Chapter Text
Something is wrong.
Though, if Andrew is being honest—something had been wrong since the moment he’d been born. Life had never been particularly joyous for Andrew Graves. No, life was more like a monotonous, dreary, and endless purgatory. A slog that he endured like a kind of Groundhog Day. Some days are worse than others; days where that slog gnawed at the corners of his dead, moldy heart, tearing away a little more of him each and every time.
Today is one of the bad days.
Andrew is not sure how he knows. Perhaps it’s how he wakes up that day feeling like his skin is sewn on too tightly, so he doesn’t sit correctly within his own body. He’s always somewhat on edge—that’s typical for him, but the anxiety that settles in his bones like oily sludge is different today. Despite this unease, Andrew goes about his day as normally as possible. He attends his morning classes, has lunch with Julia at the bakery she’d wanted to try that had recently opened, and listens to her drone on and on about something he couldn’t give a fuck about, then goes to his part-time job. It’s monotonous and mind-numbing, but that’s nothing new for him.
There’s only one person who ever provides any sort of stimulation for him, and she wants nothing to do with him at the moment, nor had she for the past year, three months, and five days (give or take a day). Something had gone wrong within him from the very moment that he pushed her away, but that discomfort was not the same as this—a prickle in his skin, like a nipping bug biting into his skin as though something wicked was abound. He chews on his fingers until the skin around his knuckles is red and peeling throughout his shift. He tells himself it’s just anxiety—or an upcoming panic attack. That, too, is nothing new.
Still, the restlessness persists—looming like a dark omen.
Something is coming. But, what?
The awareness is ominous and hovering like a spectre. Maybe Nina’s soul had finally risen from her grave to torment him, or maybe it's just the guilt. He’d learned over time that guilt was something of a persistent haint, as well.
Andrew gets his answer when he arrives home after his shift. “I’m home,” he announces as he normally does, not expecting a response because no one ever gave enough of a fuck to give him one, even if they were home. He doesn’t get a response, but he is greeted with a scene so strange that it roots Andrew in place the moment that he opens the door. He finds himself staring, standing in the doorway as his brain struggles to comprehend just what the fuck he is witnessing.
His childhood best friend is sitting on the living room couch beside Ashley. His arm is thrown across the couch—so close to his sister’s shoulders that Andrew nearly drops all of the textbooks in his hands.
His friend is in his house.
Why?
And why the fuck is he with Ashley?
“Andrew, my dude!” He hears his friend say, laughing brightly as he stands up from the couch, giving him an enthusiastic wave. He’d always been the cheerful type. Andrew had never really minded it before, but for some reason it’s grating on him now. Like nails sliding down a chalkboard, or the sound of a record being scratched. He can’t take his eyes off of Ashley’s still form on the couch.
She hasn’t even turned back to look at him yet. Her back is straight, eyes locked onto the television—“Long time no see!”
God. What the fuck was his name, again? “What’s up, my dude?” He says, falling into this familiar act—the easy-going, laid-back cool friend. He slaps that mask on haphazardly with pins and needles dug into his cheek. It hurts to smile. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were coming over.”
Friend B laughs. He really can’t remember his name at all. Damn—“this was kind of a spur of the moment thing, actually,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “I actually ran into your sister at my part-time job.”
Andrew blinks. His heart feels like it’s about to pop out of his chest, skin hot.
Ashley barely ever leaves the house, but okay, she’s apparently frequenting art studios now. That’s cool, everyone needs a hobby, but that didn’t address why his friend was in his house alone with his sister. The blonde man grows a little jittery from Andrew’s continued silence. He didn’t know what his expression looked like at the moment, but he imagined it was not good from the way his friend’s brows pinched together. Easy, Andrew. You’re scaring him, you freak. “I work at an art studio and she was applying for a job there,” his friend elaborates.
This was news to him; then again, since Ashley had dropped out of school, he knew she’d been applying to a few places. She never got any callbacks, though. “That so? She didn’t mention that,” his gaze drifts back to Ashley, who actually does look at him at the time, teeth gritted and eyes flashing.
“Because it’s none of your fucking business.”
“Uh,” his friend looks between them, looking a little worried, “U-Um, right—anyway, Ashley was applying for a receptionist gig there. I almost didn’t recognize her, haha! I thought I’d do you a solid and vouch for her though, so she got the job,” he continues, “and it was late by the time the interview was over so I offered to give her a ride home.”
“Nice of Elijah, wasn’t it?” Ashley says, she smiles—and it’s the first time he’s seen her smile in months. And she’s looking at his friend while she does. It’s in that shark that’s scented blood in the water kind of way that is so uniquely Ashley, like she’s fucking around, trying to get underneath his skin. That had to be it. “I thought it’d be rude not to at least make him a coffee after all that. I didn’t know your friend was such a gentleman, Andy!”
Too much is happening.
Andrew feels like he’s breathing through a straw.
First off, she knows his fucking name? He’d known the blonde man for years, and she’d never so much as taken a single interest in him. If she referred to him at all, it was as “that annoying fucker you always hang out with.” His happiness was irritating as fuck, apparently.
Okay. Calm down, Andrew. He guesses that made sense, especially if Friend B—er, uh—Elijah was nice enough to help her useless ass actually secure a job. He has accomplished a feat that even Andrew hadn’t managed to. It feels like something is slowly twisting his heart, like the organ is being wrung in between two hands.
“Aren’t you coming in?” Elijah asks, looking a little nervous, “We gotta catch up, dude! It’s been ages!”
Right. He’s still standing in the doorway. Andrew walks in, shrugging his coat off and shoving it into the closet with more force than necessary. “Yeah, for sure,” he laughs, throat feeling tight.
It’s fine.
This was fine.
Elijah was just being friendly—probably walking Ashley home as a favor to him. And he’d most likely stayed because it had been some time since they’d last seen each other. This is true. It made sense. This was logical. He’s just being friendly. He’d never shown any interest in Ashley, anyway, aside from acknowledging her as his irritating little sister who had a few screws loose.
Yeah, that had to be it.
His friend claps him on the shoulder when he comes closer, familiar and friendly—just as he had done for years, and Andrew had to fight down the urge to slam his fist into that familiar and friendly face. Andrew’s hands open and close, pulse running hot. Actually, his entire head feels hot. It feels like it might just fucking pop.
“So, what have you been up to, man? I’ve barely heard of you since you got into Stratton University!” Which was true. Andrew hadn’t bothered reaching out to any of his old contacts from high school after graduating. The thought never even crossed his mind. Elijah had tried to reach out a few times to coordinate meet-ups, but Andrew always had some excuse—work, school, or Julia—and eventually, those calls became less frequent.
Not that Andrew really noticed. Or cared.
He’s already made some other nameless college friends that he hung out with from time to time to keep up appearances. So, his old contacts weren’t really all that necessary.
Which…is actually fucking crazy now that he’s thinking about it. Oh well. Tighten up that mask, kid. You have a show to put on.
“Oh, you know,” he says, not actually offering any real information. “Same old, same old,” he says casually as he makes his way to the couch. Ashley sits near the armrest, leaning her palm against her chin as she watches him, silent. Who knows what thoughts are running through that batshit insane head of hers? She’d never brought a guy home with her before. Fuck, she’d never even brought any friends back with her, because she’s so socially inept that she doesn’t have any fucking friends.
Elijah laughs, probably because he can’t actually follow that comment up with anything, because it was a nothing statement. He moves back towards the couch, probably to reclaim his seat beside Ashley, but Andrew would be damned if he let that happen as he plops down beside Ashley, legs spread wide as he effectively cages her against the armrest.
“Andrew, what the fuck—“
“What about you? You said you’re working at an art studio?” He grins, going for something easy and casual. The strain on his cheeks suggests that his smile looks nothing like that, though. He shifts to get more comfortable, also laying his arm across the top of the couch, close to Ashley’s shoulders. It mirrors the way Elijah had looked when Andrew first walked in, and he’s sure it sends a clear message.
Back off.
But, in a cool, collected way. Yeah.
He sees Elijah’s eyes flicker over to where he has commandeered his former spot. His friend doesn’t say anything about it, though. The only sign of discomfort he sees is a nervous twitch of the blonde’s head as he runs his hands through his hair. “It’s really just a part-time gig while I go to school. I only go a few days of the week, but it pays for my dorm room, so there’s that,” he laughs sheepishly. He shifts on his feet, standing rather than sitting back down.
“Sounds nice,” Andrew says in mock cheer.
He can feel Ashley’s eyes boring into the back of his head, but he ignores them. She folds her arms, huffing before leaning back on the couch, like he’s the one who’s in the wrong. He’d deal with her later.
She had some nerve doing this, parading his friend in front of him like this. He knows what she’s doing. It’s a classic enough Ashley tactic, even if she’s found a new game to add to her repertoire in their time apart. “Are you still studying engineering?”
“Uh, yeah,” Elijah says, because of course he is. He’d always been smart—but he’s sure school was a breeze when you didn’t have any other responsibilities at home or life-draining leeches for sisters attached to your hip.
“I see you two are still like peas in a pod,” his friend comments, and Andrew wants to smash his teeth in, though that’s certainly the nicest way he could have put it. He opens his mouth to agree, but Ashley, who has been strangely quiet up until that point, beats him to the punch. “Not really.”
His head whips around like he’d been slapped.
She’s not wrong, but he still can’t believe she’d actually acknowledged it. And to Elijah of all people—at the worst fucking possible time ever. It stings, but he can’t do much else but glare.
Elijah doesn’t look like he knows how to follow that up, “O-Oh?”
“Yeah. Andrew and I both live our own separate lives. Besides, it’d be weird if things were still like high school, right?” She shrugs, nonchalantly but with an edge to her voice that digs right into his skin like hooks. Oh—she’s definitely trying to piss him off. He knows without a doubt, now.
“I mean, I guess,” Elijah laughs nervously, “You guys were a little…”
Andrew can feel his hair stand on end. “A little what?”
He coughs, “I mean. Actually, never mind,” he said, quick to smooth over that blunder. He probably could sense Andrew’s growing irritation. He wasn’t doing a good job with his normally impeccable poker face, but he also doesn’t really give a fuck right now. “I probably should get going,” he says, already making his way towards the door.
Yeah. He should get going. And never fucking come back while he’s at it.
No, Andrew. Relax. You’re overreacting.
“I’ll call you later!” Ashley says, throwing another one of her increasingly rare smiles at Elijah. “Thanks again for your help!” He can’t believe his fucking ears. She’s actually engaging in a normal conversation and is even being polite. He didn’t think he’d ever live to see the day.
Okay.
Maybe he’s not overreacting.
He gave her his fucking number? There was no fucking way. That meant he wanted to contact his sister again? Talk to her? Ask her out on a date? Take her out? Maybe even fuck her? He could picture it perfectly. Elijah seemed like the type to wine and dine a potential lover. He’d pick her up, show her a good time, compliment her a little, and his stupid little sister would fall head over heels because she’s desperate for attention. Then, it wouldn’t take much sweet-talking to get her back to his apartment. Just a push, and that bastard would probably have her spreading her legs for him.
Over his dead fucking body. No one was fucking his little sister. No one but him—
His breath catches in his throat. Cool it, Andrew. Lock it down. He didn’t need those sick thoughts poisoning his mind when he needed to think. To come up with something, anything to stop this rapidly incoming train wreck.
It feels like every blood vessel in his body could spontaneously combust. That’s how hot he feels—like he’s on the verge of a fucking aneurysm.
He had to get Elijah the fuck out of his house. Pronto.
Elijah grins back at Ashley, something appreciative and sly in his eyes. Andrew knows what it is. He’s seen it far too many times within the wandering eyes of the boys at their high school who’d tried to approach Ashley. Boys who saw the wild, loathsome, and spirited girl that she was, and wanted to try their luck at subduing her. Boys who saw the beauty beneath the foul mouth and unapproachable exterior. Boys whom Andrew had to set straight, because who the fuck did they think that they were?
Andrew stands before he even realizes, “Hey, man. Did you drive here?”
His old friend blinks, “Yes?”
“Let me walk you to your car,” he says in a laid-back and chill way. Or something close to it. He might have growled those words, but he doesn’t really know. He doesn’t think he cares. “I need a smoke, anyway,” he adds, to sound a little less threatening. He’s chill. Collected. Cool as a fucking cucumber.
“Uh, sure,” Elijah says, holding the door open for him as they step outside. It’s the middle of December, and the chill was heavy in the air. He regrets not grabbing a jacket, but the hot anger burning within him is enough to keep the cold at bay.
The elevator ride is a quiet one—which was odd for Elijah, who was usually quite the chatterbox. “So, uh?” He finally says when they step out of the elevator. “What did you want to talk about?”
Andrew smoothes on a warm smile like he’s ironing it onto his face. “Just…curious about something,” he says, keeping his voice light. Calm. Easy. He’s totally unflappable. “You never took much interest in Ashley before,” he digs into his pocket to pull out his cigarette pack once they exit the building. He flips open the top, pulling out one of the cancer sticks and slipping it between his lips. He fishes out his lighter next. “Just wondering what changed, is all.”
“Ah,” Elijah says, “I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised.”
Andrew doesn’t like his tone. “Surprised about what?”
“That you’re reading me my rights,” the blonde gives a wry chuckle. “Still swatting away any guy who so much as looks at Ashley, huh?”
Andrew’s eyes narrow. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? “I mean. I’m her big brother. I gotta look out for her. Who else is going to?”
“I get that,” Elijah acknowledges, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I try to keep an eye on my sisters too, but I think there’s a difference between keeping an eye out and uh,” he clicks his tongue, looking at him sheepishly, “Whatever this is right now,” he gestures at him.
Andrew snorts, “And what’s this? I can’t ask you a question?”
“You can. But I also know you, Andrew. You were like a bloodhound when it came to any guys around your sister. You’ve been like that since we were kids.”
Knew him? There wasn’t a person alive who actually knew Andrew besides Ashley, but he kept that comment to himself. The thing is, Andrew knew men. He was one himself, and he knew how men thought. Ashley just wasn’t smart enough to keep herself safe. She was so thirsty for attention that it would take absolutely nothing. Any man with half a brain could run circles around her. He wouldn’t—no, couldn’t allow that.
“What are you trying to say?”
Elijah gives a heavy sigh. “What do you really want to know, Andrew?
He didn’t want to beat around the bush. Whatever. Fine by him—not like he wanted to stand here freezing his ass off, anyway. “What do you want with Ashley?”
“I just wanted to be nice and help her out,” Elijah says, like the goody two-shoes that he’s always been. “But, she also seemed…less Ashley than before, I guess?” He gave a cavalier shrug. “It was actually kinda pleasant to talk to her.”
Andrew laughs, like the sound’s been torn from his chest, rattling in his ribcage. “Ashley? Pleasant? Now. I know you’re bullshitting me.” There wasn’t a single pleasant thing about that nightmare given human flesh. She could barely carry on a conversation long enough to be anything close to sweet or tolerable. No. His Ashley was hopeless.
Elijah probably just wanted to fuck her—a guy like him couldn’t have found her company enjoyable enough for anything beyond an easy lay. His friend looks flabbergasted by his reaction, like he hadn’t also grown up witnessing his basketcase of a sister in her full deranged glory. He was looking at him as though he had said something ridiculous, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
“Why would I be?”
…
Was he serious? Andrew squinted at him, taking an agitated drag from his cigarette.
Andrew liked to think that he had a generally good read on people when he bothered to pay attention. Everyone was self-serving, only doing what benefited them as long as it continued to benefit them. That was how the world worked—transactional. You made friends because humans were social creatures, and isolation tended to make your brain break until you were babbling at the walls. Some people were more tolerable than others, and so you spent time with them because fun released endorphins or some shit. Elijah had always been nice enough. Friendly. He’d never really slept around or strung girls along. He’d had a girlfriend or two but mostly kept his nose clean, so he wasn’t involved in much drama. He was even willing to hang with Andrew and even speak up in his defense from time to time. It was useful to have him around until it wasn’t.
Andrew had never fully bought the nice guy act, though. No one was really like that.
Well, color him fucking surprised.
Elijah was actually a good guy—the kind of guy who would probably actually treat Ashley right. He wasn’t the kind of guy who would chew her up and spit her out before moving on to the next fresh meat while she rotted and festered.
Andrew fucking hates it.
“It’s Ashley. She might be playing nice now, but you really don’t want to deal with that. It’s only a matter of time before the next meltdown. Trust me. I’ve been living with that nightmare my entire life.” His hands are starting to shake like he’s some kind of fucking junkie.
He watches as Elijah’s brows knit together, furling as he stares at him with something that resembles disgust. Like he’s looking down on him—or like he’s realizing something about him for the first time. It makes Andrew want to beat his face in.
Take another drag from your cigarette and reel it in. Your mask is slipping, you fucking idiot.
The silence hangs over them like a cloak—heavy as fuck and heated. Or maybe that’s just how Andrew feels. Sweaty. Pissed off—chest burning hot and veins pulsing so hard he can feel them.“That’s…kind of mean, Andrew,” Elijah says after several moments.
Mean? What the fuck is this asshole even talking about?
He stares incredulously, before snorting, “If you think I’m mean, you should see her—“
“I just mean—how you’re always insulting her,” Elijah continues, and that’s enough to shut him up, mouth snapping shut as those words burrow deep. “You’ve been doing that since we were kids, and I never really thought about it, but man. Can you give it a rest?”
Who the fuck did this self-righteous, bleach blonde looking motherfucker think that he was talking to—?
“Ashley was just kind of fun to talk to, is all I was saying.”
“Don’t tell me you want to be her friend or something,” Because that was bullshit. It’s the most laughable shit Andrew has ever heard. He should stop while he’s ahead, make some shit up about this all being a joke, and send his friend on his way, but he can’t seem to stop his mouth from flapping away.
His head feels too fucking hot, and not even the smoke is taking the edge off. “Come on, man. Get real. This is Ashley we’re talking about here!”
Ashley. Socially inept, Ashley. Stupid, dumb, childish Ashley, who wouldn’t know what to do with a man’s attention. Even though she draws it. All the time. He’s just always been lucky that her personality is so rotten that it worked as a man repellent, and usually, a few subtle suggestions from him kept the rest away. It didn’t take much: a “Haven’t you seen my sister in action? I wouldn’t recommend that, my dude,” or a “You’re barking up the wrong tree. Ashley’s a basket case! Save yourself the trouble,” and they gave up. A girl like Ashley wasn’t worth all that effort when they just wanted a quick fuck. There were easier options, and he wouldn’t let Ashley be easy.
Not his Ashley.
His usual methods aren’t working very well, right now, though. Well—guess there’s a first time for everything. “Let’s be serious. You’re not a kid. I doubt you want to just be friends with her. Are you trying for something more?” That had to be it—even if he couldn’t fathom why in God’s green Earth Elijah would even try. They didn’t have a fucking thing in common aside from working at the same place, and knowing Ashley, that wouldn’t last very long.
“Do you have an issue with that?”
And there it fucking was! He’d been trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it was becoming increasingly clear that he’d been spot on. Andrew scoffs, flicking some of the ash from his cigarette in Elijah’s direction. “So, you want to fuck her?”
Elijah just looks at him, expressionless. He doesn’t seem to know what to say to him, and honestly, Andrew didn’t really give a fuck. The only sign of his displeasure is the way his lips press together into a thin line and the slight narrowing of his eyes. He still doesn’t look all that threatening, though, but Andrew didn’t think he’d back down even if he did.
“Wow,” Elijah says incredulously. “You’re… something else, Andrew.” He does not sound impressed. He guessed that wasn’t a compliment.
Andrew dropped the cigarette, crushing whatever was left of the burning stick and filter under his heel. “Are you gonna answer the question or not?”
“I don’t want to even dignify that question with a response,” the blonde’s lips twist into a disdainful sneer. “Do you…really think so little of me?” To be honest, Andrew didn’t think of him at all. He hadn’t thought a single thing about him from the moment they’d graduated high school. He was just another nobody—and now, he had the nerve to be a nobody who wanted to creep on Andrew’s sister. “That I’d just be trying to use your sister to get laid? I’m not that kind of guy.”
Every guy was that kind of guy. “Yeah, fucking right,” Andrew said, stepping in front of Elijah, getting right up in the blonde’s face. Fuck, he looked like a fucking Ken doll. Ashley couldn’t be into this. There was no fucking way. Sure, they were around the same height, and he figured he looked decent enough. Elijah did seem to have more muscle than Andrew, but he figured he could still take him if it really came down to it.
Elijah didn’t have the grit to really hurt someone—Andrew at least knew that. This asshole was always preaching about how violence wasn’t the answer. Bet he’d be so fucking shocked if he knew the kind of thoughts Andrew’s precious little sister had—the kind of things she did when she was angry enough.
He’d run for the fucking hills.
“I thought you knew me better than that, Andrew.” Elijah’s frown deepens. Now he just looks fucking disappointed. “We were friends for years,” ‘were,’ being the operative word. Andrew guesses that he’s managed to fuck that up in the span of the last hour. Oh well.
“And yet you decide to throw yourself at my sister?”
“Christ, dude!” Elijah glared at him, “Don’t you think you’re being a bit much right now?”
“Obviously fucking not if you’re still here pushing your luck. Some friend you are,” he was definitely shooting off at the mouth right now, but it's like all of the nastiness that he keeps bottled up has begun to pour out, like pus from a festering open wound. Okay. Maybe there was a bit of betrayal here. Sure, he’d never been close to Elijah. Not in the ways that mattered, anyway. He’s not close to anyone—but, he thought that he and his friend had something of an understanding. They helped each other out from time to time, hung out, and listened to each other bitch about their problems (well, the bullshit that Andrew thought was fine to share, anyway). Elijah had seen Ashley in all her glory growing up, and he’d seen the lengths that Andrew had to go through to keep her out of trouble.
He’d seen the boys he’d had to keep away, too. Elijah had little sisters, as well, so Andrew thought that he’d understood. He’d been one of the few friends at school who had ever been even close to getting it.
Though Andrew had clearly been fucking wrong.
“You’re freaking out for no reason right now, dude,” Elijah protests, and it only pisses Andrew off more. What? Did he think he was better than him or something? “And why do you even care this much? This is getting fucking weird, man,” he takes a step away from him like the pussy bitch Andrew knows that he is.
Andrew would show him weird when he knocked his teeth out of his fucking mouth.
What the fuck would Ashley even see in this guy? Yeah, he’s nice. He’s a good person. He’s sure that worked for some people, but that’d never work for his Ashley.
Andrew couldn’t see Ashley going for the golden retriever type.
No. She was way too fucked up for that. She'd been like that from the moment she was born—a hellish demon cloaked in the body of a young girl. Temptation itself given form—like Eve dangling the succulent, sweet flesh of an apple before his very eyes. Andrew would know; he’d raised her after all. She was his own very special piece of work, the flawed and jagged diamond that he’d painstakingly moulded by hand into the disastrous mess that she was today. His nightmare would be bored before the week was out. This had to be some sort of game—and he wasn’t about to let her play it.
“Why don’t you be honest about what you really want?” Andrew asks, feeling a nasty grin forming on his face. His blood pulses hot, hands clenching with the urge to swing. His well-worn mask seemed to have finally fallen apart—stitches bursting open, tearing the carefully crafted fabric he’d sewn together. He could try to thread the needle, pull himself back together the best he could. Laugh it off; smooth things over the best he could—“Oh, dude, you should see your face! Did you think I was serious? I don’t care if you want to fuck my sister up, down, over, and sideways! She’s a grown woman and can do whatever she wants! Of course I’m fine with this! Did you want me to bring you some condoms, too?”
But—
Well. It’s not like Elijah was all that important anymore. He didn’t keep in contact with any of his old friends, anyway, so who the fuck cares if this started any damning rumors? Was there any real need to keep up appearances when this fucker wanted something that belonged to him?
“This is getting us nowhere,” his former friend says, eyes shifting like he wants to escape this conversation. “You want me to back off? Fine. But, this is really weird, man. You’re coming at me like I’m trying to make a move on your girlfriend.”
Those words sting worse than any punch could ever, and they connect like a dart hitting his chest. Bullseye! Direct hit—Elijah managed to get full points with that one. It makes him feel seen, and Andrew fucking hates that more than anything. The worst part is that he’s absolutely right. Andrew knows exactly what Elijah’s talking about, even if he can’t admit it. The hot pulse in his blood, the way he can feel his blood vessels tighten at just the thought of Elijah alone with his sister, can only be that green-eyed beast that slumbered within the depths of his moldy, grime-covered heart. He’s jealous. He’s so fucking jealous that he wants to wrap his hands around the other man’s throat and squeeze until those pretty blue eyes pop right out of the sockets. Or beat him to death—stomp on his head until his fucking skull caves in.
He had him dead to rights, but denial was a river that Andrew was intimately familiar with.
The biting cold is the least of Andrew’s concerns now. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The blonde man shrugs, “You’re a smart guy, Andrew,” Elijah says stiffly, turning on his heel as he starts to walk away from him. “You tell me.”
Andrew wants to stop him, but he allows him to go, watching as the other man’s head of perfectly combed hair grows further and further in the distance down the street. He considers sucker punching him—picking up one of the nearby rocks that littered the side of the building and lugging it at the back of his stupid fucking head. Andrew didn’t do any of that, though.
For one, he’d already done way too much damage to his reputation for one night. However, he’s fortunate that he and Elijah don’t run in the same circles anymore. That could be…problematic.
And secondly, he’d probably be arrested for assault. Andrew didn’t need that shit on his record, even if the idea of forgoing all pretenses and appearances is really fucking tempting right now. He stands there, rooted in place like a brain-dead moron; throat burning and mind racing with so many thoughts that he thought his head might fucking pop.
The pressure is too much. His face feels hot, too, and when it feels like he’s about to become a human spontaneous combustion statistic, a roar erupts from his chest as he swings blindly. He just needs to hit something—anything—as his fist collides with the brick wall surrounding his building. It hurts like a motherfucker, but does little to alleviate the building sense of panic that grew within him like he’s being pumped full of it. Elijah was a good guy—smart, charming, and handsome (as much as Andrew hates to admit it)—if he can find a way to temper Ashley’s winning personality, then he can be good for her.
Hell. She might even do what he’d been unable to do this entire time and go so far away that he’d never be able to see her again.
His heart beats wildly, icy dread filling his chest as though he’d been injected with it.
She might even be happy with him.
Andrew can’t decide which part of that he hates worse.
“Fuck!” He hollers, unable to control himself, before he hits the wall again—and again—until he feels his knuckles split and hot blood pour down from his open wounds. He barely even feels it, if he’s being honest, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.
Why is he even so fucking mad?
Elijah was right. There was no reason to be reacting this way. Had he ever gotten even a little upset when guys made passes at Julia? No. If he’s being honest, the idea doesn’t even manage to spark even a small ember of rage. If anything, it makes him cold—no, cool. He’s totally indifferent. But Ashley? No. Just the very thought is enough to make his skin hot and his blood near boiling. He can’t stand it.
No. No. No.
Not Ashley. Not his Ashley.
He screamed again—anguished, like he’s Stanley and this is A Streetcar Named Desire wailing for the love he’d battered. Ashley doesn’t come sauntering down the stairs, though. She probably didn’t even hear him. He doesn't stop until someone yells from their window that they’re going to call the cops if he keeps it up.
Fucking fine by him.
When Andrew returns to their apartment, Ashley has returned to their bedroom. She’s already in bed by the time he slams the door open, the doorhead hitting the wall so hard that it might’ve created a dent. He’s fortunate their parents are working night shifts tonight, or he’s sure their Mother would’ve flipped the fuck out.
He’s too mad to care, though.
(If he were calmer, he might’ve been able to stop and appreciate the irony of his actions. He’d told Ashley that they had to start their own lives. He’d rebuffed her advances back when they were still in their teens and recoiled after each jealous meltdown. Now here he was—behaving just as recklessly as she often did in their youth because his “friend” was interested in her. Hah. God. He is so full of shit.)
Their mother would’ve surely been pissed if she were home to witness this little temper tantrum. She surely would’ve run her mouth about him slamming doors in her house, and she would’ve surely been next—if she dared to try to get in his way or give him shit right now. He would’ve knocked her lights out. And after a lifetime of neglect, he probably wouldn’t stop until she’s nothing but a mess of gore all over his hands.
Hah.
Though as nice as that thought is, this isn’t about Mom right now.
Andrew feels damn near feral, feels like all of his blood vessels are about to burst, like the pulsing vein in his temple might rupture at any second. If he were less furious, he might’ve appreciated the dark humor in that thought. Ashley had always complained that he’d give himself an aneurysm from all his worrying—wouldn’t it be funny if he actually did?
Wouldn’t it be an absolute fucking scream if he crumpled to the ground, blood gushing from every orifice in his head because he was that fucking jealous?
“Holy shit, what the fuck is your problem?” Ashley demands, shooting up in her bed. The noise probably startled her, but she’d better get used to it because he’s a lot to make a lot fucking more. It’s not like she hadn’t pulled the same shit for years. He’s just giving her a taste of her own medicine. Yeah. Let her ears hurt for fucking once.
“My problem?” He hisses through his teeth viciously, stomping towards her bed. With his long legs, it doesn’t take him much time to reach it from the door. He’s there in two steps, looming over her, though Ashley doesn’t seem the least bit threatened. Great. She still takes him for a fucking joke. Well, they’d see just how funny he could be. “What the fuck was that little show about? With Ethan or whatever the fuck his name is?” He’d already forgotten that fucker’s name. Who the fuck even cared? “You trying to get back at me?”
Ashley stares at him, absolutely dumbstruck, “Have you lost your mind?” She asks in disbelief, like his behavior is a shock. She should really look in a mirror sometimes. He can recall numerous times that she’d melted down over any time that he spent with Julia in the past, even after accepting that he was seeing her. She had some fucking nerve.
“Have you?”
“Gosh! Heaven forbid I actually have a friend over for once!” She snarks, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Good golly me! How fucking weird!”
Andrew scoffs and then laughs, “Friend? Are you fucking serious?”
“Yeah? Weren’t you the one going on and on about how we had to live our own separate lives?” She shoots back, and her words are a direct hit, piercing through his chest like shrapnel and debris launched from an explosion. “I made a friend! What of it?”
“My fucking friend?”
Ashley scoffs at him, “Fucking spare me, Andrew. That’s your friend?” She crosses her arms against her chest, and he tries not to notice that part of her has grown that much larger since he’d been close enough to even take note of it. He fails. “What’s his fucking name, then?”
He sputters for a moment. His name? Why did that matter? “Edgar?” No, that didn’t sound right. “Eren?” Yeah, that sounds even more wrong. “Edward?” Andrew groans in frustration, dragging his hand down along his face and yanking down his eyelids. Yeah. He already had no fucking clue. “Who fucking cares?”
She throws her head back and laughs, “God. You’re full of shit!” She smirked, pink lips tugging upward as she bared her teeth at him, all smug. God, he missed that smile—all toothy and ruthless, like she’d take a bite out of anyone who dared to get too close. He hadn’t seen it in so long. “Even I can remember his fucking name, and I didn’t hang out with him for years. It’s Elijah! El-li-jah!” Ashley drags out the pronunciation of his ex-friend’s name as though he’s an idiot.
“I know how to say his fucking name. I just don’t give a fuck about remembering it, dumbass.”
“I thought he was your friend?”
“What was before he decided to be a creep to my little sister?”
“A creep?” Ashley laughs harder, grabbing her belly and guffawing like he’s putting her in stitches, “Jesus Christ, you cannot be serious right now.”
He can feel his face grow hotter, this time more from embarrassment than anger. She has a point, he’s acting like fucking nutcase right now, but he’s in far too deep to back out now. He has to double down, but he’d need to come up with some sort of bullshit good enough to be believable to his sister—and quickly! “Uh—”
Not quick enough!
“There’s a code,” he says, mind scrambling to latch onto anything that it could. “Uh, Friend code. You don’t try to fuck your friend’s little sister. You just don’t.” Yeah. Yeah! That was good! That worked!
Ashley’s face twisted into something nasty, a shadow casting over her features as her brows drew together harshly and her lips twisted in a way that makes it look like she’s holding back a scowl. Ah. That isn’t great. Not really the reaction that he’d been hoping for, but he also can’t say he barged in here with much of a plan to begin with. Still, he’s not ready to admit defeat yet.
“I guess friend code doesn’t extend to sisters or girls, huh?”
Huh?
He gaped at her, struggling to find what the fuck she was on about until it hit him. Oh. “That’s not—“
“Oh, it’s not?” She hisses through her teeth like some sort of snake about to sink her venom into him. “So, it’s fine for my friend to fuck you? To date you? I should just be fine with that? That’s not violating ‘friend code?’” She makes quotation marks with her fingers, sneering in disgust. “Should I have beaten that cutting bitch’s ass for going after my brother?”
Fuck.
He’d walked right into that one. “Listen—,” he tries again, but Ashley continues her rant, undeterred.
“And who said anything about him fucking me? Do you even hear yourself? He just gave me a ride home.”
He latches onto the change in subject like a leech latching onto skin, “It’s not just a ride home with men, Ashley,” he says, shaking his head. Fuck. He really couldn’t let her out of his sight for even a moment—just look at the vultures that were soaring above in his absence. “You’re not that fucking dumb, are you?”
She flinches, and he wonders if he’s gone too far. Only for a moment, though. No, he’s tripling down now. “You think a guy would see you and just want to be nice? Get real, Ashley. You’re not worth that much effort.”
He can feel the temperature in their bedroom change, like a chill has been let in through an open window, even though there are no windows in that stuffy room they’ve shared for years. It’s always been more akin to a prison—four walls made of cheap plaster that he’d kicked a hole in once when he was pissed off about something. Andrew can’t remember what it was right now, but it probably had to do with his mother. He’d have to cover the hole with a poster or else Renee would’ve lost her fucking mind. It’s still there, too. Maybe the chill is coming from that hole.
Though, really—it's coming from his sister, who seems to have become an ice fixture on her bed.
“Right,” she says stiffly. “Who’d want to be nice to me, anyway? Not like I’m worth the effort.”
Fuck.
Okay, now he’s gone too far. Andrew feels droplets of sweat bead at the back of his neck.
“Ashley—”
“Fuck you, Andrew,” she grits out, turning around on her bed and pulling the blankets over her head, signalling that the conversation was finished and would not be revisited anytime soon.
“Are you fucking serious, Ashley? You’re just done?”
She didn’t answer him.
“Oh, so we’re doing the silent treatment again now? Are we five?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m such a baby! Go cry about it to your wrist-slitting whore!” she hisses, signalling that this would be the last thing that he manages to get out of her for the night, but fuck that. Andrew isn’t just about to be done because she wants to throw another temper tantrum. The only reason they weren’t talking to begin with was because of her. He’d tried to talk to her after he’d pushed her away. He’d tried twice, but she’d been too much of a stubborn bitch to even try to hear him out.
Fuck that. He’s not doing this again.
"Ashley, fucking talk to me!” He tries to pull her blankets off of her and just earns himself an ear-ringing slap to the face for his efforts. She hits his cheek hard, so much so that his teeth bruise the inside of his mouth. “No!” This time, her hand balls into a fist and comes down on top of his head. She hadn’t resorted to this level of violence in a while. He must’ve really pissed her off. “I’m not worth the effort, right? Fuck off, Andrew!”
He sees red.
There are so many responses that run through his head. He could demand that she fucking listen to him, explain his side of things, and make her understand that he’s only looking out for her. He could even explain what had been going on with him a year ago that made him flee to the bathroom to shower in the middle of the night. Maybe he can even make her understand that turning her down that night had been for her own sake, too. It wasn’t because he wanted to. No, if he were honest with himself, neither of them would have even made it to school the following day. He wants to tell her all of that.
“Get off of me!” She screeches—and god, she’s so fucking loud. Mom and Dad weren’t home, but from how she was howling, anyone in the hallway could probably hear her. He grabs her wrists, intending to only keep her at bay. Instead, he ends up pinning her down to her bed, just to get her to stop. “Andrew, what the FUCK—”
His mouth slams into hers.
That… wasn’t what he’d intended to do.
It wasn’t, but there’s something about the way her body tenses beneath him; how her protests and screams seem to die down the moment that his lips claim hers, as though swallowing them. Ashley attempts to struggle, her hips bucking in an earnest effort to throw him off of her, perhaps. He’s not very sure of anything at the moment.
Ashley’s lips are soft.
Or, they would be if she weren’t trying to bite at his mouth like she was some kind of wild animal. Still, he’s just as ravenous as his tongue probes at her lips, pushing into her mouth. She tastes sweet, like the strawberry ice cream that she usually complained had too much disgusting red jam but always ate, anyway. She gasps against him, and he uses that opportunity to kiss her even more deeply.
God, god, god—she tastes divine.
She tastes like home, like the warmth that gathers in his chest whenever she is in his arms. She tastes like the place that he always wants to return to; like the place that he will always return to.
His hands move from her wrists, and she doesn’t try to hit him again. No—she’s grasping at his clothes, nails digging into his sweater to pull him closer, and now when her hips move, it’s not to try to fight him off. No, she wants to find a rhythm with him. A delicious, sensuous rhythm that makes his toes curl and his skin burn sinfully. “Ashley,” he groans her name, hissing as her nails rake down his back.
That’s good.
It’s so good—
“Ashley, Ashley, Ashley—,” he says, like he’s worshiping her.
Perhaps, he is. Perhaps, he was always meant to.
“Andrew,” Ashley whines his name, her voice lacking all of its previous anger. There’s still heat, however, even if the heat had nothing to do with rage. He likes the way his name sounds on her lips when she says it like this—sweet, like she’s savoring it on her tongue. “Andrew, god, what the fuck,” she rambles, something that he doesn’t care to make out in between kisses. Andrew doesn’t care to pay attention. No, he’s much more fixated on getting her to moan his name like that again. She should say it this way more often, he thinks.
His mouth finds her throat next, kissing the erratically beating pulse point. He thinks about sinking his teeth down—making a mark that not even what’s his name would be able to ignore.
What was his name? He really can’t even begin to remember—Ethan. Or Edwin. Or was it Elijah? Yeah. It was Elijah, his ex-friend, whom his sister had brought home with her today.
—And somehow, that thought alone is enough to drag him back into reality.
Andrew’s eyes fly open, and he practically leaps halfway across the room. His back slams against the closet from the force with which he flings himself away from his sister. His heart pounds so loudly that he can feel the pressure in his throat, like he might vomit it right up.
Ashley looks positively ravaged on her bed as she sits up on her elbows, looking dazed.
What the fuck?
What the fuck did he just do—
“Why did you stop?” His little sister asks. Right. His little sister. He’d just kissed his little sister. He’d practically been dry humping his littler sister—What the fuck?!
“Andrew?”
“I…” Andrew doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know where to fucking begin because he doesn’t even know how or why he’d got here. Even more bewildering is the way that Ashley is smiling at him—like she’s not the slightest bit upset. Her smile doesn’t last long, however, when she notices his panic.
She sits up fully now. “Andrew,” she begins. “It’s okay.”
It’s not.
Her brow furrows, “Andrew—”
“I… I have to go,” he says, like the words have been punched out of him. She grows tense, and he sees an expression on her that he hasn’t seen in years. Bewilderment—and then, hurt. The same hurt that he’d seen on her face after he’d pushed her away after his dream. He can see it for what it is now.
Rejection.
Fuck.
Fuck—how had he fucked up this bad?!
“Wait, you—you’re just going to go?” Ashley asks, incredulous. No, there’s anger bleeding into her voice again, but he can’t really blame her this time. “Are you fucking serious, Andrew?” And now, there’s betrayal. Like he’d just taken her heart, pulled it out of her chest, and stomped all over it. “Again? You’re doing this again?”
He is.
He has to. Doing anything but what he is about to do is nothing but pure madness, after all.
Andrew doesn’t have an answer for her as he bolts out of their room—and out of the entire fucking apartment. "Wait! Andrew, fucking wait!" He hears her yelling for him and even hears her attempt to run after him, but he's faster. He's always been faster than her.
He doesn’t even know where he’s going, but he can’t be there. He can’t be with her.
Clearly, he can’t fucking trust himself around her.
The distance had been a good thing—it had been a fucking godsend to keep shit like this from happening. And what had he done? He'd gotten jealous and he’d fucked it all up—completely.
He'd been right to be anxious and wary today.
This day fucking sucked.