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Andrew has never made a point of celebrating his birthday. Before, in the foster system, there was no point—his foster parents and siblings rarely cared about such details, if they even had the money to spare to plan or buy him anything.
Andrew wasn’t the type to make friends, either, given how often he was uprooted and moved from school to school, which meant that he didn’t exactly have friends to celebrate with. Why come to rely on someone when you knew that they couldn’t help you when you were there, and wouldn’t stay in touch after you were gone?
If Andrew had cared about November 4th at all, prior to moving in with Nicky and Aaron three years ago, it was only for the fact that each time it came around meant he was a year closer to aging out of the system and being free.
Now, he supposed, things were different.
As was now tradition, Andrew was woken the morning of his seventeenth birthday by Nicky singing loudly and tunelessly from outside his bedroom door.
“Cumpleaños feliz, cumpleaños feliz —”
Andrew threw one of his pillows at the door. Nicky continued on without pause.
"Feliz cumpleaños a Aaron y Andrew, cumpleaños feliz! ” Nicky finished with a wild cheer and drummed on Andrew’s door before turning and presumably doing the same to Aaron’s across the hallway. “Up and at’em, boys! Your birthday breakfast is on the table, and you have half an hour before the bus gets here!”
Andrew groaned and stretched in place before forcing himself to get out of bed. He still might not like his birthday, but that didn’t mean he would pass up Nicky’s cream cheese stuffed French toast.
Andrew changed out of his pajamas and slid on regular clothes, tugging his arm bands into place and grabbing his backpack before unlocking his door and trudging down the stairs.
Nicky was standing in front of the stove, humming to himself and practically vibrating in place. Andrew steadfastly ignored this and sat himself at the table, grabbing a couple pieces of French toast from the plate in the middle and transferring them to his own plate. He then grabbed the chocolate and maple syrup and whipped cream and proceeded to build himself a dripping tower of sweet indulgence.
Just as he finished squirting the whipped cream, Aaron plopped down in his seat and huffed at Andrew’s creation. “Disgusting,” he said. “Happy birthday, you’re giving yourself diabetes.”
Andrew grabbed the bottle of chocolate syrup to pour more on his plate out of spite. He cut into it, relishing the first bite as Aaron assembled his own boring stack with fresh berries and just a touch of maple syrup.
Nicky joined them at the table with the last few pieces of French toast, fixing his with butter and more cinnamon sugar before grabbing some of the strawberries.
Nicky filled the silence between bites with his usual chatter, making sure that the twins had finished their homework from the night before, telling them what was on his plate at work that day and when he would be able to take his break to go and pick up their birthday cake for tonight.
Nicky had gotten them all hooked on the dulce de leche cake from the Latin bakery by the mall, and it had become another tradition for them to have it for any special occasion. Andrew just hoped that this year, Nicky wouldn’t buy one of those demonic candle things that sang and wouldn’t stop—he’d had to take the damn thing outside and stomp on it with his Docs for it to finally die.
Soon enough, breakfast was over and the twins were trooping upstairs again to finish getting ready. They stood together at the bathroom mirror as they brushed their teeth, and Andrew scoffed at the amount of time Aaron spent trying to arrange his hair just so after. Probably for his little cheerleader girlfriend.
“Oh, like you’re any better,” Aaron said. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you run your hands through your hair right before the classes you have with N—”
“—I’d zip it, if I were you,” Andrew responded, glaring at Aaron through the mirror. Andrew most definitely did not do any such thing.
“Yeah, whatever,” Aaron mumbled, stepping past his brother to head back downstairs.
Andrew practiced his most unimpressed look one more time in the mirror, just for good measure, before following suit.
Nicky was there to say goodbye to them as they left for school, pulling a reluctant Aaron in for a hug and offering Andrew a fist bump. Andrew sighed and bumped his knuckles against Nicky’s, the physical contact his own grudging thank you for Nicky’s loving efforts that morning.
The twins walked to the bus stop in companionable silence, and they were lucky to only have to wait a few minutes before the yellow monstrosity pulled up to the curb. Andrew made his way through the aisle to an empty row and scooted over to the window, allowing Aaron to slide in next to him. The routine was so familiarized that their limbs didn’t bump one another even as the bus made its jarring start back to life.
Andrew looked at his phone for the first time that morning, definitely not checking to see if he’d gotten any text messages from anyone.
Alas, the last text he’d gotten was the same as it was before he’d gone to bed the previous night—a simple series of snoring emojis and that creepy moon face from Neil. Andrew mentally sighed. If he knew Neil at all, the other boy had probably forgotten his phone at home yet again on his own way to school.
Andrew popped his ear buds into place and looked resolutely out the window, counting the number of red cars they passed—a mindfulness exercise his therapist, Bee, had given him to stop his thoughts from wandering too far away from him.
Soon enough they were pulling up to Palmetto High and pushing through the crowd to get into the building. Aaron’s locker was in the main hallway, and as they approached, Andrew sighed and shook his head at the sight of Aaron’s cheerleader waiting there, a gift box in her arms and a large grin on her face. Aaron’s face stretched into a matching beam and he sped towards Katelyn, pulling her into a hug and a kiss as he reached her.
Ridiculous. Did they have to be like this in public?
Katelyn gave Andrew a wave over Aaron’s shoulder, and Andrew inclined his head at her before continuing the trek to his own locker. His was down a side hallway near the English classrooms, and it was thankfully much less crowded.
As he neared his destination, however, Andrew stopped dead in his tracks. Was—?
Yes. Yes, that was indeed his. The beaten up blue paint of his locker was covered from top to bottom with a piece of black bulletin board paper. The only part left uncovered was where his lock held the door shut; a square had been cut out so that it was still accessible.
If Andrew had any doubts about who had done this, they were dashed when he got close enough to read the writing all over the paper in orange chalk paint. Neil’s writing stared back at him, bold and blocky and just slightly crooked as it proclaimed “Happy Birthday, Andrew.”
Of course the idiot had chosen orange. Of course.
The rest of the paper was filled up with little doodles—of sports cars, of skulls, of exy racquets and goalie helmets. At the bottom, it was proudly signed with Neil’s name the biggest of all—though it seemed he had gotten the rest of the exy team to sign it, too. Even Aaron’s name was there, the fucking traitor.
A guy a few lockers down from him strolled up and said “Happy birthday” to him, and Andrew shot him a glare. Andrew felt his face get hot, and he glared. Who the fuck even was that guy? Why did he think he could talk to Andrew? Why had Neil done this to him?
It made no sense, either—Andrew remembered Neil’s reaction to Dan and Allison decorating his locker for his birthday last year in perfect clarity.
Of course, Neil had as little experience with friendships as Andrew did before coming to Palmetto. Maybe even less, given how hyper-controlling his parents had been before Neil was removed from their care and taken in by his uncle.
Neil had seen his locker last March and been entirely confused. He hadn’t seen the point, hadn’t understood why his friends might want to celebrate. To Neil, it had been a nice but ultimately pointless gesture.
What the hell had changed since then? Why did he go through the effort for Andrew now?
Andrew’s traitorous heart beat faster at the pipedream possibilities it thought up, and he could feel his face turning a deeper pink.
Dammit, Neil.
Andrew had been battling with his attraction to Neil since practically the moment they met, and it got harder and harder to keep fighting when his feelings grew at seemingly every single thing his stupid little exy junkie of a best friend did.
Andrew didn’t particularly care for his own birthday, but the thought that Neil did? That Neil cared enough to put something like this together for him, as dumb as it might be? That he must have spent at least a few hours on this, must have come into school early so that he could put it up before Andrew arrived?
Andrew forcefully inputted his lock combination until he could open his locker, pressing a warm cheek against the cool metal of the door interior once he had done so.
He pictured storming off to find Neil—probably at his own locker by the math department—and pulling him into a kiss, wiping off that smug little smirk that he’d likely have on his face, tasting the breakfast blend tea that he drank every morning, running his hands through those auburn locks and pulling him close, close, closer.
Just for a moment, he pictured separating from Neil and reaching down to grab his hand to walk him to his first class—just like he saw other sappy little stupid couples doing every day.
That heated his face even more than the thought of kissing Neil, paradoxically, and Andrew groaned into his hands.
Andrew hung his bag in his locker and grabbed his books for chemistry. He had his first block to think of what to do and how to act when he saw Neil for trigonometry afterwards. He didn’t know how much longer he could hide this from Neil; he didn’t know if he even wanted to hide it, anymore.
Andrew pictured holding hands with Neil again—having his long, elegant fingers twined between Andrew’s own. He imagined the callouses he would feel from Neil’s racquet; he imagined how soft the back of Neil’s hand would be if he were to swipe his thumb across it.
Andrew gave another groan, and, at the sound of the first bell, forced himself to walk to class.