Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Neil is not ashamed to say that he thinks he screams louder than the actual cheerleaders at the stadium.

He no longer sits in the VIP Box because of it; it's too far away, and he can't read Andrew completely from so high up. He hates looking at the flat screen in the room; no matter how gigantic or quality the picture is, seeing Andrew in the flesh can't be compared. The pixels and camera can't capture the twitch of Andrew's hand when he dives, or the way he doesn't blink when he knows a shot is about to be fired in his direction.

But then again, they just don't know. How could they possibly pay the same amount of attention as he does? They don't know and don't care that Andrew tilts his head just so when he's about to make an impressive save, that he twirls his racquet when he's in the mood to show off.

Neil finds himself grinning throughout each and every game, and already at halftime, his cheeks burn. But that's fine too; Andrew will scold him later and massage the corner of his mouth until connecting with his own.

He'll give in, because he knows Neil's excitement is all his fault. Because ever since Neil retired, it seems that every game makes Andrew want to show off.

The crowd holds their breath around him as the opposing team's striker gets possession of the ball, and even from Neil's private seat in the stands, ground level, as close to the glass as he can get, he feels the weight of it. It's perhaps the part he misses most, that anticipation of a goal.

Or, it would be a goal. But it's Andrew.

The striker pulls back his racquet just as Andrew turns to Neil's spot in the stands, permanent and oh so routine. And it's not even arrogance, or pride. Andrew simply knows he can stop it, and he will stop it, and only one thing matters after that. Neil can't see Andrew's eyes, but he can feel them, and for a moment, uncontrollable warmth surges through him. It follows the path of his arm, the muscle memory of a strike, digging into his shoulder blade until it flies from his fingertips. It feels tiresome, invigorating. It feels like hours and hours spent firing at Andrew's goal to no avail.

Neil's smile softens and he sighs; because he knows he has this at least. Even if he never plays again, Andrew gives his all for him.

Andrew inclines his head; watch. This is for you.

And Neil doesn't have the time to feel his normal, complicated feelings about it. He doesn't have the time to remember that Andrew would quit if it weren't for him, that this doesn't bring him the same level of joy as it did for Neil and it never will. Neil doesn't wonder if it's finally time to ask Andrew if he wants to stop.

Instead, Neil just watches, and pins that for another time. That's one thing retirement has done to him, something positive in the swarm of complicated feelings. He has so much time, pleasant or otherwise.

And then as if the bubble is popped, Andrew turns back to the court.

It's mercilessly fast, a whip of air and a suspended sound that just doesn't translate. The ball shoots across yards and yards, until it's close to meeting the goal, and Andrew waits to catch it until the very last minute. It's so close to sounding the buzzer Neil hears some people behind him choke, but no, it's no hallucination.

Andrew catches it, and before anyone can register the nearly impossible save, Andrew is pulling his strong arms back to catapult the ball all the way to the other side of the court. One of their teammates catches it, and a second later, Neil hears the buzzer. Their score.

But he's hardly paying attention. Andrew spins his racquet in his hands and points at Neil with the end of it, and Neil shakes his head as he laughs and cheers. It's hard to not stand up.

Banging on the glass is frowned upon, but he can't really stomp his feet much anymore, less he get Andrew's disapproving glare, so he does it. He screams and shouts and makes as much noise as he can manage.

He's loud. He's always been loud in his celebrations, where he was painfully quiet everywhere else, and it's perhaps the only advantage of being forced out of the Exy world.

He's always been Andrew's biggest fan, and now he can prove it. It's only a bonus that it embarrasses Andrew greatly, since Neil wears his Minyard merch to every game and even has a little Andrew shark that sits in his lap. It reminds him to not stand up too much.

Neil senses Andrew's glare behind his face guard, and the blond shakes his head as if telling Neil to stay put. Neil smirks, and throws him a good luck salute.

'Stop getting cocky at halftime.'

'Has it ever failed me before?'

Neil hears the exchange from the previous game in his head, and smiles to himself fondly. He supposes Kevin was right back when they used to scold him; it's not arrogance if you're actually good.

And Andrew is better than good. Neil takes him in through the glass, at the way he leans against his racquet and digs his heel into the ground. All a facade, in Neil's opinion, the need to appear carefree and apathetic. In some ways, Andrew always would be, just never in the areas of life Neil is a part of.

Neil's just not capable of viewing Andrew as anything other than complex, so full of life. Neil's life; they're so intertwined at this point, there's no denying he's mixed in there. It's a mutual exchange. They can stand apart, but they choose not to.

Neil smirks as Andrew looks back at him; can you sense I'm thinking stupid things again?

From this angle, Neil can see even clearer. Andrew always has a laziness to him, but his body is anything but. He was strong in college, thick shoulders and back muscles Neil could trace ridges in. Neil thought back then, Andrew couldn't possibly get more impressive physically. But he'd been somewhat naive then, or maybe just dense, as everyone liked to say.

Age is apparent in Andrew now, and it has Neil burning in different ways. Broad shoulders are somehow even sturdier at the age of forty, able to not only hoist Neil up, but maybe even the world. Neil is too selfish to ask that of him though, and honestly, the world can fend for itself. Andrew is all Neil's.

Andrew's chest is firm, his waist thicker, fuller than it was. Andrew has little tolerance for the cold, but he always runs warm to Neil, and Neil cocoons himself in his body whenever he gets the chance.

'You would make a good statue.'

Neil had only said it once, and Andrew made him swear he never would again. Neil laughs to himself; he still thinks he's right. Even Andrew's wrinkles, put there on his forehead early due to all those years of frowning, are dignified in a way.

Neil likes the smile lines too.

Suddenly, his reddened hands itch for other reasons; they itch to graze against Andrew's face, his stubble. He's tired he finds, and tries not to dwell on it; going out like this takes more out of him than he likes to admit, even to Andrew.

But Andrew still views him the same, and treats him with respect and care. Neil is strong, even if he sometimes needs help getting around, and Andrew has never made him feel like he wasn't.

Andrew is a doter, always has been, and he can't hide from it anymore. Not from the Foxes anyways. He's been thoroughly exposed, and Neil actually doesn't mind it. Took them long enough.

It brings the swirl of confusion to the forefront of his mind again; when the final buzzer goes off, everyone in the stadium jumps up, including Neil. It's the only time Neil allows it. The celebration and triumph is palpable in his veins and on the court; the team huddles, jumping and leaping, because this means they're one step closer to championships.

The crowd roars, and the chaos of the coaches and press flooding onto the court happens like it does every time, water flowing out of a dam.

Neil whistles and cheers, and as lighthearted as he is, as victorious as the air around him pools, he notes that Andrew stays off to the side this time too. He never celebrates anymore, hasn't for about a year. He's not nearly as affected; not unhappy, just subdued. Not that Andrew has ever been one for big celebrations, even when he did come to enjoy Exy.

For a while, Neil believes he genuinely did. There was no more resentment, no more need to be contrary. Battling with Neil and Kevin on the court, Andrew solidified his reputation and his place in the hall of fame. He wouldn't huddle, but he would walk into center court, a part of it all.

No longer, and that's what Neil knows to be true.

Neil wants to go home at the end of a long day at the court, of watching Andrew shine and conquer. But Andrew never wants to leave home in the first place.

Finally, at forty, the end has settled around him. He would rather be with Neil in their home, passing the moments without glass between them.

It's all too apparent, and yet, the issue comes from a scenario Neil could've never dreamed of.

Andrew won't tell him.

Andrew, who has never been one to mince words or avoid the harsh inevitable, has avoided the subject at all costs. Neil can't figure it out; it clouds his mind, even as the smile remains.

Andrew stares at him from the goal, knowing he has to wait for more people to clear out before Neil can safely make his way to the parking structure.

He'll watch over him the entire time until then. Andrew doesn't move from his spot, not for press, not for anyone.

Slowly, Neil sits, his clapping fading until it's just their bubble again. Andrew really is a pillar of strength, standing there, chest heaving. But he doesn't have to be, if he doesn't want to. The season is almost over, they could go anywhere, do anything...

Neil sighs; he can sense a disagreement brewing, and that wouldn't be a problem if he knew what it was about. Disagreements are simple, they start, they end. They ride them out.

But Neil feels in the dark about this.

At first, he thought Andrew wanted to avoid a potentially difficult conversation. Maybe he thought Neil would be upset, or would try to convince him otherwise.

But he has to know that would never be the case; even if Neil would be a little sad at not being able to watch Andrew play, it's nothing in the grand scheme of things.

He has reruns. He has Andrew. Losing his own ability to play had been devastating, but he had not even thought about pushing those lost expectations onto his partner.

It hadn't crossed his mind.

He wants Andrew to do what he wants; that has never changed.

And Neil eventually reasoned with himself that Andrew would know that, nothing in their years together pointed to any other conclusion. He trusts Neil, he's not afraid of him.

So the momentary hurt Neil felt fizzled and dissolved into nothing afterwards. But that still left him needing answers. Why didn't Andrew want to voice his intent to retire?

Neil had tried to hint at it...

'Maybe we could go on vacation with Katelyn and Aaron on their Alaska trip.'

'That's during training season.'

'Well, if you plan to be there during training season...'

'Why wouldn't I be?'

And Neil had dropped it, that niggling feeling burrowing deeper. He wasn't ready, because he wasn't sure where to even press or push to get the answer he wanted out of Andrew.

Because...there really wasn't an answer he wanted. He just wanted Andrew to tell him the truth.

Neil thought it might be the financial strain. But then Andrew's fortieth year came, qualifying him for the full severance and pension, and that no longer made any sense either.

It's been months since that feeling settled in him, and the only conclusion he can think of is this: Andrew doesn't know what he wants to say either.

And well, if that's the case, Neil knows it's best to just wait until he does. It's hard to be patient with each other sometimes, but in this case, there's nothing imperative about it. The season will end and start back up again, and when Andrew is ready to make a decision, Neil will be there to listen.

When half the stands are empty, Andrew walks out and meets Neil at his spot; Neil hadn't wanted to go without him this time, his body had refused. Call him a sap. With how he'd been feeling, the thought of having Andrew so close and not waiting...

It had been a bit too much.

So yeah, he wants to walk with Andrew to the car, and even if they don't speak, he wants to feel the safety net bundle him up.

As if knowing it, Andrew shakes his head down at him, eyes shining in amusement, and smooths back his wet hair. Neil beams up at him as Andrew dips down, and in the familiar dance, Neil lets himself be hoisted up, taking his cane with him.

He doesn't use it as he walks all the way to the valet post, and he catches Andrew's critical stare the entire way. And ah, that's another entirely different conversation.

Andrew rolls his shoulders back, and the frustration goes with it, at least for the night, and Neil lets his heart beat rapidly until he worries it might burst.

When Neil stumbles the last few steps to the car door, Andrew grabs his hand, and doesn't let go the rest of the way.

--

Neil knows Andrew's worry isn't unfounded.

Once the deal with Ichirou was settled, the weight of retirement finally had time to settle into Neil's bones, and it left searing aches in its wake. Perhaps he was too naive to think it wouldn't affect him so strongly. Losing the sport he loved had its consequences; he was grateful for his life, the rest of his days stretching in front of him with Andrew in step.

That didn't mean he didn't sometimes feel empty. And it almost wasn't about Exy, not completely. Yes, he missed the weight of a racquet in his hands, the exhilaration of running on the court and scoring an impossible goal. Exy had been his life, his routine. Without it, other things started to fall apart, to become painfully apparent.

His body clock naturally woke him up at the same time every morning, geared up for his morning run and training at the stadium. But when he woke up, he no longer had the leg strength or stamina to fly through three miles. He couldn't fill his lungs with air and know that his body wouldn't let him down.

There's something oddly devastating about not being able to trust one's body.

He knew he would eventually heal, that he would be able to run and jump and leap into Andrew's arms again. But it was such a long process, some days it seemed endless, sitting in the darkness of their bedroom.

Not that Andrew knew, or asked. Maybe he knew the entire time. In fact, Neil is almost positive he did. It couldn't be a coincidence, that every bad day ended up with Andrew taking Neil on a walk, or to a movie, or even to the thrift store.

He always told Andrew he kept himself busy. Some days he tried; he would walk down to the library or run their errands. He would go on beginner level hikes or binge television shows with Renee and Allison through his laptop.

He tried to take up cooking, and found that it was better if he never tried it again.

A lot of the time, it worked; he felt like he was finally finding a groove again, finding ways to enjoy himself that didn't involve Exy or waiting for Andrew.

But other days were hard, mornings especially. One nostalgic detail and he could be out all day, lost in the sea of restlessness and heavy limbs. It was like having growing pains without gaining an inch. His legs would be sore from a day of lazing around, and every twist of his spine cracked or pulled uncomfortably beneath his skin.

He'd never felt more exhausted, those days.

And the mornings would remind him of routines lost. There was no Andrew waiting for him in the car to drive them down to the stadium in the mornings, though he swore he still heard the purr of the engine from the parking structure below.

He would stare at the ceiling every morning until it was time for Andrew to leave; he'd begun to memorize his partner's routine for lack of his own. It made things better because, as resentful of his own state as Neil could get, he could never associate anything horrid with Andrew.

So he sighed when Andrew's alarm would go off, would relish in the feeling of Andrew's strong arm stretching across him to squeeze and glide over his body. Andrew's large hand would start at Neil's shoulder and drag from there, pausing over his heart as the blond groaned the exhaustion away.

Andrew, even half asleep, had to check to see that Neil was there, had to feel him. And Neil would smile even when he felt like it would be a bad day, would find the strength to endure it in Andrew's kiss before he was off. And he let the sound of the shower lull him back into a sleep, and would count the minutes Andrew brushed his teeth to make sure he was doing it right. He needed it, after the previous night's dessert.

He never thought he could find comfort in the sound of a faucet, or the zippers of Andrew's jacket clinking as he put it on. But it was about the little things, all the way up until Andrew kissed him goodbye.

He wanted nothing more than to go with him, to just suck it up, grab his cane and keep Andrew company, even from the stands.

But he couldn't go. No, he wouldn't go. Call it his own idiotic pride, his need to prove he could do this. Because it wasn't Andrew; all Neil had to do was ask, and he'd be back in the passenger seat in no time at all.

Instead, he subjected himself to staying put, and made things worse. Some days it felt like there was nothing for him once he got out of bed. So he started to think, why get out of bed at all?

All the bottled up resentment twisted him up inside like the branches of a dying tree, and there was no way he could go on that way unless he wanted to fall deeper into the abyss. Days spent in the guest bed instead of his own because he didn't want to plague Andrew with his tossing and turning, the zoning out, the fatigue...

He had to deal with it all, but it had only taken the constant reminder from Andrew and his own resilience to stay above water.

'You are surviving. You are not losing.'

Sometimes surviving could be painful; but if there's one thing he's learned about surviving, it's that he always manages to come out on the other end. So he kept going, until he no longer felt like a husk, until he started sleeping in, and getting up.

But, as he improved, as he got better, he began to channel all that rage and resentment towards one thing: the cane.

It was easy, why wouldn't it be?

Even looking at it now, the cane represents a reminder of his injury, of the state of him. He's not ashamed, and he's worked tirelessly with his therapist until he no longer viewed himself as weak or limited. He's not; he simply has to do things differently now.

Still, he is nothing if not stubborn. The hatred from before isn't there when he looks at the cane now, not the same degree of it anyways. But his feelings are too complex to ignore, too hard to let go of. The anger and spite lingers ever so slightly, and he reaches for the cane as little as possible.

He never saw it as that big of an issue. So he ends up a bit more out of breath when he walks for a while, so he has to lean on nearby pillars for support...

It's fine. He's fine.

Of course, Neil has no idea how intertwined his actions and Andrew's are until it all comes bursting at the seams.

"I'm thinking of retiring," Andrew finally says one day over breakfast. It's Wednesday, so they've ordered from the stupidly expensive five-star place down the block. After much discussion over the years, they've agreed Wednesdays are overrated and instead of being seen as a halfway marker, it should be viewed as nothing more than a tease. It was Andrew's new therapist who had suggested they turn the day into something to look forward to, instead of blindly hating it.

So, Wednesdays are fancy breakfast days.

The plain butter pancake, which Neil has a habit of stabbing and lifting into his mouth rather than cutting it up like a normal person, slides off his fork and flops onto his plate.

Neil blinks up at Andrew from across their shitty kitchen table; it's a relic from the early days, when they weren't being paid as much and Neil hadn't yet shaken his frugal nature. It's round and wobbly, but it somehow never breaks no matter how many times Neil has banged his fists against it while watching Exy games.

There's an A + N that Andrew still won't admit he carved into it.

Andrew stares at him, and it's the most unreadable he's been in almost two decades. The only giveaway that he's actually thinking behind the mask is the slight crease to his brow, but otherwise he's trained on Neil's reaction and Neil's reaction alone with no room for showing his own emotion.

Suddenly, Neil is aware of the wall between them.

It's not unfamiliar for it to be there, not when it matters most, when Andrew needs them both to step away and take things seriously. It doesn't make it easier; Neil knows this feeling, it's explicit denial of touch.

Andrew's expression amounts to this much: stay right there and listen, I'll try to do the same.

Slowly, Neil sets his fork down and leans back into the chair, the special one Andrew bought him. It's a weird hybrid recliner, so Neil can put his feet up if he needs it.

Neil expected this conversation to come at pretty much any other time. It still feels serious; the crepes and french toast between them don't change that. But the atmosphere is wrong. He feels like he should be having this discussion on a long drive down the country roads, or face to face in bed.

This really has been eating at Andrew; that's the only conclusion Neil can come to. Otherwise, he would've been a lot more careful in when he raised the topic, in how he approached it.

This...this is Andrew's rare word vomit.

But okay, Neil has no problem with that. He would take all of Andrew's weight, anywhere, anytime.

Neil squints across the table and lets the words wash over him. Retirement. What would retirement look like for Andrew?

Neil might laugh and joke in any other situation, imagining Andrew lounging on the beach with a sunburn and a margarita.

Instead, he wonders about routines, about sleeping in and staying out, flying to games and sitting in the VIP box with Andrew, letting him raid the dessert cart and pay zero attention to the score while Neil rants.

Essentially...retirement is simply Andrew standing next to him. No change, just an adjustment.

An adjustment, not an end.

He repeats his therapist's words in his head, as difficult as it can still be to not scoff at them, and finds he doesn't feel sadness. None of the complicated feelings he or Andrew may have anticipated are there, though that's not to say they'll never surface with time. But with everything that's happened, it's not the most daunting challenge he can think of.

Neil may even love it. He was never a fan of wandering, except when it was with Andrew.

So, Neil doesn't expect what comes next.

"Okay," he sighs, throwing off the shock as the realization settles in. They'll be retired. Together.

He smiles across the table, but doesn't cross the boundary in place to hold Andrew's hand, no matter how much he wants to. "Good," he breathes out, because he's never been able to express himself well. He curls his fist and stays put, despite the spring in his bones. Andrew isn't done yet, but there's something mischievous about knowing he will be soon. They can do whatever they want, go wherever they want, any time.

It is good; they can make it that way, even if they have to go through not so good things to get there.

But then Andrew doesn't move.

It's like an aborted thought, like Neil responded too soon or Andrew couldn't speak fast enough. Neil watches the syrup soak through and sop up Andrew's waffles, and wonders if it's like wading through the sticky stuff.

Andrew swallows thickly and takes in every part of Neil, from his curled fist up to his face. It's in that moment Neil realizes there's more to it, there's more that's twisting Andrew up.

And really, should he be surprised, when there's been more twisting him up too?

Neil never asked for things to be easy with Andrew, or with his life; in fact, he's glad they're not. He never cared about that; they're both stubborn and difficult. Neil is impatient and paranoid, and sometimes Andrew thinks too long, too hard, and he forgets to let Neil in. But he eventually opens the door back up, and Neil eventually settles and sits still.

Neil's lips tick upwards, slightly smug.

A man can only have so many issues.

Andrew glares across the table, and that's better than the blankness, about a thousand times better. Neil huffs a laugh, even in the safety of his own head, Andrew must have a sixth sense when it comes to his own words being thrown back at him. "There you are..."

And Neil doesn't mean to sound so fond. He's pretty sure they're about to fight. But through the frustration and silence there's always been a level of comfort, in knowing they could evoke each other's emotions so strongly, and they'd always meet again.

"Quit it," Andrew hisses through his teeth, and ah yes, fancy breakfast is definitely over.

"Then tell me," Neil bites back. Andrew continues to stew for another moment, twirling his fork in his hand. His smile falls, brow furrowing. While other people are accustomed to Andrew's silence, Neil is not. The fact Andrew brought this up and yet can't say more is cause for worry. Neil pushes, because in these situations, it's what he does best. He's downright annoying. "Andrew?"

Andrew closes his eyes and opens them again. Neil feels his sigh like a breeze through him, bracing. And then...

"Neil, I want to take it easy now," Andrew says, like it's so simple. Yes, Neil might say. That's the point of retiring. No more stress, no strife. And it may sound funny if it weren't laced with such a layer of vulnerability. Neil's expression falls further, eyes searching Andrew's for the end of the thread. Andrew keeps his voice low, but it's still so loud in the quiet of their apartment. "With you."

Neil shivers despite the tension in the room; it's promising, it's never enough. Time with Andrew...he'd gladly take more, he feels like an animal, hoarding time like food and supplies through a long winter. But Andrew's so fixated on him still.

Neil is familiar with this dance by now, knowing he'll say the wrong thing because he's slow, and Andrew will get upset before realizing he's been slow too.

So Neil isn't afraid to say the wrong thing anymore.

"Okay," he breathes, and watches for the moment Andrew's entire body tenses. The fork hits the table, and for some reason, Andrew's eyes flit to Neil's legs.

"That's all you have to say, is it," Andrew says, not really a question. Neil tucks his legs in, self-conscious, and Andrew raises his gaze again. "Just okay? You don't have any problems with that?"

It's the first thing that stings; Neil wouldn't blame Andrew, his own reputation precedes him. He has a habit of making things difficult for everyone, but that wouldn't be right, would it? Andrew has never seen him as a burden.

Neil things about his legs, about his injury, but it all comes up short. Being with Neil has been the opposite of 'taking it easy,' but that's not what Andrew is referring to at all. There's no resentment there.

Neil glares, because as much as he knows Andrew will lead him through the dark eventually, he hates being stuck in it. "What else is there to say? I'm...I'm glad, I—"

And then Andrew is pulling back from the initial mission entirely, withdrawing his forces, except it's less a battlefield and more of an assortment of crepes and scones. He stacks the plates precariously; his usual minimum is four, but he gets to six and doesn't stop. It's like he wants them to fall—no, he simply doesn't care if they do.

It's a distraction, something to do with his hands, and Neil huffs. And since he's a petty motherfucker, he keeps his plate out of Andrew's reach. "I can take it myself."

Andrew freezes.

A misconception Neil tended to point out about Andrew: he's not actually an angry person. It takes a lot to provoke a response, since petty rage and frustration is beneath him most of the time. But his genuine anger is nothing to be trifled with, and that's exactly what Neil is seeing now.

That one little statement is the thing which sets Andrew off, and Neil still can't connect the dots to save his life. It's not like he's trying to though, too fixated with his own anger.

He can take his own damn plate. He can clean up after himself and walk by himself and run and—

Andrew pulls back at Neil's glare, the fire in his own expression doused with water and extinguished for the time being. He stares at Neil's plate like it offends him, and lets the others go to cascade over the table in a disjointed jumble. Neither of them flinch at the noise of porcelain clanking together.

Neil's grip is harsh on his plate, for reasons he's not even sure of anymore.

Once a cornered animal, always a cornered animal. But Andrew's not the threat, he couldn't be. Instead it's something deep inside him, between them, hovering below the surface in wait.

Rather than be snapped up in its jaws in that very moment, when they're both unprepared, Andrew walks away.

Neil's response is instinctive. Having Andrew's back to him has always been a gift, a symbol of trust. Right now, it's the last thing he wants to see.

"Andrew," he calls, and doesn't mean to sound so desperate. Andrew can go the next room over, at most. Maybe they're both weak; Andrew's steps falter, the pull too strong. But Neil doesn't chase after him. He fixes his eyes on the back of Andrew's neck and sighs, knowing at this point there's nothing much to say. The space is probably necessary for them both, but it feels wrong to leave it like this. He reminds himself there's no need to press, because Andrew doesn't run from him. He'll crawl into bed at the end of the night and connect his hands around Neil's waist. They're fools like that. So, Neil puts his plate down softly, and reminds Andrew of what he already knows. "I can't understand if you don't tell me."

He can't make sense of his own feelings if he doesn't have Andrew's to fill in what he's missing. He's perhaps put himself in the dark too, all on accident.

You know I need it spelled out sometimes, Neil thinks with a smirk.

Andrew gives his own huff and turns halfway, not willing to let Neil see him quite yet. But his side profile is enough, and oh so nice any other day.

Neil grins, and hopes Andrew can feel it.

"I know that," Andrew states, and then he's walking away. "I'll figure it out."

It's the softest version of leave me alone Andrew could probably manage, and Neil's grin falls. When he stands, he feels his legs vibrate from the tension building inside him, of the blood boiling beneath his skin.

And well, maybe it's best if Andrew stayed away too.

Neil tosses the mountain of Andrew's pancakes into the garbage, and tries not to cringe at the absolute waste of food. Sir and King frolic to eat up the bits of food that fell from the plates after Andrew's stunt, but Neil can't pay them any mind as he stares at the flowery patterns of his own plate.

Pettily, he throws the bits of bacon away. See, nothing to it.

But it's not satisfying, not in the slightest.

His eyes follow Andrew's path to their study, hears the desktop boot up as Andrew types too aggressively, and the inklings of understanding begin to bleed in without him even noticing.

--

The thing that people tend to miss is that Neil can be just as difficult as Andrew on any given day.

A few hours later, when Andrew walks into their bedroom, boots laced up and keys in his hand, Neil doesn't budge. He fixes his eyes on the far wall, and realizes he'd been sitting in the near darkness the entire time from how he has to squint. He crosses his arms for good measure, like Andrew doesn't find it cute instead of intimidating.

He hears Andrew sigh, and he swears it's almost fond, and then the keys in his hand jingle. Neil perks up like a dog and follows the sound, until his eyes meet the monstrosity of keychains and paper star charms. They clash with Andrews everything, but the blond never bothered to get rid of the hideous add-ons.

"We're going on a drive," Andrew says, but doesn't turn to leave like he normally would, waiting for Neil to follow. He rarely does now, in case Neil needs help. But today he stays put and waits, hands stuffing themselves in the pockets of his old leather jacket. It's a bit tight on him now, and sometimes when Neil touches it, his hand comes back slightly black from the chipping fabric; but he loves that jacket.

Neil bites his lip and weighs the options, and that's when he sees it. Andrew has Neil's cane in his hand.

Oh, right. He left it at the table.

Neil glares. "Are we?"

It's probably unfair, but he thinks he can be a little unfair. He does love drives though...

When was the last time they'd taken a drive like this? To cope, to deal with issues they weren't ready to speak about?

Probably not since the first few years of their careers. There was simply less of a need, easier ways to get all the tension and energy out of their system.

Still.

He turns away again and huffs, and then he hears Andrew sigh again. And oh no, that's definitely fond. The wooden floors creak as Andrew walks over to him, slow and steady, to let Neil stop him. But then Andrew is there, in his bubble, and it's so warm and safe with Andrew standing above him like a shield.

Resigned, Neil unfolds his arms and looks up at him, head hitting the backboard softly.

Andrew blinks down at him, and there's the ghost of a smile Neil is powerless against. But then, Andrew never does these things half-assed, no matter what he may make people believe. "Go on a drive with me, yes or no?"

He must be a dramatic idiot like Andrew says he is; Neil's mouth falls right open, his gaze snapping to Andrew's eyes, shining with mirth. It's been ages since he's been asked that question. Any scathing retort or excuse burns up in his throat as he closes his mouth, and all he can do is nod, soaking up the nostalgia and fully knowing he's being played.

Realistically though, he knew it would end up like this. Andrew may not know how to broach the subject yet, but they're both antsy to get it out of the way.

Maybe a drive is what they need...

Andrew is forever a smug shit about things though, and the contentment flows from him as he says, "I need to hear it."

Neil laughs through his disbelief, and takes Andrew's hand when it's offered. He holds in his groan as he stretches, and Andrew's hand tightens around Neil's cane. But he doesn't offer it; probably for the best right then. Their moods are precarious things, set alight by the smallest things.

Yet, the word comes easy, and that's no surprise to either of them. "Yes."

--

Neil doesn't ask where they're going at nine o'clock at night; he never asked in the past, since it was usually one of two options. Either Andrew will drive them aimlessly up and down the highways until his head is cleared or they pull over, or Andrew will pick a random destination. A goal. A deadline.

He sees Andrew punch something into the GPS, so he guesses it's the latter. And then they're off into the dark, down alternate routes and missed exits, with Andrew weaving in and out of traffic until he ultimately rights himself again.

It's silent.

To say it's completely without tension would be a lie, but Neil is comfortable. He likes watching Andrew drive, seeing his hands curl over the steering wheel whenever he makes a particularly fast transition, or when his mind takes a turn through the conversation he's undoubtedly having in his head. Neil smiles as he turns away; Andrew is so good at building scenarios in his head, pulling from past expectations and experience, with a dose of pessimism he tries to disguise as neutrality.

He has to know it will all unravel and sway in unpredictability at some points, but it's a comfort all the same.

So Neil lets him have the alone time, and lets himself be whisked away into the dead of night. He sort of wants to come back down this way at some point; it's a weird route. They pass through heavily lit up bridges, down dark offroads when Andrew feels like detouring off an exit. Old motels mix with gas stations and bars. Each desolate, empty shell of buildings are set to the soundtrack of the revving engine. As it gets later, the cars around them begin to disappear, veering off to their own destinations.

It's overly familiar, but he feels safe from this vantage point. He's not running, he's sightseeing. The streetlights above ghost over the car's interior when they speed through suburbia and back onto the freeway, and the sounds of blaring horns end up overrun when it starts to rain.

He's like a fish in a tank, watching the water rush over them, and even some of the tension in Andrew's frame seems to be washed off. Neil looks at the clock, blinking in time with the windshield wipers since Andrew forgot to reset it last time their car was serviced. He reaches over carefully and presses on the dial of Andrew's watch, and it lights up with the time.

10:30.

As if sensing the impending question of where the hell they're going, Andrew turns off the next exit. Neil wonders if he just happens to know the limits to Neil's patience, and timed the arrival accordingly. Neil wishes Andrew would stop trying to be cool, since Neil already thinks he is.

Andrew fishes into his coat pocket for an envelope, and a few blocks later, he pulls into a nearly empty parking lot.

Neil doesn't need to look at the tickets to know where they are. He turns his head, and through the water, his face feels the heat of a blue glow.

There's a giant tank of kelp and colored rocks on the side of the building, stretching up bright and shining. It's an artificial blue beacon in the blackness, aside from the flickering light of the box office a few feet away. The rest of the building lacks windows, encased in concrete. The rain is battering the ground at this point, and it makes the sidewalk around the liminal space appear slick and clear. It's an island, seemingly untouched and unwanted.

Neil adores places like this, so dull and unloved. They're just weird, but more than that, they're uncrowded. He wouldn't be surprised if the other three cars here belonged to the employees.

Even through the pelting rain, he can read the shoddy sign with a fish carved into it. "Twenty-four hour aquarium," he repeats, and then he pulls the tickets out. Sure enough, there's two, designed about as poorly as the building.

"It's the smallest aquarium in the state," Andrew adds, as if parroting whatever he read up online about it. He leaves the engine running. "Mainly used for research from the local college, that's where the funding comes from."

"So it's shitty," Neil adds with a grin. He doesn't exactly trust things open 24/7 to be any good.

"The shittiest," Andrew says with the click of his tongue. Then he turns to Neil, the first time since they've been in the car, and seems to like what he sees. It's probably the most unworthy attraction in the state too, but that's what makes Neil so excited. "But there will be fish. I made sure of that."

He doesn't doubt it. Andrew covers all his bases.

Neil's grin grows, and he makes a move to hop out of the car without care for an umbrella or a jacket. "That's all I need to know, should we—"

And then Neil remembers why they're here in the first place. His hand pauses on the door handle as he turns to Andrew, and the blond seems resigned to this too. Ah. Neil relaxes back in his seat, and tries to conjure up his earlier pettiness and frustration. It's been worn away slightly, and maybe that was the point. Of the drive, of the trip...

This isn't an attempt to distract Neil, or avoid their conversation from earlier, but...

When all is said and done, he wants Neil to be somewhere he enjoys. He wants to be there with him. And ultimately, spending time with Andrew this way tends to make them both question why they're being so stupid in the first place.

Neil stares down at the tickets. "Well? Are you ready?"

And Andrew knows Neil isn't referring to the aquarium. He leans forward and cuts the engine off finally, and then it's just them and the rain outside. Andrew chews on his words for a moment, then shrugs. "Almost," he says, and taps his head. Still thinking. At a certain point, Andrew has to know there's only so much of that he can do. And he must, because he raises his hand vaguely, gesturing to the collection of feelings he can't put in order or tie together neatly. He settles on: "I didn't want to be selfish."

Neil squints, flicks the door handle so the click carries through the car. And if that's really the root of the issue, or all of the issues, then Neil is still lost, because—

"I like when you are," he whispers, and Andrew's jaw clenches. It's hard for him to admit things like this, Neil understands. Both of them grew up on foundations of selfishness, of trying to look out for themselves only, and yet...

Their lives are full of hypocritical actions. Neil's not sure what Andrew's being so selfish about, if it's just his retirement or something else, but he doesn't mind or care. Andrew deserves to be selfish sometimes, to get what he wants and ask Neil to support it.

"But I'll be honest, I have no idea how you've been selfish," Neil finishes his own thought, and it's wishful thinking to try and flesh this out in the car before heading inside. Alas, the poor fishies will have to bear witness.

"You'll see," Andrew concludes, and then he's throwing his door open and stepping out into the storm. The rain is so much louder outside of the car, but it's the opposite of grim. Briefly, Neil imagines running through it, but shakes off the silliness.

Andrew jogs around and opens the backdoor to grab Neil's cane and probably an umbrella. Neil tries not to grimace. Shockingly though, when Andrew opens Neil's door and crouches down to his eye level, he doesn't offer it to him. Instead, he taps Neil's legs with a near smirk, and Neil fixates on the droplets of water that drip down the side of Andrew's face. He thinks it's impossible for Andrew to look bad to him, even waterlogged, and he's glad. Andrew's smirk broadens at Neil's expression, and then he's tugging him by the hand. "Ready to run again, rabbit?"

It can't be blamed on mind reading, but the truth is all the more overwhelming and threatens to drown him more than the rain.

Andrew knows him too well.

Neil's grin pulls at his scars painfully as he jumps up, and for a brief moment, his legs don't wobble or strain. He feels fast, he feels young, and that's in no small part thanks to Andrew.

They take off with the sound of the car door slamming.

They still get soaked.

--

"You remind me of a jellyfish," Neil says as he stares into the tiny tank. There's only a few baby jellies inside, a few spots of bright purple and pink blinking in the abyss. For some reason, they've always been Neil's favorite to look at. They look so soft and squishy, yet they'd be quite painful to mishandle.

"Enlighten me," Andrew replies, and Neil grins smugly at the exasperation in his tone.

Isn't it obvious?

"Pretty, but dangerous."

"You're the worst."

"You're the one who brought me here, you knew this would happen." Neil continues on the small hallway that leads out to the giant viewing tank. The aquarium is tiny; there are about six sections, comprised of small to medium tanks of fish, crabs, seahorses, and jellyfish. It all leads into the center room, where the big tank is. That, at the very least, is impressive. Too bad people probably don't take the time to drop in and see it.

"I'm starting to regret this," Andrew says, peering into one of the shrimp tanks. He's looking, but it's as if he's not really seeing. Neil's expression falls at the far away tone, at the way Andrew's cogs turn and stall whenever it seems like he's about to say something.

Neil walks over to him after he finishes collecting his next souvenir coin at the penny machine. There's six in total around the aquarium, and he stuffs the last one in Andrew's jacket with the rest. It has a manta on it, but the aquarium doesn't have any.

It's oddly fitting anyways.

His hand finds Andrew's in his pocket and squeezes, knowing their hands will both come away smelling like coppery metal. But he wants to be touching Andrew when he instigates, when he provokes. Neil isn't great with this, but his touch has never failed him. As someone who doesn't accept it from everyone, Andrew can glean so much from a simple brush of Neil's fingertips.

Andrew tilts his head up at him, and Neil smiles. "When you retire after this season, we can go to a bigger one, with lots of jellyfish and touch pools. I heard there's a cool one in Lisbon."

He drops that and walks away, because according to Andrew, he's a bit devastating like that. This time, it's him who expects Andrew to follow. They're at the end of the line, after all. Neil has taken an ungodly amount of pictures of crabs, shrimp fights, and pregnant seahorses, and he refuses to go to the gift shop while there's still pent up thoughts between them.

He can't possibly get Andrew's genuine opinion on the mood rings or stuffed animals if they're both upset.

Neil shakes his head at himself as he walks into the tank room. No, that's not it at all. He wants Andrew to feel better, no matter how messy it has to be.

Neil looks up at the tank, at the eels and tiger sharks flitting through the plants. It takes up almost the entire wall, and as a result, there's carpeted bleachers behind him. Empty, dark. The water is the brightest thing in the room, with artificial lights streaming through the surface from above to replicate sunlight. One day, Neil thinks it might be fun to snorkel, but he's a terrible swimmer so Andrew will definitely have to come with, and getting him in the water will be no small feat.

He can try that post-retirement too.

Neil stands in front of the tank and shifts his weight around. They've only been walking for about an hour, but his legs are starting to feel sore, and he glares in the face of a giant bass that comes up to him.

I'm sorry, it's not your fault.

He presses his hand to the glass and tries to pretend he's not leaning against it. He's refused his cane three times already, he's not about to stop now.

Slowly, Andrew takes his place by his side, cane in hand. He doesn't offer any help, but Neil can tell he wants to. Andrew is usually so still, so steady, yet in these moments he fidgets with the handle of the cane, twirling it in his palm.

They stand there comfortably for a while and watch the fish, until Andrew decides he's done waiting. "You don't care," he voices, and Neil flinches at the sound. It's so loud in the big room, offset by the gentle glug of the tank, but Neil doesn't need to wonder what Andrew means.

It can only be one thing, and already Neil's assumptions are proven partially true.

It's not an accusation, it's a request for the truth, completely bared.

"I don't," Neil confirms, and the least he could do is get that out of the way. After much deliberation, he doesn't doubt his own answer. He was devastated by his own retirement at the beginning, and he can get a little wistful about it, but..."Your game doesn't have anything to do with mine."

Andrew actually laughs at that. Neil likes to joke he has a supervillain laugh, it's low and deep, not quite carefree enough to be considered one. Neil likes it. "Oh Neil, it always had something to do with you."

"Don't you ‘always’ me," Neil shoots back. They were teammates, partners, he gets it. But that's not what he means. "I'm not going to resent you if you stop playing Exy just because I can't."

"I never said you would," Andrew raises his voice, some of the anger bleeding back. It's as if the insinuation that he would ever think that about Neil is more insulting that the actual issue. Andrew shakes his head. "You're not the type."

"Then what is it?" Neil pleads, even though he knows Andrew hates it. It's one thing for something to be eating at Andrew, he would typically let Neil shoulder some of it. But Neil has nothing to grab onto, nothing to lift off his shoulders. He hates to ask, rather than give and take in their usual routine. Andrew has never been the straightforward type; Neil knows better than to ask direct questions that give Andrew nothing to navigate with.

It's unhelpful for both of them. But he can't help it when his mind is egging him on.

Tell me.

And perhaps he's only at the point of asking because he knows Andrew actually does want to tell him.

Andrew reaches for cigarettes he no longer smokes and glares at an eel when he realizes he's not twenty anymore.

"You look like an idiot at my games," he adds quietly, a moment later. "You're so happy to see me there."

Neil ignores the mocking tone Andrew puts behind it, it's a mechanism that no longer works. Neil smiles; he can't deny that and he never tried to. It was obvious, but he doesn't feel like pointing that out.

Andrew's moods can fluctuate at random. For someone who has never babied Neil in the past and who vowed he never would, he's sure gotten softer with age. Neil's feelings don't need protection, they're both aware. They've been harsh with each other plenty of times because they knew it would change nothing.

And yet when it comes to this, Andrew's main drive is to avoid Neil's sadness.

You say I'm the mystery.

The impossible calculation, but Neil should know better at this point than to try to set Andrew's motivations to a formula. He's unpredictable, and free. He does not make sense and that's what Neil adores about him, because it all seems to fall into place at the end.

Andrew probably hates caring about this, Neil realizes. He should just be able to quit and let Neil figure out his own shit; but that hasn't been how they've worked in a long while.

Neil has to intervene with Andrew, and Andrew has to do the same with him.

"Of course I'm happy there, but that has more to do with you than the game at this point."

Andrew could churn butter for a living and Neil would probably think it was cool.

"Sap."

"Worry wart," Neil fires back, and enjoys the crease in Andrew's forehead that he gets for it. "I'm still failing to see how any of this is selfish? It seems like the exact opposite. You're disappointing me."

Andrew rolls his eyes. "What a shame," he says, and Neil half expects smoke to be blown in his face, or a hand to fly over his mouth to keep the truth at bay.

Neither of those things happen, and Neil gives his own ground. He leans into Andrew completely, and there's a sigh of relief that follows from having the support off his poor muscles. He should've worn better shoes.

Andrew doesn't budge, even as Neil knocks into him, and they watch the silhouette of a shark glide above their heads. Neil searches again for any lingering anger, and wonders when he got so bad at holding grudges.

"Are we still in a fight?" He asks in disbelief, and it's somewhat directed at himself. The words bounce off the tank and back in his face, offering no insight. Do they even fight anymore? Perhaps he's been spoiled, and he doesn't know what it means to fight. Surely, it can't feel this warm.

"Yes," Andrew answers, but he sounds tired and just as lazy about it.

"Why doesn't it feel like it then?"

"Because we both know how it ends."

Neil nods. "Ah, so our fights are predictable."

Andrew turns his head to the side and doesn't mask his expression, as if to say 'you didn't know that already?'

Neil rocks on his heels and winces when he finds that it's a bad idea. Andrew sets him right, and offers him the cane. Neil refuses, as he always does, and Andrew looks up at the sky for guidance.

"And how do all our fights end?" Neil asks. He's a sap, as Andrew said. He has to live up to it in these trying times.

Andrew lowers his head and regards Neil with an expression so complex, Neil wishes he could snap a picture. It's so frustrating, since it would be an absolute waste. All anyone would see is the exhaustion, the annoyance. They can't see the intricacies shining through, how thoroughly done Andrew is, but how he can't wait to indulge Neil anyways.

And then he answers, and the snapshot is as perfectly imperfect as Neil could wish for.

"With you sleeping next to me."

That's right.

Neil's grin, though probably obnoxious, is subsequently ignored. Hmph.

Andrew turns to the tank, resolve taking over, and he nods once. "Fine."

Neil blinks. "Hm? Fine?"

"While we're at it then, let's talk about this," Andrew says, holding up the cane in Neil's line of sight. Where he can't avoid it.

Neil's grin falls into confusion and reluctance. Oh no, that's not what he wanted at all.

He moves to turn, just to be a shit, and Andrew stops him with a simple push towards the tank. Ugh.

"You say it's fine if we take it easy, but you won't even use this thing," Andrew accuses, and he taps the cane once against Neil's chest. It's barely a touch, but it stings. Neil's glare starts off strong, but it wanes and dies when he looks up to see the serious expression on Andrew's face. And all at once, it seems like the cane was a bigger deal than even he thought it was.

Andrew brings it back to his chest, twisting it in his hands as the words struggle to come out. All Neil can do is listen. "You'd rather stay five steps behind, lungs heaving. You don't ask me for help, you just choose to ignore it all rather than just lean on the fucking thing."

Again, the cane strikes the floor, and it doesn't bend or snap. It's sturdy. Of course it would be, Andrew bought it for him. It's the best.

He feels his resolve crumble, and what's left in his wake is the last drops of his defensiveness. "I don't—"

"You do need it," Andrew snaps, a match striking. They both stop. Neil doesn't cry much, but the four words rock him back and forth, trapping shouts and denials in his throat. Andrew stares at him wide-eyed before he steps back; he gathers himself when he's taken it too far. Or, when he thinks he has. He's always giving it all away in the end, the desperation, the rage. Andrew sweeps a hand over his face, and that look is so novel, so unlike him, Neil gives in.

He stops trying to delude them both. He can't stand that look, the knowledge that Andrew is so concerned he can't handle it. And it's nothing compared to facing the mob, or Baltimore, or Ichirou, but that just goes to show how gone they both are.

Even with the most mundane, trivial things...

They want to spare each other the stress.

When he swallows, it's rough, like sandpaper. It's not about just him, and it's never been. Not since his twenties.

"Yeah..." Neil whispers, and Andrew freezes, staring a hole through him. Neil sticks his chin out, stubborn, so Andrew knows he's not just saying this because he's been backed into a corner, or to calm Andrew down. He wouldn't dream of that deception. "Yes, I know I do."

He's known for a while.

Even now as he wants to reach out for the cane, something stops him, and he babbles away, trying to make it all come together. "I sometimes don't want to admit it," he whispers. He thinks of sprinting across the court or jumping hurdles, he thinks of sparring with Matt and walking the track with Andrew. It's all so smooth and clear in his head, in his muscle memory. It's like he could take off like a shot at any moment. But..."I can't push myself anymore, like I used to. Like I want to. I know I don't have to but—"

He stops, breathes, tries to remember where that was going. It's impossible to put all those contradictions and wrap them up together.

I know I'm not weak but—

I know I'm still healing but—

It's not the end of the world but—

"And I am getting better," Neil goes on, leaping bounds in his head he can no longer take on physically. He doesn't mean he's getting better healing wise, he's getting better accepting it. With therapy, with Andrew, his mindset is clearing and widening day by day. But he still has hiccups. This fucking cane is one of them. Andrew knew that, he tolerated it as long as he could, because he's always let Neil have the privilege of sorting it out on his own. But at a certain point, he couldn't stand by, it hurt him too. Neil bites his lip until it's frayed and red. "I just—"

There's a solid grip on the back of his neck within seconds, and Andrew's tone is only facts, only truth. "You are," he affirms, shaking Neil a little. "You are..."

Neil lets himself be guided forward, and doesn't look when the cane drops to the floor. Andrew doesn't hug him, just surrounds him so Neil can feel tethered somehow. It may be for his own sake as well. Andrew chews on the inside of his cheek, and Neil smiles ruefully at the floor. "But?"

"I worry," Andrew finally admits. He tightens his hold and glares out at some faraway place, then turns to glare at his blurry reflection in the tank. It's rare to hear it from his mouth, but not a rare emotion. Neil knows Andrew worries, it's just a matter of using his worries to get his way. That is what pisses Andrew off more than anything, and it's why he doesn't. Except in these rare moments. Now, Neil understands.

The tension and self-hatred disperses in Andrew's frame, and then he's sagging against Neil, no longer gripping his neck. Instead, he plays with the curls at his nape. "I have lots of worries."

Yeah...

Neil laughs weakly. "Ah, so the selfish request comes out?"

Gently, Andrew grabs Neil by the shoulders and pushes him away, holding him at arm's length, and follows through. He picks up the cane and holds it to Neil's chest, the first time he's touched it in weeks. Surprisingly, he doesn't burst into flames, and with Andrew's request, he's one step closer to peace. "Ease them for me."

There's no way to refuse that. He couldn't if he wanted to.

In the next moment, Neil's hand curls around the cane. It's light, strong. It's not so bad, he tries to reason. He can get used to it with time.

Time...something he has an abundance of now.

As if to hammer this home, Andrew says, "I'm going to retire, and we’re going to take it easy together."

'So stop being stubborn, and just use the damn cane.'

"Okay," he agrees quietly, and hopes Andrew hears the underlying promise. It will not be overnight. There will be frustration, reluctance. The weight in Neil's hand isn't one he's used to, it's not warm or comforting. But with time, it'll be another part of his routine, and regardless of how he feels, he'll try to reach for it.

Andrew nods as he watches Neil grab the handle, putting some of his weight on the cane finally. It's a relief actually, with how achey he feels, but Neil doesn't admit it.

He's sure Andrew can tell anyways.

With a huffy sigh, Andrew wraps his hand around Neil's free one, and guides him to the first bleacher to sit. And when Andrew is satisfied with their view, with the feeling of Neil in his arms, Neil tackles the last of it.

"I never said I wanted you to retire," Neil whispers, and claps when food rains down onto the fish. Someone from the night shift he assumes, and he hopes they haven't been listening. He can't imagine it's been entertaining. The fishes swarm around the food and fill up the tank from all sides, until all Neil can see are gills and scales. This is plenty satisfying, but he still wants to go to a bigger aquarium. Soon, they will.

Andrew hums. "I know."

"I never gave you any indication that I would be sad about it."

"That's true."

Neil raises his head, rolling his cheek into Andrew's shoulder. "Then why did it make you mad?"

Andrew throws him another disbelieving look, but his voice has been loosened, his body at ease. "I know you miss it," he says, and that's all there ever was to it.

Neil smiles, overcome with the war of emotions, and digs his face back into Andrew's chest.

"Think of it this way, now I won't ever have to miss you," Neil says into Andrew's skin, and leans into the vibration in Andrew's chest.

One good thing, replaced with another.

Andrew shakes his head, and spends the next hour with Neil right there, making their list of where they want to go and what they want to see for years to come.

When Neil starts babbling about airfare rates, Andrew ends their fantasy short.

"Neil, there's still the end of the season you know."

"Which you'll win!"

"Just watch the fish, junkie..."

He goes home with a plush shark the size of Andrew's head, and a seashell necklace for Andrew, which he demands be placed in a gift box.

On the note, he writes: for Lisbon.