ziellos
Andrew would’ve taken punches for Aaron but he would’ve never swapped places with him. They were both abused, that much is true, but Andrew would NEVER wish the same kind of torment upon anyone else, and especially not his brother. Family is a strange concept to him, and for many years it was his source of despair and agony. It wasn’t until he met Aaron – through Pig Higgins – that he learnt another aspect to it.
He never hated Aaron for being his brother. He never hated him for not defending him or himself from Tilda. He never actually hated Aaron at all.
People like them are too full of anger and pain to function how regular, healthy people do. Even the Foxes, the generally agreed messed ups, are not all as hopeless as the two of them. Andrew was the reason why Aaron and Nicky got dragged into this mess, and sometimes Andrew wonders if he should’ve let them go years ago.
He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Palmetto was an important step towards his own healing and Andrew knows he still has a long way ahead. Kevin gave him Exy and he still cannot tell if his hands are meant to hold the racquet. Answers come and go all the time and Andrew has learnt to cling to moments where they stay.
His mind keeps jumping from here and there but he never lands a punch on Aaron. He realises he CAN’T – he hurt people. He hurt MANY people for MANY reasons. He even hit Neil harsh in the middle the first time they met. He held a knife against Nicky’s ribs, and he choked Kevin to the point it left solid bruises for days.
Andrew is more than capable of hurting people but he simply WILL NOT hurt Aaron. The realisation is more bothersome than he expected.
Soon, Aaron starts throwing harsher punches and Andrew fails to dodge, not without attempt. Hazel eyes narrow at the dull ache in his middle and he glances up at his brother, whose face is still shielded behind gloved hands. He can see it, the fighter that longed to fight. The violence chained to a dark corner for all these years.
That’s more like it. Andrew breathes in and his frustration bleeds away. The familiar numbness washes over him again but this time it is not in a bad way. Few have seen him sparring with Renee, and even Renee didn’t get to spar with a sober Andrew Minyard much.
His browns turn cold and every step he takes are of extreme precision. His next punches are sharp and controlled, allowed to make contact but not indulged to harm. He intends to keep this conversation going until the both of them tires themselves out.
Maybe if he had understood Andrew better or if he had seen him spar with Renee, Aaron may have been able to see that Andrew’s heart wasn’t in the fight. Maybe if he had seen Andrew commit his violence for longer than a handful of seconds he may have been able to see that Andrew was holding back, that while his punches connected, that the pain was nothing more than jolts of impact that shocked but left no real damage in their wake. Maybe if he had split his focus more into studying his brothers fighting stance and his thrown punches, then maybe he might have been able to figure out that Andrew -- violent and more often than not cruel -- couldn’t hurt him. If he had seen it, if he had figured it out there would have been no way that Aaron would have been able to keep his hands up.
But he didn’t see it and he didn’t figure it out.
Too wrapped up within his own paranoia to protect himself, to shield himself that he simply didn’t notice that he wasn’t in pain. He simply expected it, regressing back into a natural instinct that was to ignore the pain until living with it became second nature.
But Andrew’s gloved hands are slipping under his guard, connecting with his ribs, his stomach and waist. Slipping past his guard to connect with his face, blows that startled, jolted and surprised but again didn’t leave any permanent or bloody prints behind. Yet every blow seemed to bring Aaron closer to the edge, like poking a bear over and over and over until finally there was a reaction.
Aaron hated the ugly anger he contained deep within himself, the creature that he kept chained as close to his chest as he could, the monster that had his mothers voice and his mothers hands. He kept it as far from the surface as he could, locked away where he never wanted it to get out but it was slipping through the cracks with every impact of Andrew’s gloved fists. The longer they sparred, the further it peeked out until he was throwing punches with the intention to cause pain. And then it wasn’t about fighting Andrew -- hell, he couldn’t even SEE Andrew -- it became about letting that gnawing animal in his chest out just for a moment, just for a second, just for an instant.
Aaron threw a fist that carried with it years of pent up rage and frustration and when it connected, even Aaron flinched and within an split second ---- Aaron had that creature by the throat and was hurling it back into it’s cage. He felt horror at first, horror at his own fists, at his own anger and his own loss of control, then came the fear. A knee jerk reaction, the same kind of fear that grasped him whenever he had spoken back to Tilda or had done something that he knew would upset her. The kind of broken China fear and apprehension that set his nerves tumbling over the edge and Aaron jerked forward, hands dropped as he reached out without thinking because now their was panic.
He hadn’t meant to. It was an accident. Oh god. Oh god, this isn’t what he wanted. “Fuck, Andrew! Are you -- ?”
