Chapter Text
"Neil, do you know why you're here?"
Of course, he knows that some of his uncle's decisions certainly still raise questions. For example, why should he go through this in the States? Why not return to the beautiful dark London, where he can lock himself again in the gloom of four walls?
Why does his psychologist have to be so young? They are almost the same age. Neil looks closely at his face, memorizing every detail, mentally making up a sketch — a so-so habit.
He doesn't like that face. It's not that it doesn't endear you to yourself; on the contrary, it kills any desire to open up. Not that Neil had one. But: Stuart pushed. Neil put forward his conditions. They almost bargained.
Ten sessions.
Ten.
And Neil will return to his gloomy London, where he will have his own children's exy team.
"Yes, I know," Neil is lying on the couch, in sneakers and a jacket, as if he accidentally dropped into the office for a couple of minutes.
"And why is that?" for some reason, the psychologist carefully writes down two words of his answer.
"Because there are very promising guys on the outskirts of the East End who don't have money for uniforms or on the field. And Stuart does."
It's quite a complicated chain, but everything is extremely simple for Neil. One day he ran (if he had, it would have been a great pun, but no, Neil doesn't like to walk) into one of the not-so-pleasant neighborhoods. More precisely, he went beyond the limits. And there he met ten desperately poor but desperately talented guys whose eyes were burning, and there were about five clubs for all of them.
Neil loves Exy very much. He likes to calculate everything, consider everything, and think it through. He would also like to play; if it weren't for the asshole part of his childhood spent at Evermore, he would still want to play. But thanks to Mom, Dad, and all his fucking entourage.
"Neil, what would you like to achieve in these ten sessions?" he's writing something down again.
Neil continues to make a sketch.
Thin white eyebrows. The same white eyelashes.
He wonders if this guy realizes that this way his facial expressions become completely useless? Although there is no facial expression. Okay. But can you at least touch up your eyelashes a little? If Neil, for example, wakes up next to him in the morning with no eyelashes or eyebrows, what kind of stress will it be?
"Why don't you dye your eyebrows?"
The psychologist's face stretches. At least it can be tracked.
"Or eyelashes? Okay, eyebrows. But I can't even tell if you're blinking or not."
"Neil," the psychologist squints so Neil can at least understand that he can move his eyes. He pauses for a long time. "Don't you think self-expression is an important part of everyone's life?"
"Do you express yourself by imitating the wall?" No, Neil is really interested.
"I've been living with this wall for thirty years."
Neil shrugs. People tried and invented all sorts of clever things. An eyebrow pencil, for example? Or here's the mascara. Not that Neil knows much about cosmetics, but does he see ads sometimes? They don't live in the woods, do they? Why is it normal for his interlocutor?
"And are you okay?" Neil stretches out on the couch, trying to figure out if he just sleeps these ten sessions — will it count?
The psychologist silently stares at him while his ears, neck and face are covered with strange red spots. I wonder if he's been taught this for six years? And they probably played peek-a-boo at the exam. But this is a game for two.
Neil looks back.
They blink periodically (Neil is definitely blinking; he's not so sure about the psychologist). He is waiting only for the cherished "our time has come to an end." This is his maximum for today. And for tomorrow. And for the next five weeks in the States, until Stuart makes sure Neil is okay. Of course, he's fine. Why not?
Because his father threatened to gut him again? Or is it because someone from Moriyama has given out so many curses that there will be enough for Neil and his entire family until the end of the universe?
"Perhaps you would like to discuss something?" the dude gives up. No, Neil wouldn't want to.
"For example?"
"Anything."
Oh, that's such a cute approach. That's what they say to children. "What do you want to talk about? Oh, let's talk about your favorite toys? And through them, will you reveal your secret childhood trauma?"
"The championship is coming soon."
The psychologist writes it down. His ears are still burning, and his eyelashes are still not visible.
Pause.
He holds up his pen as if drawing a question mark with it.
"The exy championship. In the States. The top event in the world of sports, blah-blah. I have studied the statistics, and I think Washington will win. But! But — here, you need to consider whether the Day really retires as early as he is prescribed. Like, 30 years old is a solid age, given his history, injuries, and so on. On the other hand, he was never particularly fast or breakthrough, rather, accurate, yes…"
"He will be delighted with such a review," the psychologist mutters to himself.
"What?"
"What?"
"Will he be thrilled?" Neil rubs the bridge of his nose, shamelessly looking at his watch. Fifteen minutes. "Then you should write down this important thought, Andrew."
"Andrew" is blushing a little again for some reason. But if he had eyelashes, they would at least distract a little attention from the juicy tomato shade.
Now Neil wants tomato juice with salt.
"Andrew," the psychologist introduced himself as they settled into their positions after Neil awkwardly tried to shake his hand. He pulled away, but not as politely, royally, as they would have done in Britain, no. He just didn't reach out in response, gave a slight shrug of his shoulder, and didn't even try to seem amiable. Then Neil did not take off his jacket in response. A bright Olympic raincoat, stylized in the 90s and worth a fortune. He usually didn't like to wear brands, but she clearly made him look like a clear-cut ragamuffin, and naturally, Neil took it with him. However, they were not allowed to wear it to the court.
Andrew sat down on the chair opposite, picking up his mysterious notebook.
"Are you dictating my great answers?"
"Neil, I already told you we can talk as friends."
"Oh, no, I'm well-mannered enough. A private boarding house, you know. So I'm very good at insubordination."
"I mark the reference points in my notebook to help me understand you better, see your progress…"
"To see progress in what?"
Andrew frowns and clears his throat slightly.
"Usually ten sessions is not enough time to…"
"What is the point of seeing progress?"
The psychologist puts down his notebook and straightens up in his chair, which, of course, does not make him much taller or more serious. Neil continues to view him as a curiosity, still not understanding why Stuart chose him.
"Your uncle is worried — and he may be quite right — that after all that has happened, you may need help or just a little support. Usually, such a function can be performed, for example, by relatives or friends, but Mr. Hatford expresses concern that…"
"That I don't have them? Come on? Who else has friends closer to 30? How many friends do you have, Andrew?"
Andrew is writing something down almost enthusiastically in a notebook. Neil could have sworn that he had just put an exclamation mark there. He also wants to pick up a notebook and write all sorts of nonsense every time someone puts an exclamation mark in response to his remark.
"Two."
"And close ones?"
"Two more."
"So, apparently, you will never need a psychologist?"
Andrew thinks about it.
"I have a psychologist."
"Do you understand how ironic this is?"
Neil starts to jerk his leg.
In fact, he doesn't mind stretching, for example, squatting right in the office, because fifty-five minutes of action can drive him crazy. That's why one of the conditions for his flight to the States was a private jet.
He was taken out — literally, almost on board number one, to testify against his father. The FBI was ready to make any concessions, even to assign a personal trainer to him, as long as Neil was able to squeeze out a couple of phrases at the trial.
But everything went much better. Or worse. He doesn't know—after all, isn't that what psychologists are for? To sort out his thoughts like puzzles and put them back together into a single picture?
"Well, you don't have to answer. It's a pity that our time is over."