#and don't even get me STARTED on the team acting as a barrier around Andrew and the strikers

[faithless-hoaxx]

In light of recent events (read: TRK bonus chapter!) I don't think I'm gonna shut up about this scene

Because we have Andrew, who hates being weak in front of other people

and we have Kevin, who didn't have to ask what was going on

and we have Nicky who held Andrew up when Neil expected him to fall

(Andrew is afraid of heights - and presumably falling)

[philipshay]

but I don't ever think I can ever learn how to love just right

requested by anonymous

andreil au in which neil gets tired of the ‘we’re nothing’ game and decides to stop playing

It isn’t much of a surprise when one of the foxes gets hurt on the court. While running drills, they’re often teamed up against each other, working of defensive and offensive maneuvers. And while they don’t mean to hurt each other, Exy is a violent sport, and accidents happen. Most of the time they’re accidents, at least.

Today’s incident is a legitimate accident; in a scuffle for the ball, the handle of Dan’s racket catches Neil’s helmet, tugging it off and sending him crashing to the floor. She fawns over him with apologies, helping him back to his feet, ignoring his attempts to wave her off.

He’s only been on his feet for two seconds when Andrew pushes through, tipping his chin up with a finger, likely to get the bleeding to stop.

“I’m sorry, Neil, I swear-“ Dan exclaims, peering around Andrew, who, though tiny, still manages to take up a huge amount of space in front of Neil.

“It’s okay. Really,” He says.

“Your nose is broken,” Andrew says.

“Hell, Dan. Remind me not to piss you off,” Nicky says, a teasing smile on his lips. Matt shoots him a look, to which Dan crinkles her nose, grip tightening on her racket.

“You know-“

“He’s screwing with you, Dan,” Matt says.

“I know you aren’t possibly done. Not when that clock shows twenty more minutes!” Wymack calls from his place in the stands. Dan turns to look at him, waving her racket.

“Dan tried to kill Neil!” Nicky yells.

“Nicky,” Dan snaps. He smiles innocently, and pulls his helmet back on. The others follow, save for Neil and Andrew.

Andrew’s fingers wrap around Neil’s arm, and he pulls him toward the door; Wymack must be able to see the blood from here, or just doesn’t want to get in Andrew’s way, because he lets them leave the court without a word.

Andrew lets go of Neil when they get into the locker room. When Andrew gives him a light shove toward the bench, Neil drops down onto it, pinching his nose to stop it from bleeding.

A moment later, Andrew returns from Abby’s office with some gauze and a bottle of aspirin; Neil is almost surprised that Andrew managed to find it, seeing as Abby keeps all the pain meds hidden and locked away. But, then again, it is Andrew, so he shouldn’t be surprised in the least.

Andrew sits down on the bench beside him, and Neil turns so he’s straddling it, facing Andrew.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Neil says. Andrew rips off some gauze, and presses it to Neil’s nose. Neil flinches, sucking in a breath. Andrew’s brows arch in amusement, and Neil makes a face.

“Fine. It doesn’t hurt that bad.”

Andrew’s hand comes up, a thumb brushing along the bottom of Neil’s left eye.

“You’re probably gonna have a black eye,” He says, fingers skating across Neil’s skin, checking for further injury.

“I’ve had worse,” Neil says. Andrew’s hand goes still, and a slight crease appears between his brows.

He doesn’t say anything, hand dropping to his lap, and Neil knows he’s gone too far. He opens the pill bottle, and shakes a few into his palm, handing them to Neil, who swallows them dry.

One of Andrew’s touchy spots is Evermore and the night Neil spent with his father’s people. He’s only ever talked to Neil about it once, but Neil could see how much it affected Andrew; how Andrew was desperate to get him back, to know that he was okay.

Andrew isn’t one for jokes as it is, and jokes about Neil’s worst memories are liked even less.

Andrew stands up, leaving the gauze in front of Neil, and disappears, likely returning Abby’s meds so she doesn’t notice they’ve been tampered with. Instead of waiting for him to get back, Neil follows, and watches from the doorway as Andrew stretches up on his tippy toes to try and put the bottle back on top of the cabinet.

Neil’s lips curl up in a tiny smirk, and he comes to stand beside Andrew, taking the bottle away and setting it where it goes, having a few inches of advantage on Andrew.

“I bet Abby has a step stool somewhere,” Neil says, one of his rare attempts at a joke.

It’s misplaced, though, seeing as he’s with Andrew. Andrew narrows his eyes slightly.

“I hate you,” he says halfheartedly, the words empty, as they have become as they’ve become completely untrue.

“No, actually, you don’t,” Neil says, a hint of irritation in his voice, heading back for the locker room to grab his gauze and dab at his nose.

It isn’t that Neil doesn’t know that Andrew cares about him. He knows that he does.

Sometimes he wishes that once, just once, Andrew would acknowledge it. Sometimes, he wishes Andrew could look him in the eye and tell him he’s something more than nothing.

But again, this is Andrew, and he loves him for who he is, not who he wants him to be. Even if who he is drives him mad sometimes.

Andrew follows him back, and stands against the lockers, arms crossed.

“If it is true, you have a really horrible way of showing it. You’re going to confuse people,” Neil says bitterly.

“I don’t care how anyone interprets it.”

“You care what I think.”

“No,” Andrew says, “I don’t.”

“You’re infuriating,” Neil says.

“Look at you using big words.”

Neil gives him a withering look, starting to pull his gear off. His body aches, and he knows he’s going to be sore, but he’s grateful that the only lasting wound from today’s practice will be his nose.

The two get out of their practice gear silently. Once Neil’s is tucked into his locker and he’s back in sweats and a tee shirt, he tosses the bloody gauze and tilts his head back once more, making sure the last of the blood is gone.

When he drops his head again, he finds Andrew standing in front of him. One of Andrew’s hands drops to Neil’s waist, slipping beneath his tee shirt and settling right above his hip bone, pushing Neil back into the lockers.

He’s nearly kissing him when Neil’s brain turns back on, and he remembers that he’s irritated with Andrew right now.

He turns his head, hands coming up to push him away, and Andrew steps back at the obvious no.

That’s one thing that Neil really likes about Andrew; these days, he’s completely into consent. He doesn’t push when he can see Neil doesn’t want it.

Andrew shifts back slightly, the confusion evident in his eyes; only really evident because Neil knows what every emotion looks like in Andrew’s eyes.

“Someone’s in a mood.” He says, almost amused. Neil steps to the side, pulling away from Andrew, arms coming up and crossing against his chest, acting as a barrier between them.

“You tell someone they’re nothing enough times, they’re gonna start to believe it. It’s how people work.”

“You taking Psychology this semester?” Andrew asks, still treating this as a game, the way he treats most things. Neil shakes his head, moving past him, gathering his things in his bag. He’s about to sling it over his shoulder when Andrew’s hand closes around the sleeve of his shirt. Neil turns to look at him, backpack falling to the ground. Andrew’s eyes settle on Neil’s, lips set in a thin line.

��Since when does it matter?” Andrew asks.

“Everything matters when it comes to you. You know that. Even though it isn’t the same for you.” Neil retorts.

“Do I know that?”

Neil shrugs, jaw clenched.

“You’re not stupid.”

Andrew doesn’t say anything for so long Neil knows he isn’t going to. Not in the mood to deal with his indifference today, he grabs his backpack from the ground, and pulls it over his shoulders. He shuts his locker, knowing that the rest of the Foxes will be back in a few minutes, and quickly starts for the door. He doesn’t hesitate as he leaves the locker room, and Andrew doesn’t stop him.

-

He’s roughly shaken awake from a nap an hour later, almost surprised to find himself sprawled across his bed in he and Andrew’s room. He doesn’t remember the walk back, only the relief he felt when he climbed on top of his mattress. He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, looking up to find Andrew standing beside his bed, arms at his sides, hands curled into fists. His gaze settles on his bare wrists, which are always covered by black bands save for when he goes to bed.

Neil doesn’t know why they’re off right now. He’s not sure if he cares right now, either.

“You were wrong earlier.” Andrew says. Neil swings his legs over the edge, and watches as Andrew sits down on the edge of his own bed, their knees nearly touching.

“About?”

Andrew’s gaze flicks to the black bands sitting on the bedside table, then to Neil’s eyes, and back to the bands, where they stay.

“If you’re just gonna sit here and bullshit, I’m going to go out and get something to eat.” Neil says.

“It isn’t nothing.” Andrew says after a moment, gaze still on the black bands.

Neil waits for him to continue, and after a beat, Andrew does.

“This. We aren’t nothing.” He says. The words come out slowly, and almost painfully, like they’re sticking to Andrew’s teeth and he has to force them out.

Neil’s brows pull together, and Andrew finally looks at him.

“It’s everything.” He says.

For a moment, neither of them moves. Then Neil is pushing off of his bed, and Andrew is grabbing him by the fabric of his shirt and tugging him against him, and their lips are smashing together, and Neil knows he was telling the truth, Neil knows Andrew believes it.

Everything. They are everything.

[philosophiums]

I'm feeling 62. (Please don't cry) really hard even though like 2 out of the 3 words are barely in Andrew or Neil's vocabulary

Okay so like I love this concept and I love this dialogue but…. Andrew doesn’t say please and Neil would never say please in front of Andrew, but……. I did my best#62. “Please, don’t cry.”

Andrew’s sweatshirt is the only barrier between Neil’s skin and the biting December air. Where the metal of the balcony touches Neil’s bare thighs and feet, he freezes. Tears stick to his cheeks. The cold doesn’t register. Neil just feels the heat of a gasoline fire, smells flesh and hair and plastic burning. He can feel the resistance against his fingers when he rips his mother’s bones from the seat with blood acting as velcro.

The balcony door slides open and Andrew steps out. King slips past Andrew’s feet and trots over to Neil. The cat meows before stepping onto Neil’s thigh and head-butting his chest. Neil blinks, and more tears fall and freeze in place. Sir meows from the doorway and paces, but he won’t come outside. 

“Your cats are stupid,” Andrew says, sitting down crosslegged beside Neil. 

Neil doesn’t respond except to drag in a trembling breath. Andrew and the cats are peripheral to the last moments he has of his mother. Neil’s grief and exhaustion warp reality until the memory feels more real than the present moment. He’s not sitting on his balcony, remembering California, he’s on his knees on the side of the road, vomiting up the smell of ash and the taste of sea salt until his stomach is empty.

“My cats,” Neil says, disbelieving. There didn’t exist a world, a future, in which Neil could settle down enough to own cats. He’d never be able to live in a single place for so long.

Andrew shifts next to him, turning to face him. The silence between them lasts for miles before Andrew says, “Get on your feet.”

“Why.”

“Damn it, Neil.” Andrew moves in front of Neil, and King jumps down and moves a couple feet away. Sir meows again. “Can I touch you?”

“I don’t care.”

“I need you to.”

“Sure,” Neil says, looking past Andrew’s arm to the blinking lights of the city. He sees only the sun on the waves and feels it on his skin. He’s not warm, but he’s not cold anymore. 

Andrew’s hands are firm on his jaw, roughly dragging Neil’s attention from the skyline to Andrew’s face. “Look at me. Do you know where you are?” When Neil doesn’t respond, Andrew continues. “You’re in Denver. Your name is Neil Josten. You’re the number eighteen striker for the Colorado Mustangs professional Exy team. You were invited to play for US Court three months ago. Your mother has been dead for -”

“Shut up,” Neil whispers, fresh tears hot on his face until they freeze against Andrew’s fingers. “Shut up.”

Something tightens in Andrew’s expression and then Andrew lifts Neil to his feet and all but carries him inside. Once King is in, too, Andrew closes and locks the balcony door. 

Neil drops onto the sofa when Andrew deposits him there with a rough, “Stay there.” Neil has no intentions of moving any time soon. He can’t really feel his legs. Or his fingers, for that matter.

Andrew returns with two blankets and a pillow, drops the latter by the armrest opposite Neil, and begins the arduous process of wrapping Neil in one of the blankets. “Stop,” Neil says, voice cracking. Andrew stops immediately, slowly taking his hands away and staring down at Neil. “Just… stop.” 

He wonders if crying is so painful for normal people. 

Andrew sits down next to him on the sofa and Neil droops over against him. Years of revolving around each other has led to this, to finding comfort in touches and embraces and words that previously would have gone unsaid. This time, when Andrew moves to finish tucking Neil into the blanket, Neil doesn’t argue against it.

He doesn’t realize how cold his legs are until Sir jumps up lays his considerable mass across Neil’s knees. 

“I’m sorry,” Neil says when Andrew brings him a glass of water. 

Andrew stares blankly at Neil for a long moment, during which Neil forces most of the water down his throat. When Neil sets the glass aside, Andrew settles onto the sofa, on his side, and pulls Neil down next to him. They share the pillow, and Andrew pulls the second blanket over the both of them. The cats take up positions by their feet.

“Some wounds don’t heal,” Andrew says, and it takes Neil a lengthly moment to realize that Andrew is picking up their conversation.

“I wish this one would.”

“Well the next time you want to try healing a wound, don’t do it by giving yourself frostbite.” 

Neil smiles, and what he hopes to be the last of his tears run down his cheeks from the corners of his eyes.

“Please don’t start crying again.” Andrew’s tone is reproachful, but not judgmental. “You’re already making me cold; I don’t need you making me wet too.”

It’s exactly the kind of reaction that Neil needs to break him out of his past. He snorts, amused, and leans in for a gentle kiss. Andrew returns it, bringing up a hand and brushing Neil’s tears from his cheeks. It’s not a gentle motion, but it is for Andrew. 

“If I wake up again, you can feel free to hit me upside the head and knock me unconscious,” Neil offers, voice muffled against the fabric of Andrew’s shirt.

Andrew threads his fingers through Neil’s hair and tugs. “Just go the fuck to sleep.”