Archive of Our Own ^beta

Neil is far too chipper for someone who got decked in the face at one in the morning last night.

He glides across the court, chasing after every ball Andrew smacks away from the goal on feet that barely seem to touch the ground, ceaselessly calling out plays. He's electric, thrumming with an energy that permeates the air. Andrew can taste it like static on his tongue. The challenge of it all raises the hair on the back of his neck, coils somewhere low in his gut.

It's not unpleasant. It is annoying.

The rest of the Foxes are decidedly less enthused about today's practice on this regular Tuesday afternoon. From Andrew's view point, it's slumped shoulders and chests heaving for breaths across the board. Even Kevin's knees buckle as Neil calls for their already over-long scrimmage game to reset again. Still, the complaints have been minimal so far, everyone seemingly caught up in the silent question blazing in Neil's every movement, every flash of his eyes:

Can you keep up?

Andrew has an advantage as being in goal requires less cardio than the others (to the eternal gratefulness of Andrew's smoker's lungs), but even his muscles have started to spasm, his racquet heavy in his hands, swooping in wider and slower movements as lethargy presses down on him.

He's soaked in sweat. It pours down from his hairline, stinging his eyes, but he doesn't have time to do more than blink it away. The ball is served down court and it's only seconds before he's squaring up again, toeing the line as a figure darts out of the pack toward him, easily putting a couple feet, then yards between themself and the others.

Andrew zeroes in, locked in to the direction of Neil's feet, the pace of his strides, the line of his shoulders.

Then at the last moment, Neil turns on a dime and launches his shot to the upper right corner.

Andrew is a second behind, too slow, and he is basked in the soft red glow of defeat as the ball bounces away.

"Had enough?"

Andrew can hear the smirk in Neil's voice as he lets his momentum carry him the rest of the distance to the goal, long loping strides bringing him even sharper into Andrew's focus.

Andrew's retort gets stuck behind his teeth. The sight of Neil's face has him clenching his jaw, biting down hard on his mouthguard until the edges scrape against his gums and his next swallow tastes metallic.

Neil's right cheek is a study of mottled tragedy under the shadow of his helmet. The swelling has gone down, but the bruise circling halfway around his eye, creeping over his cheekbone and the bridge of his nose has only intensified since this morning; a blue-black smudge that spreads like ink out into deep purples and reds, edges tinted a sickly yellow. It's hideous in its beauty, the way it off-sets Neil's eyes, making them burn, scorching. It adds to the allure of his already marked face, even as it ruins it. A painting marred by a spill of kaleidoscopic colors. A lovely catastrophe.

Andrew remembers the guilty blush of his own knuckles in the harsh overhead light. Even though at the moment they're hidden by his bulky goalie gloves, he knows that they're raw. They've darkened and colored just like Neil's face; a matched set. A one-two snapshot of a story written into their skin.

He flexes that hand now, tightening his hold around his racquet in a death grip to feel his knuckles press against the thick material, sitting with the ache, pushing deeper into it until it radiates up his arm.

Neil strides closer, stopping less than a foot away with a squeak of sneakers, breathless and buzzing and battered. He knocks his racquet into Andrew's hard enough it jostles Andrew's grip and he loosens his hold, drops his guard, easy as anything.

Neil ducks his head close to catch his eye through the grating. "Okay?" he asks.

Andrew says nothing, biting down on another reply.

"Watch out, Neil," a panting voice calls out. Andrew's gaze flicks over Neil's half-turned shoulder, watching Nicky as he shuffles over on exhausted feet, pulling off his helmet and grinning. "If you get too close, he might blacken your other eye just for fun."

Neil's head whips around, turning on a dime once more, his voice low and warning. "Nicky."

"Jesus." Yang steps forward out of the circle of Foxes as they crowd around the goal, sweaty and lumbering like a hoard of highlighter-orange clad zombies. "I thought you'd gotten into a knife fight or something."

All of the freshmen have bought into the mythos of their captain, Neil Josten née Nathaniel Wesninski — or at least the version of him that's still popping up on any form of media that gives the slightest shit about college exy stars, or serial killers, or national news about both subjects — trotting out a dead horse and beating it for the views. It took a full year post-Baltimore to get to the point where they are now: Neil's background only a side subject to bring up every time the Foxes are being talked about instead of the main attraction, something to point at every time he seems to check too hard on the court or makes a reporter cry in an interview.

For a majority of the new Foxes, especially this second batch, they seem to have interpreted what they know of Neil's childhood, his numerous scars and glacial stare, the fair-but-firm way he approaches the captaincy yet holds them all at arms length, only smiling with the older Foxes, and rarely in front of others, to mean that Neil is a good captain but cold. He also has a temper and is not afraid to fight dirty. It's best to stay on his good side.

For some of them, all of that added together just means he's extremely hot.

For the others, he's dangerous and a liability to the team that they have to tolerate. For now.

And as for how they view Andrew, well. It's more or less the same except there's no air of bad-boy-I-can-fix-him vibes — no one would be stupid enough to even look that close. Neil has an attitude problem; Andrew has an assault charge on his record and carries knives on his person. The baby Foxes mostly all settled firmly into category three when it comes to him, which is really the best outcome for everybody involved.

It's also why the court goes silent after Nicky's words sink in, and everyone's eyes track the invisible red string of condemnation from Neil's face to Andrew's knuckles which are once again strangling his racquet, the gloves squeaking against the plastic coating in the silence.

"Ha-ha." Nicky's laugh cracks with false levity and his eyes are wide with panic. "I was joking, obviously. It was just an accident. Andrew stopped being violent, like, practically the day Neil walked into his life. It's romantic if you think about it..."

Kevin snorts, removing his helmet as well to wipe the sweat off his face with his forearm. It's a wonder he hasn't started demanding they quit gossiping and get back to work. Or not, as Andrew sees that he's leaning on his racquet a little too heavily and thinks he might tolerate this break, if it means he doesn't have to admit that Neil has run even him ragged.

The sweat on Andrew's own face has started to dry cold and itchy, tightening over his skin.

"That's a blatant lie," Kevin says. "I was there the day Neil walked into his life. Andrew nearly broke his ribs swinging a racquet into his gut."

"What?" Matt was also using his stick as a crutch but seems shocked into a second wind as he straightens, looking from Kevin to Neil with a frown. "I didn't know about that."

"Okay, yeah, I didn't either," Nicky says, grimacing and catching Andrew's eye behind Neil, face a silent apology for obviously kicking the hornet's nest. He's gotten better at recognizing when he's stuck his foot ankle-deep down his own throat.

But not when to shut the hell up.

"Well," he continues, "they've never been normal. But they basically fell head over heels as soon as they got to know each other—"

Andrew sees Aaron, standing off to the side, look at his cousin with incredulity and scorn. "That's not even a little true."

"You were there when everything went down in Columbia that first time," Matt cuts in, an edge of old wounds to his voice. "I don't know about you, but being drugged and hitch-hiking home is not what I would consider really romantic, Nicky."

"Drugged?"

Now it's Matt's turn to grimace as a flurry of whispers and murmur breaks out among the younger half of the team, remembering that the Foxes have evolved and multiplied which means they now have an audience. Matt's arms, which had automatically moved into a stance like he was ready to come to blows over past wrongs done to his friend, drop limply to his sides and he sends a guilty look over to the goal.

"Neil," Nicky starts.

"Enough."

There's a tone of voice Neil uses on the court, his captain voice that carries over the din of clattering footsteps and ricocheting balls, makes everyone stop and listen to him, want to follow him.

The one he uses now isn't that. It's quiet, cold and cutting, as glacial as his stare, and everyone freezes in response. Andrew watches the muscles tense in Neil's back, shifting his armor. Even the exposed nape of his neck, a thick band of freckled skin just above his jersey, is tight with tension. Andrew's palm fits perfectly there, when he's not wearing his gloves. He's done it so many times he can imagine it, practically feel it: palm cupped over the pounding of Neil's furious heartbeat, the hair escaping from the bottom of Neil's helmet brushing his knuckles, deep red falling over his scraped and purpled skin.

Andrew doesn't take off his gloves. He doesn't reach out.

"I don't know what made you think you have any right to bring up shit that happened not only not to you, but years ago," Neil continues in that icy tone, arms trembling at his sides. "But it's frankly fucking laughable if you think I'm going to sit here and tolerate it."

Nicky's face falls and Matt shuffles on his feet. Even Kevin avoids looking directly at Neil.

"This is my court. These are your teammates. If you want to dogpile your 'righteous' sense of morality onto someone most of you don't even try to talk to, it won't be during my practices. And you better hope it's not in front of me again."

He slams the butt of his racquet on the court floor, making several people jump. "Practice is over. Clean up and get out."

It's a scattering of orange and white as the team scrambles to start cleaning up the court, their exhaustion forgotten for the moment. Only the older Foxes hang around; Aaron hanging back, Kevin still gazing off to the side, and Matt and Nicky looking like kicked puppies.

Neil doesn't say anything. Andrew can't see his face from where he stands, but Matt and Nicky both seem to recognize that whatever they have to say will not be received well right now. Nicky sends another apologetic glance to Andrew and Matt gives him a nod before they all go to help the others.

Across the court, their other goalie, Greenwood, is backlit by the wall turning red behind her as she stumbles and falls heavily against it, activating the sensors. "Sorry," she calls sheepishly, voice echoing. "Is practice over?"

Andrew steps forward, taking Neil's racquet out of his trembling hands lest he do something stupid with it. He moves close enough that his chest brushes Neil's back. Neil leans into it and Andrew takes his weight. It's only for a moment before Neil turns his head and Andrew sees the dark ink smudge of his bruise through the grating in his helmet.

He takes a step back, breaking contact.

"If you are waiting for a thank you for saving me, o captain, my captain, I don't make a habit of rewarding stupid things I never asked for." He hoists both his and Neil's racquets over his shoulder and turns for the court door.

"Shut up, it's not stupid." Neil doesn't raise his voice to call out after him, but Andrew still hears him. "Not if it's you."

Andrew pauses, then throws a middle finger over his back and slams the door shut behind him, cutting off Neil's huff of amusement.

Andrew gets showered and changed. Usually he waits in the locker room for Neil, but he has no desire to hang around in the awkward tension still clinging to the others as they file in for their own showers, so he tosses his towel in the hamper and pushes through the door to the lounge.

His hair is damp and dripping down the collar of his shirt as he brushes it out of his face. He pats his pockets for his cigarettes and keys, wondering if Neil will still be buzzing enough to get clean quick and get to the car before the others. It's unlikely. Neil is almost always the last to leave the court and the last to finish showering. A dedicated captain, maybe. Or just a rabbit that has yet to learn how to stop running completely.

The lounge is empty, but Andrew hears voices coming from Coach's open office door. He moves closer, leaning back and propping his boot up against the wall across from the doorway. He's standing near enough to make out everything being said and to see the figures inside, so he sticks around, shamelessly eavesdropping. He pulls out his lighter, flicking the metal cap open and shut with a click, watching the flames play over his pink and purple knuckles.

"He's a psychopath," a voice carries across the hall.

Andrew flicks his eyes to the office without lifting his head.

Two people sit in front of Wymack's desk. Their backs are to him, but he recognizes that snotty tone anyway. The one speaking is Jack Carnahan, a sophomore who came onto the team last year knowing and hating everything about Nathaniel. If any of the new Foxes hadn't bought into the shit the media says about Neil that first year, then it was Carnahan that stoked the flames for the inferno to take hold and spread, spewing lies and prodding at Neil to get the others on his side. He's the proud founder of category three.

He also thinks being Kevin's pick of the strikers gives him immunity. Andrew can't wait for the day he learns that it does not.

The other person sitting next to Carnahan speaks up, a freshman Andrew hasn't bothered to remember exists other than to note the way her eyes linger on Neil on the court, starstruck. Honestly, it's been the highlight of Andrew's summer to see the way she and her small group of friends giggle at Neil when he walks by. Neil, who continuously fails to notice anything more than the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck. A true marvel one could be so oblivious and so paranoid at the same time.

"The others admitted that he drugged Neil and— and said he was the one who punched him in the face." The freshman's ponytail swings as she shakes her head. "If even his friends and family say they don't trust him..."

"I have a right to be worried about my safety," Carnahan jumps back in. "We all do."

"No. You don't." Wymack stands behind his desk, arms crossed, and with a more pissed-off expression on his face than Andrew has seen in a long time — a time of vandalized cars, a ring of bruises around a throat, bandages and motel rooms.

"It's my job to worry about the safety of my team," he continues. "The only people who have any say-so in who I allow on my court are the school board, myself, and my captain."

"My father," Carnahan starts.

"I don't give a fuck who your father is, son," Wymack says, but is cut off by the sound of a snort from somewhere deeper in the room.

"It's ironic that you want to talk about fathers."

Andrew watches as Neil steps forward and if Wymack is angry, then Neil is incandescent with rage, expression dead but eyes like the glint of a blade as he stands before the two younger Foxes. He tilts his head, the action all animal and predatory as he trains that cutting gaze on Jack.

"You're scared Andrew will hurt you," he says flatly, then slowly shakes his head. "Andrew wouldn't give you the time of fucking day. You?  You're not worth the spit he swallows. You're not worth the dust on his shoes. He's never looked twice at you because you're nothing, aren't you? You want to bring up your father? Your father is an investment banker in New Mexico who sent checks every month to your mother so she wouldn't tell his wife about you — he's never so much as mailed you a birthday card, much less acknowledged your existence. You were a mistake. Even your mother knew that, didn't she? It's why she took all those pills."

"Christ, Josten, rein it in," Wymack says.

"At least my father isn't a fucking murderer," Jack growls at Neil. Andrew can see his hands gripping the arms of his chair, fingers bloodless, nails scraping the wood.

Neil grins. It's chilling. It's the kind he would have clawed off of his own face freshman year because anyone looking at him would know he was a Wesninski. Judging from the way Jack flinches, Andrew guesses that's the point.

Neil turns to the freshman, frozen in her seat, smile dropping into a look of total dispassion. "I don't even know why you're fucking here," he says.

"Well, I— I—" The freshman stammers, ponytail whipping back and forth as she looks to Jack and Wymack for help.

"Do you think you're protecting me? From Andrew?" Neil tilts his chin. "Which of us do you think has killed more people?"

Neil shrugs and takes another step forward, leaning against the wall beside Andrew in a controlled fall, mirroring Andrew with a shoulder pressed to the painted cinder blocks. His back is to the lounge, which has gone suspiciously quiet. From the look on his face, he knows Andrew heard the whole discussion in the office and he knows everyone is watching them right now.

Andrew wants to touch him. His gaze drops to the blue-black half-circle under Neil's eye and the hand he raises stops inches away.

Neil watches him calmly. He slowly reaches up and takes Andrew's wrist, pulling it forward until Andrew's fingers touch his cheek, just below the bruise.

What Neil doesn't say is what matters the most. He doesn't say it's okay. He doesn't dismiss it as only an accident. He doesn't say it didn't hurt or it didn't matter because that would make Andrew like everyone else who has ever laid a hand on Neil, just another fist that Neil accepts.

He says, "It'll heal."

And then, in the stilted Russian they've both been practicing, he adds, "I want to sleep next to you tonight. Every night. For as long as you'll have me."

"Shut up," Andrew hisses and moves his hand to cover Neil's mouth; feels it curl up under his palm. He slides his grip down and around to the back of Neil's neck, that smooth stretch of freckled skin, and uses the leverage to pull Neil's head down. He comes easily and Andrew's lips brush his cheek, bumping against scars, light as air over the mark he made.

The chatter picks up in the room behind Neil, but neither of them pay attention. Neil tilts his head and Andrew meets him for a kiss. It's soft and feverish. Tender as a bruise. Then Andrew shoves him away.

"Go shower. You stink."

Neil laughs, eyes flashing, sliding back and away against the wall. "Wait for me?"

Andrew doesn't need to answer. Like he could actually ever do anything else.