Coming Up Roses
It’d been over a year since you escaped the clutches of your family, a prison built by your father. Governor, political machine, someone who made the rules of your home rigid and wrathful in hopes you’d follow in his footsteps. Here, at Palmetto State, you found solace in Neil and Andrew, two unconventional men who were just as screwed up as you where
warnings: hurt/comfort, reader has political assassination trauma, canon typical trauma, probably ooc, not at all proofread, based off of one of my aftg ocs!
was either high or hungover writing this one. wow wow wow.
poly!andreil x gn/male-intended reader.
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In an instant, you’re fourteen again. The gunshot is deafening, and you watch the man on stage collapse, blood over his forehead like a scarlet crown.
There’s yelling, screaming. You watch his daughter— the same age as you, a sweet girl— hurl as her mother clutches her close, police men and bodyguards swarming all around. You were front row, something you could guess was not incidental as your mother leans over to whisper in your ear. “Calm face, dove, this is just how it goes.”
Most fourteen year olds have never bared witness to an assassination. But, then again, most fourteen year olds are freer than you’ll ever know. They haven’t tasted the blood of their own tongue, bitten too hard to control yourself during a parents beatings. They haven’t sat in on conferences and inner-circle meetings, watched as niceties and secrets are traded alike.
Only, you blink and suddenly you’re back on the court. Matt’s holding your shoulder, his brows pinched together. He’s shaking you, saying your name. Oh, you realize, It was only Exy.
Neil is there in a minute, as well. His icy blue eyes are bright with that mix of concern and morbid curiosity he always gets about such things, he knocks his racquet against your own, gaze narrowing at your white-knuckle grip on the stick. He glances over your shoulder towards the goal, the kind of intimate and dark look that is for Andrew and Andrew alone. The familiarity of it makes you exhale, willing your breathing back into something calm because you know the glare Andrew would give you if he were over here instead.
“Get off the court,” Neil states, voice full of that intrusive, co-captain, unfiltered sass you’d grown to adore so much. You can’t argue with the black spots you’re currently trying to blink away, so you take off, not glancing back at the two men, and not caring to reply to any of the murmurs of your teammates.
Once the heavy door court shuts behind you, they start to play again, the sound of the ball bouncing off the court wall makes your form shudder. You’d thought you were over this. Though, psychiatrist Betsy Dobson argues that your fantastic compartmentalization skills might not be for your benefit.
You don’t know when you got to the locker rooms, or how you managed to shower and clothe yourself, only that everyone shuffles by you from your spot on the the bench, sending worried glances your way. Andrew and Neil share a glance as they pass by, Andrew’s fingers briefly brushing over the back of your neck. You sigh again, willing yourself into reality.
Everyone is out of the locker room when your two men make their return to you, Andrew settles in front of you, one leg perched on the bench while the other languidly hangs off the side. Neil straddles into his seat behind you.
One of Neil’s hands— his palm is scarred, calloused in a way you can feel even through your shirt— settles over your bicep, fingers pressing into the relaxed muscle there. Andrew’s hand finds purchase wrapped around your neck, his pointer finger beating in time with your rapid pulse. He raises a brow at you, but you duck your head just slightly to avoid looking him head-on. His thumb forces your chin up, because why would he make anything easy for you?
It was all too much. Your vision flickers as you stare into hazel eyes, searching in his gaze for something you know you needed. You were unsure if it was softness, or that recognizable, stern glower that shows he’s thoroughly unimpressed by your current state.
In your frazzled mind, exy balls turn into a fired gun, hard-earned sweat shifts from a marker of your own work to splattered blood from an inside job. All hands, all eyes on you, stick to your being and bite. You feel it like you would a thousand bee stings.
Nevertheless, you weren’t there. The bruises on your skin were from the hits you took in practice and on the court, not from vituperating hands that claimed it was all for your own good, that they were molding you into a leader. There was no blood, no screaming, just you and your boys.
Andrew’s thumb presses unkindly into your skin just as your eyes begin to gloss over again. “Stop that,” he tells you, voice firm and stubborn-set. He was steady, that’s what he offered— what they offered. They brought you steadiness, electric touch, and a carnal level of intimacy and devotion. Everything given and gave was set with routine, with rules you knew by heart. It was always a “yes or no?”
You have the strength to blink at him, dumbly murmuring, “I wasn’t doing anything.” The relatively unmoored expression he dawns proves to you that your response was less than stellar. Too Neil-like, you supposed.
“Try again,” Neil butts in. Your shoulders relax and you lean into his touch from behind you, scooting in enough to let your back brush his chest. You exhale, taking the bait of their silence, “it’s just..” You trail off.
You shrug, unable to put it into words. But, Andrew and Neil seem to understand the issue, wordless communication a language you three were fluent in.
“You’re not there.” Andrew’s voice holds a finality in it that makes you nod absently. His hand strays to tug on the chain necklace around your neck— the one with the keys they’d given you latched on, close to your heart always. “We won’t let you be,” Neil finishes. The message is clear, a simple stay with us.
And who were you, irrevocably in love, to deny them of that? You wanted it, wanted them. You craved the closeness, and the intimacy, and the invigoratingly uncomfortable feeling of being known and loved with your faults. Trauma couldn’t scare the boys, not something like this.
With one, shaky hand, you reach up and wind your fingers around Andrew’s wrist. He cocks a brow, but says nothing, allowing you to tip your head forward and close your eyes.
Later that night, you three sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the roof. The silence is heavy, but not unwelcome. Murmured banter and whispered confessions are pulled in seamlessly, idle conversation that is no less deep. Eventually, Andrew’s fingers tangle themselves in the keys around your neck again, his thumb pressing harshly against the ridged metal, feeling the icy bite of pain against his skin. He tilts his chin, voice low, “yes or no?”
Andrew’s lips taste like cigarettes and triple chocolate ice cream. He kisses like you’re the only people left, like his mission was to breathe life into you. He lets you go after a sweet moment, but your lips are quickly caught again. With Neil, kisses were clumsier, less practiced, but no less lovely. Neil tastes like the spearmint gum you gave him in the car and the bland vanilla ice cream he’d chosen earlier. Andrew rolled his eyes when Neil gave a short, deadpan response to Nicky’s rude comment over his safe choice. In Neil’s defense, it’s not like he exactly had the luxury of ice cream when on the run.
Softly, in a daze of adrenaline and something you won’t label love, you wonder if this is what infinity feels like. You hope, pray to whoever would listen, that it is.
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