#(looks at an exy racquet and purrs)

[dayurno]

catboy kevin. thoughts?

hello neil i am your mentor kevin come here lets train together i am your normal coach kevin come here practice with mBITES YOU BITES YOU BITES YOU BITES YOU BITES YOU PUFFED TAIL A MILLION CAT SCRATCHES ON YOUR ARMS WHY DID YOU FUMBLE THAT PASS i love catkevin!!!!! hes my favorite!!!!!!! ive done some art for it a few months ago :3

[sixinsultsago]

creative problem solving {andreil}

married andreil get into a bit of a domestic, but andrew figures out a way to deescalate the situation while also thoroughly entertaining himself;

aka we don't talk about neil's hatred of baseball enough

ft. future andreil!

* * *

It occurs to Andrew in the middle of the action, how ridiculous it is to storm out of a house that has his fucking name on the lease, but he has the sense not to linger at the scene of the crime with the murder weapon in his hand. Any further conversation won't end well when both of them are clutching to maladaptive habits.

So, Andrew walks away.

A hot stone drops in his stomach. A heavy, sticking weight that feels like it's lodged inside of him, accompanied by the equally well-acquainted burn of anger.

It's his house. He can't believe he has to leave his own fucking house.

Going to their second-storey balcony is entirely out of muscle memory. Andrew doesn't smoke anymore, and he runs cold on top of it; going outside no longer works to calm himself down so much as it lends ample time to dwell on why he's angry and how likely he is to lose a finger to the weather.

He's almost tempted to stay outside just for that --- less fingers makes it harder to hold a racquet; he can't be a goalkeeper without that particular talent, now can he?

Thinking about Exy isn't helping. Andrew's fingers twitch desperately around thin air.

He wants a cigarette. He wants to go back inside and sit next to his husband without the idiot running his mouth, just to try it on for size. Neither is likely to happen. It's been long enough for both things that Andrew should know better than to hope for them.

Well, no one person is capable of knowing themselves completely; Andrew never has been as smart as he thinks he is.

A brisk breeze eventually chases him back inside, although he wants to stay right where he is until he turns into an ice sculpture or something similarly unaffected by Neil Josten's --- everything.

But when he enters, downstairs is swollen with thick warmth; Neil turned on the heater while Andrew was outside.

Andrew cups his hands, throbbing dully from chilliness, over his mouth and pretends to be unaware that it was done for him. He fails. The burn in his blood cools; the stone lessens in heaviness. The idea of talking to Neil doesn't make him want to turn his own skin inside out.

This is as good as it gets.

Spesking of, the man himself is staring at the tv --- not watching, if his coiled shoulders are an indication. It is playing a rerun of an old show Andrew caught glimpses of at an old foster home. He recalls the snapshots he saw vividly: the disjointed editing, the canned studio audience laughter. He managed to watch an entire episode when he took a sick day from school.

He'd enjoyed it, until Jesse came home early.

No. Do not think about him.

He tries. That's what Andrew does these days: a whole lot of trying.

Andrew walks over and steals the remote out of Neil's slack hands.

"Sure, go ahead," Neil says dryly, shooting him a look. Andrew ignores him.

He changes channels, mentally running through grounding techniques. Andrew catalogues the leather sofa on his thighs, their shaggy rug between his toes, listens to singing crickets outside their window. Sir's rumbling purrs. Neil's careful breathing.

Neil.

Like a compass swinging north, Andrew meets Neil's eyes. Naturally, he has been staring this entire time, which isn't exactly odd after a decade of it. That doesn't mean everything is as it should be.

"You are being unusually nonconfronting," notes Andrew.

"Do you want me to start? I could mention that your height makes you look like a child throwing a tantrum when you storm out like that," Neil replies, making it perfectly clear his silence was packaged and presented like a Christmas gift for a reason. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. Or to upset you earlier. Thank you for coming back in."

"Upset me."

His tone is frigid, but Neil says, "Yeah," as if he is too dumb to be wary. Likely because he is. Andrew retreating to the closest edge is a habit. So is Neil’s disturbing lack of self-preservation in the face of a threat.

"I do not want you to talk to me about my team for now," Andrew tells him. "I'm handling it. Your shining white knight act is unnecessary and embarrassing."

"Unnecessary? Andrew, you're out and surrounded by homophobes!"

Andrew is still flicking through channels, barely lingering enough for the television to stutter through sounds. His finger presses down and forces countless actors to abort their well-rehearsed lines mid-sentence. Andrew's thoughts are similarly fragmented. This is not his favorite topic, no matter how often he finds himself talking about it.

"You are not listening."

Neil's chin juts out stubbornly. Jesus Christ.

"I don't think you are. Andrew, you aren't safe around your bullshit coach. I wish you'd trade to my team, I really do. Sandra's girlfriend watches most of our practices and no one's said a word about it. It's better for you, with me."

What Neil never addresses --- and what Andrew did only once; he hates repeating himself, especially when his conversational partner has the coloring and mental facilities of a brick wall --- is that the New York Coyotes do not need another goalie. Their defense is solid. Andrew's addition would be wasteful. A trade isn't likely to happen until their current goalkeeper retires, which isn't for another four years.

Andrew prefers Manhattan Bears' wary side-eyes than being more than a half hour drive from Neil. He's used to the 'ticking time-bomb' handling anyway.

"No." Andrew says flatly. He flicks past Fox news, some children's cartoon about ponies, a group meerkats standing on their hind legs. "Would you like to hear it in Spanish? Russian? I hear those who are multilingual can think in other languages. Perhaps that is why you aren't listening to me when I tell you to drop it."

Neil looks spectacularly unamused. He strokes Sir's fur more insistently, a stress relief that is leaving orange hair all over Andrew's black couch. He eyes the offending color briefly. He hates orange.

“Come on, Andrew…” Neil starts beseechingly. He would shift closer if he didn't have the cat on his lap.

Good work, you mangy rat, Andrew thinks loudly at Sir. The only way Andrew can win is if Neil doesn't touch him. Those pockmarked hands can bleed any sort of tension from Andrew, it's borderline suspicious.

A birds-eye view of a green field flashes across the screen, outfitted in diamond plates and bobble-headed figures barely recognizable as people. Andrew presses down. It's a medical drama now.

"--- ignoring me isn't going to work --- "

He goes back. The field, the diamonds, the people. Baseball is uninteresting in every way possible, but Andrew doesn't have any personal biases for or against the sport. He could endure an entire sitting of it with the same studied disinterest he employs when his coach goes over plays before a game.

Neil, however, cannot. He keeps talking until Andrew turns up the television. For a heartstopping moment the game doesn't appear to register, his mouth not slowed down in the slightest.

Then, a commentator crows, "What a spectacular pitch from the Phillies!"

Neil literally chokes on his next words. He swings to face the screen, scars emphasizing his disgusted expression. "What?"

"Contretras once again establishing himself as a nightmare opponent on the field---"

"Andrew," says Neil. He sounds on the verge of a meltdown. "Turn this off."

Andrew watches the redhead. He maxes out the volume. Neil makes a rude, prim noise. "Andrew."

"Hm?"

"You... You know I hate baseball."

"And you know I don't want to discuss trading teams with you," Andrew mutters back, ignoring the betrayed look burning into the side of his head. "It seems neither of us are getting what we want. So sad. Grab a tissue if you are going to weep about it."

Finally, it goes quiet. How blissful. Andrew will never take a weekend away for granted again.

Impressively Neil manages to survive through a few pitches, albeit with the twitchiness of an addict in withdrawal, before blurting: "This is a new low, even for you,"

"Oh, Neil. I am no less hindered by consideration for your feelings than usual."

The batter hits a ball with a resounding metallic clink. Neil flinches like it's a gunshot. Drama queen. "Could you just --- explain to me what you are trying to do here?"

"I am trying," Andrew gestures pointedly at the television, "to watch a game of baseball. You are talking my ears off. If you stop, I might too. Think about it."

Neil narrows his eyes. "Fine. I'll quit talking about---" Andrew presses his hand against his mouth, feels Neil's jaw tense under his palm. "What now."

"I said, think about it. Go and do that." Andrew waves him impatiently away, hoping that Neil will take the easy way out for once. "I will not be moving,"

"Will you stop watching this pathetic excuse for a fucking sport if I do," Neil's sarcasm is barely muffled. He already looks resigned. It bodes well.

"Yes."

"Well, aren't you bratty tonight," says Neil with no apparent sense of irony, getting up from the sofa and striding into the kitchen. He flicks on the kettle, grumbling the entire time. Andrew, in acknowledgement, turns down the television until it is nearly mute.

To be honest, he didn't think this would work. Amusement bubbles through his chest. He is still mad, but he can take enjoyment from Neil's pout nevertheless. Andrew is a multi-tasker.

As Neil deliberately clatters around making himself a cup of tea, Andrew records the game currently playing.

He has a feeling this method of silencing Neil can be recycled many more times before it loses its effectiveness.