----- now @ mhinyard

find me at my new blog here 

find me at my new blog here 

find me at my new blog here 

find me at my new blog here 

character poster. dan wilds, all for the game.

 If he turns their hands over he can see the wreckage Lola left behind on his own skin, the distorted scars that will always stand out more than he wants them to. He thinks about the grief and strife that’s brought them to this point, that’s let them grow to where Neil no longer has to ask permission to put his hands on Andrew. He knows it doesn’t matter how rough the week was or how frustrating the freshman are. They’ve been through hell and back together; these kids are nothing but a passing annoyance in the end. It’s a hand, Andrew says, not a question, but not quite mockery, when Neil’s gaze lingers a little too long. It’s your hand, Neil says, and doesn’t bother to explain. Instead he slips his fingers through Andrew’s and digs in like he can leave his fingerprints on Andrew’s pale skin. Andrew doesn’t pull away, and they don’t go in until the storm breaks. (x)

Neil had forgotten what it was like to be touched without malicious intent. He’d forgotten what body heat felt like. Everything about Andrew was hot, from the hands holding him down to the mouth steadily taking Neil apart. Neil finally understood why his mother thought this was so dangerous. This was distraction and indiscretion, avoidance and denial. It was letting his guard down, letting someone in, and taking comfort in something he shouldn’t have and couldn’t keep.

 What if he could stay? What if a psychotic teenager really was enough? What if Andrew was right that the Foxes’ infamy could protect his identity? Neil should know better than to believe such dangerous promises, but Andrew’s words haunted him every step of the way.