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When Andrew has Neil crowded up against the door, he thinks about asking Neil to blow him. It's not the first time he's thought about it. Or the second, or fifth, or tenth. (Sue him.) But it's the first time the idea of it makes Andrew's pulse jump, like the sheer force of want is about to explode out of his body and into the world for everyone to see. Andrew works to keep a neutral facade, but the grin pressing into his throat tells Andrew he's not as good at the act as he once was. He curses the day Neil grew confident enough to use this to wind him up. Andrew uses every ounce of willpower he has left to suppress the shiver threatening to course through his body, and swallows down the desire for a careful second. He chooses to focus on delivering his next words over the sensation of Neil skating his lips up and down the side of his neck.
“I want you to blow me.”
Neil pulls back, surprised. "Yeah?" The lone lamp in the room casts a soft glow over Neil's features. Andrew's razor-sharp boy, impossibly gentle. The blue of Neil's eyes feels magnified—deepened, oceanic. Andrew wonders what it would be like to jump in headfirst.
“Yes or no?” Andrew asks, and his muscles are coiled as he's bracing to jump in.
“It’s a yes,” Neil says, and they're kissing again.
It goes well until it doesn’t.
Andrew doesn't register that they’ve switched positions at some point in their kissing until he tilts his head back and it thumps gently behind him. A wall at his back. Andrew closes his eyes. Tries to drown out other memories of being pushed against walls by unwanted hands. Instead, he focuses on the sounds of the house. The loud whir of Aaron’s fan. The rumbling snores from Kevin on the couch. The noises, meant to distract, end up adding to the cacophonous sensory jumble in Andrew’s head. Another sound—Neil sinking to his knees. Andrew slides off his jeans and underwear, movements as tense as a strung violin. Heart racing, an unsteady staccato. He attributes it to the arousal and not to the unease his mind is trying to shove down. Tries to focus on the fact that he's hard. That above all things, he wants. Neil, the closeness, to be free of old memories that claw their way back to the forefront of his mind when all he wants is the freedom of blissful silence.
Andrew sees more than he hears the words tell me if you want to stop falling from Neil’s lips. Andrew nods jerkily, body on autopilot, his eyes transfixed on Neil’s. The blue disappears as Neil’s eyes flutter shut for a second, pressing a kiss to Andrew’s hip. Andrew feels himself stumble back into reality, and doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until a ragged gasp tears its way out of his throat.
“Stop. I—”
Andrew tries to force the words out, but he chokes on the whiplash of it all. The disappointment in not being able to keep it together for one fucking night when he wanted things to go right. One step forward, two steps back.
“I—” The words get stuck again, and Andrew feels his muscles tense. It’s all he can do to swallow down the frustration he feels, the bitter I’m sorry tucked under his tongue.
Neil stands quickly, eyes alert. “You don’t need to say anything.” He says quietly. Andrew has long since stopped expecting Neil to take his need for boundaries personally, but the words soothe the buzzing in his mind more than he would like to admit. Neil tucks his hands into his pockets so Andrew knows where they are. Andrew hates him. Hates his quiet understanding and his lack of frustration. Hates that Neil has created a respectful space between them, but has stayed an arm's reach away.
“Do you want me to go?” Neil asks. Andrew knows that if he said yes, Neil would leave without a second glance. And there it is again, the idea of want. All Andrew wants is to close the distance. To shove everything else down until he can be skin-to-skin with Neil again and pretend like nothing ever happened. But Andrew knows from experience that playing pretend has only ever equated to pain in the long run.
Andrew shakes his head decisively. Breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. Does it a few more times until he can identify needs over wants and can consider what makes him the least nauseous. “I’m gonna shower.”
Neil nods, and he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “I’ll be here.” Another promise that settles something inside his chest.
As Andrew stands under the coldest stream of water he can muster, he focuses on picturing everything he hates rolling off of his body along with the water and swirling down the drain. Every cool drop that hits him is a small step closer to feeling a little more human and less like his body is an entity separate from him entirely.
He closes his eyes and waits until the thoughts slow from an onslaught to a trickle. He’s done enough therapy to know to make space for it all—the conflicting emotions, the time he needs after stepping away. The disappointment he feels doesn’t feel as sharp as it once did. It doesn't feel like a blade pressing against his neck; a whispered threat of it will always be like this. The voice takes on Bee's cadence from time to time. Although he would never tell her, he's grateful that today is a day her voice chimes in readily. Use it as information, Bee's voice reminds, firm but gentle. What can we learn from this?
Classic shrink thing to say, Andrew thinks to the little Bee in his head. But he can acknowledge the merit in stepping back and re-assessing. Looking back, it’s easy to see where he had gone wrong. The signs he pretended not to see. The itch thrumming under his skin. Pushing himself when he wasn’t ready—willing himself to be ready. He can also acknowledge that he never questioned if Neil would respect his stop. He and Neil are still nothing, he reminds himself, and it almost feels honest. But he can admit that Neil’s unwavering care is something. Sometimes, it feels like it might even be more than that.
After drying off and tugging on fresh clothes, he finds Neil still perched on the edge of the bed.
“Hey,” Neil says, softly. Soft is never a word Andrew would have thought he would use to describe Neil, but it's the most accurate at unexpected times like these. Neil treats him like glass—not in a way that believes Andrew to be fragile, but in a way that acknowledges that others look past him. Neil never has. It's another one of Neil's surprises that Andrew doesn’t know what to do with tonight. So he gets into bed and motions for Neil to do the same before clicking off the bedside lamp. They lie on their sides, eyes tracing each other’s faces with the light of the moon drifting in from the window.
“I thought I was ready.” It’s not a confession, but a statement. One that sticks behind his teeth a little still, but doesn't make him feel like he's struggling to pry it free with his hands, and leaves him bloody. Honesty comes a little easier with Neil on the receiving end, who waits with scarred hands outstretched in patience but never expectation.
“Okay,” Neil nods. He extends a hand halfway between them on the cotton sheets, an offering. Andrew knows it’s more for his benefit than Neil’s—that somehow, Neil can still sense Andrew wants the closeness. Andrew’s thumb brushes over scar tissue and other marks from a life of running, and is inexplicably grounded. This could only ever be him, he thinks. His scars, his consideration, his understanding. Always waiting for Andrew to take the lead.
They don't say anything else for the rest of the night. And if they fall asleep with their fingers still twined, Andrew might be able to admit to himself it's not just coincidental.
Neil continues to surprise him a few weeks later.
Andrew can tell Neil's been holding something in. It’s written all over him. The way his foot maintains a steady tapping rhythm. The way he won’t meet Andrew’s eyes when passing him the cigarette, but can’t stop himself from shooting Andrew glances when he thinks Andrew isn’t paying attention. The way Andrew knows that if he pressed his thumb to the marred skin of Neil’s neck, he would find his pulse fluttering, racing. For someone who’s dedicated most of their life to remaining invisible, Andrew muses, Neil is awfully easy to read.
“Spit it out, rabbit.”
Neil, caught off guard, chokes mid-inhale. Andrew thinks there’s no way Neil could have believed he was actually hiding what he was feeling, but the light flush on Neil’s cheeks says otherwise—he’s been caught.
Andrew watches him clear his throat. Mull the words around in his head while he focuses on inhaling again before it comes tumbling out.
“I planned something.”
Andrew finally gets his explanation when Neil passes him the cigarette so he can fiddle with the hem of his sweatshirt. “I’m down to try again, if you still are. I…" Neil clears his throat, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle in the fabric. “I got the others to fuck off so we could have the house in Columbia to ourselves this weekend.”
It’s a small thing, no grand gesture reminiscent of what others would probably associate with the romance of movies and shitty novels. It's no candlelit dinner or sign in the sky. But Andrew sees it as clear as day. The effort that Neil puts in. He hates it. Hates Neil. Exponentially. The same way he always hates things that feel like a fantasy.
Even if it's a fantasy, it's one he decides he can indulge in a little bit.
“Okay. This weekend.” Andrew says, and the brightness of Neil’s eyes is seared into his mind with unrelenting permanence as their lips meet again.
The weekend starts off like this: Neil offers to drive. This allows Andrew to survey the scenery. Familiar landmarks—the curve of Neil's jaw, the jagged mark adorning his cheekbone, the focused gaze he directs toward the road while he pretends not to notice Andrew is staring. When they stop for gas, Neil ducks in to buy a new pack of cigarettes and leaves with a pint of ice cream in his other hand. It happens to be Andrew's favorite flavor. He doesn't say anything about it. And as much as Neil claims Andrew likes his smart mouth, Andrew can also admit he appreciates this. The companionable silence. The comfort in the unspoken.
The rest of the drive follows in the same vein. Then it's the jingle of the keys that open the front door, the soft shuffle of Neil's socked feet as he stores the ice cream away for later, the steady thump of Andrew's heartbeat in his ears as something warm settles in his chest that he doesn't yet have a name for.
Andrew loses his battle with patience somewhere around the one hundred and third count of his pulse. An effort to monitor any anxiety, remnants of the discomfort that sits underneath his bones, and light his nerves on fire until it's gone too far to tame. Right now, it's a hint of a spark—more warmth than anything, and one he knows how to stoke into something calm. A controlled burn.
He pulls Neil in by the collar of his obnoxiously orange hoodie, stopping right before their lips touch.
"Yes or no?" He breathes out. He already knows the answer.
"It's always a yes with you," Neil says. It's an echo of the times he's said it in the past, and if Andrew lets it, it might reverberate into the future. The sound of "always" slipping from Neil's mouth like it's already written in stone. A promise. When they kiss, Andrew lets himself sink into it. It's a good day. The crueler thoughts in his mind are still ever present, but manageable. It's easier to not just lose himself in the warmth of the kissing and gentle touches allowed between their eyes but to realize just how settled it all makes him feel, how their sharp edges fit together just right. They make out lazily against the counter until the sun begins to set. Andrew tugs him up the stairs by the sleeve of his hoodie until they're back where they were a few weeks ago, pressed up against the door.
Andrew can feel Neil hardening as their kisses deepen. He grinds experimentally against him and is met with Neil's breathless shudder. He does it harder to get him to make the noise again. It feels good—but the look of Neil swiping his tongue across his lips, pupils blown wide with desire, is even better.
"I want you to blow me now." Andrew says.
"Okay," Neil stutters out while dropping to his knees. "Yeah, okay."
"Someone's eager," Andrew quips teasingly. But he's just as bad, fumbling to unbutton his stupid jeans and pull down his underwear. The way Neil looks up at him as Andrew gives himself a few slow tugs and Andrew bites down a groan is more intoxicating than he could have ever imagined. When Andrew's fully hard, Neil waits for his hands to fall away and dip his head slightly in a nod.
From the beginning, it’s clear Neil has no idea what he’s doing. There’s no finesse in the way he takes the head of Andrew’s cock into his mouth, eyes cast downward in focus. He tries to take more in right away, but his discomfort is apparent as his eyes begin to water. “Slow down,” Andrew murmurs, brushing a stray curl out of Neil’s face. Neil obliges, concentrating on mouthing around the tip. Andrew cards his left hand through Neil’s auburn hair just to have something to do while they both get used to the feeling of it.
Neil begins to bob his head, a slow up and down, a careful rhythm. He holds the base with one hand as he gains a little more confidence, eyes tracking the pleasure that has Andrew’s body growing lax. Andrew’s lids slide shut as he tries to focus on the sensations. Their breaths, entangled in the air, growing more labored by the second. It’s enough for Andrew’s thumb to brush over the scarred landscape of Neil’s face to ground him in the moment.
Neil slides his tongue across the slit and a shudder is ripped from Andrew’s body before he can think to hold it back. Andrew feels Neil’s pleased hum before he hears it. The sudden vibration has Andrew’s hand reflexively tightening where it’s resting among Neil’s curls. Neil's attention drifts upwards, half-lidded eyes darkening a shade, pleased. Andrew tugs his hair lightly in retaliation, but it only makes Neil groan around his cock. Neil returns to his efforts with renowned gusto. What he lacks in skill, he makes up for with enthusiasm. Spit begins to pool around the edges of his mouth, easing the glide that much more. He experiments. Tightens his grip ever-so-slightly around Andrew's cock while he hollows his cheeks.
It’s nothing fancy or spectacular. It would never win the award for world’s best blowjob. But Andrew takes in the soothing circles Neil has been rubbing into his hip and the consideration that bleeds into Neil’s eyes as he tracks Andrew’s body for tension, and it all matters—the careful attention, the ice cream in the freezer, the house empty except for just the two of them.
Andrew’s eyes skate over Neil’s face, on the ridges of scars, the flush on his cheeks, and he steels himself before he meets Neil’s eyes. He knows it’s over when he finds himself locked onto Neil’s heated gaze, unable to look away. His hand tightens in Neil’s hair, and he tugs once, a warning. Neil’s stare grows heavier, imploring Andrew to go on. It’s enough. Neil’s encouragement, his care, his gentle hands. Andrew comes with a bitten-off groan—Neil tries to swallow what he can, but the rest of it joins the mess of spit pooling around his mouth.
Andrew makes a conscious effort to release his grip on Neil’s hair and pull him slowly off his softening cock. He thumbs away the mess around Neil’s mouth as Neil comes to sit on the bed next to Andrew. His expression must betray some of the fondness he's grappling with acknowledging, because Neil’s mouth twists into a smug smile.
“One hundred and three,” Andrew bites out, annoyed. “It wasn’t that good.”
Andrew loops an arm around Neil’s neck and tugs him in for a kiss to preventatively stifle any more nonsense. Andrew can taste the bitterness of his come as he licks into Neil’s mouth, but he doesn’t particularly mind. Not with the way Neil pants into his mouth or the way his breath hitches when Andrew’s hand traces lightly over the outline of his erection through his sweats. Andrew’s eyes catch on the patch of wetness, visible even through layers of clothing. Neil stutters out a sheepish laugh, flushing down to his collarbone.
“I really like it when you like something, remember?”
Andrew bites Neil’s lip in retaliation before pulling back. “Yes or no?” he asks, fingers tugging on the waistband of Neil’s sweats in indication. Neil nods eagerly and almost trips in his haste to lift his hips and pull his sweatpants and underwear down.
“Idiot.”
“Fuck off.”
He barely gets a hand around Neil before he’s twitching, cock dripping with precome.
“I’m—I’m not going to last.” Neil admits, voice trembling with the intensity of it all.
Andrew weighs his options. He could tease, scoff, and make a comment about how easy Neil is. How quickly he falls apart under Andrew’s steady gaze and skilled hands. Brought to the edge after Andrew's barely touched him. But he remembers the care etched into every one of Neil’s actions from tonight and decides to return the favor.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, lips brushing the soft shell of Neil’s ear. “I want to see you come.”
All it takes is a smooth twist of his wrist and the press of his lips to Neil's jaw, and Neil is coming, panting into Andrew’s neck.
"Thank you," Neil says, and Andrew knows he means thank you for all of it.
"I hate you," Andrew says, and they both know he means thank you in return.