og plan was reverse lovesquare and then normal lovesquare but actually andreil don't fucking listen to me even a little bit so here's their equivalent of the umbrella scene from the origins ep of miraculous s1
"You can tell them to call you something else, you know."
Nathaniel rocks back from where he was studying the pouring rain, not prepared for the sound of another's voice. He looks to the side of the entrance way; it's one of the twins from his class. He's also taking shelter from the deluge.
It could be the one in the back, who sits beside Matt, Aaron maybe? But something about his eyes tells Nathaniel that this is the other one, Andrew, the one who sat behind him in Ms.Winfield's class. He's the one Riko tried (and failed) to intimidate out of his seat, a pathetic bid to get closer to Nathaniel himself.
"What?" he asks, baffled by his presence and his words. Andrew didn't seem like the talkative type, especially from Dan's warnings earlier.
The boy scoffs. He starts digging through his back pocket, pulling out a creased pack of cigarettes. The one he puts between his lips is slightly crumpled.
"Should you be smoking on the front steps of the school?" He can't help but ask.
"Didn't take you for a snitch," Andrew mumbles around the stick.
"Didn't take you for an idiot," Nathaniel snorts. He waves a hand carelessly towards the corner of the building, "You're on camera."
The look he sends his way is harsh enough to peel paint from the wall, before he turns it on the camera. Definitely Andrew, Nathaniel thinks unphased. As is Andrew, who continues to smoke unhurried.
Nathaniel turns his attention back to the rain. He extends his hand out past the edge of the overhang, his attention caught by the still unfamiliar golden ring wrapped around his finger, before the water pours over his palm. When was the last time he felt rain on his skin? A year before Mary died? Two?
He leans out until his head isn't covered either. His hair is drenched immediately, water flowing in rivulets that travel down his face and darken the collar of his shirt. He closes his eyes, the droplets weigh down his lashes, and breathes in the second hand smoke.
His heart rebels in his chest, a lancing pain that slams against his ribcage hard enough to crack bone.
He chokes on his next inhale, breathless, and then he's flying back as the boy tugs on his shirt, hard enough that the fabric digs into the skin of his throat.
"Dumbass," he clucks. His gaze is heavy and probing on the side of Nathaniel's face, as if he can strip flesh from bone, unearth whatever hole sits at the center of his being.
"What did you mean earlier?" Nathaniel asks breathlessly, as if he only just finished running a marathon.
His hair is wet and plastered to his face, and he scrunches his nose up in disgust. He takes an equally wet hand and pushes it back, oblivious to Andrew's eyes following each and every movement.
"You flinch every time someone says Nathaniel-from Winfield to Moriyama," his voice is flat, but his eyes- his eyes pin Nathaniel to the spot like a butterfly on the wall. He watches as his words tear into Nathaniel's chest, unbothered while his fingers dig through blood and flesh.
Nathaniel doesn't recoil, but it requires conscious effort, a denial poised to leap off his tongue. Mary raised him better than to flinch. But even she couldn't stop his skin from crawling at the address. She could only teach him to control his reaction afterwards.
Nathaniel looks away, suddenly scared to know what his eyes have shown in the past few moments.
He feels the other's gaze follow suit, no longer burning the side of his face. Unable to help himself, Nathaniel steals a glance from the corner of his eye, watching as the boy seems to contemplate the cigarette between his fingers.
The smoke curls around his face, as if framing the brightness of his features in comparison to the dismal weather around them.
"Not for the others." His answer draws a weird feeling from Nathaniel's stomach.
Does he understand what it takes to sit in that classroom, surrounded by a sea of strangers with smiles that raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Does he know what it means to cut away the parts of yourself you can't afford to keep, to slip through the world without your presence reflecting on those around you?
Nathaniel will die, without a grave, without a funeral, without a single soul to care for his absence. Can he understand that?
Maybe he's just observant, Nathaniel tells himself, but the possibility of someone-anyone-understanding makes his hands clench at his sides.
"But you're different," Nathaniel comments, making sure to watch the boy's careful nonreaction, the brief hesitation before his lips close around the cigarette.
He turns his eyes to him, dark and endless despite their light hazel color. A perfect reflection of what he sees in the mirror, when he can stomach up the willpower to look.
Yes, Nathaniel thinks, a spark of fear and excitement, of hope, burning to life in his chest. They are alike after all.
"Well," he starts, rolling the sounds over his tongue, savoring the taste. "You can call me Neil then, Andrew."
The boy raises a single eyebrow in a surprised gesture, one that feels almost approving. Before he can open his mouth to continue the conversation, Neil hears tires squeal as Dimaccio pulls up to the curb. Whatever warmth was building in his chest during the conversation dies at the reminder of his father's control.
"Andrew Minyard!" A voice cries out angrily from inside the school. They both turn to see a teacher stalking angrily towards them, still a large distance away, and Neil laughs as Andrew blows smoke in her direction.
"Here," says Neil. He holds out the umbrella tucked into the pocket of his bag. Andrew looks down at it and then back at his face blankly.
"So that you can smoke while you make your escape." He can hear the smile in his voice as he shoves the umbrella into Andrew's hands when it becomes clear he won't grab it.
"See you tomorrow!" He shouts as he sprints away.
He's completely drenched by the time he gets to the car, and Andrew hasn't moved a muscle. He has a white knuckled grip on the umbrella's handle, completely ignoring the lecture of the teacher that finally reached him to stare at Neil's car.
Neil rolls the window down, saluting Andrew with two fingers before Dimaccio can pull away from the curb.
The other boy finally looks away, and Neil is forced to roll the window up before the leather gets even more soaked. He'll be punished later anyway, but that was near certain no matter what.
See you tomorrow, the words echo in his head.
He looks down at the golden ring on his finger, twisting it as it gleams under the passing street lights. He said the words without thought, but for the first time in his life, it's practically a guarantee that he'll see the next sunrise.
