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Neil’s familiarity with the buzzing sound of the tattoo gun was from one Andrew Minyard. It was a steady, rhythmic thrum, the sound of controlled pain and measured permanence. Andrew had admitted one quiet night that he found it comforting and how… in some way… the black ink on his skin was an assertion of control.
Andrew was twenty-six now, five years past the dizzying, chaotic victory of the National Championship. The world had quieted since graduating, trading the constant high-stakes adrenaline of the mafia overviewing the Foxhole court for the measured, predictable life of professional athletes. Besides, Bee had said it was good that he was expressing himself and well… reclaiming his body.
Both his forearms and his entire left arm crawling up to his neck was a tapestry now. The artwork was dense, starkly black against what Neil often called his translucent complexion, eschewing any hint of the texture of scarring—color was dark, never in any color. Andrew’s collection was an homage to the illegible to most of the jocks that surrounded them. He filled his skin with imagery. Most taken from classical myth and literature: the frantic, desperate face of a woman turning to stone, a hydra curling up his shoulder, and a maze with no discernible entrance or exit. A few stylized knives, black against his skin, were scattered among the chaos. The artwork crawled up his forearms, creating dense, competing scenes that effectively masked the faint, jagged lines of old self-harm scars. He still wore the armbands, of course. They now were not worn to hide; that protection was etched permanently in his skin. They were now about control and choice.
Neil Josten recently had been watching the process of Andrew’s full and have sleeve with a fascination that made the blond pause if he thought about it too hard. On the run, he knew Neil had never considered permanence; everything in his life had been a temporary stop. But when they signed their professional contracts to the Seattle Scorpions during Andrew’s second year pro and Neil’s first—a package deal, naturally—and moved into a shared apartment just off the coast with their two absurdly named cats, something had seemed to shift. Of course it had. Long distance was awful. And now, permanence was no longer an idea, it was very very real.
Neil Josten, usually hovering near the coffee machine or wrestling with the cats that now ruled their apartment, with the TV perpetually on the Exy channel. Neil, the master of running and disguise, had always been defined by impermanence.
Now, with Andrew he was slowly making himself a home. A permanent one.
It was during their second year with the Scorpions, on a rare free Friday night. Neil had tagged along to Andrew’s parlor. The artist, a perpetually bored woman with arms like illustrated scrolls, knew Andrew’s preferences down to the perfect shade of stark black and touched him as little as she could.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Andrew warned, his voice low, clipped. He was leaning back in the chair at the artist’s station, his left shoulder being meticulously shaded.
Neil pulled his gaze away from the needle, focusing on the gold of Andrew’s eyes and the silver bar through his brow. “Like what?”
“Like you’re considering joining me in this spectacular display of grand life choices.”
Neil shrugged, his shoulders flexing beneath the worn material of his t-shirt that was surely half of their ages. “I’ve certainly made worse.”
“What would you want?” Andrew’s observation was accurate, as it usually was when it came to anything Neil. It wasn't a judgment. He knew Neil had been mulling something over for the past several weeks quietly. More-so in the past few days.
Today, Andrew was simply getting touch-ups on a snarling hydra that wrapped around his shoulder.
“What if I get a fox paw? The outline of it,” Neil suddenly said, the words clipped and definite.
Andrew paused, watching the shadow of a smile flicker across Neil's face.
“Junkie.” He reached for his phone on the small table just because he couldn’t look at the look on Neil’s face anymore. “Put it on your lower back. Make it a tramp stamp. See how the press reacts to that.”
Neil’s smile grew slow, dangerous.
“I haven’t considered the placement,” He admitted and those words made Andrew’s eyes snap back to him. Neil met Andrew’s eyes, challenging him.
Andrew’s heart gave a sickening, heavy thud against his ribs. The bored, casual mask he wore dropped instantly. He stared at Neil, registering the absolute, terrible sincerity in his eyes. Neil was not joking. Neil, the walking trigger, would do the most recklessly idiotic thing if Andrew even hinted at a suggestion.
“187%,” Andrew grated, his voice strained for once with poorly concealed alarm. “It’s an observation on your lack of self-preservation, not a directive.”
Neil’s laughter was a soft, warm burst, easing the tension. “Relax, ‘Drew. No tramp stamps. Not yet, anyway.”
The design was finalized by the same artist days later. It was simple: a thin, stark outline of a fox paw, nothing more. It was placed discreetly, just above the smooth, prominent bone of Neil’s right ankle joint. He didn’t feel the needle which he had to guess was the positive effect of the nerve damage that peppered his scars. It was placed on his right leg—the one Nathan had promised to start hacking off piece by piece years ago in Baltimore. It was his anchor. It was staying. This was permanent.
(Andrew usually took the time to kiss the ink when they were in bed however he would rather die than actually admit it)
Neil’s second tattoo was planned. Because he was a meticulous asshole.
It was six months later. Andrew was out of town for a weekend charity event he’d been forced into by their team’s PR head—a woman in her late 40s who took none of their teammates shit. Neil went to the parlor alone to see Andrew’s artist.
This time, he went to the parlor alone. He’d planned it for weeks, designing a solid silhouette of the one physical object Andrew had ever given him with an explicit, immovable command attached.
The Columbia house key.
It was the key Andrew had handed him with the cold, immovable command: stay. It was the quiet, brutal end to all his running, the single most valuable object he had ever owned.
The artist worked on his left side, on his ribs. The placement was deliberate, framed horizontally between a thick, raised rope of scar tissue left by a knife and a rough, textured strip of road rash from jumping out of a car.
He managed to keep it hidden for a week, letting the tender skin heal. Which wasn’t necessarily hard; between his occasionally dormant sexual drive and with how usually changed into his compression gear in one of the shower stalls then got into the rest of his uniform in the locker room with Andrew and the rest of their team.
He revealed it late one Tuesday night. They were stripping down for bed, the muted glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows. Neil pulled his shirt over his head, letting it fall forgotten to the floor, and turned his left profile toward Andrew.
Andrew froze instantly, his hands suspended mid-air above his waistband. He didn’t blink. His gold eyes, usually so guarded and distant, focused entirely on the small, black shape imprinted on Neil’s ribs. The silhouette of the key, an echo of the real one looped on his key ring, was a punch to the gut.
A soundless breath caught in Andrew’s throat. His composure threatened to shatter, replaced by an unsettling, vulnerable stillness. He looked, for the briefest moment, profoundly wounded.
“188%,” Andrew grunted, the words laced with a dangerous mixture of anger and something fragile that Neil couldn’t quite name. However he couldn't manage to avert his eyes.
Neil’s grin was soft and predatory. “I thought you might appreciate it.”
Andrew did not reply verbally. Instead, he crossed the several steps separating them, grasped the back of Neil’s neck firmly, and kissed him with a desperate, crushing intensity that left no room for talk or thought.
Andrew had to retaliate. Neil had been a runaway, a shadow, a creature of temporary existence for twenty years, yet he had thrown away that foundation and permanently branded himself with Andrew’s key. It was a stupid, shocking act of total, unguarded dedication that had unfortunately caught Andrew completely off guard. And Andrew was not one to be outmaneuvered, especially not by the man with messy auburn curls, scarred tan skin splattered with freckles, and blue eyes brighter than they had any right to be.
So of course it was decided that he had to get even with Neil.
He went to the parlor the following week. He knew exactly what the counter-move had to be. If Neil was going to use permanence to declare his shocking surrender, Andrew would use it to declare his inescapable claim, locking down the one person he was slowly accepting he needed in his life.
He chose the single, definitive word and his tattoo artist blinked. It was the only word he would ever have on his body. However she got on with it without verbal question. Meticulously etched thick, swirling letters into the skin just above his inner elbow, where the bulge of his bicep sloped into the crook of his elbow.
The name, dark and bold, was positioned to peek out perfectly, just above the edge of the black armband he perpetually wore. A very much visual admission.
They were sitting on the worn couch after a late practice, sharing a bowl of aggressively salted popcorn. Andrew slowly rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing the raw, newly etched name.
Neil choked.
The popcorn fell from his hand, scattering across the grey cushions. King lunged for a piece immediately but Neil didn't move. He simply stared, blue eyes wide and devastatingly unguarded. He looked, Andrew thought with a familiar surge of helpless affection that made Andrew want to up the percentage. It was like he was looking at a miracle he hadn't believed in until this very second.
"Junkie," Andrew said, the word coming out rough and low, devoid of true scorn.
Neil looked like he was about to cry or, worse, say something profoundly sentimental. His mouth dropped open, silent and stupidly.
Andrew reached out, his fingers digging into the back of Neil’s neck, pulling him forward into a bruising kiss that allowed for no words, no further expressions of idiotic reverence. He swallowed Neil’s silent wonder, burying the shock and the sudden, overwhelming warmth that surged through his chest.
It was, as Andrew had anticipated, a long night.
The November Foxes’ annual monthly reunion was held in a private, rented room at a modern restaurant downtown. It was loud, chaotic, and aggressively familiar. Neil thrived on the energy, anchored by the knowledge that this family was in the same place for once. Over the years they had spread out; Renee on mission trips this year in Uganda, Allison in New York running her slowly growing fashion empire, Matt and Dan in some suburb near Pallametto with Dan as a co-coach for the Foxes, Nicky in Germany with his husband, and Aaron working in Chicago Medical Center with Katelynn. Andrew attended because, if Neil was going to be an idiot and provoke a snooty waiter, someone needed to be there to ensure the waiter didn’t survive the interaction. Not because he always sat next to Aaron and actually enjoyed listening to Nicky drone on about his and Erik’s favorite bakery in Germany or seeing how animated Neil’s got when catching up with the team.
The Foxes knew about Neil and Andrew being “a thing”—they’d been forced into that knowledge in the aftermath of Baltimore. And the fact that after Andrew graduated and signed with the Houston Red Hawks they each got phones with capabilities of facetime. But most still didn't grasp the fundamental gravity of their commitment. They didn't know about Neil's key tattoo. They simply fawn over his fox paw—which Matt was now seriously contemplating duplicating.
Renee was the first to notice the name on Andrew’s arm. She was talking about a mystery novel they’d read reviving typical ‘Andrew’ replys—dry and intense. As he reached for a water glass, the name, bold and black, briefly peeked out above his armband.
Renee didn’t pause what she was saying, but a subtle, knowing warmth entered her eyes. A tattooed name could mean a lot of things. She simply nodded, a gentle smile touching her lips, continuing to discuss the author's use of red herrings. She was happy Andrew was finding ways to express his internal landscape she knew was so vast. And well, she was happy for the couple in turn.
Then, Allison Reynolds saw it. She was mid-gossip with Dan when her eyes landed on the single, calligraphic name on Andrew’s arm. She stopped mid-sentence, her gaze freezing on the name.
"Oh, absolutely not," Allison hissed, the quiet venom in her voice drawing the immediate attention of the table. "Andrew, is that another man’s name tattooed on your arm?"
Her tone was instantly accusatory, laced with years of distrust. She whipped her head around to glare at Neil, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows drawn into an expression of furious pity and outrage. Are you just okay with this?
Neil, utterly confused, just shrugged, “Huh?” Only made the blonde’s cheeks redder.
Most of Allison’s rants were lost on him anyway. But that was most definitely the trigger.
Allison erupted, her voice dangerously loud in the private dining space. "Don't—Oh my god Neil—He's got someone else's name tatted! I fucking knew it! This vile monster is cheating on you! What did you expect? Did you honestly think he was capable of a single decent thing? He's a monster, a liar, a—"
The words flew like shards of glass: cheating, monster, asshole, bastard.
Renee quickly placed a calming hand on Allison's arm, but Allison was too far gone. She was heaving, her face turning a furious shade of red, attracting curious glances from the restaurant patrons outside their room.
The rest of the table reacted in predictable, protective panic. Dan’s face was a study in tight anger and genuine sorrow for Neil. Matt frowned, his eyes locked on Neil, ready to intervene. Nicky looked utterly bewildered. Aaron simply rolled his eyes, knowing this was typical Allison hyperbole. The upperclassmen, protective of Neil and perpetually suspicious of Andrew, fell back immediately into their old guard dog habits.
However at the old nickname Neil’s face hardened; monster. The name had been forcibly retired back in Andrew’s senior year. Which was entirely Neil’s doing.
Andrew watched the meltdown with a cold, almost detached amusement. He curled his lips into a crude, triumphant grin that only served to make Allison’s eyes narrow with more venom. She looked very much like a blonde snake wearing an absurdly expensive necklace.
The room plunged into a sudden, tense silence when Allison managed one final, desperate shout. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, Minyard?"
Andrew looked deliberately at Allison, then around the shocked, angry faces of the Foxes. His voice was low, laced with contemptuous pity.
“Did you forget your best friend’s name?”
The tension broke not with violence, but with Neil Josten’s laughter. It was a loud, warm, wholehearted laugh that bounced off the walls. Andrew felt the sound settle deep in his chest, a strange, grounding weight. He thought, briefly, that he might actually be ruined.
Allison’s wide, confused eyes darted between Andrew and Neil. Abram? Cheating? No. None of the foxes would do this. It couldn’t be.
Then, the pieces clicked into place. The full, long-forgotten, rarely used name of the man she was currently defending with a murderous rage.
Neil Abram Josten.
Allison silenced instantly, her face going from furious red to a pale, mortified white. Andrew rolled his eyes at her but didn’t allow himself to look at Neil who sat by his side. However his memory still showed him the bright smile he saw from the man in his peripherals.
Aaron, who had been waiting for the drama to clear, signaled to the waiter Neil had insulted twenty minutes prior.
“I’ll have a double shot of whatever you’ve got that’s strongest,” Aaron said, leaning back.
Later, outside, Allison cornered Andrew. She mumbled the required, self-hating apology into her shoulder bag under Renee’s watchful eye.
Andrew just crossed his arms, exposing the name. “I’ll be bringing up that pathetic performance for the rest of our lives, Reynolds.”
Neil giggled and said the rest of his goodbyes as Andrew slipped his hand into the waiting, familiar warmth of Neil’s hand. They turned and walked toward their apartment, already planning how to explain the new furniture damage the cats had inflicted to Aaron who was staying the night before flying back to Chicago.
But that explanation would certainly not be in writing. The only words Andrew would ever need were already written on his arm. And he was surely bringing it up again come Christmas at the Wymacks.