#jokes on her bc i was stupid and didn’t even notice the tattoo on neil’s face or the scars all over his arms and cheeks

[thief-of-eggs]

Did I accidentally picture Kevin as Viktor Krum from the Harry Potter movies like, the whole book series?

Yes, but I blame @sophiasrant who didn’t let me look at any fanart until I finished reading <3

[ravenvsfox]

Hili :) Can you write andreil 81 for the prompts please? Thank you

81: “You’re too good for this world.” okay.... I technically didn’t do this exact prompt, I took off the last word, I hope this suffices my friend, bc it’s actually:

“You’re too good for this.”

The problem with living in a fortress of knives and anonymity is that Neil can’t find him in it. And the problem with that is that a treacherous part of Andrew wants to be found, and touched, and dismantled blade by blade.

The problem with knives is that they won’t stop terrifying Neil, but they won’t stop feeling sure and righteous in Andrew’s palm.

The problem is Neil, a taste Andrew can’t completely swallow.

He puts Renee’s knives in Neil’s safe and Neil says all sorts of sticky emotional things like they’re taking part in some sort of ceremony. Andrew clicks the lock and climbs on top of Neil so he’ll stop thinking, pocketing his ‘yes’ as he goes.

It’s not just that he does what Neil asks, anymore. He tries to do things for him before he can ask for them. He tries to make things happen that he knows Neil doesn’t have words for.

He keeps one knife for himself, and he knows Neil knows about it, because he hands Andrew his armbands some mornings, and the weight is there in his palms.

Sometimes, that weight is the only way to get through the day without his head and throat pounding.

Sometimes Neil jerks awake and thrusts his hand under the pillow, and Andrew has to pry his wrists away. Neil knows protection, so he understands the slim line of a blade at his forearm is to Andrew what Andrew is to Neil.

But Andrew can tell that it bothers him, to have a knife buried in something that matters to him. He sees wintery metal in the shade of Neil’s eyes, and Andrew knows he’s condemning him to a future that looks like his past.

Still, the knife is just a talisman. Andrew is the weapon.

Before an afternoon practice sometime in the middle of the rush towards winter, Jack is the target.

They get to the court early because Neil only has morning classes. He’s always antsy by the time Andrew gets back to the dorm, insufferable and single-minded.

Andrew parks, Neil enters the code to the side door, their runners squeak against the sleek hall floors, and they split up at the locker room. Rinse and repeat. So many times a week that Andrew would feel the monotony in his teeth if it weren’t for Neil darting into side rooms or slipping on floor wax or doubling back to run in the rain, unpredictable as a lightning bolt.

Today, Neil changes out fast, wandering back out with his shorts tucked under his arm, looking like a paper doll with the top half finished, the bottom half still at default settings.

Andrew drops his helmet on the floor so he can get to his jersey, ignoring Neil’s huff, doubtless indignant on behalf of the Exy equipment. The foxes are unreasonably loud as usual, using locker doors like percussion, making banal observations at top volume. He’s stupid not to notice Jack approaching until he’s close enough that Andrew can hear his breath. Sheena looms behind him looking pinched in the face.

“Hey,” Jack says. “Is there a reason you don’t change out with us?” He’s talking to Neil, and his cockiness is bundles of bravado over nothing.

Neil looks at Jack with that singed expression that says he’s trying to smoke him out. “I want to spend as little time as possible with you.”

“Funny,” Jack sneers. “I think it’s because you’re hiding something. Sheena guessed an embarrassing tattoo. I’m guessing tumour.”

Andrew takes one painstakingly calculated step forward, one food colouring drop of intimidation in clear water. Jack’s eyes flicker to him and away.

“Wrong and wrong. Play again tomorrow,” Neil says. “Or better yet, play the game you’re supposed to be focusing on. You desperately need the practice.”

Someone snorts, but the tension doesn’t quite falter.

“What’s the matter, vice cap,” Jack taunts. “You a battered wife? Is your gut as ugly as your face?” He reaches out and yanks Neil’s shirt up to his chest, and Andrew registers the uneasy sounds of his teammates only as an afterthought.

He takes Jack to the lockers hard enough that he can tell the edge of an open one broke skin. Jack yelps, then tries to break free with the tight jawed confidence of someone who’s unused to losing.

His knife is out and snug underneath Jack’s ribcage within seconds.

“For god’s sake, Andrew,” Matt says, distressed. “You can’t keep threatening every bully that gets close enough. He’s a kid.”

Renee is rocking on the edge of his awareness with her old face on, the one that oscillates between disarming and disembowling.

“Kids should still be held accountable for their actions,” Andrew spits. “And bullies should be punished.” His wrist twitches, and the knife quivers. Jack’s body arcs away from it, and Andrew notes the panic in his breath with satisfaction.

“Andrew,” Neil says, closer than Andrew thought. His rage is still blaring in the front of his skull. All he can see is the blur of Neil’s scars caving in when Neil’s stomach jumped and his hands snapped in to pull his own shirt down. “You’re too good for this.”

It’s not what he expected, and his wrist sags then tightens.

“You don’t need it.” Neil creeps into his field of vision. His eyes are blue fire, but he doesn’t look scared at all. “Punch him out if you need to. Put him out of his misery. But you’re better than knives as scare tactics.”

“It is not a scare tactic,” Andrew says. “I follow through on my threats.”

“I know,” Neil says, his voice level and conversational. “But you give warnings, too. You’re fair.”

“Warped definition of fair,” Dan mutters behind them.

“He touched you without—“ Andrew staples the end of his sentence shut before it can burst out, all ugly worms and dirt and guts. His mouth feels overfull with feeling, but at least none of it got on his face.

Jack squirms and the knife nicks his skin. “Get the fuck off of me,” he says hoarsely. Andrew’s memory screams at him.

“It wouldn’t even be worth the trouble,” Neil says breezily. “If he’s dead he’s a headline that’ll be associated with us. Let him go wet himself somewhere else.”

Andrew’s hand drops, thinly opening Jack’s jersey as it goes. He immediately staggers backwards and clips a locker door, then turns and runs. Neil walks in to occupy his space, and his hand goes for the knife. He wiggles it free of Andrew’s sweaty grip, and drops it on the floor, kicking it back to Renee.

“The locker room soap opera continues,” Nicky says breathily, trying to upend the tension and just getting more, like turning over an hourglass. “FYI, I’d prefer hook ups and pregnancy announcements as our main sources of drama.”

“Good luck with that,” Dan says, clapping Nicky on the shoulder on her way by.

“Looks like extreme violence is just the flavour of the month,” Matt jokes.

“And of every month,” Nicky deadpans. “Of every year.”

Aaron says something and Nicky answers too loudly, but Andrew’s already reliving the knife sinking in half a centimetre, the power in that.

Neil pulls him back with his quiet voice: “I hate that you think you need knives.”

Andrew clenches his jaw. “I use them when they are necessary.”

“They’re never gonna be necessary while we’re here,” Neil argues. “The court is the only place that’s safe.”

“Safety isn’t ensured. Ever. As soon as you get complacent you become a target.”

Neil’s face goes ancient and sad. The room empties around them, their teammates eavesdropping unsubtly and making stilted conversation all the way out to the inner court. 

“We’re not targets anymore,” Neil says.

“He got his hands on your scars and you couldn’t move to stop him. What would you call that?”

Neil steps forward in the new quiet.

“You got there before I could move,” Neil says. “So I’d call that luck.”

“It wasn’t luck,” Andrew says darkly. “Stop counting on empty concepts. Luck and safety and goodness won’t save your life.”

“But you will.” Neil looks at him, and his face is a clear, honest sky. “And you have. I’m not counting on concepts, I’m counting on you.”

Andrew stares, feeling Neil right in the gaps of his armour, right at the handle of his knife with his hand around his.

“You will be disappointed.”

Neil shrugs. “I don’t think so.” He scoops his helmet up from the ground and swings it under his arm. “If our only threat is fucking Jack, I don’t think we’re going to need much.”

“There are other threats,” Andrew says. “The Moriyamas were not an isolated incident.”

Neil rolls his eyes. “I know that. And I also know that we didn’t take down them or my father’s people by going in shooting. We turned their own knives on them.”

Andrew feels frustration kick his back teeth and try to get out. “You are being naive, as usual. I can have a weapon without being like them.”

Neil looks startled, his brows folding in. “I don’t think you’re like them. I think you’re the opposite. I think the only place you could possibly overlap is with the weapon in your hand.”

Nebulous pieces all start to cluster together in Andrew’s head. “You don’t want me to have something in common with them.”

“You’re too good for that,” Neil repeats, vicious.

Andrew feels too hot wearing the bulk of his equipment, looking slightly up into Neil’s jigsaw puzzle face. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Neil echoes, incredulous.

“Fine. The knife can go in the safe with the rest of them. Jack tries anything again and I strangle him.”

“Innovative,” Neil says, amused. Then his face gentles. “You don’t have to give it up, Andrew. I know what it means. I just want you to understand that you’re strong without it.”

Andrew swallows. His eyes wander. “Change. You’re missing your precious drills.”

Neil’s eyes narrow but he smiles, so uncomplicated that it almost replaces the image of his lifted shirt and desperate hands.

They end up locking the last knife in the safe and locking the safe in Wymack’s apartment with all of its secrets and fragments of lives behind closed doors.

Andrew takes to carrying pens and paper clips, weapon shrapnel for emergencies.

Jack skips two practices and comes back with his abdomen dramatically bandaged and his attitude dented. He changes out separately from the rest of the foxes those first couple of days back. Andrew and Neil find each other’s eyes through the orange and white, with the satisfaction of that bloodless win all over their faces.