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Fox Tower is quiet tonight. Both Andrew’s and Neil’s injuries are too fresh and make it too difficult to drive, so Aaron and Matt have been alternating attending night practices with Kevin, leaving Andrew and Neil alone in their dorm until he returns after midnight. It should be relaxing, but it’s miserable, since Neil would give anything to be on the court right now.
It’s only Thursday—six days since the Ravens game, five days since Andrew had surgery, four days since he was released from the hospital. Neil hasn’t even made it a full week and is already going stir crazy, sick of the way his body hurts with every breath, frustrated that there’s nothing he can do to quicken the healing of bone. Andrew at least gets to start light physical therapy once his sling comes off; all Neil can do is wait.
He finds himself unable to even think about homework tonight, so he paces back and forth across their room, casting occasional glances at Andrew. He’s propped up on the couch with a pillow under his bad arm to take the weight off his shoulder, a notebook across his lap as he finishes up some reading for class. He doesn’t look at Neil, but Neil knows Andrew is keeping tabs on him.
Five minutes of pacing later, Neil hears Andrew’s book close. “You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet.”
Neil turns to face him, careful not to twist his torso too far. Andrew looks bored, as usual, but there’s a thread of annoyance across his expression that means he really does think Neil should sit down.
“I can’t run right now, this is the best I can do to keep moving.”
“I think you walk plenty of laps during practice,” Andrew counters. He tosses his notebook carelessly in the general direction of his bag, then motions to Neil. “Sit.”
Neil hesitates a little but ultimately won’t refuse an invitation from Andrew. He uses the arm of the couch to lower himself down carefully on Andrew’s good side, breathing through the pain until he’s settled. He takes a second to catch his breath before glancing at Andrew, who’s watching him with a heavy gaze.
Andrew shifts to face Neil, so that he doesn’t have to twinge his shoulder when he turns his head. It’s a dance they’re re-learning with their injuries, and Neil shifts a little so he can face Andrew too.
“I don’t know how I’m going to manage being benched this long,” Neil admits after a brief silence, not for the first time this week.
“You don’t exactly have a choice in the matter, so you’re going to have to find a way to cope with it regardless,” Andrew replies. “Making your injury worse through exertion won’t help.”
Neil frowns. “I can’t be vice-captain from the bench. I have to be out there, helping Dan, not wasting away half our season.”
Andrew flicks his knee. “You’re not wasting it by recovering, just like you didn’t waste it when you sat out last year.”
Neil exhales, angry and stressed and tired all at once, and stares down at his lap. “I know. I just. I feel so useless. I can’t even help you.”
There’s a pause. “And what exactly do I need help with?” Andrew asks, an eyebrow quirked.
Neil shrugs, and then winces as pain crackles through his chest. “Fuck,” he breathes. “I don’t know. Anything. Picking stuff up, getting dressed, whatever you need. You helped me so much in March, I just wanted to be able to do the same.”
Andrew stares at him for a long time, either trying to dissect Neil’s words, or searching Neil’s face for an answer to a question, Neil isn’t sure. He’s content to wait Andrew out, and is rewarded for that patience when Andrew shifts closer and reaches out to grab Neil’s wrist with his good arm. His grip is tight but not painful, his thumb pressed firm to Neil’s pulse point.
“I will not say this again. I didn’t help you after Baltimore because I expected anything from you, Neil. I chose to do that because I wanted to. Don’t repay me for something that was never a debt.”
Neil blinks, a little dazed, but nods. “Oh. Okay.” He swallows, brushing the back of his knuckles against Andrew’s wrist absently. “Well I’m still here, if there is something I can do. Not because I owe you, but because I want to.”
Andrew eventually nods, releasing Neil’s wrist from his iron grip in favor of entangling their fingers. “Fine.”
Neil lets Andrew brush his thumb in absent patterns against the back of Neil’s hand, alternating between tracing the scars he can reach and brushing along the outside of his thumb. The motions are repetitive and soothing, and Neil watches their hands, a mismatch of scars and bruises that somehow fit together.
“Can I take a turn?” Neil asks, looking up to meet Andrew’s eyes. Andrew tilts his head in a nod, so Neil continues, “Why did you stop smoking?”
It’s not that Neil minds, it’s just that he’s noticed. Andrew, after his surgery, has systematically been throwing away every carton of cigarettes he finds, and has been irritable in a way that feels unique to nicotine withdrawal. He’s good at hiding it—Neil knows this isn’t the first time he’s gone through withdrawal—but to someone who’s as clued in to Andrew’s attitude as Neil is, it’s been easy to see. Neil thought at first it was medical advice that Andrew was given to help his surgery recovery, but he doesn’t usually care what doctors have to say, so it has to be something else.
Andrew considers the question, his eyes dark in the warm lamp-light of the room. “Let’s call it an experiment.”
Neil frowns, confused. “An experiment in what?”
“In seeing if it makes a difference.” Neil’s expression must not convey any sort of understanding; Andrew’s jaw clenches, and he glances out the window over Neil’s shoulder. “Jean Moreau seemed to imply that a bad smoking habit would be enough to prevent me from stopping you from getting murdered.”
Neil has to take a second for his brain to process the direction their conversation has turned. He already knows Andrew and Jean had a miserable conversation when Andrew and Kevin went to LA, but hasn’t heard this piece of it. The fact that Jean seems to care enough about Neil’s continued survival that he’d warn Andrew off of smoking feels preposterous, but Andrew doesn’t lie to him, so Neil tucks that tidbit of information away to examine later. It only takes a few more moments for everything to slot neatly into place in Neil’s mind, and he squeezes Andrew’s hand as he inhales, understanding flooding his system.
“They attacked you first, Andrew. I didn’t get hurt because you couldn’t reach me, I got hurt because Lane decided to take a swing, that’s it. If anything, I’m the one who wasn’t fast enough.”
Andrew pinches Neil’s palm, not quite disagreeing, but not fully accepting Neil’s words either. “It’s an experiment for a reason. It’s only a matter of time before someone tries to break a bone of yours with a racquet again, so I’ll have my results soon enough. If he’s wrong, maybe I’ll pick the habit back up.”
Neil huffs out a laugh, rolling his eyes and letting Andrew gently steer their conversation away from California, away from the Ravens match. “Fine. I promise I won’t skew your results by being extra antagonistic.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you could turn it off.”
“Maybe I’ll be more careful after this,” Neil counters, smirking. “I’d hate to miss even more games this season.”
Andrew scoffs and lets go of Neil’s fingers so he can plant his hand on the couch next to Neil’s hip, steadying himself and leaning in. “You are so fucking annoying,” he grits out, and then closes the distance and kisses him.
This, too, has had to change because of their injuries. Neil opens his mouth to Andrew easily, one hand reaching up to play with his hair, but he knows neither of them will be able to take it much farther until they’re a little more healed; Neil can’t lean in further without sharp pain, and Andrew still has one arm in a sling and no range of motion with his bad shoulder. Still, the heat of Andrew’s mouth against his is a familiar comfort, and Neil loses himself in it for as long as he can, ignoring the ache in his side as he sucks in a breath when Andrew kisses down to his neck.
They have to pull apart eventually, when Andrew’s shoulder protests too much and Neil’s brow is furrowed with discomfort. As they catch their breath, they eventually shift on the couch so that their good sides are pressed together, holding each other up, and Neil lets his shoulders sag as he relaxes more than he has in six days.
“Wouldn’t it be a better control for your experiment if I was as obnoxious as I usually am, though?” Neil finally asks, and just grins as Andrew rolls his eyes.