Archive of Our Own

The calls for an evacuation are too late — though there'd be nothing, no one, fast enough to get away anyway.

The darkness comes too quickly.

Neil sees it in the corner of his eyes: the shadows stretching too far, their shape all wrong, no longer bending to the control of the Foxhole court lights.

He moves before he can think. He doesn't have time to register what's happening, trying to find answers to questions that will only slow him down: what, why, who?

It doesn't matter. None of that matters.

Andrew, he thinks, and that's enough to focus on. Neil's halfway across the court from him, and he takes a few running backwards steps before he pivots and sprints, straight towards Andrew's goal.

They're all running, trying to get to the exit, trying to run from the shadows stretching towards them. Wymack throws the door open, but it's not going to be fast enough. No one’s going to be able to outrun the darkness.

Andrew's the only other one not running for the exit. He's running to Neil. Their fingers brush as they reach for each other, and then Neil's stomach drops out from under him as he feels the darkness catch up to him, and then he's falling.

It feels like he's missed a step, lurching for a moment, but then his feet hit solid ground. He stumbles, catching himself, frantically looking around as he tries to piece together what’s happened.

Andrew's not in front of him. He opens his mouth, about to call out, but catches the sound in his throat.

He's not on the court. And the practice gear he’d been wearing is gone, too. The fabric on his skin is lighter, missing the protective padding.

It's dark, here. He can’t see what he’s wearing, much less where he is, as there are no lights on in this room. But he knows the court in its entirety, made of light or darkness, and he knows he's no longer in it.

He looks around, heart thudding in his chest. His fingers clench at his sides. Where's Andrew?

Where is he?

His eyes start to adjust, and he pieces together that he's in a hallway. There's a low light coming from underneath a door just a few steps away. He doesn't recognise these walls, though some, if not most, houses in his memory blur together — vacant ones, empty for a couple of nights, enough to shelter him as long as he acted like a ghost.

There are pictures on the hallway walls, starting to become easier to see now. He leans closer, inspecting them, but he doesn't recognise any of the shadowed figures inside the frames. Not like he expected to — not like he wanted to. If he sees himself in any of these frames, he's going to fear he's lost his mind in one single, reaching step.

He doesn't know where he is — or, more importantly, where Andrew is. He has to find him.

"Andrew?" He whispers, low and careful, not daring yet to raise his voice.

Andrew doesn't appear. He doesn't whisper back. Neil swallows down his fear and takes a silent step forward.

A door opens a little further into the house.

"You idiot," a voice seethes, low and dangerous, and Neil's heart stops.

"Mom," he mouths out. His knees almost buckle with the wave of emotions that slam into him.

It’s not possible. But her voice is ringing so clear that he immediately realises just how much he’s forgotten of it. He’s never had any piece left of her other than his memories, and her voice had been the first thing to slip through his fingers.

But it’s here, now. Like he’d never forgotten at all.

She's swearing, angry, getting louder in her tirade of French. He knows this moment, he realises. He remembers this moment.

"You stupid, stupid boy," she's cursing at him, and Neil flinches as he hears the first hit against skin, but it doesn’t stop him from heading closer to the sound of her voice. "You risk it all, our lives, because you want to kiss a girl?"

Another hit. His next step pauses before it hits the ground as he hears someone else.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," his own voice pleads. Voice smaller, younger. Slipping between French and English as he gets all tangled up. It only makes her angrier, he knows, but it only makes him more scared in that moment, and he can’t control his panic or his words.

"Sorry?" She repeats, and he knows the next hit is going to be bad enough to send him to the floor. He closes his eyes and lets his foot hit the ground.

He knows this memory. He's lived this moment, after all, and it lingered in his mind for so, so long. Even now, so many years later, knowing she'd been wrong, he still feels that shame crawling up his throat. A lesson that he never quite unlearned the guilt of.

But his mom — she's right there. Just beyond this hallway. He heads towards her, even as his heart pounds, even as he feels guilt choking him.

She'd been wrong, then. It wasn't a girl that got into his head, not a girl that made him risk his survival. The fleeting, awkward kiss had made him feel nothing other than confusion: what's so good about this? he'd thought, right in the middle of it and then after, with a faint impression of strawberry gloss smattered on his lips. This isn't worth anything.

It certainly wasn't worth the pain. He feels the echo of her nails digging into his hair, twisting at his scalp, as his younger self stutters through apologies. He remembers his own nails clawing at the ground, resisting the urge to grab at her wrist — his father taught him not to touch, never to fight back against him, and Neil carried that behaviour over with his mother, too. He’d always known she'd make it worse if he tried.

"I won't do it again, I won't," he hears himself saying. It had been the desperate truth, then; he had no reason to believe that a kiss was ever going to be worth the pain. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He turns the corner of the hallway and he sees the scene. Different, now, than he remembers, looking at it from another perspective. His mother's back is to him, crouched down as she pulls his head up from the ground with her fingers. He's curled up on the ground, trying to brace for the hits while the lesson sinks in: kissing isn't worth this.

And it hadn't been. For so, so long.

He can't regret Andrew, he won't, but the guilt is so strong it makes him feel sick.

She's still hammering the lesson into his younger body. His pleas have gone quiet.

"Mom," he croaks out. Voice a little deeper than his counterpart's, but just as devastated.

She doesn't hear him. She doesn't stop.

"Mom," he tries again, taking another step forward, hands twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for her.

The scene around him is so visceral, so real. He can't look away from his mother, but everything around him is in sharp quality, too — a kind of clarity he doesn't usually have with this memory.

His mother might just be real beneath his fingers, too, if he reaches for her. Not just skin bloodily stuck to vinyl, tearing with a sickening sound. Real, and whole, and alive.

She can't be here, he tells himself. But it's weak. It doesn't do anything to stop him as he takes a step forward, and then another, and then his fingers are reaching, and—

She doesn't tear from vinyl. She doesn't burn to ash. She's whole, and breathing, skin warm and real.

"Mom," he whispers, stunned in his disbelief. His fingers press in a little deeper, keeping himself upright as his knees threaten to send him tumbling down. "Mom."

She doesn't react. She doesn't stop hitting his younger self — curled onto the floor, breathing raggedly. He knows that his memory starts to get blurry here, that he doesn't remember much from this moment.

But it continues on. His mother keeps speaking, making sure the lesson sticks with him.

"Mom," he tries. She still doesn't hear him. "Mom, please."

He crouches down, trying to get between her and his younger self, needing to see her face. Her eyes don't flicker to him.

She's real beneath his fingers, but — is he?

He's in his memory. He knows it. Is he just a spectator to it?

"Mom," he's desperate, now. "Please."

It's not the first time he's begged with her. But the word tastes strange on his tongue, now. He swallows it down.

For the first time in so many years, since he learned the first time that saying it would only promise worse, he says, "Mom, please, stop. Stop."

Her eyes, then, flicker to him. His heart almost stops.

Alive, alive, alive. Her eyes are brighter in colour than he remembers, but there's something behind them that he's never quite forgotten. He sees it now, burning angrily as she stares at him, her features twisting into a disappointed scowl.

"Stop?" She repeats. "Stop?"

He should know better. He used to know better.

"I didn't—" he stumbles, then stops himself. Backtracking makes it worse. Trying to pretend he never said it makes it worse. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry," she repeats, and then—

She laughs.

His father's laugh always scared him the most. But right now, his heart sinks so fast upon hearing his mother's, and cold dread flushes through him so fast it sends him straight down to the floor.

"Mom, mom, mom," he says hurriedly, hands out in front of him.

He's changed too much. The boy next to him is still curled up, still quiet, still unresisting. Still knows it's better to obey, to survive, to listen silently.

"It's too late to say sorry," she says. He scrambles back, trying to get some distance now, because her fists are raising again. The boy at his side still does not move.

I would have remembered this, he thinks, hysterically, somewhere in the back of his mind. Now that his mother's anger is focused on him, he knows he's trying to look for an excuse to think that this isn't real, that this isn't happening. This isn't my mom.

Whatever's happening right now, it's not some sort of fucked-up time travel. He thinks, maybe, his mother would have hesitated — at the sight of his eyes and hair, at the very least. Angry, sure, but there would have been a moment of disbelief.

This isn't her. It's not her.

Maybe it's so he doesn't feel so bad as he tries to scramble away from her hands and her fury.

She lunges for him, surprisingly fast. He's not quite able to catch himself, his head hitting the floor beneath him with a pained grunt.

"You're not sorry at all," her voice tells him.

"No, no, no," he pleads, and her fist connects, and then—

She's gone.

He blinks. She's not on top of him. Not in front of him. The boy, curled up on his side, isn't lying on the ground with him either.

But Neil is still in the house.

"What—" He rasps out to himself. He presses fingers into the back of his head, expecting to find some kind of lingering pain, but it's not tender at all. The punch against his side, landed on one of his older scars, twinges in what’s only psychosematic pain. It'd felt real enough. And yet, apparently, not at all.

He hears the front door of the house open. He scrambles back, but only makes it as far as his fingers reaching out to grasp at the lock of the back door before he hears footsteps.

"You idiot." His mother's voice, still. Low and dangerous.

He freezes. Watches as his mother pushes his younger self inside the house. His eyes are still drawn to her, but with the new angle of this same scene, he sees more of himself, too: his hair is dark, a few shades off the colour he'd first had as Neil. His eyes are dark, too. Neil probably reused the same prescription from this very life.

She's swearing in French. He realises that she didn't switch, not even when she tackled him down. He, on the other hand, hasn't been able to let a single sound of it past his lips. The boy, about to be shoved to the ground, is trying hard enough for both of them.

Stefan, he remembers. This is Stefan.

She doesn't notice him. Stefan doesn't either. The scene plays out again.

"Mom," he tries, weakly, once. When she doesn't take notice, he's not sure if it's relief or disappointment that floods his veins.

He watches, waiting, for the moment he might have messed with whatever this scene is. But his mother's eyes don't snap to him, this time, and the rest of the memory plays out as he faintly remembers it. Her attention is entirely on Stefan, right up until she seems to realise that Stefan has gotten the lesson.

"Pick yourself up," she tells him, just the same as she had.

Sometimes, after she hit him, she'd take his face between her hands. She'd ask do you understand, now? Do you understand why I had to react like that? You get it, don't you?

Sometimes, she'd pass him a tissue or a wet rag to clean himself up. Sometimes, a couple of days after an incident like this, after a lesson, she'd pick up some food that was a little fresher, a little more expensive.

She never, ever, said sorry.

And she certainly never said it after this. There was no food offering, no wet rag, no tissue, no calloused hands cupping his face. Just her anger, for days, for weeks.

He remembers the pain. He can see it on his frame, now, standing as an outsider and watching the scene from another perspective — Stefan’s curled up, protecting his side, aching fiercely and worse than anything his mother has ever done yet. He's trying to stretch out, to get to his feet, but his ribs are on fire. Every breath rattles and aches.

"Fine," she scoffs, when he's slow to move. "Stay there, then. And remember that this is nothing compared to the pain that will happen when you get caught because you're distracted."

She walks away. Stefan remains on the ground now that he's been given permission.

And then they both disappear.

The front door opens.

Neil makes his fingers move. The lock on the door at his back doesn't give way. He turns, trying harder, but it refuses to unlatch no matter how hard he pulls at it.

"You idiot."

Neil moves. He's caught in a memory, but there has to be a way out. There has to be a way to Andrew.

The back door won't open, but his mother and Stefan keep opening the front door, so that's where he heads. When Stefan falls to the ground, he walks past his mother, resisting the urge to reach for her again. Her voice gets further and further as he heads to the front of the house.

His fingers curl around the door handle, and it turns under his grip. He pulls the door open, and behind it—

Nothing.

He stretches his hand out, reaching into it. It disappears, like everything past the doorframe is in shadow. He swallows thickly and looks back, but he knows he needs to step through it. Andrew isn't here, not in this memory.

Before the scene can reset again, he steps through the door.

And walks into another house.

It's disorientating, his senses taking a moment to understand where he's suddenly appeared, stepping through the front door from one house to another.

But unlike the last scene, he immediately knows this one.

"Thank you for your time today," someone says.

"Of course," his mother says, in English now. Her voice contains no sign of the anger she’d been using with Stefan. Now, it’s pleasantly polite and perfect, replying to a statement directed at her — she wouldn't have dared answer in Nathan's presence otherwise.

He knows what scene he's walking into. He knows that when he walks down the hallway, he will see three officers standing in the Wesninski household. His mother will be standing behind the ironing board, clothes laid out against it like she’s been caught midway through a usual routine. A picture of a friendly, if not meek, housewife.

He'll be smaller, younger. Sitting on the couch, hands between his thighs, staring down at the rug. Not still enough.

And his father —

His father is standing in the doorway. Neil can see his shadow from the front door.

He takes a step back. The door rattles under his weight. He reaches back, trying to find the handle, but the wood has smoothed over. There’s nothing for him to grab. Nothing he can pull the door back with.

"He's dead," he whispers. Just like his mother. Just like the officer — who dared to speak directly to Mary and ignored Nathan — two months after this visit.

"Thank you, officers," Nathan's voice fills the hall. "Is there anything else we can do for you?"

Neil goes completely cold. His breaths are too fast, too loud. Every movement of his chest feels like it will get him noticed, will only bring pain. He’s not still enough, not still enough, not still enough.

He remembers the two officers in the corner of the room. Talking in low voices, not loud enough to be heard over the iron gurgling. They don't hide their disgruntlement as well as their senior officer — they expected to find something after getting inside the house, and they've come up with nothing.

He remembers one of their heads glancing up. Remembers, accidentally, catching one of their eyes.

Remembers his father's glance. The slight tilt of his head.

The fear, all-encompassing.

"That'll be all today," the officer finally replies.

No, he thinks. An echo. Don't leave. Look harder. Please.

Nathan's shadow moves, and it's all the warning he gets before he sees his father in the hallway.

He can't step back any further than he’s already standing. The door still won't give.

The fear is creeping up higher and higher. For a moment, it seems like Nathan looks right at him.

You're dead, you're dead, you're dead. He wants to say it, wants to yell it, but he has no chance of getting the words on his tongue. His throat feels tight, constricted, the air in the room not enough.

And then his father steps to the side and gestures for the officers to go ahead of him. Neil steps aside too, not wanting to have the officers bump against him, not wanting to disrupt the scene. He doesn't want to draw his father's attention.

When Neil tries to follow the officers out, the darkness doesn't let him. It becomes a wall, unmoving and unwilling to accept him.

"Let me out," he breathes furiously through his teeth, trying to fight against it, but he's pushed back by something invincible, barely missing getting caught in the frame as Nathan shuts the door.

Deathly silence rings through the house. Neil's breaths are still too fast. Nathaniel's are too, he knows. The iron is still roiling, spitting as it waits to be tipped over. It needed to be replaced months ago.

He sees a whole new angle of his father's face, an image he wasn't able to see from his place on the couch. He's not sure if this is real, or if this is just what he imagined his father looked like in this moment — staring at the back of the door, the tension in his frame making his shoulders seem all the more broad and imposing.

He doesn't smile. Neil doesn't know if that's worse.

"Junior," his father says, and turns away from the door. Away from Neil.

But towards Nathaniel.

Don't, don't, don't. But Neil doesn't dare reach for him, even as he aches to stop his father, knowing what's coming.

He follows as Nathan walks back to the lounge in carefully measured steps. Slow, imposing. Wanting Nathaniel afraid of what's to come, knowing he's made a mistake.

He didn't know what it was, at that point. But he'd known there would be a promise of pain.

His mother tries to take Nathan's focus — knowing, even before he entered the room, it'd be bad enough to try.

"They couldn't find anything," she says, her voice made of unwavering steel. A force, strong enough to try and stand up to him for one of the first times. "Nathaniel didn't—"

Nathan rips the iron from her hands. Forceful enough that the plug comes out of the wall, hitting the ground with a smack so loud it makes both Neil and Nathaniel flinch.

"Nathan," she tries, voice still made of steel but a sharp edge he's since learned is fear. But he remembers, now, that her bravery only made him even more terrified in this moment.

"Be silent and sit still," Nathan roars at Nathaniel, who finds it in himself to look up at Nathan, because he knows it's worse if he doesn't. "That's all you need to do, and you can't even do that!"

His father's rage is blinding. Burning. His father storms over to him, and before Nathaniel can get to his feet as demanded of his presence, his father smacks him down with the iron. Only pressing harder as Nathaniel takes a split-second too long to react.

The pain hadn't registered for a few moments. Neil sees Nathaniel's wide eyes staring up at his father, not yet feeling his skin burn.

And then Nathaniel screams.

He twists away, though Nathan follows him. His hands scramble up, desperate to alleviate the pain.

"Stay still," Nathan reminds him coldly.

Nathan only withdraws the iron when he's sure Nathaniel's fingers aren't taking the chance to grip into his skin.

Neil gags as the scent of burning clothes and skin reaches his nose. Nathan is talking to Nathaniel, reminding him that if he doesn't sit still, the iron will only be the warning. Nathaniel, he knows, has watering eyes and twitching fingers and a burning, blistering shoulder, and isn’t able to hear anything at all over the pain.

But even then, Nathaniel claws himself together long enough for Nathan to be satisfied, leaving the room with a scoff. Leaving Mary to scold and clean up Nathaniel as his tears slip free. Her tone isn't gentle, but her fingers are as she lifts the shirt from his skin. When he goes to scream, she puts her hand over his lips.

It's a reminder — his father won't appreciate the ruckus of misery when he's so agitated and unable to properly revel in it.

Neil's almost grateful for the muffled sound. The sound of his own screams set every nerve on edge, making his stomach flip relentlessly.

The scene resets as the shirt finally peels away from burned skin.

Nathaniel is still on the couch. His mother is back behind the ironing board. His father is in the corner of the room, staring down at the officer talking directly to Mary.

"Don't," he tries to warn Nathaniel, before his eyes come up to meet the officer's. But he's looked right through, and a glance back at his father shows his head tilting, the same danger promised.

He flees for the front door, though it's just as unmoving as ever, as is the back door that leads outside — though that had always been locked anyway, never budged in the time they spent in this house. Window latches don't give him any other means of escape either.

He hears Nathaniel screaming. His fingers come up to press against his shoulder, where he knows the mottled and stretched scar sits. He bites down on his tongue so hard he tastes blood when he catches himself doing it.

He searches the house, even opening the door to the basement, but no one other than the Wesninski's — and, for a few fleeting moments, police officers — are in the house.

The next door he manages to get through might just lead him someplace worse, he knows, but he needs to find Andrew. He's not in this house, and if he's caught in memories too, Neil needs to find a way to get to him.

Finally, he finds an exit from the scene, long after he can smell nothing but burning flesh, and it's the very same door his mother had ushered him through when they made their escape.

He stumbles into a club.

Eden's. His knees almost go weak with relief.

People move around him without really seeing him. He tries to get the attention of someone, not sure just how real this is, but he remains unnoticed and unremarked in the surroundings.

Which feels standard enough, perhaps, in the club. But Neil knows that if he tried to catch someone’s attention, he’d probably get it.

This isn’t quite real, either.

It's disorientating, going from his parents to the club, and his head is spinning as he tries to figure out what memory he might have ended up in.

And then he catches sight of someone pushing their way through the crowd, a tray of drinks held high, and he feels himself relax immediately.

"Andrew," Neil breathes out.

Of course, there are no memories of Eden without Andrew. But maybe, maybe, he might be able to find his way back to the real Andrew, if this one has no trace of him other than being in Neil's memory.

He pushes his way through the crowd, but it's only when he gets to the table that he realises his past self is with them: dark hair, dark eyes, all tension and righteous anger as he sees the cracker dust being passed around.

"Fuck," he says, running a hand down his face. Of course, of all the memories at Eden's, this is easily the worst — but it's nothing compared to his parents, and it's nothing other than purely frustrating now. He has a glimpse of Andrew, but not the one he wants.

"Andrew," he says, trying to interrupt the scene, putting his hand in front of Andrew's gaze to try and get his attention. But Andrew's eyes don't flicker to him. There's no hint of his Andrew in this memory. When Neil's past self tries to lurch to his feet, realising he's just downed a drugged shot, Andrew slams him back down.

Desperation entangles Neil's fingers in Andrew's shirt, stopping the scene from playing out. Andrew reacts, then, eyes flicking to Neil's face with a cold stare.

"Andrew," Neil tries to say, because something in the back of his mind is helplessly trying to hold out hope: maybe he just doesn't recognise me, maybe he will, maybe—

Without a word, Andrew reaches out for a shot glass still filled, left on the table. With a smooth motion, he pries his fingers into Neil's cheeks, keeping his mouth open as he tips the drink back into Neil's mouth. He’s strong enough to challenge Neil easily most days, but not like this. This feels inhumanly strong, a whole new level.

Immediately, he knows, as he chokes on liquid. This isn't him.

A fragment of him, maybe, from this memory — when his paranoia and his protectiveness meant doing whatever it took to pry Neil's secrets from him. Or, like his mother, something that fights against him when he tries to change the outcome.

He's forced to swallow the liquid. Sweet and strong — an awful memory of the way it burned down his throat the first time. Andrew drops his hands, and the stare he levels at Neil is flat and dead.

This isn't Andrew at all.

As he splutters, the world spins. The drugs kick in quicker than they ever did.

As he falls, the world changes. People move around him, and then they disappear. The dizziness passes. He gets his breath back under control from the frantic, choked gasps, as he realises that the scene has reset.

Andrew pushes his way back through the crowd and to the table. He pays no mind to Neil on the ground.

He hears, faintly, over the thumping music and the rush of blood in his hears, Nicky's voice. "Cracker dust. Heard of it? Tastes like sugar and salt and gives you a small rush. Sure you don't want in?"

His mouth sours. He puts his head in his hands and tries to remember to keep his breaths even, making sure he's as steady as can be — that the dizziness from the drugs and the anxiety and everything has been pushed back down. By the time he looks up from the tacky floor, he sees his past self sprawled to the floor, courtesy of Aaron pulling his chair out from him.

He gets to his feet at the same time that Aaron and Nicky haul his past self up. He grimaces as he sees the state of himself: loose-limbed, stumbling, unable to properly walk or do anything. He looks away before he can see Nicky pull him to the dance floor.

Hopefully, if Andrew's around, he's not also stuck in this memory. Neil doesn't want to see the fallout of it if he is.

There isn't a spare shot glass on the table, he notices, looking away from the floor of the club. He runs a hand down his face and reminds himself that doors won't open, handles disappear, and walls push him away — another drugged shot appearing isn't anything too strange. Whatever's going on, it's intent on keeping Neil locked into the scene until he finds the single method of escape.

The front entrance to the club doesn't let him through. He's pushed back from the bouncers when he tries the exit. When he tries to get through staff access door, it doesn't give. As he walks away from it, he sees Andrew — and Roland — heading towards it.

A pang in his chest resonates, but he forcefully breathes through it.

This is the past. It doesn't mean anything more than it ever did.

But fuck— fuck, he needs Andrew.

He's not going to find him here. Please, god, let him not find Andrew here. He needs to get out of this memory — he tells himself that he must be getting closer to Andrew, at least, if even a piece of him has appeared here.

He heads to the bathroom. He already knows there are no windows, but maybe there's a vent of some kind. He probably won't be able to squeeze through it, but if he can find where the edges of this memory turn into another, maybe he can pull himself through. It's not like much is making sense in whatever realm he's currently trapped in.

He glances quickly at the mirror as he passes, focus already on the vent he can see, but he almost stumbles to a dead stop as his brain catches up to what he sees.

Andrew, on the other side of the glass, looks back at him. Eyes wide, jaw tense, full of emotion — so much more his than the boy out there in the club.

They both move quickly, covering the distance left between them. They both reach out at the same time, but Neil's fingers hit solid glass, and the sound and the feeling of it makes him startle. He'd been hoping, expecting, to be able to reach out and touch Andrew. But the mirror is still real enough, even as it reflects a whole other scene.

Andrew seems to have the same problem as him, frowning as he pulls his hand back, staring at Neil intensely. His eyebrows are furrowed, expression pinched tight.

"Andrew," he says, but it only makes Andrew's expression pull further into annoyance. When Neil tries to say his name again, to ask what's wrong, to ask where he is, Andrew taps at his ear and shakes his head.

"Can't hear you," he sees Andrew mouth out. Andrew tilts his head, then his eyebrows furrow — less in worry, more in confusion. "Eden's?"

Andrew knows it, of course. And when Neil looks down and realises he’s wearing the same clothes he once flushed down the toilet, he knows that Andrew knows exactly where he is.

Neil nods, taking notice of what's on Andrew's side of the mirror. It’s dark, however, and it doesn't lend to helping Neil recognise anything behind him. He doesn't know if Andrew's in his own memories or stuck somewhere in Neil's.

But he thinks, judging by the anger he can see burning behind Andrew's eyes, he has his answer. If Andrew were trapped in his own memories, his gaze would be flat — not letting a single piece of it in, letting his own past bounce off skin that he's hardened to protect himself with.

Neil's relieved. At least, in his memories, it's just him getting hurt. It's not Andrew, trying to steel himself against his own past. But it means Andrew, if he's dealing with the same thing as Neil, is going to be facing his parents at some point. Maybe he already has. The anger could be explained, at least, though Neil probably has a few things in his memories that will probably wear at Andrew's tolerance.

"Are you alright?" He asks, looking over Andrew, searching for wounds.

Andrew scowls at him. An obvious 'don't be stupid' kind of expression he wears sometimes when Neil's particularly aggravating him.

Not so alright, Neil decides. But there are no physical wounds, at least. And Andrew's angry, but he hasn't shut Neil out. He's letting Neil see his own careful gaze, doing the same thing he is.

"I'm alright," Neil reassures.

Andrew mouths two very obvious, exaggerated words, making it clear he's come to the same conclusion that Neil has; they're not doing too well in whatever-the-hell this whole situation has become, and he's not any more tolerant of Neil's lies than he usually is. "Shut up."

"If you..." He presses his lips together, hesitating. Andrew's gaze is still steady, watching and waiting, and Neil sighs. He says, "Don't fight them, Andrew."

He knows there's no point — whatever these fragments of memories are, they're strong. He felt the difference in strength in Andrew's grip, forcing his lips open. His mother, tackling him down, stronger than she'd ever been. They're not meant to win against these pieces of the past.

"Fuck you," he sees Andrew reply, succinct and furious.

He knows it's not fair of him to say. He's asking Andrew to look away, to give up the fight, to let the scene play out unchallenged. He knows he'd be just as angry if he were anywhere in Andrew's memories.

But if Andrew asked him to stand down, he would. And he knows Andrew will too, now that he's asking it.

He won't have Andrew get hurt, over and over again, just to try and protect a piece of himself from the past.

"I'm going to find you," Neil promises. No other reassurances or platitudes or explanations are going to do anything to dissuade Andrew from his anger — but he can distract him, at least; he can remind him that their concern, right now, is getting back to the real versions of each other.

Andrew's anger isn't unbroken, but there are pieces of something else glimmering through now. He puts a hand to the barrier between them, regarding it for a moment, before he steps back and nods at Neil.

"Break it," Andrew tells him, gesturing to the barrier between them.

Whatever, wherever, Andrew is, he can't do the same. So it's up to Neil.

He glances around, seeing if there's anything to break the glass. There's nothing sharp he can use, nothing solid enough he can use to smash it, so his fists become the best, quickest option. It's early enough in the night that there are still some paper towels in the dispenser, so he takes hold of them and wraps them around his hand, hurrying in case the portal decides it's going to become a proper mirror once more and cut off his contact to Andrew.

With one more nod from Andrew, he draws his fist back and hits the mirror. The image of Andrew flickers as the glass cracks and shatters, and Neil catches the faintest hint of surprise on Andrew's face before the vision of him disappears completely. He ignores the glimpse of his own eyes now staring right back at him. There's something behind the mirror, his fist going through it and not hitting the wall, so he ignores his own reflection and reaches out.

His hand continues into the darkness. Neil brushes away the rest of the glass, a rectangle of darkness just beyond, and he takes a deep breath before figuring it probably won't hurt him. He climbs the sink and makes his way through it, this time tumbling from a small height. He grimaces as he catches himself on his hands, a sharp jolt of pain ricocheting through his arms.

He looks up, expecting to see Andrew, but his heart stutters as he comes face to face with more darkness.

No, he realises. Not the same darkness — not like the void behind the mirror. Darkness like the scene behind Andrew, like it's night — like there's a glimpse of light, somewhere, just somewhere out of reach. Not just an eternal pitch of darkness like the void, like light has never existed in the space of it.

He has to be close, Neil tells himself, getting back to his feet. Knowing that no one in the scene should react to his voice, he calls out, but Andrew doesn't answer. Neil presses his lips together, frustrated, but he makes himself take stock of his surroundings now that his eyes are adjusting.

His stomach sinks. He recognises this darkness. Knows, now, where Andrew had likely been when Neil saw him through the mirror.

He might still be here, Neil thinks. He would have waited.

"Andrew," he calls out again, but the only answer he receives is the sound of scuffling in the distance, like people are fighting in the next room. His stomach clenches. His heartbeat pounds in his ears.

He walks forward. Remembers, faintly, the layout of the Evermore castle, leading him from the bottom of the stairs where he's fallen. His footsteps sound too loud as he heads further into the darkness. He realises that they sound wrong — only one set, making him feel out of step, out of rhythm. Someone's missing in these halls — he didn't ever walk them alone.

He shakes his head. Get a grip, Josten.

The other Ravens aren't around. Neil doesn't know if it's because they truly weren't, or if it's because he remembers nothing that they may as well not have been. It doesn’t matter either way, he supposes.

He tries to flick through his memories, preparing to brace himself for whatever situation he's about to come face-to-face with. There are plenty, he knows, that might be on the setlist for this fucked-up play he's apparently become the audience for. But there are plenty, too, he doesn't quite know. His memories are hazy, blurred, locked somewhere in the back of his mind. Everything became a blur of bruises and hurts and pain after a while that it all blends together, and he can't pick apart anything clear from the muddy mess it all makes.

It's not like he's tried to, either. He's never tried to linger on it.

His heart is still in his ears, all too loud, as he follows the sounds of the scuffling. If Andrew is anywhere in this memory, then he will be following the noise as well. Neil keeps a lookout, his voice dying in his throat every time he tries to call out, but Andrew doesn't peel away from any of the shadows of the halls.

His footsteps falter as he comes to a stop in front of the boy's bathroom.

The sound of scuffling is closer, now. A fight. A struggle.

And then, between it all, there's a voice he hasn't heard in person for months, now. A voice that only ever replays in videos, past interviews being aired in articles dedicated to honouring a tragedy; the so-called Greatest Loss to Exy.

"Hold him down," he hears Riko Moriyama say, in a tone that's passed the gleeful stage of his sadistic tendencies, and he's now getting irritated. Which meant, always, a worse pain — and it's only a few steps away from him, now.

He learned the edges of Riko's voice, the shape of his actions, when Neil pushed too far and Riko snapped. There'd be something amusing about that, too, for a while. Until it became less about irritating Riko and just about making sure he didn't sign his future away to the Ravens — until it became about survival, about being able to return to the Foxes, being able to be back in Palmetto when Andrew returned from Easthaven.

He doesn't remember this, though.

Whoever's with him doesn't say anything, but Neil has a good idea of who it is. Like two pieces of a puzzle jankily shoved together, twisted until they became intertwined and inseparable for the length of time that he was in the picture, Jean was never more than a step behind Neil.

He hears more fighting. A grunt. Then, for a moment, quiet.

And then water begins to pour. Gurgling soon follows. Coughing, ragged breaths, and then an order: sign, Nathaniel.

A spluttered, ragged reply: "No."

A heavy sigh. More water. More gurgling, more coughing, then the sound of retching.

Unmistakably, there is the sound of panic. Not just his own. Jean's own breaths pull from the air something terrible, and Riko curses them both.

He doesn't remember this. He wonders if it's even real. Maybe, perhaps, there is a point where his memories are no longer just that. Wherever he is, maybe these scenes become a fantasy, a means to make Neil think of worse situations than he was ever in.

Riko's voice echoes angrily. More orders, directed to Jean. And then, before Neil can even put together the fact that the footsteps mean that someone is coming closer, he is suddenly face-to-face with Riko Moriyama.

He startles back, but Riko doesn't notice him. Riko walks straight past him and into the darkness beyond, leaving Jean to clean up the mess left of Neil.

He wants to follow. He wants to follow Riko and say you're dead, too. A few words to your brother, and there was a gun to your head. You die, you die, you die, and you will always, always, always be second.

But then he hears Jean's low French, like he's speaking through a strangled throat, and he stops himself before he can follow.

Come on, Nathaniel. Up. Up you get.

Whatever is left of Neil, it is not enough to reply.

And then the sound of a scuffle starts. Neil's expression pulls into surprise — he doesn't think he'd fight against Jean. Not this late into his stay at the Nest, but he doesn't remember this. He doesn't know how real this is.

Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's a need to know, suddenly. He doesn't remember, and he doesn't know if this is real at all, but it's... it's something. And Jean is in that bathroom, on the verge of a panic attack if he's not already in the midst of one, and Neil heads towards him on instinct.

Three people are in the bathroom, which stops him short, but he realises one is Riko. The scene has reset. He's not fighting against Jean, not purposefully, but he's fighting against Riko's orders and therefore he's dragging Jean into the fight anyway.

They manage to get Neil into one of the shower stalls. His hair is still dark.

Neil reaches up to his hair and tugs at the strands. He's safe, now. His identity isn't a problem now that it's revealed. And the Moriyamas and the FBI would both have problems if he tried to hide himself again. But he brushes the lighter strands from his gaze anyway, something unsettled in his stomach at the sight of it.

He catches sight of his eyes. Blue, the same as they've been reflecting in the mirror for so long, now. He's used to the sight of them, but —

Something's different about them, too. About his entire expression. He looks...

Distant. Dazed. Like Riko's landed a blow against his head at some point. He might have. He probably did. There wasn't an inch of Neil that wasn't sore after his stay at Evermore.

But he knows, instinctively, it's not a head injury that has given him that strange expression. His stomach turns, and he looks away.

His feet don't move, though, even as he tells them to. He stands in the entry of the bathroom, his peripheral painting the picture of Jean keeping his shoulders pinned down, as Riko pours water over his mouth, trying to keep the mess of it all contained to the shower.

When his darker-hair self gags as the water lets up for the first round, Neil feels a constriction at his throat. Jean's panicked, short breaths start to fill the bathroom.

Sign, Nathaniel.

Neil drags in a breath that hurts. He stumbles back as his feet finally unanchor themselves from the floor, and he almost falls right out of the bathroom.

Not real. Not real, not real.

Or just not remembered. Not until now.

Jean's low muttered French comes to his ears. It makes it all worse. The Nest feels all-encompassing, a shrouded blanket of darkness he can't get away from, and the memory of Jean's breaths and his panic and everything press down further on him.

If Jean's in this memory, then he'd know if it's real. But Neil knows he's not going to ask.

But if Andrew—

He shakes his head, tugging at the strands of his hair, trying to let sharper pinches of pain snap him into focus.

Andrew's not here. Neil needs to move. He can't change this scene, no matter how much he wants to take a swing at Riko, no matter how much he wants to put his hands on Jean's shoulders and remind him that their monsters are going to die.

Neil searches the Nest, desperately pushing back flashes of memories as he walks through it. Andrew's not in any of the corners, not in any of the mirrors or reflections. It's only when he climbs the stairs to the top, pushing the door open, that a deeper kind of darkness finally welcomes him. He walks through it, almost relieved as he heads towards a new scene.

Please be with Andrew, please have Andrew, my Andrew, the real Andrew, he recites, holding his breath as he crosses through the darkness.

He comes out the other side, takes a single second to try and piece together where he is.

And then he tries to take a step backwards. Fear floods through him so fast he becomes unsteady, hands desperately searching behind him, trying to reach back through the darkness.

But the door he's come through has closed behind him. There is no Evermore, no Nest, no Riko at his back. No Jean. No Andrew.

Only Lola, sitting in the corner of the room. Watching as Nathaniel dries his arms on the floor of the cellar, having rinsed the bleeding wounds with water from the sink. Waiting for the ruckus upstairs to come to an end, for death to slowly come down the stairs, barefoot and ready to strip Nathaniel apart.

He never saw the wounds on his face — not until after he'd been in the hospital, and they'd patched him up, and they'd had a couple of days to start healing. He hadn't seen them like this: fresh, oozing, skin torn apart and blistering under Lola's attention. He looks away the moment he realises he's caught sight of the wounds, but it's too late. He knows he won't quite forget this sight, this new angle of this nightmare.

"No, no, no," he says. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but here.

He knows how this scene ends. He knows, he knows, his uncle comes through the cellar door. At the end of this, Lola dies. Nathan dies. All of the monsters in this scene die right here, while Nathaniel escapes and lets Neil Josten become real.

But Neil doesn't want to relive this. He doesn't want to remember being Nathaniel.

He tries the cellar door, but it doesn't move. His grunts turn to frustrated shouts, hands slamming against it, but it doesn't let him out. The bar refuses to lift from the cellar door as he tries to wrestle with it.

A door at the top of the stairs opens. Neil goes cold, the tips of his fingers starting to shake.

"Dead," he tells himself, hands clenched at his sides as he waits by the door. "They're all dead."

It doesn't matter. Neil can't quite cut out this fear that he knows so well.

He tries to focus on the plan to get out of this memory. He'll make his escape as his father comes down the stairs and opens the cellar door. He'll slip back out, maybe up to the house, maybe out the way he and his mother took to escape the first time, and he'll get out of here. He won't stay in this memory. He won't risk Andrew coming to find him here.

When his father reaches the landing, Neil tries to slip past him without actually looking at him. He's seen plenty of his father in his memories, in his nightmares, in all the articles and the fucking court trials. He doesn't need to get any new angles. But the walls buckle, and the cellar door shifts, and he's pushed back from the door and the stairs and the escape.

"No, no, come on," he begs it, fingers scrabbling at the walls, but the scenery is unheeding of his desperation.

DiMaccio comes too close to him as he follows his father down the stairs, and Neil takes a reflective step back and closer to Nathaniel. He doesn't want to risk triggering any reactions in this scene — he certainly doesn't want to draw DiMaccio's attention. Or anyone else’s.

"On your feet," his father says. "You know better than to sit in my presence."

"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you," Neil mutters, trying to find some sort of bravery in this horror. In the corner of his eyes, he sees Nathaniel get up off the floor. Lola laughs and moves so she can stand at his back, and Neil moves so that he can see her.

He's pretty sure he knows how everyone moves in this scene. He remembers it all too fucking well for all that he's tried to forget it. He doesn't want to accidentally make himself tangible in this scene, at the whims of the hands of these violent ghosts.

When Nathan moves to stand in front of Nathaniel, Neil looks at his back. His cheek aches in a violent echo as his father punches the burns of his cheeks, and his throat follows as Nathan catches him.

Nathaniel makes an awful noise that grates on his ears. He refuses to look, eyes bouncing around the room, trying to find something. But the shadows are no deeper here, and there are no other doorways in this cellar. There are no windows. No reflections.

Nathaniel didn't mind that there was no mirror at the time, as it meant he wouldn't have to see his face and the wreck it had become. But now Neil aches desperately for anything he might be able to use to get out of this memory.

"I said hello," Nathan says.

Nathaniel makes another noise, a rasp, a desperate attempt for breath. And then, finally, manages a quiet, "Hello."

Nathan talks to him. Asks about his mother.

Neil feels numb as Nathaniel says, "Mom is dead. You killed her. Don't you remember?"

He certainly does. The memory of skin on vinyl crawls to the front of his mind with vengeance, making him shudder. There is nothing but horror down here. Nothing but the worst pieces of himself.

Nathan's voice drums in his ears. His own rattles against his skull, hollowed out with horror and fear that he knows he tried to hide.

When Nathan squeezes Nathaniel's cheeks, Neil makes another attempt for the door. It pushes him back.

"Fuck!" He yells, slamming against it bodily now. It holds, real and solid. He slaps his open palms against it and tries, still, to shove against it. "What do you want from me? Why am I here?"

The only answer is Nathan's spiel: "Do you know what I'm going to do to you?"

For a split-second, Nathaniel's stomach drops as he fears that his father has noticed him. But he realises he's talking to Nathaniel, though Nathaniel has no answer. Neil's stomach sinks — the lack of his own voice giving away his losing nerve, the fear starting to climb up his throat and choke him.

"I'm not entirely sure just yet, myself," Nathan continues. "I've had a couple years to think it over but now that the time has come I'm indecisive. I might skin you alive. I might take you apart one inch at a time and cauterise the wounds. I think no matter what I choose we are going to start by slicing the tendons in your legs. You're not going to run away this time, Nathaniel. I'm not going to let you."

"Fuck you," Nathaniel and Neil both spit, full of the same horror.

He tries not to watch, but he knows this scene too well. It plays behind his eyelids, because despite everything, he remembers this — the fear, and the sheer horror that overcame him. The slow but sure dying of hope. It doesn't matter if he doesn't watch it. He knows what it sounds like when DiMaccio crosses the room and passes Nathan his axe and his cleaver. He knows what it sounds like when Nathaniel tries to bolt, but Lola catches him, and what it sounds like as futile fists try and fall upon DiMaccio's skin before he throws Nathaniel into the wall.

He sees Nathaniel crumble. He sees his father approach, and the swing of the axe as he lazily takes a hit at Neil. Knowing, full well, it wouldn't connect. That Nathaniel would get to his feet, just in time, and the game would continue.

In this small cellar, it was about the thrill of dragging it out. For Nathan, it was just a means of extending this feeling, making Nathaniel more and more afraid as he tried to survive, knowing he’d eventually win. Knowing, eventually, he’d get the slow, drawn-out kill he fantasised about.

When Nathan tests the blade of the cleaver on his own thumb, spilling blood on himself before he spills Nathaniel's, Neil knows this too well.

His own heartbeat, rabbit-quick and terrified, thunders in his head and pounds in his skull. He feels ill as he watches Nathaniel's last nerve break: as he attempts to take the chance with Lola, reaching for her knife and gun, and as she masterfully dodges and swipes at him.

Watching Lola get punched in the throat is hardly satisfying, even now. He can't draw any sense of relief when he knows how short-lived it is.

Nathaniel gets to the door. It doesn't bend under his touch, and the bar moves when Nathaniel pulls at it even with Lola's hand in his hair and pulling, but Nathan is right behind him.

"Move," Nathan says, directed towards Lola, but Nathaniel — and Neil — both throw themselves in different directions. Nathaniel throws himself down to the ground, and Neil tries to swallow down his nausea as he comes closer to the door, trying to move the bar now that Nathan's cleaver has scratched a line down it.

Still, it doesn't budge. He doesn't even have the strength to yell.

He looks behind him, just to make sure no one is about to come up near him. Instead, he sees Nathaniel scrambling backwards, trying to escape his father, knowing the game is over. That his father has had enough of the hunt, of the running — years of it have made him intolerant, and he’s decided he’s over the chase.

Nathan kicks him down, then puts his weight on Nathaniel's chest and puts his cleaver to his throat. Then to his cheek, carving matching lines into Nathaniel's cheek that Neil always avoids letting his gaze linger over in the mirror.

DiMaccio moves to the base of the stairs to call up for the blowtorch. Neil can't follow or edge past him to get to the stairs.

"Lola," Nathan says. "Would you like the pleasure of crippling him?"

Neil has never been able to forget this.

Nathaniel starts to gag as he resists against the weight of the axe on his throat. When Nathaniel forgets the rule — to never, ever, touch his father — Nathan puts a stop to his struggles, the cleaver pressed against the bridge of his nose.

"If you do not sit the fuck still I will gouge your eyes out."

"Please," he hears Nathaniel whisper. "Please don't."

He's shaking. Nathaniel is too, under the weight of Nathan.

"We'll slit your ankles, then your knees. And if you try to crawl away I will take your arms away from you too. Do you understand?"

DiMaccio sets the blowtorch down by Nathan's side. Neil tries, again, to slam against the door. It does not let him out.

"Please, please, please," he begs.

He knows the scene is about to change. That his uncle's people are about to open the cellar door. He knows Nathan won't be able to follow through on his threats, that Lola won't get to delight in slitting his skin. It's almost over — the worst of it is almost over.

"Please," Nathaniel begs, too. "Just let me go, just let me go, I'm not—"

"Lola," his father says.

And then his father is gone.

Lola is in the corner of the room. Nathaniel is sitting on the ground, drying out his arms.

The blood that has tracked across the floor is gone. The mark on the cellar door from Nathan's cleaver is gone. The scene has reset.

Neil tries the door. Please, please, I've suffered it once, that's enough, that's enough, I get it, I get it, let me out—

It doesn't open.

The door at the top of the stairs does, and Neil's trembling is so bad that he sinks to the ground.

"On your feet," Nathan says.

Nathaniel scrambles to do so. Neil stays on the ground, close to the door.

Stays as he hears Nathaniel's nerves give out, as his last hope dies, as he gags and struggles and tries, still, to fight for his life. Stays as Nathan's cleaver arcs a line into the door — tries it, again, but it still doesn't let him out.

He waits, and waits, as Nathaniel knows he is about to die. Knows that Nathan and Lola are going to slit his ankles, then knees, his arms if he tries to resist. Moves, only, as he begs. Keeps an eye on the cellar door, waiting for his uncle and his people. Thinks maybe just a second longer, I can get out, maybe this is the only way out, just like it was then, just like—

The door does not let him through. His father is gone, and it is once again himself, Nathaniel, and Lola in the cellar.

He swears, prays, but it does nothing to stop the repeat of the scene. His father comes down the stairs.

Neil tries to block it out as he walks around the cellar, trying to find something. He tries to turn the sink on, hoping to get some kind of reflection, but the water doesn't come out. He rattles it, then kicks it in his frustration, but despite the fact Nathaniel cleaned his wounds with it an hour before the scene starts, it does not work for him now.

He scours every inch of the cellar by the time the scene resets. Paces it again, double-checking for any hint of a reflection, of an escape, and knows there's nothing to be found by the time Nathan puts the cleaver to his nose again.

His eyes fix on the blades, the axe pressed against his throat, the cleaver pressed to his face. His mouth goes dry, and his stomach turns so much that he has to swallow down bile.

If he reaches for the weapons, it might be enough to trigger an interaction. It makes him hesitate, even though he knows the scene should reset, that his wounds won't linger. At the end of this, Nathaniel lives. Neil will too, but still, he does not reach for any weapons on the next reset.

Lola also has her knife, he considers. But there is no point that she is without it, no opportunity to grab it without the potential of being noticed. But there is also no pause, no moment, where Nathan's weapons are without a handler either — between Nathan and DiMaccio, the cleaver and the axe are always in hand.

There's only one way to get a blade in this scene, with the potential of a reflection: he has to pry it out of someone's hands first.

Besides, he figures — the shot glass appeared in Andrew's hands when he needed it. There is no promise that there is not another blade, even if he grabs one unsupervised.

The potential of retaliation horrifies him, but as the scene resets and the cellar still does not let him out, he knows his options are running out. Andrew will come looking, if he isn't already. Neil needs to find him. Neil needs to get back to him.

He needs to make it out of this cellar first.

Lola, alone, might be easier. Before Nathan and DiMaccio make their way down the stairs.

And if he triggers one of them, there's no guarantee the other two will follow: no one else has ever reacted in the scene yet. The rest of them will potentially follow the script, leaving him alone.

The scene will reset, he tells himself. If it goes wrong, the scene will reset.

He waits for it. Before the door at the top of the stairs opens, before he can lose the scrappy piece of courage he has to try and make this plan work, he reaches for Lola's blade.

With neat ease, the same way she blocks and dances away from him before Nathaniel punches her in the throat, she avoids him. The blade is in her hands, and her focus is now, entirely, on Neil. Nathaniel stays on the ground, drying out his arms, waiting for death to come down the stairs.

"Junior," she crows at him, a smile splitting her face. "I am going to enjoy slitting your ankles. You don't get to run away from me this time."

He tries to reach again for the knife, but she swipes at his hands, and the blade connects. The pain is sharp and quick, and he quickly stumbles back out of reach, pulling his hands into his chest. Blood flows between his fingers, and he winces as he stretches his fingers and feels it dripping to the ground. She laughs, only giving him a moment before she moves forward and attempts to slash at him again.

The door at the top of the stairs opens. Neil stumbles back as Lola advances, caught up in the fight. His father doesn't notice him as Lola, finding thrill in the hunt, circles Neil around the room. She's broken out from her script, and she has no intention of falling back into it.

If the reset only comes when the cellar door is about to open, then Neil has a while yet to hold out.

"On your feet," his father says.

Neil lunges for the knife. Even if the reflection of the blade doesn't give him anything, maybe if he takes it, maybe that'll be enough to change this scene. Maybe he'll be able to fight back against Lola.

She laughs, and with more ease than ever, pushes against him. He stumbles back — and, too late, he falls right into Nathaniel as he's scrambling to his feet. They both go sprawling, and as Neil tries to quickly get to his feet, but he's pushed back down.

He expects to see Lola standing above him, but his eyes meet Nathaniel's own. In his hands, there is the knife that Neil tried so hard to try and get.

Nathaniel presses the knife to Neil's throat, an early imitation of the same way that Nathan will do it against his. Neil's eyes flick to Nathan, but Nathan is standing eerily still in the corner, a puppet with its strings cut as it waits for the scene to resume with all the actors in place.

"Get off," Neil grits through his teeth, trying to kick out at Nathaniel.

He's hardly as scared of himself as he is of the other people in his room, but the look in Nathaniel's eyes makes something inside of him react with anger and fear.

"I die," Nathaniel says, a strange cadence to his voice. The terror is gone entirely. "Over and over again. All for you. You left me here."

It feels insane, it feels ridiculous, but Neil's stomach swoops with regret and guilt.

Nathaniel presses the knife deeper into his skin, and Neil struggles. He's got more weight behind him than his counterpart, a lot more strength than he ever had in Baltimore. But Nathaniel keeps him pinned with laughable ease, ignoring every single battering Neil tries against his sides. Blood drips from his face, from his hands, as he leans down against Neil and puts more weight behind the blade.

Lola stands above them. She crouches down with a grin, fingers drumming into his cheeks, like Neil's scars are the matching open wounds of Nathaniel's.

"You don't get to leave," she laughs.

Nathaniel presses the knife deeper, and deeper, and Neil struggles and chokes and tries to breathe, blood that's now his own warm as it spills down his neck and down his chest, and he's going to die, fuck, he's going to die here, and then—

Lola is in the corner. Nathaniel sits across from him, drying out his arms.

Neil's hands come up to his throat as he sucks in ragged breaths. He expects his own hands to come away bloody, but his throat is intact and whole and unmarred. He sits up so quickly that the room spins, trying to drag in more breaths, hands coming back up to press at his throat.

Nathaniel does not notice him. Lola doesn't either. Neil's gaze flickers away from the blade in her hands.

He stays down on the ground for another loop, gaze distant, mindful to try and distract himself as Nathan presses the axe down on Nathaniel's throat.

There has to be a way out of this scene. He just hasn't found it yet. He has to leave — he has to. There's no other option. He's not staying here, proving Lola right. She's wrong — every other person in this room is, too. Nathaniel survives, and he gets out of here, and he lives and lives and lives.

But another pace around the cellar gives him nothing. The door still refuses to budge. The memory refuses to ever let him see his uncle's people come storming through the cellar door, bringing light and hope and an end to this.

"Please. Please, don't. Please just let me go, just let me go—"

Nathaniel keeps dripping blood everywhere as he tries to run. As he writhes and thrashes under his father. Neil curls his fingers and digs his nails so hard into his palms that they bleed, too, but the wounds are gone by the next reset.

He can't keep listening to this.

When DiMaccio calls down the stairs, Neil gets closer than he's ever been. The door, for once, lets him just past the frame — and hope rises viciously, thinking this has to be it, this is the way out, until DiMaccio spins on his heels and levels a stare right at Neil.

Neil never touched him. He'd been trying to press himself flat against the wall, to try and slip past, even if he wasn't sure he'd be able to.

It doesn't matter. It's still too close, and for the first time, someone takes notice of him without Neil touching them.

Fear spikes in his chest, but he's so close, so close. If he can just get past the cellar, if he can just get up the stairs, then maybe, maybe—

DiMaccio's bulked frame moves all too fast. He hits Neil so hard that he goes sprawling back, straight down on the floor of the cellar, head hitting the ground with a nasty crack that resonates from the walls and rings loudly in his ears.

Get up, get up, get up. Neil tries to, but the world spins out. His arms and legs don't quite coordinate, not listening to him as he tries to get everything back under himself.

He's had a concussion before, an unlucky run-in with one of his father's men when he was on the run with his mother, and knows DiMaccio's sent him to the ground hard enough to cause another.

In his hands, DiMaccio wields the blowtorch that he'd been calling up the stairs to get. He shouldn't have it yet, and this isn't right, this isn't real.

The blowtorch flares to life, and none of that matters. The fear is alive and real and all-consuming as Neil tries, still, to scramble away.

"Don't, don't, don't," Neil says, tongue heavy in his mouth. DiMaccio is quiet as he approaches, a quirk to his mouth in amusement.

He crouches down over Neil, the blowtorch close to his face. Neil struggles, and struggles, and DiMaccio gets a hand fisted in his hair as he draws Neil's head up. The blowtorch clicks. DiMaccio pushes his head down, smashing it to the ground, and the pain is—

Gone.

DiMaccio is gone. Lola and Nathaniel remain, waiting for the rest of the actors to head down the stairs. Neil's vision clears, but the fear doesn't relent. He chokes on it, unable to draw a proper breath in. There's nowhere to go, there's no means to leave, and Neil is stuck here, reliving this scene over and over and over.

He spends that entire replay of the memory caught in a deep, awful panic. Maybe another reset, too. Things start to get blurry, hazy, like DiMaccio's bashing has caused some lingering effects.

His fingers start to tingle. He flexes them and realises he's been pressing the curves of his nails so deeply into the sides of his arms that he's bleeding. He doesn't quite feel the pain, and he stares at the blood under his fingernails with a distant gaze. It'll be gone by the next reset.

He looks up just as his father comes down the stairs.

Come on, he tries to tell himself. Get up, Neil. Get up. This memory doesn't end here. You need to find Andrew.

He gets to his feet, though he doesn't quite remember how. The world sways, but he locks his knees until it passes.

There has to be a way out of here. He just hasn't found it yet.

He tries to pry at the bar of the cell door until his fingers become even more wrecked, nails catching and tearing, but there's still no give. He tries every inch of the walls, pressing against them, trying to pry his fingers under the door that his uncle storms through, but he still finds nothing.

"Please," Nathaniel says. "Please, don't."

Neil pulls in a shuddering breath. Nathaniel loses his last nerve, over and over again.

Neil's starts to snap, too. He's trying to keep it together with clawed hands, trying to keep a grip on his sanity, but it's starting to slip.

Nathaniel begs, and begs, and Neil's jaw is starting to hurt from how hard he's clenching it.

Be quiet. Be quiet. Just— be quiet.

But every single time that Nathaniel is, it's worse. Because it means the fear is winning, and Neil is reminded every single time of how it choked him.

"On your feet," his father demands once more.

There's nothing about this scene he can change. Nothing he can do to help Nathaniel, living this memory over and over again.

As Nathaniel dries out his arms, with Lola in the corner, with his father still not in the room, Neil crouches down in front of Nathaniel.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Nathaniel's eyes flicker to him. The surprise of it makes Neil rock back until he hits the ground.

He thinks he's just triggered Nathaniel into moving and prepares himself for the pain of it, but Nathaniel just stares at him. Eyes so blue. The same as his father's. Nathaniel couldn't control his fear enough to try and dare to look his father in the eye's. Neil can't, still, either. He still can't quite look in the mirror and see the same eyes echoed back.

He sees the tightly-gripped fear in Nathaniel's eyes. The certainty that he was facing death. The knowledge, at the time, that no one was coming for him. There was no saving him, no rescue, no means to survive.

And yet— and yet, he makes a break for the door every single time. He spins on Lola and catches her in the throat. He struggles and reaches out for his father and fights. He hopes for as long as he possibly can.

Nathaniel said goodbye to Neil Josten's life. To the people who meant so much to him, to the life he wanted so, so desperately to hold onto. He said goodbye, but —

He still fights, every single time.

"I'm sorry," Neil says again, not quite able to say anything else. I haven't left you here, he thinks he should say, but the words stick in his throat before he can pry them free.

His father opens the cellar door. Nathaniel keeps his eyes on Neil as Nathan approaches him.

"On your feet. You know better than to sit in my presence."

Nathaniel scrambles, gaze finally snapping away from Neil as he stands.

Nathan stops in front of him. Puts his hand on Nathaniel's shoulder.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. I didn't deserve this.

And then his father punches the burns on his cheek. Catches him by the throat.

Neil moves before he can think about it. Anger and guilt fuel him, propelling him forward.

The scene will reset. Nothing will change.

But something has to. Neil can't keep seeing the same thing, over and over. Can't keep watching Nathaniel struggle and fight like he is with no end in sight.

He kicks at his father's knees, putting all of his strength behind it.

Nathan, incredibly, stumbles. Satisfaction burns swift and hot, but it's a flame that only lasts a moment.

Nathaniel hits the ground as his father lets go of his throat, not giving him the chance to get his feet under him. He stays on the ground, spluttering and coughing and then suddenly quiet as he goes puppet-still, but Neil already knows that he brought this fight upon himself.

Both Nathaniel and Neil don't expect any help down here. Not until that cellar door opens.

Nathan turns his focus on Neil. For the first time in this memory, his eyes stare right back at Neil. A bright, burning blue. The same as Nathaniel's — as his.

"There you are," Nathan says.

Between one blink and the next, the axe is in Nathan's hands.

"Here I am," Neil grits out. "But you— well. You're six feet under."

Nathan smiles, slow and sure. Unheeding, entirely, of Neil's words.

"I am going to enjoy this."

Maybe there is something in common, there — the enjoyment of each other's deaths. But it's only Neil that gets to feel it.

"Fuck you forever. I live," he tells his father, spitting angrily. "I live."

Nathan's smile doesn't falter. He spins the axe, and then rushes towards Neil.

Terror has become an old friend, a constant accompaniment in this memory, but it's different, now. Now, Nathan is focused on him, and Neil scurries back as fast as he can. The terror is white-hot and floods through him. Fuck, fuck.

It needs to be for something, though. He needs to try. The scene will reset, and maybe it'd be easier to get it over with now, to stop living with this fear, but he certainly isn't going to lie down and wait for it. He heads for the door, and Lola isn't playing her part in this scene, isn't jumping on his back and putting her hands in his hair and trying to pull him back, but it doesn't matter. The bar doesn't lift.

Nathan plays his part. He swings the axe down, and Neil throws himself to the side. He catches himself before he can fall, but it's not fast enough.

Nathan pins him down. The axe is pushed against his throat.

It's sharper, now, than it'd been. Blood wells up quickly, slicing skin a whole lot smoother than it'd been able to.

"Don't, don't," he begs, because he sees when his father's focus changes, no longer fascinated by the blood welling underneath his axe.

"We'll slit your ankles, then your knees. And if you try to crawl away I will take your arms away from you too. Do you understand?"

Change, change, change, he begs of this memory. Reset. Please, please, reset.

Nathan presses the cleaver's blade against his ankles. Neil kicks out at him, but Nathan's grip is tight as he keeps Neil's legs pinned down.

Reset, please, come on, come on—

The blade presses in. Neil lets out a panicked, desperate kind of noise. He kicks out, and the blade presses deeper, and he thinks what if it's permanent, what if this doesn't reset, what if this is truly it—

The weight against his throat disappears. The weight on his stomach, on his legs, disappears.

Neil lies on the ground, staring up at the ceiling of the cellar, and pulls in desperate, short breaths still rifled with panic.

He rolls out his ankle, but there's no flare of pain. Just the imitation, the remembrance, is all that remains.

Nathaniel sits, drying out his arms, and does not look at him. Lola does not say or do anything.

Neil only moves when he hears the top of the cellar door open, and it's only because he knows that DiMaccio will walk right over the spot he's currently lying. He drags himself to the corner, not quite able to get to his feet, and puts the wall to his back.

He dares to look down at his ankle, just in case he's maybe used to the pain, just in case it stuck, this time. But his ankles remain unmarred, unbloody, not touched by Nathan's blades. He puts a hand to his throat, just to check, just to be sure, but the lack of oxygen he's getting isn't because the skin has been slit.

"On your feet," Nathan says.

Neil trembles.

The door won't give. There's no reflection he can climb through. There's no escaping this. His father will keep coming down the stairs.

"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?"

Neil knows, intimately, what his father is going to do to him. What he's going to keep doing. What he will do if Neil tries to fight against him.

"I think no matter what I choose we are going to start by slicing the tendons in your legs. You're not going to run away this time, Nathaniel. I'm not going to let you."

Neil pulls his knees up, tucking his legs closer to his chest as he curls around himself.

There's no running from here. There's nowhere to go.

"Please," Nathaniel says. "Please don't."

Neil puts his elbows on his knees and cups his palms over his ears. He can't hear this right now.

He'll get up in a moment. He'll try again.

But right now, the sharp fear and the memory of Nathan's cleaver is too haunting. Even with his hands over his ears, he still hears Nathaniel: "Just let me go, just let me go, I'm not—"

It falls quiet, soon enough. Neil still can't quite breathe. His fingers feel numb against the sides of his head as he tries to dig them in.

How much longer? How many more times is he going to have to live this?

He just needs to get his breath back. He just— he just needs a moment.

But panic is still sharp and vicious, clawing at his chest and choking him from the inside out. The scene resets, and Nathan comes down the stairs, and Nathaniel begs, and resets, and resets, and—

He jolts as he feels something touch him. Someone puts their hands over his own, and he thinks no, no, no.

They're not meant to be able to touch him if he sits here, if he doesn't try and escape, if he doesn't fight back. They're not meant to be able to know he's here.

One of the hands lift. A weight is pressed on the back of his neck. Warm, grounding, familiar.

And it gets worse, then.

Because Andrew can't be here in this scene. He can't— he can't see this. He can't be part of this.

He sucks in a ragged breath, all pain and panic, and opens his eyes to see Andrew crouched in front of him. He's blocking Neil's entire view of the room, purposely trying to crowd him in. His eyes are stormed over, full of so many emotions, but Neil can't dissect it at all right now. The relief of seeing him is crushed entirely by the sheer terror that he's feeling.

He turns his hands and desperately clutches at Andrew's own as he tugs at him, trying to move, trying to get his legs to work. He thinks, for a moment, maybe the blade pressed in again, maybe it was always there — but his legs are just numb, and uncoordinated, the way that he sometimes gets after a panic attack bad enough. He makes them work, though, getting to his knees and trying to get Andrew behind him.

"You can't—" He chokes out. Andrew's expression pinches. He only moves with Neil for a second before he seems to realise what Neil's doing, as his eyes steel over and he suddenly becomes grounded, rooted to the spot, refusing to get behind Neil.

"Neil," Andrew says. His voice is ragged. Neil's nerves continue to break further as he hears it — because Andrew is fraying, and Neil needs to be able to hold it together, he has to, he has to. He has to get Andrew behind him. He has to protect him from Lola, from DiMaccio, from Nathan.

"You have to get out of here," Neil rushes out. Andrew, still, refuses to let himself be moved.

"Neil," Andrew says, fingers pressing back down on Neil's neck when he's able to free his hands. Usually a tried and true method to get Neil to breathe, to snap out of his panic. Most of the time, at least. But Neil's too far in to be pulled from it.

He tries to get to his feet properly, but Andrew keeps him down, crowding him back against the wall. Turning his body to block his line of sight to Nathan when he realises where Neil's gaze has flicked to.

"Neil. Stop," Andrew tells him, unyielding.

It's him, it's him, it's his Andrew, finally, but—

"You have to—"

"Not without you," Andrew cuts in. "Neil. I'm not going anywhere."

Neil tries, again, to look past Andrew. To try and see if Andrew's presence has been noticed, even though he knows that logically, of course, it hasn't been. All three of the monsters in this memory would have jumped him if they realised he was here. They could hurt Neil so much more if they hurt Andrew.

"Neil," Andrew says again, shifting once more to get in his vision.

The repetition of his name, the reminder that Nathaniel makes it out, that he gets to live as Neil, starts to make some of the world come back into focus. It's probably exactly why Andrew is doing it.

Neil looks around again, and Andrew only lets him because he knows Neil isn't letting his gaze linger over the others in the room. He doesn't want to draw their focus at all.

When he swallows, his throat clicks loudly. It's startling against Nathaniel's silence as his father taunts him.

"How did you get here?" Neil forces the question out.

"Opened a car door," Andrew replies. His head jerks to the left, slightly, where the door of the cellar is. "Came out through there."

"You weren't noticed," Neil breathes out.

Andrew is silent in his agreement, though Neil can see his anger clearly. Andrew didn't draw attention to himself, and it'd probably taken too much restraint to ignore the sight of Nathan.

But he doesn't know when Andrew walked in. He doesn't know what part of this memory Andrew has seen.

"What did you see?" Neil asks him, because he wants to know how he's going to make sure he smooths all the cracks over.

Andrew tugs at Neil's wrists until they're probably down from his face without a reply. He circles his grip around Neil's wrists, thumbs pressing in against his pulse. The rest of his fingers tap against Neil's skin in an echo of the rhythm. Too fast, too fast, too fast.

He keeps one hand pressed against Neil's wrist. For a moment, he thinks Andrew is about to cup one of his ears with the other, but then Andrew presses his palm against his cheek. His fingers press into the scarred flesh on his cheek.

Opened a car door.

"You— Lola," Neil rasps out, paling.

If Andrew came from that—

"You didn't try and fight her," Neil says. His eyes dart over Andrew's skin, trying to find anything, any evidence that Andrew didn't just let the memory pass without interference. "Andrew, you didn't—"

"Neil."

He's starting to tip over into panic again. Andrew makes a noise of frustration, and that's enough for him to try and claw his way from the edge of it. He puts his hand over Andrew's own and pulls it from his face, just so he can hold it properly between his own hands. Now, he's the one trying to find Andrew's heartbeat.

It jumps, slightly, as metal screams. Neil's almost used to that sound, now.

It's not the worst of it. It's—

"If you do not sit the fuck still I will gouge your eyes out," Nathan says. A prelude. A warning of what's to come.

Neil quickly moves, drawing Andrew closer, putting his hands over his ears before Nathaniel's pleading can start.

Please, on repeat. Begging for his life. Nerves broken, hope lost.

It hadn't changed anything to say it. But he'd been able to do nothing but beg in the face of death.

Neil doesn't want Andrew to hear it. Even if it's not directed to him, he doesn't want Andrew to hear this.

Andrew's expressions are open — cracked enough that he can't smooth it over right now — and Neil sees the mix of confusion and surprise. And then, his expression shifts, and Neil knows with a sinking sense of surety that Andrew has already heard this part.

He must have come in at these last few moments. Right before the reset. During the worst of it.

"No," he whispers, horrified.

Andrew pulls his hands away carefully.

"We're getting out of here," Andrew says.

"I've tried," Neil swallows thickly. "I've— I can't find the exit, Andrew."

"Get up," Andrew says. Firm, but not unkind. He takes hold of Neil's hands, and when he realises it's not going to be enough to get Neil steady, he moves to Neil's side and gets under his arms and hauls him up. He remains a solid weight as Neil's world spins out for a few moments as he reorients himself.

Nathaniel is on the ground, drying out his arms. Andrew goes to head for the cellar door, but Neil digs his heels in on instinct, stopping Andrew before he needs to say anything.

"Wait until they come down," Neil says.

The top of the cellar door opens. Neil's heart kicks into overdrive. He doesn't want Andrew here at all — he doesn't want to risk Andrew becoming part of this scene.

DiMaccio and Nathan appear. He can see Andrew sizing them up.

"Don't," Neil says. He sounds close to a plea, and he hates it, because he's done more than enough begging down here. But he'll do whatever it takes to make sure Andrew doesn't get too close. "Andrew, if you go near them... I can't— I won't—"

His panic starts to strangle him again. He won't watch it happen. He won't let it. He won't let his father touch Andrew.

Andrew looks at him, expression carefully masked over.

"Neil," Andrew says, voice steady and assured as he comes to his conclusion. "I won't touch them."

"You can't— we can't get too close to them either—"

Andrew's expression shifts unhappily. He's looking at Neil closer now.

"You did," Andrew figures. His voice is the tether Neil needs to pull himself out of the panic. It's getting easier, now. Or he's just getting too exhausted to let it keep him under the crushing waves and drowning him.

Neil lets out a heavy exhale. He watches Nathan stand in front of Nathaniel, putting a hand to his shoulder. "Just... Don't move without me."

Andrew squeezes him for a brief second. A quiet assurance. Neil takes his first step towards the door, and Andrew follows. Neil's steady enough to stand and walk on his own, but Andrew doesn't go far. He takes hold of Neil's hand, threading his fingers through Neil's own.

He lets Andrew reach out with his free hand and try the bar of the cell door. But it doesn't lift for him, either.

Neil isn't too surprised, but the disappointment of the result still stings.

He glances back, and he sees they have a few more moments before Nathan's axe swings down, but he gets Andrew to move clear of the path well before it happens anyway.

Andrew watches the scene happen with intense eyes. When the bar lifts for Nathaniel, Andrew makes a noise of consideration.

"I've tried it," Neil says, because he needs Andrew to know he hasn't just spent this entire time curled up in the corner, succumbing to his terror.

"Figured," Andrew replies easily, not doubting him for a moment. "But we can try it again. What else have you tried?"

"The door more times than I can count," Neil answers. He looks over at the rest of the cellar. "The sink, but the water won't turn on. The— Lola's knife."

The ringing silence is enough for Neil to know how Andrew feels about that one.

"We won't try that one again," Andrew says.

"No," Neil agrees.

Nathan pins Nathaniel down. Neil turns away from it, and Andrew does him the courtesy of doing the same, even though it's too late. Andrew doesn't need to see this scene more than once to remember every detail of it.

"What happens after this memory ends?" Andrew asks, just before Nathaniel starts pleading.

Neil looks towards the cellar door. He knows it, knows how this ends, but it takes him a moment to remember past my uncle comes. "My uncle's people come through that door and riddle Lola with bullets. I got dragged into a corner and covered myself until the gunfire stopped. And when I looked up, my father was on his knees, right in the middle there."

Right where he'd pinned Nathaniel, offering Lola the chance to cripple him.

"Still alive?" Andrew asks.

"DiMaccio shielded him, I guess. I don't know. He wasn't alive much longer. Two little bullets to his chest was all it took."

Neil taps at his own chest, fingers dancing in the placement of the holes in his father's. Andrew tracks the movement with a flat expression, then turns to look at the door.

Nathaniel pleads. Lola smiles as Nathan offers her the chance to slit his ankles.

The scene resets. Andrew is still watching the door. When Nathan comes down the stairs, Andrew tugs him a little closer to the doorframe.

Neil goes with him, giving Andrew the chance to try and lift the bar, but it doesn't move. They stay by the door as the scene progresses, both of them standing still.

"When you lift it," Andrew says, head jerking to Nathaniel. "We'll try then."

Neil's heart skyrockets. He nods, showing that he's heard, but is unable to actually say anything in response.

It's going to be close, but Neil trusts that Andrew knows the timing. But when Nathaniel gets to the bar of the cellar door, and Andrew tries to step forward again as it lifts, for a moment, under his fingers, Neil's mind goes white with panic. His hand still holding Andrew's, he tugs Andrew back in a bruising grip, making sure he's out of the path of Lola and then Nathan's axe.

The axe comes down, a staggered breath later, and Andrew watches it blankly. He turns to Neil, eyebrows raising.

"I know that's coming," Andrew reminds him plainly.

"I— I know," Neil says. Andrew stares at him. Neil wilts. "I know you do. It's just..."

Panic is clinging too tightly to him. Nathan is too close. Neil won't risk the chance of Andrew getting hurt, even if he knows that Andrew won't be careless about this. Not with Neil in his grip, not with a promise that he won't interact with the scene.

Andrew's stare doesn't soften, but he squeezes Neil's hand quickly. Without a word, they watch as DiMaccio heads for the door and calls up the stairs for the blowtorch. Once DiMaccio gets a hold of it, Andrew turns a look on Neil. Now that he knows there will be no one approaching the door for the rest of the scene, Neil nods, and Andrew heads for it the moment that DiMaccio shuts the door behind him to walk over to Nathan.

Neil watches as DiMaccio puts down the blowtorch. Watches as Nathaniel tries not to scream, to keep it together for what he thinks will truly be the end.

"Neil," Andrew says, with another squeeze of his hand. "Leave this behind."

"Please," Nathaniel begs. "Just let me go, just let me go, I'm not—"

"Neil."

"Lola," his father says.

Neil turns to look at Andrew in the last moment of this memory.

The bar of the cellar door creaks as it opens.

In a single second, Andrew's grip tightens as he pulls Neil closer. He doesn't hesitate as he gets Neil through the door of the cellar, pressing up against his side, refusing to separate as they finally, finally, leave the memory behind.

He holds Andrew tightly, scared they'll be pulled apart, that Neil will fall into yet another memory without an anchor. That they'll need to play this awful game of hide-and-seek all over again.

But when he tightens his grip, Andrew does the same. The warmth doesn't leave.

Neil blinks, and the Foxhole court is around him.

For a moment, he wonders what's going to happen this time. There are plenty of memories here, but none are so cruel as the ones that he's been thrown back into. He blinks, gaze quickly snapping to his side, but Andrew stands steadily by his side.

The same. His Andrew.

And the rest of the team are around them, blinking, coming back to themselves. The shadows all retreat back to the corners, natural against the lights shining down.

"Is it over?" Nicky's raspy voice questions.

The team is quiet for a moment, and then—

It's loud. Chaotic. Wymack's voice shouts above it all, calling for order as he beckons all of the Foxes over to him. His eyes rake over all of them, studying for any new hurts.

This isn't an old memory.

It's over.

There are no more memories. No more ghosts. No more pieces of Nathaniel.

Just Neil. Just his team.

Just Andrew, right beside him.

"Alright," Wymack says. He runs a tired, weary hand down his face. "So we all went through— whatever the hell that was." A cacophony of noise rises again, and Wymack shouts above it. "Alright, alright! Let's just... I don't even know, right now. Practice is over, that's all I've got this very second. Just... Go, take a shower, take a minute. Meet back in the lounge. I'll order food."

Neil doesn't take his eyes off Andrew.

Andrew tilts his head and gives Neil an easy expression to read: well, you heard Coach.

"Andrew," Neil says, because he just — he needs to hear Andrew's voice, right now.

"Neil," Andrew replies, tone flat.

The corners of Neil's lips rise. Andrew rolls his eyes and looks over at the doors of the court pointedly.

"Yeah," Neil says. "Right with you."

They walk through the door together, and there are no more shadows.