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The fluorescent lights in the nurse's office felt too bright, sharp enough to deepen the ache pounding in Neil's temple. He could feel the dull throb radiating outward, a bruise already blooming beneath the fresh gauze covering the cut where the racquet had struck. But still, he stubbornly refused to hold the ice pack Andrew had tossed at him, leaving it abandoned on the bench instead.
Andrew stood by the door, arms crossed and shoulders tense. He hadn't said a word since he had entered the room, and the quiet between them was deafening, tension thick as the sterile smell of antiseptic in the air. Andrew's gaze hadn't moved from Neil, though—not once.
He could feel it burning into him, cold and unrelenting, like a winter storm that wouldn’t let up. It didn’t feel like concern; it felt like judgment. He hated that it made him feel small, like a reckless child being scolded.
"You’re an idiot," Andrew finally muttered, his voice calm but sharp enough to slice through the silence.
Neil looked up, his jaw tightening. "I don’t need this right now, Andrew."
"You don’t need this?" Andrew’s tone didn’t rise, but there was incredulity buried in it, like he couldn’t believe Neil’s audacity. "You’re bleeding. You got hit by a racquet, Neil. You couldn’t even stand properly when they pulled you off the court. But sure, you don’t need this."
"I’m fine," Neil snapped, pulling the hem of his jersey down as if that would hide the state he was in. "It’s just a cut."
"It’s not just a cut," Andrew said, stepping closer. "You’d have gone back out there half-conscious if they hadn’t pulled you."
"Because the game’s not over!" Neil’s voice rose now, frustration lacing every word. "We’re down by two points, Andrew. Two points. Do you know what that means?"
Andrew stared at him, unimpressed. "It means you’re an idiot who doesn’t know when to quit."
Neil stood, wincing slightly but ignoring the pain. "It means we could’ve won if they’d just let me finish. You think I care about a little bruise? I’ve played through worse."
Andrew’s eyes narrowed, his expression blank, but Neil could see the tightness in his shoulders, the way his fists clenched at his sides. "And that’s exactly the problem. What if the racquet had been faster? Or what if it wasn’t just a mistake and an intentional swing? What happens when you don’t get back up next time?"
Neil felt the words like a slap, sharp and stinging. "It’s not your decision to make," he hissed. "It’s my body, my choice. You don’t get to tell me how to play. You don’t even fucking care about the game!"
Andrew’s expression didn’t change, but his voice was icy when he replied. "I don’t nor ever will. But that doesn’t mean you get to be reckless. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean you get to make it worse because you couldn’t even strap your helmet properly."
Neil froze for a split second, caught off guard. "What?"
"You heard me." Andrew’s words cut like a blade, his tone unwavering. "If you’d bothered to secure the strap properly, your helmet wouldn’t have gone flying, and the racquet wouldn’t have had a chance to split your head open. But no, you were in such a rush to throw yourself into the game you didn’t think for one goddamn second."
Neil’s jaw tightened, his anger flaring again. "It wouldn’t have mattered. That backliner swung too close—it wasn’t about the helmet."
"It wouldn’t have mattered?" Andrew echoed, his voice low and venomous. "You’re bleeding, Neil. You could’ve avoided all of this if you’d taken five seconds to check. But of course, you didn’t. Because it’s always Exy first, everything else second. Including yourself.”
Neil’s laugh was bitter, devoid of humor. "It’s not just a game," he said, "It’s my life. My safety. My deal with him isn’t something I can just walk away from. If I stop, if I don’t play, I become a loose end. And you know that!"
Andrew’s face didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. "But that doesn’t mean you have to make it easy for them."
Neil’s chest tightened, the weight of Andrew’s words pressing down on him like a physical thing. He wanted to argue, to tell Andrew that he didn’t understand, but the words caught in his throat. Andrew didn’t understand—he couldn’t—but that didn’t make him wrong. And that only made Neil angrier.
"This isn’t your choice," Neil said finally, his voice quieter but no less heated. "You don’t get to tell me how to live my life."
Andrew’s jaw tightened. "I’m not telling you how to live your life. But don’t expect me to stand here and pretend it’s okay to watch you throw yourself away for people who don’t give a shit about you."
Neil’s hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. "It’s not that simple."
Andrew took another step closer, his eyes boring into Neil’s like he could see straight through him. "Then simplify it."
Neil felt the words like a punch to the gut, but he refused to back down. "You think this is easy for me? You think I like living with a target on my back? I’m doing the best I can, Andrew. I’m trying to survive."
"And what happens when you don’t?" Andrew’s voice rose now, louder than Neil had ever heard it, and the sheer force of it made Neil flinch. "What then, Neil?"
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and unyielding. Neil didn’t have an answer. He didn’t know what to say to make Andrew understand, to make him see that this was the only way he knew how to live.
So instead, he stormed past Andrew, his shoulder brushing roughly against him as he left. Andrew didn’t try to stop him, but Neil could feel his gaze on his back, cold and unforgiving, as he walked out of the room.
The nurse had left ten minutes ago after Andrew told her to go. She had started to argue, her mouth opening to protest, but one sharp look from him was all it took to silence her. Without another word, she gathered her clipboard and left. Andrew didn’t spare her another thought. He didn’t care if she found it rude or unprofessional. The only thing that mattered was Neil sitting on the bed, pale with his jersey torn and blood seeping through the gauze wrapped around his temple.
But now Neil was gone too, and the door to the nurse’s office swung shut behind him with a hollow thud that left an echo Andrew couldn’t shake. He stood rooted to the spot, staring at the space Neil had just vacated.
His gear felt heavy, but he didn’t move to take any of it off. The adrenaline from the game still lingered, an edge that sharpened his focus on the ice pack Neil had abandoned on the counter.
Water pooled beneath it, dripping onto the tile floor in slow, measured intervals. Andrew stared at it for a moment longer than necessary, something cold and hard settling in his chest. Neil couldn’t even follow basic instructions to keep himself in one piece, let alone think beyond the next ten minutes. And yet, he expected Andrew to stand by and watch as he destroyed himself piece by reckless piece.
Andrew dragged a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. He hated this. Hated the way his ribs felt too tight around his lungs, the way his mind replayed every word from their argument like a loop he couldn’t break.
Andrew wasn’t one to lose his temper. He wasn’t one to shout or argue or let his emotions get the better of him. But Neil? Neil had a way of unraveling him like no one else ever had, pulling at the carefully knotted threads of his self-control until they frayed and snapped.
Fucking Neil.
Andrew turned away from the bench, pacing the length of the room with sharp, deliberate steps. He shouldn’t have followed Neil to the nurse’s office. He should have stayed in the goal, let Neil deal with the consequences of his own stupidity. But the moment he saw Neil hit the floor, all rational thought had evaporated, replaced by the cold, instinctual need to make sure he was okay.
And now? Now Neil was gone, angry and stubborn as ever, and Andrew was left with the heavy, suffocating weight of what if.
What if this time was different? What if the racquet had struck harder, gone too far, and Neil hadn’t been able to get back up? What if he—
Andrew shook his head, cutting the thought off before it could spiral. No. He refused to go there. He refused to let Neil do this to him—to turn him into someone who cared too much, who worried too much, who felt too much.
But even as he told himself that, he knew it was a lie.
Neil was in his blood, in his bones, in every breath he took. Andrew could no more stop caring about him than he could stop breathing. And that was the problem. Because Neil? Neil didn’t know how to stop, how to pull back, how not to be a martyr. And Andrew? Andrew didn’t know how to watch him self-destruct.
He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers to his temples. He could still hear Neil’s voice, low and heated and full of defiance, echoing in his head.
"It’s my life. My safety. My deal with him isn't something I can just walk away from. If I stop, if I don’t play, I become a loose end. And you know that!”
Andrew’s teeth clenched. He hated Ichirou. Hated that Neil had made the stupid deal that put him in danger every time he stepped onto the court. Hated that no matter what he did, no matter how tightly he held onto Neil, there would always be something—someone—waiting to take him away.
The thought made his stomach twist, a sharp, sickening ache that settled low in his gut. Andrew didn’t let himself dwell on fear, on loss, on anything he couldn’t control. But when it came to Neil, all the rules went out the window.
Andrew’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind him. He didn’t need to look to know who it was.
“Where is he?” The coach’s voice was sharp, a mix of concern and irritation. His eyes scanned the room, landing on Andrew, who was leaning against the wall. “Don’t tell me he left.”
Andrew met his gaze with a flat look. “He left.”
The nurse, trailing behind the coach, let out a frustrated noise. “He shouldn’t have! I told him he needed proper evaluation before he went anywhere.” She glanced around as if expecting Neil to materialize out of thin air. “You were supposed to make sure he stayed here.”
Andrew barely spared her a glance, leaning back against the wall with crossed arms. “I told you to leave,” he said flatly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m a medical professional here. I had every right to stay.”
“And I had every right to make you go,” Andrew shot back. “He wasn’t going to stay off the court just because you hovered. You weren’t helping.”
The coach stepped between them, raising a hand. “Enough. Both of you. Neil’s gone now, and arguing about it isn’t fixing anything.” He turned his attention to Andrew. “You’re not off the hook either, Minyard. You should’ve kept him here.”
Andrew’s jaw tightened, but his expression didn’t change. “Neil does what Neil wants.”
“That’s not an excuse!” the nurse snapped, crossing her arms. “He just took a hit to the head, for god’s sake. He could be—”
“He’s stubborn, not suicidal.”
Andrew interrupted, no matter how much he called Neil stupid he wasn’t. That was the only reason Andrew hadn’t dragged him back himself.
But the flicker of doubt was there, clawing at the edges of Andrew’s control. It whispered cruel questions he didn’t want to entertain. What if—No, Neil was fine. He had to be.
“This isn’t about what Neil wants; it’s about what he needs. And if you’re going to stand there and let him walk off injured—”
Andrew straightened, “You think I don’t know what he needs?”
The room went silent, the weight of Andrew’s words settling over them like a storm cloud. The nurse looked like she wanted to protest again, but the edge in Andrew’s tone made her hesitate.
The coach finally broke the silence, his tone softer but no less firm. “Look, I know you two are... together. But this is a team, Andrew. If one of us is down, we make sure they’re taken care of. Neil is no exception.”
Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “I’m aware. But Neil is also not your average player. And if you think you can control him, you don’t know him at all.”
The nurse sighed, clearly exasperated. “If he collapses somewhere, it’s on all of us.”
“He won’t,” Andrew said flatly, his confidence unshakable.
The coach gave Andrew a hard look before sighing. “Fine. But this isn’t over. If Neil doesn’t check in by the end of the night, we’ll escalate.”
He didn’t bother replying, his gaze fixed on the far wall as he let the silence hang heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the storm in his chest.
He didn’t know where Neil had gone, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. Because no matter how far Neil ran, no matter how stubborn or defiant he was, he always came back. Just like Andrew always went after him.
Because that’s who they were.
Neil didn’t bother looking back as he left the stadium, the soft squeaks of his sneakers echoing off the walls of the nearly empty corridors. The distant roar of the crowd felt muted, as though someone had turned down the volume on the world the moment Andrew’s words had landed.
His body ached with every step he took, a deep, throbbing pain radiating from the side of his head where the racquet had struck. The bandage the nurse had hastily wrapped felt too tight, the white fabric sticky with sweat and soaked in blood. His legs felt unsteady, but he pushed forward, his jaw clenched against the way the world blurred at the edges.
He wasn’t going back. Not to the court, not to Andrew, not to any of it. Not yet.
Robin. Her place wasn’t far, and she was probably still watching the game on her television, yelling at the screen like she was on the sidelines. It wasn’t unusual for Neil to go to her when things became too much—after Andrew, she had the perfect balance of understanding that could knock him out of his spirals without making him feel like he was under a microscope.
He walked fast, ignoring the pain and the flurry of emotions clawing their way up. The fight played over in his head like a bad loop.
Andrew was wrong.
Neil’s fists curled at his sides. He wasn’t reckless. He wasn’t stupid. Sure, he’d been hit—it was just a cut, nothing serious, nothing that could sideline him. After Andrew, Exy was all he had. Then how could he expect Neil to just sit out when every second on the court mattered?
Neil shook his head, trying to clear it, and winced when the motion sent another sharp wave of pain through his skull.
By the time he reached Robin’s door, Neil’s anger had dimmed, replaced by a hollow ache in his chest that was harder to ignore. His hands were trembling—not from exhaustion, but from the effort it took to hold everything in. He buzzed her number with more force than necessary, leaning against the wall.
“Neil?” Robin’s voice crackled through the intercom, sharp with confusion and concern. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you—”
“Let me in,” Neil interrupted, not trusting himself to say more.
There was a brief pause before the door buzzed open. Neil made his way up the stairs, ignoring the way the edges of his vision darkened with every step. When he finally reached her door, it opened before he could knock.
Robin stood in the doorway, her expression frozen somewhere between worry and disbelief. Her gaze swept over him, taking in the blood-stained bandage, the bruises starting to form, and the faraway look in his eyes.
“Neil,” she breathed, stepping aside to let him in. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Neil didn’t answer, stepping past Robin and into the apartment. He didn’t glance back, ignoring the faint tap of her crutch against the floor as she followed him.
Robin had fractured her leg during practice weeks ago and had been benched for the rest of the season. Though she didn’t let it slow her down—he and Andrew both had overflowing inboxes to prove it.
The room spun slightly when he sat down, but he forced himself to focus, the dizziness a distant hum in his mind. His gaze swept over Robin’s notes that sat untouched on the coffee table, her handwriting half-visible beneath a stack of papers. The live broadcast of the game lit up the screen, the announcers mid-recap, analyzing the chaos that had broken out when Neil took the hit.
“Neil!” Robin snapped, bringing his attention back to her. “You’re bleeding!” Without waiting for a response, she disappeared down the hall, likely heading for the bathroom to grab a first-aid kit.
“Neil,” Robin said again, her voice softer this time as she limped back toward him.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, but the words felt hollow, even to himself.
“You look like you just got hit by a truck. Even I saw the hit, and trust me, it was terrifying. So no, you’re not fine.” She sank onto the edge of the coffee table, the awkward angle of her fractured leg making her wince.
“You don’t have to—” Neil started, but he was cut off as Robin pulled on a pair of gloves, giving him a pointed look. “Hold still.”
Neil flinched when she peeled the soaked bandage off his temple, revealing the gash underneath. Robin hissed through her teeth. “This should have been stitched, Neil.”
“Didn’t had time for that,” Neil muttered.
Robin ignored him, cleaning the wound with antiseptic. Neil gritted his teeth against the sting, his fingers digging into his knees.
“What happened with your helmet strap?” she asked suddenly, her tone more curious than accusatory. “Wasn’t it fastened?”
Neil froze, guilt pooling in his stomach. “It must’ve come loose,” he said, too quickly, the lie sticking in his throat.
Robin frowned, unconvinced. “You didn’t check it before going back out, did you?”
He stayed silent, his jaw tightening, and that silence was all the answer she needed.
She sighed, the sound heavy with frustration but softened by concern. “Neil, you have to stop giving the universe excuses to kill you.”
Neil didn’t respond, her words barely registering as his mind drifted back to the fight. The argument replayed itself in vivid detail, every word hitting harder than it had in the moment. Andrew had been furious—more furious than Neil had seen him in a long time. But underneath that anger had been fear, buried so deep under layers of control that most people would miss it entirely. The same fear that Neil had seen before when….
“You’re lucky it’s not deeper,” Robin said, her voice pulling him back to the present as she carefully wrapped a clean bandage around his head. “But you’ll have one hell of a headache. Did you even let Nurse Pearson check for a concussion?”
Neil stayed silent.
“Of course you didn’t,” Robin said, exasperated. She leaned back, studying her work, and then grabbed a cold pack from the kit, pressing it into his hands. “Keep that on your bruise.”
Neil held the ice pack against his cheekbone, the cold seeping through his skin and dulling the ache slightly.
Robin sat back in her armchair, propping her injured leg on the cushion. “Now, where's Andrew? Does he even know you're here?”
Neil flinched at the mention of Andrew; he shook his head. “We...had an argument.”
Robin’s brows furrowed. “You and Andrew?”
Neil nodded, staring down at the floor.
Robin blinked, clearly surprised. “You two never fight.”
“Yeah, well,” Neil said bitterly, “there’s a first time for everything.”
The room fell quiet, except for the muffled commentary still coming from the TV. Neil didn’t look up, but he could feel Robin’s gaze on him.
“You’re lucky that I'm out of the games,” she said, her tone softer now. “Otherwise, I’d be dragging you back to Andrew myself. Do you have any idea how worried he probably is right now?”
Neil’s stomach twisted, but he didn’t respond. He knew Andrew was worried. That was the problem.
“You’re not going to sit here all night, are you?” she asked.
Neil glanced at her, then down at his hands. “I don’t know.”
Robin sighed, “You’re both idiots,” she said, though there was no malice in her tone.
Neil didn’t argue. He knew he shouldn’t have left. He hated leaving things unresolved, especially with Andrew, but it had felt impossible to stay. The air between them had been charged, and he had been too close to say something he’d regret. He needed space, needed to think.
The roar of the crowd still filtered faintly through the walls of the stadium, a reminder of the game continuing without its most standoffish players.
Andrew had flat-out refused to return to the goal. He wasn’t about to stand there, pretending everything was fine, playing the fucking stickball, like nothing had happened while Neil was God-knows-where—without his phone, without his bag, without a single thought to the chaos he left behind.
Neil was reckless—always had been—but there was a strange predictability to it. Andrew just had to think like Neil, which meant stepping into the headspace of someone who treated Exy like it was the very air they breathed. Someone who thought their worth began and ended on that goddamn court.
His jaw tightened at the thought, frustration settling under his skin like an itch he couldn’t reach. His fingers twitched toward his pocket, craving the familiar weight of a cigarette, but he’d long since quit. Not that it mattered—Neil was more than enough to fray his nerves without the crutch of nicotine.
He was halfway to his car when his phone vibrated in his pocket.
A message from Robin.
Neil’s here. Asleep right now. I cleaned up the cut—it’s nothing serious. He'll come back tomorrow.
Andrew exhaled slowly, his jaw loosening as some of the tension in his chest ebbed. Neil was fine—or as fine as Neil could be after today. His fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before he took a screenshot of the message and sent it to their coach and went back to type a message to Robin.
Keep him in one piece.
With that, he slid into the driver’s seat and drove back to their apartment, the hum of the engine doing little to quiet his thoughts.
By the time Andrew unlocked the door and stepped inside, the weight of everything had settled over him again. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. The faint glow from the outside was enough to navigate the space he knew as well as the back of his hand.
Almost immediately, the sound of small paws broke the silence. Sir padded over first, winding around his legs, demanding attention. He gave a perfunctory scratch behind his ears before stepping further in. King wasn’t far behind, but instead of greeting Andrew, he paused at the door, staring up expectantly as though waiting for someone else to walk in.
Andrew frowned, nudging the door closed with his foot. “He’s not here,” he muttered, tugging his shoes off. King lingered at the entrance a moment longer, as if unconvinced, before finally following Andrew into the living room.
He tossed his keys onto the counter and headed straight to the bathroom. The dull ache in his muscles made the hot water less of a luxury and more of a necessity, though it did little to ease the tension knotted in his chest. His body felt wound too tight, his skin crawling with a restless energy that refused to let him settle.
Even though he knew Neil was safe with Robin—knew he’d come back eventually—it wasn’t enough.
The steaming water pounded against his skin, but the unease clinging to him refused to be washed away. Still, Andrew stayed under it longer than usual, letting the water burn against his shoulders as if it could scald the anxiety out of him. It didn’t work.
When he stepped into the living room, the apartment was just as quiet as he’d left it. King was curled up in Neil’s usual spot on the couch, his head resting on his paws, though his eyes flicked back to the door every so often. Sir perched on the armrest, his tail twitching.
Andrew grabbed a book from the shelf without checking the title and dropped onto the couch. Sir immediately climbed into his lap, curling into the crook of his arm like always. Andrew flipped through the pages with one hand, the other idly stroking Sir’s fur, though the words blurred into meaningless lines.
Eventually, King grew tired of waiting. He leapt off the couch in a burst of energy, darting toward the cat tower. Sir scrambled after him, abandoning Andrew without a second thought, his tail flicking as he chased King across the room.
Andrew leaned back, his head pressing against the cushion as he stared at the ceiling. The faint sound of Sir and King chasing something was the only reminder he wasn’t completely alone. Even so, the silence felt louder than any argument. Andrew could handle a lot of things, but waiting—waiting for Neil to come to his senses, to come back—wasn’t one of them.
He glanced at the door, his jaw tightening. The seconds dragged on. His fingers twitched, itching to grab his keys and go after Neil, but he knew better. He’d made the mistake of pushing Neil once, and the aftermath had been far worse than any silence.
Instead, Andrew stayed. His body was taut with the effort, his mind constantly circling back to the moment Neil had taken that hit. The sickening sound of his body connecting with the floor, and the blood—always the blood. It had taken everything in Andrew not to storm towards him right then.
A sharp knock on the door broke through his thoughts, and Andrew was on his feet before he realized it. But the knock never came again. It was just his imagination, playing tricks on him because the waiting was suffocating.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Andrew didn’t keep track.
Exhaustion tugged at the edges of his awareness, insistent despite his resistance. No matter how hard he tried to fight it, the weight was impossible to resist. At some point, he stopped fighting it. He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but the relentless pull of sleep dragged him under.
The roar of the game swallowed him whole, loud and brutal as ever. Andrew was bored out of his mind but still he had his eyes on the ball, tracking its chaotic path through midfield as Neil weaved around his backliner. The redhead was relentless tonight, his speed and precision cutting through the defense like it was nothing. He was hungry for the goal, playing like he had something to prove.
It wasn’t unusual—Neil always played with an edge, pushing himself harder than anyone else on the court. Andrew had stopped questioning it years ago, resigned to the fact that Neil’s recklessness was both infuriating and, occasionally, effective.
But tonight, something felt off. Neil was a half-step too quick, too aggressive. He took the ball past the half-court line, dodging his mark, and made a sharp cut toward the goal. Andrew’s eyes narrowed. Neil should’ve passed to Jason—he was nearing his ten steps, and there was no way he'd make it to the goal without running out of them.
The backliner moved to block him again, leaning in for the check. Andrew’s grip tightened on his stick as he watched, tension winding up his spine like a taut spring as the hit came hard and clean, slamming into Neil’s side and sending him sprawling to the ground.
The ball bounced loose, forgotten in the chaos, but Andrew didn’t care. His focus snapped to Neil just as the helmet rolled away, skidding uselessly across the court. Andrew’s chest tightened, his stomach twisting in a sickening knot.
The helmet should never have come off.
He was already out of the goal, sprinting toward Neil as the referees blew their whistles, halting the game.
Neil pushed himself up on one hand, shaking his head as if trying to clear the impact. Andrew’s fists clenched at his sides. Neil would stay down if he were smart, but Neil was never smart when it came to himself.
Before anyone could reach him, the backliner shifted, trying to regain his footing from the collision. Though his balance wavered, the sudden motion sending him lurching forward. The racquet slipped in his grip as he stumbled, swinging down in an erratic arc—aiming for nothing but catching everything.
Andrew’s breath hitched as the edge of it struck Neil’s temple. Time fractured into too many pieces to track, and all Andrew could do was watch. Neil’s head snapped to the side, the sharp crack echoing in his ears louder than the crowd. Blood bloomed bright and vicious against Neil’s skin, trailing down his temple in uneven lines.
Andrew felt like he’d been punched. The edges of his vision blurred with red-hot anger, but beneath it was something sharper, something colder.
Andrew wanted to move. His muscles coiled, ready to propel him forward, but the court felt like quicksand beneath his feet. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t act—his body locked in place no matter how much he willed it. The tension in his frame was suffocating, his instincts clawing at him to act but finding no release. He was stuck, frozen, as Neil swayed unsteadily.
The crowd’s screams after the hit should’ve been deafening, but now an eerie silence had fallen over the court. No referees or medical team rushed in. No players surged forward. The only sound Andrew could hear was the relentless pounding of his heart, louder than anything else in the void.
He forced himself to look up, his breath catching as his eyes locked on Neil, now sinking to his knees. The sight struck like a blow, too familiar, tugging at a memory he didn’t want to recall.
Dread coiled in Andrew’s chest like a living thing. His eyes flicked to the backliner, who had stumbled to his feet and now loomed over Neil. His stomach twisted as the player’s face began to distort. The features blurred, melting like wet paint sliding down glass.
Andrew blinked hard, but the image refused to correct itself. The face solidified into something far too familiar, and a cold weight settled in his chest as he recognized the predator’s gleam in Riko's eyes.
“Neil,” he tried to say, but the sound was swallowed by the oppressive silence.
The racquet swung in a slow, horrible arc, and Andrew's heart thundered in his ears as Neil didn't react in time.
The crack of the racquet meeting Neil's head was deafening. Blood splayed over across the floor as Neil crumpled, his body lifeless.
Andrew forced his legs to move, each step dragging as if invisible hands were pulling him back.
When he finally reached Neil, his knees hit the ground hard. He pressed shaking fingers to Neil's neck, desperate for the faintest flutter of pulse, but there was nothing.
The blood spread, straining Andrew’s hands as Riko's laugh echoed around the empty court.
Andrew woke with a sharp gasp, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break free of his chest. He sat up, his breath ragged.
Riko is dead. He reminded himself. It's been years.
But the nightmare clung to him, the vivid image of Neil on the ground and the smile on Riko's face too fresh, too real. The rational part of his brain knew it wasn't possible, that the bastard had died years ago. Yet the memory of what could have happened back then, if he hadn’t reached in time, bled into the fear of today’s close call left his skin cold and his thoughts spinning.
He tried to breathe the way Bee had taught him, trying to ground himself. Neil was with Robin. Safe. Breathing. But the thought wasn’t enough. He needed to see Neil himself, to touch him, to feel the steady beat of his pulse beneath his fingers.
When he glanced at the clock, it was past midnight. Andrew didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his keys, his mind already set on dragging Neil back from Robin’s if he had to.
But just as his hand reached for the doorknob, the lock turned, and the door opened.
Neil stood there, his face shadowed and tense, still clad in his jersey. His eyes found Andrew immediately, their usual fire muted but steady. He looked like he'd been running–or escaping something he couldn’t outrun, but he was whole. Alive.
Andrew exhaled slowly, relief washing over him like a wave. Despite Neil’s guarded expression, Andrew noticed the way his shoulders eased, the faint flicker of something raw and haunted in his eyes. It was a look Andrew recognized all too well.
Neil didn’t say a word. He simply let the door click shut behind him, moving with a careful stillness as if any sudden action might shatter the fragile moment.
Andrew’s gaze lingered on the crooked gauze clinging to Neil’s temple and the dark bruise spreading across his cheekbone. His fingers trembled faintly at his sides, and his shoulders drooped under a weight that had nothing to do with the night’s events. Andrew didn’t need to ask; he already understood.
Neil's nightmares were a mirror of his own. They didn’t need to compare the details for Andrew to recognize the lingering tension in Neil’s frame, the exhaustion that bled deeper than any injury.
Andrew stepped forward, but stopped just short of touching Neil. “Yes or no?” he asked quietly.
Neil’s eyes widened, the familiar question stirring something in his chest. It had been years since any of them had needed to ask this, years since they’d tread so carefully around one another. But Andrew was asking now—not out of hesitation or insecurity, but because he needed to be sure. To know that it was okay to touch, that Neil wanted this as much as he did.
It wasn’t about seeking permission—it was about trust.
Neil nodded once, the motion small but certain. “Yes.”
That was all Andrew needed. He dropped his forehead to Neil’s shoulder, his breath steadying as his hand came up to rest against Neil’s neck. He pressed his fingers lightly over the pulse point, counting the steady thrum beneath his skin.
Neil was here. Alive. Real.
Andrew inhaled deeply, grounding himself in the solid weight of Neil against him and the hand that slid up to his hair, fingers threading gently through the strands. He let the touch anchor him, exhaling slowly, the edge of his breath brushing Neil’s collarbone. “If you ever run off like that again, I’ll kill you,” he growled low, his words muffled against Neil’s shoulder.
Neil’s fingers stilled for a heartbeat before resuming their motion, soft and deliberate, “I'm sorry.”
Andrew leaned back just enough to meet Neil’s gaze, his hand sliding from Neil’s neck to cradle the side of his face. He brushed his thumb along Neil’s jaw, the touch uncharacteristically tender. Neil tilted his head into it, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment, as if trying to absorb the reassurance Andrew wasn’t saying aloud.
Then, without hesitation, Andrew leaned in, pulling him down. His lips pressed to Neil’s in a whisper of contact—no urgency, no demand, just the quiet relief of proximity. Neil’s hands stayed where they were, tightening slightly in Andrew’s hair. For a brief, suspended second, everything else fell away.
Andrew broke the kiss first, his forehead resting against Neil’s, careful not to press too hard. “Shower. You stink,” Andrew mumbled.
Neil huffed a quiet laugh, tired but genuine, and nodded. Andrew stepped aside to let him pass, watching as Neil moved toward the bedroom. Before following, Andrew detoured to the kitchen. He pulled open a drawer, grabbing scissors and duct tape, then crouched to retrieve a trash bag from under the sink.
The cats were curled up, fast asleep on the cat tower. Once inside, Andrew locked the bedroom door, ensuring they wouldn’t wander in tonight.
He also grabbed a clean pair of sweats from their wardrobe and headed toward the bathroom. He placed them neatly on the counter, within easy reach for Neil.
With that settled, he gestured for Neil to sit on the edge of the bathtub. Neil’s eyes widened slightly at what Andrew was holding before recognition flickered across his face. The surprise melted into something softer—a quiet smile as he carefully pulled his jersey over his head and sat down.
“Concussion?” Andrew asked, scissors already in hand as he cut a small square from the trash bag.
Neil shook his head.
Andrew knelt in front of him and simply grabbed his chin. He fixed his gaze on Neil’s eyes, looking for any flicker of fuzziness, any delay, any sign that the answer wasn’t true. Neil held his stare, breathing even, letting himself be examined.
After an eternity of not-so-intense staring, Andrew was satisfied with his conclusion and moved on to his next task. He worked with practiced efficiency, taping the plastic carefully over the gauze making sure it would hold against the water.
His mind, unbidden, dragged him back to the last time he’d done this. Years ago, different place, different wounds—yet somehow the same. He remembered Neil sitting just like this, chin tilted slightly under Andrew’s grip, that familiar crease between his brows as he let Andrew tape plastic over injuries that weren’t his fault but still felt like a consequence of who he was.
Now, Neil watched him work with that same quiet patience, that stupid, soft smile still lingering on his face, as if the memory was a good one.
“Junkie.” Andrew’s fingers hovered for a second longer than necessary before he pulled away, flicking the scissors onto the counter. His chest felt tight, but he ignored it.
Neil’s eyes fluttered shut as Andrew stood, his breathing slightly uneven—not panic, but something quieter.
He placed a steady hand against the back of Neil’s neck, rubbing slow circles into the warm skin until Neil exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. Neither of them said anything. They didn’t have to.
Andrew grabbed the first-aid kit from the cabinet as Neil started to strip off the rest of his clothes. Without another word, he left him to shower.
When Neil stepped out, dressed in fresh sweats, he looked slightly better. The dampness of his hair, however, made the bruise on his temple stand out even more vividly. His movements were slow, careful, as if even the weight of the fabric against his skin was a reminder of the night’s events.
He paused near the bed, his eyes catching on the first aid kit lying on the rumpled sheets. Andrew didn’t say a word, simply motioned for him to sit down.
Neil obeyed without protest, though his tired eyes flicked to Andrew as if waiting for him to dredge up their earlier argument. Andrew wasn’t in the mood to go back to it—not tonight.
Neil's hands rested on his thighs, fingers twitching slightly as Andrew tilted his chin gently to one side. He peeled away the plastic and carefully untaped the gauze, mindful of the way it stuck slightly to dried blood.
The cut was stark against Neil’s skin—an uneven gash along his temple, the edges swollen and tinged with deep red. His lips pressed into a thin line as he grabbed a fresh alcohol wipe from the kit and started cleaning the area. Neil flinched slightly at the sting, but Andrew’s grip on his chin was firm. He discarded the wipe, applied a fresh layer of ointment, and secured a new gauze in place.
When he finished, his hand lingered for a moment at Neil's jaw, his thumb brushing lightly over his skin. Neil exhaled, his shoulders easing as though the care itself had drawn some of the tension from him. Andrew stood, tossing the used materials into the trash and putting the first-aid kit back, before returning to Neil.
“Bed,” Andrew said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Neil hesitated for half a second, but Andrew shot him a look that dared him to object. With a small nod, Neil slid into bed, his movements cautious
Andrew joined him, but not before adjusting the pillows to ensure Neil wouldn’t have to rest on his injured side. When he finally settled beside him, Neil instinctively shifted closer, his head tucking neatly under Andrew’s chin.
Andrew let his arm slide around Neil, his fingers resting lightly on his waist.
Neil shifted as well, pressing closer until his hand curled into Andrew’s shirt, gripping it as though he feared Andrew might disappear if he let go. “I’m sorry,” Neil murmured again, his voice soft but weighted, “I should have—”
“Tomorrow,” Andrew cut him off, his fingers tightened briefly on Neil’s waist, a silent warning to let it go for tonight. They’d revisit this when they weren’t running on frayed nerves and exhaustion. When Andrew could finally get the point through Neil’s thick skull without losing his control—unlike tonight.
Neil nodded against Andrew’s chest, the warmth of his breath steadying against Andrew’s skin. His silence wasn’t surrender—it was trust. Trust Andrew had never asked for, but that Neil gave him anyway, folding into him with a quiet acceptance, as though the fight and the distance hadn’t happened at all.
Andrew let his hand rest over Neil’s, his thumb brushing gently across the back of his knuckles. The tension in Neil’s body ebbed with each passing second, leaving him pliant and calm in Andrew’s hold. Slowly, Neil’s breathing evened out, soft and steady against Andrew’s collarbone. Sleep claimed him with a quiet finality, as though this moment was safe enough to let go.
But Andrew stayed awake, his fingers still curled protectively over Neil’s. The room felt heavier tonight—not stifling but weighted with everything left unspoken between them. Yet with Neil here, nestled close and breathing in time with him, that weight felt less like a burden and more like a reminder of everything Andrew couldn’t say aloud.
He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Neil as he adjusted the blankets around them. His gaze drifted down, settling on Neil’s face, half-hidden against his neck. Andrew’s chest tightened at the sight.
Lowering his head, Andrew pressed his lips to Neil’s hair, the touch so light it was barely there, and closed his eyes. The chaos of the night would still be waiting for them in the morning; they’d have to face it, talk about it. But for now, Neil was here—breathing, warm, alive.
Andrew’s grip on Neil’s hand tightened, anchoring them both in the stillness of the moment. It wasn’t perfect—nothing ever was—but it didn’t have to be. Andrew let the rest of the world fall away. For tonight, this was theirs—and he wouldn’t let anyone take it.