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They tell him it was fast. That there was no pain. That it was quick and easy, in the way that death can be sometimes when ruining your life. Easy for death to swoop in and leave nothing but more death in its wake.
Neil blinks, and behind his eyelids he sees fire; when he inhales he smells nicotine and smoke, acrid and sharp and making his eyes burn.
He hasn’t moved in—he doesn’t know. A few minutes? Hours? How long has he been standing here, in the locker room, since Andrew and Wymack broke the news to the team?
Neil knew.
Neil is—was—Kevin’s emergency contact, over Andrew, over his own father. He still doesn’t understand why; he should have asked.
He should have done so very many things.
Numbness creeps up his limbs, seeps deep under his skin and makes a home in his bones. He blinks, or maybe he breathes, or maybe his fingers twitch. Whatever nerves that exist between his body and his brain is failing, sending the wrong signals.
There’s a hand, he thinks, on the back of his neck. Andrew, he knows instinctively, without having to check, without having to have full function of his mind. He doesn’t need to look at Andrew to see the horrible expression on his face, to know exactly what he’s feeling.
But it’s not exactly, is it? Because Andrew knows—knew—Kevin better than any of them, better than anyone in the whole world, and now Kevin is—gone, gone across the river and through the gates and past the dog and whether it’s Neil or Andrew they will always look back.
It is impossible not to look back for Kevin Day.
Neil will be looking back forever, he thinks, dimly, in that part of his mind that can still form thoughts. He will look back to ensure Kevin is there, and just as he sees Kevin’s dark hair it will disappear, slip through his grasp, become dust particles that dissipate into the air, never to be found.
The hand on his neck squeezes. Trying to bring Neil out of this numb state he’s sunk into, he knows, but he doesn’t want to leave. Leaving means acknowledging Kevin is really dead. If he stays like this he can pretend that, any second now, Kevin will barge in and yell at them for not being changed and being lazy and not caring. He can pretend he’ll hear Kevin’s voice again outside of whatever media clips exist, can pretend that he has not lost one of the few people Neil loves.
“Neil.”
He won’t cry.
Neil can’t cry, because he doesn’t cry, not after—after everything—he’s strong enough—
Another squeeze; Neil crumples to his knees. The numbness is quickly receding, no matter how tightly Neil tries to hold on. It leaves a static-y feeling that thrums through his veins in a painful rhythm, like sparks of electricity dancing happily and oblivious to the burns they leave behind.
Neil doesn’t get left behind very often.
By his mother, yes, but that had been it, and he’d kept running; in the end, it was he who had left her behind on that beach. But now—now, Neil is on the other side, getting what he’s usually the one to give, and he can’t outrun this. There is nowhere in the world he can outrun the fact that Kevin Day is dead.
Neil doesn’t like being on the other side.
There is a voice in his ear, speaking in low, steady words, and Neil wonders how Andrew can even bring himself to be alive right now. How does Andrew have the strength to exist when he’s known Kevin longer, and Neil hasn’t, but Neil’s still the one falling apart?
“Neil. Look at me. You have to look at me. Look at me, Abram. You are still here.”
Am I?
Is he really here, if Kevin isn’t? Can Neil Josten exist without Kevin Day?
“I need you to look at me.”
Kevin is gone, and the world should be stopping, should acknowledge this horrific moment. It shouldn’t keep spinning, not when Kevin is the center of so many people’s lives.
“The others are gone, Abram, it’s just us. Look at me. I’m right here.”
Neil doesn’t want to be here. Not without Kevin.
Maybe he could just—
“Please. I need you.”
With a broken, shuddering breath, Neil wrenches himself back to the present. It hurts, it hurts so badly, but Andrew—
How could Neil even begin to think of leaving him?
“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice cracking and raspy. How long had he… “I’m here, I won’t leave. I’m sorry.”
He presses his forehead to Andrew’s and shuts his eyes, because he can’t take that look in Andrew’s eyes—that glossed over, grieving, hurting look in his eyes. They’re both hurting. This is—Neil will never get over this. He will not get past this. Kevin was a cornerstone for him and Andrew and the Foxes and Exy, and he is gone and no matter how many times Neil begs, he will always look back, and Kevin will always be dust slipping through his fingers.
But he has Andrew.
So he does not have to hurt alone.