#as for the “bad teammate” nonsense...my pinned post says it all

[macaiv]

Esteban on what it means on being a teammate.

[silkling]

Of Newfound Knowledge and Truths of a Yesteryear

Of Moments in Life AU

———————————————————————————————————

Heatwave stood on his small training platform, punching the wooden dummy and trying to ignore the rage bubbling in the back of his processor. That morning, he’d read some of the data-pads that High Tide and Optimus had left, the ones Blades had read when Dreadwing first crashed on the island. What he’d learned had made him angry, and he didn’t understand how his teammate hadn’t been angry, too.

The Decepticons…the pads had a lot of information on what the ‘Cons had done throughout the War. The information had definitely been censored and sanitized, probably intentionally so his team wouldn’t be exposed to the full horrors of the War through the data pads, but it had still been enough for Heatwave to understand.

Dreadwing had said that the Decepticons started as a social revolution. But they were certainty far from that, now. The Rescue Force, Praxus, Iacon…they’d destroyed everything that had stood in their way, not caring if those they crushed were even involved in the War or not. It made him angry, his rescue protocols screaming with rage and loss in his processor.

As the conflicting emotions peaked, he heard the sound of pedes behind him and turned to see Dreadwing. Heatwave stepped away from the training post, the platform lowering to the ground as he crossed his arms and frowned. He liked the former Deception. He hadn’t spent as much time with him as the rest of his time, but he big bot was never violent or mean. He was a little blunt, and seemed to be a bit overly aggressive in his solutions for Heatwave’s peace-orientated processor, but he wasn’t a bad bot. At least, he didn’t appear to be.

Dreadwing seemed to notice his internal distress, because the larger bot pinned him with a considering and slightly concerned look. “You seem troubled, little one.” he rumbled.

“I’m not little.” Heatwave answered on reflex, mildly indignant. He didn’t understand why the Seeker referred to him and his teammates like that. Well, he supposed he did. They were all little, compared to him. “And…I guess I am.” He looked up at Dreadwing, a hard frown twisting his features.

“So I see.” Dreadwing, for his part, now looked ever so slightly amused. “And what is it what is causing you such distress?”

Heatwave made a frustrated noise, his vocalizer clicking in a sort of nonsense babble as he tried to think of how to explain. “I just–I don’t understand. How could they have done…everything they did?”

“What are you talking about?” Dreadwing asked, confused.

“I read the data lads Optimus and High Tide left! I learned about some of the things the Decepticons did!” he snapped, frustration and anger bleeding into his tone in place of previous confusion. Just the thought of what he’d learned was enough to make his spark sing with rage.

“Ah, now I understand.” The Seeker stated, his gaze becoming solemn and understanding. “And what did you learn, Heatwave?”

“You know what!”

“I do not. Your data pads are Autobot records, youngling. While I have no doubt there is truth there, I am also quite sure that much of that information is highly biased or just pure conjecture.”

The fire truck scowled. “Oh? So the Decepticons didn’t destroy Praxus, which was supposed to be a Neutral city?”

Dreadwing paused. “They did. It was before I joined, but they did.”

“And you’ve probably done a lot too, haven’t you?” He demanded. “Killed a lot of innocent bots, destroyed a lot of lives?” he was angry and hurting and he didn’t understand how Dreadwing could have joined a cause that was so horrible unless he was, as the human say, cut from the same cloth. But he couldn’t be, everything Heatwave had seen from the Seeker since his crash on the island directly conflicted with what the youngling had learned of the Decepticons. It just made him confused and left his spark aching.

The Seeker in question was silent, observing for a moment before he dipped his head. “I have. I have done many, many terrible things. I never killed sparklings or younglings, but I have killed countless Autobot soldiers and slain more than a few Neutral civilians on Megatron’s command.” He said softly. “I have aided in the stripping and destruction of planets, and I have directly contributed to the death of our homeworld. I do not deny any of this. I am not trying to escape my past, Heatwave, or to deny the crimes and atrocities I have committed.”

“Then why did you do them? Why are you here? Why should we let you stay if you’ve done all of that?” He didn’t actually want Dreadwing to leave, and the knew the others would want him to either. But he had just admitted to having committed horrible acts. Heatwave didn’t know what to think.

If the harsh questions bothered him, Dreadwing didn’t show it. “I did what I did because, at the time, I believed I was in the right. You know how Cybertron was in the Golden Age. You know of the emurata, of Functionism, of the caste system and how it was structured. Don’t tell me you don’t.” he said. “I rose from a system that sought to oppress me, and I turned to the only option I saw at the time. The Decepticons. It was wrong, and I have come to realize that.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “I am here because I have little elsewhere I can go, and because I find myself growing fond of this place. I am here because Primus has granted me a second chance, an opportunity to do better and to be better, and I intend to take it.” Dreadwing took an extra moment to consider the last question. “You likely should not.” he answered. “I cannot change what I have done, all I can do it try to make amends and hope to find redemption one day.” He met the youngling’s gaze evenly. “But I would like to stay, if you would allow me the chance to pursue something better here.”

Heatwave held his gaze, then sagged and looked away. “Fine. I don’t even want you to leave anyway.” he sounded tired. “I won’t make you go. I don’t think I could. The others like you, and so do I. It’d just do more harm than good to everyone involved if I made you leave now.” he glanced up. “Just…tell me why. Why did the Decepticons do all of that? I don’t understand.” he sounded frustrated and helpless.

Dreadwing softened, his wings dipping down just slightly as his frame relaxed. “The Decepticons did not rise from nothing, little one.” he rumbled.

“What do you mean? The data pads said Megatron came out of nowhere and built them up before anyone realized what was going on.” He said, his anger abating in face of his even more confusion.

Dreadwing scoffed. “I am certain that many Autobot’s believe that.” his lips curled faintly, displeased. “That is, however, as far from the truth as you can get.”

“Then why would Autobot data pads contain that information as if it were fact?” he demanded, crossing his arms.

The Seeker hummed, tilting his head. “Perhaps, if you wish to have this discussion in its entirety, it would be best to sit somewhere?”

Heatwave paused, then nodded. “Lounge.” he said gruffly, leading the way. Once there, he dragged over a beanbag chair and settled into it comfortably, leaving the couch to the former Decepticon.

“To begin, I must ask how much you know about the Autobots and Decepticons as a whole, as well as how much you know and understand the political and social climate of the Golden Age.” Dreadwing stated.

Heatwave frowned. “I know what you told us when you first arrived.” he said, tilting his head. “I also know that the Autobot’s end goal is the restoration of Cybertron and the revival of our race. I know the Decepticons want to take control and lead Cybertron by force, and that their end goal is to put ‘Cons in charge and remove lots of freedom from bots under their rule.” he said. He crossed his arms, staring at a point on the floor as he tried to think. “I know that the Senate used to rule Cybertron during the Golden Age, and that they weren’t very fair and a lot of bots suffered, and that some of their regulations and punishments were extreme.” he tilted his head. “I know the caste system made the bots in the lower castes struggle a lot.” he seemed almost ashamed at this point. “I….I never paid the most attention to that, though. I was in the upper-middle caste, and my Function was something I already wanted to do.”

“Rescue work.” Dreadwing guessed.

The firetruck nodded. “Yeah.” he admitted.

“Then you know much of the very basics, though your knowledge lacks in the complexity and finer details of the full scope of the situation.” he rumbled. “You are correct. The Autobots fight for a restored Cybertron. But your knowledge of the Decepticons is…not entirely accurate.”

Heatwave’s engine growled with displeasure as he just grew more helplessly confused. “What?”

“The Decepticons do seek control, and they do seek to rule over Cybertron. That is true. It is also true that their goal is to see to the destruction of the Autobots. But it wasn’t always so.”

“Yeah, you mentioned they started as a social revolution.” Heatwave said, starting to calm down once he realized he’d be getting his answers, and without all the vagueness that came from Optimus whenever he tried to ask the Prime about the War.

“They did. But Megatron not rise from nothing, as the Autobots are so fond of believing. He rose from foundations that were already very deeply rooted. Functionism was a plague and the caste system was a rot that had sunk deep into the very core of our world.” he said, voice soft and somber. “It was a rot that infected only the oppressed and the beaten; it affected the lower castes and the undesirables, and those who lived comfortably in the higher castes did not feel the affects of it.”

“Undesirables?” Heatwave echoed, confused.

“Bots who did not fit into the world the Senate wished to portray. They wanted a Cybertron where every bot had a singular Function and operated according to that Function and ONLY according to that Function. They wanted a world where all those who were not of the Senate were subservient to them and obeyed them without question. They wanted a world that operated under the beliefs and celebrations and social structure they approved of. Those who did not fit into that world, and who could not fit into that world, were deemed undesirable.” He cast the youngling a meaningful look. “For the Senate, that included flight-frames. It is why they were so eager to see the spread of anti-flyer sentiments, to confine flyers, whether they were Seekers or not, to a single city. Flight-frames have a different base coding to ground-frames, and the Senate were all ground-frames. In their optics, flight-frames were a danger to their rule because flyers, by the nature of our frames, do not fit seamlessly into a Functionist society.” he paused. “It certainly did not help that the social structure, belief system, and cultural behavior of flight-frames was radically different to that of ground-frames, and that it was radically different to what the Senate was trying to enforce.”

Heatwave was silent for a long moment, considering what he was told. “But…you said the caste system was a rot. What did you mean?”

Dreadwing hummed, his fingers tapping a pattern on the couch; it was a very human gesture, one he had picked up from the Burnses without even realizing it. He had to word this carefully. Not because he wanted to manipulate the younger bot, but because it was a complex situation and a rather unpleasant one. “You said we’re were of the upper-middle caste.” he said carefully. “And that fits with your frame type and your Function. But have you never thought about the types of bots that fill each level of the caste system?” he asked.

Heatwave furrowed his optical ridges, shaking his helm. “No…” he said slowly. “I know…I know artists were considered among the lowest tier of the high castes. I know scientists and medics were high caste, and that the only bots above them were politicians.” he said.

Dreadwing smiled faintly. The young bot was starting to understand on his own. “Indeed. But those bots only made up a minority of Cybertron’s population. What of the others? What of the common laborers?”

“You mean, like, cleaners and construction bots? You’re right, they were more common than scientists, medics, or artists.” he said. “Like Boulder. He was originally a construction bot.”

He nodded. “They were indeed more common. But what caste did the Senate assign to them?”

“The…the lower caste.” Understanding was starting to bloom in Heatwave’s optics. “The lowest caste, for most of the laborer frames.” he realized. “That means…Boulder was from the lower castes.”

Dreadwing hummed agreement. “He was. If you wish to know more, then you shall have to ask him yourself. It is not my place to tell you what he experienced.” He sighed heavily. “But I will tell you that the lower castes, the bots who made up the majority of our people, did not often lead pleasant lives. They received little pay for their work, could not often afford decent fuel, if they could afford any fuel, and most of their pay would have to go to maintaining their living space. It oft left them overtired, overworked, and very, very hungry. It did not help that many of them had dangerous Functions, dangerous jobs, and after paying for their living quarters and fuel, they did not have the shanix for medical care. It meant the lower castes were forced to choose between their need for fuel and their health.”

Heatwave swallowed, his optics blown wide. “Oh.” he whispered. “But…why didn’t they do anything?”

Dreadwing looked almost melancholic at his question. “Most of the lower castes simply did not have the time or energy to fight against it. They were too tired, too hungry, to injured or sick, and were forced to focus purely on their own survival.” he stated. “And those few that did try to speak up…” he trailed off. “The Senate was not kind to dissenters, little one. If they did not use empurata on those who protested their systems, they used other means of punishment and silencing.” his tone was grim.

Heatwave chose not to ask what those “other means” were. He had a feeling he didn’t want to know. “It…it was really that bad?”

The Seeker bowed his helm. “Ask Boulder or Blades. They would know the best of your teammates.” Though, he had his suspicions about the means of Chase’s creation, and if he was right then the police bot might also know how bad the Senate could be.

“Boulder, I get. But why Blades?”

“The little flyer once told me that one of his brothers was a flight-frame. He would not have experienced the cruelty directly, as he was a ground-frame on Cybertron, but he would doubtless have experienced or seen it through his brother.”

“Oh.” Heatwave was starting to get the feeling that he didn’t know as much about his team as he thought he did. He really needed to fix that. “I guess I understand why the Decepticons rose to quickly then, if things were really that bad for so long.”

“Indeed.” Dreadwing agreed. “But there is one more thing you must understand.”

“Which is?” Heatwave was feeling a little sick to his tanks. He hadn’t been aware the situation on Cybertron had been so bad, but then again, he’d lived a good life. He’d had all the fuel he needed, he never worried about his health or safety, his living situation was pretty much always assured, and he actually enjoyed working according to his Function. He wouldn’t have experienced the rot Dreadwing mentioned, so it only made sense he wasn’t entirely aware of it. That didn’t get rid of the guilt, though.

“The Decepticons are made up almost entirely of flight-frames and those of lower castes. There are certainly some of those among Autobot forces, but the grand majority of them are Decepticon.” Dreadwing pinned Heatwave under a severe look. “What does that tell you, little one?”

“It tells me that the Autobots are mostly ground-frames and bots from the middle and upper castes.” he answered, suddenly understanding the War in a whole new light. It certainly didn’t excuse what the Decepticons had done, but now this…this made it a lot easier to understand.

“Indeed.” he agreed. “The Decepticons originally rose on the backs of bots who were beaten down and had little else to lose, bots whose only crime was to want a better life.” he said. “When the Senate, and later the original Autobots before Optimus Prime, attempted to beat them back down to their “proper place”, they fought back for the freedom that should have always been theirs.” His gaze went distant, as if remembering something from long ago. “The Decepticons were originally a freedom movement, little one. It was only as time wore on and the spilled energon between the factions soured that they lost their way and forget their original mission.”

“And now?”

“Now, because so many Autobots are ground-frame or originated from the higher castes, they do not understand why their enemy continue to fight. Certainly, many Decepticons fight because they wish to destroy the Autobots, but there are many, many more who only fight because they fear that an Autobot victory means a return to the ways of the Golden Age. It is something that Prime and his bots simply do not, and perhaps never will, understand.”

“So most of the Autobots…they weren’t bots who were hurt by the Senate.”

“No.” Dreadwing agreed. “Prime’s team on Earth is a good example. Prime himself is formerly of the lower-high caste, as he was a former Archivist. His scout was upper-middle caste, and while he was too young to receive his Function at the start of the War he would very easily have made a successful racer. The femme-bot was an Enforcer, also considered upper-middle caste. And of course, the medic. Ratchet was famed, even before the War.” The Seeker smiled sardonically. “He was quite firmly in the highest castes. All of them operated according to their Function, and all of them were content with it.” He tilted his head. “The only bot on Prime’s own team who does not fit that mold is his Wrecker, who was once a construction bot. He is the only one who might truly understand.”

Heatwave nodded, looking own at his lap. “I think I get it now. This war…it’s not going to end until the Autobots understand that stuff, is it? Because they won’t understand why most of the Decepticons keep fighting, why they started fighting in the first place.” he said, looking up to meet red optics.

“Yes. You’re very intelligent, little one. You learn fast.” Dreadwing slumped slightly, releasing a heavy vent. “You are correct. So long as the Autobots do not understand, then the Decepticons, at least those who only fight out of a fear of a return to the old ways, will never stop what they are doing.”

“You really know a lot about this stuff.”

“I am a Seeker, Heatwave. I experienced much of the Senate’s cruelty directly, as did most of my frame-kin.”

The Rescue Bot nodded, subdued. Now he understood. A part of him wished he didn’t, but he was glad he did. He sighed, meeting Dreadwing’s gaze again. “I think I owe you an apology, then. I judged you based on incomplete information.”

Dreadwing bowed his helm. “Thank you, little one. As I said, I certainly committed horrible acts, and I can never undo what I have done, but now I only make to make amends as I move forward.”

Heatwave nodded, smirking and straightening up. “I think you can. And lucky for you, we’re here to help.” he said.

Dreadwing blinked, before he chuckled, his wings lifting as the mood brightened. “So you are. Thank you, youngling.”

“We’re Rescue Bots.” Heatwave grinned. “Helping others is what we do.”

“So it is.” He agreed, looking amused. “And perhaps, I can also help you?”

He blinked, taken aback. “Me? How?”

“I have noticed you practicing with your sparring post. Your form is acceptable, and I am aware that the Rescue Force trained its Teams to have combat abilities, but I can help you improve. Your current skills will help you fight if a rescue mission were to go wrong, but if you wish, then I can help expand and improve your combat capability even beyond that.”

Heatwave blinked. “You’ll teach me how to fight.” he stated.

“I would be glad to, if you wish to learn. There may come a day when you must fight a true enemy, and if that day comes then greater combat skill may be helpful.” Dreadwing pointed out.

Heatwave narrowed his optics, considering the unsaid implications of that statement. “…you think the War might come to us.”

“Perhaps.” he said grimly. “I pray that it does not, but in the event it does I think it is better that you are prepared to fight against an enemy who truly wishes to see your spark go out.”

He nodded, gaze firming. The others would need lessons too, in that case. The Rescue Force did teach them all basic combat, in the event that they needed to fight off anything that might be threatening whoever or whatever they were rescuing, but their combat training had been pretty basic. If Dreadwing was right, and there was a possibility of Sigma-17 one day facing an opponent that wanted them dead, then they’d need to shape up. He stood, hands curling into fists as his shoulders lifted and determination burned in his spark. He stared the Seeker in the optics.

“Let’s do it.”

Dreadwing stood, a faint smile curling at his lips, and clapped a hand on the youngling’s shoulder. “I look forward to it.” he said, a hint of pride in his tone. Heatwave was so very young, but already he was shaping up to be a fine mech, a fine leader.

Heatwave himself only grinned, blue optics bright. “So do I.”

He’d learned a lot today. Not all of it had been pleasant, and a distinctly unpleasant feeling still curled in his tanks, but he was glad to learn what he had. The past was dark and violent, he’d come to realize. Cybertron’s history was steeped in shadows and darkness and Heatwave was certain that he still didn’t know everything, that Dreadwing had certainly omitted many of the worst of the details. Given all that, he really couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised that the War had happened.

Now though, wasn’t the time to focus on the past. Not Cybertron’s past, and not on Dreadwing’s past either. He tilted his helm up to turn his grin on the larger bot, leaning his weight into the hand on his shoulder and enjoying the small physical contact. Yes, he decided. Dreadwing’s past didn’t matter, not here. All that mattered was what was to come, and Heatwave was determined to meet whatever the future held for them head on.

For himself, and for his newfound family — all of them, even its newest addition.

———————————————————————————————————

Here it is, folks! The next installment in “of moments in life”! This one goes a little deeper into Pre-War Cybertron’s social/political climate. Heatwave got a massive reality check. He was sorta privileged, by the standards of the Golden Age, and he’s being forced to realize what that meant and what it blinded him to. Poor youngling, his entire worldview just got rocked.

As for Dreadwing, he now has another son! The next installment will be tHe Blades and Dreadwing one. It’s gonna be sad. They’re gonna talk about their brothers. That’s all I’ll say! I have prompts fo write for before I can get to it, so it’ll be a bit, but stay tuned, it’ll come out! Anyway, hope y’all liked it! Let me know your thoughts!

Until next time, folks!

[ravenvsfox]

consider this for a prompt: the team is in the lounge, post practice, just lazing around and doing nothing; the tv is on; no one is really paying attention when andrew suddenly turns rigid; deep breaths; unfocused eyes; the reporter is relaying a shocking revelation about a man abusing the foster kids in his care; hisfacehisfacehisfacetheyareshowinghisface (-i cannot tell why my mind is such an angsty bitch but here we are)

(this is a specific and excellent prompt and I’ve been anxiously awaiting its place in line <3)

He’s boneless when he climbs out of the shower, feet tender on the glossy tile, breath sitting high and tight in his chest. Neil likes pacing through his routine after practice, adrenaline relaxing its grip on him finger by finger, change-rooms echoing and empty. He strings his wet hair up in a fresh bandana and shrugs his armbands up over flushed, shower-damp forearms. He lets the practice pull at his muscles and drafts new line-ups and drills in his head.

His teammates are back in the lounge, dotting the furniture, all of their aggression leached out of them, and he feels joy rip his chest like popped stitches. Good feelings are always more brutal than bad ones, he’s come to understand. Stronger, harsher.

He gets a round of raised hands and snappy greetings when he walks in, mostly lost in the rustle of plastic bags as Wymack and Abby unload sandwiches onto an overcrowded table.

Wymack licks stray sauce off of his thumb and points at Neil with his other hand. “Come pretend you’re civilized and eat at the table. I don’t want ranch on my couches again.”

Neil shrugs and pulls a chair out at the head of the table. Matt winks up at him, and the rest of the foxes pass wrapped and pressed sandwiches down the line. They chat and rustle, Aaron snaps for serviettes until Wymack smacks his hand away, Kevin eats his sandwich with a knife and fork. Everything smells like tangy pesto and sweet fresh bread.

“Get Andrew over here, will you?” Wymack asks distractedly. Neil glances over at Andrew, installed on the couch with his back towards them. His hair has been bleaching in the sun recently, and he’s easily the brightest thing in the room.

“Andrew,” he calls, accepting his own sandwich when it’s waved in front of him, distracted from the back of Andrew’s head.

“You really put an effort in,” Nicky teases, rolling his eyes.

“I’m not moving him if he doesn’t want to be moved,” Neil replies, unconcerned. His food is warm in his hands, chicken and cranberries and cheese peeking out of brown bread and wax wrapping.

“That’s bullshit,” Matt says, mouth full. “You know you could.”

“I don’t know why you still think I have that kind of power.”

“Uhh maybe because he does impossible favours for you? And like. Kisses your face when we’re not looking? I dunno, just a thought,” Dan says sarcastically, peeling onions out of her sandwich.

“Andrew,” Neil repeats, exasperated. When he looks over again Andrew hasn’t moved, fixed and steady as always. His shoulders are moving fast though, breath coming hard enough that Neil can hear it from across the room. His stomach throbs, intuitive and scared. 

He drops his food and shoves back from the table.

“He means business now,” Nicky jokes, and Neil puts a hand out to silence him. He can feel the room growing quiet and strange the longer he acts like a SWAT member creeping into a raid. He walks carefully, sideways, eyes on Andrew at all times.

The closer he gets the more he can see that Andrew isn’t polished at all, that he’s stretched too thin over blatant, clunky panic. This is the Andrew he sees in the middle of the night sometimes, pale and petrified like he was plucked fresh out of his own past. Neil gets the strongest, choked urge to cover Andrew up, guide him out of the room, never let his cogs show, only the perfect watch-face.

Andrew’s shaking, eyes dulled by fear, one of his hands closed over his opposite forearm. Neil can see the way something has taken Andrew by the throat and lifted him out of his own composure. He tries to follows Andrew’s unfocused gaze and ends up eye to eye with Drake.

It whips the breath out of him. He clambers for the TV remote, clattering over the messy side-table, and it’s loud like popping fireworks in the silence of the room.

“Andrew,” he tries to say. “Don’t look.” It’s silly, like placating a child, but he doesn’t have the vocabulary for this. His throat and his mind are drifting apart.

Andrew doesn’t look like he’s heard him, anyway. He doesn’t even look tense, he looks like a punching bag: folded in the middle, absolutely still, waiting to be hit again.

The sound on the television blinks on, and Neil reels upright. A reporter talks in a jerky monotone about dozens of abuse victims under dangerous foster care. They flash images across the screen of Drake in uniform, smiling with his mother, of the house where they lived, of handfuls of kids, some faces blurred out. Neil feels bile burn his throat when he spots sun-bleached hair in the line-up.

His eyes find the remote, finally, in Aaron’s hands. He’s still sitting at the table, so livid that he reminds Neil of Andrew for the first time since he met them.

“Aaron,” Neil says, calmer than he feels. “Turn it off.” The reporter is explaining the tip-off now, peppering in sick details.

“I’ll kill him,” Aaron says simply, nonsensically. Neil nods, understanding completely, and repeats himself, half of his attention still on Andrew. Aaron drops the remote stiffly, like he’s breaking his own fingers to do it.

“What’s—“ Dan starts.

“Don’t,” Neil says. He swipes the remote off the table and finally clicks the TV off. The silence walks in and holds them all at gunpoint. “He’s gone,” he says, rounding the couch again. “He’s dead, Andrew.”

Andrew doesn’t react, near catatonic. Neil can see where his knuckles have gone white around his own wrist.

“I watched Aaron bash his brains out,” Neil tells him, crouching in front of him, a metre of padding distance between them. “And I would have loved,” he says with gusto, “to get there first.”

Andrew’s eyes flicker to him for the first time.

“There,” Neil whispers. He shifts a breath closer.

“Leave,” Andrew says tightly. Neil shakes his head. He suspects that Andrew would already be gone himself if he had proper control over his body. The idea that he doesn’t, that Drake still has the power to lock his limbs up and pin him down is— completely appalling. “Go. Away. Take them.”

“No,” Neil says easily. He watches Andrew struggling to find something level to stand on. “You won, Andrew.”

Andrew digests this with his mouth closed and flat, biting his shaking lower lip into nothing.

Neil taps a finger to his head, thinking of the whistling noise a racquet makes at full swing. “He doesn’t get to exist anymore. He’s destroyed. You’re not.” He thinks of the bullets in his father’s chest and the relief in his own.

“They listened,” Andrew says, barely audible. “—to him.”

It takes Neil a second to understand that he means the other, more recent victim, whoever splashed evidence all over the news.

“They sold their story to the news,” Neil says, struggling to keep his voice level. “You testified in court. It’s easy for them to dump their evidence into the case file that you made.”

Andrew watches him closely, looking for untruths, but nowadays Neil practices brutal honesty much more often than not.

“I didn’t—“ Andrew cuts himself off. It’s rare for him to let any words out before they’re refined and cut like glass. “—expect it,” he finishes flatly. He usually doesn’t make excuses because he doesn’t think there’s anything to excuse. Andrew is a crypt; you can’t be upset by the dead things inside him anymore, not when you know that’s what he’s built for. It doesn’t stop you from being unsettled though.

Neil knows better than to touch him right now, even though he’s roped his demeanour back in front of his real face. Neil shifts low on his knees, heels tucked underneath him, and puts his hands on either side of Andrew.

“Do you want to go home?”

Andrew looks at him steadily, both of them knowing how hard he’s trying to prove something. Neil’s mouth feels thick the longer he sits with Andrew like he’s at a sickbed.

“Is everything… okay?” Matt asks, and Neil looks up irritably.

“Fine,” he says, waspish. He catches Matt’s buttery, concerned expression and softens. “We’re going.”

“Are we,” Andrew says. When Neil looks back at Andrew, loose in the net of his arms, his eyes are ages away.

He stands and offers his hand in lieu of a response, and Andrew struggles up like he doesn’t even see it. He walks past him and into the hallway like a sleepwalker, hand still squeezing his own wrist.

“You want?” Allison asks as he follows. She’s holding out Andrew’s sandwich and Neil’s re-wrapped one, tucked into a plastic bag when they weren’t looking.

“Not hungry,” he says, pushing out into the hallway.

He jogs after Andrew, feeling cloudy and off-put by the way his afternoon practice gave way so unresistingly to nightmares. The doors to the evening-grey parking lot crack open, and they pace out towards the Maserati, staggered a little by Andrew’s head start.

“You need a rooftop,” Neil calls, and Andrew shakes his head.

“I don’t need anything.”

“Here,” Neil says, hoisting himself up onto the hood of the car. Andrew watches him, and Neil wonders idly if the threat of scratched paint and dented metal would be enough to crank up Andrew’s heart rate. He settles onto the bulky roof of the car, runners splayed all over the windshield. “I don’t want you driving like this.”

“Then you drive.”

“No,” Neil says. “Come up here.”

Andrew doesn’t move, and he looks pissed to be challenged when he’s already off-kilter. Neil hopes that he can knock him all the way off balance and shatter this stupid cracked vase. Finally, stiffly, Andrew puts one booted foot on the grate at the front of his car.

Neil watches his progress up over the front of the vehicle, and he dips his head when Andrew slides home beside him.

“Rooftop,” Neil explains. It’s not really the rooftop that does it, Neil’s realized. Anywhere where there’s more to feel than there is to ignore is as good as a rooftop to Andrew. Anywhere Neil is, usually.

He pulls the hem of Andrew’s shirt until Andrew produces two cigarettes from his jeans’ pocket, hesitating when he realizes the way his muscle memory acted without him. Neil lights up and puts the cigarette between Andrew’s lips, walking through another of his favourite routines like he’s trying to slap life into a numb limb.

He sees Andrew take a drag out of the corner of his eye and smiles.

“Two metres is not the same as three stories,” Andrew says. The cherry of his cigarette feels like a constant salute. Neil can’t lose him when he has his lighter clenched in his hand and they’re sharing the smoke in their lungs.

“Sit closer to the edge,” Neil replies coolly.

After a moment Andrew says, “I’m not going to talk any more about it.”

Neil flicks ash out into the falling blue darkness. “Smoke your cigarette.” He wonders if Andrew knows how much his shoulders have relaxed since they got here.

“Stop trying to prove how well you know me,” Andrew says slowly, smoke spilling all over him when he talks.

“Stop making it so easy,” Neil counters. The cigarettes and the yes’s and the distance and the delicate twinned wires of fear and relief are Neil’s new fake ID’s and safe houses. He knows all of Andrew’s landmarks. He’s obsessed with knowing them.

Andrew stubs his cigarette out on the bottom of Neil’s shoe, and then leans in so slightly that it could be his balance swaying in the wind.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Neil replies, confused, and Andrew kisses him immediately, eyebrows furrowed. Neil keeps his eyes open and watches the way Andrew kisses like he’s expecting to be pulled away at any moment. Like he’s scribbling in as many last-minute answers as he can before his exam is wrestled away from him.

Neil twists both hands up in his hair. There’s a nip in the air and teeth at his lip and smoke in his mouth, all filtered through Andrew.

He’s being thanked, he realizes halfway through another hazy, smokey kiss. He’s the lip of a rooftop, and Andrew’s pressed flush to the edge, tethered to his hand, himself again at last.