Archive of Our Own ^beta

Neil arrives in later than he wants to.

A class he needs attendance for takes up half his day, so by the time he's changed states and gotten out of the airport, he has to head straight for the court to catch the game.

It means he doesn't get to see Andrew until the players are out for their warm-ups, just the same as every other spectator currently in the stands.

It's a sold-out crowd, and most of them are already in their seats. The team is on a roll, and Andrew has become one of their newest stars with his impressive stats and dismissive attitude. The reporters hate it, but no matter how reluctant they are to deal with him, the fanbase continues to demand more of him.

He's started getting more time on the court, has moved from their substitute to the one they put in for the second half. Still, the roar is loud and excited when he walks out with the team's lineup, already gaining more favour with the crowd than their current starting goalie.

Neil smothers a private smile; he's being watched, and it makes him uneasy. The stares come mostly from those directly surrounding him, other partners and families from Andrew's team. Typically, Neil would have gotten his own tickets to avoid this exact scenario of sitting in this section. He takes a row far in the back, a cap to pull over his ruly hair and to try and cover some of his more distinguishable features, but this entire trip had been scraped together at the very last minute, and the game was already sold out before Neil could get tickets. 

So, here Neil is, using Andrew's guest allowance. Here he is, sitting amongst the rest of the guests, who are eager to gossip about whatever fresh meat they can get their hands on. Tonight, it's Neil, the newest and most interesting guest for the team's rookie.

The rookie who, by all accounts, isn't meshing too well with the rest of his team. So while Neil's presence is certainly noticed, it isn't exactly welcomed, either. It's not the first time Neil's visited one of Andrew's games, certainly not the first time the group around him has heard that he visits the cities for Andrew — he's been caught before, photos and comments on fan-forums, pointing out his presence whenever Andrew's on a homestretch. Still, it's the first time he's actually sat with them, in this sectioned area.

He keeps his expression as unfriendly, as unapproachable, as possible. He doesn't want to entertain small-talk or feed into any delays. Whenever he meets up with Andrew, they're short on time. He doesn't want to spend it trying to fend off curious fans or other guests, who want to ask him Are you visiting to talk to the team here? What other teams do you want to play in? Do you know where you're signing? Do you know which team you're going to?

He doesn't, not yet. But it won't be this one. Won't be Andrew's one. They've recently acquired two good, young strikers — there's no need for Neil to fill in a gap that doesn't exist, and won't for some time. They've already rounded out well, getting Andrew as their goalkeeper. This year will be a good run for them, on paper at least.

On the paper and on the play are two different things, but regardless, it comes down to this: they won't be needing Neil.

He'll play in any team, is the answer that he typically gives when he's interviewed back in Palmetto. After all, any pro-league contract signing is a lifetime guarantee. Quite literally. It's a deal for his life. He'll sign anything if it means he gets to keep playing, gets to keep living. He doesn't really care if it's the worst team, if it's the lowest-paying, if it's a bust of a year. It is, at least, a signing. A deal with the Moriyamas fulfilled.

But there's another answer, if he's pressed for it. When he's asked what team, in particular, if there could only be one? Who would you pick?

Andrew's. Of course, it'd be Andrew's.

I don't want to shoot against him, he'd said to some of the Foxes when he'd first let that answer slip, a few drinks down as they celebrated Dan's graduation.

You love shooting against him, had been the amused reply by Robin, standing by his side as Andrew went to the bar to stock up on some drinks for their table.

That's true too, of course. But this year, with Andrew in the professional league and Neil in his last for college, the difference in the team has been a feeling he hasn't settled with. He keeps looking behind at the goal, and he expects to see Andrew. He takes a lap around the court, and he expects Andrew to be by his side, a quip on his tongue when Neil speaks. He walks into the court, and he expects Andrew to be at his back, by his side — and this year, he hasn't been, and Neil has felt every single inch of distance like a physical pull on his being.

He walks into the dormitory, and he expects Andrew to be napping in their shared bed. 

He's still not used to missing him like this. So of course, he wants to be here, right here in Andrew's space. He wants to be out on that court, wearing the same colours, with Andrew at his back and their last line of defence.

This is as close as he can be, though. Sitting in Andrew's guest seat, using his ticket to sit closer to the court than he usually does when he comes to watch.

He's feeling restless. The result of watching the warm-ups, when he is stuck sitting in his chair, acting like he can't feel every stare that's being levelled his way. He doesn't look at any of them, though — all that matters to him is Andrew, who's taken to standing off to the side and stretching while their starting goalie deflects shots from the team back to them.

No one stands with Andrew. No one tries to talk to him or warm up with him. Not surprising; Neil's been able to pry some statements from Andrew about the team, which are mostly about their skills and the problems with their defence, but it comes down to the fact that there isn't actually all that much to say. Neil only really knows their names because he follows the team, not because Andrew has any interest in talking about them.

They probably like talking about Andrew, though. Of course. The people around him are certainly having a time talking about Neil, it seems.

He's got his focus locked on Andrew, but his eyes drift to the other team to watch the way they practice with each other. Andrew hasn't glanced that way once. He also hasn't looked up into the stands, either. He usually doesn't.

Watching the other team is a reminder of just how different the professional leagues feel from college games. He sees plenty of matches on television, but there's a big difference between seeing it live and on a screen. Their speed and power simply can't be stated through a few pixels. It's a whole step-up: the best of the best, head-to-head.

In their own way, these players have their lives on the line for each game, too. Maybe not as drastically, but each game is a personal strike on their stats. Which gives them their ranking, their cost, their future. It's not just a game that they can leave behind once they get their degree; it becomes their life, too. Each game is so much faster, so much more driven.

Neil can't wait to be out there, playing amongst it all. The Foxes are important to him, but most of the original team only tune into a game or two. Some of them message him about Andrew and Kevin's games, knowing they'll be able to get a good back-and-forth with him about it. Some of them will be back in town for the finals. By then, Neil will have a new team he's been drafted and signed to. A Fox, always a Fox, but he'll be something else, too. Something new.

Maybe it'll be with this team, the one set to play against Andrew's. He gets caught up in watching them, looking for strengths and weaknesses. Good offence. A decent goalie. Same problem as Andrew's team, though: holes in the defence that can be picked apart on the offensive.

It probably won't be this team. Which is a shame, in its own way, because they’re in the same division as Andrew’s, meaning they usually end up versing each other.

He brings his knuckles to his lips, his teeth grating against skin.

He could end up on a team that faces Andrew's. Or he could end up on the other side of the country, only crossing paths with Andrew when one of their teams has a roadtrip to cross conferences. A bigger timezone difference, a longer flight, making it harder to coordinate plans and days off.

When his eyes finally flitter away from the team warming up, he looks back to Andrew. Naturally, like Andrew is the only one in true clarity out there on the court, the only one who isn't just a potential rival or teammate. He's... all of it.

Exy can't be everything, Neil knows. He's learned.

And then, he realises, Andrew is looking back.

He doesn't look up in the crowds. Another thing the fans find great amusement in: everyone wants to try and be the one to get him to crack, to do something so drastic that he just has to look.

Now, he is. His eyes are locked on Neil as he stretches out his calves.

The stands around him have started to hush. Or that might be Neil's own senses, drowning out everything else, on affixing to Andrew.

His mouth dries. Andrew pushes into his stretch a little deeper.

Neil's pretty sure his knuckles are going to have indents from his teeth. Fuck.

He tries to play it off, and he lifts his hand and gives a small, taunting salute.

Andrew stares back, expression flat and seemingly bored.

To Neil, everyone else on the court is just a player: a number, a statistic, someone to pick apart the strengths and weaknesses of. To everyone else on the court, that's likely what Andrew is to them, too. They won't see anything other than that flat expression, and they'll think that Andrew is entirely unaffected by Neil's lazy salute. They won't care to think anything of it, really.

But to Neil, Andrew is— well. More than that. And Neil grins as he settles into his seat, pleased by the attention and the reaction he'd gotten from Andrew, ready to watch the game.

Actually, admittedly, perhaps for the first time in his life, he's kind of ready for the game to be over. He wants to meet up with Andrew already, properly, and head back with him to his apartment. Spend some actual, proper time with him.

He can only stay here for a couple of days. And Andrew has practice in the morning, and a flight to catch the day after. They don't have long to spend together. Not before Andrew has to go, and then Neil has to go, and then Neil's entire world is going to turn on its head when the offers and the picks are confirmed.

He probably won't be able to do this again: fly out for a weekend, just to catch a game. Being in the professional league is a whole other thing, and something with a lot more attention.

It's not like they're being secretive about each other. But Kevin's warned them that being out, that showing the media they're more than just college teammates, might affect Neil's offers and play-time as a rookie. He hated saying it, and the guilt had been obvious enough that even Andrew hadn't bothered with a retaliation. Because they'd known that he was right.

It's not like you have to hide, exactly. But just don't make it into something they can use against you, Kevin said. To soften the blow, he'd added, You'll show them you're good enough, eventually. And they won't be able to. But just the first year, that's... Be careful, is all.

Andrew is still adamant that there's nothing to show them, anyway.

But, well. He'd sent Neil the tickets within five minutes of Neil asking, along with the price of a plane ticket. Most importantly, most damningly, he'd been the one to look up into the stands and make eye contact with Neil — and, he's also the one to look away first.

Neil covers his grin back into his fist. The chattering of his section returns, hushed as they try to appear like they're not talking about Andrew and Neil, who have apparently become the most interesting thing to them in this game.

That's fair, he supposes. When the game starts, it's fun, it's fast, it's good, but, well. Andrew's not out there, so it’s not nearly as riveting to him as usual.

Still, Andrew’s team pushes hard, and they're up by one at the end of the first half. Neil gets up and heads for a vendor to get some food before the start of the intermission break, and he makes it back to his seat with a bottle of water and some hot fries before the intermission is done.

Andrew walks out on the court as the second half begins, and Neil finally sits forward.

The game has been good. Neil always enjoys watching and analysing Exy.

But it's been missing something, and it's been distracting enough to tug at him for the entire first half of the game, letting his thoughts wander a little more than they usually do. Now, though, he's entirely still and focused, watching as Andrew takes his place at the front of the goal.

He gives one lazy spin of his racquet. Neil feels like he could goddamn burn; it's like someone's just struck a match and they've lit him right up. Class and a flight are a tiring combo, but right now, he's never felt so awake watching Andrew handle himself with such ease.

The pressure of the game doesn't weigh on him. The statistics, the numbers, the money — it doesn't matter to Andrew, not really. Not like it matters for so many other players.

Their players are switched out, fresh new legs out on the court, but they've swapped them out for even more poor defence than those that'd been playing for the first half. Neil grimaces; Andrew is a whole wall on his own, but expecting him to be the saviour of the entire game is too much. He can make incredible saves, and his statistics are breaking fucking records left right and centre in his rookie year, but he's not completely unstoppable.

Even if Neil made a deal for it, he's not entirely sure Andrew would be able to shut down the goal in the professional league. Not yet, at least. He's getting used to the faster pace, and he's adapting fast, even if he's trying to act like he isn't.

He's trying very hard to make it seem like he isn't. Neil suspects it's coming down to the matter of Andrew's team being a somewhat ill fit for him: they've picked him up for his impressive stats, which means they expect him to hold leads or to defend when they need one, but they don't actually want to help him with it. They expect him to do it on his own. Which means Andrew's not exactly inspired to get better for them, or to really put in more than the bare-minimum effort.

He's going through the motions of the game because it's a better alternative than coasting along and doing nothing, but it's been a slow, frustrating backslide. It feels like Neil’s back in his first year in Palmetto, trying to make Andrew care at all about the game and for his skill.

There's not much he can do right now, though. There are only so many deals he can try to make, and this isn't something he can fix, not really. Andrew simply needs a team better than this one. He needs teammates he can rely on; he needs people who will listen to him, and pick up their plays, when he talks to them.

He talked a lot to their team in his last year at Palmetto. A lot to Neil, sure, to relay it back to the ones he didn't actually care to talk directly to. But more often than not, his voice would carry across the court, talking to his defence and playing with them. He worked with his teammates, putting some level of trust that they were competent enough to listen to him and do what he was asking of them. They put their trust in him every time, and they'd been damn-near unstoppable in his last year.

This year, it's certainly not going as smoothly. Their team is decent, but Neil doesn't have much hope that they're going to take the title this year. He wants it, fuck, he wants it, but... without Andrew, without Kevin, who are both game-changers, it's become a harder task than it'd previously been.

Now, though, Andrew's stuck being a game-changer on his own. He's silent in his goal — he doesn't communicate with the team at all, and they don't make any effort to try with him, either.

The thing is, these players are better than what Nicky had been, what any of their first-years had been when they were playing with Andrew. If Andrew told them to make a play, they'd probably be able to pull it off.

But Andrew doesn’t talk to them, and they don’t ask anything of Andrew, either. Other than saving their asses as their defence crumbles.

Their offence is weaker, this half. The other team is stronger. Andrew gets hounded as the shots on his goal rise, and rise, and rise. He deflects, fires back, but it's only a matter of time before one gets past him.

It takes eighteen shots on his goal, but it finally happens. Neil sucks his cheeks in as he watches Andrew turn to look behind him, staring at the blaring red.

The arena is in uproar. The game is tied, now, which always ups the tension. Neil doesn't quite hear any of it. He's too busy watching Andrew, taking him in amongst all of the chaos.

Sometimes, Neil secretly loved it when a goal slipped past Andrew. It'd usually work to fire him up, to get him to focus on the game, to start appreciating some more of the plays and taking an actual interest in it all. Neil would always smile whenever he saw a spin of his racquet, a hard hit against the wall or the floor, showing a type of demonstration that ensured a retribution, a promise: one slipped past, and Andrew wasn't going to let it happen again.

It'd be a shut-out, after that, every single time that Andrew gave that same smack of his racquet. One goal let in, and that's all they'd get from him.

Now, though, Andrew just turns back to the game. He doesn't smack his racquet. He doesn’t even turn it inbetween his fingers.

He doesn't turn and talk to his defence, who were basically leaving him to fend for himself during the last brutal fifty seconds of the game as the other team rained down with attempts on the goal. He just settles back in for the game to resume, but he's still not... interested in it, not really.

Neil chews on his cheek. They're not playing Andrew to his full potential, and they're not going to try, either.

There are rumours, anyway. Basically confirmed by Andrew's own lack of conversation about it all. The coach will probably trade him out at the end of the season: he's a great goalie, but his attitude with the team just doesn't quite work, as some of the insider reports say. It's very, very clear to see, out here in this game. It's like the team prepared to ship him off once he's done being useful to them, and now that he's let a goal in, they've decided his usefulness has decreased already.

Neil should talk to him about it more. Maybe they can line something up, going into the new season, and try to figure out the best teams that they'll be able to coordinate visits with. A team probably won't want to take both Neil and Andrew, not yet. They'll show their worth one day, worth the cost of having both of them together, making it impossible for one to be traded without the other. But for now, with Andrew still a rookie and Neil about to be one, they'll probably have to wait a couple of years for it to actually happen.

He sighs to himself. The game has already resumed once more, and he's just tuned out to most of it. He's uninspired to watch the team, really. He doesn't love watching the number of shots on Andrew's goal continue to go up without something actually being worth the cost of it all. Their offence has backed off, and their defence is already slack, depending entirely on Andrew to make sure the ball doesn't actually hit the goal. It's always impressive watching Andrew, the kinds of saves that he makes, but fuck. It's incredibly frustrating, too.

They manage a push into the offensive, and after a quick scuffle near the front of the goal, they finally manage to regain the lead. They manage to hold it — mostly thanks to Andrew.

Most likely, thanks to Andrew not wanting the game to go on any longer than it already has.

Really, they should be gracing Andrew with the MVP for the game — the shots on the goal versus the saves is yet another impressive Andrew-Minyard-rookie-year statistic that'll probably make some headlines. But Neil doesn't bother waiting around to see if it's actually awarded to him in the post-match: Andrew won't, so Neil won't bother either. He's on his feet before the final siren finishes going off, hurrying out of the stands and getting into the hallway before anyone decides that maybe he's more open to conversation than Andrew is. The cap on his head only does so much — especially after Andrew decided to stare right at him.

He has to try to smother down another smile. Worth it, at least.

Andrew texts him, thankfully quickly, short and succinct. Outside. B2.

He picks up the pace and heads outside, following the crowd for a little before splitting away from them. He finds the marker, remembering the vague location he'd been in when Andrew had picked him up last time.

He realises, with Andrew's ticket and as his guest, he probably could have slipped into the back halls. Probably could have followed all the other significant others and families to go see their players after the game.

But it seems Andrew hadn't bothered to linger with the team — by the time Neil headed down, Andrew could have already made his way to the car. And Neil figures he probably doesn't want any hold-ups, either. It's easier to pick Neil up from outside the arena rather than getting stopped by security and other curious players.

The game's over, and they don't matter. Andrew isn't going to spare any more time on them than he already has.

Neil's stomach does a little flip. Fuck, it's good to be back around Andrew — so close, now. He's missed him. So fucking much. They've had texts and phone calls and video calls, but nothing beats actually getting to see him, getting to touch him, getting to just be with him.

This year has kind of sucked. The next year might suck even more, with both of them on professional contracts. Especially if they end up in different conferences.

He sighs. Way to plummet his own mood. He tilts his head back against the wall and silently admonishes himself for it. Knock it off. You don't get a lot of time with Andrew — don't ruin this.

Andrew's car roars up to the curb with dramatic flair, stopping just shy of touching Neil, like Andrew had every intention to act like he was going to run him over and stopped at the last moment. Maybe he considered it — Neil's presence is such a last-minute change in the schedule. An act out of the desire to just get away, Andrew would perhaps assume. Neil's been struggling, and they know it. Neil's sure that Andrew's just been waiting for the moment he tries to run.

Maybe he considers this to be that moment. Even though it couldn't be further from the truth.

He opens up the passenger door and sits in the car, putting his backpack down by his feet. It's quiet, just the low hum of the engine. Nothing plays through the stereo: Andrew hasn't yet hooked up his phone to the aux.

"Hey," he says, more airy than he means for it to be. He lets his lips quirk as he adds, "Good game." Andrew stares at him. Neil's smile grows. "Well, not really. But you played well."

"Enough," Andrew decides. He puts the car in reverse and peels out of the parking lot.

Neil wants to lean across the console and take Andrew's face between his palms. He wants to feel him, touch him, hold him. Wants it all, with a sort of desire that is probably going to ruin him.

Andrew reaches for his phone and tosses it over to Neil without looking. "Pick one of the playlists already on there."

Neil grabs the cord and plugs in Andrew's phone, then easily navigates to Andrew's music app. He's got his phone on do not disturb, lots of the notifications filtering out, but Neil wonders if there's anything at all from any of his teammates.

Probably not, he figures. He can check, because Andrew doesn't really give a shit about what he does on his phone, but it doesn't really matter whether they do or don't. They'd left Andrew without a strong line in front of him, and no amount of let's get dinner are going to be enough to fix that problem.

He selects a random playlist, and it plays lowly through the speakers, filling in some of the quiet between them. Neil's glad Andrew's keeping the volume down, so he can hear Andrew's steadying breaths. Like he hasn't just played a whole intense game, like he hasn't just been working out, like he hasn't left Neil's side at all.

Neil locks the screen of Andrew’s phone and rests it down on his thigh. He doesn’t need to look at anything else.

"Anywhere you want to eat?" Andrew asks, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

They've got a small list going. Places Andrew is favourable towards, and others that Neil has looked into to check out when he's in the city. It's a modified tradition of what they'd do in the holidays — driving around, finding new places to eat, with Andrew ranking them on a scale of how good their desserts or milkshakes are. Neil's ranking is more just does it taste more or less like the tinned food mom would buy?

Not the most reliable scale. Lots of tinned food have plenty of nostalgia, and means restaurant food probably tastes better to him when it's worse. Andrew's been getting them into fancier places, higher budgets that usually promise better food and better privacy, but Neil's used to ducking his head down in seedy hole-in-the-wall kind of joints.

"How about we just order delivery?" Neil suggests. He reaches over to put his hand on Andrew's knee, an easy touch. He watches for Andrew's reaction, just to be sure, but Andrew just glances over at him and doesn't spare his hand a single glimpse.

"If we do that," Andrew says, looking back at the road, "then we aren't going to eat for another couple of hours."

Neil hums. His fingers squeeze Andrew's skin. "So be it."

"So be it," Andrew mimics, clearly exasperated. Like he hasn't been the one to look away twice, now. Like it's only Neil who's restless, eager to cover the space still between them.

"Drive-through, then," Neil compromises.

"And disappoint my nutritionist," Andrew says. "For shame, Josten."

Neil swats at his knee with a gentle tap. "Yep."

Andrew takes up the compromise, swinging through a drive-through as they get closer to Andrew’s apartment. He looks over at Neil, scanning him, but Neil just waves off the decision to him. He watches Andrew lean towards the speaker-box, the lights from the menu framing him, and Neil sits somewhere between the years of doing this and, what he hopes, the many years in the future of doing this, too.

As Andrew pulls up to the window to pay, he reaches over and flicks Neil's head.

"Stop that," Andrew tells him.

Neil goes to pull his hand away from Andrew's knee on instinct to deflect the flick, but Andrew grabs his hand and puts it back down on his leg — a little closer to his thigh, now.

Andrew passes the bag over, and Neil has to take his hand back so that he can rifle through it. He passes Andrew's food over to him, peeling back the wrappers so it's easier for him to drive with. Neil picks at the fries at the bottom of the bag.

"I think I prefer the ones at the arena," he decides.

Andrew takes a moment to respond, swallowing his current mouthful. In a tone that's so flat that Neil knows he's caught him by surprise, he says, "The ones there suck."

Probably fair to be sceptical — Neil typically has a one-track mind when he's around the court, and food usually sits as a low priority. He'd gotten better by Andrew's final year, usually having a protein bar to keep himself stocked with, but he's been backsliding a little on it this year.

Backsliding on a lot of things, really. This year has felt like one desperate scramble up a hill to try and keep up with everything. He's managed to come out the other side of it, or at least is close to doing it, but a few things have fallen wayside.

"They're not so bad," Neil says, giving Andrew a small shrug. "These have that reheated taste to them."

Andrew remains silent, but Neil can understand the judgment: there's a wrap in the bag that Neil is plenty free to grab if he wants to stop eating reheated fries.

He pops another into his mouth. The judgmental air in the car remains.

By the time they pull up to Andrew's complex, Neil's got the bag filled with their trash at his feet, and Andrew's hand on his thigh as he parks. There's a buzzing under his skin: it's been humming all day, but now it feels like it'll rattle his skin fresh from his bones.

He takes out his backpack and the trash with forcefully steady hands. Andrew locks the car behind him, then points to a dumpster for Neil to throw the takeaway bag into. By the time he circles back, Andrew's already got the elevator called down and is keeping his foot in the door so it doesn't close.

Andrew would probably pull his foot back and get the doors closed in Neil's face if he lets the eager? slip cheekily past his tongue. He bites it back down and slips into the elevator without saying anything.

His arm brushes against Andrew's as he sways naturally into his space. The anticipation builds, and builds, and they're so close, now, to having the proper privacy of walls and a door and a bedroom—

Andrew was right. If they'd gotten food delivered, it would have sat waiting outside the door. Maybe not the entire two hours: Neil's eager, and desperate, and he just wants his hands on Andrew. A slow build and a quick collide.

Maybe, if he was hungry, he would have gotten out of the bed and gotten to the door. But now, he lies in bed, an hour later since tumbling through the doorway, watching as Andrew scrolls through his phone and chews on some gum.

He's probably craving a cigarette. Even Neil is itching for one, but he hasn't carried any over the state line. Andrew gave them up a couple of years ago, and it seems to have stuck unless he's having a run of bad days.

"So," Andrew eventually says, cutting through the content haze they've both been lying in. "What's got you running, rabbit?"

"I wouldn't call it running," Neil muses.

Andrew's fingers curl through his hair, and then he gives one of the strands a solid tug to show how he feels about that response. "No? What is it, pray tell?"

"It's not running away, like you think it is," Neil says.

"You're pretty far from Palmetto, Neil, where you're meant to be. I'd call that away."

Neil turns over the words where you're meant to be.

Maybe. He's got a home with the Foxes. With Wymack. But the Foxes have also moved away, and his home is stretched out across phone calls and plane rides these days. It'll stretch out further, soon.

"Not for much longer," Neil replies eventually. In a week, the offers will come, and Neil will figure out where he's moving to for his first year in the league. If he gets signed, that is, straight into the professional league.

He should be. He knows he's one of the top guys on the list. It's more of a matter of when than if.

Andrew's fingers keep twisting through his hair, not too kind in their touch. Still, Neil tilts his head up towards it anyway.

Andrew can press him again with the same question — but what is it that has you running, whatever direction you call this?

The answer is, Neil's running to Andrew. Past and present. His future's coming fast, and this weird, turbulent year will come to an end, and then they have to adjust to whatever their new lives are.

Andrew doesn't press, though, and so Neil doesn't speak.

He's full, and sated, and should probably be close to drifting off. Andrew is — his fingers are moving more slowly as he scrolls through his phone, and his eyes are glazing over. It's no surprise. Andrew's napping habits have increased tenfold since playing in the league, between all the games and travel time.

Neil shifts on the bed so he's no longer lying pretty much wrapped up with Andrew. After a few moments, watching Andrew fight off sleep, he decides to sit up, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress.

Andrew makes a questioning noise, deep and sleepy, eyes slitted as he stares at Neil. Neil's heart clenches. He leans over and presses a quick kiss to Andrew's lips.

"Just getting some water," he mutters lowly, breathy words that are almost lost right there on Andrew's lips.

Andrew's eyes narrow a little further, sharpening. Neil gives him a lazy half-turned smile and leans back, not encouraging Andrew to follow, and he stands up from the bed.

He trusts that Andrew is tired enough that he’ll properly fall asleep. Whenever Neil slips back in bed, Andrew will wake up, taking a few moments to adjust to the weight in his bed again. Neil has a feeling that it will be a few hours from now, with Andrew hopefully in deep enough sleep that he barely wakes up and remembers to question it at all.

There's still a buzzing under his skin; a different kind. One that can't quite settle, even with Andrew within reach.

He can feel Andrew still watching him, so he keeps his movements as loose and lazy as possible as he slips out of the bedroom.

Andrew's hardly decorated the place. There are a couple of things that Neil's dragged with him before, but they're small things: framed photos and polaroids, mostly. A couple of glass figurines. It makes it easy to walk through the apartment without fear of tripping on anything, but it's bare-bones enough that it almost feels like it echoes each of his footsteps back to him.

Not the kind of place he liked crashing in when he was on the run. Too loud, too lonely, and not any good at being able to hide his smaller stature amongst furniture if he needed to hide out and escape without being seen.

But Andrew's place is a comfort, no matter how sparsely decorated it is. It's still Andrew, a piece of him, that welcomes Neil. It's not lonely, and there's no reason for Neil to hide here.

He heads for the kitchen first, keeping to his word of getting a drink of water. His waterbottle is somewhere in his backpack, which was left at the front door. Not for a quick escape, but rather just something he forgot about the moment he could get his hands on Andrew properly. He doesn't spare another thought to it now, either. He doesn't want to even think about it until he has to.

The backpack just has spare clothes that he can properly wear outside, and some things he can do on the plane. Otherwise, it doesn't really hold his life. He's got most necessities here, anyway. A toothbrush, phone charger, a couple of sweatpants because Andrew's usually drop from his hips if he tries to wear them. A couple of passports that he didn't hand over that he's trusted to give to Andrew — whether they're still actually in his possession, Neil doesn't know. It doesn't really matter. Until he gets Andrew a fake one to use as well, he isn't going to need them.

He downs a glass of water, refills, then slowly sips at it. He leans against the kitchen counter, and then, after a few quiet moments, heads for Andrew's balcony. This has a chair, at least. A recent addition is the second one that has accompanied it.

Neil sits down on the newer one — a different one entirely from the one already here, mismatched in style and colour, but one that doesn't seem out of place, either. A strange sort of pairing that seems to work. He tucks his knees into his chest and puts his chin on his knees.

The view isn't anything grand. It's just facing a parking lot and some other residential buildings. A couple of lights are still on, and Neil amuses himself by wondering what these other people might be doing at this time.

He wonders how often Andrew sits out here, looking out at this same view. Wonders if anyone looks out on his balcony and wonders what he's doing; wonders if any of them recognise that Neil is a different figure, out here, curled up on the new chair.

His fingers tap against the glass of water. He really wants that cigarette. Or, rather, he wants the smell of the smoke at the back of his tongue, filtering down to his lungs.

When Neil gets his own place, he wonders what his view will be. Maybe something just as plain and boring, in the middle of the mundane. That won't be so bad, he thinks. It will remind him of here, at least.

He wonders how many view changes they'll need to endure before they finally, properly, share the same one. Before they can have keys that are for both of them, not just a spare set and an agreement that they're welcome to use it at any time. Before they have a house that is their own, their own life, finally, properly, together. How many years is it going to take before that can happen, not just in the off-season and on breaks?

Sullenly, he sips at the rest of his water. The city continues its slow pace at this hour, and Neil observes it, feeling strangely adrift. Home is somewhere back in Palmetto, and somewhere right here — wherever Andrew is. Wherever he is given a key to enter and belong.

It might take a couple of years. Maybe a few. Before Neil's only house keys are the same copy as Andrew's, before he can merge the physical four walls he has with Andrew's being.

He's not sure how long he ends up staying on the balcony. But he hears the door behind him, and he tenses for a moment before he remembers where and who he's with.

He looks over the back of his chair, head tilted until the world turns on axis, and he sees Andrew in the doorframe. He looks ruffled and sleepy, thankfully like he's only just woken up and not like he's been awake since Neil slipped out of bed.

"Hey," Neil says softly.

Andrew grips the edge of the blanket he's got wrapped around himself to stop it from slipping. The night is decently warm; enough that Neil hasn't felt any chills since he's been out here. Still, Andrew remains persistently layered.

He expects, maybe, for Andrew to come sit out on the balcony with him. To sit in the other chair and sit in silence for a few minutes, their usual routine they used to share for so long on the dormitory rooftop, making its way here.

Instead, though, Andrew shifts again. He holds out his hand for Neil, beckoning him.

"Come inside, Josten," Andrew says.

Into the warmth. Into his arms. Into his home; a place made when the two of them are together.

Neil drops his head back down. The city still moves slowly in the view of this apartment, changing unnoticeably.

There will be a different view, one day.

He stands. Turns, takes Andrew's hand, and lets himself get pulled inside.