his teeth snapped around a bottom lip, and then return to the column of his throat, with the same insistence of the countertop digging into neil’s spine. then he showed him how he wanted him, & it was a favourite and it was simple, because it wasn’t the first time and neil seemed attuned to it when he turned around willingly and bent.

when andrew’s fingers were in his auburn hair, they clenched tight experimentally at first, then carefully pulled neil’s head back. his mouth skated along his flushed cheek. he craved a cigarette then, and found a substitute in scent and touch & the dazed ecstasy of his own dishevelled state. a faint groan got out of him when he pulled away, long enough to close his eyes for a breath and know that neil’s own were on him. tousled blonde hair over his lids, shirt gone somehow, and his hand mockingly patting neil’s belt once it was in place again.

he settles his hands on andrew's clothed hips, not wanting him to go yet, but unwilling to cross any boundaries andrew might set.  neil scoots forward until he can easily find andrew's mouth with his own. it's a light kiss and one that comes slow enough that andrew can read the movement and put a stop to it, if he wants to.

'' dunno, might have a few thoughts left, ''   neil retorts, intolerably cheeky, still fighting for a normal breath rhythm.   '' and they're all about you. '' 

❛❛  you’re going to have to.   ❜❜  pinching the bridge of his nose, he thinks it through before divulging the details to neil at all. he’d asked neil for six months, but bryce was determined to render any structure to the romans dust and ash. ❛❛  bryce is a tumour. we can’t get rid of him because our former surgeon reinstated him.   ❜❜  he moved to stand in front of neil, arms folded but his eyes thoughtful. he had watched bryce drive out the other recruits, but neil was the first one he’d pulled under his wing. loathe to let bryce have his way, he said:

he hesitates only for a few heartbeats, leveling his stare on his teammate to try and assess how serious he is about this.  neil is not a surgeon, or a lawyer — surely vareck must know this. he can't have missed the mess in baltimore and all the media ruckus that followed neil like a bloodtrail. the only question is;  does he have the stomach for it?

'' i have connections. there's strings i can pull, ''   he starts, harmlessly enough.  but there's no mistaking the coldness of his eyes, the impassive tone. neil would do it, would pick up his phone and have everything neatly arranged. in the end, it's his future on the line.   '' guess i have to ask, though, how permanent you want him gone? ''

he isn’t completely convinced this is a good idea, but again, he had never made a habit of trusting anyone outside of his captains even on his own team. looking at neil, his lack of confusion and too sharp stare always anticipating the next move, maybe he knew exactly what that was like too. at the question, kenneth’s expression slackens to a bout of exasperation. when he spoke, his accent dragged against his tongue, tapping his temple.

someone unrelenting, not willing to budge or cave in front of less than favorable odds.  or a choice as risky as neil could be. and that someone isn't jason — hopeful, optimistic, an encouraging smile shot his way earlier lest, he must have thought, neil bolts right out the door.

'' i'll train with you. and i'll stay, likely past your deadline. ''   spoken with the certainty of a fox who's very hard to scare away, one who doesn't need to run and hide anymore, too. '' i know some raven drills too, if you ever feel nostalgic. but don't try any of that cult like bullshit on me. ''

they have a few minutes left to save the game and neil knows it too. what andrew knows is that he’s going to walk back out of here with a racquet in hand, backseat his own headache, and steal the brief taste of hope back from the opposition.

andrew tugs at his hair and neil goes forward, immediately pliant and willing to breach distance when andrew calls.  familiar fingers in his hair is all it takes. everything going on around them is background noise, dimmed to an unimportant buzz to neil's ears. kevin should have been ushered back inside by now, but neil doesn't bother to check.

'' 17. ''   finger fast on the trigger, neil doesn't hesitate.  he doesn't feel a sliver of mercy, either, not for someone who had nearly caused andrew a serious injury.   '' i don't really care about civil, just don't get red carded. ''

his head was ringing violently through the clammer, though no one would know it with his dead-eyed stare pinned to neil’s egregious eyes. he felt what little he could from an echochamber, a distant reverberation of words and sounds and thoughts surrounding him from a thunder storm of worried and infuriated foxes. wouldn’t be the first time a crash happened on scene, wouldn’t be the last in this brilliant career choice, but the burst of vitriol on his behalf and flood of concern was a significant toothache — chipped to the vein, the one that led straight to the brain.

“ go. ”  his hand flits out to push his partner’s face away. andrew’s relaxed against the locker room door, with a cold floor under him and a crouched neil josten in front. the others at least, know it’s better for them to stay as far back as possible. when @j0esten didn’t budge, he stared at him with a familiar resignation. “ you’re a headache. ” the only notable absence from the sob fest is kevin, who he imagined was single-handedly still hammering out his complaints to the referee that had forgiven the foul play. when the pounding ache got worse, his eyes flickered half shut, and his hand that had pushed neil’s face away fell partially slack against his shoulder.

'' they're worried about you. ''   and despite the ugly heat in his gut, neil's lips twist into a grim smile.   '' they're ready to throw punches around — for you. ''

overtime is still a few minutes off.  neil plans to stay right here at andrew's side until he gets called to enter the court doors again.

heated rivalry meets andreil (or the other way around idk)

he doubts and prods, could keep going at it for hours of jason didn’t exist. it’s less from ignorance and more from knowing too much, with the way neil seems addicted to talking back, that he would be a perfect fit. he could have the opportunity here and wouldn’t be flagged down by nonsense on the television screen. maybe if he was less possessive of the team he’d painstakingly helped put back together again, he’d pat him on the hat and give him the keys. but he wasn’t.

❛❛  no.   ❜❜  the dealer swipes fast, connecting his racquet with little pressure to the tips of neil’s shoe. just enough to jolt him, to let the ball scramble and fall sideways. they had recruited good choices the past few months, only to have lawrence break them and send them out. how’d it fare with a bad choice? he restrained a sigh and let his eyes wander thoughtfully. neil’s scars weren’t hard to miss. they were half-way screaming to be looked at. it was apparent now he had been inducted long before this chat. ❛❛  but jason seems to think you’re a dream. nothing will be easy for you here, but i’ll make you a deal.   ❜❜

uncomplicated is a foreign concept for neil.  he wouldn't know what to do with it. signing with the foxes had been madness, a fever dream he had refused to wake up from even when reason demanded he should have. he had made a deal then, stayed past his deadline and kept choosing his team ever since. it's a language he understands well.

neil lets out a stifled hiss when kenneth manages to make him lose the ball, but he doesn't move to scoop it back up again.  it rolls sideways and away from them before it stops, ignored in favour of the romans' dealer. their little game has come to an abrupt stop and neil openly stares up at kenneth;  his face first, then his outstretched hand. what's with blond boys offering him deals?

'' i'll stay, but why does it have to be you? ''

the hotel room’s door clicks shut with a lock. they throw their jackets over the couch as if it were abby’s living room and therefore amiss of all respect by virtue of being abby’s living room. andrew’s phone doesn’t chime the same way neil’s does; they had seen his scowl & known better to dial minyard emergency. it wouldn’t have mattered just yet anyway, not when he had business to settle with the fox closing in on him with an innocuous greeting that wasn’t innocent at all.

'' andrew— ''   a rough exhale, already halfway into becoming a plea.  he nods, a little dazed, fingers hooked around the fabric of andrew's shirt as if he couldn't bear the thought of having andrew backtrack an inch from him. then, while not really needing to, he ads for good measure:   '' it's yes. ''   yes to anything andrew might want to do, to him, with him. he trusts those strong hands, capable of holding him up against the threat of guns at his temples and a snuffed future, as well as taking him apart with dizzying precision when it's just the two of them.

'' tell me. how do you want me? ''

neil seemed to come back to himself then when, just as predictably, he was talking about the game. at this point andrew tuned him out.

the plane is going through the last shudders, but neil only half listens to the landing announcement, ears full of andrew and his promise.  it's you and me first. for once, exy is pushed back, shoved aside for the time being, because neil has so much more to look forward to than an interesting game.   '' alright, you and me first, ''   he agrees, gaze changing into something softer. soon, it says. promises. he nudges andrew's foot, reassuring instead of playful, as they finally land.

in his hotel room, he makes sure to lock the door behind andrew.  he doesn't want any of their teammates in the way. he ignores kevin's texts, flings the phone on one of the couches for good measure  (it bounces back and falls on the carpet, no worse for wear). the striker is probably on to their shit, but neil doesn't care.

if he’s looked up the bears long enough to know they’re lazy next to the romans even with their buffed up regiments, then he knows exactly what dirt the romans have been under the spotlight for as of late. he waves off neil with a hand. fine, they would play.

❛❛  kiss up.   ❜❜ unamused, he chucks the ball at neil with the end of his racquet. ❛❛  i asked about why you’re here, not what we want.   ❜❜  at the next question, there’s a quick silence. in truth, nobody had stuck around long enough to make it this far. both because they had realised their thirst for fame wasn’t worth the negative press the romans were curating, and because they’d been weak. why neil had pressed through evermore’s battalion’s to wind up here, out of reach, was curious enough that he hated it.

'' oh, you mean all the shit the press is giving you. ''   neil tries some steps, twisting the racquet away from the dealer so the ball is not so easy to snatch, but he doesn't attempt to sprint away from him just yet.  kenneth might not be a backliner, but he isn't new to this.   '' that doesn't scare me. also, kevin vouched for your team. said it would be a great choice for my future or something. ''

as far as transitioning from the foxes, the romans seem a perfect fit, as well.  not as vicious are the poison bred ravens, yet not as valiant as the trojans. something in between that would suit neil's play style very well. he hadn't needed kevin to tell him that, not after watching a few games featuring the romans on his laptop.

what is relevant is him, across the room, panting against the wall with a trickle of blood sliding down his cheekbone like teardrops.

[ oh, nathaniel. what have you done? ]

the unanswerable question sits heavy in the back of her throat, never making it far enough to reach the tip of her tongue. she knows why, to an extent. has been knowing for a while now, with every layer she's unraveled of the butcher's son, with every scar he's stayed silent against when her fingertips moved over them. with every crack they bursted in the comfortable yet suffocating castle they were sitting in, every light of hers he let ooze in like poison and salvation all at once. the butcher, in the expensive leather chair, his back turned against her, but maybe that is for the best. it is not him she wants to see. it is not him she feels this insurmountable grief over.

she knows what she's here for, knows what the weight in her belt is clinging to her left hip for. knows what ichirou wants, as she always did.

but neil, in a july night, in the passenger seat of her chevrolet, with wind in his hair and a well enveloped insult for her curling in his throat. neil, with hands that stitched her back into breathing more times than she could count. neil, the only soul she could trust enough not to break her in a way she couldn't be glued back in the sparring mat. the only person she'd ask how high, if he'd ask her to jump.

‘ oh, neil. ’ she exhales, and it sounds like a plea and a resignation both at once, hoarse. and here he is, calling her stupid for all the wrong reasons, and her hands remain in her sides, unmoving, even when he closes the distance between them, until barely a step exists, until her gaze can wander on every single detail on his visage and is reminded once more that there is nothing about him she hasn't memorized yet. you have to shoot me, he demands. you hate me, remember? and all she can remember is how this, this lack of distance, this lack of action he gives her, is something she wouldn't be able to find anywhere else in the world.

and she has a choice to make, she knows. when she hears the footsteps in the hallway, the running, her gaze locked on his waiting gaze, and when her hand grasps the handle of the pistol and draw it. would he let her press the barrel against his temple, she wonders. would he really let her be the last thing he'd see, before a death in her hands, which would be way more merciful than what ichirou would do to him if he'd get his hands on him?

that is something they'll never find out, because there are three shots that ring in the air and none of them are aimed at him. they are aimed to her side, instead, where the incoming executioner was running- was, indeed, before she hears the body hit the ground, her gaze still locked on his. because there isn't a choice. there never was a choice. there is neil, and then there is everything else. and when it is neil in question, it is terrifying, how easily everything else falls behind, and is deemed irrelevant.

the clock is ticking mercilessly, and it grounds to a screeching halt when neil catches a glimpse of a shadow moving silent somewhere behind bianca, barely in his own line of sight.  with no time to fish his own gun out, neil reaches for bianca's, maneuvering to have his elbow brushing her shoulder as he aims and shoots in the very same breath. neil lowers his arm, searches for bianca's eyes in the middle of the mess they've made. he knows. he knows exactly what she meant.

'' moriyama won't stop until we are both in the ground, ''   he says, factually, not even trying to warn her anymore.  surely she knows her chances of stepping foot inside the nest again are close to nonexistent, unless ichirou feels uncharacteristically merciful towards her. unlikely:  betrayal and failure are both capital offenses in his bloodied kingdom. he won't forgive and he sure as hell won't forget.

'' we need to leave, go somewhere safe. ''   neil's head is filled with static, exhaustion creeping along the edges of his vision and he can't think about a single place—   '' that exy stadium we broke into, maybe.. ''

❛❛  no, i just know when to save my breath.  ❜❜  it was working, but he didn’t have to give neil the satisfaction of it, or let it show. his hand tightened a little further when neil looked away, a jolt of feeling that brought his attention right back just as andrew finally turned his head sideways to look at him. ❛❛  look at you,  ❜❜  detracting from the question  (andrew was not good, he was tolerant, and the plane was spitefully shuddering), he held on to the inside of his thigh and leaned close, frowning characteristically.

characteristically, andrew doesn't give him a straight answer.  the smile on neil's lips softens, losing that impish quality to it that speaks of trouble. he suspects it's working, anyway, or andrew would hardly be this talkative  (for him), but he keeps his conclusion to himself, tucks it tenderly between his ribs for safekeeping. for the next time they find themselves on a plane.

'' then i'll give you something to think about for the flight back, ''   he says this easily, as if it's not wholly new to him — not the want, exactly, but the freedom to act on it.  his fingers itch miserably, every nerve ending speared by the longing to stretch them between andrew's hair, to settle on that familiar spot at the back of his head. he touches his fingers to the key resting against his chest, instead, through the fabric of his sweatshirt.