Work Text:
I desire violently—
and I wait.
- Anaïs Nin
Neil wakes up to a very white ceiling.
Fluorescent light blinds him temporarily. He blinks thrice, trying to adjust, a sigh tumbling from his mouth. This, in itself, draws attention to just how parched he is. Neil’s mouth feels as if it is full of cotton. He turns his head to the side, knowing there should be a table of sorts and hoping a cup of water will be waiting for him.
He is not prepared to see Kevin.
Kevin’s head is down, bottom lip bitten raw where it is pulled between his teeth. He’s scrolling through his phone—most likely perusing sports news stations for any updates after the match.
Fuck, Neil thinks, as the memory hits him all at once. The match.
In his mind’s eye, the fight plays as if on a reel. He sees Andrew hit the ground, before Winter and Williams start to close in to seal the deal. The court floor squeaks beneath his soles as he pushes himself in his direction, because Andrew is on the ground, Williams is raising his racquet, he has to get to him—
The blow had caught him off-guard. Tunnel vision prevented him from seeing Lane until it was too late; Neil fell roughly to the floor, everything in his chest aching. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that his ribs are broken: the feeling is familiar, the pain so excruciating it’s all he can do to not cry out. He kicks out a leg in the general direction he remembers her being last, and counts himself lucky when they make contact, her body falling over onto him. Unfortunately, it only makes the pain worse, and being beneath her means it’s a simple affair for Lane to get her racquet across his throat. She’s going to kill me, Neil thinks, scrabbling to get his fingers underneath to push the equipment away. His head is so heavy, and his ribs hurt like hell, and Andrew is down—
Voices sound from very far away. Neil probably hears his name called out, but it’s drowned out by the pain, and the singular thought that he needs to get to Andrew, needs to get up, needs to help him—
Wind swooshes above his head. Someone gets Lane off of him, and Neil inhales as much air as he can manage. He rolls over onto his side, clutching at his ribs.
A yell from much too close startles him, though it feels like there’s cotton filling his head. Neil’s breath shudders in his chest as he tries to open his eyes, squinting against the pain. There’s a sudden thud, and then a cry of pain. A flash of white above him has his eyes widening, and his gaze follows the line of a familiar 03 jersey to a less-familiar Raven black, held down on the ground. Wymack is there too, practically crushing Andrew in his attempt to pull him away. Referees surge in from every direction, all of them attempting to pull Andrew off of the Raven backliner.
“Andrew,” Neil breathes, though in the cacophony of the brawl it’s practically a whisper. Andrew’s eyes snap to him anyway, and even if Neil weren’t on the verge of passing out, he knows he would find no gold in them now. “Andrew, stop.”
If Andrew answers, Neil doesn’t get to hear it. Abby is there suddenly, crouched over him with a horrified expression on her face. Neil recognizes it; had hoped he wouldn’t have to see it again, after the last time she patched him together. He wishes he had the breath to apologize, but it’s taking everything in him to stay conscious.
“Neil?” Her voice calls, sweet and terrified. “Honey, I need you to stay awake, okay?”
He can barely attempt a nod, whimpering against the pain. “Ribs,” he manages, blinking heavily up at his team nurse. “A’drew?”
“We need to focus on you right now,” Abby says, gentle yet firm. Her hands are pulling at his chest armour, trying to get a hand underneath to check the damage.
“No,” Neil gets out, before turning his face to spit out a mouthful of blood.
“Neil—”
A sudden thud drags his attention from her worry. Neil blinks heavily, and nearly crumples with relief at the sight of Andrew. The blond is on his knees next to Abby, one of his shoulders drooping in an odd manner, the other gripping at his elbow. Distantly, he can hear Wymack and Abby talking—to them, he isn’t sure, because all he can focus on is the man in front of him.
He tries to reach an arm out, wincing at the way it pulls his muscles but needing to reach, needing to be sure—
“Neil,” Andrew’s voice is rough as gravel as he meets him halfway with what Neil is realizing is his good arm. His eyes roam over Neil’s form, evaluating the damage. He does not say anything more, but Neil can’t tell if it’s due to being witness to Neil’s pain or a victim of his own.
“Andrew,” Neil breathes, like a prayer. “Are you—”
“Fine,” the lie is instantaneous. Neil doesn’t have it in him to glare or call Andrew out on it. “Can you stand?”
Neil almost wants to ask Can you? He gives the slightest shrug of his shoulders that he can without jostling his ribs more than necessary. Andrew nods and shuffles over to get his good arm beneath Neil, trying his best to hoist him up. White-hot pain flashes through him, and Neil bites his own tongue to keep from screaming. Blood fills his mouth but he forces himself to try and get himself up, not wanting to force all his weight on a clearly-injured Andrew.
Thankfully, Wymack and Abby are there, too. They flank the pair as they shuffle off the court, Abby firing off questions that neither player can muster the energy to answer. It’s taking everything in Neil to put one foot in front of the other, his face twisted in pain with every step. It is only when the door shuts behind him in the sanctity of the locker room that he loses his strength, and promptly passes out.
He has no other memories between then and waking up. Neil can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not, but the startled noise from his side lets him know that he will not have a chance to wonder. “Neil,” Kevin says in a rush, pushing himself out of his chair to press up closer to Neil’s bed. “You’re awake.”
“To your dismay, I’m sure,” Neil quips, throat raw and voice scratchy as he does. Kevin glares at him before bringing a cup of water to his lips. Neil does not say thank you, despite knowing that raising his arms right now seems like a far-fetched and painful idea.
Once the cup is drained, he asks, “And Andrew?”
“You’re okay, too, in case you were wondering,” Kevin says. Neil has no patience for his dramatics, rolling his eyes. “Two fractured ribs. Your armour saved you.”
Neil had figured as much, but the confirmation still hurts: he knows by now that this means he’s out for the rest of the season. Even if they were to heal as fast as humanly possible, it’d only grant him one, maybe two matches. But exy is the last thing on his mind right now, so he asks again, throat still scratched raw, “Andrew?”
It’s telling enough that Kevin averts his eyes from Neil’s. He purses his lips, turning whatever the answer is over again in his head before finally spitting out, “Fractured clavicle. They’re debating whether he’ll need surgery now.”
The blood in Neil’s veins goes ice cold. “Surgery?” He echoes, incredulous. Andrew had fought Lane like that, had lifted Neil and half-carried him back to the locker room like that. “Can I—”
“No,” Kevin interrupts, all-too aware of what Neil is going to ask next. He at least has the decency to look pained by it. “Family only.”
Neil slumps back onto his bed. He hadn’t even realized he’d sat up in the first place, and his ribs don’t appreciate the movement. “Fuck,” he sighs, looking up at the ceiling. “Is he—”
“Conscious, last I heard,” Kevin says, reaching for his phone once more. “Nicky is blowing up the chat with updates. Here.”
Turning his phone over to Neil, he can see that Kevin hadn’t been lying. The rest of the Foxes are offering minimal commentary so as to not miss any news from Nicky. The last update had been twenty minutes prior: second doctor just got here, but it’s looking like surgery is the only option. twinyards are giving #murderous.
He grips the phone so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t crack. Neil hands it back to Kevin before he can throw it at the wall; he feels so helpless. It doesn’t matter that the relationship between Andrew and Aaron had improved enough to where Andrew would let him be in the room during this conversation: Neil should have been there. He was so angry with himself for getting hurt and being unable to do anything. All he wants is to be able to see Andrew.
He can only imagine what Andrew’s thinking right now. Surgery was probably the last thing he would want to go through, since it would require putting himself in the hands of people he didn’t know nor trust to take care of his body. Neil knows him well enough to guess that no matter what reassurances Abby or Bee could give him, this was one of the worst things that could possibly happen to his goalkeeper. Neil’s heart aches, deep in his chest.
“Neil,” Kevin is saying. The younger striker blinks slowly, before turning his attention back to him. “Andrew is going to be okay.”
“I know that,” Neil says quickly, because he does. This was Andrew, after all.
“Knowing it and believing it are not the same thing,” Kevin replies, and it’s enough to shut Neil up. The taller man sighs before falling back into his chair. Only now does Neil note the bruises littering his jaw and arms, though he has no idea how Kevin got them. “Andrew’s strong. And he knows Abby wouldn’t make him go through with it unless it was absolutely necessary.” He pauses then says, quieter, “Have some faith in them.”
There’s too much in that statement for Neil to respond to, so he says nothing. Instead he stares at the wall, and hopes that wherever Andrew is, he can feel that Neil is waiting for him.
The ruling comes through when they’re still at the hospital: Edgar Allen has been disqualified for the season, and Andrew has received a five-game suspension.
“This is bullshit,” Kevin and Neil seethe in tandem when Wymack delivers the news.
Their Coach scrubs a hand down his face, sighing at his players. “He tried to kill her.”
“She tried to kill Neil!” Kevin fires back, gesturing towards where he lay in the hospital bed. “Tell me this isn’t final.”
Wymack purses his lips, and Neil briefly wonders how he never put two-and-two together about their lineage. “Not yet, but it’s likely not that far off, either,” Wymack acquiesces. “This isn’t the time to focus on that. Andrew should be coming out of surgery any minute,” he says, with a pointed look in Neil’s direction. “I’m going to go ahead and assume that means you’ll be threatening me to go see him?”
Neil’s voice carries a lightness he does not feel when he says, “You know me so well, Coach.”
Any other day, he might feel bad about constantly being a thorn in Wymack’s side, but until he can see for himself that Andrew is okay, Neil couldn't care less. The older man sighs and nods before leaving the room, though he returns minutes later with a wheelchair for Neil. Together, the father and son help him into it, and Kevin is somehow thoughtful enough to throw a blanket over his legs. Whatever meds they’d pumped Neil with were at least working steadily, as his ribs only offer a dull twinge in protest at the movement.
Andrew’s room isn’t all that far from his own, luckily enough. A myriad of voices echo even from outside of it, so Kevin knocks on the door to announce their arrival.
Nicky is the one to open the door. His dark hair is tussled, likely from raking his hands through it over and over. His dark eyes widen at the sight of the trio, and it seems as if life finally seeps into him at their intrusion. “Hey,” he says, and it sounds so un-Nicky-like Neil nearly pinches himself. “Andrew just got back.”
“Sorry for butting in,” Wymack grunts. “Your vice-captain threatened me.”
Nicky chuckles, but it’s nothing like his real laugh, and Neil wishes he almost hadn’t heard it at all. He shuffles out of the way to let them through: Kevin pushing Neil and Wymack taking up the rear.
Four other people in the room make for a tight fit, but somehow, they make it work. Abby sends the three of them a quick smile as they enter; Aaron offers only a grunt in acknowledgement, his eyes unmoving from his twin’s form as Neil is rolled opposite him. A doctor is speaking quietly, explaining that the surgery was a success, and Andrew shouldn’t be seeing any complications. He would, however, be unable to play until after winter break—and even then, his voice made it clear that Andrew would need careful evaluation before being cleared.
“Good, that's — that’s good,” Nicky says, his breath coming out in such relief it’s a shock he doesn’t choke on it. He puts one hand on Aaron’s shoulder as if to stabilize himself. “God, Andrew…”
“Bad manners to use the Lord’s name in vain, Nicky,” comes Andrew’s cheerless drawl. His voice sounds as fucked as Neil’s had, and despite alerting everyone that he’s awake, his eyes remain closed. Neil hopes if he tries hard enough, his stare will bore a hole into Andrew’s cheek. “Water.”
It’s Aaron, surprisingly, who brings the cup to Andrew’s lips. Neil’s heart stutters in his chest at the first crack of hazel, even if it comes in the form of Andrew glaring at his brother. “I’m not good enough for a straw?” He asks. Look—
“Katelyn is against single-use plastics,” is the dry reply from Aaron.
“You are the worst brother in the world.”
“I’m glad you’re alive, too.”
Andrew scowls but lets the argument drop. The cup is emptied before long, but Aaron holds onto it even as he takes it away. Andrew turns his attention to Abby next, standing at the foot of the bed with the doctor. “What’s the damage, doc?”
The hospital doctor, like an imbecile, begins to recite what he’d just said, but is swiftly cut-off by Andrew’s louder, “Well, doc?”
Abby gives him a pointed look as Aaron scoffs, but goes on to repeat the doctor’s assessment anyway. Andrew listens with his signature bored expression on his face, though Neil doesn’t miss the way his fingers clench around the sheets. Look at—
“Guess it’s a good thing you picked up a bunch of strays,” Andrew says once she’s done, turning his gaze on Wymack. Their coach looks unamused at the jab, but doesn’t comment. “What about our resident junkie?”
He doesn’t look at Neil when he says it, only jabs a thumb in his direction. It’s infuriating. Frustration bleeds white-hot through Neil’s veins. He wants to scream, wants to throw something, wants to kick everyone out of the room so that Andrew won’t have a choice but to properly acknowledge him. Neil is worn out from the day, feels the grip on his control start to slip. All he wants—all he needs—is Andrew.
But Andrew won’t even deign him with a glance.
“Month and a half off the court, officially,” Kevin answers. “Depends on how he heals.”
Andrew only hums, dragging his gaze to the ceiling. “Is it too late to say good game?”
“Andrew,” Nicky chastises, but there’s no heat behind it.
“Forgot I’m in a room of stickball puritans,” Andrew huffs, sliding further down in his bed. Over his shoulder, Neil can see Aaron sending a quizzical look his way, but he can’t tear his eyes off the goalkeeper. “I’ve had enough of your stench for today. You can all leave now.”
He says it the same way he does every time he speaks to anyone that isn’t Neil: deadpan, monotone, uncaring. Like it couldn’t matter any less. But Neil knows Andrew better than anyone else; the bags under his eyes are enormous, and his skin is sickly pale. The rise and fall of his chest is timed, counted, purposeful—it’s taking everything in him just to stay conscious.
Neil can’t tell if anyone else realizes it, but they’re all, at the least, attuned enough to Andrew’s general demeanor not to fight the dismissal. They file out slowly, wishing him well and promising to visit again in the morning. Kevin reaches for the handles of Neil’s wheelchair as if to bring him with them. Neil bats his hand away without even a glance. He can feel the glare Kevin sends his way, but Neil couldn’t care less about him right now.
Look at me.
The feeling burns hot in his chest; a forest-fire filling his lungs, torching his skin, licking away at the last of his composure.
When the door closes behind Kevin, Neil’s self-control is set ablaze.
“Andrew.”
His voice is hard and gravelly. Andrew’s name is kindle on his tongue, flammable and ignited. Neil doesn’t think he’s ever felt so far away, despite them only being inches apart. A field of flame separates them here, but Neil can’t tell who’s holding the match.
“I thought I was pretty clear,” Andrew says, stare locked on the wall across from him, “that I wanted everyone out.”
“I was under the impression that I don’t fall under the category of everyone.”
Neil can’t keep the bite out of his tone. Andrew rolls his eyes. “Your ego has ballooned far more than I could’ve ever predicted.”
“Stop making me feel so special then,” taunts Neil.
It doesn’t work. “You aren’t special. You’re barely even interesting now,” the blond says, closing his eyes.
And Neil—is tired. He’s so, so fatigued: from the past 24 hours, from the past 24 minutes, from the past 24 seconds of watching Andrew spread kerosene around them.
His ribs scream at him in protest, but Neil cannot find it in himself to care. He musters all the strength he has to push up on the arms of this stupid fucking wheelchair, feet wobbling to the floor as they try to hold his weight after hours of disuse. The blanket Kevin had thrown over him falls to the linoleum without acknowledgment. Neil’s left hand moves to the edge of the bed with great effort to keep him upright, and before he can think better of it, he places his right just an inch from the other side of Andrew’s head. The cotton beneath his fingers is soft, tired and worn. Neil can’t tell if it’s the exhaustion or the fading medication that has smoke tendrils lifting from where his fingertips touch the pillow.
“Don’t,” he says, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, but still sounding so much like his father it nearly makes him sick. “Will you just look at me already? Why won’t you look at me?”
“Is there anything to see other than a broken boy?”
“Not more broken than the one I’m looking at right now.”
Honey spills over him then, dousing the fire. Their faces are so close that Neil thinks he could count each fleck of green and brown in that familiar molten gaze.
The feeling that runs through Neil is akin to being electrocuted, rebooted, as if he’s finally himself again. It doesn’t matter that Andrew is glaring at him, mouth curled in a snarl. All that matters is that his eyes are on Neil.
“Hi,” Neil greets him, unable to keep the vicious smile that tugs at his lip at bay. He’s long since stopped caring about showing Andrew the reminiscents of his past; Andrew has never flinched away from it, anyway.
“I hate you,” answers Andrew. One of his hands comes up to curl around the back of Neil’s neck, but his grip is looser than usual. Sparks crackle and flicker where their skin meets. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting your attention,” Neil replies truthfully. “Is it working?”
“It’s annoying.” Andrew’s fingers dig in harder, blunt nails cresting into his flesh. Neil can recognize it for the sign that it is: here, real, yours.
“Last I checked, you didn’t have a problem with that.”
“And last I checked, you had multiple broken ribs and a sincere lack of survival skills.”
The anger cools. The fire snuffs out. A charred field lays before them, but Neil wades through it, smoke filling his lungs. “Can I lay with you?”
He expects Andrew to say no. He expects Andrew to push him away, to tell him to go back to his own room, to deny him. But the look Andrew’s giving him says those are all the last things on his mind—says that he needs this just as badly as Neil does.
Neil would never describe them as clingy. Would never categorize them as the type of people that have trouble being apart. Being with Andrew is simply a matter of living; of remembering who he is. They’d held twin knives to each other’s bodies, expertly carving out the skin, removing the flesh, spreading the ribs. Home may be a place, yes, but it is just as much the spot between Andrew’s organs made solely for Neil. Cushioned in blood, wrapped in sinew and viscera. Tendons coiled around him to keep him warm. A matching cavern sits in Neil’s chest, tailored perfectly to Andrew’s liking.
Andrew removes his hand to grip the handrail. His eye twitches in barely concealed discomfort as he shifts to make room for Neil. Neil’s limbs scream in protest as he pushes up and into the bed, his own expression twisting at the pain that strikes up from his ribs. He can feel Andrew’s eyes on him as he settles at his side, a deep, stuttering breath pulling out of him.
The medication has worn off, but Andrew’s presence is its own antidote. Neil longs to be able to lay on his side, to properly wrap an arm around the man he’s grown to call his lover, but settles for the simple matter of being able to touch from shoulder to sole. Andrew’s ankle wraps around his, slow and careful, socked feet tickling at the bare skin of Neil’s calf.
Neil turns his head, neck cracking with the movement. From this angle, he can watch as Andrew drags his stare up from Neil’s torso to his face, pale blond eyelashes kissing the tops of his eyelids as he meets Neil’s eyes. Neil licks at his lips, unable to keep his gaze from flickering between that soft honey-brown and chapped pink.
“Hi,” he repeats. Neil raises his left hand leisurely, giving Andrew the chance to pull away, but the man only presses closer. Heat bleeds through the thin cotton of their twin hospital gowns. Andrew’s jaw is soft when Neil’s palm settles against it, thumbing at the sharp curve.
“You are such a nuisance,” Andrew says with no heat behind the words. “Allowing Lane of all people to take you down? How did you even let that happen?”
Neil flicks his gaze away for a moment, but Andrew is quick to dig his toes in to bring it back. “I was distracted,” Neil admits, pulling his lip between his teeth. He hesitates before adding, “They went after you.”
“We knew they would,” Andrew states as if it were a fact. “They think he needs to be avenged.”
The name goes unsaid, but neither of them is so inclined as to speak it into existence ever again. Neil shakes his head. “That doesn’t make it right. You went down. You could’ve—”
Andrew cuts him off. “But I didn’t. Eyes up, Captain.”
Mocking or not, the name makes Neil flush. He takes a moment to calm down before asking, “Does it hurt?”
It’s a wonder to watch Andrew’s mouth snap shut, like he hadn’t expected Neil to ask. “Yes,” he answers truthfully, shifting slightly. He looks down at his arm, encased in a sling, before meeting Neil’s eyes again. “You?”
Neil can’t help himself any longer. “Yes. Kiss it better?”
Andrew’s mouth twitches, tipped towards the edge of irritation, but his stare has already locked onto Neil’s mouth. Neil cranes his neck down to meet him halfway, and lets Andrew kiss the sting of pain away. The world around them fades: the bright fluorescent lights, the sour sterile smell, the pulsating ache from within his thorax. Neil trades it all for the feel of Andrew’s mouth on his, allowing the comforting flame of his infatuation to lick away at and burn the remnants of this horrible day.