the walls, spaced evenly like old castle windows. But where there should have been glass, or an outside view, there was only darkness. A vast expanse of it, stretching out across some unknowable distance.

Sometimes, if he looked long enough, Nathaniel thought he saw movement — a shift in the dark, like wind across a dead field. Vague shapes. Clouds, maybe. There was no moon, no stars, no sky. Just a sense of space that went on forever without giving anything back.

It was always night here.

At the end of the hall, a threshold opened into a dimly lit chamber. The familiar hum of conversation drifted out — low voices, laughter, the occasional sharp comment.

A fire burned low in the stone hearth, casting long, swaying shadows across the walls.

Dan was on the couch along the far wall, legs stretched out like she owned the place. She had taken him in early, guided him through the chaos of an existence he hadn’t asked for. He figured she was something like his manager, though mostly she just made sure people took breaks, didn’t stare at the walls for hours, or wandered off somewhere stupid.

The others gathered in the room — Matt, Seth, Allison, Renee — were younger sentries. Or at least, younger by their standards. A few centuries here. A few decades there.

It didn’t matter much when time stretched without end.

Stepping into the room, Nathaniel felt the warmth of the fire wrapping around him as the voices grew louder. Dan was laughing at something Seth was saying, the leather accents on her cloak catching the firelight as she rolled her shoulders — relaxed in a way that suggested she’d been here for a while, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a warrior from another time. Matt sat beside her, grinning, his simple cloak loose around his shoulders as he listened.

Across from them, Allison and Seth occupied the loveseat, Allison lounging like she belonged on a throne, her cloak draped effortlessly around her, falling into perfect folds as if it had been tailored by the Path itself. Neil couldn't help but notice — hers always seemed to settle just right, framing her like she was born to wear it, while his own formless cloak never quite stayed in place, always catching at his wrists or pooling awkwardly at his feet. Her long black nails tapped idly against the armrest, and heavy silver jewelry sparkled at her wrists and throat. Seth, beside her, was slouched in a way that made it clear he’d given up on looking anything but exhausted, his cloak hanging messily over the edge of the seat.

Renee had claimed the plush chair near the fire, her white hair nearly glowing against the dark fabric of her cloak. A long, ever present pendant rested against her chest, her fingers curled lightly around it as she listened to the others with a soft, knowing smile.

Nathaniel took the last open chair, pulling back his hood as he sank into the seat. He let the voices wash over him, grounding himself in the easy rhythm of conversation, the heat from the fire seeping into his bones.

"...and then the bastard bolted,” Seth was saying, throwing his hands up. “I swear, I look away for one second, and he’s halfway into the Between, like he had a goddamn plan or something.”

Allison scoffed, tipping her head against the loveseat. “Please tell me you did not chase him across the Between like a beginner.” Her voice was smooth, with an effortless rasp, like she never had to try too hard to be heard. “Nathaniel — no offense.”

Nathaniel shrugged. He wasn’t offended. How could he be, when he’d lost more souls in his first few weeks than he could remember. “It hasn’t happened in a while.”

Matt, who had been leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, raised his eyebrows at Seth. “Yeah, but did you catch him?” His voice carried, a casual kind of loud.

Seth grumbled. “By the hem of his stupid suit.” He slumped back into the seat. “Dude was fast.”

Dan laughed, shaking her head. “You’d lose your own soul if it wasn’t tied to you.”

Nathaniel huffed a quiet breath despite himself.

“It would’ve been fine,” Renee murmured from her chair, voice light, but with that steady undercurrent that always made her words feel like more than casual observation. “Even the runners get there in the end. After all, the Living can’t outrun death.”

Nathaniel stilled.

Seth, never one for letting a moment sit too long, stretched his arms behind his head. “That’s right. Because none of them are faster than me.”

“Please,” Allison snorted, tipping her chin at him. “You were out of breath when I saw you right after.”

Seth scoffed. “Was not.”

“You totally were.” Matt grinned. 

Laughter rippled through the group, easy and familiar. Seth rolled his eyes, waving them off, but even he was hiding a smile now.

Nathaniel was no longer listening, barely hearing them, their laughter distant. He watched the fire flicker but the warmth was gone. 

Renee’s words lingered, heavy and unwelcome, settling into something cold at the base of his spine.

The Living can’t outrun death.

He thought of the boy on the rooftop, of the tension in his stance, the weight behind his silence.

The impossible feel of fabric under his palm.

He shifted in his seat, forcing his shoulders to stay loose, his face blank.

It had been an accident.

Nothing more.

Chapter Text

loop

noun

a structure, action, or situation that repeats or returns to its beginning; difficult to escape

(Found highlighted beneath a faded travel schematic in Nathaniel’s Between Orientation Manual.)

Nathaniel

Nathaniel moved through the bedroom, the air still and undisturbed. The furniture was minimal: just a bed, a desk, a dresser. Each piece arranged with the kind of detachment that made the space feel temporary. No posters, no clutter, nothing to claim it as someone’s own. The sheets were pulled tight, the desk sat empty but for a single closed notebook, the walls bare.

If not for the slight crease in the pillow, the faint impression of movement in the carpet near the door, Nathaniel might have thought no one lived here at all.

At the far end of the room, the door to the bathroom stood slightly ajar. He stepped inside.

The air was damp, sharp with the sting of disinfectant, as if someone had tried to scrub the world clean and failed. The overhead light buzzed faintly. It was quiet otherwise.

He didn’t need to check his list, he already knew who he would find.

Andrew Doe.

Again.

It had been months, maybe years. He had tried to forget about the rooftop, about the boy who wasn’t supposed to be alive. It had been a mistake, an accident.

The bathroom was as impersonal as the bedroom. The counter held only a toothbrush in a plastic cup, a half-used tube of toothpaste laid neatly beside it, and a single bottle of soap. The mirror was clean, unmarked. A towel hung on its hook. A hoodie rested on the closed toilet lid, the only thing breaking the room’s stark order.

And there, sitting against the wall, was the boy. Andrew.

His legs were drawn up close, bare arms resting on his knees, his right hand holding a razor blade between two fingers. Turning it over. Watching the way it caught the dim light.

There was no rush in him. No panic. Just simmering defeat.

Nathaniel tilted his head, his brow furrowed.

He had seen people hold blades before — desperate, frantic, shaking with the weight of it. But Andrew just watched the edge flicker. Like he was already somewhere else, far beyond this room.

His arms shifted slightly, and that’s when Nathaniel saw them — fine white scars crisscrossing his skin, older marks buried beneath newer, redder ones. And tonight, a handful of shallow cuts, thin lines of blood beading along his forearm.

It wasn’t the first time.

The realization settled heavy on his shoulders.

Then, footsteps in the hall. Slow. Precise. Pausing for just a second too long outside the door.

Andrew went impossibly still.

And that's when Nathaniel understood.

The tension, the waiting, the bracing — he recognized it because he had lived it. The breath caught in his throat, the moments between footfalls, the gamble of whether the door would open or the steps would fade away.

The footsteps moved on. Andrew didn’t.

He stayed hunched in on himself, razor still balanced between his fingers, shoulders tight like he could shrink out of sight.

Nathaniel wanted to leave but knew he couldn’t.

He didn’t know if he wanted to stop intruding, or if he just didn’t want to watch. Or, maybe, for a second, he wished he could do something. Anything. But he wasn’t supposed to.

The Path had its own balance. Life ended, souls moved on, and he was nothing but a sentry in the process. A guide, a witness. He had interfered once before, just once, and the weight of it had stayed with him, a disquieting certainty that he had disrupted something meant to be.

And yet— 

He lingered.

His gaze caught on the scars. A history of battles fought, of wounds endured. A boy who had been trying, until now.

Something sharp lodged itself in Nathaniel’s chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

Hadn’t this boy — Andrew — already been through enough? Hadn’t he suffered enough? And now, after all of it, the Path was just going to claim his life?

It didn’t seem fair.

The thought was quiet but insistent.

Without thinking, Nathaniel moved forward in a half-stumble, kneeling awkwardly in front of the boy. He was close enough now to see the exhaustion in his face. The red-rimmed eyes, the unfocused gaze, the deep-set weariness pulling at his features. His own hand lifted, hovering over Andrew’s, over the razor.

He hesitated. Careful not to get too close. Not again.

Don’t.

He didn’t touch. Wasn’t sure if he even could. But he focused his presence to settle there, an invisible weight pressing against Andrew’s fingers. A force neither of them could see, but hoping it would hold firm, keeping the razor pinned.

Andrew’s breath shuddered. Slowly, his grip loosened.

His free hand came up, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. His shoulders stayed curled inward, but something in his posture shifted. The resolve had drained out of him.

A minute passed. Then two. His body sagged slightly against the wall, exhaustion winning out. His eyelids drooped. His breathing slowed.

The razor slipped from his fingers, clattering lightly to the tile.

Nathaniel watched as the last traces of tension smoothed from Andrew’s face, his expression softening into something unguarded.

This was what he was meant to do: bring peace to those at the end of their path. But not here. Not like this. He was supposed to help souls pass on, not hold them back.

And yet, Andrew was still here. Alive.

Nathaniel should have felt like he had failed. Like he had done something wrong, again.

Instead, he rolled his shoulders back once, trying to settle the tension as he leaned against the opposite wall, watching Andrew sleep.

He didn’t have to be here. This wasn’t part of the job.

But still, he stayed.

Just for a moment.

Then he’d go.

—

Hours passed. The low hum of the house never fully disappeared, but nothing disturbed them.

Until an alarm blared from the other room.

Andrew stirred, blinking groggily awake. He pushed himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face. His eyes were bloodshot, unfocused. His gaze flickered across the bathroom, as if searching for something.

His mouth pressed into a thin line.

Then he exhaled. A slow, disappointed breath. Detached. Resigned.

He got to his feet, stepping over the razor without a glance.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him.

The overhead light flickered once. Twice.

Nathaniel watched it for a moment longer. Then, finally, he left too.

The house was dim, lit only by a weak, uneven lamp in the corner. Neil watched it flicker once, twice, in quick succession, then hold still before repeating the cycle again a few seconds later.

He had been watching the lamp for two hours.

His fingers drummed lightly against his thigh, patience running thin.

Around him, the walls were a faded shade of beige, the kind that had probably been white once but had surrendered to time and cigarette smoke. Framed photos crowded the shelves, yellowed with age, faces barely visible behind the glass. A crocheted blanket hung over the back of the recliner, worn thin and sagging.

The old man sitting in the recliner acted like he didn’t see him. His soul was barely tethered, lingering in that frustrating in-between state where it refused to cross over despite very clearly being dead.

Nathaniel had seen a lot of stubborn souls over the years. People who had unfinished business, regrets, or just flat-out refused to believe they were dead. He usually didn’t care, simply waited them out. But this one?

This one was testing him.

“Alright,” Nathaniel said, crossing his arms. “Anytime now.”

The man — Mr. Henderson, age 87, heart attack, natural causes — continued to sit in his chair, unmoving. Not acknowledging the presence in front of him.

“You’re dead.”

No response.

Nathaniel’s jaw tightened. He stepped forward and knelt in front of the old man. “With all due respect— Actually, forget that. You are extremely dead.” He reached for the armrest but his focus slipped, and his hand passed straight through it. Staring at where his hand disappeared in the chair, he rolled his neck once, straightened, and crossed his arms instead. “You need to come with me.”

Tilting his head, Mr. Henderson eyed Nathaniel critically. “How old are you, kid?”

Nathaniel blinked. That wasn’t the reaction he had expected. “That’s not relevant.”

The old man huffed. “You’re what, twelve?”

“Okay” Nathaniel’s jaw tightened. “We’re not doing this. You need to go.”

“No.” Mr. Henderson shrugged. 

Nathaniel stared.

The old man leaned back into his recliner, which shouldn’t even be possible when he didn’t have a body anymore, but somehow, he made it work. “Not going.”

Nathaniel was about to lose his mind.

A familiar chuckle sounded behind him. “Man, you really know how to pick ‘em.”

He didn’t turn around. “Go away, Matt.”

Leaning casually against the doorframe, Matt crossed his arms, the absolute picture of amusement. “Buddy, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but you’re kind of terrible at this.”

Reflexively, he bit out, “It’s almost like I wasn’t meant for this.”

Matt blinked, surprised.

Nathaniel immediately regretted it. His bad mood wasn’t Matt’s fault. It wasn’t even Mr Henderson’s fault.

Just... lately, things sucked more than usual.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to brush it off. “Forget it,” he said, tone shifting to something closer to indifferent. “Go haunt someone else.”

After an awkward pause, Matt, thankfully, let it go — but not without a lingering look that Nathaniel pointedly ignored.

“Anyway.” Matt gestured toward the old man still in the recliner. “He’s been dead for what, an hour? And he’s already running circles around you.”

Nathaniel gritted his teeth and turned back to the old man.

“Mr. Henderson.”

“Not leaving.”

His patience was not built for this.

“You tried bribing him?”

Turning slightly, Nathaniel shot Matt a deadpan look. “With what?”

“I don’t know, what do old people like? Hard candy? Nostalgia?” Matt grinned. “The sweet release of eternal rest?”

Shaking his head, Nathaniel focused back on Mr. Henderson. “I swear to whatever rules this whole thing, you are going to cross over.”

Mr. Henderson met his gaze head-on. “Make me.”

Nathaniel had never wanted to fight a soul before, but this was really pushing it.

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Matt clapped a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. “I’ll take over. I got one of these once, stubborn old lady, wouldn’t leave until I let her finish her crossword. Took me three hours, but we got there in the end.”

Nathaniel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You want to handle him? Be my guest.”

Taking in Matt, Mr. Henderson immediately perked up. “I like him better.”

Turning on his heel, Nathaniel threw up his hands as Matt grinned, already launching into some ridiculous conversation about ‘things just not being the same since the war.’

As Nathaniel stepped into the Between, the last thing he heard was Matt saying, “So, Mr. Henderson, let’s talk. How do you feel about crossword puzzles?”

Nathaniel didn’t stick around for the answer, tired of pickups turning sideways.

Chapter Text

nihility

noun

the state of nonexistence; complete meaninglessness

(Found circled in Andrew’s battered library copy of Being and Nothingness by Jean-Paul Sartre.)

Andrew

The wall against his back was cold. Flat. An empty white. The carpet was dark blue, rough under his bare feet when he pulled his legs closer to his chest.

They had said this was his room.

It didn’t feel like it.

He had moved here a few months ago. Been moved, really. Because nothing had ever been his decision.

He thought he had found something. A place. A mother. But Cass— 

Downstairs, Tilda was yelling again.

Andrew tilted his head slightly, listening without interest. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the stillness of the house. Anger curling at the edges of her words, but nothing specific. It could be the wrong look, the wrong tone, the wrong pause before answering. The shifting of a chair. A misplaced glass. A mess that hadn’t been there before but was suddenly someone else’s fault.

He could guess how this night would go. A slammed cupboard, then the sharp pop of a bottle cap. A mood swing. Either dangerous or too much. And, of course, Aaron.

Her attention lingering too long. Aaron flinching, subtle, almost invisible unless someone was paying attention. Andrew wasn’t. Not really.

But he still noticed.

Aaron was supposed to be his brother. They shared a face, but nothing else. No connection. No understanding. Just an unfamiliar name tying them together, something out of his control, like every other decision in his life. Aaron had grown up here, had a home, had a mother — if you could call her that.

And then there was Nicky. A cousin. Overbearing, too friendly, desperate to make something out of nothing. Trying too hard, asking too many questions, filling every pause with empty words like they meant something.

Neither of them had lived his life. Neither of them had been left.

Andrew’s fingers tightened around the pill bottle in his hands, the plastic pressing into his skin. It rattled when he shifted.

His gaze drifted to the bed. Its old frame, the rough sheets. A nightstand, empty except for an old alarm clock. To his left, the wardrobe stood half-open, his few clothes barely taking up two shelves.

Aaron had given him some of his old shirts. Nicky had, too.

They were too big. Too bright. Too them.

They felt wrong on his skin.

He hated it.

Andrew breathed out slowly, controlled, measured. His chest felt like a dead weight. Like something solid and unmoving had settled inside him, pressing down, heavy and cold.

The house felt wrong. The room felt wrong. His own skin felt wrong.

Everything in his life had been temporary. Foster homes. Schools. Rules he hadn’t written. People who made decisions about him without ever knowing him. Now, here he was, in her house. The place he was supposed to be grateful for. Where he was supposed to belong.

But it wasn’t his.

It never would be.

His fingers twitched against the bottle.

He wasn’t sure why he was still here.

He blinked hard, moisture burning at his eyes, and something inside him curled in on itself.

He was so tired.

His hand tipped the bottle into his palm. A few more pills rolled out.

He swallowed.

His heartbeat dragged in his chest. Slow, steady, detached.

He had found the pill bottle in Tilda’s bathroom. Maybe she was good for something after all.

The contents clacked softly when he placed it on the carpet.

The yelling stopped.

He sat in the silence.

Afternoon light filtered in through the window beside him, dull and diffused, washing the room in muted gray.

Outside, it was no longer raining, but the scent lingered, petrichor curling in through the half-cracked window, clinging to the concrete and asphalt of a foreign city around him.

Andrew blinked, his gaze drifting slowly toward the door.

There was a key in the lock.

He had never had that before. Never had something he could close, something that was his to keep people out.

But it wasn’t enough. It felt too late.

He tipped the bottle again.

Nothing.

He frowned.

Shook it. Harder.

Nothing.

He pulled it closer to his eyes, peered inside— 

Empty.

His fingers curled around it, pulse slow and tired in his throat.

He was sure it had been at least half full.

His eyes flicked back to the key.

It hadn’t moved.

His body felt like lead, heavy and numb, but at the edges of his mind, unease prickled: weightless and sharp, like static under skin.

He swallowed hard.

He was sure there had been more pills.

His head tipped back against the wall with a muted thud.

He inhaled slowly. The exhale dragged out of him, tired and hollow.

Downstairs, the yelling started again.

Chapter Text

limen

noun

a threshold; the point at which a stimulus becomes perceptible

(Found underlined in Andrew’s copy of The Principles of Psychology by William James.)

Andrew

The fork in Andrew’s hand hovered over his plate. He hadn’t touched much of his food. Across from him, Aaron was chewing quickly, scrolling on his phone between bites. Nicky was still talking, had been talking since he walked into the kitchen for some ungodly reason. Something about work, something about a new person he met, something about how he should stop bringing up religion at work because his boss kept giving him weird looks.

Tilda was yelling in the background. The words blurred together, a constant, grating hum against his skull. She wasn’t yelling at him or Aaron, not directly. But she was always yelling at something. Tonight, it was the TV. Or the person on the TV. It didn’t matter.

It never did.

He had been watching her lately. Not on purpose. But once he started, it was hard to stop. The way her moods swung like a wrecking ball, unpredictable and destructive. The way she slurred her words when she thought no one was paying attention, the glass in her hand as much a fixture as the walls around them. The way Aaron tensed when her voice turned sharp, when her movements were too quick, when the house tilted too far into dangerous.

Aaron wouldn’t talk about it.

Nicky pretended not to see it.

And Andrew — Andrew sat there, watching, cataloging, knowing exactly how this would end.

He just didn’t know when. Yet.

Tilda’s voice spiked, breaking through the wall of noise. Andrew’s fingers flexed, then forced themselves to relax. He finally looked back at his plate, stabbing a piece of food, shoving it into his mouth.

The fork scraped against the ceramic.

Aaron didn’t look up.

Nicky kept talking.

And Tilda kept yelling.

Andrew let his eyes slowly wander around the room, tuning them out.

He stabbed another piece of food, turned it over on his plate. Ate it. Slowly. Mechanically.

Something was wrong.

He didn’t know how long he’d been feeling it, but it had settled in his ribs like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Something was keeping him here. Something was stopping him.

And he needed to know what.

He ran through the possibilities.

Maybe he was just really bad at dying. 

Maybe this was a skill like anything else, and he was simply too fucking stupid to get it right. But no, that didn’t make sense. He could count too many moments where it should have worked. Where it should have happened.

There was the bridge.

He had been there, walking toward the ledge, hands in his pockets. The moment he was about to take the last few steps, the sound of screeching tires and splintering metal cut through the air. A truck carrying pigs had taken the turn too fast, hit the curb, and suddenly the entire road was a chaos of flashing lights and confused, terrified animals running loose. The bridge was shut down. The police started directing pedestrians away. Andrew had turned on his heel and left.

Then, the roof.

The back stairwell of his high school led up to a heavy metal door, chipped paint flaking at the edges. He had passed it for months, noticing how it hung open, crooked on its hinges. No one ever seemed to pay attention to it. One day, he finally took the stairs instead of the hall. But when he pushed, the door didn’t budge. Locked.

And then, the lamp.

The old, ugly thing that had hung from his ceiling. He had been lying on his bed, staring at it, thinking. He wasn’t going to do anything right then, but he was weighing the logistics. If it could hold his weight. If the ceiling was sturdy enough. If he should bother. But then, as if it had been waiting for the perfect moment, the entire fixture detached from the ceiling and crashed onto the floor. He had stared at the hole in the ceiling for a long time. Then rolled over and gone to sleep. Now, it was just an exposed cable with a naked lightbulb dangling pathetically in the center of his room.

Andrew tapped his fingers once against the table, staring at his plate. His food was cold now, not that he had cared about it to begin with.

It wasn’t incompetence.

So what the fuck was it?

He looked from the old wooden kitchen door to the window, streaked with dust and coated in a tacky film of grease. The cabinets were scuffed, their paint worn thin at the edges, the shelves inside bent out of shape from age.

Ghost?

No. Ghosts didn’t make the entire world shift around him. Ghosts were supposed to whisper and knock things over. They didn’t cause fucking truck accidents.

Guardian Angel?

If so, then fuck that guy. What about the first fourteen years of his life? Why let every other awful thing happen but decide this was the line?

The universe itself?

That thought made something coil hot and sharp in his chest. Because what, now the universe was supposed to care? About Andrew? Now it had a fucking opinion? He almost wanted to laugh. What a joke. If the universe had ever given a shit about him, it was doing a piss-poor job of showing it.

And yet— 

Something didn’t feel right.

His fingers curled slightly on the tabletop. He should be relieved, probably. Or grateful, or whatever reaction normal people were supposed to have when they survived things they shouldn’t. But all he felt was frustration, slow and building, sinking into his ribs.

Was he imagining things? Had he finally lost it? Maybe. Maybe this was just his own mind playing tricks on him, twisting coincidences into something bigger. But he didnt think so.

Do delusional people know they're delusional?

The sound of Tilda’s voice bled in from down the hall, muffled and sharp. The kitchen lights buzzed faintly overhead.

Underneath it all, something felt wrong. Like the air was holding its breath.

He picked up his fork, took another slow bite of cold food.

Something was stopping him.

His eyes traced the room again, slower this time.

Nathaniel

The air was different. It always was at the Border.

Light filtered through the trees, pale and hazy, without source or shadow. It blurred lines into softness, bleaching color into memory.

Nathaniel walked through the hushed stretch of land, where existence thinned, sound fell hushed, and the weight of the end pressed down like an unseen hand.

Trees arched high overhead, their leaves rustling in a wind that did not touch him. In their branches, fruit waited — heavy, ripe — but no one would ever reach for it. Along the winding path, flowers swayed in perfect, unbroken rows, their petals frozen in eternal bloom.

Nathaniel moved through it all in silence, the grass beneath his boots bending without breaking. Beside him, the soul walked quietly.

Somewhere beyond the trees, birds sang, their calls threading through the calm. But in all his time walking this path, he had never seen one.

It was not a place meant for staying. It hummed with held tension, an urgency that pushed you forward.

Nathaniel’s fingers brushed the edge of his cloak, slow, grounding.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the boy, Andrew.

He had seen him again. A different last name, different home, different life. An empty room. A locked door. 

Nathaniel had never had a key to his own door. He wondered what it must feel like to Andrew to have one now. If it made him feel safe. If it made any difference at all.

And there had been other moments. Too many to excuse as coincidence.

Nathaniel was breaking the most important rule.

But somehow, he could.

If Andrew’s path had truly ended, surely someone like Nathaniel couldn’t interfere.

And even subdued, even exhausted, Andrew’s strength was unmistakable. There was something unyielding, buried beneath the weight of pain.

Something lighter, too. Fragile, but maybe, given time, capable of taking root.

Nathaniel looked ahead, where the path sloped downward and the trees gave way to the vast, infinite expanse of the Border.

Would he see him again?

He shouldn’t have been wondering at all. Andrew was just one of many. One soul on a long, unending list of names and faces he would encounter in this existence.

It shouldn’t matter.

They stepped onto soft, warm sand, pale as powdered glass, leaving the trees behind.

An ocean stretched wide before him, calm and silver, its surface catching the light in shifting ripples. There was no sun, no moon, but the water looked like stars had been woven into its depths, reaching far beyond what the eye could see, endless and waiting.

At his feet, a thin barrier shimmered in the air, faint, barely visible, but he could feel it. The edge of what he was. The line he could not cross.

The soul waited.

This one did not run.

Some tried, desperate to slip back into Life, but not this one. She had followed him readily, without hesitation.

Nathaniel met her gaze.

The words came easily. They always did. He had only spoken them for a few years, but they had been there since the beginning of his new existence, waiting for him to find them.

His voice was quiet when he spoke, low and even, steady in a way that wasn’t forceful but left no room for doubt. It was a voice meant to guide, to soothe without gentleness, to carry weight without demanding.

“This is the place beyond Life,” he said. “The weight you carried will fall away, and you will step forward as you are meant to.”

The water waited, still and patient.

“The path ahead will not call your name, nor will it turn you away. You belong to it now, as it belongs to you. Take your steps and do not linger.”

A pause.

“Cross into the light. Do not look back. Safe passing.”

The soul obeyed.

She stepped forward, her form dissolving as she waded into the water. The silver light caught her, wrapped around her, pulled her forward. Nathaniel watched until she drifted out of sight, past the point where the eye could follow, past the point where she existed at all.

The air shifted. The weight lifted.

It was over.

He turned away from the ocean as his thoughts wandered.

Andrew.

Nathaniel wasn’t like the older sentries. He couldn’t see the full path of a soul, couldn’t grasp the threads of life the way they could. But he didn’t believe Andrew’s had truly ended.

Not yet.

Not for a long time.

That thought stayed with him as the shadows of the Between pulled him from the light.

Andrew

Andrew flipped the bathroom light on, squinting against the glare. The yellowed bulbs flickered once before settling, casting a dim glow over the small space. It smelled like mildew, cheap soap, and whatever cleaning product Nicky had doused the place with last week. The guy was always cleaning, picking up after the messes no one else cared to deal with. Tilda barely lifted a finger around the house, and Nicky — too eager, too fucking nice — kept stepping in to fill the gaps.

The mirror above the sink was speckled with water stains, a thin crack running through the bottom left corner.

He pressed his palms against the edge of the sink, exhaling. His reflection stared back at him, pale and exhausted. Hair a mess, shoulders slumped, eyes ringed with the kind of tiredness that doesn’t go away with sleep. He rubbed a hand over his face, then leaned back on his palms, letting out another breath.

Nothing moved behind him.

Nothing shifted.

But despite what he could see— 

There was that feeling again. The one that had been clinging to him lately, like something was following, just far enough to stay unseen.

Something felt off.

His eyes flicked to the corners of the mirror, scanning the space behind him. The shower curtain was still. The towel hanging crooked on the rack. The door was closed. Everything was where it should be.

His fingers tightened around the sink. The feeling didn’t go away.

He waited.

He didn’t know what for.

Seconds passed.

He breathed in. Out.

The old pipes groaned somewhere in the walls. Downstairs, Tilda’s yelling had finally quieted enough to no longer reach him. Maybe she had gone hoarse, or just lost interest. Either way, it wouldn’t last. Time was ticking down on that particular issue.

Next door, the low beat of music was audible through the wall.

The house was always noisy, always full of movement and voices and things he could predict. But this—

This was something else.

Andrew dragged a hand down his face again, gripping the back of his neck. Maybe he was just fucking tired. Maybe the house was getting to him. Maybe he was losing his mind.

He looked back at his reflection. His own expression stared back, unreadable, the tension in his shoulders coiling tighter.

The moment stretched.

And then, without looking away, he said, “I know you’re there.”

The words sat heavy in the air, swallowed by the silence.

The room didn’t change.

Andrew watched himself in the mirror. Watched the way his own shoulders tensed, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. He didn’t know what he expected — some shift in the air, some confirmation that he wasn’t losing his mind. But there was nothing. Just the weight of something he couldn’t name pressing against his awareness.

Chapter Text

snap

noun

the moment something breaks — or locks into place

(Found highlighted on a homework sheet for Applied Reflex Theory for Post-Life Defense.)

Nathaniel

Nathaniel sat in the far corner of the hospital room, watching the slow rise and fall of Andrew’s chest.

Everything about the room felt scrubbed down and artificial. The kind of clean that never quite masked the undercurrent of sickness and the metallic bite of blood. The monitors beeped in steady intervals, the sound pressing into Nathaniel’s ribs until his own heart matched the rhythm.

He remembered the first time he had sat with Andrew while he slept, in an empty bathroom on the other side of the country. But this was different.

Nathaniel leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers curled together so he didn’t do something stupid, like reach out.

Andrew’s face was pale in the dim light, skin washed out against the stark white of the hospital sheets. A thin bruise bloomed along his temple, creeping toward his cheekbone, a reminder of just how close Nathaniel had come to not making it in time.

And that thought — not making it — knotted something hot and tight in Nathaniel’s chest.

The accident played in his mind in sharp, jagged flashes. The flicker of streetlights through a windshield, the blurred shape of Tilda’s hands on the wheel, the way Andrew’s grip had been steady, calm, deliberate, as he yanked the car sideways.

No hesitation. No second thought.

Just the split-second decision to let it happen.

Nathaniel hadn’t noticed at first, busy guiding a soul on the other side of the country. The bells had only been a soft chime at the edges of his awareness, gentle, melodic, nothing urgent. They didn’t scream the way they should have.

Not until the tires screeched.

Not until Tilda’s startled gasp cut through the night.

Not until the tree came rushing forward, the world twisting too fast.

Panic had slammed through him, making him move before the thought had even registered. And something inside him had snapped. Reflex, impulse, something he didn’t understand.

Still didn’t know why he even could.

But when metal folded and glass shattered, Andrew didn’t hit the dash.

He should have.

But Nathaniel was there.

Again.

A barrier. A buffer. Something between Andrew and the worst of it.

And now, Andrew was here. Alive.

Nathaniel dragged a hand through his hair, shoulders tense, fingers brushing the fabric of his cloak in a repetitive motion. His foot tapped against the tile, restless energy wound too tight in his limbs.

He didn’t want Andrew to die.

He wanted him to live.

The thought settled into his bones like an inevitability — sharp and final.

Andrew shifted slightly in his sleep, breath hitching just a little before evening out again. The monitor beside him continued its steady beep, low, clinical, detached.

Nathaniel sat back, pressing himself deeper into the chair.

He wouldn’t let this happen again.

Andrew

The wind rolled through the open-air lot, warm and heavy with exhaust, carrying the distant noise of traffic. Overhead lights flickered unevenly, glinting off the windshields of the cars scattered across the rooftop level of the parking garage. Beyond the low concrete barrier lining the perimeter, the city stretched out. Streetlights casting long shadows, neon signs pulsing in a lazy rhythm against the dark.

A quiet hum of life, distant and unimportant.

Andrew barely noticed any of it.

His steps were slow, measured. The concrete was rough under his shoes, scuffed with tire marks and oil stains, a discarded shopping bag catching in the breeze before tumbling over the side.

There was no tension in his shoulders, no frantic edge in his breathing.

One hand slid into his pocket, fingers curling around his lighter. He flicked it open once, then again, thumb rolling over the worn metal like muscle memory.

Then he pulled a cigarette from a crumpled pack and lit up.

The first inhale was sharp. Familiar. Smoke curled past his lips as he walked, the lighter disappearing back into his jacket. Each pull felt steadier than the last.

A warm gust of wind swept past, tugging at his sleeves. He barely noticed it.

His work was done.

Tilda was dead. He had somehow survived. That hadn’t been part of the plan, but it was fine. He was here to rectify that.

They had stayed in Tilda’s house, which was somehow theirs now that she was dead.

It was strange, existing in that space without her, just the three of them. Nicky had settled in with an ease that made sense, he’d spent half his teenage years trying to make that house feel like home anyway, if only to get away from his parents. Andrew didn’t care what Aaron thought about any of it.

All he knew was that Aaron was safe, even if he was still a pissed-off, ungrateful copy, grieving an abusive woman as if she deserved it.

There was nothing left to do for Andrew.

No obligations. No reason to hold on.

He reached the barrier.

The cigarette burned low between his fingers. He took one last drag — deep, steady — then flicked it over the edge.

His fingers pressed against the concrete, cool and solid under his hands.

He exhaled slowly, rolled his shoulders back. The ground below wasn’t far — five stories. Enough. He traced the lines of the sidewalk, the cracks in the pavement, the darkened windows of the shops across the street.

He forced his heart to slow down, to continue its lazy beat. 

This was nothing.

He adjusted his footing, shifting his weight slightly forward, eyes locked on the ground below.

Then, just as he moved to step up— 

Something shoved him back.

His foot caught against uneven concrete. He stumbled, arms reaching for balance, nearly tipping backward before righting himself.

His head snapped up.

What—

The rooftop was empty.

The fuck?

Andrew spun in a slow circle, breath catching, pulse picking up. Nothing. No one. Just wind and shadows.

He took another step toward the ledge.

This time, a sharp jolt against his chest knocked him off balance — his hands shooting out, catching himself before he fell.

“Seriously?” he muttered, blinking hard.

There was no one there.

But the pressure had been real. The impact. The resistance.

Another step.

Something caught at his shoulder — sudden, sharp — yanking him off balance.

Andrew gritted his teeth. “What the fuck.”

He shoved forward — there was nothing to push against, but something still fought him. After months — years — the distinct feeling was familiar: wrong, off. The air was heavy with it. Fingers that weren’t there gripped his hoodie, dragged him back.

His frustration snapped hot and fast.

What do you want from me?

His jaw locked. His fists curled. The breath came tight and uneven, too much, not enough.

Why won’t you let me go?

His chest ached. His eyes burned. His nails dug crescents into his palms.

It’s not fair.

He surged toward the ledge again. Immediately, force latched onto his forearm and wrenched him backward before he could take a step.

He stumbled. Swore. His breath came in short, ragged exhales.

“Just let me go!”

The rooftop echoed. And from somewhere — muffled, distant, impossible— 

A voice snapped back.

“NO.”

It slammed into him, shocking through his chest, rattling through his ribs.

Andrew staggered, spinning around. “What the—”

But there was nothing. Still. Empty.

His arms hung heavy at his sides. His fingers twitched.

He stared at the ledge.

He tried again.

This time the shove wasn’t as hard, just enough to stop him.

The second “no” came low. Almost desperate.

Andrew froze.

Just for a second.

His pulse roared in his ears. His body buzzed with tension, every nerve raw.

Then he let out a sharp, breathless laugh.

Because what even was this?

Why couldn’t he just fucking die?

The world had already taken everything. Allowed everything. And now, it wouldn’t even let him leave. Wouldn’t let him go.

He stared at the space in front of him, like if he looked hard enough, it would break.

Then slowly, calmly, he dusted himself off. Smoothed his sleeves. Rolled his shoulders like shaking off invisible hands.

He glanced once more at the ledge. At the rooftop.

Lips pressed into a thin line.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t cry.

Just nodded. Once. At the world. At nothing.

Then he turned.

And walked toward the exit.

And left.

Chapter Text

gnosis

noun

a moment of awakening; the pursuit of truth that renders ignorance unbearable

(Found in Andrew’s copy of The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus. Underlined once.)

Andrew

The ceiling had cracks in it. Tiny fractures spiderwebbing out from the corners, creeping along the surface, subtle but there. Andrew tracked them with his eyes from his spot on the bed, following the lines, mapping them like a puzzle with no solution.

He’d been staring for a while. Long enough that the dim glow from the streetlights outside had shifted, stretching new angles of light across the walls.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink for a long time.

Thoughts stuck on last night.

The acrid air, the smell of asphalt, the distant hum of traffic. The way his hands had felt against the concrete barrier, fingers curling over the rough edge, steady, controlled. The moment he shifted forward to step onto the ledge— 

And the NO that had crashed through the silence, through him.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and flat. It still didn’t make sense. Nothing about it made sense.

Andrew had never believed in fate, in destiny, in any kind of higher power with a plan. The universe didn’t hand out reasons. It just was. It had taken and taken and taken, and never given a single damn thing in return.

So why the hell was it suddenly intervening now?

If this was some kind of cosmic joke, it was a bad one.

He should be dead.

Andrew shifted, rolling onto his side, feeling the fabric of his hoodie bunch under his arm. He closed his eyes briefly, listening to the quiet of the house. Aaron was in his room, Nicky was probably watching TV. The neighborhood had gone still, disturbed only by the occasional rumble of a passing car.

He felt sluggish, weighed down, but his mind refused to slow, restlessly circling the same unanswered questions.

He had tried many times, the rooftop of the parking garage was just the latest. Every attempt had failed, not because he'd hesitated, but because of something else. It felt deliberate. It felt personal, in a way Andrew couldn’t explain, like the universe itself was determined to hold on, no matter how much he wanted to let go.

Fine.

If something wasn't letting him die, then he'd figure out why. He'd find answers. He was tired of being pushed around by something he couldn't see. 

Mostly, he was just tired.

Andrew opened his eyes again, staring blankly at the sliver of light cutting through the curtains. His body felt distant, an afterthought.

The questions that had sat in the back of his mind for weeks were getting louder now: Why wasn’t it working? What was stopping him?

Knowing was starting to matter more than the outcome.

Andrew let out a slow, steady breath and let his eyes fall shut.

He was going to test it. Because he had to know.

The summer heat clung to the alley, heavy and close, thick with the smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and sweat. Behind Eden’s Twilight, the dumpsters steamed faintly in the late sun, their metal lids streaked with grime Andrew didn’t care to identify. The brick walls radiated warmth, the pavement cracked and sun-bleached, with weeds curling stubbornly through the gaps.

Andrew barely noticed any of it.

He’d been working at Eden’s for a while now, under the table, still not old enough to be on payroll. The paycheck wasn’t much, but he didn’t care, wasn’t planning for a time after high school. Nicky worked there, too. Aaron only put in hours when he felt like it.

Andrew had a car now, bought with Tilda’s insurance money. And somehow, he’d become everyone’s personal driver: Nicky to his shift, Aaron to study groups — as if he cared, as if their lives were his problem.

The irony was staggering.

The universe was really great at jokes.

Like figuring out he was gay. Yet another thing he hadn’t asked for.

Because clearly, his life wasn’t already fucked up enough. That particular realization had been a real riot.

So now, he was trying things. On his terms. One of the guys at Eden’s was decent at following instructions, so he figured, why not. Some of it was good. Some of it wasn’t. Didn’t matter.

It wasn’t about wanting anything. It was about knowing.

He flexed his fingers as he adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulders back. He wasn’t the scrawny, all-bones kid from a few years ago; weightlifting had made sure of that. The muscle was useful, not just in fights like these. Most people knew better by now. These guys didn’t.

It truly was amazing how fucked up his life could get.

Case in point — since that pathetic moment on the top floor of the parking garage a few months ago, Andrew had tried to jump out of at least three windows and off two more roofs, had stepped into traffic more times than he could count, and had tried to stab himself twice.

And he was still here.

The universe, it seemed, had decided he didn’t get a choice.

Well. That was about to be tested. Again.

The assholes who thought they could corner Nicky with their slurs had stepped out of the club, looking for a fight. Andrew had obliged. Getting them outside had been easy. What came after — less so.

Two of them went down before they got the upper hand. But then, a punch cracked against the side of his head, his ears ringing instantly. Another landed against his shoulder. He staggered back, catching himself against the alley wall, too out of it to care how disgusting it probably was. Any other time, he wouldn’t let his leather jacket touch it, but right now, it was the only thing keeping him upright.

He blinked, trying to focus, but the edges of his vision were starting to go black.

Through the haze, he saw one of them step forward, all intention, fists clenched.

Then — Nothing.

—

When he came to, his head felt like it was underwater, a deep, droning buzz filling his skull. His body ached, pulsing in places that would bruise by morning.

Someone was shaking him.

"Andrew!"

His name, sharp, desperate.

He forced his eyes open. Nicky was crouched over him, worry etched into every line of his face. His grip was tight on Andrew’s jacket, knuckles white.

The alley was empty. The assholes were gone.

Andrew let out a slow breath, tasting blood. He swallowed against the coppery tang, staring up at the starless, inky sky.

Look at that.

Still alive.

Nathaniel

Nathaniel cut around a corner into an empty alleyway, muttering under his breath, footsteps sharp but unhurried. The sky was fading into the deep gold of early fall, shadows stretching long across the brick. Dry leaves rustled along the pavement, collecting in corners where the wind always seemed to pause. From somewhere nearby, a single cricket chirped, then fell silent.

Another near-disaster. Another reckless moment. He was so goddamn tired of Andrew’s bullshit.

He was different now, no longer the boy with shoulders curled tight in fear. Hadn’t been for a while. Nathaniel had watched him grow — had grown up with him, really. Now, he was sharper, more deliberate. Still quiet, but with an intensity. There was strength in the way he carried himself. And yet, somehow, he was more insufferable than ever.

This time? A second-story window at school. Just casually leaning out of it like gravity was optional. Nathaniel had shoved him back inside, barely catching him. And Andrew? Had acted like it was a curiosity, like he was gathering data.

Nathaniel had felt his entire being vibrate with frustration. What the fuck was this guy thinking?

He was still scowling when Matt nearly collided with him, stepping out of the Between and solidifying at his side.

“Whoa—" Matt caught his shoulders, steadying him. "Where’s the fire?"

Nathaniel shook him off with a sharp huff, already regretting taking this route.

And of course, it got worse. Dan and Allison, and a beat later Seth and Renee, materialized a few feet away, stepping out of the Between, already watching curiously.

“This should be good,” Allison said, grinning.

Dan crossed her arms. “You look pissed. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Nathaniel muttered, rolling his shoulders.

“Uh-huh.” Dan’s eyebrow lifted.

“He’s impossible,” Nathaniel snapped before he could stop himself.

Matt frowned. “He?”

Allison perked up. “Ohhh, you mean that kid you keep mentioning? The gravity-challenged one?”

“I haven’t—” Nathaniel hesitated. Okay, maybe he’d complained once or twice.

“This is excellent.” She grinned. “You’re mad at a Living.”

“I’m not mad,” Nathaniel said flatly.

“You’re brooding,” Dan said, unimpressed. “And you don’t brood over paperwork.”

Nathaniel tipped his head back toward the sky, exhaling like it might summon patience.

“So what did he do this time?”

“Window. Almost slipped,” Nathaniel mumbled, not daring to look at any of them.

Seth nodded, as if feeling his pain. “Windows are bastards.”

“Wait.” Matt scratched his head. “Is this the same one from... how long ago?”

Shrugging, Nathaniel crossed his arms. “A few years.”

Five, if he had to guess.

But they didn’t need to know that.

Seth looked around the group, confused. “You’ve been dealing with the same guy for several years?”

“Why do they keep sending a sentry if he’s not dying?” Matt blinked, brows furrowed. “Is that normal?”

“It isn’t.” Dan’s voice dropped, suspicious.

Conversation stalled.

Nathaniel didn’t move.

Allison let out a low whistle. “So this is officially weird, huh?”

Shifting awkwardly, Matt asked, “Uh... should we be worried?”

“It’s fine.” The words came sharp, automatic.

“You keep saying that,” Dan said.

This time, he stayed silent.

“So what’s the plan?” Allison asked.

“No plan. I said it’s fine.”

Dan tilted her head. “Uh-huh.”

Matt didn’t look convinced, either, gaze still worried.

They always worried.

And they didn’t even know half of it.

They still thought Andrew’s path just had a few sharp bends and bumps.

“Fine.” With a dramatic sigh, Allison waved a hand. “Be that way. Just admit you want to be a guardian angel.”

“Sorry, Nathaniel.” Dan’s tone was dry, her posture relaxing again. “That’s a different department.”

“Wait—” Seth perked up as if tuning back into the conversation. “Guardian angels are real?”

From beside him, Allison groaned. “Seth.”

“I think Dan was joking.” Renee, patient as ever.

“Got it.” Seth shot her a finger gun and a wink, unfazed. 

Dan gave him a long, tired look. “What is wrong with you.”

Shaking his head, chuckling, Matt turned back to Nathaniel. “If anything, you’re more like a stubborn ghost at this point.”

Seth immediately threw his arms out, wobbling side to side. “OooooOOOoooo.”

Allison jumped in without missing a beat, arms raised over her head. “Ooooooo — doomed to haunt the Living with passive-aggressive silence and bad posture!”

Seth added a dramatic “BoooOOOOooohhh,” shaking his hands near Nathaniel’s face.

Nathaniel stared at them, deadpan. “I hate all of you.”

Dan clapped him on the back. “Come on, broody. Let’s get a drink. You can complain about your gravity-challenged Living some more.”

He grumbled but didn’t resist when she steered him toward the Between.

“So.” Allison hooked an arm through his. “The window. I want the full story.”

Matt joined them, throwing an arm around him too. “And traffic. How many times is it now?”

“Seven,” Nathaniel muttered.

Allison lit up. “Oh, I’m gonna enjoy this.”

Nathaniel sighed. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

machination

noun

a plot or scheming action, especially with a clever or devious motive

(Found circled in Andrew’s well-worn copy of Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe.)

Andrew

The engine hummed, steady and unbothered, filling the garage with a low, constant vibration. The air had grown thick, clinging to his skin, the sharp bite of exhaust settling into his lungs. It burned at the edges of his senses — just enough to be uncomfortable, just enough to make his head feel slow.

Andrew sat still, fingers drumming absently against the steering wheel, his other hand resting on the gear shift. The radio was on, volume low, something indistinct playing through the speakers, floating out through the open windows into the closed garage. Just noise. Just background.

His eyes dragged lazily over the inside of the car, across the dashboard, then to the garage itself — concrete walls, shelves lined with forgotten tools, a half-empty container of motor oil. The overhead light buzzed faintly. The remote for the garage door sat untouched beside him on the seat.

Nothing moved.

The motor kept running.

Andrew let his head fall back against the headrest, gaze unfocused, fixed on the empty space ahead.

He sighed.

Come on. What’s taking so long?

His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, a slow, bored rhythm. He felt the heavy air like a weight pressing against his chest, his limbs growing sluggish. His head rolled slightly to the side, temple resting against the cool leather of the seat.

I’m dying over here.

Suddenly— 

The garage door rumbled to life.

Andrew blinked.

Cold air flooded in, cutting through the thick haze. The exhaust smell thinned, the weight in his chest easing before it could settle.

His eyes flicked to the remote beside him. Still there. His hands hadn’t moved.

Inside, Nicky and Aaron were watching TV. They wouldn’t have heard. They wouldn’t have noticed.

Andrew exhaled, his fingers flexed against the gear shift.

He watched the garage door roll open completely, the night stretching out beyond it. A breeze slipped through the space, cool against his skin. He took a breath — deep, filling his lungs — fresh air where there shouldn’t have been any.

There you are.

—

Andrew shut the car door with a quiet click, his breath curling in the night air. The garage door had obediently stayed open, as if waiting for him to acknowledge the joke.

He didn’t.

Instead, he took his time walking upstairs, stepping past the living room where Nicky and Aaron were watching some mindless action movie. Neither of them looked up, too absorbed in whatever poorly written fight sequence was playing out on-screen.

Good. He wasn’t in the mood for their bickering.

His room was dark when he stepped inside, but he didn’t bother with the light. He knew the space well enough — three years should’ve been long enough for a place to feel like home, but it never had. The bed was unmade, the desk just an old table shoved into a corner, the walls still bare. He’d lived here longer than anywhere else, and yet it might as well have been a stranger’s room.

He leaned against the desk, breath steady and controlled.

Nothing moved.

And yet— 

Something lingered.

Not dangerous. Just… present.

His eyes skimmed the darkened space again, moving slower this time.

He wasn’t alone. He was sure of it.

Which meant it was time to finally get some answers.

Andrew wasn’t an idiot, and he refused to believe this was all in his head. For a year, he’d been keeping track. Every failed attempt, every too-close call. Something was keeping him alive. Intervening when the universe should’ve let him go. It had a presence — and more than that, it had spoken to him once. That meant it could do it again.

So, no more waiting. If the universe wanted him alive so badly, then it could damn well explain itself.

Without hesitation, Andrew turned to the window, flipped the latch, and pulled it open. The night air hit his skin, cool and crisp. He didn’t hesitate as he tried to climb up onto the windowsill, the tips of his shoes balanced over open air— 

And he was yanked back, hard.

He stumbled, catching himself just before hitting the floor. A flicker of satisfaction settled low in his chest.

“You’re here,” he said, straightening, brushing invisible dust off his sleeves. “Great. Let’s talk.”

No response.

Andrew scanned the room again. The presence was still there — he could feel it, stronger than before.

He waited.

Then, just to see what would happen, he asked, “What do I call you?”

For a long second — nothing.

But then, a rasping, disjointed sound wove through the air. Barely audible. Like a whisper scraping against the edge of existence. The last syllable lifted slightly, as if unsure of itself.

“Na - - - da - - - na.”

Andrew blinked. His mouth opened, then closed again. He gave a short shake of his head, like that would help. Then looked around, half-expecting to find his own body slumped somewhere on the floor, this all just being some final brain misfire.

“…Nadana?”

Silence. The weighted kind. Almost like disbelief.

“Na - - - da - - - ne - - - el.”

Andrew’s brow furrowed. “Nadaneel. Got it.”

“Na - - - tha - - - neeeal.” The voice was more insistent now.

Andrew kept his expression blank, though it took effort. The absurdity of the moment was starting to catch up to him. He tilted his head.

“Nanananeel.”

Nothing. No response.

So he pushed.

“Nananananeel,” he said, carefully pulling the syllables apart like he was considering something very serious.

This time, the presence in the room gave off a distinct baffled energy — like the universe was trying to process how exactly it had ended up in this situation.

Andrew, with zero regret, did it again. “Nanananananeel.”

There was a long pause.

And then— 

A low, distinctly annoyed rasp:

“No.”

“No?” An edge of amusement in his voice, sharp. “Well, it’s not my fault if you can’t even pronounce your own name.”

The answering noise sounded suspiciously like a scoff. A very human scoff.

And then, dry and exhausted:

“You - - - suck.”

Andrew actually snorted at that, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected the universe to have a personality, much less a sense of humor.

“Alright, Nananeil. Relax.”

A long-suffering pause. Then, with the air of someone accepting a great and terrible burden:

“Neil - - - okay.”

“Neil.” Andrew nodded slowly, considering what’d just happened. He leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The room settled. The weight in the air softened. Still close, but no longer pressing.

He kept his posture easy, unmoved. Like it was nothing.

But inside— 

He swallowed once. Hard.

Because after years spent pushing against silence and nothingness, it had answered.

Not just with a shove. Or resistance.

But with a voice. A name.

Something had shifted.

He wasn’t sure if it made him feel steadier.

Or worse.

Outside his door, he heard Aaron coming up the stairs, the bathroom door clicking shut.

When Andrew turned back — the presence was gone.

Chapter Text

noema

noun

a presence formed in the mind before it is understood; the content of a thought, as distinct from the act of thinking itself

(Found in a dog-eared copy of Phenomenology of Perception by Maurice Merleau-Ponty. Underlined twice.)

Andrew

The air in the room was still warm from the heater despite the faint chill that settled in older houses at night. The bedside lamp cast a soft, low glow. Just enough to read by, just enough to keep shadows where he wanted them.

Andrew sat against the headboard, book in hand, turning pages more out of habit than focus.

Across the room, near his desk, the presence lingered.

Neil.

Not really a weight or a disruption. Just... there.

Andrew was getting used to it. He figured it should unnerve him, but he didn’t have the energy to care. The way Neil appeared without warning. The way it — he? — hovered at the edge of things, never making a sound, never quite gone, never fully present. Some days it was seconds. Others, minutes. Occasionally, longer.

He never spoke — not since he’d shared his name. Still, tonight, without looking up, Andrew tried again.

Flat. Offhand. Like it didn’t matter.

“So, what even are you?”

He didn’t expect a response, waited for the presence to fade. Most likely, there would be a long, drawn-out silence before he would be left with empty air.

But this time, the voice returned.

Muffled. Like it came through a wall. Flickering in and out. 

“- - - sentry.”

Andrew blinked once. Slowly. Turned a page.

“That explains absolutely nothing.”

Again, there was no immediate response, but this time Andrew could feel the air shift. It felt… pensive. Finally: “A - - - guide.”

He let the moment stretch before shutting his book with one hand and raising an eyebrow at the empty space across the room. “And what do you do?”

A beat. Then: “Guide.”

Andrew exhaled sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Yes, obviously. But who? Where?”

The reply came crackling through, faint and uneven, like a half-tuned radio. “Souls - - - Afterlife.”

He tilted his head, considering that piece of unexpected information. “So you’re basically Death.”

No answer. But the impression of a shrug was unmistakable.

Sighing, he let his head fall back against the headboard. “Does that mean you have a scythe?”

Silence. Confusion.

“You know. The giant-ass knife on a stick? Every dramatic depiction of Death carries one.”

“Ah.” Neil sounded vaguely intrigued.

Andrew rubbed a thumb over the book’s spine. “So? Do you have one?”

“No.”

He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. “Shame.”

Neil didn’t respond. 

“What about a dramatic cloak?”

This time, Neil didn’t hesitate. “- - - have - - - cloak.”

Andrew looked across the room, wondering not for the first time what Neil looked like. “Like… a hooded, billowing, dramatically-timed wind-catching kind of cloak?”

“- - - not - - - look - - - dramatic,” Neil replied, voice flat.

Andrew huffed. “That’s exactly what someone with a dramatic cloak would say.”

There was a pause, before Neil offered, “It - - - warm.”

“Oh, well.” Andrew snorted. “As long as Death stays nice and cozy.”

Neil didn’t answer, but Andrew could feel the almost-there amusement, faint but present, lingering just under the surface.

Chapter Text

nascence

noun

the quiet beginning of something not yet defined; the first stirrings of connection before it has taken shape

(Found faintly underlined in a worn copy of Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham.)

Andrew

The heat clung to everything. Warm air, cracked pavement, sweat behind his knees. The school was weeks from graduation, but people were still stressed, still acting like the next quiz or essay or hallway encounter meant something. Andrew didn’t get it.

The finish line was right there, and everyone still ran like it mattered.

He stepped outside during a break he technically wasn’t allowed to take, cutting around the back of the building where no one bothered to look.

He leaned against the brick wall, one foot propped behind him, pulled out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, black armbands snug against his forearms.

He flicked his lighter.

The flame sparked.

Then immediately sputtered out.

He didn’t react. Just clicked it again.

Same result.

Third time — flame, flicker, gone.

Andrew exhaled slowly through his nose. Didn’t look up.

Flick.

Dead.

After a pause, he muttered under his breath, “Stop it.”

There was no answer.

Of course not.

Flick.

Gone.

He let his head fall back against the wall, eyes closing briefly. “This isn’t even killing me right now,” he muttered. “So chill.”

Still nothing.

The lighter clicked again. Flame. Flicker. Gone.

It had been like this for weeks. Probably longer. Neil always being around, offering no explanation, no help, no actual protection. Just... interference. And apparently, a personal vendetta against smoking.

Andrew put the cigarette back into the pack and shoved it into his pocket. Lit nothing. Smoked nothing. Stared straight ahead, and said, low and flat, “You’re an asshole.”

He didn’t imagine the air of smug satisfaction he felt in return.

The school bell rang. Sharp and shrill.

Andrew sighed, pushing off the wall.

“That was supposed to be my break.”

And then he walked off without another word.

Andrew crouched beside the old table he used as a desk, knees bent, elbows resting on his thighs. The drawer caught as he pulled it open, cheap plastic on crooked rails.

He sifted through the clutter with one hand, fingers combing through loose batteries, torn receipts, a broken lighter, a pen with no cap—

Which leaked ink across his thumb.

He rubbed it against his index finger without thinking, then paused as the smudge spread, dark and stubborn.

He stared at it. Exhaled.

Of course.

He wiped his hand half-heartedly against his jeans, left a faint blue streak — looked at that, too, for a long, resigned moment — and went back to sorting.

The drawer didn’t need organizing. Nothing in it ever changed. But he moved the pieces anyway, nudging them into new configurations as if that would make a difference.

When he leaned down to shove the drawer back into place, his eyes caught on the faint dents in the carpet near the wall. Familiar shapes.

A narrow rectangle from an old bookcase. The twin dots of a chair leg.

Shadows from another arrangement, from a time before he lived here.

He hadn’t thought about them in a while.

Behind him, near the window, Neil was quiet. Had been for over an hour.

Andrew didn’t turn around.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

No response.

He stayed crouched for another few seconds, eyes stuck on the faint dents in the carpet. After a long beat, he blinked, looked away.

When he pushed himself off the floor, his knees were stiff, one clicking in protest. He rubbed his fingers together absently, trying to get rid of the ink. Again, it just made the situation worse.

Still nothing from Neil.

Andrew sighed through his nose and dropped into his chair with a muted thud. It creaked under his weight.

Finally, Neil’s muffled voice came through. “Why?”

He rolled his chair slightly back from the desk, glancing toward the window where Neil hovered. “It’s called conversation.”

Another long pause.

Andrew said nothing. Just leaned back, fingers still idly picking at each other, eyes tracing the thin cracks branching out across the ceiling. Dust floated in the light near the window.

The answer came several minutes later, faint, hesitant: “- - - quarters where - - - live.”

“Quarters?” Andrew raised an eyebrow. “What, do you live in a medieval castle or something?”

The air shifted — a shrug, maybe. Mild interest.

“Yeah - - - guess. - - - probably - - - accurate.”

He looked back toward the window. “Where is it?”

“Not here.” Neil’s voice fluctuated in and out. “- - - don’t really know - - - works.”

Interested despite himself, Andrew turned in his chair, shifting his weight until it propped slightly against the wall. “What’s it called?”

“- - - Between.”

Andrew blinked. “Creative.”

“- - - fits, - - - guess.”

“So,” Andrew said, dry, “you have quarters in a medieval castle in the Between.”

“Yeah,” Neil said. “Pret- - - much.”

Andrew nodded once. “Weird.”

“Yeah.”

Nicky was trying his hand at yet another new dinner recipe. Something with soy sauce and way too many steps, if the state of the kitchen was anything to go by. The air smelled like misplaced ambition and burnt rice.

Andrew sat at the table, one foot hooked around the leg of the chair opposite him, flipping his lighter open and closed with one hand. Click. Snap. Click. It gave his fingers something to do while he waited for the promised “best dinner ever” to be ready, ignoring the chaos around the kitchen.

Nicky wiped his hands on a towel, leaned against the counter, and watched him for a second.

“You’ve been different lately,” he said.

Andrew didn’t look up.

“I mean, in a good way,” Nicky added quickly. “Less moody. More present. Did you meet someone?” His eyebrows wiggled. “A nice girl, maybe?”

Click. Snap.

“I’m not into girls.”

Nicky froze mid-step, one hand still on the towel. “…Wait. What?”

Andrew glanced up. “Are you deaf?”

“No, I— wait.” Nicky’s eyes went wide. “Are you coming out to me right now?”

“No,” Andrew said. “I came out to you. Now it’s over.”

Click. Snap.

Nicky gaped at him for a moment, then dropped into the chair across from Andrew, leaned forward, and clapped both hands on the table. “Thank you for telling me. It means a lot.”

After a beat, Andrew nodded once, slow and inevitable. Nicky wasn’t done — they both knew it — and this was all the encouragement he needed to keep going.

“I’m gonna be the best gay cousin in the world,” Nicky declared, switching to being Very Serious. “Andrew, who you are — it’s already amazing. You don’t have to be afraid of being different, because different is beautiful. Being gay means you’re part of this whole incredible community now.”

Andrew blinked at him. Silent.

“I mean, you always were,” Nicky rushed on. “But now you officially qualify. And — okay, hear me out — you could come to the Gay and Lesbian Alliance for Self-Empowerment and Mutual Appreciation.”

Andrew just stared.

“…GLASEMA,” Nicky added sheepishly. “Yes, the acronym is terrible. But the people are great. And we have cupcakes.” After a beat, he added, “You love cupcakes.”

Andrew clicked the lighter shut.

“So, are you—” Nicky made a vague gesture. “Going to tell Aaron?”

“Why would I?”

“I’m sure he’d be supportive,” Nicky said. “He’s your brother.”

As if summoned, Aaron walked in, side-eyeing the kitchen counter, his shirt wrinkled, hair sticking up like he’d just woken up. “What’s going on?”

Nicky, way too fast: “Nothing.”

Andrew gave him a long, unimpressed look. Really?

Eyes wide, Nicky just shrugged.

He looked up at the ceiling as if it might bestow him with patience. “I’m gay.”

Aaron stopped halfway to the fridge. “Seriously?”

“You got a problem?”

A beat.

“Books and gay? That’s so cliché.” He pulled the fridge door open. “What’s for dinner?”

Chapter Text

acquiescence

noun

the reluctant or passive acceptance of something without protest

(Found highlighted in a secondhand copy of Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro.)

Andrew

The cicadas were louder than usual, a high, constant buzz bleeding into the edges of the evening.

Andrew sat on the back steps of the house, one foot on the ground, the other drawn up against his chest. The wood was warm from the day and a little uneven where he sat.

The air was heavy with cut grass, old heat, and charcoal smoke from a few houses down. Someone was laughing over there, too loud and too full, the kind of summer sound people made when they didn’t know how to shut up.

He didn’t move.

A mosquito drifted too close; he swatted at it with the back of his hand.

His quiet satisfaction at the immediate silence lasted — until it buzzed near his ear again, shrill and smug.

He rolled a cigarette between his fingers. He hadn’t lit it, didn’t try again after Neil had stopped him the first time. But it gave his hands something to do. Paper, filter, weight.

Another laugh floated over the fences. Sharper this time. Someone had probably just spilled a drink.

Andrew shifted his foot down onto the lower step, leaned forward slightly, arms draped over his knees. He stared into the dark stretch of patchy grass.

Without thinking about it too much, he spoke.

“Do you eat?”

A pause.

“- - -ight now?”

“No, idiot. In general.”

“Yes.”

He rolled the cigarette again. “So in your world—”

“- - - Between.”

“Sure. There you eat.”

“Sometimes.”

Andrew flicked a glance toward where Neil hovered, somewhere near the bottom step, almost out in the yard. “What does that mean.”

“- - - don’t eat - - - often as - - - Living.”

Staring out at the yard, Andrew considered what Neil had said. Living. People, probably. He took a deep breath. Charcoal mixed with something sweet. Dessert maybe. To Neil, he said, dry, “Sounds boring.”

A beat passed. Then, a vague echo of a shrug. “- - - don’t - - - remember - - - different. - - - fine.”

“Sad,” Andrew said flatly, with a flick of the perfectly unlit cigarette.

A faint, noncommittal hum answered him.

He leaned back onto one elbow, shifting his weight until his shoulder bumped the wall behind him, porch boards rough under his skin.

“So you eat in the Between, and then you go into your castle to sleep?”

“I can.”

“But you don’t.”

“Sometimes. Not - - - often - - - you - - -”

He let his eyes fall half-shut, head tipped back. “Weird.”

“Hm.”

“So you don’t sleep every night? Do you just work all the time?”

“- - - aren’t really days - - - Between,” Neil said. “It just… is.”

Andrew blinked. Sat up a little straighter, frowning slightly.

“How can there be no days? The sun goes up, it goes down. That’s a day.”

“- - - isn’t really - - - sun - - - Between.”

That made him pause.

He shifted forward again, peering into the dark yard like he might find an answer out there.

“What do you mean there’s no sun. How do you not have a sun?”

“- - - just not - - - there.”

“Well, then where is it?”

“Here.”

Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut for a second while Neil just hummed, the note warping in unsteady frequency.

“So,” he muttered, thinking it through, “you just sit in the dark?”

“We - - - fires.”

Andrew stared ahead. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a screen door creaked open, then shut. A porch light flicked off, casting the yard into deeper blue.

“So you sleep sometimes, eat sometimes, no sun. Just endless darkness?”

“Pretty much.”

Andrew let out a slow breath through his nose. The mosquito buzzed by again — smug little bastard.

He flicked the cigarette against his knee, gaze drifting across the empty yard.

“Can’t believe Nicky calls my life boring.”

The last of the chairs were stacked. Eden’s sound system had long since cut off, leaving only the low murmur of glassware and tired voices. Andrew rinsed out a final glass and handed it off to one of the bartenders closing with him. No tension tonight — no fights, no drunks who needed dragging out. Just a few hours of being useful. He’d filled in for someone who didn’t show. Again.

He didn’t mind the crew. They didn’t ask too many questions, and the security guys had figured out fast that Andrew didn’t do small talk. He’d started working behind the bar half a year ago, finally out of the kitchen. He was good at it. Fast. Focused. Unbothered.

By the time he stepped out the back exit, it was past two. The city felt drained. Streetlight haze blurred the edges of the empty lot, casting a dull glow over cracked asphalt. The breeze carried just enough warmth to hint that spring had finally stuck around.

He’d felt Neil hovering all night, just at the edge of his awareness. Close, but not intruding. Just there, a habit Andrew hadn’t agreed to but didn’t bother fighting. A shadow that had long since stopped being surprising.

The lot behind the bar was still. Concrete, dumpsters, a tilted streetlight casting uneven light in the corner.

He crossed it, lazily flicking the keys in his hand, too tired to think about much at all. Overhead, the sky had gone featureless and dark, a blank stretch where stars should’ve been. The air smelled faintly of something sour, maybe the trash bins lined up along the curb, their lids barely shut.

Andrew unlocked his car, dropped into the driver’s seat, and let out a deep sigh.

He turned the key.

It clicked. Then flipped back.

He stared at it.

Tried again.

Click. Flip.

A pause. Longer, now.

“Seriously,” he muttered. “Fuck off.”

The key stayed still in the ignition.

His eyes drifted up toward the windshield. The back door of the bar opened and shut as the last bartender ducked out. A car pulled out of the lot. Somewhere in the corner, a streetlight sputtered, then died.

He was the only one left.

“I had one drink,” he said, low. “Maybe two. I’m not drunk.”

A beat.

He turned the key again.

Same result.

He stared at it. Quiet. Measured.

His head dropped against the steering wheel, shoulders sagging.

“I’m not going to crash into a pole and explode. I’m going to drive home. Slowly. Through two neighborhoods and a parking lot. I’m not sleeping in this car. Behind a bar. In this city.”

Click. Flip.

He leaned back, head resting against the seat now, tired. Looked out the windshield like Neil might be hovering up there, arms crossed. Annoying.

His fingers tapped against the wheel.

“I’ll stop for water,” he said. “Eat something. Windows down. No music. I’ll be boring.”

A beat.

“Come on.”

Silence.

Then— 

Soft. Muffled. Reluctant.

“Fine.”

Andrew turned the key again. The engine started without resistance.

Shifting into gear, he muttered, “Control freak.”

And pulled out of the lot.

Chapter Text

liminality

noun

the in-between state during a transition; not what you were, not yet what you’ll become

(Found in Rites of Passage by Arnold van Gennep. Circled once.)

Andrew

Andrew wasn’t sure how the fuck he had ended up here.

Community college.

He walked across campus, moving through the shuffle of students clutching overpriced coffee cups, already looking exhausted in the second week of the semester.

English Literature. That was what he’d landed on. Mostly because someone had asked, and he’d needed an answer. It seemed like the degree with the least amount of effort required and it wasn’t like he had any long-term plans. Reading had always been easy, disappearing into stories even easier. If the world wanted him to sit in a classroom and dissect meaning from words that probably didn’t mean anything at all, then sure. Why not.

He adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder, stepping around a group of freshmen who hadn’t yet learned to move the fuck out of the way. He’d parked a few streets over, since the main lot had been full.

Aaron was here too, though their paths didn’t cross much. His copy was taking something medicine-adjacent — biology, biochem, whatever pre-med students did to torture themselves. Andrew didn’t ask. Nicky, of course, did enough asking for the both of them.

Nicky had gone here too, years ago. He talked about it like it was the best time of his life, always going on about how proud he was of “his boys” for being in school at the same time. Like he’d personally orchestrated the entire thing instead of Andrew just having nothing better to do.

He left the campus behind him as he made his way toward the side streets. A couple more blocks, and he’d reach his car. The traffic was steady, the rumbling of engines filling the late afternoon air.

Andrew barely thought about it. He just stepped off the curb. 

But before his foot could touch asphalt— 

The pedestrian light flicked green. The traffic in front of him came to a clean, obedient halt.

Andrew exhaled sharply through his nose. Took another step, walked to the next street.

Another green light.

Every intersection ahead of him, every pedestrian crossing, lined up perfectly.

Shaking his head, he kept walking, uninterrupted.

"Boring."

He shoved his hands into his pockets and crossed the last street, heading for his car. Maybe he’d go home. Maybe he’d go to Eden’s for an early shift. Maybe he’d just sit in the driver’s seat for a while and stare at the dash. Maybe Neil would join him, maybe not.

For now, it didn’t matter.

The library was one of the few places on campus Andrew tolerated. It was quiet, most people minded their own business, and no one gave a shit if he sat in the same spot for hours, flipping through whatever book he’d decided to skim that day.

He had a routine. A table near the back, by the window, where the light wasn’t too harsh and people didn’t bother him.

Which was why he blinked when a chair scraped across from him. A stack of books landed on the table with a solid thump.

Andrew didn’t look up. “No.”

A voice, far too self-assured, answered, “This table has the best light.”

Andrew turned a page. “There are lamps everywhere.”

The guy unzipped his bag like he hadn’t heard him. “Other people breathe too loud.”

Andrew flicked his gaze up, unimpressed. Tall. Sharp cheekbones. Dark circles under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in a month. Lacrosse jacket slung over the back of his chair.

Kevin Day.

Andrew recognized him from one of his classes. He played lacrosse for the college team. Not particularly notable on his own, except for the fact that his father was the coach, which made his place on the team less of an achievement and more of a foregone conclusion. Still, he walked around with the confidence of an Olympic medalist.

And now, apparently, he was here.

Kevin pulled a book from the top of his stack. The Art of War.

Andrew tilted his head. “Big words for someone who just put Sun Tzu on their desk.”

Kevin gave him a flat look. “It’s relevant.”

“Sure. When’s your next battle?”

Kevin huffed, flipping open a notebook. “You wouldn’t get it.”

Andrew shook his head slightly and went back to his book.

A few minutes passed. Then— 

“So,” Kevin said, clicking his pen against the table, “do you come here often?”

Andrew blinked. “Are you serious?”

Kevin blinked back, confused.

“This is a college library.”

“Yeah,” Kevin said earnestly. “I have classes here. Thought maybe you did too.”

Andrew stared for a beat. “I’m a student.”

“Same.” Kevin nodded like they’d just shared a deep secret.

Andrew waited for the next part — there had to be one — but Kevin just leaned back, glanced around the room like he’d lost his train of thought, then leaned in again. “You, uh... always sit at this table?”

At this point, Andrew wasn’t sure if he was being hit on or assessed for a group project.

Still, he decided to humor him. Kevin was attractive enough. “Sure.”

Kevin hummed like he was logging the information for later, then — without missing a beat — pulled out a book and started scribbling notes.

Andrew blinked again, watching the scene unfold.

Kevin flipped pages, highlighted something, scribbled. Zero follow-up.

Okay. Maybe not flirting. Just... whatever this was.

Andrew went back to his book, but a few minutes later — tap tap tap.

“What’s your major?” Kevin asked, like they were back on track.

“English lit.”

Kevin nodded like this was valuable intelligence. “I’m history.”

Andrew waited.

Kevin waited.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations?”

With another nod, Kevin pulled out another book and started highlighting, like the conversation never happened.

Andrew waited for... something. Nothing came. He went back to his book.

A full minute passed before Kevin’s pen froze mid-highlight.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m Kevin, by the way.”

Andrew, deadpan. “You don’t say.”

“And you are?”

Andrew raised a brow. “Andrew.”

Kevin’s face barely shifted. “I’ve seen you at the gym. You’ve got good muscle mass.”

There it was.

“Is that so.”

Kevin nodded seriously. “Good build. Good shoulders. A bit heavy on the bulk, maybe? You should probably do more cardio.”

Andrew stared.

Stared.

Stared.

Slowly, it clicked.

Definitely not flirting.

Andrew let out a slow breath. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Satisfied, Kevin went right back to highlighting like he hadn’t just insulted him mid-compliment.

Andrew glanced around the library. Was this guy for real?

He shook his head slightly, resigned.

Sure. Okay.

—

The faucet ran, filling the sink with warm, soapy water. Andrew leaned against the counter, waiting, arms loosely crossed. The low bass from Aaron’s room thrummed through the walls, a steady vibration beneath Andrew’s feet. Nicky was still at work, so it was just him in the kitchen.

Well. Him and— 

“Met someone today,” Andrew said casually. “He recommended cardio. Good for longevity, apparently. Held a 10 minute speech about it.”

The air beside him shifted. Familiar by now. He didn’t need to guess where Neil was, he just knew.

He kept his face neutral. “You two should compare notes.”

A pause.

Then, dry, unimpressed, “You - - - funny.”

Andrew huffed, half a breath away from a laugh. “I know, I’m hilarious.”

He reached for his phone where it sat charging on the counter, flipping it absently in his palm, the cable looping neatly between the outlet and the device. He flicked his thumb over the screen, unlocking it, checking nothing in particular.

Lazily, he spun the phone, let it roll against his knuckles — then fumbled it.

It hit the edge of the sink, bounced once, then splashed into the water, the cord stretching taut behind it.

Andrew blinked. His fingers twitched toward the sink, already moving to grab it— 

Crack.

A sharp snap echoed through the kitchen. The lights flickered out. The fridge stuttered into silence. The bass from Aaron’s room cut off mid-beat.

The socket was dead.

Andrew’s hand froze just short of the water.

“That,” he said, voice dry, “was not what it looked like.”

No response.

Andrew flicked a glance to the side. Nothing moved, the air tense, waiting.

He looked back at the sink, at the dark screen of his phone beneath the water.

“That was just dumb,” he muttered.

The house remained still, humming with the aftershock of sudden quiet. Andrew rolled his shoulders, turned toward where the charging cable was still plugged into the socket—

Aaron’s door slammed open.

“What the fuck?”

Sighing, Andrew unplugged the cable and fished his phone out of the water. When he turned back, the kitchen was empty, Neil was gone.

Chapter Text

pedantry

noun

excessive concern with minor details or rules; showing off knowledge without purpose

(Found underlined in a battered copy of The Elements of Style.)

Andrew

Andrew had never planned on making friends in college. And yet, somehow, Kevin Day had attached himself like a particularly persistent parasite.

First, the library. Then, a week later, Andrew had walked into War & Literature — a class he only took because the lecture times were better than his other options — and made the mistake of making eye contact with Kevin. Kevin, for his part, had immediately nodded in acknowledgment, and then, for some reason, decided that meant they were sitting together from then on.

Andrew hadn’t encouraged it. He also hadn’t discouraged it.

Kevin was tolerable in that he mostly left Andrew alone outside of class, but inside class, he came alive. He cared — loudly and often. Andrew figured that, if nothing else, it provided a distraction in the midst of boring classes.

Like now.

Leaning back in his chair, foot propped on the edge of the desk, Andrew flipped through the battered pages of All Quiet on the Western Front like he was looking for a receipt he’d misplaced. Next to him, Kevin was hunched over his copy, underlining things aggressively, his pen stabbing into the pages like he was personally at war with them.

“It’s a masterpiece,” Kevin muttered, eyes scanning the text like he was deciphering scripture.

“It’s a 300-page essay on how war sucks. Riveting.”

Kevin’s head snapped up so fast Andrew thought he might give himself whiplash. “You can’t possibly be this dense.” His voice was heavy with exasperation, like Andrew had personally insulted his ancestors. “It’s about how war wrecks young soldiers. The loss of identity. The—”

“Yeah. And?” Andrew stretched, cracking his neck. “I don’t need that many pages to understand the psychological attrition of warfare.”

Kevin clenched his jaw, gripping his pen like it was a weapon. “It’s about more than that. It’s about— ”

“It’s about how if I were there, I’d simply walk into a bullet and end the misery. Got it.”

The noise Kevin made was probably meant to be words but came out as a strangled breath of pure frustration.

The professor wandered by, overhearing just enough to nod approvingly. “Excellent discussion, gentlemen.”

Kevin inhaled sharply through his nose. Andrew turned his head just enough to watch the indecision battling behind his eyes. 

He felt the corner of his mouth almost lift. Instead, he raised an eyebrow at Kevin’s narrowed eyes, waiting.

There was a beat. Then Kevin, tight-lipped, went back to underlining his book with vengeance.

Andrew flicked his page lazily, victorious.

Streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement, their glow stretched thin over empty walkways and wind-polished concrete. A cold breeze moved through the trees, rustling leaves along the curb and brushing through the hedges in low, scraping whispers.

Andrew walked at an easy pace across campus, hands buried in his jacket pockets, bag slung loose over one shoulder. He stepped deliberately, still half-aware of hidden patches of odd blitz ice he’d seen earlier glinting in the dim light. The air had a bite to it — not sharp, but enough to sting his nose and the tips of his fingers.

He’d stayed late at the library, flipping through a book more out of habit than necessity, mostly to keep Kevin company as he spiraled through his ten-step study plan. They had an exam coming up in one of their shared classes — Andrew knew that. He just didn’t care.

Kevin, on the other hand, was treating it like he was training for the Olympics of overachieving.

Now, finally heading back to his car, he felt the low static of Neil’s presence beside him. They didn't talk a lot, certainly not in public. Neil’s voice, if that’s what it was, still tended to sound fractured, like a bad signal barely making it through. 

Sometimes there were full sentences. More often, just stray words cutting in and out, slipping into the gaps when Andrew least expected them. And then, other times, nothing at all. Andrew wasn’t sure if that was how it worked.

Or if Neil was just bad at conversation.

Either way, making his way across campus, Andrew wasn’t about to start talking out loud to empty air like some lunatic. He was already tolerating enough weirdness in his life — no need to make it obvious.

The wind picked up, stirring the trees overhead. A streetlamp a few feet ahead sputtered, the light dimming, flaring, then dimming again — like it was struggling to hold on against the cold.

Neil made a vague noise of disapproval. “That - - - short out - - - soon.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow but didn’t look at him directly. “What, the light?”

Neil hummed in agreement, his voice the familiar muffled static. “- - - flickering pattern - - - uneven. Probably - - - loose wiring - - - somewhere.”

Andrew exhaled, almost a scoff. “Almost 14 billion years old and that’s all you got? Loose wiring?”

“What - - - talking about? - - - 19.”

Andrew stopped walking. Just — stopped.

The air around him stretched, empty except for the distant rumble of traffic.

Neil, completely unaware that he’d just broken Andrew’s brain, continued,  “- - - think - - - ancient ones said - - - something about - - - capacitor drainage? - - - maybe - - - hydraulic flux.”

Andrew just stood there, staring at nothing. Processing.

He blinked once. Then again.

“You’re— What?”

“- - - or whatever. Streetlamp - - - die eventually - - -,” Neil kept going, oblivious. Then, as if it clarified anything, he added matter-of-fact, “- - - potatoes.”

Andrew exhaled, slow and steady, like that might help settle something.

He shook his head, fell into step beside Neil, and glanced toward the empty space next to him — like if he looked long enough, the pieces might finally come together.

They didn’t.

Neil was still muttering about wiring.

Andrew breathed in the quiet of the library. The whisper of pages turning, the faint shift of a chair, the muted click of laptop keys.

Music muffled by headphones somewhere to his left.

Late afternoon sunlight dragged across the floor in pale gold, pooling between the tables like it had nowhere else to be. Dust hung in the beams as if it had forgotten how to fall.

Andrew sat at his usual table near the back, one boot hooked around the chair leg, elbow resting on the stack of notes he wasn’t actually reading.

Kevin was off somewhere, probably monologuing about medieval succession crises as if anyone gave a shit about who Matilda was. They didn’t share a class this semester, but Andrew still knew Kevin’s syllabus better than his own.

For now, it meant he could actually get through his notes in peace.

Or, more accurately, skim just enough to bullshit his way through the next discussion.

The second semester had barely started. New schedules. New professors. Same patterns.

He hadn’t thought he’d make it this far.

The thought flickered past, uninvited, and he didn’t follow it.

Winter break had been uneventful. Shifts at Eden’s. Half-finished books. Late mornings spent stretched out on the couch with nothing to do and no one to answer to.

And Neil had been there. Too often to ignore.

They talked more now. Not all the time, nothing deep, but conversation was becoming the norm, no longer the exception. Andrew wasn't sure what to do with that change in their dynamic.

Like the time Andrew had gone to Sweetie’s and ordered a sundae so overloaded it came with sparklers — and a name he refused to say out loud.

The sparks had started going off before the waitress even let go of the glass. Neil sat across from him while Andrew leaned slightly out of range of the nearest spark, expression flat. One ember hissed sideways and he twitched, just barely.

A little girl across the diner had looked over, curious. Andrew met her big eyes without blinking. One brow lifted.

She giggled into her milkshake.

He took a bite like nothing was happening, then lifted the spoon again — held it in front of his mouth, shielding the words as if that made him look less insane. 

“You got sparklers in the Between?”

A shift in the air, confusion. Finally, a warbled, “What - - - sparklers?” made it through the static.

Andrew jabbed the spoon toward the flickering chaos above his sundae. One of them popped. The confusion lifted. 

“Don’t - - - so.”

Andrew nodded once, unimpressed. “Tragic.”

Or when he’d been stretched out on the couch, mind half-melted, watching a reality show where three strangers tried to fall in love on a boat. Neil had hovered by the armrest, the air increasingly puzzled.

Eventually, he’d asked: “This - - - real?”

Andrew hadn’t looked over. “God, I hope not.”

It wasn’t friendship.

But it was something.

A group of students in the middle of the library laughed — quickly shushed by someone who cared more than Andrew did. He watched the moment pass, the sound evaporating. 

Beside him, Neil lingered. Steady. Quiet.

Andrew didn’t acknowledge him.

Focusing back on his notes, he flipped through the papers, frowning at the mess of half-formed thoughts scrawled in the margins. His professor had a habit of contradicting himself in increasingly academic ways, and Andrew had already lost patience.

“This professor is redefining academic absurdity,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.

“Agreed.”

Andrew blinked. Neil almost never responded that fast. Usually, it felt like the words had to claw their way out from wherever Neil existed. Most of them didn’t make it.

But this one had. Immediate. Automatic.

Andrew huffed a sound that almost counted as a laugh.

He turned the page like he wasn’t impressed.

“Guess there’s hope for you yet.”

Chapter Text

quotidian

adjective

occurring every day; ordinary, unremarkable

(Found misused in a group essay draft. Margin note: “Look it up.”)

Andrew

Andrew wasn’t in this class.

Which made it worse.

One second, he had been walking out of class, fully intending to head home and enjoy an evening that did not involve other people. The next, Kevin was dragging — physically dragging — him into a study group he wasn’t part of, citing some bullshit about academic collaboration and you’ve read everything ever written and don’t talk to anyone — try contributing for once and just sit there and be quiet if you want.  

Which, fine. Andrew could do that.

Except he was sitting here. And he was being quiet. And somehow, that was still too much to ask.

“Okay,” some guy — Ethan? Evan? Something with vowels — said, flipping through his notes with far too much enthusiasm. “So I think the real question is, like… is Yossarian actually crazy, or is he the only sane person in an insane world?”

Andrew slowly exhaled through his nose.

“That’s kind of the whole point,” Kevin muttered, looking like he wanted to launch himself out a window.

“I know,” Not-Ethan said, missing the point entirely. “But, like, if you think about it, the real catch-22 is that he only gets to be the main character because he refuses to play by the rules. And isn’t that a paradox in itself?”

No one responded — a mercy, maybe.

Andrew muttered, more to himself, “Jesus Christ.”

Not-Ethan frowned. “What?”

Kevin, probably sensing impending doom, tried to cut in. “Andrew—”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Andrew waved a hand vaguely in the air. “Let’s all pause and really sit with the recursive brilliance of your analysis. You just asked if Catch-22, the book literally named Catch-22, contains a catch-22.”

“…Yeah?” said Not-Ethan, looking uncertain.

Andrew blinked at him. Once. Slowly. Thought, briefly, about standing up and walking into traffic.

“Isn’t that a paradox, though?” Someone across the table — a girl with glitter on her collar — leaned in. Wide-eyed, hopeful. “Or just a contradiction?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked around the group. Took in the confusion.

Kevin dropped his head into his hands. “I hate this.”

A huff of air escaped Andrew. 

There was a pause. Long enough that someone across the table finally dared to ask, “…Okay, so what’s your take?”

He rested his hand against his knee, voice even. “The book’s not about war.”

Silence.

“It’s about bureaucracy. The absurdity isn’t in the violence, it’s in the fact that the rules are the real enemy,” he went on. “It’s about control. The system. How logic stops mattering when you’re caught inside of it, because the only way to survive is to play by rules that are actively trying to kill you.”

No one moved. A few exchanged glances. One girl had already started scribbling notes, like Andrew had just delivered the gospel and she was racing to copy it before it vanished.

Kevin looked at him like he was witnessing a violation of natural law.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

Andrew didn’t react. Amusement hidden in the dry line of his mouth.

Kevin groaned, long and miserable, like it physically pained him.

Andrew tipped the skillet, watching the oil coat the pan in a thin, even layer. The flame beneath it flared slightly, steady and sharp. He reached for the garlic, already peeled and chopped.

Behind him, Neil hovered somewhere near the edge of the kitchen. The silence had stretched long enough to probably be observation.

“Why - - - pan - - - that noise?”

Andrew blinked. “What noise.”

“- - - popping sound. - - - about - - - explode.”

He paused, spatula halfway to the pan.

“That’s oil,” he said flatly. “It sizzles when it’s hot.”

A beat.

Neil didn’t respond.

Andrew turned in the direction of Neil. “How do you not know that?”

“Think - - - never really used - - - stove,” Neil replied. The distinct feeling of a shrug in the air. “- - - died when - - - was ten.”

Andrew stared at the garlic in his hand.

“Well, shit,” he said finally. “That’s depressing.”

“You - - - already depressed.” A pause. “That - - - kind of - - - whole problem.”

Andrew scraped the garlic into the pan and gave it a slow stir. “Well, Sherlock, how could I argue with such astute logic.”

A short pause.

“My name - - - Neil.”

“Yes.” Andrew glanced over his shoulder. “And you’re an idiot. Two things can be true at the same time.”

“You - - - annoying.”

Andrew nodded. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

eidolon

noun

a phantom, specter, or idealized image; something seen that may not be real

(Found highlighted in a secondhand copy of Classical Mythology. Margin note: "use in a sentence.")

Andrew

The engine rumbled low, vibrations humming through the wheel, steady and sure. Andrew let it settle into his bones, let it drown out everything else — the weight of his thoughts, the cacophony of his classes, the static of existing.

The city had thinned out behind him. He took the turn onto the highway without thinking, the dark stretch of road yawning ahead. The speedometer climbed higher.

He wasn’t alone.

He’d felt it a while ago — Neil’s familiar weight settling into the passenger seat, a presence just there, solid in a way it shouldn’t be.

Nothing else. No words, no interference.

Andrew’s hands flexed on the wheel, barely paying attention to the other cars whipping past, their headlights cutting through the dark in quick bursts. The radio was low, some indie song playing, just background noise. He let his eyes wander.

To his left, a complex of squat industrial buildings, empty parking lots lit by dim security lights. To his right, open road. Another car approached fast, headlights glaring.

He turned his head just as it passed, the sudden wash of light flooding the interior of his car.

And there— 

His stomach dropped.

A figure sat in his passenger seat, lounging like they belonged there. Pale skin, black clothes, dark red hair. Their eyes — steady, unblinking — were locked on him.

Andrew whipped his head around, a sharp inhale caught in his throat.

The seat was empty.

What the— 

The car jerked.

His grip had slackened on the wheel, just for a second, but it was enough. Tires skidded over asphalt, the vehicle swerving hard into the opposite lane, headlights from an oncoming car glaring straight at him— 

Before he could react, the wheel corrected.

It was quick, precise, almost clinical. No jerky overcorrection, no chaos — just a smooth shift, guiding the car back into its lane.

Andrew hadn’t done that.

His fingers were still curled around the wheel, frozen. He hadn’t moved.

His pulse hammered.

For a moment, the only sound was the rush of wind against his windows, the low hum of the engine steady once again.

Neil next to him was tense, close. As if an invisible weight was pressing into his side. Then, it slowly moved back into the passenger seat. 

Andrew stared ahead.

He exhaled, sharp and slow. His heart was still racing.

What the fuck.

Neil didn’t move again. Andrew could feel him watching him, the agitation crackling in the air between them, but he ignored it.

Mile after mile, he kept driving.

Then, finally, he pulled onto the shoulder, rolling to a stop. He exhaled again, more measured this time, fingers drumming idly against the wheel as if none of that had just happened.

He let the moment hang for another beat, then forced his voice into something casual — steady, he hoped, even though his heart still hadn’t slowed down.

“You were right.” Eyes fixed straight ahead. “The cloak isn’t dramatic at all. Disappointing.”

Neil went perfectly still beside him, tension radiating sharply in the small space. Andrew waited him out, pulse still too quick, jaw tight.

“You—” Neil began, cautious. “- - - see me?”

Andrew’s fingers tightened around the wheel, knuckles whitening. He considered lying, but the quiet, uncertain hope in Neil’s voice stopped him.

“For a moment, yeah.”

Neil’s voice was barely audible above the idle of the engine. “- - - now?”

Andrew swallowed once, deliberately turning his head to look toward the passenger seat. It was empty, just the familiar weight of Neil’s presence. He shook his head slowly.

“No.”

Nothing followed.

Andrew flexed his grip on the wheel, then raised an eyebrow, forcing himself back to dry humor. “So, does the dramatic billowing cloak cost extra? Seems like something you’d have to special-order.”

He felt the shift beside him, tension easing slowly into something lighter, almost amused.

Andrew breathed out slowly, feeling the tightness in his chest begin to loosen, just a bit.

Fucking hell.

After that first glimpse in the car, Andrew wondered if it would happen again.

Maybe, if he moved just right, he could catch him again.

The second time, it almost made him drop a plate.

He was in the kitchen, cleaning up from dinner now that Nicky and Aaron had disappeared into their rooms. His movements were automatic — scraping rice off a plate, wiping the counter with lazy efficiency — his brain still half-stuck on the lectures he’d sat through that afternoon.

“Day spent twenty minutes trying to make them emotionally connect with the collapse of Rome,” Andrew muttered. “I wasn’t even there, and I still had to hear about it.” 

He rinsed a bowl, flicked water off his fingers. The faucet ran hot. Steam curled against his skin. “He’s been trying to sell me on the ‘resonance of civilizations in decline’ for three weeks now. Like I’m going to catch feelings for aqueducts.”

Andrew shook his head, muttering to himself. “Shouldn’t have corrected him when he called Constantine a general. Now I’m apparently a Rome enthusiast.”

The air shifted beside him. Subtle. Familiar.

Andrew didn’t react.

Neil had been lingering since he got home.

But when Andrew turned toward the sink again — he caught it.

Movement. A flicker at the edge of his vision.

And for half a second, less than a heartbeat, he saw him.

Leaning against the counter. Dark clothes, lean frame, sharp edges but soft curls falling into his face. Barely taller than Andrew, yet impossible to ignore.

His pulse kicked. Sharp. Fast.

Then it was gone.

Andrew stood still, fingers tight against the counter.

Then exhaled. Scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Jesus Christ.”

And that was it. That was all it took.

After that, it became a game. A flick of the eyes, a tilt of the head.

Sometimes he caught a shadow. Sometimes a half-shape in the hallway mirror or a flicker in the TV’s reflection.

But it never lasted long. Never when Andrew looked with intention.

If he turned his head too far— 

Gone.

If he tried to meet his eyes— 

Gone.

No direct line of sight. No eye contact. Just a silhouette.

Slipping in sideways.

And Neil, it turned out, was a mess.

It should’ve been funny. The black cloak was so cliché it was almost unbearable — was Death really that unimaginative? Looking like a theater costume, it hung crookedly over his frame, uneven and slipping at the shoulder like he had no idea how to wear it properly. The rest of him wasn’t much better — clothes that didn’t fit, hair like it hadn’t been cut in years.

Until suddenly — it had.

One night, Andrew turned his head and saw him again.

Shorter hair. Cleaner edges. Still a mess, but deliberate now. Purposeful.

Andrew clenched his jaw.

Fucking hell.

This should not be allowed.

Neil had no business looking like that. His eyes — when visible — were too bright, too blue, too sharp. Andrew had never seen someone so obviously out of place in the universe and yet so infuriatingly easy on the eyes.

He took a deep breath.

Tried not thinking about how this was clearly a problem of his own making.

A hallucination. A trick of light. A stress-induced fantasy. 

A fucking ghost.

Andrew looked away.

He needed to stop.

This was nothing.

Chapter Text

pull

noun

a force that draws something toward a point without ever arriving

(Found in the Sentry Core Directive Memo on Pathway Resistance. Circled once.)

Neil

Andrew's shift had ended nearly half an hour ago, but he showed no signs of leaving. Neil had noticed this trend lately — Andrew lingering at Eden's after his shift was done. Not that he minded, exactly. It just didn't make sense. Andrew was meticulous about his routines; breaking them usually meant he had something planned, though Neil couldn’t quite figure out what.

The pulse of the music vibrated through the floorboards, pressing into Neil’s bones and drowning out the bells in his head that signaled souls waiting for him. 

He scanned the crowded club; bodies pushing close on the packed dance floor, bathed in washes of neon pink and blue light. Neil didn’t usually come to Eden’s — too loud, too chaotic — but he still vividly remembered the altercation outside the club two years ago, Andrew bruised and bloodied by a group of strangers. So when Andrew started staying late more often, he couldn't help the restless, worried thoughts creeping in.

Neil leaned against the bar next to Andrew. He’d sighed deeply when Neil had arrived a few minutes ago, probably exhaustion from another long shift. He was dressed as always, head-to-toe in black: a crisp button-down, sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, showing the familiar black armbands. The shirt pulled slightly at the shoulders as Andrew shifted, highlighting the quiet strength Neil knew he carried effortlessly.

His gaze drifted upward to Andrew’s hair, watching the club's neon lights briefly turn the blond strands pink, then blue, then purple. Mesmerized, he watched the halo of shifting colors, catching in the edges of his hair and holding there for a beat too long.

Andrew always styled it carefully, Neil had seen him do it enough times to know. It made him uncomfortably aware of his own perpetually tangled mess.

He wasn’t sure why.

Right now, Andrew's fingers were loosely curled around a whiskey glass, slowly swirling the amber liquid with practiced ease. His thumb tapped out a deliberate rhythm against the counter, entirely separate from the club’s pounding music.

He tilted his head slightly toward Neil. “You’re hovering.”

Narrowing his eyes, Neil still didn’t understand how Andrew could always tell where he was. “How do you always do that?”

“You’re noisy,” was Andrew’s unhelpful answer.

“That’s not even true.” Neil rolled his eyes. He knew for a fact no one could hear him. Except Andrew.

Eyes fixed straight ahead, Andrew took a slow sip. “Your cloak matches the ridiculous dress code, but the jeans and shirt are atrocious.”

The insult barely landed — Neil felt oddly pleased by Andrew’s attention. He was about to respond when a stranger settled into the space on Andrew's other side. Neil straightened, immediately irritated.

“Long night?” the guy asked, flashing a practiced smile.

Andrew ignored him, eyes forward. Neil crossed his arms, already annoyed on Andrew’s behalf.

The man leaned in, oblivious to Andrew's disinterest. He studied Andrew’s profile, angling his body toward him with a lazy confidence. “You know, I’ve been watching you for a while now.”

Neil narrowed his eyes. “That’s not at all creepy,” he muttered under his breath.

“You clearly work out. Bet you're pretty strong, huh?”

Well, yeah. Neil blinked slowly. Anyone who’d been to a gym more than twice could guess that.

Still, Andrew didn’t answer, just kept swirling the whiskey, slow and unimpressed.

“And the all-black look? Works great on you. Real mysterious.”

Neil’s gaze flicked between them, brow furrowing as he tried to understand the interaction. It reminded him vaguely of Seth’s clumsy attempts to charm Allison or Matt’s awkward compliments toward Dan. Suddenly it clicked, and confusion gave way to disbelief.

“Is he… flirting?” He said aloud before he could stop himself.

No, that couldn’t be right. He’d seen flirting. In TV shows and movies. Or even watching Dan and Allison — more skilled than their boyfriends, making it look natural, easy. It usually involved clever back-and-forth banter or genuine compliments — not painfully obvious observations about someone’s appearance.

“And blond, too,” the guy added. “That’s my favorite.”

Rolling his eyes, Neil turned fully toward Andrew. “He can’t be serious.”

Andrew’s thumb stopped tapping on the counter.

“He might as well announce that water’s wet, or that Eden’s is loud. What's next — complimenting you for wearing shoes?”

“What do you say? Want to get out of here?” The guy leaned in closer, undeterred by Andrew’s lack of response.

Neil scoffed incredulously. “Really? That's his best effort? He didn't even try to be creative.” Complimenting Andrew wasn’t even difficult — anyone with half a brain could manage it. “He could talk about literally anything, like how your eyes are the color of sunshine. Or, wild idea, your personality. But no, let’s go with ‘you have hair.’” Neil shook his head, incredulous. “Unbelievable.”

Andrew’s eyes flicked briefly toward Neil’s direction, brows twitching.

Neil hesitated. Had he said something wrong?

Then, a slow exhale. Andrew finished the rest of his whiskey in one steady motion and turned toward the guy. “You. Leave.”

The stranger pulled back, startled, but Andrew had already dismissed him. He set his empty glass down on the bar with finality and moved toward the exit. Neil watched the man slink away into the crowd, oddly satisfied.

Shrugging off the interaction, Neil muttered, “About time,” as he followed Andrew, still confused why he had insisted on staying longer.

Andrew didn’t respond, just huffed an almost laugh as if Neil had made a joke. As they crossed the dimly-lit parking lot toward Andrew’s car, Neil glanced sideways at Andrew.

“There’s a new episode of that baking show — the one where everyone’s absurdly nice for no reason.”

Andrew sighed deeply, pulling out his keys and unlocking the car. “Fine.”

Neil smiled to himself. Andrew could pretend to be annoyed all he wanted, but Neil had noticed how closely he followed the intricacies of cake decoration. He wisely said nothing as they climbed into the car.

Andrew

Light from the TV flickered across the living room walls. Soft pulses of color shifting in slow rhythm. A narrator’s voice drifted in and out, too level to follow. Something about migratory birds and wind currents.

Andrew wasn’t watching. Not really. 

He was stretched across the right side of the couch, arm folded behind his head, the other hand resting near the half-finished glass of water on the side table. The cushions were warm. Too warm. The room was dim except for the flicker of the screen and the soft amber glow from the hallway light Nicky always left on.

Neil hovered nearby, then drifted closer. Seemingly easing into the opposite side of the couch as if claiming his spot.

Andrew didn’t react.

The screen kept playing. A field of cranes moved across the marsh in slow formation.

Trying not to fall asleep, he muttered, “So what do sentries do for fun?”

A pause.

“Not much,” Neil answered. “We - - - dead.”

Andrew blinked slowly. “Sad.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“What - - - you do - - - fun?” Neil asked, dry.

Andrew didn’t even look over. “Touché.”

Chapter Text

palimpsest

noun

something altered but still bearing traces of what came before

(Found underlined in An Atlas of Impossible Longing by Anuradha Roy. Margin note: “Some things don’t fade, just wait their turn.”)

Andrew

The clock read 2:14 a.m.

That liminal hour when time felt suspended and even the night seemed too tired to move.

His back rested against the window frame, one leg tucked up on the sill, the other foot resting on the floor. The air drifting in was warm with humidity and carried the faint scent of cut grass. A porch light flickered three houses down. Somewhere distant, a dog barked once, then nothing.

It was already August, the semester break almost over.

He hadn't done much with it.

Driven Nicky places. Slept weird hours. Let days pass without really noticing they had.

Lately, even his thoughts felt far away, diffused, like signals lost in static, echoes swallowed by fog.

Neil was somewhere to his left. Maybe near the desk, or leaning against the wall. 

He thought he’d noticed him earlier, when he was half-dozing on his bed. Or maybe that was yesterday.

Things had started to blur.

Neil didn’t speak.

But he was close.

Andrew could feel that much.

He exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded as he looked out across the still street. “What do you do when it's night?”

A pause.

Neil’s voice was faint, like it had drifted in with the breeze. “Not - - - much. Work - - - mostly - - - wait.”

“For what?”

Another pause.

Then, almost reluctant: “Morning.”

Andrew let out a breath — uneven, not a laugh. Just air. “Dramatic.”

Neil didn’t answer. Andrew didn’t press.

The quiet settled again. Deep. Thick. Like something pressing in at the edges.

He let his head tip back against the frame. His body sagged under the weight of it, limbs heavy in that slow, familiar way that wasn’t rest — just the absence of will.

His balance shifted.

Just slightly — enough that his weight tilted forward, gravity tugging him toward the open air before his muscles reacted.

But something caught him.

A hand, quick and firm, closing around the edge of his hoodie sleeve. A single second of contact, then gone again.

Andrew blinked. Didn’t move. Didn’t look.

He knew.

His voice was low, rough with sleep. “You’re the worst.”

A beat.

“Should’ve let me fall.”

Still no response.

Andrew shifted back into the frame, spine against the wood.

He hadn’t tested his luck in a while; hadn’t seemed worth the effort.

He closed his eyes, the breeze brushing his face, warm and heavy.

Neil stayed.

And Andrew let the dark take him. Morning would come soon enough.

Chapter Text

penumbra

noun

the shadow cast by partial illumination; not complete darkness, but close

(Found in The Faber Book of Modern Verse. Underlined faintly next to the phrase: “the half-light where nothing grows.”)

Andrew

Andrew sat motionless in the driver’s seat, the weight of the day pressing down on him.

The car was off. His hands rested in his lap, keys dangling loosely from his fingers. The parking lot was still, streetlights casting dull reflections across the windshield.

He’d wondered how long it would last. When the novelty of college would wear off. The structure. The noise. The illusion of moving forward. Now the days dragged again, same as they used to. The hours blurred. Sleep, class, drive, repeat. His shoulders ached, breath tight. Like something had already gone wrong and no one had bothered to tell him.

He’d thought that maybe his fucked up brain was finally over it. But the thoughts circled again, slow and steady and relentless.

Why.

What’s the point.

Where was this going?

He could barely see the next day. Its shape vague. Hazy. The future pressed against the horizon, formless and far. Ten more years of this? Unimaginable. Forty? Terrifying.

This life wasn’t for him. He had always known it. And lately, his brain was screaming it. Louder now, more constant.

Semester break had come and gone, and he’d spent most of it in bed — sheets twisted, skin sticky with sweat, the ceiling cracked and unmoving above him. He hadn’t read. Hadn’t eaten unless he had to. One day bleeding into the next until the light outside meant nothing.

His chest felt tight. Every breath scraped under his ribs like it was trying to pick a fight — and yet, felt ready to give up any minute.

Thoughts he hadn’t had this clearly in months returned like familiar ghosts, shadows slipping back into place.

How easy it would be.

Just start the car. Find a bridge. A wall. A lamppost. Something to stop the forward motion that never went anywhere.

The thoughts weren’t new. They were familiar — almost comforting in their simplicity.

And still, he did nothing.

He couldn’t even find the energy to lift his arms. Start the car. End it. He just sat there, unmoving, pinned under the weight of it all.

Then the air beside him shifted, sharp, crackling with irritation.

Andrew blinked back into focus, let the frustrated energy settle into the passenger seat.

They stayed like that, the moment holding. Andrew knew Neil could sulk like this for hours, wrapped in dramatic silence like it was a personal sport.

So eventually, he cut it off, voice low and flat. “What’s got your cloak in a twist?”

Neil’s voice flickered in like static, dry. “You - - - hilarious.”

Andrew leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed. He didn’t have the strength to talk, but Neil didn’t need him to.

He started speaking, a waterfall of words coming fast, distorted like faraway radio.

“- - - just ridiculous - - - How - - - someone even manage - - - window, fifth floor, but - - - trampoline - - - ,” he muttered, annoyance coloring his voice, though Andrew missed half the details. “Thought - - - be - - - good idea - - - Teenagers - - - think - - - invincible - - - not. - - - guess who - - - pick up after - - - stupidity - - -”

Andrew let it wash over him. Neil clearly didn’t expect an answer. Didn’t demand a reaction. Wasn’t telling him to move. Or speak. Or be okay.

He just kept talking, filling the space between them, softening the sharp edges of the darkness that had threatened to swallow Andrew whole.

When Neil’s words finally tapered off, Andrew blinked his eyes open again. The keys were still in his hand, the parking lot still empty.

The energy next to him had calmed down; the pressure in Andrew’s chest felt a little lighter. The thoughts were still there. But quieter.

Slowly, he straightened, fingers tightening around his keys. Without a word, he started the car and drove them home.

Plastic jack-o'-lanterns blinked unevenly from the kitchen counter. A paper skeleton dangled sideways off the hallway doorframe, its joints held together by tired brass fasteners. One of the fake cobwebs in the corner trembled slightly, caught in the push and pull of the heater kicking on in the otherwise still house.

Nicky had gone all in this year. Discount decorations, glittered skulls, tangled string lights with burnt-out bulbs. 

Aaron was at some party. Nicky was with Erik.

And Andrew — somehow, still here.

He slouched further into the couch, tugging his hoodie sleeves over his fingers, the light from the TV flickering across the room. A cooking show was playing on low volume, some hyper-enthusiastic chef tossing butter into a pan like it was a miracle ingredient.

Andrew wasn’t paying attention, his mind too cluttered to be distracted, too scattered to slow down the thoughts going in circles.

The glow of his phone screen lit up his lap.

Cousin: Hey kids, I’m out with my wonderful boyfriend doing important adult things, please remember we live in a society and need food to survive

Copy: …was that supposed to mean something?

Cousin: It means go grocery shopping

Copy: I’m busy

Cousin: Andrew?

Andrew turned the screen off.

He wasn’t busy. But that wasn’t the point.

Everyone wanted something.

Aaron, always expecting him to deal with things he didn’t want to. Nicky, always pulling at him, trying to make him engage, make him care. Professors expecting work, strangers expecting politeness.

The presence to his left hadn’t moved, as if content just being here.

Was Neil content?

Andrew wondered what that felt like.

Neil had arrived just after he’d got home. Hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t made a sound. Hadn’t expected Andrew to talk, to react, to give anything. He never did—

Andrew rubbed his sleeve over his mouth, jaw tight. Sure, Neil didn’t ask things of him, didn’t demand anything — aside from the whole staying alive thing.

He shifted on the couch, feeling Neil at the far end as if this was a thing now. Sitting together in the dim living room.

It should have felt like a chain — but somehow didn’t. More like an anchor. Something steady, keeping him from drifting too far.

Maybe that was worse.

The silence stretched. Enough that he grew tired of the weight in his own head, the quiet pressing uncomfortably in around him.

“Say something,” he muttered.

For a long, heavy moment, nothing happened. Then, there was the distinct feeling of confusion from Neil’s side of the couch.

Finally, unimpressed: "That man - - - called - - - onion ‘sexy.’"

Andrew let out a faint huff, more exhale than sound. The absurdity of the moment mingled with a strange sort of comfort. Almost automatically, he murmured to himself:

“…I’m going to stab myself.”

Neil hummed. “Wouldn’t - - - work.”

Andrew let his eyes slip closed, sinking deeper into the cushions. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction. The TV continued to drone on, the host’s voice bright and oblivious.

“I don’t think - - - food - - - supposed - - - look like that,” Neil said casually.

A tired breath slipped out as Andrew cracked an eye open at the screen. The sauce in the pan was a deep, worrying shade of green.

“…What the fuck,” Andrew muttered.

Neil

The bells were ringing.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just... constant.

A soft murmur that filled the edges of everything. The kind of sound you stopped noticing until you remembered it had always been there.

Andrew’s chime sat at the center of it, low and steady. A soft, weighted note that colored each moment of Neil’s existence like a bassline buried deep in his chest.

He knew its tone by heart — the exact way it resonated, how it shifted when something changed. Could follow it without thinking, without effort.

Above it, other bells drifted in and out.

Sharper. Lighter.

Souls waiting. Calling.

A background rhythm that no longer stopped, too many souls lined up in his queue to fall into the rise and fall the way it used to.

He pushed them to the back of his mind as he stepped into the house. Knew Nicky wasn’t home. Aaron was out, maybe studying, maybe not.

Andrew wouldn’t care.

He was in the kitchen — Neil could feel him there, even before the room took shape. Standing near the counter, a glass of water loose in his hand. He hadn’t drunk from it. Gaze caught somewhere between the middle distance and the window beyond.

There hadn’t been any close calls in a while. No rooftops. No speeding cars.

It wasn’t caution that stopped Andrew. It was something else. Something quieter. At first, college, maybe. Or the way he could freely sink into his books now. 

But for the last few months, a weight had settled over him and made even existing look like war.

Neil didn’t move any closer. Just remained where he was, watching.

After a moment, Andrew’s head tilted slightly. "Am I dying?"

The words were flat. Unbothered.

“Funny.”

Andrew’s lips twitched. Just barely. The first sign of anything close to a smile Neil had seen in months.

He looked tired. Always looked tired lately. He’d been sleeping more — not restfully, just disappearing for longer stretches. Talking less. There were even fewer Kevin stories. And Andrew usually didn’t miss an opportunity to mock Kevin’s life choices.

Andrew took a sip of water, slow and deliberate. Set the glass down with a soft clink.

“Then why are you here?”

“Just making sure,” Neil said, shrugging.

“Sure that what?”

“That you’re not dying.” A beat. “Obviously.”

He watched Andrew take a deep breath, then exhaling slowly, controlled.

He’d been checking in more often lately. Knew Andrew’s schedule: Class. Gym. Work. Home. Repeat. It wasn’t complicated.

“Why?” Andrew asked, voice low.

Neil hesitated. 

He wasn’t good at this, but he didn’t want to lie.

“Because you deserve to live.”

He didn’t add: I see how hard you try.

Instead, silence settled in, his words hanging between them. Neil didn’t know how much had made it through. Maybe just fragments. Maybe all of it.

Neil watched Andrew, the tight set of his jaw, the unreadable flick of his eyes toward the window.

Finally, he let out a short breath. “I don’t deserve shit.”

Neil didn’t argue. Not because he agreed — but because he knew Andrew wouldn’t care what he said.

“How long are you planning on doing this?” Andrew asked, not looking at him.

Neil didn’t hesitate. “For as long as it takes.”

“Takes what?”

“For you to live,” Neil said simply.

No answer. Just a slow shake of the head, like the thought itself was too much. Finally, Andrew turned away, fingers tapping once against the rim of the glass.

“Go away.”

A pause.

“After all,” he added, “I’m not dying.”

Neil watched him, confused. But when he heard the front door open and Aaron step inside, he did as Andrew had asked.

Chapter Text

reviviscence

noun

the act of coming back to life or consciousness; the revival of something once inert

(Found underlined in a footnote of On the Sublime by Cassius Longinus.)

Andrew

Mist clung low to the sidewalks, softening the edges of buildings and blurring the traffic lights until they looked like they were blinking underwater. Streetlamps buzzed in and out of focus.

Andrew took a slow turn, kept driving.

The heater blew lukewarm air against the cold windshield. His knuckles were stiff on the wheel, but he didn’t mind. The radio played something old and half-familiar, just loud enough to remind him that silence wasn’t the only option.

Neil sat beside him, steady and certain in the way that most things weren’t lately.

Andrew watched the road stretch out in front of them. The way the fog caught the light. The brief glare of another car’s headlights sweeping through, then disappearing into nothing.

A month ago, he might not have noticed any of it.

Might not have felt the cold in his fingers or the shift of weight in his chest with every breath.

He still felt tired. Still heavy.

He’d had a nightmare earlier.

Hadn’t had one in a while — too exhausted for dreams, or just too far under to remember them. But tonight he woke with his heart pounding, hands grasping tight around nothing.

The heater clicked as it switched settings. A light blinked green on the dash. The road peeled away under the tires.

Neil remained silent. Stayed.

Andrew flexed his grip on the wheel, once, twice, then exhaled. 

The city breathed around them.

And he kept driving.

Neil

“...and then he looks me dead in the eye and says, ‘I don’t believe in death.’”

Allison lounged against the armrest, one leg draped lazily over the other, silver jewelry catching the firelight as she grinned. “Like, I’m standing right there, and he’s telling me I don’t exist.”

Seth, sprawled on the loveseat beside her, let out a laugh. “Did you introduce yourself properly?”

“I almost did,” she replied. “But then he got real bold about it, started going on about how he was gonna manifest his way out of it. Thought he could vibrate at a higher frequency or some shit.”

Perched neatly on the one-seater, Renee arched a brow. “What happened?”

With a shrug, Allison said, “I waited. Two minutes later, he realized he was dead. Big shock. Lots of screaming.”

Seth chuckled. “That’s rough.”

“No,” Allison corrected. “That’s stupid.”

“Should’ve let him keep trying.” Seth stretched his arms behind his head, groaning from the movement. “Maybe he’d have figured it out.”

"Sure," Allison deadpanned. "And maybe the next one will manifest a one-way ticket back to their body." She shook her head, eyes flicking toward Neil. "Nathaniel, back me up here."

Neil blinked.

He hadn’t been listening.

He’d let himself fall into the dissonant sound of the bells — souls waiting, melodies layered over one another in a queue that had been growing steadily.

While he sat through study sessions he didn’t care for, lingered in cafés where he couldn’t eat, and walked across a campus that wasn’t his.

"Nathaniel."

He finally glanced up. Allison was watching him expectantly, eyebrows raised.

Nathaniel barely registered as his name anymore. Too used to being Neil.

Grinning, she raised an eyebrow. “Oh good, you do still exist. Was starting to wonder.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Right. Manifesting out of death. Solid plan.”

“Great input. Very insightful,” Seth teased.

But Allison didn’t let it go. “You’ve been weird lately.”

He rolled his eyes. “So you’ve said.”

“You are weird,” Seth added helpfully.

Allison ignored him. “No, I mean distracted. You zone out. You’re barely listening. You’re missing things.”

“Ever consider that maybe I just don’t care?” Neil shrugged.

The sharpness in Allison’s gaze said she wasn’t convinced.

“It’s not just that.” Renee’s voice was soft, but it carried. “It’s the bells, too.”

Neil stiffened.

“The bells?” Seth frowned. “What about them?”

Renee’s voice remained steady. “He’s ignoring them. Not always, but enough.”

“Ooh.” Allison let out a low whistle. “Look at you. Little rebel.”

Grinning, Seth said, “Think you can break the system? We all tried when we were new. How long can you let the bells ring before you get yanked toward a soul? Longest I managed was maybe — what — 20 minutes?”

“45,” Allison said, considering.

“An hour,” Renee added mildly.

Seth groaned. “Of course you’d be some Super Sayan Sentry.”

Neil said nothing. Because this wasn’t about testing limits.

Still watching him closely, Allison drummed her fingers on the armrest. “So what is it then?”

“What’s what?” he replied, too fast.

“What’s keeping you so distracted?”

He had no answer.

What was he supposed to say — that his mind was stuck on someone whose path he kept extending? That the bells no longer faded like they used to? That new layers kept settling on top with every missed soul?

No.

Instead, he leaned forward, pushing his hands onto his knees to keep them from bouncing. “Nothing worth talking about.”

Allison groaned. “Ugh, you suck.”

“Let him have his mystery,” Seth said. “Probably some existential crisis. We all get one eventually.”

Only Renee kept watching him, quiet and thoughtful.

Unwilling — or unable — to hold the weight of that look, Neil stood, stretching to get rid of the tension in his muscles. “If you’re all done diagnosing me, I’ve got things to do.”

Allison waved him off. “Fine. Be boring.”

Seth grinned. “Wouldn’t be Nathaniel if he wasn’t.”

Without another word, Neil walked away, the bells trailing behind him.

Andrew

The cafeteria doors swung shut behind them, muffling the low roar of student voices and the clatter of trays. They started down the stone steps toward the main path. Above, the sky hadn’t decided if it was spring or still pretending to be winter. 

Kevin was a few paces ahead, digging through his backpack with the kind of choppy, quick movements that made it clear he was looking for something he already knew wasn’t there.

“I need a cigarette,” Andrew said, rubbing his temple and sidestepping an unexpected row of cracked stone tiles. The classes this semester were giving him headaches — too much abstruse, self-important talking.

Kevin didn’t look up. “You don’t smoke.”

“I do.”

“No,” Kevin said, almost absently, “you don’t.”

Andrew slowed. Kevin kept walking.

“I think I’d know if my best friend smoked,” Kevin added. “I’d also tell you every day to stop killing your lungs.”

He said it like it was obvious. Like he had empirical data to back it up.

Andrew came to a full stop in the middle of the walkway. He patted his jacket pockets—

No cigarettes.

He didn’t even know when he’d stopped carrying them. Or remembered the last time he’d smoked.

Andrew stared at the ground, sighed through his nose, and followed Kevin across the quad.

Chapter Text

ecdysis

noun

the process of shedding old skin; a release; the quiet shift from one self to another

(Found circled in a worn copy of The Lives of a Cell: Notes of a Biology Watcher by Lewis Thomas. Margin note: “Disgusting. Accurate.”)

Andrew

The kitchen smelled like basil and something vaguely Italian. Aaron stood at the stove, stirring a pot with the kind of concentration that suggested he was using the food as an excuse not to look at his laptop, where his transfer and scholarship applications were left open, unfinished. 

Andrew sat at the kitchen table, feeling his weight shift as he tilted the chair slightly back on its hind legs. A book lay open in front of him, but he wasn’t really reading. Not with the way Aaron kept sighing every two minutes like he was carrying the weight of the entire medical field on his back.

Another heavy breath escaped Aaron as he shook his head, glaring at the laptop before turning back to the stove. “This sucks.”

Without looking up, Andrew turned a page. The chair wobbled slightly, then creaked in protest. He let it fall flat with a soft thud.“So don’t do it.”

“Oh, great idea. Why didn’t I think of that? Ass.” Aaron shot him a glare over his shoulder.

Andrew rolled his eyes but didn’t bother responding.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the bubbling pot on the stove and the occasional clatter of a spoon against the rim.

Then, quieter, Andrew said, “You’ll be fine.”

Aaron didn’t say anything right away. He just kept stirring, shoulders a little less tense. The kitchen felt lighter somehow.

A few minutes later, the front door opened, and Nicky’s voice carried down the hall as he kicked off his shoes. When he stepped into the kitchen, he froze in the doorway, eyes flicking between them.

"Are you two… actually getting along?"

"No," they said at the same time.

Nicky’s grin spread slow and wide. "Sure, sure."

Aaron huffed, turning back to the stove. Andrew turned a page in his book.

The sharp edge of something burning hit the air a moment later.

Sunlight filtered through the branches above, casting pale shapes across the campus path. The ground was soft underfoot, and the warm air carried faint, earthy traces of damp soil and budding leaves. The rustle of snapping wood overhead was followed by a handful of twigs falling like unexpected rain just a few steps ahead.

Andrew adjusted the strap of his bag as he walked beside Kevin, who was mid-rant about exam weights and unfair rubrics and the decline of critical thought.

He sipped his coffee and focused on not responding.

"You should proofread my history paper," Kevin said, out of nowhere.

He glanced over. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you’re not doing anything important for your own classes," Kevin said, somehow managing to sound both reasonable and insulting.

"Topic?"

Kevin’s face brightened. "The Partnership of Isabella and Ferdinand," he announced, like he was delivering groundbreaking news. "How Cooperation and Shared Vision United Spain."

Andrew stopped walking for half a step. "You're kidding."

All earnestness, Kevin shook his head. "Come on, you like… friendship. And..." He floundered. "Optimism?"

He stared. "I don’t like either of those things."

"I know," Kevin sighed, as if accepting a terrible burden. "But I’m trying to pretend otherwise."

Huffing a laugh, Andrew watched Kevin as they kept walking. “You do know about the Spanish Inquisition, right?”

Kevin waved a hand, brushing past it. "Big picture, Andrew."

The walkway split ahead — Kevin veering toward the history building, Andrew toward his literature seminar. They slowed slightly at the fork.

"So?" Kevin pressed, hopeful.

"Fine.” Andrew sighed, resigned. “Send it. But if it’s longer than fifteen pages, I’m deleting it without reading."

Kevin looked entirely too pleased with himself. "You didn’t specify the font size."

Andrew narrowed his eyes.

Grinning — quick, triumphant — Kevin jogged backward a few steps. "Twelve-point Times New Roman, I swear!" he called before disappearing into the building.

Neil

Neil leaned lazily against the window ledge of the study room while conversation swirled around the table, voices weaving through the constant chime of bells in the back of his mind.

He wasn’t listening.

Not really.

His gaze had already wandered — inevitable, automatic — to Andrew.

He sat a little apart from the others, close enough that if Neil were to reach out he could just about let his fingers glide through his shoulder. His notebook was open but ignored, pen balanced in long, careless fingers. The light through the dusty library windows caught him just right, blurring at the edges — the pale strands of his hair touched gold, making it almost impossible to tell where he ended and the light began, and the soft curve of his cheeks lit like something out of an old, forgotten painting.

His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was sharp in its laziness — half-focused, watching without appearing to. Like always.

Neil’s eyes lingered.

On the way his sleeves stretched across his shoulders, and the lines of his arms held steady without tension. Andrew was built solid, not the brittle kind of strength that braced against the world, but the kind that could weather it. Like if the world collapsed, he would still be standing.

And yet, there was no sharpness to him.

No pointy elbows like Neil’s, or angular, gaunt features. Instead, there was a softness that was more than just the result of Andrew’s determination to live solely off sugar. Neil's gaze traced the slope of his nose, the handful of freckles dusted across the bridge, barely visible unless the light caught them just so. The stubborn line of his jaw.

His eyebrows, pale and sharp, with the slightest natural arch that gave him an almost permanent air of dry skepticism, even when he was doing nothing at all. At times, Neil had seen them quirk, almost imperceptibly, at the things people said — the tiniest tell when his face remained stoic.

Neil's gaze wandered lower, getting caught on the slight downturn of Andrew’s lips, the minuscule twitch like he might be suppressing a yawn or a sigh—

"I'm just saying," Kevin said, tapping his pen against his open book, "manifestation is a valid concept. Our thoughts shape reality. It’s the power of intention.”

Blinking, Neil shook his head and focused back on the conversation around the table.

"Positive thinking brings positive outcomes," Kevin declared, tapping his pen again.

A disgusted noise caught in Neil’s throat. He still wasn’t sure how much Andrew could actually hear him; Andrew had once described Neil’s voice as sounding like a radio slipping in and out of frequency.

"If Kevin’s thoughts shaped reality," he said, voice flat and dry, "we'd all be stuck living in museums, worshipping ancient pottery."

Andrew’s eyebrow twitched — confirmation enough that he had heard him.

"Exactly," a girl next to Kevin chimed in eagerly, eyes wide. "Positive intentions attract positive outcomes. If you believe good things will happen, they will."

Rolling his eyes, Neil muttered, "I’m positive this is the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard."

There was no movement from Andrew, but after a beat, the faintest breath slipped out of him — not quite a laugh, more the idea of one.

A guy with messy blond hair nodded seriously. "Yeah, like, it's about the energy we put into the universe, right? Bad vibes attract negativity."

Neil shot Andrew a flat look. "Bad vibes? Really?"

That time, Andrew’s fingers moved slightly on the pen.

Kevin sighed dramatically, waving a hand. "It's scientifically proven — thoughts have frequency. You can literally tune your life like a radio."

"Scientifically." Neil snorted, mockingly. "That word doesn't mean what you think it means."

Andrew lowered his head, tapping the edge of his notebook once, an almost-smile ghosting across his mouth.

Distracted by the reaction, Kevin frowned. "What?"

Andrew blinked slowly, expression blank. "Continue."

Immediately, Kevin straightened, confidence restored. "My point is, you can choose your reality."

Tilting his head toward Andrew, Neil kept his voice low. "Can you choose a reality where he stops talking?"

This time, Andrew’s breath was audible — a faint, sharp huff — before he leaned back in his chair, arms folding loosely.

Neil smiled to himself.

Meanwhile, Kevin carried on, now detailing historical examples of manifestation. Neil didn't bother listening; he was busy watching Andrew, the small tells — the slight shake of his head, the press of his lips against a smile — building into something close to real amusement.

The conversation shifted, students tossing around words like fate and destiny.

Wary, Neil stiffened. So did something in Andrew, though his head didn’t move. The set of his shoulders, the stillness in his fingers.

"I just think," a girl with dark curls said earnestly, "everything happens for a reason. There’s a greater purpose, a higher plan."

Neil's jaw tightened, voice losing its casual edge. "Easy to say for some people."

Andrew’s gaze dropped to the table, expression turning serious when Neil’s sarcasm had slipped into something sharper, angrier. After a long beat of watching Andrew’s thumb trace the notebook edge, Neil finally leaned back against the ledge, rolling his shoulders like he could shake it off.

"Whatever," he muttered, softer. "At least it makes Kevin feel important."

Andrew’s posture loosened slightly again, some of the tension bleeding out.

Another dumb comment floated across the room.

Shaking his head faintly, Neil muttered, "Unbelievable. Every single one of them."

This time, Andrew’s lips pressed together — amusement, gone in the next breath.

Neil didn’t bother hiding his grin.

Chapter Text

tilt

noun

a subtle loss of balance; disorientation

(Found underlined in a Between topographic deviation map flyer, titled “Sector 9 — unstable step-through.”)

Neil

The door creaked open with a slow, familiar groan — hinges old enough to complain every time. Soft footsteps followed, muffled by the worn carpet, tracing the same path that had been taken countless times before.

The city library was quiet in the way old buildings were. Hushed. No keyboards. No whispered giggles. Just the occasional rustle of pages turning and the low scrape of chairs shifting in place.

Neil followed a few steps behind Andrew as he entered. Light fell through tall, narrow windows, coloring the old carpet in washed-out gold. The air inside felt settled, like everything here had found its place a long time ago.

Behind the front desk, Mrs. Callahan looked up from her book. Her sweater was the kind of loud pattern that looked like it had wandered in by accident — red and orange and green in uneven zigzags.

“Back again, Andrew,” she said, smiling. “Go ahead and browse — I’ll see if I can think of something new you might like.”

Andrew gave a small nod and moved toward the nonfiction aisles. His sleeves were pushed to his elbows, the black armbands snug around his forearms. Hoodie strings loose. Steps unhurried. Comfortable.

Mrs. Callahan’s eyes tracked after him fondly for a moment before returning to the book in her lap.

Along the shelves, Andrew moved unhurriedly, fingers tracing lightly across worn spines, pausing now and then in search of something he hadn’t read yet.

Neil trailed him, hands stuffed into his pockets, hood resting on his shoulders. For once, the bells in his head were quiet — a faint, distant chime rather than the constant background noise he'd gotten used to lately.

A disorienting kind of reprieve.

They reached a low shelf marked Philosophy and Self-Development. An odd mix of old philosophy texts squeezed up against newer titles about reflections on mortality and resilience, dusty biographies stacked next to shiny mindfulness manuals.

Lazily, Andrew crouched and pulled out a thin book to flip through. His weight leaned slightly onto the balls of his feet, sleeves falling to his wrists as he thumbed the pages.

One step behind, Neil lingered, reading over his shoulder and amused by the titles. Living Your Best Life. The Little Book of Stoic Joy.

Then the air shifted.

A creak — the wrong kind — rasped above them.

Neil blinked upward just as the shelf shuddered.

A book slipped free and slapped onto the floor.

Andrew’s head snapped up, confused, brows furrowed like he was wondering if he’d bumped something without noticing.

Neil moved on instinct.

A sharp push against Andrew’s shoulder — not hard, but enough — sending him stumbling backward. His balance tipped, landing him awkwardly on his butt just as the entire shelving unit groaned and tipped forward.

Books thundered to the ground. Dust kicked up into the beams of sunlight.

Silence slammed down harder than the books.

At his side, a thick hardcover lay open and face-up amid the wreckage:

New Me: A Practical Guide To Moving On After Loss.

Andrew stared at it, unimpressed, then gave a small nod toward the book.

"Not the kind of self-help I expected."

Neil didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

He was still frozen, staring at the fallen shelf.

That—

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

Mrs. Callahan rushed over from the front desk, breathless. "Oh my goodness — Andrew, are you alright?"

Andrew brushed dust off his sleeves and nodded once — casual, like nothing about this was strange. He crouched again, calmly stacking books into a neat pile.

"These shelves are ancient," she tutted, wringing her hands. "I’ll call Carl to check it out. Bless you for helping, dear. You’re such a sweet boy."

He didn’t respond. Just stacked books onto a cart she wheeled over, his movements methodical.

Neil hovered, still rooted to the spot, mind racing.

Andrew hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t leaned, hadn’t climbed, hadn’t provoked.

No wrong step, or recklessness.

And yet — the shelf had fallen anyway.

As Andrew loaded the last of the scattered books onto the cart, Mrs. Callahan patted his arm. "Why don’t you check out the poetry section? We got a few new collections, maybe you’ll find something you like."

Andrew just nodded again, letting her fuss and steer him toward a different corner of the library.

Neil stayed rooted a moment longer before following.

The bells hummed softly at the back of his mind — no spike. No frantic chime. No warning.

For the first time in months, a small knot of worry twisted low in Neil’s chest.

Chapter Text

adumbration

noun

a preliminary sketch or outline of an idea; a hint or suggestion of what is not yet realized; philosophically, the form of an object as perceived by an observer

(Found in The Structure of Scientific Revolutions by Thomas S. Kuhn, lightly circled. Pencil faded.)

Andrew

The oven ticked, warm air drifting out each time it cycled. The smell of cheap frozen pizza had started to fill the kitchen. At the counter, Nicky was making tea. Or trying to. Mostly he was making noise: a mug against the stovetop, a drawer opened too hard, something metallic hit the floor.

Andrew sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone without interest. Aaron was out — something about a study group. Nicky, unfortunately, was not.

"So," Nicky said, drawing out the word in a way that made Andrew’s eye twitch.

He didn’t look up. "No."

Undeterred, Nicky sighed. "Aaron’s got his whole future planned out, med school and whatever. But what about you?"

He flicked to the next news article without actually reading it. "I don’t need a five-year plan, Nicky."

"Okay, but like… a one -year plan?" The spoon in Nicky’s mug clinked aggressively as he leaned against the counter. "You’re graduating soon. What’s next?"

Andrew didn’t answer — Nicky was clearly going to keep talking.

Three

Two

O— 

"You could apply at my company," Nicky said, setting his mug down carelessly. "As a publisher they always need editors. You love picking things apart, and you’re already good at making people feel stupid."

Glancing up, Andrew raised an eyebrow. "Is that the job description?"

"Pretty much," Nicky said, grinning. "Read stuff. Make it make sense. Get paid to be judgy."

He considered it. It wasn’t the worst idea.

Sensing an opening, Nicky pressed on, all enthusiasm now. "Seriously, it’s perfect. You wouldn’t have to deal with people. You’d get to sit in a corner and read all day. It’s like it was made for you."

Setting his phone down, Andrew looked at him fully.

Nicky fidgeted. "Okay, so… I may have technically already mentioned your name to HR—"

Andrew just stared.

Squirming, Nicky quickly went on, "I mean, casually. In passing. Like, ‘Oh hey, my cousin has literally read every book, you should hire him.’ That’s all."

Tilting his head in thought, Andrew exhaled slowly.

He wanted to disagree, to shoot the idea down just to make a point, but Nicky wasn’t wrong. And at least if this worked out, he wouldn’t have to figure something out himself.

"Fine," he muttered, reaching for his phone again.

Nicky beamed, looking way too pleased with himself. "Great! I’ll send you the details."

Andrew swiped to open another article, already over this conversation.

The moon was half-hidden behind thin, moving clouds. A few stars managed to break through the light pollution, faint but there.

Andrew wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing here, a step away from the ledge with his hands in his pockets, looking out over the campus and the city beyond. 

His final semester was over.

Exams finished. Assignments turned in. Graduation only a few days away.

He had a job lined up — a real one, thanks to Nicky and his insufferable meddling. It had been easier to accept the offer than argue about it, and maybe that was the most frustrating part: Nicky had actually been right. Copy editing wasn’t bad. He could sit in an office, wear headphones, get paid to tear apart other people’s writing without having to pretend he cared.

It was strange, though. How life just… kept going.

One step, then another, and another. No grand ambitions, no clear path. But movement.

Andrew shifted his weight, exhaling slowly.

Around him, the rooftop stretched mostly empty — old vents rattling quietly, a battered generator humming low in the corner, a few cigarette butts abandoned by the stairwell door. He wasn’t even sure how he’d ended up here. Only that his feet had carried him up and out after his last class, past the low buzz of students shedding the weight of another semester, past the doors, past everything.

It was late, but the world hadn’t settled yet. The last streaks of sunset still burned on the horizon, fading from deep orange into the inky blues of night. The streets stretched out below, like lifelines dotted with lights. Far off, a plane carved a silver thread through the sky, the high-rises below glowing like paper lanterns.

It was... okay. For the moment, he was okay.

Of course, if Neil knew he was up here, he’d have a full-blown existential meltdown.

Andrew almost snorted at the thought, watching a cloud drift lazily across the moon.

Without warning, a gust of wind barreled across the rooftop — sharp and unexpected. It knocked his balance off-center, his stomach lurching with the sudden shift. His body reacted too slow, legs locking up instead of moving to catch himself.

His heart kicked against his ribs, unexpected fear slamming into his system harder than it had in years.

But before his body could tip forward — he caught himself. His feet found purchase again. His muscles tensed, shifting his weight back where it belonged. 

The moment passed.

Andrew swallowed, the pulse in his throat thudded loud enough to drown out the soft rattle of the generator.

He let out a slow breath, steadying himself.

Oh.

That had been real.

His gaze dropped, slowly — tracing the distance between himself and the edge, to the dark, humming streets below. Cars blurred past, their headlights stretched into long streaks of movement. For the first time, they didn’t just look distant.

They looked like something that could hit him.

He breathed out, low and careful, almost tasting the copper-sharp adrenaline still burning in his mouth.

He wasn’t going to jump.

But he could have fallen.

And somehow, that felt different.

There was weight in that thought, settling low in his chest.

The wind tugged at him again, but gentler this time. 

Neil wasn’t here. But for the first time, Andrew wondered what it must have felt like — to watch this, over and over.

He lingered there for a second longer, the rooftop humming around him — empty, open, breathing with the city.

Then, without looking back, he turned toward the door.

He didn’t step that close to the ledge again after that.

Chapter Text

eclosion

noun

the moment of emergence; when what has been forming reaches outward and becomes visible

(Found underlined in a weathered copy of Being and Time by Martin Heidegger.)

Andrew

Andrew had survived a lot in his life. Foster care, school, Nicky’s endless enthusiasm, Kevin’s two-month phase where he called the Cold War 'foreplay'.

He figured his first day at work would be just another thing to get through.

The receptionist barely looked up as she pointed down the hallway. “Straight ahead, glass door at the end.”

Andrew followed the directions.

The deeper he walked into the maze, the louder it got — teams calling across glass cubicles, people pacing with phones clamped to their ears, a woman arguing about event RSVPs.

The manic energy of people who lived for networking and overpriced coffee.

Halfway down the corridor, Andrew was already regretting this.

“Hey! You’re new, right? Welcome!” someone called as they passed.

Before he could nod or ignore it, someone else leaned out of a cubicle. “New blood! Good to have you, man!”

Another head popped up over a divider. “First day? Good luck, you’ll need it!”

Andrew said nothing. Just nodded stoically — once, twice — as the greetings snowballed into a low, rolling wave of enthusiastic acknowledgment that he had no idea how to stop.

By the time he reached the end of the hall, his jaw was set in grim resignation.

The glass door came into view, frosted with small black letters:

Managing Editorial Department.

Stepping inside, the energy shift was immediate. 

Calmer. Focused.

No phones ringing, no high-energy chatter. Just the muted rustle of pages turning and keyboards clicking.

Desks were clustered into islands, each humming with a different kind of work.

One group had dictionaries stacked between battered laptops. Another was surrounded by multiple whiteboards with what looked to be timelines and exclamation points drawn on them. In a corner, two people scrolled through design proofs, muttering about "print bleed" and "res layouts."

Somebody in the back looked like they were losing an argument with a thick encyclopedia.

Andrew let his shoulders drop fractionally.

This... he could work with.

Before he could orient himself further, a woman rose from a desk near the windows and made her way over.

“Andrew, right?” she said, offering a nod.

She was maybe in her forties, with a no-nonsense air softened by a comfortable blouse and skirt combo. Her hair was clipped back messily, and she carried herself with the easy authority of someone who knew exactly how the place ran.

“I’m Betsy. Copy editing, same as you.” She smiled easily. “The boss — that's Mrs. Kramer, Editor-in-Chief — she’s allergic to speeches, so you’re stuck with me.”

She tipped her head toward the room. "Come on, I’ll give you the tour."

As they crossed the space, a few people glanced up — some waved, some just nodded — and then returned to their work.

No fake enthusiasm. No forced smiles.

Betsy pointed casually as they passed the first cluster.

"Proofreading’s over there. If they correct your grammar mid-conversation, don’t hold it against them — it’s a compulsion, not a choice."

Another nod to a second group.

"Fact checking. Human bloodhounds. Good people to have on your side if you ever need to verify your alibi."

She angled toward the table with sprawling layouts and massive monitors.

"Content Production — graphic design, photography, layouts. Strong opinions about fonts. You’ll learn who to dodge."

They reached a four-desk island tucked next to the windows. One seat sat empty; the others were a soft chaos of manuscripts, post-it notes, and colorful pens.

"This one’s yours. I’m your neighbor."

Betsy dropped into her own chair next to the empty desk.

"We’re also sharing with Annie and Caleb. Annie’s usually in by noon — says morning pilates ‘gets her brain flowing.’" Her smile was dry. "And Caleb mostly works from home. Claims he’s more productive on his porch ‘with the sweet, sweet scent of freedom.’"

There was unmistakable mirth in her voice, but no real judgment.

Andrew glanced once around the room, the busy hallways outside feeling a world away.

His desk was clean — just a monitor, a keyboard, a notepad, and a small stack of untouched manuscripts. An old, clunky laptop sat docked into a station to the side, looking like it weighed more than Andrew’s entire bag.

A post-it note was stuck to the screen: System login info — welcome!

“You’ll mostly be working on manuscripts and long-form edits,” Betsy added, watching him settle. “Story flow, consistency, making sure a piece doesn’t trip over itself halfway through. If you’re ever not sure how something’s handled here, ask. No one expects you to magic it out of nowhere.”

Her tone was practical. Level. No condescension.

Andrew nodded once.

She tilted her head. “You know what you’re starting with?”

Andrew thumbed the top manuscript idly.

"Biography."

He flipped open the folder.

Pillars of Industry: The Life and Times of Amos Kendall.

Betsy leaned over to glance at the title and let out a short, quiet laugh. "They’re really breaking out the big guns for you."

"Built early communication networks." Andrew shrugged, letting go of the manuscript and placing his back on the floor next to the chair.

Without missing a beat, she grinned. "And cozied up to some questionable political alliances."

"True."

Their eyes met briefly — a flicker of shared amusement, fast and subtle.

Andrew didn’t move, but something inside him loosened, just slightly. The weight he'd been carrying since stepping into the building eased.

To get through the moment, to keep it casual, he asked, "And you?"

Betsy’s eyes sparkled as she leaned back. “Oh, I got a real masterpiece. Two hundred pages of steamy historical cowboy romance. Some brooding exile and a farm girl who ‘tames’ him.” She made air quotes, deadpan.

“How the hell did you get that?” Andrew blinked.

Betsy smirked. “Seniority.”

A quiet huff escaped Andrew before he could stop it.

Tapping lightly against his desk, Betsy added, “If you’ve got any questions about the system, or how things work around here, let me know. But for now, settle in, get your laptop set up. No stress on the first day. I’ll introduce you to the others around lunch.”

Andrew nodded again — the only acknowledgment he could manage without feeling like he was committing to something.

Her voice softened as she continued, “And if you need anything — questions, login disasters, existential crises about comma splices — I’m right here.” This time, the smile she gave him was genuine. “Welcome to the zoo, Andrew.”

He pulled the chair back and dropped into it, the murmur of the office fading into the background.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so terrible after all.

Dim bulbs hung low above the bar, casting yellow light across scuffed tables and worn vinyl booths. The glow hit unevenly, catching on the curve of a glass here, the edge of a dartboard there. A row of crooked screens lined the far wall, all tuned to the same game, yet somehow none of them were in sync.

A group near the back let out a cheer, half-laughing, half-mocking, as a dart thudded into the board with a dull clack. Closer to the bar, someone shouted for another round. Glasses clinked. The music pulsed under it all, something with too many guitars to place clearly, not loud enough to override conversation.

Everyone was in their own world. Small pockets of noise and movement. Conversations spilling and folding back in on themselves.

Behind the counter, the bartender moved with the ease of someone who had seen every version of this night — pouring, wiping, nodding once, not missing a beat.

Nicky clinked against Andrew’s glass with his own, grinning. “Cheers to your first two weeks as a fully employed adult. Look at you, all grown up.”

Andrew rolled his eyes but took a sip of the whiskey anyway. Smooth, expensive. If Nicky was paying, there was no way he’d settle for the cheap stuff.

Across the table, Nicky made a face at whatever disaster he’d ordered, something with fruit floating in it and a too-thin curl of lime clinging to the rim.

“What the hell is that?”

“I don’t know, the bartender said it was good.” Nicky took another sip and winced. “Lies. Betrayal.”

He shook his head at Nicky’s antics, faintly amused, but didn’t comment.

They sat in a brief lull, broken only by the sound of Nicky stirring his drink with a tiny plastic straw, like that would somehow fix it.

“So,” he said, not bothering with subtlety, “you and Aaron thought about what you wanna do with the house?”

Andrew blinked. “The house?”

Nicky raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you know, the thing we live in? Four walls, a roof?”

“What about it.”

Nicky’s grin faltered, like he was trying to keep things casual but knew Andrew wouldn’t buy it. 

“Well, you’ve got a job now,” he said. “A real one. And, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Erik and I are getting a place together.”

Andrew tilted his head. “So? You basically live with him already.”

“Yeah, but this is official.” Nicky gave him a pointed look, like that was supposed to mean something. “Big boy moves, you know? Signing a lease, making things permanent, adulting.”

“Horrifying.”

The laugh Nicky let out was real, but there was still something tighter underneath. “Aaron’s been thinking about moving closer to his new university, and I figured — if you don’t want to stay, maybe you’d wanna look for a place too?”

Andrew didn’t answer immediately.

His entire life, homes had been things other people decided for him. Places he was dropped into without a say. 

Shifting his weight on the narrow barstool, he thought about the house. The overgrown backyard, the patchy lawn, the rusted remains of a barbecue pit, the tree that had been half-dead for years but refused to fall over.

Nicky was still looking at him, expectant but not pushy.

Andrew sighed, tipping his glass slightly, watching the liquid catch the light. “I’ll think about it.”

To Nicky, that apparently counted as a win. He nodded, satisfied. “Well, I say put the house on the market, take the money, and find yourself a place of your own.”

The idea of the house not being theirs anymore didn’t hit as hard as it probably should have. It wasn’t like it had ever felt like a real home, not even after Tilda had died. Better without her, sure. Less suffocating. But it had always been just a place to sleep. A place that barely held together, a house that had rotted from the inside long before he had moved in.

“Figured we might actually get a decent price for it,” Nicky continued, still talking, unfazed by the lack of response. “You know, thanks to your excellent interior design skills.” He gestured vaguely. “That whole early-2000s abandoned house aesthetic is so in right now.”

Andrew huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, buyers are dying to get a place with busted pipes and walls held together by sheer spite.”

“Exactly. Vintage charm.” Nicky grinned.

He took another sip of whiskey, considering. Selling made sense. He and Aaron could take their half and be done with it.

“Where are you moving?” he asked finally.

Nicky lit up, like he’d been waiting for that question. “There’s this place Erik found. Good neighborhood, solid building, nice floors — actual floors, can you believe it? — and no one’s died in it.” He held his palms out. “That we know of.”

“Reassuring.”

Leaning forward, Nicky lowered his voice slightly. “But seriously, you should start looking. Get your own place. Something that’s yours.”

Andrew tapped his fingers against the side of his glass. The thought had crossed his mind, but he hadn’t done anything about it. Hadn’t decided if it mattered. 

Whatever flickered across his face, Nicky caught it. His grin turned smug. “See? You've already thought about it.”

“Congratulations,” Andrew said flatly. “You got one thing right.”

Nicky clinked his ridiculous cocktail against Andrew’s glass again. “I’ll take my victories where I can get them.”

Andrew sighed but didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

tenuity

noun

the state of being delicate or subtle — and yet persistent

(Found highlighted in On Fragile Things: Essays on the Unseen by Naomi Booth.)

Andrew

The apartment was shitty, but it was his.

It had peeling paint, a radiator that only worked when it felt like it, and a parking spot outside that flooded when it rained. The couch was secondhand, the kitchen table an old desk he had found on the curb, and the overhead light in the hallway flickered ominously if he looked at it wrong.

But the lock on the door was solid, and he was the only one with a key.

For now, that was enough.

He stretched out on the couch, one ankle hooked lazily over the other, remote balanced in his hand as he flipped through endless, pointless channels.

The television’s glow shifted across the room, painting the walls in brief flashes of color — soft blues, washed-out yellows, the occasional static buzz of white light.

And to his left, settled into the far end of the couch, was Neil. He had felt him arrive a while ago, caught glimpses of him when he moved his head just right: slouching against the cushions, messy mop of red curls bright against the beige color of the couch, black cloak pulled around him like a blanket.

Neil had basically moved with him.

Without ceremony, without asking.

As if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He lingered more openly now — not darting in and out like he had back at the house, when Nicky’s laughter or Aaron’s slammed doors would send him disappearing for hours.

Here, in this new place, it was just Andrew.

And Neil.

Andrew didn’t acknowledge him.

Didn’t need to.

Neil was simply here — part of the apartment, part of the evening.

The couch dipped slightly when Andrew shifted, the remote slipping from his hand and vanishing into the no man's land between the cushions.

He exhaled through his nose, braced one foot against the coffee table for leverage, and twisted awkwardly sideways, half-shoving his arm down into the cushions, reaching blind.

The angle was uncomfortable, his elbow snagged between the cushions, his shirt pulling awkwardly at the shoulder as he contorted further.

Loose change rattled. Something sticky adhered to his knuckles.

Still no remote.

Muttering a curse under his breath, Andrew twisted harder, practically folded in half now — until finally his fingers grazed plastic and he yanked the remote free with a triumphant, if slightly breathless, grunt.

And then he heard it: Soft. Barely more than an exhale.

A sound that brushed the air like breath catching on sunlight — brief, weightless, and rough at the edges, like it had forgotten how to exist. It pulled at something low in Andrew’s chest before he could brace for it.

He froze, the remote dangling loosely from his hand, not sure why it hit him the way it did.

He’d heard Neil speak before. He’d felt him in the room.

But this—

This wasn’t a deliberate effort to break through the static.

This was a laugh.

Unfiltered.

Unexpected.

Slowly, Andrew straightened, tossing the remote onto the couch beside him with exaggerated nonchalance so he could get comfortable again.

He raised an eyebrow in the direction where he knew Neil was.

“Oh, you think that’s funny.”

There was no reply. Just that faint, lingering air of amusement, so tangible it almost brushed against his skin.

Andrew huffed, shaking his head slightly. Of course the best-looking guy he’d ever met wasn’t even real. At least, not in the visible, normal human kind of way.

A pipe dream.

The thought was ridiculous, so he shoved it aside before it could settle. There was no point, after all.

Instead, he changed the channel without thinking. Neil had been quietly judging the last show, so Andrew skipped past it.

For some idiotic reason, it felt… good to hear Neil laugh.

He tried not to think about it too hard. Tried not to label it as anything other than what it was: A stray sound in an otherwise empty apartment.

Nothing important.

And yet.

He let himself sink deeper into the cushions, the remote now loose in his lap, the television flickering softly across the room. His expression carefully neutral. He wouldn’t give it weight. Wouldn’t give it meaning.

But he also couldn’t forget it — light and unbidden, the sound lodging itself at the edge of his mind, refusing to leave.

Chapter Text

augury

noun

an omen or sign, especially one interpreted from seemingly random events

(Found in a secondhand copy of Oedipus Rex by Sophocles. Circled twice.)

Andrew

Andrew grabbed his latest manuscript from the coffee table, tucking it under one arm as he slung his bag over his shoulder. The stack of papers bristled with post-it notes, highlighter marks bleeding faintly through the margins.

He scooped his keys off the kitchen counter with a practiced flick of his fingers and headed for the door. Passing the open bathroom, he caught a glimpse of himself — open coat, hoodie zipped halfway up, bag hanging loosely at his side.

He paused for half a second, smoothing the fall of his hair, fixing the stubborn curl that always stood up at the crown.

Satisfied, he shifted the manuscript higher and stepped into the hallway, locking the door behind him with a soft snick. The key slipped into his jacket pocket like second nature.

The corridor smelled faintly of burnt toast and stale radiator heat, with a trace of citrus cleaner lingering from the building’s early shift. At the far end, the windows were cracked open just enough to let in a sharp draft, the kind of cold that bit at exposed skin but didn’t quite move the air.

Andrew pressed the call button for the elevator and waited, thumb absently flicking his lighter open and shut in his pocket — the metallic click, click, click filling the empty hallway.

The elevator chimed.

At the same moment, a door down the hall cracked open. Mr. Hollis from 305 leaned out, shirt half-buttoned, juggling a bag, his phone cradled between his shoulder and ear.

"Hold it, hold it — wait, no — forgot my badge," he called, disappearing back inside.

Andrew, hand poised to catch the door, let it glide shut instead.

The numbers blinked down steadily.

3.

2.

A groan — deep, metallic.

Then — freefall.

The floor dropped out from under him.

Andrew caught himself with a sharp step back, hand flattening hard against the wall.

The manuscript jerked in his grip, two post-its tearing free and spinning weightlessly in the air.

The drop wasn’t long.

Maybe a floor. Maybe less.

But it was sudden enough to punch the air from his lungs.

A heavy shudder, a protesting whine—

And the elevator slammed to a stop.

Silence.

The post-its fluttered lazily down and landed by his boot.

The fluorescent light overhead buzzed once, then steadied.

Andrew stayed braced against the wall for a beat longer.

Let his heart settle back into its usual slow drag.

The elevator chimed again — a bright, almost mocking ding — and the doors slid open like nothing had happened.

Crouching, he gathered the two stray post-its, shoving them back into the manuscript, and stepped out into the lobby — cracked tiles underfoot, rows of overstuffed mailboxes, the faint mechanical hum of a vending machine in the corner.

Andrew rolled his shoulders once, slow, and watched the elevator for a long second.

"Right," he muttered. "Okay."

He turned toward the exit to the parking lot, the manuscript tucked firmly against his ribs.

Behind him, the elevator doors slid shut with another too-innocent ding.

Chapter Text

numinous

adjective

having a strong religious or spiritual quality; suggesting the presence of something greater

(Found misused in a biography manuscript. Underlined three times — once for grammar, twice for offense.)

Andrew

The TV murmured steadily, voices rising and falling beneath the low swell of generic holiday music. Somewhere in the distance, a neighbor’s laughter slipped through the thin walls, followed by the dull thud of footsteps overhead.

Outside, through the windows, blinking lights from other balconies flickered against the dark — red and green, white and blue, glowing faintly against the glass. Someone across the street had strung up a glowing reindeer that bobbed slightly in the wind.

Inside, the apartment was dim, lit only by the glow of the screen painting soft shadows onto bare walls and worn furniture.

Andrew sat against the armrest of the couch, one elbow propped against the worn fabric, legs pulled up. On the other end, he knew Neil was sitting cross-legged, eyes probably still fixed on the screen.

They were watching some painfully cliche Christmas movie with too many characters and too much backstory, the kind that had awkward conversations and even more awkward acting. Andrew didn’t particularly care for it — watched it only because Neil seemed to like it.

He was actively not thinking about what that meant.

From the corner of his eye, he’d caught glimpses of Neil earlier — a blur of a dark cloak thrown over the back of the couch, shapeless jeans, washed-out shirt.

It was easier when Neil was out of sight. Harder when he was right there, close enough to reach out and touch—

Andrew’s gaze flicked to the TV, then back to the empty space where he knew Neil was.

Slowly, almost casually, he shifted and stretched his legs out until the tips of his feet would have bumped against where Neil’s knee should be.

The space was distinctly empty, and yet, there was a feeling — not still, not heavy, almost like static before a storm. As if the air was charged but not quite. Not warm but not ice either. Like a magnet that pushed back against another.

Andrew stilled.

Neil hummed, a soft noise of absent curiosity. “Huh?”

Andrew blinked once, slowly, before moving his feet back a few inches, the feeling of vague pressure ebbing.

“…Nothing,” he muttered.

“Why - - - do that?”

Andrew curled his fingers against the fabric of his hoodie. He wasn’t sure what had made him reach out.

“It feels—” he started, then stopped, frowning. The words tasted wrong, stupid. “Not empty.”

Which didn’t make any sense at all. He knew that.

Neil, however, didn’t laugh, didn’t point out how idiotic that sounded.

After a long pause, he murmured, “Interesting.” Then, “- - - don’t think - - - supposed - - - feel me.”

Andrew snorted, low and dismissive. Let his eyes drift back to the TV.

“Guess I’m special,” he muttered.

“Guess so,” Neil replied, humor in his voice.

Andrew rolled his eyes, pulled his legs close again, and tried not to notice the way the air felt colder without that faint weight, that almost static charge.

The air still carried a bite — late-winter wind cutting between buildings, tugging at Andrew’s sleeves as he made his way down the block.

It was too early, too grey, and his gym bag strap kept slipping off his shoulder.

He adjusted it once, didn’t bother again.

Neil was hanging back a few steps, his presence quiet, moving at the edge of Andrew’s awareness like a shadow that didn’t belong to anything.

Traffic buzzed around him. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.

And then—

Something crashed behind him with a violent clang — metal crunching, concrete splitting.

The ground behind him shuddered with the weight of something massive slamming down.

Andrew blinked. His body had already staggered forward — not on his own instinct, he realized too late.

It had been a shove.

Quick. Sharp.

Across his shoulder blades, just enough to knock him a step ahead.

He turned slowly.

Behind him, a once-secured rooftop AC unit now lay in the middle of the sidewalk. A mangled heap of dented metal, snapped wires, and crushed vent casing. Steam hissed from somewhere underneath, air smelling of burned plastic.

It had landed exactly where he’d been walking.

Exactly.

People were staring. A woman had dropped her coffee. Someone shouted something about calling the landlord.

A guy in a suit murmured, “Jesus,” and pulled out his phone.

Andrew just stared at the wreckage, then at the rooftop above.

The AC unit had been bolted to a steel bracket.

Now, one end of the bracket was still attached to the building, the other twisted like it had been torn free.

Neil hovered at the edge of Andrew’s vision.

Unmoving. Silent. But he could feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

Andrew didn’t say anything, but he stood there for a second longer.

Staring.

Then, finally, he exhaled.

“Okay,” he muttered, nodding at the crumpled metal heap.

Turning back toward the gym, he kept walking, his hand slipping absently into his jacket pocket — thumb brushing the edge of his old lighter.

Click.

Click.

Behind him, Neil lingered a moment longer — before he followed.

Chapter Text

faultline

noun

a surface or divide where pressure builds, eventually forcing a shift

(Found highlighted in a restricted-use Between Seismic Integrity Report.)

Neil

Neil walked fast, cutting across the uneven sidewalks, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his cloak. The sun had dipped low, the streetlights coming to life one by one. The city around him shifted into evening rhythms — windows lit up, doors locked, late buses groaning past.

He was finally on his way to Andrew. The chime of waiting souls continued at the back of his mind, but was faint enough to ignore for the next few hours. 

Maybe they’d watch a new episode of the legal drama Andrew liked. Or he’d sit on the kitchen counter while Andrew attempted another recipe from an obscure baking blog.

The familiar knot of tension between his shoulders was easing with every block he crossed, like a string pulled just a little looser.

Almost there.

Just then, a figure stepped into his path. Neil stopped short.

Stuart — a still, immovable figure blocking the sidewalk ahead, leaning lightly on his cane.

Seriously?

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Neil shifted sideways to walk around him—

But Stuart moved just enough to intercept him again.

Frowning, Neil stilled, a thin thread of unease winding up his spine.

“You need to let the boy go,” Stuart said, voice low.

“He has a name,” Neil said, hands curling tight in his pockets. “Andrew. His name is Andrew.”

Stuart’s face didn’t change. Calm, as always. But his eyes — there was something heavier there. Something old.

“It’s time,” Stuart said. “His path has reached its end long ago.”

Neil shook his head once, hard. “You don’t know that.”

But Stuart didn’t even blink. “I do.”

A bitter breath slipped out, not quite a laugh. Neil shifted his weight. “The Path doesn't know anything. It’s not... alive. It doesn’t care. It just wants us to fall in line, no matter what gets crushed in the process.”

Stuart leaned more heavily on his cane, like he had all the time in the world. “It is not about cruelty. Or indifference. It is simply about balance.”

Neil scoffed, sharp and bitter. “Balance?”

He gestured, abrupt — at the city breathing around them, the hum of streetlights, the distant sirens, the rows of lives still moving.

"You call it balance when a shelf almost crushed him? When objects tear loose from buildings?"

Stuart’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

Neil’s heart thudded heavy in his chest, faster with every breath. Because Stuart being here — blocking his way, naming what they both knew — confirmed it.

These hadn’t been accidents.

Not random, not unlucky.

“He’s not throwing himself off rooftops anymore. He’s not— He’s not asking for it.” His voice cracked at the edges before he forced it flat again. “He’s trying. He’s living. And you’re telling me that’s wrong?"

Stuart’s shoulders shifted, almost a sigh.

"This is his path, Nathaniel," he said. "And he must follow it. You cannot shield him forever."

Neil’s jaw locked so tightly it hurt. His hands had curled into fists without him realizing.

He wanted to scream. To fight. 

But when he spoke, it came out low and vicious.

“I’m not shielding him. I’m giving him a chance.”

Stuart studied him — long, unblinking.

"Your path to your purpose was interrupted," Stuart said finally. His voice wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t kind, either. It just was. "And still you try to shape what isn’t yours. As if meaning can be borrowed."

Neil stayed silent, nails digging into his palms. He didn't argue, but the words sat wrong in his chest. Their shape, their sound, their meaning—

"If you care for the boy..." Stuart’s voice gentled, but there was something inexorable underneath it, heavy and final. "Then let him walk his path. All the way to its end."

Neil shook his head once, sharp.

"I have to go," he muttered.

He stepped forward, and this time, Stuart didn’t move to stop him.

As Neil walked away, the city folded back around him — noise, movement, life, but none of it reached him. Following him down empty streets, Stuart’s words trailed like smoke.

Let him walk his path to its end.

Chapter Text

ensconce

verb

to settle comfortably and securely in a place

(Found misused in a manuscript of a collection of diary entries. Margin note: “Wrong.”)

Andrew

Rain tapped steadily against the windows, soft and rhythmic, just heavy enough to blur the city beyond into streaks of grey and moving reflections.

Inside, keystrokes clicked in irregular patterns. Papers shifted. Somewhere across the room, a conversation murmured low — too faint to make out words, just the shape of voices threading through the stillness of the office.

Andrew sat at his desk, headphones resting around his neck. Across the table island, Annie and Caleb were mid-debate — softly, but with conviction.

“If you can’t pronounce it out loud, it’s a bad name,” Caleb was saying, waving a pencil toward the margin of his manuscript.

“You’re telling me X’tharionyx isn’t a name with gravitas?”

“I’m telling you it’s a sneeze.”

Andrew didn’t join in. Just let the sound drift around him as he worked.

The manuscript in front of him was dense — a political biography padded with over-formal sentences, scattered dates, and opinions disguised as facts. Not thrilling. But it wasn’t terrible, either. There was something satisfyingly mechanical about parsing each paragraph, reshaping it into something sharper, more deliberate.

Outside, a gust of wind rattled the windows faintly. The scent of burnt coffee from the shared pot mingled with the sharper tang of printer toner and the subtle earthy note of rain-soaked concrete.

Somewhere across the office, someone laughed — one of the production team, probably. Earlier that morning, they’d pinned three potential covers to the corkboard near the kitchen, half-serious about voting on them after lunch. Caleb had already made a spreadsheet.

The world, in short, was doing what it was supposed to.

Andrew was just marking a particularly bloated sentence when a shadow fell across his desk.

He looked up.

A new manuscript landed on top of his current one with a soft thump — the title page clean, centered, and utterly unrepentant.

Burning Desire: A Firefighter’s Passion.

Andrew stared at it for a long second. Then, slowly, he looked up at Betsy.

She was already grinning. “You’re welcome.”

Andrew flipped the first page. Read a line. Paused. Then blinked once, slowly.

Yep. Explicit. Right from the start.

He nodded once. “Wow.”

Chuckling, Betsy dropped into her seat next to him. “Figured you could use a break. Think of it as a reward.”

His lips twitched. “That’s one word for it.”

Betsy smirked, looking far too pleased with herself. “Come on. You’ve got the best poker face. Someone needs to edit that book without blushing.”

Andrew exhaled a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head.

Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, the office moved at its usual rhythm.

—

The rain hadn't stopped all day, slowly building into a full downpour.

It was heavy and relentless, the kind that blurred the streetlights into smudges and hammered against every surface like it was trying to peel the city apart.

Andrew killed the engine and sat there a beat longer, watching water streak the windshield.

It had taken him two hours to make it the five miles home.

Two blocks from work, a van had skidded through an intersection, missing the front of his car by less than a foot.

Thirty minutes later, a tree limb cracked and fell half a block down, shattering the back windshield of a sedan idling at a red light.

Finally, he slung his bag over his shoulder and pulled his hood up, pausing with one hand on the door. A breath, slow and even — then he stepped outside.

Rain pounded the sidewalks in sheets, overflowing the gutters, blurring the world into watery streaks under the streetlights.

By the time he climbed the stairs to his apartment, his jeans were soaked from the knees down and his hair clung to his forehead.

Keys clicked in the lock, the familiar sound of the bolt sliding back, and he finally stepped inside.

Quiet.

Dry.

He tossed his keys onto the counter, hung the wet jacket over the bathroom door to drip into the tub, and toed off his shoes.

The manuscript came out of the bag — damp but salvageable — and landed on the coffee table with a soft thump.

Burning Desire stared up at him in dramatic cursive.

Andrew didn’t comment.

Just padded into the bedroom, swapping wet jeans for loose sweatpants and pulling a hoodie over his head.

When he came back, the apartment felt warmer already — the hum of the radiator rattling faintly in the pipes.

Neil must’ve slipped in while he was changing.

The TV was on now, playing some old rerun at low volume, the laugh track wheezing like a punctured balloon.

Andrew dropped onto the couch, the dim glow of the lamp casting a soft, tired light over the room, and dragged the still-damp manuscript into his lap. It was about as ridiculous as expected — overwrought descriptions, sentences that took themselves way too seriously, and a plot so thin he could see through it from page one.

After a long, companionable silence, Neil finally spoke — voice low and skeptical, the static buzz almost lost under the rain and bad TV reruns. “What kind - - - title - - - Burning Desire?”

Andrew turned the page.

"Descriptive."

There was a pause.

Then, dry as dust: “It’s - - - firefighters, isn’t - - -?”

Andrew hummed in agreement, flipping another page.

He could feel Neil leaning closer now, a familiar pressure at the edge of his senses — reading over his shoulder with mounting disbelief.

“What - - - this,” Neil asked, baffled.

He didn’t look away from the page as he answered, voice carefully neutral, “Literature.”

Neil huffed a low laugh that threaded through the steady, cold beat of rain. He stayed close, the warmth of his attention unmistakable, watching, maybe reading.

For a while, that was all there was: Rain against the windows. The soft rustle of pages under his fingers. The sitcom bumbling in the background. Neil’s still weight beside him.

The room was peaceful in a way Andrew wouldn’t have thought possible years ago. The words on the page blurred a little, his focus drifting — not entirely on the book, not entirely on Neil.

Eventually, Neil spoke again, voice lighter now, almost teasing, “- - - get paid - - - for this?”

Andrew huffed once, amused.

"Generously."

Neil let out a slow, theatrical sigh, sinking deeper into the couch beside him.

"Unbelievable."

Andrew didn’t bother responding. He just kept flipping pages as Neil stayed tucked into the edge of his awareness.

Chapter Text

elsewhere

adverb

in or to another place; where your thoughts drift when you’re not paying attention

(Found underlined on a dog-eared page of Mental Drift and Dimensional Awareness: A Practical Manual for Long-Term Sentry Posts.)

Neil

The sky was shifting — dusty pinks giving way to heavy blue, clouds stretched thin over a skyline he didn’t know. Below, the city moved like they all did. Traffic stuttered at corners, headlights blinked in uneven rhythm, crowds spilled across crosswalks in slow, tangled waves.

The bells pressed at the edges of his awareness, layered and clashing just enough to grate. They didn’t stop. These days, they never did.

Andrew’s chime — once a low, steady anchor he could follow without thinking — was almost impossible to pick out now.

Muted. Buried. Useless.

The consistently gentle hum not to be trusted.

Neil leaned back on his palms, legs stretched out in front of him, the concrete still warm beneath him from the day’s heat.

A different place. Same restless energy.

Matt and Dan sat a few feet away, talking about something — the conversation low, familiar.

Neil tuned in just enough to catch the edges when he needed to.

He was good at that now. Good at being where he was supposed to be, but already halfway somewhere else.

“You’ve been hard to find,” Dan said, turning in his direction, nudging a loose pebble over the edge of the roof. It bounced twice before disappearing. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be unavoidable.”

Neil shrugged one shoulder without looking over.

She wasn’t wrong.

He hadn’t made it easy for them lately.

Matt shifted beside her, kicking his feet out lazily. “We figured we'd come to you this time. “Drag you out of whatever existential spiral you’ve been stuck in.”

Dan shot him a look. “You don’t even know what ‘existential spiral’ means.”

“I know enough.” Matt grinned, unbothered. 

Neil snorted, but didn’t comment.

“You haven’t missed much,” Matt added. “Had a runner today. Kid made it longer than most. Died out in the desert, nowhere left to go.”

Neil knew what that meant — a soul that spent a lifetime running, only to end up in the same place as everyone else.

“No one outruns the end,” Dan said, brushing dust off her jeans. “Some just take the long way around.”

Neil swallowed. Didn’t move. Didn’t let it show that the words dug under his skin, sharp-edged and unwanted. Because it was true, wasn’t it? No matter how fast someone ran, no matter how far they went, the end caught up. It always did.

He thought of the near misses lately. Too many moments that cut too close.

Nothing big.

Nothing obvious.

But enough that he no longer fully relaxed, even here.

Matt leaned back on his hands, tipping his head toward Neil.

“You're alright, buddy?”

“Yeah.” Neil said it too fast, and Dan caught it, tilting her head.

“Uh-huh,” she said, skepticism clear.

Neil didn’t answer.

Just stared out over the city.

The world moved on — unaware, uncaring.

He knew he should say something.

Apologize for being distant.

Pretend to be more present than he was.

Instead, he just sat there, the weight of time ticking against his skin.

It used to feel good, sitting on rooftops with them.

Used to feel like belonging, even if he never said it out loud.

Now—

Now he just wanted to be somewhere else.

Not because Matt and Dan didn’t matter.

They did. They always would.

But there was someone else he wanted to be near more.

He didn’t say that either. Didn’t even let himself think it too loud.

Instead, he tipped his head back, watching the last scraps of light drain out of the sky.

Dan and Matt’s voices wove together in easy conversation beside him.

The city pulsed below.

Time kept moving.

And Neil found himself impatient to catch up.

The steady chime of passing souls wove together in a discordant, endless murmur, threads of sound stretching taut in the back of his mind.

He was falling behind.

Too many distractions.

Too much time spent where he wasn’t supposed to be.

By the time Neil reached the wreckage, Seth was already there — a familiar figure leaning near the edge of the highway, hands buried deep in his pockets. His cloak hung loose, as if the fabric might slide off his shoulders any second, and the flickering light from a nearby utility pole made it impossible to read his face.

Not that it mattered.

His whole presence radiated casual indifference, like this was just another mundane stop in a long, uneventful night.

Slowing his steps, Neil exhaled quietly as he approached.

Seth saw him coming and gave a slow nod, all easy familiarity. “Yo.”

“Hey,” Neil said, voice low.

Shifting his weight, Seth rocked back on his heels, like they were just two guys catching up instead of two sentries waiting for the inevitable. “You got one too?”

Neil’s gaze pulled toward the wreck nearest them — a woman slumped against the airbag, body gone still, unmoving. The bell that had filled his head all night finally let up the moment he arrived, the soul tethered close now, waiting.

“Yeah,” he said, voice flat.

A lazy nod from Seth toward the second car. “Mine’s still fighting.”

Through the spiderwebbed windshield, Neil could just make out the driver — barely conscious, breaths ragged and thin. The medics worked in frantic bursts, shouting orders, moving with sharp, practiced urgency.

Still fighting.

Still believing it might matter.

Neil let his eyes drift back to the woman. She had been dead for a while, the soul now lingering, patient, resigned.

He should get on with it.

Instead, he muttered, “Maybe yours will make it.”

Seth made a noise, like he was mildly amused.

“Nah,” he said simply. “He’ll die.”

Neil’s fingers curled slightly.

Not he might. Not he could. Not it depends.

Just he will.

Seth shrugged, casual as ever. “I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t supposed to go.”

Neil’s jaw locked.

That was the rule, wasn’t it? They didn’t show up early. Weren’t called for people who had a choice. They only arrived when it was already decided.

And yet—

Across the street, the driver’s chest still fought for air, stubborn and shallow. The medics still worked with everything they had, even as the world they were fighting against had already made its choice.

Seth glanced at him, tipped his head. “Guess I’ll give him another minute.”

Neil didn’t answer.

The moment dragged until Seth side-eyed him again. “You cool?”

He tried to find the right words — and failed. Instead, he shook his head once, fingers curling around the fabric of his cloak. “I should go.”

Unfazed, Seth just shrugged. “Yeah, alright. Catch you later, man.”

Neil hesitated for half a second, then turned away.

The last thing Neil heard as he stepped into the Between, the soul now at his side, was the stutter of a failing heart — then nothing.

Behind him, Seth finally moved.

Chapter Text

ascent

noun

the upward movement that begins before you realize you’ve left the ground

(Found circled in Ariel by Sylvia Plath, in a passage about inevitability and desire.)

Andrew

Outside the window, a gust of wind caught a scatter of leaves and lifted them into the air — a sudden sweep of color spiraling upward before drifting in slow, swooping arcs to the ground. Andrew’s gaze followed their motion as they settled across the sidewalk below, caught at the bases of tall trees that lined the avenue in uneven rows.

To his right, across the open floor, the content production team hovered around a long table — voices rising and falling over layout proofs and cover mockups. Their conversation blurred into the broader murmur of the office: the muted rhythm of keyboards, the soft drag of highlighters across paper, the occasional heavy thud of an encyclopedia being dropped open on a desk.

At his table island, Annie had given up on pretending to focus and was now offering a low play-by-play of their newest colleague like a live commentator on a low-stakes football match.

Andrew flipped another page in his manuscript, pencil moving idly along the margin.

“Okay, but look at the way he holds those layouts,” she whispered, pen tapping the edge of Andrew’s desk. “Precision. Grace. Arms. Jesus.”

Andrew didn’t look up. “You know he can hear you, right?”

“Pfft.” She waved a hand like she wasn’t four seconds from dissolving into giggles. “He’s wearing headphones. And anyway, he’s French. He’s used to being admired.”

Jean stood a few desks away, hunched slightly over a lightbox, reviewing a spread of cover mockups. His dark hair was tied back in a short, neat knot, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Tall. Focused. Boring.

He’d joined the content team the week before, and in five days had somehow managed to become the building’s least controversial crush.

At their table island, Annie had shifted sideways in her chair, half-turned toward the content team. Caleb, next to her, didn’t even glance up, tapping away at his laptop like he’d long ago accepted his fate.

“Honestly,” Annie continued in a low mutter, “he could be reciting the assembly instructions for IKEA furniture and I’d still say yes.”

Andrew moved his pencil to the next paragraph. “You’ve said yes for less.”

She pointed her pen at him. “One time. One magician.”

He didn’t answer. Just underlined a sentence with barely hidden amusement.

Annie leaned a little closer. “So, you really don’t see it?”

Andrew finally glanced up — not at Jean, but at her. “He’s good-looking.”

“But?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

A shrug. Dismissive. “Not my type.”

That made her blink. “You’re impossible.”

At his silence, she placed her face in her palm, watching him intently. “I thought you were gay. Why are you so useless?”

A low huff escaped Andrew before he could catch it. He turned the page with studied indifference.

She sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’ll suffer alone.”

Across the room, Jean stepped back from the table to re-center one of the frames on the far wall — an old holiday mockup from last winter’s photoshoot — moving with the kind of absent precision that seemed completely unconscious. Annie actually hummed under her breath, the sound soft and pained.

Andrew watched her for a second longer, then dropped his gaze back to the manuscript.

It wasn’t that Jean wasn’t attractive. He was. Anyone could see that.

It was just—

His focus kept snagging somewhere else.

On someone else.

A voice that wasn’t a voice. A weight in the corner of a room that wasn’t a real person. A laugh lodged somewhere in the back of his mind that refused to leave.

The weight of a gaze when Andrew wasn’t even supposed to know it was there.

Sharp wit. Dry humor. Quiet comfort. And—

And Jean — real, human, tall, handsome Jean — just wasn’t that.

He didn’t feel the pull.

Annie kept muttering about cheekbones and injustice, and Andrew let her, the background noise easier than thinking too hard about it.

About Jean, who wasn’t interested in Annie.

And about Neil, who wasn’t real.

That thought hung in the air for a moment too long. Andrew let it sit, then filed it away. Turned another page.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

Chapter Text

reason

noun

the thing you tell yourself when you know it won’t change how you feel

(Found in a late-night sentry observation report. Underlined once, a question mark in blue ink next to it.)

Neil

Iron lanterns flickered unevenly in a wind that had no source, throwing long shadows against the stone walls of the hallway. The flames leaned sideways for a breath, then righted themselves, dancing in time with nothing. The air carried a chill, settling uncomfortably against Neil’s skin.

It smelled faintly of old smoke and colder things — damp stone, rusted metal, the sharp trace of extinguished fire.

The Between was like that sometimes. Realer somehow, only in the ways that didn’t matter.

Neil should’ve known the moment Matt pulled him off his usual route. “Come on, just for a bit,” he’d said, nudging him into a side hallway that hadn’t been there a second before.

This wasn’t just a chat. It was going to be something else.

They ended up at the edge of a long overlook, one of the endless drop-offs in the Between. Far in the distance, vague shapes moved, their outlines blurred and shifted like memory. A broken skyline. A half-formed ferris wheel. Gone in a breath.

Matt leaned back on a stretch of railing that wasn’t really there. One foot hooked loosely over the other. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze wasn’t.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with the Living.”

Neil stood a few feet away, arms crossed, fingers curling deeper into his sleeves.

“We all do,” he said eventually, voice even.

Matt tilted his head. “Sure. But not like this.”

Neil said nothing.

“I’m not judging,” Matt added after a beat. “It happens. You hang around the Living long enough, one of them sticks. You follow them. It helps with the boredom. And sometimes you get attached.”

Neil’s jaw ticked. He didn’t like the word boredom. As if that explained it. As if that’s all it was.

“Then one day you realize,” Matt went on, a little softer now, “you like them. The way they talk. Think. Move. It sneaks up on you.”

The words landed. Slower than Neil expected. Deeper than he wanted.

Pushing off the rail, Matt stepped forward, his arms falling to his sides. “But it doesn’t go anywhere. They live. We don’t. They move on.”

Turning away, Neil stepped closer to the overlook, uncrossing his arms, hands settling on the railing.

Matt’s gaze tracked the movement. “The Living can’t see us. Can’t hear us. Can’t feel us. For them,” he paused, “we don’t exist.”

“I know that,” Neil said, a little too fast.

“Do you?” Matt studied him. His tone wasn’t cruel, just genuine uncertainty. “Because you’re always there.”

Neil didn’t respond.

“Look,” Matt paused, as if searching for the right words, “getting attached isn’t a bad thing — just not with the Living. Meet someone. Here, in the Between. Someone you can talk to, not just talk at. Someone who sees you. Someone to…”

He drifted off, hands waving in the air as if that would help make his point. “Be close. Have something real.”

That wasn’t—

Neil’s brows furrowed.

This wasn’t about meeting someone.

“And this one — they’re, what? Mid-twenties?” Sighing, Matt stepped forward again. “Say they live a long life. Make it to ninety. That’s sixty more years of you standing in the background.”

Eyes fixed on the horizon, Neil’s grip on the railing tightened.

“Sixty years,” Matt repeated. “You really want to spend that long just… watching? Letting your whole world narrow down to someone who doesn’t even know you exist?”

He paused. Let it settle.

“You really want to spend that long just standing still?”

Neil didn’t flinch — but his shoulders drew up just slightly.

“I’ve been doing this a long time.” Matt let out a slow breath. “I’ve seen this happen before. You know how it ends?”

He didn’t wait.

“They fall in love. Get married. Have kids. Build a whole life. One you’ll never be part of.”

Neil’s throat ached.

“And what then?” Matt asked. “You stay? Watching them grow old? Watching them die? Will you still be there? In the corner of some room?”

Neil’s voice was raw when he answered. “He’s not—” Then stopped.

“You think he’s yours?”

“No.” Neil’s hands curled tighter on the railing. “I just… I thought I was giving him— something.”

Matt blinked. “Something what?”

Neil’s reply was barely audible. “Something he deserved.”

There was a pause. A shift in the air. Neil didn’t look at Matt. Just stared out across the endless dark.

“I believe you,” Matt said at last. “Maybe it was comfort. Company. Attention. But eventually…” He shook his head. “It stops being about him. It becomes about you.” 

Neil swallowed hard. Heart thudding heavy in his chest.

“You’re not part of his life. And he’s not part of yours.” Matt’s voice dropped. “You can’t live with him. You can’t die with him. And the longer you stay, the more you’re holding him back.”

Words got stuck in Neil’s throat — he wanted to argue, say that he wasn’t just watching Andrew live, that he was part of his life; or, at least, he had tried to be. 

Had he been holding him back?

Was he the reason why the Path was still paying attention to Andrew?

If he left, would Andrew be safe?

“You’re too close. And he’s alive. We’re not meant to interfere with that.”

Releasing the tight grip on the railing took effort. He stepped back, eyes wandering to the space around him, barely taking anything in. The shapes in the distant nothing but a blur.

Matt’s words hung heavy, but it was more about the unsaid: Maybe his presence had done more than he’d realized. 

Maybe Matt was right.

The thought settled like stone in his stomach.

“You have to let him go.” It was said with finality.

Neil didn't answer. He just stood there, feeling like the space around him was shrinking, just as it had when he had been confronted by the truth of his existence. He wasn’t part of Andrew’s life. He never would be.

“You care about him,” Matt said. “I see that. But this? This isn’t fair to either of you.” Softer, he added, “It’ll pass. I promise.”

“I don’t want it to,” Neil whispered.

Matt sighed. “I know. That’s the hard part.”

He rested a hand on Neil’s shoulder — warm, familiar — and then turned away, stepping into the darkness without another word.

Neil didn’t move for a long time.

—

That night, he ended up at Andrew’s apartment anyway.

He hadn’t meant to.

The lights from the building opposite flickered lazily across the windows — blinking icicles in cool white and pale blue, pulsing out of sync with each other.

Inside, a single lamp lit the living room. A mug sat half-full on the table. Andrew was sprawled across the couch, hoodie pushed to his elbows, one arm slung over the backrest. No armbands. He’d stopped wearing them a while ago. Neil had seen the faint lines across his forearms — old scars he recognized from a different time. Didn't comment.

A book lay open in his lap. He looked up when Neil arrived — briefly, like a silent there you are, then looked back down.

Neil crossed the room and settled at the far end of the couch.

They sat like that for a while — not speaking, not moving. The television played a nature documentary in the background, a calm narrator discussing predator migration cycles as if it was important.

Andrew flipped a page. Reached absently for his mug. Shifted slightly to get more comfortable.

Neil watched the rise and fall of his chest. The shape of Andrew’s hand wrapped around ceramic. The way his hair curled just barely at the ends. The sharpness of Andrew’s eyes when he was focused, the line of concentration between his brows.

The way his mouth curved when he was annoyed or amused — or both.

The weight of Matt’s words pressed in around the edges.

You’re not part of his life. And he’s not part of yours.

You’re not part of his life.

You’re not part of his life.

Andrew shifted again, eyes scanning the page in his lap, hand absently lifting the mug to his lips.

Neil watched the movement. Memorized it.

Jaw tight, he turned toward the TV. He shouldn’t have come.

He should go.

He should—

Andrew spoke, voice low. “You’re quiet.”

Neil hesitated. Then, barely audible: “I’m fine.”

Andrew didn’t push. Just placed his mug on the table and reached for the remote, flipping the channel to one of the baking shows with the overly dramatic narration and contestants who cried over sponge cake. One of Neil’s favorites — not because he cared for baking, or the loud people, but because it made Andrew stay in the room.

Neil blinked once. Stayed still.

He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve him.

Across the cushions, Andrew leaned his head back and let his eyes slip shut.

And Neil, sitting perfectly still, something inside him breaking in ways he didn’t understand, said goodbye without saying a word.

Chapter Text

anagnorisis

noun

the moment in a story when a character makes a critical discovery — often about themselves

(Found underlined in pencil in Poetics by Aristotle.)

Andrew

Paper snowflakes spun slowly beneath the vents, their edges curling from the warmth. Tinsel looped unevenly around whiteboards, held up by too much tape. A string of fairy lights blinked half-heartedly above the coffee machine, flickering like it wasn’t sure it wanted to keep going.

Andrew had seen worse.

Caleb was wearing a novelty sweater with a reindeer that had a bell stitched to its nose that chimed every time he moved. Annie was already trying to see how many candy canes she could fit in her mouth at once. And Betsy had threatened to unplug the entire string of lights if anyone touched her ceramic tree again.

All in all, it was a normal morning.

Or at least it had been until Annie leaned over, stage-whispering like the drama wasn’t already playing out in full view.

“Third time this week.” She tapped her pen twice against Andrew’s desk, then nodded across the room. “He brought coffee this time. And a candy cane.”

“Scandalous.”

Annie ignored him. “He’s flirting.”

Andrew hummed. “You don’t say.”

Jeremy Knox, new addition to the sales team, was golden retriever in human form. Blond, charming, always smiling. He’d started last Monday and immediately made it his mission to become best friends with the entire building. Including, unfortunately for Jean, the content team’s newest photographer.

Jean, as always, looked mildly amused and entirely unbothered. Tall, dark-haired, wrapped in a cardigan that cost more than Andrew’s monthly rent, he accepted the coffee with a nod and one of those polite smiles that didn’t promise anything.

Annie tapped Andrew’s desk again. “You think he’ll get a date this time?”

“Unclear.” Andrew finally glanced over. “Jean hasn’t rolled his eyes yet.”

“That’s practically a yes.”

Jeremy leaned in to say something. Jean’s gaze dipped, mouth tightening in a way that almost passed for a smile.

“Oh,” Annie breathed. “He’s doomed.”

Andrew turned back to his screen. “Tragic.”

The flirting continued for another few minutes. Jeremy pointed something out on Jean’s monitor with exaggerated flair. Jean leaned in — just far enough to be polite.

Annie sighed. “It could be that easy, huh?”

Andrew didn’t answer. Unbidden, his thoughts shifted to Neil.

He had been gone for three days. The silence in the apartment felt unfamiliar.

Andrew used to think that was what he wanted — a house without voices, a room without anyone in it. In the beginning, Neil’s presence had unsettled him. Even in the last few years of high school, he’d only tolerated it.

Now—

He couldn’t remember the last time Neil had been gone this long.

It was probably a rush of end-of-year deaths, or whatever grim chaos Neil usually handled. He’d show up eventually — maybe tonight — with a story that made no sense and skipped half the important details. Too distracted by Andrew’s latest book, or a baking show rerun on the TV.

Annie was still talking, but her voice had faded to the background. His gaze drifted back to Jeremy and Jean — leaning toward each other, bright, polite, easy.

He didn’t want easy.

Didn’t want showy smiles or coffee deliveries or someone to just walk up and say all the right things.

He wanted—

Andrew swallowed, the thought sliding into place like it had always been there, waiting to be named.

Red curls. Sharp grin. Light blue eyes, flashing through his periphery like tricks of the light.

Dry sarcasm that had found its way into Andrew’s every day. 

The way the air shifted when Neil was near — heavier, charged, like the world itself leaned closer. A presence settled so firmly in his life, Andrew no longer remembered what it was like without it.

Across the room, Jeremy laughed at something Jean said. Jean smiled again, faint and brief.

Andrew watched the moment pass.

Then he turned back to his screen.

The gym smelled like sweat, chalk, and disinfectant.

Same as always.

The overhead lights flickered just enough to be irritating. The music was loud and tasteless, jingle bells mixed in with every song. Someone in the corner was grunting like lifting weights was a form of self-expression.

Andrew still came here.

So did Kevin.

He was halfway through his master’s studies, and somehow still found the energy to send long, unprompted texts about archival shifts in rural ecclesiastical holdings from 12th century Bavaria.

Andrew didn’t respond to most of them.

But he still showed up to this gym several nights a week — partially out of habit, partially because Kevin was living on a student budget and refused to cancel the cheap membership they’d both signed up for years ago.

Andrew loaded another plate onto each side of the bar, rolling his shoulders. It was his fifth time here this week — eighth in the past two. The emptiness at home had started pressing in, heavier with each passing day. Kevin hovered beside him, arms crossed in the universal posture of judgment.

“You can’t just do strength training, you know that,” Kevin said.

“Do I.”

“Cardio is essential.”

“For what.”

“Endurance. General athleticism. A long and healthy life.”

Andrew met his gaze, unmoved.

Kevin held the stare a beat too long before exhaling and throwing his hands up. “Fine. Kill your heart. See if I care.”

Without a word, Andrew finished the set and racked the weights. Leaning back slightly, he flexed his hands once.

Behind him, Kevin let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a whine. “At least stretch, for the love of—”

Andrew turned toward the lat pulldown.

—

Later, they sat on the floor near the back, sweat cooling on their skin. For a moment, neither of them felt the need to fill the space. Kevin was scrolling through something on his phone. Andrew leaned against the wall, towel looped around his neck, gaze unfocused.

Outside, the dark gathered at the windows. Someone had taped a string of lights above the check-in desk. Half were flickering.

Without looking up, Kevin asked, “Work good?”

Blinking into focus, Andrew rolled the towel between his hands. “Yeah.”

“You still writing?”

“Some.”

“You should publish something.”

Andrew didn’t answer. Writing wasn’t about publishing. It never had been. The only reason Kevin even knew was because he’d insisted on sitting next to him in college, and eventually caught glimpses — notes scribbled in margins, the occasional paragraph scrawled when something clawed its way to the surface.

“I’m serious,” Kevin said, lowering his phone. “You’re good. Even if it’s all kind of depressing.”

“You study dead church records.”

"Exactly, you should also do something you're passionate about."

Kevin looked expectantly at Andrew. Andrew just raised his eyebrows at him, waiting for it to click.

Finally— "Ah." Kevin's face fell slightly, making Andrew huff, amused. "It's actually really interesting." Kevin shrugged awkwardly.

“Archbishop Wulfstan would disagree,” Andrew muttered.

Kevin stared at him.

“Aha!” he said triumphantly. “So you do read my texts!”

Andrew let his head thud back against the wall with a groan. “Against my better judgment.”

Kevin grinned and leaned back beside him. For a while, they just sat there, the thrum of treadmills and badly timed weight drops filling the space.

Then: “Same time Thursday?”

Andrew didn’t answer.

But Kevin would be there. And Andrew knew he would show up too.

—

Outside, the rain had started again — soft, misting, too light to matter and too persistent to ignore. Andrew zipped his coat halfway up, stuffing his damp towel into his bag as he headed for the crosswalk, his car parked two blocks down.

Behind him, the gym doors slowly clicked shut.

Kevin had run out five minutes earlier to catch his bus but Andrew didn’t feel like rushing.

Around him, the streets were full of people acting like the world was ending, hurrying past the light-wrapped trees and brightly lit shop windows, weighed down with shopping bags and puffy coats.

At the end of the block, the traffic light flicked to red. Feet already off the sidewalk, he shifted his weight back, for once not bothering to beat the traffic.

A second later, something massive slammed into the intersection in front of him.

The ground shuddered. Dust shot up. People screamed.

A steel beam — rusted, thick, jagged — lay embedded in the asphalt, cracks spidering outward in every direction.

Andrew didn’t move.

He blinked once. Then again.

Slowly, he looked up.

The crane overhead was still swaying slightly, a cable frayed near the top. The sky behind it was inky and cold, washed out by streetlights and winter haze.

The reaction was immediate — the street exploded into movement, people shouting, cars honking.

Andrew stood still.

If the light had stayed green—

If he’d stepped out two seconds earlier—

He swallowed as he stared at the beam. 

Then he shifted his weight, stepped back once, twice — further onto the sidewalk — and turned away.

Behind him, a baby started crying. A car alarm wailed. Phones were pulled from pockets, screens raised, already recording the chaos.

He kept walking.

The fridge clicked on in the kitchen, low and mechanical. A pipe knocked once in the wall. Somewhere above him, a neighbor’s footsteps crossed the ceiling.

Andrew sat in the silence that followed — not the comfortable kind he’d gotten used to, softened by Neil’s presence and dry commentary.

It was the kind that settled into the walls, dull and tired, like a fog that wouldn’t lift.

It was Christmas Eve.

The radiator clanked every so often like it was trying to remind him it existed. Outside, the world was decked out in garlands and fake snow. The building across the street blinked in cool white and pale blue like it was trying too hard. Someone in the hall had left a tin of cookies outside their door, lid cracked open like they were meant for whoever walked past.

Andrew hadn’t touched them. He hadn’t bothered baking the hazelnut shortbread he’d bookmarked a few weeks ago, either.

He sat on the couch in sweatpants and a worn hoodie, a book open on his lap, spine cracked and pages flat — unread. The TV was on, the volume low, flickering light chasing shadows across the ceiling. He’d turned it on out of habit, not interest. Whatever was playing hadn’t registered.

Neil hadn't been back in over three weeks.

At first, he’d assumed it was work. Some rush of year-end deaths or cosmic bullshit that required full attention. Then a few more days passed. Then another week. And now—

The emptiness rang in his ears. Heavy. Smothering, like a weight across his chest. He hadn’t realized how much space Neil had taken up. How the smallest shift of air, the briefest flicker in the corner of his eye, had become something steady. Something he could count on.

And now it was just… gone.

Just when he had thought that maybe he could do this whole fucking living thing—

But of course it had been pointless. 

The thoughts always came back. They’d probably never left.

He hadn’t slept well in days. He’d been at the gym every night that week. Kevin didn’t comment — maybe because Andrew hadn’t said more than a dozen words to him total. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t there to talk. He was there because the apartment felt less like home each night.

He’d tried reading. Tried cooking. Tried watching TV. Nothing stuck.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but part of him still waited for the familiar prickling of presence at the edge of his awareness. For the static filling the room. For something.

Anything.

The book in his lap slid sideways. He didn’t fix it.

Neil wasn’t here.

Maybe something had happened. Maybe he was needed somewhere else. Maybe this was temporary.

Or maybe Andrew had finally scared him off.

Maybe none of it had been real in the first place.

He shifted, curling his fingers tight in the fabric of the couch. His jaw tensed. The hollowness in his chest — the slow-spreading ache — it wasn’t panic. He didn’t panic. But it wasn’t calm, either.

“Guess my brain finally gave up on hallucinations,” he muttered.

It was meant as a joke. Dark, sharp-edged, meant to cut the rising voice at the back of his mind.

He wasn’t going to spiral. Not over this. Not now. (Not yet.)

Still — he sat there. Unmoving. The air stale. The silence absolute. 

Thoughts circling closer and closer to darkness.

His eyes flicked once more to the empty side of the couch.

Nothing.

Andrew leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

His voice was barely more than a breath, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard at all.

“…fuck.”

Chapter Text

subsidence

noun

the gradual sinking or caving in; a slow fall into quiet

(Found highlighted in a library copy of Earth and Aftershock: A History of Structural Collapse by R.E. Lindholm.)

Andrew

Andrew flicked his lighter open and closed in his pocket, the soft metallic click familiar under his fingers. 

Around him, Nicky’s apartment was too warm. Someone had turned the thermostat up too high, or maybe it was just the crowd — people shifting from room to room, drinks in hand, loud and careless in that New Year’s Eve kind of way. Laughter, clinking glasses, music that had already cycled through the same playlist twice.

Andrew stood by the balcony door for most of the evening, glass in hand, letting the noise wash past him.

Just after eleven, someone started yelling “Ten!” like they couldn’t wait.

Andrew stepped outside.

The balcony was small, barely big enough for two. No one else followed. The night air hit him all at once — cold, biting, sharp against his skin. He didn’t care. He welcomed it. He closed the door behind him, muffling the chaos inside.

Across the street, blinking red and green lights pulsed along the rooflines — strands of cheap LEDs thrown over windows and doors, some already half-burnt out. A blow-up candy cane leaned crooked against the railing of a neighboring balcony. Someone’s speaker was playing Mariah Carey through a half-closed window.

A single horn honked somewhere in the distance. Otherwise, the city felt held in place, waiting for the new year to finally arrive.

Andrew leaned against the railing, thumb rolling absently over the lighter in his pocket.

Click.

Click.

He hadn’t used it in months. It’d been years since he last smoked. 

The lighter had stayed, though. Familiar weight. Smooth edges. Something to keep in his hand when thoughts spun too fast, too loud. 

A nervous tell he wasn’t going to acknowledge.

Neil used to blow it out before it could catch. That was the game. Andrew would flick it open. Neil would kill the flame.

Once, years ago, in the kitchen, he had flicked it open just to see Neil’s reaction, and Neil had turned off the stove in retaliation.

"That was not going to kill me," he had said dryly, watching the burner click off before he even had a chance to set the pan down.

There had been no answer. Just a presence at his back. Smug. Amused.

Familiar.

Sometimes it was funny. Sometimes it wasn’t. But it had become normal. A thing they did. A thing that was.

And now, it wasn’t.

Click.

Click.

He breathed slowly, controlled, against the persistent tension in his body, pressing his thumb against the lighter.

The wind pushed across the balcony. Cold. Crisp.

It had been a month.

The walls in the apartment had started to inch closer. Andrew still came home from work. Still dropped his bag by the door. Still reached for a book. Turned on the TV. Let the sound fill the space. It didn’t help.

It just made the silence louder.

He didn’t know where Neil had gone. Or why.

He thought about that for a long moment.

Then he scoffed under his breath and flipped the lighter open, just to see.

The flame sparked to life.

Andrew watched it.

The air remained still. The flame didn’t go out.

He waited for a slow, weighted moment, then flicked the lighter shut, rolling his shoulders.

Right.

He wasn’t sure why that felt worse.

Chapter Text

apart

adverb, adjective

separated by space or choice; no longer together

(Found bracketed in a delayed-response sentry field log.)

Neil

Neil hadn’t spoken to Andrew in almost two months.

At first, he would still pass nearby, trying to catch glimpses of him.

To make sure he was okay. That he was still there.

Once, slipping into a restaurant to meet Nicky and Erik, shoulders hunched slightly like the cold of the winter air was pressing down harder than usual.

Another time, outside his office building.

Or through the window of a gym, when Andrew stepped outside, towel around his neck, hair damp from sweat.

Each time, Neil had turned away before he got too close. Before Andrew could notice him.

Seeing Andrew, though, didn’t help with the weight on his shoulders.

Or the tight knot behind his ribs.

And when he saw a steel beam hit the ground just feet from Andrew, he accepted that maybe he wasn’t far enough away. Had to stop lingering nearby. Like a ghost. 

A bad omen hanging over Andrew.

Now, he hadn’t seen Andrew in more than three weeks.

Had stopped looking for him. Stopped hovering near his office at the end of the day, or the gym late into the night.

He worked instead. Kept busy. More than busy.

He took the long way between assignments, rerouted through old haunts that felt familiar now. Picked up every soul assigned to him — and a few that weren’t.

Seth had looked at him sideways after the third time.

“You feeling okay, man?”

Neil just shrugged. “Figured I’d help.”

Seth had raised an eyebrow, the word coming out with more syllables than it should’ve: “Right.”

Neil hadn’t answered. Hadn’t known what to say.

Now, he stood in a room in a care home on the north side of a town he didn’t know. It was nearing midnight. The overhead light was dim, the curtains drawn tight against the snow beginning to fall outside.

The soul — a pale, tired man in a cardigan and slippers — had already begun to separate, blinking uncertainly at the stillness of his own body.

Neil was already here.

Punctual. Efficient.

Waiting. Tapping his foot.

He didn’t want to linger. Didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to think.

Behind him, Dan stepped inside, arms crossed, leaning in the doorway.

She didn’t speak. Just waited.

The soul shifted once, like he wanted to say something, but Neil didn’t give him the chance.

He stepped forward.

“It’s time,” he said — flat, practiced.

Dan stepped further into the room. “You’ve been taking a lot of extras lately.”

Neil didn’t respond.

Her gaze narrowed. “You know you don’t have to work yourself into the ground just because—”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, too fast.

Dan arched a brow. “Oh yeah?”

She nodded toward the soul. “What’s his name?”

Neil blinked. Looked at the man — wispy white hair, pale eyes, the gentle lines of someone who had spent most of his life smiling.

His mind stayed blank.

Dan exhaled slowly. “Jesus, Nathaniel.”

Neil shook his head, distracted. “I don’t think that’s it.”

The pause stretched a beat too long.

His mind remained blank where a name should’ve sat, ready to be recalled.

“You’re a mess.”

Neil’s jaw ticked. “I’m helping.”

“You’re spiraling.”

After a beat, his shoulders dropped. Tired. “Tomato, tomato.”

The soul looked between them. “Am I interrupting something?”

Neil took a deep breath, then another. Then straightened up again.

“No. Let’s go.”

Next to him, Dan didn’t move.

Just looked at him like she was seeing the unraveling he was trying to keep inside.

“It was the right decision,” she said, her voice gentler now. “The Living are not for us.”

His fingers curled at his side, brushing against the sleeves of his cloak.

“I’m—” he started. Then stopped.

He swallowed, nodded, then said it again, voice softer this time. “I’m trying.”

Dan’s stare didn’t waver.

He thought she might say something else, might push. But instead, she just watched as he turned back to the soul, hand reaching out.

The man accepted it with a tentative nod, still confused, still calm.

Dan didn’t move as Neil guided the soul away.

The last time he had heard Andrew’s voice, winter was just beginning to settle into the world — cold creeping into corners, frost curling along windows.

Now, the air was starting to shift. The season inching forward, ready to bow its head to spring.

Almost three months, gone in silence.

Neil had told himself it was better this way.

That Andrew deserved to live.

Tonight, he hadn’t meant to come here.

He’d had a soul scheduled across the city, had even made it to the right block — but somehow, his steps had pulled him here instead, the bells pushed to the back of his mind.

To a street he knew too well.

To the sidewalk below a window he shouldn’t still be watching.

It was late.

The rain had started a while ago — light, at first. Just enough to mist the edges of the pavement, to halo the glow of the streetlamps.

Andrew’s apartment was dark except for the flicker of the TV.

Neil could see it past the edge of the curtains. The soft, pulsing light of changing scenes. It had been playing for a while. Two, maybe three episodes now.

That was good, right?

Andrew, home. Doing something normal.

Just… living.

Neil didn’t go inside.

Didn’t drift through the walls or lean against the kitchen counter or settle onto the far end of the couch like he used to.

He stayed on the sidewalk instead, still as stone.

Close enough to watch. Far enough to stay gone.

It wasn’t enough.

But it had to be.

He was still standing there — motionless, rain falling through him and splashing off the ground, getting stronger with every hour — when a familiar presence joined him at his side.

“You look miserable,” Renee said, voice light but not unkind.

Neil didn’t look at her. “Thanks.”

She didn’t speak again right away. Just stood beside him in the rain, her gaze drifting up to the window he hadn’t stopped watching.

“Are you going in?” she finally asked.

“No.”

She hummed. “But you want to.”

Neil didn’t deny it.

The moment lingered. A car passed slowly behind them, its tires hissing against the wet asphalt. A dog barked once, sharp and distant.

“I picked up a girl last week,” Renee said softly, still watching the window. “She was laughing when she died.”

He looked away. “Maybe she was crazy.”

“Or,” Renee said gently, “maybe she knew something we don’t.”

Neil breathed out, long and low. “You always do this.”

“Offer perspective?”

“Say vague shit and make me feel worse.”

“If it helps,” she said, smiling faintly, “that’s not the goal.”

“Matt says I’m doing the right thing. Staying away.” He swallowed. “Dan does too.”

“Dan worries,” she said. “That’s her job.” A beat. “Matt too.”

The weight of her quiet understanding was almost worse than judgment.

Neil shifted, his gaze pulling back up to the light behind the curtains. “I thought this would get easier.”

“And has it?”

He shook his head once.

“I keep thinking I’m doing the right thing,” he murmured. “Staying away. Giving him space. Letting him live.”

“But you don’t know for sure.”

“No,” Neil admitted. “I don’t know anything.”

The rain started falling heavier. A few more windows lit up down the street. He barely noticed.

“I thought I was giving him what he deserved,” Neil said, barely audible. “A chance. A life.”

The words caught behind his teeth. He swallowed hard. “But what if I’m still in the way?”

Renee finally turned to look at him. “The Path happens through everything, Neil. Not around it. If you care for this Living, there’s a reason for it. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. It means it’s yours to carry.”

He turned toward her, just slightly. His throat was tight. His mouth opened.

The confession was right there — sitting on the edge of his tongue.

All of it.

The rooftops. The cars. The blades and pills. The shelves and falling objects.

Every moment he had stood between Andrew and a death already written.

Every inch of space he had stolen from the Path.

He looked at Renee.

And didn’t say a word.

She met his eyes like she knew anyway. Like she had always known.

“You’ll make the right choice,” she said gently. “I believe that.”

Neil’s fingers curled at his sides.

“Do you want me to stay?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. Didn’t trust his voice.

Renee touched his arm, just briefly, then stepped away into the dark of the Between. Her shape vanished at the edge of the rain.

Neil didn’t leave.

Not right away.

He stayed.

Watched the flicker of the screen through the window.

Let the rain fall through him and pool on the ground.

And when the glow behind the curtain shifted to darkness, and the apartment window dimmed, and the quiet swallowed up the block once more—

He remained where he was.

Not moving.

Just rain, and glass, and the silence in between.

Chapter Text

exitum

noun

a departure; leaving; the end of something; ruin

(Found underlined in a copy of Cassell’s Latin Dictionary.)

Andrew

The traffic lights had glitched halfway through his drive home.

First green, then flashing red, then nothing at all — just the confusion of brake lights ahead of him, the blur of too many cars reacting a beat too late. A horn, the screech of tires, the sharp thud of metal hitting metal.

Andrew had stopped just short of the mess.

He’d sat in the car while the pileup unfolded through the windshield — four cars, maybe five. Airbags, smoke, blinking hazards. A bumper in the middle of the road. The air had smelled like rubber and cold asphalt and something burning. He’d watched paramedics pull someone out of a twisted door while a tow truck idled behind them.

He’d sat in the car for fifty minutes, waiting for the mess to clear.

By the time he got home, it was dark.

He kicked the door shut behind him, shrugged out of his coat, dropped his keys into the bowl by the door. The place was dim, washed in the faint gray spill of late winter sky filtering through the windows.

It was dead silent.

Empty.

The remote was exactly where he’d left it on the coffee table. The fridge hummed faintly in the background. A half-finished book sat on the armrest. Still open to the page he hadn’t actually read last night.

He leaned against the doorframe of the living room for a beat, then made his way to the couch.

He didn’t turn on the lights. Didn’t turn on the TV.

Just sat down heavily on the couch. Let his head tip back, staring at the ceiling like it might give him something to work with.

It didn’t.

He still caught himself hesitating at the front door when he got home, listening for something — the soft shift of air, the static at the back of his neck. Still paused, half-expecting the pressure of a presence slipping in behind him. Still reached for the remote thinking Neil would judge his choice. Still found himself pausing mid-sentence with no one there to finish it.

Old routines. Muscle memory.

Now, he swallowed the instinct to talk about the accident — how the lights had glitched, how the guy in the blue Honda had nearly taken out two lanes in a single move.

Could almost hear Neil’s dry, unimpressed, “Ambitious.”

But there was no one here.

He hadn’t heard Neil’s voice in more than three months.

The silence had settled, familiar now, but no easier. Heavy and empty.

He rolled his jaw once. Pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

It was stupid.

He knew it was stupid.

But the weight on his chest didn’t lift.

He exhaled slowly, dragging himself upright. Reached for his coat again.

Eden’s wasn’t far. He had stopped working there after graduation, hadn’t been back in months — but someone was always asking him to come by. It wasn’t about the company, not really. He just needed to be anywhere else. Somewhere with noise. Somewhere that wasn’t this empty apartment.

He pulled the door shut behind him.

Didn’t bother locking it.

Neil

Neil kicked the same rock for the third time. It bounced off the curb and rolled back toward him — slow, unhurried, like it knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

He barely looked at it. Just like he wasn’t looking at the third-floor window across the street.

The curtains were still drawn. No flicker of light. No movement yet behind the glass. 

The morning sat low around him. Air thick with sleep, gold light threading through bare branches. The street was mostly empty, the kind of hush that only came before the world truly woke up. The air was cool but not cold, just enough to hold the edge of winter without biting. Somewhere nearby, a bird started up — tentative, hopeful. Like it was testing the day.

Neil stood still. Hands in his pockets, the hood of his cloak pulled low over his face. Shoulders drawn tight.

From behind, footsteps.

“Wow. This is sad.”

Neil didn’t turn. “Hello, Seth.”

Seth came to a stop beside him, arms loose at his sides. “You cool?”

“Peachy.”

A beat.

Seth looked from Neil to the building. “So… what’s the plan? You gonna keep lurking like the world’s most awkward bat? Or are you going in?”

“I’m not lurking.”

“You’ve been standing outside his place for at least thirty minutes. That’s not not lurking.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Outside his building.”

“I can think near a building.”

Seth hummed, unconvinced. “Matt talk to you?”

Neil’s jaw flexed.

“Right,” Seth said, like that answered everything. “Let me guess, he gave you the whole Big Picture thing?”

No response.

“And Dan piled on?”

Neil shifted slightly, but said nothing.

“They mean well,” Seth said after a moment. “But they care about the rules. The job. The Path. Like it’s one of those group projects where no one’s allowed to touch anything unless they read the instructions three times.”

Neil didn’t move. Matt’s words still rattled uncomfortably through his thoughts.

The longer you stay, the more you’re holding him back.

Seth glanced at him. “Thing is, they forget that not all of us are wired the same way.”

If you care for this human, there’s a reason for it.

Renee’s voice, soft and sure, lingered in the back of his mind, pushing back against Matt’s. He kept returning to her words, turning them over like stones in his hands.

It’s what he wanted to hear.

But did that make her right?

Did that justify going back—

It stops being about him. It becomes about you.

Matt’s voice, colder, heavier, drowned the hope before it could settle.

Neil pulled the cloak tighter, burying his hands deeper into his pockets. “They’re not wrong.”

No,” Seth agreed. “They’re not. But that doesn’t mean they’re right, either.”

Neil finally turned toward him. “You think I should go back.”

“I think,” Seth said evenly, “that if being near him made you feel more like yourself, not less, that means something.”

He shifted his weight, watching Neil carefully. “I’m just saying — if you like the guy, you like the guy. So what. He’s alive, sure, but it’s not like you’re gonna change anything by hovering.”

Neil exhaled, looking away. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

A breath, caught. The moment stretched taut between them.

“What if he—,” Neil stopped the traitorous thought that had almost escaped.

Was happier, safer.

Didn’t remember him.

Didn’t want him back.

“If he what?” Seth looked at him, relaxed, waiting.

Neil swallowed hard, blinking up at the dark window.

Eventually, he said, quieter, “What if he’s better off now?”

Seth glanced back toward the building. “Look, maybe he dies tomorrow. Maybe it’s fifty years from now. That’ll suck either way. But what’s worse — being there with him while you can, or burying your head so deep you forget what good things feel like?”

Nodding once, as if the answer was obvious, he continued, “The Path does what it wants. We follow along and pretend we’re not completely winging it.”

Neil didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. His chest ached with how much he wanted to believe that.

“Some humans can feel us.” Seth went on when it was clear Neil wasn’t going to answer. “Nature is weird that way.” A shrug. “If he doesn’t want you around, I’m sure he’ll find a way to tell you.”

Neil’s throat tightened.

“Look,” Seth leaned against a streetlight, voice softening, “we don’t get much. Not permanence. Not promises. But if someone makes the world feel less like shit, even for a while, don’t you owe it to yourself to hold on to that?”

Neil wanted to cling to Seth’s words like a lifeline. Wanted to take them at face value. Not question them.

Wanted to walk right into Andrew’s apartment, into his space, his life.

He wanted.

But was that enough?

“You’re not ruining anything just by wanting more,” Seth added, like he could hear every word Neil couldn’t say. “You just have to figure out if you’re ready to try.”

Silence followed. But this time, Seth didn’t break it.

Across the street, a light flickered on — Andrew’s kitchen. Dim and golden, leaking faintly around the edges of the curtain.

Neil didn’t move.

But this time, it wasn’t because he didn’t know what to do.

Resolve settled in his chest, like a coin dropping into place. Like a breath after weeks of holding it.

“I think,” he said finally, voice low, “I want to go in. But…” The thought of Andrew telling him to leave kept him rooted to the spot. “Maybe not yet.”

Seth didn’t push. “He’ll head out to work soon anyway.”

Neil gave a slow nod.

“Tonight then?”

A pause. Neil’s eyes drifted up to the window. “Yeah,” he said, uncertain. “I think I might.”

Seth just nodded, like it was no big deal. Like the entire world hadn’t tilted in Neil’s chest at the thought.

Neil swallowed, pulse tripping over itself. “If he tells me to leave—”

“Then you’ll know,” Seth said. “And maybe that’ll make it easier.”

He didn’t answer.

Seth waited another beat, then looked at him sideways. “So. We leaving?”

“Just… five more minutes.”

“Sounds good.” Seth nodded, unperturbed. “Then I’m staying.” He started smirking, raised an eyebrow at Neil. “Can’t have you committing the heinous crime of ‘standing near a building’ all by yourself.”

Neil huffed out a breath, watched the light in Andrew’s living room flicker on. Faint movement behind the curtain.

He nodded once, twice. 

And for the first time in months, Neil could breathe a little easier.

Chapter Text

lacuna

noun

a blank space or missing part in a text; the unspoken space between two thoughts

(Found in a footnote of The Mirror and the Lamp by M.H. Abrams. Underlined twice.)

Andrew

Andrew hadn’t wanted to go home.

The silence in the apartment wasn’t unfamiliar anymore — it was permanent. Like the smell of old smoke in the walls or cracks in the paint. Not something you wiped away.  But something you lived with.

So he’d gone back to Eden’s. Not looking for anything. Not really. But not saying no, either.

A drink. A few words. A glance that lingered.

The guy was fine. Decent-looking. Interested. And Andrew had nothing better to do.

He wasn’t thinking about much when they stumbled through the door. That was the point.

The guy kissed like he had something to prove — open-mouthed, eager. Hands on Andrew’s face, fingers starting to tangle into his hair.

Andrew caught both wrists before it could go further.

He didn’t say anything, just redirected the hands, pulling the guy toward the bedroom, already shifting their weight. Trying to turn them, to press him against the wall instead.

He barely noticed when his shoulder bumped it — he was about to adjust their path when—

A shove knocked the guy back, sudden and decisive.

Andrew barely caught himself, fingers grasping at empty air, thrown slightly off-balance by something weightless but undeniable. The guy stumbled, a sharp, startled noise escaping him.

“What the fuck?!”

Andrew steadied himself, exhaling slowly, blinking at the space between them.

The air had changed — it was tight and charged, humming with agitation. Familiar.

Neil.

The guy stared at Andrew, chest rising and falling, hands half-raised as if expecting an attack. “Did you—” He gestured vaguely at the air, eyes darting like he could catch what had just happened if he looked hard enough. “What the hell was that?”

Andrew adjusted his shirt. Rolled one shoulder like he was shaking off dust.

“Nothing.”

The guy’s face twisted in frustration. “Nothing?! You just—” He cut himself off with a harsh breath, shaking his head. “You know what? Fuck this.” He snatched his jacket from the floor and shoved his arms through the sleeves.

Andrew watched, unbothered. When the guy paused at the door, giving him a look like he was the problem, Andrew simply nodded his head toward the exit.

The guy left without another word. The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence followed — hanging in the air between them.

Waiting.

From the living room doorway came Neil’s voice. Shaky. Uncertain.

“Are - - - okay?”

Andrew’s response was quiet. “Yep.”

A pause.

Then, closer this time: “How - - - get in?”

Andrew blinked at the door. “I opened it.”

Neil sounded genuinely rattled. “You - - - more careful.”

Andrew huffed through his nose — dry, not quite a laugh. “Okay.”

No response. But the room shifted. The air still held tension, but it was no longer a taut wire ready to snap.

Andrew stood there a moment longer, then turned toward the bedroom. Shrugged off his shirt. Pulled on a soft hoodie and worn sweatpants. Something comfortable. Something easy.

Behind him in the apartment, lights clicked on in the living room, slowly, one after another.

He paused in the bedroom doorway, looked at the dim light spilling into the hallway. After a beat, he turned and detoured through the kitchen first.

He grabbed a glass from the cupboard. Filled it at the sink. Sipped. Left it on the counter.

All of it slow. Mechanical. Measured.

He leaned against the fridge and let his forehead drop against the cold metal. Closed his eyes. Took a breath.

Then another.

The apartment had changed.

It was subtle. So slight he might’ve missed it, if he hadn’t been desperate to notice.

The click of the TV echoed faintly. Soft light flickered across the floor.

Andrew let his head loll to the side, gaze drifting toward the living room.

Onscreen, the cursor moved — scrolling through new episodes, untouched titles. Then it paused.

Backtracked.

Landed on the one they’d last watched together.

He stared at it. The same opening still. The same timestamp.

Nothing had moved since the last time they had both been here.

His throat tightened. He let his head roll back, his forehead leaning against the fridge. Exhaled. In his periphery, just for a blink, there he was.

Washed-out cloak. That same mess of curls.

Neil.

Another blink, and he was gone again.

Andrew closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

Neil had been the longest constant in his life — even when Andrew was fighting it. Even when he didn’t know how to want it. And when he finally did—

He hadn’t realized how fragile it all was until Neil had disappeared.

Would he leave again?

Was this a goodbye?

The questions turned over in his mind, circling, crowding the edges of the warmth blooming in the apartment.

Did he even want the answers?

Did he want to know if Neil was just checking in?

Like it meant nothing?

Did it mean something?

Andrew wasn’t sure if he was ready for that answer, either.

He blocked out the living room — the glow of the TV, the brightness of color across the screen, the episode still frozen, play button waiting.

After a final deep breath, he straightened.

Made his way to the couch.

Sat down slowly. Stretched out his legs. Rested one arm along the back like muscle memory.

The show started.

Sound filled the space, a rhythm he hadn’t allowed himself to miss.

Somewhere between the opening credits and the first scene, his shoulders dropped a fraction.

By the end of the first episode, the tightness in his jaw had eased.

By the second, his spine had softened into the couch.

Two episodes passed before Andrew finally let the question out, no longer able to keep the words inside.

“Are you going to disappear again?”

Neil didn’t answer right away. Andrew counted every beat.

When it finally came, Neil’s voice was small, honest.

“I - - - sure if - - - should be here.”

He kept his eyes on the screen. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Hesitation, again. Then: “- - - friends - - - take up too - - - space - - - your life - - - back. - - - not fair.”

Andrew exhaled, long and even. “Guess your friends are even bigger idiots than you.”

They sunk into the quiet between them. On the TV, the show played on. Soft colors. Familiar voices.

Andrew leaned back, head relaxed against the couch, gaze loose, eyes half-focused.

It had taken months, but the apartment finally felt right again.

He tilted his head slightly. Not looking at Neil’s side of the couch. But meaning it.

“Stay.”

A pause.

“Okay.”

—

Neil

Neil had been here before: nights that ended too late, mornings that started too early. When he’d kept pace beside Andrew in the dark, stayed through the slow unraveling of the night.

He knew this place best in the fading hours of dusk or the hush before dawn, when time felt stretched, and the light turned to golds, grays, and violets. Everything slower. Softer. Like the world was holding its breath.

But this — this was different.

Andrew had asked.

It hadn’t sounded like much. Just a flat, tired, “Are you sleeping here?” — like it didn’t matter, like Neil’s answer wouldn’t shift something fundamental.

But Neil had known better.

Andrew didn’t ask unless he meant it.

And more importantly — he didn’t take it back.

So after the TV was silent, and apartment was dark, Neil eased down onto the bed, careful not to disturb the comfort between them. The mattress didn’t dip beneath him, didn’t acknowledge a weight that wasn’t really there. He might as well have been air — part of the streetlight falling through the window, the shadows on the ceiling, the low hum of the building settling around them — except for how clearly he could feel Andrew’s tension beside him.

Andrew shifted slightly, not relaxing — not yet. His shoulders were locked, his posture too alert for someone lying down.

Then, voice low, without lifting his head: “Stay on your side.”

Neil wasn’t offended — just took it for what it was:

Don’t come any closer than I can handle.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I will.”

Andrew didn’t respond. Just exhaled through his nose and adjusted his pillow, tucking his face into the cool fabric. He was still wound tight, still fighting the automatic rigidity of someone who wasn’t used to sharing space.

But he was here. And he still hadn’t taken his invitation back.

That mattered.

For days, after talking with Renee, Neil had wondered if he could come back. The question had lived under his skin, sharp and restless — until this morning, when Seth had looked him in the eye and asked what he was really afraid of.

And the question had changed.

Not can he go back—

But would Andrew want him back?

Now, he let the stillness of the room wash over him. He stared at the ceiling, listening — not to the city, not to the outside world, but to Andrew’s breathing. It was uneven at first, too tight, like his lungs didn’t trust him yet. But slowly, it began to settle. Sharpened edges softening. Inhale. Exhale.

Neil felt the pressure in his chest begin to ease with it.

Stay.

That one word — Andrew’s voice quiet but certain — had landed like relief. Like a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding finally let go.

He hadn’t known how much space that worry had taken up inside him until it started to loosen, until it stopped turning over in his stomach like glass. Until he was lying here.

After months of obedient, meaningless routine, it only took a few hours for the bells to weave into each other again. Soft chimes threading at the edge of his focus, one rising as another slipped away.

And underneath them, gentler still, was Andrew’s bell. A low, steady hum. Constant.

No need for a middle-of-the-night departure.

No sudden tension and keys and doors and engine thrum disappearing into the dark.

No restless hours staring at the open window.

Just the soft rhythm of Andrew’s breathing. Deep. Undisturbed.

A dreamless night.

Neil didn’t move.

He could’ve wandered the apartment. Could’ve paced, could’ve done something. But instead, he stayed where he was, back against the mattress, watching the way the city lights outside the window flickered against the walls.

One bell briefly lifted above the rest, then faded again. A persistent reminder that the world beyond this room hadn’t stopped.

He watched the light shift along the ceiling. Blues softening into gray, then the faintest pale gold as dawn reached across the horizon.

The bells lingered like a clock ticking somewhere far off, distant, unimportant.

Neil turned his head slightly.

Andrew was curled on his side, asleep.

The bells could wait.

Chapter Text

orbit

noun

the curved path of a celestial object around a point of gravity

(Found in A Cartography of Astral Influence. Circled several times.)

Neil

The music was too loud — bass hammering through the walls, the railing, the floor under Neil’s feet like it was trying to rattle the whole place apart. It shook the air like thunder, low and hard, vibrating under skin.

Eden’s was smoke and shadow and sound. Fog rolled across the floor in slow waves, curling around legs and ankles, rising to hips before falling back again. Strobe lights cut through the haze in harsh white bursts — stark, fast, relentless, like a heartbeat threatening to stutter. Each flash froze the crowd in place: mouths open mid-shout, arms suspended, bodies twisted mid-motion. Then dark. Then blur. Then gone.

It didn’t look like dancing. It looked like vanishing.

Neil leaned against the upper railing, elbows braced, eyes unfocused. The crowd below blinked in and out of existence, faces never quite forming, silhouettes torn apart by light. 

His gaze slid over them without landing. The real pull was to his left.

Andrew stood beside him, calm in the chaos.

One elbow rested against the railing, a glass held loose in his hand, condensation gathering at the rim. His shirt was dark, rolled to the elbows, stretched just slightly across his shoulders. The cold light picked up the line of his throat, the edges of his hair sharp white.

His gaze was fixed on the floor below, expression relaxed in that rare, neutral way that only showed up when Andrew was content and trying not to let anyone notice.

Each strobe lit him in a different frame — like the rest of the world was glitching around him.

Neil couldn’t stop looking.

The light flashed again, caught in Andrew’s eyes — clear, almost colorless, turned too bright — and for a second, Neil could swear the whole room was built around that stillness. Around him.

Around the fact that Andrew didn’t need to move to be the most alive thing here.

Neil wasn’t sure how long he stood there like that, only that every second made it harder to look away.

A month had passed since he had returned. And with it, the illusion that leaving had made a difference had completely dissolved.

He’d hoped — briefly, foolishly — that things had calmed down. That maybe his absence had broken whatever cycle had started building. But Andrew had told him — casually, dryly, like it was barely worth the breath — that things had eased around Christmas. For a few weeks. But not for long.

A drawer that snapped open hard enough to break the wood.

A surge in the bedroom outlets that fried two devices at once.

Earlier tonight, a ceiling fan in Eden’s staff room had buckled off-center, blades wobbling in the dark before someone shut it down. Andrew had shrugged, said it was probably a bent screw.

He wasn’t taking any of it seriously. But Neil was.

He’d even told Andrew, or tried to, that this might be his fault. That it all might trace back to him. That none of this had started until he interfered, years ago.

Andrew had rolled his eyes. “Right. The entire fabric of cause and effect rewrote itself just for you.”

And every time Neil’s worry climbed — Andrew felt it. Glanced at him like he’d said something out loud. Like guilt could be measured in static.

Neil hated it.

Because it hadn’t mattered. Leaving hadn’t helped. The incidents kept happening — slow, subtle, infrequent enough to pass as coincidence if you really wanted them to.

But they were there.

Which meant there was no undoing it.

The thought lodged deep in his ribs, sharp as bone.

It doesn’t matter if I’m here or not. 

And, worse—

I don’t know how to stop it.

A group of girls shoved past behind them, laughing too loud, drinks sloshing — he was barely aware of them. On the dance floor, bodies pressed and ground against each other, all greedy hands and too-warm skin — distant, no longer registering.

The thoughts spiraled faster and faster, muting the world around him until everything slowed — lights, music, motion. Seconds stretched into minutes, pulsing beats rolling into faraway thunder.

His grip on the banister had gone tight, body tense. He didn’t even notice.

Not until—

Andrew’s shoulder brushed his.

Neil froze.

It wasn’t a touch. Not really. Not warmth or weight.

It was something else entirely — pressure where there shouldn’t be any. Like a ripple in still water. Like something brushing the edge of his being — two separate things bleeding into each other for a moment too impossible to explain.

His breath caught.

It was the barest lean, a shift that could’ve been nothing, an accident, but Neil knew better.

It pulled him out of his head, out of the dark spiral of guilt and inevitability. The crowd came back into focus in blurry motion. The lights flashed too fast again. His hands still gripped the railing.

His chest ached, ribs clenched tight. He knew he should step away. Shouldn’t let himself get used to this.

Not empty.

That’s what Andrew had said that first time on the couch more than a year ago, voice flat, unimpressed, like he wasn’t sure if he even believed it. “Feels not empty.”

Neil hadn’t understood it then. Didn’t understand it now. The Living couldn’t see them, feel them, touch them. He had more people walk through him than he liked to remember.

But it didn’t matter. Not when the faint pressure of Andrew’s shoulder against the space where his would have been felt more solid than anything he’d felt in years.

Neil exhaled slowly, careful — like breathing too loud might end this. The guilt was still there, sharp and circling, but it was drowned out by the pull in his chest — by the way the contact sank in, quiet and heavy. The weight of staying.

Beside him, Andrew lifted his glass. The rim caught the light. After a moment, his gaze flicked sideways, eyes narrowing just slightly. “What?”

“What?” Too quick, caught off guard.

“You’re staring.”

For a second, he let himself believe Andrew might be right. That maybe there was no pattern. No design. Just broken screws and faulty wires.

He watched the lights catch in Andrew’s hair, reflections flickering in his eyes. And felt the tightness in his chest loosen — just enough to breathe again.

“Guess so,” Neil said quietly. The smile came slowly, faltered, then held.

Andrew snorted, low and amused. He shook his head once, looking at ease. Like whatever was happening didn’t weigh on him the same way. He leaned a fraction closer, shoulders relaxed, gaze fixed on the dance floor like he wasn’t doing anything at all.

Neil didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The world blurred at the edges, lights and shadows and indistinct faces, and the only thing that mattered was Andrew’s shoulder against his.

Chapter Text

halcyon

adjective

calm; peaceful; marked by a gentle happiness that feels briefly untouched by time

(Found underlined in a tattered copy of The Natural History of Birds.)

Andrew

Rain tapped softly against the window, a slow, unhurried rhythm threading through the gray light of early morning. The air carried the faint scent of rain-soaked concrete and the hesitant warmth of spring.

Everything felt softened, smudged at the edges, like the world wasn’t quite ready for another day.

Andrew shifted, eyes half-open, turning toward the other side of the bed.

And there he was.

A glimpse, never more. A shape at the edge of vision. The weight of something unseen, lingering just where the room shifted from tangible to something else.

Neil.

Lying on his side, arms tucked close. Watching.

Andrew sighed and pressed a hand to his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before letting it fall back against the pillow. His voice came out rough.

“Do you sleep when you’re here?”

A beat. On the next blink he caught a shrug in his periphery.

Andrew huffed. "Do you go anywhere while I sleep?"

Neil shook his head.

Frowning, Andrew asked, “So you just lie there all night?”

A blink, then a shrug. “What - - - supposed - - - do? You - - - sleep.”

Andrew stared at the ceiling, not blinking, keeping Neil in his periphery. “Not that.”

Unbothered, Neil kept watching him. “Sometimes - - - walk around - - - little,” he offered, as if that somehow made it better.

Exhaling slowly, he waited for patience to find him. "That's not normal."

Neil simply lifted a hand and gestured vaguely at everything.

Andrew turned his head slightly, just enough to catch the movement. Right. Like any of this was normal.

He rolled onto his stomach, face buried into the pillow. "You’re exhausting."

He didn’t hear Neil laugh, but he felt it, the warmth of it settling between them.

Andrew closed his eyes.

Neil stayed.

Chapter Text

home

noun

a place where one feels known; not always where you live, but where you return to

(Found highlighted in Simple Poems from the Between library, shelved under “Introductory Material.” An exclamation point in smudged black ink in the margins.)

Neil

Andrew stood at the kitchen counter with his sleeves pushed to his elbows, one hand steadying the mixing bowl while the other scraped batter off a rubber spatula. The oven ticked next to him, slow and steady, hot air escaping from the corners and curling upward in faint, rippling waves. Neil tried to imagine the citrus scent Andrew had grumbled about earlier filling the air, sweet and sharp.

“This better not taste like soap,” Andrew muttered absently.

Perched on the edge of the counter, Neil watched Andrew move through the small kitchen — focused, unimpressed, exactly the way he’d always been. Being back in this apartment — back with Andrew — had felt like surfacing after months underwater. The rhythm of them was so familiar and anchoring, it had settled back in his chest before he’d even realized it, steady and sure, like it had never left.

He listened to Andrew a bit longer with quiet amusement, then offered, “The recipe said calamansi is refreshing.”

“You picked it because the name sounded funny.”

“Refreshing and fun to say.”

Andrew shook his head but didn’t argue. He poured the batter into the tin, leveled it with the spatula, and slid it into the oven with a practiced motion.

As he leaned forward to rest his hands on the counter, he glanced toward where Neil sat.

“You done for the day?”

The bells pressed at the edges of his mind, loud and insistent. He blinked once, like it might clear the sound. “I’ve got a few souls left.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“I can do it later. It doesn’t take long to get there and back.”

“What does ‘there and back’ even mean?” Andrew reached for the timer, setting it with a precise turn, then turned to the sink to rinse bowls and utensils. “Can you just go anywhere you want?”

Neil shrugged. “Yeah.”

Andrew straightened. “Like — step left, and you’re on a beach?”

“I guess.”

“Step right, and you’re in the vault of a bank?”

Neil paused. “Do you need money?”

“Don’t be so materialistic,” Andrew said, giving him a look. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“That died five years ago when you kept jumping out of windows.”

Lips twitching, Andrew waved a hand. “Boring.”

Neil grinned as the oven ticked behind them and Andrew rinsed bowl after bowl with his casual confidence that made the world feel right.

Andrew

They’d met for coffee near the museum — Kevin’s idea, as usual. Something about a new exhibit he wanted to see afterward. Andrew didn’t ask what kind. He didn’t care.

Now they were two cups in, sitting at a table outside a café that had more plants than chairs and coffee that cost more than it should’ve. People moved past on the sidewalk, weaving between tables. The loud conversations blended with the sound of traffic. 

Kevin didn’t notice. He was too busy talking.

“They’re digitizing the old court records now, the handwritten ones. There’s a whole backlog, but some haven’t been touched in decades. We found a ledger from 1682 where someone kept writing all their notes in Latin, even though no one else in the room spoke it.” He grinned. “I think it was a power move.”

Andrew sipped his drink, listening.

He didn’t comment. Just leaned back in his chair, coffee cooling between his hands.

It didn’t matter that he didn’t follow every detail. He was used to Kevin’s tangents, the way his mind sparked and spiraled when he got going. Kevin didn’t need conversation. He just needed space. Somewhere his voice could stretch out without interruption.

He talked about a guy at the archive who could decipher five different medieval scripts by sight. A woman in his cohort now running a cataloging project in Vienna. A visiting scholar who’d asked him to weigh in on a footnote debate in a historical journal.

Andrew let him talk.

Not because he cared about 17th-century tax codes or the politics of digitization — he didn’t. But Kevin didn’t need anyone to match his enthusiasm.

He just needed a listener.

Andrew gave him that.

Chapter Text

hide

verb

to keep something unseen; sometimes a truth, sometimes yourself

(Found underlined in a Between handbook on Soul Transparency.)

Neil

The Between didn’t follow logic. Its corridors bent in stubborn defiance of physics, rooms shifted when you weren’t looking, and direction was more suggestion than fact.

Neil moved through it on instinct now — less navigating, more surrendering to the turns. One step, then another. Keep walking. Keep going. Find the right passageway even when it refused to be found.

His boots were near-silent against the stone, but the hush pulsed faintly around him, ancient and alive, like it had a heartbeat.

He wasn’t here for long. Just a quick visit to Matt, one of the few meet-ups he still kept — fewer still now that he hadn’t told him the truth: That he had gone back to Andrew. That he'd never really stopped orbiting him.

He hadn’t said anything. He couldn’t.

Because Matt would never understand. He’d say Neil was holding Andrew back. Holding himself back. That whatever it was they had — this fragile, impossible thing — wasn’t worth the cost.

And if Matt knew the full truth — that Neil had interfered with Andrew’s path, that he was still interfering — he’d tell him to stop.

To step aside.

To let the Path run its course.

To let Andrew—

But Neil couldn’t. Not Andrew. Not now. Not ever.

He turned a corner and nearly walked straight into a wall of robes.

Not robes, exactly — more like a sentient funeral curtain.

The sentry didn’t move. Or blink. Or breathe.

Neil stepped aside and looked up at its face — deep-set eyes, skin like sun-bleached parchment, features carved from age and discipline. It looked older than time. Probably was.

Two more stood nearby, equally fossilized, equally content to stare at nothing at all.

He narrowed his eyes.

“You guys ever blink, or is that strictly ceremonial?”

No response.

He let his gaze drag over them — dust gathered at the seams of their sleeves, light pooling at their feet like even it knew better than to touch them. Old sentries. The ones who claimed to see the Path more clearly, feel its shape before it formed.

They followed the rules. Guarded the balance. Never interfered. Never strayed.

Neil’s mouth curled into something almost like a smile. Sharp like the serrated edges of a knife.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he said softly. “Following orders no one gave you. Pretending you know where this all ends.”

A rustle — faint, like crumpling paper.

Neil froze. Squinted.

“…Did you just blink, or was that your face collapsing?”

Still nothing.

He shook his head, turned to go.

“I’ll keep going,” he muttered. “While you just stand there.”

He rounded a corner, leaving the sentries behind — rooted like ancient trees no one had gotten around to chopping down yet.

“Fucking relics.”

It came out sharper than he meant it to but the thought of their lifeless obedience made his jaw clench.

Not in fear — it was fury. At how little they’d ever done. How little they’d risked.

He cut through the archway and down the last hall. His mind wandered to the last month. To Andrew’s offhanded comments, delivered like he was listing the weather:

“There was a fire. Oil on the stove. Small.” 

A few weeks later: “Weight machine collapsed on some guy.” He’d added, “Not me,” before Neil could say anything.

Just yesterday, completely deadpan: “Work fire alarm went off because someone put a spoon in the microwave.”

Neil had frowned. Andrew had rolled his eyes as if he’d known. “I doubt I’m being hunted by cutlery.”

Neil had huffed out a forced laugh. It hadn’t lasted.

“You’re not worried?”

“No,” Andrew had said.

Certain. Steady.

But Neil had felt the shift. Had seen it. The way Andrew could sense him getting wound up. His guilt buzzed loud enough to be noticed.

Three more incidents.

Three more signs.

It wasn’t stopping.

He reached the final corner before Matt’s quarters. Could already hear the warm thrum of conversation, a laugh echoing low, easy and familiar. Matt’s voice, full of life. Undimmed by what he didn’t know.

Neil stopped.

Poker face on. Deep breath.

He could lie to his best friend. No problem.

He just hated that he had to.

—

The apartment had settled into the late evening — the low hum of city traffic outside, glass clinking against countertop, the soft weight of routine.

Andrew moved without urgency, poured himself a drink, then set the bottle down with a soft tap. The glass caught the light at the rim, a flicker of gold before settling.

Neil leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He wasn’t looking at the whiskey. Not really. Just watching Andrew’s hands.

“I used the word relics today,” he said.

Andrew didn’t look up. Just tipped the glass to his mouth and took a slow sip.

“Congratulations,” he said flatly. “You used a word.”

“One of yours.” He smirked. “I feel corrupted.”

Andrew didn’t smile, but there was clear humor in his gaze when he looked over — carefully unimpressed, yet quietly warm in that particular Andrew way.

Neil didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t need to.

Chapter Text

cogitation

noun

the action of thinking deeply about something; reflective consideration

(Found misused in a vampire romance manuscript. Margin note: “No.”)

Andrew

The AC unit in the corner rattled faintly, its hum competing with the tick of the clock above the filing cabinet. Early afternoon sun fell through the blinds, warm and pale, softening the sharp edges of the laminate table between them.

Betsy sat across from him, shoes kicked off, legs folded beneath her in the sagging armchair like she hadn’t moved in hours. A mug of something herbal steamed gently in her hands, smelling faintly of grass and patience.

They’d fallen into this rhythm over the years. Most afternoons, when the office shifted into its post-lunch lull — when coworkers wandered into other departments’ kitchens, when desks were abandoned in favor of impromptu hallway conversations — he and Betsy ended up here. Always around this time. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. 

Andrew glanced at his own mug. Black coffee. Bitter. The chocolate tin had been empty, and he’d gone for the habit instead of the taste. Immediate regret.

He wasn’t drinking it. Just turned the mug slowly between his palms, giving his hands something to do while his mind caught up with itself.

Betsy didn’t comment. She rarely did. 

He… appreciated her. Her mind, the way she listened — not just with her face pointed at you, but actually listened. She caught nuance. Never spoke just to fill the air. Never forced questions that didn’t belong.

And she didn’t look at him like he was something to manage.

That helped.

Outside, the hallway buzzed faintly. Phones. A printer starting up. Distant movement.

His voice broke the quiet like it had been waiting there for a while — flat, measured.

“If someone watches over you…” he said, “does that mean they have a reason to?”

He didn’t look at her. Instead, he kept his eyes on a small flock of birds flying past the window, disappearing beyond the rooftop line. The sky was a soft, forgiving gray.

There was a pause. 

Betsy took a sip of her tea. Let the moment expand — long enough that Andrew could’ve changed his mind, pulled it back, buried it again.

“There’s a difference,” she finally said, “between feeling watched… and feeling seen.”

Andrew blinked.

That… sat heavier than expected.

He nodded once. Not in agreement, but in recognition.

Didn’t speak again.

Betsy didn’t push. She just sat there with him, her mug cradled between both hands, like the silence wasn’t something to fix — just something to share.

The TV was on, a low whisper in the quiet apartment.

Neil had turned it on a little while ago — the way he always did now: Showed up at random times in the evening without comment, searched through the library of the streaming apps Andrew reluctantly had subscribed to over the years, and picked whatever he was in the mood for.

Andrew rarely got consulted.

He didn’t mind.

Today, Neil had landed on some drama with too many intense stares, too much orchestral swell, but he seemed to enjoy it. Andrew had caught a glimpse of him an hour ago — socked feet, legs folded beneath him, cloak draped over the armrest like it belonged there.

He glanced shortly at the screen when the next episode started, the intro unnecessarily loud and long, but Neil let it play in full.

Andrew wasn’t watching, not really. He had a manuscript open in his lap, red pen tucked behind his ear, though he hadn’t marked anything in a few pages.

Between them on the couch, the remote sat. Still. Untouched.

He stared at it for a moment. Then at Neil.

“Can you pick up the remote?”

A pause.

“Hm - - - not sure.”

Andrew kept his eyes on the remote, waiting to see if it would move, shift, lift.

It didn’t.

After another beat, he looked up, in the direction where he could feel Neil sitting. “So that’s a no?”

“I guess.”

A pause. Andrew frowned. “Did you even try?”

There was a grin in Neil’s voice when he said, “No.”

Andrew let his head fall back against the couch with a low groan. “Ass.”

Neil laughed — bright, unbothered — and Andrew, despite himself, felt his mouth twitch upward. Just for a second.

Outside, the sky was turning grey at the edges. Inside, the couch was warm, the manuscript forgotten, and Neil’s laughter filled the room, easy and uncontained.

He stirred slowly.

The air was already warm, thick with the kind of heat that lingered overnight and held the promise of more. Light slipped through the curtains, gold and drowsy. Falling across the bed in soft rays, catching dancing dust motes suspended in air. 

It was a calm kind of stillness, like the world hadn’t started yet.

Andrew let it hold him for a moment longer. Familiar. Comfortable.

Neil was beside him.

He stayed most nights now. Sometimes arriving late. Sometimes already there when Andrew came home. Quiet entrances. Quieter mornings.

It had become routine. Not something they discussed. Just something that was.

Neil hadn’t said anything yet. Hadn’t moved. But Andrew could feel him, the way his presence softened the room.

Andrew shifted onto his back, blinking up against the light, and in his periphery — the curve of Neil’s shoulder, the edge of his face. Just barely there. Just close enough to notice.

Like a flicker in the corner of a mirror.

He closed his eyes again, just for a moment, sinking deeper into the mattress. The bed was warm, soft. He didn’t feel like getting up, not yet.

The odd incidents kept happening. Too minor to matter, too frequent to fully ignore. A light fixture in the office that snapped. A vending machine that toppled. A street sign that broke off and fell.

Andrew didn’t mention them anymore — not since Neil had started reacting like every coincidence was a threat. He’d thought it was funny, at first. The way Neil tried to turn accidents into evidence. But months had passed, and Neil hadn’t stopped looking for patterns. Hadn’t stopped worrying.

So Andrew had stopped sharing.

Coincidences.

Innocuous.

Not worth thinking about.

Not right now.

Beside him, Neil shifted.

Andrew kept his gaze on the ceiling. “Say something,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

A pause. Then—

“Hm? What?” Neil’s voice was soft. Distant. Static between stations.

Here. Just not quite.

“You’re unreal.”

“- - - not - - - hallucination.”

“You’re a nuisance,” Andrew murmured.

Automatic. No bite behind it.

Neil didn’t argue.

Andrew rolled onto his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow. The fabric was cool, soft.

He turned his head slightly— 

Red curls resting on his pillow, catching the morning light. A soft exhale that wasn’t his own.

Andrew swallowed.

“Can - - - touch - - - hair?” Neil asked.

Andrew blinked, startled — and in that blink, Neil vanished from his line of sight. Gone from the corner of his vision.

It took him a second to be sure he hadn’t imagined it. That the question had been spoken —  aloud, not conjured from the haze of a dream.

Can I touch your hair.

He hadn’t known that was an option.

“Can you?” Andrew said, quieter than he meant to.

A beat.

Then something passed through his hair. Gentle. Light. Like a current of air. Like warmth slipping under a door. A soft, careful sweep through strands that shouldn’t have felt anything at all.

Andrew’s breath hitched.

It had been a long time — maybe ever — since anyone had touched him like that. Since someone had looked at him and reached out, not to push or to take, but just to be close.

He pressed his face deeper into the pillow. Let it ground him. The breath against the fabric was warm, his body still. 

“- - - trying - - - suffocate - - -self?” Neil asked, voice dry.

“Yes.”

“Don’t.”

Andrew exhaled into the cotton. Turned slightly, facing the window. The touch to his hair stopped. 

The building across the street looked washed out in the morning light, the sky stretched thin and pale above it.

“Already bored?” he muttered.

Neil didn’t answer right away.

For a moment, Andrew thought that was it, but then the feeling returned. That soft, weightless drift. Like wind stirring pages. Like static passing through the edges of something solid.

It felt different to anything he'd ever known. 

It was good.

Andrew counted his breaths. Four in. Four out.

The movement didn’t stop.

He didn’t turn back. Didn’t speak. He wasn’t ready to name the shape of this moment or how much it meant.

He let his eyes drift shut, the quiet pulling him under, slow and certain.

Chapter Text

trace

noun

a lingering mark or faint indication of something no longer there

(Found faintly circled in Residuals: A Study of What Remains in the Between. A star doodled in blue ink in the margins.)

Neil

The chamber was low-lit, warmed only by the fire in the hearth. Shadows moved across the stone walls like they had nowhere better to be.

Neil sat half-sunk into one of the ancient couches, legs stretched out, elbow hooked over the armrest. Across the room, the others were scattered like always — Dan with her boots crossed on the table like she’d claimed the whole plane of existence; Seth perched sideways in a worn chair, toying with an unlit cigarette he never actually smoked; Renee near the back wall, still and watchful, one foot braced against the molding.

Neil wasn’t here because he wanted to be.

He was here because he hadn’t told them. Because Matt still thought he was in limbo somewhere between assignments, still reeling from a goodbye that had never actually happened. Dan assumed he was just busy. Renee hadn’t asked. And Seth — Seth had looked at him sideways a few times, said something half-serious once or twice, but let it go when Neil didn’t answer.

So Neil showed up. Played his part. Stayed long enough to keep the questions at bay.

The bells had been going off all morning. Sharp, uneven, clawing at the back of his mind. One after another. No rhythm, no pause.

Neil didn’t move.

He’d deal with them later. Some of them, anyway. Just enough to keep the backlog manageable. Make it seem like everything was under control.

For months now, he’d been falling behind again. Picking and choosing which souls to answer, letting the rest drift out of reach. Not enough to raise flags, but enough that the chorus of bells was growing again — louder, closer, layered into every moment like a background score he couldn’t turn off.

And Andrew had noticed.

Last week, Neil had shown up at his office. Didn’t mean to, not really. He just couldn’t shake the sense that something was off. That the static under his skin might be more than just paranoia.

Andrew had looked up, deadpan and unimpressed. “Stop lurking like a horror movie,” he’d said, after walking to a kitchen area, then nodded toward the hall. “Meet me later. Somewhere less visible.”

Neil had left, of course. 

But not before sweeping the space with his eyes — cataloguing every exposed wire, every fluorescent flicker, every socket that buzzed just a little too loud.

Around him now, the room shifted, murmurs rising, ebbing again. Something about rotation schedules. Updates to protocol. Neil let it blur.

His eyes were fixed on the fire.

Or not the fire exactly.

Not the flames, not the room, not the people. Just the memory of warmth — soft strands of hair moving under his fingertips, sunlight brushing gold across a crown of sleep-tousled blond. The quiet promise of being allowed to stay.

His thumb brushed absently over his fingertips like the impression might still be there if he searched long enough.

“…he’s just taking his responsibilities seriously,” Dan was saying, voice steady. “Would be good if more people did that.”

Seth scoffed like the idea personally offended him. “Right. Because we all want to spend eternity doing overtime.”

A bell rang louder than the rest — closer, sharper. Neil’s eye twitched, annoyed.

“Hey, Nathaniel.”

Andrew was with his family tonight. 

Just dinner, then an early night.

It was Andrew’s way of saying Neil should come over later.

Seth’s voice cut in again, louder this time. “Nathaniel.”

Neil blinked, turned his head slightly.

A raised brow met him. “Is Allistair always that intense?”

Neil squinted, trying to place the name. “Who the fuck is Allistair?”

A pause.

“The guy with the cane,” Seth said, gesturing vaguely. “Talks like he’s narrating a prophecy.”

“That’s Stuart,” Neil said flatly.

A longer pause.

“That’s his title,” Renee said from her corner, her voice soft as ever. “He’s a Steward.”

Neil blinked again, processing.

Dan sighed like she’d explained this before. “It’s a title. There are ranks. Allistair’s a Steward, I’m just below that — technically a Hand. You're…” she trailed off.

“A disaster,” Seth supplied helpfully.

No one disagreed.

“He introduced himself as Stuart.” Neil frowned. “How was I supposed to know that was one of your made-up titles?”

Seth let his head drop against the back of the chair with a noise of pure defeat. “Bro.”

Renee smiled faintly.

Neil didn’t bother defending himself.

From the hallway, Matt poked his head in. “What did he do now?”

Dan, smiling too, said, “He discovered bureaucracy.”

Wincing, Matt shook his head like it hurt. “He’s not ready for that.” And then he vanished again.

Neil shrugged and leaned back into the couch, eyes returning to the fire.

The bells kept ringing. Highs, lows, clashing slightly before resolving. Neil let out a slow breath.

Just a little longer. Then he’d go.

Sort the louder ones. Keep the balance.

Then back to Andrew’s.

Andrew

They were two blocks from the apartment, walking slow.

The bag of takeout was warm in Andrew’s hand — heavier than expected, grease already spotting the bottom. Noodles, dumplings, rice, something fried. The street had that early evening lull: the last rumble of traffic, the first flickers of window light, someone’s music drifting low from an open window. Crisp air, the sky a darkening blue and cloudless, sunlight stretching long across the buildings.

Neil was beside him, half a step away. Close enough to register at the edge of Andrew’s awareness.

It had been a good day. Or passable, at least. Work had been uneventful, the takeout place hadn’t been busy. At home, they’d watch the next episode of that new medical drama Neil had inexplicably latched onto.

The walk was uneventful. Easy. Andrew let himself enjoy it — the simplicity, the rhythm, the sense of normal—

A crack.

A sound like the sky splitting in half.

The tang of ozone hit the back of his throat.

Lightning slammed into the lamppost two steps behind him. Metal screamed. Sparks scattered.

Andrew stopped.

He turned slowly.

Stared.

The lamppost hissed faint smoke, a scorched line running jagged down its spine. Concrete cracked around its base, blackened and spidered with heat.

He looked up. The sky above was a clear blue.

He stood there for a beat, jaw tight. The takeout bag rustled in his hand.

Beside him, Neil didn’t move. But Andrew could feel it — that pointed kind of quiet. The stare. Focused. Unblinking. Like a dare. 

Say something.

Explain it.

Come up with another excuse to file this under nothing.

Andrew considered it. Tried.

He ran through the usual list — power surge? Grounding issue? Static? Something, anything.

His mind came up blank.

No answer. No excuse. No way to explain that didn’t sound insane.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“I got nothing,” he muttered.

Neil didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Andrew stood still for a second longer. The spark of unease flickered low in his chest, waiting for oxygen.

He snuffed it out.

Then he turned back to the sidewalk, adjusted the bag in his hand, and kept walking.

Chapter Text

certainty

noun

the quiet kind of knowing that closes every door but one

(Found in A Sentry’s Guide to Logic and Intuition. Underlined in a passage on consequence and choice.)

Neil

The faint rustle of a page turning. The steady hum of the fridge. Outside, the city moved in distant echoes — the muted roar of a bus, a car door slamming, someone laughing too loudly a street away.

Late afternoon light spilled through the windows, soft and gold. It caught on the tips of Andrew’s hair, made them glow like something otherworldly. He sat with a manuscript open in his lap, completely still, attention fixed on the page.

Neil watched him from the kitchen counter, perched on the edge with his hands braced beside him. One heel knocked rhythmically against the cabinet door, restless energy looking for an outlet.

He had been here for a while. Too long, probably. Just existing in Andrew’s space.

The bells no longer ebbed, no longer faded — a constant, grinding pressure layered beneath every thought. Souls waiting. Calls unanswered. The queue was building.

Neil was behind on everything.

But he wasn’t moving.

Told himself he was just keeping an eye on things. But it wasn’t about caution anymore. Not really.

Because the signs were piling up.

A stove burner igniting without being touched. Another vending machine that tipped just as Andrew stepped back. Traffic lights all turning green at once at the intersection he crossed every morning.

Then lightning out of a clear sky.

Neil didn’t speculate anymore. Didn’t try to string together a theory.

He knew what it was.

The Path hadn’t let go. Whatever Neil had interrupted all those years ago, on a rooftop half a country away, was still in motion. Piece by piece, the Path was trying to correct the course — and picking up speed.

And Andrew was right in the middle of it.

He watched him now, eyes tracking the soft curl of his fingers around the edge of the page, the blanket drawn over his legs, the slight crease between his brows as he read. The manuscript rested on his knees, filled with post-it notes stuck to its pages. Neil recognized the printout, the margin notes, the slow way Andrew moved through every line.

A few hours ago, he’d walked into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water — maybe just thirsty, or maybe because he could feel Neil spiraling from across the room.

His gaze had landed just slightly off from Neil, the usual approximation, and he’d asked, “You good?”

“Fine.”

A raised eyebrow.

“Just souls calling.”

Andrew had shrugged. “Might want to answer. Watching me read can't be the highlight of your day.”

Neil hadn’t responded.

And Andrew had gone back to the couch.

The bells pressed again. Louder now.

He didn’t move.

Names stacked in his mind, each one threading deeper under his skin. The sound closed in around his thoughts, a rhythmic knock against his temples.

The relentless weight of obligation that wouldn’t let up.

He flattened his fingers against the counter.

The bells climbed higher. A sharper pitch, more voices layered in. It was starting to split his focus — like something inside him was being pulled in ten directions at once.

Still, he didn’t move. Breathing through the cacophony in his head.

Across the room—

Andrew paused. 

His hand stilled on the page.

Like he could feel Neil’s tension climbing with each passing minute. Like something in the atmosphere had changed.

Neil looked down. Then away.

The bells surged again — louder now. A steady pulse that drilled into his skull, pressed behind his ribs, unraveled his sense of time.

He couldn’t keep waiting.

He slid off the counter, breath sharp.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” he muttered, already turning toward the Between.

Andrew didn’t look up.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Neil added, softer.

This time, Andrew glanced over.

Two fingers lifted in a lazy salute — the gesture dry, familiar, unmistakably him.

Neil let out a soft breath that almost passed for a laugh, landing somewhere between amusement and lingering worry. He tried to match Andrew’s apathy, but the effort sat awkwardly in his chest.

Then he turned away — the bells rising behind him like a tide he could no longer hold back.

—

The bells had calmed, just barely. Enough for Neil to catch his breath.

He was stepping back from the bright white of the Border into the dark hallways of the Between — one more soul sent off, one more thread tied down — when Dan intercepted him in the corridor.

“Come with me,” she said.

Not a question.

She led the way, weaving around two sharp corners until they reached her office.

She didn’t bother sitting — arms crossed, weight shifted to one leg, expression unreadable except for the steady pressure of disappointment.

“You know why you’re here.”

Neil didn’t answer right away. Just met her eyes, then looked away, jaw flexing.

Of course he knew. He just wasn’t interested in saying it aloud. Naming it made it harder to pretend he was in control.

So he deflected. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

Dan gave him a flat look. “Souls. The ones you were supposed to guide.”

He didn’t flinch, but the way his shoulders tensed gave him away.

“You keep leaving them halfway,” she continued. “You know what that means. They wander. Others have to spend time tracing your steps and cleaning up the mess.”

Neil’s fingers curled against his cloak. “They got there, didn’t they?”

“Not because of you,” she snapped. “You can’t keep hoping they make it. You’re supposed to walk them.”

He looked past her, toward the far wall. Firelight from a lantern on the desk flickered across the stone, uneven and low, throwing long, blurred shadows that moved with every shift of the flame. His silence wasn’t agreement, but it wasn’t denial either.

Dan softened, just a little. “You didn’t used to be like this.”

That part stung more than it should’ve. Because she didn’t even know. None of them did.

Not that he’d gone back to Andrew. Not how long he’d been staying. Not how the incidents had been building — freakish, targeted, relentless.

Not how he was scared to leave. Scared that the next time he did, something would happen and he wouldn’t be there to stop it.

He was stretched thin between two worlds and starting to fray.

But he said none of it.

“I’m fine,” Neil muttered.

Dan studied him. The silence hung for a second too long.

“Souls need to pass, Neil. You don’t get to hold them here.”

His stomach twisted. The words hit wrong — too close to something he wasn’t ready to name.

She must’ve seen it in his face. “Whatever’s distracting you — you’re not doing anyone a favor by pretending it isn’t happening.”

He flinched like she’d struck a nerve — and lashed out before he could stop himself. “Fine, I’ll walk the next one to the shoreline, into the ocean.” The words came too fast. Too brittle. “I’ll even hold their hand. Want me to pack snacks too?”

“You’re unraveling,” she said, voice serious. “Whether you admit it or not.”

Neil held her gaze for a beat, then looked away.

“You need to get your shit together.”

“Got it.”

Dan didn’t believe it. But she didn’t stop him as he turned and left, already reaching for the thread that would carry him back to Andrew.

Chapter Text

mumpsimus

noun

the act of clinging to a false belief although shown to be unreasonable

(Found in Unlearning the Known by Lisa Feldman Barrett. Underlined once. Margin note: “Stubbornness or fear?”)

Andrew

His car was still in the shop.

Blown tire on the freeway, bent rim, a long wait on the shoulder while traffic screamed past. And now, apparently, a three-day delay on the parts.

So Andrew stood at the bus stop. Hands in his pockets against the chill in the air.

It was late. The city had thinned out to headlights and passing noise, everything distant and half-drowned in winter dark.

The bus rolled up. Brakes hissed. Doors shuddered open.

He stepped forward—

When there was a sudden pull at his coat.

Neil.

Stumbling backward, it took him a second to catch his balance. Someone behind him muttered a complaint and nudged past, stepping onto the bus in his place.

The driver looked down at him through the open doors. Expectant.

Andrew blinked. Shrugged once — small, flat. Like I don’t know either.

The doors closed. The bus pulled away.

He turned his head just slightly, just in time to see it cross the intersection.

And then—

A blur of motion.

A car barreled through a red light and hit the bus square on its side.

The sound was instant. Screeching metal. Shattering glass. The hiss of something bursting. Voices rising — panic, shouting, someone stumbling out onto the street.

Andrew couldn’t stop the involuntary step back, nor the tension inside him.

Dread settling at the bottom of his stomach, growing heavier with every incident.

His jaw ticked, hand flexing once.

“What about them?”

The other people, other lives. Lost in the chaos before him.

There was no answer. Not in words. Just the distinct feeling of indifference.

Andrew pressed his tongue to his teeth. Breathed in through his nose. Cold air, sharp.

Right.

Neil

The apartment was warm, sheltered from the cool edge of late October air. Light drifted in through the windows, low and golden, painting soft shapes across the floor where tree shadows moved gently with the wind.

They’d been sitting on the couch for a while. Andrew leaned back into the cushions, a book open in his lap. Neil sat close, reading over his shoulder, careful not to lean too far and lose his balance. He wasn’t really following the words — the font was small, the text dense, and his focus had slipped somewhere between rambling paragraphs, the slow weave of clashing bells, and the soft turn of a page.

He’d tried. Really. But now he was mostly watching the way Andrew’s eyes moved across the page, the way his fingers held the book open like it was something delicate.

Neil thought it might be a biography. Or maybe just really boring fiction.

“Why do you like reading so much?” he asked.

Andrew didn’t answer right away. His eyes tracked across a line of text, then back again, like something hadn’t quite landed.

He shifted his weight slightly. “It’s something to do.”

Neil studied him for a moment. Waited. But Andrew didn’t elaborate, so Neil let it go.

Another page turned.

Silence settled again. Familiar.

Then, a little softer, Andrew added, “When I was younger, I tried to get my hands on as many books as possible.”

A pause.

“I thought if I crammed enough into my head,” he continued, “maybe it would push the other stuff out.”

They had talked about their childhoods — a memory here, another there. Never in too much detail. Only what they were ready to share.

Neil didn’t ask what he meant. He already knew.

“Did it work?” he asked instead.

Andrew turned another page.

“No.”

The word hung in the air.

Neil let the quiet stretch, the kind that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t need to be filled.

They kept reading. Or tried to.

Fifteen minutes passed — Neil zoning out, the words a blur, the room filled only with the sound of turning pages and the thrum of traffic beyond the window.

“I think there’s a new episode of that show.” Neil gave in, aiming for casual. He’d lasted as long as he could. “The one where they make those impossible chocolate sculptures and you try to copy them but end up eating half the ingredients instead.”

Andrew blinked, like he was surfacing from somewhere far away. Then, without looking up, he said, “One, you lasted an hour. I’m impressed.”

Neil huffed a laugh but didn’t comment.

“Two,” Andrew continued, “I’m waiting for a day that deserves a chocolate dragon.”

“You said that last week.”

“And the day still hasn’t earned it.”

Neil didn’t argue. Just leaned back into the cushions.

Andrew sighed and closed the book, dropping it onto the coffee table with a muted thud. “Fine. Turn it on.”

Neil did. And the room filled with the familiar sounds of soft narration, clinking bowls, and someone saying “tempered” too many times in a row.

Chapter Text

ineluctable

adjective

impossible to evade or resist; inevitable in a way that feels deeply personal

(Found in The Solitude of Self by Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Circled once.)

Andrew

Andrew kept his eyes closed.

The bedroom was quiet, the kind that only settled in late at night. He could hear the faint noise of the street outside, the occasional distant voice from someone passing down on the street, the rustle of the old building settling. 

But none of it mattered.

Neil was beside him. Close enough that if Andrew focused, if he let himself slip too far into the feeling, it almost felt real.

His breathing was slow, steady. Not because he was close to sleep. But because if he kept still, if he kept his eyes shut, he could pretend.

That Neil was here, truly here, not just circling the edges of his awareness.

That Andrew had found something he could hold onto.

But it was getting harder to lie to himself.

Not because of Neil — Neil hadn’t changed. But because the world had.

And maybe Andrew had, too.

Because the spark of worry he’d ignored for months was growing teeth.

Because a patch of ice had appeared in front of his building the other morning — in October, with no cold snap, no frost. Because his unused toaster had shorted and filled the kitchen with smoke. Because a scaffold joint had given out on a construction site just as he’d walked past, and the metal had groaned like something trying to split the air open.

Because the sound of screeching metal and shattering glass, of screaming people and ambulance sirens was on constant replay in his mind.

He wasn’t superstitious. He didn’t believe in omens.

But even he was running out of excuses.

The accidents were piling up — broken things, near-misses, and all the words they weren’t saying. Neil wasn’t trying to convince him anymore. Just watching. Always watching. Like the waiting was worse than the warning.

And Andrew — Andrew wasn’t ready to say it out loud. That he was tired. That something was clawing at the edges of his control. That part of him was bracing for impact, every time he stepped outside.

So he stayed here instead.

Listening to the space beside him.

A faint shift in the air. Then, the slightest pressure just above his brow.

Like static crossing a nerve. Like a breeze trapped in a memory.

Gentle. Delicate.

Andrew didn’t move. Didn’t react.

It traced along his eyebrow. A slow, careful pass down the slope of his nose.

His throat tightened, fingers curling slightly against the sheets.

It wasn’t the first time.

He remembered how Neil had hesitated — unsure if this was allowed.

"Is this okay?" Neil had asked, voice soft.

And Andrew, without breaking the moment, had muttered, “Do whatever you want.”

Neil had taken it as the permission it had been.

Now, Neil’s touch ghosted beneath his eye, along his cheekbone, down his jaw — like Andrew was something fragile. Something worth memorizing.

The touch paused just below his lips.

Hovering. Waiting.

Andrew exhaled, something slow and weighted. He wanted—

He wanted to lift his hand. To trace Neil’s cheek, his lips, his throat. To feel skin against his fingertips.

His fingers twitched and before he could stop himself—

His eyes flicked open.

And all he saw was the wall.

The door left slightly ajar, dim moonlight bleeding into the bedroom. The mess of stacked clothes in his wardrobe, shirts haphazardly folded, too many hoodies crammed onto one shelf.

No one in front of him. Nothing.

His chest ached.

He stared for a moment longer, then turned away, rolling onto his back, blinking at the ceiling so he wouldn’t see the empty space where Neil should have been.

A pause. Then, quietly, "Did I - - - something wrong?"

Andrew swallowed hard. He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t want to speak through the knot building in his throat.

His fingers pressed against the fabric of his duvet, gripping it just slightly.

No, you didn’t.

Neil wasn’t responsible for what Andrew felt.

He wasn’t responsible for the things Andrew wanted.

"...No," Andrew said finally, voice low, steady. "You didn’t."

He wanted to turn back to Neil. Wanted to really see him. Wanted to reach out, and know what it was like to touch something that didn’t disappear the moment he tried to hold on.

He wanted Neil.

And for once, he didn’t hide from the truth of that. It lived behind his ribs now — sure, final, inescapable.

He could want this. But he would never have it.

The realization hit clean. Quiet. Like a spark caught in ice. Unforgiving. Brutal.

His throat closed. The ache pressed higher, caught behind his eyes. He blinked against the sharpness of it, then swallowed again — unarmed against the slow collapse that followed.

“Andrew?” Neil’s voice, barely above a whisper. “Are - - - okay?”

Andrew closed his eyes before the truth could rise.

“Yes,” he said.

He wasn’t.

But Neil didn’t press. He never did.

Silence wrapped around them again. Familiar, heavy. But between them, never empty.

And Neil — wherever he was, however he stayed — didn’t move away.

Andrew kept his eyes closed.

And pretended.

Chapter Text

gravamen

noun

the essence of an accusation; the weight of what can no longer be dismissed

(Found underlined twice in a borrowed copy of The Collected Cases of Doyle v. Universe by T.A. Marsden.)

Andrew

The windows were fogged, breath and heat pressed against glass. Outside, the November air clung damp and cold to every surface. Inside, the restaurant was all noise and movement — sizzling oil, clatter of pans, too many conversations overlapping.

Andrew stood near the counter, one hand braced flat on the glass, the other buried deep in his coat pocket. His order wasn’t ready yet. Something about the chef wanting to finish the last dish fresh.

“It’s got what in it?” he’d asked earlier, eyebrows raised.

“Lotus root,” Neil had said. In his periphery, Andrew had seen him staring at the picture on the menu like he could taste it with his eyes. “- - - want - - - see it.”

“You’re aware you can’t eat it.”

“So?”

Andrew had pointed a look in his direction, then said nothing. And now here they were — him waiting on a dish he hadn’t wanted, with an ingredient he didn’t care about, because Neil thought it looked interesting.

It wasn’t the first time.

The bell above the door dinged as someone left. Andrew didn’t turn. He knew Neil was still beside him. Could feel the familiar press of his presence, just close enough to register.

They’d done this a few times now. Late pickups. Places too small for dine-in but good enough for Neil to feel involved.

Andrew glanced toward the kitchen, where steam rolled in thick waves.

He could smell garlic, sesame, something else he couldn’t place—

A sharp, unexpected jerk at his sleeve.

Andrew stumbled. Took half a step back.

“Neil—” he started, but the pull came again, harder, panicked. A desperate, invisible force yanking him toward the door.

He didn’t fight it.

The door swung open. He staggered into the cold, one foot catching on the uneven ground as he was dragged away from the restaurant. The glass shut behind him with a soft click. The bell dinged inside — muted through the pane.

A beat later—

The world cracked in half. A deafening boom.

The windows blew out, fire curling through the frame like it had been waiting for its cue. Glass burst across the sidewalk. People screamed. The air surged, hot and thick and sour with smoke and grease.

Andrew’s coat flared at the seams. He caught his balance just in time to see flames licking up the wall behind the counter where he’d been standing. A pan had exploded. Probably more.

His ears rang.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

The street flooded with motion — shouts, sirens beginning somewhere in the distance, the rising panic of something too real to dismiss.

Beside him, Neil hadn’t moved. His presence buzzed with urgency, like he was ready to grab Andrew again if he so much as shifted toward the door.

Andrew didn’t try.

Because this — this wasn’t a flickering light. This wasn’t a burned phone or a twisted ankle on stairs. This wasn’t something he could easily wave off.

He should’ve been on fire.

He should’ve been dead.

Andrew swallowed, throat dry, eyes fixed on the fire dancing across the broken counter.

Then a glance sideways.

Neil didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

Andrew exhaled, breath cold in the air.

“…Guess there won’t be any lotus root tonight,” he muttered.

His voice was flat — or it tried to be. But something cracked at the edges. A fray of certainty. Of fear. Of the truth finally catching up to him. Undeniable.

Neil tugged at his sleeve again.

And after a last look at the mess before him — the smoke, the shattered glass, the chaos rising like steam from the wreckage — he turned away.

—

Neil

Neil moved to walk alongside Andrew, to make their way away from the billowing smoke and gathering audience — when he stopped short.

Matt was standing on the sidewalk just a few steps away.

He looked between Neil and Andrew like he was trying to make a puzzle fit that shouldn't exist.

Andrew kept walking — one step, two — before he noticed Neil wasn’t beside him anymore. He paused, turned slightly, eyes narrowing.

"Neil?" he asked, voice low.

Neil didn’t look at him. “I’ll see you at ho—” The word slipped out too fast. He bit it off, too late.

Matt’s eyebrows lifted.

“There’s someone I need to talk to,” Neil added quickly, forcing his voice steady.

A pause. He could feel Andrew hesitate, could feel the instinct to ask if something was wrong, the way his gaze swept the street like another threat might be waiting.

But in the end, Andrew just nodded once and kept walking, disappearing into the crowd. He passed Matt without noticing. Didn’t look back.

Matt watched him go. Then turned to Neil.

For a moment, neither of them moved. A still point in the chaos — the restaurant behind them still burning, sirens echoing from a block away. EMTs raced past, blurred in their urgency. 

The world rushed around them, through them, untouched.

“What are you doing?” Matt finally asked, voice low, worn. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

Neil didn’t answer.

“I thought we talked about this,” Matt said. “I thought we agreed.”

Still, Neil said nothing.

“You went back to him.”

It wasn’t a question.

Neil’s jaw tightened.

“I defended you.” Matt’s voice sharpened. “Dan said you were off — cold, distracted, skipping calls. And I told her to wait. That maybe you just needed space.”

A beat.

“You told me you’d step away.”

“You don’t understand,” Neil muttered.

“You didn’t give me a chance,” Matt cut in. “Did you even hear a word I said? Or were you just waiting for me to look away so you could run straight back?”

Neil exhaled sharply, frustration flaring. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“The hell it doesn’t,” Matt shot back. “You’re not the only one who answers to the bells.”

“I am answering them—”

“When you feel like it!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Neil said, voice rising, “is there a quota I missed? A death count I need to hit before I’m allowed to care about someone?”

Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what this is? You think the rest of us don’t care?”

“Do you?” Neil snapped. “You just follow the bells like orders — no thought, no doubt—”

“Because it’s not our place to doubt,” Matt said, voice sharp.

Neil stepped forward, anger twisting hot under his skin. “And it’s not his fault the world’s a fucked-up place for a kid!”

That stopped everything.

Matt blinked. His posture shifted.

“…A kid?”

Neil froze.

Matt took a step back. “Wait. What do you mean for a kid?”

The words hung between them. Heavy. Irrevocable.

Then Matt’s face changed — like a thread had finally pulled through. 

His voice dropped. “He’s that kid.”

Neil looked away. At the medics, the smoke, the people. He didn’t see any of it.

Matt pressed in. “From when you first started. The one who wouldn’t die. The one you kept getting sent to — over and over. The glitch in the system.”

At Neil's silence, Matt shook his head, disbelief flooding in behind the anger. “He didn’t survive on his own.”

A pause.

“You’ve been holding him back.”

Neil’s heart slammed in his chest. Smoke curled around them. Sirens flashed red in the sheen of the pavement.

“You can’t do that, Nathaniel,” Matt said. “You don’t get to rewrite someone’s path just because you don’t want to lose them.”

“I’m not rewriting it,” Neil said quietly. “It’s still his. He’s still alive.”

“For now.” 

Matt stepped closer. His voice no longer raised. That made it worse.

“But he won’t be forever. And when he dies—” he looked at Neil, eyes hard. “He will leave this world. And you won’t. You’ll stay. Because that’s what we are, Nathaniel. That’s what we do. We stay.”

“I know.” Neil’s face was stone.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Matt’s tone softened. No accusation. “You’re not real to each other. He’s a living soul, Neil. He deserves to follow his path. To find rest. Peace.”

Neil’s voice cut through, harsh: “He deserves to live.”

Matt didn’t flinch.

Around them, the city kept spinning. Someone screamed nearby. A firetruck tore past, lights casting red across Matt’s face.

A sentry passed behind them, barely sparing a glance. Moved on.

Neil stared past Matt, jaw locked.

Whatever control he had left — whatever illusion he’d held onto — it was gone now.

Matt sighed. “Please. Let go before it gets worse.”

Neil didn’t move. 

Just looked at Matt, really looked, and said, voice even but unyielding, “I can’t.”

Matt held his gaze for a long moment — eyes searching.

“I don’t think that decision is up to you.”

Neil’s throat worked, but no sound came out. Breath caught somewhere between his chest and voice.

Matt didn’t speak again.

He just watched. Concern and disappointment written across his face — and beneath it, something quieter. A plea.

Neil looked away. Swallowed hard.

Then turned.

And stepped into the Between.

—

Andrew

By the time Neil showed up, the food was getting cold.

The TV was already on — some muted documentary about remote islands flickering across the screen. The takeout sat on the coffee table. Andrew hadn’t touched it.

He hadn’t moved much either. Just sat there, waiting like it didn’t matter. Like there wasn’t a tension drawn tight across his shoulders — the kind he’d never name, never admit to.

But when Neil stepped into the apartment, his presence settling in the space, something eased. A breath, a drop in his chest. Shoulders relaxing before he even noticed.

“You're late,” Andrew said.

No response. Neil’s presence didn’t move. Rooted somewhere near the edge of the room.

Andrew leaned back against the cushions. “You okay?”

A pause.

“Fine.”

Andrew didn’t buy it. But he didn’t call him on it either.

“Who was there?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“…A friend.”

Andrew tilted his head slightly. “Which one?”

“…Matt.”

Of course.

The overbearing one. The idealist. The one who still thought Neil could be reasoned with if you just kept trying hard enough.

Andrew didn’t say any of it out loud, didn’t press. Whatever had passed between them — Neil clearly wasn’t ready to talk about it. He could feel the tension still clinging to him like fog.

So instead, Andrew nodded toward the food. “Went to the place near the park. They had lotus root.”

“- - - didn’t have to—”

“I didn’t,” Andrew cut in. “Just wanted to see what it looked like.”

He cracked open the container, lifted one of the slices with his chopsticks. Held it up to where he could feel Neil.

The air shifted, just slightly — enough to tell Andrew that Neil had moved closer. Watching.

The vegetable was glazed, ridged, a little too shiny.

Andrew stared at it. Took a bite.

Chewed once. Chewed again.

“…Not great,” he said finally.

A breath. Not quite a laugh. But close. Then a quiet, “Shame.”

Nodding, Andrew leaned back on the couch, slowly working his way through the cold food. Didn’t say anything else.

But he felt it — the tension in the air shifting, the static easing.

Neil settled beside him, not touching, not speaking. But staying.

The turmoil was still there, but it had quieted. No longer clawing.

Andrew let the silence stretch, the TV still flickering in the background, the night closing in soft around them.

Chapter Text

error

noun

a misjudgment that shifts the course of things; quiet failure

(Found bracketed in Collected Field Failures: Volume II. Blue ink smudged.)

Neil

He had just returned from the Border, dropped off the last soul of the day, kept walking until he was deep in the Between — somewhere narrow and unlit, the stone corridors forgotten by most. The kind of place where no one would look for him.

It had been two weeks since the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Since Matt.

He hadn’t spoken to any of them since.

When someone stepped into his path, he didn’t need to look twice.

“Allistair,” Neil said, flat.

“Ah.” The man raised an eyebrow. “And it only took you 10 years.”

Neil’s jaw ticked. “Was there something you needed.”

Allistair smiled, the expression light and at odds with his words. “I warned you.”

Neil braced himself. Crossed his arms. If this was another lecture to remind him of the rules he could handle it. He just had to stay still long enough for it to end.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve gotten too close.”

“Nothing’s changed.”

Allistair shook his head once, slow and measured. “Everything has.”

His voice echoed in the corridor. It bounced off the empty walls like it had already been decided.

“You were meant to guide him,” Allistair said. “To observe. To usher. Not—” He waved a hand, as if gesturing at the years themselves. “Not whatever this has become.”

Neil didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Allistair’s voice was calm when he continued. “You’re being relieved of his soul.”

Neil recoiled. “What—”

The words landed like ice water down his spine.

His mouth went dry. “No.”

“It’s not a request.”

“No,” Neil repeated, louder now. His voice cracked around the word. “You can’t.”

“It’s already done,” Allistair said, almost gently. “Others have begun to take notice. I stepped in to ensure the decision came from someone familiar.”

Neil’s pulse thundered in his ears. “You can’t assign someone else to him. You don’t know him.”

“I don’t need to,” Allistair said. “That boy has a path. And he deserves to follow it. I told you this years ago.”

Neil stepped back, breath catching. The thought of someone else — some stranger — answering Andrew’s bell, watching him from a distance, deciding how his story ends—

“If something happens to him, he’s gone,” he said, voice low, shaky. “That’s it. He’s— he’s gone.”

Allistair nodded once. “Yes.”

“That’s it? That’s all it is to you?” Neil’s voice frayed at the edges. “Like it’s just procedure?”

“It’s truth,” Allistair said. “Death comes for everyone. Even the ones we care about.”

Neil shook his head. “No.”

Allistair waited.

Neil felt something claw up from the back of his throat. Panic. Fury. He didn’t know how to shape it into words.

He forced himself to meet the other man’s gaze. “If he dies… I won’t know where he goes.” The words were barely air. “I can’t follow. I stay here. Forever.”

The words felt like they scraped their way out — raw and unwanted. But true.

And once they were out, there was no taking them back.

Allistair looked at him, no judgment in his expression. Just a quiet sort of weight. “I know.”

Neil took a breath, unsteady. “I can’t let someone else take over. I won’t.”

“This isn’t about what you want.”

“It is to me.”

Allistair held his gaze for a moment longer.

Then, just as calmly, he stepped aside.

“You’re dismissed from him, Neil,” he said. “His bell won’t come to you again.”

Neil didn’t move.

Allistair left without another word.

And Neil stood there — suspended in the cold, panic threading through his chest like something alive — with only the echo of a name that wouldn’t be his to answer anymore.

Neil was in the hospital before he even knew how he got there.

One moment, he was watching Andrew walk along the Riverwalk, lazily eating a churro dipped in Nutella from one of the street food vendors like he had all the time in the world.

The next, Andrew was hunched over, struggling to breathe.

Neil had seen a lot of deaths. He had seen a lot of people fight the inevitable. But Andrew wasn’t supposed to die choking on a goddamn dessert.

The realization hit too late. Neil had been a few steps behind, lost in his own thoughts — lost in Andrew, in the casual way he licked sugar off his thumb, in the way the golden hour light caught on his skin. He should have noticed. Should have seen the warning signs creeping up.

But when Andrew first stumbled, he thought nothing of it. When he coughed, Neil figured it was the cinnamon dust.

Then Andrew’s breath hitched.

Then his hand clutched at his throat.

Then his eyes widened — just slightly, but enough that Neil knew something was wrong.

By the time he realized what was happening, Andrew was already dialing 911 with shaking fingers.

Neil moved without thinking, reaching out to help — to steady the phone, to press the screen.

But his hands passed through it.

His fingers scrambled for contact — desperate, clumsy — but the touchscreen didn’t register him.

He couldn’t swipe. Couldn’t dial. Couldn’t press anything at all.

Someone else must’ve noticed, too, because a woman nearby was already shouting for help, asking if he needed an EpiPen, if he had one.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Because why the hell would he ever expect to go into anaphylactic shock from something he’d eaten a hundred times before?

Neil could only watch as the ambulance arrived and Andrew was loaded in, still wheezing, hands curled into fists on the stretcher. He quickly followed through the wailing of the sirens, making sure to not lose sight of Andrew, no longer able to simply follow the thread of his bell. Crammed into a corner of the ambulance, he watched helplessly as the paramedics worked around him, as the world blurred past the flashing lights.

And now — now, he sat next to Andrew’s hospital bed, elbows on his knees, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest.

The monitor beside him beeped. Sharp. Repetitive. Too high.

He let it drown out the bells in his head. Dozens of them — shrill, overlapping, insistent.

None of them mattered.

Not since he’d lost the low, steady hum of Andrew’s.

A nurse had just left, murmuring to a barely conscious Andrew about family on the way. Nicky, probably.

But for now, it was just them.

Andrew stirred, lids fluttering before his eyes cracked open, groggy and unfocused. For a second, he just breathed — like he was testing the air, making sure it still moved through his lungs. Then, voice rough, quiet:

“…Neil?”

Neil didn’t hesitate, shifting closer, leaning against the edge of the bed. He didn’t think about it — just placed his hand on top of Andrew’s, grounding him, making sure he knew he wasn’t alone.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

Andrew exhaled slowly, eyes slipping shut again. His fingers twitched under Neil’s hand, just slightly, just enough.

The last time Andrew had been in a hospital, Neil had watched from the edges, unknown, unnoticed. He hadn’t understood what he wanted then — only that he’d hovered near the bed, tense, restless.

Now, Andrew knew. And he wanted him here.

Neil pressed his lips together, his grip tightening just a little, like maybe that could keep him here.

Andrew breathed.

So did Neil.

Chapter Text

pertinacity

noun

the quality of holding firmly to a belief or course of action; stubborn persistence

(Found in Bartleby, the Scrivener by Herman Melville. Underlined with slow, deliberate pen.)

Andrew

Nicky’s apartment smelled like garlic and butter.

Erik was in the kitchen with Aaron’s new girlfriend, Katelyn, chatting easily as they cooked, the occasional clatter of utensils filling the gaps in conversation. 

Oil hissed. Whatever it was, it smelled good.

Nicky was sprawled across the couch, one leg tucked under himself, scrolling through his phone. Andrew sat on the other end, flipping through a furniture catalog that had been left on the coffee table. He wasn’t looking for anything. The pages just gave his hands something to do.

Across from them, Aaron slouched in the armchair, arms crossed, watching the room without really participating.

At one point, Erik had leaned around the doorframe and asked if anyone had allergies — eyes landing, not subtly, on Andrew.

He’d considered not responding, but when Erik kept looking at him expectantly, he’d resigned himself to a flat, “No.”

Aaron had looked up at that, mouth tightening. “People don’t go into shock for no reason.”

It'd been a month since the hospital where Andrew had woken up to a doctor telling him he'd been lucky. They’d run every test they could think of. None of them conclusive.

A shrug had been all Aaron got in return. It wasn’t like Andrew had anything more to offer.

Aaron hadn’t looked satisfied, but let the room fall back into silence. And after a moment, Erik had ducked back into the kitchen.

Now, Nicky gave his arms an exaggerated stretch, setting his phone down with a dramatic sigh that promised nothing good. “So,” he started, “have you given any thought to moving?”

Andrew didn’t bother looking up. “I have an apartment.”

“Oh!” Katelyn said from the kitchen. “Moving? That’s exciting.”

Andrew turned another page.

Nicky gave her a look — apologetic, if Andrew had to guess — then turned back to Andrew. “I know.” His voice was careful, like he was trying not to sound too pushy. “And it’s small. And kind of sad.”

“It’s fine.”

Nicky pressed on. “Come on, the elevator in your building is a death trap, the heating barely works, and didn’t you say your smoke detector failed last week? You had an actual fire on your floor and didn’t know until someone banged on your door.”

Andrew sighed. “The fire was two floors down.”

He remembered it clearly. Neil almost yanking him off the bed well before the knocking on his door started.

“And,” Nicky continued, undeterred, “wasn’t there a gas leak in one of the units a few months ago?”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “They fixed it.”

“After they evacuated the whole building and shut off the gas for a week.”

He turned another page, still not looking up.

“And that blackout that fried half your outlets. And the scaffolding collapse—”

“It’s a shithole,” Aaron cut in. “I told you that two years ago.”

“Aaaanywaaaay—” Nicky said loudly, rolling right over him with a blinding smile in his voice. “Erik’s friend is moving out, so there’s a studio opening up in our building next month. Good space, solid floors, functioning elevators. You could get out of that cursed building.”

Andrew didn’t respond right away.

Sure, the apartment wasn’t great. The building was old, the walls thin, the pipes made noises sometimes. The elevator was a gamble. But it was his.

The incidents? They wouldn’t stop just because he changed his address — he knew that.

And it wasn’t even that bad anymore. He’d gotten a new couch, one you could sink into at the end of the day. A new kitchen table that he actually used, with chairs that weren’t mismatched junk from a secondhand store. The place wasn’t sad. Not to him.

And Neil— 

Neil was there.

He sighed, setting the catalog onto the coffee table. “I already have an apartment.”

There was something else he wanted to say, something just under the surface. But he couldn’t push the words out.

Nicky, somehow, got it anyway.

His expression softened, the teasing edge fading. “Okay, yeah,” he murmured, then hesitated. “And I guess your rent is really good, and it’s close to work, and… yeah.” He nodded, like he was convincing himself, always the supportive one. “You’re right.”

Andrew didn’t confirm or deny it, but he found himself nodding along anyway. 

Across from them, Aaron looked like he wanted to say something more, but didn’t. Just shook his head once in disbelief.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The glossy cover of the catalog stared back at him, all sleek, upscale interiors that didn’t look like anywhere he’d ever lived.

Nicky smiled, nudging his foot against Andrew’s. “Just... let me know if you change your mind.”

Andrew nodded, once, noncommittal.

He wasn’t going to change his mind.

Neil

Andrew was lying on the couch, legs slung over the armrest, a book held loosely above his head. The soft rustle of turning pages broke the stillness every now and then. His shirt had ridden up just enough to expose a pale strip of skin above his waistband.

Neil sat cross-legged at the other end, shoulder pressed into the cushions, body angled toward Andrew, watching.

The Between was unusually quiet tonight — no constant pull, no painful pressure, no cacophony of bells in his head. No souls waiting. It made the absence of Andrew’s bell weigh heavier than most days. But he was slowly, reluctantly getting used to an existence without it.

Andrew’s chest rose and fell in that calm, deliberate rhythm Neil had come to memorize. Strands of hair had fallen across his temple, catching the light as it filtered through the window. They looked soft. Almost weightless.

Neil reached out. Slowly.

At first, his fingers passed right through — no contact, no resistance. But then, one strand curled around his finger. Then another.

He kept going. Gentle. Careful.

A low hum from Andrew made Neil pause. “Do you want me to stop?”

Andrew didn’t look away from the page. “Did I say that?”

Neil smiled. His fingers resumed their slow motion — brushing, twisting, carding through strands that felt like a dream. He imagined the texture. The warmth. The weight.

They stayed like that for a while. The light shifted. A bird called outside. Somewhere down the street, a car passed by, tires hissing on wet pavement.

Eventually, Andrew lowered the book to his chest and closed his eyes, his head tilting just slightly toward Neil’s hand.

Neil didn’t like touching people. Didn’t like being touched. He never had.

But with Andrew, it was different. He couldn’t seem to stop.

He wondered what it felt like to be touched like this. Not by accident. Not in a fight. Not to pull or push or restrain. Just to be held in someone’s hands like you were allowed to be there.

What would it feel like if Andrew could reach back? If he brushed his fingers through Neil’s hair in return — slow, careful, like it mattered?

It wasn’t possible. He knew that.

And Neil wasn’t foolish enough to mourn things he'd never had.

Not when he had this.

He looked at Andrew in the soft, late-afternoon light. Watched the slow rise of his chest. The relaxed line of his mouth. The pale lashes against his cheeks. Traced the constellation of freckles, barely visible in the fading light.

He looked, Neil thought with a strange sort of ache, like a wish.

One he’d first made when he was young and scared and alone. A stubborn, impossible, half-feral wish that he refused to let go.

Neil wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that.

Long enough for the world to still.

Long enough for the silence to feel like breathing.

Long enough to think that if he moved slowly enough — if he breathed quietly enough — he could stay here forever, just like this.

Chapter Text

quiescence

noun

a state of quiet inaction; still and undisturbed, as if the world has paused

(Found in a second-hand paperback of The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin. Underlined beside a passage about silence and survival.)

Andrew

The grocery store was nearly empty this late at night. A few scattered shoppers meandered through the aisles, listless and slow — like they weren’t really shopping, just wandering through fluorescent light and freezer hum.

Andrew was here for exactly three things: coffee, eggs, and whatever snack caught his interest on the way to checkout. Efficient. Straightforward.

And yet, somehow, twenty minutes later he was still in aisle nine, scanning the world’s most uninspired selection of chips, none of it worth the shelf space.

He shifted his weight, reached for a bag.

A shelf two aisles over groaned.

Andrew paused. He could feel Neil’s presence nearby, drawing closer.

They listened — to the low, metallic sound, like something under strain.

Farther down, a ceiling tile dropped a few inches, hanging crooked at the edge. It swayed slightly, like it was waiting for a reason to fall.

Andrew waited too.

This was the part where something usually happened. Ice on the stairs. A burst pipe. A flicker of heat, an almost-fire, a slammed door, a short circuit. Months of it, like clockwork.

But nothing happened.

The tile held. The shelf creaked and stilled. The bag of chips made it to his basket without incident.

“Huh,” Andrew muttered. “Look at that.”

No crash. No fallout.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement — Neil, watching the ceiling. Alert, focused. Expecting something.

The moment passed.

Andrew blinked, and Neil was gone.

But he could still feel him, lingering close, tense and unsettled.

As if they were both bracing for a punch that never came.

—

A few hours later, Andrew was stretched across his bed, a book balanced against one bent knee. The bedside light cast a dim glow across the pages, soft and golden.

He turned a page, unimpressed. “This is terrible.”

A beat. Then, a faint, “Hm?”

“The book,” Andrew said. “The writing’s a mess. Pacing’s awful. The main guy dies at the end for no reason.” He flipped a few pages back. “Supposed to be tragic, but it’s just stupid.”

Neil didn’t answer, but Andrew felt it — that quiet attention, almost amused.

He flipped forward again. “Is that how it works?”

“What?”

Andrew tilted his head slightly, eyes still on the book. “Dying. This guy gets stabbed, gives a speech, takes forever to go. Is that realistic?”

A breath. “Sometimes.” The amusement was clearer now.

“Sounds fake.”

Neil didn’t argue.

The room settled again, broken only by the rustle of pages and the soft shift of the sheets when Andrew moved.

Eventually, the book slid to rest on his chest, his gaze drifting upward.

The grocery store hadn’t exploded. The ceiling hadn’t collapsed. No accidents in days — maybe a week. The longest stretch in months.

Still, Neil’s worry hadn’t eased. If anything, it had only gotten sharper.

Andrew knew. He always knew.

He placed the book on the nightstand and turned off the light.

“Are you staying?”

A shift. That same quiet presence, steady and constant.

Andrew let out a breath, eyes slipping shut.

“Good.”

Chapter Text

wish

noun

a quiet hope for something

(Found at the end of a poem in Between the Lines: Verses from the Void. Circled twice.)

Neil

The world had settled.

For the first time in over a year, the accidents had stopped. No fire alarms. No cars veering onto sidewalks. No splintered wood or falling objects. The Path had gone quiet.

And so had the bells.

They’d been screaming for months — shrill, relentless, too many at once. He’d stretched himself thin trying to answer what he could, letting others slip past, letting time blur between the pickups and the waiting.

But with the sudden end to the chaos, he had been able to catch up. Work through the backlog.

And now, the bells had returned to what they were meant to be — soft, distant chimes that only rang when a soul was waiting. Not an all-consuming alarm dragging him in a thousand directions.

After months, years, Neil was no longer running.

He was sitting. Still.

He looked around them from his spot on the bench. The sun looked warm — afternoon light slipping through the trees, catching on the early green of new leaves, casting slow-moving shadows across the river sidewalk. Overhead, a bird chirped, another answered. A car passed on the street behind them, tires whispering across asphalt.

Beside him, Andrew sat with one ankle hooked over the opposite knee, posture relaxed and guarded all at once. A half-full bag of chips rustled in his lap. Every so often, he’d reach in, crunch a piece between his teeth, and keep his gaze on the water like it might change shape if he watched long enough.

Neil watched him instead.

The way Andrew’s brow creased against the light and his nose scrunched faintly at the salty taste. The even rhythm of his breath. The sun catching at the edge of his lashes.

Eventually, Andrew reached into the bag again. Pulled out a chip. Eyes still tracking the slow current of the river.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Neil blinked. Then huffed, a smile coming easily.

Andrew popped the chip into his mouth like nothing happened, but his shoulder shifted. Nudged Neil’s. No weight, just the faintest brush — a ripple through the air, the shape of contact without substance.

Neil hesitated, then nudged back — a mirrored echo.

A breeze stirred Andrew’s hair, soft and slow. Almost absently, Andrew leaned in again, just enough to press their outlines together. Just enough to not need support, to not fall to the side and through Neil. A drift more than a lean. A space shared, not held.

Neil didn’t move.

He sat there, a sentry made of silence and absence, reaching for something he could never give.

And Andrew didn’t pull away.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The world moved gently around them — water in the distance, leaves brushing against one another in the trees above.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Neil thought—

Maybe they made it.

The thought settled low in his chest, warm and certain.

The next breath came easier.

And the one after that didn’t need thinking at all.

Andrew pulled another chip from the bag. And Neil watched the sunlight find its home in Andrew’s eyes.

Early evening light reflected off the windshield as the car moved through traffic. They had barely made it two blocks from Andrew’s office before speaking.

“Jeremy made Jean lunch again.”

Neil, in the passenger seat, turned his head. “Still not dating?”

“Apparently not,” Andrew said. “But Annie walked in while Jeremy was reheating soup and got a ten-minute monologue about Jean’s dietary preferences and spice tolerance.”

Neil hummed. “That’s new.”

“She’s calling it ‘Operation Subtext,’” Andrew added. “Narrates every move now. Today she said, and I quote, ‘Jean blinked four times when Jeremy said good morning, that’s two blinks over baseline.’”

Neil laughed. “She’s keeping blink metrics?”

Andrew flicked his turn signal. “She’s working on a chart.”

Ahead, someone missed the green light, traffic stalled. For a moment, scattered honks and the sound of the blinker filled the space between them.

“She’s wrong, though,” Neil said eventually, picking up the conversation again. “It’s at least three over baseline.”

“I told her that. She looked betrayed.” Andrew’s voice was light, a smile hiding just under the surface. 

Neil let himself lean a little toward the window, watching the last of the evening sun blur through the glass. “Is Jean aware?”

“No. Jeremy might be. Annie’s been leaving coded notes in his lunch.”

Neil blinked. “Coded?”

“She color-coded the sandwich wrappings. Green for ‘yes,’ red for ‘what are you doing,’ and orange for ‘we believe in you but this is getting sad.’”

It took a second for the words to sink in. “That’s just wild.”

Andrew nodded, eyes on the road. “And completely unnecessary.”

The light changed and they followed the endless line of cars as they slowly took the turn towards home.

“She’s planning a team-building escape room next week.”

“Jeremy’s not even on your team,” Neil pointed out.

Andrew glanced at him. “Tell that to Annie’s team-building spreadsheet.”

Andrew

Andrew stood in front of the bathroom mirror, a comb in one hand, his hair refusing to cooperate with any known law of physics or reason. He ran his fingers through it again, trying to press it flat at the back. It popped up immediately, like it had somewhere better to be.

Behind him, Neil hovered near the door.

“You - - - doing that - - - ten minutes,” Neil said finally, his voice low, teasing.

“And?”

“I - - - try,” Neil offered.

Andrew looked at his own reflection, resigned. “Be my guest.”

He felt the shift of Neil moving closer in the room. Keeping his eyes on his hair through the mirror, he waited to feel something, see movement.

Nothing.

One lock vaguely flickered — half-hearted, uninterested — and settled right back into place.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Having performance issues?”

There was a sigh, but Neil sounded amused when his voice came through. “- - -ut up.”

When nothing happened, he tapped his empty wrist. “Tick tock.”

He could hear faint muttering. And, after a long moment, a few strands finally moved. Briefly. Reluctantly. The result was objectively worse — his hair now stuck up in an uneven twist, like it had been electrocuted in protest.

Andrew stared at the mirror. Silent. One slow blink.

“I hate you,” he said eventually, calm as ever.

From somewhere beside him, Neil’s voice came, smug.

“I know.”

Chapter Text

entelechy

noun

fulfillment; realization of potential; the moment when something arrives where it was meant to be

(Found underlined twice in On the Soul by Aristotle. No annotation.)

Andrew

Sunlight poured over the world, bright and weightless.

Andrew’s steps were unhurried as he moved down the sidewalk, heat reflecting off the pavement in slow waves. His shirt clung to his back, the weight of summer pressed against his shoulders.

Above him, the sky stretched wide — soft blue, pale at the edges. The air was thick with warmth and the sound of the city around them.

He and Neil walked side by side, their conversation sparse but familiar. The streets were busy, the sidewalks crowded with people moving in different directions. A couple passed with iced coffees in hand, a group of teenagers laughed too loudly a few steps ahead. A delivery cyclist weaved through pedestrians. The city moved as it always did, in patterns Andrew rarely paid attention to.

A gust of wind kicked up, rattling a nearby shop sign on its hinges. Andrew paid it no mind.

They were nearly home.

“I’ll see you later,” Andrew said under his breath. It was routine by now — he’d start on dinner, Neil would take care of the last few souls, and they’d meet again in the quiet of the evening.

Neil didn’t answer, but Andrew felt something brush against his arm. Faint. No weight to it.

He took that as a yes.

Then, because he could — because lately, he’d been able to catch glimpses of Neil more often — he blinked, focused on the edge of his vision.

And there he was.

Not fully. Just a flicker of movement. Something shifting in the air beside him — dark clothing, pale skin, red curls, a smile.

Almost there. Almost real.

Gone on the next blink.

Then someone jostled his shoulder.

Andrew barely reacted, but the small shift in weight set off a chain reaction. His foot skimmed the edge of the curb, momentum tilting him backward—

A hand caught his arm. His breath hitched when he was yanked forward. He stumbled against a solid chest.

And for the first time—

He saw Neil.

Not a flicker. Not a guess.

Light-blue eyes. A dark cloak, long and frayed at the edges, the hood fallen back onto his shoulders. His hair was messy and windblown. His mouth open in surprise like he almost said something, like he almost called out.

Their eyes locked.

Andrew stared.

Neil stared back.

For a fraction of a second, the world stopped.

Quickly, before the moment could vanish, Andrew reached out—

His hand curled around Neil’s arm, catching on the fabric of his sleeve.

For one impossible moment — he held on.

“You’re getting slow in your old age.” He couldn’t quite keep the wonder from his voice. 

Neil let out a quiet breath, tinged with relief, almost a laugh.

And then Neil’s form began to fade again. Like mist. Like air returning to air. The edge of his arm softened, strands of light unweaving beneath Andrew’s grip.

Andrew squeezed once, careful. Then let go.

He straightened, took a step back—

His foot met nothing.

There was no time to catch himself. No time to adjust. No time for Neil to stop it.

The street rose up fast as his body pitched backward. Horns blared — brakes, shouting, the screech of tires.

The impact slammed into him.

The world tilted. A second stretched too long.

A dull crack as his skull hit pavement. Limbs sprawled at unnatural angles. Heat draining from his body like water down a broken pipe.

For a moment, all he saw was sky.

Cloudless. Blue. Endless.

The sun was still shining.

But the warmth was gone.

Andrew didn’t move.

The noise around him faded — voices blurring, faces leaning in, too many, too close, sirens shifting into something softer, like hearing the world through water.

The concrete pressed hard against his back, but he barely felt it. His hands twitched against the asphalt.

His breathing was shallow. Weightlessness settled in his limbs.

Then — Neil appeared above him.

His hands hovered over Andrew’s chest, shaking, helpless. His mouth moved, but Andrew couldn’t hear him.

His eyes were wide. Wild.

Andrew blinked up at him, dazed.

“Neil?” His voice was weak. The word tasted like iron.

His chest rose once more.

And stilled.

—

Neil

Neil didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

Andrew wasn’t moving.

The sunlight was harsh — too bright, too sharp.

The street noise rushed past him, sirens wailing in the distance, too far, too late, too late.

Neil reached for Andrew, but something yanked him back.

Allistair.

A firm grip on his arm, unyielding. “Nathaniel. Let go.”

Neil thrashed, trying to pull free. “I can fix this. I can fix this.”

Allistair tightened his hold. “It’s time.”

“No— He needs to live.” Neil’s breath stuttered, his chest caving in. “He deserves— ”

“He did.” Allistair’s voice was calm. Final. “But you couldn’t keep him forever. You knew that.”

Neil shook his head. His vision blurred. The city tilted around him.

Across the street, another sentry stepped forward.

One of the old ones. Cloaked in black, hood drawn deep.

Neil froze.

His stomach turned. His pulse a deafening roar in his ears.

And beside them—

A soul appeared, untethered.

Andrew.

Bright and translucent and calm. So calm.

“No.” His voice cracked. He shoved forward, reaching. “No— Get back. You can’t take him. It’s not time.”

But the sentry knelt beside Andrew. And in the space of a breath—

They were gone.

Andrew was gone.

Neil stumbled back, his legs giving out under him, his hands pressing against his face as the city moved on without him. 

Sirens arrived. Red and blue lights flashed. People screamed. Someone ran toward Andrew’s body. A medic shouted.

Neil heard none of it.

Only the echo of Andrew’s last word.

Neil.

Chapter Text

real

adjective

existing as a fact

(Found underlined in a copy from the Between library of The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. No annotation.)

Neil

The city stretched wide before him, drowning in red and gold as the sun dipped lower, dragging the sky into dusk. The buildings glowed beneath it, casting long, distorted shadows.

Neil sat on the edge of the rooftop, unmoving, staring out across the skyline, hands clasped like he was hanging on to something already gone. His existence stretched ahead of him — long, and empty, and unwanted. His connection to the world felt distant, slipping away like sand through broken fingers.

He hadn’t been guiding souls. Hadn’t been to the Border. Hadn’t answered any bells.

How was he supposed to bring peace when he had lost his own?

The others had stopped trying to talk him down. Now they just hovered. Soft voices. Careful glances. Matt’s steady concern. Renee’s sympathy. Dan’s tension coiled behind every word — like she wanted to say I told you so but wouldn’t.

He was tired of being watched. Of being followed a few steps behind. Of the way someone always managed to find him, like loss came with a leash.

Tired of the sigh meant to soothe, the arm slung around his shoulder, steering him toward the common rooms, where someone could keep an eye on him.

The second he could slip away, he came here.

He couldn’t bring himself to step foot in Andrew’s apartment downstairs. Couldn’t bear being there in the silence, alone.

But here, he felt close — to the last place he remembered feeling like himself. Like the world was warm and good and full of something he could cling to.

The sunset burned deep, red, cruel in its vibrance. He didn’t want to look at it. The color clung to his memory too vividly, an echo of the last thing he had seen — Andrew, lying still on the asphalt, blood spreading across the pavement, sunlight catching in his hair like a cracked halo. A moment stretched too thin to last.

He closed his eyes, but it didn’t help. The image was burned into his mind, a phantom branded into his ribs, as permanent as the ache that sat heavy in his chest.

Behind him, footsteps slowed.

A rustle of fabric. A shift in the air.

Neil didn’t move, resigned. Someone always came eventually.

He waited for the sigh.

The hand on his shoulder. 

The inevitable, Nathaniel, you can’t just sit out here forever.

The unhelpful, It’ll pass, just give it time.

The callous, What did you expec—

“Neil.”

The voice came from just behind him. Low. Warm. Familiar.

Neil’s breath caught.

He turned.

And everything stopped.

Andrew.

For a second, Neil thought his mind had finally broken. That he had imagined something too desperately, wished too hard for something that wasn’t real.

But Andrew didn’t flicker. Didn’t waver. He was there — solid in the dying light of the sunset.

Except—

A cloak lifted faintly in the breeze, dark and unmistakable, pooling at his feet. The hood rested lightly against his shoulders, casual — like it had always belonged there. Like the world had finally caught up with what had always been true.

Neil couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but stare.

Andrew took a step forward — slow, testing. But steady.

Then another.

And then he sank down beside Neil, knees brushing. Their shoulders bumped.

Real.

The breath hitched in Neil’s throat. He looked down at the point of contact, stunned by the warmth where they touched — by Andrew beside him, here, solid, breathing the same air.

When he looked up, he saw Andrew turn his head, just enough to take him in — his cloak, his hands, the thigh next to his.

Slowly, so slowly, Andrew lifted his hand. 

He didn’t reach straight for Neil. Instead, he extended a finger and pressed it lightly against Neil’s thigh. Just once. Then again. Like he wasn’t quite convinced it would stay. Like he expected it to disappear on contact.

But it didn’t.

Andrew’s fingers lingered, hovering, before his hand finally settled on Neil’s knee. Gentle. Careful. As if waiting for the rules to change.

He gave the faintest squeeze.

Then a second one. Slower. Just because he could.

Neil was still frozen. His heart beat so loud he was sure Andrew could hear it — a frantic stutter against the stillness between them.

And then Andrew turned his hand over.

An invitation. Simple. Certain.

It took Neil a moment to understand.

Unclasping his hands, slow with awe, like he might spook the moment, he placed one into Andrew’s palm. Their fingers threaded together, new and unfamiliar and perfectly right.

A breath left Neil’s lungs. Unsteady. A little broken.

He ran his thumb over Andrew’s knuckles, overwhelmed by the feeling. The weight. The warmth. The impossible reality of it.

Then, gently, he brought their joined hands into his lap, cupped Andrew’s between both of his. Held onto it because the world had finally given him something to keep.

He stayed still. Let it anchor him.

And when he looked up, Andrew was already watching him.

A small smile curved at the corners of his mouth — faint, but real.

And in Neil’s chest, something shifted, unfurled. Certainty. Comfort. The shape of something that felt like a future, quiet as light finding its way into a dark room.

They sat like that — side by side, eyes lost in each other, hands intertwined — as the sky turned soft and violet. The fading light caught in Andrew’s eyes, warm and gold, holding Neil like gravity.

The world moved around them.

But they didn’t have to chase it anymore.

They leaned closer, settling into the warmth where they touched.

Real.