Chapter Text
The days were cloudy in Russia when Nathaniel left it behind. He won’t miss it; not with the memories - of distant gunshots trapping him in the dark forests and making him trudge through piles of snow, of crimson red blood spilling, of glassy eyes looking through his soul, of death and fear - looming over his head.
Maybe it was survival instinct, maybe it was fate, but something pulled him back to the States and, hell, if Nathaniel wasn’t thankful.
It felt both wrong and thrilling.
He knew the changes were coming as soon as he ignored all his long dead mother’s warnings and stepped onto the court in Millport. Neil Josten could only hope the changes were in his favour.
oOo
Ichirou called three months before the end of the season.
“Not great news, I assume,” resignation tinted his voice and he readied himself for the worst, “Make it quick.”
His brother’s silence was telling in itself, but Neil’s skin was itching with anxiety already. He didn’t appreciate Ichirou being a drama queen right now.
"The Russians."
"What Russians now?" Neil whined. He was so done with goddamn Russia.
"Mika Todorova. Ring a bell?"
Neil's whole body tensed immediately at the mention of the name. Flashes of dyed black hair and blue eyes crowded his vision so he forced himself to close his eyes. "What about her?"
Ichirou fell into a long silence, as though he was gathering his thoughts to articulate them properly, "You knew she was a daughter of an assassin," He started accusingly. "And yet, you still dared to sleep with her?"
Neil choked on his next words. "That was- It was-" He took a deep breath, trying to fight sudden dizziness, because of-fucking-course the one time he tries to deal with a violent breakdown in the least destructive of possible ways - it ends in a disaster, "One time! I was having a hard time, in case you don’t remember, I’ve just murdered my father! It was a mistake, I know that now and it's not like-" It’s not like he even enjoyed it.
Ichirou cut him off, "You got her a kid, idiot."
"W-what?" That must be some sick joke. There is no way... Oh, God.
"She ran away, when her family found out, and they assumed she ran to the Moriyamas,"His brother continued with disdain, “Which, obviously, is not true.”
"What do I do?" He whispered.
"You wait," Ichirou explained matter-of-factly, "I believe our only chance is finding her."
But Neil could only think how the kid will end up like himself - broken, somewhere between the worlds of crime - somewhere where no child should be found.
“Pick a hideout, Nathaniel.”
The line went dead.
oOo
Instead of dealing with his problems like a stable person, Neil went to sit on the court after a game and smoke through three packs of Lucky Strikes his mother favoured - if he remembered correctly, anyway.
Everything about this situation made him hate himself even more than usual.
He didn’t remember Mika all that well; they met in a casino in Moscow, when Nathaniel decided to destroy a couple of people in poker to try to get rid of the sick feeling he had after killing his father, and Mika just approached him out of the blue.
Nathaniel knew she had been observing him for quite a while, but her gaze didn’t feel threatening somehow, so he looked back - and then she asked about ‘sex with no obligations’ in her thick slavic accent, and his brain short circuted, and he agreed.
As a trained assassin, Nathaniel was rather aware of his own flaws, and as much as he had no problem admitting he could be an idiot - or a martyr - sometimes, he also knew that sex was not a thing that fucked up his plans.
But, despite that, the next thing he knows, they are fucking in a fancy hotel room just above the casino, and it doesn’t even feel that great but he doesn’t hate it either.
Mika was beautiful - he could tell by the stares she received from men and women alike - but for him she was merely intriguing.
A curiosity.
It should have stayed that way, a one-night stand with no strings attached, with no consequences. Except. Except life doesn’t work like that; if there is action there must be reaction.
And now he was soon-to-be a father. Bringing a child to this hellhole felt fucking horrible.
Coach Hernandez sat beside him, “I didn’t see your parents at the game.”
“I was emancipated at sixteen, Coach,” Neil said, because the truth was supposed to be an easy way out, even if Neil Josten didn’t exist, “You should know that already.”
Hernandez looked at him with pity, which Neil didn’t understand, he would do anything to have no parents instead of a pair of criminals that decided it would be amusing to raise their little copy together.
“I hoped there’d be somebody here for you tonight,” he said and Neil wanted to laugh.
“Like who,” he didn’t even bother to make it a question, “And for what. A crappy high school game we lost?”
Hernandez shrugged, “There’s someone here to see you, now, though.”
Currently, as he could expect both Russian mafia and a pissed off pregnant woman that scared him even more, Neil was not all that happy to hear those words. He stood up abruptly, readying himself for a hasty escape, but he was too late.
The man he faced almost made him keel over in surprise. David Wymack - infamous coach of the Foxes - standing on a no-name court in Millport staring at him like he was made of gold.
“I sent him your file,” that was all of Hernandez’s explanation Neil heard before he was booking it, already knowing what was to come. They were short on strikers - Neil was a striker - Neil should be looking for a team.
But the only thing - or a person, he supposed - he was looking for was Andrew Doe.
Ichirou told him to pick a hideout, and he did. He had a deal to uphold.
He was halfway through the locker room when he realised he wasn’t alone. He couldn’t stop, even though he could clearly see a racket swinging right at him, just before he actually felt it hitting him.
Shit.
He collapsed on the floor, catching his breath in panic and feeling the rage blinding his vision. The attacker was far too reckless and sure of himself, if staying in Neil’s reach was any indication.
He decided to take advantage of that, reaching up and pulling at the men’s shirt with enough force that he slammed into the floor right beside him. He heard Wymack cursing and Hernandez gasping.
“Fuck you,” Neil spat, still unsatisfayed with how things went, “Whose racket did you steal?”
The blond coughed, “Oh, no, fuck you,” he rasped out, before finally managing to sit up.
“Jesus, are you both all right?” Wymack approached them, apparently seeing him in a different light and assessing him carefully, “I don’t need my goalie and new striker killing each other before even starting the season!”
Neil wrapped a hand around his middle when a growl prompted another sharp pain in his ribs, “I’m not playing for you!”
“He’s a stubborn one, Coach, I told you!” He sounded different now and strangely familiar. It gave Neil a pause.
“He didn’t even listen to me, Andrew, maybe if he hears about a full scholarship he will change his mind.”
“Andrew?” Neil’s eyes widened in realisation, only now bothering to take in the strangers appearance beyond the color of his hair and sure enough - it was his Andrew - he felt like all his problems had just been solved, “This might be the most ridiculous way I expected to meet you again.”
Andrew’s posture went rigid, his jaw dropping slightly, when he too finally looked at Neil, “Holy shit,” he deadpanned.
They stood up, not breaking eye contact, while both of the Coaches glanced between them in slightly horrified curiosity.
Painfully slowly, Andrew held up a shining knife with an engraved initials, prompting Wymack to take an aborted step towards them and stopping only because Andrew sent him a glare.
Neil’s heart stuttered in its beat at the sight; the dagger was a proof, a tangible thing from their past together.
“I’m surprised it’s not rusted with a level of care you have for anything,” Neil teased in German, hoping none of the others present knew the language, knowing full well Andrew won’t bother with being discreet.
He noticed how Wymack shifted uncomfortably in the corner of his eye.
“Shut up,” The blond answered, surprisingly enough in the same language, “You were supposed to be on a little adventure murdering your father, not playing this useless sport in a no-name town. Or did I miss something?”
“He has been dead for a month now,” Neil shot back with similar ferocity, never the one to back off from a fight, “I went looking for you, but there is no mention of Andrew Doe after you turned sixteen.”
His childhood not-exactly-friend clicked his tongue at that. It was funny how little he seemed to change in those, what? Five years? Whereas Neil felt like a whole other person, which was technically true, as he went through uncomfortably many fake identities during that time.
“That’s because I changed it,” Andrew switched back to English, “It’s Minyard now.”
Neil heaved a sigh, hoping to include all his frustration, exhaustion and confusion, in that one sound.
Andrew seemed to understand, “Yes, I know, we have a lot to explain,” He gestured at the file still held by confused Wymack, “So sign that fucking paper, already.”
“Hold on, hold on,” Wymack seemed to finally catch up with the situation, “You know each other?”
They shrugged. Because,yeah, sure - it was the truth. For Neil though it simultaneously felt like a lie - to say they just know each other - when he killed for the boy standing before him.
When he never had anything more normal than Andrew.
He wouldn’t say any of those things, though.