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Now that Neil thinks about it, he doesn’t remember a time when Andrew truly exerted himself for a prolonged period of time.
He chalked it up to the done deep apathy residing in Andrew. The way he would slowly get up from his seat, from his bed. The way he refused to run, doing laps with Renee around the outer court at a pace Neil could only describe as a crawl. Barely an excuse for a jog.
The way he was slow to move unless there was something pushing him. Rage, concern, even fear. Especially fear. The way he would lunge at his target and his eyes would go unfocused as if he truly was blinded by fury. The way it took more than just a few suffocatingly tense moments to get his attention.
When Andrew was quick on his feet, it came with an air bordering on hysteria. Wild with something Neil attributed to a deep cavernous pit of rage and the need to protect what he considered to be his own. The lightning quick chokehold he put Allison in when she laid her hand on Aaron, and the way he broke Riko’s arm before even Neil could fully process his fatal intentions, were self explanatory. Yes, he could be precise, but the scars littering Kevin and Nicky’s torsos were proof that even Andrew could slip, sometimes. Neil thought it was intentional, but he’s starting to think he never really understood Andrew at all.
The more he thinks about it— the more he claws through his trauma-fractured memory, the more he sees the true pattern. Andrew’s thinly veiled disbelief at being asked to play full games. The way he needed to be convinced, the way he needed to be bribed. The way he contorts in the goal during impossible saves. The way he collapsed during the earlier games Neil’s first year, when his withdrawals couldn’t hide the havoc playing a full game would wreak on his body. Neil had thought it was just the withdrawals.
After rehab, it became less noticeable, but still there if you were watching closely. Neil should’ve been watching closer. His exhaustion was palpable in the way that he would gasp for air through gritted teeth, trying not to let show how much the exertion had affected him. The way he would lean on his racquet for support, the way he would sway on his feet, catching himself in the iron grip of his will. His eyes were unfocused then, too. Sometimes he would spend the rest of the weekend in bed. Nicky and Aaron brushed it off as bouts of his “depressive episodes.” Neil believed them.
Adrenaline must’ve spurred him on in that last Ravens match, Neil is sure now. Knowing what was at stake, knowing how close Neil could’ve come to execution.
Because what should’ve been an easy game— at least to the foxes standards— led them to where they are now.
Sure, Breckenridge was a force to be reckoned with, at least outside of the goal. Andrew had endured far worse than what their shitty offense team had to offer, even with new additions to their lineup. Renee was out sick with a nasty flu, and their new goalkeeper, Colby, was benched with a sprained ankle— leaving Andrew to defend the goal on his own. Unfortunate, but nothing he hadn’t dealt with before.
But this time, it was different. Breckenridge showed up with something to prove, and Andrew hadn’t played a full game in at least six months. His stamina had been built up during the time he’d had to play full games, or so Neil had thought. Maybe it was that iron clad will he had assumed Andrew was sporting, though he kicks himself for assuming anything. He should know better by now. He does know better by now.
And yet here they are, in Regency Hospital, following Andrew’s collapse on the court after the final buzzer. Naturally, Neil and Aaron were the first to get to him, followed by a cacophony of screaming panic from the rest of the foxes on court. Even Breckenridge’s team gravitated closer, pulled by the gravitational force of seeing The Andrew Minyard unconscious on the court floor.
Aaron’s immediate reaction was anger masking pure fear, growling at anyone that got too close to “stay the fuck away,” and Neil… Neil was frozen. On his knees, half draped over his body, even at a time like this, he couldn’t touch Andrew without his consent. While he watched Andrew twitch on the unforgivingly hard sealed wood of the court, the goal box lit up an eerie red from where Andrew’s racquet had clattered against it on its way to the floor.
He remembers his teammates around him yelling about 911. An ambulance. Abby. Anything.
And now— something about post.. something.. tachycardia syndrome. Possible Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. Another possibility of a… Cell… Activation Syndrome. So many Syndromes. So many things Neil didn’t catch. Didn’t see. Didn’t notice. Didn’t look harder for.
He looks back and sees the symptoms now. The ones Andrew tried relentlessly to repress. To keep hidden. To downplay and rationalize and explain away, to himself. He sees it now. The same denial he sees in himself when his scars ache, when his skin feels too tight over his body. When he aches during the cold or when he skips his morning run. When he looks in the mirror. It’s all reflected back at him now, looking at Andrew. Chronic pain, locked up tight in the steel trap of his facade.
Neil looks at Aaron, and the far away look he has gives Neil an absurd sense of relief. Aaron, the fucking pre med student, didn’t realize it. Neil is only placated for half a moment before his frown comes back, when another thought strikes him.
“You don’t have them?” Neil asks lowly, from their place on the waiting bench outside Andrew’s room. He’s shocked they can bear to sit together at all, though he has an odd feeling that he and Aaron are in some sort of inane unspoken competition on who can care about Andrew the most intensely at the moment. It sends a chill down his spine. He shakes it off in the form of his right knee bouncing restlessly. His throat clicks with the dryness of his anxious swallow.
Aaron glances at Neil, brows creasing hard. “No,” he murmurs, and Neil can’t place the emotion in his voice. Doesn’t know if he should try. “I don’t.”
“How is that possible?” Neil bites out. “You’re fucking identical. How can he have multiple genetic conditions that you don’t?”
Aaron scowls, baring his teeth at Neil. His eyes are a bit wild. “I don’t fucking know, okay?” He slumps, face melting into something exhausted. Quietly devastated. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “It- it’s probably epigenetic.”
Neil’s brow furrows a bit harder. “Explain.”
Aaron huffs, irritated. “Epigenetic,” he waves his hands, as if in explanation. He grunts in exasperation. “Like, environmentally triggered. It could’ve been dormant for both of us, but he-“
Neil’s stomach drops. Aaron grits his teeth.
“He grew up… Differently than I did. More stressors. On his brain. His body. They could’ve triggered it.”
Neil tries to swallow again. He can’t. His mouth is so dry he almost gags on it. His muscles tighten against a shudder wracking his frame. Sees the same in Aaron. Another funhouse mirror. Almost the same, but not.
They’ve been here for hours. Andrew had gone through testing, things they couldn’t be present for. Things they fought to be present for, but Andrew had swiftly shut it down as soon as he was conscious enough to do so. He’d completely shut them out. Neil was— is still stunned by the decision. He’s not used to Andrew shutting him out like this anymore. And then he thinks about it, and he realizes he’s been shut out from this the entire time. Andrew didn’t want him to know. He didn’t want anyone to know. And it was laid bare for everyone to see, without his permission, his consent. Another thing that was taken from him. It reminds Neil of Thanksgiving. Of Andrew’s medication. His childhood. All of the times Andrew had his choices ripped from his white-knuckled grip.
Neil feels bile creep up his throat, and he tries swallowing again. It’s easier with the rush of saliva flooding his mouth, his body’s preparation to expel the ugly, festering rage he feels in his chest. There’s a certain juxtaposition in the way he’s able to relax into his chair, the rage eats him up inside in a righteous rebellion against the autonomy ripped from his- his Andrew. He’s no longer upset about waiting outside with the rest of the family. Aaron, Nicky, and Kevin. He feels a sick sense of peace in the fact that he can respect Andrew’s decision in handling this alone, no matter how difficult it must be for him to be poked and prodded by a team of medical professionals.
When Andrew is discharged, they walk silently (for once in their god forsaken lives) to the Maserati. Not even Nicky can muster up the courage to speak to a tense Andrew, a hair trigger away from exploding, catching all of them in the collateral damage of shrapnel. Kevin wisely keeps his one track mind of a mouth shut, thank fuck.
Andrew stubbornly drives them back to Fox Tower in a tense silence, and Neil can see the cracks forming in Andrew’s armor. He wonders if Andrew will be at his threshold for all human contact for the night, for the weekend. He doesn’t have to wonder for long.
“Out,” Andrew spits, as soon as the tires squeal to a stop in the parking lot. They all move quickly and silently, not wanting to poke the bear. Even Neil moves to unbuckle his seatbelt and exit the vehicle. “Not you.”
His words are clipped, but Neil slumps back into his seat, hand sliding away from the door handle and falling unceremoniously into his lap. The others glance back at him. Aaron’s gaze stays the longest, then he looks away and starts for the Tower with gritted teeth and a roll of his eyes. Neil barely suppresses a smirk, and keeps his face turned away from Andrew to make sure no trace is visible. Not now.
Andrew puts the car in reverse, a hand on the back of Neil’s seat as he looks behind them to pull back out of the parking lot. Neil slowly buckles his seatbelt again, keeping his eyes straight forward for now. He wants to wait this out. To see if Andrew will make the first move.
They make their way back onto the highway in silence, headed toward Columbia. Neil isn’t particularly surprised at Andrew’s need to seclude himself for the weekend.
He finally turns his head a fraction toward Andrew when he rolls his window down, shaky fingers lighting a cigarette, betraying his forcefully neutral expression.
It takes him at least half the cigarette to finally speak. “Staring,” he says, in his usual bored tone. His voice is ragged, like it took more effort than he’s willing to admit.
Neil’s mind is flying a mile a minute, and for once he’s at a loss for words. “Yeah,” he murmurs, and takes a stuttered deep inhale. Secondhand smoke is a phantom in his lungs, and he’s grateful for the small comfort.
Andrew hums and taps his thumb on the steering wheel. The music is low, barely audible with the wind blowing in through the driver’s side window. “Stop. Your thoughts are so loud, it’s giving me a fucking headache,” he grunts, and takes another deep drag. He sighs the smoke out through his nose, and the hand he’s holding his cigarette with comes up to his brow, thumb rubbing just above it absentmindedly.
Neil huffs, half an ironic laugh and half in exasperation. “Isn’t that just one of your symptoms?” He remembers the doctor mentioning headaches. Fatigue. Lightheadedness. Blurry vision. Shortness of breath. He wonders if he should’ve offered to drive, and quickly dismisses the thought. Andrew needs the control that driving gives him. He wouldn’t take that away, not now. Not after the night they’ve had.
Andrew’s jaw tics in irritation, and his thumb freezes where it’s pressed above his brow bone. “Don’t start,” he snaps, ripping his hand away. “I don’t want to fucking hear it.”
Neil raises an eyebrow, his attitude problem getting the better of him. “So we’re not talking about it,” he says, more of a bitter statement than it is a question.
Andrew points at him with his cigarette, not bothering to pair it with a look. They both know it’s a warning. He says it anyway. “I will throw you out of this car.”
Neil smiles, despite himself. It’s crooked and sharp, and none of this is amusing, but the routine of it settles some of the fire raging in his chest. “I’d take you with me,” he says, softer than he means to.
Andrew sighs in a show of annoyance, but Neil can feel the air between them settle. The callback is a balm to their respective simmering, and they both shift in their seats, more at ease than before. And it only took 30 minutes of their drive to Columbia. Neil considers that a victory.
———
Pulling into the driveway of the Columbia house, Andrew acknowledges that he’s still in a foul mood. The banter in the car did nothing but slap a bandaid on a bullet hole.
He can admit that Neil not pushing for answers kept him from blowing a gasket, but it doesn’t mean he’s magically fixed. No part of him will ever be magically fixed. He is irreparably broken.
The train of thought hurtles down into a chasm, the bridge of track the was supposed to be there blown to pieces when he left the hospital. He knew as soon as he got in the car that his mind would take this dark turn. That he would inevitably consider what it meant to be disabled. Another reason for The Monster to no longer be feared. Another way he’s fallen short, among the many others. No one is afraid of a Monster that fears, a Monster that shows it feels pain as easily— more easily— than the ones that fear it.
He slams the car door shut and stalks up to the house, keys gripped tightly in his fist. The teeth bite into his palm, and for once, it doesn’t ground him. It sends him falling further.
His hands tremble as he tries to shove the key into the lock, and Neil hovers a good distance behind, at the edge of the porch, watching. Andrew’s irritation flares. His ears grow hot, and he clenches his jaw so hard his teeth creak with the force of it. When he finally gets the key into the goddamned lock, he throws the door open, and the knob cracks against the wall. He storms inside, throwing the keys onto the entry table. He’s distantly aware of the door shutting quietly behind Neil, his breathing too labored to hear it properly. His vision crackles at the edges, and there’s a ringing in his ears that starts as a mild nuisance, and grows into an all encompassing screech in his head. He fumbles to grab the frame of the archway into the living room.
“-ndrew,” Neil breathes, and suddenly Neil’s standing right in front of him. He blinks once, twice, and straightens, hand dropping to his side. He clenches his fist, and reconstructs his mask. Brick by fucking brick.
Neil’s face slackens, furrowed brow smoothing out into something more defeated. He backs away a step, then steps to the side, out of Andrew’s path. Andrew forces a deep breath that doesn’t feel deep enough, and lets it out through gritted teeth.
“And-“
“Don’t,” he snaps, turning on his heel and heading straight for the back door in the kitchen. He doesn’t hear Neil follow. He slams the sliding door shut behind him and drops himself on his ass at the top of the steps. He rips his pack out of his jacket pocket, putting a cigarette between his lips as he fumbles with the lighter in the chilled night’s air. He growls at it, and it takes a few tries for it to flicker. He gives up and throws the lighter hard enough for it crack into a nearby tree trunk. His hands are shaking with rage, now, instead of the cold. His chest burns with it. A scream of frustration lodges itself into his throat.
The door quietly slides open and shut behind him, and Neil eases himself down next to Andrew, offering another lighter. He glances down and snatches it out of Neil’s hand without their skin touching. He flicks the lighter and it lights without any trouble at all. He glances down again and notices the safety was removed. His eyes flick to Neil.
“Thought it might be less irritating,” Neil says casually, looking out into the backyard with his elbows on his knees. “My hands get a little.. finicky when it gets cold out.”
Andrew blinks. Then blinks again. “You-“
“My scars,” Neil looks at him now, eyes infuriatingly blue. A truth for a truth.
Andrew bites the inside of his cheek and looks out to the yawning black of the night. “Looks like I’m not the only one keeping things to myself,” he says flatly.
Neil is still looking at Andrew, a lopsided smile growing. “Are you surprised? Why bring up something as mundane as chronic pain?”
Andrew can’t help but huff, finally lighting his cigarette. “Mundane,” he can’t help the amusement creeping into his voice, he takes a drag. “You are an idiot.”
Neil lets out a small laugh. “Maybe so,” he shrugs carelessly, soft curls rustling in the wind. They tickle the tops of his cheekbones. “Why else wouldn’t you bring it up? It’s normal to you. It’s normal to me. What’s the point? There’s nothing to be done.” He flexes his hands, then curls them, gaze falling to watch how his ruined skin tightens and stretches over his knuckles. “We just keep going.”
Andrew flicks ash onto the step below them. The burning in his chest has dissolved into a tingling at some point while Neil was speaking, warm and fluttery. He does the same motion, clenching his free hand and looking down at it as he takes another drag. He lets himself notice the ache. Lets himself feel it. He breathes with it, and his lungs expand a little easier.
A truth for a truth. He can do that. He knows this game like the back of his hand, with Neil. He takes another steady breath.
“I can’t run,” he admits, voice steady. Not he doesn’t run. Not he hates running. A truth bared. A vulnerability shown, a secret in his palm that he opens only to Neil.
“I have to run,” Neil returns easily. Andrew turns the phrase over in his mind, with the new context given to him. Not he likes to run. Not he wants to run. An equal truth, an equal vulnerability. Two side of the same painful coin.
“You get irritable when you don’t run,” Andrew notes, flicking the lighter again just to feel the ease in which it bends to his will. Easier, less painful, less infuriating, because of Neil.
“You stay in bed after a hard game,” Neil says, voice soft. The sound prickles at the back of Andrew’s mind. Hatred and something else. Something softer.
He hums, not confirming nor denying what Neil is trying to get at. He knows it’s a confirmation all the same. He lets Neil have it.
“It’s not depression, is it?” Neil pushes, voice still soft.
Andrew breathes through the familiar rage that tries to drown out the feeling of being seen. Of being understood. Of being regarded with such soft hands. He weathers through the storm of vulnerability. He lets the winds rip him apart, flay him open for Neil to see. Only Neil. The only one to see his insides and never flinch. The only one to see his insides and let the wind bare his own.
“No,” he allows. “My head doesn’t confine me to my bed. Not anymore.” Just his body. Sure, there are exceptions. Rare, fleeting. Usually on an anniversary of something terrible, but lessening as the years pass. He doesn’t know how he’ll fare in November. The days following Aaron’s trial. His head can still be unpredictable, but his body is more unpredictable these days. It’s easier to let Nicky and Aaron call it depression. To let them think he doesn’t want to get out of bed, rather than the fact that he can’t get out of bed. The idea of them thinking there are things that physically limit him makes his stomach churn.
He’s always been the protector. In his old foster homes, with younger children that needed a shield. In juvie, when the smaller kids would get preyed on. With his brother, when Tilda would beat him. With Nicky, when he was beaten half to death for being himself. When Kevin came to them, left hand ruined and his resolve shattered. When Neil barreled into his life with his lies and his survival a ticking time bomb. Andrew was always the rock. The immovable object against a seemingly unstoppable force.
What is he now, that he can no longer deny his own physical limitations? Is he still worth his title? Is he still worthy of their unwavering trust in his protection, when he may not be able to meet his own standards in what that protection means?
“Your thoughts are awfully loud,” Neil lays himself down, reforging the bridge with his body. The tracks mould with the shapes of his scars, creating a path for Andrew’s train of thought. Pulling him back onto the track, clearing his mind, leading him safely across the dark chasm below. He stubs out his cigarette, then stands.
“We just keep going,” Andrew repeats, and he holds out his hand. Neil takes it without hesitation. He lets Andrew pull him to his feet, trust unwavering even in the face of Andrew’s trust in himself cracking. He sees all of Andrew, and doesn’t flinch away. He doesn’t shrink back. Neil meets him, step for step. Truth for truth. Strength for strength. Vulnerability for vulnerability.
Hand in hand, they make their way back inside. Together. Two men, whole. Unbroken, unbending, unyielding.
Andrew is not irreparably broken. He’s human. He’s flesh and blood and bone, strength and weakness, raging with the fire of anger and pain and want and need. Of lust. Of something else he can’t quite name. Not yet. But with Neil, the prospect of naming it doesn’t seem quite as painful, easier.
He breathes, and his lungs feel full.