#imnotapipedream

As much as all these late night practices aided Neil in strengthening his form, some nights he felt so incredibly drained of energy that by the end of them he almost cursed his own resolve. 

You were supposed to be a side effect of the drugs. (The Kings Men, Chapter I.)

[Thank you for the lovely prompt & I apologize in advance for the Angst™.]

Neil wipes a bead of sweat from his temple with the back of his wrist and bares his teeth. He’s got that acute glimmer of feral aggression behind his eyes again, Andrew observes, dully.  

The sort of expression often native to a prowling jungle cat attempting to intimidate a potential threat into premature submission. Andrew can’t help but see it as a phenomenal waste of energy, getting worked up over a stupid practice scrimmage, at Kevin Day of all short-fused idiots. 

No matter how close Andrew allows Neil to get, he will never be used to his exhaustive thirst for victory.

How many more goddamn exy-obsessed morons do I have to babysit in this lifetime?
Across the court, Kevin’s got a firm grip on his racquet as he glowers behind the netting at Neil as if through the barrel of a gun. It’s a late fall evening and the sky is a patchwork of pink-gold clouds, the moon sits a shrivel of a crescent in the rapidly darkening distance. 

Andrew watches his teammates with his characteristic lack-of-character, expression neutral as he remains stationed in position, racquet balanced on his shoulders like an afterthought.

He can hear Nicky whinging to Matt about something inconsequential Andrew doesn’t care enough to inquire about, Renee and Allison have been exchanging subtle glances across the court for two-and-a-half hours now. 

During their last sparring session, Renee mentioned in passing that she’d found another sparring partner in Allison. “She wants me to teach her how to fight. Says she wants to be prepared for anything. It’s like she doesn’t trust the world as much after everything that happened with Seth and Neil’s consequent revelation. It’s sad but I think it’s awfully brave of her, don’t you?” Andrew had merely blinked at her, unamused, before grappling her into a headlock she hadn’t seen coming and raising a knife to her throat. “Oops,” he said. “You’re dead.”

It isn’t until Andrew hears Kevin strike that he notices the hesitation in Neil’s jaw just as he slams the ball with lethal force and his knees buckle. He stumbles not even half a second after and Dan grabs ahold of him before he can crumple to the ground. Andrew feels his heart skip a couple of paces just as Wymack blows his warning whistle, calling a timeout. Kevin gawks in mystification for a moment before breaking into a disapproving scowl.

“The hell was that, Josten?” Wymack snaps, striding over to Neil and crossing his arms over his big chest. “I’m fine,” Neil grunts. “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re right,” Wymack replies, with a smile that’s at least two-fifths deliberate condescension. “It won’t, because right now you’re about as useful to me as a vegetable. I’m benching you for the rest of today.”

“Come on, Coach!” Nicky shouts, jogging up to where everyone is now crowding around Neil like he’s some kind of a helpless dog they all accidentally ran over with their cars. “Let’s just call an early mark. Please? We could all use a break!”

“I don’t,” Neil spits, balling his fists to his sides; eyes rapt on Wymack’s. Idiot. Wymack shoots a steely glare right back at him. “You play in peak condition or you don’t play at all. I won’t tolerate this half-assed bullshit. You hear me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. Now go pick a cozy corner to sulk in and don’t return to my court until you’re bleeding stamina or I will knock you flat on your ass myself. Do I make myself clear?”

“But—“

“I said,” Wymack’s tone becomes dangerously taut. “Do I make myself clear?”

At this point, even Nicky shuts his trap and takes an obedient step back, his expression pleading at Neil to do everything within his power to not trip on the Coach’s last nerve.

“You’re being unreasonable,” Neil growls, lowly. Nicky shakes his head in exasperation, just as Dan smoothly interjects, “I think what Coach is trying to say, Neil, as that you seem a little under the weather today. Maybe rest up a little and take it easy for the evening so that you’re better equipped for practice tomorrow?”

“Yeah, man,” Matt chimes in. “We’re just worried about your health.”

Andrew brings his racquet down and leans his body weight against it, still watching quietly from the sidelines. Renee shoots him a concerned glance and Andrew pretends not to notice.

“It’s insulting,” Kevin cuts in, with eyes only for Neil as he crosses the distance between them and parks himself merely inches from where Neil is standing. Andrew can’t say he envies Neil. He knows firsthand Kevin’s tendency to invite himself into one’s personal space whenever he gets cranky. “You’re insulting us all. I don’t know what the fuck’s been going on with you, but you better get your shit together because your breakdowns have no place on the court. Now do as Coach says before you waste any more of everyone’s time.”

Kevin and Neil spend a solid minute exchanging mind-imploding death glares at one another before Neil caves. He doesn’t look happy about it, but he flips Kevin off, turns on his heel and trudges off the court. Andrew watches Neil carefully. The fight is slowly pilfered from his shoulders and he lets his chin droop against his neck. There is something volatile about his defeated posture as he ambles right past the stands and towards the showers. Wymack turns to Andrew, expression irked but knowing.

“Goodbye.” Andrew says, before casually trailing after Neil.

“There isn’t enough whiskey in the goddamn world to put up with you ungrateful asshats on a daily basis,” Wymack mutters, under his breath before blowing his whistle again. “That’s enough dilly-dallying, maggots! We can practice without Tom and Jerry for now. Drop the long faces and give me forty-five laps. We’ll reassemble then. Go, go. Fucking go.”

“Crowdpleaser,” Andrew mumbles, coming up behind Neil.

Neil looks up at him without meeting his eyes. “Agree to disagree.”

Andrew joins Neil in the shower and they kiss until their mouths are numb and then Andrew drives them back home. They’re barely halfway through the door when King Fluffkins trots up to them and curls himself, not unlike a clingy toddler, around Andrew’s boot. “Get your cat off my foot,” Andrew mutters, at once. Neil shrugs off his coat, shuts the door behind them and smiles faintly. “And deprive him of cuddles? That’s abuse. Plus, he likes you.” Andrew groans and has to peel the feline off himself as he cradles King Fluffkins in his arms and deposits him on the couch next to a lazing Sir Fat Cat McCatterson. “Do that again and I won’t hesitate to turn your furry ass into a winter coat.”

King Fluffkins looks unfazed at this remark, but a short laugh escapes Neil. 

Andrew will never admit it, but Neil’s laugh sends a jolt of spring warmth up his spine. The kind that wedges itself in between shoulder blades and seeps into his ribcage. It is so full of raw, fleeting feeling that it fills every gap inside Andrew to a brimming point. 

Andrew sourly notes Neil hasn’t laughed like that in a week.

“What did we discuss about threatening our cats at every given moment?”

“Your cats.”

“Right. Whenever they piss you off they’re my cats.”

Neil follows the cats’ bad example, dropping dead on his back on the lounge room sofa and allowing the pests to crawl up onto his chest. Andrew empties the litter, brings them fresh water and fills their bowls to the top with food before wandering into the kitchen.

The weather grows worse within the span of the hour. The rain is loud as fuck outside. The wind droning on like the hum of a distraught choir. He chops a fresh batch of mushrooms, carrots and green bell peppers. He separates all the vegetables and leaves a stockpot of water to simmer. The oven is preheating. He cooks in mindless silence, all the while wondering why Neil isn’t venturing in to watch him like he usually does. There is something upsetting fizzling beneath his skin, like an itch he can’t scratch. He has this shitty gut feeling—hot and incendiary; an interloper awaiting recognition. He spends longer than intended in passive contemplation and his stockpot begins to overspill.

Andrew lowers the temperature of the gas and yanks the lid off the pot, swatting the steam away as if it were a school of flies.

He finds cooking less boring than he finds most activities in his daily life. Bee says it’s because cooking is an act of creation, which makes it a common stress reliever. People feel better about themselves when they’re creating. 

Andrew doesn’t know about that, but it’s a layman’s job to follow a recipe. 

There is something vaguely satisfying about it, he thinks. Cooking is meticulous and straight to the point. It doesn’t take thinking if your hands know what to do and your mind’s prone to estimate. If the recipe demands half a slab of melted butter he won’t add a pinch more or less. He’s fairly adept at following instructions and doesn’t feel the need to experiment. 

If nothing else, cooking is a way to pass the time and is vital to survival.

Eventually, Neil does float into the kitchen, looking jaded. Andrew keeps himself busy with seasoning and pays him no heat. “I’m going to bed,” he says quietly. Andrew halts, grabs a wooden spoon and dips it into the pot nearest to him, still hot off the stove. “Come here,” he replies. Neil joins his side as Andrew blows softly on the liquid before holding a spoonful up to Neil’s mouth.

“Taste.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Taste.”

Neil pouts a little, but obediently leans in and takes the smallest sip. “Mm,” he nods. “What is it?”

“Hot and sour soup.” Andrew says.

“Will it taste better off of your lips?” He leans in questioningly but Andrew neatly sidesteps, leaving Neil fumbling. “Sorry,” Neil remedies, quickly. 

“I didn’t mean to—“

“You’ll consume it directly first.” Andrew answers, in lieu of an explanation.

“It’s really good. I’ll uh… Have some tomorrow if there’s leftovers.”

Neil is about to turn when Andrew wraps cold, gentle fingers around his wrist. “Dinner will be served in ten minutes. Go outside and take a seat on the dining table.”

Something dire flashes in Neil’s heady blue eyes. “Andrew—“

“Don’t argue with me.”

It’s a full-fledged three-course assortment of homemade meals and Neil stares at it like it’s making him nauseous just to look at it. To Andrew, it smells heavenly: steaming hot-sour soup and chicken à la king with a side of sweet potato wedges. Andrew feels a pang of something irritable inside his chest. He doesn’t quite care whether Neil likes it or not. He isn’t allowed to be a baby about this. Not any fucking more.

“Eat,” he prompts. “Eat or I will force feed it down your gullet, yes?”

Neil sighs and begins to scoop an insufficient portion onto his plate, rather halfheartedly. Andrew snatches the spoon from him and begins to serve Neil himself, making sure to get an equally ample portion of each item available before helping himself.

“You will explain as we eat.”

“What?”

“Drop the clueless act and stop being this pathetic.”

When Neil merely blinks at him Andrew scoots closer to Neil in his chair, making it creak in protest against the wooden floor as he grabs Neil’s chin in his hand. He lowers Neil’s head and allows his eyes to bore into Neil’s. He’s lost every remaining morsel of his patience. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“No.”

“You’re treating me like one.”

“I’m not trying to. Fuck. Everyone’s just constantly on my ass about everything all the time and so what if I have a bad day or two. Am I not allowed the privilege—?”  

“Fuck everyone,” Andrew’s voice is dull and combustible. “Do I look like everyone?”

At this, Neil lowers his gaze to Andrew’s lips, back to his eyes and something within Neil’s own softens.

“Of course not,” he replies, voice more subdued now.

“I’ve had enough of your mopey bullshit,” Andrew says, letting go of Neil’s chin.

“Explain.” Andrew demands.

“It’s not a big deal.”

Everything inside Andrew knots up like curdled milk. There is a visible tension in Neil’s shoulders that is no doubt going to escape in a torrent; without a moment’s notice. Andrew doesn’t even have to prepare himself for it. He just wants to face it headfirst.

Andrew draws his mouth into a thin line. “If you lie to me again I won’t sit here and tolerate it.”

“It’s not something you’ll want to hear.”

“I don’t care,” Andrew snaps. “Tick tock.”

Neil takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose and the words tumble out of his mouth like bullet shells. “I know that it’s naive but I thought he wasn’t going to be a problem, at least not for the foreseeable future. I will keep playing Exy until there is none of me left. That’s the deal. That’s how it goes but there are things I can’t control—if something happens to me? Something that makes me incapable of playing and—and then, he’ll turn the Foxes into collateral damage in my war.” Neil glances up to meet Andrew’s unflinching gaze. “Ichirou,” he says, the name sounding like a strained chord on a busted up guitar. “He flew down for a meeting and paid me a visit on a whim. He said things. He fucking—“ now there’s a keen rage seizing him. “He fucking threatened your life!”

“He’s threatened my life before.”

“Exactly! He’s made his point. I get it. We get it. This time, he was doing it to taunt me, to remind me that we’re all ultimately just pawns on his sick little chessboard. He’s screwing with me.”

Andrew leans calmly back into his chair and says nothing, waiting for Neil to calm down. At this point, Neil is seething, his breath choked out in rattled gasps. He’s got a white-knuckled grip on either end of the table.

“That wasn’t something I could stand. Listening to that bastard pompously claim all the things he could do to you, count off the ways he could make you disappear without a trace. Why should I have to put up with this crap? Why do I have to keep living beneath the Moriyamas’ shadow? Sitting there, listening to him recite what he’s capable of—hurting you. It reminded me that I’m still the Butcher’s son, that I should be raining hell down on anyone who even thinks of touching us—Touching you.”

Neil is shivering now, his words coming out in escaped sobs. His entire body’s a wreck. He’s a wreck.

Andrew’s stomach twists as conviction stronger than anything Andrew’s ever felt burns in Neil’s voice.

“Do you remember what I told you?” Andrew asks, promptly. 

“I—“

“What did I tell you?”

He watches the muscles work under Neil’s clenched jaw.

“To bury Nathaniel in Baltimore with his father.”

“Neil is your only truth from now on, or have you forgotten?”

“I haven’t.”

“You cannot object what is irrefutable.”

“I won’t let them, Andrew. I can’t… Because that would be pathetic.”

“If there is a single part of you that is still Nathaniel, I do not want anything to do with it. Are we clear?”

Neil is at an utter loss of words before he attempts to gather himself, something unsteady flashing in his eyes. Andrew does not care if his truth is a harsh pill to swallow. Neil will learn. This is the man he chose to protect, the man he sleeps with, the man who is his.

Another irrefutable truth—Neil Josten; not some phantom burnout son-of-a-killer.


“Are you digging him back up?”“No. What’s dead is dead.”

“Good,” Andrew won’t admit the relief his words warrant. “I want you to remember you said that.”

“It’s just—“ Neil sighed. “I haven’t been able to eat or sleep since talking to him. I keep seeing your dead body at my feet or— or worse and I feel like throwing up. It’s that same, ringing sense of dread all over again. The dread I felt when Riko threatened you, before I made my decision to go to Evermore. All I can think about is the need to eliminate the threat. I want to kill him.”

“Don’t be irrational.”

“I can’t just let him get away with this.”

“That is exactly what you’re going to do. Neil,” Andrew says. “Yes or—?”

Bright eyes sharp as stained glass. “Yes.”

Andrew takes Neil’s hand in his own and presses it to the side of his neck, just beneath his jugular vein so that Neil can feel Andrew’s pulse beating underneath the skin there. “Not to indulge your creepy neck fetish or anything but,” he cups his own hand over where he’s holding Neil’s. “I’m here.”

“Whenever—if anything happens, I’ll still be here.” Andrew says. “Nod if you understand.”

Neil lets out another shaky breath and nods slowly, eyes steady on Andrew’s. Watching him unravel on his bad days is always somewhat of a stale realization. There is a part of Andrew that thinks it isn’t fair. When did things become this critical? Before… He wasn’t feeling unless he was feeling empty, the only time the world felt real was when he was standing at the edge of it, staring down at what could quite possibly be a bottomless death. He never used to know what to do with his hands, not until Neil had reminded him, anyway. 

“They’re your hands,” cigarette lounging lazily at the corner of lips chapped stupid, eyes so wide they could be confused for open sores, hair ruffled in the wind.

He’d wanted nothing.

Now he is surviving on that very nothing, cultivating a life from every breath that leaves nothing’s lips.

Careful what you fucking wish for.

Neil’s fingers are warm as they curl up to grip the back of Andrew’s neck. He still looks shaken, furious; as if he wants to turn the world on its head and fight it. There’s still an unkempt tenseness to his posture. Andrew hates it. 

“I don’t care,” Neil announces. “I don’t care if they kill me. Ever since I was born I’ve been ready to die if it comes down to it. That’s the philosophy I was raised on.”

Andrew reads the implication on his face even before he has to make it clear.

“They can’t have you.”

You think it’s cute throwing my own words back in my face?

“Still playing at rabbit?” Andrew says, after a pause. “You know better than to waste energy fretting over shit that you can’t control, or have you not learned anything?”
“My learning curve’s a horizontal line, remember?” Neil replies, a suggestive hint in the twist of his lips.

“Coincidentally the position you’ll be lying in your coffin when I’m done with you.”

“Death kink or neck fetish. Which one’s weirder? We should ask Nicky.”

“I hate you.”

“Me too.”

“I mean it.”

Neil’s fingers against his skin. Alive, alive. 

“That’s what I love about you.”

Andrew scoffs and pushes Neil’s hand off before turning back around in his chair. “Your food will get cold,” he mutters, tone finite.

“Okay.”

“The next time you skip a meal you can sustain on whatever the cats are having.”

“Thank you.”

They eat in the sort of silence that swells over a small town after it’s been ransacked by a hurricane but still left standing. It’s a dizzying, electric sort of silence. The sort you can feel in your bones. When they’re done, Neil helps clear the plates away and they pad up to their bedroom.

King Fluffkins follows as Sir Fat Cat McCatterson continues to doze in his delegated spot.

“That was the best dinner I’ve ever had. I’ll starve myself all the time if that means you’ll cook for me more often.” That dark look in Neil’s eyes has dissolved into something clearer as he rolls over onto his side and begins to press kneading kisses down the side of Andrew’s jaw.

“Shut up.”

“It’s true,” Neil’s words are muffled against Andrew’s heated skin. “You know last week, Nicky was treating all of us to dinner and he asked me what my favorite dish was and I told him I didn’t actually know. Dan and Matt totally freaked out.” Neil’s hand stills over Andrew’s cheek for a brief moment. “My mother never used to cook. I know how to whip up your standard meals. Enough to keep me going. Omelettes, sandwiches, breakfast burritos. You name it. I’ve pretty much got microwaving down to an art form too, but I’ve never eaten anything like… This.”

Neil leans over and presses a soft kiss to Andrew’s lips, the kind that spreads out like the petals of a flower.

“It tastes like real home food,” he smiles against Andrew’s face before gently meeting Andrew’s unwavering gaze. 

“You can touch me if you want.” Andrew’s voice is hoarse.

Neil looks slightly hesitant as he lets one of his hands gently slip beneath the hem of Andrew’s shirt.

Andrew closes his eyes at the contact. Neil’s touch is respectful, delicate, debilitating. Andrew’s skin is fever-warm against Neil’s cool fingertips. Andrew doesn’t want Neil to be able to detect the shortness of his breaths but he can bet Neil feels them.

“I’d like to extend my compliments to the chef,” Neil says, fingers faltering along the waistband of Andrew’s sweatpants. “Properly.”

Andrew grunts a quiet affirmation and Neil slides down, pulling the covers over his head. 

He pushes the covers away in quick retaliation.

Eyes intent on Neil’s.

yes! pls make it a fic :D