Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The morning air bit at Neil's skin as his feet struck the pavement in steady rhythm. Left, right, left, right. Five miles done, one more to go. The Palmetto State campus was quiet at 6 AM, just how he liked it, only the distant sounds of traffic and his own breathing to keep him company.

This was routine now. Normal. After everything, Neil Josten had something resembling a normal life.

He rounded the corner toward the stadium, mentally cataloging the day ahead. Practice at nine. Class at eleven. Another practice at three. Dinner with Andrew, maybe, if Andrew felt like it. Their relationship existed in the spaces between words, in the press of Andrew's hand against his neck, in the keys to the monster's home that Neil now carried.

Neil's phone buzzed. A text from Kevin: Don't be late. We're running striker drills.

Neil smiled despite himself. Kevin's texts were always orders, never requests. Some things never changed.

He picked up his pace for the final stretch, pushing his body the way he'd learned to push it during all those years on the run. The difference was that now he had somewhere to run to instead of just running from. He had the Foxes. He had Andrew. He had-

His foot caught on an uneven piece of sidewalk.

It happened so fast. One moment Neil was running, the next he was airborne, twisting instinctively to avoid landing on his face. He hit the ground hard on his left side, his leg taking the brunt of the impact.

The sound was wrong. A crack that seemed too loud, too sharp.

Pain exploded up his leg, white hot and immediate. Neil gasped, rolling onto his back, staring up at the graying sky. His left leg screamed at him, a different kind of pain than he was used to. This wasn't a pulled muscle or a twisted ankle. This was something deeper, something that made his stomach turn.

"Fuck," he breathed, trying to sit up. The movement sent fresh waves of agony through his leg. He looked down and felt his blood run cold. His left leg was bent at an angle that wasn't right, just above the ankle.

Broken. He'd broken his leg.

From tripping on the sidewalk.

Neil fumbled for his phone with shaking hands. He should call someone. Wymack. Abby. Andrew.

Andrew. The thought of Andrew's reaction made something twist in his chest. Andrew, who had just started to believe that Neil would stay, that he wouldn't disappear or get himself killed. Andrew, who had relaxed incrementally over the past months, whose trust Neil had finally, impossibly earned.

This was going to ruin everything.

Neil's finger hovered over Andrew's contact. Then he called 911 instead.

The emergency room was too bright, too loud, and filled with too many concerned faces hovering over him. The paramedics had been efficient, asking questions Neil deflected with practiced ease. Yes, he'd just tripped. No, he didn't lose consciousness. No, there was no one to call, except yes, actually, call David Wymack.

Now Neil lay on a hospital bed, his leg immobilized and throbbing despite the painkillers they'd given him. A nurse had cut off his running shorts, and his leg looked worse than it felt, swollen, already bruising purple and black.

"Neil."

He turned his head to find Wymack in the doorway, looking like he'd thrown on the first clothes he could find. Behind him, Abby appeared, her face tight with concern.

"Coach," Neil said, attempting a smile. "Sorry about practice."

"Shut up, Neil." Wymack crossed to the bed in three strides. "What the hell happened?"

"I tripped."

"You tripped."

"On the sidewalk. Caught my foot on uneven pavement."

Wymack's expression suggested he didn't quite believe it could be that simple. Neil didn't blame him. Nothing in Neil's life had ever been simple.

Abby moved to his other side, her trained eye already assessing his injury. "Have they done X-rays yet?"

"They're coming to take me soon," Neil said. As if summoned, a technician appeared with a wheelchair.

The X-rays took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of repositioning his leg carefully, of biting back sounds of pain, of staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about how a simple fall had put him here.

When they wheeled him back to the room, a doctor was waiting, Dr. Morrison, according to his badge. He was middle-aged, with kind eyes and the sort of calm demeanor that probably worked well in emergencies.

"Mr. Josten," he said, pulling up a chair. He had a tablet in his hands, the X-rays displayed on the screen. "I've reviewed your images."

Neil nodded, bracing himself.

"You have a complete fracture of your left tibia and fibula. Both bones are broken."

"Okay," Neil said slowly. "So you'll cast it?"

Dr. Morrison's expression shifted, becoming more serious. "That's what I want to talk to you about. The break itself isn't what concerns me, it's the nature of the break. Mr. Josten, you fell from standing height onto grass and sidewalk, correct?"

"Yes."

"This type of fracture, this severity, it shouldn't happen from that kind of fall. Not in a healthy twenty-year-old athlete." He turned the tablet so Neil could see the X-rays. "Your bones fractured with minimal force. That's a red flag for underlying bone disease."

Neil's mouth went dry. "Bone disease?"

"I'm ordering additional tests. We need to check your bone density and run some blood work. It's possible you have a condition affecting your bone strength, osteoporosis, bone lesions, or possibly something more serious."

"How much more serious?" Wymack asked, his voice rough.

Dr. Morrison met Neil's eyes. "Let's get the tests done first. But Mr. Josten, when was your last complete physical? Do you have a history of bone problems? Any family history I should know about?"

Neil felt the familiar panic rising. Medical history. Family history. Things he didn't have, couldn't provide, had spent years avoiding. "I... no. No family history."

The lie sat bitter on his tongue.

"We'll need to keep you overnight for observation and run the tests in the morning," Dr. Morrison continued. "I'll have orthopedics consult on the fracture, but I want to understand why it happened before we discuss treatment."

After the doctor left, silence filled the room. Abby was reading through the papers the nurse had left, her lips pressed into a thin line. Wymack stood at the window, his back to Neil.

"Coach-"

"Don't." Wymack turned. "Don't apologize, don't make excuses. Just tell me the truth. Is there something you're not telling us? Some old injury, some..."

He trailed off, and Neil understood what he wasn't saying. Some consequence of your past?

"I don't know," Neil said, and it was the truth. "I've broken bones before. They healed fine."

"When you were running," Abby said quietly. She looked up from the papers. "Neil, when you were with your mother, were you eating regularly? Getting proper nutrition?"

The question hit harder than it should have. Neil thought of gas station meals, days without eating to save money, Mary's single-minded focus on movement over everything else.

"We ate when we could," he said finally.

Abby and Wymack exchanged a look that made Neil's stomach sink.

"Malnutrition during development can cause permanent bone damage," Abby said gently. "If you weren't getting adequate calcium, vitamin D, proper calories during your teenage years..."

"Then my bones are weak," Neil finished. The pieces were clicking together, painting a picture he didn't want to see. "You think that's what this is?"

"I think we need to wait for the tests," Abby said. But her eyes told a different story.

Wymack's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then at Neil. "Andrew's on his way. I texted him when you were getting X-rays."

Neil's heart lurched. "You didn't have to-"

"Yes, I did." Wymack's tone left no room for argument. "He's going to find out anyway. Better he hears it from me than sees it on the news or hears it from Kevin."

Twenty minutes later, Andrew walked into the room like he owned it, his face expressionless. But Neil had learned to read the micro-expressions, the tiny tells. The slight tension around Andrew's eyes. The way his gaze went immediately to Neil's leg, then to his face.

"Hi," Neil said, feeling stupid and vulnerable and hating both.

Andrew pulled up a chair next to the bed without a word. His eyes cataloged every visible injury, every monitor, every tube. Then he looked at Wymack.

"Out."

It wasn't a request. Wymack nodded, touching Abby's arm. They left, closing the door behind them.

Andrew turned back to Neil. "Explain."

So Neil did. He kept his voice steady, factual, as he described the fall, the break, the doctor's concerns. Andrew listened without interrupting, his face carved from stone.

When Neil finished, Andrew was quiet for a long moment.

"Yes or no?" he finally asked.

Neil understood the question. Are you telling me everything? Is there something you're hiding?

"I don't know what's wrong with me," Neil said honestly. "Not yet. They're running tests tomorrow."

"Yes or no?" Andrew repeated, his voice harder.

"I will tell you," Neil said. "Whatever they find. I'll tell you."

Andrew studied him, those hazel eyes seeing too much. Then he reached out and pressed his palm against Neil's neck, feeling his pulse. The touch was brief but grounding.

"You're staying here tonight," Andrew said.

"Yes."

"I'm staying too."

It wasn't a question, but Neil answered anyway. "Yes."

Andrew settled back in the chair, pulling out his cigarettes. A nurse would probably complain soon, but for now, Neil watched Andrew light up and felt something in his chest unclench.

Whatever the tests showed tomorrow, whatever was wrong with him, Andrew would be here.

That would have to be enough.

Neil didn't sleep that night. Pain meds kept the worst of the agony at bay, but every time he closed his eyes, his mind spiraled. Bone disease. Malnutrition. Consequences of running.

Mary had kept him alive by keeping him moving, but what if she'd also been killing him slowly?

Andrew dozed in the chair, his body angled in that way that meant he'd wake at the slightest unusual sound. Even unconscious, he was on guard.

Neil watched him and tried not to think about the morning, about the tests that would put a name to whatever was wrong with him.

He tried not to think about the fact that for the first time in his life, he'd broken a bone from something as simple as falling down.

He tried not to think about what that meant for his future, for Exy, for everything he'd built here.

But the thoughts came anyway, relentless as the phantom pain in his leg, and Neil stared at the ceiling and waited for dawn.

Chapter Text

The phlebotomist who came at 6 AM was too cheerful for the hour. Neil watched, detached, as she tied the tourniquet around his arm and found a vein with practiced efficiency. Andrew watched too, tracking every movement with the focus of someone cataloging potential threats.

"Just a few tubes," she said brightly. "Shouldn't take long."

Neil counted six vials. Dark red blood flowing out of him, each one labeled and logged. Evidence of something wrong, quantifiable and damning.

After she left, a different technician arrived with a portable machine for the bone density scan. Then another for additional X-rays of his hips, spine, and ribs. By 8 AM, Neil felt like he'd been passed through an assembly line of medical procedures, each one adding to the weight in his stomach.

Abby returned with coffee and breakfast sandwiches. Andrew took both coffees without a word. Neil couldn't stomach food, but he forced down half the sandwich under Abby's watchful eye.

"Dr. Morrison will review everything this morning," she said. "He'll come talk to you once he has the results."

"How long?" Neil asked.

"Soon. The bone density scan gives immediate results, and they put a rush on your blood work."

Soon. Neil hated that word. Soon meant waiting, and waiting meant thinking, and thinking led nowhere good.

Kevin showed up at 8:30, still in his practice gear. He took one look at Neil's leg, now properly splinted and elevated, and his face went carefully blank.

"You're missing striker drills," Kevin said.

"Sorry," Neil replied, almost smiling. Trust Kevin to focus on Exy.

"How long until you're cleared to play?"

"Kevin," Abby said, a warning in her voice.

But Kevin's eyes were fixed on Neil's leg, and Neil recognized the look. Kevin was calculating, running through scenarios, trying to determine how much this would cost them. The team. The season. The championship.

"I don't know yet," Neil said.

"Bones take six to eight weeks to heal," Kevin said. "We have the game against Edgar Allan in five weeks. You need to be ready."

"He needs to heal first," Andrew said flatly. "Exy can wait."

Kevin's jaw tightened, but he nodded. He pulled up a chair, and for a few minutes, they sat in tense silence. Then Kevin started talking about practice, about the new plays they were running, about Matt's improving defense. Normal things. Exy things.

Neil let the words wash over him, grateful for the distraction.

At 9:47 AM, Dr. Morrison returned. He had a tablet under his arm and another doctor with him, a woman in her forties with sharp eyes and graying hair.

"Mr. Josten," Dr. Morrison said. "This is Dr. Patel. She's an oncologist."

The word landed like a bomb.

Oncologist.

Cancer doctor.

Neil felt the room tilt. Andrew's hand appeared on his arm, steady and grounding. Kevin had gone statue-still. Abby's sharp intake of breath was barely audible.

"I think everyone should sit," Dr. Patel said, her voice kind but firm.

No one moved.

She sighed and pulled up the X-rays on her tablet. "Mr. Josten, your bone density scan shows severe osteoporosis. Your T-score is -3.8, which is significantly below the threshold for severe bone disease. For context, we typically see these numbers in elderly patients, not healthy young adults."

Neil's mouth was dry. "What causes that?"

"In your case, almost certainly chronic malnutrition during your developmental years," Dr. Patel said. "Your body didn't have the building blocks it needed to create strong bones. Insufficient calcium, vitamin D, protein, and overall calories during adolescence resulted in bones that never reached proper density."

"Can it be fixed?" Kevin asked, his voice tight.

"We can prevent further deterioration with medication and dietary changes," Dr. Patel said. "But the damage that's already done is permanent. Mr. Josten's bones will always be more fragile than they should be."

The words hit like physical blows. Permanent. Fragile. Always.

"However," Dr. Patel continued, and her expression grew more serious, "the osteoporosis isn't our primary concern right now."

Neil's stomach dropped further. There was more. Of course there was more.

Dr. Patel pulled up a different image, the X-ray of his leg. She zoomed in on a section of his tibia, just below the knee. "Do you see this area here? This irregular density?"

Neil saw it. A shadow in the bone, like something was eating it from the inside.

"That's a lesion," Dr. Patel said. "Your blood work shows elevated alkaline phosphatase and lactate dehydrogenase levels. Combined with the lesion and your age, we need to rule out bone cancer, specifically osteosarcoma."

The word hung in the air.

Cancer.

"You don't know for sure?" Abby asked, her voice remarkably steady.

"Not without a biopsy," Dr. Patel said. "But the presentation is concerning. The lesion, the pathologic fracture, the blood markers, they all point in that direction."

"When?" Andrew's voice was flat, dangerous. "When do you biopsy?"

"We'd like to do it this afternoon," Dr. Morrison said. "Get a sample from the lesion while we're treating the fracture. If it is cancer, we need to know immediately so we can start treatment."

Neil couldn't breathe. Cancer. The word kept repeating in his head, growing louder each time. He'd survived his father, survived Baltimore, survived everything Riko and the Moriyamas had thrown at him. And now his own body was betraying him.

"What's the treatment?" Wymack's voice came from the doorway. Neil hadn't heard him arrive. The coach's face was ashen.

"If it is osteosarcoma, the standard treatment is chemotherapy followed by surgery to remove the tumor," Dr. Patel said. "Given the location and the extent of bone damage, we'd need to discuss limb salvage surgery versus" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "other options."

"Other options?" Neil heard himself ask.

Dr. Patel met his eyes. "Amputation, in some cases. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. First, we need to confirm what we're dealing with."

Amputation. The word was too big, too impossible. Neil looked down at his leg, broken, yes, but still his leg. Still there. Still part of him.

"No," he said.

"Neil-" Abby started.

"No," he repeated, stronger this time. "You don't know it's cancer. You said you need a biopsy. So do the biopsy, but don't talk to me about cutting off my leg when you don't even know-"

"Mr. Josten," Dr. Patel's voice was gentle but firm. "I understand this is frightening. But if it is osteosarcoma, time is critical. The cancer can spread. We need to be prepared for all possibilities."

"Then be prepared," Neil said. "But I'm not losing my leg because of a maybe."

Andrew's hand was still on his arm, steady pressure. When Neil looked at him, Andrew's face was unreadable, but his eyes said breathe.

Neil breathed.

"The biopsy is at 2 PM," Dr. Morrison said. "We'll have preliminary results by tomorrow morning, full pathology within a few days. Try to rest until then."

They left, taking their tablets and their terrible news with them. The room felt too small suddenly, packed with people and fear and unspoken words.

Kevin stood abruptly. "I need to tell the team."

"No," Neil said.

"They need to know-"

"Not yet." Neil's voice was rough. "Not until we know what it is. No point in panicking everyone over nothing."

"Neil-"

"He said no," Andrew interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. "Respect it."

Kevin's hands clenched into fists, but he nodded. "Fine. But when you know, you tell them. No hiding it."

After Kevin left, Wymack moved closer to the bed. He looked older suddenly, all his years visible in the lines of his face.

"Kid," he said quietly. "Whatever this is, whatever happens, you're not alone. You understand?"

Neil nodded, not trusting his voice.

"The team, the athletic department, we'll handle the medical bills. You focus on getting better."

"Coach, I can't ask-"

"You're not asking. I'm telling." Wymack's voice was gruff. "You're one of mine. That means something."

He left too, leaving Neil alone with Andrew and Abby.

Abby sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle his leg. "How much did you and your mother go without?" she asked quietly. "When you were running, how often did you go hungry?"

Neil thought about those years. Gas station meals split between two people. Days where they ate nothing to save money for bus tickets or motel rooms. Mary's insistence that they keep moving, always moving, even when Neil's stomach cramped with hunger.

"Often enough," he said finally.

Abby's eyes were wet. "Oh, Neil."

"She was keeping me alive," Neil said, the words automatic. He'd told himself that for years. Every sacrifice, every hardship, it was to keep him alive.

"She was running you into the ground," Andrew said bluntly. "Starving you. Breaking you down."

"She didn't know-"

"Yes, she did." Andrew's voice was cold. "She knew you were hungry. She knew you were growing. She chose to keep you half starved anyway."

Neil wanted to argue, but the words wouldn't come. Because Andrew was right. Mary had known. She'd always known. She'd just cared more about staying ahead of Nathan than about what running was doing to her son.

"We should let you rest before the biopsy," Abby said, standing. "I'll be back this afternoon."

After she left, Andrew pulled his chair closer to the bed. He lit a cigarette, ignoring the NO SMOKING signs, and studied Neil with those unsettling eyes.

"Yes or no?" Andrew asked.

"To what?"

"Are you going to do something stupid?"

Neil almost laughed. "What counts as stupid?"

"Refusing treatment. Running. Hiding. Lying."

"I'm not going to run," Neil said. "Where would I go?"

"That's not an answer."

Neil met Andrew's stare. "I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know what's wrong with me yet. I don't know if it's cancer or if they're wrong or what any of this means."

"And when you do know?"

"I'll tell you," Neil promised. "No hiding. No lying."

Andrew took a long drag from his cigarette. "You're afraid."

It wasn't a question, but Neil answered anyway. "Yes."

"Of dying?"

"Of losing my leg." The admission came out raw. "If I can't run, if I can't play Exy, what am I?"

"Neil Josten," Andrew said simply. "The same person you were yesterday. The same person you'll be tomorrow."

"But-"

"Your value isn't determined by how fast you run or how well you play a stupid sport." Andrew's voice was flat, factual. "You matter because you're you. The rest is irrelevant."

Neil wanted to believe him. But his entire life had been defined by movement, by running, by Exy. Take that away and what was left?

He didn't have an answer.

The biopsy happened at 2 PM, just as promised. They put him under twilight sedation, not quite unconscious, but floating and disconnected from his body. He was vaguely aware of pressure, of voices, of Andrew's hand in his for a moment before the drugs pulled him under completely.

When he woke, his leg throbbed with new pain. A bandage covered the biopsy site, and there was a heaviness in his chest that had nothing to do with the anesthesia.

Andrew was there, reading something on his phone. When Neil stirred, he looked up.

"Done," Andrew said. "Results tomorrow."

Tomorrow. One more night of not knowing. One more night of maybe.

Neil closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his mind wouldn't quiet. It kept circling back to the same thoughts.

Cancer. Amputation. Malnutrition. Mary.

His mother had run him across the world for eight years, keeping him one step ahead of Nathan. She'd kept him alive, yes. But at what cost?

And now the bill was coming due.

Neil's phone buzzed. A text from Kevin: Tell me when you know.

Then one from Matt: Heard you're in the hospital. You okay?

Then Nicky: Kevin won't tell us anything! What's going on?

Dan: Call me when you can.

The Foxes were circling, worried and confused. They deserved to know. But Neil couldn't bring himself to type the words. Not yet. Not until he knew for sure.

He turned his phone off and stared at the ceiling.

Andrew moved closer. "Stop thinking."

"Can't."

"Try harder."

Neil almost smiled. "That's not how brains work."

"Then distract yourself."

"How?"

Andrew considered this. Then he started talking about nothing, about the book he was reading, about Kevin's increasingly neurotic practice schedules, about Nicky's latest attempt at cooking that had nearly set the dorm kitchen on fire. Mundane things. Normal things.

Neil listened and felt the panic recede slightly. Not gone, but manageable.

Eventually, exhaustion won. Neil drifted off to Andrew's voice reading aloud from his phone, some detective novel with too many plot twists.

When he woke hours later, it was dark outside. Andrew was still there, still reading.

"Thank you," Neil said quietly.

Andrew didn't look up from his phone. "161%."

It was the closest Andrew would come to saying of course or always or I'm here.

Neil closed his eyes again and tried to believe that whatever came tomorrow, whatever diagnosis the doctors delivered, he could handle it.

He had to.

Because the alternative, giving up, running again, disappearing, wasn't an option anymore.

He'd promised Andrew he would stay.

Even if staying meant facing something he couldn't fight, couldn't outrun, couldn't survive the way he'd survived everything else.

Even then.

He would stay.

Chapter Text

Dr. Patel arrived at 9 AM exactly, flanked by Dr. Morrison and a younger doctor Neil didn't recognize. Their faces told him everything before they said a word.

It was cancer.

Neil had spent the night preparing himself for this moment, running through the possibilities, but nothing actually prepared him for the way the word sounded when Dr. Patel said it.

"The biopsy confirmed osteosarcoma," she said, sitting down. "A malignant tumor in your left tibia. Stage IIB."

Andrew's hand found Neil's arm again. Anchor. Tether. Lifeline.

"What does that mean?" Neil heard himself ask. His voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.

"Stage II means the tumor is high-grade, aggressive, but hasn't spread beyond the bone yet," Dr. Patel explained. "The 'B' designation indicates the tumor is larger than eight centimeters. In your case, it's approximately twelve centimeters and has caused significant bone deterioration."

Twelve centimeters. Nearly five inches of his bone eaten away by cancer. No wonder it had broken so easily.

"Treatment?" Andrew's voice was flat, but Neil felt the tension in his grip.

"The standard protocol is neoadjuvant chemotherapy, that means chemo before surgery, followed by surgical resection of the tumor, then additional chemotherapy." Dr. Patel pulled up scans on her tablet. "The goal is to shrink the tumor, remove it, and eliminate any remaining cancer cells."

"And the surgery?" Neil asked, even though he knew. Even though he'd heard the word yesterday and spent all night trying not to think about it.

Dr. Patel met his eyes. "There are two surgical options. Limb salvage surgery, where we remove the cancerous portion of bone and replace it with a metal prosthesis or bone graft. Or amputation."

There it was. The word he'd been dreading.

"Which one works better?" Neil's voice was steadier than he felt.

"That's complicated," the younger doctor spoke up. He was introduced as Dr. Chen, an orthopedic oncologist. "Limb salvage sounds preferable, and for many patients it is. But in your case, we have complicating factors."

He pulled up the scans, pointing to areas Neil couldn't decipher. "The tumor is in a difficult location, close to your knee joint. Combined with your severe osteoporosis, limb salvage becomes much riskier. The remaining bone may not be strong enough to support a prosthesis. You'd be at high risk for fracture, infection, and failure of the reconstruction."

"What about bone grafts?" Neil asked. "Using bone from somewhere else?"

"Again, your osteoporosis is a problem," Dr. Chen said. "We'd need to harvest bone from your pelvis or fibula, but that bone is also compromised. And you'd need multiple surgeries, long recovery time, and the success rate in patients with your bone density is significantly lower."

"How much lower?" Andrew asked.

Dr. Chen hesitated. "For limb salvage in a patient with normal bone density, we see about an 85-90% five-year success rate. With severe osteoporosis like yours, that drops to maybe 60-65%. And 'success' doesn't mean normal function, it means the limb is still attached and weight-bearing."

"And amputation?" Neil's mouth felt numb forming the word.

"Below-knee amputation has fewer complications, faster recovery, and better long-term functional outcomes in your case," Dr. Patel said gently. "With a prosthetic, you'd actually have better mobility than with a compromised limb salvage."

"Better mobility," Neil repeated. "But no leg."

"No biological leg below the knee," Dr. Chen corrected. "But with modern prosthetics, especially running blades for athletes, you could potentially return to activity. Maybe even Exy, with modifications."

Maybe. Potentially. With modifications.

Neil heard all the qualifiers, all the uncertainty wrapped in false optimism.

"I want limb salvage," Neil said. "Try the surgery. Save my leg."

Dr. Patel and Dr. Chen exchanged looks.

"Mr. Josten," Dr. Patel said carefully, "I understand that's your preference. But you need to understand the risks. If limb salvage fails, you'll need amputation anyway, but after months of complications, multiple surgeries, and delayed cancer treatment. The cancer could spread while we're dealing with surgical complications."

"Or it could work," Neil said stubbornly. "You said 60-65% success rate. That's better than half."

"It's also a 35-40% failure rate," Dr. Chen said. "And if it fails-"

"Then you amputate," Neil finished. "But at least I tried. At least I gave my leg a chance."

"Neil," Abby's voice came from the doorway. She must have arrived during the conversation. "You need to think about this carefully."

"I have thought about it," Neil said, hearing the edge in his voice. "All night. And I'm not cutting off my leg without trying to save it first."

"Even if trying makes everything worse?" Andrew asked quietly.

Neil looked at him. Andrew's face was impassive, but his eyes were searching, calculating. This was Andrew's way of asking: Are you making this decision rationally, or are you panicking?

"Yes," Neil said. "Even then."

Andrew held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded once. Permission. Or at least, acceptance.

"If you choose limb salvage, we start chemotherapy next week," Dr. Patel said. "Three months of treatment to shrink the tumor. Then surgery. Then three more months of chemo."

"Six months," Neil said. The Edgar Allan game was in five weeks. The championship semifinals were in three months. "I'll miss the season."

"You'll miss Exy," Dr. Chen said. "But you'll be alive."

After the doctors left, Abby sat on the edge of Neil's bed. She'd been quiet during the discussion, but now her eyes were fierce.

"You're sure about this?" she asked. "About limb salvage?"

"Are you going to try to talk me out of it?"

"No," Abby said. "But I need you to understand what you're signing up for. Chemotherapy is brutal. You'll be sick, exhausted, in pain. Your body will fight you every day. And if the surgery fails, you'll have gone through all of that for nothing."

"It won't be for nothing," Neil said. "I'll know I tried."

Abby studied him, then sighed. "You're more like Wymack than you realize. Stubborn as hell."

"Is that a compliment?"

"With David? Always." She squeezed his hand. "Okay. We do it your way. But you tell the team. Today. They deserve to know what they're going to be supporting you through."

Neil's stomach clenched. The team. He'd been avoiding thinking about them, about their reactions.

"Can it wait until-"

"No," Abby said firmly. "You waited to tell Andrew, and that was a mistake. Don't make the same one with the Foxes."

She was right. Neil knew she was right. But the thought of seeing their faces, their pity, their fear, it made his chest tight.

"I'll call Wymack," Abby said, standing. "He can bring them by this afternoon. You should be discharged by then anyway."

"Discharged?" Neil looked at his leg, still splinted and throbbing. "I can't walk."

"That's what crutches are for," Abby said. "You'll be in a cast for six weeks, or until surgery, whichever comes first. We need to stabilize the fracture even though the bone is compromised."

After she left, silence filled the room. Neil stared at his leg, trying to imagine it in a cast for six weeks, then cut open for surgery, then, if everything went wrong, gone entirely.

"You're spiraling," Andrew observed.

"I'm thinking."

"Same thing with you." Andrew pulled out a cigarette, lit it despite the nurse who'd complained three times already. "Talk."

"About what?"

"Whatever is making you look like you're about to bolt."

Neil almost laughed. "I can't bolt. I can barely move."

"That's not what I meant."

Neil knew what he meant. The metaphorical running, the retreating into himself, the shutting down. His default survival mechanism.

"I don't know how to do this," Neil admitted. "I don't know how to be sick. How to be weak. How to let people help me."

"You let me help you."

"That's different."

"Why?"

Neil struggled to articulate it. "Because you don't pity me. You don't look at me like I'm broken."

"Neither will they," Andrew said. "The Foxes are many things, but they're not pitiers. They're survivors. They know what it means to fight."

"This isn't the same as what they've survived."

"No," Andrew agreed. "It's worse. But that means they'll fight harder for you."

Neil wanted to believe him. But the thought of facing them all, of seeing Kevin's barely contained panic about the team, of watching Matt try to stay positive, of enduring Nicky's aggressive cheerfulness, it was exhausting before it even happened.

"I'm scared," Neil said quietly.

"I know."

"Not of dying. Not even of losing my leg. I'm scared of..." He trailed off, searching for the words. "Of not being fast anymore. Of not being good at the only thing I was ever good at."

"You're good at surviving," Andrew said. "You're good at that."

"What if I'm not? What if this is the thing that finally breaks me?"

Andrew crushed out his cigarette. "Then I'll pick up the pieces. That's the deal."

"That's not fair to you."

"I don't care about fair." Andrew's eyes were sharp. "I care about keeping my investment intact. You don't get to break after everything I've put into you."

It was the closest Andrew would come to saying I love you or I need you or don't give up. Neil heard all of it anyway.

"Okay," Neil said. "I'll fight."

"Good."

---

They casted his leg at noon, bright orange at Andrew's sardonic suggestion of "Fox colors." The cast ran from his toes to just below his knee, heavy and foreign. The nurse fitted him with crutches and made him practice in the hallway until he could navigate without falling over.

Walking was humiliating. Neil stumbled, his arms shaking with effort, his armpits aching where the crutches dug in. Andrew followed silently, close enough to catch him if he fell but far enough not to hover.

By the time they made it back to the room, Neil was sweating and his hands were blistered.

"That was pathetic," Neil muttered.

"That was day one," Andrew corrected. "You'll get better."

The Foxes arrived at three, a chaotic flood of color and noise and concern. Wymack led them in, his face set in grim lines. Behind him came Kevin, Matt, Dan, Allison, Renee, and Nicky. Even Aaron was there, standing at the back.

They crammed into the room, some sitting, some standing, all staring at Neil like he might disappear if they looked away.

"Okay," Wymack said gruffly. "Neil has something to tell you. Everyone shut up and listen."

Neil's mouth was dry. He looked at Andrew, who gave him the smallest nod. Then he looked at the Foxes and made himself say it.

"I have cancer."

The words landed like a bomb. Nicky's face crumpled. Matt's jaw dropped. Allison swore viciously. Dan's hand went to her mouth.

Kevin just stared, his face going progressively more pale.

"It's bone cancer," Neil continued, forcing himself to keep talking. "In my left leg. They caught it because I broke my leg yesterday, the break is what made them look, and they found a tumor."

"What stage?" Dan asked, her voice tight.

"Stage II. It's aggressive but hasn't spread yet."

"Treatment?" Matt managed.

"Chemotherapy starting next week. Three months of it, then surgery to remove the tumor, then three more months of chemo."

"What kind of surgery?" Kevin's voice was barely audible.

This was the hard part. Neil took a breath. "There are two options. They can try to save my leg with limb salvage surgery, or they can amputate below the knee."

"Amputate," Nicky repeated faintly. "They want to cut off your leg?"

"It's an option," Neil said. "But I'm going to try limb salvage first."

"First?" Kevin's voice went sharp. "What does that mean?"

Neil explained about the osteoporosis, about the compromised bone, about the success rates and risks. With every word, Kevin's expression grew more strained.

When Neil finished, Kevin was shaking his head. "No. No, this is.... you can't-"

"Kevin," Dan said warningly.

But Kevin was standing, his hands clenched into fists. "You're telling me you have cancer. That you might lose your leg. That you'll definitely miss the season. Do you understand what this means?"

"Kevin," Wymack's voice was sharp. "Not now."

"Yes now!" Kevin's voice cracked. "We have Edgar Allan in five weeks. We have championships. We need Neil on the court, and you're telling me-"

"I'm telling you I might be dying," Neil cut in, his own voice rising. "I'm telling you I have cancer, Kevin. I didn't plan this. I didn't choose this. I fell on the goddamn sidewalk and broke my leg and found out my mother starved me so badly that my bones are rotting from the inside out!"

The room went silent.

Kevin stared at him, face white, hands shaking. Then he turned and walked out.

"Kevin!" Dan called after him, but he was gone.

"I'll go," Renee said quietly, following him.

Matt moved closer to the bed, his eyes red. "Neil, man, I'm so sorry. This is... fuck, I don't even know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Neil said, suddenly exhausted.

"Yes, we do," Dan said firmly. She sat on the edge of the bed, her captain's voice in full force. "We're your team. Your family. You don't go through this alone."

"We'll figure out a schedule," Allison said, already pulling out her phone. "Someone with you for every chemo appointment. Someone to help you to class. Someone to-"

"I don't need a babysitter," Neil protested.

"Too bad," Allison said. "You're getting one anyway. Multiple ones."

"She's right," Matt added. "You took care of us when we needed it. Now we take care of you."

Neil wanted to argue, but the words wouldn't come. Because part of him, the part that had always been alone, always survived alone, desperately wanted to accept.

Nicky was crying openly now. "This is so fucked up. You've been through so much, and now this? It's not fair."

"Life isn't fair," Aaron said, speaking for the first time. His voice was clinical, detached. "But the five-year survival rate for Stage II osteosarcoma is about 65-70% with treatment. Those are decent odds."

"Decent?" Nicky stared at his cousin. "He has cancer and you're calling the odds decent?"

"I'm calling them survivable," Aaron said. "Which they are. If he follows the treatment protocol."

It was Aaron's way of saying he cared. Neil understood that.

"Thank you," Neil said. "All of you. For not... for being here."

"Where else would we be?" Dan said simply.

They stayed for another hour, talking around the elephant in the room, pretending this was just another team meeting. Nicky told terrible jokes. Matt discussed the latest campus drama. Allison complained about her economics professor.

Normal things. Comforting things.

When they finally left, promising to visit again soon, Neil sagged against the pillows.

"That went better than I expected," he said.

"You expected worse?" Andrew asked.

"I expected Kevin to be worse."

"He will be," Andrew said. "Give him time to process. Then he'll come back and be insufferable about your recovery schedule."

Neil almost smiled. "That's true."

His phone buzzed. A text from Renee: Kevin is upset but not at you. He's scared. Give him time.

Then one from Kevin himself: I'm sorry. I'll call tomorrow.

Neil put the phone down and closed his eyes. The Foxes knew. The worst part was over.

Except it wasn't. Because tomorrow he'd start preparing for chemotherapy. Tomorrow he'd start the real fight.

Tomorrow he'd learn what it meant to battle something he couldn't outrun.

But for now, with Andrew beside him and the Foxes rallying behind him, Neil let himself believe he could do this.

He had to.

Because the alternative was unthinkable.

Chapter Text

The first dose of chemotherapy went into Neil's bloodstream on a Tuesday morning, exactly one week after his diagnosis.

Neil sat in a reclining chair in the oncology ward, an IV in his arm, watching clear liquid drip steadily into his veins. Poison designed to kill cancer cells. Poison that would also kill everything else it touched, hair, appetite, energy, immune system.

"Cisplatin and doxorubicin," the nurse explained cheerfully, adjusting the flow rate. "This session will take about four hours. Do you need anything? Water? Blankets? Magazine?"

"I'm fine," Neil said automatically.

Andrew, sitting beside him with a book, didn't look up. "He'll take water and blankets."

The nurse smiled and brought both. Neil wanted to argue but found himself grateful when she draped the heated blanket over him. The oncology ward was freezing.

"First treatment is usually the easiest," the nurse continued. "Side effects take a few hours to kick in. You might feel okay today, but tomorrow and the next few days will be harder. Make sure you stay hydrated and eat even if you don't feel like it."

After she left, Neil stared at the IV bag. This was it. The beginning of six months of his life dedicated to killing the thing trying to kill him.

"Yes or no?" Andrew asked, still not looking up from his book.

"I don't know what you're asking."

"Are you going to be difficult about this?"

"About cancer treatment?"

"About accepting help." Andrew turned a page. "You're already planning how to hide it. I can see it on your face."

Neil shouldn't be surprised that Andrew could read him so easily. "I don't want to be a burden."

"Too late. You already are."

The words should have stung, but coming from Andrew they were almost affectionate. This was his version of you're stuck with me.

"The team doesn't need to see me like this," Neil said quietly. "Sick. Weak."

"The team has seen worse," Andrew pointed out. "They've seen you beaten bloody, drugged, kidnapped, and tortured. Chemotherapy is nothing new."

"That was different."

"How?"

"That was..." Neil struggled to articulate it. "That was something done to me. This is my body failing. This is me being fundamentally broken."

Andrew finally looked up from his book, his hazel eyes sharp. "Your body isn't failing. It's fighting. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes." Andrew's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "Failure is giving up. Fighting is what you're doing now. Don't confuse the two."

Neil wanted to believe him. But as he watched the chemotherapy drip into his arm, all he felt was tired.

The nurse was right. The first day was deceptively easy.

Neil felt fine on the drive back to campus, well, being driven by Andrew. He felt fine sitting in the suite's common room with Kevin and Nicky, though his stomach was slightly unsettled. He felt fine going to bed that night in Andrew's bed, Andrew's weight a solid presence beside him.

He woke up at 3 AM and barely made it to the bathroom before vomiting.

The bathroom was shared between all four of them, in their suite-style dorm. Neil tried to be quiet, but the retching echoed off the tile.

Andrew appeared in the doorway moments later, sleep-rumpled and alert. He didn't say anything, just wet a washcloth with cool water and handed it to Neil.

Neil retched again, his stomach cramping violently. There was nothing left to bring up, but his body didn't care. It wanted the poison out.

"Fuck," Neil gasped between heaves.

"Anti-nausea medication," Andrew said. "Where is it?"

"My nightstand. Brown bottle."

Andrew disappeared and returned with the bottle. He shook out a pill and waited. When Neil's stomach finally settled enough, he took it with shaking hands. The pill stuck in his throat. He gagged, nearly threw up again, but forced it down with water.

"Back to bed," Andrew said.

"I need to ..." Neil gestured vaguely at the toilet. "Clean."

"I'll do it. Go."

Neil wanted to argue, but another wave of nausea hit. He stumbled back through their bedroom, past his own unused bed, the one that had become a glorified storage space, and crawled into Andrew's bed. He curled up on his side, the room spinning. The medication kicked in slowly, dulling the worst of the nausea to a persistent queasiness.

Andrew returned and climbed back into bed, his body a careful distance away. Close enough to be felt, far enough not to crowd.

"This is going to happen every time?" Neil asked miserably.

"Probably."

"Great."

"You can handle it."

"Can I?"

Andrew's hand found the back of Neil's neck, warm and grounding. "You survived your father. You survived Baltimore. You'll survive this."

Neil closed his eyes and tried to believe him.

From the other room, he heard movement, Kevin or Nicky waking up, probably disturbed by the noise. Neil felt a fresh wave of shame. Now he was keeping them awake too.

"Stop," Andrew said, reading his thoughts. "They'll deal with it."

By Friday, Neil's nausea was constant. The anti-nausea medication helped, but it made him drowsy and disconnected. He moved through his days in a fog, barely tasting food, barely feeling present.

He'd missed two days of classes already. Wymack had arranged for his professors to excuse the absences, but Neil hated it. Hated feeling like he needed special treatment. Hated being the broken Fox.

"You need to rest," Abby told him during his Friday check-up. She took his temperature, his blood pressure, and examined his mouth for sores. "Your immune system is compromised. Stay in the dorm this weekend."

"I have class Monday."

"Then rest until Monday."

Neil nodded but had no intention of following her advice. He had a paper due in his literature class. He had Exy practice to watch, he couldn't play, but he could observe. He had things to do that weren't lying in bed feeling sorry for himself.

Saturday morning, he dragged himself out of Andrew's bed and dressed for practice. His leg was still in the cast, his crutches a necessary evil. Moving took twice as long as it should have. Exhaustion pulled at him like weights.

Andrew watched from the bed. "No."

"I'm just watching practice."

"You can barely stand."

"I can sit in the stands."

"Neil." Andrew's voice had an edge. "You're going to make yourself worse."

"I'm already worse. I might as well be productive."

He pushed past Andrew, grabbing his crutches from where they leaned against the wall. Each step sending jarring pain through his arms and ribs. The cast was heavy. His body ached in ways he couldn't explain.

In the common room, Nicky looked up from his cereal. "Whoa, where are you going?"

"Practice."

"You look like death," Nicky said bluntly. "Maybe Andrew's right and you should rest."

"I'm fine."

Kevin emerged from his and Nicky's room. He took one look at Neil and frowned. "You're not fine."

"I'm just watching," Neil said. "I won't even move from the stands."

Kevin and Nicky exchanged looks, then Kevin shrugged. "Your funeral. But when you pass out, I'm leaving you there."

It was Kevin's version of concern.

Neil made it to the stadium.

Practice was already underway when he settled into the stands. Below, the Foxes ran drills, Kevin barking orders, Matt defending against Dan's attacks, Allison and Renee working on coordination.

They looked good. Strong. Fast.

Neil watched and felt something hollow open in his chest. He should be down there. Should be running drills, pushing his body, feeling the burn in his muscles.

Instead he was here, useless, getting weaker by the day.

"You look like shit," Kevin's voice came from behind him.

Neil turned to find Kevin climbing the stands, gear bag over his shoulder. Practice must have ended. Neil had zoned out, lost time.

"Thanks," Neil said dryly.

Kevin sat beside him, staring down at the empty court. "You shouldn't be here."

"I know."

"Then why are you?"

Neil didn't have a good answer. "I needed to see it. To remember what I'm fighting for."

Kevin was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'm sorry. For what I said at the hospital."

"You were scared."

"That's not an excuse." Kevin's hands clenched on his knees. "You're sick. You're dealing with something I can't imagine. And I made it about Exy. About the team. About me."

"It's fine-"

"It's not fine," Kevin cut in. "You're my friend, Neil. Or as close to one as I have. And I let you down."

Neil looked at him, surprised. Kevin didn't do emotions well. He didn't do vulnerability. But here he was, opening up in his stiff, uncomfortable way.

"You didn't let me down," Neil said. "You reacted like Kevin Day. I expected nothing less."

Kevin almost smiled. "That's not a compliment."

"It's honesty."

They sat in silence, watching the empty court. Then Kevin asked, "How bad is it? The treatment?"

"Bad," Neil admitted. "I'm nauseous all the time. Food tastes like metal. I'm exhausted but can't sleep. Everything hurts."

"And they want you to do this for six months?"

"Three months, then surgery, then three more months."

Kevin shook his head. "I don't know how you're doing it."

"I don't have a choice."

"Yes, you do," Kevin said quietly. "You could give up. Stop treatment. Let the cancer win. But you're not. You're fighting. That takes strength."

Coming from Kevin, who measured everything in terms of strength and weakness, it meant something.

"The amputation," Kevin said, and Neil tensed. "If the surgery doesn't work. If they have to take your leg. You could still play."

"Kevin..."

"I'm serious. There are adaptive athletes. Prosthetics designed for sports. You'd have to relearn everything, but you could do it. You're stubborn enough."

Neil wanted to tell him it wouldn't come to that. That the limb salvage would work. That he'd keep his leg and return to Exy the same as before.

But he couldn't lie. Not to Kevin, who'd already mapped out Neil's future without his leg because Kevin couldn't imagine a future where Neil didn't play Exy at all.

"Yeah," Neil said finally. "Maybe."

By Monday, Neil couldn't hide it anymore.

He dragged himself to his literature class, sat in the back row, and tried to focus on the lecture. But his vision kept blurring. The professor's voice faded in and out. His stomach churned ominously.

Halfway through class, he had to run, well, hobble frantically on crutches, to the bathroom.

He vomited twice, sweat pouring down his face. His hands shook so badly he could barely grip the crutches.

When he finally emerged, one of his classmates was waiting. "Hey, are you okay? You look really pale."

"I'm fine," Neil said automatically.

"You should probably go to health services."

"I'm fine," Neil repeated, more firmly.

He made it through the rest of the day through sheer stubbornness. Went to his next class. Forced down lunch even though it tasted like ash. Attended the mandatory team meeting.

The Foxes noticed. Of course, they noticed. Matt kept watching him with worried eyes. Dan asked twice if he needed anything. Even Aaron frowned when Neil swayed slightly while standing up.

But Neil kept insisting he was fine. He could handle this. He could push through.

He made it back to the dorm at six, fumbled with his keys at the suite door, and barely made it inside before his legs gave out.

He collapsed on the common room couch, crutches clattering to the floor.

He woke to Andrew shaking him roughly. "Neil. Wake up."

"What.." Neil's mouth was dry, his head pounding.

"You've been asleep for three hours. You didn't respond when I called your name." Andrew's face was carefully blank, but his eyes were sharp. "How long have you been like this?"

Behind Andrew, Nicky hovered anxiously. Kevin stood in the doorway to their room, arms crossed, face tight with concern.

"Like what?" Neil tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. The room spun.

"Barely conscious. Hiding how bad you feel."

"I'm managing."

"You're collapsing." Andrew's voice went hard. "This ends now. No more classes until you're stable. No more pretending you're fine."

"I can't just stop going to class"

"Yes, you can. That's what medical leave is for."

"I don't need-"

"Neil." Andrew grabbed his face, forcing Neil to look at him. "You are going to hurt yourself trying to maintain normalcy. Your body is fighting cancer and chemotherapy. It doesn't have energy for anything else. Accept that."

"I can't just give up everything," Neil said, hating how his voice shook. "School, practice, normal life, if I give it all up, what's left?"

"Me," Andrew said simply. "The Foxes. Recovery. That's what's left. That's what matters."

"It's not enough."

"It has to be."

"He's right," Kevin said from the doorway. "You're being an idiot."

"Thanks, Kevin," Neil muttered.

"I mean it. You're making yourself worse by refusing to admit you're sick." Kevin moved closer, his expression intense. "Do you think any of us respect you less because you have cancer? Do you think we think you're weak because chemotherapy is kicking your ass?"

"I..."

"Because we don't," Kevin continued. "We think you're an idiot for trying to act normal when your body is literally fighting for its life."

"Kevin," Nicky said softly. "Maybe-"

"No. He needs to hear this." Kevin's voice was fierce now. "Neil, you survived your father. You survived Riko. You survived Baltimore. You're the strongest person I know. But strength isn't pretending you're fine when you're not. Strength is accepting help when you need it."

The words hit harder than they should have. Neil felt something crack in his chest.

"I'm scared," he admitted quietly. "If I stop trying to be normal, if I let myself be sick, I'm afraid I won't come back from it."

Andrew's grip on his face softened slightly. "You will. But you have to let yourself fight the actual battle instead of fighting yourself."

"I don't know how."

"Then we'll show you," Nicky said, coming to sit beside Neil on the couch. "That's what we're here for. That's what family does."

Andrew was ruthless about it.

He called Wymack that night and arranged for Neil to take medical leave from classes. He contacted Neil's professors and arranged for assignments to be completed remotely when Neil felt up to it. He cleared Neil's schedule of everything except doctor's appointments and rest.

Nicky took over the suite's small kitchen, stocking it with bland foods that wouldn't upset Neil's stomach. Crackers, ginger ale, plain pasta, chicken broth. "Aaron helped me make a list," Nicky explained. "Foods for chemo patients."

Aaron himself appeared the next afternoon with a schedule. "Medication times," he said, handing Neil a printed chart. "Anti-nausea meds every six hours. Antibiotics twice daily. Vitamins in the morning. Don't skip doses. Your body needs the support."

"Since when do you care?" Neil asked, too surprised to be defensive.

Aaron's expression didn't change. "Since Andrew decided you're worth keeping alive. That makes you my problem too."

It was the closest Aaron would come to saying he cared.

Kevin became insufferable about Neil's rest schedule. He'd check on Neil between classes, make sure he was taking his medication, force him to drink water even when Neil insisted he wasn't thirsty. At night, he'd leave modified training plans on the coffee table in their common room. "For when you're ready," he'd say.

Matt and Dan visited the suite twice a week, bringing Neil's assignments and news from campus. Renee came by to read to him when Neil was too tired to focus on books himself. Even Allison showed up with expensive lotions and soaps. "For when you feel human enough to shower," she said. "Trust me, good-smelling things help."

The suite became a revolving door of Foxes, all determined to help even when Neil insisted he was fine.

Living in such close quarters with Kevin and Nicky meant Neil couldn't hide anything. They heard him throwing up at night. They saw him too exhausted to make it from Andrew's bed to the bathroom. They watched him struggle with simple tasks like showering or getting dressed.

It was humiliating.

But it was also oddly comforting.

"You don't have to pretend with us," Nicky said one night, sitting on the couch in their common room while Neil tried and failed to keep down dinner. "We're living this with you. We see it all anyway."

Neil, exhausted and sick and tired of fighting, finally let himself accept it.

The second round of chemotherapy hit harder than the first.

Neil spent three days mostly in Andrew's bed, waking only to vomit or take medication. His hair started falling out in clumps. His mouth developed painful sores that made eating agony. His body ached constantly, bones feeling like they might shatter with any movement.

Andrew was there through all of it. Holding back Neil's hair when he vomited. Administering medication. Changing sheets when Neil sweated through them. Never complaining, never judging, just present.

Kevin and Nicky helped too, in their own ways. Kevin researched chemotherapy side effects and made lists of things that might help. Nicky cooked endless batches of mild soup and kept the common room quiet when Neil needed to rest.

"Why are you doing this?" Neil asked Andrew one night, voice hoarse from throwing up.

"181%," Andrew said, like that explained everything.

Maybe it did.

From the other room, Neil heard Nicky and Kevin talking quietly, discussing medication schedules, meal plans, how to help without hovering. They'd become a team, the four of them, united in keeping Neil alive.

Neil closed his eyes and let himself be grateful.

Week six of chemotherapy, Neil had his first follow-up scan.

He lay in the MRI machine, the confined space pressing in on him, and tried not to panic. The machine was loud, claustrophobic, impossible to escape. Every instinct screamed at him to run.

But he couldn't run. Could barely walk. So he closed his eyes and endured.

Dr. Patel reviewed the scans that afternoon. Neil sat in her office, Andrew beside him, and tried to read her expression.

"The tumor has shrunk," she said, pulling up images. "About 30%. That's a good response."

"But?" Neil heard the unspoken word.

"But it's not as much shrinkage as we'd hoped for. We want to see 50% or more reduction before surgery. The current size and location still make limb salvage very risky."

Neil's stomach dropped. "So what does that mean?"

"It means we continue chemotherapy as planned," Dr. Patel said. "Three more months. Then we scan again and reassess. The tumor may continue to shrink. But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that limb salvage might not be viable."

"You mean I might have to choose amputation."

"I mean amputation might be the only safe option," Dr. Patel corrected gently. "I know that's not what you want to hear. But I need you to think about it. Talk about it with your support system. Don't wait until surgery day to make peace with it."

After they left the office, Neil was silent. Andrew drove them back to campus without speaking, giving Neil space to process.

Inside the suite, Neil collapsed on the couch in the common room. His leg, still in a cast, still broken, still full of cancer, throbbed. Three more months of chemotherapy. Three more months of being sick and weak and useless. And maybe, at the end of it all, he'd lose his leg anyway.

Kevin and Nicky were both there, supposedly doing homework but clearly waiting for news.

"How did it go?" Nicky asked carefully.

"Tumor shrunk 30%," Neil said flatly. "Not enough. Three more months of chemo, then we'll see if surgery is even possible."

"Thirty percent is good," Kevin said. "It means the treatment is working."

"It means I might lose my leg anyway after all this."

Kevin opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. "So what if you do?"

Neil stared at him. "What?"

"So what if you lose your leg?" Kevin's voice was intense now, the way it got when he was working through a problem. "You'll adapt. You'll learn a new way to move, to play. You'll survive."

"That's easy for you to say-"

"No, it's not," Kevin cut in. "I thought my career was over when Riko broke my hand. I thought I was nothing without Exy. But I learned to adapt. I learned that I'm more than just a perfect striker. You will too."

"I should have just done the amputation from the start," Neil said bitterly. "Would have saved everyone time."

"No," Andrew said flatly.

"Why not? I'm going to lose it anyway."

"You don't know that."

"The doctor just said."

"The doctor said it's a possibility. Not a certainty." Andrew sat beside him, close but not touching. "You made your choice. Stop second-guessing it."

"What if it's the wrong choice?"

"Then you deal with the consequences. But you gave your leg a chance. That's what you needed to do."

Nicky sat on Neil's other side, careful not to jostle him. "Whatever happens, we're here. All of us. You're not going through this alone."

Neil leaned back against the couch, exhausted. "I don't know how much more of this I can take."

"Yes, you do," Andrew said. "You can take six more months. You can take surgery. You can take whatever comes after. Because you're Neil Josten, and you don't know how to quit."

"Maybe I should learn."

"No." Andrew's voice was sharp now, cutting. "You don't get to give up. Not after everything. Not after making me care about whether you live or die. You fight, Neil. That's what you do."

Neil looked at him, at Andrew, who'd reorganized his sleep schedule and space around keeping Neil alive, who'd put up with vomit and tears and weakness without complaint, who refused to let Neil fall apart.

Then he looked at Kevin and Nicky, who'd given up their privacy and peace to live with someone going through chemotherapy, who helped without being asked, who treated him like he was still Neil and not just a sick person.

"Okay," Neil said quietly. "I'll fight."

"Good." Andrew stood. "Now rest. You have another treatment Tuesday."

Neil closed his eyes and tried not to think about Tuesday. About three more months of Tuesdays. About the possibility that all of this, all the pain, all the sickness, all the fighting, might end with losing his leg anyway.

But Andrew was right about one thing.

He didn't know how to quit.

So he'd keep fighting.

Even when every part of him wanted to stop.

Even when the cost kept getting higher.

He'd fight.

Chapter Text

Week eight of chemotherapy, Neil woke to find clumps of hair on his pillow.

He stared at the auburn strands, his father's color, the color he'd kept even after everything, and felt something crack inside him. He'd known this was coming. The doctors had warned him. Hair loss was inevitable with his chemotherapy regimen.

Knowing didn't make it easier.

Neil touched his head carefully. More hair came away in his fingers. Not all of it, not yet, but enough to leave thin patches visible on his scalp.

Beside him, Andrew stirred. He opened his eyes, looked at Neil, then at the hair on the pillow. His expression didn't change.

"Bathroom," Andrew said, sitting up. "Now."

"What"

"You're not doing this gradually. It's pathetic."

Andrew pulled Neil out of bed, carefully, mindful of the cast, and steered him into the bathroom. He dug through the cabinet under the sink and emerged with electric clippers.

"Where did you get those?" Neil asked.

"I've always had them. Sit."

Neil sat on the closed toilet lid. Andrew plugged in the clippers and stood in front of him, studying Neil's face with clinical detachment.

"Yes or no?" Andrew asked.

Neil understood the question. Do you trust me to do this?

"Yes," Neil said.

Andrew turned on the clippers. The buzzing filled the small bathroom. Then Andrew's hand was on Neil's head, gentle but firm, and the clippers moved through what remained of his hair.

Auburn strands fell to the floor, into the sink, onto Neil's shoulders. Andrew worked methodically, efficiently, reducing Neil's hair to nothing more than short stubble. When he finished, he switched off the clippers and stepped back.

Neil looked at himself in the mirror.

The face looking back was unfamiliar. Without hair, his scars were more visible, the ones on his face, the ones on his scalp from his father's cigarettes; he forgot about those ones, now, they were staring at him, the ones Lola had burned into him. His eyes looked too large, too vulnerable. His skull was pale where the sun hadn't reached.

He looked sick.

He looked like he was dying.

"Stop," Andrew said sharply.

"Stop what?"

"Thinking you look weak. You look like you're fighting. There's a difference."

Neil wanted to believe him. But all he saw was someone who'd lost another piece of himself to the cancer. First, his leg, broken and useless. Then his strength, sapped by chemotherapy. Now his hair, gone, taking with it any illusion of normalcy.

A knock on the door. "You guys okay in there?" Nicky's voice, concerned.

"Fine," Andrew called back.

"Are you sure? Because I heard the clippers and..." The door opened. Nicky peered in, then his face softened. "Oh, Neil."

"Don't," Neil said. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something to pity."

Nicky came into the bathroom, Kevin appearing behind him. They both stared at Neil's newly bald head with varying expressions, Nicky sad, Kevin calculating.

"You look like a cancer patient," Kevin said bluntly.

"Kevin!" Nicky hissed.

"What? He does. That's not a bad thing. It's just true."

"It's not exactly helpful-"

"Actually," Neil interrupted, surprising himself, "it kind of is. Kevin's right. I am a cancer patient. Might as well look like one."

Kevin nodded, satisfied. "Exactly. Stop trying to hide it."

"I'm not trying to hide it," Neil protested.

"Yes, you are," Kevin said. "You've been wearing hats everywhere. Long sleeves to hide how thin you've gotten. You time your classes so no one sees you struggling with crutches. You're trying to pretend you're still normal."

"I ..." Neil stopped, because Kevin was right. He had been doing all of those things.

"Why?" Nicky asked gently. "Why are you trying so hard to hide?"

Neil looked at his reflection again, bald, scarred, obviously sick. "Because if people see me like this, they'll know. They'll know I'm losing."

"You're not losing," Andrew said flatly. "You're surviving. Stop confusing the two."

"The rest of the campus doesn't need to see me like this," Neil argued. "People already talk. Already whisper about the Fox with the criminal father. Now I get to be the Fox with cancer too?"

"Let them talk," Kevin said. "Who cares what they think?"

"I care," Neil admitted. "I care that every time someone sees me, they'll see someone broken. Someone dying."

"Then they're idiots," Kevin said simply. "Anyone with eyes can see you're fighting. That takes more strength than being healthy ever did."

From Kevin, who worshipped strength and perfection, it was the highest compliment.

Nicky grabbed a towel and helped brush the hair off Neil's shoulders. "For what it's worth, you look kind of badass. Like a fighter."

"I look sick."

"You look like someone who refuses to die," Nicky corrected. "There's a difference."

Neil stopped trying to hide after that.

He went to his medical appointments without a hat. He struggled with his crutches in full view of the campus. He let people see him, bald, thin, obviously fighting cancer.

The reactions varied. Some people stared. Some looked away quickly, uncomfortable. Some offered sympathetic smiles that made Neil's skin crawl.

The Foxes' reactions were more complicated.

Matt took one look at Neil's bald head and pulled him into a careful hug. "Still the same stubborn asshole," Matt said gruffly. "Just with less hair."

Dan touched his head gently, her eyes wet. "It'll grow back."

"I know."

"After you beat this thing, it'll grow back, and you'll complain about it being too long, and everything will be normal again."

It was a prayer more than a statement. Neil let her believe it.

Allison studied him critically. "You need better skin care. Your scalp is going to burn without hair protection. I'll bring you sunscreen."

She did, the next day, along with moisturizers and scar cream and a dozen other products Neil didn't know how to use. But she sat with him in the common room and showed him, her hands gentle, her running commentary a welcome distraction.

Renee didn't react at all, just smiled her peaceful smile and asked if he wanted her to read to him. They spent an hour in comfortable silence while she read from some fantasy novel, and Neil let the words wash over him without really listening.

Aaron's reaction was the most surprising. He appeared in the suite one evening, medical textbook under his arm, and sat down at the common room table across from Neil.

"Your immune system is compromised," Aaron said without preamble. "You need to be more careful about infection. That means no sharing drinks, washing hands frequently, avoiding crowds when possible."

"I know," Neil said. "The doctors told me."

"The doctors tell everyone. Most people don't listen." Aaron pulled out a list. "I made a schedule for cleaning the suite. High-touch surfaces need to be disinfected daily. Kitchen, bathroom, doorknobs. Kevin and Nicky have agreed to rotate the responsibility."

"You made a cleaning schedule for me?"

"I made a cleaning schedule to minimize your risk of infection," Aaron corrected. "There's a difference."

It was Aaron's way of caring. Clinical, practical, emotionally distant. But caring nonetheless.

"Thank you," Neil said.

Aaron nodded and left, leaving his list behind.

Week ten brought Neil's second scan.

He lay in the MRI machine again, trying to breathe through the claustrophobia, and wondered what the results would show. More shrinkage? Less? Had the tumor grown despite the chemotherapy?

The waiting was worse than the scan itself.

Dr. Patel called them in the next day. Neil sat in her office with Andrew beside him, his hands clenched in his lap, and tried to prepare himself for bad news.

"The tumor has shrunk another 15%," Dr. Patel said. "We're at 45% total reduction now."

Neil's breath caught. "That's... that's good?"

"It's very good," Dr. Patel confirmed. "We're approaching the threshold where limb salvage becomes more viable."

"Approaching," Neil repeated. "But not there yet."

"Not yet," Dr. Patel agreed. "We need at least 50% reduction, ideally more. But you're responding well to treatment. If this trend continues, we'll have options when it's time for surgery."

Options. Not guarantees. Not promises. Just options.

"How much more time?" Neil asked.

"Six more weeks of chemotherapy, then we'll do another scan. If the tumor continues to shrink, we'll schedule surgery. If not..." She trailed off meaningfully.

If not, they'd be back to discussing amputation.

"What are the odds?" Andrew asked, his voice flat. "Realistically."

Dr. Patel considered this. "If the tumor reaches 60% reduction, I'd say limb salvage has about a 70% chance of success in Neil's case. If we can only get to 50%, those odds drop to 60%. Below 50%, I wouldn't recommend attempting it."

Sixty to seventy percent. Better than before, but still leaving a solid chance of failure.

"And if it fails?" Neil asked.

"Then we're looking at amputation anyway," Dr. Patel said gently. "But with the complications I mentioned before, delayed recovery, potential spread of cancer cells during the failed salvage attempt, additional surgeries."

"So I'm gambling," Neil said flatly. "Gambling that the tumor shrinks enough, that the surgery works, that my shitty bones can handle the reconstruction."

"Yes," Dr. Patel said, not sugar-coating it. "You're gambling. But the potential payoff is keeping your leg. Only you can decide if that's worth the risk."

After they left, Andrew drove in silence. Neil stared out the window, watching the campus pass by, and tried to process the information.

Forty-five percent reduction. Six more weeks. Maybe another scan showing enough progress. Maybe surgery. Maybe keeping his leg.

Maybe.

Back in the suite, Kevin was waiting. He took one look at Neil's face and asked, "How bad?"

"Forty-five percent shrinkage," Neil said. "Need to get to at least fifty for surgery to be viable."

Kevin's expression shifted, calculating. "That's good. That means the treatment is working."

"It means I have six more weeks of this, then maybe I get to keep my leg. Or maybe I don't."

"Stop catastrophizing," Kevin said. "You're responding to treatment. That's what matters."

"Is it?" Neil collapsed on the couch. "Because from where I'm sitting, it feels like I'm just prolonging the inevitable."

"The inevitable being what?" Kevin challenged. "Losing your leg? So what? You think that makes you less of a person? Less of a player?"

"It makes me less of a striker-"

"No," Kevin cut in sharply. "It makes you a different kind of striker. One who has to adapt. One who has to work harder. One who proves that physical limitations don't define capability."

Neil stared at him. Kevin stared back, unflinching.

"I've been researching adaptive sports," Kevin continued. "Prosthetics designed for athletes. There are runners with blades who compete at Olympic levels. Basketball players, soccer players, even Exy players with prosthetics who've adapted their technique."

"You've been researching this," Neil said slowly. "For me."

"For both of us," Kevin corrected. "Because I need to know how to coach you if it comes to that. I need to understand the biomechanics, the necessary adjustments, the training modifications."

It was so perfectly Kevin, preparing for every possibility, turning potential tragedy into a coaching challenge. But beneath the clinical approach, Neil heard the unspoken message: You're still a striker. You're still valuable. You're still you.

"Thank you," Neil said quietly.

Kevin nodded, uncomfortable with gratitude as always. "Six more weeks. Then surgery. Then recovery. Then we get you back on the court. That's the plan."

"And if the surgery fails?"

"Then we adapt the plan," Kevin said simply. "But we don't plan for failure until it happens."

Week twelve, Neil's hair started growing back.

Not the auburn he'd had before, but something darker, patchier. It came in unevenly, some areas thicker than others, giving him a mottled appearance that was somehow worse than being completely bald.

"You look like you have mange," Nicky said, then immediately looked horrified. "I mean... that came out wrong."

"I do look like I have mange," Neil agreed. "It's fine."

It wasn't fine. Every time Neil looked in the mirror, he saw someone unrecognizable. Bald patches, thin face, prominent cheekbones, dark circles under his eyes. The cancer and chemotherapy had stripped away everything familiar until a stranger stared back.

"Stop looking," Andrew said, finding Neil standing in front of the bathroom mirror for the third time that day.

"I can't help it."

"Yes, you can. It's not that complicated. Eyes forward, walk past mirror, don't stop."

"I just ..." Neil touched his patchy scalp. "I don't recognize myself anymore."

"Good."

Neil turned to stare at Andrew. "Good?"

"You spent years being someone else. Neil Josten is supposed to look different than Nathaniel Wesninski. This is just another version."

"This version looks sick."

"This version is surviving," Andrew corrected. "That's better than any disguise Mary ever gave you."

The words hit harder than they should have. Because Andrew was right, this version of Neil, bald and scarred and obviously fighting cancer, was more real than any identity he'd worn while running.

This was what survival actually looked like.

Not pretty. Not comfortable. Not easy.

But real.

Week fourteen, the side effects escalated.

Neil's mouth sores became so painful he could barely eat. Every bite felt like swallowing glass. Even water hurt. He lost fifteen pounds in two weeks, his already thin frame becoming skeletal.

"You need to eat," Nicky said, presenting Neil with another bowl of bland soup. "Please. Just a few bites."

Neil tried. He managed three spoonfuls before his mouth screamed in protest and he had to stop.

"I can't," he said, his voice rough. The sores extended into his throat now, making even speaking painful.

"The doctor said there's a prescription mouthwash that might help," Aaron offered. He'd taken to researching solutions to every side effect Neil experienced. "It has lidocaine in it. Numbs the tissue."

"Get it," Andrew said.

Aaron nodded and left. He returned an hour later with the prescription. Neil swished the medication around his mouth, feeling the numbing effect spread. It didn't eliminate the pain, but it dulled it enough that he could manage a few more bites of food.

The neuropathy started that week too. Neil's fingers and toes went numb, then started tingling painfully. He dropped things constantly, cups, books, his phone. His already difficult mobility on crutches became nearly impossible when he couldn't feel his hands properly.

"Nerve damage from the chemotherapy," Abby explained during his check-up. "It may be permanent, or it may resolve after treatment ends. We won't know until you're done."

Permanent. Another thing the cancer was taking from him.

Neil's bone marrow also started failing to keep up with the chemotherapy. His white blood cell count dropped dangerously low, meaning even a minor infection could kill him. He had to start wearing a mask in public, avoiding crowds, living in semi-isolation.

The suite became his entire world. Bedroom, bathroom, common room, kitchen. The same four walls, day after day, while his body slowly destroyed itself in the name of fighting cancer.

"I'm going insane," Neil told Andrew one night. Week fifteen. Three more weeks until the next scan. Three more weeks of this hell.

"You're not," Andrew said. He was reading, as always, giving Neil space while staying close enough to help if needed.

"I can't do this anymore."

"Yes, you can."

"I can't!" Neil's voice cracked. "I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't feel my hands. I can barely walk. I'm trapped in this suite, in this body, and I can't-"

He broke off, breathing hard, on the edge of panic.

Andrew set down his book and moved to sit beside Neil on the couch. "Breathe."

"I am breathing."

"Slower."

Neil tried. His chest was tight, his lungs not cooperating. The panic was rising, overwhelming, threatening to drown him.

"Look at me," Andrew commanded.

Neil looked. Andrew's hazel eyes were steady, grounding.

"Three more weeks," Andrew said. "You can survive three more weeks."

"I don't want to just survive. I want to live."

"Then live now. In this moment. Stop thinking about the next three weeks and focus on right now."

"Right now I feel like dying."

"But you're not dying," Andrew said. "You're sitting on a couch in a dorm suite, talking to me. That's living, even if it doesn't feel like it."

Neil wanted to argue, but he was too tired. Too worn down. Too done with all of it.

Andrew's hand found the back of Neil's neck. Warm. Solid. Real.

"Three more weeks," Andrew repeated. "Then a scan. Then surgery. Then this part is over."

"And then three more months of chemotherapy after surgery," Neil said bitterly.

"One battle at a time," Andrew said. "Right now, you fight the next three weeks. That's all you need to do."

Neil closed his eyes and tried to believe him.

Week seventeen, the day of the third scan, Neil couldn't keep food down at all.

He'd thrown up everything he'd tried to eat for the past two days. His body was running on empty, his energy non-existent. But he had to get through the scan. Had to know if the tumor had shrunk enough.

Had to know if all this suffering had been worth it.

Andrew drove him to the hospital. Neil dozed in the passenger seat, too exhausted to stay awake. When they arrived, Andrew had to help him into a wheelchair. Neil couldn't manage the crutches today.

The scan took forever. Neil drifted in and out of consciousness, the machine's noise a distant roar. When it was finally over, they wheeled him to a recovery area and made him wait while the images were processed.

Dr. Patel appeared an hour later.

Neil was slumped in the wheelchair, Andrew standing guard beside him. They both looked at her, reading her expression.

She was smiling.

"Sixty-two percent reduction," Dr. Patel said. "The tumor has shrunk significantly. More than we hoped."

Neil's vision blurred. He wasn't sure if it was from exhaustion or tears. "That's enough?"

"That's enough to schedule surgery," Dr. Patel confirmed. "We'll do it two weeks from now. That gives you time to recover from the last chemotherapy session and build up your strength as much as possible."

"And the odds?" Andrew asked. "For limb salvage?"

"With this much reduction? I'd say 75% chance of success. Maybe higher. His bones are still compromised, but the tumor size and location are much more favorable now."

Seventy-five percent. Three out of four chance of keeping his leg.

One in four chance of losing it anyway.

"Okay," Neil said. His voice came out as a whisper. "Let's do it."

Dr. Patel explained the surgery, a complex procedure lasting eight to ten hours. They'd remove the cancerous section of bone, replace it with a metal prosthesis and donor bone grafts, reconstruct the surrounding tissue. Neil would be in the hospital for at least a week afterward. Recovery would take months.

Neil barely heard the details. He was too focused on one fact: surgery in two weeks. One way or another, this would be decided in two weeks.

He'd either keep his leg or lose it.

Either way, the waiting would finally be over.

Back in the suite, the Foxes were waiting. They'd gathered in the common room, all of them, even the ones who didn't live there. Matt, Dan, Renee, Allison, Aaron. Even Wymack and Abby had shown up.

They all turned when Neil wheeled in, Andrew pushing the chair.

"Well?" Kevin asked, unable to hide his tension.

"Sixty-two percent reduction," Neil said. "Surgery in two weeks."

The room erupted. Matt cheered. Dan cried. Nicky pulled Neil into a careful hug. Even Kevin smiled, actually smiled, a real one.

"That's good," Kevin said, his voice thick. "That's really good, Neil."

"Seventy-five percent chance of success," Neil added. "For the limb salvage."

Kevin's smile faltered slightly. "And twenty-five percent chance of-"

"Don't," Dan cut in. "Don't talk about that now. Let him have this moment."

She was right. For the first time in seventeen weeks, Neil had good news. The tumor was small enough. The surgery was scheduled. He had a real chance of keeping his leg.

He should focus on that.

But as the Foxes celebrated around him, all Neil could think about was that twenty-five percent chance. One in four odds that he'd go through the surgery, suffer through the recovery, and end up needing amputation anyway.

One in four odds that all of this, all the pain, all the sickness, all the fighting, would be for nothing.

Andrew's hand found his shoulder, squeezing once. A reminder: Stop thinking. Be here now.

Neil took a breath and tried to follow the advice.

Two more weeks.

Then surgery.

Then he'd know.

One way or another, he'd finally know.

Chapter Text

Neil woke up shivering.

It was three days before his scheduled surgery, three days before everything would be decided, and his body felt wrong. Not the usual chemotherapy wrong, not the constant nausea and exhaustion he'd learned to live with. This was different.

His skin burned. His head pounded. Every breath felt like work.

He tried to sit up and the room spun violently. Beside him, Andrew's side of the bed was empty. Morning, then. Andrew must be in class.

Neil reached for his phone to check the time and realized his hand was shaking. Not the tremor from neuropathy. This was worse, his whole arm trembling, weak and uncoordinated.

The phone screen said 10:47 AM.

He'd slept through breakfast. Slept through his medication time. That wasn't like him, even as sick as he was.

Neil tried to stand and his legs gave out immediately. He hit the floor hard, the impact jarring through his cast. Pain exploded up his leg, the broken one, the one with cancer, the one they were supposed to operate on in three days.

"Fuck," he gasped.

The door to the bedroom burst open. Nicky stood there, eyes wide. "Neil? I heard a crash, oh my god, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just lost my balance."

Nicky came closer, then stopped. "Neil, you're burning up. I can see the fever from here."

"I'm cold."

"That's what a fever does." Nicky pressed his hand to Neil's forehead and immediately pulled back. "Jesus Christ, you're on fire. We need to call Abby."

"I'm fine," Neil insisted, even as his teeth started chattering. "Just help me back to bed."

Nicky did, but he was already pulling out his phone. "I'm calling Abby. And Andrew. And probably 911."

"Don't-" Neil started to argue, but another wave of dizziness hit. The room tilted sideways. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through it.

He heard Nicky's voice, distant and panicked. "Abby? Something's wrong with Neil. He's got a really high fever and he can barely stand. What do I-okay. Okay, yes. We'll meet you there."

"Where?" Neil managed to ask.

"Hospital," Nicky said, already texting frantically. "She said with your white blood cell count, any fever is an emergency."

Emergency. The word bounced around Neil's foggy brain. He'd had emergencies before. This didn't feel like an emergency. This just felt like being sick.

But then Kevin appeared in the doorway, took one look at Neil, and his face went pale. "Call an ambulance. Now."

"I'm texting Andrew-"

"Nicky, call 911. Look at him."

Nicky looked. Neil tried to see what they were seeing, but his vision was blurry. He felt hot and cold at the same time. His body was shaking uncontrollably now.

"Okay," Nicky said, voice shaking. "Okay, I'm calling."

The next few minutes were a blur. Paramedics arrived, when had they gotten there? Neil tried to answer their questions but his words came out slurred. They put him on a stretcher. Someone, Kevin?, was explaining about the cancer, the chemotherapy, the compromised immune system.

"Possible sepsis," one of the paramedics said. "We need to move."

Sepsis. That sounded bad. Neil tried to remember what that meant, but his thoughts were sluggish, disconnected.

The ambulance ride was worse. Every bump sent pain through his body. The sirens were too loud. Too bright. Everything was too much.

And then Andrew was there, suddenly, his face appearing above Neil's. When had he arrived? How?

"Stay with me," Andrew said, his voice cutting through the fog. "Neil. Keep your eyes open."

"Tired," Neil mumbled.

"I don't care. Eyes open."

Neil tried. He really did. But the exhaustion was overwhelming, pulling him under like a riptide.

"Neil," Andrew's voice was sharp now, almost panicked. Andrew didn't panic. "Don't you fucking dare."

But Neil was already sinking, the darkness too tempting to resist.

The darkness wasn't peaceful.

Neil floated in it, untethered and lost. Sometimes he heard voices, Andrew's, sharp and demanding. Abby's, gentle and worried. Wymack's, gruff and scared. The Foxes, a chorus of concern that blended together into white noise.

Sometimes he felt things, pain, pressure, hands on his skin. The rhythmic squeeze of a blood pressure cuff. The cold sting of needles. The suffocating weight of a breathing tube.

But mostly there was nothing. Just the dark, and Neil drifting through it, unable to find his way back.

He dreamed, sometimes. Nightmares mostly. His father's face looming over him. Mary dragging him through another town, another escape. Riko's smile as the knife came down. Baltimore. Always Baltimore.

But sometimes the dreams were different. He was running, really running, both legs whole and strong, and Andrew was there at the finish line. The Foxes were cheering. The court was lit up like a beacon.

Those dreams hurt worse than the nightmares because Neil knew, even in his unconscious state, that they were lies.

Time passed. How much, Neil couldn't say. In the darkness, there was no day or night, no before or after. Just the endless floating, the occasional voice, the persistent beeping of machines.

And then, finally, light.

Neil woke to the sensation of suffocation.

Something was in his throat, down his throat, forcing air into his lungs with mechanical precision. He tried to gag, to pull away, but his body wouldn't respond. Panic flared, trapped, can't breathe, can't move-

"Neil." Andrew's voice cut through the panic, sharp and grounding. "Don't fight it. You have a breathing tube. I need you to calm down."

Neil's eyes flew open. The light was too bright, everything blurry. He blinked, trying to focus.

Andrew's face came into view, but wrong. He was covered head to toe in protective gear, gown, gloves, mask, face shield. Only his eyes were visible, hazel and intense and fixed on Neil.

"You're in the ICU," Andrew said, his voice muffled through the mask but still distinctly his. "You've been unconscious for seven days. You have a breathing tube because your lungs were failing. Don't try to talk. Don't try to move. Just breathe and let the machine help you."

Seven days. A week. Neil tried to process that through the fog in his head.

He made a sound around the tube, questioning, desperate.

"Sepsis," Andrew said, understanding. "From an infection in your central line. Your blood pressure crashed. Your organs started failing. They put you in a medically induced coma while they fought the infection."

Neil's eyes must have shown his fear because Andrew moved closer, his gloved hand finding Neil's arm.

"You died," Andrew said bluntly. "Twice. For forty-three seconds the first time. Ninety-seven seconds the second time. But you're stable now. The infection is clearing. You're going to survive this."

The words landed like physical blows. Died. Twice. Neil had been dead for a minute and a half and didn't even remember it.

He tried to lift his hand, to reach for Andrew, but his arm was too heavy. Restrained? No, just weak. Too weak to move.

Andrew seemed to understand what he wanted. He took Neil's hand in his gloved one, the barrier of latex between them but the pressure still grounding.

"Don't try to fight the tube," Andrew said. "The doctors will remove it soon. They were waiting for you to wake up. Let me call the nurse."

Andrew pressed a button. Within seconds, a nurse appeared, also in full protective gear.

"He's awake," Andrew said unnecessarily.

The nurse came to Neil's other side, checking monitors and IV lines. "Welcome back, Mr. Josten. I'm going to page Dr. Morrison. Try to stay calm. The breathing tube is uncomfortable, but it's helping you."

She disappeared. Andrew stayed, his hand still on Neil's.

"The gear," Andrew said, reading Neil's unasked question. "You're in isolation. The sepsis compromised your immune system even more than the chemotherapy did. Anyone who comes in has to wear protective equipment to avoid bringing in additional infections."

That explained why Andrew looked like he was suited up for a hazmat situation.

Dr. Morrison arrived, similarly covered in protective gear. "Mr. Josten. Good to see you awake. Let's assess your status and see about removing that tube."

The examination took forever. Questions Neil couldn't answer because of the tube. Tests of his reflexes, his responses, his cognitive function. Finally, Dr. Morrison nodded.

"All right. We're going to extubate you. It's going to be very uncomfortable, but it'll be over quickly. On three. One, two-"

The removal was worse than having it in. Neil gagged, choked, felt like he was suffocating even though he could suddenly breathe on his own. His throat was raw, screaming with pain.

When it was finally out, Neil gasped, coughing, his chest heaving.

"Easy," Dr. Morrison said. "Slow breaths. Your throat is going to hurt for a few days. Here's some water, small sips only."

The nurse held a cup with a straw to Neil's lips. He managed a tiny sip. It hurt going down but soothed the worst of the rawness.

"How-" Neil's voice came out as a croak. He tried again. "How bad?"

"Very bad," Dr. Morrison said honestly. "You went into septic shock. Multi-organ failure. We nearly lost you several times. But you're stable now. The infection is responding to antibiotics. Your organs are recovering."

"My leg?" Neil managed to ask. His throat hurt too much for longer sentences.

"Still attached. Still has cancer. Still needs surgery." Dr. Morrison pulled up a chair. "We removed the cast while you were unconscious. The fracture has been healing, not perfectly, but adequately given your bone density. We've fitted you with a walking boot instead."

Neil looked down. His leg was wrapped in a black boot, visible under the thin hospital blanket.

"When?" Neil asked. "Surgery?"

Dr. Morrison and Andrew exchanged looks.

"That's complicated," Dr. Morrison said. "Your body has been through severe trauma. Septic shock, cardiac arrest, a week on life support, these things take a toll. You need time to recover before we can consider putting you through a ten-hour cancer surgery."

"How long?" Each word scraped Neil's raw throat.

"Four weeks," Dr. Morrison said. "Minimum. We need to see significant improvement in your overall health first."

Four weeks. Neil closed his eyes. The surgery that was supposed to happen four days ago, now pushed back over a month.

"The tumor?" he forced out.

"Still stable," Dr. Morrison said. "We've been monitoring it closely. No growth during your coma. That's good news. But Neil, you need to understand, rushing into surgery before you're ready could kill you. The septic shock nearly did. We need time."

After Dr. Morrison left, Neil lay in silence. Andrew was still there, still holding his hand through the gloves, still watching Neil with those intense eyes behind the face shield.

"Why the gear?" Neil's voice was getting slightly stronger. "If I'm stable?"

"You're stable but immunocompromised," Andrew said. "Your white blood cell count is almost nonexistent. Any infection could kill you right now. The gear protects you, not me."

Neil looked at Andrew, covered head to toe in protective equipment, looking uncomfortable and hot but refusing to leave.

"How long-" Neil's throat protested. He pushed through. "How long have you been here?"

"Seven days," Andrew said simply.

"In that?"

"They change the gear every few hours. But yes. I've been here."

"Why?"

Andrew's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "You made me your medical proxy three months ago. Remember? After your diagnosis. You said if anything happened, you wanted me making the decisions."

Neil did remember. A conversation late at night, both of them unable to sleep. Neil asking Andrew if he'd make the hard calls if it came to that. Andrew agreeing with that single nod that meant everything.

"So when you coded," Andrew continued, "when the doctors asked about life support and resuscitation and organ failure, I made those calls. I told them to keep trying. To keep you alive."

"Thank you," Neil rasped.

"Don't thank me yet. You still have four more weeks of hell before surgery. And there's no guarantee the limb salvage will even work after all this."

"Don't care," Neil said. "Alive."

"Yes," Andrew agreed. "You're alive. Barely, but alive."

They sat in silence for a while. Neil drifted in and out, exhaustion pulling at him despite having just woken from a week-long coma. Every time he opened his eyes, Andrew was there.

Eventually, Neil asked the question that had been nagging at him. "The others?"

"Waiting room," Andrew said. "They've been here constantly. The hospital tried to limit visitors but Wymack made enough noise that they created an exception for your 'family.'"

"Not really family."

"Close enough," Andrew said. "They want to see you. Are you up for it?"

Neil nodded, even though he felt terrible. The Foxes deserved to know he was alive.

"I'll send them in two at a time," Andrew said, standing. "And I'll stay. They'll have to gear up too."

"You don't have to-"

"I'm not leaving," Andrew said flatly. "We've established this. Stop questioning it."

The Foxes came in shifts, all of them looking surreal in protective gear.

Dan came first with Matt, both of them crying before they even made it fully to the bed. "Don't you ever do that again," Dan said, her voice muffled through the mask but fierce with emotion.

Matt gripped Neil's hand carefully, like he might break. "Seven days, man. Do you know how many times they told us to prepare for the worst?"

Kevin appeared next with Wymack, carrying papers even through the protective gear. "Post-sepsis recovery protocols," Kevin said, his voice tight. "You'll need to rebuild your strength carefully. I've made plans."

Wymack just stood there, staring at Neil like he still couldn't quite believe he was alive. "Kid," he said finally, his voice rough. "You scared the hell out of us."

"Sorry," Neil rasped.

"Don't apologize. Just don't die. That's all I'm asking."

Nicky came with Allison and Renee, all three of them crowding around the bed. Nicky was crying openly, which Neil could hear even if he couldn't see it well through the protective gear. "I thought ... when you fell, I didn't realize-"

"Not your fault," Neil managed.

Aaron arrived last, looking clinical even in protective gear. "Septic shock has a 25-40% mortality rate," he announced. "You should be dead."

"Aaron," Andrew said warningly.

"What? I'm just saying, statistically speaking, he got lucky. Very lucky. He coded twice and still has full neurological function. That's remarkable."

"That's your version of 'glad you're alive'?" Allison asked incredulously.

"Yes," Aaron said. Then, looking at Neil: "Don't do it again. Andrew was insufferable to live with while you were under."

It was the closest Aaron would come to admitting he'd been worried about both of them.

After they all left, promising to visit again tomorrow, Neil lay exhausted in the quiet. Andrew returned to his chair, having briefly stepped out to let the Foxes say their goodbyes.

"Four weeks," Neil said, his voice barely a whisper now. His throat hurt too much to talk more.

"Four weeks," Andrew confirmed. "Then surgery. Then we'll know."

"What if the tumor grows? What if I lose my leg anyway after all this?"

"Then you lose your leg," Andrew said bluntly. "But you'll be alive to lose it. That's what matters."

"Is it?"

"Yes." Andrew's voice was flat, certain. "You being alive matters more than your leg. More than Exy. More than anything. Accept that."

Neil wanted to argue, but he was too tired. Too worn down. He closed his eyes and tried to believe that surviving was enough.

Even if surviving meant losing everything else.

The next few days were a blur of tests, medications, and slow improvement.

Neil remained in the ICU, in isolation, everyone who visited dressed like they were entering a contamination zone. The protective gear created a strange distance, he could see people's eyes but not their full expressions. Could hear their voices but muffled through masks.

Andrew was there constantly, changing out of protective gear only when required to, always returning within the time limit for visitors.

On day three after waking, Neil was moved to a regular room. Still isolation protocols, still protective gear required, but out of the ICU at least.

The physical therapist, Sarah, arrived that afternoon, suited up like everyone else.

"Let's see what we're working with," she said, helping Neil sit up.

Just sitting up made Neil dizzy. His body felt wrong, weak in ways he'd never experienced. A week of lying unconscious had atrophied his muscles, made his joints stiff.

"We're going to take this very slowly," Sarah said. "Today, we just try standing. Tomorrow, maybe a few steps. By the end of the week, hopefully you'll be comfortable with the crutches and boot."

Standing turned out to be an ordeal.

Neil swung his legs over the side of the bed, both of them, including the one in the boot. Sarah positioned the crutches, showed him how to use them for support.

"Put most of your weight on the crutches and your right leg," she instructed. "The boot is for protection and to allow some weight-bearing, but your bone is still healing. Don't put full weight on it yet."

Neil gripped the crutches and tried to stand.

His legs shook. His vision grayed at the edges. For a moment, he thought he might pass out.

"Easy," Sarah said, supporting him. "Just stand. Don't try to move yet."

Neil stood, trembling, feeling like his legs might give out at any moment. This was pathetic. He used to run six miles every morning. Now he could barely stand for ten seconds.

"Good," Sarah said, like this was an accomplishment. "That's enough for today."

She helped him back into bed. Neil collapsed against the pillows, sweating and exhausted from the minimal effort.

Andrew, watching from his chair in full protective gear, said nothing. But his eyes said everything: This is what surviving looks like. Accept it.

Over the next week, Neil relearned how to move.

Standing became easier. Then walking, short distances at first, from the bed to the bathroom. The crutches became extensions of his arms, the boot a strange weight he had to compensate for.

The boot itself was surprisingly mobile compared to the cast. He could flex his ankle slightly, could bear some weight on it with the crutches for support. The doctors explained that the fracture was healing in a way that made the boot sufficient, not perfect, but adequate for now.

"We'll reassess after your surgery," Dr. Morrison said, visiting one afternoon. "Depending on what we do with your leg, we may need to readdress the fracture healing. But for now, the boot allows you more mobility for physical therapy."

Neil tried not to think about that. About how the fracture healing might become irrelevant if they amputated anyway.

By day ten after waking from the coma, Neil could walk the length of the hospital corridor with the crutches and boot. Slow, exhausting, but possible.

"You're progressing remarkably well," Sarah said. "Much faster than most patients recovering from septic shock."

"I'm motivated," Neil said.

"You're stubborn," Sarah corrected, smiling behind her mask. "But that works too."

By day twelve, the doctors agreed to discharge him.

"You'll need to continue physical therapy," Dr. Morrison said. "Come back twice a week. Rest between sessions. Don't push too hard, too fast. And you'll need to maintain isolation protocols at home."

"Isolation?" Neil asked.

"Your immune system is still severely compromised. You need to avoid crowds, anyone who's sick, high-touch public areas. The suite where you live will need to be cleaned regularly. Anyone who lives with you needs to wash hands frequently, stay away if they feel even slightly ill."

"We can do that," Andrew said. He was finally out of protective gear now that Neil was being discharged from isolation. It was strange seeing his full face again after days of only seeing his eyes.

Dr. Morrison looked at Andrew. "You're his medical proxy?"

"Yes."

"Then you need to understand, Neil is at extremely high risk for infection. Another bout of sepsis could kill him. You need to be vigilant."

"I understand," Andrew said flatly.

Dr. Patel arrived for the final consultation. "We'll do a scan next week to check the tumor. If it's still stable and your strength continues improving, we'll schedule surgery for three weeks from now."

Three more weeks. Neil could do three more weeks.

He had to.

Returning to the suite was surreal.

Nicky and Kevin had cleaned while Neil was hospitalized. The common room was spotless, surfaces disinfected, restocked with food Neil could actually eat. They'd even put a small ramp over the threshold to make getting through the door with crutches easier.

"Welcome home," Nicky said, hovering anxiously. He kept his distance though, following the new protocols. "Do you need anything? Water? Food? We can set you up on the couch."

"I'm fine," Neil said, but he let Nicky help him navigate to the couch. The boot made movement awkward, and the crutches required more coordination than he'd expected after the long hospital stay.

Andrew disappeared into their bedroom and emerged with extra pillows, propping them so Neil could elevate his leg.

"The doctors said elevation helps with healing," Andrew said before Neil could question it.

Kevin appeared with a schedule. Of course he did. "Physical therapy Tuesdays and Fridays. Doctor's appointments every Wednesday. Scan next Thursday. I've coordinated with your professors, all coursework will be done remotely until after surgery."

"Kevin-"

"Don't argue. You're recovering from sepsis and preparing for cancer surgery. School can wait."

For once, Neil didn't have the energy to fight. He just nodded.

That first night back, Neil woke from a nightmare, Baltimore, his father, the sound of his own screaming, the feeling of suffocating with the breathing tube. He jerked awake, gasping, and immediately regretted the movement. Pain shot through his leg.

"Easy," Andrew's voice came from beside him. He was already awake, hand on Neil's shoulder. "You're in the dorm. You're safe."

Neil tried to calm his breathing. The nightmare had felt so real. The tube in his throat, the inability to breathe, the panic.

"How often?" Andrew asked.

"How often what?"

"How often have you been having nightmares? You were talking in your sleep in the hospital. In the ICU, before they fully sedated you. I heard everything."

Neil had forgotten that Andrew would have heard everything during those first hours in the ICU, before they'd fully sedated him for the coma.

"Often," Neil admitted. "Since the diagnosis. They got worse after the sepsis."

"Betsy could help."

"I don't need-"

"You died twice and spent a week in a coma with a breathing tube," Andrew cut in. "That's traumatic. Betsy specializes in trauma. Use her."

It wasn't a suggestion. Neil nodded.

The weeks crept by. Physical therapy sessions left Neil exhausted but stronger. The boot became less foreign, more manageable. He could move through the suite without thinking about every step, could shower with minimal help, could exist without constant assistance.

The scan showed the tumor still stable. No growth. No spread.

Dr. Patel smiled when she showed him the results. "This is excellent news. Your body is recovering well. The tumor is contained. I think we can schedule surgery."

"When?" Neil asked, hardly daring to hope.

"Two weeks from today," Dr. Patel said. "That gives you time to continue building strength. We'll do pre-surgical appointments next week, blood work, anesthesia consult, surgical planning."

Two weeks. Fourteen days until everything would be decided.

Neil looked at Andrew, who nodded once. Permission. Agreement. Support.

"Okay," Neil said. "Let's do it."

Dr. Patel's expression grew serious. "Neil, we need to discuss something. Given your complications with sepsis, your compromised immune system, and your bone density issues, I need you to truly understand what you're choosing."

"I understand the risks."

"Do you?" Dr. Patel challenged gently. "Because the limb salvage surgery is even riskier now than it was before the sepsis. Your body has been through trauma. Your chances of surgical complications have increased. The success rate for limb salvage in your case is now closer to 65%, maybe 70% if we're optimistic."

"That's still better than half," Neil said.

"It's also a 30-35% chance of failure," Dr. Patel said. "And if it fails, you'll need amputation anyway, but after months of complications, multiple surgeries, delayed recovery. The cancer could spread while we're dealing with surgical failures."

Andrew's hand found Neil's shoulder. A silent question: Are you sure?

Neil thought about it. Really thought about it. About seventeen weeks of chemotherapy. About dying twice. About a week in a coma. About everything he'd survived just to get to this point.

About what it would mean to give up his leg without trying to save it first.

"I want to try," Neil said finally. "I know it's a risk. I know it might fail. But I need to try. I need to know I did everything I could."

Dr. Patel studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "All right. We'll schedule the surgery. But I need you to be mentally prepared for amputation as a potential outcome. Don't wait until you're in recovery from a failed surgery to make peace with it."

"I won't," Neil promised.

After Dr. Patel left, Andrew sat beside Neil on the exam table. "You're sure about this?"

"No," Neil admitted. "But I'm sure I can't live with myself if I don't try."

Andrew nodded slowly. "Then we try. And if it fails, we deal with that then."

"One battle at a time?"

"One battle at a time," Andrew confirmed.

Two weeks. Fourteen days until Neil would either keep his leg or lose it.

Fourteen days until everything changed.

Neil took a breath and tried to prepare himself for whatever came next.

Chapter Text

The night before surgery, Neil couldn't sleep.

He lay in Andrew's bed, staring at the ceiling, hyperaware of his left leg. The boot had been removed earlier that day, one last X-ray, one last examination. Tomorrow, that leg would be cut open. The cancerous bone would be removed. Metal and donor bone grafts would be inserted.

Or it wouldn't work, and they'd amputate.

Both possibilities felt equally surreal.

"Stop thinking," Andrew said from beside him. He wasn't asleep either, despite pretending to read.

"Can't."

"Try harder."

"That's not how brains work."

"Your brain works too much," Andrew said. "It's annoying."

Neil almost smiled. "Sorry my impending surgery is annoying you."

Andrew set down his phone, he'd given up pretending to read ten minutes ago. "Yes or no?"

"To what?"

"Are you going to back out? Choose amputation instead?"

Neil had wondered that himself. The doctors had made it clear he could change his mind up until the moment they put him under. No judgment. Just a choice.

"No," Neil said. "I'm not backing out. I need to try."

"Even knowing you might fail? That you might go through ten hours of surgery, months of recovery, only to end up with amputation anyway?"

"Yes."

Andrew studied him in the darkness. "Why?"

Neil struggled to articulate it. "Because if I don't try, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering. Wondering if I could have kept it. If I gave up too easily. I survived seventeen weeks of chemotherapy, I died twice, I spent a week in a coma, I didn't go through all of that just to give up now."

"That's sunk cost fallacy," Andrew pointed out. "The past suffering doesn't justify future suffering."

"Maybe. But it's my suffering to justify."

Andrew was quiet for a long moment. Then: "If it fails, if they have to amputate, you don't get to spiral. You don't get to decide you're less because of it."

"I-"

"Promise me," Andrew cut in, his voice sharp. "Promise me that if you lose your leg, you'll accept it and move forward. No self-destruction. No giving up."

Neil heard what Andrew wasn't saying: I can't watch you destroy yourself. I barely survived watching you die. Don't make me watch you give up on living.

"I promise," Neil said quietly. "If I lose my leg, I'll deal with it. I'll adapt. I'll survive."

"Good." Andrew settled back against the pillows. "Now stop thinking and sleep. You have a long day tomorrow."

Neil closed his eyes and tried to obey. Sleep didn't come, but at least the panic receded to manageable levels.

At some point in the early morning hours, exhaustion finally won.

The pre-surgical prep started at 5 AM.

Neil showered with the antibacterial soap they'd given him, scrubbing his entire body twice as instructed. He wasn't allowed to eat or drink, nothing since midnight. His stomach was a knot of nerves anyway.

Andrew helped him dress in his most comfortable clothes, ones of Andrew's sweatshirt and black sweats. Kevin and Nicky hovered in the common room, both looking exhausted. They'd stayed up with Neil and Andrew, a silent vigil.

"You're going to be fine," Nicky said, pulling Neil into a careful hug. "The doctors are good. The surgery will work. You'll keep your leg."

"Nicky," Kevin said warningly. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I'm being optimistic!"

"You're being unrealistic," Kevin corrected. He turned to Neil. "The surgery is high-risk. The recovery will be brutal. But you're strong enough to handle it. And if it doesn't work, if they have to amputate, you'll adapt. I've made plans for both outcomes."

It was Kevin's version of a pep talk. Clinical, realistic, but supportive in its own way.

Wymack met them at the hospital, looking like he hadn't slept either. "Kid," he said, gripping Neil's shoulder. "You've got this."

"I might not," Neil said honestly. "It might fail."

"Then it fails, and we deal with it," Wymack said firmly. "But you're trying. That's what matters."

The rest of the Foxes arrived in a flood, Dan and Matt, Allison and Renee, even Aaron. They'd coordinated, apparently, to all be there before Neil went into surgery.

"Group consensus," Dan said, her captain voice in full force. "We're all staying until you're out of surgery. No arguments."

"That's ten hours ..."

"We know," Matt said. "We'll take shifts in the waiting room. We'll keep each other company. We'll be here when you wake up."

Neil felt his throat tighten. "You don't have to-"

"Yes, we do," Allison cut in. "You're ours, Josten. That means we show up."

Renee squeezed his hand. "We'll be praying for you. All of us, in our own ways."

Even Aaron contributed: "The surgical team is excellent. Dr. Chen has a 92% success rate for limb salvage procedures. Those are good odds."

It was the most emotional Neil had ever seen Aaron be.

The nurse called for him before he could respond. "Neil Josten? We're ready for you."

Andrew stood immediately. "I'm going with him as far as they'll let me."

No one argued.

Neil navigated on crutches through the pre-op area, Andrew a steady presence beside him. They took him to a small room, had him change into a surgical gown, and started an IV.

The anesthesiologist came to explain the procedure. "We'll put you under with general anesthesia. The surgery will take eight to ten hours, possibly longer depending on what we find. When you wake up, you'll be in recovery. You'll likely have a PCA pump for pain management, that's a button you can press to give yourself doses of pain medication as needed."

"Will I wake up with my leg?" Neil asked bluntly.

The anesthesiologist's expression softened. "Dr. Chen will do everything possible to save it. But I can't make promises. You'll know when you wake up."

After the anesthesiologist left, a nurse came to mark Neil's left leg with surgical marker, drawing on his skin to indicate the surgical site, writing "YES" on his thigh to confirm this was the correct leg to operate on.

The permanence of the marker felt ominous.

Dr. Chen appeared, already in surgical scrubs. "Neil. Are you ready?"

"No," Neil said honestly. "But let's do it anyway."

Dr. Chen smiled slightly. "That's the spirit. I'm going to do everything I can to save your leg. Dr. Patel will be in the operating room too, making sure we get all the cancer. We'll take our time, do it right. You'll be in good hands."

"Thank you," Neil managed.

"I'll see you in the OR," Dr. Chen said, and left to scrub in.

The nurse checked Neil's IV one more time. "We're going to give you something to help you relax now. You'll start feeling drowsy. Then we'll take you back to the operating room."

She injected something into his IV. Within seconds, Neil felt the medication hit, a wave of artificial calm washing over him. The panic receded. The fear dulled.

Andrew's face appeared above his. "Yes or no?"

"Yes," Neil said, his tongue feeling thick. "To everything."

"Good." Andrew's hand pressed against the side of Neil's neck, feeling his pulse. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"Promise?"

"200%."

Neil tried to respond, but the medication was pulling him under. The last thing he saw was Andrew's face, those hazel eyes steady and sure.

Then nothing.

The nothing lasted forever and no time at all.

Neil surfaced slowly, gradually, pulled up through layers of fog and confusion. Sounds reached him first, beeping, voices, the soft rustle of movement. Then sensation, pain, dull and distant, and something heavy on his chest.

He tried to open his eyes but they felt glued shut.

"He's waking up," someone said. A woman's voice. The recovery nurse, probably.

Neil forced his eyes open. The light was too bright. Everything was blurry. He blinked, trying to focus.

"Neil?" The nurse's face appeared above him. "You're in recovery. The surgery is over. Can you hear me?"

Neil tried to speak but his throat was raw, from the breathing tube they'd used during surgery. He managed a sound that might have been "yes."

"Good. I'm going to ask you some questions. Squeeze my hand once for yes, twice for no. Okay?"

Neil squeezed once.

"Are you in pain?"

One squeeze. Yes. Everything hurt, but distantly, like the pain was happening to someone else.

"On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst pain of your life, how would you rate it?"

Neil tried to think through the fog. Seven? Eight? He held up fingers, seven of them, shakily.

"Okay. I'm going to give you more pain medication through your IV." The nurse did something to his IV line. "You also have a PCA pump. This button-" she placed something in his hand, "you can press it every ten minutes for an extra dose of pain medication. Don't be afraid to use it."

Neil's brain was still foggy, struggling to catch up. Pain medication. Recovery. Surgery over.

Surgery over.

His leg.

Panic flared through the drug haze. Neil tried to sit up, to look down, to see-

"Easy," the nurse said, gently pressing him back down. "Don't try to move yet. You're still very groggy from the anesthesia."

"My leg," Neil croaked out, his voice barely audible. "Do I, is it ..."

The nurse smiled. "You still have your leg. The surgery was successful. Dr. Chen will come talk to you when you're more alert, but the limb salvage worked."

The words took a moment to process through the fog.

Still have his leg.

Surgery was successful.

Limb salvage worked.

Neil closed his eyes, something breaking open in his chest. Relief, overwhelming and dizzying. He still had his leg. After everything, seventeen weeks of chemotherapy, dying twice, a week in a coma, months of fear and fighting, he still had his leg.

"Someone wants to see you," the nurse said gently. "Are you up for a visitor?"

Neil nodded, not trusting his voice.

Andrew appeared, looking exhausted but steady. He pulled up a chair beside the recovery bed and just looked at Neil for a long moment.

"Hi," Neil managed, his voice rough.

"You kept it," Andrew said. Not a question. He'd probably already talked to the doctors.

"Yeah."

"Good." Andrew's hand found Neil's, careful of the IV. "How do you feel?"

"High," Neil admitted. The pain medication was strong, making everything feel distant and strange. "Everything's blurry."

"That's normal. You'll be clearer in a few hours."

"How long..." Neil struggled to form the question. "How long was surgery?"

"Nine hours and forty-three minutes," Andrew said. "The doctors came out three times to update us. They said it went well. Better than expected."

Nine hours. The Foxes had waited nine hours. Neil tried to imagine that and couldn't quite grasp it.

"They're all still here," Andrew said, reading Neil's expression. "In the waiting room. They want to see you when you're moved to your room."

"Tell them" Neil had to pause, his throat protesting. "Tell them thank you."

"Tell them yourself when you're coherent."

Neil tried to stay awake, to talk more, but the exhaustion was overwhelming. His eyes kept drifting closed.

"Sleep," Andrew said. "I'll be here."

Neil believed him.

When Neil woke again, he was in a regular hospital room.

The fog had lifted somewhat. He was more alert, more present. And more aware of the pain.

His left leg throbbed with a deep, relentless ache. Not the sharp pain of the break, this was different. Surgical pain. The pain of tissue that had been cut open, bone that had been removed and replaced, everything rearranged and stitched back together.

Neil looked down.

His left leg was there, wrapped in layers of bandages and immobilized in a brace. Drains snaked out from under the bandages, tubes collecting the surgical fluids. His leg was elevated on pillows, swollen and wrong-looking even through the wrappings.

But it was there.

"You're awake," Andrew said from his chair. He looked like he'd dozed off and just woken up.

"How long this time?" Neil's voice was still rough but better than before.

"Four hours. They moved you to your room about an hour ago. The Foxes are outside, harassing the nurses about when they can visit."

"Let them in," Neil said. "I want to see them."

Andrew hesitated. "You're not very coherent yet. And you're on a lot of pain medication."

"Don't care. Let them in."

Andrew sighed but stood. "Two at a time. And if you get tired, I'm kicking them out."

He left and returned with Dan and Matt.

Dan took one look at Neil, pale, exhausted, but alive and with both legs, and started crying. "You did it. You actually did it."

"We did it," Matt corrected, grinning despite the tears in his eyes. "Team effort, right? You fought, we supported, the doctors cut, and here we are."

"Here we are," Neil echoed. His voice was already getting tired.

They stayed for ten minutes, just long enough to see Neil was really okay, then left to let Kevin and Nicky in.

Kevin looked at Neil's wrapped leg with an expression Neil couldn't quite decipher. Relief, maybe. Or calculation, already planning the rehabilitation.

"The doctors said six months recovery minimum," Kevin said without preamble. "Probably longer given your bone density. But you'll walk again. You'll play again."

"Kevin," Nicky hissed. "Maybe let him recover from surgery first before talking about Exy?"

"He needs to know there's a future beyond this," Kevin said. "That's not insensitive. That's hope."

Nicky rolled his eyes but didn't argue. He moved to Neil's bedside, careful not to jostle anything. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a truck," Neil admitted. "But alive."

"That's better than the alternative," Nicky said softly.

They rotated through, Allison and Renee, then Aaron and Wymack. Each visit was brief, just long enough to confirm Neil was really okay, that he'd really kept his leg, that the worst was over.

Finally, when it was just Andrew again, Neil asked the question that had been nagging at him.

"When can I see it? The leg, I mean. Under the bandages."

"Not for a few days," Andrew said. "They need to monitor for infection, bleeding, swelling. The surgical site needs time to start healing before they unwrap it."

"But it's really there. It worked."

"It worked," Andrew confirmed. "You still have your leg. Now you just have to heal."

Just. Like healing would be simple.

But Neil had survived chemotherapy. Survived sepsis. Survived dying twice.

He could survive healing.

The first three days post-surgery were a blur of pain and medication.

Neil slept in short bursts, waking to nurses checking vitals, administering medication, emptying drains. The pain was constant, throbbing, impossible to ignore even with the PCA pump. His leg felt wrong, heavy, foreign, like it belonged to someone else.

Phantom sensations plagued him. Sometimes he'd feel like his leg was twisted at an impossible angle. Sometimes it itched under the bandages where he couldn't reach. Sometimes it hurt in places that didn't make sense, nerve confusion from the surgery.

"This is normal," the nurses assured him. "Your nerves are trying to figure out what happened. It'll settle down."

On day three, Dr. Chen came to check the surgical site.

Andrew was there, as always, standing close enough to see but far enough not to interfere. Neil tried to prepare himself as the nurses carefully unwrapped the layers of bandages.

The reality was worse than he'd imagined.

His leg was swollen to twice its normal size, mottled with bruises in shades of purple, blue, and yellow. The surgical incision ran from just above his ankle to just below his knee, a long, brutal line held together with staples. Drains protruded from two additional incision sites. The whole thing looked like something from a horror movie.

"This is actually very good," Dr. Chen said, examining the incision carefully. "No signs of infection. The swelling is expected. The bruising will fade. You're healing well."

Neil stared at his leg, his leg, still attached, still his, and tried to reconcile the destroyed thing in front of him with the word "good."

"The staples come out in two weeks," Dr. Chen continued. "We'll do X-rays weekly to monitor the bone integration. Physical therapy starts in about five days, once the acute pain settles. It's going to be a long recovery, Neil. But you kept your leg."

After Dr. Chen left, after the nurses had rewrapped the leg in fresh bandages, Neil lay back against the pillows and tried to process what he'd seen.

"That's what surviving looks like," Andrew said quietly.

"It's ugly."

"It's alive," Andrew corrected. "Ugly doesn't matter."

Neil wanted to believe him. But seeing his leg like that, destroyed, rebuilt, barely recognizable, made the victory feel hollow somehow.

"You're already regretting it," Andrew observed.

"No. Maybe. I don't know." Neil struggled to articulate it. "I wanted to keep my leg. I fought to keep it. But seeing it like that, it doesn't feel like mine anymore."

"It will," Andrew said. "Give it time."

Time. Neil had time now. Time to heal, time to recover, time to learn his body's new limits.

He just had to figure out how to use it.

On day five, they moved Neil to a rehabilitation floor.

This wing of the hospital specialized in post-surgical recovery. The rooms were larger, equipped with bathroom rails and medical equipment. Other patients walked the halls on crutches, in wheelchairs, learning to use prosthetics or navigate new limitations.

Neil was one of them now.

Sarah, his physical therapist from before, reappeared. "Welcome back. Ready to start?"

"No," Neil said honestly.

"Good. Honesty is important." She smiled. "We're going to start very slowly. Today, we just work on sitting up without assistance and moving your good leg. Tomorrow, maybe we try standing. Small steps."

Small steps. Neil used to run six miles every morning. Now he was celebrating sitting up.

The first session was humiliating. Just moving from lying down to sitting up left Neil sweating and exhausted. His core muscles had atrophied during the weeks of illness and the week in a coma. His arms shook trying to support his weight.

"This is normal," Sarah assured him. "You've been through major surgery. Your body needs time to remember how to move."

By the end of the week, Neil could sit up unassisted and swing his good leg over the side of the bed. Progress, supposedly.

Andrew was there for every session, watching silently. At night, back in Neil's hospital room, he'd help Neil through the exercises Sarah had prescribed, gentle movements, range of motion work, building strength gradually.

"I hate this," Neil said one night, frustrated and exhausted. "I hate being weak."

"You're not weak. You're recovering."

"Same thing."

"No," Andrew said flatly. "Weakness is giving up. Recovery is fighting. You're fighting."

Neil wanted to argue, but he was too tired.

Two weeks post-surgery, they removed the staples.

Neil gripped Andrew's hand as the nurse worked, using a specialized tool to remove each staple one by one. It hurt, not unbearably, but enough to make Neil's breath hitch. By the end, he was sweating.

"All done," the nurse said cheerfully. "The incision looks great. Really excellent healing."

Neil looked down at his leg, still swollen, still bruised, but the incision now held together by thin strips of surgical tape instead of metal staples. The scar would be massive, running the length of his lower leg. A permanent reminder of what he'd survived.

"You'll need to keep it wrapped for another few weeks," the nurse continued. "Keep it clean and dry. Continue with physical therapy. You're doing remarkably well."

That afternoon, Sarah had Neil try standing.

It was terrifying.

Neil gripped the crutches, Andrew and Sarah supporting him on either side. He put weight on his right leg, the good one, and carefully, tried to shift some weight to his left.

Pain exploded up his leg. Not the sharp pain of breaking, this was deeper, stranger. The pain of metal and bone grafts learning to work together. The pain of muscles and tissue traumatized by surgery.

"Easy," Sarah said. "Don't put full weight on it yet. Just let it feel the pressure."

Neil managed ten seconds before his leg started shaking uncontrollably. They lowered him back into the wheelchair.

"That was excellent," Sarah said. "Tomorrow we'll try again. Each day, a little more weight. A little more time. You'll get there."

Neil didn't feel like he'd get there. He felt like he'd never walk normally again, never run, never play Exy.

But he didn't say that out loud.

Three weeks post-surgery, Neil was discharged from the hospital.

"Continue physical therapy three times a week," Dr. Chen instructed. "Use the wheelchair for long distances, crutches for short distances. Don't put full weight on your left leg yet, we need another few weeks of healing before that. Come back next week for X-rays and a check-up."

Wymack drove Neil back to campus in a van borrowed from the athletic department, one with wheelchair access. The Foxes had prepared the suite again, removing obstacles, adding equipment Neil would need.

A wheelchair waited in the common room. A shower chair sat in the bathroom. Rails had been installed next to the toilet. The suite had been transformed into a rehabilitation space.

"Too much?" Nicky asked anxiously. "We can take some of it down if it's too much."

"It's good," Neil said, overwhelmed. "Thank you."

That night, back in Andrew's bed after weeks in the hospital, Neil lay awake and tried to process everything.

He'd survived. He'd kept his leg. The cancer was gone, they'd removed every trace of tumor, Dr. Patel confirmed. The margins were clear.

But now he had to learn to live with what remained.

A leg held together with metal rods and bone grafts. A massive scar. Months of physical therapy ahead. Three more months of chemotherapy to endure.

"Stop thinking," Andrew said from beside him.

"I can't help it."

"Try harder."

"Andrew-"

"You survived," Andrew cut in. "You kept your leg. Everything else is just details."

"Important details."

"Irrelevant details," Andrew corrected. "You're alive. You're here. That's what matters."

Neil wanted to believe him.

He closed his eyes and tried.

Chapter Text

Week two back at the dorm, Neil's leg got infected.

He noticed the warmth first, his leg feeling hot under the bandages, hotter than healing tissue should be. Then the smell, subtle but wrong. By the time he mentioned it to Andrew, his temperature was climbing.

"Hospital," Andrew said immediately, already grabbing his keys. "Now."

"It might be nothing-"

"It's not nothing. Get in the wheelchair."

The ER doctor took one look at Neil's surgical site and called Dr. Chen immediately. "Cellulitis," the doctor said, examining the reddened, swollen tissue around the incision. "Bacterial infection in the soft tissue. We need to admit you and start IV antibiotics."

"No," Neil said. The word came out sharper than he intended. "No more hospitals. Just give me antibiotics to take at home."

"Mr. Josten, this is serious. With your compromised immune system-"

"I said no." Neil's hands were shaking. He couldn't go back to a hospital room, couldn't be trapped there again, couldn't-

"Neil." Andrew's voice cut through the panic. "They need to treat the infection."

"I can't ..." Neil's breath was coming too fast. "I can't do another hospital stay. I can't."

Dr. Chen arrived twenty minutes later, still in surgical scrubs from another procedure. He examined Neil's leg carefully, his expression grave.

"The infection isn't deep yet," Dr. Chen said. "It's in the superficial tissue, not the bone or surgical hardware. But it could spread quickly given your immune system. I'm willing to try outpatient treatment, IV antibiotics administered at home three times a day, but only if you follow the protocol exactly. Miss a dose, show any signs of worsening, and you're admitted immediately. Understood?"

Neil nodded, relief making him dizzy.

They set him up with a home health nurse who came three times daily to administer antibiotics through his existing port. The infection cleared slowly over the next week, but the setback was demoralizing.

Physical therapy had to be postponed. The inflammation made weight-bearing impossible. Neil spent his days in the wheelchair or on the couch, watching his careful progress evaporate.

"We'll get back to it," Sarah assured him during a home visit. "This is just a temporary setback."

Temporary. Everything was temporary except the permanence of his destroyed leg.

Week four, Neil started the post-surgical chemotherapy.

His body was still recovering from surgery, still fighting the infection, still weak. Adding chemotherapy back into the mix felt like cruelty.

The nausea returned immediately, worse than before. Neil's surgical pain made it impossible to find a comfortable position when vomiting. Every heave sent jolts through his leg, making him cry out.

Andrew held him through it, one hand supporting Neil's chest, the other on the back of his neck. Grounding. Steady.

"I can't do this," Neil gasped between episodes. "Three more months of this. I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"No. I can't. I should have just done the amputation. At least then I'd be healing, not... not this."

Andrew's grip tightened on his neck. "You made your choice. Stop second-guessing it."

"My choice is killing me."

"No," Andrew said sharply. "Cancer was killing you. Treatment is saving you. Don't confuse the two."

But it didn't feel like being saved. It felt like drowning slowly, one day at a time.

Week six, Neil watched the Foxes practice from the stands.

It was his first time back at the stadium since surgery. Wymack had helped him navigate to the viewing area where he could watch without stairs.

Below, the Foxes ran drills. Kevin's voice echoed across the court, sharp and demanding. Matt and Dan moved in perfect synchronization. The new striker they'd recruited to replace Neil, temporarily, everyone insisted, was fast but lacked Neil's instinct for the goal.

Neil watched and felt something hollow open in his chest.

He used to be down there. Used to feel the burn in his muscles, the satisfaction of a perfect shot, the rush of movement and speed. Now he was here, trapped in a wheelchair, watching life continue without him.

"You look miserable," Kevin said, appearing beside him. Practice must have ended. Neil had lost track of time.

"I'm fine."

"You're not." Kevin sat down, still in his gear, sweat cooling on his skin. "You're watching us and wondering if you'll ever be down there again."

Neil didn't deny it.

"You will," Kevin said. "It'll take time. It'll require adapting your entire playing style. But you will play again."

"How do you know?"

"Because I did," Kevin said simply. "Riko destroyed my hand. Everyone said my career was over. I had to relearn everything, how to grip the racquet, how to shoot, how to move. It was humiliating and painful and I hated every second of it. But I did it. And so will you."

"Your hand healed," Neil said. "My leg, it's held together with metal rods and donor bone. It's never going to be what it was."

"No," Kevin agreed. "It won't be. But that doesn't mean it's useless. It means you have to learn a new way to use it."

Neil looked at his leg, wrapped in bandages, locked in a brace, useless for everything except existing. "I don't know how."

"That's what I'm here for," Kevin said. "When you're ready, when you're cleared for physical activity, I'll help you figure it out. We'll modify your technique, adjust your training, find what works with your new limitations."

"And if nothing works?"

Kevin's expression was serious. "Then we keep trying until something does. Giving up isn't an option. Not for either of us."

After Kevin left, Neil sat alone in the stands as the lights dimmed. Below, the court was empty. Silent. Waiting for players to bring it to life.

Neil wondered if he'd ever be one of them again.

Week eight, Neil fell.

He was in the dorm bathroom, trying to shower alone for the first time. The shower chair was there, the rails were installed, but Neil had wanted, needed, to prove he could do this independently.

He'd managed to transfer from the wheelchair to the shower chair. Had managed to wash himself, awkward and slow but successful. The problem came when he tried to transfer back.

His left leg, weak from disuse and still healing, couldn't support his weight. His right leg slipped on the wet floor. Neil went down hard, his left leg twisting as he fell.

The pain was instantaneous and excruciating.

Neil screamed, unable to stop himself. His leg, his carefully reconstructed leg, felt like it was tearing apart.

Andrew crashed through the door seconds later. "Don't move. Where does it hurt?"

"My leg," Neil gasped. "I fell on it. Something's wrong."

Andrew pulled out his phone, calling 911 with one hand while checking Neil for obvious injuries with the other. "Ambulance is coming. Can you straighten it?"

Neil tried and screamed again. "No. Fuck. Andrew, what if I broke it? What if I broke the hardware? What if-"

"Stop," Andrew ordered. "Panicking won't help. Just breathe."

Nicky and Kevin appeared in the doorway, both pale.

"Oh my god," Nicky said. "What happened?"

"He fell. Call Wymack and tell him we're going to the ER." Andrew grabbed towels, covering Neil. "Kevin, get his wheelchair ready."

The paramedics arrived within minutes. They immobilized Neil's leg, the pain of even that small movement made him nearly black out, and transferred him to a stretcher.

At the hospital, X-rays showed no new fractures. The hardware was intact. But Neil had torn some of the healing tissue, set back his recovery by weeks.

"You're lucky," Dr. Chen said, though his tone suggested he didn't think Neil was lucky at all. "The surgical reconstruction held. But you've undone a lot of healing. No weight-bearing for another month. Strict rest. And no more trying to shower alone."

Neil nodded, too defeated to argue.

Back at the suite, Andrew helped Neil into bed, their bed, not the wheelchair, not the couch. Just bed, where Neil couldn't hurt himself further.

"I'm pathetic," Neil said, staring at the ceiling. "I can't even shower without falling."

"You're recovering from major surgery," Andrew said. "Falls happen."

"Not to you. Not to Kevin. Not to anyone functional."

"I'm not recovering from cancer surgery. Neither is Kevin. Stop comparing."

"I can't help it," Neil said, his voice cracking. "Everything I try to do, I fail. I can't walk. I can't shower. I can't play Exy. I can't do anything except exist, and barely even that."

Andrew was quiet for a moment. Then,  "You survived bone cancer. You survived sepsis and dying twice. You survived seventeen weeks of chemotherapy and a ten-hour surgery. You're surviving three more months of chemo. You're not failing. You're fighting."

"It doesn't feel like fighting. It feels like losing slowly."

"That's because you're depressed," Andrew said bluntly. "Clinically depressed. The kind that needs treatment."

Neil wanted to deny it, but he couldn't. Because Andrew was right. The hollowness in his chest, the constant exhaustion, the inability to see a future beyond pain, those were signs he recognized from Mary's worst periods, from his own worst days on the run.

"I don't know how to fix it," Neil admitted quietly.

"Betsy," Andrew said. "You've been avoiding her calls. Stop avoiding them."

"Talking won't fix my leg."

"No. But it might fix your head. And right now, your head is more damaged than your leg."

Betsy arrived at the suite the next day.

Neil had expected her to insist on her office, neutral territory. Instead, she showed up with tea and settled into the common room like this was completely normal.

"I hear you've been having a difficult time," she said gently.

"That's one way to put it," Neil said. He was on the couch, leg elevated, exhausted from another night of insomnia and pain.

"Andrew mentioned you fell yesterday. How are you feeling about that?"

"Like a failure."

"Why?"

"Because I can't do basic things. Can't shower alone. Can't walk. Can't take care of myself."

"You had major surgery eight weeks ago," Betsy pointed out. "Your body is still healing from having your bone removed and replaced with metal. Falling during recovery doesn't make you a failure. It makes you human."

"I don't feel human. I feel broken."

"Tell me about that," Betsy said. "When did you start feeling broken?"

Neil thought about it. "The infection, maybe. Or watching the Foxes practice. Or the first time I saw my leg after surgery. I don't know. It's all blurred together."

"It sounds like you're grieving," Betsy said.

"Grieving what? I kept my leg. The cancer's gone. I should be grateful."

"You can be grateful and still grieve what you've lost," Betsy said gently. "Your mobility. Your independence. Your identity as an athlete. Your sense of control over your body. Those are all legitimate losses, Neil. You're allowed to mourn them."

Neil felt something crack in his chest. "I thought, if I kept my leg, everything would be okay. But it's not okay. My leg doesn't work right. It might never work right. And I went through all of that, all the chemo, the sepsis, the surgery...for this."

"For being alive," Betsy corrected. "You went through all of that to stay alive. The leg was a bonus, but staying alive was always the goal."

"But what kind of life is this?" Neil's voice broke. "I can't play Exy. Can't run. Can't even walk to the bathroom without falling. What's the point of being alive if I can't do any of the things that made life worth living?"

"That's the depression talking," Betsy said. "Right now, in this moment, you're in pain and exhausted and grieving. Everything feels hopeless because your brain chemistry is working against you. But Neil, you're eight weeks post-surgery. You have months of recovery ahead. You don't know yet what your life will look like when you're healed."

"What if this is as good as it gets?"

"Then you adapt," Betsy said simply. "You find new things that make life worth living. You redefine what success looks like. But right now, you're too deep in the depression to see possibilities. That's why I'm recommending medication."

Neil stiffened. "I'm already on too many medications."

"This is different. Anti-depressants can help rebalance your brain chemistry, make it easier to cope with recovery. Combined with therapy, they can help you find your way out of this dark place."

"I don't-" Neil struggled with the words. "I don't want to be someone who needs medication to be happy."

"You're already someone who needs medication to stay alive," Betsy pointed out. "Chemotherapy, antibiotics, pain medication. This is just another tool. There's no shame in using it."

Neil looked at Andrew, who'd been sitting silently in the chair nearby. "What do you think?"

"I think you've been crying in your sleep," Andrew said bluntly. "I think you barely eat. I think you stare at the ceiling for hours instead of sleeping. I think medication might help."

"You don't take medication for your depression."

"I take medication for my psychosis," Andrew corrected. "And I go to therapy. I use the tools available. You should too."

Neil wanted to argue, but he was too tired. Too defeated.

"Okay," he said finally. "I'll try the medication."

Betsy smiled. "Good. We'll start with a low dose and adjust as needed. It'll take a few weeks to fully work, but you should start noticing some improvement within a week or two."

After Betsy left, Neil lay on the couch and tried to process everything.

He was depressed. Clinically, diagnosably depressed. It shouldn't have been a surprise, of course he was depressed. But naming it somehow made it more real.

"This is rock bottom, isn't it?" Neil said to the ceiling.

"Probably," Andrew agreed from his chair.

"How do I come back from this?"

"One day at a time," Andrew said. "Some days you'll make progress. Some days you'll fall in the shower. But you keep going anyway."

"What if I can't?"

"Then I'll drag you," Andrew said flatly. "Until you can move on your own again."

Neil almost smiled. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Week ten, the antidepressants started working.

It wasn't dramatic. There was no sudden lifting of the darkness, no magical cure. But gradually, incrementally, Neil found it easier to get out of bed. Easier to eat. Easier to see past the immediate pain to something resembling a future.

Physical therapy resumed carefully. Sarah worked with Neil on exercises that wouldn't stress the torn tissue, rebuilding strength slowly.

"You're doing better," she observed during a session. "More engaged. Less defeated."

"Medication," Neil said simply.

"Whatever works," Sarah said. "Depression makes recovery harder. Treating it makes everything else easier."

By week twelve, Neil could transfer from wheelchair to shower chair without help. Could navigate the suite independently. Could bear partial weight on his left leg for short periods.

Small victories. But victories nonetheless.

The Foxes noticed too. "You seem better," Dan said during a visit. "Less... hollow."

"I am better," Neil said. And meant it.

He still had bad days. Days where the pain was too much, where the depression crept back, where he questioned every choice that led him here. But those days were interspersed with better ones. Days where he could see progress. Days where he could imagine a future.

Week fourteen, three months post-surgery, Neil had his final dose of chemotherapy.

He sat in the oncology ward, IV in his arm, watching the last bag of poison drip into his veins. Andrew was beside him, as always. Kevin had come too, sitting across from them with his ever-present training plans.

"This is it," the nurse said cheerfully. "Last treatment. How do you feel?"

"Like I've been poisoned for six months," Neil said.

She laughed. "Fair. But you made it. Six months of chemotherapy, major surgery, and you're still here. That's an accomplishment."

After the IV finished, after they'd removed the port from his chest, one final small surgery, one final scar, Neil sat in the parking lot and tried to process what came next.

No more chemotherapy. No more hospital visits every week. Just recovery. Just physical therapy. Just learning to live in his rebuilt body.

"You're free," Kevin said. "Free from cancer treatment. Now the real work begins."

"The real work?"

"Getting back on the court," Kevin said, as if it was obvious. "You're cleared to start more aggressive physical therapy in two weeks. We'll work on your strength, your mobility, your endurance. In six months, maybe less, you'll be ready to try practicing with the team."

Six months. Half a year more of recovery.

But for the first time in months, Neil could actually imagine it. Could see himself on the court again, adapted and different but present.

"Okay," Neil said. "Let's do it."

Andrew's hand found the back of his neck, the familiar pressure grounding. "One battle at a time."

"One battle at a time," Neil agreed.

The worst was over. The cancer was gone. The surgery was healing. The depression was manageable.

Now he just had to figure out how to live with what remained.

How to be Neil Josten with a reconstructed leg, a body covered in scars, and a future that looked nothing like what he'd imagined.

But he'd survived this long.

He could survive the rest.

Chapter Text

Week sixteen post-surgery, Neil's leg started hurting in a new way.

Not the surgical pain he'd grown accustomed to. Not the ache of healing tissue or the sharp protests of physical therapy. This was different, a deep, throbbing pain that radiated from the hardware sites. His leg felt hot, swollen, angry.

"Probably just inflammation from pushing too hard in PT," Sarah said when he mentioned it. "Let's dial back the intensity for a few days."

But dialing back didn't help. The pain intensified. By week seventeen, Neil's leg was noticeably more swollen than it had been, the skin around the surgical site red and warm to the touch.

"Back to Dr. Chen," Andrew said, already pulling out his phone.

The appointment was scheduled for the next day.

Dr. Chen examined Neil's leg with growing concern, ordering immediate blood work and X-rays. "The hardware looks intact," he said, studying the images. "But your inflammatory markers are elevated. I'm concerned you might be developing a reaction to the metal."

"A reaction?" Neil asked. "Like an allergy?"

"Similar. Metal hypersensitivity. Your body recognizes the titanium rods and screws as foreign objects and is mounting an immune response against them." Dr. Chen pulled up images on his computer, comparing Neil's current X-rays to ones from a month ago. "See here? There's bone resorption around the hardware, your body is trying to reject it."

The word "reject" hit Neil like a physical blow. "What does that mean? For my leg?"

Dr. Chen's expression was grave. "It means we need to monitor this very carefully. If your body continues to reject the hardware, we'll have two options, remove the hardware and replace it with a different alloy, or proceed with amputation."

The room tilted. Neil gripped the edge of the examination table. "Amputation. After everything, after all of this..."

"I know," Dr. Chen said gently. "I know this isn't what you want to hear. But let me be clear, we're not there yet. Right now, we're going to try aggressive treatment. Immunosuppressants to calm your body's reaction, anti-inflammatories, close monitoring. Many patients respond well to this protocol."

"And if I don't respond?"

Dr. Chen was quiet for a moment. "Then we'll have to remove the hardware. But removing hardware from a leg with your bone density is complicated. There's significant risk of fracture, of the bone failing to heal properly without the support. In that scenario, amputation might be the safer option."

Neil couldn't breathe. Six months. Six months of chemotherapy, sepsis, surgery, recovery, pain, depression, all of it for nothing. All of it leading back to the same place he'd been trying to avoid.

"How long?" Andrew asked, his voice flat. "How long before we know if the treatment works?"

"Four weeks," Dr. Chen said. "We'll do weekly monitoring. If the inflammation decreases, if the bone resorption stops, then we continue as planned. If it worsens, we'll need to make some difficult decisions."

After the appointment, Andrew drove them back to campus in silence. Neil stared out the window, watching the world pass by, and tried to process the information.

His body was rejecting his leg. The leg he'd fought so hard to keep. The leg he'd endured six months of hell to save.

Back in the dorm, Kevin and Nicky were waiting in the common room. They took one look at Neil's face and stood immediately.

"What happened?" Kevin asked, his voice tight with concern.

"My body is rejecting the metal," Neil said flatly. "They're going to try treatment, but if it doesn't work, I'll need amputation anyway."

The silence was deafening.

"Fuck," Kevin said finally, sinking back onto the couch. "Neil, I-"

"Don't," Neil cut him off. "Don't say you're sorry. Don't say it'll be okay. Just... don't."

He wheeled himself into the bedroom and shut the door.

The immunosuppressants made Neil sick.

Different from chemotherapy sick, but sick nonetheless. Nausea, headaches, fatigue that felt like drowning. His already compromised immune system became even weaker. He had to wear a mask everywhere again, avoid crowds, live in semi-isolation.

"This is familiar," Nicky said one evening, trying for levity as he disinfected the common room. "At least we know the routine."

Neil didn't respond. He sat on the couch, leg elevated, and stared at nothing.

The depression medication that had been helping suddenly felt insufficient. The darkness crept back in, heavier than before. Because this time, Neil couldn't see the light at the end. This time, he'd done everything right and his body was betraying him anyway.

"Talk to Betsy," Andrew said after finding Neil awake at 3 AM for the fourth night in a row.

"What's the point? She can't fix my leg."

"No. But she can help you process this."

"Process what? That I made the wrong choice? That I should have just amputated from the start and saved myself six months of suffering?"

"You didn't know this would happen," Andrew said.

"I knew limb salvage was risky. The doctors told me. You told me. Everyone told me. But I was stubborn and convinced I could beat the odds." Neil's voice cracked. "And now I've wasted six months for nothing."

Andrew moved to sit beside Neil on the bed. "It's not for nothing if the treatment works."

"And if it doesn't? If in four weeks they tell me I need amputation anyway? Then what was the point of any of this?"

"The point was giving your leg a chance," Andrew said. "You needed to try. You needed to know you did everything possible. That wasn't wrong."

"It feels wrong," Neil said bitterly. "It feels like I tortured myself for six months because I was too scared to make the smart choice."

"The smart choice isn't always the right choice," Andrew said. "Not for you."

Neil wanted to believe him. But sitting there with his throbbing, rejecting leg, all he felt was regret.

Week eighteen, the inflammation was worse.

Dr. Chen ordered an MRI. The results showed increased bone resorption, fluid accumulation around the hardware, clear signs of ongoing rejection despite the immunosuppressants.

"Your body isn't responding to treatment," Dr. Chen said, and Neil heard the regret in his voice. "We need to talk about next steps."

"Amputation," Neil said flatly. Not a question.

"It's looking likely," Dr. Chen confirmed. "We could try removing the hardware and replacing it with a different alloy, something your body might tolerate better. But given your bone density, the risk of catastrophic fracture during hardware removal is high. You could end up with a leg that's even less functional than before, requiring multiple surgeries and possibly still ending in amputation anyway."

"Or I could just amputate now," Neil finished. "Skip the suffering."

Dr. Chen nodded slowly. "Below-knee amputation would give you the best long-term outcome at this point. With a prosthetic, you'd have better mobility than you have now with the failing hardware. Recovery would be faster. The risk of complications would be lower."

Neil looked at Andrew, who was watching him with those intense hazel eyes. "What do you think?"

"I think it's your decision," Andrew said. "But I think you're in more pain now than you were before surgery. I think the leg isn't functional. I think you're fighting a battle you can't win."

"So I should give up."

"No," Andrew said sharply. "You should accept reality and adapt. That's not giving up. That's surviving."

Neil closed his eyes. He'd fought so hard to keep this leg. Six months of his life dedicated to saving it. And now his own body was forcing his hand.

"How long do I have to decide?" Neil asked Dr. Chen.

"Not long," Dr. Chen said honestly. "The longer we wait, the worse the rejection gets. If it progresses to a full-blown hardware infection, emergency amputation becomes necessary. It's better to do this as a planned procedure rather than an emergency one."

"I need time to think," Neil said.

"You have a week," Dr. Chen said. "After that, we need to act."

That night, Neil sat in the common room with the Foxes.

They'd gathered when Kevin sent out the group text: Neil has news. Suite. Now.

Dan, Matt, Allison, Renee, Aaron, Wymack, everyone. They crowded into the common room, sitting on every available surface, waiting.

"My body is rejecting the hardware," Neil said without preamble. "The immunosuppressants aren't working. Dr. Chen says I need to decide in the next week, try to replace the hardware and risk everything getting worse, or amputate."

The silence was heavy.

"What are you leaning toward?" Dan asked gently.

"I don't know," Neil admitted. "Part of me wants to try the hardware replacement. Keep fighting. But another part" he gestured at his leg, swollen and painful, "another part knows I've already lost this fight."

"You haven't lost," Kevin said, his voice fierce. "You're making a strategic decision. There's a difference."

"Is there?" Neil looked at him. "Because from where I'm sitting, it feels like losing."

"Amputation isn't losing," Renee said quietly. "It's choosing a different path. A path that leads to healing and mobility rather than constant pain and rejection."

"Easy for you to say," Neil snapped. "You're not the one losing a leg."

Renee didn't flinch. "No. But I've lost other things. Made hard choices about what to let go of to survive. This is your hard choice, Neil. But it is a choice, not a failure."

Matt spoke up, his voice rough. "I've watched you suffer for six months. Watched you push through pain I can't imagine. If amputation means you're in less pain, if it means you can actually heal and move on, then it's not losing. It's winning differently."

"You'll still be able to play Exy," Kevin added. "I've continued researching. With a running blade prosthetic, your mobility could actually be better than it is now with the damaged bone. You'll have to relearn everything, but you'll play. I promise you that."

"What if I don't want to relearn everything?" Neil asked, his voice breaking. "What if I'm tired of fighting? What if I just want this to be over?"

"Then we end it," Wymack said gruffly. "You do the amputation. You heal. You rest. And when you're ready, if you're ready, we figure out what comes next. But kid, you've got to stop seeing amputation as failure. It's not. It's choosing quality of life over prolonged suffering."

Allison, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet, spoke up. "I've watched you deteriorate since the surgery. You're in constant pain. You can barely walk. You're depressed and exhausted and miserable. If cutting off your leg means you can actually live instead of just surviving in pain, then cut off the fucking leg."

It was the most compassionate thing Allison had ever said, delivered in the most Allison way possible.

Neil looked around at them, his family, his team, his people. They were all watching him with varying expressions of concern and support and love.

"I'm scared," Neil admitted quietly. "Not of losing my leg. I'm scared that I went through all of this, all six months of hell, and I'm ending up exactly where I started. Facing amputation anyway."

"You're not where you started," Andrew said. "Six months ago, you needed to try to save your leg. You needed to know you fought for it. Now you know. You tried everything. Your body is telling you it's time for a different solution. Listening to your body isn't the same as giving up."

Neil let those words sink in.

Andrew was right. Six months ago, he couldn't have made peace with amputation. He would have spent the rest of his life wondering if he could have saved his leg. Now, after trying everything, after fighting as hard as he could, he knew. The leg couldn't be saved.

That knowledge, painful as it was, was worth something.

"Okay," Neil said finally. "I'll do it. I'll schedule the amputation."

The week before the surgery was surreal.

Neil went through the motions of preparation, pre-surgical appointments, consults with the prosthetist who'd be making his artificial leg, physical therapy sessions focused on strengthening his upper body and right leg for the challenges ahead.

Betsy came to the suite daily. "You're grieving," she said. "That's normal and healthy. Let yourself feel it."

So Neil did. He let himself mourn the leg he was losing. The athletic career he'd imagined. The body he'd once had. He cried more in that week than he had in the previous six months combined.

Andrew was there through all of it. Silent support, steady presence, never judging the tears or the anger or the grief.

The night before the surgery, the Foxes gathered in the suite one more time.

"Last night with both legs," Nicky said, trying for humor and failing. "We should celebrate or something."

"Celebrate what?" Neil asked. "That I'm about to lose a limb?"

"Celebrate that you're still here," Dan said firmly. "That you beat cancer. That you tried everything to save your leg. That tomorrow, you're choosing to heal rather than continuing to suffer."

They ordered pizza, and got all of Neil's favorite fruits. Even though he could barely eat any of it. They watched a movie Neil didn't pay attention to. They just existed together, the Foxes and their broken striker, one last time before everything changed.

When everyone finally left, when it was just Andrew and Neil in their bedroom, Neil said what he'd been thinking all week.

"I'm not the person I was six months ago."

"No," Andrew agreed. "You're not."

"I don't know who I am now. Don't know who I'll be after tomorrow."

"You'll be Neil Josten," Andrew said simply. "With one leg instead of two. Everything else stays the same."

"Does it?"

"Yes." Andrew's hand found Neil's neck, feeling his pulse. "You'll still be stubborn and reckless. You'll still be mine. You'll still be a Fox. The number of legs you have is irrelevant to those facts."

Neil wanted to believe him.

"I'm terrified," Neil whispered.

"I know."

"What if I can't adapt? What if I can't learn to use a prosthetic? What if I never play Exy again?"

"Then you don't," Andrew said. "And we find other things to fill your life. But Neil, you've adapted to everything else life has thrown at you. You'll adapt to this too."

"Promise?"

"No," Andrew said honestly. "I can't promise it'll be easy or that you won't struggle. But I can promise you won't do it alone."

Neil closed his eyes and tried to find comfort in that.

Tomorrow, he'd lose his leg.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

But tonight, he was still whole. Still Neil Josten, striker for the Foxes, survivor of too many impossible things.

Tomorrow could wait.

The morning of the amputation, Neil woke before dawn.

He lay in bed, staring at his leg in the dim light. The leg that had carried him across the country while running from his father. The leg that had scored countless goals. The leg that had broken, gotten cancer, been cut open and reconstructed, and was now rejecting the hardware meant to save it.

This was the last morning he'd wake up with this leg.

"Yes or no?" Andrew asked quietly. He was awake too, watching Neil.

"Yes," Neil said. "I'm sure."

"Then let's go."

They arrived at the hospital at 6 AM. The Foxes were already there, filling the waiting room despite the early hour. They'd all come to see Neil off, to be there when he woke up.

"You've got this," Dan said, hugging him carefully.

"See you on the other side," Matt added.

Kevin handed Neil a folder. "Post-amputation training protocols. For when you're ready. Not if, when."

Even Aaron had come, standing awkwardly at the back of the group. "The prosthetics they have now are remarkable. You'll adapt."

It was the closest to encouragement Aaron ever got.

The nurses called for Neil. Andrew followed him back to pre-op, just like before. They went through the same routine, IV placement, surgical marker (this time drawing a line across his leg just below the knee where they'd amputate), anesthesia consult.

"You'll wake up without your lower left leg," the anesthesiologist said gently. "We'll have pain management in place. There will be phantom limb sensation, it's completely normal. Are you ready?"

"No," Neil said honestly. "But do it anyway."

Dr. Chen appeared, already in surgical scrubs. "Neil. Last chance to back out."

"I'm not backing out."

Dr. Chen nodded. "All right. I'll take good care of you. When you wake up, the cancer leg will be gone. You'll be able to start truly healing."

The cancer leg. That's what it had become. Not his leg anymore, but the cancer leg. The failed limb salvage. The source of six months of suffering.

Maybe losing it wasn't losing at all.

Maybe it was finally letting go.

The nurse injected the sedative into his IV. The familiar wave of artificial calm washed over Neil.

Andrew's face appeared above him. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"Promise?"

"228%."

Neil tried to smile. Tried to say something meaningful. But the medication was pulling him under.

The last thought he had before the darkness took him:

This is the right choice. It has to be.

Then nothing.

Chapter Text

Neil woke slowly, fighting through layers of fog.

The first thing he noticed was the pain, different from before, but still overwhelming. Not the deep ache of rejection, but a sharper, more immediate pain. Surgical pain.

He tried to open his eyes. The light was too bright. He blinked, struggling to focus.

"Easy," a voice said. A nurse. "Don't try to move yet. You're in recovery."

Neil's mouth was dry, his throat raw. Another breathing tube. How long had he been out?

He tried to ask but couldn't form words around the tube.

"We're going to remove the breathing tube now," the nurse said. "It's going to be uncomfortable. Try not to fight it."

The removal was just as horrible as he remembered. Gagging, choking, finally gasping in air on his own. His throat screamed in protest.

"Water," Neil croaked.

Ice chips appeared. He let them melt on his tongue, soothing the worst of the rawness.

"How long?" he managed to rasp out.

"You've been unconscious for two days," the nurse said gently. "The surgery had some complications. You needed extra time on the ventilator to stabilize."

Two days. Neil tried to process that. "Complications?"

"Dr. Chen will explain everything. Let me page him now that you're awake."

The nurse left. Neil lay there, trying to take stock of his body. His chest hurt from the breathing tube. His throat was raw. And his left leg-

Neil looked down.

The blanket covered most of him, but he could see the shape underneath. Or rather, the lack of shape. His left leg ended much sooner than he'd expected. The blanket was flat where his lower leg should have been.

It was really gone.

Neil's breath caught. He'd known this was coming, had made peace with it, but seeing the absence was different from imagining it. His leg was just... gone. Cut off. Removed. Discarded as medical waste somewhere.

"Neil." Andrew's voice, rough and exhausted.

Neil tore his gaze from his missing leg to find Andrew in the chair beside his bed. He looked terrible, two days of stubble, dark circles under his eyes, wearing the same clothes he'd worn to the hospital.

"You stayed," Neil said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Obviously."

"For two days?"

"Yes."

Neil wanted to ask why, but he knew the answer. Because Andrew had promised. Because that's what 228% meant.

"My leg," Neil said. "It's really gone."

"Yes."

"It's shorter than we planned. I can see it. They were supposed to amputate below the knee but it looks" Neil's voice cracked. "It looks like they took more."

"They did," Andrew said. "Dr. Chen will explain. He's coming."

Dr. Chen arrived within minutes, looking relieved to see Neil awake. "Welcome back. I know two days is longer than you expected to be under."

"What happened?" Neil asked. "What were the complications?"

Dr. Chen pulled up a chair, his expression serious. "The amputation itself went smoothly. We removed your lower leg at the planned site, just below the knee. But when we were examining the tissue and bone above the amputation site, we found something unexpected."

Neil's stomach dropped. "What?"

"A small tumor. Benign, not cancerous, but large enough to be concerning. It was embedded in the bone just above your knee joint. We ran a frozen section biopsy during surgery to confirm it wasn't malignant."

"Another tumor," Neil said flatly. "After everything, there was another tumor."

"A different kind," Dr. Chen clarified. "This was an osteochondroma, a benign bone growth. Probably congenital, something you've had for years without knowing. It wasn't related to the cancer."

"But you had to remove it," Neil said, understanding dawning. "Which meant taking more of my leg."

Dr. Chen nodded. "We had two options, leave it and risk future complications, or remove it during the amputation surgery. Given its size and location, leaving it would have interfered with prosthetic fitting and potentially caused pain or mobility issues. We made the decision to remove it, which meant extending the amputation site higher. Instead of a below-knee amputation, you now have a through-knee amputation."

"Through-knee," Neil repeated. The words felt foreign.

"Your knee joint is gone," Dr. Chen said gently. "The amputation goes through the knee rather than below it. This does change your prosthetic options and rehabilitation timeline, but-"

"How much longer?" Neil cut in. "For recovery? For learning to use a prosthetic?"

"Healing time is about the same," Dr. Chen said. "But learning to use a prosthetic with a through-knee amputation is more complex than below-knee. You'll need more advanced equipment, more intensive physical therapy. The timeline for return to athletic activity is longer, probably a year rather than six months."

A year. Neil closed his eyes. He'd already lost 8 months to cancer treatment. Now another year before he could even attempt to play Exy again.

"Neil," Dr. Chen said carefully. "I know this isn't what you wanted to hear. But the benign tumor had to be removed. If we'd left it, you would have needed another surgery later anyway. This way, we addressed everything at once."

"This way, I lost my entire knee," Neil said bitterly. "This way, I lost even more than I already had."

"You're alive," Dr. Chen said firmly. "The cancer is gone. The rejection is gone. The benign tumor is gone. You have a chance to heal properly now, without complications. Yes, it's more than we planned to remove. But Neil, this gives you the best chance for a functional, pain-free future."

After Dr. Chen left, Neil lay in silence. Andrew had moved back to his chair, watching Neil with those sharp eyes.

"Say it," Neil said finally.

"Say what?"

"Say you told me so. Say I should have just done the amputation 8 months ago instead of trying limb salvage. Say-"

"No," Andrew cut in. "I'm not saying any of that."

"Why not? You were right. I wasted 8 months trying to save a leg I was going to lose anyway. And now I've lost more than I would have if I'd just amputated in the first place."

"You don't know that," Andrew said. "The benign tumor was there regardless. They would have found it eventually, whether you amputated 8 months ago or now. You might have needed a revision surgery either way."

"But I would have been healed by now. I would have been learning to use a prosthetic, not going through surgery again."

"Maybe," Andrew said. "Or maybe you would have spent 8 months regretting not trying to save your leg. Maybe you would have been so depressed you couldn't function. You can't know what would have happened. You only know what did happen."

"What did happen is that I lost 8 months of my life and my entire leg for nothing."

"Not for nothing," Andrew said sharply. "You fought for your leg. You tried everything possible to keep it. Now you know, definitively, that amputation was the right choice. That knowledge has value."

"Does it?" Neil's voice cracked. "Because right now it just feels like I tortured myself for six months to end up worse than I started."

Andrew was quiet for a long moment. Then, "Do you want me to lie to you? Tell you everything is fine and you made the right choice and this is all going to be easy?"

"No."

"Good. Because it's not fine. You lost your leg. You lost your knee. You're going to spend the next year relearning how to move. It's going to be hard and painful and frustrating. But you're alive. The cancer is gone. You have a future. Those things matter more than the method by which you got here."

Neil wanted to believe him. But staring at the flat space under the blanket where his leg used to be, all he felt was loss.

"Can I see it?" Neil asked quietly. "The amputation site?"

"Are you sure?"

"No. But I need to."

Andrew pressed the call button. When the nurse arrived, he said, "He wants to see his leg."

The nurse looked uncertain. "It's only been two days since surgery. The site is still very raw-"

"I know," Neil interrupted. "I want to see it anyway."

The nurse sighed but nodded. "All right. But I'm warning you, it's not going to look like what you're imagining."

She carefully pulled back the blanket. Neil's right leg was visible, whole and familiar. His left leg ended just above where his knee used to be, wrapped in layers of bandages and surgical dressing. Drains snaked out from the wrappings. The stump, he supposed that's what it was called now, was swollen, bulky with bandages.

But it was the absence that Neil couldn't stop staring at. The space where the rest of his leg should be. The flatness of the bed where his calf and foot used to rest.

His leg was just... gone.

"The bandages will come off in about a week," the nurse explained. "The swelling will go down over the next few weeks. The stump will gradually take its final shape over the next few months."

Stump. The word sounded harsh, clinical. But accurate.

"How long until I can use a prosthetic?" Neil asked.

"That depends on healing. Usually six to eight weeks before you can be fitted for a prosthetic socket. Then several more weeks of adjustments and learning to use it. With a through-knee amputation, the process is longer than below-knee."

Longer. Everything with this was going to take longer.

The nurse rewrapped the blanket and left. Neil stared at the ceiling, trying to process everything.

He'd woken up with less leg than he'd planned to lose. His recovery timeline had doubled. His athletic future was even more uncertain.

And he'd spent two days unconscious, trapped in medical sedation, while his body healed from yet another surgery.

"This is my life now," Neil said to the ceiling. "Amputee. Disabled. Whatever they call it."

"They call it being an amputee," Andrew said bluntly. "That's what you are. Accept it."

"Just like that? Accept that I'm disabled now?"

"You were disabled before," Andrew pointed out. "When your leg was broken. When you were on crutches. When you couldn't shower without falling. At least now you'll be able to get a prosthetic and actually move."

"If I can learn to use it."

"You will."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're you," Andrew said simply. "You survived your father. You survived Riko. You survived cancer and sepsis and dying twice. You'll survive this too."

Neil wanted to believe him. But right now, lying in a hospital bed with part of his leg missing, all he felt was defeated.

The next few days were a blur of pain management, wound care, and slow adjustment to the reality of being an amputee.

The Foxes visited in shifts. Their reactions varied.

Dan cried when she saw Neil awake, then tried to hide it. "You're okay. That's what matters."

Matt looked at the space where Neil's leg used to be and had to leave the room for a minute. When he came back, his eyes were red. "Sorry. I just ... I'm glad you're okay."

Kevin arrived with revised training plans. "Through-knee amputation changes some things," he said, all business. "The prosthetics are different, the biomechanics more complex. But it's doable. Athletes with through-knee amputations have competed at elite levels. You will too."

Nicky brought flowers and tried too hard to be cheerful. "At least now you'll heal properly, right? No more rejection or infection or complications?"

"We hope," Neil said.

Allison was characteristically blunt. "So they took more than expected. At least it's over. At least you can start actually recovering now instead of just suffering."

Renee sat with Neil and read to him, not mentioning the amputation unless Neil brought it up. The normalcy was comforting.

Even Aaron visited, armed with medical journals about phantom limb pain and prosthetic fitting. "The phantom sensations will be intense at first," Aaron said. "Your brain still thinks your leg is there. It'll take time for it to adjust."

Wymack came every day, usually in the evening. He didn't say much, just sat with Neil and occasionally commented on team news or campus gossip. His presence was steady, grounding.

"You're still my player," Wymack said one evening, "Leg or no leg, you're mine. Don't forget that."

Neil nodded, throat tight.

On day five, they removed the drains. On day six, they changed his bandages for the first time and let Neil see the actual amputation site.

It was worse than he'd imagined.

The stump was swollen, bruised, held together with staples just like his previous surgical site had been. But this time, the line of staples ended at nothing. Just the rounded end of his residual limb, wrapped and pinned.

His leg just... stopped.

"It'll look better as it heals," the nurse assured him. "The swelling will go down. The bruising will fade. In a few months, you won't even recognize it as the same limb."

Neil couldn't look away. This was his body now. This was what he'd chosen, or what his body had chosen for him.

"Phantom pain?" the nurse asked.

"Constantly," Neil admitted. He could feel his missing foot itching. Could feel his non-existent ankle aching. His brain insisted his leg was still there, creating sensations that had no physical source.

"That's completely normal," the nurse said. "Mirror therapy can help. So can massage of the residual limb. I'll have the physical therapist come talk to you about management techniques."

Physical therapy. Even without a prosthetic, there was work to be done. Exercises to maintain his hip and knee flexibility, except he didn't have a knee anymore. Exercises for his right leg to bear the increased load. Core strengthening. Upper body work.

The amount of rehabilitation ahead felt insurmountable.

Week two post-amputation, Neil was discharged.

"Continue with wound care," Dr. Chen instructed. "Keep the site clean and dry. Come back in one week for staple removal. We'll start fitting for your prosthetic socket once the swelling decreases significantly, probably another four to six weeks."

Four to six weeks. Then months more of learning to use the prosthetic. Then who knew how long before he could actually play Exy again.

If he ever could.

Back at the dorm, everything had been modified again. The ramp was still there. The bathroom rails remained. But now there were additional accommodations, a shower bench designed for amputees, padding on surfaces in case Neil fell, strategic furniture placement to make wheelchair navigation easier.

"Too much?" Nicky asked anxiously, hovering as Andrew helped Neil navigate inside.

"It's good," Neil said. And meant it. The Foxes had thought of everything.

That first night back, Neil lay in Andrew's bed and stared at the ceiling. His residual limb throbbed despite the pain medication. The phantom sensations were maddening, he could feel his missing foot cramping, his absent toes curling, his non-existent ankle twisted wrong.

"It's still there," Neil said quietly. "My brain thinks my leg is still there."

"It'll fade," Andrew said. "Aaron sent research. Phantom sensations decrease over time as your brain remaps."

"How long?"

"Months. Maybe years. Everyone is different."

Years. Neil might feel his missing leg for years.

"I don't know how to do this," Neil admitted. "I don't know how to be an amputee. How to adjust. How to accept this."

"One day at a time," Andrew said. "Some days will be better than others. But you do it one day at a time."

"What if I can't?"

"Then I'll drag you," Andrew said, the same promise he'd made before. "Until you can move on your own again."

Neil closed his eyes and tried to believe him.

Week four post-amputation, the staples came out.

Neil gripped the arms of the chair as the nurse removed them one by one. It hurt less than he expected but more than he wanted. By the end, his residual limb was red and angry-looking.

"The scar will be significant," the nurse said. "But it'll fade over time. You can start massaging it once it's fully healed, that'll help with phantom sensations and prepare the tissue for prosthetic use."

Neil looked at his leg, his stump, his residual limb, whatever the proper terminology was. The incision line was visible now, a brutal reminder of what he'd lost. The end of his leg was rounded, foreign, impossible to recognize as part of his body.

But it was healing. No infection. No rejection. Just slow, steady healing.

That had to count for something.

Physical therapy began in earnest. Sarah worked with Neil on exercises to maintain his flexibility and strength. They did mirror therapy, using a mirror to create the illusion that his missing leg was still there, tricking his brain into releasing some of the phantom sensations.

It helped. Slightly. The phantom pain decreased from constant to intermittent. The phantom itching became manageable.

And slowly, incrementally, Neil's brain began to accept that his left leg was gone.

Week six, the prosthetist came to take measurements for Neil's socket.

"Through-knee amputation is less common than below-knee," the prosthetist explained. "The socket design is more complex. We'll need several fittings to get it right. But once we do, you'll have good control and stability."

Neil sat through the measuring process, trying not to think about the fact that he was being fitted for an artificial leg. That this was his life now.

"We'll start with a basic prosthetic for learning to walk," the prosthetist continued. "Once you're comfortable with that and your residual limb has fully matured, we can look at sports prosthetics. Running blades, specialized equipment for Exy."

"How long?" Neil asked. "Until the sports prosthetics?"

"Six months minimum," the prosthetist said. "Possibly longer. Your residual limb will continue to change shape for the first year. We need it stabilized before investing in specialized equipment."

Six months. Just to get to the point where he could start training for sports again. Then who knew how long to actually be game-ready.

Kevin had been right. A year. Minimum.

Week eight, Neil's first prosthetic socket was ready.

The prosthetist fitted it carefully, adjusting straps and alignment. The socket fit over Neil's residual limb, held in place by suction and suspension straps. Below the socket, instead of a foot and ankle, there was a mechanical knee joint and a basic prosthetic foot.

"Stand up slowly," the prosthetist instructed. "Use the parallel bars for support. Don't put full weight on the prosthetic yet, just let yourself feel it."

Neil gripped the parallel bars and tried to stand.

The sensation was wrong. Foreign. The prosthetic didn't feel like his leg. It felt like a tool, a piece of equipment strapped to his body. The weight distribution was off. The height was strange.

"Easy," Sarah said, supporting him. "You're going to fall the first few times. Everyone does. That's okay."

Neil managed to stand for thirty seconds before his residual limb started aching and he had to sit down. The skin where the socket pressed was already red, the tissue not yet toughened to handle the pressure.

"That's normal," the prosthetist said. "You'll build up tolerance gradually. Start with short wearing periods, maybe fifteen minutes, three times a day. Increase slowly as your skin adapts."

Fifteen minutes. Neil used to run for an hour every morning. Now he could barely stand for fifteen minutes in a prosthetic.

But it was a start.

Over the next weeks, Neil slowly built up his tolerance. Fifteen minutes became thirty. Then forty-five. Then an hour.

Standing became walking, short distances at first, between the parallel bars, then with crutches, then with a cane, then without support at all.

Each step was work. Each movement required concentration. The prosthetic didn't respond like his real leg had, he had to think about every motion, consciously control the mechanical knee, compensate for the lack of ankle flexibility.

But he was walking.

Slowly, awkwardly, with a pronounced limp. But walking.

"You're doing remarkably well," Sarah said during a session three months post-amputation. "Most patients aren't this mobile this quickly."

"I'm motivated," Neil said, the same thing he'd told her months ago.

"You're stubborn," Sarah corrected, smiling. "But it's working."

Four months post-amputation, Neil walked onto the Exy court for the first time.

Not to play. Just to walk. To stand on the court where he'd spent so many hours, to feel the surface under his feet, one real, one artificial.

The Foxes were at practice. They stopped when they saw Neil navigate through the door with his cane, his prosthetic leg visible under his athletic shorts.

"Neil," Kevin said, and there was something in his voice Neil couldn't identify. Relief? Pride?

"I can't play yet," Neil said quickly. "I'm not... I'm nowhere near ready. I just wanted to see the court."

"Then see it," Kevin said. He tossed Neil a racquet. "Hold it. Remember what it feels like."

Neil caught the racquet one-handed, his cane in the other hand. The weight was familiar, comforting. He'd forgotten how right it felt to hold an Exy racquet.

"When I'm ready," Neil said, looking at Kevin. "When I can actually move, actually run, actually play, you'll help me figure it out? Figure out how to play with the prosthetic?"

"Yes," Kevin said immediately. "I've been preparing. I have plans, drills, modifications. When you're ready, we'll work together."

"It might never be as good as before," Neil warned.

"No," Kevin agreed. "It'll be different. But different doesn't mean worse. Different means adapted. Evolved. You'll play, Neil. Maybe not the same way, but you'll play."

Neil wanted to believe him.

The Foxes gathered around, Dan and Matt, Allison and Renee, even Aaron. They looked at Neil standing on the court with his prosthetic leg and his cane, and they smiled.

"Welcome back," Dan said. "Even if it's just for a visit."

"It won't always be just a visit," Matt added. "You'll be down here with us again. We all know it."

Neil looked around at them, his team, his family, his people. They believed in him. Believed he could come back from this.

Maybe he could start believing it too.

"Okay," Neil said. "Let's see what I can do."

He handed the cane to Andrew and gripped the racquet with both hands. His prosthetic leg held his weight. His real leg compensated for the lack of flexibility in the artificial one.

He took a step. Then another. Moving across the court, slowly, carefully.

Not running. Not playing. Just moving.

But it was a start.

And for the first time in months, Neil could see a path forward. Could imagine himself on this court again, playing the sport he loved, adapted and different but present.

It would take time. Months more of physical therapy, of learning his prosthetic, of building strength and relearning movement.

But he'd survived six months of chemotherapy. Survived sepsis and dying twice. Survived losing his leg.

He could survive the recovery.

He could adapt.

He could come back.

One step at a time.

Chapter Text

Five months post-amputation, Neil was finally getting the hang of his prosthetic.

He could walk without a cane now, his gait smoother even if still noticeably different. He'd graduated to wearing the prosthetic for full days instead of just a few hours. The socket fit better after multiple adjustments, the skin on his residual limb toughened to handle the pressure.

Physical therapy had progressed to more dynamic movements, squats, lunges, balance exercises that challenged his new center of gravity. Sarah was talking about introducing light jogging in another month or two.

"You're ahead of schedule," she said during a session. "Most through-knee amputees aren't this mobile at five months."

"I'm motivated," Neil said, the refrain he'd repeated for months now.

"You're obsessed," Sarah corrected, but she was smiling. "But it's working."

For the first time since his diagnosis almost a year ago, Neil felt like he was moving forward instead of just surviving. The cancer was gone, confirmed by multiple scans. The depression was manageable with medication and therapy. His body was adapting to the prosthetic.

Life was beginning to feel almost normal.

Then Andrew got sick.

It started as a cold, nothing serious, just congestion and a cough. Andrew dismissed it, insisting he was fine even as he went through an entire box of tissues in one day.

"You should rest," Neil said, watching Andrew struggle through their bedroom at 2 AM looking for cold medicine.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You sound terrible."

"Irrelevant," Andrew said, finding the medicine and taking a dose. "I have class tomorrow."

But by the next evening, Andrew's cold had worsened. His cough was deeper, more persistent. He looked exhausted, his movements sluggish.

"You're staying home tomorrow," Neil said. It wasn't a suggestion.

Andrew didn't argue, which told Neil how bad he really felt.

By day three of Andrew's cold, Neil started feeling off.

Nothing major. Just tired. Slightly warm. A scratchy throat.

"You're getting sick," Nicky observed at breakfast. "Andrew probably gave it to you."

"I'm fine," Neil said automatically.

But he wasn't fine. By that evening, his temperature was climbing. By the next morning, he had a full-blown fever.

"Hospital," Andrew said immediately, his voice rough from his own cold. "Now."

"It's just a cold," Neil protested. "The same thing you have."

"Your immune system is still compromised from chemotherapy," Andrew said. "A cold for me could be pneumonia for you. Hospital. Now."

Neil wanted to argue, but he felt terrible. Feverish, exhausted, his chest tight. And Andrew was right, his immune system was still recovering. Any infection could spiral quickly.

At the ER, the doctors took one look at Neil's medical history and admitted him immediately.

"Your temperature is 103," the doctor said. "Your oxygen saturation is low. We're seeing signs of pneumonia on your chest X-ray. We need to admit you for IV antibiotics and oxygen support."

"It's just a cold," Neil said weakly.

"It was a cold," the doctor corrected. "Now it's bacterial pneumonia. For someone with your medical history, this is serious."

Twelve hours later, Neil was in the ICU.

The pneumonia had progressed rapidly despite the antibiotics. His oxygen levels kept dropping. They'd put him on high-flow oxygen, then BiPAP, then finally intubated him when his breathing became too labored.

Again, Neil found himself trapped in medical sedation, a breathing tube down his throat, machines keeping him alive.

Andrew was there when he was conscious enough to register it, suited up in protective gear again since Neil was in isolation. His own cold had improved, it had been just a cold for him, something he'd recovered from in a few days.

But for Neil, it had become a life-threatening infection.

"This is ridiculous," Neil tried to say, but the tube prevented speech. He gestured weakly at the breathing tube, at the monitors, at everything.

"I know," Andrew said, understanding. "But you're stable. The antibiotics are working. You just need time."

Time. Neil was so tired of needing time.

They kept him sedated for three days while his lungs healed. When they finally woke him and removed the tube, Neil lay there feeling defeated in a way he hadn't since his amputation.

"How long?" he asked the doctor, his voice hoarse.

"You've been in the ICU for five days total," the doctor said. "The pneumonia is clearing, but you'll need at least another week in the hospital for monitoring and continued antibiotic treatment."

A week. Another week of his life lost to hospitals and illness and setbacks.

"When can I go back to physical therapy?" Neil asked.

"Not for at least two weeks after discharge," the doctor said. "You need to regain your strength first. Pneumonia is taxing on the body, especially for someone who's been through what you have."

Two weeks after discharge meant at least three weeks total before he could resume therapy. Three weeks of progress lost. Three weeks of setback.

Neil closed his eyes and tried to hold back the despair.

Day three out of the ICU, moved to a regular room, Neil had his breakdown.

It started small. The nurse came to check his vitals and noticed his prosthetic leaning against the wall.

"Do you want help putting it on?" she asked kindly.

"No," Neil said. "What's the point? I'm not going anywhere."

"You could walk around the room. Movement helps recovery-"

"I don't want to move," Neil snapped. "I don't want to do anything."

The nurse left, concerned. Andrew, who'd been reading in the corner, set down his book.

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" Neil's voice was rising. "What's wrong? I spent five months learning to walk again. Five months of physical therapy, of building up my tolerance, of getting my life back together. And now I'm stuck in a hospital bed again, too weak to even put on my prosthetic, starting over from zero."

"You're not starting from zero-"

"Yes, I am!" Neil shouted. "It's always something. It's always fucking something. I beat cancer, but then I get sepsis. I survive sepsis, but then my body rejects the hardware. I do the amputation, but they have to take more than planned. I learn to walk again, but then I get pneumonia. It's always something! There's always another setback, another complication, another thing going wrong!"

"Neil-"

"I'm tired, Andrew. I'm so fucking tired. I've been fighting for over a year, and I just, I can't anymore. I can't keep starting over. I can't keep losing progress. I can't do this."

The dam broke. Neil started crying, ugly, gasping sobs that hurt his still-healing lungs. All the fear and frustration and despair he'd been holding back for months came pouring out.

"It's always something," he repeated, voice breaking. "No matter what I do, no matter how hard I fight, it's always something. I thought after the amputation, after I accepted it and started healing, that would be it. But no. Now it's pneumonia. And next it'll be something else. And something after that. And I just... can't."

Andrew moved to sit on the edge of the bed. "You can."

"I can't!" Neil's hands were shaking. "I have nothing left. I've used up everything I had fighting and there's nothing left. I'm empty."

"Then be empty," Andrew said. "Be tired. Be done. But don't stop."

"I want to stop," Neil admitted, the words terrifying to say out loud. "I want to give up. I want to just... stop fighting."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do." Neil looked at Andrew through his tears. "What's the point? What's the point of fighting if every time I make progress, something else goes wrong? If it's always something?"

"The point is you're alive," Andrew said. "The point is you survived cancer. The point is you're still here, still breathing, still able to cry and be angry and feel defeated. Those things matter."

"Do they? Because from where I'm sitting, they don't feel like they matter. They feel pointless."

Andrew was quiet for a long moment. Then, "When I tried to kill myself, I thought the same thing. That fighting was pointless. That nothing would ever get better. That it would always be something, always another trauma, another violation, another reason to give up."

Neil stared at him. Andrew rarely talked about his suicide attempt.

"But I was wrong," Andrew continued. "It's not always something. Sometimes things get better. Sometimes the fighting pays off. Sometimes you get months or years of peace between the catastrophes. You're in a catastrophe now. But that doesn't mean you'll always be in one."

"How do you know?"

"I don't," Andrew said honestly. "But I know that giving up guarantees you never find out. Fighting at least gives you a chance."

Neil wanted to believe him. But the despair was too heavy, too overwhelming.

"I don't know how to keep fighting," Neil whispered. "I don't have anything left to fight with."

"Then borrow my fight," Andrew said. "Use mine until you find yours again. That's what I'm here for."

"That's not fair to you."

"I don't care about fair," Andrew said. "I care about you staying alive. So borrow my fight. Let the Foxes carry you for a while. Let Betsy help. Let the medication work. But don't give up."

"What if I can't help it? What if I've already given up?"

"Then I'll drag you back," Andrew said, the familiar promise. "As many times as it takes."

Neil closed his eyes, tears still streaming down his face. "It's always something."

"Yes," Andrew agreed. "For now. But not forever. This pneumonia will clear. You'll get back to physical therapy. You'll keep learning to use your prosthetic. And maybe in a few months, there will be a stretch where nothing goes wrong. Where you get to just exist and recover without catastrophe."

"And if there isn't?"

"Then we deal with whatever comes next," Andrew said. "Together. One battle at a time."

Neil wanted to argue. Wanted to insist it was hopeless. But he was too tired. Too defeated.

He just nodded and let Andrew stay beside him while he cried himself into exhausted sleep.

The next morning, Betsy arrived.

Someone, probably Andrew, had called her. She sat in the chair beside Neil's bed, looking at him with kind, concerned eyes.

"Andrew told me you had a difficult night," she said gently.

"I broke down," Neil said flatly. "Completely. Said I wanted to give up."

"Did you mean it?"

Neil thought about that. "In the moment, yes. I meant it. I wanted everything to stop. The fighting, the setbacks, all of it."

"And now?"

"Now I'm just... empty. Tired. I don't actively want to give up, but I also don't have the energy to keep fighting."

Betsy nodded. "That's understandable. You've been through an extraordinary amount of trauma in a very short time. Your body and mind are exhausted. That's not weakness, Neil. That's being human."

"It feels like weakness."

"Of course it does. But weakness and exhaustion aren't the same thing. Weakness is giving up when you have the strength to continue. Exhaustion is needing rest before you can keep going."

"I don't have time to rest," Neil said. "Every day I'm not in physical therapy, I'm losing progress. Every setback means more time before I can play Exy again."

"And is Exy more important than your mental health?" Betsy asked gently.

Neil wanted to say yes. But he couldn't. "No. But it's what I have to work toward. It's my goal. Without it, I don't know what I'm fighting for."

"Then we need to find other things worth fighting for," Betsy said. "Exy is important, yes. But it can't be your only reason to keep going. What else matters to you?"

Neil thought about it. "Andrew. The Foxes. Wymack."

"Good. What else?"

"I don't know. Being alive, I guess. But that doesn't feel like enough right now."

"That's okay," Betsy said. "Right now, it doesn't have to be enough. Right now, you can borrow other people's reasons until you find your own again. Andrew's reason for you to keep fighting. The Foxes' reason. Wymack's reason. Let them carry you for a while."

"Andrew said the same thing."

"Andrew is very wise when it comes to you," Betsy said, smiling. "He knows what it's like to need someone else's strength when your own runs out."

They talked for another hour. Betsy adjusted Neil's medication dosages, gave him exercises for managing intrusive thoughts, helped him create a plan for the days ahead.

"You're going to have more bad days," Betsy said before she left. "Days where it feels hopeless again. When that happens, I want you to call me. Day or night. Don't wait until you're in crisis."

"Okay," Neil agreed.

After Betsy left, Neil lay in the hospital bed and tried to process everything.

He'd hit rock bottom again. Different from the depression after his fall, but just as dark. The realization that recovery wasn't linear, that setbacks would keep happening, that there would always be something, it had broken him temporarily.

But he was still here. Still breathing. Still alive.

Maybe that was enough for now.

Week two in the hospital, the pneumonia cleared enough for discharge.

"Continue oral antibiotics for another week," the doctor instructed. "Rest as much as possible. No physical therapy for at least two more weeks. Come back if you develop fever, shortness of breath, or chest pain."

Back at the dorm, the Foxes had gathered to welcome him home.

"We know you're tired of us hovering," Dan said. "But we're going to do it anyway."

"Hovering is our love language," Matt added.

Kevin had revised his training plans again. "Two weeks of rest, then we start rebuilding your conditioning. Slowly this time. No pushing through exhaustion."

"I made a schedule for monitoring your symptoms," Aaron said, handing Neil a chart. "Temperature checks twice daily. Oxygen levels if you feel short of breath. Signs to watch for that indicate you need to go back to the hospital."

"I printed out some easy recipes," Nicky said. "Foods that are good for recovery and won't upset your stomach."

Even Allison had contributed. "Face masks and lotions," she said, presenting a bag. "Hospital air destroys your skin. Trust me."

Renee just smiled and said, "We're here. Whatever you need."

Neil looked around at them, his family, his team, his people, and felt something shift in his chest. Not hope, exactly. Not yet. But maybe the possibility of hope.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For not giving up on me."

"Never," Dan said firmly. "You're ours. We don't give up on our own."

That night, back in Andrew's bed after two weeks away, Neil lay awake and thought about everything Betsy had said.

He didn't have to fight alone. He could borrow other people's strength when his own ran out. He could let himself be carried for a while.

The pneumonia had been another setback. Another "something" in the endless stream of complications. But he'd survived it. Just like he'd survived everything else.

"It's always something," Neil said quietly into the darkness.

"Yes," Andrew agreed from beside him. "But you're still here despite all the somethings. That counts for something too."

Neil thought about that. He was still here. After cancer, after sepsis, after dying twice, after losing his leg, after pneumonia, he was still here.

Battered. Exhausted. Broken in ways he was still discovering.

But here.

"I'm not giving up," Neil said, testing the words. "Even though I want to. Even though I'm tired. I'm not giving up."

"I know," Andrew said. "You're too stubborn to give up."

"Is that a compliment?"

"With you? Always."

Neil closed his eyes. Two more weeks of rest, then back to physical therapy. Back to learning his prosthetic. Back to working toward a future where he could play Exy again.

It would be hard. There would be more setbacks, there was always something. But maybe Andrew was right. Maybe there would also be stretches of peace. Moments of progress. Days where nothing went catastrophically wrong.

He'd never know if he gave up now.

So he wouldn't.

Not yet.

Not while he had the Foxes to carry him. Andrew to drag him. Betsy to guide him.

Not while there was still a chance things could get better.

One day at a time.

One battle at a time.

Even when it was always something.

Especially then.

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.