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The vibration of the phone against the granite countertop is a rhythmic annoyance drilling directly into Neil’s temple.
He isn’t concussed—Robin confirmed it twice before shoving him into her guest bedroom to sleep, and after he finally made it home, Andrew confirmed it a dozen more times by staring intensely into his pupils until Neil felt dizzy for entirely different reasons. But the dull throb behind his eyes is persistent, throbbing in time with the buzzing of his phone.
His thumb hovers over the red 'reject' button, contemplating what will happen if he just blocks Kevin. Sure, the peace would be instantaneous but so would be the consequences. After all, they will be playing against Boston SC in two weeks. Blocking the Queen now only means that when they finally meet face-to-face in the stadium for the match, Kevin won't cut him any slack.
Neil can already see the look on his face—anger, entitlement and the underlying worry that Kevin will inevitably bury under a mountain of yelling. And when that happens it wouldn't end well for either party involved.
Though he has already ignored the last three calls and declined several more before, Kevin is nothing if not a relentless asshole when he has a point to prove. Neil sighs and slides his thumb left, the ringing stops for a whole two seconds before starting again.
He glares at the screen as it lits up again, the sheer persistence of this man…
Ughh.
Neil isn't ignoring Kevin, not really. He just… doesn't want another scolding. Not now, not this early, and especially not when Andrew—
He glances at Andrew. Andrew, who is currently ignoring him. Andrew, whose phone is blissfully silent. Andrew, who definitely blocked Kevin’s contact the second he left the stadium last night and the others know better than to call him unless the world is ending.
So Neil is the only victim, especially since yesterday.
First, it had been their head coach, Williamson, whose thirty-minute lecture Neil barely survived. Then their team manager had called him regarding the ‘conduct detrimental to the team's safety protocols’ and the hefty fine now waiting to be paid in his mails.
It hadn't been even five seconds after that call ended that Wymack had called him. But the call had mostly consisted of the old man shouting for ten minutes until he ran out of breath and Neil finally got the opportunity to utter a word.
And then began the never-ending saga of calls from the upperclassmen and a mix of his few teammates—past and present (apparently they were his friends too). Fortunately or not, he hadn't received any call from his current team captain and their striker line up coach (which Neil is yet to decide is a bad or good thing) or his PR manager and Nicky (probably because it's still night time in Stuttgart) yet but that didn't mean his inbox isn't a graveyard full of unseen texts from the night prior.
Neil can’t think of a single time he’s had to deal with this many calls. Maybe last year, when he kissed Andrew on the court following their first ever Olympic gold, finally confirming to the world what their inner circle had known for years. At least back then, the noise from the influx of calls and notifications hadn't come with physical pain.
Now, every ring of the phone feels like a needle. Neil gives up on sitting upright and lowers his head, lightly pressing his cheek against the granite. The stone is biting and cold, a momentary, fleeting relief that seems to suck some of the heat out of his bruises and it feels kinda nice.
He closes his eyes, breathing through the throbbing, but the phone buzzes again. The vibration is so violent, that in his current position he can feel the device skittering across the counter, inching closer and closer to the edge. He stays still, watching it through one slit eye, wondering idly how many more calls it will take before it finally falls off the brink and meets the floor.
But the persistent thrum-thrum-thrum is a never ending drill. He can't wait for the fall anymore. He reaches out frustrated and finally slides his thumb to the right, showing mercy to himself—if he doesn't, Neil knows he's done for.
“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT! ARE YOU A KID PLAYING FOR THE FIRST TIME WHO CAN'T EVEN STRAP A FUCKING HELMET PROPERLY?!” He doesn't even get the phone to his ear before the inevitable starts as Kevin’s voice explodes into the room. “YOU’RE LUCKY YOU DIDN'T CRACK YOUR SKULL OPEN, NEIL! WHAT WERE YOU EVEN THINKING AIMING THE SHOT AT THAT ANGLE WHEN THE BACKLINER—”
Neil stares at the steam rising from the coffee mug in front of him. This is exactly why he hadn't wanted to answer.
Everyone in his life is currently hell-bent on dissecting his recklessness as if he doesn't already feel the phantom weight of it behind his eyes.
But the silence coming from the stove is the worst.
Andrew hasn’t uttered a single word to him since they’ve woken up. He hasn't acknowledged Neil's existence besides checking the wound for infection and replacing the gauze with a clinical, detached efficiency.
Neil’s hands shake slightly as he reaches for his coffee. Usually, they are masters of silence—it is their language, their comfort—but this is different.
The longer the silent treatment continues, the more the air in the kitchen seems to thin. Neil takes a sip, but it doesn't help the rising sense of anxiety. It’s becoming harder to draw a full breath, the guilt from the night before sitting heavy in his chest. He would almost prefer Andrew to yell like others; at least then he would know where the boundaries are today.
He looks at Andrew’s back, stressing the lines of his muscles shifting beneath the shirt as he moves across the kitchen, then back at the phone where Kevin’s tiny, tinny voice is still going on and taps the speaker icon.
"—cannot afford to be this careless, Neil! The season is at a critical point and your stats—"
"Kevin," Neil interrupts, his voice dry.
"If you keep getting benched for such stupid things—" Kevin’s voice sharpens, sounding more desperate than angry now. "Neil, you do know that you've been vied for the starting striker position on the US National Team this year, right? The Court Committee will reconsider that decision if you don't pipe down this hastiness of your—”
"I get it, Kevin," Neil cuts him off, his eyes flicking toward Andrew before returning to his hands.
"I don't think you do," Kevin snaps. "You need to fully understand what's at stake here—"
"I do," Neil says. "Thanks and bye."
Before Kevin can launch into another rant, Neil taps the red icon and ends the call.
With the line dead, the kitchen feels unnervingly empty. There is nothing left but the sound of the spatula hitting the rest and the low, steady thrum of Neil’s own pulse in his ears. He looks at Andrew, expecting the usual blank mask, but instead, he finds Andrew's lip slightly curled—not quite a sneer, but an incisive, bitter twist that makes Neil’s stomach flip. A flicker of a thought crosses his mind: Is he enjoying this? Watching Neil get dismantled by everyone else because he’s too angry to do it himself?
After yesterday, Neil had hoped…
But apparently, he was wrong.
"Andrew—”
Andrew ignores him, sliding a plate across the granite, the ceramic clink sounding like a final punctuation mark to the silence he is maintaining.
Neil looks at the stack of pancakes, topped with the specific arrangement of fruit that Andrew knows will make the meal palatable enough for him to actually finish it, knowing full well Neil’s appetite is the first thing to vanish when the situation is like this.
It is paradoxical compared to the coldness of the silent treatment paired with this amount of care. The weight of it makes Neil’s throat tight. He doesn’t pick up his fork. His gaze remains fixed on Andrew, waiting until the other man finally turns off the stove and moves to sit beside him, his movements languid and entirely too casual, still refusing to meet Neil’s eyes.
"Look at me," Neil says, his voice barely a murmur.
Andrew doesn't move for awhile but when he does look up, his gaze stays fixed somewhere near Neil’s shoulder, a deliberate refusal to bridge the gap.
His expression is a blank slate, but his eyes are dark—that lingering, cold fire from the night before hasn't quite gone out, just like Neil thought.
Neil takes a deep breath, this is his fault.
He opens his mouth to speak, but Andrew is faster. He points his fork at Neil, the gesture hard and final, followed by a pointed, aggressive cut into his own pancakes—a silent command to shut up and eat. Neil swallows his words along with a piece of strawberry. He picks at his food, forcing himself to clear the plate under that heavy, side-eyed scrutiny.
Once he's finished, he clears the plates, while Andrew disappears into their bedroom.
"I'm not taking them," Neil says, watching Andrew return with the small plastic bottle.
Andrew holds the medication up once he is within arm's reach, staring him down with a look that would make anyone else flinch. Neil keeps his eyes on the anti-inflammatories the team doctor prescribed for the swelling, then looks back up into Andrew’s face. A silent challenge, a line drawn in the sand, waiting.
"I'm not taking them, unless you actually speak to me." Neil repeats, forcing the timidness out of his voice. "You can’t just feed me and medicate me like a stray you found in a dumpster, Andrew. Talk to me.”
Andrew doesn’t move. He doesn’t even huff the way he usually does when Neil is being particularly dense. Rather his gaze only intensifies until it starts to feel like he’s looking through Neil, dissecting a difficult puzzle he is considering throwing away. The tension stretches between them, thin and taut. The only sound in the room is the distant, indifferent hum of traffic outside the window.
Neil feels his patience fraying, his heart-rate picking up speed.
"Drew," he prompts, his voice dropping an octave, softened by a plea he knows better than to put into words.
"You are a twenty-six-year-old man," Andrew finally says. The words sound like they are being dragged over gravel. He doesn't even look angry anymore, just exhausted. "Not a child who thinks holding his own health hostage is a valid negotiation tactic.”
Neil feels a wave of relief wash over him at the sound of Andrew’s voice. He would prefer scorn over that awful, hollow silence any day. Even if it means…
"It got you to say something," Neil counters, though a sharp pang of guilt twists in his gut at the look in Andrew's eyes.
"Take the pills, Neil. I’m not going to argue with you about your inability to follow basic medical instructions. Not when I spent the night wondering if you were even going to wake up.”
Neil closes his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath, the air suddenly feeling too thin. He hates himself for being the reason Andrew had to spend a single second in that particular brand of darkness.
“I'm sorry," Neil says, the exhale jagged in his chest. He tries to make the words carry weight, but under the heavy pressure of Andrew’s stare, they feel like scrap paper. “It was my fault and I'll make sure there won't ever be a repeat of it. It's just…”
He pauses, his mind racing back to the court, the roar of the crowd, the suffocating heat of the game. He starts pacing. "The pressure was too much. We were nearing the second half and were two points down. All I could think about was what if Ichirou— I… I know, now, he won't bother watching, especially the mid-season games. And even if he does, he isn't Riko. He has common sense. I realize that—or well, Robin made me realize it—but I get it. I understood I was being an idiot.”
Neil stops when Andrew’s eyes stay stubbornly pinned to the gauze at his temple, looking at the damage, clearly not listening to the excuses spilling from Neil’s lips. Neil feels lost, uncertain how else to put his fears into words, especially now in hindsight when they really do feel stupid and irrational saying out loud.
“Say something?” Neil pleads. “I know you're mad and I'm really sorry. But talk to me? I can't— Andrew. I didn't mean to—”
He cuts himself off, the words tangling in his throat. He wants to say I didn't mean to make you watch me get hurt, but he knows that honesty will only make things worse.
"You didn't mean to, or you didn't care?" Andrew demands, finally meeting his eyes when Neil falls silent. "You spent half your life running from people who wanted to break your bones. Now you’ve decided to save them the trouble by doing it yourself. What else could be the reason?” he asks with a deliberate calmness, which is worse.
Neil looks down at his feet. “I was—”
"Being stupid," Andrew snaps, the petty edge finally breaking through the ice. He steps forward, setting the pills aside as he plants his hands on either side of Neil on the counter, caging him in. "You have spent eight years playing this stickball and yet, you still act like you are on borrowed time.”
Neil winces, realising that Andrew isn't just 'mad'. He is mourning the peace they have built over the years, the tranquility of a safe haven Neil just gambled with.
"I'm not trying to go back there," Neil says.
"Then stop acting like you belong there," Andrew retorts. He doesn't look away, forcing Neil to hold his gaze. "You think everyone is calling to lecture you? If you do, it may occur to you as a surprise that you have enough of a conscience to know the reason they are calling without me needing to spell it out. I had to watch from that goddamn goal while you took a racket to the head. If you wanted to see how much damage your skull could take, I should have let Rik—”
"No. Stop. No," Neil breathes. He doesn't even realize he’s moved until his hand is hovering in the space between them, palm out—a physical barrier meant to catch the words before they can fully leave Andrew’s mouth. He can't let Andrew finish that sentence, can't let Andrew do that to himself.
Andrew’s jaw snaps shut, letting out a harsh breath. His eyes are wide, fixed on Neil’s hand.
Neil’s heart hammers against his ribs—not with fear for himself, but with panic for the man across from him. Andrew is lashing out with the cruelest jab he can find, but the strike is a self-inflicted wound. By invoking the ghost, by suggesting he should have let it happen, Andrew is digging into his own marrow. Neil knows he’s excavating the old terror of what if he had been a second too late back then, and the bone-deep fear of failing to protect Neil now.
He is hurting himself just to make Neil feel the weight of his own recklessness, and Neil can't stand to watch it.
"Don't," Neil says, his voice raw. "Don't say that. You don't mean it.”
He looks at Andrew and sees the way his whole body is locked, his knuckles likely white where they grip the edge of the counter. This is what five seconds of disregard on the court has cost. This is the price. Neil has reached back into the past and dragged the ghosts into their home, forcing Andrew to look them in the eye again.
Neil never wants to hurt Andrew. Unintentionally or not—never. And yet here he is, the sole cause of the tremor in Andrew’s hands.
Remorse is a heavy, old companion of his teen years, a cold stone in his stomach, sinking deeper with every second of Andrew’s silence. He has done this. He has taken the safety they spent years carefully building and cracked it open in a single night.
"I'm here," Neil whispers, his hand trembling slightly in the air. "Andrew. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Andrew’s gaze flicks up to Neil’s eyes. The fire is gone, replaced by a raw, jagged vulnerability that makes Neil want to reach out and wrap his arms around him, but he doesn't know if the gesture will be accepted. The distance between them is only a few inches, yet it feels like a canyon filled with all the things they don't say and all the ways they have nearly lost each other.
Neil stays exactly where he is. He stands with his hand still outstretched—a silent plea for Andrew to stop hurting himself with his own words. He waits for the ghosts of the past and the bastard who has no right to haunt Andrew's thoughts to fade back into the void where they belong.
Slowly, Andrew moves but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he reaches out and takes Neil’s hand, his fingers wrapping around Neil’s wrist. His grip is tight—nearly bordering on painful—as his thumb presses firmly into the skin over Neil’s radial bone, counting the beats.
One. Two. Three.
"Don't ever—" Andrew starts, before cutting himself off, his jaw tightens as he looks away, unable to finish the sentence. But he doesn't have to. Neil can hear the rest echoing in the kitchen.
Don't ever make me watch you die. Don't leave me alone with the silence again. Don't ever run away from me again.
The weight of the unspoken words settles between them, more solid than anything they could have ever said aloud. Neil starts to speak, a promise already forming on his tongue. "Andrew, I—”
Andrew’s head snaps back around, a sharp glare cutting through his exhaustion. It’s a warning—a silent command to shut up. He doesn't want empty words; he doesn't trust them. Words are what people use to lie.
Neil shakes his head, his own eyes burning. He lowers his hand, but Andrew doesn't release his wrist. "I promise." Neil says, his voice steady even if his heart isn't.
“I'll believe that when you actually act on it.” Andrew says, but the tension in his shoulders finally begins to fracture.
Neil nods. He will keep his promise no matter what. Even if he has to keep doing it for the rest of his life.
Andrew keeps his stare fixed on Neil, looking and looking until, at last, he gives a small nod—a little jerk of his head—while still refusing to let go of Neil's wrist.
"Take your damn pills Josten," Andrew mutters, though his grip on Neil's arm lingers for a second longer than necessary before he finally pulls back and shoves the pills in his hands, the usual armor beginning to slide back into place, a necessity to cover the raw nerves he’d just exposed.
Neil feels the shift—the dangerous, dark water receding to leave them on the familiar, rocky shore of their everyday lives. He moves to sit back down, his legs feeling a little like lead, and takes two pills duty fully, swallowing them down with a glass of water Andrew hands him.
He watches Andrew out of the corner of his eye, noting the way the other man's hand was steady again. The silence is still there, but the jagged edges have been sanded down. They are going to be okay.
"I got fined," Neil says after a moment, trying to bring them back to the mundane reality of the day. "A lot."
"Good," Andrew replies without a hint of sympathy. "I hope they take it out of your sponsorships. You have too many as it is."
"I have eight."
"Too many," Andrew repeats, his voice returning to its flat, habitual boredom. “Now shoo, go get ready. I'm not leaving you home alone. We need to get the gear bags back and I've a stupid meeting to attend.”
"It's not my fault you left the bags there," Neil grumbles, getting up and heading towards the bedroom. He has to dodge Sir, who finally decides to descend from the cat tree. The cat weaves through Neil’s legs, a silent, furry shadow.
"Not your fault?" Andrew’s voice follows him, dry and mocking. "I wasn't the one who ran out of the stadium without a care."
Neil sighs; he ain't escaping this anytime soon. “You should've kept my phone there too then.”
~~~~
“Why the meeting though? We never have one the day after a match.” Neil asks as they make their way down the hall towards the elevator.
“We don't. The old geezer no doubt wants to give me a headache for not answering his calls in the morning. So he sent a message telling me there's a ‘meeting’.”
Neil nods, “And you can't ignore that.”
“Ten points to your little brain.”
Neil would roll his eyes if he could. The meetings are written into Andrew's contract. He is obligated to attend despite hating them—the endless talk of stats, strategies and PR—even though he spends half of them staring at the wall.
As soon as they settle into the car, Andrew takes Neil’s hand, placing it firmly on the gear shift and then resting his own hand on top of it.
Neil’s lips curl into a half-smile. He leans his head back against the leather seat, letting his fingers relax completely under Andrew’s palm, soaking in the friction and the solid warmth of it. If the angle had been just a few inches off, or if the force behind it had been any stronger, he might have lost this.
"Did Robin text you yesterday?" Neil asks, his voice quiet.
"Yes. That's why I didn't expect you to come back for the night.”
"I wasn't going to," Neil admits. He shifts his gaze out the passenger window, watching the blurred lines of the highway. "But I woke up from a nightmare and I couldn't get my breathing down. I needed to see you.”
Andrew doesn't say anything, but the pressure of his hand over Neil's increases, a silent acknowledgment that carries more weight than any verbal response.
Soon, after a 30 min drive, the massive, concrete curve of the stadium finally rises up against the horizon.
Without the usual game-day crowds, the massive parking lots are eerie, practically hollow except for the scattered cars belonging to the coaches and the rest of the team. Andrew bypasses the main gates entirely, steering the car down the concrete ramp toward the underground player entrance.
He kills the engine, the sudden silence inside the car making the dull echo of the concrete garage sound incredibly loud.
“Stay—”
“No, I'll come in.”
“You aren't doing any drills nor playing until Pearson clears you to.”
“I won't. I'll just take the bags and wait.”
“Just pack the bags and wait.”
Neil nods and Andrew finally pulls his hand back, pocketing the car keys.
They push through the heavy security doors together, their footsteps echoing against the concrete walls of the stadium's lower levels. The familiar scent of floor wax and stale sweat hangs in the air, a stark contrast to the quiet car ride. Andrew doesn't offer a second glance except a small “back in five” as he breaks away at the main junction, heading straight down the corridor toward the coaches' offices. Neil watches him go for a fraction of a second before turning toward the locker room.
Inside, it is empty and quiet. The bags are right where they left them; after unlocking their lockers, Neil unzips their duffel bags and begins gathering leftover gear from the previous game night—stray pads, extra rolls of grip tape, and their spare clothes along with the other stuff. He packs everything methodically, zipping the bags shut and leaving them sitting in the middle of the wooden bench.
When ten minutes pass and Andrew still shows no sign of returning, the silence of the locker room grows restless. Neil leaves the bags behind and follows the distant, familiar squeak of sneakers on hardwood until he reaches the court.
His teammates are scattered across the floor, running through light conditioning and static stretches. Standing near the sideline with a clipboard is Coach Torres, who doesn't look up when Neil approaches, her sharp eyes fixed on the court, tracking the footwork with practiced precision.
"You shouldn't be here,” Torres says, her voice flat and cool.
"Andrew's still with the head coach," Neil replies, leaning back slightly. "I'm just waiting for him to finish up so we can leave.”
Torres finally turns her head, her gaze sweeping over him, instantly locking onto the subtle way he shifts his weight away from his injured side and lingering just a second too long on his bruised face. She is a woman of few words, but she sees everything. "Unless you want to retire before you even turn 30, I better not see a repeat of last night.”
Neil nods.
"Good, so don't show me your face anywhere near this court for the next five days.”
Before Neil can offer a defensive retort, a sharp, piercing whistle echoes across the stadium. The assistant coach lowers the whistle from his mouth, clapping his hands together. "Alright, bring it in! Forum in five for tape review! Let's move!”
As the players begin to gather their water bottles, Torres gives Neil a final, pointed look. "Don't mistake this for punishment, Josten. Learn to direct that attitude and impulsiveness where it's needed before you ruin my offensive line." With that, she turns and heads inside.
The assistant coach jogs past, pausing briefly next to him. "Neil?”
"Fine," Neil says automatically.
"Right. Make sure to get checked by Pearson before you go, just for the protocol,” he adds when Neil opens his mouth to argue. “I'll send the full medical report and the review notes to your email later tonight. Make sure you actually go through them tomorrow," he emphasizes, giving Neil a heavy, meaningful pat on the shoulder before heading toward the exit.
As the rest of the team starts moving toward the tunnels, a few players throw quick nods and greetings Neil's way. Across the court, the team captain catches his eye, throwing him a pointedly severe, unimpressed look that practically screams ‘stop being stupid’. Neil merely offers a lazy, two-finger salute in return.
The crowd of jerseys filters out, leaving only one person lingering behind by the bleachers.
It is none other than Ellen, their backliner who has made it her personal mission to become his best friend despite his blatant lack of social grace.
She steps closer, wincing as she looks him over. "Ouch, that's a nasty bruise.
“Nothing new.” Neil mutters.
“Bummer.”
Neil gives her a flat look, which only makes her laugh.
"You know," she starts, patting Neil on the back as they start walking down the tunnel toward the locker room, "the way he looked yesterday when you took the hit... I’ve never seen him move that fast, not even during practice. Well except that one time.”
Neil knows exactly what 'one time' she means. It had been in the middle of a heavy scrimmage during practice a few weeks back. Desperate to test a new high-speed redirection technique, Neil had slammed himself shoulder-first into the plexiglass to maintain his momentum, bringing the entire scrimmage to a grinding halt. He’d scored the goal, the red light flashing in his peripheral vision, but his triumph had lasted only a second before Andrew had banged his goalie stick against the court, yelling at him in Russian.
Ellen hadn't understood the language, but as she had jogged up to Neil while he was being called off the court, she had clearly understood the raw fury. She’d just laughed, shaking her head as she looked toward the goal where Andrew was obviously still sporting a lethal glare.
“—for a second.” Ellen’s teasing voice drops as they come to a stop right in front of the nurse's office. "Andrew sure does love you. In his own terrifying way.”
Neil stills, the word love echoing in his head like a sudden, jarring alarm.
What—
"Ellen! Get in here!" the assistant coach's voice booms from the forum entrance.
"Oh shit, I better get going," she mutters, already jogging past him before he can say anything. “See you later!”
Neil stands frozen in the hallway, his thoughts immediately beginning to spiral. His chest feels tight, the air suddenly too thin in the quiet corridor as his mind replays Ellen's casual remark over and over, trying to find a footing he doesn't have.
"—sten.”
“Neil Josten.”
Neil flinches. “What.”
Pearson's tired eyes scan Neil's rigid posture before she sighs and gestures inside. “Stop looming in the hallway and get in here.”
Neil moves on autopilot, stepping into the sterile warmth of the office as the door clicks shut.
“Since I already prescribed the pills over call this morning I won't be giving anything else unless needed. So let me just check the wound and your shoulder for the report, then you're free to go.”
“Okay.” he replies, but his mind is still miles away.
Love.
To the rest of the world, the word is likely a gift—a soft thing wrapped in flowers, performative affection, and an easy ‘I love yous’. But for Neil, it has always been a foreign language he could never quite translate.
He thinks of his mother. Remembers her voice whispering those words in rare, stolen moments of quiet when they were running through Europe—on the nights she deemed them safe enough to stop being fugitives and just let herself be a mother. But as the years bled into a blurred race for survival, those whispers ceased into a heavy, haunting silence. Eventually, the only constant left was the weight of her blows whenever he made a mistake or risked their cover.
Her love had been a shield, but it was made of iron. It bruised him just as much as it kept him alive.
And then there's Andrew.
Neil recalls a quiet night years ago, sharing a cigarette on the rooftop of the Fox Tower. Andrew hadn’t said much—he never does about his time in foster care—but the few words he’d spared about it had been enough for Neil to understand.
Even now, a cold anger simmers in Neil's chest whenever he thinks about how that word too had been ruined for Andrew long before they ever met. It was weaponized by people who used it as a bribe or a mask to hide the true monsters they were, using it as a way to pretend the abuse wasn't happening right under their roof and convincing themselves they were ‘respecting a foster child’s needs’ by steering clear of the very lines that demanded a response. Over time, those easy 'I love yous' had twisted into something hollow and ugly—a cheap justification for neglect and silence.
They are both too broken for a normal definition of the word. Which is why whatever exists between them now is complicated, built from scratch over the years, completely separate from the version of love the rest of the world understands.
For Neil and Andrew, it is a Valentine’s gimmick, a Hallmark card, a failed attempt to translate a thousand jagged emotions into a single, flimsy spoken phrase. They don't need it. The word is simply too small for what they feel.
Still, Neil finds himself thinking about the moments he could have potentially said those words. When they got their first apartment that was truly theirs. When Andrew brought him the cats. After Aaron's trial, where Andrew had been forced to stand before a courtroom of strangers and speak about Drake. Or after the long-awaited, grueling conclusion of Nathan's trial, where Andrew had remained a steady, immovable anchor beside him.
In those instances, an ‘I love you’ would have been appropriate to the rest of the world. To them, it would have read like a throwaway line—an insincere, obligatory response.
They don't need to name it. It's already there, woven into the choices they make every single day. It's in the decision to remain in the room even when every ugly truth has been laid bare. It is standing shoulder-to-shoulder to watch the ball drop in NYC, or the slow, quiet kisses on the hood of the car during a midnight drive to nowhere, when Neil needs to forget the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and feels a little too much like a ghost.
It is the simple, grounded weight of their lives tangled together. A foot hooked over Neil’s ankle while watching TV. The silent question of a hand reaching for a neck or letting each other check their bruises after an on-court brawl. The way Neil knows exactly how much sweetness to add into the hot chocolate whenever Andrew had a particularly bad day, and the way he knows exactly which side of the bed to sleep on depending on the hotel room, just so Andrew is never trapped between him and the door.
It is in the stupid, tiny details that anyone else would overlook. It is Andrew automatically peeling the skin off an apple because the texture made Neil twitchy, and cutting the tags out of Neil’s new clothes so the scratchy fabric doesn't irritate his scars. It is Neil making sure the sandwiches never have a drop of mustard on them, and refusing to buy the cheap laundry detergent because the scent smells too much like their childhood. It is avoiding the specific bran cereals that turned to mush in the bowl, and remembering to buy the exact salt Andrew prefers for his baking. It is always leaving the hallway light on, because Andrew shouldn't have to wake up in a pitch-black apartment after a nightmare.
It isn't a word. It is a million quiet allowances.
But most importantly,
Andrew lets him live.
Which is far more of a grand confession than anything could ever be.
Their commitment is in the ‘Yes or no’. It's in ‘Stay’ and ‘Don't go’. It is in the quiet, unspoken ‘Welcome home’. In the fingers hooked in belt loops and the lingering looks across a crowded room. They have built this out of nothing, and they wouldn’t have it any other way.
And sure, there are times when the presence of the other isn't enough, or when it is entirely too much. They still have their problems now and again, but what matters is the steady, unshakeable trust that they would never go anywhere the other couldn't follow because they are nothing without each other.
Because without each other, they would just be drifting back into the gray, hollow existence they left behind. Like winter without the snow, or a sky entirely empty of clouds; the structure might remain, but it loses its entire purpose.
Neil realises that being known isn't the death sentence he had once feared. It is the only thing that makes him real.
He enjoys their bickering. He doesn't mind the sarcasm, or the "I hate yous," or the blunt reminders of his own stupidity. In fact, he lives for them. Because every sharp remark from Andrew is proof that he is looking—really looking—at exactly who Neil is. Andrew knows the worst parts of him, every jagged edge and hidden scar, and he still holds on.
By the time Pearson is finally done taping his shoulder and clears him to leave, Neil is still lost. The memory of returning back to the locker room and waiting for Andrew feels hazy, an indistinct blur of white tile and fluorescent light. But he doesn't have to wait long, as the blond soon walks in and slings both of their bags onto his shoulder.
Neil stands up, but for some reason, his legs feel a little less steady than usual. He can't quite bring his eyes up to meet Andrew’s. Instead, as they walk out to the car, Neil keeps his gaze glued to the floor, his fingers working restlessly at the cuffs of his hoodie, pulling the fabric down over his knuckles and twisting the hem over and over.
Even once they are settled back into the car and pull out of the garage, the quiet between them feels different. It isn’t their usual, easy silence; it feels charged, heavy with everything Neil is keeping behind his teeth. Neil presses his shoulder against the passenger door, staring fixedly out the side window at the passing trees, his fingers still picking at a loose thread on his sleeve.
"Stop it.”
Neil blinks, startled out of his trance, and finally looks over. "Stop what?”
"The thinking. Just because you didn't get a concussion yesterday—which wasn't a miracle considering how thick your skull is—doesn't mean you won't get one from whatever is happening in your head right now. You'll definitely concuss yourself. Stop.”
Neil feels a ghost of a smile tug at his mouth, the awkward tension in his chest suddenly unraveling. "I was just thinking that being known by you is the only thing that makes me feel real.”
Andrew's eyes immediately flick towards him, sharp and entirely unmoving, holding Neil’s gaze for a long, heavy second. They stay like that until a car surges past them, its horn blazing loud enough to break the spell. Andrew snaps his attention back to the road, but as he turns, the motion gives Neil a perfect, unobstructed view of the sharp line of his jaw—and the distinct, unmistakably beautiful flush creeping up the tips of his ears.
"You were the one who asked me what I was thinking," Neil points out, the smile spreading across his face.
"I regret it."
"No you don't."
"844%."
"Uh huh."
"Bother someone else.”
“Speaking of bothering someone," Neil starts. Shifting in his seat, he extends his hand across the console, palm up. Andrew doesn't hesitate, his fingers readily close over Neil's, tangling their hands together over the gear shift. Neil squeezes lightly. "We should bake pumpkin pie, the one with the texture Aaron loves so much, for the upcoming dinner this Sunday. Since, he didn't even text me to know if I was alive.”
The dinners were something Betsy Dobson had suggested during the twins' final year at Palmetto. Over the years, the tradition had unspokenly evolved, from bimonthly to twice a month and moved away from awkward restaurant tables to completely homemade meals hosted alternately at each other's home. It was a routine they actually kept and neither twin had skipped a single dinner, not even once.
Andrew's lip curls into a faint, wicked sliver of a smirk. “Let's also add bean sprouts to the salad.”
"Oh yeah.” Neil grins.
He definitely doesn't mind letting himself be known by Andrew Minyard.
Not at all.