Chapter Text
Neil pricks himself on the old Palmetto pin as he fixes it to his collar, jabbing the same spot on his thumb he hit just a week before.
He hardly winces at the feeling these days, and for a long time, Matt joked about how he really couldn't go a day without attracting some form of violence. Neil smiles at the thought, because it's far from the truth. He stands by the claim he never asked for fights, simply had no problem finishing them.
"You mean letting me finish them," Andrew would quip, and they'd go back and forth all over again in a never-ending argument. It's so never-ending, Neil goes through the motions of it even now, however many decades later.
This pin tends to start it, since it's the only remotely dangerous thing he owns now. The orange is still bright and obnoxious, with criss crossing Exy racquets in a bright white. He's memorized the raised edges, tilted from old age. The once silver backing has rust spots, but no one ever sees that part. It has its reputation intact, and Neil smiles sardonically.
It's not the only thing that's been worn down, but he likes to think he doesn't look as bad as he could too. Laughing at his own joke, he taps the pin lightly. It's apparently vintage now, according to Allison, since the new Palmetto merch has drifted into neon territory.
Neil is glad he kept his own. It's especially important today, he thinks, that he shows as much fondness for the past as possible. Though, it's not for his sake. His room is nothing but littered with the tokens of the past.
Sighing, he stares fondly out across the living room, the walls haphazardly decorated with old, signed jerseys his friends used to wear. He has one from each of their old teams, but picked his favorites to go up on the wall. The rest sit in storage, ready to be auctioned off whenever he decides living is too much of a chore. Above the mantle, Andrew's racquet from his last team hangs in a shadow box. Then below it, framed pictures which Neil tries to rotate as best he can, some of them shitty ones converted from his phone camera. Mostly, they're of his Foxes at various points in their lives. The only two photos which stay the same are the one he took with Andrew and Kevin at the Olympics, and the snapshot of him and Andrew at the airport in his first year at Palmetto.
If he had to catalog the room, that would barely scratch the surface. He's pages away from mentioning Nicky's terribly made mugs, Betsy's first editions, and cookie tins filled with postcards Katelyn and Aaron sent twenty years ago.
Most of the time, the untidy collection of junk surrounding him is a comfort. It makes the small apartment feel like home, or as close as he can get when he's by himself. He swears some of the items still carry the unique scents of grass stains and floor polish, or Allison's perfume and the glitter glue from Dan and Matt's kids.
When that fails him, the candle he has in every room does the trick to fill in the blanks. Andrew used the same scent for over half their life together: breakfast pancakes. It's sickly sweet and stains the furniture, and Neil loves nothing more than to bury his face in the cushions after a day of having them lit.
These are the things that ground him, that keep him in place, but today he feels fidgety for the first time in years. He shouldn't be, he thinks, laughing to himself. He planned this after all, it's just...
Well, he's never been the best at talking to people.
There's a knock at his door, and the cuckoo clock on the wall (shockingly, that one is his fault) tells him it's right on schedule. Neil sighs, slipping his feet into the white slippers beneath him. "Come in, Sydney."
The nurse on his floor opens the door to his apartment with a smile, too fresh faced and early for this time of day. She’s young, and she's always been a bit cheery for his taste, but she reminds him of Katelyn and he allows it. In the last few years, when Andrew's migraines prevented him from reading, she'd bring him audiobook gift cards.
She smiles bright, and he gives her that look for her to cut it out. At this point, she's less put off by it and more amused. He only tells her to save the smiles because if she doesn't she'll have wrinkles like him years from now. He hates how much he sounds like Allison.
Neil hardly looks in the mirror anymore, but this morning he put in some effort. He looks as perpetually tired as he always looked back in the day, except now his eye bags are accompanied by wrinkles that form their own topographical map on his face.
At least he didn't lose all his hair.
The only thing is his blue eyes are as piercing as ever, so coupled with the grandpa look, he's quite intimidating. Not that he needs to be, but it's nice to feel a little capable when he can barely walk by himself anymore.
"Morning, Mr. Josten," Sydney greets, untucking the wheelchair from behind the door and pushing it over to him. He makes sure to grab Andrew's favorite crochet blanket. He hates messing with it, but he thinks the smell of nicotine it carries will help him today. Refresh his memory.
Neil grumbles, but lets her help him into the chair. He has on his good lounge pants, without holes, and his old Palmetto sweater. "I told you years ago I hate being called that."
"Because it makes you feel old," she jabs, teasing lightly. Even still, she's gentle when she places the blanket over his lap and hands him his glasses. "I have to keep you in line somehow."
"Ha-ha."
As she wheels him out of his room, he starts fidgeting again. He's used to exploring the luxury nursing home on his own time, not because he has somewhere to be. He hasn't had somewhere to be since...well, he hates thinking about that, lest he run into a memory that hurts more than helps.
Today isn't the day for that.
Some other, more able-bodied residents pass by him on foot, waving amicably and knowing better than to expect a wave back. Shockingly, he's well liked here, probably because he doesn't have rowdy grandkids who break the peace. Plus, he's pretty sure some of them are old fans.
Sydney leans down as they pass through the common area and into one of the meeting rooms, the spotless linoleum floor throwing him off as usual. He never would've picked a place so expensive and fancy for himself, but Andrew was always someone with classy tastes. "Ready for today?"
At the reminder, Neil wrings his fingers together. Not advised by his doctor, but fuck that guy. "As ready as I'll ever be," he says, glaring at the glass doors ahead. Sydney laughs, placing him at the end of a large table. The meeting room creeps him out, since it's mostly used for family meetings or will planning appointments. Sound proof, silent.
"Oh hush, you're a famous athlete, I'm sure you've faced worse," she chides, pouring him a glass of water without any ice. Because he's a fiend. Neil rolls his eyes; she has no idea. He's threatened countless reporters before for stepping even a toe out of line, but some recent college grads from an indie publication are making him sweat more than an Exy game. Sydney makes a show of whispering behind her hand. "Besides, I heard from Gabe at the front desk they look terrified, so go easy on them, yes? Can't have another cafeteria incident."
Ugh, not that again.
"You have no witnesses," he waves off, leaning back in his seat while Sydney sets the break in place. Only then is he hit with a wave of calm, fondness even. His quivering hands curl as best they can in the blanket, the ghost of a grip, and he smiles out across the room. Ah, he can't be doing this already, but it's hard to help. He itches for the smell of a cigarette, a press on the back of his neck. Closing his eyes, he tries his best to feel it. "Besides, once they know why they're really here they won't be nearly so stressed. Hell, they might even be disappointed."
He tries not to grimace at that, but for the time he's giving them and the paperwork he made them sign, they're going to sit and listen to his old man ravings all day or so help him--
He feels a hand brush against his, and when he looks Sydney is there. She squeezes his fingers in hers, smile fond and weighed down with a sadness so foreign, he nearly regrets telling her to cut it out. But no, he understands. He's the one who understands the most. She grazes the fabric of the blanket as she pulls away, breathing in the same smoke he can for just a moment. "No, I don't think that's possible."
She doesn't give Neil time to doubt himself, not that he could. He can never doubt anything when it comes to Andrew, no matter how much the blond secretly doubted about himself. Neil always teased him for that, and his living oxymoron ways.
Neil's biggest goal of the day is to piss off Andrew's ghost as much as humanly possible, and his grin is nearly splitting at the thought. Fine, mission active.
"Good luck!" Sydney calls as she leaves the meeting room, and he watches her gesture to his guests once they arrive through the glass doors.
Oh shit, they really do look terrified.
The two interviewers see him through the door and Neil can only assume they shit a brick. They're young, can't be more than a few years out of university, dressed way too professionally for someone as uncaring as Neil. They could've shown up in clown costumes for all he cared, at least he would've gotten a good laugh.
The young man fumbles with the door and his companion rushes forward a little too fast before correcting herself. Jeez.
Neil does his best to hide his laugh, not that he's ever been polite. It's more...
Their terror is Neil's fault. He started declining interviews soon after he retired, letting his name and lifestyle fade into mystery and speculation with the public. Kevin had not been happy about it, since to this day he and Thea are in the public eye, commentating on Exy games, doing talk shows, helping curate museums, blah, blah, blah...
Neil didn't have time for that.
He never thought he'd be okay with slipping back into unknown status after so many years of being seen, being cheered for, but when the time came it was an easy choice. Andrew made it so. Neil had his time to be free, to do whatever he wanted and play the sport he loved. But ultimately, when he no longer could, fucking off to do whatever he wanted with Andrew sounded way better than dealing with reporters and overzealous fans.
Just because he became an unknown though, doesn't mean he faded into obscurity. According to Allison, his life has been quite a hot button issue in the community for over a decade. People want to know where he's been, what he did during those years, how he looks back on the past, everything. It's been obnoxious.
Popular sports magazines and large publications have practically been clawing for a piece of him for years, and he's never given in no matter how many fruit bouquets they sent or how many checks they tried to write him. Though, one almost got him purely because they kept sending gourmet chocolates, and if Andrew was a glutton before, old age only made it worse.
So, Neil Josten is back to being a subject of interest for some reason, someone people want to know everything about. For him to randomly call up a dying indie magazine and offer them full rights to an interview under his specific terms surely threw the sports world into a fucking whirl.
Whatever.
He's going to share what he wants to share. Nothing more, nothing less.
"Mr. Jo--" The first reporter clears his throat, passing his notepad and phone over to his other hand before outstretching one to Neil. "Mr. Josten. It's such an honor to meet you, um, wow. I'm Blake, and this is Rayah. We're so grateful for being granted the opportunity to interview you. You're a legend!"
Neil stares at the outstretched hand like he doesn't know what to do with it, and as much as he does know what's expected of him, part of his hesitation is equal parts his disinterest and the fact he doesn't talk to anyone but his remaining family these days. Well, and Sydney.
Blake swallows and drops his hand, surely admonishing himself for his own stupidity.
Rayah saves him. "Um, we really are appreciative, sir," she says, laying out some notepads and setting up her recorder. Old school, Neil appreciates it. It's better than cameras and microphones. "We're still in shock honestly. We were theorizing on why you picked us the entire drive up here!"
"Neil is fine, and don't bother with small talk I know it's not why you're here," he says then, smiling at her words. They both flinch, taken aback. He's not sure why they'd be expecting a Kevin Day type. He has a record for being too blunt and argumentative for his own good. He's right though; they're here for answers, not discussions on how he's doing or what he does for fun in his not so humble nursing home. In much the same vein, he promised honesty, so he'll give it from the start. "I picked you precisely because you're unknown and failing."
They freeze, but they're clearly not Foxes. If they were, they'd immediately get indignant and glare, hold themselves back from punching a helpless old man. Oh, those were the good ol' days.
When Rayah fumbles for a response, a logic, Neil simply shrugs. "I like the underdogs."
He doesn't intend it to be, but it's a tension breaker. The stiffness in the reporters' shoulders deflate with a laugh, and they finally get back to organizing themselves without looking like they want to run for the hills and beg ESPN to take over.
"As your history suggests," Blake jokes, and Neil rewards him with a grin, tapping his Foxes pin.
He doesn't mention the fact Andrew would've never spoken to him had he gone to some trashy magazine, and that Andrew was always a bit of a rebel himself, though he hated to admit to any kind of urge that didn't involve Neil, sweets, or fancy cars.
Neil takes the free moment to wrap his blanket around his shoulders, letting the ingrained smell of ash permeate around him. Much better, he can think so much clearer like this.
As they finish setting up and take their seats across from him, Blake taps his pencil against the rim of his notepad. It looks like he almost wants to launch back into small talk, but thinks better of it when he remembers Neil's words. Considerate, a good listener. Just what Neil needs today.
Blake clears his throat, cutting through the bullshit. "Now, we know you have specific terms for how you want to lead this interview, which we're completely fine with. Wherever you want to start, we'll follow."
And with that, they sit back, unsure but ready to catch whatever morsel of information might fall from Neil's lips. Again, he finds himself fighting a smirk.
Of course, he led these people astray a bit, but he doesn't see the problem with having a little fun before revealing his true intentions.
He nods, pushing down the giddy feeling that always comes with talking about Andrew. Not yet, but soon.
"Hm, I assume you prepared some questions just in case," Neil asks, taking a sip of his water.
Rayah blinks, exchanging a look with Blake. She rifles through her notepad to a page in the middle, scribbled and stained with ink. There are so many questions on it, some of them curve over the others in a painful word twister. "Uh yes but, we didn't think you'd want to answer them," she guesses.
She's correct.
Neil loathes interview questions, because they're predictable. But in this case, he'll let the first one lead him down the road.
Neil relents, leaning back in his wheelchair. "Well you're mostly right, but why don't you ask me your first one?" He offers, and they look positively ecstatic. "That'll get me started."
And once he starts, he doubts he'll be able to stop.
"Sure." Blake clears his throat, making sure his recorder is functioning properly. When he's satisfied, he leans back, mirroring Neil's posture, though the rigidity is still there. If he doesn't lighten up, he's going to have back pains for days. "Now, there have been a lot of milestones in your career as a pro athlete. No one would dream of disputing your skill in the sport, or how you earned any of your countless awards--"
"Flattery," Neil warns, raising a single finger. That's not what he's here for either. In fact, as much as this is his interview, it's not about him at all.
"Right," Blake says with a huff of a laugh. "But surely one of your brightest moments was your historic win at the Olympics. It was talked about for months within the community. Of course, any true Exy fan knows the details of the game, it was only covered by every major publication. So, I guess our question is, what do you most remember about that moment? Was it as monumental for you as it was for Exy fans?"
Ah, a predictable question, but also not a bad place to begin. Neil doesn't fight the edge of the smirk that appears, though he does raise his thumb to swipe at it. It's been a while since he's felt so mischievous, it's so difficult to be, well, difficult when you're being wheeled around all day.
It was a monumental moment for him, though maybe not for the reasons everyone else would think.
"You certainly did your research," he comments, humming as he sits back in thought. He already knows his answer, but he's weak, and the feelings the memory evokes barely need to push him to send him careening off balance. Swept up. "Not sure what I was expecting from people so young, but my apologies for making assumptions."
He's glad they didn't ask the question in the stereotypical format, fishing for ways to brag and make it all about him. When he thinks of that time, as proud as he was, it's not his own praise that comes to mind.
With that in mind, Neil sighs.
"I don't think it was an exaggeration to say that was one of the best days of my life," he admits, and it's the truth. He's not here to lie. Come to think of it, he hasn't lied once since Andrew ran on ahead of him. Smiling, Neil lets the words flow.
"It was important to me, but not all because of the Olympics themselves..."
--
Neil rarely has time to pay attention in Exy games, as horrible and inefficient as that sounds.
His feet move on their own accord like a well-oiled machine, cogs and steam rushing through him to propel him across the court at record speeds. And they are record speeds.
That's why he's here isn't it? To run, to score.
It had been overwhelming when he first arrived, the sheer size of the Exy court at the Olympics. It's surrounded by flags from all over the world, bright neon signs and sponsorships. The lights at the entrance had been so vibrant, he made the mistake of looking up at them.
Blinding.
All aspects about it are, because as much as Neil knows this is his life, it can't possibly be reality.
The crowd makes the one at the Ravens' stadium seem minuscule, out of its league with seats and aisles that almost climb up to the heavens. The crowd roars and Neil feels every cheer and stomp echo against his bones.
He never thought he'd be here, but despite the gravity of it, he no longer has the time nor want to dwell on it. All that matters is his team, and getting them the gold.
Being with Andrew afterwards...getting to see Wymack smile proudly at Kevin.
Letting Kevin be proud of himself.
And Neil is an Olympic-qualified player, so with all that in mind, he delivers the second best game of his life. Even in the final seconds of the second half, even when he's been body checked so many times the nuts and bolts he imagines inside him must surely be worn and off-kilter, he doesn't stop moving. Everything is instinct, from the force of his steps to the last minute shifts he needs to intercept the ball.
It's not Kevin's perfect strategy, it's not a map or an out of body experience where he can see where every player on the court is.
He has no idea what's going on outside of what's in front of him, no awareness of anything but the immediate threats and a certain beacon, standing in the goal.
And that's the hardest part of it all, not being able to look over at Andrew for even a moment after he scores, because the game is fast and ruthless, and he has twice the energy of anyone on this court.
It's a stupid way to play, if he's really supposed to be Kevin's double. But they all long since established he is far from it. He has his own passion, his own drive, and Kevin trusts Neil with his life on the court.
Probably through anything.
So when he sees the perfect opportunity for a final interception, a chance to get them the last winning goal of the game, he's surprised that it's the one moment where it all comes to a stop. He's never had the experience before; normally his body snaps into action. He's not used to comprehending things until they're said and done.
He thinks his body is still following through though, turning in just the right way, making sure he's lined up.
But Neil is aware of so much more, his eyes train like a predator's on the goal, and he understands. He has a choice.
Choices are a weird luxury now, but he's gotten so used to having the freedom of them, he's forgotten the sheer magnitude they can carry.
His eyes snap to the goal, and then to Kevin. Kevin, who is so much closer, and already looking right at Neil.
And Neil never describes himself as fond towards most people, but he can say it proudly in that moment. This is the Kevin Day he likes to see.
Green eyes stare back, blown wide with a fire that can't be matched by anyone, probably not even his own mother, maybe not even Neil. A true, unadulterated love for this violent, freeing sport. Kevin catches Neil's eyes through his face guard, forehead drenched in sweat but his entire being rings with energy, ready and unwilling to quit until the buzzer sounds.
A Fox, at heart. Neil knows Andrew can see from where he's standing in goal, and Neil knows he's just as satisfied, deep down. It might give him some peace of mind too, to know Kevin kept his spine.
Neil puts all of those emotions into his last movement of the game.
He inclines his head just so, and that's it.
Kevin moves.
As Neil's racquet intercepts the ball from the other team's striker, he can't help but be a bit smug as he takes a powerful step forward. He can hear the painful slide of his shoes against the court floor, the heat of being too close, too exposed.
His legs will surely be shot after this, but no matter.
Kevin Day was always meant to be the greatest player in the history of Exy, the reigning queen, despite the arrogance they'll surely have to hear non-stop about. Fine. It's only fair that Neil help him achieve that goal here, at the biggest stadium in the world.
(By no means the best one, but still).
The clock gets down to five seconds, the beats resounding off the walls of his skull. Neil swings his racquet with such force the strings whistle, and the ball moves in a straight line directly into Kevin's. The other striker has zero time to react, the force of Neil's brutal cut off sending him stumbling. The ball hits Kevin's strings hard, Kevin's grip tightening around his racquet to keep it close to him.
Kevin doesn't hesitate longer than that.
He shoots at the goal in one fluid arch, and scores.
As confident as Neil is in Kevin's aim and skill, he'll admit his stomach swoops. It's a feeling that never truly goes away, much like the instincts that keep him moving. He wouldn't trade it for anything, that millisecond exhilaration before it comes together.
Because well, at one point nothing ever fell into place for him.
In the flash where the ball hits the net, Neil feels the ghost of a key in his palm, reminding him when that changed. The buzzer of the countdown blares, and all that anticipation meets a well-deserved end.
The stadium erupts until not even the buzzer can be heard. There's a swish of plexiglass doors, the sounds of their coach yelling in triumph, but Neil's body is too spent to react.
Neil's heart constricts in his chest as he tries to get air in, but it's impossible. Satisfied doesn't even begin to cover it, though he's sure he looks just as breathless as Kevin does, staring at the goal as it lights up. The world moves around him, respecting his moment of privacy when they should be hoisting him up and not allowing him a minute of disbelief. Neil's glad they don't; Kevin deserves to look surprised once in a while.
His teammates pile on each other, clapping him as they pass. A lot of them are still in shock, a few fall to their knees right away, but Neil feels nothing but fulfilled.
He made the right call.
His body sags, stinging, and he feels Andrew's gaze pinning him upright from across the court. It's the only thing that gets him walking, but he wills himself not to look in his boyfriend's direction.
If he does well...nothing else will matter, and there's one thing he has to do.
In a haze, he goes over to Kevin, who turns, sensing him. Neil shakes his head at Kevin's arrogance to this day, because even though Kevin is the one who made this possible for him, who came to him first...
Well, he still lets Neil do all the work. Neil laughs and hugs Kevin fiercely, barely keeping himself upright, and they trade the trembling in their bodies. Kevin drops his racquet, their height difference making them look all the more pathetic. He can hear Andrew's voice already, telling them they're too emotional about a damn sport.
Somehow, that makes Neil even happier, and he leans back as Kevin pries his helmet off, eyes wild and smiling.
Yes, the right choice. Absolutely.
"We did it," Kevin says, but not in disbelief. He had to have known they'd always make it here. "We did it."
Neil squeezes his friend's shoulder and grins, uncaring of what camera catches it. He's too damn happy to care. "Guess we did."
The crowd cheers so loud Neil can't hear more than a faint buzz in his ears, and the sticky scent of gatorade and sweat is an unfortunate addition. The cameras flash and shine obnoxiously through the double plexiglass to bathe them in light and attention.
Yet, with his legs feeling like jelly and his muscles stretched to the limits, there's only one thing he really wants. What he always wants.
Warmth, safety, something to lean on and keep him sheltered from the world before facing it alongside him. Neil hates that before, the only thing he yearned for was to play Exy. He thought that was bad.
This is so much worse.
Biting his lip, Neil turns to where Andrew is standing in the goal, already looking at him from across the court. And Andrew, with all his control, keeps himself planted there. Neil's breathing hiccups loudly, and Kevin's probably the only one who hears it over the cacophony.
Neil doesn't think he can cry anymore, but his eyes tighten up, he has to blink the pain away.
Neil wonders if Andrew's gripping his racquet hard enough to damage it, if he's digging his heels into the ground like Neil is.
Neil swallows down the lump in his throat. Suddenly, he hates the cameras more than usual; he's torn between wanting them to vanish completely, or wishing they paid as much attention to Andrew, because god, he's earned it.
Neil digs his heels in harder.
I want to be with you.
It's such a simple string of thought; it has crossed his mind so many times before, but never has the urge hurt so much. It has nothing to do with all he's worked for, with the fame and recognition this win will bring him. It's just Andrew.
He hasn't had a knife to his skin in years, but this reminds him of the piercing of flesh, lighting his nerves on end and sending him towards the source of his relief, his contentment.
Andrew played so well, so well, not just here. He worked his way through the pros until he got to Neil, worked his ass off for his reputation. He qualified with the rest of them to be here.
And tonight, he blocked almost every shot at his goal.
Neil closes his eyes, willing himself to calm down but he can't. This is one of the best moments of his life. If he can't share it with Andrew to the fullest, what was the point of everything in his past?
They're not out. That's the problem, he knows, as much as he doesn't give a single fuck. No one outside their family and management knows anything about them, apart from some tabloid rumors about their intense dislike of one another. If that doesn't prove how clueless the media is, Neil doesn't know what does.
And as much as they value privacy, as much as their peaceful bubble is enough, it's moments like these where Neil wants to take and show no matter the consequences.
He looks to Kevin, unsure. It's always been him, the one who warned them about the backlash they'd face despite his acceptance of their relationship years ago.
Neil expects the same thing here: the subtle shake of Kevin's head, the concern in his eyes for their careers and future. It used to piss Neil off to no end, but Kevin communicates all emotion through Exy, even concern. Neil's learned to read between those infuriating lines. The importance of career translates to 'without your career, there is no you.' Sometimes he forgets he's not entirely free.
And if he weren't around, then Andrew...
'You can't leave him.'
And so, knowing Kevin's language, Neil stayed in line, and he expects that same advice today. To his surprise though, it never comes. Kevin is looking at him, tired smile firmly in place as he nudges a shoulder in Andrew's direction. Neil's mouth falls open, and yes, he's convinced now. It's a dream, it's all one big dream. Except--
Kevin shakes his head. It's not resigned, or worried. He's just happy for them both. He pushes Neil away, straightening his back in preparation for his fans. Royal snob. "Go on already. You guys are gross."
And despite the laugh that falls from his mouth, Neil's breathing stutters, and he hadn't realized how wound up he truly was until it happens. His lungs fill with air and he throws his racquet to the ground. His self-control is poor, they all know that. Encouragement is all he needs to break him and send him where he belongs.
He takes off in a full sprint towards Andrew as the rest of his teammates crowd Kevin, looking after Neil in confusion.
Huh, so his muscles still work after all. The tendons are on fire, but it's the least of his concerns. He runs like his life depends on it again, faster than he ran during that whole game.
And to Neil's absolute delight, Andrew's body language screams 'finally.'
The blond takes a step forward, throwing his racquet to the side like it's worthless. Oh. Andrew's bracing to catch him, and Neil laughs at the realization as he throws off his helmet. One day he'll actually make Andrew fall over, but for now he enjoys the strength.
He jumps into Andrew's arms effortlessly, feels calloused hands wrap around his waist as Neil reaches for the clips of Andrew's helmet. Despite knowing the barrier is there as he fumbles with it, he leans forward, lips grazing the metal guard. Andrew huffs, and Neil claws until the helmet clatters to the floor. He throws it a bit far, and it hits the goal post with a clang, but he doesn't care in the moment. If all eyes are on them now, he can't feel them. They're in a vacuum, a side effect of being so taken with Andrew at times. Unaware, vulnerable. The rush of sound from before goes dead around them. His fingertips can feel overheated skin, can trace the barely-there freckles on Andrew's face.
Andrew isn't in the mood to let Neil admire today.
Neil barely gets to see the color in Andrew's eyes before the goalie's hand grips in between Neil's shoulder blades, pulling him down.
It reminds him of their first kiss; Neil catches Andrew's lips and, as if not believing they're real, that something could feel so wonderful, he pulls back. His eyes widen, the first hit of a drug. He breaks the kiss only to dive right back in, uncoordinated but so sure of himself. And he doesn't get how, but Andrew smells the same as back then. Less like cigarettes, but the same smell of leather and earthiness. Neil doesn't read nearly as much as Andrew does to have the capability of describing it, but it's refreshing, like soil after the rain. Through the sweat and exhaustion, Neil would know him anywhere.
Andrew opens his mouth for him first, breath hot but movements predictable. Neil will tease him later for that. You're getting old. Because the dance is so familiar, the way Andrew pushes Neil's tongue back first. 'Come and get me.'
Neil obliges every single time, because he can't back down from a challenge, and maybe he's getting old too.
Neil knows the kiss can't last forever, especially not here, but he allows himself to pretend it's not the case. Andrew hums into him, and Neil's hands feel all the vibrations from where his hand slips down to Andrew's throat. It's bared completely for him, and Neil gives a little squeeze.
He sighs into Andrew's mouth when his boyfriend's eyes open to glare at him, pulling back before kissing Neil again, and then one more time, and maybe just once...
One more, Neil thinks, brushing his lips against Andrew's so lightly they stick for a moment, and he licks his own slowly when he pulls back for the final time. His heart beats in his ribcage, or maybe that's the pounding of the reporters' feet as they rush through the stadium, he's not sure.
Again, it's always best for him to not look at Andrew if he's supposed to be doing something else, because in that moment, the blond has all Neil's attention.
They're already pressed chest to chest, but Andrew squeezes tighter, almost painful, keeping Neil there through the flashing of cameras and shocked cheers.
And while Andrew's expression gives nothing away for the public, it speaks volumes to Neil.
--
Neil didn't know what old meant back then, now that his legs give out after a good walk or his spine aches under the weight of nothing.
But they were predictable, that much was true.
Neil isn't looking at the reporters anymore, too focused on trying to weave the fraying threads of the blanket back into place. From their silence, he can guess they're as shocked as he expected them to be.
Unaffected, Neil reaches over for his water, taking a sip as he confronts their slack jaws and wide eyes.
Now, that might have been a bit unfair of him as well, to jump into such a blatant romantic recollection about Andrew. Again, Neil never took interviews, rarely took questions, but the subject of his relationship with Andrew was especially off limits for decades. What they had was theirs, and only theirs, even after outing themselves that day.
People naturally tried to pry, tried to dig up their past in hopes of justifying what they saw as a nonsensical relationship or gossip fuel.
Neil made them fear for their lives after that.
He eviscerated publications, reporters, top sports officials, talk shows hosts, pretty much whoever he needed to. Anything to keep Andrew's name out of their mouths. A lot of them sealed their place in the land of irrelevancy, media outlets were slammed by a combination of their fans, and Kevin's too, once he stood up in support.
Andrew always hated it, Neil's desperate need to protect him from words that no longer phased him, but Neil didn't care. It was one of the only things they fought about in their adult years.
It worked though; soon, all the major outlets aside from the tabloids stopped talking about it, knowing mentioning it in any way that wasn't positive or neutral would land them in a ton of hot water.
Even those online sources who refused to let up eventually fizzed out from lack of material; they tried their best to be nosy, but pretty much got nothing but some rare paparazzi photos a few times a year of them kissing in the park or on a date.
In short, it's a bit of an unspoken rule that you don't talk to Neil Josten about Andrew Minyard unless you have nothing but good things to say, and a lot of people are too chicken shit to take the risk and potentially insult him. That's the only disappointing thing, none of them have a shred of courage. Neil really would talk all day about Andrew if people just approached it correctly.
Not that Andrew would've allowed it when he was alive.
Take that.
Despite all the fear Neil instilled in the media, it never stopped the other famous Foxes from talking about how gooey and devoted he and Andrew were, but Neil let that slide.
The things he does for family.
So it makes sense that these reporters seemed to have forgotten Andrew's importance at all, another offense. Not just because he was the best goalie in Exy history, but because Neil was first and foremost, Andrew's.
Blake's mouth opens and closes, pen dangling precariously from his hand. "Are...are we allowed to ask about Andrew?"
Blake even flinches after he asks it, afraid that perhaps it's only okay for Neil to bring up.
If you only knew.
Neil laughs, too relaxed to hold back anymore. The reporters stare, exchanging nervous glances with excitement tingling below the surface.
Yes, he supposes details about his relationship with Andrew are more secretive and sought after than even Neil's opinions. The reporters weren't even going to try.
But now, there's morsels of information dangling in front of them, and Neil need only give them permission. It's their lucky day.
Neil's smile fades into something gentler, wistful. It's the closest he gets now, to how he looked at Andrew. But it's still different, because that expression...
Well, Andrew is gone. What more is there to say?
Neil leans back, wringing his hands softly. "I guess it's only fair that I tell you the real reason I accepted this interview."
The reporters lean forward, holding their breath, but Neil doesn't feel like making them wait. It's all about Andrew now, like he wanted it to be. "I want to talk about Andrew, plain and simple."
Except when it's not.
Their relationship was anything but simple but Neil cherished each memory, and he wants to speak them aloud so no one forgets. He wants everyone to know how important this person was to him, so when he's gone and can't defend them, people can't speculate or taint it with their unasked for opinions.
"I've never had the opportunity to really reminisce about Andrew, not even with my family," Neil admits. He and Aaron and Katelyn would sit around the fireplace at their home sometimes, telling stories, or Kevin would send him old pictures or clips of Andrew playing. But never the intimate details, never the raw, and at times complicated feelings. "It never felt right, even after he was gone. I wanted to keep it close still, so I wouldn't betray Andrew's trust."
Neil takes a deep breath, and it shakes his small frame, a cough escaping his lungs. His voice is rough, but no less sure when he continues. "But I know now what he'd say to that. That I couldn't, even if my dumb Exy brain tried really hard."
But he'd never.
He smiles, wiping his eyes when they aren't even wet. That's another thing he misunderstood back then. Neil thought he couldn't cry, but he's sure today he'll prove his younger self wrong.
Rayah and Blake stay silent through all of Neil's pauses, and the respect means more than he can say. Andrew would approve, he'd be okay with Neil's choice. That's what matters most, he thinks.
"For once I just want everyone to know how I felt, I want to tell you everything as I saw and felt it, so you can tell everyone else," Neil says, and hopes they can read between the lines for the rest. Ultimately, when he's dead he'll be nothing but bones in the dirt, his legacy won't mean much in the long run. But...if nothing else, he wants this to remain, for as long as it can.
He never cared before about it, but he guesses age really can put a new perspective on things. Neil sighs, and taps the table with his finger for lack of anything better to do. When he looks back up, he has their undivided attention, Rayah's brown eyes shining with unshed emotion. None of that, not yet. "Anyways, now that you know I misled you, I hope you're still alright with listening to me ramble for the next few hours."
If not, they can kindly fuck off, but Neil has his suspicions at this point that they'll stick around. As much as Neil prides himself on reading people's intentions well, he's quite horrible at reading people's feelings. But maybe he's improved in that arena too.
A price for everything, he thinks ruefully, reminding himself there's a break in between this session for him to take his pain pills.
Eventually, it's Rayah who stutters a response. "Of course it's alright! We're so honored! And not just in the...bullshit way."
She closes her mouth immediately after at the unprofessionalism of it, but it only makes Neil feel more at ease. He smirks, satisfied. "Noted."
"Mr. Jo--Neil, we really are happy to write about you and Andrew but I have to admit," Blake says, flipping through his notepad with a tight look on his face. "The questions we did prepare as backup don't exactly lend themselves to anything about your life with Andrew."
It's precisely why Neil stated he'd mostly be doing the talking initially, but their first test question actually did end up helping move him along, so...
Neil shrugs, gesturing to the notebook with fierce determination.
These people are about to learn...
He can make anything about Andrew.
When he smiles at the two of them again, they must feel it deep down. They return it tenfold, and then Rayah clicks her pen.
And with the pleasantries out of the way, Neil opens up to everything he's been keeping locked away.
"Try me."