Work Text:
On principle, Andrew does not mind his job.
It’s not quite what his professors envisioned for his future, he’s sure, but it pays the bills and gets him out of the house. Customer service is not where he ever envisioned himself, either, but the shop is niche enough to keep away most of the more aggravating specimen society has to offer. A few weirdos, but Andrew can handle those, and the occasional huddle of giggling teenagers is chased away easily enough when he glares at them.
Besides, it keeps Kevin from nagging at him about getting a job, and his sister-in-law from trying to ask him for details about his life over dinner.
So, he does not mind. He’s not the overly enthusiastic, sex-positive employee that his manager was looking for when he hired him, but they were desperate for applications then, and now he’s been here too long to be fired. Not that Jeremy would fire him, Andrew reckons. He’s convinced himself, rather without Andrew’s input, that at least a part of their more frequent customers come back solely for Andrew’s charm, or whatever.
Overall, it’s not too different from working in retail anywhere else. He stocks shelves, he rings up people’s totals, occasionally offers advice on what to get or offers simple instructions on how to use in a monotone voice, with a pointed indication towards the instruction pamphlet that comes with almost every item.
If he’s feeling generous, he’ll toss a free condom or two from the jar behind the register in their bag, and send them on their way.
Kevin will ask, sometimes, if he doesn't find it awkward knowing what people are going to do with the products he sells them. But Kevin is an idiot.
Andrew doesn’t find it awkward because he does not care. He barely pays attention to what he rings up, or the faces of the people on the other side of the register. Even when offering advice upon prompt, he mostly rattles off a list of pros and cons he has memorized instead of taking an individual approach to the issue.
Again, he’s not entirely what Jeremy typically looks for in an employee, and some of his more bubbly, involved coworkers may be better suited to the job. But he does his job well, and he’s never had a complaint, so.
It comes as no surprise, then, that he does not really register him when he first walks in.
Andrew has only just returned from his break and sent Laila off for her own. He’s got his boots kicked up on the second chair behind the register and is thumbing through his phone — it’s a slow day and Jeremy wouldn’t mind even if he were to ever check the CCTV — when the bell above the door chimes.
Andrew looks up just long enough to confirm that the guy that walks in looks like he’s approximately of age and isn’t causing any trouble before going back to his message thread with Renee.
He’s vaguely aware, in the back of his mind, of the guy’s soft footsteps as he trails the shelves, but only in the way he is always aware of people in his general vicinity. He pays no real attention to him, more focused on setting up coffee with Renee next week, until he steps up to the register with a faint clearing of his throat.
Andrew suppresses a sigh as he clicks his phone shut and sits up.
The guy stands a good step away from the register, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket and the other wrapped loosely around a single bottle of lube.
Andrew gestures for the counter in a silent bid for him to come closer, and he does, placing the lube down almost gingerly.
Andrew grabs it, scans it, reads the total off the register. The guy hands him a crumpled up bill and Andrew suppresses an eyeroll as he counts the change. He slides it across the counter, and watches as the guy picks it up and slips it into his pocket. Andrew’s already back on his phone when the door jingles on his exit.
Nothing out of the ordinary. The guy is out of Andrew's mind no more than five minutes later, and he doesn't think about him again.
Until a week or so later, when the same guy shuffles back into the store.
It's later in the afternoon, almost the end of Andrew's shift, and he watches through half-shut eyes as the guy makes his way in. He's wearing the same hoodie as last time, or at least one that is extremely similar to the last one in cut and color, and he hardly looks up or makes a sound as he wanders around.
He doesn't buy anything this time, though he spends nearly twenty minutes awkwardly circling around the vibrator shelf. It almost pains Andrew to watch, so he doesn't.
He's back a week later, and the following weekend after that. Still not buying anything, just wandering around for five, ten minutes or so and disappearing out the door again.
It's enough to pique Andrew's interest. Which is rare enough in and of itself — it is a small point of pride, usually, how little he cares about the lives of the people that come through this store.
But they don't have many regulars. The only thing more mortifying than being seen in a sex shop, Andrew supposes, is being recognized as someone who frequents a sex shop.
So the fact that this guy not only comes back, but comes back so frequently without actually buying anything is enough to make Andrew look up the next time he hears those worn-down sneakers squeak on the linoleum.
He watches from his spot behind the register as the guy starts his routine circle around the shelves. Whatever intrigue he feels is not enough to motivate him into anything resembling customer service, but he does observe him as he ponders their rows of vibrators on display without picking a single one up.
Andrew has seen many a person hesitate to grab something and walk it up to the counter, but never to a degree of returning multiple times a week just to stare haplessly at the shelf.
The guy looks up after about five minutes of this, clearly noticing he is being watched. He meets Andrew's gaze head-on, unflinching, and does not move. Their staring match lasts a couple moments, but Andrew has never been known to quit. Finally, the guy blinks and returns his gaze to the shelf. He resolutely reaches for one of the boxes, seemingly at random, and pulls it off the shelf. With it, he marches up to Andrew and plops it down on the counter.
Andrew looks down. It's one of the most advanced toys they sell, with a wide range of settings and three distinct branches, two for insertion and one for clitoris stimulation. It features anal beads, a phallic-like vaginal dildo, and three separate motors. It costs a whopping ninety-five dollars. It really is not the kind of toy beginners usually gravitate towards. He's not sure he's sold a single one of these in the three years he's worked here.
He raises a brow, and asks, "This one?" with no particular inflection.
The guy holds his gaze, has barely even taken a look at his selection. "Yes," he says, and whips out a small black leather wallet that is about as washed-up and threadbare as his sweater.
Andrew shrugs and scans the box. The guy pays with another wad of cash — twenties and tens and fives, adding up to exactly ninety-five. He's grabbed his box and scurried out the door before Andrew has even counted the bills into the register.
This time, Andrew allows his mind to linger on him for a moment longer.
He's back the following week, with a mildly disgruntled expression.
Instead of returning to circling the shelves, he makes an immediate beeline for the counter. From the ratty backpack slung over his shoulder, he pulls the exact same box he walked out with last week — unopened, still sealed — and sets it down in front of Andrew, the crumpled receipt on top.
"Can I return this?"
Andrew, feeling strangely smug in a way he tries to ignore, picks up the box and makes a great show out of inspecting the seals, though he knows them to be intact at first glance. He grabs the receipt and inspects that, too, like he doesn't remember selling it to him.
Finally, he scans the box and marks it for return. "Too much?" he can't help himself from asking.
The guy narrows his eyes at him and says nothing.
"We do have more beginner friendly options," Andrew says, prepared to rattle off the introductory speech Jeremy had them all rehearse — page three, section five, vibrators. He's sure that's not what this guy is here to hear, and usually Andrew wouldn't bother, but the strange feeling of smugness hasn't quite stopped nagging at him.
Besides, he's not blind. He noticed, on the guy's third or so visit, when he finally bothered to look up at him, that he's hot. In a sort of skittish, hunted prey animal kind of way that Andrew isn't normally drawn to. He's short, barely any taller than Andrew himself, and slight in frame where Andrew prides himself on his bulk. His hair gleams a coppery red in the light, but is dark enough to compliment the tan of his skin instead of palloring it. His eyes, framed by long red lashes and what appears to be a gruesome burn scar on top of his left cheekbone, are a nearly electric shade of blue when he turns them on Andrew.
He's dreadfully nice to look at. And some exceptions must be made in the presence of extraordinarily attractive people, strange though they might be.
The return goes through, the register pops open, and Andrew painstakingly counts out ninety-five dollars in cash. When he's done, the guy seems to have made up his mind.
"Do you have any recommendations?" he asks, pressing the words through his teeth.
Andrew gets up off his chair with a grand sigh. The guy follows him back to the vibrator shelf, and watches in silence as Andrew picks out a few Jeremy-approved classics. He presents them one by one to the gradually more beleaguered-looking guy beside him, rattling off his memorized list of traits for each: "Battery powered, five settings. Cable charged, eight settings. Battery-powered, three basic and two advanced pulsing settings."
"Nothing advanced," the guy cuts in, almost mulishly.
Andrew puts about half of Jeremy's curated beginner's selection back on the shelf. Left with the remaining five, he watches as the guy makes his pick, carefully this time.
A small, relatively unassuming clitoral vibrator. It's a fraction of the price of the first beast he bought and will be much easier to handle. Andrew puts the other boxes back on the shelf and rings him up back at the register. This time when he scurries out the door, Andrew meets Laila's gaze across the shop.
She's restocking the merchandise stand by the door and raises a brow at him now.
Andrew shrugs and looks away, though not long enough to miss the way she waggles her brows or strains her neck to look after the guy.
He assumes this is the last he will see of him. Aside from his initial stunts, the guy did not give the impression of a repeat customer, and Andrew resolutely puts him out of his mind.
Just another customer. In and out the door with no lasting impact on Andrew's life. He sees dozens of them per day and none have ever really left an impression.
Life goes on. Andrew works four days a week, mostly, and spends the other three on the trivialities that make up his life these days. He feeds his cats. He goes to the gym. He grabs coffee with Kevin on Saturday afternoons and with Renee whenever she can make time for it. He doesn't reply to his brother's texts but he saves every single picture he is sent of his nieces, and he answers about half of Nicky's calls.
His college therapist would be proud, he thinks on his most cynical of days.
He doesn't know what she would think of his job, and he doesn't know if he cares. He hasn't spoken to her in years, though he is beginning to fear that her voice in the back of his mind will remain a companion for life.
All that is to say, he almost manages to put the mystery out of his mind entirely. A difficult feat with a memory like his, but one he achieves by sheer force of neutrality. Laila asks him about it exactly once and learns her lesson quickly enough, throwing up her hands and retreating at the glare he sends her.
That is, until nearly two weeks later, when the bell above the door jingles again. Andrew has been relegated to restocking the dildo shelf while Cat is on her break and the shop is quiet, so he throws a merely perfunctory glance at the door — and very nearly stops in his tracks.
Not actually, of course. In actuality, he remains totally cool, and simply grabs the next box off his cart. His mind pauses, though.
Their lurker is back, it seems. He shuffles in and Andrew watches as his gaze immediately swings to the register, halts there for a moment when he finds it unoccupied, and then falls to the rest of the shop.
Andrew keeps his gaze on the boxes of neon-colored dicks he's rearranging, but feels the exact moment those eyes catch on him.
He expertly suppresses the half-shiver that threatens to run down his back. He is a professional, and he is at work. No pretty boy has ever managed to throw him off his game, and certainly not in public.
So he barely reacts when those shuffling footsteps approach, apart from flicking a glance in the direction. The guy is barely looking at him, has his eyes fixed on the colorful array of phalluses in front of them instead, but he is still, unmistakably, headed for Andrew.
Given that it took him several weeks of skulking around before he talked to anyone at the shop, Andrew expects more of the same, now. He does almost startle, then, when he wastes no time with his, "Hi."
Andrew looks over, places a bright pink dildo box on the shelf, and raises a brow. "Hi," he says.
The guy looks windswept, his hair pushed unruly out of his forehead and shoved behind his ears where it's grown a bit too long to manage. He's not wearing a coat, but he has an apron tied tight over his sweater, and a little nametag winks at Andrew like a prize.
Neil.
"I was here a couple weeks ago. I bought something from you."
Andrew doesn't tell him he remembers. It's probably not what he wants to hear anyway. He just continues looking at him and grabs another box off the cart — a glittery purple — in a silent invitation to keep speaking.
Neil shrugs. "I'm looking for something else now."
Incredibly helpful, which Andrew only doesn't say out loud because he cannot be bothered. He hopes the flat stare he offers in response conveys approximately the same message.
The way Neil shifts on his feet, his shoulders visibly dipping beneath his sweater, confirms that it does. Andrew has to make himself look away from the coppery gleam of a curl by the top of his cheekbone.
He's no idiot. If this were a bar, this would be the kind of face he would drag into a bathroom stall behind him, to push him back against the door and tell him where to put his hands. Alas, this is his place of employment, and while Jeremy would forgive him for a lot of things, a harassment complaint is not one of them.
"What were you thinking?" he makes himself say.
To his credit, Neil wastes no time on feigning embarrassment. His eyes sweep from Andrew across the store, pausing on a few of the shelves before they land, unerringly, back on Andrew.
"The last one was good," he says, quickly. "Do you have anything that's that but — more?"
Andrew's brows twitch. "More?"
He nods. "Yeah. A step up from that, I guess."
Andrew sighs. He places a final silicone dick on the shelf before he steps away, and leads him back to the vibrator shelf. "We have a couple options," he says, half-prepared to finally get to rattle off Jeremy's list. "We've got anal vibrators over here, g-spot vibrators here, more realistic ones on this side."
He taps a finger against a box of a very phallic model, and Neil shakes his head.
"Nothing for, like, penetration," he says, then, "I think."
Andrew raises a brow, but shrugs. "Sure. Is this for clitoral stimulation?"
Neil blinks, once, twice, then nods. "Yeah."
Andrew nods, turning his back on their array of anal and vaginal vibrators. "If you're looking for something more than the vibrating, there are a couple suction and air-pulse based options you could try. It's a similar application but a different feeling from a regular vibrator."
He pulls two models of the shelf, both among the most beginner-friendly. Neil shifts closer to look at them.
"This one" — Andrew taps the flatter of the two boxes — "is a bit pricier but most ideal for couples. Comes with remote control and is easy to get in place and hold for a partner. This other one can also be used either way but is a bit more solo-friendly."
He says all this without really thinking about it. They are just words to him, ones he has long memorized, and he thinks nothing of it until he catches Neil scratching his neck out of the corner of his eye.
"Oh," he says, shifting on his feet again. "That's alright. I mean — well. There's … no partner."
Andrew hums. "Alright, then my suggestion is go with this one."
He hands the second box over, and Neil accepts it automatically. He holds onto it, seems barely aware of it as he blinks at Andrew for a moment longer. When he seems to come back to himself, he glances down at the box, once, and nods. "Okay."
"Okay?" Andrew asks, and watches as Neil looks up at him, almost searching, before he visibly swallows and nods again.
"Yeah, alright. This one, then."
Andrew walks him back up to the register and rings the toy up. He watches as Neil pulls another handful of crumpled bills from his beat up wallet, and keeps his eyes on him on his way out the door.
It takes all of three minutes, Andrew counts, for Renee's cardigan on the arm rest to be monopolized. They watch, quietly as to not disturb the process, as Flea slinks her way out of the bedroom door, past the kitchen island and the unoccupied armchair, up onto the couch. She spins three very neat circles before she plops down on the soft fabric. Renee smiles at Andrew around the rim of her mug.
"Fine," he says. "You win."
She laughs, victorious in spite of the lack of an actual prize. "You just don't know them as well as I do."
Andrew would like to argue that he knows his cats better than anyone, thank you very much, but he knows the challenge would only provoke Renee into another bet. Allison has rubbed off on her too much these past years.
Instead, he picks up his own mug, and Renee's attention drifts.
They still have half an hour before their show starts, but Renee prefers to get an early start on their Wednesday nights when she can. To hang out, as she says, and to swap stories of their week over steaming mugs of hot chocolate (Andrew) and tea (Renee).
Andrew appreciates her quiet camaraderie more than he has the words to say.
She talks about work, for the most part, her eyes on the hat she's been knitting for Dan, or about Allison's dog, or about people from church.
Andrew listens, silent, watching as her expert hands weave yarn around her needles. He does not contribute much in the way of conversation, but answers her occasional question about his own week.
It has always worked for them like this.
"Oh, I almost forgot." She startles herself out of a story about an elderly lady her mother befriended at church. "Dan and Matt are organizing a Halloween party at the end of the month. Well, I guess Allison is, but it'll be at their place." She smiles, somehow preempting Andrew's next words before he knows them himself. "It won't be crazy, but we'll all dress up, and you don't have to stay long. There'll be pizza and drinks." Her smile gentles, then, though her eyes never lose their spark. "It'd be nice if you could make it."
Andrew grunts. Dan and Matt have always been more Renee's friends than his, but he has not ever been known to turn down free food. Free booze, even less.
Renee knows she's got him. He knows she knows by the way her eyes flit back down to her knitwork. "Them hosting might be a ploy to get the rest of us to meet their housemate, finally," she says idly. "He's been hard to get a hold of whenever we tried."
Andrew has no real interest in the kid Dan and Matt invited to live with them some months ago. He's never met him, probably for the best, and nothing Renee tells him about him makes him want to.
"You'd like him, I think," she says, which Andrew doubts despite the spark in her eyes.
Renee drifts back off into her story, and Andrew listens until their show starts. She settles next to him on the couch, yarn in her lap, and hands him his drink while the title cards flash. Their mugs clink together, and Andrew rolls his eyes at the wink she sends his way.
The next time their stray rolls into the shop, Andrew is almost prepared for the infuriating clench in his stomach at the sight of those eyes. Almost.
That strange bit of nausea still manages to crawl up his throat when Neil rocks to a stop in front of the register, once again in the apron and nametag with the logo Andrew recognizes from the garden center three blocks down. He smells faintly of damp earth and greenery, and he's got a smudge of dirt along his jaw that Andrew itches to wipe away.
He resists, and craves a cigarette.
"Out to buy another vibrator on your lunch break?" he makes his mouth say instead, and feels his fingers twitch again when Neil rolls his eyes.
"No, I —" He clears his throat, and gestures towards the shelf of lube selections beside the register. "Supplies," he switches to. "Wasn't a big fan of the last one I bought, so I thought I'd try something to … smooth the way."
Andrew raises a brow. "Weren't a fan how?"
Neil shrugs. The tops of his cheeks have gone a bit dusty with red, creeping out from under the burn scar and over the bridge of his nose. "Dunno. It hurt, I guess. I figured lube would probably do the trick."
Andrew recalls him buying a perfectly good bottle of lube on his first visit to the store. He doesn't ask what he did with it.
"So would proper foreplay," he says, unable to hold himself back.
Neil's brow twitches. There is something so incredibly mesmerizing about his face, in the alignment of his features and the way they move, that Andrew cannot tear his eyes away from. He says, eloquently, "Huh?"
Andrew heaves a sigh. He twirls his hand in a vague gesture and says, "To get you going. Or them, whatever." Neil's face twitches again, and Andrew files that expression away to examine later. "Can't shove your hand straight down your pants and expect it to work, not for most people. It shouldn't hurt if you're in the mood."
Neil shifts on his feet. The dusty pink of his cheeks has crawled up to the tips of his ears. Andrew is half resigned to backing off when he says, "How do I do that?"
Andrew raises a brow in earnest now. "Mommy never taught you how to jerk off?" he asks derisively, and catalogues the way Neil inches a step backward, a flinch carefully disguised as a simple shift in posture. Andrew rolls his eyes, but continues, "Dunno, touch yourself? Other places than going straight for the prize. Ever heard of the internet?"
Neil reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, but he doesn't outright contest, so Andrew takes it as a win. He watches as Neil looks back at the lube shelf and as his throat moves when he swallows. "Can I still buy one of those?" he asks defiantly, and Andrew rolls his eyes.
"Be my guest."
He, in an equal act of defiance, rounds the counter to lean his shoulder against the edge of the shelf while Neil makes his choice. Blue eyes flick up to him, brows furrowing and his upper lip twitching. Neil reaches for a bottle at random, not even taking his eyes off Andrew.
Andrew reaches out immediately and pries it back out of his hand. The heel of his palm brushes along Neil's cold fingers and Andrew ignores the little thrill of excitement that runs down his spine. He places the bottle back and reaches for his personal favorite brand. He only moves his eyes from Neil's face to watch as his long, spindly fingers wrap around the extended bottle with a slow and entirely accidental sensuality.
"This one," he says.
Neil visibly swallows once more, and nods. "Okay," he says. He doesn't spare a single look at the bottle, keeps his eyes fixed on Andrew's.
Andrew backs off, returns back behind the counter, and waits for Neil to step up to him before he rings him up. Close like this, he sees a tiny sparkling stud in Neil's earlobe for the first time, and allows his eyes to linger on it for just a moment.
Then Neil stuffs the bottle of lube into his ratty backpack, and Andrew says, "See you next time," with a two-fingered salute at his temple. Neil throws him a last curious glance over his shoulder before he vanishes back into the street.
A breath shudders out of Andrew when the door shuts behind him. He needs to get a grip.
Despite Jeremy's general haranguing about Andrew's lack of a positive attitude towards their main trade — which according to him is pleasure, while Andrew would say it's plastic and silicone — it took a long time for him to reach even this point.
He may not be sex-positive in the way Jeremy wishes they all were, but he is pretty solidly sex-neutral these days, which is better than he ever thought it was going to get.
The shadows that loom over every memory of his childhood made it hard for many years. Even aside from the general struggles attached to his identity in the wake of that abuse, accepting sex as a part of life and one that he could enjoy if he wanted to was a hard-fought battle throughout most of his adolescence and the earliest years of his adulthood.
He likes sex nowadays. He has it sometimes, though he still prefers the calm and quiet afforded to him by his hand and the occasional free special he gets from the shop. Other people create an excitement that is hard to replicate by himself, but they also come with stipulations and laundry lists and questions Andrew isn't willing to answer, and the psychological arousal he gets from getting someone else off is not always worth all of that hassle.
His room, and mostly his apartment in general, is a well-guarded sanctum he doesn't let anyone else into. For his own peace of mind, his bed is reserved solely for himself and the things he gets up to only behind closed doors.
Like tonight. Tonight, he locks his cats out of his bedroom, much to their screaming dismay, and sprawls backwards on the mattress with his pants kicked down to his ankles.
He's in no mood for anything fancy tonight, his mind still itching with flashes of red hair and blue eyes and long, crooked fingers that he's been trying to push away since he got off work, so he digs his simplest vibrator out of his bedside drawers.
It's one of the first toys he ever bought for himself, long before he ever started working for Jeremy, and it still serves him well after all these years.
He sets it down next to himself on the bed and lets his head drop into his pillow while he cups a hand over his boxers.
His skin is already running hot, bothered by the thoughts he's been chasing around his brain on his way from the bathroom, and he's only half-surprised when he slips a hand under his waistband and reaches down to find himself already wet. It's not a lot, and he spares a thought to the bottle of lube in his drawer and none at all to the exact replica of that bottle he pressed into a boy's hands today, but it will do for now.
He sets his free hand against his thigh, circles his thumb across its inside in a way he knows will set his skin sparking with pleasure, and drags the tips of his fingers through the wet mess between his thighs.
It's a well-practiced routine. He's spent years learning this body from the inside out, learning and relearning how to reconcile his shattered self-image with pleasure, and he knows exactly how to get himself going.
With his fingers wet, he flicks them up against his dick, feels his breath catching and the nails of his other hand biting just so into his thigh. It's just the right amount of pain that doesn't return him to his nightmares but does fan the heat steadily growing under his navel.
When he's appropriately warmed up, he does reach for the lube in his nightstand and smears a healthy dollop over the vibrator. He shimmies his boxers all the way off, pulls his comforter over his bare legs to shield himself from the cold air, and sets the vibrator between his thighs. He jumps at the touch of cold silicone against his heat, but the familiar click of the button and the low vibrations pressed up against him distract him quickly enough.
He takes a breath, spreads the lube around as much as he can, and finally drags the tip of the vibrator up against his dick.
He doesn't make sounds. At most, he lets out a breathy sigh or an occasional aborted gasp, but even completely alone, he has an ironclad hold on himself. He works himself up, though — the vibrator is on its lowest setting, but the steadiness of the stimulation is enough to send sparks up his spine in rolling waves. He keeps stroking his thigh with his other hand, occasionally reaching up to his chest to brush a hand along it, but that is a dangerous line he doesn't often push.
When his heels are digging into the mattress, he switches the vibrator up a notch and arches his neck into the sensation.
It's good. These days, the ecstasy is no longer quite so tinged with shame, and he can enjoy it to the fullest as it courses through his veins. He's building towards an orgasm already, he can tell, but doesn't mind. Vibrators tend to get him off hard and fast, which is what he wants tonight.
It's while he's tiptoeing towards that peak, his legs stretched all the way down the mattress and his wrist crammed into just the right angle, that his mind once again fills with images of a particular set of hands wrapping around a bottle of lube.
He inwardly snarls against the thought, but once it's there he cannot help himself. Snapshots of Neil taken by his impeccable memory rush through his mind, but he gets particularly hooked on the moment Neil looked at him, bottle of lube in his hand and a visible bob of his throat, and said, without any resistance, "Okay."
Andrew doesn't want to psychoanalyze why that is the image that inches him across the edge. He curls in on himself when he comes, drawing his knees up towards his chest and tucking his chin down, an automatic reflex he cannot quite stifle.
It's safe enough of a position to ride it out, though, so he thinks it cannot be all bad. He lets the feeling and the tremors wash over him, a great tidal wave of pleasure and relief and just a hint of annoyance that some customer managed to make his way into Andrew's mind this way, but it's blotted out by the wave of euphoria.
He relaxes, lets his legs drop back down and his head backwards when most of the heady rush has faded. He switches the vibrator off and chucks it to the side, but makes no immediate move to get up.
He used to have to — had to rush up and into the bathroom to wash away the evidence before he lost track of where he was, how old he was, how many years it had been, and the damp mess between his legs took on a much darker turn. He beat that particular beast a few years ago, though, and gives himself a moment to catch his breath.
When he finally drags himself up off the bed and into the bathroom to shower, he banishes all thoughts of mysterious red-haired gardeners and scrubs extra hard at his scalp like that would help scrape them from his brain.
He has enough issues in his life as is.
He has no room left for surprise when Neil returns to the shop the following week.
At least he's not coming straight from work this time, it seems, judging by the lack of apron and the unfamiliar gym bag and running shoes he's sporting. He shuffles in past the door and wastes no time pretending to shop around before he sets upon the register.
Andrew watches him approach and doesn't take his feet off the chair beside him.
"Hi." Neil props his bag against the edge of the counter and leans the rest of his weight against it.
Andrew returns an unimpressed stare. "Hi."
Something is different about the air between them today. Neil's eyes are still set eerily straight on him, but he doesn't flush as easily, and his shoulders are squared when he says, "I don't use the internet."
Andrew raises a brow to conceal his moment of confusion. "At all?"
"Not if I can avoid it."
Maybe Andrew misjudged him. The garden center association was a surprise at first, but he figured everyone had to work somewhere — Andrew works here, after all. But maybe he was wrong and it's Neil's true calling. "Are you some kind of nature freak then? Like a hippie?"
With Renee as his best friend, a regular volunteer for nature conservation projects with her church, he garners he's allowed to say this. One time he helped them move a tree they were planting.
But Neil's brow furrows. "No. I just don't like it."
Andrew jumps to the next best conclusion. "Paranoid?"
He knows by the way Neil's gaze flicks away for even just a moment that he's closer to the truth than Neil would like, and by the weight of his eyes when they return to his face that Neil knows, too. "None of your business," he says. "That's not why I'm here."
Andrew drums his fingers against the counter top but decides to let it go. It's certainly not the most interesting thing about Neil yet. "Let's hear it, then."
Neil shrugs. "I came for advice."
Andrew looks at him. He blinks, once, twice. He keeps looking at him, at the beautiful interplay of his features and how they all seem to narrow down into this man poised to drive him insane.
"Advice," he says, slowly. "You want advice on how to jerk off?"
Neil shrugs again, swaying forward on the balls of his feet. He's got his hands in his pockets and his posture is loose, and Andrew kind of wants to push just to see when he'll break.
"You seemed like you knew what you were talking about," Neil says, like it's that easy. "Do you guys do that? Advice?"
"Not typically, no," Andrew says, and hates that he hesitates a moment. Exceptions for extraordinarily attractive people, or something.
"But?" Neil asks, catching on.
Andrew scoffs. He kicks away the chair his feet have been propped on and stands so he's at least at — or close to — eye level with Neil. He does a quick survey of their surroundings, almost superfluous; he knows Cat is in the office and there's no one else in the store. He leans an inch across the counter, his palm splayed open against it, and he says, "You start slow."
Neil's eyes zero in on him. It's almost too much, that undivided focus; it crawls under Andrew's skin and leaves him itching, but he makes himself continue.
"Relax. Make yourself a cup of tea or get in the bath or something. Like I said, don't go straight for the jump, touch other places first. Warm yourself up. Thighs, chest, hips, ass, whatever you're into." He breathes. Runs his tongue over his teeth at the intent look on Neil's face, the way he looks like he's drinking up every word. "Get yourself going, figure out what you like. Then start with your hand. Try things out. You can try using the toy when you're already going steadily and see if it works better."
He keeps his tone neutral the whole time, a flat deadpan that gives away nothing. Judging by the look on Neil's face, though, his attempts are in vain; his lips are pursed, his pupils have swallowed up most of his blue, blue irises. He's staring, bent forward towards Andrew just so, and Andrew can't look away either.
"Okay," Neil says. He clears his throat, straightens. Like he's shaking the moment off. "Okay. Thanks."
Andrew reaches for one of the flyers behind the counter from the various stacks Jeremy has laid out for them to stuff into customers' bags at their discretion. It's bright pink with a frighteningly clinical graphic of a vulva and bold letters that Andrew is almost certain Jeremy himself doctored to read Vaginal Orgasms instead of whatever it might have said before.
In a fit of something truly unnameable, he scrawls his number on the back before he can think better of it, and hands it over.
Neil takes it and stares at the number for a beat. Andrew doesn't know if he expects him to chuck it back at him, but something in him releases when Neil simply stuffs the flyer into his bag.
"Thanks," he says again, and Andrew returns a flat stare. Neil's shoulders dip in what Andrew is starting to think might be amusement, and he says, "See you around," before he steps back through the door and vanishes once more.
Andrew drops back down into his chair and contemplates, not for the first time, simply packing his things and leaving.
He wakes from his post-work nap to a paw halfway in his mouth and an indignant meow. When he sits up, the black lump on his chest thuds to the ground and scurries away.
Friday trips him twice on the way to the kitchen. She winds around his feet in expert moves that always have her just out of the way of being accidentally punted across the room while still leaving Andrew to catch himself against the kitchen counter.
Her sister is already waiting for them. Flea, perhaps as a result of having lived here longer and knowing Andrew better than the unlucky bastard currently circling his calves, usually resorts to pawing at the empty food bowl and staring accusingly across the room at him.
"Shut up," he says into the silence, and somehow keeps them from bowling each other over with one hand while measuring their kibble with the other.
When the beasts are feeding, he pops his own dinner into the microwave to reheat and leans against the counter with his phone in hand.
He has two messages from Renee confirming the time for Wednesday and wishing him a nice weekend, and a bunch from Nicky that he won't read. Aaron's sent two new pictures of the kids with no caption — he's learned his lesson about expecting an answer. Andrew takes two seconds to blink at the neat swirl of Aaron and Katelyn's features staring up at him from beneath the girls' blonde cherub curls before he saves the pictures to his Clone folder.
His phone buzzes with a message from an unknown number then, and Andrew's brows raise of their own volition.
+1 (839) ###-####: Hi
Andrew hates that he can almost hear it, can almost see wind-tousled red hair and a smear of dirt on a rosy cheek. Hi.
Andrew: Hi
+1 (839) ###-####: so it is you
Andrew: were you not expecting it to be?
+1 (839) ###-####: dunno. could've given me some random number
The microwave beeps, and Andrew plates his food and moves to the table before he replies.
Andrew: why would i do that
+1 (839) ###-####: figured you'd know better than to give your personal details to a stranger
Andrew: yet here you are, giving your own personal details to a stranger
There's a pause, which Andrew uses to save the number to his phone and shove some rice into his mouth.
Neil: yeah. i guess i am
Andrew: new experience for you?
Neil: in a way
Neil: i dont get out much
I can tell, Andrew types and then deletes. He has no reason to be speculating on this man's personal life, however much he wants to.
Friday, apparently done with her kibbles but her hunger not yet sated, leaps onto the table and makes a beeline for Andrew's plate. He diverts her and, in a new fit of passion, snaps a photo of her and sends it to Neil.
Andrew: well, welcome to the real world
Another pause, this one shorter and ended by Neil sending a picture of his own; a grainy shot of an alley with a mangy beast of a cat licking its paw in front of a dumpster.
Andrew: that you?
Neil: ha ha
Andrew: could've fooled me
He saves the image to another folder, aptly named simply several cat emojis, before he tabs back into the chat.
He's about to type a new message — perhaps something about stray cats wandering into shops unsupervised, or who that reminds him of — when a second image comes through. It's another grainy, blurry snapshot, though this time of a mirror and, more specifically, the person in it. The phone taking the picture obscures most of Neil's face, but Andrew recognizes the soil-stained apron and the dark red curls haloing the phone. He's got a pair of gloves tucked into the front pocket of his apron and his sweater looks threadbare along the drooping shoulders.
He's not posing, and he's really barely visible, half out of frame and his outlines blurred by the photo's shit quality, but Andrew feels his mouth go dry all the same.
Neil: i guess you've got a point
Andrew, in a show of great restraint, does not save this specific photo, even though his thumb hovers over the button for a moment. But Neil is a stranger, and Andrew is not a creep. He exits very deliberately out of the picture.
Andrew: you will learn that i usually do
Neil: hmm
Neil: we'll see
Andrew makes himself put his phone down before he can think of a response to that.
Renee sits back and pulls the needle out, her other hand coming up to press a cotton swab to the puncture on his thigh. Her hands are so much steadier than his, her face calm. She pops the needle into its container and tosses it on top of the one Andrew jabbed into her arm a few minutes ago before she presses a bandaid to his thigh and claps her hands together.
"All done," she says cheerily.
Andrew grunts and pulls the leg of his sweatpants back down just in time to accept the piping hot mug of cacao Renee passes over. She takes her seat next to him on the couch, legs folding under her, and flips the TV on with her own mug cradled in one palm.
This became their routine a couple years into their friendship; when Renee first switched to injections and needed a second pair of hands to help her get it right, she traded him his help in exchange for hers. Andrew still did his own shots then, but it didn't get any easier. Needles tended to freak him out in general, and putting anything sharp on his own skin still brought back old demons he'd rather not revisit. Letting Renee in was almost easy in comparison, and the rush of relief when he got to avert his gaze while she worked was more than worth it.
Now, Renee comes over every Wednesday with two sterile syringes and a tin of marshmallows for their hot chocolates, and they get it over with before hunkering down in front of the TV together.
Renee hums as she zaps through the channels. The reality show they were following wrapped last week, and she's been worrying all week about what to watch next.
"How's your week been?" she asks without taking her eyes off the TV.
Andrew has not told anyone about the new number in his phone, and he's not planning on letting it slip so soon. He's not usually one to indulge small talk, anyway, and Renee does not blink when he shrugs and does not reply, though the corner of her mouth twitches when she says, "I've been good, thank you. I spent a lot of time helping Dan and Allison shopping for Halloween decorations. Have you got a costume picked out yet?"
He does, and he trusts that Renee knows he does. Their shared enjoyment of fall-themed activities, including the tried and true tradition of Halloween costumes, is one of the many reasons they are where they are in their friendship.
"Scarecrow," he says, and watches Renee nod sagely.
"Good choice. Allison's been trying to get me to dress up as an angel to her devil, but she must know that I wouldn't go for something so basic even if it weren't vaguely blasphemous."
Andrew doesn't think Renee actually cares much about religious Halloween costumes, both through knowing her, and judging by the amused twinkle in her eyes.
"What about the reverse?" he suggests.
Renee taps her chin in contemplation for a moment, but shakes her head. "No, still too basic. Also, I think Allison is pretty set on wearing that skirt she bought. I've been considering Smurfette."
They trade a few suggestions back and forth, debate the merits of Renee painting herself blue all over just to prove a point to her girlfriend, and discuss the general dangers of ingesting body paint during sex until Renee finally settles on a show to watch.
It's more mindless reality drivel, and Andrew finds himself zoning out soon enough. The clacking of Renee's knitting needles fades next to him, and he looks up to find her watching him. The corners of her eyes crease with her smile. She doesn't reach out, never would, but Andrew can almost feel her hand settling on his shoulder.
"How have you been?" she asks, much gentler. "Really, I mean."
Andrew rolls his eyes, but Renee knows him better than most people. She knew him when things were a lot worse than they are now, and she still knows when to poke for an answer he won't readily give otherwise.
"Same as always," he says, which is mostly true anyway.
Renee inclines her head. "Are you still seeing that … what was his name?"
Andrew snorts, and Renee gives him a rueful smile. He was never seeing anyone, though he can appreciate Renee's use of the word over something more outrageous like dating. Either way, Andrew hasn't seen the guy in weeks, which is probably for the best.
Renee hums under her breath. "Nothing new, then?"
"Nope." Andrew pops his p and keeps his eyes on the TV. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Renee pick her knitting back up with a small smile.
"Alright," she says. "Keep me updated?"
Renee is too smart for her own good, and Andrew too stubborn for his. She knows he won't talk unless he wants to, and he knows he can talk if he wants to. It's a well-established balance on the days that it works and a nice enough concept even on the days that it doesn't.
They watch their show. Andrew doesn't hear a word anyone on screen says and Renee breezes through a full pair of socks. She gives him another knowing smile when they part at the door.
"See you next week?" she asks as she ties her scarf.
Andrew grunts his approval, which gains him another smile, and closes the door behind her.
He's taken all of two steps back into his apartment when his phone buzzes against his thigh. He pulls it out, half-expecting it to be Renee already, and instead suppresses a startle at the name blinking up at him.
Neil: i guess you were right
They've exchanged a couple more messages since last week, mostly about Neil's coworkers at the garden center and the various alley cats he sees on the way home. Andrew still has to smother a little spark of surprise — and perhaps something else — whenever his name flashes across his homescreen, though.
Andrew: the rule of life
Andrew: about what
Neil: the whole tea and bath thing
Neil: relaxing
Andrew feels his stomach swoop with a long familiar feeling. The implication that Neil got off, maybe just now, and got off with the help of Andrew's advice, sets something to fire in his core. He swallows it down with determination, his thumb hovering over the keyboard for a moment before he types.
Andrew: better when it doesn't hurt huh
Neil: yeah
There's a pause. Andrew is ready to let this conversation flicker out like all of their previous ones. Neither of them is one to carry on beyond the necessary, it seems, and the lack of pressure from Neil's side is a refreshing change of pace from the few other people Andrew usually texts.
He's about to put his phone away and put the whole thing out of his mind — or try to, at least — when a new typing bubble appears.
Neil: still didn't love it
Andrew: how come
Neil: dunno
Neil: just not made for it i guess
Andrew: not made for jerking off?
Neil: its just not all that special is it
Andrew furrows a brow. Sure, he doesn't think masturbating is the best part of his day or anything of the sort. He can go without it, even forget about it entirely for days at a time. He's not one of those people that preach self-pleasure as some kind of gift to mankind or whatever, which is one of the main gripes Jeremy has with his work ethic.
But it's also certainly not boring. At least not when done right.
Andrew: alright
Andrew: sounds like you're due back at the shop
Neil: wow. sneaky advertisement
Neil: you're an incredible salesman
Andrew: i know
He taps his finger against the side of his phone. He hates having to repeat himself but Neil seems like the kind of idiot who could stand to hear something twice.
Andrew: i work tomorrow
Neil: can't, going costume shopping after work
That, at least, Andrew can approve of.
Neil: my housemates are hosting a party on Friday so they can force me to attend
Less excitement than Andrew thinks is appropriate, but he supposes not everyone can appreciate the finer things in life. Considering Neil just deemed jerking off nothing special, Andrew won't hold his opinion of Halloween in any regard.
Andrew: i also work Monday
Neil: deal
Neil: see you then
Andrew turns his phone off instead of replying, and chucks his phone back onto the couch. It stays there, silent, and Andrew ignores the renewed swoop in his stomach while he wanders into the kitchen in search of his cats.
There is nothing truly new about this, a pretty boy catching his eye, though it is the first time one has gotten so under his skin outside of a very intentional environment. Andrew hasn't yet learned how to smooth the feeling away without nicking himself on the edges, but it's only a matter of time; he has spent years perfecting the art of wanting nothing, after all.
Renee slings a blue arm through Andrew's when they round the corner towards Dan and Matt's apartment. They've gotten a few stares, her blue from head to toe and him trailing a line of hay down the road, but Renee keeps up her cheerful humming as she tugs him up to the door.
The streets are dark and cold, broken up only by the golden light from streetlights and the lit up squares of windows. Andrew is nursing the warm rush of the two drinks he had at Renee's place under his skin, but he has to hold himself from bouncing in place to keep warm.
The doorbell buzzes under Renee's thumb, and she turns her smile on Andrew.
"Excited?"
He gives her a look, and her smile tucks slyly into her cheeks.
"I am," she says. The door clicks to let them in, and Renee pushes forward into the staircase. "Allison's been vibrating out of her skin for a week straight."
She skips up the steps ahead of him, heels clicking against the tile. Andrew's in no hurry; he's been here only once before, for the housewarming party they hosted when they first scored this place and Renee bullied him into attending, but he remembers where it is.
"She spent at least three days handpicking her outfit," Renee continues, waiting for him on the landing. "And then another afternoon on Neil's, so I'm excited to see it all in action."
Andrew freezes on the top step, but Renee has already whirled around to the door. She's shrugging out of her coat, exposing more of the blue turtleneck she's wearing under the tiny white dress she must've stolen from Allison, and raising her hand to knock.
"Neil?" he asks.
Before Renee can reply — before Andrew has the chance to process what she said, really — the door clicks open. It reveals Dan in some metallic golden monstrosity of a costume, her face painted to match the brilliance of her smile. And behind her, when she dips forward to throw her glittering arms around Renee's neck, Andrew's eyes meet familiar blue ones.
Neil — Neil — is standing in what Andrew remembers to be the kitchen door with a little green cap pulled over his hair, staring back at Andrew with eyes that grow wider by the second.
Dan extracts herself from Renee and turns to Andrew, her smile shuttering into something more polite than joyous. Andrew couldn't blame her even if he cared to; despite Renee's attempts, they never got along well.
"Hi Andrew," she says nevertheless, which Andrew supposes makes her better than him. "Fun costume." She gestures to the apartment at her back. "Come on in. Oh, have you met Neil?"
Andrew has, but not in the way anyone expects, and he doesn't think Dan is that interested in his response anyway. He follows them inside at Renee's shoulder, Neil suspiciously absent from the kitchen when he steps past it, and the pumping music inside drowns out any thoughts.
Andrew wastes a thought on how good the soundproofing is in this building and heads straight for the purple punch bowl on the table.
Renee was right about the decorations: they went all out with purple and orange pumpkins and spiders dotted along the walls, cottony spiderwebs dripping from the ceilings, the windows papered over in more purple to block out any outside light and allow the elaborate light system, consisting of both spinning colorful party lights and various fake candles and jack-o-lanterns scattered across the room, to shine. Even the punch bowl is painted on the outside to look like a pumpkin, and various other snacks are held in themed containers.
There are more people crammed into the living room than Andrew would have honestly guessed Dan and Matt to know. They hang off every surface, some costumes taking up more space than people, and Andrew has to shove through the tangle of bodies to claim a spot on the couch.
He spots Matt in a silvery get-up that matches Dan's, and Kevin in some cheap excuse for a costume, and Neil — darting around the room and never quite looking in Andrew's direction. He's in all green, the shirt cinched tight at the waist, the pants fitting him better than anything else Andrew has seen him wear.
He'd admit it was a good look if he was in a better mood about it.
As it stands, he tears his eyes away and focuses on his drink and the snacks Renee routinely nudges across the couch table for him.
The two of them remain locked in some fucked up dance for the rest of the night, circling around each other, dancing out of each other's paths like magnets pushed into orbit. Kevin finds Andrew on the couch and lays into him about not responding to his texts, and Neil appears busy entertaining his own friends and housemates.
It's only when Andrew shuffles into the kitchen for some peace and quiet two hours into the party that their paths cross again.
He's not intending to stay much longer, but he needs some room to breathe and cool off before he can make himself say goodbye to Renee. The kitchen is a welcome reprieve from the crush of bodies in the living room, cooler and lighter, the decorations sparser.
Neil is sitting on the kitchen counter with a glass bottle between his knees. He looks up at Andrew's entrance, but simply raises a brow when Andrew goes straight for the fridge.
"Help yourself," he comments, but does nothing to stop Andrew from stealing a cold beer can out of the door.
Andrew tilts it towards him in mock cheers before rolling it between his hot palms. "I will."
He cracks the can open and leans back against the kitchen island across from Neil. He looks him up and down, from the strange little cap he's tried to shove most of his hair under to the pointy boots dangling in front of the cabinets.
"So," he says.
"So," Neil replies, mouth twitching at the corner.
"Peter Pan?" Andrew gestures to the costume, and Neil gives a lazy shrug in return.
"Allison picked it out," he says. "Thought it was fitting."
"It is. Lost boy and all."
Neil rolls his eyes but his mouth is still fighting the smile dragging at his cheeks. "I'm not lost."
"Aren't you?"
"Not anymore." He gestures to the room around them, or perhaps the entire apartment, like that explains it all. Andrew thinks that in a way it does. "What are you, then?"
Andrew spares a look down at his suspenders and flannel, the hay sticking out of his sleeves and collar. "Scarecrow."
"Ah." Neil smiles against the rim of his bottle. "Very deep," he adds, and Andrew hums in agreement.
A beat of silence passes between them, though it's not as tense as Andrew would have thought. He takes a sip of his beer, relishes in the cold relief pouring down his throat, and watches Neil's fingertips skirt agitatedly over the countertop.
Finally, Neil asks, "How do you know Renee?"
Andrew shrugs. "College," he says, which is true enough. He was in college when they met, and Renee was an instructor at the gym he went to after class.
Neil hums and falls silent once more. He stares down at the bottle of lemonade between his knees, the condensation staining the insides of his green pants darker.
"It doesn't have to be weird if you don't make it be," Andrew says, and Neil looks up at once, startled.
Blue, blue eyes drink Andrew in, and he silently curses himself. Then a smile spreads across Neil's lips, almost shy before it takes a sharp turn towards biting. He says, "I never thought it was weird," and Andrew scoffs and suppresses the urge to kick him.
After a moment, though, Neil's eyes soften. He twists the neck of his bottle between his fingers in contemplation, and says, "Okay. It's not weird."
"It's not," Andrew agrees.
The silence that settles over them once more is comfortable, almost tranquil. Andrew sets his beer to his mouth and takes another swig, letting it pool over his tongue on its way down while Neil watches the night sky through the window by his side.
It doesn't last long, of course. The kitchen door springs open to let the sounds of the party wash back in in full force, and Dan and Matt come riding on its wave.
"Oh." Dan stops in her tracks at the sight of them, sparkly golden lashes fluttering rapidly. "Hi Andrew. Neil."
Matt bypasses them, nudging Neil's shoulder with his elbow on his way past, and opens the fridge to start piling drinks into his arm. He hands some to Dan, oblivious to the way her eyes are still flicking back and forth between Neil and Andrew.
Finally, she tears herself out of her reverie, her smile just slightly too big to be natural. "Neil, could you help us carry some stuff over? The drinks are almost empty."
Neil nods easily, knocking back the remainder of his lemonade and sliding off the counter. Dan meets Andrew's eyes over his head for a fraction of second, assessing in that quiet way of hers, before she passes an armful of bottles along to Neil, accepts a new one herself from Matt, and marches Neil out of the kitchen ahead of her.
"Nice you could make it, dude," Matt says on his way out, and Andrew toasts his beer to him.
Whatever. He finishes the can and crumples it into the trash, then sets back upon the living room to find Renee and tell her he's heading out.
He's unlocking his apartment door, a drizzle of hay somehow still falling from his sleeves to the hallway floor that he tries to kick away, when his phone buzzes.
He lets himself in, takes off his coat and shoes and peels himself out of the costume in the bathroom, letting all of the hay rain down on the tiles where he can sweep it up later. He hops under the shower and looks at his phone only once he's tucked into bed in sweatpants, and pretends to be surprised to find Neil's name winking at him.
Neil: so
Neil: are we still on for monday
Andrew nearly rolls his eyes. His mind tirelessly replays every single image it photographed of Neil's waist in his tiny costume tonight, the way the little green cap set off tiny sparks of copper nestling in his curls.
Yes, they are still on for Monday. Andrew very nearly itches in his skin to see him again, if only to confirm that he can't possibly be as beautiful as he remembers him.
He doesn't say any of that. He types back a very normal, measured response.
Andrew: yes
Neil's response is almost immediate despite the good twenty minutes that passed since his initial message.
Neil: good
There's a pause as Andrew mulls over a response. You looked good tonight, he types out in some kind of frenzy, and then deletes. Neil too is silent for so long that Andrew almost believes that is it — Neil confirming a second time that things are still normal and turning his phone off. He might even still be at the party; it was certainly still in full swing when Andrew left, and Andrew can hardly imagine Dan and Matt letting Neil squirrel himself away in his room.
He swipes through some of his other messages, bored and half-ready to fall asleep early just to escape his mind's endless rotations of Neil's face, when his phone buzzes again and doesn't stop.
It's not a message but a call.
Andrew frowns, but his thumb has swiped to accept before he even really realizes, and then Neil's voice filters through the speakers.
"Hi."
Andrew swallows. Somehow, the sound of Neil's voice here, in his all but holy bedroom, sets something alight deep, deep inside of him. He squashes it down, ruthless, but it continues smoldering as he makes himself reply.
"Hi."
"Sorry, calls are still easier for me," Neil says. "Not really used to texting yet."
Andrew hums in recognition. "Paranoid." Like about the internet.
The sound Neil makes almost sounds like a laugh, and it's like straight gasoline to the little flame beneath Andrew's navel.
"Yeah, I guess you could say so. I've only had a phone with a real texting option since I moved in with Dan and Matt, and only because they insisted, for emergencies." Andrew can almost hear his eyes roll over the phone. "I didn't know that running out of chips constituted as an emergency when I agreed."
Andrew's brow twitches. "There's a story there," he says, not meaning the chips.
Neil huffs again, gentler this time. "Yeah. Maybe one for another time."
Andrew has to bite down on his tongue. He feels strangely warm beneath the skin, in a way no phone call should make him feel. But it's … intimate, almost, with Neil's hushed voice pouring out of the speaker into Andrew's dim bedroom. If he pricks his ears, he can still hear the faint beat of music on Neil's side, muffled by a closed door.
He must be in his room then, perhaps in bed like Andrew himself. The thought fans the flames even more, no matter how he tries to douse them.
It's ridiculous. He's being ridiculous, this riled up by a phone call.
"Alright," he says in an attempt to snap himself out of it. "Another time."
Neil hums. It's an unfairly nice sound. He says, a little haltingly, "It was nice seeing you tonight. Surprising, but nice."
Andrew needs to kill him. He doesn't know how else he's supposed to stand this.
Instead, he swallows through his dry throat, and says, "Yeah."
It's strangely easy, after that, to fall into conversation. Andrew has never been known for his verbosity, or at least not in many years, but Neil is clearly used to talking. He spins sentences out of nothing, tells Andrew about how he met Matt — at the gym — and the long winded story of how that led to him moving in almost a year later.
His words dance around each other so neatly, a perfect play that has Andrew wondering immediately what he isn't saying — what ugly truths he hides behind his perfect story. The edges come up in patches, exposing a raw underbelly. Like the lack of a phone before this one, or how he ended up in the city without a place to stay in the first place.
Andrew doesn't ask. Another time, Neil said, and Andrew will hold him to that.
Instead, he finds himself dragged along on the easy waves of conversation, tickled even into telling Neil about his job, though there really isn't much to say about it.
Their discussion of a Republican senator's wildcard step-grandson opening a queer paradise sex toy shop devolves into other nonsense conversations, from government corruption to alien invasions, until it is suddenly two in the morning and Andrew's lids droop shut over his eyes.
Neil's voice has gone tender and rough around the edges with sleep when he says, "Good night Andrew," and Andrew is too tired to even feel any particular way about it.
He just says, "Good night," and manages to throw his phone in the vague direction of his nightstand before he passes out.
The week of the unspeakable day dawns with more conversation.
Their previously brief bouts of texting flourish into something much more frequent. Neil, for all his insistence on being new to texting, proves to be a sort of natural at it; he sends Andrew random bits of commentary throughout the day, usually something snide about various customers at the garden center, or further pictures of stray cats he encounters. Andrew replies with pictures of his own cats or speculations on the mysterious lives of the characters Neil describes to him.
It works. Andrew, disgustingly, finds himself almost looking forward to it when he clocks out.
It also serves as a welcome distraction from the unspeakable day. He almost forgets about it entirely, too caught up in his various daily goings-on and his conversations with Neil throughout the weekend.
He has the afternoon shift on Monday, not by choice, and is sharply reminded of his own mortal coil when Nicky calls at 10am sharp. Andrew lets it go to voicemail as he gets up to make himself a coffee, tuning out the buzzing of two more calls, then returns to the couch, lets Friday curl up on his lap, and calls him back.
Nicky, having learned his lesson years ago, says not one word about it. He makes a valiant attempt at pretending this is a regular, run-of-the-mill phone call that has absolutely nothing to do with the date. Andrew thinks he'd be able to appreciate it more if it wasn't for the forced cheer in his voice that Nicky only ever seems to get around him.
"... and Renee has been bugging me to get everyone back together sometime," Nicky says eventually, after a long and tedious rundown of his week, and a little bell goes off in the back of Andrew's mind. Ding ding ding. "So I'll see what I can do about that maybe … next week?"
"Mhm." Andrew doesn't bother hiding his sarcasm. Nicky has never been as slick as he thinks he is, but Andrew has grown to tolerate his antics more and more with age.
So he will allow him to pick a restaurant none of them will really like, let him drag him and Aaron and a random assortment of acquaintances there in a week or two, and pretend that it is all total coincidence. He will get a free meal out of it, and Nicky knows not to breathe the word birthday anywhere near either of them, so he figures it might even be nice.
"Alright." He can almost hear the relieved grin in Nicky's voice. "I'll let you know."
Andrew hums again until the line clicks shut and tosses his phone somewhere behind him. He finishes his coffee, scratches Friday between the ears until she gets sick of him and leaves to curl up in her bed in the windowsill instead, and gets dressed for work.
It's a quiet day for the shop, as most Mondays are, and he spends most of his shift restocking shelves or playing games on his phone under the counter. He's on his own for the last four hours, barring Jeremy fluttering in and out of the office on occasion, never one to take his days off seriously, and he wastes a good half hour of the store being empty on staring at the ceiling and thinking about — about Neil, frankly.
It makes him itchy, almost, how many of his thoughts revolve around him. Around his voice over the phone, a little scratchy, soft with overuse at the end of a long day. Around the small of his waist in the unfairly well-cut costume. Around his eyes, a shock of blue among the warm tones of his hair and skin, electrifying. Captivating. Infuriating.
Andrew always knew he was hot. He wasn't prepared for how much hotter he could get once he got to know him.
Now, he fears there are only two options: kill him or fuck him. His brain, every time Neil flits across its silver screen, is convinced he wants to do both. Maybe at the same time.
His melting synapses aren't helped when, midway through this spiral, the bell chimes and the door spits the very content of his wet dreams into the store in front of him.
Neil looks good, which means he looks like he always does. A little windswept from walking, a little rosy-cheeked from the cold, a little foolish in his ratty old clothes. He's got his hands in his pockets and his hip cocked to the side and a tiny smile tugging at his lips, and Andrew feels a distinct spike in his blood pressure almost immediately.
He raises a brow. "Hi."
Neil grins, taking half a step towards him. "Hi. Waiting for me?"
Andrew snorts. He doesn't deny it, but only because he refuses to entertain his stupidity. Instead, he jerks his head towards Neil. "Here for your masturbation lessons?"
It's Neil's turn to roll his eyes. A moment later, though, he licks his lips, and says, "Actually, I … had an idea. I'm here to buy something."
Andrew catalogues that information for himself, and makes a sweeping gesture at the store. "Be my guest."
Neil keeps his eyes on him as he walks past, their shoulders nearly brushing as Neil ducks past him. Andrew's eyes feel equally glued to him, and he turns to follow him with his gaze all the way to the corner where the vibrators meet their selection of dildos and everything in between.
Andrew viciously hates the way his breath hitches.
Neil stalls there for a moment, hands still in his pockets as he ponders the shelves, before he turns around to Andrew and clears his throat.
Andrew curses all powers at play that led him here before he makes his way over.
"Yes?"
Neil has gone just a bit pink in the cheeks, betraying him. He bites his lip as if to stifle a grin when he gestures to the toys in front of them. "Your suggestions have helped so much," he says, and Andrew can't possibly differentiate between faux innocence and the real thing. "I thought you could help with this as well."
Andrew swallows. He tries to keep his head in the game, remind himself that he's at work, and Neil is a customer. He really, really tries. It's not his fault Neil is … Neil.
He makes his mouth say, "What are you looking for?"
Neil shrugs. He's successfully schooled his expression back into neutrality, only the hot tips of his ears peeking out from between his curls speaking against him. "Dunno. Something simple to start with? It's my first time trying … this."
The worst part, really, is that he seems entirely unaware of what he's saying. Seems a bit embarrassed, if anything, and not at all like he is doing any of this on purpose.
"And you think this is what will make you reconsider your opinion of jerking off?"
Neil shrugs again. "Maybe. Maybe not. I'll try anything once."
Fine. Whatever. Not like Andrew has been losing his mind since last week.
He helps him. Of course he does. It's his fucking job. That's what he tells himself, at least, while he helps select a fairly innocuous dildo for Neil and desperately pushes away any and all thoughts about what he will do with it.
He feels strung dangerously tight — Neil stands in front of him at the register, hands wound around the box Andrew picked out for him, face flushed and eyes sparking, infuriatingly sincere in how grateful he is about being sold a fucking dildo, and Andrew thinks he might as well just combust on the spot. It would be easier than coordinating his body into ringing him up, accepting his crumpled cash and counting out his change.
"Think you'll need any more help with figuring the whole thing out?" his stupid mouth asks before he can stop it.
Neil's brows jump, surprised, but his mouth quirks with amusement. He regards the box in his hands for a moment before he says, "I suppose I can just give you a call if I do."
Andrew's mouth dries up so fast he can't even form a response.
Neil grins, a free thing that knocks all remaining breath out of Andrew's lungs, and backs out of the store with an imitation of Andrew's two-fingered salute. "See you around, Andrew."
The door shuts behind him, and it takes Andrew another moment before he can say, "Fuck," and sag backwards in his chair.
Andrew spends the rest of the unmentioned day by treating himself to the largest, unholiest sundae that the ice cream shop down the block from his apartment has to offer and muting his message threads with Nicky, Renee and Kevin while he watches TV with one cat in his lap and the other wobbling precariously on his chest.
He skips dinner, too full from his dessert crimes to think about food without getting nauseous, and leaves the beasts to feast by themselves in the kitchen while he settles into bed early.
He's still debating between continuing his book and just going to sleep to get the day over with when his phone rings, and his traitorous heart kicks into overdrive almost immediately at the name flashing on his screen.
He bites down on the feeling, takes a breath, and answers.
Neil's voice is a shock to his system all over again, even on his single, halting, "Hi."
Andrew needs to get a grip. He takes another lungful of air, frowns into the half-dark room, and says, "Come for that masturbation advice now?"
Neil snorts. Fabric rustles on his side of the line, and Andrew distinctly does not imagine him in his bed, curled up around the day's spoils. In a loose shirt perhaps, riding high over his hips, feet tucked together and a hand between his thighs in anticipation. Not at all.
"Sure," Neil says, all sarcasm, but Andrew's hellmouth brain skips several paces ahead. Imagines it. Imagines telling Neil what to do, how to touch himself, and Neil following, breathy moans and gasps spilling through the line into Andrew's bedroom — a breach of his sacred walls, but one that feels safe, removed enough from his actual bubble that it might be worth a try.
He says, measured, "We could."
Neil is silent for a moment. "Huh?"
Andrew swallows, but he's not one to backtrack. "If you wanted to, I could. Tell you. Walk you through it." He pauses, listens to Neil's breathing on the other end of the line. "Show you how to make it good."
He doesn't think he's imagining the way Neil's breathing picks up just so.
Neil clears his throat. "Um. Do you — Are you sure?"
Andrew rolls his eyes. "I wouldn't offer if I wasn't. I asked you."
Neil mulls this over in silence. Andrew is grateful for that, much more than he would have been if Neil had jumped to say yes.
It makes it all the sweeter, somehow, when Neil finally says, "Okay."
Andrew hums. "Okay?"
"Yeah," Neil says. "Yeah, I think I'd like that. I mean —" He pauses, stumbling over something he won't quite say. "Yeah. It might help."
Andrew listens to the silence that spreads between them. It's not uncomfortable, but it is … halting, a moment of hesitation on a precipice, neither of them quite willing to bridge the gap yet.
"Are you sure?" Neil asks again, then.
"Yes," Andrew says, easy. "As long as we agree on it beforehand, I'm sure."
"Okay," Neil says, sounding a bit winded.
And then the silence is back. It creeps up, building tension the longer it stretches over them, until Andrew can almost grasp it, tangible. He flicks his finger to break it, and says, "We could do it now."
Neil's breathing hitches audibly, and a secret little thrill goes down Andrew's spine.
"Is that … okay?" Neil asks.
Andrew, valiantly, resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes or no, Neil?"
Neil takes only a moment to decide, "Yes," and Andrew's chest feels fuzzy with some impossible, unnameable emotion.
His brain conjures Neil perfectly; he's never seen his room, so it places him in some nondescript bed in a bare room, but Neil himself he sees rendered in high definition. The bounce of copper over his brow and ears, blue eyes fluttering open and shut, a smattering of freckles on tan skin, disappearing under the collar of his ratty shirt.
He asks, "Are you in bed?"
Neil hums an affirmative, a rustle of fabric accompanying the sound like further confirmation.
"Are you wearing clothes?"
"What? Of course." Neil sounds almost offended, and Andrew snorts.
"Well, take them off."
Neil's breathing jumps again, and he audibly hesitates, the lack of sound betraying his inaction.
Andrew tries a different approach, amending, "Take your pants off, yes or no?"
"Yes," Neil says near instantly, shuffling around, then, "Can I leave my shirt on?"
"Yes." Andrew considers for a moment, then adds for good measure, "If I tell you to do something you don't want to, you tell me no. You can say no any time."
"Okay," Neil says. "No to taking my shirt off, for now. I … I took my pants off."
Andrew hums, feeling strangely pleased. He pictures Neil's thighs — would they be as tan, as freckled, as his arms and face? Lean and strong? Does he have more scars than the ones Andrew's seen? Does his hair grow as curly and red down below as it does on his head?
He finds he wants to know, and can't quite sit with that realization, so he continues. "How do you usually go from here?"
"Umm." Neil pauses, but only to consider. "I use the first vibrator I bought a lot. I'm most used to it, and it's the easiest."
"Okay. Let's get that, then. Do you have lube?"
"Mhm." Sounds of Neil rummaging around filter from the speaker, a drawer opening and closing and the mattress squeaking lowly as he settles back into place. "Got it."
"Good. Set them down somewhere in reach, we'll start with something else."
He conjures Neil's image again, imagines him settled on the sheets with his legs spread eagerly, his toy and lube clutched in hand. Heat shoots down Andrew's spine, finding a home between his own hips, and he has to hold back from reaching for his own pants. This is not about him — they didn't agree to that, and he won't be asking Neil now.
He swallows through his dry throat. "Okay. Start by just touching your thighs, run your hands down them." He waits a beat, but it seems Neil has nothing to say to this, so he continues, "Scratch them lightly if you want, focus on the tops and insides."
Neil breathes a shaky sigh, though if from nerves or arousal, Andrew can't tell. His mind plies him with endless images of Neil on his back, hands between his legs, head sunk back into the pillow with his eyes closed. His hands twitch again with the need to do something about the excitement sparking beneath his skin, but he stills them.
He instructs Neil to run his hands over his body, anywhere but right between his legs. Neil seems fine with touching himself under his shirt, so Andrew has him running his fingers over his stomach and waist, tracing a path from his ribcage back down to his hips, skimming over the tops of his thighs and up the insides. Neil's breathing has definitely picked up by then, and he shuffles around more noticeably.
"Alright," Andrew cedes. He has a pretty good idea of what anatomy he's working with considering the toys he's sold him, but he remains neutral for the moment when he says, "Touch yourself properly, now."
Neil does, evident by a startled gasp. "Oh," he says, the first thing in a while, and it's quiet and almost shy. "It's so … wet. It's never been like this."
Andrew's mouth goes dry at record speed. He has to bite down on a curse, trying not to imagine what Neil looks like right now for fear he might come in his pants if he does. His efforts are futile, of course — his brain is long crowded with Neil, thighs propped open, revealing a trail of dark red hair slinking down from his navel and growing thicker at the apex of his thighs, now drenched with his own slick.
He wrangles his voice into an approving hum. "Two fingers," he instructs. "Drag some of the slick up from your hole to your clit."
Neil, from the sound of it, follows Andrew's commands beautifully. It's such a switch from his bratty attitude by day that it has Andrew's own boxers growing damp, and he has to clamp a hand over his thigh to stop himself from jittering.
Neil gasps a little, a sweet sound ringing like music in Andrew's ears. He wants to hear more.
"Circle your fingers there," he says. "Slowly. Try pressing down at intervals."
Neil's breaths melt into pants, fringing with sounds that have Andrew's head spinning. He swears he can almost hear the slick sound of Neil's cunt through the phone, his fingers dragging through his wet folds as Andrew directs him through it.
"Oh God," Neil whispers, like a secret, accidental.
"Do you want to try the vibrator now?"
"Yes." He hears Neil shuffle around, and then, "I don't think I need the lube."
Andrew feels like he might explode from the sheer pressure between his thighs. He closes his eyes, takes a breath. "Okay. Leave it, then." He adjusts his seat, propping open his own legs like it might offer some form of relief.
He instructs Neil through turning the toy on, keeping the setting low for now. The sound of the vibrations through the speaker shake Andrew, too, his dick twitching like a pavlovian dog.
Neil makes a wounded sound way too close to a goddamn moan when he touches the vibrator to his clit. His voice shakes, cracks half-open over his words when he says, "Oh, this — it's never been —"
The immense heat in Andrew's stomach is joined by something smug, something proud.
He listens now, his instructions barely necessary anymore as Neil gets himself off, the sheets rustling and the mattress moving so much that Andrew knows Neil must be squirming around. His arousal flares hotter at the mental image; Neil wiggling around, too keyed up to stay still, head thrown back, shirt riding up over his torso, flushed red and wet and panting for Andrew's voice in his ear.
"Good," he hears his own mouth say without conscious input from his brain, and Neil damn near keens. Andrew, now thinking entirely with his dick and feeling encouraged, continues, "Good, come on."
Neil comes with a gorgeous sound that will be burned into the hardware of Andrew's brain forever. It lasts a while, and Andrew finds he cannot quite stop talking. He coaxes him through it with hums of approval that have his own hole basically drooling, until Neil is spent, panting down the line so hard the audio crackles with it.
"Wow," he says, finally, breathless. "That was … different."
Andrew rolls his eyes and suppresses whatever is twitching at the corners of his lips. "Not so boring now?"
Neil gives a winded little laugh. "No." He pauses, then adds, "Thank you."
That, too, shoots straight down Andrew's spine and into his dick. He masks his reaction with a scoff. "Let me know if you need any other help."
Neil hums, sounding pleased. "I will." Another pause, this one a little longer — enough time for Andrew's nerves to mellow out, for Neil's breathing to slow. "Good night, Andrew," Neil says, and the line between them clicks shut after Andrew murmurs something to the same effect.
He shoves his sweats down as soon as his phone is still beside him. It barely takes anything — he is sopping wet, and his dick has hardened into a stiff little nub, and just a few drags of fingers have his thighs locking up and his hips lifting off the bed. All of it accompanied by his brain's image of Neil: rosy and sweaty and coming around his own fingers with Andrew's name on his lips, saying Thank you when they're done.
He collapses back into his pillow when he's done, breaths wheezing out of his lungs.
He has a problem. He has a massive, enormous, Neil-shaped problem, and no real clue on how to solve it. At this point, he's not even sure that sleeping with him would do the trick, not when hearing Neil moaning over the phone only had him sinking deeper into it.
He doesn't hear much from Neil for the next few days.
The steady stream of texts from the previous weekend has fizzled out, it seems. Neil sends a picture of the alley cat Andrew assumes lives somewhere near Neil's job, judging by the frequency of her appearance, on Wednesday morning, but nothing else.
It's almost enough to itch at Andrew. He's no big texter himself, and Neil claimed not to be either, but talking to Neil was always … comfortable. He settled into the routine with ease, and finds himself checking his phone a few times a day even now that it's seemingly over.
He has no idea what to make of it. Is Neil too embarrassed about what happened Monday night to text him now? Does he regret it so much he doesn't want to talk to Andrew again? The thought is irritating enough that Andrew grits his teeth through his dinner and puts it out of his mind. If Neil is done with him, so be it. It's one solution to Andrew's problem, at least.
He has Tuesday and Wednesday off — a not so subtle nod from Jeremy — so he keeps himself busy. He goes to the gym, he meets up with Kevin for coffee and is dragged along to some history lecture, he makes one of his rare calls to Aaron and spends half an hour listening to the woes of his residency, and on Wednesday night Renee comes over for shots (of the hormone variety) and their shows.
He has fairly little time to think about Neil between all of that — though his brain makes an effort, anyway. He ping pongs back and forth between the walls of Andrew's skull in every quiet moment, his breathy noises on replay between his ears, the mental image of him that Andrew conjured himself basically printed onto the backs of his eyelids.
He tries his best to block it out, but something about the looks Renee keeps sending him tells him he's not quite succeeding.
He goes back to work on Thursday, and spends most of the morning shift pointedly avoiding looking at the vibrator shelf. Proximity to the weekend has a few more people trundling in, and he lets himself be distracted by selling a full strap-on set to a girl in eyeliner so thick it covers half her face.
The minutes to his lunch break are ticking down when the door opens to sweep Neil in from the sidewalk. He's rosy-cheeked and a little sweat-soaked, curls sticking to his cheekbones and his shirt clinging to his chest, and a smile tugs at his lips when he spots Andrew.
He beelines for the counter and leans his hip against it. "Hi."
Andrew twitches a brow. "Long time no see."
Neil shrugs it off. "I wanted to come see you in person."
Andrew takes a breath, has to really, and keeps himself from responding to that. He asks, "Are you here to buy anything?"
"Not really, no. Still haven't tried the last thing I bought."
Andrew flicks a gaze at the time. Two minutes left. Eh. "I'm about to take my break."
Judging by the spark in Neil's eyes, he takes that as the invitation it is. Andrew pushes away from the counter to tell Laila he's leaving, and she only wiggles her brows at him. He soundly ignores her and returns to the front to find Neil waiting by the door.
They walk to the coffee booth on the corner, where Neil orders a cappuccino and Andrew makes the beleaguered looking barista give him four pumps of caramel sauce into his mocha. He blocks out Neil's protests when he pays for both of them and ushers him away from the booth with their drinks in hand.
When they've found a wall to lean against, he shakes a cigarette out of his pack, and watches Neil watch him. He offers him the pack, and after just a moment of hesitation, Neil takes one and props it between his lips. When Andrew offers him his lighter, he leans forward instead of taking it, and Andrew watches the shadows of the flame dance over his cheeks as he lights it.
Andrew inhales a lungful of smoke and blows it into the space between them. "So."
Neil's mouth quirks. He fiddles with his cigarette, holding it to his mouth but not actually taking a drag. "So."
Tension spans between them, worse even than Neil's initial bouts of embarrassment when visiting the shop. Awkward and thick enough to cut.
Andrew does with a scoff. "Cut that out."
Neil blinks at him, his eyes so electrifyingly blue Andrew feels the need to shove his face away so he doesn't have to keep looking at them. Or be looked at by them, maybe. "Cut what out?"
Andrew rolls his eyes. "Nothing changed. It's not weird, remember?"
Neil's lips pull into a smile, and he finally pulls at his cigarette as if to hide it. "Yeah," he says. "Okay."
Andrew nods. He alternates between smoking and taking sips of his sickeningly sweet drink, making for an altogether horrendous mouthfeel that he has come to rather enjoy. Neil watches him for a moment, his cappuccino going cold and his cigarette wasting away in his hands.
"Are you going to smoke that?" Andrew asks. "Those don't come free, you know." Like he wasn't the one to offer it to him. Like he wouldn't give him a million more to waste if asked. Fuck.
Neil shrugs, but obediently smokes the rest of his cigarette like a normal person.
When both are gone and there's only a handful of minutes left of Andrew's break, Neil says, "We could do that again."
Andrew raises a brow. "Could we?"
He almost hopes he's not imagining the heat that dusts Neil's cheeks. "Yeah. I liked that. It was different than when I did it on my own."
He said as much on the phone, but Andrew still feels the same smug feeling creep up his esophagus now as he did then. He lets them stew in it as they walk back to the shop, Neil by his side with his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
When they're just outside the door, Andrew turns to him. Looks him up and down, from the tips of his dark curls to the scar on his cheek to his ratty clothes. Neil shifts on his feet, uncomfortable with being observed so thoroughly but staying otherwise still until Andrew says, "Okay. Let's do that again."
This time, Neil doesn't try to hide his grin. "Okay," he says. "Let's."
They do. Neil calls him later that night, and this time Andrew asks how Neil feels about him getting off at the same time. There's a pause, and Andrew is about to remind him to say no when he means it, when Neil says yes in a tone that has Andrew growing wet almost instantly.
He leaves his own toys untouched and simply shoves a hand between his legs while he listens to Neil fuck himself into orgasm on the dildo he bought. He falls apart at Andrew's word, following direct commands better than suggestions, and Andrew damn near goes cross eyed at that implication paired with the mental image of Neil with the dildo Andrew held just days ago up his hole.
He finishes just moments after him, face smothered into his pillow, and listens to Neil catch his breath across the line as he comes down from it.
"Thank you," Neil says after, sounding, once more, infuriatingly sincere.
Andrew grunts and hangs up on him, unwilling to deal with all that Neil makes him feel with his hand still covered in cum. He gets up to take another shower, banishing all thoughts of red haired men into the little locked box in the very corner of his brain.
The next time Neil wanders into the shop with no intention to buy anything, he's too late for Andrew's break. It's unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon, though, so he figures he can leave Cat and Jeremy to close up. Neil takes the offer of dinner without hesitation and busies himself with exploring the shelves while Andrew wraps up his shift. Jeremy attempts to chat him up a couple times, offering increasingly helpful advice on the various toys Neil appears to pick up mostly for shits and giggles. Andrew watches him try to explain the merits of an elaborate tentacle-shaped artisan dildo to a faux googly-eyed Neil for nearly five straight minutes before he escapes past Andrew to the office with a distinctly red face.
When Andrew clocks out, they walk a handful of blocks to a place Neil suggests, which turns out to be more of a hole in the wall takeout place than an actual restaurant.
Neil shrugs at the eyebrow Andrew raises at him. "I used to come here all the time when I first moved. I'd just go sit in the park to eat. Has been a while, though."
They order, and rather than follow Neil to a park bench, Andrew takes one look at the tip of Neil's nose, red from the cold, and says, "Do you wanna come back to mine?"
It's not far from the shop, and an even shorter walk from here. Neil agrees easily and follows Andrew with the takeout bag swinging from his wrist.
Andrew ignores how he feels about inviting a pretty boy into his home, something that is so against his rules the thought has a few alarm bells going off in the back of his head. He tells them to shove it, and watches as Neil toes out of his ratty sneakers by the door before positioning him on the couch.
Neil looks around with big blue lamplight eyes, taking in the place. Andrew has put effort into making something of this home in the past few years, and he knows it's nice. Flea sneaks out of her hiding spot under the couch to inspect the stranger and bumps her head against the palm Neil holds out like the trusting idiot she is.
"That one's friendly," Andrew comments while he carries their plated food over from the kitchen. "The other one hates strangers."
Neil looks pleased enough with scratching Flea's ears. She makes a home out of the tops of his feet while he sinks into the corner of the couch and accepts the plate Andrew hands him. Andrew folds himself into the armchair with his own food and watches them.
It's surprisingly easy, having Neil here. Their text conversations picked up again since Thursday, and it seems Neil has no qualms about entertaining the same nonsensical lines of talking in person. He tells Andrew about the ridiculous flower arrangements he slaved over most of the morning, and how he had hoped his manager would banish him to the nursery forever after he half-intentionally screwed up a recent order of wedding arrangements.
They discuss the perfect plan to crash a wedding and some other hypotheticals Andrew hardly remembers how they got to, until the food is gone and Neil has melted almost all the way into Andrew's couch cushions. Their conversation has petered out, but the silence is comfortable, and Neil looks content.
A few minutes into the silence, when Andrew's just about made up his mind to go wash the dishes, Neil opens his mouth to say, "Thank you, by the way."
Andrew stills. He looks over at Neil, still sprawled on the couch with Flea curled around his calves, looking a little rosy around the edges and for all the world like he belongs there. He quirks a brow. "What for?"
Neil shrugs. "I thought my friends were just trying to mess with me when they suggested this whole venture," he says. "And maybe they were. I don't know, but … I'm glad I did it. And I'm glad I met you."
Andrew frowns. "Shut up."
Neil doesn't. Of course not. Andrew reckons the only real way to get him to close his mouth for good would be to throttle him, and that conjures a whole new avenue of images Andrew's not sure he wants to go down right now.
"I don't know if I would have stuck with it if it had been someone else," Neil insists. "And I'm glad I did. I never even …" He swallows, reaching up to scratch behind his ear. "Life was … difficult for me, growing up. I missed out on a lot of experiences other people had, and I'm glad to have made it but I often missed it. Having a childhood, and all that."
Andrew looks at him. He looks unbearably soft, haloed in the golden light of the floor lamp Andrew flicked on, his lids drooping over a blue that looks gentler in the soft lighting of Andrew's living room, like spring water rather than ice. He picks at a fold in his pants, pinching it into a crease, before he sweeps his eyes up to meet Andrew's.
Something — Andrew could not say what, though he guesses he'd find it somewhere between the bow of Neil's lips and the small, concentrated crinkle between his brows — makes Andrew say, "I didn't figure out how to let myself regret it until I was out of college."
He finds the spark of recognition in Neil's eyes, and allows the feeling to settle somewhere beside his heart. Neil is a stranger, almost, but he does not feel like an intruder. The living room is not quite as sheltered as his bedroom, as it opens its doors to Renee and Kevin and the occasional visit from his family, but it's safe like this, a cocoon wrapped around them, half-dark and hidden and comfortable.
Neil, too, allows the atmosphere to sink in for a moment before he replies. "My parents were … bad. It's a long story. They are long dead now, but they still follow me most days."
Andrew inclines his head. "Most of mine were bad too."
Neil raises both brows, though not in judgment.
"Foster care." A strange term, Andrew's always thought. He rarely saw the care part. He shrugs. "Some were okay. Most were not."
Neil hums to himself. He touches two fingers to the scar on his cheek, almost absently. It stands out more starkly in this lighting than normally, glossy smooth and pinkish. Andrew does not ask where he got it from — he can almost imagine, and the topic of scars is delicate even for him.
"The gender stuff didn't help," Neil says eventually. The hand that touched his face comes down to rub the heel of his palm over his chest, once, before he drops it.
Andrew shrugs. "Me too," he says, thinking of cramped juvie beds and shaving his hair off and lying awake at night convincing himself he wasn't damaged beyond repair. He supposes there was Aaron, at least, when he finally had the words for it. Neil, from the sound of it, was alone in figuring it out.
If Neil is surprised by the admission, he hides it well. Flea slinks away from his feet, likely off to find her sister and bother her instead, and he draws his knees up against his chest.
"I never really wanted … anything going on down there, you know."
Andrew does know, but he thinks his knowing might be different from Neil's. He doesn't say that. Tonight may be a night for truths, but not that kind. Not yet, anyway. "And you do now?" he asks instead.
Neil tucks his smile into the crevice between his knees. "Yeah. Found out it can actually be kind of nice." Andrew feels heat and annoyance rush for the lead beneath his skin.
"Kind of?" he asks, archly, and Neil laughs in that short, huffing kind of way he does that sets something alight in Andrew.
"Okay, maybe a little more than that." He pauses, fiddling with the crease he dug into his pants again. "It's still new, but I like it. I like that I can like it. I never really even tried before this."
Never even had an orgasm, Andrew hears, and thinks back to Jeremy's spiel about selling pleasure.
"It can be more intense when you're not on your own," he says. "More complicated, too."
He started out almost like this, anyway. With a select handful of toys bought with his first paycheck from the club, a locked bedroom door and a determination to get through the block in his mind. He couldn't. Not at first. It took fits and starts, multiple fumbles and frustrated moments of gritting his teeth on the floor. But then he could. And then it got easier. And eventually, there were other people, other hands.
And now there's Neil.
Neil, who smiles with a dimple in his cheek and hides it between his knees. Who says, "Yeah. I can tell just from the phone calls," and means it in a way that has Andrew's heart beating in his throat.
Neil, who is a problem.
They sit with that, the silence mellow in their shared contemplation. Andrew gets up to wash the dishes, and Neil puts on his shoes.
For one brief moment Andrew thinks about reeling him in by the collar of his jacket, pressing his mouth to his and tasting the golden warmth there.
But he doesn't. The corners of Neil's mouth tilt up and he gives an awkward half-wave as he steps out into the hallway, and then he's gone.
Andrew closes the door behind him and shuts his eyes.
Neil calls him the same night, just hours later when Andrew's in bed with Friday curled up under his arm. There's no lilt in his tone this time, no suggestion. The sheets crinkle on his side of the call, but his voice is soft with sleep and something deeper.
There are more truths to be had. Neil tells him about his mother, the fact that she gave her life shielding him from his father but was a kind of monster of her own. Andrew tells him about Aaron, and finding out he had a brother when he felt like it was too late to have it mean something. He tells him that in some ways it wasn't.
It's easier, over the phone. Just speaking into the dark emptiness of his room, Friday's gentle purrs against his side and Neil's voice in his ear.
One day, he thinks he might like it to be easy in person, too. But that's the kind of thing he won't think about by daylight.
"Good night, Andrew," Neil says before he hangs up.
Andrew imagines what those lips might have tasted like under his own tonight when he tucks his phone under his pillow and turns around to sleep.
They spend another few days texting back and forth. Neil sends grainy photos of the shitty little bouquets he makes at work, and Andrew is two seconds away from telling him to get a new job and a better phone while he's at it.
Andrew tries not to dwell on why it's so easy, so comfortable, to text Neil the trivialities of his life. He has never been a bad texter, per se — he will reply when necessary, and indulges in Renee's occasional conversation — but it has never kept his attention as much as it does with Neil. No one else has he ever spent an afternoon narrating his neighbors' loud argument to him over text, and no one else has ever received as many random photos of everyday objects from him.
But while talking to him over text is safe and familiar, it is no comparison to the real thing. By Wednesday afternoon, Andrew finds himself downright craving to see him in person again.
He knows from the pictures Neil sent earlier that he should still be at work. When his own shift ends, he grabs his coat with a strange determination, and sets off for the coffee booth on the corner.
Equipped with a cappuccino and his own chocolate monstrosity, he walks the three blocks to the garden center. He's never actually been here, though his bus passes it every day on the way to work. It's nestled on the very edge of the block, with its front panelled entirely in glass and a few tables outside displaying trays of sprouts. The inside is a balmy sort of warm and smells like damp earth and greenery, and Andrew spots a lanky girl by the rickety wooden counter, gloved hands swiftly tying a twine around the stems of her bouquet.
She looks up with a smile, but raises a brow when her gaze falls on the cups in his hands. "Hi. How can I help you?"
She's wearing the same green apron he's seen Neil in, her name tag reading Robin.
"I'm looking for Neil."
Her mouth quirks into something like a smirk. She looks him up and down before saying, "Ah. I see," and letting that smirk bloom into a full grin. "He's in the nursery," she adds, jerking her thumb towards the open double doors leading into the green-house part of the building.
Andrew nods, and feels her eyes follow him as he walks.
It's not a very big shop, altogether, but the nursery takes up most of the space. Past the doors, long rows of tables stretch out front to back, covered entirely in pots homing plants of various sizes. The ceilings and most of the walls are glass to let the sunlight in, the walls are lined with shelves stocking more plants, and a side door leads out into a small outdoor area that is closed this time of year.
A few customers wander along the aisles, perusing the displays, but it doesn't take Andrew long to spot Neil's bopping red head of hair. He's reorganizing a tray of little blue pots on a cart pushed up to one of the tables, and looks up at Andrew's approach.
His eyebrows jump up his forehead, but his expression brightens in a way that has Andrew feeling slightly murderous. "Oh. Hi." Only then do his eyes flick down to the drinks Andrew's holding, and his lips twitch at the corners. He jerks his head back the front of the store, and Andrew follows him out of the nursery and towards a door tucked away in the corner. Halfway there, Neil throws a, "I'm taking my break," over his shoulder to Robin, and her laughter rings through the store for a second before the door closes behind Andrew.
The little break room has a single table with two chairs and a coffee maker, a couple of flower arrangements with post-its denoting their order numbers laid out on a counter, a few lockers pushed against the wall, and another door that Andrew assumes leads to a bathroom. Across from the table is the floor-length mirror Andrew recognizes from the photo Neil sent of himself, that very first day they started texting. The memory sends something tingly down his spine.
Neil plops down into one of the chairs, and Andrew sets his drink down in front of him before he joins him.
"Thanks," Neil says, tipping a good mouthful of the by now lukewarm coffee into his mouth. He flicks two fingers against the plastic shell of the coffee maker. "This thing produces nothing but sludge these days."
Andrew grunts and licks some whipped cream off the rim of his cup. He doesn't miss the way Neil's eyes track the movement.
"So," Neil says after another sip. "Here to buy some flowers?"
Andrew returns his gaze flatly, and Neil's grin widens into something blindingly spectacular. On second thought, coming here might've been a mistake.
"I don't have long." Neil's eyes flick up to the clock over the door. "It's just Robin and me today and we've got some orders to finish up before closing. But …" He pauses, fingers twitching around his cup. "I liked it, the other night. Hanging out with you."
Andrew can't let himself remember what Neil looked like sprawled out on his couch, relaxed and golden, or he'll go insane. He just tilts his chin down in agreement.
"You could come over to mine," Neil suggests, so casually that Andrew sees through it immediately. The way his fingers still fiddle with the rim of his paper cup betrays him.
Andrew hums. "Tonight?"
Neil nods, eyes sparking with excitement that has Andrew's stomach tingling. "Yeah," he says. "That works."
They finish their drinks while Neil talks shit about a customer whose order he has to work on, and when they're back out in the store, Neil charms him into buying a small potted pothos that he has to tuck under his arm on the bus.
He adds it to his collection on the only shelf his beasts have yet to conquer and keeps the receipt that Neil scrawled a quick see you tonight! on in his pocket.
By the time the clock hits seven, Andrew has just about cleaned every inch of his body. He canceled on Renee for the night and did his shot himself, sitting on the edge of the tub. He's put on cologne. He's filed his goddamn nails. He's in his nicest shirt and his best pair of pants and he's styled his hair in the very specific way he only does when he's going out to get laid.
Which he doesn't know will happen tonight, but he feels the need to be prepared just in case.
He's not sure whether Neil is interested in anything actually happening between them beyond the phone sex, but he supposes he is about to find out. Andrew, for his part, has been itching to dig out the annoying little bug Neil inserted under his skin weeks ago. Whatever way the night goes, he will finally be able to wash his hands of the sticky mess that is Neil.
He takes the bus to Neil's apartment and rings the doorbell at precisely seven thirty. Neil buzzes him in and waits by the open door upstairs, looking positively comfortable in a loose long sleeve and sweatpants that hang low on his hips.
Andrew would feel overdressed if it were anyone else, but Neil barely spares his outfit a glance. He smiles, all long lines and beautiful blue eyes. "Hi. Come in."
The apartment smells like spices and meat, and Andrew spies the cluttered kitchen through the gap in the door.
"Matt helped me cook," Neil admits, a tad sheepishly. "I'm not the best in the kitchen. He and Dan are out for a date now, though. Probably won't be back until late."
Andrew would hope so. He wonders if Neil told them who was coming over, and if yes, how much convincing it took to get Dan out of the door before Andrew arrived, depriving her of the chance to shovel talk him.
Neil carries two plates over to the couch, and they sit on opposite ends of it to eat. It's a relatively small couch, and the two other chairs are piled with laundry and a heap of what looks like torn-down party decor that has yet to be thrown out or put away. Neil folds his legs up on the couch to rest his plate on, which reduces the space between his knee and Andrew's thigh to a few inches at most.
They eat mostly in silence. Neil makes a few idle comments about the recipe Matt had him try out, but doesn't seem to really expect an answer. Andrew doesn't give one.
It's not quite the syrupy comfort they reached at Andrew's place, a kind of humming suspense hanging in the air between them, but it's not uncomfortable, either. Andrew almost allows himself to relish in it, this still moment of anticipation.
It's after dinner that the tension starts nearing its boiling point. Neil picks up the plates to wash, and Andrew tails him into the kitchen.
Neil fusses even after the plates are clean and he's scrubbed off the pans and cutting boards. Andrew picks up a dish towel to dry after him, and watches with half-raised brows as Neil tries to make his hands look busy. His eyes keep flicking between the various bits he's fretting with on the counter, Andrew's hands on the dish towel, and Andrew's face, a steady, ticking rhythm that Andrew begins to count in his head.
Counter, towel, face. Down. Counter, towel, face. Down.
The third time Neil's eyes flit away from his face, Andrew says, "Neil."
Neil stills immediately. His hands rest on the edge of the counter, frozen, and Andrew takes the time to set down the pan he was drying before he reaches out to wrap a hand around his wrist and spin him around to face him.
Neil goes willingly, entirely malleable. He fixes his gaze on Andrew's eyes after only a split-second glance at his mouth, but Andrew catches it.
He asks, "Do you want to kiss?"
And Neil breathes out a, "Yes," so fast Andrew almost misses it.
He doesn't, though, and draws Neil in by the wrist until they're chest to chest, nose to nose. Like this, he has to tilt his head up to keep looking at him, and can count every single one of Neil's infuriatingly coppery lashes. He gives it another beat, two, watches as Neil's pink, pink lips drop open to draw in a stuttering breath, and then all his resolve is gone and he can do nothing but press his mouth to them.
Neil is warm. Their touch sends a zing of electricity down Andrew's whole body, consuming him, turning him into a whole new person. It's a chaste kiss, no more than a press of closed lips together, but Andrew reaches up to fit a hand around the nape of Neil's neck to pull him closer.
When they part, Neil breathes shakily through his nose. His pupils have blown wide just from this, and they jump back and forth between Andrew's eyes almost erratically. Andrew raises his other hand to cup Neil's jaw and lead him back to his lips.
He leans deeper into it this time. Pulls Neil closer, kisses his mouth open until Neil lets him slip a tongue between his lips. He grabs Neil's awkwardly floating hands and places them on his shoulders, letting his own hands settle on Neil's waist and holding tight. Neil seems grateful for the anchor, his hands clamping down as he lets himself be absorbed fully by the kiss.
He's addicting, like the powdery taste of a drug on Andrew's tongue, and Andrew wants to find out where he needs to press to make him make the noises he heard over the phone.
Neil gives ground easily, allowing Andrew to spin him and press him against the counter. His hands stay fixed on Andrew's shoulders even as Andrew's hands begin to roam, exploring the shape of his waist, the jut of his hips, the rise and fall of his ribcage as he breathes. His shirt is thin and Andrew can feel the outline of marks on the skin beneath, but he is undeterred.
When he moves away, at last, Neil is flushed from the tips of his ears to his nose and blinking very hard. Andrew smoothes a hand down the length of his waist and watches as a shudder wracks Neil's frame.
Neil's throat tightens on a swallow. "Do you want— I mean, I've never—"
"I know." Andrew squeezes his waist. "We don't have to do anything," he adds, and means it. He is crawling out of his skin with the need to find out what Neil looks like when he's falling apart, how he sounds without a phone separating them, but he will step away if that's what Neil wants. He came here prepared to find out either way, and if Neil tells him no, then he will go home, try not to feel too pathetic as he jerks off to thoughts of him again, and put this all behind him for good.
Neil shakes his head, just minutely. "But I want to," he says. "I think. I want to try."
Andrew closes his eyes. This might be his undoing, he knows.
"It was … good, over the phone," Neil tacks on, because he is apparently hell-bent on driving Andrew nuts. "I want to know what it's like in person."
Andrew nods. He shushes the storm swirling up in his chest by leaning forward to kiss Neil again, briefly. "Okay," he says. "I can show you."
They stumble down the hall towards Neil's room together. It's not much different from the nondescript setting Andrew placed him in in his fantasies; the furniture is sparse, the sheets plain, the walls empty. Andrew raises a brow, and Neil shrugs, half-smiling.
It doesn't matter, Andrew supposes. He's not here to judge the decor. He fists both hands in Neil's shirt and draws him back against him.
They melt onto the bed, Neil's head hitting the pillow, somehow, and Andrew finding himself balanced over him. He chases the taste of him to the back of his mouth, swallowing down his own arousal as it creeps up. His hands keep up their exploration of Neil's body, mapping out his ribs and chest and stomach, until they reach the waistband of his sweats.
He draws away to look at him, and finds Neil flushed and breathless.
Andrew dips his fingers beneath the waistband and quirks a brow, and Neil nods immediately.
Getting his pants and boxers off is a joint effort, with Andrew wrestling them off down one leg and Neil kicking them over the edge of the bed with the other, but then the full expanse of Neil's glorious thighs lays exposed for Andrew to run his hands across. He digs all five fingers into each, testing out the give of the soft, warm muscle, but his eyes are fixed on the heart of dark red hair that sits between them.
Neil's legs twitch as if trying to hide from Andrew's gaze, so Andrew smoothes his palms up the insides of his thighs and to his hips, locking eyes with him.
Whatever Neil sees in his expression makes him visibly swallow. But he relaxes enough to allow Andrew to settle fully between his legs, and Andrew leans forward to kiss him again.
He makes no move to take off Neil's shirt, remembering his reluctance to remove it even on the phone, and instead focuses running his hands over his chest.
His own head is spinning from the sheer proximity, unwilling to quite rest on the fact that this is it. This is reality. The walking wet dream that's been plaguing him for the past few weeks is beneath him, straining up into his kiss, half-naked and legs spread. He has to keep refocusing on the movement of his mouth over Neil's as to not get too distracted from the task at hand.
"What do you want?" he asks against Neil's mouth.
Neil draws back enough for Andrew to catch the glance he flicks towards the bedside table. He bites his lip and says, "Um."
Andrew reaches for the drawer himself. He looks at Neil with his hand on the handle to double check, and pulls it open when Neil does nothing to stop him. The few toys Neil bought from him and the single bottle of lube roll loosely to the front of the drawer, and Andrew picks them up one by one to lay them out on the mattress beside them.
There's the simple vibrator they used on the phone, the clit stimulator, and the dildo. When he taps his fingers against the latter and looks back at Neil, he gets an awkward shrug in return.
"Maybe."
Andrew considers the toy for a moment before he asks, "Do you want to?"
Neil follows his gaze down to the box, and gives it a moment of thought before he says, "Not really. It's still a little … much." He gestures vaguely, flushing deeper.
"Do you want to try starting with something smaller?"
"Like what?"
"Like the vibrator. Or my hand."
Neil glances between Andrew and the vibrator all of three times before he says, "I've tried my own fingers. It didn't really do much for me."
Andrew hums, but before he can say anything, Neil tacks on, "But. We can try."
He makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and something lower-pitched when Andrew kisses him again.
"Okay," Andrew says. "Let's try."
It's easy to get Neil worked up. He already is, flushed and a little twitchy from making out, and it only takes a couple more moments of sliding their tongues together — filthy and wet enough to make Andrew feel lightheaded — before Andrew slides a hand between Neil's thighs and finds his curls matted with his own wetness.
Neil gasps like electrified, his hips jerking in a movement that seems unsure if it's seeking to get closer or away from the touch. Andrew backs out of their kiss so he can see Neil's face when he fits his palm more securely over his crotch.
Neil returns the gaze, overwhelmingly blue and steady. Andrew has to kiss him simply to avoid those eyes, but also to feel the appreciative hum Neil makes when Andrew drags a thumb through his folds.
He's not very wet, but damp enough for Andrew to work with and getting slicker with every swipe of Andrew's tongue across his. He full-body jolts when Andrew presses the pad of his thumb to his clit. It turns to a sort of continuous shivering as Andrew drags circles around it and sits up to reach for the vibrator with his free hand.
Neil's eyes track the movement even as Andrew lifts his other hand away from his cunt to grab the lube and slick the toy up. He quirks a brow at him in a silent question, hovering the tip of the vibrator somewhere vaguely above Neil's stomach, and Neil nods.
Andrew switches the toy on, feels its vibrations against his own palm for one, two seconds and tries to ignore the telltale twitch of his own dick, before he lowers it between Neil's legs.
The first general touch of it to his crotch already has Neil starting, but once Andrew drags the lube across his cunt and presses the tip of the toy, gently, to his clit, he watches in real time as Neil blooms.
His back arches beautifully off the bed, his hips tight where they meet the toy, his knees as far apart as he can manage to make room for Andrew, to let him in, invite him closer. It's incredibly alluring, an image so unbearably horny Andrew can feel wetness gathering in his own boxers at the mere sight, every realization of Neil feeling like a bolt of lightning down his spine.
He circles the toy around Neil's clit and listens to his breath catching in his throat, over and over until it builds a rhythm that could almost be mistaken for moaning.
Andrew curses under his breath and gets a laugh in return, winded and hoarse.
"Yeah," Neil says, sounding entirely out of it. "Woah."
Andrew drags the thumb of his free hand up through his folds and Neil twitches up into the feeling. He's wetter now than he was even with the lube, practically pouring slick, and it's easy enough to spread him open and circle a finger around his hole.
Neil does make a noise, then, almost wounded. But he nods something frantic when Andrew checks in, hips tilting up towards him in an invitation Andrew can't decline.
He drags just the tip of his finger through the slick at Neil's hole, dipping in just so to feel the heat of him at his core. It hits like a drug to his system, Neil clenching down on his finger like his life depends on it, and Andrew can't take his eyes off him.
He's spread out beneath him like an angel, rosy against the sheets, warm and golden like a dream. His mouth's half-open on startled little gasps that punch out of him at every press of the vibrator against his clit.
It's fucking devastating.
Andrew catches his gaze before he applies more pressure behind the finger at his hole. "Yeah?"
Neil nods, lids fluttering. "Yeah. Oh god."
Andrew silently agrees. His finger slips into him smooth as fucking butter, and he's so hot and wet and tight that Andrew has to close his eyes against the feeling that rushes up his spine. It leaves him dizzy, hooked on every sound out of Neil and the movement of his own hands.
When Neil comes, it's around two of Andrew's fingers and with the vibrator pressed hard to his clit. He spasms, knees twitching up towards his chest as he tries to curl into himself, head thrown back into the pillow, exposing the entire length of his throat. Andrew takes the invitation and presses his mouth there, which tickles another broken sound out of Neil.
Andrew switches the vibrator off when Neil twitches away from it and gives him a moment to catch his breath. Neil blindly stretches up for another kiss — the image of that hot enough to remain seared into Andrew's brain forever. He tries to ignore it by slotting his lips back over Neil's, which naturally works to do the complete opposite.
When they part, Andrew sits back. He takes another moment to observe Neil, who looks boneless and peachy after his orgasm.
Neil reaches up to wipe his sweaty fringe out of his forehead. "What about you?"
Andrew is pressingly aware of his own damp boxers, and of the fact that he is with absolute certainty going to explode if Neil touches him now. He needs a shower, and some alone time with his own drawer of mysteries, so he shakes his head.
Neil accepts that with discomfiting ease. He stretches his arms above his head, legs flexing hard on either side of where Andrew's still kneeled between them. His hips push into the air to gain momentum before he swings his torso up to sit. Their heads very nearly collide, but Neil stops right before his nose touches Andrew's and grins. "Hi."
Andrew grunts, hiding his surprise. "Hi."
Neil keeps his big bug eyes fixed directly on Andrew's as he leans in to bridge the gap between them. Andrew doesn't back away, and Neil hums something happy when he presses their lips together for one brief kiss.
Then he extracts himself from around Andrew and rolls off the side of the bed. Andrew watches him waddle awkwardly out of the room, forgoing his sweatpants, and head for the bathroom across the hall.
Once he's clean and dressed back up, he walks Andrew to the door. Dan and Matt have yet to reappear, which Andrew thinks is for the best given the ruffled state of Neil and the way Andrew can't quite tear his eyes away from the way his shirt clings to his waist when he leans against the doorframe.
"See you soon," Neil says, with a curl to his lips and a glint in his eye.
Andrew snorts and turns down the stairs.
And that should have been that.
He got what he wanted. He's slept with him. He's seen what Neil looks like in the throes of orgasm, he's made him come, he's licked his way into that mouth until Neil's eyes rolled back and he fell apart. He even had a satisfying, well-rounded orgasm to the memory of him later that night. It's about time he puts this whole thing behind him.
He tries. He really does. It's not usually an effort to stop thinking about his hookups after they happen, and the fact that it is this time makes something uncomfortable bubble under his sternum, but he tries.
He puts him out of his mind. At work, he doesn't spare a single glance more than strictly necessary towards the vibrator shelf, or the lube shelf, or even the door. He ignores the coffee cart and the garden center on his way to and from the shop. He doesn't think about him while jerking off — well. He doesn't think about him much while jerking off. Anymore. He's running up a solid streak of half a jerk-off session without thinking about Neil.
If he can't quite keep himself from replying to every message Neil sends, then that's nobody's business but his own.
Distraction comes in the form of Nicky texting him Friday night, a whole forty-eight hours after Andrew left Neil's apartment, confirming a dinner reservation for Sunday.
Nicky: Erik and Katelyn are also coming
Nicky: and i invited some friends along!!!!
Nicky: so dont think about skipping
Nicky: >:(
A message from Aaron flutters in moments later, reading simply: wear something nice.
Andrew rolls his eyes.
He makes it through Saturday only sending a total of three texts Neil's way and upkeeps his streak by carefully electing not to jerk off in the bath at night. His day off on Sunday he spends scrubbing down the kitchen and watching mindless TV while tossing toys for the cats across the room until it's time to get ready.
Despite his general annoyance at Nicky's unsubtle determination to throw them a not-birthday party every year, he still dresses up nicely. It's not the fanciest of restaurants, Nicky knows better than that, but he combs his hair back and buttons up his nicest black dress shirt.
Halfway out the door, he checks his phone for the first time all day and finds an unopened message from Neil containing nothing but a new blurry photo of the usual stray cat, a couple excited messages from Nicky about the dinner and a picture Aaron posted to the group chat of the girls with their nanny's dog.
He pockets his phone with an eye roll and takes the bus into town. The restaurant is more of a bar-style, dark and honeyed place that smells of barbecue and perfume, and Andrew is directed to a round booth along the back wall by the hostess.
It isn't until he makes his way past the high tables that crowd the front of the place that Andrew thinks to question what friends Nicky may have invited.
He spots Aaron and Katelyn first, sitting at the edge of the booth with their heads tucked together. Nicky is crammed into Erik's side next to them and waves excitedly when he catches Andrew's eye.
His gaze sweeps from Nicky to Renee, who has her head politely ducked towards Erik and is listening to him rattle on about something, and over her to — Neil.
Of course. Who else could possibly show up uninvited to his not-birthday dinner when he is actively trying to avoid thinking about them.
Well. Andrew supposes he probably was invited, though he has no idea how Nicky even knows about Neil, or knows enough to invite him here. Perhaps, judging by the tiny quirk of her lips when she looks over at Andrew, it was Renee's idea.
Either way, Andrew has a choice to make. The last free spot is at the opposite edge of the booth from Aaron, next to Neil. It's probably intentional either way, because Andrew prefers to sit where he can see everyone and get up easily. But it also places him directly next to Neil, who he is trying so hard to be normal about, and the booth seems a bit small for seven people to begin with.
He could ask Aaron and Katelyn to scoot over, but not without drawing attention to the fact that he doesn't want to sit next to Neil, which would possibly be worse than simply biting the bullet and cozying up to his most persistent wet dream all night.
All this flits through his brain while he's still on his way over. He keeps an even pace, not allowing himself to visibly slow down, and takes a deep breath before sliding into the open spot next to Neil.
He was right. It is a tight booth. Even with half his ass hanging off the side of the bench, his arm still brushes Neil's, sending tiny sparks of electricity up into his spine.
Neil, completely unaware of Andrew's inner turmoil, tilts his head. "Hi."
Andrew, who is a fool and nothing but a fool, does the best thing he can. He ignores him.
Nicky leans across the table with the brightest grin Andrew has ever seen him sport. "Andrew! I didn't know you've been making friends. Renee asked to extend the invitation and I was so excited. Neil, right?"
Renee, freed from her conversation with Erik, nods her head towards Andrew. The sparkle in her eyes begets nothing good, even as she says, "I hope that was alright."
Andrew clamps his lips shut, but she seems pleased by whatever she sees in his expression and leans back in her seat.
Neil, in spite of Andrew's silence, makes halting conversation with Nicky. He's picking at his fingers in his lap and his answers to Nicky's onslaught of questions are about as forthcoming as they were on his first few visits to the shop, but he's still talking more than Andrew, who has made it a job to avoid looking at anything other than the menu card in front of him.
He is distinctly aware of every atom of his body that brushes against Neil's arm, his nerve endings flaring up every time their elbows bump.
Naturally, things only deteriorate from there.
Andrew lets his back slide against the leather backrest of the bench, keeping his eyes anywhere and everywhere that isn't Neil. He ignores Nicky's questions and attempts to rope him and Neil into conversations together.
Neil keeps trying to catch his gaze, tilting his head in an unspoken question. Aaron stares at both of them, mouth tense with something like disapproval. Conversation starts and stops, with Nicky, Erik, Renee and Katelyn making a valiant effort to keep the mood up around the three pillars in their middle.
When their food gets delivered, Andrew makes the mistake of looking vaguely in Neil's direction and catches him narrowing his eyes at him. He looks away again.
It's fine. He has years of experience with awkward family dinners, and a couple more with ignoring persistent ex-hookups. Which is certainly the category Neil belongs in. If he makes himself believe it hard enough.
He focuses on hacking the burrito he ordered to pieces and smothering each precisely sized bite in a small heap of sour cream before he pops it into his mouth. It's a task that requires utmost attention, and thus leaves him with no more room to worry about Neil by his side.
He meets Aaron's eyes across the table exactly once, with his fork halfway to his mouth. Aaron raises a brow, and Andrew finds himself shrugging.
Having a brother is easier now than it was when they were teens, for both of them. He knows that expression on Aaron's face to mean something right in between of What have you done now? and Is he a problem? And he knows that if he said yes to the latter, Aaron would find a way to do something about it. Even if that involved insulting Neil until he leaves.
Andrew does not say yes. Neil is not a problem. Or at least he's not a problem Andrew can't deal with himself. As he is doing right now. Spectacularly.
He places another bite-sized piece of burrito into his mouth and ignores another one of Nicky's attempts to ask him about the cats.
It's towards the tail-end of the main course, when Andrew's scraping his plate and Katelyn and Renee are already discussing the possibility of dessert, that the bubble pops.
Neil, in a move so deviously cat-like that it can only be intentional, swipes his wrist across the table and upends his nearly untouched glass of soda over both his and Andrew's laps.
For the first time all night, Andrew's eyes snap to Neil's. They're still narrower than usual and unsettlingly blue even in the warm light.
He says, long and slow, "Oops."
"Oh no!" Nicky rips a bunch of napkins out of the holder in the center of the table, throwing them in their general direction. Andrew does not take his eyes off Neil as he grabs them to press over the wet spot slowly creeping across his crotch. It's wet, and cold, and Neil does not look remotely sorry. "I think there's a bathroom around the corner?"
"There is," Neil affirms. He jerks his head. "Let's go."
With nothing else to do about his wet pants, Andrew gets up. He takes the lead to the bathroom, aware of Neil following right on his heels. It's down a short hallway, and quieter than the rest of the place. Mostly deserted, too.
Neil whirls on him almost as soon as they're through the door, his own soaking pants seemingly forgotten. "What the fuck is up with you?"
Andrew raises a brow and side steps him to get to the sink. Neil follows, propping his hip against the counter beside him with his arms crossed over his chest.
"Do you not want me here?"
No, Andrew doesn't say. He doesn't want Neil here. He doesn't want Neil anywhere. He is totally normal and fine about Neil being here, for him, on his birthday, sitting beside him like Erik beside Nicky, like Katelyn beside Aaron. Like they belong together.
No. Renee is also here. Neil is here as a friend, which is misguided enough as it is. They are not friends. They are not anything else either. They are nothing, which Andrew would do well to remember himself.
He closes his eyes. "Why are you here?"
Neil shrugs. His mouth is still pulled down, unhappy, but he says, "Renee invited me. She noticed we were close or something and thought it would be nice. I thought —" He catches himself, lip wedged between his teeth, and looks to the side. Breathes.
Andrew watches him. "You thought what?"
Neil shrugs again, looking much more lost this time. "I thought … we had something. I don't know. Maybe that was stupid of me but I don't … you know I've never slept with anyone before."
Andrew stares at him. The long familiar crawl of nerves washes over him again, the same hot little flash of electricity that Neil has always instilled in him. The same that drove him to buy him coffee and visit him at work, the same that kept him going all the way from his apartment to Neil's. The same gentle hum he felt on his couch late at night, talking.
Neil looks away. "It's okay if it doesn't mean the same to you. Just … tell me, or something. I'll go home, I won't bother you again."
Something in him always knew Neil was different, no matter how much he tried to deny it. He knew it when he brought him into his apartment, knew it with every text he sent, with every phone call. He knew it was different when he kissed him; usually a means to an end — getting both parties into the mood — it turned into something else entirely with Neil. A tidal wave. A hook in his chest sunk too deep to be simple attraction.
At the lack of response, Neil nods. "Okay," he says, quietly, and turns away. He hasn't made a single move to deal with his sodden pants. "See you, I guess."
Andrew catches him by the wrist. "Neil," he makes his mouth say. It comes out rough, like scraped over stone. He almost falters when those lamplight eyes turn back on him, but he pushes the words out before they can get stuck on the way up. "It did … mean something."
Neil's brows raise, and something dangerously hopeful twitches at the corners of his eyes. Andrew wishes he could smother it. He wishes he wanted to smother it.
Instead, he says, "I don't do relationships."
Neil, somehow, understands. He shrugs a third time, smiling a little. "And I don't do hookups."
So they could meet in the middle. Both take a leap. Do something new. Andrew can almost see it — talking to someone has never been as easy as it has been with Neil the past few weeks. And he wants that. He really does, he finds.
Even now, the fact that Neil gets it, understands without the need for words — it all fills Andrew with a feeling so overwhelming he hardly knows how to categorize it. It should be infuriating, he thinks. To be left suspended in his own mind, thrown into a sea of feeling he usually does his best to avoid. But it isn't. It isn't at all.
He says, "Neil," and allows himself to enjoy the way his name rolls off his tongue. The way Neil's eyes flit to his. "Yes or no?"
"Yes."
Andrew drags him close by the wrist and crushes their mouths together. It's not gentle, not careful — it's desperate, harsh, all-consuming. Neil jumps to it, his mouth opening to let Andrew in, going lax in his grip so Andrew can arrange him how he wants.
Andrew draws back instead and looks down between them. "Are you ever going to do something about this?" he asks, slipping his fingers into the waistband of Neil's drenched jeans and pulling it just far enough off his skin to let it snap back.
Neil gasps like electrocuted. He inches just a bit closer to Andrew. "You could … take them off for me," he says, sounding so incredibly awkward it would have been supremely unsexy out of anyone else.
Being that it is Neil, though, Andrew unfortunately feels a telltale spike of heat near his core.
He glances around them. The bathroom has been empty the whole time they've been here. It's nice enough, probably due to the semi-reputability of the place. The three stalls past the urinals have full walls that would offer decent enough privacy even despite the gap beneath the door. He pushes Neil towards the furthest one, and he goes with minimal protest.
"Here?" he asks when Andrew locks the door behind them, though he sounds more excited by the idea than apprehensive.
Andrew snags two fingers into the collar of his shirt and spins them around, placing Neil's back against the door. "Here," he decides, and kisses him again.
Neil makes a tiny sound against his lips almost immediately, and Andrew chases that high with his hands settling in his waist, crowding against him.
He wastes no time — the others are still waiting outside, and anyone might walk in on them here, though Andrew finds he could not give less of a shit. He unbuttons Neil's pants and drags them down his hips and thighs. With a hand braced against his stomach, he keeps on kissing him, sliding his tongue along Neil's and absorbing the taste of him into his very pores.
When he finally slides his hand down, he finds Neil already damp between the legs. His breath hitches at the press of Andrew's palm against him, and Andrew sees no choice but to drop to his knees.
Not that he'd complain. The space between Neil's legs is warm and smells like sweat and musk and boy, and the sound Neil makes when Andrew presses his mouth to his mount is nothing short of heavenly.
And he keeps making the same sort of sounds, breathy and pitchy and enough to send Andrew into overdrive, when Andrew nudges his thighs apart just far enough to fit between them and apply his mouth directly to his cunt.
He's hot and wet and tastes salty-sweet on Andrew's tongue. Andrew thinks, deliriously, that he likes this better than any birthday cake.
He eats him out hard and fast, straining his jaw as he drags his tongue over his clit and further down across his hole. Neil's legs quiver around him, and Andrew drags one over his shoulder to spread him further and give himself better access to the heat of him.
It doesn't take long. Neil is wound tight from the evening's frustration, but he comes loose when Andrew sucks his swollen clit into his mouth and pushes a finger, then two, into his hole. Within minutes, he gasps, "I'm gonna come."
Andrew doubles his efforts until Neil goes vice-like around his fingers and makes a sound somewhere deep in his throat as his head knocks into the stall door and his whole body shakes.
Andrew dots gentle kisses to his sensitive clit while Neil comes off it. He smooths his hands down his thighs, setting Neil's leg back and stroking his palms over his hips until Neil relaxes, and Andrew gets to his feet and wipes his mouth.
Neil, uncaring for the mess, drags him in for another kiss. "Can I get you off?" he asks against his mouth, and Andrew — considers.
Sex, when he has it, is not usually reciprocal. He has become good at touching over the years, but never very good at being touched. He doesn't typically want to be. But Neil has already passed through so many of the lines. What is one more?
Everything. It could be everything. Ruination. Damnation. An end to whatever this new, fragile thing between them is, when Neil sees him for the broken mess that he really is.
Or it could be … good. A step in a direction he hasn't ever dared to venture into.
"Not here," is what he settles on, and he sees the way Neil's eyes light up at the implication of, Somewhere else, maybe.
Neil does his — still damp — pants back up and Andrew scrubs his hands under the sink and splashes some water in his face. They make a half-hearted show out of dabbing some more moisture from their pants, but it doesn't matter.
Andrew isn't headed back to the table. Outside the bathroom, he grabs Neil's wrist and drags him to the door, uncaring if the others see. Neil follows, easily, unquestioningly, and they stumble out into the cold evening together.
Nicky can foot the bill, he figures. This was his idea, anyway.
His bedroom door opens easily, in the end, to allow Neil inside. His sanctum breached so simply, and Andrew can hardly bring himself to care.
They kick their damp, soda-sticky pants off on the floor, and Andrew tosses Neil a wet towel so he can wipe his legs down. They'll need to shower at some point, but Andrew figures that can wait for later.
For now, he backs Neil up against the wall once more and wraps both hands around his neck, drawing him down for a kiss.
This, already, is easy, familiar. Sparks dance down his spine at every shift of Neil's lips, at every slide of his tongue against him, at every sigh and every movement, but he loses himself in it, lets it ground him in the reality of Neil's body against his.
He drags him back to the bed, and Neil comes along easily, lets himself be arranged down against the sheets however Andrew wants him. His mouth opens back up eagerly when Andrew settles over him, thighs straddling his hips and hands buried in the curls at the nape of Neil's neck.
It has been, at maximum, forty minutes since Neil last came, but he strains up against Andrew with newfound desperation anyway, seemingly addicted now that he's had a taste.
Andrew kisses him until his mouth goes numb, then draws back to look at him.
He has seen Neil spread out on a bed beneath him like this before, just days ago, but it's different here. In his own bed, his soft sheets, his well-guarded bubble of safety. Neil, strangely, fits right in — with his tender expression, his flushed cheeks, his half-lidded eyes.
He sits up and hikes both hands under his own shirt. Before Andrew can think to ask if he's sure, he's whipped it off over his head, and lies back down. Andrew lets his eyes roam over the exposed skin for just a moment — drinking in the expanse of scars, too many to be from a life of much comfort.
Only two Andrew recognizes immediately, sitting right beneath his pecs, cut across his chest with surgical precision. On a whim, he undoes the first few buttons of his shirt so he can take it off and expose his near mirror of them.
Neil's eyes sink down to them, drawing an appreciative path over Andrew's skin that has him feeling slightly shivery. He raises a questing hand to Andrew's chest, but pauses before he actually touches him, waiting for permission.
He doesn't blink when Andrew denies it, brushing his hand away and pushing it down into the mattress beside Neil's head when he presses their mouths back together.
"I want —" Andrew swallows, his lips ghosting over Neil's jaw and catching the rabbit pulse that beats beneath his ear. "I want you to try. Letting you get me off."
He finds it's true even as the words stick on his tongue. He has never let anyone do this, never thought he would. But Neil, who he has only known for a handful of weeks, and who should have been a passing fancy at most, makes him want to try.
Neil, whose hands stay exactly where Andrew puts them. Neil, who has never touched another person in this way, who comes into this entirely at Andrew's direction. Neil, who has bared himself to Andrew in a way he never has for anyone, both his body and his mind. Who has trusted Andrew not to flinch away and has leaned on him without once overstepping the boundaries drawn in the sand between them.
Andrew thinks that if it was going to be anyone, it could be Neil.
Neil looks at him now, with eyes so big and blue Andrew could get lost in them forever, his lip trapped between his teeth. He nods. "I would like that," he says.
No push. No pull. A simple statement. Andrew breathes out and nods back.
They arrange themselves on the bed. Andrew keeps his boxers on for the moment, but he flips them around so he's the one lying down, Neil kneeling on the mattress beside him.
"No touching me anywhere without asking," he warns. "I will hurt you if you try."
Neil nods, unfazed by the threat. He keeps his hands folded in his lap while Andrew gets comfortable, takes a moment to breathe. When he beckons for him, opens his arms to let Neil in, Neil comes to him easily, obedient and eager. He makes no move to straddle Andrew, just bends where he's kneeling so their mouths fit together at the right angle.
Despite the nerves, Andrew feels heat flare beneath his belly button as their tongues slide together. Neil hums into his mouth, a delicious little sound that has Andrew's head spinning a little, and he keeps his hand exactly where Andrew placed it on his shoulder.
Andrew considers getting a toy, pick something out of the drawer beside the bed. But he is unsure if that is a kind of intensity he can handle right now. Neil's hands are distinctly spindly, with slender palms and long fingers, and calluses Andrew assumes are from work, and more scars he doesn't want to guess the origin of. They're unmistakable for anyone else's.
He pushes Neil away just far enough that he can reach down and wiggle out of his boxers. Neil keeps his eyes on Andrew's face, though Andrew catches his throat move over a swallow.
He hides his own reaction to that by pressing his mouth back to Neil's.
Their tongues slide together in a now practiced rhythm, and Andrew reaches between his own legs. It's easiest like that, and he thinks maybe this is already enough. He can jerk himself off with his tongue in Neil's mouth and Neil's hands in safe spots on his shoulders, and he can enjoy it. It would be good. It would be easy.
He's wet just from kissing Neil, and has no issue getting his dick to stiffen up into a hard nub he can catch between his fingers. A sort of warm fuzziness travels up through his stomach at every twist of his fingers.
He catches the exact moment Neil realizes what he's doing. His breath stutters against Andrew's mouth, his tongue grows sloppier where it twines with Andrew's. He adjusts his seat, as if to take pressure off his core, and Andrew feels, at once, electrified by the knowledge of how turned on Neil is by this.
It's not enough, he decides, to just get himself off like this. It's not what he wants out of this, not today. He wants it to be Neil.
He reaches for Neil's wrist and drags his hand down from his shoulder to his thigh. It sits against his skin like a brand, and Andrew's hips damn near twitch up into the touch.
Neil draws back from his mouth with a parting sigh. He bites his lip, his eyes flicking back and forth between Andrew's as if in search of something, though his face is still flushed rosy with arousal.
"What is it?" Andrew asks, because Neil does not look like he will spill on his own.
"I've … never done this before," he murmurs, at last, face growing redder with something almost like embarrassment.
"I know," Andrew says. He keeps his grip on Neil's wrist, and presses his thumb against the pulse point that flutters there in his best imitation of reassurance. "Just do what I tell you."
Neil nods, lower lip releasing red and swollen from between his teeth.
Andrew sucks it into his mouth, running his tongue over the slight metallic tang of the teeth marks Neil left behind. He distracts himself curling their tongues together and exploring the layout of Neil's molars while he guides Neil's hand up between his legs.
The first touch is like a shock to his system. Neil gasps like he's the one being touched, his fingers hot and feverish against Andrew.
Andrew digs his thumb against the scar that bisects the back of Neil's palm like a tactile reminder of where he is and guides his hand up further. Their mouths have gone slack and still against each other, and Andrew slots them back together to hide his expression when he presses Neil's thumb right up against his dick.
"Right there," he whispers, and Neil makes a sound that is close enough to a moan for Andrew to twitch.
He follows direction beautifully, which is something Andrew remembers from the phone, and it proves true here, too. His hand is clumsy with inexperience, but he follows Andrew's every word, dragging his fingers through the slick gathered at his hole and back up to his dick. Andrew keeps his hand on his to guide him at first, until Neil has built up a steady enough rhythm that he feels comfortable to let him go.
He uses his freed up hand to draw Neil back to his mouth by his neck. Neil kisses back eagerly, his rhythm around Andrew's dick faltering just slightly before he picks it back up.
It's good. Andrew is hesitant to admit it, even to himself, but it feels … nice. A strange hand on him, and Neil's proximity, his mouth against his, the breathy little sounds he keeps making like he is the one getting off, all of it swirls together in a cocktail that has Andrew floating steadily higher, a heat building beneath his navel that he knows is a slow approach to orgasm.
It's only then, when he slides a hand down to Neil's waist to keep himself grounded, that he realizes how Neil has been shifting his hips, restless in his desire to somehow satisfy his own arousal without touching Andrew anywhere else or moving away from him.
The sight of it is enough to have the heat at Andrew's core spike to a new high, the steady circles Neil has been rubbing over his dick suddenly enough to have arcs of electricity snapping up into Andrew's stomach. His mouth drops open on an involuntary gasp, and Neil eats it up with a sound of his own.
He presses closer automatically, winding himself against Andrew, and Andrew crushes their mouths together with newfound desperation, needing to be closer.
"A little faster," he makes himself press out, and Neil complies immediately.
It nearly has Andrew's hips arching off the bed, a need building in him that he's unsure he's ever felt before. Not when it was just him, not when he didn't have this.
"Come on," he grinds out, more at himself than at Neil, or perhaps at both of them. He grabs Neil's hand again, but only to have him rub his dick with his thumb instead of his fingers, which he directs down to his hole.
He's not ready for any type of penetration, he knows that even in his delirious state of mind, but just the sensation of Neil's fingers rubbing across his slick hole is enough to have him twitching upwards, chasing his orgasm.
Neil moans, full on moans, when he realizes, his thumb flicking Andrew's dick just right, and it's enough. Andrew tenses all over, knee coming up to his chest as his orgasm takes him.
It crashes over him, a tidal wave finally cresting in his chest. He thinks it might last minutes, hours, days, as he presses his face into the crook of Neil's neck and stays there, eyes closed and riding it out.
When it wanes, his twitches fading and the heat in his gut settling, Neil's hand has stilled where it's still slipped between his thighs, but Neil himself is restless.
He makes an effort to hide it, but his face is flushed with need and his hips are still jerking in aborted movements he seems hardly in control of.
Andrew slides a hand against his jaw and licks back into his mouth, swallowing down the heat of his tongue and the sounds he tries to hide at the back of his throat. With his other hand, he makes a blind grab for Neil's hip and pulls at him until he comes closer, until he can pull his leg over his own to make him straddle his thigh.
Neil pauses, hovering. His eyes flick between Andrew's, brows furrowing, but Andrew presses him down and says, "Yes."
Neil is still wearing the boxers he never removed, and they're soaked through and hot at the apex of his thighs when he settles on Andrew's thigh. The pressure has him gasping immediately, fingers tightening where he's using them for balance on Andrew's shoulders.
Andrew guides him by pushing at his hip, and Neil falls into the movement almost naturally. He grinds down, mouth dropping open on a keening sound as he rubs himself against him.
He's a vision, flushed down to his chest and jerking in Andrew's lap, tongue wetting his lips. Andrew draws him down to kiss him again, and it doesn't take long from there.
Neil ruts on his thigh until he shakes apart, his cunt growing wet enough to leave a trail down Andrew's thigh even through the fabric of his boxers. His hand grasps blindly for Andrew's, braiding their fingers together and pressing his palm against Andrew's like it's his tether to the world, pulling their tangled hands up to his chest so Andrew can feel his beating heart.
Andrew kisses him through it, holds him tight until Neil slumps, exhausted, and Andrew rolls him off him to the side to keep kissing him.
They stay like that for a while, on their sides with their heads tucked together, breathing and trading kisses — gentler and slower than they have been all night, until they've both caught their breaths and the feeling has returned to the tips of Andrew's fingers.
He pushes away then, leaves Neil in his bed to take a shower. It's strange, how light he feels in the aftermath of what should have been such an invasion. He washes off like it's any other day, cleans the slick from between his thighs and the residue Neil left on his leg, and wraps himself in a fluffy towel to wander back out into the bedroom and leave the bathroom for Neil.
"Should I go?" Neil asks when he returns, with his hair wet and in a borrowed shirt with nothing beneath, looking soft and tired and beautiful.
Andrew is almost as surprised as he is when he shakes his head, but Neil crawls back between the sheets with ease.
They curl around each other, not quite touching but close enough that Andrew can feel the heat radiating off Neil's skin, and he presses a single kiss to the crown of Neil's head before he drifts off.
In the morning, he will wake to a body in his bed, and the brief moment of panic will be washed away by a familiarity he wasn't sure he would ever know again. And Neil will look at him with those infuriating eyes of his, and Andrew will kiss him to shut him up before he even has the chance to say anything.
They will make their way to the kitchen to feed the beasts, Flea curling around Neil's legs while Friday keeps her distance, and Andrew will make them pancakes with blueberries for Neil and chocolate chips for himself.
And one day, they will know each other's intricacies better than anyone. They will learn each other inside out, outside in, and everything that's stuck in between, too.
But for tonight, they sleep.