Kota. ♡

Andrew flops down on the home team bench with a sigh. The thud of Kevin flinging the exy ball around is already heavy in his ears.

Sometimes he wonders why they’re still doing this. This: night practices, this: a deal centered on protecting Kevin from a ghost, when he’s already failed to keep his word, this: living. He stares up at the ceiling, weighed down by the same boredom that’s dogged his steps. There was no reason to go Pro, only that it would fill his days more than traveling listlessly through the world, but even that is failing him.

Kevin has not convinced Andrew to care about Court, or his stats, or championships. He looks down at the tiny speck that is Kevin Day, highlighted by artificial lighting at the late hour, and wonders if he should feel anything about his desperate movements.

A frantic Kevin Day means trouble, means secrets, ones that he still attempts to keep even after eight years of close proximity. Andrew is too used to it at this point. Whatever new threat Kevin believes he’s facing, he will deal with it.

He doesn’t expect the threat to show himself later that same night. Andrew has gone from staring at the ceiling, to counting chairs, to crossword puzzles on his phone, but Kevin isn’t anywhere close to slowing down.

Andrew is debating the annoyance of Kevin’s bitching if he pulls him out of the inner court versus his own mind-numbing boredom when the sound of footsteps pricks at his ears.

He straightens from his slouch, hand drifting to his knives. None of their teammates are obsessed enough to join Kevin Day’s infamous night practices, even as Pros. A transfer?

Andrew narrows his eyes, reflecting on Kevin’s recent behaviors. Possibly, but there are very few living exy members who could put Kevin in a state like this.

Andrew catches how the man’s eyes widen in surprise as he emerges from the tunnel; it does nothing to distract from the way his own breath hitches in his throat.

It is extremely easy to recognize Neil Josten nee Nathaniel Wesninski on sight, but Andrew is sure most people’s thoughts are not “Fuck he’s gorgeous”.

The scars that criss-cross his face are near surgical in their precision, one just missing his right eye as it stretches past his eyebrow. There are other lines on his face, around his eyes and mouth, ones that speak to a life lived without happiness. He looks sharp, dangerous, like a knife that no longer understands how to be sheathed.

Andrew was only a kid when the story broke; the Butcher of Baltimore dead in FBI shoot out, missing son recovered with near fatal injuries. Nathaniel resurfaced a year later as Neil Josten, playing exy as a D1 striker for UNC. The last Andrew heard, Wesninski was the assistant coach down in New York; there is no reason for him to be in the Boston arena going on 3 am. None except for the fact that both the striker and coach are apparent assets to the Moriyama’s main family.

Andrew buries the attraction deep in his gut as Wesninski’s eyes flicker between the two of them. Kevin hasn’t yet noticed their visitor, but he will soon. Andrew decides to head that off at the pass, motioning for Wesninski to head back into the locker room as Andrew stands, hands tucked casually in an easy position to reach for his knives.

There’s a faint glimpse of what could be amusement as Wesninski nods, slipping back into the shadows of the tunnel while Andrew follows behind.

“So, you’re the reason Day’s flipping his lid,” Andrew says with half lidded eyes, narrowed in suspicion.

Wesninski looks surprised at the statement, “He didn’t tell you? I thought-“

“I don’t care what you thought,” Andrew cuts him off blankly. “Why are you here. Last I checked this wasn’t New York.”

A sigh, “I’m the new coach for the offensive line; I thought I would case the place before my first day, but I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Andrew has him pinned to the wall in the next second, steel kissing his throat. For a moment, he’s thankful that Wesninski isn’t much taller than him, even with the 12 years between them. The part of his brain attracted to the man doesn’t mind how easily he’s manhandled either, but Andrew shuts those thoughts down before they can flourish.