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i.
The athlete's dorm at Palmetto State University is, to put it plainly, old as shit.
The now-residence had previously functioned as an observatory, and was later converted as the school moved its academic buildings closer to its main campus. Despite the various renovations they’d imposed over the past 20 odd years, all residing students were keenly aware that at least 30% of the building was susceptible to breaking down at any given moment.
Naturally, in the early stages of winter, the heating in Andrew’s dorm goes out.
He isn’t there when it happens. If anything, Wednesday morning goes by deceptively uneventfully. Neil wakes him up when it’s time to go to class; meets him at the coffee shop before Andrew goes to his appointment with Bee (and, unfortunately, Aaron) while Neil heads back to the dorm to study; and then together he and his idiot brother head to the stadium for afternoon practice.
When they get there, Neil is already seated in what he has unfortunately overheard the freshmen call “their bench.” Andrew loathes to think of a world wherein he has to stoop so low as to claim ownership over furniture, but so long as the – many – dweebs leave them alone, he supposes he can put up with it.
It’s here that he finds Neil – twitchy, as always – in his favourite black hoodie.
Andrew uses the term favourite loosely; it’s simply the nicest, made of the highest GSM count, that had cost him an arm and a leg to track down from a supplier—then an arm and a leg to buy. It’s the hoodie he reaches for when he's cold, when he’s feeling his lowest, or whenever he doesn’t feel like entertaining the idea of putting an outfit together. It’s the hoodie he’d slapped Aaron for when he’d grabbed it thinking it was his. It is the hoodie he learned a professional stain removal procedure for.
Yet here Neil sits, with the hood pulled over his mangled auburn curls, the sleeves tugged down to nearly cover his hands entirely as he writes notes on the players running up and down the court. Robin’s list of things to improve is deathly long, to which Andrew scowls. Godspeed to Renee, since he would definitely not be helping out with that.
“Forget to do laundry?” He asks, finally alerting Neil to his presence.
Ocean blue eyes meet his gaze immediately as Andrew sinks into the vacant seat at Neil’s side. Neil’s smile is radiant and instantaneous; Andrew can’t stand him. “Hey,” Neil says, relinquishing his hold on his pencil in favour of reaching over to squeeze Andrew’s hand, placed strategically on the bench specifically so Neil can do precisely that. It’s a new thing they’re trying. Andrew is trying not to think about it too much. “How was your session?”
“Irrelevant,” Andrew waves him off, eyes sliding down towards where Neil has let the hood’s drawstrings hang, because he’s uncultured and doesn’t know they should be tied. “Why are you wearing my hoodie?”
His idiot vice-captain frowns and looks down at himself, as if it’s only now that he’s noticed that he isn’t wearing his own clothes. “The heater broke in the dorms,” Neil says, letting go of Andrew so he can yank at the drawstrings like a heathen. Andrew scowls and slaps his hand away. “I was cold.”
“And somehow, despite being from the East Coast, you own no proper outerwear?”
Neil rolls his eyes and slides the slightest bit closer so he can bump their shoulders together. He’s warm even through the heavy fleece. “It was the first one I found,” he explains, before adding, “and you know it’s the softest one in our wardrobe.”
Our. It’s so ridiculous Andrew’s head swims. He quirks a pale eyebrow in Neil’s direction. “I don’t recall agreeing to share a closet with you.”
“Then whose socks am I wearing?”
He’s beyond unbearable. Andrew pushes Neil away by shoving a hand into his face, which has gotten much too close much too quickly, and grimaces. “You are impossible.”
“How so?” Neil asks, wriggling his face to free it from Andrew’s hold, only to lean in close once more. Andrew straightens and looks down his nose as Neil hunches over, both hands braced on the bench. The striker leans in front of Andrew so no one on the court will be able to see his face. He looks up at Andrew through his lashes, blinking anything but innocently, and asks, “What, do I not look good in it?”
It’s such a stupid question – even if it’s bordering on sarcastic – that Andrew considers killing Neil, and then himself. Neil, to Andrew’s deep chagrin, looked good in everything. Be it those threadbare tees from the thrift or the clothes Andrew buys for him specifically for their nights out, Neil was a vision in any piece of clothing he put on. Every colour looked arresting against the deep brown hue of his skin; any silhouette complimented his frame. No matter what Neil tried on, it seemed as if it were all made for him.
Unfortunately for Andrew, this included his favourite hoodie.
Where Neil was lean, Andrew was stocky: half of his tops were at least a size, if not two, bigger than Neil’s own. The hoodie in question was oversized to begin with, and now it nearly swallows Neil whole with its mass. The word for how Neil looks is on the tip of Andrew’s tongue—he just refuses to use it. Four letters, two syllables. Andrew will take this to his grave.
Andrew glares. “Here I was, thinking your days of being an idiot are over,” he says, because admitting that Neil looks good, that Andrew wants to see him in nothing but this stupid hoodie for the rest of their lives, feels like a little much.
Neil sucks his teeth in mocking disappointment, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he settles back into his seat. “Shame. Seems you’re stuck with this idiot.”
With one hand, Andrew laces their fingers together beneath the bench. With the other, he grabs the drawstrings and pulls, hiding shining cerulean from view before he does something stupid like drown.
ii.
The next time it happens, Andrew is only marginally more prepared.
A break in their schedules allows them to sit down and have lunch together every Monday. Andrew resolutely does not say that this is one of the few things that makes this abominable day tolerable, but he’s pretty sure Neil understands.
He gets to their spot first: a table in the back of the dining hall, half hidden by impressively horrible architecture, to the left of the emergency exits. Today they’re serving spaghetti, which tastes about as good as cardboard dunked in the World’s Blandest Rosé Sauce, therefore making Andrew victim to the vending machine’s subpar chip selection. Flavour of the day: barbecue. Oh, joy.
It takes 7 whole minutes for Neil to show up, by which Andrew has spent the time glaring at anyone who gets too close, pushing around this sorry excuse for pasta in his plate, debating calling Neil, debating asking Neil to start sharing his location, and ultimately succumbing to the worst of it all: texting Neil where are you. He’d considered sending a question mark to look less desperate, but quickly shot that down upon realizing Neil would either a) not know what it meant or b) send a question mark back. Both were equally likely and equally annoying to deal with.
He’s just hit send when the familiar pattern of Neil’s sneakers against the linoleum makes its way to his ears. He looks up from the phone’s tiny screen as Neil slows to a walk at their table, chest heaving. “Sorry,” he says, dropping his bag into the booth across from Andrew before sliding in. His ankle is wrapped around Andrew’s own within seconds, and Andrew is most annoyed at himself for how the calm that washes over him is both relieving and instantaneous. “Class ran late.”
Andrew barely hears him. His eyes are locked on Neil’s chest, which — unless his eyesight has magically gone bad within the past 4 hours — definitely says Deftones. Neil has never even heard of Mariah Carey, much less one of Andrew’s preferred bands.
Thus: “Is this a new thing of yours?”
Neil tilts his head in confusion. “Huh?” Idiot.
“That’s my shirt.” Andrew says pointedly, using his fork to gesture at the graphic tee falling limply over Neil’s frame, half-hidden by a zip-up he’s thrown on top. Once again, the cotton is oversized on him, bunching up on his stomach where there is an excess of extra fabric.
Neil looks down as if to check that yes, this is Andrew’s shirt, before meeting his eyes again. “Would you look at that,” Neil says, all faux-surprise because he is a dumbass. “I grabbed it off the floor this morning.”
“Disgusting,” Andrew says, because it is.
“It’s clean.”
“It’s mine.”
Neil inclines his head to the side, sapphire boring into Andrew’s gold. Andrew scowls as he stares him down in turn, taking a long sip from his Redbull. He doesn’t know what Neil is looking for — rarely does, if he’s honest, but he’s always been pretty good at guessing. It could be seconds or an age before Neil smirks, resting his elbow on the table and placing his chin in his hand. “I’m yours, too, in case you forgot.”
What would be the likelihood of all hell breaking loose should Andrew decide to up-end his tray on Neil’s head? “Don’t say stupid things.”
“Stupid can still be true.”
“And you would be well-versed in that, hm?”
But Andrew doesn’t refute him. Can’t, anyway. It’s odd to think of Neil as something that’s his; he doesn’t want to own him, but he would sooner set the world on fire than let anyone else have him. Not the Wesninski’s, not the Moriyama’s, and certainly not the fucking FBI. It’s bothersome to have such a soft spot for what is arguably the most drama-prone creature Andrew has ever met in his life, but at the very least, it’s interesting. Neil is interesting. Andrew hates him.
iii.
Andrew thinks he might be getting stupider the older he gets. Of course, he isn’t, but he also can’t pinpoint exactly what prompts him to agree to Neil’s idiotic ideas.
It’s Friday night, and their team has somehow scraped together a win against Breckenridge even while Andrew and Neil are (still) benched. Predictably, Nicky had run into the dorm screaming, “Columbia, here we come!” Kevin and Aaron’s easy agreeance only served to push Andrew’s agenda that they truly were Dumb and Dumber, but he sighs and goes to the bedroom to change anyway. The only good things about going to Eden’s Twilight nowadays were: 1) Kevin’s inebriated stupidity, 2) the gleam of Neil’s eyes beneath the club lights and 3) having a real, normal-sized bed to fuck pass out in.
He’s already changed into his outfit and has moved on to picking something out for Neil when the aforementioned bane of his existence waltzes into the room, breezy and beautiful. There’s determination in his eyes that has Andrew turning to face him before he’s even registered what’s happening.
Neil moves like a snake in the grass, slow but poised to strike. He crowds Andrew up against the closed door of the wardrobe without ever really touching him; just leans in enough so that Andrew can feel the warmth of him, so close yet so far. Andrew can’t help coiling his body into him, like a magnet being pulled in. Neil is smiling, but that’s never much of a comfort. Not when mischief and mirth are splashing around in the aquamarine of his eyes.
“Hey, you,” Neil says, his hand burning a hole next to Andrew’s head where it’s placed against the wood. “What are you doing?”
The blond tilts his head in the direction of the open side of the wardrobe. “Choosing something that isn’t horribly ugly for you,” he says. Andrew doesn’t know what Neil’s playing at, but he is already convinced he won’t like it. “What do you want.”
“You know, I’ve learned a lot this past year,” Neil says, nodding his head as he looks skyward as if in thought. His eyes snap back to Andrew’s, molten and heady. “I can pick out my own outfit without your help, Andrew.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Andrew says with a sharp once over of Neil’s current outfit. It should be illegal for anyone to be so attractive in jeans and a faded t-shirt, but lo and behold, the boy that stands before him continues to surprise.
“Mind if I try?”
Andrew studies him: the casual way he’s leaning in, the fluttering of his lashes, the shine of his perfectly pink bottom lip. “Knock yourself out,” his dick answers before his mind can catch up. “But don’t run to me when you end up looking like Adam Sandler.”
Neil frowns, dropping the arm caging Andrew in. “Who?”
Andrew doesn’t deign that with a response, rolling his eyes before leaving the room.
Outside, Aaron has somehow lured Kevin into a round of Mortal Kombat. “Where’s Neil?” Kevin asks, which is annoying, because they don’t come as a package deal.
“Picking out his own outfit,” Andrew answers as he takes up the remaining spot on the couch, knowing they’ll find it as incredulous as the fact itself is.
Case in point: both of their attention’s snapping from the game to Andrew. “Did I hear that right?” Aaron says, flabbergasted.
“And you let him?” Kevin asks.
Sneering, Andrew says, “I am not his keeper.”
“No, you're his guard dog. That includes guarding him from making a fool of himself.”
Andrew rolls his eyes. Leave it to Kevin to bring the dramatics. “They are just clothes.”
“And he is a collegiate athlete looking to go pro,” Kevin argues. Unfortunately for him, Andrew does not give a single fuck about that outside of that imbecilic deal Neil struck with Ichirou Moriyama. “He can’t go outside looking like—”
“Looking like what?”
Andrew’s gaze is quick to find Neil’s, though the striker is looking at Kevin as he walks into the room. He’s swift to divert to Andrew, though, who has gone stock-still on the couch.
Neil, to the surprise of everyone in the room, has changed into a black, tight-fit tee that clings to his muscles in all the right places. Underneath it is a mesh, fishnet top Andrew had put him in months ago, covering the space between his biceps and his armbands. He’s finished his look with cargo pants and his matching combat boots. Neil has traded out his usual Fox-orange bandana for a black one to keep his hair back and even gone so far as to put on jewelry—though where he got that, Andrew hasn’t a single clue.
He looks damn good. Too good, in Andrew’s opinion. The only issue that remains is the fact that those are definitely not Neil’s pants, and they are definitely too small for him.
Neil smirks, and Andrew realizes he’s been staring much too obviously for much too long. Fuck. “How’d I do?” He asks, moving to stand right up against Andrew’s knee.
He knocks them together when he answers: “I suppose I’ll agree to being seen in public with you.”
Andrew hates that Neil is smart enough to be able to translate that to good. Kevin gives him a compliment that Andrew does not hear, much too focused on the way the swell of Neil’s ass looks in these stupid fucking pants. His pants.
Christ above.
“Go check on Nicky,” Andrew says suddenly, ignoring and uncaring for whatever conversation the three of them are having. He ignores Kevin in favour of looking towards Aaron pointedly. Andrew has never believed in the theory that twins were able to communicate telepathically — at least not when the twin in question was Aaron — but he is choosing to believe that the other, lesser Minyard will get the hint without having it spelled out.
He does, if the disgusted expression of really? is anything to go by. Andrew, frankly, doesn’t want to fucking hear it. “Maybe he choked on his glitter again,” Aaron says, pausing the game and hauling Kevin to his feet. Kevin makes a noise of protest, but follows anyway. Andrew is slow to rise from the couch and lock the door.
When he turns back, Neil is already staring at him, a smug smile on his face. Asshole, Andrew thinks, as he closes the distance.
“Hey,” Neil says once he’s close enough. Andrew only gives him a blank look, before pressing one hand onto his chest and pushing. Neil falls easily to the couch, and his hands are light on Andrew’s hips when he seats himself on his lap.
“Let me guess,” Andrew says, snaking one of his own hands up to cup at Neil’s jaw. The other tangles at the nape of his neck, pulling at the coils. “Enlisted the help of one blonde rich girl?”
“She offered,” Neil says easily, head lolling back as Andrew tightens his grip and pulls. He gasps and says, “Said this would be the most effective.”
“One hundred and twenty-three.”
“Hate me all you want, Andrew. You’re still going to kiss me in the end.”
And Andrew hates himself, because that’s exactly what he does. He kisses Neil until they’re both stupid with it, flushed from the exertion, rutting against one another in a way that leaves no room to wonder what’ll happen at the end of the night. Andrew could stay here all day if he wanted to, just like this: with Neil softening up like putty beneath his hands, mouth spit slick from being attached to Andrew’s, hair mussed where Andrew tugs incessantly.
“We’re going to be late,” Neil pants into his mouth. They may have been here for minutes, or days, or years; it’d all be the same. Andrew would be just as enamoured by him, with him, for him.
“They will wait,” Andrew says, voice gravelly. He dips his head between the junction of Neil’s jaw and shoulder, licking at the skin of his neck. The sigh Neil lets out above him is all contentment, satiated. Andrew shifts so one thigh is slotted between Neil’s knees, and pushes forward as he sucks.
“Andrew,” Neil moans, gasping. His eyes are half-lidded when Andrew pulls away from his canvas, all traces of sapphire gone with the dilation of his pupils. Andrew loves seeing him like this. Loves how easy Neil goes, as if even the pad of Andrew’s fingertip is magic.
But he still asks, to be sure: “Yes or no?”
Neil’s instantaneous, “Yes.” is music to his ears.
Andrew’s glad these are his own pants. It makes it easier to find the button and pop them open, even more so when Neil lets go in order to help him push the fabric down his thighs alongside his boxers. Andrew slides off of him in favour of settling in on the ground, his palms like a brand on Neil’s thighs. He hooks his hands underneath them to pull Neil forward, seating him at the edge of the couch. Neil’s hand is gentle where it settles on top of Andrew’s head, fingers twisting in golden locks lightly enough should Andrew want to pull away.
The goalkeeper can’t even fathom the idea right now. He presses one featherlight kiss to the inside of Neil’s thigh, feels him shudder above, and dives in.
Neil is already dripping at the first touch of Andrew’s tongue to his cunt. It makes the slide easier, makes it quick for Andrew to latch on and suck. Neil cries out, his thighs clenching on either side of Andrew’s head, held back only by the fact that Andrew knows him well enough to prepare for it. (Not that he would be against being crushed between them, he supposes, but he wants Neil to feel good first.)
Hot moans punch themselves out from Neil’s throat as Andrew pushes his tongue deeper, teeth scraping against his clit in the way he knows Neil likes. Neil thrashes, fingers gripping onto Andrew’s hair, a tether in the hurricane of his pleasure. “Andrew,” he breathes, like a prayer.
Andrew has never much fathomed himself a God, but for Neil, was there anything he wouldn’t do?
Neil’s thighs clench once more, a signal in a language only Andrew knows. The blond removes one hand in favour of bringing it up to his face, slipping the digits into his mouth before pushing two fingers inside. Neil slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle his moan; Andrew mourns not waiting until they got to Columbia to be able to hear it. For someone with such a big mouth to be reduced to this — incoherent syllables outside of Andrew, more, want it — was one of few highlights of Andrew’s life.
He removes his mouth from Neil’s centre in favour of adding a third finger, thrusting in deep, curling his fingers where he knows Neil is the most sensitive. The man above him moans, as if he can’t fathom to do anything else, his abs flexing beneath the tight shirt as he tries to stave off the inevitable—and that simply won’t do.
“C’mon Josten,” Andrew says, licking the taste of him from his own lips. He flexes his hand, thumbing at Neil’s clit, swollen and so, so wet. “Let go.”
Andrew turns his face to Neil’s thigh, mouth latching against it and bites.
Neil screams into his arm, thighs shaking as he cums. Andrew is quick to bring his mouth back to his core to lap it all up, because he wasn’t raised to be wasteful. Plus, Neil always tastes so sweet.
Tremors course through the other man as he rides it out and comes down, pushing at Andrew’s hair when it becomes too much. Andrew goes easily, rising from stiff knees to seat himself at Neil’s side, locking their lips together once more. Post-orgasm Neil was always so pliant and needy, fingers reaching up and pulling at the hem of Andrew’s shirt, digging into his waistband, practically pulling Andrew into him. Probably could, if he tried.
“Got what you wanted?” Andrew asks eventually, pulling away.
The insatiable beast before him drops his gaze to Andrew’s crotch, where he’s half-hard in his jeans. “I can think of a few more things I’d be okay with.”
“No dice, Eros,” Andrew chides, pulling away before the loveliness of him makes him change his mind. It takes all of his self-control to do so, and then some. “You’ll have to wait a bit longer.”
He turns away so he doesn’t have to see Neil pout, knowing he’ll fold the second he sees that second wave of want building in those blue, blue eyes. “I’ll be holding you to that,” Neil says, shifting forward to drop a delicate kiss to Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew turns before he can fully pull away, unable to resist the urge to at least kiss him just once more.
iv.
Saturday mornings have slowly become something Andrew allows himself to look forward to. It’s a new thing he and Bee are trying: allowing himself to envision a future, one that he actually likes. One that he can try to make come true. She had asked him, “If you were deserted on an island with a suitcase of all the things you would need, what would you bring?”
It had been scarily similar to conversations he’d had with Renee as they’d walked along the court, yet somehow completely different at the same time. With Renee, there was more often some deadly virus inflicting the world, or a zombie apocalypse taking over mankind. With Bee, there was just the island.
“Aaron,” Andrew had said—then, “and Neil.”
When he cracks open his eyes that Saturday morning, sunlight is streaming steadily through the blinds. The glow it casts on Neil’s sleeping face makes him look ethereal; Andrew is still trying to remind himself that Neil isn’t something he dreamt, or made up. He’s warm and solid and real, curled up inches from Andrew’s side. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hold.
This is another thing they’re working on. Neither he nor Neil had grown up being able to sleep peacefully. Each had worried about monsters crawling into their beds, though the reasons differed in nature. Regardless, the first few times it had happened, waking up next to another person had led to Andrew shoving Neil off the bed more often than he is willing to admit. But the other boy had only moaned, “Ow,” before pushing himself off the floor to meet Andrew’s sleep-addled stare and say, “Good morning to you, too.”
He’s gotten better.
Enough, in fact, that he allows himself to reach out, fingers light as they curl over the skin of Neil’s waist. Andrew is all too aware that Neil is a light sleeper—having been woken up by him enough times to make itself apparent—but the sheer trust in the fact that Neil does not even stir, as if even subconsciously he can tell it’s Andrew touching him, makes him feel dazed. Andrew lets himself grip harder, just enough to pull, bringing Neil into his chest. Neil’s eyes remain closed, his breathing even.
It’s rare that Andrew wakes up before him; rarer still that he indulges in looking his fill. Call it a consequence of having an eidetic memory: Andrew fools himself into believing he has every inch, every atom of Neil memorized. Looking at him now, he wonders, will his memory ever be enough? Would he remember the scar just shy of his hairline, no bigger than a fingernail? Would he remember the constellation of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the shape of them, the pattern? Would he remember the exact shade of blue of his eyes, able to pinpoint the hex colour down to the character?
#4B80B9 cracks open, sleepily but no less dazzling. “Well, hello.” Neil says, his voice cradled in the cadence of slumber. A smile, soft and dopey, forms at the corner of his mouth, his snaggletooth fang jutting out between his lips. Andrew feels his heart stutter, stop, and carry on—syncing with Neil’s, thumpthumpthump, th-ump, th-ump, th-ump.
Andrew doesn’t respond. He simply stares on, his heart and soul and very being tangled up in these sheets, in the crooks of their knees, in the crevices between their fingers when Neil brings them together. Commits this sight to memory: how red Neil’s hair looks with the sun gleaming off of it, the way his tongue moves over his cracked lips, how his eyelashes flutter long and slow as he stares back. Always hungry. Never quite full. As if Andrew was a buffet with no end—not that Neil was looking for one to begin with. He simply stuffs himself to bursting, overfills his plate and comes back for seconds, tenths, thirtieths. Taking carefully placed bites of Andrew so there’ll forever be more to come back for.
He doesn’t know how long they lay there, just looking—doesn’t care, really, would die here without protest or complaint. Eventually, though, Neil’s leg twitches in the way it does when he aches to get moving. Andrew loosens his grip, discontent with having to let go, but for once feeling stuffed. It’s new. He… likes it.
Neil yawns as he tosses the duvet off of his body, making sure to keep Andrew concealed from the cold when he shuffles out from underneath it. His feet planted to the floor, he cranes his neck on each side before he stands up, stretching his arms above his head. Andrew’s gaze follows the curl of hair at his nape, the dip of his spine, the dimples of his back, the—
Calvin Klein boxers that most certainly don’t belong to him.
To Andrew’s dismay, Neil’s boxers all consisted of being exclusively Fruit of the Loom, given that he bought every non-thriftable item of clothing from Walmart. Andrew has been wondering if he should bite the bullet, buy him something actually nice, get an upscale hotel room just to dress him up and rip him apart.
Against all odds, he likes this, too.
He’s still unsure of the nature of the game—whether it’s to rile him up, get him hot and heavy and wanting, or simply Neil’s usual idiocy. He wonders if it’s a coincidence, but that in itself is a fleeting thought. Nothing about Neil was a coincidence. It’s part of why Andrew finds him as addictive as the cigarettes, the crackers, the candy. Always hits the right spot of piquing his curiosity, making him want to pull back the layers of Neil’s skin and see all that hides underneath. Carve a space in it for him only and sew it back up so he’ll never be found.
That doesn’t make Neil any less stupid, though.
“I spy with my little eye something that doesn’t belong to you,” Andrew says, voice still husky from sleep. Neil is slow to turn in his direction, his arms still stretched over his head. Andrew’s pretty sure he should be more careful of his ribs, but that was Neil’s problem to deal with. As Neil tilts his head, expression confused, Andrew shuffles closer to the edge of the bed. When he wants to be, Neil is quick on the uptake; he moves closer to the mattress, just within reach. Andrew grabs the waistband of the boxers and pulls it back against Neil’s skin with a tight snap.
Neil jerks when the fabric hits his skin, but makes no noise. When Andrew raises his gaze back up to his, Neil’s expression is blank, but his eyes are dark and hooded when they look down at Andrew. Oh, Andrew thinks, pulling away and slinking back towards the wall. That’s interesting.
He places one arm behind his head and waits, eyes trained on the boy before him. A lifetime of lying means that Neil gives nothing away—not if you don’t know where to look.
Andrew has spent enough time looking that he can read Neil with ease. The shallowness of his breaths, the redness at the back of his neck, nearly obscured by the brown of his skin; all of it is a beacon to Andrew in flashing neon.
So, he waits.
The thing about Neil—that all of the Foxes, the ERC, hell even their belligerent “fans” know, is that he’s low on patience, high on fire. It’s as if Andrew only blinks and Neil has gone from standing to straddling him, perfectly positioned on either side of Andrew’s hips, still covered by the duvet.
“I don’t like this new habit of yours,” Neil says. His core tenses as he holds himself up, not fully seating himself atop Andrew, muscles flexing in a way that has Andrew’s attention a hair's breadth away from fracturing. It takes a second for the words—and aren’t they fucking ironic—to register.
Andrew squints, head tipping to one side in silent question. Neil tsks, leaning forward and placing one hand on each side of Andrew’s head. He ducks his head closer and waits for Andrew’s nod before bringing his lips to the blond’s ear and whispering, “Where you start things you don’t finish.”
One blond eyebrow raised in question, Andrew says, “Think you finished plenty last night.”
Neil tuts, dropping a singular kiss to the skin below Andrew’s ear. He pulls himself back so he’s upright once more, then lowers himself just enough to grind shallowly against Andrew’s crotch. Andrew tenses beneath him, unwilling to give Neil the upper hand by way of letting him know how much he wants this, too. “You know what I mean,” Neil says, lowering himself once more. This time, he stays. Andrew’s cock stirs with interest, dulled by the layers of fabric between them that he is quickly considering burning.
“Fear I don’t,” Andrew says, his voice level, almost bored. There’s no doubt that Neil sees right through him, so he doesn’t care when he adds, “But if you want to be a little cockslut, don’t let me stop you.”
It’s choice wording that has Neil raising an eyebrow at him in turn. Andrew nods and moves his free hand to Neil’s thigh, rubbing the muscle, in awe of the sheer strength there. Neil sighs when he scratches blunt nails along the skin, rolling his hips into it.
Andrew’s glad they’ve grown: have become so attuned to each other, accustomed to one another that the need for every yes or no? has lessened. It feels like progress. It tastes like trust.
Neil shuffles down, bringing the blanket with him. Gooseflesh rises over Andrew’s skin when the cold December air hits. Neil settles himself on his knees between Andrew’s, staring hungrily down at him. Andrew had never known what it meant to be ravaged before meeting him.
“Can I touch you?” Neil asks, azure eyes flicking to Andrew’s hazel before going back to inspecting his meal. It should concern him probably, how the sight of Neil being so hungry for him turns Andrew on that much more, but he always finds that he doesn’t quite care.
And Andrew is feeling—good, today, so he says, “Yes.”
Calloused hands are quick to fly up, rubbing over Andrew’s sides, his thighs, the muscles of his stomach. Neil looks as if he’s cataloguing every inch of him for the first time again; like Andrew is something novel that he has to commit to memory. Andrew places his other hand behind his head, fingers loosely locked together, content to just watch him work.
When he’s satisfied, Neil moves closer, dropping his head to leave kisses over the skin he’s journeyed. The insides of Andrew’s thighs, right below the edge of his boxers, the skin between the waistband and his belly button, his abs. Andrew stays perfectly still all the while.
Neil’s gaze goes from his barely-chubbed cock to his face, raising an eyebrow. “You’ll have to do better than that,” Andrew says, as if he’s not putting half his energy into making sure he doesn’t give away how much he aches for him.
The other thing about Neil, though, is that he loves a challenge.
Of course, Andrew is all too aware of this—it’s half the fun, after all.
Short nails scratch at Andrew’s hips before the striker hooks his fingers into his waistband. He doesn’t remove it quite yet: brings his face up to the cloth instead and licks. Neil mouths along Andrew's length, hot and wet even through the fabric. It’s a facsimile comparison to what it’s like to be inside of Neil, but Andrew is all too familiar and much too weak to not make up the bridge between teasing and reality. Neil smirks as Andrew hardens along his cheek, pressing one last kiss to his pelvis before pulling the briefs down.
Neil’s mouth is swallowing down before the chill can even register. A grunt punches itself from Andrew’s throat, and he can’t help but tense at the feeling. Neil was a damn quick learner—Andrew would give him that much. Neil swirls his tongue around Andrew’s tip the way he’s discovered Andrew likes, and sucks hard. One of his hands moves to the base of Andrew’s dick, stroking in slow, careful motions. Andrew would sooner bite his own tongue off then make any noise, but when Neil looks up at him—through dark-coloured lashes, his pupils the colour of night and blown to bursting—Andrew can’t conceal the jolt that runs through him. Neil pops off of him with a smirk, because he knows he’s got Andrew wrapped around his finger.
Andrew glares at him. What an absolute loser.
It isn’t enough to deter Neil; if anything, it spurs him on. He licks a clean stripe from base to shaft, his hand dropping to fondle Andrew’s balls. It’s taking all of Andrew’s self-control to stay still, to not reach down and fist Neil’s hair, thrust into that heat until he’s satisfied. Until tears are pooling, shining wet and brilliant in those stupidly gorgeous eyes. He tightens his grip in his own hair, trying to keep himself in check.
Neil hollows his cheeks when he takes Andrew in again, sucking hard. He sounds so lewd, like he truly loves this, like maybe the nickname Andrew had used wasn’t too far off from the truth.
“Fuck,” Andrew breathes, because he’s feeling generous today; he’ll give Neil an inch (or six). Decides, fuck it. “You love this, don’t you?”
The moan Neil lets out over his dick has him throbbing in his mouth, pleasure rolling through him in waves. Neil nods, dumb and infatuated, redoubling his efforts as he takes Andrew as deep as he can go. Given how new this all is to him, still, he does one hell of a fucking job. The heavy, telltale sign of an oncoming orgasm builds further in the pit of Andrew’s stomach.
He watches unabashedly as Neil swallows him down, over and over. The mattress creaks beneath them as he goes, drawing Andrew’s attention back—where Neil has shoved his own briefs down enough with one hand and is valiantly chasing his own climax. “You love cock that much, Josten?” Andrew says, unable to stop himself now. He lifts himself on one elbow, and uses his other hand to reach down and wrap his fingers around Neil’s curls. Spit pools out from the side of his mouth as Neil tries to look up at Andrew from this new angle. “Can’t help stroking yourself ‘cause it tastes so good?”
Neil’s answering moan is telling enough. He sags further, propped up only by the thought of getting Andrew to come. “Interesting how the only way to shut you up is to stuff your mouth,” Andrew says, his tone mocking and harsh. “Should I keep you like this forever?”
At forever, Neil shudders, his whole body moving with the motion. His movements slow, simply holding Andrew’s dick in the tight heat of his mouth as shocks wrack through him, drool pooling out the side. Something in Andrew’s chest tightens, aches, but he pushes that aside. Neil came, just from one simple word.
“Greedy,” Andrew chides, grip tightening in Neil’s hair. “What was it that you said, about not finishing what I’ve started? Don’t be a hypocrite, Neil.”
It earns him a glare, but Andrew just squeezes again, pulling Neil’s hair up so that his head will follow. He’s fucked out enough that he goes along without objection, and starts sucking Andrew off unabashedly once more.
It’s—a lot, all of it, the whole thing. Neil scrapes his teeth gently along his shaft in a way that hurts so much it’s so good, eliciting a punched out, “Neil,” from Andrew’s throat.
He tightens his grip in warning, but Neil is locked on to his challenge. Andrew squints when he meets his gaze, another unspoken yes or no passing between them. Neil’s hand, still covered in his own cum, comes up to fist the bottom of Andrew’s length, making up for whatever he can’t reach with ease.
The mix of Neil’s saliva and own orgasm with Andrew’s pre-cum is too much. He manages only one last, “Neil,” before he’s coming down his throat, hips jerking against the sheets. Neil takes it all, as if Andrew is an oasis manifested in the desert and he’s a dying man. It’s so hot that even fully spent, Andrew can’t help twitching.
Neil pulls off slowly, milking him for all he’s worth. When he frees Andrew from his mouth he smiles, soft and satiated. He crawls up the length of Andrew’s body and searches his eyes for any disagreement before locking their lips together. He tastes like salt, and sweat, but when it’s Neil… Well, Andrew doesn’t ever really mind.
Andrew runs one hand down his back, over the curve of his ass cheek, still covered in cotton. “You got cum all over my briefs,” he reprehends, snapping the elastic waistband back again.
Neil jolts against him, pressing their chests together. The smile that pulls his lip is much too satisfied for Andrew’s liking. “Just marking what’s mine,” Neil says, like an idiot.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You like it.”
And Andrew’s never been much of a liar, so he only pulls him in again.
v.
Andrew would like for the record to show that it’s definitely all Neil’s fault. Like most things, sure, but especially this time.
The Foxes vice-captain had been overly excited ever since Andrew had gotten cleared to play again, in time for their game versus Beckstein. It would be the last of the season, and the Foxes were somehow still in the running for championships – to the surprise of everyone in the NCAA. They would be playing in Beckstein’s stadium once more, for which Andrew thought of killing everyone that had a hand in deciding as much.
Thankfully, the flight goes smoothly. Neil is especially adept at keeping Andrew’s thoughts away from anything to do with the fact that they were hundreds of miles off of the ground, talking about anything and everything unrelated to exy for the first time in his entire life. It’s odd for Andrew, to know he has someone who cares enough to try to hold him up over something that feels so stupid, but he… appreciates it more than he is capable of showing. Especially when surrounded by their extremely nosy teammates, the best he can do is stare intently into Neil’s eyes and squeeze his hand between their seats.
Those brilliant, sparkling eyes crinkle where Neil smiles in return, squeezing back before continuing to ramble on about the most effective means for survival should the entire world turn to stone.
It isn’t soon enough when they’re back on solid ground and shoved into a bus enroute to the hotel. Neil passes out within minutes of getting on the highway, head lolling onto Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew has half a mind to push him off before he starts drooling, but the weight of him keeps his heart still.
They make it all the way to the stadium; into the Fox-appointed locker room; have begun to change out of their airport clothes and into their gear when Aaron stills.
Andrew glances at him only briefly, but the expression on his twin’s face is enough to have him doing a double-take. He looks both murderous and on the verge of laughter, if the combination were somehow possible.
Behind Andrew, whatever Aaron had noticed is quickly making its way around the room. “Yo, Josten,” Jack calls out, somewhere to Andrew’s left. “Take too many exy balls to the head, or did that psycho finally fuck you stupid?”
Slams and shouts echo in the room as Matt and Nicky round on the freshman. Andrew is faster, though–he’s got one arm under Jack’s chin to cut off his air within seconds, his entire body weight pushing against the lockers.
“Oh, John, are you sure this is the hill you want to die on?” Andrew asks lowly, a vicious smile pulling at his lip. “Cause I know who Coach will side with when I kill you.”
Jack claws at his arm with all the power of a kitten to a scratch post. Andrew snarls and presses harder, enjoying the way his eyes bulge and how his face reddens. He’d left Jack to Neil for the better part of the year thus far; but all of the original Foxes were already aware that his patience was wearing thin, and his plans for how to get rid of the striker were getting more and more solidified.
A presence at his back has Andrew rolling his eyes before the man has even opened his mouth. “Andrew,” Neil says, and it isn’t a question. Andrew flicks him an annoyed look even as something dark and twisted swarms in his belly. You want this.
Not like this, Neil answers silently. His voice from months earlier echoes in Andrew’s head: Let me deal with him. Andrew scoffs and pulls away, letting the suffocating freshman fall to the floor in a heap. One of their other new teammates takes his time coming over to check on him, casting awed and terrified glances in Andrew’s direction. Andrew pays neither of them any mind.
He couldn’t possibly—not when Neil is standing in the middle of the locker room in Andrew’s jersey.
03 plastered on his chest, bright white a stark contrast to the deep colour of his skin. Andrew inhales sharp and quiet, eyes stuck on the way it’s just slightly too big on Neil’s frame. Neil is saying something, probably, but Andrew can’t hear a word. Especially not when Neil turns around, enough so that Andrew can see the MINYARD written across the back, auburn tickling the tops of bolded orange lettering.
He needs a drink. Or five. Or twenty.
Andrew also needs to never forget this sight before him; captures it like a photograph in his memory, stuck at the forefront. Neil, 03, Minyard. He thinks he’s going to be sick.
“—Andrew?”
Another rattling breath snakes its way into his lungs. “How,” Andrew manages to get out, knowing Neil can fill in the rest.
Yet Neil—usually so quick to open his mouth, whether it be with lies or excuses or the rare honesty—says nothing. Only slides his gaze away from Andrew, shifting his weight between his feet, his stupidly attractive mouth pressed into a thin line.
Andrew realizes with a start that Neil is embarrassed.
“Kevin,” Andrew says, without tearing his eyes off the vice-captain. “We’re going on a walk.”
“What?” Is Kevin’s instant and indignant reply. He bullies his way into view, standing beside Andrew and Neil. “We’re on the court in twenty for drills, the fuck do you mean you’re going on a walk–”
“I mean,” Andrew cuts in, annoyed and riled enough to press the tip of one blade to Kevin’s side, “That we are going on a walk, you will not follow us, and you will tell Dan we will be there for drills. Am I understood?”
Kevin opens his mouth as if to protest, to which Andrew steels his gaze, and presses hard enough to tear a cut in the fabric of Kevin’s tee. Kevin glares before stomping off with a dramatic, “Everyone in gear, now!”
The Foxes are slow to turn away from the scene, but Andrew doesn’t care about them in the slightest. He ignores the looks cast over shoulders as he spins on his heel and makes for the exit, knowing Neil is following by the almost non-existent sound of his footsteps.
Out in the hall, Andrew wracks his brain trying to remember the layout of the Beckstein campus. Looking for somewhere close but private. He leads them to the weight room, which is blissfully empty. It’s full to the brim with equipment, from weight machines to dumbbells, and a row of treadmills that – on any other day – would have Neil salivating at the mouth.
Today, he’s quiet as a mouse, obediently trailing Andrew without so much as a scuff of his shoes against the floor.
It’s nauseating. And he’s still in Andrew’s jersey.
The reminder has Andrew coming to a stop by the weights. He spins on his heel to face Neil, whose gaze quickly averts itself from Andrew’s back to the floor. Crisp white, orange accents. He fists the front of the jersey, warping the 03 between his fingers.
“This,” Andrew says with no gentleness, pulling at the fabric. “How?”
“I missed you,” Neil says, so quiet that if Andrew weren’t within inches from him he isn’t sure he would have heard. Neil’s got his head hung, looking up at Andrew through his lashes. At Andrew’s blank look he sighs and continues. “I missed having you on the court with me. At my back, guarding our goal, knowing exactly what I want—exactly what our team needs, when we need it. I know you don’t care about exy but—I’ve become so reliant on having you there. On looking for you after I score, or nail a pass I’ve been working on, or–” Neil cuts himself off, lip pulled between his teeth as he ponders what he wants to say next. Andrew waits him out, even as it feels as if his knees tremble with the effort it keeps to hold himself up.
Eventually, Neil says, his voice meeker than Andrew has ever heard it, “I’ve been looking for your jersey at every game, you know? It hasn’t been the same.”
It’s the kind of honesty that has Andrew’s breath coming up short. He can’t help wondering: has anyone ever missed him before? Properly missed him, not to get something from him, simply for his presence alone? Had he even been a person worth missing before he met Neil? Before he met Aaron?
Andrew shakes his head, trying his best to keep his focus. Neil still hasn’t actually answered his question. He can pretty much put the pieces together, knowing Neil well enough to trace the path of his logic, but selfishly—Andrew wants to hear him say it.
“How come you have my jersey, Neil?”
“Don’t be like that, Andrew,” Neil says pleadingly. Andrew doesn’t answer, but he does slide his hand from Neil’s front to the back of his neck, squeezing familiarly. Neil leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. “Your Home jersey is more familiar than my Away. I grabbed it by accident because I’m always looking for you. On the court and off of it. Don’t act like you don’t already know that.”
Andrew can hear the unspoken I love you. The silent my eyes are always on you. The soundless you’re watching me, too.
“You are an idiot,” Andrew says with no heat. His heart is a jackrabbit in his chest, beating a rhythm of all the things he wants to say, wants to show Neil. I love you doesn’t feel like enough. I love you doesn’t satisfy the craving, the need, that Andrew has for him. I love you is something he’s never given another person; Andrew doesn’t know how to make the syllables fit in his mouth—isn’t even sure if they would.
“Yeah,” Neil agrees easily, a small smile forming at the corner of his lip. He shuffles closer, his fingers grabbing the hem of Andrew’s Away jersey, even with their chests nearly pressed together. Neil’s eyes re-open, beryl glistening and incandescent even in the low-light of the gym. “Kiss me?”
Andrew uses the hand poised on Neil’s neck to tilt his head down just the slightest bit before angling his own face and slotting their mouths together. Neil practically melts into him, his arms coming up to wrap around Andrew’s neck. Neil tastes like the strawberries he’d eaten on the bus, like the cigarettes they’d shared before getting into the stadium. He tastes like Neil, and Andrew’s head is so full of him—overwhelmed by him, surrounded—that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever manage to think about anything else.
Except, maybe, making Neil Minyard a reality.
Except, possibly, seeing Neil’s face when he can say I love you.
He kisses these truths into Neil’s mouth, burying them in the ground, wishing upon a star.
+ i.
Years of carefully curating his image meant it was a well-kept secret that Andrew actually likes Christmas.
It wasn’t something he’d ever really tried to hide; like most things, it was simply something he didn’t think was necessary to share outright. And although a holiday spent in Easthaven had put a sour taste in his mouth, it couldn’t completely turn him off from the festivities, either.
Andrew likes the snow. Likes how the world goes tranquil and quiet, if only for a moment. Seeing it for the first time had been an off-kilter experience—as for once, everything in his head had gone blissfully silent. Andrew likes the buzz of anticipation Christmas brings as everyone counts down the days, poking open boxes of chocolate, playing the same songs on repeat for weeks on end. Likes the redundancy of it, the lack of surprises outside of whatever dumb thing Nicky thinks he’ll like as a gift. (Which he always takes, and, if unable to use, keeps stored away in a box beneath the floorboards at the Columbia house.)
It is, admittedly, a weird holiday for him to enjoy. It isn’t as if he’d ever gotten anything nice as a kid: Cass had been the best, simply because she had actually given a shit about him. But his foster parents had always been nicer around this time of year—more willing to let him do as he pleased, eat more candy, spend time in the house rather than at the local gym or the park. Andrew enjoyed the few days where he didn’t need to make himself small and pretend he didn’t exist. Christmas is a nice holiday, in which it makes everyone else a little bit nicer to be around.
Aaron knows he likes Christmas because he’d run into Andrew picking out a gift for Nicky their first year after being reunited. Nicky knows he likes Christmas because he’d made the Pillsbury cookies with the Santa heads on them, and nearly went into shock when Andrew joined him. Kevin knows he likes Christmas because when he’d asked what would be a good gift for Coach, Andrew hadn’t said, “I never had a dad, how would I know?” No, Andrew had said, “He’s running low on his cologne. Buy him the big bottle, rich boy.”
Jury’s still out on whether or not Neil has figured it out yet. This is the least pressing of Andrew’s concerns though; after all, this will be his first Christmas with Neil.
They wake up languidly at Abby’s. Andrew’s family (sans Nicky, cozying it up with Erik in Germany) had relocated to hers for the break, generously taking her up on her offer for a traditional Christmas dinner. They spend the morning cleaning, getting out the nice tableware, classic Christmas movies droning on in the background. Neil moves from room to room like a ghost, listless: it’s been so long since he’s had any reason to celebrate the holiday, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He also can’t cook, is below average at cleaning anything that isn’t blood, and hasn’t watched a Christmas movie since he was eight.
Andrew grabs him by the shoulders and steers him to the living room, promptly pushing him down onto the couch. Neil stares up at him all the while, puppy-dog blue tracking his every movement. “Watch the movie,” Andrew instructs, before exiting the room. Neil makes no noise, but Andrew hears the creak of the couch as he settles further into it. He’s always done better with clear instructions.
The rest of the afternoon flies by, the aroma of Abby’s cooking slowly filling up the house. When Kevin starts to get twitchy, Andrew takes him to the grocery store to stock up on anything Abby needs and purchase a pie. He lets Kevin take out his energy on him, berating him for choosing a dessert with “no nutrients, just garbage - do you want a garbage body, Andrew?” Yeah, yeah, Kevin, the lady is waiting with the scanner.
When they get back, Coach and Bee have arrived, the former with two bottles of Jamie’s finest and Bee with her expensive hot cocoa. Andrew gives her a hug when he sees her, and laughs to himself as Neil tries and fails to subtly get past her. He’s unsuccessful in the way she still manages to grab his hand and wish him a merry Christmas. Neil’s smile is more grimace than anything, but he repeats the same back to her, before all but running to Andrew’s side by the front door.
“Bees do not have fangs, you know,” Andrew says around a lollipop. Quitting the cigarettes meant replacing the vice, at least for now. Also, he likes lollipops.
“They still sting,” Neil accuses, just as Andrew expects him to.
“Only when provoked,” Andrew says. “Are you provoking Bee? Don’t do that, Neil. I like her.”
Neil slants him a look that has the edges of his lip curling in amusement. He makes it so easy sometimes, Andrew can’t help teasing him.
“Are you two done?” Aaron’s voice calls, his head poking out from the dining room. “I’m fucking starving.”
A bone-deep need to piss Aaron off pulls at Andrew’s instincts, but. It’s Christmas. He wants to set a good example for Bee. Show off his progress, or whatever. He still flips Aaron off before grabbing Neil’s hand and tugging him along, though.
Dinner is fine. Normal. The turkey is under seasoned, to no one’s surprise, but Abby’s specialty has always been her mashed potatoes. Aaron slips Andrew a twenty dollar bill when Neil accepts Coach’s offer for a drink and Coach asks, “Did you hit your head?” He mentally thanks Coach for always being so predictable, and Aaron for being so stupid.
Neil takes one bite of his pie before sliding it over to Andrew. He’s only halfway through his own slice when Kevin asks, “Can we turn off the movies and watch a Trojans game?” Bee makes the hot chocolate extra chocolatey for Andrew, just the way he likes. It’s Christmas.
Andrew feels—
“Presents!”
Abby’s voice echoes in the home, small and mighty. They converge from all the corners they’d wandered off into, squishing into her living room. The tree—decorated by Nicky prior to leaving, his “parting gift”— takes up a whole corner all by itself. There’s a small stack of boxes beneath it, a mix of reds and blues and greens. The star atop of it burns bright, bouncing off of the light emitting from the now-lit fireplace.
Abby and Kevin settle in on the couch, leaving room for Coach, still dawdling in the kitchen. Aaron takes the armchair, leaving Neil and Andrew to sit criss crossed-apple sauce on the floor between them. Neil leans into him, his elbow bruising into Andrew’s thigh, where Andrew wraps an arm around his lower back, thumb hooked into one of his belt loops. Aaron kicks him in the back. Andrew uses his free hand to pinch his ankle, then promptly looks anywhere else when Coach glares at him after Aaron’s yelp and hissed, “Bitch.”
A round of drinks is passed around, and then presents. Coach, Abby and Bee gift him and Aaron shot glasses with fox paws on them, courtesy of having turned 21 in November. Kevin gets a history book he’s been trying to track down, Neil a murder-mystery written in Russian, to which he lets out a very dry, very real laugh.
The five of them (because Nicky had insisted on joining in, even from abroad) hand their mentors their gifts in turn. For Abby, they had decided on a throw pillow fashioned to look like a capsule, embroidered with chill pill. (Andrew had considered throwing it into the fire, but Abby smiled and said she loved it.) Coach gets a new coffee mug, citing This is Definitely Coffee, a replacement for Kevin having thrown the previous one at Neil’s head. (Neil had pissed him off, as per usual.) Betsy gets a gold hair pin with a bee on it, flowers wrapping around the stem. (Aaron, shockingly, had picked it out.) It goes well. Laughter fills the room, emboldened by the spark of fire, the smell of whiskey and apple crumble. The feel of Neil around him, Aaron behind him, its all—
Good. For once, in Andrew’s altogether sad, miserable life, it’s good.
Someone suggests cards; someone else dials the radio on, Christmas music filling the house. Andrew turns to Neil, who — of course — is already looking at him. In quiet Russian, he says, “Would you like to go on a drive?”
His accent is still a bit shit, if he’s being honest. Neil’s better at that part, worse with the grammar. Neil squeezes his hand, smile whiskey-warm and at peace, and nods.
They get up as one to head to the door. Andrew lets Neil tell everyone they’ll be back, going out to start the Mas. Neil is still close behind him, shivering as he gets into the cold car. Andrew turns up the heat to the max before pulling out, his right hand gluing itself to Neil’s thigh as soon as they’re on the main road.
The drive from Abby’s to the Columbia house isn’t that far. The ride is quiet, Andrew staring at the road, fingers flexing on the steering wheel as he continues to get used to the feeling of driving again. God, he’s missed this. Even when he was on his drugs, he hated being a passenger. It isn’t the same: there’s no thrill, no rush. He switches gears easily as they merge onto the highway, being careful of any ice while still testing the limits of the Maserati’s speed. Neil’s gaze is a comforting weight at his side, unabashedly looking at him and only him. Andrew tightens his grip, the denim of Neil’s jeans rough beneath his fingers.
It’s over too soon, or maybe not soon enough. Andrew cuts the engine after pulling in and doesn’t idle. It’s too fucking cold for that, anyway. Neil follows him up the driveway, quiet, curious, unwilling to let go of his hand when they link in front of the Maserati. When Andrew looks down at where they’re joined—the way their hands come together, Neil’s slightly longer fingers covering Andrew’s slightly stockier digits, swinging over the snow—he can’t help but think, am I allowed to have this?
Something about it feels surreal. As if it couldn’t happen to him, as if he were watching the movie of someone else’s life. He doesn’t know if Neil can read it on his face, can see the gears turning in his head, or if he just knows: but when they stop at the front door, he raises their hands and kisses Andrew’s knuckles—as if they’re something precious, worth holding on to. The hands that have brought Andrew nothing but blood and bruises bring Neil bliss and belonging. His eyes—a startling, iridescent blue in the moonlight—crash into Andrew’s, like waves on a beach. Real, he presses into the taut skin.
Real, Andrew presses into his mouth, when he pulls him in.
Kissing Neil isn’t something he can ever really help. It’s a feeling so all-consuming, a feeling that takes him over as soon as their eyes meet, or their skin touches. Andrew has fought against himself for so long, unable to truly let himself hope, but here Neil stands, weathering his storm.
They don’t kiss for long—enough to tide them both over, but the cold is too damn strong. Andrew is slow to fit his keys into the lock of the door, willing himself not to shake.
By now, an empty Columbia house is old hat. Especially since they’ve been benched during recovery, Neil and Andrew had run away here more times than they could count. Neil because he was unable to look at the court without feeling the ache; Andrew because an empty house and a beautiful boy spoke for itself.
Shoes toed off in the entrance and jackets shed onto the coat rack, their footfalls pad soft and quiet as Neil follows Andrew into the house. Andrew foregoes turning the lights on; at this point, they both know the way. Together, they head up the stairs, to the room on the left at the end of the hall. Once, Andrew’s room—now, theirs.
Andrew doesn’t look over his shoulder before he pushes open the door. It doesn’t creak as it’s opened, and overall he is simply grateful that nothing is on fire.
He’d forced Kevin to help him set everything up, given it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do, anyway. A small Christmas tree, lit and decorated, now sat in the corner of the room, with only one small box underneath it. Two stockings lay flat on the bed—the first, with an embroidered A, gifted from Nicky their first year together as a family. The second boasts an embroidered N, and is a near carbon-copy of the first.
Andrew watches as Neil steps further into the room, surveying the new additions. It isn’t–it’s not much, he knows. Honestly, he’d wondered if it was too much, for someone like Neil. A boy who had barely celebrated even his birthday for a decade, much less a made-up holiday. Would he find it overwhelming, out of character? Would he think it odd and ill-suited?
Neil is quiet as his head swivels, taking it all in. He’d stopped somewhere in between the tree and the bed, but after a few moments, makes his way over to the latter. With careful fingers, Neil picks up the stocking from the bed, tracing over the letter of his name. “Is this—” he starts, without raising his gaze to Andrew’s. “Is this… for me?”
“Yes,” Andrew answers unhesitatingly. For some reason, the moment feels—vulnerable, perhaps. He knows — has known — that Neil wasn’t familiar with… affection, and though Andrew was no expert either, was it not the least he could do to try? “You’re one of us.”
It’s a lame way to put it, Andrew is keenly aware. He’s not family, Aaron’s voice echoes in his head. Not with the way you look at him. Yet Neil’s grip tightens on the sock all the same, before he gently places it back, smoothing out the wrinkles so it lays flat against the sheets.
“Thank you,” he says, his palm pressed to the velvet. “I’ve never—had one of these, before.”
Andrew grits his teeth, the urge to say something biting about Neil’s deplorable parents clawing in his chest. He stamps it down with a mild, “We’ll hang them when Nicky gets back. He insisted on it.”
Neil nods, a small smile pulling at his lip before he turns towards the tree once more. While he was pondering the stocking, Andrew had slipped towards it, settling himself on the floor at its base. It’s so small, the star is barely five inches above his head.
Taking a seat in front of him, Neil’s attention skips between the gift beneath the tiny, plastic tree and Andrew. Andrew allows him only a few seconds of indecision before realizing: this part was even more foreign to Neil than it was to Andrew. He reaches over, grabbing the box in his hand, and unceremoniously dumps it into Neil’s lap.
Neil looks down at it as if it’s some kind of creature he doesn’t know how to deal with. It would almost be laughable if Andrew’s heart weren’t jackhammering inside of his throat right now, his fingers drumming against his thigh as he tries to quell the anxiety in his chest.
The wrapping paper is simple—gray, with white snowflakes patterned all over. Neil is still supremely careful as he removes the tape from the edges, peeling back the paper as best as he can without ripping it. When done, he sets it to the side, and ponders the black box before him. He’s slow to lift the lid, slower still to push back the tissue paper inside, and then—
“Andrew,” he gasps, as he pulls it out from the box. “Did you—?”
“Yes,” Andrew says immediately. He thinks he’s going to be sick.
The scarf is a simple design—long, dark gray, thick enough to wrap around twice. Neil smiles as he runs his fingers over it, pausing at the small, white fox paws woven in at each end. “You made this?” He asks again, his tone bordering on incredulity. “When? How? You know how to knit?”
“It’s crochet,” Andrew corrects, hating himself for it. “And I… learned. With Bee. For you.”
The words come out clunky and awkward; Andrew clamps his mouth shut as soon as they’re out, willing himself not to blush. He tucks his fingers into his thighs, bruised and battered from ramming the needles into his fingers over again. Once he’d gotten the basics down, the actual scarf hadn’t been so bad. Trying to figure out how to make fox paws had nearly sent him over the edge more times than he could count. It was times like that he was thankful for Bee – who’d set time aside from their appointments with Aaron to teach him. After he stopped smoking, he’d been volatile; constantly on edge, and hadn’t wanted to take that out on Neil. Learning a new skill had allowed him to hone his focus, at the very least, and give Neil something he could keep.
“It’s perfect,” Neil says, his fingers clenched around the yarn so hard Andrew thinks he might make holes in it. “I—thank you. No one’s ever… made me anything.”
Andrew could’ve figured out that much, but it still makes him want to resurrect every person who’d walked into Neil’s life and beat them to death with a hammer. This boy—this beautiful, bastard boy—deserved everything in the world. Damn if Andrew wouldn’t try to give it to him.
“Hopefully this will tide you over enough to stop stealing my clothes,” Andrew says, freeing one of his hands to tug gently at one end. “Put it on?”
Neil laughs but does as he’s told. Andrew’s never seen him wear a scarf in his life, so it takes a bit for him to figure out the wrapping situation. An amused huff makes its way out of his mouth before he can stop it, and Andrew scoots closer to tug on the ends so they’ll sit as they’re supposed to. Their knees knocking together makes Neil’s attention flicker to him and stick, his stare freezing Andrew in place. The gray scarf makes the blue of his eyes seem as deep as ocean water.
Andrew drags his hands from the scarf to his face, thumbing over the scars of his cheeks. One of Neil’s comes to rest on his thigh, small and strong.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Neil says, an echo of Andrew’s own words from time and time again.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m—” Neil cuts himself off, stare turning towards the ground. Andrew pushes at his cheek until he looks at him again, chest constricting when Neil finishes, “Important.”
Maybe Andrew should consider beating him with hammers. Then, maybe, he’d get through that thick, dense skull of his. “You are an idiot,” Andrew says, unable to help himself. “But you are my idiot. Of course you’re important, Neil. This is important. I—”
He chokes on it. Three syllables, three words.
But Neil doesn’t berate him; isn’t disgusted, or upset, or whatever the voices in Andrew’s head tried to convince him he would be. Neil only leans forward, pressing their foreheads together, hands wrapping over Andrew’s own where they still cling to the divots in his face.
“I know,” he says, because somehow, he isn’t completely stupid. Andrew’s mouth shuts, fingers close to bruising where they hold onto Neil. His lifeline. His answer. “I, too.”
Andrew breathes out, something wet and heavy and freeing. One syllable at a time, then. They’ll take it thread by thread, weaving it together until it’s something they can both hold. Ours, Andrew thinks, and pulls Neil closer.
They kiss until Andrew’s sure he’s pressed every character and syllable and word into his lips a thousand times over. Promises for the future—the life that they’ll knit together, the fate that they’ll share.
Andrew feels happy as he lets himself fall into deep blue.