Archive of Our Own ^beta

Andrew is waiting in line at the hotdog stand for the third time that night, though he wouldn’t admit to that if asked. 

He doesn’t want a third hotdog. He didn’t even want the second one, though not from a lack of appetite; it’s just that his tastes tend to run more sweet than savory. There’s a parked trailer selling cotton candy and frozen lemonade a few feet away, the smell of fried batter and powdered sugar catching on the breeze that ruffles his hair. But he doesn’t get out of line.

“Here you are,” a breathless voice says just before Andrew’s cousin bounces into view. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes, dilated from the adrenaline, tell Andrew he must be fresh off another ride. He looks around them at the food stands, hands on his hips as he catches his breath. “ Again , Andrew? You’re going to make yourself sick, even if you still refuse to ride the rides.”

Ignoring him, Andrew moves up a step when the queue shifts. Andrew doesn’t do rollercoasters, and when you subtract those deathtraps from the equation that is the county fair, all that’s left are a few rinky-dink games and the greasy, butter-smothered, chocolate-coated, overpriced food. That’s Andrew’s wheelhouse. 

“I feel like you’ve been here all night, I’ve barely seen you,” Nicky says, precariously close to whining. “This is our last summer together as a family. I know you don’t like the rides, but we could go play a few rounds.” He gestures in the direction of the carnival games. “Or do the bumper cars, or walk around in the fun house. Come on, Aaron and Katelyn—”

He stops himself, his jaw snapping shut audibly even over the rattle of carts on rickety tracks and screams of terror-joy around them. 

It’s a habit, Andrew knows. For a long time — almost the entire year after the twins graduated — that name was a forbidden word in their household. At least when Andrew was around. 

A “gap year” is the nice way of putting it. It was more like a stalemate, a cold war between Andrew and his twin brother who refused to renew their deal beyond high school. Aaron chose to forgo Andrew’s protection and company in order to keep his girlfriend, which Andrew’s rule of “no outsiders, especially women who could potentially pull you back into the shit (ie. drugs) I worked hard to keep you out of” made an enemy.

Nicky stuck around to play middle man to their long days of silence, mediator to their heated debates, and also made sure the house didn’t burn down around them all.

It’s over now. Aaron is starting pre-med classes in the fall. Nicky is moving back to Germany to be with his long-time boyfriend Erik.  

And Andrew is staying right here.

“Why are you here anyway?” Nicky asks, still standing next to Andrew in line for some reason. “I figured if you were going to stake out any food vendor’s line it’d be, like, the funnel cakes.”

Andrew can practically taste the crunchy dough and sweetness on his tongue, but he takes another step, planting an elbow not so subtly in the side of someone who tries to cut in front of him. He may be short but he can be fairly pointy when need be, and there’s only one person separating himself from the front. They’re too tall to see around and Nicky is watching too closely for him to crane his neck, so he continues to wait. Mostly patiently.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” he asks, not looking at his cousin.

“No, no,” Nicky says, waving him away. “Plus, I’m curious now what’s got you so determined for this when you’re practically a vegetarian. Well, a vegetarian who eats almost exclusively ice cream.”

Andrew ignores him again to take one more step. It’s his turn. 

The person leaning over him at the counter is a middle-aged woman with frizzled, steam-curled hair escaping out of a ponytail. The rest of her seems just as frazzled, her eyes glazed and distracted.

Andrew has too much dignity to go up on his tiptoes to better see into the small, elevated stand but just barely. The heels of his combat boots never leave the ground and that’s what matters. It’s useless anyway. The only other person behind the counter is another middle-aged person, laying uncooked hotdogs out on a rotating rack.

“Where’s the guy?” Andrew asks bluntly, flicking his fingers at his face. “With the scars.”

The woman barely looks up from trying to keep a stack of napkins from blowing away in the breeze. “What?” she asks, setting the tip jar down on top of the fluttering squares. She doesn’t wait for an answer. “How many dogs do you want?”

“I’ll take one,” Nicky says, raising his hand and giving the woman a winsome smile.

She nods and shouts over her shoulder. A moment later, she shoves a hotdog in a little paper boat into Andrew’s hands. Nicky pays, and they move off to the side where Nicky makes a crime scene out of his food with streams of yellow mustard and blood red ketchup from industrial sized pump bottles.

“Well, this makes a lot more sense now,” he says after his first bite, licking a dot of red from the corner of his lips. “It was all for a guy.” He stuffs half the hotdog into his mouth, speaking around bread and condiments. “I could make so many wiener jokes right now but I won’t because I love you and also value my life.”

“You’ve learned that much, at least,” Andrew says, eyes on the scattered groups of people walking around in the flashing neon lights.

“So, who is he? Anyone I would know?”

Andrew pins him with a flat look.

“Worth a shot.” Nicky shrugs, sucking his fingers into his mouth and then wiping that hand off on his jeans. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, swiping for a moment. “I guess that answers the question of whether you’ll come back to hang out with us. You’ll be too busy chasing true love. The perfect weenie—”

Andrew jabs at his kidneys and Nicky squawks, nearly dropping his hotdog and phone as he spins to avoid the hit. “Hey, hey,” he says, keeping his distance, arms lifted. “I had to squeeze at least one in. It’s my job as your big brother-dad cousin.”

“I’m burning your movie collection when I get home.”

Nicky gasps, then grins, lowering his arms. “Well, good luck figuring out which box they’re in. I couldn’t even find my favorite pair of shoes this morning. I probably shouldn’t have packed everything two weeks in advance, but I can’t help it. Have I shown you my countdown?” He turns back to his phone. “Only twelve days, eight hours, and two minutes until I fly out.”

Andrew smacks at the screen being shoved in front of his face, not bothering to glance at the countdown he’s seen at least a dozen times since the beginning of summer — a countdown that he sees when he closes his eyes at night. The end of summer. And when Nicky is gone, Aaron won’t be too far behind. PSU is still in the area, but he might as well be half a world away too.

“Whatever,” Andrew says. “I’m leaving now.”

He steps into the crowd, barely listening as Nicky calls at his back to text if he leaves the fair before them or if he wants to meet up later. He lifts a hand in a half-hearted wave of acknowledgement over his shoulder, then is alone again in the flow of people.

The trailers and stands selling food quickly change into ones pinging and ringing as patrons knock down towers of milk bottles or throw darts into the balloons with loud pops. The air loses its sweet, fried smell and instead takes on the scent of dirt and plastic and stagnant water. Families with small children and strollers clog the wide walkways.

Andrew is contemplating turning back around and going back to waiting in food lines — at least there’s a guaranteed reward at the end of those. And he’s been eyeing the giant bags of kettle corn swaying in the wind for a while now.

Then he happens to glance over to the ring toss station. He stops, pivoting on the spot, and makes a beeline straight for it. 

Presiding over a large crate of green glass bottles crammed in next to each other in neat rows is a guy sitting on a stool in the corner of the booth, his auburn hair pulsing deep purple and then pink in the buzzing neon lights. There’s no queue at his station, though a few passing people slow down to whisper to their companions, touching their cheeks and shaking their heads, probably all saying something along the lines of what a shame . 

He’s Andrew’s age, nineteen or thereabouts, and he looks up from the knees of his worn out jeans when Andrew walks up and knocks his knuckles against the painted wood. If he recognizes Andrew from earlier — hotdog trips number one and two — there’s no sign of it in his eyes, just disinterested blue. Cotton candy blue.

“Your repertoire as a carnie is impressive,” is Andrew’s choice for an opening line. “Is this considered a demotion or a step up from handling hotdogs in the hierarchy?”

Those blue eyes blink at him. Then he says, face impassive, “It was more of a lateral move.”

Andrew catches the twitch of his lips with his thumb, wiping the curve of it smooth before it gives too much away too soon.   

“Are you going to play?” He jerks his head to the bottles, knocking a stray lock of auburn into his eyes. “You’re holding up the line.”

Andrew makes a show of looking over his shoulder at the complete lack of people behind him, then turns back. “Depends,” he says, leaning his palms against the counter. “Is this one of those rigged games?”

He looks at Andrew like he might be a little slow. “All the games are rigged.”

“So true,” Andrew says sagely, already pulling out his wallet. “Is there any trick to winning this one?”

“Most people throw high.”

“And that works.”

“No.”

Andrew nods. “Helpful.” He sets down a five dollar bill, pinning it under a finger to keep it from escaping in the breeze, and sliding it forward.

He shifts on his stool, reaching first for the money and tucking it into his pocket, then for a bucket full of small, plastic rings and plucking out four of them. He holds one out and Andrew takes it, noticing the scars that crawl down the tan skin of his arms in deliberate slashes and circles, like some psychopath’s abstract interpretation of tic-tac-toe. Then noticing how careful he is to make sure their fingers don’t brush. 

“You could try flinging it.”

The ring settles neatly in Andrew’s palm, looking just big enough to fit around the lips of the bottles.

The guy is frowning in what looks like consideration. “If you spin it, you’ll give the ring angular momentum and it might hook around the neck.” He makes a slow twirling motion with his finger. “It’s more likely to work than tossing it. You would need infinitely more height to have it come straight down without bouncing, which you don’t have.”

“Is that supposed to be a short joke?” 

He looks Andrew up and down. “Wouldn’t be unfounded,” he says.

Andrew points at him, all five feet a bit of him, and then at himself.

He shrugs.

Andrew drops his hand. “How many times do I have to hook one to get a prize?” 

“Once?” He looks around like he’s unsure.

“What if,” Andrew starts, “for every one that I make, you answer a question of mine.”

“What if,” he says in the same tone, “I don’t like your questions.”

“You could always lie. But I’m very good at spotting liars.” Now it’s Andrew’s turn to look him up and down, from his scuffed sneakers to his t-shirt with a hole near the collar that Andrew thinks could just fit the tip of his pinkie finger if he tried poking it through. “Runaways too.” 

He stiffens almost imperceptibly. 

“Deal or no deal?” Andrew asks, tossing the ring up and catching it in his palm.

A long moment of silence passes where Andrew pretends to watch the crowd like he could stay or go and it wouldn’t matter to him at all, like this isn’t the most interesting thing he’s come across all year. 

Finally: “Fine.”

Andrew misses the first time, the ring skidding across the tops of the bottles like a stone across ice before dropping off the edge. It rolls around on the ground in a few lazy circles before coming to a stop in the dirt by the guy’s foot. Andrew is beginning to understand that he might have underestimated the difficulty of this task — but he’s got a decent stack of tips in his wallet and nothing better to do. And he’s always been a quick learner. 

“What was your question?”

Andrew cocks an eyebrow.

“The one you would’ve asked if you hadn’t missed.” He raises a brow right back, leaning forward with the second ring held out.

Andrew takes it, flipping it idly. “What’s your name?”

He frowns. “That’s basic.”

“Disappointed? Should I have asked for your social security number?”

“Don’t have one,” he answers, like that’s a normal thing to say. “If you wanted to know my name, you could have asked without all this.” He waves a hand around them.

“I like making deals, rabbit. Holds people to their word.”

“Not necessarily,” he says as Andrew gets ready to throw again. “People’s word only means as much as they want it to. It’s Neil, by the way.” 

Andrew drops his arm. “Thanks for sucking the fun out of this whole thing, Neil. ”

His lips twitch. “Figured I’d give you at least that one for free since I’ve been sitting here for almost half an hour and have yet to see anyone get close to winning.” His head tilts and Andrew’s fingers itch to touch that infuriating curl as it falls again into vivid blue. “Are you going to tell me yours, or does this deal only go one way?” 

“Andrew.” Andrew points to himself. “You clearly have no respect for the rules, rabbit, but feel free to ask to your heart’s content.”

“Why do you keep calling me rabbit?” 

“When it’s your turn,” Andrew amends, and though Neil turns his head to the shadows, Andrew is almost certain that he sees the flash of a crooked smile.

The second ring skids like the first. Andrew didn’t put as much power behind the toss and so it slows, but ultimately it drops between the bottles, disappearing out of sight. 

“Well,” Neil says.

“I don’t want your pity.”

“Wasn’t going to give it. What was your question?”

“Are you capable of understanding the basic rules of: one success, one question? That wasn’t a success.”

Neil raises both eyebrows, distinctly mocking. “It was never an established rule that I couldn’t ask about what you wanted to know. In fact, you told me to ask anything back. I’m just taking my turn. Was that question yours?”

Andrew huffs, something warm settling in his gut even as he’s being thoroughly trounced at his own game. “Are you a physics major? If so, you might want to change course. Your advice is shit.”

“I’m not a major in anything. I just like math.”

“Math,” Andrew says.

“It was the only class that never changed.”  

“Huh.” Andrew doesn’t press that just yet, only tucks it away to examine later like something shiny found in the dirt. He waits, but nothing else comes. “What, you don’t have a real question for me?”

Neil leans his shoulder against the side of the stand. “Are hotdogs your favorite food?”

“No.” 

Andrew plucks the third ring from Neil’s hand and tosses.

“How old are you, Neil?” He doesn’t even bother to watch the ring fall or to wait for Neil to prompt him this time. 

“My real birthday or the one that’s on the ID in my wallet?”

“Yes,” Andrew says without hesitation. “I’m greedy.”

“January nineteenth and March thirty-first. A year apart.” 

“So you’re both…?” 

“Eighteen and nineteen.”

“Interesting. Do you get double the presents?”

Neil bites his lip, tucking it into his mouth. Andrew stares. “No. Is that your final question?”

“What do you think? And before you ask, no, that wasn’t it either. Menace.” 

His fourth toss is successful. He looks at the ring of white around the dark green bottle for a moment, then turns to Neil.

“What was that about my advice being shit?” The smirk on his face can only be described as smug.

“What, you don’t believe in luck?”

Neil rolls his eyes. “Only the bad sort. Was that your final question?”

“Maybe.” Andrew points up at the row of dangling stuffed animals above their heads without taking his eyes off Neil and the spot by his mouth where a dimple had briefly made its appearance. He doesn’t want to miss it coming back. He’s going to make it come back. “I was promised a prize. I want the raccoon.”

“Sad there isn’t a rabbit?”

“Why would I need that when I have the real thing right in front of me?” The dimple doesn’t pop up, but he gets to witness Neil’s cheeks deepen with a flush, which is no consolation prize. 

Neil locates something to cut it down with, stands on his stool and comes back down with a raccoon half the size of himself. He hands it over the counter. He’s nearer than he has been all night and Andrew can see his face up close, freckles and all, half-hidden behind rough lines and obvious burn scars.

“Your last question.” A hint of pink tongue darts between Neil’s lips. “The real one.”

“What time do you get off?” Andrew asks.

The answer is: “Now, I guess. I don’t actually work here. I just told the guy earlier that I was here to take over his shift and he left.” This is said as casually as anything as Neil deftly hops over the side of the booth, shoes skidding in the dirt. He catches himself on the counter next to Andrew, using it to stay steady.

Andrew feels like he needs to do the same thing for the same reason, though the ground under his feet is solid. Only his perspective has been wrenched around. “You don’t work here,” he echoes flatly.

“No.”

The tuft of plastic hair on the raccoon's head tickles Andrew’s nose. “The hotdogs?”

He shrugs. “They said they’d give me food if I could help them out for a second. Stupid of them to ask some stranger walking by. I could have easily stolen the tip jar on my way out.”

“Or sabotaged the hotdog rack.”

Neil frowns. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a criminal, obviously.”

“I didn’t take the tip jar.”

“You took my money.”

Neil’s laugh is a breathy thing that sounds like it was shocked out of him, his eyes bright with surprise. He seems twice as real now that they’re both on the same side of the painted wood, the dimple twice as devastating up close. One of his canines, Andrew notes with no small amount of resignation, is chipped, kicking his smile up a few notches on the endearing scale — which at this point is just overkill. 

“Do you want your five dollars back?”

Andrew turns and walks away.

It’s not even a second later that another pair of footsteps catches up to him, matching his pace.

“Are the questions over now?”

Andrew slants him a look as he skirts around a stroller containing a kicking toddler. “That interested in playing another game, junkie?”

“It’s junkie now? What happened to rabbit?”

“My fault for assuming you contain multitudes.”

“I guess I am used to fitting a lot of different roles.” They come to a stop at the end of another line of people, the lights on the trailer flashing playfully, illuminating Neil’s thoughtfully furrowed brow. “‘Neil’ is meant to be boring though.”

Andrew quit smoking almost a year ago, cold turkey, over nothing but an off-hand comment from Aaron who said that he looked like he was “trying too hard.” He still gets cravings every day, a spasm in his lungs that has him sucking air through straws just to mimic the feeling of breathing in smoke. Right now, Andrew settles for inhaling slowly through his nose.

“Neil isn’t your real name.”

“It’s the closest thing to real I’ve had in a long time,” Neil says after a moment.

Andrew shakes his head, moving up a step in line, butter and salt and caramelized sugar in the air. “You are a walking tragedy.”

Andrew rewards his own resilience by buying a huge bag of kettle corn. Pushing the raccoon stuffed animal into Neil’s hands as they walk away, he undoes the tie and grabs a handful of the salty-sweet popcorn, tipping it back into his mouth before offering the bag to Neil.

Neil wrinkles his nose. “No, thanks. Too sweet.”

“Let me guess, you only eat carrots.”

“Actually, I think fruit is my favorite.”

Andrew stops in the middle of the path. “Fruit.”

Neil shrugs, tucking his free hand into his pocket, the hulking stuffed animal cradled under his other arm. Andrew can make out the shape of his collarbones under his thin t-shirt, see a flash of more scar tissue through the tiny hole at the neck.

Andrew sighs and starts walking for the exit. “Let’s go.”

Neil follows.

Andrew spends the ten minute walk down the two-lane road leading from the fairground to Sunset Bowling Alley listening to Nicky yap in his ear about how much of a party pooper he is for ditching them while he munches on his popcorn. When his cousin puts two-and-two together and assumes Andrew is leaving with “mystery weenie guy,” Andrew hangs up, only for Nicky to immediately call back and ask for more details.

Andrew answers his questions with another mouthful of kettle corn, crunching into the mic.

Walking next to him, an almost perfect stranger straddles the line between the sun-bleached grass and the asphalt, the last rays of the sun igniting little lines of gold in his hair like lit fuses. Andrew catches Neil’s eyes once and almost walks face-first into a car parked in the ditch at the shock of blue made luminous in the honeyed haze of the sunset. 

He refuses to look at that stupid face after that. At least until they reach the faded orange building, just on the outskirts of the town. The outline of a bowling ball and pins next to the bowling alley’s name blinks in neon white and blue.

He catches Neil’s confused expression as he hangs up on Nicky for the final time, tucking his phone away and pulling the door open. A waft of wood polish and old shoes greets them alongside the crisp sound of pins being knocked down. “Ever played before?”

Neil shakes his head, looking around like he’s never seen a bowling alley, much less tried one out. Andrew may have misjudged the depth of this whole runaway thing. Maybe Neil isn’t even from this planet.

Speaking of people not from this planet, Andrew walks up to the counter where patrons buy their shoes and knocks his knuckles on the formica. Kevin, resplendent in his orange uniform shirt, turns around with a rag in one hand and a navy blue bowling ball in the other. His face morphs into a scowl as his gaze lands on the bag in Andrew’s hands. 

“No outside food or drinks.” 

“Hi, Kevin.” Andrew takes a handful of the kettle corn, purposefully letting a couple kernels fall to the floor. “I got you a present.” He gestures at Neil next to him, more popcorn falling in his wake.

Kevin looks deeply unimpressed as he shifts his gaze and demands, “And you are?”

It’s the most interesting thing to see Neil’s face shift into something similar to the same dispassion he showed Andrew in the beginning, to watch as he turns the full force of it on someone else. Andrew gets to see his posture shift, somehow growing sharp yet loose as he settles into the balls of his feet. “Why should I tell you?”

Kevin blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Why does the bowling pin on your face look so stupid? Did you draw it on yourself?”

Kevin’s left hand, holding the rag, slaps his cheek as he covers the mark. “It’s a duckpin, moron.” He turns to Andrew, outrage creeping up his neck in a red sweep. “What the fuck is this?”

Neil leans closer, over the counter, making Kevin back up a step, holding the navy blue ball protectively to his chest. “Is it a tattoo ? You seriously work at a bowling alley and have a bowling pin permanently tattooed onto your face?” He leans back. “Wow.”

“Andrew, ” Kevin says, gesturing with his rag in a clear do something motion.

Andrew finishes his bite of kettle corn and reaches over, taking the raccoon from Neil’s unresisting arm to set it on the counter. “Doesn’t it look just like you?” He makes it wave one of its paws.

Kevin eyes the stuffed animal with disgust. 

“I see it,” Neil says. 

“Literally, who are you?” Kevin looks back and forth between them.

“Bye, Kevin.” Andrew leaves the raccoon with its new owner and walks away, listening only to the near-silent steps of Neil behind him and not Kevin’s grumbling at their backs.  

“I assume you work here then.”

Andrew glances over his shoulder as they enter a part of the building set slightly apart from the rest, the floor under their feet changing from dark, patterned carpet to tile, the air taking on the scent of fried pickles and burgers. A few families and other small groups of people sit at tables topped with stiff, red and white checkered cloths. Behind the counter, Dan exchanges money for a receipt and a wave goodbye. 

“Either that or you’re a regular,” Neil continues. “You do seem to like playing games.”

Andrew turns, walking backward for a moment, not needing to look to know where the tables are. “I only play games that are interesting. This one isn’t.”

“But ring toss is,” Neil says with clear skepticism.

“Sure.”

Neil tilts his head, a gesture that Andrew could very easily see becoming familiar. “You think I’m interesting. You said so earlier.” 

“Your point?” Andrew turns back around. 

“Just an observation.” He can still hear the amusement in Neil’s voice even without looking.

Thankfully he doesn’t have to come up with another witty reply because Dan says, “Andrew? I thought you took the night off.”

Andrew comes up to the side of the register. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to work.” He ties a knot in his plastic bag of kettle corn and stuffs it into a lower shelf under the counter. “Renee on break?”

“No, she’s—” Dan must finally catch a glimpse of Neil because whatever she was going to add gets cut off with a tiny sucked in breath and a surprised, “Oh.”

Andrew looks up from where he’s half-bent toward the shelf to watch Neil’s face. There is no amusement there anymore, no spark. He doesn’t flinch as Dan and a few other patrons openly stare at his scars, only watches Dan back impassively.

“Sorry,” she says, wincing. “That was shitty.”

Neil shrugs one shoulder, stiff, with both hands fisted and stuffed into his pockets. “Not as shitty as taking a dashboard lighter to my face was.”

Andrew goes still.

Dan puts a hand to her throat, then nods and gives a shaky smirk. “Hopefully not. Still, sorry.”

Neil nods, eyes darting around as if looking for exits.

Andrew straightens, turning for the swinging door leading back into the kitchens, “Come on, rabbit,” he beckons, holding it open until Neil ducks in, then letting it swing shut behind them both. 

It’s warm and slightly humid in the kitchen. Renee is manning the grill, three patties sizzling before her, pressed flat with her spatula. Matt is on the dishes, up to his elbow in bubbles and sanitizer. He looks up with a grin. “Hey, man.”

“Boyd,” Andrew says, heading for the hand washing station, rolling up his sleeves. Neil lingers in his periphery, just to the side of the door, still looking ready to bolt. “That’s Neil.”

Matt turns his smile to the stranger, his reaction to Neil’s face not nearly as noticeable as he barely pauses in scrubbing a pan. “Nice to meet you. I’d offer my hand, but I’m all pruny so I’ll save you that experience.”

Neil nods, once.

Andrew finishes washing his hands, dries them on a paper towel before slipping on a pair of gloves, then walks up to Renee, plucking the spatula out of her hand. She lets him, looking amused as she steps back. “And what am I supposed to be making while you do that?” she asks, because she knows him too well.

“The usual. Except,” he nods his head in Neil’s direction, “heavy on the healthy stuff.”

Renee mimes a gasp, clutching at the silver cross around her neck, already heading for the fridge. “Blasphemy.”

While she gets out the cartons of strawberries and ice cube trays, Andrew flips the burgers, pressing the steam out of them. The vent fan whirs overhead, but he can still catch snippets as Renee begins to ask Neil innocuous questions. Or seemingly innocuous. Andrew has known Renee for years and still doesn’t take anything she does at face value.

“Oh,” he hears her say. “Are you in town long?”

Neil’s reply is too low, if he answers at all. Andrew scoops up the patties when they’re done, locating the ticket and assembling the rest of the order. When he sneaks a glance, he sees that Neil has barely moved from his spot by the door, his arms crossed. Andrew salutes him as he ducks around Renee for access to the freezer and is rewarded with the sight of Neil’s shoulders dropping an inch from around his ears.

“Headed west?” Renee gives Andrew a knowing smile, the strawberries cut into neat pieces on the board in front of her. “How far are you planning to go?”

Andrew strains to hear the answer over the hiss of the fryer as he dunks a basket of fries into the oil.

“California.” 

“I have a pen pal who lives there,” Renee says, dumping the strawberries and half a tray of ice into a blender. “I’ve always wanted to make the trip, but it’s a long drive and I’m not a fan of flying.”

“Aren’t you from California, Andrew?” Matt pipes up as he finishes wiping his hands on his apron and reaches for the timer next to the pick-up window, setting it.

Andrew gives him a nod of acknowledgment, leaning back against the counter to wait out the five minutes it will take the fries to cook. Renee continues to work her magic, putting together a version of the drink she makes for Andrew all the time, only with far less ice cream and far more fruit. She hits the button on the blender and all talk pauses for the next sixty seconds.

Andrew catches Neil’s eyes, raising an eyebrow. Neil’s lips give the tiniest quirk and he relaxes another inch into the wall behind him, turning his attention to Matt after the blender shuts off and Andrew’s coworker starts going on about how long they’ve all worked at Sunset, how he met Dan through the job and now they’re happily engaged. 

“Did you meet Kevin?” Matt asks, pressing a button on the timer as it starts to beep. 

“Unfortunately.”

Matt laughs. “Yeah, sounds about right. But we’ve gotta love him.”

“Literally,” Andrew drawls as he removes the fries and dumps them in a metal sheet pan under a heat lamp. “Since he’s the boss’s kid.”

Renee finishes putting a straw in the glass containing her creation, topping it with a fresh strawberry before handing it to Neil. “And also your friend.”

“Andrew likes to pretend he hates us all,” Matt adds with a conspiratory smile. “You get used to it.”

Andrew strips off his gloves with a snap and tosses them in the trash, ignoring his coworkers and their defamation and lies. “Time to go.”

Neil doesn’t question it as Andrew takes him to the back of the kitchen where the exit has been propped open slightly with a wedge of cardboard. They slip back out into the evening air, the sun still hanging low in the sky for the last threads of the sunset as Andrew leads them around the dumpster at the back of the building. On the other side, there’s a ladder leading up to the roof, folded up and chained over their heads with a padlock keeping it secure. Andrew’s pretty sure he’s the only one who knows that they never lock it.

He reaches up, unhooking the lock and sliding the chains down with a clatter to pool in the gravel at his feet. He pulls down the ladder and gestures for Neil to go first. 

He does, still holding the drink Renee made him. It’s not a far climb, but watching him do it one handed without ever looking down makes Andrew’s stomach swoop even before he puts his boot on the first metal rung. Not once has he ever made it up to the roof without glancing at the dozen or so feet between him and the ground, without having at least a tiny tremble in his hands.

They sit on the rubber substance that coats the flat roof, still warm from soaking up the day’s heat, just  behind the sign at the front of the building. The letters block them from view and most of the wind, the lights throwing weird flashing shadows over them. Above them, the sky is a deep blue, the moon hanging dully just over Neil’s shoulder, getting ready to take the spotlight once the sun finally dips below the horizon. 

The glass in Neil’s hand is dripping condensation onto his jeans. Andrew has yet to see him take a drink from the straw so he leans forward and plucks it out, catching the dripping liquid on his tongue then sucking the end into his mouth. He takes a pull of air through the plastic in a sad imitation of what he really wants. 

Neil watches all of this, his eyes lingering on Andrew’s mouth, which Andrew doesn’t fail to notice. Interesting indeed.

He’s still looking when he lifts the glass to his mouth, tipping it back and taking a sip from the lip. He winces.

“What?”

Neil rubs a finger against his teeth. “Cold. It’s good though.” He goes back for another drink, opening his mouth wider to avoid his sensitive front teeth.

Andrew snorts, chewing on the end of his straw, pulling his legs up to his chest and tossing his arm carelessly on his kneecaps, hands dangling. He can still see the lights from the fair, see the crests of the rides even though he can’t hear anything over the sound of the cars on the road beneath them and the HVAC unit behind them.

Neil gingerly picks out the strawberry Renee put in the drink, not yet sunk to the bottom, taking a bite. “Did you do all this because I said I liked fruit?”

Andrew goes stiff, then scoffs. “You wish. Maybe I just brought you up here to kill you.”

Neil leans back so he can see around the letters and lights to lean over the side. Andrew’s gut gives that jolt again, but then Neil returns to his normal spot, shrugging. “I’ve survived worse. Probably wouldn’t kill me unless you were smart about it.”

“That could be arranged.” Andrew makes a point to look at his scars. “No one’s been smart enough, I take it.”

Neil takes the last bite of fruit, flicking the leaves to the side. “Not yet,” he says after he swallows, then freezes, as if just realizing what he said.  

“What’s in California?” Andrew asks, jumping on the opportunity.

Neil glances up at him through dark red fringe, his head ducked slightly. “Are we playing another game?”

“Do we need to?” 

Neil looks at his glass like it’s the most fascinating thing, twisting it this way and that. “Will you tell me something in return?”

“I told you, ask anything back.”

“Pretty open-ended. You don’t seem like the type to like blanket statements.”

“You can ask . I don’t have to answer.” Neil gives a small smile at that. Andrew adds, “You don’t have to answer either. Grasping the concept yet?”

Neil puts his glass down and holds out his hands, holding them palm up, balancing them like scales. “Give and take?”

“An exchange,” Andrew agrees, dropping one knee to lay flat against the roof, his boot close to the outside of Neil’s thigh. “California?”

Neil drops his hands, his fingers tangling together, fidgeting in his lap as he shifts his eyes away. “My mother.”

“So, this is a family reunion.”

Neil’s shoulders come up around his ears. “Of a sort. Do you have family in California? Your coworker said you were from there.”

“No,” he says definitively, giving Neil a pass on the half-answer. “I have a cousin and a brother here. For now.”

“The person on the phone earlier.”

“Cousin. Nicky. A nuisance. Leaving at the end of summer to be with his boyfriend in Germany.” 

Neil nods, his gaze distant. 

“Is she dead?” Andrew asks, and finally, Neil’s eyes snap back to him. He stares for a moment, then nods.

“My father—” He trips here, words cut off with a rough breath before he collects himself, picking at a spot in his jeans that’s almost worn through, plucking at threads. “He killed her.” 

“Your father.” Andrew gestures at Neil’s face with a flick of his fingers. “Dashboard lighter.”

“Yeah.” One hand goes up, touching the burns and slashes that don’t look more than six months old. “He also liked knives. He’s dead too, though.”

“Good.”

That gets him a tiny smile, not enough for the dimple to make an appearance, but his shoulders relax slightly. “Definitely.”

“Did you kill him?”

Neil’s head cocks to the side, his expression not one of surprise, but intrigue. “No. My uncle had some unfinished business with him and got to him in time. Not before all this, but—” He gestures at his face, then shudders as his eyes go distant again. “This was just the warm-up to what he would have done if my uncle hadn’t found us in the cellar.”

Andrew nods, idly twirling his straw through his fingers like he isn’t listening to life-events that sound like the plot to some deeply fucked up crime novel. “It’s all over, then.”

Now Neil’s eyes go wide.

“Yeah. I guess it is.” He runs a hand through his hair, pulling roughly on the auburn curls at the front. “I keep forgetting.”

“Because you keep running,” Andrew says.

This time Neil’s smile only crooks half of his face and is sharp with self-deprecation. “I don’t think I know how to stop, at this point. I’ve spent almost half my life doing this, being other people, jumping into other lives. I don’t have anything else, anything real.” He takes a breath. “I’m trying to be Neil, though.”

Andrew hums, taking a long pull from the straw before letting it hang out of the side of his mouth. The sun has faded completely, leaving only the faintest bit of blue off to the left. A few stars poke through the dark like pinpricks, overshadowed by the moon and the lights on the ground. 

“You don’t have any questions for me?” Andrew flicks a finger between the two of them. “This is an exchange, remember? Fairs fair.”

Neil pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging his shins. It is a little chillier now that it’s fully dark. “What’s in California for you?”

“I told you I don’t have family there,” Andrew says and Neil opens his mouth, but he cuts him off. “There was a time when I thought I would, though.”

When Neil’s brow furrows, he continues. “Foster care. Twelve houses in twelve years. Thought lucky number thirteen would stick but then the twin no one told me about, in a truly bizarre twist of fate, got mistaken for me and, well.” Andrew moves the straw to the other side of his mouth. “Things had to be sacrificed.”

“But you got a brother, at least,” Neil says. “And a cousin, eventually, I assume.”

“Yes. I got a brother who was kept by his mother, who abused him and fed him drugs. A brother who resents me for getting rid of that little problem for him and probably wishes he’d stayed an only child.”

“Did you kill her?”

“Yes,” Andrew says.

Neil doesn’t look away for a long moment. “You resent him too, though, right? For something. Is it because he wasn’t the one put up for adoption?”

Andrew cocks an eyebrow. “I have a therapist, thanks.”

“Really?” Neil scrunches his nose in obvious disgust. “Why?”

Andrew releases a huff of breath. “Of course the runaway would have a built-in suspicion for anyone who might try to untangle whatever horror show’s going on up there.” He leans forward, jabbing at Neil’s temple. Neil watches his hands, but doesn’t stop him. Andrew doesn’t pull back, dropping his other leg to fold beneath him and bring them closer, his hand resting on the roof to balance himself as he practically leans over Neil. 

“Let me come with you.”

Neil’s eyes drop for a fraction of a second, then come back up. “With me,” he echoes.

“To California.”

“Why?” 

“Because, obviously, you get your face broken when left on your own.” Andrew brings up his hand and presses his thumb to the burn scar just under Neil’s left eye. He keeps his touch light just in case things are still sensitive, and so that Neil can pull back if he wants to.

He doesn’t. “But.” His eyelashes brush the pad of Andrew’s thumb as he looks down again. “You pointed it out earlier —it’s all over. I don’t need protection.”

“Fine,” Andrew says. “I’ll come along for entertainment. It’s a long trip.”

Another brief touch, as soft as moth wings. “What kind of entertainment?”

“I can sing the alphabet backwards,” Andrew says seriously. “And I have good taste in music, which something tells me you lack.”

“Hey.” Neil frowns. “I could have good taste.”

“Do you?” Andrew tilts his head, bringing their faces just a little closer.

“No,” Neil mumbles distractedly.

“Neil. Can I kiss you?”

His head snaps up, almost dislodging Andrew’s hand from his cheek. “What?”

Andrew takes the moment to toss his chewed up straw to the side, placing his hand on the back of Neil’s neck after. Neil’s knees knock into his chest, his knuckles brushing Andrew’s stomach as he leans over him but he doesn’t make a move to reach back. Good. 

“Kissing,” Andrew says, the curls at the back of Neil’s head brushing his knuckles. “Yes or no? Think it through.”

He does. Andrew can see it as his gaze flicks around Andrew’s face, bouncing from his eyes to his cheek to his chin and, finally, his mouth. He licks his own lips. “I’ve never— not really. But… yeah, okay.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah.” His shoulders square up like he’s preparing himself. “Yes.”

Andrew leans in and closes the gap between them. He’s kissed boys before, hard fierce kisses that were more about proving a point to himself than anything. This is soft and slow, two things he’s never made a conscious effort to be in these kinds of situations. But Neil tastes sweet, like strawberries, like something Andrew’s been craving for a very long time and now that he’s taken a sip, he doesn’t want to stop.

They do though. In reality, the kiss is barely a thing at all, just a press of lips, a tilt of the head, the slightest movement of their mouths. Then Andrew moves back, only far enough to gauge Neil’s reaction.

He looks dazed, his cheeks flushed behind the scars. 

Andrew, satisfied with that for now, sits back in his original spot, dusting stray pebbles off his palm where it had been pressed to the roof.

“Is that why you want to come with me?”

Andrew looks up. Neil is digging his chin into the top of his knee. 

“No,” Andrew says slowly. “I just wanted to kiss you. Doesn’t ever have to happen again.”

“But it might.” Neil bites his lip. “I mean. If we both wanted it to.”

Andrew feels one side of his mouth curl up and he doesn’t bother wiping it away. “Yes, junkie. It might.”

“Shut up.” Neil ducks his head, but not before Andrew sees his flush deepen. Then he shivers, wrapping his arms tighter around himself as the breeze kicks up. Andrew pushes himself to his feet, nudging Neil’s sneaker with the toe of his boot. Neil stands as well, picking up his discarded glass, still half-full.

Wymack is outside, smoking a cigarette next to the dumpsters when they climb down from the roof. He looks them both over with a distinct lack of surprise. “Andrew. New friend?”

“Boss,” Andrew says as he shoves the bottom-half of the ladder back up, tossing one end of the chain over the rungs. “This is Neil.”

Wymack grunts. 

When Andrew is done, he plucks the glass from Neil’s hand and gives it to the older man, who takes it with a wry twitch to his mouth. “Gee, thanks.”

“Oh, I’ll be cashing in on those rolled-over vacation days, by the way,” Andrew says, starting to walk backward. He catches the hem of Neil’s t-shirt and tugs him along.. “I’ll be out of town for the next little bit.”

“Is that so,” Wymack says, eyeing Neil with a knowing expression. “Vacation days don’t roll over, Minyard. You’re going to leave me high and dry to go where?”

“The Golden State. I’m hoping to get a tan. Whale watching. That kind of thing.”

“Uh huh.” Wymack turns his head and exhales a cloud of smoke that makes Andrew’s fingers twitch, even if the wind blows most of it away. “You better text Renee. Keep us updated, shithead.”

Andrew salutes just before he rounds the corner of the building. “You got it, boss.”  

The walk back to the fair, where Neil parked, is not quiet. It’s filled with the rush of cars going by and, as they get closer to the grounds, the familiar ringing of bells and whistles, the click-clack and screams and over-played top ten music. It makes for a good accompaniment to the sound of their feet crunching in the grass, then in the gravel as they reach a flat lot used for parking which is little more than a field with some rocks and two huge flood lights towering over it all.

Neil brings them all the way to the back, in a spot almost just out of reach of the light where a dinged-up van sits parked on a tilt. 

“Ralph’s Autoglass,” Andrew reads from the chipped paint on the side door, flicking the company logo with a dull sound. “Family owned.”

Neil unlocks the driver’s door with the key, then presses the button on the side panel to unlock the rest of them. “It was the cheapest thing at the junkyard.”

“Junkyard, right,” Andrew says. The hint of Neil’s dimple tells a different story.

He rounds to the other side, opening the passenger side to find a neat front cab. He only has to move a map off the seat and kick away an empty gas station coffee cup before climbing in. When he closes the door, shutting them in together, the reality of how stupid this idea might turn out to be hits him as he looks across the console at the person he only met an hour or so ago.

Neil finishes buckling his seatbelt. “What?”

“Are you a serial killer?”

He snorts. “You’re only asking that now?”

“Had to be done.”

Neil’s expression turns dead serious. “Is that a deal breaker?”

There’s a long moment. Then Andrew shrugs and says, “It’d be interesting, at least.”

The chipped canine makes an appearance as Neil smiles and starts up the engine. 

Andrew leans over, reaching up for the sleeve of CDs strapped to the visor, thumbing a few of them out to view their titles. “A fan of the classics, are you? Maybe you do have a little taste after all.”

“I don’t know,” Neil says, his breath tickling the side of Andrew’s neck. “Those were here when I got it —bought it, I mean. Obviously.”

“Sure,” Andrew says, sitting back in his seat. “Let’s see what Ralph was listening to before you bought his van from him.” He hits play on the dashboard and drums and peppy piano fill the car along with Freddie Mercury’s voice.

She’s a killer queen

Gunpowder, gelatine

Dynamite with a laser beam

Guaranteed to blow your mind

Anytime

Yeah, Andrew thinks. I can work with this.

Neil drums his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat as he maneuvers them out of the lot. “Who sings this?” he asks. “I like it.”

Andrew sighs, rolling down his window to feel the wind as they turn on the main road, passing by the bowling alley. The cool air has nothing to do with the shiver that passes through him. “This whole thing is going to be me teaching you how to be a normal human, isn’t it?” He pops the latch for the glove compartment and finds an individually wrapped toothpick. He opens it and sticks it in his mouth.

When he looks over, it’s to find that Neil has also rolled down his window and his hair is blowing every which way. His head's bobbing a little to the song as he reaches over to turn the music up a fraction.

Andrew knocks his hand away, then turns the dial all the way. Queen blasts through the speakers.

Neil turns to him and grins, dimple and all, and it's like a shot to the face. 

Andrew will have to text his family. He’ll need to tell Neil to stop by his house for clothes and money and whatever else he has that might be useful on a completely unplanned trip across the country. They'll need to talk —he has more questions. 

But for now, he’s right here. And it’s not bad at all.