Work Text:
Here.
Neil puts his phone away without waiting for a response, closing the car door behind him with a click. The cab pulls away from the curb, tires splashing through water collected in the gutter as it merges back into the steady flow of evening traffic.
Though the weather has cleared up for now, it was pouring back at the airport, rain coming down in sheets that soaked Neil instantly when he decided to brave snagging a ride further down the line instead of waiting under the packed awning with the rest of the crowd. The signs of his impatience cling to him now: his water-logged shoes squeaking and squishing up the steps to the apartment, the tips of his hair streaming icy trails under his collar. He hardly registers it, spirits buoyed by the low buzz of his nerves as he climbs, duffel bag banging against his hip, up to the third floor of the building.
He comes to a stop at the first door off the stairs. He doesn't bother knocking, instead wrangling his keys from his pocket to slip the newest of them into the lock and turning. He's done this before, but the action still carries the novel feeling of coming home, slotting a piece of himself back into place.
He only gets the door open a couple inches before an amorphous blur attempts to dart through his ankles. Neil's reflexes allow him to get a foot there in time, pushing back the would-be escape artist as he slides himself inside after it. He heads off any further exit strategies by shutting the door behind him, turning the bolt home.
This earns him a tiny, yet irate, meow and a blink of huge orange eyes.
Neil blinks back.
This is his first time getting a good look at the cat — kitten, really. It’s impractically small, with gray patterned paws and head still too large in proportion to the rest of its body. Last time Neil was here for a weekend, it was nothing more than a pale dot in the periphery of his vision, a little ghost whose only sign of presence was the lack of food in its bowl a few hours after feeding time and the occasional swipe of needle-like claws from under the bed as he walked by.
He only has a moment to wonder why it was waiting by the door when he looks up and catches sight of the kitten’s owner leaning against the wall, arms crossed and a bored expression on his face.
His mouth curls up at the corners. He can't help it. “Waiting for me?” Neil asks.
Andrew doesn't deign that with a response, eyes trailing pointedly from Neil's face to where he's dripping rain water onto the hardwood of the entryway, creating puddles at his feet.
Unrepentant, Neil lets his duffel bag fall to the floor with a wet smack that sends the cat darting down the hall for cover.
“Sorry,” he says, still grinning. He shakes his hair out like a dog as he takes a step forward.
Andrew gives him an unimpressed look at the display but lets him come, lets him slowly corner him against the wall and close the space until there's only an inch separating his crossed arms from Neil's chest.
Neil waits, tilting his head just that much closer until he can feel the warmth that radiates from Andrew's body. “Hi,” he says, eyelashes brushing wetly against his cheekbone as he glances down at Andrew's mouth. “Can I kiss you?”
Andrew sighs gustily — like, if you must. But his actions betray him a second later as he reaches out and snatches Neil by his hoodie, hauling him against him. Then he's crushing their mouths together.
Neil didn't realize just how chilled to the bone he was until he's consumed by the sear of Andrew's mouth on his, his hands like palm-shaped brands burning through the soaked fabric of his clothes, pressing him even closer. He lets the heat suffuse through his veins, drinks it straight from Andrew's lips, warming him from the inside out.
He feels the weeks of distance between them like a slackline. He couldn't have put a name to it up until now but he's been walking a tightrope, shaky and set off-balance by the rescheduling and the plans that fell through again and again. Now his heart almost trips over itself in his chest as he comes to stand on the other side, finally safe on the solid ground that is Andrew's presence.
He reaches up, fingers circling Andrew's wrists lightly, and notices Andrew is trembling. He turns his head, kissing the corner of Andrew's mouth, his cheek, the edge of his jaw. Andrew's breath shudders against his skin and Neil stays there, tucking his face in the space between Andrew's neck and shoulder, giving them both a moment to collect themselves. Maybe he's not the only one who has felt the time stretching out and the relief of its lack of tension now — tender and a little sore, like an overworked muscle.
Eventually Andrew tugs against his grasp, pushing him away without much force, though the wet slap of Andrew’s palms against his chest makes Neil aware once more that he's still fairly water-logged. He takes a half-step backward and sees that he's dowsed Andrew as well, his gray t-shirt dark in large spots and clinging.
“Sorry,” he says again, with about as much sincerity as he had the first time. (Little to none.)
Andrew doesn't even bother acknowledging that as he starts peeling Neil out of his clothes right there in the entryway, shoving his hoodie up under his armpits until he gets with the program and lifts his arms to allow him to tug it over his head. There's hardly any heat in the movements beyond the warmth of Andrew's skin against Neil's own chilled body. It's methodical and efficient, the wet clothes landing on the hardwood with a plop. Neil toes his shoes off as Andrew bends at the waist and unceremoniously yanks his jeans halfway down his thighs. Then, straightening, seems to decide he is capable of the rest. He turns and leaves.
Neil shoves the denim down further, wrestling it down to his shins. It makes muffled flopping sounds as he kicks it off his ankles. He's shivering now that he's alone in the entryway except for the kitten, which has poked its head around the corner to observe with wary curiosity. Neil hops a little to get one sock and then the other off as he walks toward the hallway Andrew had disappeared down, tossing a damp sock over his shoulder. The kitten is a blur once more as it goes shooting off after it.
He is down to only his boxers as he goes into the bedroom, windows dark from the setting sun dipping in and out of rain-heavy clouds. The light is on in the bathroom, casting a long yellow triangle across the floor and he follows it, pushing open the door only to get a face full of steam and a bundle of fluffy material shoved into his gut. He grips the towel in both hands, meeting Andrew's gaze in a silent question.
He doesn't take it personally when Andrew only returns his look with an even one of his own before leaving the bathroom entirely, shutting the door behind him definitively. Alone, Neil peels off his underwear, glad to be rid of the last of the evidence of his bad choices (though he can’t say he regrets them). He steps under the awaiting spray of the running shower.
As he absentmindedly adjusts the temperature of the water from scalding (the way Andrew always sets it) to a more moderate heat, he thinks about how Andrew hasn't said a single word since he arrived.
It's not anything remarkable or inherently worrying. The opposite, actually. Andrew usually goes quiet when something has happened that requires a lot of him in other ways, when he's been on guard too long, has spent too much of himself in one go. Contrary to what it may seem, the quietness is a sign of Andrew letting go, dropping his defenses — the reliable signal Neil's come to realize means everything is over. The danger has passed. They can breathe.
The quiet and the way he declined to stay in the bathroom most likely mean Andrew needs time to gather himself now that they're here, together. The trial of being apart for months is over.
Neil tilts his head, smoothing back his hair as he soaks it for a second time that day, but in a more intentional way, and collects the final pieces himself too.
He doesn't stay under the spray too long, just enough to warm up again and wash away any lingering staleness from a day at the airport. When he's out and passably dry, towel slung around his hips, he goes back into the bedroom. Andrew isn't in there but Neil's duffel bag is on the floor, pointedly set on another towel to avoid direct contact with the hardwood. It's been opened, zippered maw agape. A set of Neil's clothes lay waiting for him on the bed.
Mostly his clothes, he notes with some amusement as he picks up a sweatshirt thrown on top of the pile that he definitely did not pack. He brings it to his nose, inhaling the scent of Andrew's laundry detergent. It’s got the logo of Andrew's team on the front, his name and number on the back, and Neil's amusement grows as he pulls it and the rest of the clothes on.
He's still toweling his hair dry as he pads into the living room to find Andrew sitting on the couch, idly scrolling through his phone. The trail of Neil’s wet clothes has been dealt with (in the washer, Neil hopes, not the trash) and the glass balcony doors looking out onto the street show that though the sun has fully set, the rain has let up.
“Want to go for a walk?” Neil asks, taking care to place his damp towel on a surface that will earn him the least amount of exasperated scorn later.
Andrew looks up, raising an eyebrow. He's wearing one of Neil's sweatshirts, pilfered from his own bag. Neil is completely unsurprised. It's his Fox one, faded orange and worn around the hem — the one he never fails to pack and the one Andrew never fails to take, wearing it for almost the entire time they're together to the point that Neil always begins to think he'll finally steal it forever. But it inevitably ends back up in his bag, ready to be taken back halfway across the country, washed, and put away for the next time.
“There's that ramen place down the road,” Neil continues, patting his pockets to hear the jangle of his keys that he took the time to transfer from his jeans to his sweatpants. When Andrew doesn't seem compelled, he brings out the big guns. “We could get ice cream after, from that place. I won't even order sorbet this time.”
Andrew holds out for only another second, then he's tucking his phone away and standing. He walks over, dispassionate gaze catching Neil's smug expression — for which he slugs him in the arm as he goes by. Neil makes appropriate if not over-dramatic noises of pain as he rubs at the spot, though he knows his grin makes it hard to believe. He follows Andrew to the entryway where he toes on a pair of Andrew’s slides while Andrew slings on a jacket before opening the door a sliver.
He pauses and looks around, presumably for any tiny felines lying in wait, but the kitten must be preoccupied elsewhere. They take the opportunity to slip out the door without releasing any furballs into the wild.
The five-minute walk is spent with only the ambient noise of the city passing between them. When they get to the restaurant, Andrew goes straight for their usual table in the corner while Neil goes to the front counter. He orders for them both, something he's done a thousand times, and then he's passively watching the employee put their ramen together, paying, and taking both bowls back to the table.
Andrew has procured them drinks in the meantime. He's also folded his straw wrapper into an accordion-like shape, which he flicks at Neil as he takes his seat. Neil catches the little piece of paper and sticks it in his pocket, ignoring Andrew's pointed look as he clocks the move. Back at Fox Tower, there may or may not be a drawer in Neil's desk with a thin layer of white, slightly crumpled bits of folded paper coating the bottom. If Andrew knows about it, he's never said. He's also never stopped Neil.
They eat, and Neil finds himself filling the silence easily, sharing anecdotal stories about the Foxes, newer and old — little things he didn't feel the need to mention over the phone. Some of the freshmen this year have been trying to convince him to get a piercing, either on his tongue or nose because it would apparently “make him look cool.” Andrew shows his interest in that idea with a particularly forbidding scowl. Neil can't deny that reaction makes himself more amenable and he mentally files that away to look into later.
He talks and Andrew doesn't but Andrew’s attention never wavers. All of his commentary is in his face, the minute shifting under the apathy like tectonic plates. Neil has gotten very good at reading the fault lines.
Also, it helps that they've barely stopped touching. They've never been ones for public displays of affection but sometimes, more often in this past year where time together is limited and they don't have the luxury of saving everything for the privacy of a closed door, they do it in more subtle ways. Like now, with Andrew's foot hooked around his ankle and Neil's leg angled enough, their table small enough, that their knees continually bump and brush just out of sight from the other customers.
It's not that the touches take the place of words. Touching has always been their foundation, their first language. Words come second. It's always been touch that has spoken the loudest for them: the brush of fingers against Neil's back; an offer of safety and protection. A hand at the nape of his neck or a palm to his scars; stability, acceptance and honesty.
Words can be important — yes or no — and Neil would like to think they’ve gotten better at using them lately without the benefit of being face-to-face 24/7. But there’s something so fundamental about being back in each other’s orbits after all these weeks, even if they aren’t necessarily all over each other.
Andrew is there, right in front of him, reaching for him — and Neil is allowed to reach back.
After their meal, they stand out on the sidewalk. Neil looks up the ice cream shop on his map app and debates whether it's worth it to try and walk there or get a cab. The clouds have grown thick again, the air damp and it looks like the rain might start back up. He doesn't feel like getting drenched a second time.
He taps at the map in frustration. Andrew presented him with this upgraded phone right before leaving Palmetto because some of the features admittedly make long distance a little less hellish, but ninety percent of the time he misses the simplicity of a flip phone. There were no expectations with a flip phone, no map apps reloading constantly and thinking he's in a car when he clearly is not.
He's lost in thought, standing in the shadow of the ramen shop, glaring down at the screen and so he doesn't notice anything until Andrew grabs his wrist.
He blinks and looks up. “You still want ice cream, yeah?” he asks.
Andrew never turns down ice cream, but his grip is tight on Neil's wrist, his fingers pressing against the rapidly rising pulse on the underside.
Reading Andrew is easy, shifting plates and subtle signs. Neil probably gives everything away too, without even realizing it. But just in case, just to make things absolutely clear, he lets a grin unfurl and tucks his phone away. He steps closer, close enough to say in a low voice in Andrew's ear:
“Unless you want something else?”
He angles his head, bringing their mouths to the point of almost touching — but he lets Andrew decide if he wants to close that last bit of distance, right here on the street, under buzzing fluorescents and surrounded by the smell of exhaust and rain water.
He does, ducking forward to snag Neil's bottom lip between his teeth, nipping at him punishingly.
Pulling back, Neil sucks the abused flesh into his mouth, tangy and stinging. It didn't hurt. He just wanted to watch Andrew's eyes track the movement. Which they do.
He shifts Andrew's grip on him until they're holding hands, tucking them into his pocket like a secret just for the two of them as he steps backward, the way they came, tugging Andrew along. “Let’s go home?’
Andrew doesn’t put up much of a fight.
It starts to drizzle halfway, a mist that collects on any exposed skin in a sheen but other than quickening their pace even further, it hardly registers through their determination. It takes a short eternity but they make it to Andrew’s building, up and up the three flights of steps.
They're immediately making out as soon as Neil can get the apartment door open. Andrew shoves him, turning him and pushing him backwards over the threshold. It's all hot and damp, mouths sliding wetly together, dragging, sipping drops of rain water from skin.
They stumble inside. Andrew turns him again, backs him up against the door, the press of Neil's shoulders closing it behind them with a thud.
It's nothing like earlier, not methodical or heatless. Andrew is already rucking up his sweatshirt, impatiently yanking it over his head while Neil tries to kick off his shoes and fumble for the lock on the door simultaneously. Their lips brush, breaths mingling and fingers tangling as they try to take off their own and each other's clothes at the same time, whispering yeses into mouths and skin. Their momentum and mutual unwillingness to part from each other carries them blindly forward in short, halting steps. It's inefficient and it has the opposite of the intended effect as it makes everything take twice as long, but that doesn't stop them.
They hit every wall and stray piece of furniture on the way in their bumbling. Neil spares a thought for the bruises on his shins and elbows he'll carry back with him to South Carolina, reminders and fond memories — but quickly pushes it to the side in favor of chasing the taste of rain lingering on Andrew’s lips.
By the time they've stumbled to the bedroom door, they're both down to bare essentials; boxers and arm bands. For a few long moments, he has Andrew up against the doorjamb, gasping quietly as he trails kisses down his neck, dipping his tongue into the hollow of his throat, nibbling at his collarbone. Then Andrew pushes him back. He grips his biceps as he turns them and walks them into the bedroom.
In the diffused light from the hall leaking in through the half-open door, the flush on Andrew's cheeks is dark, his hair backlit and haloed, and the near-frantic pace of their movements slows to a deliberate crawl. Andrew's hands roam all over him, moving from his arms to his shoulders to his chest. He drags them up and down and around, cupping muscles and hips and scars, molding his palms to the shape of him like he’s adding another layer to the millions of memories he has of Neil's body, relearning him.
Neil, in turn, lets his eyes wander over thick muscles and belly and dustings of golden hair but keeps his hands shoulders and up. Nothing about Andrew's body language has popped any red flags from the moment he opened the front door, but the continued silence speaks to a recent vulnerability Neil isn't willing to push. He'll stick to the most familiar territory until Andrew shows him where the lines are, a relearning in its own right.
He only shifts to cup the nape of Andrew's neck, fingers brushing over the fuzzy, velvet-soft hair of his undercut there. Andrew shivers and looks up, eyes molten.
Neil gently tugs him in. Andrew comes, closing the distance between them and allowing Neil to take his mouth in a kiss laced with liquid lightning. It sparks on Neil's tongue, all the way down his spine, making his nerves buzz and hum in anticipation.
A tiny, plaintive meow breaks the moment. They both pull back to see a pale shadow watching them from on top of Andrew's dresser. Neil is unsure how the kitten got in such a place and watches with amusement as Andrew gives a beleaguered-sounding tsk and goes to pick it up, depositing the small creature gently outside the bedroom before closing the door with a click.
In the meantime Neil has moved over to the nightstand and he flicks on the lamp, turning shadows and blue streetlights into yellow arcs and soft edges.
Sitting on the mattress and running a hand over the familiar, cool black duvet under him, he looks up as Andrew crosses the room, coming to stand between Neil's legs as he widens them to make room. He holds out his hands.
Neil looks at them in confusion — then it clicks.
Slowly and feeling something catch in the back of his throat, Neil runs his fingertip under the bottom hem of Andrew's armbands, touching the barest edge of striated scars consciously, reverently, lingering long enough to count the steady thump of Andrew's pulse. One at a time, he tugs the silky black material off Andrew's arms and lets them fall to the floor.
By the end, his own heart is racing, his breaths have quickened and he feels a bit stupid about getting so worked up — but then Andrew's fingers are under his chin, tilting it up. He kisses Neil, deep and filthy. Neil forgets everything else in favor of letting Andrew pry his mouth open, his tongue sliding and caressing and pulling pathetic sounds from his throat.
Andrew's hands slide around into Neil's hair, then his fingers close into a fist and he gives a sharp tug backward. Neil goes easily, catching himself on the mattress with his hands, neck bent back at an angle, mouth open and panting. Andrew looms over him. The expression that usually holds stone-like apathy has started to chip away, sanded down by lamplight and the wanting Neil can see shifting under the surface, widening the cracks.
Neil doesn’t smile, but it’s a near thing. He can feel it softening the skin around his eyes and knows it’s written plainly on his face.
Andrew lets him go and Neil falls back onto his elbows. Neither of them look away as Andrew straightens and, without preamble or flourish, removes his boxers. Neil’s heart falters as Andrew bends, sliding the material down his thighs. He swallows, eyes locked onto rolling muscles and folding belly and Andrew's half-hard cock boucing delicately against a nest of dark gold curls, as pretty and thick as the rest of him.
The sound of the nightstand drawer opening brings Neil back to the present moment. He drags his eyes back up to Andrew's face, noticing the bottle of lube in his hand along the way.
Neil doesn't hesitate as he says, “Yes.” His body has an immediate reaction at the memories of touches and feelings; dick twitching, ass clenching as if Andrew is already putting his fingers to work.
Then Andrew tosses the lube onto his stomach.
Neil sits up fully, letting the bottle slide into his palm. He looks down at it for a long moment until the message dawns, and then every inch of his skin goes hot and tight with a shiver of thrill, anticipation of a different kind. He closes his hand around the bottle.
“I think,” he says, licking his lips, “I'm going to need you to say this part out loud.”
As much as touch carries them through most things — this is something he needs spelled out.
He expects Andrew’s voice to be rough with disuse but its smooth, unwavering as he says, deliberately clear and crude:
“I want you to fuck me.”
Neil's heart skips again at the sound of his voice, at those words. He kneels up, mattress dipping beneath his weight and setting him off balance. He steadies himself on Andrew's broad, broad shoulders — shoulders that were made to steady oneself on, the perfect resting place for his arms as he hooks them around Andrew’s neck, lube bottle still dangling from his fingertips as he brings them close — and getting momentarily distracted by the flecks of gold in Andrew’s eyes he can pick out, only an inch between them.
“Hello,” he says, kissing the corner of Andrew's mouth. “Yes, I want to do that. If that's what you want.”
In answer, Andrew pushes forward and crushes their mouths together properly, reaching up and taking the bottle from him without breaking the kiss. He tosses it blindly onto the bed. Pulling Neil close, he drags his mouth down, down — over his jaw, his Adam’s apple, nipping and sucking, leaving a trail of spit that tingles when the air brushes against it.
“Fuck,” Neil gasps, throwing his head back. “Andrew. Where can I touch?”
“Anywhere.” It's almost a whisper, a puff of air against sensitive skin. He flattens his tongue against a nipple in a long lick before pulling it into the wet heat of his mouth. He bites down.
Neil jolts, then shivers as Andrew continues to work his mouth against him. With the new parameters in mind, he starts moving his own hands, first down Andrew's back in broad strokes with a firm pressure that bunches thickly-padded skin under his palms. He sinks his fingers into the softness, finding knobs of bones, following the curving lines of ribs. He feels Andrew expand with breath, alive and pressed close.
It's not enough. The very real prospect of being allowed even closer soon makes the hair on his arms stand on end as if electrified.
For the most part, when they're not together, Neil doesn't think about sex. Without context, it doesn't appeal to him. He can't really see why other people do it. He hears talk about it in the locker room, even with his willful attempts to avoid it, and most of his teammates' comments seem wholly separate from his experience.
With the context of Andrew — not through a screen, but flesh and blood and kissing him with a single-minded determination — it's different. He wants . He wants the greatest degree of closeness they can get. He wants the pleasure. He wants to make Andrew feel good with his body — a body he has feelings about most days and not necessarily kind feelings on the bad ones. It’s a vessel that has carried him places, allows him to play a game he needs literally but maybe also figuratively to live. It’s survived and is also the key to his survival. He hasn't always treated it with care. For a long time, he wasn't allowed to.
But its most important use, in his opinion, is this: in the scars that Andrew traces, grounding him. The hands that Andrew trusts. A body he wants and knows won't be used against him.
Neil can live with that, he thinks. He’ll try his whole life to be worthy of it at the very least.
They part, out of breath, long enough to arrange themselves on the bed, Andrew splayed back against the pillows by the headboard and Neil coming to kneel between his open legs. He watches Andrew's cock twitch and bob against his stomach as he gets settled, a small pool of translucent precome just under his navel mixing into the thin trail of gold hair that leads down.
He wants to touch it. But he has other plans, and plenty of time — he leans back instead.
He starts from the bottom, reaching down and cupping Andrew's ankles, bringing them up one at a time, pressing his mouth to the jut of bone. He moves his hands around and under, palms cradling the warm and damp skin found at the back of Andrew’s knees. He kisses his kneecaps, lingering on one side to drag his lips up, up to the thick flesh at the base of his thigh. He keeps everything soft, soft — his mouth just a suggestion of pressure, lips tingling as they barely brush over layers of fine hair.
Andrew is breathing heavily above him, his muscles spasming under Neil’s light-as-air touch as he moves to settle his hands once more over Andrew's knees.
He tilts his head forward, letting his breath brush over that lovely, thick cock before he ducks lower. Nudges at Andrew’s balls with his nose, panting into the warmth that radiates from this part of Andrew's body, this shadowed place Andrew has trusted him with.
“I want to put my mouth here,” he says, voice low in his throat. “Can I?”
He looks up. Andrew is looking back at him, chin angled down. His hands rest on his stomach which rises and falls with each quickened inhale, muscles twitching. Neil catches the bobbing of his throat as he swallows even as he raises an eyebrow, mocking.
Why would you want to? It was what Andrew had said the first time Neil asked to put his tongue there. I won't do it to you.
As if anything they've done in the bedroom has ever been about transactions and not about bringing the fragile pieces of their desires to each other like shiny bits of broken glass in their palms for the other to choose what catches their eye — what they want to keep and what looks too sharp to touch.
Despite his words, or maybe because of Neil's rather heated reply that he didn't want to do it because he was hoping to get the same in return, ever, Andrew let him hold him open and kiss the most private part of himself. Neil thought it might've been the best thing he's offered to do to Andrew so far, if only for the way Andrew had gasped at the first touch of his tongue, had shuddered and gripped Neil's hair, shoving his face closer, deeper.
(There had been a little bit of a backlash, afterward, Andrew kicking him out of the room almost immediately and taking the Mas on a drive that lasted three hours. But he came back. He hadn't even taken more than a step into the dorm before saying, accusatory, You liked that. Neil turned to him, careful to keep his expression neutral and answered honestly. Yeah, I liked it. Andrew didn't look like he expected any other answer, expression scornful — though there had been a distinctly pink tinge to his cheeks. He muttered something about junkies as he walked out of the room.)
They've done it a few other times since then. Andrew has also said no in the past. Now, Neil waits.
Andrew looks at him for another long moment, jaw working.
“Don't… go in,” he says haltingly. “I showered earlier, but—” He stops himself, cheeks flushing, mouth snapping shut.
Neil nods easily. “Okay.”
Another pause. Then Andrew plants his feet and shifts his weight, angling himself up for it. Daring.
Even more keen now that a challenge has been issued, Neil gives a final kiss to the inside of Andrew's thigh before grabbing one of the plush pillows around them and slotting it under his hips. He settles himself low on the bed, holding Andrew under the knees again, pushing them up slowly and taking their weight against his shoulders. With Andrew open to him, he doesn't tease, immediately ducking his head and placing a gentle open-mouthed kiss on the tight furl of skin found there.
Just like the first time, Andrew gasps at the initial feel of his mouth. The noises continue — low, cut-off grunts that change timbers as Neil varies between long and flat drags of his tongue to quicker kitten licks around muscles that clench and flutter under his ministrations. He's sloppy with it, getting lost in the taste and haze of the privilege to give Andrew this specific pleasure. Spit drips down his chin, breaths panting and jaw aching — but he's so careful, aware of every noise, the subtle tremble of the thighs bracketing his head.
It doesn't take long for Andrew to begin to relax, allowing the tip of Neil's tongue to catch against the rim. Andrew gasps again at the feel of it, a hand shooting down to grip Neil's hair in a tight fist. Neil moans in return, mouth closed, humming as he molds his lips to Andrew and sucks, hard, tongue flicking incessantly.
Andrew shudders. “Neil.” His voice cracks on the syllable. He yanks.
Neil's mouth pops off with a lewd, wet sound. He watches a string of his spit drip from his bottom lip down over reddened and puffy skin and he can't help but run the flat of his tongue against it, cleaning up his mess, all the way to Andrew's balls. He takes one into his mouth and looks up through his lashes as he rolls it gently against his tongue.
Andrew is pink all the way down to his heaving chest, hair damp at the edges, mussed against the pillow. His free hand grips the base of his cock, flushed red, thick and hard and leaking over his knuckles. Neil releases him to lean forward, dragging his mouth over his fingers and knobs of bone, tasting salt and bitterness on his lips.
The hand in his hair tightens to the point that Neil's scalp tingles, pulling him sharply away. “Menace,” Andrew hisses. “You're insufferable.”
“I thought you liked it when I run my mouth.” He pointedly flicks his tongue out to catch a stray drop making its way down his chin.
Andrew doesn't answer, though his dark eyes track the movement, his hand tightening on himself in what must be a near-painful grip before he relinquishes his hold altogether.
Neil hears the rustle of sheets but he's too busy watching the head of Andrew's released dick bob and smear the pool of precome on his belly around, weeping with translucent strings. When he does manage to pull his eyes away, he sees Andrew popping the cap on the bottle of lube open with his teeth. Neil swallows thickly and lets go of Andrew's leg to reach up, only a little confused when Andrew hands him the bottle, holding out his own hand instead. Neil obliges the request and squeezes lube into the cup of his palm, tossing the bottle aside to see what Andrew will do next.
What he does next is tilt his hand, letting the lube run down his fingers, a stray drop plopping onto his stomach, adding to the mess. Then he snakes a hand down and around, hips twisting, ankles crossing over Neil's back, until his fingers brush against where Neil's mouth has just been. Andrew swirls his fingers over his hole almost experimentally, mixing the lube with Neil's spit. Then he's pushing a finger inside.
Neil hardly blinks as he is held captive not only by the hand fisting his hair, holding him in place, but by the breathtaking sight of Andrew's thick middle finger disappearing inside himself — just the tip at first, but another shift of Andrew's hips and he manages to almost get down to the knuckle. Neil lets out a sound, a whine low in his throat that rolls over Andrew's knuckles as Andrew starts to move, stretching himself open only inches away.
He's not as gentle and slow as Neil would be, working his finger in and out at a pace that suggests more purpose than pleasure or the careful and exploratory method Neil approaches it with. This is proven true when he adds a second finger far faster than Neil would have. Neil lets out another whine. The angle is awkward and he's still so tight, the tip of Andrew's pointer finger barely manages to press in next to his other one. Neil's hands, back on Andrew's thighs to help stabilize them both, clench uselessly, digging into plush flesh.
Andrew uses his free hand to angle Neil's head up to look at him. His mouth is open, tongue brushing his lips as he concentrates on keeping his fingers moving. “What,” he says, voice deceptively level. “What do you want, Neil?”
“You,” Neil answers immediately. “Can I…?” A dozen things run through his head and he wants to do them all, everything, right now, his heart thundering in chest. He settles for the most urgent.
”Can I kiss you?”
Andrew's fingers pause, then stop altogether. He loosens his grip on Neil's hair, sliding his palm around to cup the back of his skull and tug him up.
Neil goes, pitching himself forward in his haste. He almost misses his mark, smashing into Andrew's jaw before he corrects his course and takes Andrew's mouth in a kiss that is far gentler by comparison. A press of lips and barest hint of tongues touching, Andrew’s hand cradling him close. Neil's elbows shake as he holds himself up above Andrew, their bodies not yet touching. They pant into one another. Then Neil ducks his head, sucking at the smooth junction where Andrew's neck meets his shoulder, moving upward as Andrew shudders underneath him, to the underside of his chin, ending with a final peck on Andrew's jaw.
He can see another comment about his mouth and his inability to control it in Andrew's expression when he meets his gaze. Neil grins — and just because — he gives him a wet, smacking kiss on his cheek.
“Pest,” Andrew mutters, pushing him away. “Don't you have better things to do?”
“Nope,” Neil says, doing the same to the other cheek before Andrew flicks him hard on the ear.
With a little juggling, he's able to take the lube Andrew shoves at him, getting his own fingers slick. The harder task proves to be keeping them on track as he drags them down Andrew's body, stopping to swirl a finger around a nipple and to stroke a soft line down Andrew's neglected cock. Andrew curses and shifts his hips restlessly as the barely-there touch drags up momentarily, then all the way back down, dipping between his legs.
Wanting to avoid teasing Andrew into flicking him again, Neil only barely brushes against his balls before going lower. He pauses, almost pulling back when he finds Andrew's own hand still there, with his fingertips somehow managing to stay buried inside.
“Fuck,” he says, watching Andrew's face as he traces around them, then pushes them a little deeper.
Neil sees Andrew’s pupils blow wide a split second before he turns his head and stifles a noise into his shoulder. Neil hums, kissing his temple. Then he pushes himself up, back on his haunches between Andrew's legs. “I've got you,” he says, prodding at his fingers again, rubbing and stroking. “Let me?”
Andrew nods and shifts. His hand falls away as he straightens his body from the awkward position, muscles flexing and rolling in an attempt to stretch out the strain in them. Neil presses the thumb of his clean hand into Andrew's hip, kneading the joint. “Okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” He shoves a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “Keep going.”
Obediently, Neil reaches down and easily slides one finger all the way in — the hot, wet heat of him all-encompassing, dizzying. He lets it sit for a moment, his knuckles pressed to the soft curve of Andrew’s ass, gaze moving over Andrew's twitching balls and cock, his rising chest, up to his face.
Neil's chest squeezes as he finds the usual hard plain of it cracked open with wanting, mouth soft with it. “Andrew.”
“Move,” Andrew says, voice rough. “Talk.”
“I like seeing you like this.” Neil complies immediately, starting to move his finger. Pulling out in a smooth glide, thrusting tenderly back in. Andrew rolls with the movements, rocking up the mattress as his legs tense and flex — his muscles clenching inside as well, clinging and pushing in turn. Neil runs a soothing hand down Andrew's thigh, smoothing over downy golden hair as he starts a steady pace.
“I like seeing you lose control.”
Some of the tension breaks as Andrew lifts a leg to kick him in the side. Neil doesn't miss a beat, grabbing his ankle with his free hand and putting it back down, doesn't let go. “I missed you,” he continues as he withdraws his finger, the tip of his middle one coming up next to it, brushing against his rim. “Can I add another? Yes or no?”
Andrew cants his hips up. “Yes,” he says. Then, challenging, tipping his chin: “Two.”
Neil squeezes his ankle. Instead of adding two more right away, he pushes only his middle finger in beside his index, waiting until Andrew stops clamping down around him before moving in the same pace as before, sinking in, in, in. It takes two tries, but Neil crooks his fingers and Andrew jerks as he hits his prostate dead on. Only then, curling and twisting his fingers and increasing his thrusts until Andrew is panting and squirming under him — only then does he start to tease a third finger up against the others.
“Yes,” Andrew says before Neil can even ask, punched-out with another brush against that spot inside him.
Neil reaches for the lube, adding more to his already soaked fingers, just to be on the safe side. Andrew's huff of annoyance turns into a sucked-in breath through his teeth at the touch of cold directly against his skin as the lube dribbles down before Neil can catch it and warm it up. To make up for it, he doesn't waste time, slowly pushing all three of his fingers past that tight ring of muscle.
The initial stretch has them both holding their breath. Neil lets noises and words of praise fall mindlessly from his lips, his free hand rubbing up and down Andrew's shin as he moves in tiny increments, working his way in, back to where he was before, a centimeter at a time. He shifts his grip to grasp at Andrew's hip as they start to roll, riding out his impatient attempts to try and sink down on his fingers.
“I've got you, Andrew,” he says again, bottoming out at his knuckles. “You're doing so well, opening up for me.”
Andrew gives him an unimpressed look though it's undermined greatly by the flush of his cheeks and the ragged gasp of his breaths. Neil, with his hands preoccupied, tilts his head to the side and rubs his face against Andrew's knee, closing his eyes and brushing his lips over it in an attempt to sooth them both. He moves, finding a rhythm again, not pausing even when his hand starts to cramp. He focuses on the way he can feel Andrew start to relax further, pulsing around him, each slide easier than the last.
“Neil,” Andrew says and Neil looks up. The flash of faux annoyance is gone, revealing more of that cracked open expression. He looks as close to wrecked as Neil has ever seen him. “Do something.”
Neil's chest clenches again like a closed fist. “Alright. It's alright,” he says. “I'm going to pull out. Do you still want—?”
“Yes.”
Neil kisses Andrew's knee one last time and removes his fingers. Andrew shudders, closing his eyes. He nods in assurance when he opens them again and finds Neil's watchful gaze on him.
Neil looks around. Andrew didn't grab a condom from the drawer when he got out the lube — they don't use them that often, almost never when Andrew fucks Neil mostly because Neil likes the closeness and doesn't mind the mess, but they have almost every time when it's the other way around.
Not seeing one just lying around, he reaches for the nightstand, leaning his body precariously over the side of the bed. He makes a startled noise and nearly loses his balance when Andrew grabs him by the waist and pulls him back, rolling him over to the other side of the bed, and shoves him back into the pillows. Neil blinks, dazed. Andrew is already pulling off his underwear — the only article of clothing left between them.
“Are you sure?” he asks as his cock pops out from behind the elastic in his boxers, slapping his stomach.
In answer, Andrew grabs the lube and slicks him up in short, rough strokes.
Neil hadn't thought about himself this whole time but this serves to remind him, very quickly and critically, that he's so hard it hurts — he has been for a while now. Andrew's fast, near-punishing grip on him has him arching off the bed, every nerve electrified and far closer to the edge than he realized as his muscles clench immediately against an incoming orgasm.
“Oh. Oh, shit,” he gasps, hand snapping down to still Andrew's. “Wait. I'm— I'm good.”
He feels his face heat at Andrew's raised eyebrow.
“Fuck off,” he pants, nerves still fizzing and popping. “It's been a while.”
Andrew snorts but obligingly lets his dick go. He shifts his weight, the mattress dipping and jostling them both until he's straddling Neil's waist, knees pressed up around his ribs. Neil is captivated by the sight in front of him. Andrew's body is all pink and shadows and soft curves, yellow lamplight catching in the sweat sticking his hair to his forehead and the shining head of his cock. A tenderness presses up against Neil's heart, sharp and painful. Beautiful.
Then Andrew leans up on his knees, reaching down to line them up, and sinks down.
All of the breath in Neil’s lungs leaves him at once as the tip of his cock slides inside with no resistance. Andrew is slick and open but it's still so fucking tight and hot it makes Neil grit his teeth and throw his head back into the pillows. Andrew is breathing hard through his nose above him, small bitten-off moans passing his lips as he works himself down, taking Neil further. He doesn't stop until he's fully seated, leaning back, his blunt nails digging into Neil's thighs.
Feeling completely undone, Neil sucks in a much-needed breath. “Fuck," he says.
His hands flutter on the sheets, flighty things that hover over Andrew's knees and away again until Andrew grabs them and places them firmly on his hips. They share a look, eyes catching and locking. Then Andrew starts to move. Neil feels like his lungs have been vacuum sealed, allowing for only tiny sips of air — the pleasure a physical pressure, a presence throughout his body, pressing down and dragging over his nerve endings with each rise and fall of Andrew on his cock.
He uses all of his self-possessed control to stay still, to not buck his hips up into that maddening, tight heat, to let Andrew chase his own pleasure. He focuses on the slap of their skin coming together over and over, the wet smack of Andrew's cock hitting his stomach, the bounce of Andrew's weight in his lap, solid and strong. He watches muscles and fat jiggle with rapt attention — all a weak attempt to distract himself so doesn't come immediately.
It really has been a while.
It's not helpful when Andrew collapses forward, elbows bracketing Neil's head, and rocks backward in short, fast movements. Neil's hands clamp down on him as he feels the threads of his orgasm gather together sharply, close to snapping and ending this all right now.
“Andrew,” he gasps and Andrew must know, hear it in his voice, because he slows, not stopping but at least not riding him to immediate and embarrassing climax.
Neil's eyes are closed, trying to hold on, catch his breath. He feels fingers brush against his cheek, then a palm at the base of his neck.
“Neil.” Andrew stills his movements entirely. Neil looks up at him, blinking the room back into focus. Andrew's lips are swollen and wet, like he's been biting them while Neil wasn't looking. His face is close enough Neil can once again pick out the flecks of gold and even the faint ring of green in his eyes.
“Fuck me,” he says.
Neil squeezes his own eyes shut again. “God.”
The hand at the back of his neck squeezes. A slow roll of hips has him biting down on a vicious curse. “Come on, junkie,” Andrew whispers, the words hot on his ear, tone mocking.
Neil gathers his strength and pushes himself up on one elbow, his other arm cinching around Andrew's waist as he sits up. Andrew grips his shoulders and they both grunt quietly at the change in angle, but Neil's not done. He rolls them over in a similar move as Andrew's earlier one, pressing his cock deep and keeping their hips connected as he turns them carefully so as to not have to part. It's more difficult than he thought it would be and his muscles shake from the effort, but the task keeps him away from the edge at least — and it’s worth it for the way Andrew looks when he hits the pillows, hair fanning out, mouth falling open.
His hands grip Neil's arms. “Yeah?” Neil asks, their faces only inches from each other.
Andrew squeezes, panting, pulling him closer. He rubs their cheeks together, smooth skin bumping over scars. “Good.”
Neil kisses him, quick, on the tip of his nose then leans back. Andrew's hands drop away, and Neil busies himself fixing the pillow under Andrew, tapping Andrew's hip to have him lift slightly. He moves with him, earning him a cut-off sound as he slides an inch up and down Neil's cock to settle.
“Still good?” Neil asks.
“Shut. Up.”
Neil leans his weight forward, grinding his hips absentmindedly, humming. He spreads his knees, hooking Andrew's legs over his thighs and gripping Andrew's waist. He thrusts a little, just to see, and Andrew makes a sound that he doesn't catch in time — a moan that's high, almost sweet.
“Yeah, like that,” Neil encourages, and starts to move.
He picks up his pace, rolling his hips in a relentless rhythm, faster but not harder. He concentrates more on going deep, grinding in again at the end of each thrust, chasing the sounds that that pulls from Andrew's throat. He puts his hands under Andrew's knees, slick with sweat, pushing them back and holding them open. His attention is divided between watching Andrew's face — clenched jaw, corded muscles straining in his neck — and watching his cock move in and out of him, getting practically sucked in on every thrust as Andrew's clenches around him, desperate to not let him go.
Neil can tell Andrew's getting close by that alone — but also the way his muscles jump in his belly, his thighs, a hand straying toward his straining, leaking cock. Neil shifts forward, taking his legs on his shoulders to lean over him, a palm braced on the pillow by his head. He brushes Andrew's hand gently away from himself. “Wait,” he breathes. “I want you to hold on. Just a little longer.”
“Big talk,” Andrew says, strangled, “for a man who nearly blew his load. Twice.”
But Neil is focused on his goal now, continuing to pump his hips, bending his head and leaving a collar of kisses around Andrew's neck. He feels it when Andrew swallows, his hands coming up to grip his shoulders again, nails digging in as he rolls up to match each thrust.
“Neil. Neil.”
“Yeah,” Neil agrees.
“It feels…”
“Good.”
“Yes,” Andrew hisses. He lifts his legs and locks his ankles around Neil's ass, holding him close. “Don't stop.”
Neil lifts his head, heart tender in his chest as he kisses him, achingly soft. “Never,” he says against his lips.
He falls onto his elbows, thighs burning as he speeds up, allowing himself to finally chase the pleasure mounting rapidly, urgently throughout him with every dragging, reluctant withdrawal of his cock, every sucking surge back in. It’s Andrew that brings him right up to that edge again though, the warmth of his body, the feel of his skin against his, his moans in his ear.
“I missed you,” Neil says, only half aware of the words, as true as they are, pouring out of his mouth. “You're amazing. So good for me. Love the way you look right now. Love the way you feel,”
“Neil.” His name breaks apart on Andrew’s tongue, completely cracked down the middle.
“Yeah, Andrew,” he says, feeling the end approaching like the hair-raising atmosphere just before a lightning strike. He reaches a hand down between them to catch Andrew's cock in a loose grasp. It's wet and hard and Andrew is close enough that he just holds it, allowing the rocking movements of their bodies to push the hot length of it through his fist. “I'm here,” he whispers. “Let go.”
He knows the moment Andrew does, his entire body clenching and seizing around him. “Neil,” he gasps, choking, “I love—”
And then he's coming with a jolt, curling around Neil, face burrowing into his neck, teeth scraping against his skin and biting down. His cock pulses in Neil’s hand, hot streams coating his knuckles as he jerks him. Neil's brain nearly whites out at just the sight of it, almost coming himself from the sensations of it all, his heart full to bursting, but he struggles against it to stay present, holding onto his control to be an anchor as Andrew shatters apart in his arms. He fucks him through it, steady and gentle, until Andrew's breath hitches.
He stops and starts to pull back but Andrew's grip on him is iron, even as his muscles tremble with aftershocks. “Keep going,” he rasps, voice rough, muffled with his face still pressed to Neil's neck.
“Yeah? Are you— Are you sure?”
Andrew clenches around him, still shuddering. Neil gasps, letting go of his softening cock to bump a relatively clean knuckle against his chin.
Andrew lifts his face to meet his eyes. He's red and shining with sweat, expression still broken open from where he hasn’t had time to piece it back together — except for the familiar burning of a challenge in his eyes. He rolls his hips, shifting Neil's cock deeper inside him.
"Fuck.” It feels like his nerves are scraped raw, his edges just as peeled back and exposed. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
“I know.”
Neil searches the face before him one last time, then he presses his lips to Andrew's in a chaste kiss that quickly dissolves into nothing more than panting breaths as he starts moving again, Andrew shaking and holding him close, holding him together as he starts to come apart. It's not a lightning strike like he thought but something deep pulled from the marrow of his bones, a heat that sears him, makes his voice catch on a cry as his eyes squeeze shut against the almost torturous, slow bloom of it. He grips Andrew for dear life, giving a few last juddering thrusts — then breaks, emptying himself, whatever he has to give, entirely.
Seconds pass, heartbeats that roar in his ears. He allows that much, long enough that he’s almost certain he won't pass out if he moves. He blinks the stars from his eyes and pulls out as delicately as he can, shivering at the loss of heat, the oversensitivity. He also can’t help a wince at the immediate aftermath that follows in his wake. He looks up, swallowing a few times to make his voice work.
“Towel?”
Andrew nods, face now pieced together and carefully neutral as he lets his arms and legs fall back onto the bed. Neil thinks he probably should have pressed the issue more on the lack of condom use, but all he can do now is whatever Andrew needs him to do.
He stands. This is a feat his body is not ready to accomplish apparently as he has to catch himself against the bedside table, vision going dark and swimy, legs as weak as a new-born foal’s. His hips are sore — everything is sore, really. And sticky. There might very well be a second (third?) shower in his near future.
Once able, Neil goes into the bathroom and emerges a minute later with a washcloth damp and warm in hand. He's not sure what he expects. He tries to keep an open mind when it comes to times like these, to not have any expectations and to be available if he's wanted or needed — or to be prepared to leave immediately if otherwise. But he finds Andrew still in the room, still on the bed. He's rolled over, pointedly on the edge of the mattress, away from the wet spot that they will have to deal with at some point. He watches Neil approach and takes the cloth when Neil holds it out, perfunctorily reaching down and cleaning himself up.
Neil stands, hands restless at his sides as he glances around the room, studying the finer details of it as if he’s never seen any of it before.
The mattress groans as Andrew gets to his feet. Then the washcloth, now cold, smacks into Neil’s shoulder. He looks down at it, catching it in a palm as it slides off his body. “Uh, thanks.”
Andrew snorts, his breath hitting Neil’s skin and he looks up to find him standing close, watching him with sharp eyes. He reaches out, grabbing Neil by the chin. The kiss is barely more than a press of lips, their bodies held carefully apart and not touching at any other point — but it’s more than Neil could have ever expected. His eyelashes flutter as Andrew pulls away, scuffing his hand on the back of Neil’s head as he goes past.
“Hey.” Neil turns, rubbing his scalp, watching him walk into the bathroom. He leaves the door cracked but Neil doesn’t follow after him to confirm that possible half-assed invitation. Instead, he bends down, pulling his boxers out from halfway under the bed and sliding them on until he can clean up and dress himself properly.
In the meantime, he does his best to clean up the mess they made, stripping the bed down to its sheets, taking the bundle of fabric down the hall to the closet that serves as the laundry room. He tosses it in with his rain-soaked clothes from earlier and starts it, pulling down the spare covers from the shelf and taking them back to the bedroom.
When the bed has been remade, he goes to the kitchen for a glass of water and finds the kitten once more improbably perched, this time on the counter. It blinks at him. He blinks back. It seems to then deem him uninteresting and resumes pawing determinedly at the small row of fairy lights Andrew has hanging under his cabinets. Neil turns his attention to his phone that he dug up somewhere in the trail of their clothes that still leads from the front door to the bedroom, replying to a few messages and flicking through a few more, idly poking at the bruise-colored marks on his upper chest.
After a while of standing in only his boxer on the cold tile floor, he hears the shower shut off in the other room. He sets down his phone, taking a step over to the fridge and grabbing a half-full carton of double chocolate ice cream from the freezer along with a spoon from a drawer. He brings both with him back down the hall, pretending not to notice the little shadow at his heels.
He steps into the room just as Andrew is stepping out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his hips, steam billowing out behind him, skin pinked. His eyes immediately catch on the objects in Neil’s hand.
“Hey,” Neil greets. He lifts his hands. “I did promise ice cream.”
Andrew hums, moving around the room to start gathering his things for bed. Neil leaves the carton on the nightstand and goes to take a shower. Afterward, smelling like Andrew’s body wash and minty-fresh from his mouthwash, Neil comes back out to find a set of clothes once again waiting for him. He puts them on, choosing — very graciously, he thinks — not to comment on the fact that no article of clothing is actually his.
The lamp is still on. Andrew is propped against the pillows on his side of the bed, looking soft in a t-shirt and nestled into the blankets. He has the ice cream balanced on the slope of his stomach and watches Neil get ready in between bites.
Neil crawls in beside him, feeling like he was just on the court for several hours, muscles weak and sore like after a good game. He’s relaxed and sleepy and barely able to keep his eyes open as he lays back, the mattress sinking with his weight, the pillows enclosing over his face. Andrew tsks and then the pillows are being rearranged around him, no longer close to suffocating him — the covers yanked from underneath him and pulled up to his chin.
“Useless,” Andrew mutters from above. The bed shifts as he leans over the side for something, then there’s a barely-there weight on Neil’s chest, the presence of needle-like claws.
Neil grunts inquisitively, squinting open one eye to see the kitten on his sternum, looking as wary about this situation as he feels. They share a blink at each other again and then the kitten starts to crawl all over him, claws catching on the blanket, paws pressing into his stomach.
“Does it have a name yet?” Neil asks.
“She,” Andrew corrects. The cat kneads Neil's hip, tiny pinpricks managing to reach through several layers. Neil reaches out with a finger and strokes down its —her— back. The kitten makes a sound, pushing her head toward him, so he does it again. Her fur is very soft.
“Sir.”
Neil looks over at Andrew. His hair is damp, curling around his ears, falling into his eyes. It also looks very soft. He meets Neil’s gaze, tongue sticking out as he licks chocolate from his spoon.
“Sir Fat Cat McCatterson — Sir,” he clarifies, adding as an explanation: “Nicky.”
“Ah.” That makes sense. A name like that could only come from Andrew’s cousin.
Andrew finishes off his ice cream, setting the empty carton on the nightstand and leaning over to turn out the light. He scoots down the mattress, then reaches out for Neil, pulling at his arms, kicking at his legs until he’s in the position he wants. Neil lets it happen, feeling amused and fond and distinctly manhandled until Andrew has him on his side, back facing him, Andrew’s knees tucked behind his, slotting them together.
They fit, matching pieces — spoons in a drawer. Neil can’t help but think about how he moves through life back in Palmetto looking over to a blank space that used to be filled.
It feels nice to be whole again.
Andrew tucks his arm around him, tight, legs tangling. They lay there in silence. The lights from outside arc over the walls and ceiling. There’s rustling at the end of the bed, a tiny weight shifting and settling. The sheets are cool against his skin and he’s surrounded by warmth and a solid presence at his back.
Andrew mumbles something into the skin at the nape of his neck. His breath is hot and chocolatey and his chest vibrates with the almost inaudible words. He knows Neil isn't asleep even as Neil keeps his breathing even; neither of them would be able to sleep like this. So Neil reaches up and squeezes Andrew's hand, tucked up just under his ribs — an acknowledgment — knowing Andrew didn't want an answer. Here, in the dark, Neil facing away from him and everything quiet, Andrew can say it — in this space between them, just them.
Neil thinks his answer anyways, a thought that’s somehow new and something he’s known for a long time, has shown it through a thousand touches and had it returned back to him tenfold.
I love you, too.