Chapter Text
Eight months post-amputation, Neil stood at the edge of the Exy court.
Not watching from the stands. Not visiting. Actually standing on the court in full gear, his running blade prosthetic attached, ready to practice.
It had taken three additional months to get here after the pneumonia setback. Three months of rebuilding his strength, relearning his prosthetic, working up to the sports-specific equipment. The running blade was different from his daily prosthetic, sleeker, designed for impact and speed, the curved carbon fiber looking almost alien attached to his residual limb.
"You ready?" Kevin asked, holding out a racquet.
Neil took it, the familiar weight settling into his hands. "No. But let's do it anyway."
The team had changed since his diagnosis. Dan, Matt, Renee, and Allison had all graduated in the spring, walked across the stage while Neil watched from a wheelchair, still too weak from pneumonia to stand for the ceremony. They'd moved on to their adult lives, Dan to a coaching position at a small college in California, Matt to a professional Exy team in Chicago, Renee to social work, Allison to her fashion empire.
But they'd all come back for this. For Neil's first day back on the court.
"We wouldn't miss it," Dan had said when she arrived that morning, pulling Neil into a careful hug. "Not for anything."
Matt had flown in from Chicago between games. "Told my coach this was non-negotiable," he'd said with a grin. "Family comes first."
The current team, the new Foxes who'd joined while Neil was fighting cancer, watched with a mixture of curiosity and respect. They knew his story. Everyone did. The Fox who'd beaten cancer, lost his leg, and refused to quit.
"We start slow," Kevin said, all business. "Basic drills. Movement patterns. I want to see how the blade affects your balance, your speed, your control."
Neil nodded. He'd been practicing walking and jogging in the blade for weeks now, but this was different. This was Exy. This was what he'd been fighting for.
He took a step, then another. The blade responded differently than his regular prosthetic, springier, designed to absorb and release energy. His gait was still off, his balance imperfect, but he was moving.
"Run," Kevin commanded. "Half speed. To the goal and back."
Neil ran.
It wasn't pretty. His form was all wrong, his body compensating for the missing knee in ways that felt awkward and unnatural. The blade did some of the work, but his brain hadn't figured out how to use it efficiently yet.
But he was running.
Not fast. Not smooth. But running.
When he made it back to Kevin, he was breathing hard, his residual limb aching where the socket pressed. But he was grinning.
"Again," Kevin said.
They ran drills for an hour. Simple ones, running, stopping, changing direction. Neil fell twice, his balance failing when he tried to pivot too quickly. Both times, he got back up and tried again.
"Your footwork is shit," Matt called from the sidelines. "But you're moving. That's what counts."
"Thanks for the encouragement," Neil shot back.
"Anytime, man. Anytime."
By the end, Neil was exhausted, sweating, his limb screaming in protest. But he'd done it. He'd practiced Exy for the first time in over a year.
"How do you feel?" Sarah asked. She'd come to observe, ready to intervene if Neil pushed too hard.
"Like I got hit by a truck," Neil admitted. "But a good truck. A truck I chose to get hit by."
Andrew, watching from the sidelines, made a face. "That metaphor needs work."
"Shut up," Neil said, but he was smiling.
After practice, after Neil had removed the blade and switched back to his daily prosthetic, the team gathered in the locker room. The new Foxes peppered Neil with questions about the blade, about playing with a prosthetic, about his plans for returning to the lineup.
"Not this season," Neil said honestly. "Maybe not next season either. I have a lot of work to do before I'm game-ready."
"But you'll get there," one of the new strikers said. Not a question. A statement of fact.
"Yeah," Neil said. "I'll get there."
Matt clapped him on the shoulder. "And when you do, give me a call. I'll talk to my coach. Pro teams are always looking for players with your kind of determination. Prosthetic or not, you've got game."
"I'm nowhere near pro level anymore," Neil said.
"Not yet," Matt agreed. "But you will be. I've seen what you can do when you're motivated. This is just another challenge to overcome."
That evening, back at the dorm, Neil collapsed on the couch. His residual limb was red and sore from the extended wear time in the blade socket. His muscles ached in new ways. But he felt more alive than he had in months.
"You looked good out there," Andrew said, bringing Neil water and pain medication.
"I looked terrible," Neil corrected. "I fell twice. My form is garbage. My speed is maybe half what it used to be."
"You looked alive," Andrew clarified. "That's good enough."
Neil took the medication, then grabbed Andrew's wrist before he could move away. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For dragging me. For all those times I wanted to give up and you wouldn't let me."
Andrew sat beside him on the couch. "You didn't need dragging. You kept going."
"Because you were there," Neil said. "Because you stayed."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Neil leaned over and kissed him, soft and brief, a thank you and a promise wrapped together.
Andrew kissed him back, his hand coming up to cup Neil's jaw. They'd been doing this more often lately, these casual expressions of affection. As if Neil's brush with death had given them both permission to want this, to claim it, to stop pretending they were anything other than essential to each other.
When they pulled apart, Andrew's thumb traced the scar on Neil's cheekbone, one of many scars, though the newest ones were hidden under his clothes. The amputation scar. The surgical scars. The port scar. The evidence of survival written on his skin.
"Yes or no?" Andrew asked quietly.
It was their question. The one they asked before everything. But right now, Neil wasn't sure what Andrew was asking permission for.
"To what?"
"To this. To us. To staying."
Neil understood. Andrew was asking if Neil was really here, really committed to living, really choosing this future they were building together.
"Yes," Neil said without hesitation. "To all of it. Yes."
Andrew kissed him again, deeper this time, his hand sliding to the back of Neil's neck in that grounding gesture Neil had come to crave. They stayed like that for a while, trading kisses that tasted like relief and promise, until Neil's prosthetic started to ache and he had to shift.
"Off," Andrew said, nodding at the prosthetic. "You've been wearing it too long."
Neil removed it, the relief immediate. His residual limb was swollen, the skin irritated. He'd pushed too hard today, worn the blade too long, ignored his body's warnings in favor of proving he could do this.
"Ice," Andrew said, disappearing into the kitchen. He returned with an ice pack wrapped in a towel, settling it carefully over Neil's residual limb. "Twenty minutes. Then massage. Then rest."
"Yes, sir," Neil said sarcastically.
"Good." Andrew settled back beside him, close enough that Neil could lean against him. "The Foxes want to take you to dinner tomorrow. Celebration for your first practice back."
"All of them?"
"Dan and the others fly out tomorrow night. They want to see you before they leave. Matt has to get back to Chicago for a game this weekend."
Neil nodded. "Okay. Tell them yes."
"I already did."
Neil smiled. Of course Andrew had.
They sat together, Neil's leg elevated and iced, Andrew reading something on his phone, comfortable in their silence. Nicky and Kevin were out, some freshman orientation event Nicky had volunteered for and dragged Kevin to. The suite was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional car passing outside.
This was Neil's life now. Quiet evenings with Andrew. Exy practices where he had to relearn everything. Friends who'd become family. A body that was different but functional. Scars inside and out that told the story of his survival.
It wasn't the life he'd imagined. But it was a life he'd fought for. A life he'd chosen, over and over, every time he could have given up and didn't.
"What are you thinking about?" Andrew asked, not looking up from his phone.
"That it's always something," Neil said. "But sometimes the somethings are good."
Andrew glanced at him. "Such as?"
"This. You. The Foxes. Getting back on the court. Still being alive."
"Those are good somethings," Andrew agreed.
"Yeah." Neil reached over and took Andrew's hand, lacing their fingers together. Andrew let him, his thumb rubbing small circles on Neil's palm. "I'm glad I kept fighting."
"So am I."
The next evening, they gathered at the small Italian restaurant off campus, the one with the corner booth big enough for all of them.
Dan sat across from Neil and Andrew, Matt beside her looking tired but happy. The professional season was demanding, he'd explained, but worth it. Renee and Allison filled out the rest of the table, with Kevin and Nicky squeezing in at the ends. Aaron had declined, claiming he had studying to do, but Neil suspected he just didn't do well with emotional gatherings.
"To Neil," Dan said, raising her glass. "Who survived the unsurvivable and came back stronger."
"I don't know about stronger," Neil said. "I'm definitely different."
"Different is good," Matt said. "Different means you adapted. Evolved. Hell, some of the best players in the pros are the ones who had to overcome something major. You've got a story, Neil. That matters."
"A story about losing a leg isn't exactly inspiring," Neil said.
"A story about refusing to quit is," Matt countered. "Trust me, people respect that. My teammates ask about you sometimes, the Fox who beat cancer and is learning to play with a prosthetic. You're kind of famous."
"I'm really not."
"You will be," Matt said confidently. "When you make your comeback."
They ordered too much food and spent hours talking. Dan shared stories from her coaching position, the challenges of working with college athletes who reminded her of the Foxes. Matt discussed the professional circuit, the differences from college play, the pressure and the thrill of it. Renee talked about her work with at-risk youth. Allison showed them designs for her new clothing line, including adaptive wear for amputees and people with disabilities.
"I was inspired," Allison said, looking at Neil. "Watching you struggle to find clothes that worked with your prosthetic. There's a market for this. Fashion that's functional and actually designed for real bodies with real challenges."
"You're going to make a fortune," Neil said.
"Obviously." Allison smirked. "But it's also the right thing to do. You taught me that."
Kevin talked about his plans for Neil's continued training, the drills he'd designed, the modifications they'd make to his playing style. "You'll never be the striker you were," Kevin said bluntly. "But you can be a different kind of striker. One who proves that physical limitation doesn't mean inability."
"No pressure," Neil said dryly.
"You can handle pressure," Kevin said. "You've handled worse."
As the evening wound down, as they said their goodbyes and promised to stay in touch, Neil felt the weight of change settling over him. His teammates, his friends, were moving on with their lives. Dan coaching. Matt playing professionally. Renee helping people. Allison building an empire.
He was moving on too, just in a different direction than he'd expected.
"You okay?" Andrew asked as they walked back to the dorm. Neil was using his cane tonight, his residual limb too sore from yesterday's practice to wear the prosthetic for extended periods.
"Yeah," Neil said. And meant it. "It's weird, them being gone. But good weird. They're happy. Matt's living his dream. That matters."
"And are you happy?" Andrew asked.
Neil thought about it. A year ago, he couldn't have answered yes. Six months ago, maybe not even. But now?
"Getting there," Neil said honestly. "I'm not where I was. But I'm okay with where I am."
"Good enough," Andrew said.
When they reached the room, Neil was exhausted but content. He removed his prosthetic, did his evening care routine, cleaning the socket, checking his skin for irritation, massaging his residual limb. It had become second nature, these rituals of maintaining his prosthetic and his body.
Andrew appeared in the doorway while Neil was finishing. "Come to bed."
Neil followed him, leaving his prosthetic charging in the corner, the hydraulic knee needed daily charging. He settled into Andrew's bed, their bed, and Andrew immediately moved close.
"Yes or no?" Neil asked this time.
Andrew's lips curved slightly. "Yes."
Neil kissed him, slow and deep, Andrew's hand settling on his hip. They'd been doing this more often, kissing without purpose beyond wanting to, touching without asking permission first, existing in each other's space like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Because it was. Because after everything they'd survived, Neil's cancer and amputation, Andrew's witnessing all of it, both of them choosing each other over and over, they'd earned this. This comfort. This intimacy. This certainty that they weren't going anywhere.
When they finally pulled apart, Andrew's forehead rested against Neil's. "You ran yesterday."
"Badly," Neil said.
"You ran," Andrew repeated. "That's what matters."
"I'm going to run again tomorrow. And the day after. Until I'm good at it again."
"I know."
"It might take years."
"I know," Andrew said. "I'll be here for all of them."
Neil kissed him again, softer this time. "Yes or no?"
"Yes," Andrew said against his lips. "Always yes."
They settled into bed properly, Andrew's arm around Neil, Neil's head on Andrew's chest. The familiar rhythm of Andrew's heartbeat was soothing, grounding.
"Matt thinks I could go pro eventually," Neil said into the darkness. "If I get good enough."
"You will," Andrew said with certainty.
"How do you know?"
"Because you're you. Because when you want something, you don't stop until you get it. You wanted to keep your leg, you tried everything. You wanted to survive, you fought through hell. You want to play Exy again, you'll make it happen."
"Even with a prosthetic?"
"Especially with a prosthetic," Andrew said. "You'll prove everyone wrong about what amputees can do. That's exactly the kind of challenge you live for."
Neil smiled against Andrew's chest. "You sound like you believe in me."
"I do."
"That's new."
"No, it's not," Andrew said. "I've always believed in you. I just don't say it often."
"Say it now."
"I believe in you," Andrew said quietly. "I believe you'll play Exy again. I believe you'll achieve whatever goal you set for yourself. I believe you're stronger than you think you are."
Neil felt his throat tighten with emotion. "Thank you."
"300%," Andrew said, and Neil could hear the smile in his voice.
They lay together in comfortable silence until Neil's breathing evened out, sleep finally claiming him. Andrew stayed awake a while longer, watching Neil sleep, reminding himself that Neil was alive, here, safe.
They'd survived the unsurvivable.
Everything else was just details.
Three months later, eleven months post-amputation, Neil scored his first goal since losing his leg.
It was in a scrimmage, not a real game. His form was still imperfect, his speed still slower than before. But he'd stolen the ball from a defender, sprinted, limped-ran down the court on his blade, and scored.
The Foxes erupted in cheers. Kevin was shouting something about technique. The new strikers were grinning.
And Neil stood there, racquet in hand, blade on his leg, and felt something he hadn't felt in over a year.
Joy.
Pure, uncomplicated joy.
His phone buzzed later that evening. A text from Matt: Heard you scored. Told you you'd get there. Keep going. The pros are waiting for you.
Neil smiled and typed back: One step at a time.
Matt's response was immediate: That's all any of us can do. But you're doing it. Proud of you, man.
After practice, after he'd removed the blade and dealt with the inevitable soreness, after he'd showered and changed, Andrew found him sitting in the locker room.
"You smiled," Andrew observed. "On the court. An actual smile."
"I scored a goal."
"I know. I was there."
"I scored a goal," Neil repeated, like he still couldn't quite believe it. "After everything, the cancer, the amputation, the setbacks, I scored a goal."
Andrew sat beside him. "Yes. You did."
"I'm going to do it again," Neil said. "In a real game. Maybe next season, maybe the season after. But I'm going to play Exy again. Really play."
"I know," Andrew said. "I never doubted you would."
Neil looked at him, at Andrew, who'd stayed through every nightmare, every setback, every breakdown. Who'd made medical decisions when Neil was dying. Who'd dragged him back to life over and over when he wanted to give up.
"I love you," Neil said. The words felt strange on his tongue, unfamiliar. But true.
Andrew's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "I know."
"Is that all you're going to say?"
"What else do you want me to say?"
"That you love me too?" Neil suggested.
"You know I do," Andrew said. "I stayed, didn't I? I made that choice every day for the past year. That's love."
It was. Neil knew it was. Andrew didn't say the words, but he lived them. In every action, every choice, every moment he could have walked away and didn't.
"Okay," Neil said. Then, because he wanted to, because he could, "Yes or no?"
"Yes," Andrew said immediately.
Neil kissed him, there in the locker room where anyone could walk in. Kissed him like Andrew was air and Neil had been drowning. When they pulled apart, both breathing hard, Andrew's hand was fisted in Neil's shirt.
"Mine," Andrew said quietly.
"Yes," Neil agreed. "Yours."
"And I'm-"
"Mine," Neil finished. "Yes."
They sat together in the empty locker room, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. Outside, life continued. The Foxes were probably waiting for them. Practice would resume tomorrow. Neil had months, maybe years, of continued rehabilitation ahead.
But right now, in this moment, he had this.
He had Andrew. He had Exy. He had a future that stretched out in front of him, uncertain but possible. He had friends who believed in him, Dan coaching, Matt playing professionally, all of them cheering him on from wherever life had taken them.
He'd survived.
More than that, he'd chosen to survive, over and over, even when it seemed impossible.
And now he got to live with the consequences of that choice. Got to build a life from the rubble of what he'd lost. Got to discover who Neil Josten was as an amputee, as an athlete adapting to new limitations, as someone who'd stared down death and come back different but whole.
"Thank you," Neil said quietly.
"For what?"
"For not letting me give up. For staying. For making me fight even when I didn't want to."
Andrew's grip on his shirt tightened. "You would have done the same for me."
"Yes," Neil said. "I would."
And he would. Had, in fact, when Andrew's past threatened to pull him under. They saved each other. That's what they did. That's who they were to each other.
"Come on," Andrew said finally, releasing Neil's shirt. "The others are waiting. Kevin's probably timing us."
Neil stood, grabbing his cane and prosthetic bag. His daily prosthetic was inside, waiting to be put back on. His blade had been carefully cleaned and stored. His body was sore but functional.
He was alive.
After everything, the cancer, the chemotherapy, the sepsis, dying twice, the failed limb salvage, the amputation that took more than planned, the pneumonia, all the setbacks and complications and moments where death seemed easier than survival, he was alive.
"Yes or no?" Andrew asked from the doorway.
Neil understood the question. Are you okay? Are you here? Are you staying?
"Yes," Neil said. To all of it. To life. To Andrew. To the future. "Always yes."
They walked out of the locker room together, Neil's cane tapping against the floor, Andrew a steady presence beside him.
Behind them, over a year of hell, of fighting, of survival.
Ahead, an uncertain future, full of challenges and adaptation and continued growth. Maybe someday, professional Exy. Maybe not. But possibilities. Hope. Life.
But Neil had survived worse than uncertainty.
He'd survived the unsurvivable.
Everything else was just details.