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It was supposed to be just one last year. One last year before he said goodbye to the future he might have had, to the life he craved. It was supposed to be one last breath of Exy before he cut all ties with the normal kid he’d always wished he was, but like most of his plans that involved any sort of indulgence, it went askew pretty early on with no hope of ever rectifying itself.
Neil was supposed to pick a random school to play Exy in for his senior year and be done with it. He’d promised himself that he’d quit right after — friends were never part of that equation. He’d never even considered them as intervening factors, considering how easy it was for him to ghost through other people’s lives, unremarkable and forgettable. Friends hadn’t been an issue before, because he’d needed to connect first to make a lasting impression, and Neil had trained himself to be as unapproachable and uninteresting as he could bear himself to be. With his mother’s voice at times screaming, at times pleading, in his mind, he was primed to bear quite a lot.
This team, though. This team wouldn’t let him coast by unbothered and unengaged. This team wouldn’t let him disappear like he wanted, even if he wasn’t sure that’s truly what he wanted anymore). This team - Andrew - he -
Suffice to say, his plans to remain detached and in the background went down the drain with a gurgling wail. He still wasn’t sure if it had been for the best.
***
“What’s up with the new kid?”
“Who transfers just for their senior year? That’s dumb.”
“We don’t know why he did it. We shouldn’t judge.”
“Please, who changes schools just to play Exy of all things?”
“I-”
“Shut it, Kevin. You don’t count.”
“Maybe you should rephrase that, I think.”
“All right, who, apart from Kevin, changes schools just for Exy?”
“Neil Josten.”
“Very funny, Minyard. It was obviously a rhetorical - ah, whatever. There’s something off with that kid, is all I’m saying.”
“Isn’t there something off with all of us? That’s kind of the standard fare for this team.”
“Whatever.”
***
There really was something off with the new kid, Andrew could tell. Neil Josten, with his dyed hair and obviously colored contacts; Neil Josten, with his standoffish attitude and fidgety hands; Neil Josten, with his clear need for personal contact and an even clearer wariness of it. Neil Josten was a mystery, a puzzle, and never let it be said that Andrew would let an opportunity like this pass him by.
There went Neil Josten, with that desperate look on his face, with the raw want that Andrew never allowed himself to verbalize, with a hunger that seemed bottomless and insatiable, with the need to be without being. To live without time, like a broken hourglass, running out of sand and running out of time.
Andrew wasn’t sure if he wanted to watch the last of the sand trickle out of the glass and see what waited at the bottom, or if he wanted to patch up the glass as best as he could to give Neil Josten more time. Andrew wasn’t sure he wanted at all.
Neil Josten was a living contradiction on lean legs, enough to bring conflict to Andrew’s own existence. He didn’t much like being conflicted, if he liked anything at all. Conflict meant somewhere, at some point, his resolve had become shaky, wavering between things he shouldn’t want, that he didn’t want. He hadn’t had a need for conflict because he’d always been set on his ways and on his views, no space left for self-doubt or second-guessing.
Andrew had built this self-assuredness from the ground up, nails bloody and hands greedy for stability, for something to call his alone, to turn back to when everything else inevitably went to shit. It was something he could take pride in that no one could take from him.
No one, until Neil Josten, that was.
***
“So we agree?”
“Yeah.”
“Yup.”
“What are we agreeing on, again?”
“That the new kid stays?”
“That’s not something we would be able to decide for him.”
“I meant that he stays on the team, not the school.”
“Or the state, by the looks of him. He doesn’t seem to be from around, if you get my drift.”
“If anything is gonna make him stay, it’s probably Exy. Have you seen the way he looks at the court?”
“Maybe not just Exy.”
“...”
“...”
“You know something you’re not telling us, don’t you?”
“Renee is sneaky like that.”
***
Neil had made a deal with his uncle before coming to this school for his senior year. Stuart had enough of a soft spot for him to allow him his fair share of inadvisable ideas, which apparently included being vulnerable, away from the Hatford’s sphere of influence just for the sake of getting some closure. Sometimes he wondered if he really was as unprotected as his uncle had made it sound at the time, especially when Neil considered how much of an asset he could be to the family. Stuart was no fool, and however much he liked Neil, he didn’t like flight risks.
So, Neil got his year, but only just the one. One year to do as he pleased before bowing his head and going back to the UK to pay the debt the Hatfords had accrued when negotiating terms with Nathan Wesninski. Mary’s theft had not gone unnoticed or unpunished, but Nathan had seen the merit of letting her go when presented with more than enough to make up for what she had stolen. If he forgot to mention that the hunt for his wife and son was only shouldered off to some of his underlings, well — the better to train Neil to keep an eye out and on his toes.
Mary had already gone back to the fold, even if Neil could never be completely sure she was even alive. That last time he’d seen her she’d told him to trust no one, not even family, not even her, and then she’d disappeared. Stuart said she’d always been their best undercover operator, but really, wasn’t that how she got herself in the Wesninski mess in the first place? Ingratiating herself into the Moriyama family to tear them down before they thought about expanding overseas. Wasn’t that how she got saddled with a madman for a husband, and then a son she had to take care of? The Moriyama family was certainly no longer a threat, so Neil guessed the plan had been a success, somehow, but was everything else really worth it? Nathan Wesninski was a dog without a master, Neil a boy without a mother, Mary a woman without stability. The Hatfords had come out on top with no one the wiser, and Neil resented the role he had to play in the family that now called him theirs.
The need to belong was a nagging thing that took up space somewhere behind his sternum, stretching, squeezing, and shrinking at times. It was something that Neil wished he could will out of existence, for all the trouble it brought him. He belonged with his mother, but she’d severed that belonging as soon as she was able to. He belonged to the Hatfords, no matter his personal feelings on that unavoidable truth. Now he belonged to — belonged with — the Foxes, and he didn’t know what to do with that information. Here with the Foxes, that nagging thing was content and soft, reveling in shoulder bumps and high fives, cooing at the invitations to hang out and watch movies, and going nearly feral when the offer to share a cigarette miraculously presented itself.
Neil had set out to starve that nagging thing to death, but it got its own nourishment covertly, greedily, with no regrets. It grew stronger and more insistent. It grew to the point where Neil started wondering what it would be like if he stayed. Started wondering what Andrew looked like under the summer sun, what he looked like sleeping when he felt safe, if he curled up like a cat, or if he snored. He started wondering many things, but wondering anything beyond the time he’d been granted was dangerous.
So he’d decided to do what he’d always been the best at, and ran. He ran from that nagging thing, from the wondering — he ran and threw away what his hands had been full of, unable to grab for a gun like he’d been taught to. He ran and ran and ran and he found —
But that was later.
***
“Is Dan done with all the post-game bullshit yet? I want to go, already.”
“Do we even get to shower after this or are we experiencing the joys of piling back into a stinky bus to stink it up worse than it is?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. You’d think they’d allow the champions to at least take a shower before leaving, right? What the hell.”
“Have you guys seen Neil?”
“Maybe he went looking for a place to shower? I’d fucking kiss him if he gets us shower privileges.”
“I wouldn’t kiss him if I were you. At least not if you value your physical integrity. Both Neil and Minyard are scary as fuck.”
“Andrew?”
“Of course, Andrew Minyard. Are you telling me nobody’s gonna talk about how cozy Minyard and Neil have gotten?”
“I don’t know if cozy would be the term I’d use. They’re always butting heads.”
“Okay, yeah, but hear me out — isn’t that Minyard-speak for flirting? And Neil is a mouthy little guy, he loves picking a fight. He looks so pleased whenever he riles Minyard up.”
“I don’t know about Neil, but as far as Minyards go, Aaron did have a very antagonistic vibe going on with Katelyn, and look at them now. I think you might be onto something.”
“See? They definitely have something going on. They’re just too intense not to.”
“Is that a bet I hear?”
“Please, that’d be like stealing candy from a baby. You’re on.”
***
These days, whenever Andrew thought about Neil, a dull ache he no longer had the energy to deny would start prodding at his bruised heart, almost gleefully curious, waiting to see if today was the day it finally decided to beat again.
Before, thinking about Neil meant this:
A lie.
A problem.
An impossibility.
A pipedream.
Before, talking to Neil meant this:
“I’m not a math problem.”
“If someone calls you soulless again, I might have to fight them.”
“Not if it means losing you.”
“Thank you.”
Before, touching Neil meant this:
A shiver.
A mouth surprised that it still knew how to smile.
A scar meeting another scar.
“Yes or no?”
Now, thinking about Neil meant this:
ba-dump
Now, talking to Neil meant this:
“The number you have dialed is not -”
Now, touching Neil meant this:
***
“...So that just happened, huh.”
“Yeah.”
“What the fuck.”
“You did say it was weird for someone to change schools in their senior year. And he looked ready to bolt half of the time.”
“But I mean. We became friends, right? And what about Minyard?”
“What about Andrew?”
“Don’t look at me like that, Renee. You were the one that suggested there was something else apart from Exy that could make Neil stay. There’s Minyard, and here’s our Neil-shaped empty space. Something’s not clicking.”
“Dude, I just can’t believe he’d bail on us just like that. And right after our last game, too. He’s not even staying for the graduation ceremony. Who even does that?”
“Neil Josten. We already established that.”
“Jesus fuck, Minyard. We’re getting you a bell. Uh. How are you holding up?”
“...”
“...”
“...”
“Right. Well. Okay. Shit.”
“Shit sounds about right.”
***
Neil Josten hasn’t been Neil Josten in a long while. He’d left the memory of Neil Josten in that last Exy court, left all the pieces he thought had made him real with all those that had helped him find them.
He left his drive and impatience to be better with Kevin.
He left his respect for hard work with Dan.
He left his at last non-lethal abrasiveness with Aaron.
He left his pettiness with Allison.
He left his newfound patience with Nicky.
He left his stupidly inadvisable ideas with Seth.
He left his appreciation for uncomplicated companionship with Matt.
He left his silly made-up scenarios with Renee.
He left his heart with Andrew.
All the pieces that had made Neil Josten had shattered then and left him standing with nothing to hold onto — just like he’d wanted.
He hadn’t thought about Neil Josten in a good while. He’d come with the Hatfords before graduation, not exactly like they’d agreed but Stuart didn’t complain about getting him back early. He did what they asked and earned his keep, did what they asked and what they didn’t ask to be rid of the debt that slowly crept up to hang itself from his neck. He dealt with Lola, the one responsible for cutting his last year short, and then he dealt with anyone else the Hatfords needed dealt with. That was up until the point where he refused to deal with anyone else, and was relegated to secretarial duties. Paying off a debt when you’re little less than a glorified clerk and translator proved to be difficult. He did manage, of course. It just took longer than previously thought.
The brain worked in mysterious ways, though, and now that he was free he found himself wondering, like he thought he never would again — what if the Foxes had kept all of the pieces he’d given them. Would they glue them back together? Would that still be Neil Josten?
Could Neil Josten still be him?
***
“Have you heard from Andrew lately?”
“I heard from Nicky who heard from Aaron that he’s not dead, at the very least.”
“Would it kill him to check in on the group chat once in a while?”
“I think it might, honestly. You know how he is. It took us this long to get to a tentative first name basis.”
“He wasn’t like that with Neil, though.”
“It’s Neil, come on. You know how they were near the end. That bet of whether they were together or not might as well have been moot at that point.”
“What do you mean?”
“Seriously, Kevin? You were like the closest to them back then. You’re telling me you didn’t notice whatever they had going on?”
“I guess Neil was the only one that managed to make Andrew at least try at Exy, so I mean-”
“Of course it’s always about Exy with you. Why am I even surprised.”
“Kevin is right. In his own way. Let’s just think about Exy as a metaphor for our own sakes, yeah?”
“I will not debase myself by using Exy metaphors, excuse you. Andrew and Neil were involved, and that’s that. Why else would Andrew be like that after Neil up and left?”
“...That’s fair.”
“You think he’s over that? It’s been years, already.”
“...I honestly doubt it.”
***
Andrew had this routine down pat. He woke up, stared at the ceiling for an indeterminate amount of time, finally got out of bed when his cat’s yowling for food got annoying enough — decidedly did not think about the reason he got a cat in the first place (“Favorite animal? No idea, but I probably would like to have a cat someday. What about you?” ) — had some sort of meal that would probably give Kevin a heart attack, checked his phone (you have no new messages from -), finished getting ready, and headed to the court. Every day, every week, every month, for years. He still hated Exy. He hated himself for still clinging to it, because he was tired of lying to himself, and he knew what playing Exy meant to him. Above all, he hated-
No, he didn’t hate Neil Josten. He didn’t. He didn’t, and why didn’t he? It would be so easy, so simple. Neil made a promise. He said, “I’ll stay. If you want me to stay, I’ll stay.” But, Andrew never admitted to any want, to any need, and had only said in response, “I will not tell you what to do. Don’t pin this on me.” Andrew knew that if he’d caved, that if he’d told Neil to stay, he would have. He would have stayed, but would it have been because he wanted to, or because he was so used to having someone to tell him what to do that he couldn’t do without? Andrew would never know, and that not knowing gnawed on his bones even now. Andrew hadn’t told Neil to stay, and Neil hadn’t, so why did it still come as such a surprise when he vanished into the ether like he’d never been?
Andrew knew he’d made the right call then — it was a decision Neil had to make on his own, not something he could do just to appease Andrew and his bottomless covetousness for Neil. Andrew had at last learned to not hold the people and things he wanted to keep so close and so tightly to stop them from leaving, and what had it brought him? The first time he’d let go he was left behind. It had taken a long time to break his grip on Aaron, Nicky, and Kevin after that. A long time and many conversations with Bee. He’d managed, barely.
Even then, how could he hate Neil Josten?
You can’t hate something that doesn't exist, after all.
***
“This is gonna sound weird, but I have a feeling something’s gonna go down soon.”
“Are you getting the tingles, babe?”
“Very funny. I’m being serious.”
“I’m being serious too. The last time you got the tingles you refused to get in the car before checking everything and-”
“Yeah, yeah, we all know about Seth’s almost brush with death yadda yadda. Are you saying you feel like someone’s gonna die?”
“No. Or — I don’t think so, anyway.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
“So? What is it, then?”
“I don’t know, man. We’ll know when we know.”
“Remind me to never ask about your tingles again. I’d rather not know.”
“Duly noted.”
***
It wasn’t his first time seeing this particular airport, but it was the first time he’d arrived with the intention to stay. It made everything seem more solid, more permanent. Years before, this had been the last place he’d said goodbye to, the last opportunity to slip his Hatford tail and run like his mother had before him. It was the end of what could have been a beginning.
Now, he hoped it marked the end of the place and the people he’d clawed himself away from, and the continuation of that beginning to be a real person that he had ripped from his own hands.
Ever since he left, he’d only felt the tide of the sea between him and the people he’d left behind, at equal times pushing him to the UK and pulling him back to where they were. He’d been a hollow piece of driftwood, rotten and bloated. He still was, the sea of memories lapping at the edges of his wants, relentless and unforgiving. A flash of blond hair was enough to remind him of how soft Andrew’s hair had felt when he’d run his hands through it, tender without meaning to. The sound of loud laughter made him think of the way Andrew’s lips would stealthily curl up anytime Neil had snapped back at the other teams, looking for a fight and a laugh. The glint of golden sunlight off his cup of tea was a mere facsimile of Andrew’s eyes at the very best. The softness and sweetness of the peach he was eating was not even a contender for the feeling of Andrew’s lips on his, purposefully sticky with the bite he’d taken out of a candied apple Neil had refused to try.
Everything reminded him of Andrew. He wondered if Andrew still thought about him — or, well, if he still thought about Neil Josten. They had spent less than a year knowing each other, trading secrets and furtive glances. Less than a year breathing the same air, huddling together beneath the roof overhang at the back of the gym, raindrops aggressively pelting down and cigarette smoke thick between them. It had been less than a year but it had meant everything to him, enough to keep him from growing roots where he’d found himself stranded among violence and family, enough to call him back when there was nothing left tying him down. Truly, he didn’t expect much after all the years that had gone by, but he couldn’t bring himself not to return to the only place that had ever made him wish he could stay.
Just a peek, just one whiff, just one second to hear his voice. He didn’t know what he would do after. He didn’t know if he could even manage that little.
He didn’t know a lot of things, but he knew he wanted to see Andrew again. He wanted the Foxes to return the broken pieces that made him Neil Josten. He wanted to try again.
He wanted to try living again.
***
“I got a missed call from an unknown number.”
“I got a message that was flagged as spam.”
“I got a weird letter in the mail.”
“I got an email that got sorted into my junk folder.”
“I got a creepy postcard sent to my office.”
“I got a mildly menacing post-it note on my windshield.”
“I got a barely legible message scribbled on my classroom’s whiteboard.”
“What the fuck, I didn’t get any messages.”
“Are you surprised?”
“Not really, but come on. What about Andrew? Did he get any cryptic messages?”
“What do you think?”
“It could go both ways, don’t you think? Supposing it’s who we think it is, anyway. Hopefully it’s not just some stalker rando.”
“I told you something would go down, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, yeah. Something is definitely going down, all right.”
“Couldn’t he go at this the normal way?”
“Please. When was he ever normal?”
“...You’re probably right.”
***
The locker room was subdued around Andrew. A quiet shuffling of feet and tense mumbling was all he could hear before their next game — the odds weren’t in their favor this time.
He opened his locker and suddenly even those near-silent sounds around him became an overwhelming buzz in his mind. There, in the middle of his locker was a half-burned cigarette, and under it a crumpled note that merely read
yes or no?
He recognized the handwriting. He recognized the cigarette brand. He recognized the question.
Would he recognize the person?
***
“I can’t believe we’re meeting here, of all places.”
“It’s an important game and we got VIP tickets. I don’t really see why you’d complain.”
“Seriously? I had enough Exy to last me two lifetimes after high school, thank you very much.”
“Andrew seems tense. Is he looking for someone in the stands?”
“Oh, you’re right. I guess that answers our question.”
“Yeah, he probably got a message, too.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re just sour that you were the only one he didn’t leave a message to.”
“Shut up.”
“D’you think he’ll just, I dunno, pop up somewhere?”
“Let him pop up. I’ll whack him right the fuck back to wherever he crawled from.”
“Whoa, we’re feeling a bit aggressive today, huh.”
“To be fair, I think Aaron has all the right to shake him. Andrew is his brother. You know how he was after -”
“Can we abstain from discussing my brother’s arguably tragic whatever-the-fuck-it-was he had with that little, lying runaway? Thank you.”
“And he left you a message. Fuck you, man. Give me your message if you don’t want it.”
“Get over it, Seth.”
“Oh fuck, oh shit, wait a second, is that-”
“Where? Where?”
“Right there! That’s definitely-”
***
Neil was slouching in an inconspicuous seat, wearing a Foxes hoodie that had seen better days. Finding tickets for this game so late in the season had not been exactly easy, but he’d learned a trick or two working for the Hatfords.
He wasn’t sure how things would unfold. Whatever happened next was up to Andrew, and he didn’t know if he’d simply drop the ball or throw it back hard enough to smash through all of Neil’s crystal walls, through the lies and years of carefully constructed armor, through the yearning and — and that nagging thing.
A sudden move from across the court caught his eye. Below, in the VIP box, he glimpsed pointing fingers and arms wildly waving around. He honed in on their faces, his attention snagged and stuck like a bug waiting to die in flypaper. He was struck by the familiar way they moved and how his heart rate started rabbiting before he even processed what he was seeing. The Foxes were at the game, too.
The Foxes recognized him, a formless orange blob that looked nothing like Neil Josten.
Could it be? Could it be that maybe he was still enough to be Neil Josten?
Could he be Neil Josten again?
***
“That’s definitely him.”
“How the hell could you even tell?”
“You’re saying you can’t?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“There. What’s up with his hair, though?”
“That’s probably his natural color. We all knew he kept it dyed before.”
“Is that the hoodie Andrew gave him before our last game?”
“Oh shit, it is, isn’t it? He’s so whipped, it’s unreal.”
“So Andrew wasn’t the only one that didn’t move on, I see.”
“I don’t give a shit if he moved on or not. He can have an Andrew shrine hidden in his closet for all I care, but I don’t want him anywhere near my brother again.”
“That’s not up for you to decide, Aaron.”
“Spare me. I know Andrew has the last say in this whole mess. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“I think he saw us. Oh, he stood up. Is he going to leave?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“He sat down again. Is that — is he waving at us?”
“He is!”
“What a weakass wave. Can you stop narrating his every move? I can see his squirrely ass just fine.”
“Uh. Guess who else is seeing his squirrely ass right about now. Talk about bad timing.”
“I know, right?”
“And you didn’t want to come to the game. Imagine missing out on this.”
***
The game had reached the peak of a stalemate when he’d been distracted by the Foxes’ jerky movements and followed their line of sight to a shared hallucination. To the madness that had gripped them (had gripped Andrew) for the whole of their senior year.
His body was working on muscle memory alone, the grip on his racket an afterthought, the bend of his knees instinctive, his breathing an event he had no control over. His head was full of static, and all his eyes could see was neilneilneilneil.
From this far away Andrew could only see his auburn (so that’s what it looked like) hair clashing with his orange Foxes hoodie. It was undoubtedly, indisputably Neil Josten. Or whatever it was he called himself these days, even if he’d confessed that Neil Josten had been the first name he’d chosen for himself.
Of course he’d be here. Of course he’d come to the game. Of course he wouldn’t sleep on the chance of being near the court again. Of course.
Andrew’s eyes were stinging from not blinking. He felt as if Neil would disappear if he so much as sneezed, go up in smoke like the blaze he’d trailed on his way out of Andrew’s life. Neil, trickling between his fingers and into the void, just like he'd been when Andrew had thought to try and patch him back together. When Andrew had been too scared to reach out, watching as the fissures cracked and kept spreading until they shattered, taking with them the idea of Neil Josten and the time they’d had together.
The game couldn’t end soon enough. It was a tie. Not a win. Not a loss. It seemed almost prophetic.
Would it be a tie between him and Neil, this time? Between his wants and Neil’s fears? Between his present and Neil’s past?
Would Andrew ask him to stay?
Would Neil stay?
***
“Where’d he go?”
“No idea. He’ll probably want to talk to Andrew first.”
“No shit. Good luck with that. He’s famous now.”
“And Neil is still Neil. I wouldn’t put it past his skillset, honest.”
“Honest is the worst word to use in the same sentence as Neil Josten.”
“Dude, chill.”
“Do you think the post-game get together is still on after this?”
“I highly doubt it.”
“I just hope we get to talk to him.”
“Before he leaves?”
“I have a feeling he’s not leaving this time, Aaron. Sorry.”
“I don’t want to hear it from you. He’d better have a good fucking excuse for disappearing on us like that.”
“You never know.”
***
Neil snuck into a secluded corner of the stadium and waited for the crowd and press to die down. His hands were sweating like the first time he’d been assigned to a job by the Hatfords. He kept trying to swallow around the knot his anxiety had made of his throat with moderate success. He waited and waited and waited, just like he’d been doing for the last few years. It was all he could do. It was all he’d been able to do.
He would wait to seize the best moment to finally talk to Andrew. He’d felt the weight of his gaze during the last quarter of the game, and he knew his cover, if he could even call it a cover, had been blown. He’d forgotten how heavy, how all-consuming, how addictive having all of Andrew Minyard’s attention on him could be. He wiped his hands down the front of his pants and thought about how long it’d been since he’d last felt alive, felt like something other than nothing, disposable and unimportant, a cog in a well-oiled machine.
Andrew Minyard turned the corner that hid him from view and stopped in his tracks, his eyes locked on him, his hair dripping water that fell like teardrops and clung to his pale eyelashes. The silence was almost unbearable.
His steps echoed off the hallway walls, approaching him with the steadiness that had always been his hallmark, the same solidity of a hand firmly grasping the nape of his neck when breathing became hard and he felt like he was floating away. Close. Closer still. Until he was standing right in front of him. Until their breaths mingled like they hadn’t in years. Until Neil could feel the heat of his body. Until he could see the flecks of gold in Andrew’s eyes, the freckles over the bridge of his nose. A hand on his throat, a nail digging into his pulse, air harshly let out, caressing his face with the taste of Andrew. A deep breath, the steeling of his resolve, the squaring of shoulders, the grimness of the years past. A question. A chance.
“Who are you?”
And he said-
And he finally said-
“Neil Josten.”
***
“Okay, fine, being hunted down by a murderous madman and owing the English mob an exorbitant debt sounds like a good fucking excuse, damn him.”