My rabbit, My bunny.

by deaths_tumlut

Summary:

A sort of chronological events of if Andrew and Ashley had personalities and age swapped including various other things

Notes:

I’ll probably make more chapters but enjoy.

Chapter 1

“Andy, Nina likes you.”

Ashley dropped the line like a cigarette flicked to the curb. No warning. Just enough smoke to see if he’d light.

“Who?” Andrew pulled a face. “Oh—that broad you’re friends with? Ew. Not interested.”

Ashley’s mouth twitched, somewhere between amused and irritated. “Watch your mouth. And why not?”

Andrew kicked at the floor with his heel, voice dipping lower. “Yeah, yeah. Mom probably told you to say that.”

Ashley raised a brow. Not denial. Just projection. “Mm. She might’ve. Doesn’t mean she’s wrong.”

Then he looked at her—really looked at her—with that childish boldness she hated most. “You’re my sister. Mine. If I had a girlfriend, I’d have less time with you.”

Ashley blinked, slowly. “Is she trying to take me from you?” His tone had sharpened, but his eyes stayed unreadable. “I’ll teach her a lesson.”

Andrew grinned. It was cute. The reason not so much.

“I forget you’re a boy sometimes,” she said, voice distant now. Not mean. Just factual.

“What do you mean by that, Leyley?” His pink eyes glinted. That name—Leyley—he always used it like a knife wrapped in a kiss.

“I just don’t really register you as a man,” she said. “Or even a person, honestly.”

“Screw off! I’m the most person-est man you’ll ever lay eyes on.” His voice cracked mid-sentence, like it didn’t get the memo he was serious.

There was a pause. Then Andrew’s eyes lit with something she didn’t like.

“I know—I’ll take her to that warehouse.”

Ashley looked at him. “Mhm. Sure.” She didn’t blink. Thought he was bluffing.

“I’m serious, Leyley.”

She searched his face, but didn’t find a punchline. Just teeth.

“Mom gave me some money for groceries,” she said instead, flatly. “You coming?”

He leaned in, whispering like a kid about to set fire to something just to see what would happen. “Think about it—we leave her there. All. Night.”

Ashley hesitated, eyes darting. “…We shouldn’t.”

“I’ll just ask her there myself,” he shrugged. “And you’re coming. Didn’t Mom say you’d do anything I needed?”

Ashley sighed, defeated. “Ugh. Fine, you brat.”

She didn’t realize this would be the first of many times she’d follow him somewhere she shouldn’t.

---

The warehouse smelled like rust and wet dust. They stood in front of a box. Andrew was crouched beside it, tears trailing down his cheeks—too dramatic to be trusted, too convincing to ignore. Ashley stood still, arms crossed, trying to figure out whether his sobs were theater or truth.

“I’m loud, I’m rough, and nobody even likes me,” he choked out.

The girl in the crate liked you. Look where that got her.

Ashley thought of saying something useful. Something right.

“I like you better, Andy.”

He froze—just for a breath. Then: “Liar.”

She sighed, already knowing she’d regret what came next.

“Fine.”

She shoved a rock into place. And suddenly, Andy lit up.

“…Happy?”

“Yes, yes, yes—thank you. You’re amazing, Leyley.” His voice sparkled, giddy and raw.

From inside the crate: a muffled voice.

“Ashley, let me out. Please.”

Ashley stood over it, silent. She felt like a bag of bricks, barely human. She wanted to open it. She really did.

But her brother was smiling. And that—even though lessening the burden—her soul still shriveled.

They found her dead.

No one said her name for a while after that.

---

High school would’ve been fine—maybe even tolerable—if Ashley’s mentally ill little brother wasn’t so obnoxiously popular. Girls hovered around him like mosquitoes with lip gloss. Not sluts, no—just blank-faced admirers, cooing over his cheekbones like he was a mall display.

Worse, some of them ogled her too. Same eyes. Same blood. A matching set.

Ashley sat at lunch across from Julia—a new “friend” in the loosest possible sense. Julia prattled about something unimportant, sipping milk like it was a martini. Andrew sat beside her, leg bouncing like a warning tremor.

She was so bored that when Andrew tilted his head toward her to speak, Ashley latched onto it like oxygen.

“Who is that,” he muttered, nodding at Julia, “and why does she keep looking at me like that?”

Ashley didn’t miss a beat. “That’s Julia. She’s a friend. And if she’s staring at you, I’d bet money she’s got a fucking crush.” Her voice dropped near the end. “Damn it.”

“What?” Andrew’s brow creased. He looked genuinely confused—like he hadn’t been clocking every glance all week.

“Nothing…” she said, suddenly tired. Her voice folded into itself.

Andrew scoffed. “Okay. Well, I don’t like how those guys look at you, either. So I guess that’s the same thing.”

Ashley gave a cold little laugh. “Big deal. It’s not even about you.”

Andrew bristled. “It’s not just Julia looking at me. I don’t even know why. Unless it’s that crush crap again.”

His tone had shifted. The edges frayed. Ashley knew this sound—this pit forming in his chest, the quicksand he called thoughts.

(Fuck. Why now, Andrew?)

She patted her pockets, already knowing. (Even better. I’m out.)

She pulled the old wad of chewing tobacco from her mouth and stared at it. Warm. Spitty. Unhygienic.

“If I give you this,” she said quietly, “will you calm the hell down?”

“I don’t like toba—yes.” His voice turned soft so fast it nearly broke her neck. A switch flipped, and suddenly he was pliable.

She stuffed it into his mouth.

He chewed.

And grinned.

That look—Ashley hated that look. Not because it was gross. Because it worked.

“Ew, Andrew. That’s…” she grimaced. “I shouldn’t’ve given you that.”

“Oh, what’s wrong?” he said sweetly, mocking her. “You shut your brother up perfectly. Mom would be so proud, Leyley.”

Ashley looked at him. Really looked. (I’m either numb or not as disturbed as I should be.)

“You make me [____]-sick,” she muttered. But the pause between words lingered too long.

(What the fuck did I just think?)

“Thank you, Leyley,” he said, voice syrupy, almost loving.

“You’re pushing it, Andrew.”

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, okay?” he said quickly, hands up like surrender.

And just like that, the tantrum dissolved. She watched him chew, docile as a dog, and felt something unfamiliar creep down her spine.

Not guilt.

Something worse.

Ashley lies on her bed, staring at the ceiling like it might offer her answers. Her stomach twisted in knots, not from food, not from guilt—but from something she couldn’t name. Andrew was on a date.

She should be relieved.

She should be thrilled.

Maybe now she’d have a chance to breathe, maybe even get a boyfriend of her own without Andrew clinging to her side like a damn phantom limb.

But all she could picture was some random girl’s fake lashes blinking too close to his face, her brother smiling, leaning in, offering a part of himself that Ashley had spent years trying to contain.

“God, no,” she hissed, sitting upright. “I can’t fucking take it—ANDREW!”

She was halfway to the door when it opened. There he was. Same flannel. Same slouch.

(Thank God…?)

“Wait. Why are you back already?” she asked, voice tight.

Andrew leaned forward and rested his forehead against her collarbone. Heavy. Familiar. Like he belonged there.

“Cold feet,” he mumbled.

Ashley’s hand hesitated in the air before patting his back. “Aww. I’m sorry, Andrew.”

“Can you… call me Andy right now?”

(This again.)

She sighed. “…You gonna tell me what really happened, Andy?”

He grumbled, eyes down. “I know I was gloating before I left. About how mature I was. Or whatever.”

“Yeah, and actually I thought you were ready.” She inched away, suddenly cold.

“I got there and just thought it’d be boring. She’s fake. They all are. And my friends won’t shut up about girlfriends like it’s a contest.”

“They said something again?”

“They’re like, ‘You still haven’t kissed anyone?’ Like that matters.”

“I thought you didn’t care what they thought.”

“I don’t. But it still sucks. I’m the weird one. I’m barely liked. But I’m always talked about.”

Ashley crossed her arms, staring him down. “Yeah… better luck next time.”

“No!”

He shouted it loud, too loud—and yet, something in her chest uncoiled.

(Why does that feel like a win?)

⸻

However long later, Ashley came home from work earlier than expected. Her stomach hadn’t unknotted since that ‘event.’

She shut the door, voice rising without thought. “Ashley Graves, future art major, babysitter of the year, now accused of what? What the hell even is this?”

She could hear Andrew in his room. No parents home. Just them.

(Congratulations. Your little brother now knows about the rumors. The auditorium. The stories. Now go explain why your name’s next to his in the worst possible way.)

Footsteps approached.

“What was all that noise?” Andrew appeared, hair messy, eyes half-lidded.

“N-nothing. Sorry for waking you.” She grabbed his wrist. “Actually, come here. Sit with me. We need to talk.”

He followed without question.

“I think… it’s time you got a girlfriend.”

Andrew blinked like she’d slapped him. “What? Why? I already—have you.”

Ashley flinched. “No. Not like that. You need to move on. Have your own life.”

She didn’t say: So I can have mine.

She didn’t say: So I don’t feel like I’m stealing your soul every time you look at me like that.

“I don’t wanna go into details. Just… changes. Starting now.”

Andrew squinted at her. “Is everything okay?”

“Shut the fuck up, Andrew. Just—listen to your big sister. Okay? Andy.”

He went quiet. That name always worked.

“…What would I even get out of this?”

“You’d learn how to kiss. Your friends would get off your back.”

“I don’t want to kiss just some girl.” He said like he didn’t know exactly who he wanted to.

“It won’t be just some girl,” Ashley said. “I’ll set you up with Julia. She’ll be your first.”

“Ew. No. Not her. Especially not a first kiss.”

Ashley hesitated, then smiled in that rehearsed, teacherly way.

“Who said she’d be your first? I’ll show you.”

He looked up, startled. “What, like—right now?”

“I’ll show you. What to do. Just so you don’t mess it up. In return? You stop acting like I’m your entire universe. You stop the fights. You stop the whining. You grow up, Andy.”

Andrew hesitated, then grinned.

“Deal.”

Ashley turned away for a second. She needed to breathe. Needed to believe this was the right call. He’d walk away. Grow up. Let her go.

As great as that sounds, it’s polarizing, it scares her.

She looked back at him. All she saw was that same smile. That same boy. Waiting for her to tell him what to feel. The boy that just understood her as is.

A spark of a thought flickered in her mind—something a cigarette could never give her. This was better than ecstasy. Worse than guilt. And it pulsed in her like a secret she didn’t want to kill.

Yeah, she used tongue. She had to. Did it last long? Long enough for him to remember how. Did she grab onto him a little? Sure. That made it more “realistic,” didn’t it? Would it shape him—warp him—even more than he already was?

Absolutely.

⸻

“Where did you learn all that, Ashley?” Andrew asked after a long, dazed silence—voice teetering between impressed, disturbed, and something too conflicted to name.

Ashley didn’t blink. “Porn.”

Her voice was flat. Not casual—controlled.

Then, without warning, she bursted into laughter. That stifled, involuntary wheeze of someone who cracked under pressure and now couldn’t stop. She didn’t even know why. And Andrew—red in the face, overstimulated and humiliated—crumbled under it.

“Wh-What?! Why are you laughing?! Fuck you,” Andrew barked, retreating to his bed like a rabbit to its hole.

Ashley wiped the corner of her eye, still chuckling quietly. “I know you’re upset I laughed. But the deal’s still on.”

Andrew didn’t answer. He just curled up under the blanket and faced the wall, shoulders stiff. Quiet… but not really.

Ashley didn’t press. She just stared at him—back turned, shoulders rising and falling—and tried to feel something useful.

(…That was maybe too much. He’s your brother, Leyley. Jesus.)

But how else was she going to make him listen?

(What did I just do to him? What did I just do to me?)

“One more thing,” she added, her voice lower now. Not teasing—directive.

“You’re not allowed to try anything dangerous with Julia just because you’re… worked up. Got it? Essentially just don’t take her v-card if you’re that desperate, I don’t know—handle it alone. Quietly.”

Andrew didn’t respond. He might’ve been pretending to sleep. Or maybe he was too busy trying not to exist.

Didn’t matter.

What did matter was that something had shifted. You have to change. Whatever happened back there—it was wrong. It was warped. And the worst part?

You didn’t even notice until it was over.

You peel off your clothes like they’ve turned against you, toss your underwear into a growing pile on the floor, and stumble into the bathroom. No thought. Just motion. Get into anything that feels clean. Doesn’t matter what. Just cover it up.

You stare at yourself in the mirror for half a second too long. Then flick the light off before your brain can catch up.

⸻

Something about your underwear feels… wrong. You can’t tell if it’s the fabric, or just the weight of yesterday hanging off you. Either way, you swap them out—fast—like that’ll undo anything.

You slap on whatever’s close enough to “presentable” and get ready for another round of your miserable, soul-sucking fuckass classes.

Your skin still doesn’t feel like it fits right. But you pretend it does.

Like always.

⸻

“Why don’t I have any classes with you besides lunch?” Andrew asked, his voice riding the edge of a pout, like it had been festering in him all morning.

Ashley didn’t even look up from her tray. “Because that’d be hell on earth.”

Then his elbow grazed her side. Harder than necessary. “Ouch—fuck you,” she snapped, tone dry, like it was rehearsed. Like she’d already forgiven him mid-sentence.

“See you at lunch, asshole,” he muttered, not quite under his breath.

She didn’t flinch. Just whispered, barely audible, “No, you won’t.”

The hallway swallowed them both in fluorescent silence.

⸻

Lunch dragged in with the weight of déjà vu. The cafeteria reeked of reheated grease and teenage delusion. Julia was already planted across from Ashley, nursing a lukewarm Diet Coke like it made her interesting. Andrew dropped into the seat beside her—his tray hitting the table with a noise just obnoxious enough to make a point.

“Hey,” he muttered, eyes darting like he was checking for cameras. “Wanna hang out sometime? Like, just us.”

Julia blinked. “Seriously? I didn’t even think you liked me. Like, at all.”

Andrew rolled his jaw, voice dropping. “I do like you, Julia. I mean—ⁱ ᵈᵒⁿ’ᵗ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᵃˢʰˡᵉʸ ᵒʳ ᵃⁿʸᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ.”

There was a silence. Julia’s expression flickered into something unreadable.

“…H-huh?”

His eyes widened. (Shit. Was that out loud?)

He fumbled. “It’s—it’s just the lunchroom. Loud as hell. You probably misheard. Let’s head back before Anyone starts, y’know…” he gestured vaguely, as if “starts” meant anything from interrogation to execution.

Julia laughed a little too loud, not getting it. “uhhhhh, okay.”

Across the cafeteria, Ashley looked up from her phone. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t blinking either. But what had to be done had to be done.

Chapter 2: Thumping the heart

Well.
That happened.

Probably more practice than an actual kiss—if you could call it that. God, it was bad. He was bad.
Was this what Ashley felt?
Did she feel anything?

From the look of it, Julia sure did.

Wait.
She’s saying something.
Oh no.
Oh fuck.

“W-wow, I didn’t know you were such a good kisser,” she said, laughing nervously, her cup of water trembling like it had her same feelings. “Where’d you learn, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Andrew’s heart plummeted straight through the crust of the Earth and then, somehow, clawed its way back up through his throat.

“I do mind,” he said, trying to sound flirty, but also not dry. “But for your info… porn.”

Julia blinked, then smiled. “Oh. I didn’t know you watched that kind of stuff.”

“I had to be experienced.” He forced the grin now—like it was something practiced, something sharp. “You know… to give my future partner a good time. Just lucky it’s you.”

Bullshit.
Every syllable tasted like rubber cement. Even the smile he threw in felt like a sticker peeling off too soon.

A second passed where he nearly said Ashley. Not even out of defeat—no, it would’ve been funny.
Devastatingly funny.
But then she’d find out. And be disappointed.
And with Ashley… disappointed meant done.
And Renee’s disappointment had already left him to be buried once.

Better to avoid that grave fate.

He remembered the kiss again.
The one with Ashley.

The second one—this one—felt just obsolete. A blank scrap of paper.
The first?
The first had scorched itself into his bloodstream.

He didn’t know why.
Maybe because it made him feel closer to her.
Maybe because she was actually good at it—unreasonably good at it. Compared to him, anyway.

Was she lying about learning from porn?
He was.
But he remembered—something. He’d seen—
No.
Nope. Out of the question. She told the truth.

In denial, he asked himself what he understood from it.
Was it just the weirdness?
The taboo, the hot, sour Tabasco residue, the shape of her lips burned into his skull, her warm arms around him?

Was it—
Love?

No.
Couldn’t be.
He had to get his own life now.
(Didn’t mean you didn’t feel it.)

He couldn’t orbit around her forever.
He should be enjoying this moment with Julia.
Then why did it feel like he was acting in someone else’s body?

(I’ll just have to learn how.)

“Andrew? Andrew?”

Julia’s voice popped the bubble of thought. She was nudging him gently. Expectantly.
His thoughts scrambled like eggs. He nodded on instinct.

“Yeah, totally, Julia.”

“You mean… you do see us becoming a real thing?”
She smiled—so earnestly. Like this could actually work.

His stomach turned.
He wasn’t trying to be cruel.
But he wasn’t gonna be a corpse in a hoodie either.

“Eh. Honestly, I don’t think so. Yet. But… maybe we’ll get each other. Soon enough.”

That fake, charming smile again.
A little tighter this time.
He bit the inside of his cheek. Pride or punishment—hard to tell.

Was it worth it?

It was supposed to be just him and Leyley.
No other soul.
Why did growing up mean being without the one person he was always with?

He didn’t want that.
Not at all.

In a shocking twist of fate, Ashley’s new job wasn’t a total disaster.
She wasn’t being swallowed by the pink, cloying flames of her brother’s chaos—not this week. Instead, she was making… progress.
Romantically.
Astonishing.

The workplace was still a beautiful hellhole, of course.
The pay was barely above minimum wage. The music looped every 90 minutes like a psychological test. But it wasn’t the massage parlor. For that alone, she was grateful.
Sometimes gratitude is just relief with lipstick on.

It happened on a Thursday, maybe. One of those days that looked like it had been wrung out and hung up to dry. A customer walked in—someone familiar.
Not familiar in a meaningful way. Just… back-of-the-head familiar.
Which made sense. The only reason Ashley even recognized him was that, once, from a distance, she’d mistaken his backside for Andrew’s.
That was all it took.

They talked. She flirted—lightly, lazily, the way you’d stir a drink with a broken straw. It didn’t matter. This one was fine. Convenient. Disposable. A nice, simple way to put some psychological distance between her and the house-shaped void her brother had become.

Tabasco and cigarettes weren’t cutting it anymore anyway.

It took nothing to schedule a few meetings. Too easy.
Were all men this easy?
Or was she just too used to Andrew giving her the absolute hardest time over the smallest things?

Week by week, she drifted. Hung out with this guy instead of Andrew. Instead of Julia. Not that Andrew noticed—he had Julia now. He was busy.
Or pretending to be.

But something was off.
The more Ashley leaned in with this new guy, the stranger things got between him and Andrew.
Like wires crossing underground.

Eventually, as she predicted, the guy cracked. Asked if they were dating. Then if they were a thing. Then, unbelievably, if she’d tell Andrew they were dating.

“Umm, maybe we should dial it back a bit,” she said, which was code for: If I tell him, he’ll have a tantrum the size of a Cold War nuke.

Still, she was very good. There was always a compromise.
She’d make it work—for all three of them.

“We’ll just say we’re seeing each other. And then… eventually, it becomes dating. See? Smoother.”

He sighed. “So we’re pretending we’re just casually seeing each other outside closed doors.”

She tilted her head. “Exactly. We’re still an item, it’ll be fine. I’ll go tell him the ‘news’ when I get home. Then we move from there. Trust me.”

Trust her.
She’d definitely, probably, maybe tell Andrew.
Some other time.
As long as these two didn’t cross paths.

---

Renee had finally climbed off Ashley’s back—because of the job.
Didn’t matter how shit the job was.
Big whoop, she was employed. Good enough to shut her mom up for once.

Renee hadn’t left the table yet. Only reason? Her husband wasn’t home.
And her son was starting to stir.

Then the house phone rang.
Renee picked it up.
Her face melted with relief—like the universe had granted her a month of rent relief.

“I’ll be off to work now, Ashley,” she said, grabbing her bag. “Take care of your brother.”

It was always like that.
Either paid overtime, or unpaid overtime babysitting her ticking time bomb of a son.
She knew which she preferred.

“Thanks, Mom,” Ashley muttered—just sarcastic enough to taste, but light enough to deny.

“What was that?” Renee snapped, halfway out the door. “I work overtime to keep a roof over your head, and that’s your tone?”

“No—I was just being thankful. For the meal,” Ashley said, waving her hands in defense like a child trying not to drop a plate.

The scowl retreated.
Renee sighed, almost like she wanted to care, and gestured at the lock.

A second later—no, a zeptosecond after the door shut—Ashley was no longer composed.

Andrew was already there.
Waiting.

And she was helpless to the intensity of him.

Ashley exhaled—too late.
The room already belonged to him.

“Heyyyy Andrew,” she cooed, forcing a bright tone through her clenched jaw. “You haven’t touched your food. You should eat.”

Andrew stood dead center in the kitchen, hands hovering midair like he was kneading invisible dough—or strangling something spectral. His eyes locked onto hers with such intensity it made the fridge hum to the frequency of her thoughts.

“Why did he tell me you have something to tell me, Ashley?”
His voice cracked at the end like glass in a boiling pot.

Ashley blinked. Rolled her eyes, but not too hard.
Of course he said something. Since when did anyone actually listen to her?

“About that…”

He stepped forward.

“So why are you fucking some random,” he hissed, “and why didn’t I know about him? You’re supposed to tell me about these things.”
His tone wasn’t just jealous. It was betrayed—like she’d sold state secrets.

“He’s not ‘some random.’ I met him at work. He just happens to go to our school.”

“Oh.” Andrew tilted his head like a doll coming to life. “So you did fuck him.”

She didn’t even flinch.
Played like a fiddle. Every single string strung perfectly.

“Andrew, for Christ’s sake, I just met him a couple weeks ago.”

“So you hid it from me.” His voice jumped an octave, shaking slightly.
“For that long! Ley—no. Ash-leY!”

She couldn’t tell what was worse: the hesitation or the way he mangled her name like it tasted foreign in his mouth.

“I thought it was better to wait,” she said, eyes narrowing, “but clearly with your immaturity, the best time is never. And before you spiral into another meltdown, we’re just seeing each other. Okay?”

“It doesn’t matter! You’re going to date him anyway. There’s barely any difference.”
He was pacing now—each step leaving a little scratch in the floor.

(And here I thought that’d soften the blow.)

“Andrew, look—just re—”

(DON’T.)

No foresight needed.
She shouldn’t have tried that line.
Not here. Not with him like this.

“It’s imperative we work through this together,” she tried, hands gesturing like she was at a podium. “I should be—no, I will be able to talk to you about these things.”

Andrew stopped. Finally.
He looked up through his lashes like a beaten dog who still knew how to bite.

“…What do you even have to say?”

Ashley inhaled. Slowly. Her chest trembled under her casual attire and bravado.

“Why is it such a big deal that I’m seeing him? It’s not like you’re being robbed of anything.”

“Yes it is!”
He said it like a confession of rage. A fact.
“No way it’s considered anything else.”

She opened her mouth. He kept going.

“Everything you do with him is time taken from me.”

“It doesn’t always have to be,” she said softly, “and can’t you spend time with your girlfriend?”

“Ask me if I even want to most of the time,” he said, deadpan. “That’s even more time I lose from you.”

“I don’t know,” she said carefully. “It makes me sitting with you at lunch a bit easier, right?”

“I thought that was the reason I got with Julia!”
His voice cracked again, louder.
“And if I ever catch him gushing in his pants while talking to you, there’ll be blood gushing straight from my neck!”

“God, why?”
She was genuinely rattled now, both hands gripping the counter behind her.

“Because it’s you and me! Leyley and Andy! No one else, no more!”
He was shaking now. Visibly trembling.
“It should just be that. I need it to be just like that!”

He stomped closer, tears flashing bright in his beautiful, furious pink eyes.

“Leyley and Andy!” he wailed.
“Leyley and Andy! Forever and ever eternally!”
He clutched at his shirt like he was trying to hold himself inside his own body.

Ashley couldn’t breathe.
She was sweating.
The heat in the kitchen was unreal—oven on, heart pounding, lights too bright.
It hurt to see him like this.

“It’s not possible, Andrew.”
Her voice was quiet. Measured. Final.

“I told you—grow up. Please. Please grow up. You really have to.”
She didn’t even realize she was pleading until she heard it.

“NO ONE ELSE!”

He was shaking now, whole body tight with rage and panic.

“NO ONE ELSE! NOBODY FUCKING ELSE!”

Ashley dropped into the couch like her spine had evaporated, hands clamped around her face like she was trying to keep it from falling apart.

Andrew stormed toward their room—like a hornet swarm in jeans, vibrating with fury and grief and something darker.

“YOU’RE MY SISTER! MINE! FUCKING MINE!”

“HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME?!”

“I TRUSTED YOU NOT TO! I CAN’T— I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!”

“I FUCKING HATE YOU! I REALLY FUCKING HATE YOU!”

…

It has ceased fire.

“It” being the sentient landmine you call a brother.

You make the bold decision not to scream at your ‘boyfriend’, or yourself, or your brother, or this entire cursed, low-rent soap opera of a planet.

(It wasn’t going to change anyway. I know that.)

[Good luck keeping the good girl image, though.]

You stop avoiding the inevitable and walk into the war zone.
The door creaks open like it knows what it’s stepping into.

There he is: curled up on the bed, face buried in tear-soaked sheets.
The room looks like a hurricane had a panic attack in it.

“If I forgive you for wrecking our room,” you say, not unkindly, “will you stop being so dramatic?”

“GO AWAY!”

Okay.
So that’s a no.

You sigh and roll your eyes, just in time to catch something—ripped, crumpled, and dramatically shoved under the bed like a corpse under floorboards.

A page.
His handwriting.
Of course.

(Was this supposed to make me feel bad?)
It did.
Of course it did.

You knew how much this stuff meant to him. How he’d spiral between heartbreak and stoic repression once the meltdown passed.
The chaos always came first. The remorse trailed behind like smoke.

(Ughhhhh. Where’s the rest?)

You crouch down—your knees crack, your pride crumbles slightly—and begin quietly scavenging the remains of your brother’s shredded emotions.

“I’m heading out,” you tell him from the doorway.

No response. Not even a grunt of possessive protest.
That’s how you know he’s really upset.

You step out, heart thudding, and count it as a win.

The pieces you salvaged look genuine enough. Honest. Messy. Too messy to be performative.
He wouldn’t forgive you until you got a degree and publicly denounced your own autonomy—but this… this might help.

(It’s a good thing anyway. He should be happy for me.)

That’s the story you decide to tell yourself today.

---

When you return, the room is—unsurprisingly—still a disaster.
It’s not even a tragic disaster. Just a regular one.
Familiar. Stale. Like a rerun you won’t stop watching.

You brought tape.
You planned for this. You’re a professional in this field, after all.

On the floor, cross-legged like you’re twelve again and trying to fix something no one else understands, you piece the pages back together.

It’s a story.
Not just any story.

It’s about the time you celebrated his birthday—the one with the lonely lemon muffin that—

It was nothing. Just a depressed muffin plus whipped cream and a crooked candle.
But somehow, that was one of the earliest times he smiled without having to manipulate it, he deserved it; his birthday. No bargain. No performance. Just… a moment.

And like a fool, you walked right into it.
Bit the bait, set the trap, let the wire snap shut around your ribs.
Because now that memory lives in you like smoke in the drywall.

But you never say that out loud.
Never will.

You don’t cry. You’re too tired.

If you didn’t have to dig through a minefield to get here, this would’ve melted your heart.

But for now?
A little warmth is good.

“Hey. I got you something,” Ashley said, kicking the side of his bed like she was waking up a corpse.

”Ack!”
He recoiled dramatically, arms flailing, blanket folding over his head like a funeral shroud.

“Take it or leave it,” she muttered, already pulling the paper bag from behind her back.

He turned to face her—mouth halfway through the word “leave”—
And promptly took a bag to the face.

She threw it dead-center like a practiced pitch, then flipped him off with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Andrew blinked, caught off-guard.
Then peeked inside the bag.

His rebubbling anger evaporated in a puff of disbelief.

“…Good god. This is cheesy.”

“Oh please. With the amount of my money I wasted on it, it deserves at least to be corny.”

A beat.
Then a chuckle.
Then a proper, wheezy laugh. That same stupid, charming, sputtering laugh. The one she hadn’t heard in days.

“Pfft… hahaha…”

There it was.
That smile. The one that made her want to strangle him slightly less.

“Ugh, you’re terrible,” he said, wiping the tears off his cheeks with the back of his sleeve like a sulking cartoon character.

“With the standard you hold me to,” she said, arching a brow, “I thought I was the best sister one could ask for.”

Andrew sat up straighter, clutching the bag to his chest like it had sentimental weight.
“Honestly, I know. But… about earlier…”

Ashley’s eyes flicked to the far wall.
Cool. Detached. Tired.

“We have to live our own lives eventually.”

His face didn’t change, but his hands tightened around the paper.

“We can’t stay here playing ‘Leyley and Andy’ forever, you know.”

His voice was soft, barely a whisper:
“I thought you said it would always be you and me.”

“You thought wrong,” she said simply. “I said I’d make you a priority.”

She turned back toward him, gaze level.

“And for the record? I have.”

Andrew scoffed, bitter.

“It’s clear as glass you haven’t.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then what the fuck is he, Ashley?!”

“Not a priority,” she replied flatly, arms crossing again.

“Then why date him?!”

“Because I can.”

“Do you love him?!”

Ashley blinked, then slowly grinned—showing teeth this time, sharp and sarcastic.

“Seriously?”

“Do you love him more than you love me?!”
The words slammed out of Andrew like a closet full of words that needed to be asked.

Ashley sighed.
“Don’t ask me dumb questions.”

Andrew’s voice was shaky now, breaking in all the familiar places.
“If I weren’t your brother… would you choose him over me?”

“You’re asking weird, pointless shit.”

“Okay,” he said, words speeding like the palpitations of his heart, “when are the two of you gonna move in? Start a family? Raise kids in a house with a picket fence? Replace me entirely?”

Ashley stood still, her hands clenched just slightly.

“Andrew, I don’t even know him that well.”

“Right. Just a friend, huh?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “Just a friend.”

“Not my friend.”

“You don’t have to like him. You don’t even know him.”

“That’s what makes it worse,” Andrew muttered, eyes narrowing. “You don’t either.”

She breathed in through her nose, slow and sharp.

“He’s not a bad person.”

“You hope he’s not,” Andrew said, voice low now. “Until he shows his real colors.”

“If that’s what you think, then fine—just wait till he shows his real colors,” Andrew muttered bitterly.

Ashley didn’t bite. Instead, she tilted her head and said casually, “Don’t you have your girlfriend to worry about? Julia? Why’re you so worried about me?”

It was a cheap redirect. But it landed.

“She’s barely even that anymore,” he snapped. “At this point, she’s just some dumb bitch I tolerate…”

His voice broke. The tears he’d been swallowing finally spilled, warping his words into something too raw to hide.

“Because you want to leave me all alone!”

He collapsed into her, face pressed to her chest, sobs shaking his whole frame.

“You’ve abandoned me! It was always gonna come to this, wasn’t it?!”

Ashley didn’t flinch.

“I’m here, Andrew,” she said quietly. “I’m right here.”

“You’re not! Soon enough you’ll be gone and forget all about me—because he’s ‘the boyfriend,’ right?!”

She stayed silent.

“Can’t say I’m surprised though,” he added coldly, through wet lashes.

“He’s not ‘the boyfriend.’ Like I said—we’re just seeing each other.”

“We both know how this goes,” Andrew said, eyes narrowed. “It’s gonna be all about him. And they’re never even that different.”

He looked up at her, then he said it, clear as glass:

“That’ll be the day I kill myself. You. And especially him.”

A long pause.

Ashley raised an eyebrow. “You sure about the order?”

“FUCK OFF! Be serious!”

Ashley sighed. Not annoyed. Not upset. Just… tired.

Andrew hiccupped.

“I thought I was doing good,” he whispered. “Why don’t you like me anymore?” Andrew said, detaching himself, anxious for an answer he preferred.

Ashley ran a thumb beneath his eye, half-absent. “D’you know you once said something that stuck with me?”

He sniffled but didn’t answer.

“You said, ‘you don’t like anyone.’ I doubt you remember. But it stuck.”

She gave a half-smile, one that didn’t ask permission.

“It made me think—he gets me. Without being told. In a way nobody else ever has… probably ever will.”

“If you told someone, they would,” Andrew mumbled, trying to derail whatever this was turning into.

“I don’t want that. In fact, I want the opposite.”

She softened her voice. “Point is, you didn’t need to be told.”

He looked away. “…What does it matter?”

“It’s something I’ll never have with anyone else.” She reached down and squeezed his ring finger. “Something I won’t forget.”

Andrew’s voice came out low, confused. “I’m not that special… am I?”

“One Andy to the one Leyley,” she replied gently.

“I thought you stopped calling me that.”

“I’ll always think of you as my little Andy,” she said, knowing full well what she was doing.

“…Did that crap really just leave your mouth?”

“Ha! What a load of bullshit!” he said, smirking just barely, not even trying to act fooled.

“Okay~” Ashley shrugged, “you got me. But it sounds so childish I die a little when I say it.”

“That’s not the point. The purpose of them is endearment,” Andrew muttered, rolling his eyes.

“You understand—it’s like a secret game. You like those,” he added, almost shyly.

“…We might already have enough of those,” Ashley said, quieter.

A beat.

“Are you still my Leyley, then?”

You half expect the phone to ring. Or maybe you pray it does.
But nothing comes.

Ashley reached over, interlocked their fingers. Her voice was soft again. Too soft.

“Hey. Maybe we should get tattoos.” She mentioned, thumbing his backhand.

“A what? Oh—those. Maybe,” Andrew said, like he was trying to recall what the word meant.

“But say, Leyley,” he added after a moment, “you tell me to grow up all the time, but then you go and buy me toys.”

“I get it. Dumb move,” she admitted. “Just do as I say, not as I do. Besides, I blame your character for liking that kind of gesture.”

“Ha! Fuck you, Leyley.”

Ashley stretched. “Do whatever you please as long as I don’t die in my sleep, okay.”

“…I’m good, I guess,” Andrew said. Whatever that meant.

Damnit, Ashley.

“We’re good too. But just barely.”

Barely was enough for Ashley. She never needed less than that. Because how could she be without?

“Good. You’re cleaning this up by morning. Maybe I’ll help, if you’re lucky.”

“Fine…”

Ashley got out of bed, pulled the blanket up over Andrew, then—against her better judgment—climbed back in.

“Ashley?”

“I wanna sleep here tonight,” she said casually. “My bed’s messy. I’m tired.”

Her reasoning so lazy it wouldn’t fool a roach. But Andrew didn’t care to question it. He didn’t care to oppose it. He wanted it even.

She reached up, started playing with his hair. Tangling and twisting it around her fingers. Aimless. Gentle.

Andrew, flushed from the crash, didn’t know what to do with the affection. So he let it in.

Ashley trailed her hands down, cupped his cheeks, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Her eyes were heavy. She held them open just long enough to whisper:
“You’re so cute I could eat you alive.”

There wasn’t a shred of a lie in it.

She pulled him closer. Arms around his neck, face buried in his hair.
And passed out.

She almost never did this. So instead of feeling guilty, or undeserving, Andrew let himself enjoy it. After all, a little warmth was good.

Even if it meant sinking deeper.

And he definitely sunk onto Ashley, alright.

“Thanks, Leyley. Goodnight,” he whispered to the only thing left that felt like life—
before letting his eyes fall shut.

Notes:

Did my best.

Notes:

Oh, don’t you look at me like that.