Work Text:
Neil doesn't realise he's even bouncing his leg until Andrew slides a pointed look his way.
He stops it immediately, pressing his hand against his knee in an attempt to remind himself to keep it still. Andrew watches the motion, then slowly turns his gaze back to the dance floor, where some of their teammates have wandered off into the fray of.
Andrew's attention is now seemingly elsewhere, but Neil knows he's turning the movement over in his mind, thinking it over. If it bothered Andrew, he'd say as much, but Neil knows he is now looking for a solution to this supposed problem anyway.
He belatedly realises he’s out of soda when he goes to tip his glass back. This is very much a problem for him, as his mouth is starting to go dry.
He's feeling even more restless now, a relentless buzz under his skin heightening to a whole new level.
He knows exactly what that solution might be — knows what Andrew is weighing up in his mind as he takes a slow, measured sip of his drink, and then sets it decisively back down.
It's something they've talked over before. Extensively. After — and very much during — these conversations, they have tried it now. Twice. With very effective results, as Andrew has decreed with barely-concealed amusement.
The result is not about stopping Neil from touching Andrew. Andrew trusts him, and that hasn't changed.
It's just about getting Neil to settle. To stay still.
It's also, probably, one of the hottest things Neil has experienced. Andrew pinning his wrists down with his hands to the bed does plenty for him, and they've both certainly noticed it. Unable to escape the weight of Andrew — and all the subsequent sensations — is certainly intense, but it has an undeniable effect on him. But Andrew can only keep his wrists pinned for so long before they need to adjust, before he needs to shift his weight, before he can't quite keep Neil's hands out of play. Before Neil starts to squirm, overwhelmed with everything.
Neil had to be the one to bring it up, a year or so ago. A careful suggestion, met with quick dismissal at first. Neil didn't push it at all, but he left the option open, and Andrew slowly started to poke at the edges until they've reached this point with it.
Both times have been with a neck-tie — forced upon him for some sort of formal event with a suit and tie dress code — loosely wrapped around his wrists. A simple tug at the end, gripped by his own fingers, has made for a quick and easy unravelling. Neil has forcibly kept himself from doing so, no matter how much he writhes, and the game of that had been plenty distracting to have Andrew strip him down until he felt settled again in his bones, until he'd been so boneless with the pleasure that he couldn't even think about moving.
Andrew has carefully untied it both times after they'd finished. He checked his wrists over, mouth pinching the second time when he saw hints of red on Neil's skin. It'd been Neil’s own fault, twisting it round and round until it'd tightened and chaffed. Neil, somewhere on the bed and somewhere high above cloud nine, had pulled him down and kissed him so hard they'd both become breathless to reassure him it was fine.
Neil's wrists are marked by the worst kind of people he's known. It's all the difference that it'd been caused by pleasure, not pain, and entirely by Andrew.
It's still new, but Neil thinks they're starting to figure out their footing with it. Slow, careful steps — a small, contained square that they can easily step out of the moment something goes wrong. But he thinks they're at the point where they're starting to see what fence lines they can push at, expanding the area of the square.
Tonight might just be the night to try.
They don't have a tie to use here, though. Not in this city. The entire team is only here for two days, a charity event they're contractually obliged to attend — though, really, Neil enjoys these events. And Andrew was the one who put forward his own personal donation into the charity they're representing this year, too, so it's overall a decent outing for them both. They're both in a good enough mood to go out with their teammates for drinks after the game, even.
Neil's been wired the entire time, though. Something had been itching under his skin during the game, pushing him harder and faster than he should have for a 'lighthearted' match.
Despite pushing himself and the rougher handling with the backliner of today's match, the feeling hasn't settled yet. He thought it might help to be in a club, distracting enough to direct his thoughts but familiar enough with Andrew to keep him grounded, but now — well, after seeing Andrew’s decision happen in front of his eyes, he very much just wants to leave.
Andrew seems to sense it, as he spins the glass in his hands. Neil knows he's decided to stop drinking for the night, had made it the moment he'd set the glass down after Neil's knee stopped bouncing, but he's intent on drawing this out anyway.
Neil leans into his space, eyes flickering around the room, trying to see if anyone notices the movement. But they're secluded enough in the VIP booth, secured by one of the other guys after they made it two steps in the club and got swarmed by people who recognised them, and Neil does his best to shake off the feeling of being watched.
"Let's get out of here," Neil says, raising his voice to be heard over the music.
He hears Andrew make a noise of amusement. "Smooth."
Neil tilts his head, blowing air onto Andrew's neck just so he can watch the hairs there rise. Still, Andrew doesn't turn around to face him again. A little game of his own, trying to see how far Neil's limit can be stretched before something snaps. Probably trying to figure out just how restless Neil is.
Neil's not as interested in playing that game. He goes for something more direct, knowing it'll probably throw Andrew enough that they'll bypass a few more taunts.
"Sorry, would you like something more? Like the reminder that we have an early flight, and I'd like to fuck you at some point in that hotel room?" Neil says. He's usually not so direct in public, and he knows it catches Andrew off guard.
Andrew's fingers go still. Then, slowly, settle down on the table, fingers splayed out like he's trying to hide the way he wants to curl them.
"Would you, now." More of a statement than a question.
"Yes," Neil replies, honest.
He wants something. Something to smooth out the buzzing under his skin.
Andrew raises his pointer finger. Taps it down, not to any rhythm pounding through the speakers. Slowly, his hands curl, and he raps his knuckles against the table, then stands up. He doesn't turn around to see if Neil's following, but he doesn't have to — Neil almost falls right out of the booth in his haste to get up.
Their teammates won't ask any questions, at least. They all trust that Andrew and Neil will be able to handle themselves. They're a decent bunch, really. Not quite like the Foxes, but no one ever can be.
Andrew easily makes his way through the crowd, disappearing in a blink before anyone's eyes can linger in recognition. Neil slinks out in the same fashion, keeping his head down, his mother's voice always in the back of his mind as he does his best to go unnoticed.
He steps out into the chilled air, and it takes him only a couple of moments to find Andrew. He's waiting by the closest taxi rank, and when he sees Neil, he opens the back door of one of the cars and slips inside. Neil is only moments behind, folding down into the seat with a huff of air.
He's jittery. Andrew turns his gaze away from the window and over to him as they pass down the first street. Waiting for something. Neil is buzzing, though he hasn't had a single drop of alcohol tonight.
Andrew reaches over and puts his hand on Neil's knee, causing it to go still. He hadn't even noticed he's been moving it again.
Neil shifts in his seat. Andrew grips his knee, and Neil focuses on the touch to try to keep himself as still as possible.
Andrew's stare feels a little too intense. Now it's Neil turning to look out the window, studying the buildings going by as his stomach knots itself over and over.
As they pull up to the hotel, Andrew's fingers tighten their grip for a moment, keeping Neil still as he reaches with his other hand for cash from his wallet to pass over to the driver. When he lets go and gets out of the car, Neil lets out a breath and takes a moment longer to open the door.
Andrew's already by his side of the car when he gets out. After a quick look over him, Andrew heads inside, pulling out the keycard as they walk through the lobby. He flips it between his fingers, and Neil is so fixated on the motion he hardly notices the elevator open up to their floor. Andrew brushes against him, but otherwise leaves Neil to snap back into focus himself and follow.
His heart is pounding loudly, echoing in his ears. Anticipation. It has to be.
Andrew opens up the door, and they slip inside. Their team means they get better rooms, now, than they used to during college. Certainly better rooms than he'd had with his mother. Better security. Better soundproofing.
The door barely shuts behind Neil before Andrew's crowding against his space, reaching over Neil's shoulder to slot the keycard he's holding into the power slot. The lights switch on immediately, though Andrew slaps his hand down and shuts off the ones blinding them in the hall. The air conditioner kicks into life, whirring faintly. They're probably going to have to turn it off, as Andrew is probably cold enough from the outside air alone, but the remote is at the other end of the hallway, and Andrew doesn't seem like he's focused on that problem right now.
Andrew's close, but not close enough. Neil looks into his eyes, grounding himself in the moment with the colour of hazel.
"Hey," Neil says quietly. His fingers come up to grab at the sleeve of Andrew's jacket, leather creaking slightly under his touch.
Andrew is silent, stoic, but it only holds for a moment as he seems to find what he's looking for in Neil's expression.
"Menace," Andrew says, then leans in to kiss him.
It's sweet. Just for a second. Then Neil's back hits the door with a faint thud, and Neil pulls Andrew closer by his sleeve before he wraps his arms around Andrew's shoulder and pulls him in, eager for more. Needing more. Needing Andrew, just as much as he always has.
He could kiss Andrew forever, and he'd be perfectly fine, pressed up against the door with Andrew in his arms. He'd be fine here forever.
But Andrew crowds in closer, slotting a leg between Neil's own, and Neil is very much aware of the fact that he'd really, really, like to do more.
They kiss until they're breathless, until Neil's head thunks against the door with a hit that's probably a little too loud. Andrew grumbles under his breath at the noise, hands coming up to thread through Neil's hair.
Sweet, again, for a moment, as his fingers card through the back of his hair like he's searching for a bump. Neil's stomach flips again. He's almost glad for it when Andrew tugs his head to the side in a command.
"You can't afford to lose any more brain cells," Andrew tells him with a mutter. Neil just feels the edges of his mouth quirk up, and he takes the chance with his head tilted to lean forward and press a kiss to Andrew's jaw. Andrew's already tilting his head, expecting Neil's intended path.
Andrew tastes a little like the remnants of the club: like smoke has stuck to him, familiar on his skin, even though he hasn't lit up in years. Like sweat, with the faintest trace of whiskey intermingled in it all.
Andrew's grip tightens in his hair. Neil continues to kiss down his neck, lips tracing over a spot right above his collarbone, just above his shirt. He wants to leave a mark, but something clenches in his chest, and he decides to just nip gently with his teeth before Andrew hisses and decides he's had enough, pulling Neil's head back.
Neil feels a little dazed. Sometimes, he thinks he can see Andrew feel the same. But right now, Andrew is a sharpened figure of clarity, eyes bright and knowing.
Under Andrew's gaze, Neil shifts. Andrew's fingers loosen their hold, and something in the back of Neil's mind thinks wait, wait, don't let go yet.
"Neil," Andrew says.
"Andrew," Neil replies, just a second later. His voice sounds a little less measured. In fact, it sounds a little too messy: too rough, too desperate.
Andrew studies him for another few moments. Neil's taking the chance to get his breath back, settling against the door without making a noise this time.
"What do you want?" Andrew asks him.
Neil's mouth twitches. "You."
Andrew rolls his eyes. "Yes, I know. You're being pretty obvious about it."
Neil's smile blooms properly. It's a relief to know that Andrew is well aware of just how much Neil needs him, wants him.
And then Andrew sort of changes the mood by pressing his knee a little more intently between Neil's own. Neil chokes out a gasp, having forgotten his predicament.
"Ah," a strangled noise escapes him. Andrew leans closer, his own amusement clear in his eyes as he flickers his gaze down, then back up.
Right. Neil is being pretty obvious about it.
"Maybe... not against the door," Neil manages to say.
Andrew's eyes spark with more of that amusement. He leans back, letting go of Neil entirely, and Neil immediately falls forward to get back into his space. Something low and pitiful catches in his throat. Don't go, not yet, not yet.
Of course, Andrew catches him as his head folds down, pressing into Andrew's shoulder.
"Neil," Andrew tries again.
"Mhm."
"Tell me what you want," Andrew says.
Neil frowns to himself. Sometimes it's easy, saying what he wants to Andrew. Tonight, it stops in his throat, and he doesn't quite know why. His fingers brush against Andrew's hip, then curl around his sides, but the attempt to draw closer just makes Andrew pull away and look over Neil's expression.
"Neil."
When Neil still doesn't quite vocalise it, Andrew goes to grab his hands. Neil quickly flips his grip so that his fingers entangle with Andrew's own, stopping Andrew from pulling his hands away entirely. One of his hands slides down, until his thumb is resting against Andrew's pulse point, pushing under the jacket and under the sleeves he wears.
Taps it out, noting Andrew's heart is beating only a little slower than his own, until Andrew has had enough of the quiet melody. He goes to pull away, and Neil makes another strange noise at the back of his throat, but hardly notices it as he takes hold of Andrew's wrist.
Easily strong enough to break out of. But Andrew doesn't try.
Slowly, Neil brings Andrew's hand to his own wrist. Encourages him to gently close around it, at first. Then presses down a little more firmly. A firm vice, now, wrapped around his wrist.
"You were thinking about it, right?" Neil asks. When Andrew doesn't seem inclined to help with the conversation, he elaborates, "Tying my wrists."
Andrew tilts his head. A small indicator of admission.
"I'd like that, tonight," Neil says. The buzzing under his skin hasn't gone away. He needs... something.
"Would you?" Andrew asks.
Neil recognises it's more of a question, this time, than the flat statement he'd gotten earlier. He nods. "Yeah."
Andrew hums. Lets go of Neil's wrist, only to tap at his chest. It takes Neil a moment, then he realises what Andrew means.
They don't have a tie to work with.
Neil glances around. Then down.
After a moment of staring at the belt on Andrew's pants, which are strained with Andrew's own arousal, Andrew makes a noise.
"No," Andrew decides.
"Okay," Neil says easily, dismissing it from his mind just as soon as it'd come. He looks around the room, measuring up potentials.
There's not a lot. A cable might be able to work, but they're all attached to items in the hotel room. Neil's not exactly into the idea of being tied to the bed with something like a hairdryer, either.
And then his eyes land on a gold strap, dangling over the rounded part of his racquet as it leans against the wall. Andrew's own is lying across the floor, but the medal that's resting on Neil's own is nowhere to be seen.
They're more of a participation medal than anything; they'd won the game, of course, but there's not really much to represent that other than prize money for the local charities. But the local club organised some sort of event for the kids, letting younger players put flimsy, plastic medals over players' heads.
Neil's kid had been a young, small boy with a healing split lip. Neil's ribs had ached from a hard hit in the game as he leaned down, ever so slightly, to let the boy slide it over his hair. He's mostly pushed that ache to the back of his mind, but it flares up now with the reminder that it exists. He ignores it again.
Andrew recognises that his gaze is caught on something. He turns his head, and it only takes him a moment to spot the medal.
He looks back at Neil.
"Really?"
"I mean..." Neil shrugs. It'll do in a pinch.
He can see Andrew thinking it over. Can see that they're about to hit a snag in the potential: there isn't quite an easy tug out of them if they're looped too tightly.
"Just loosely," Neil says. Flexes out his wrists as he thinks it over. The suggestion of them should really be enough: Neil's under Andrew's attention, settling some of that energy under his skin as he's unable to move away — or with — it.
Andrew lets out a breath. Pushes Neil, then, in the next one, towards the bed.
"Shirt off," Andrew says. "Get on the bed."
Neil is quick to oblige, tugging the shirt up over his head and throwing it somewhere in the corner of the room. He toes his shoes off but remains sitting on the edge of the bed, even though he knows Andrew probably wants him lying down on it, but he can't quite get himself to lie back just yet.
He watches as Andrew picks up the medal, fingers running over the ribbon that threads through it. With a little twisting tug, the medal should come right off, but Andrew decides to keep it on. He swings it around, momentum carrying it over his hand, looping it around as he clenches it.
Andrew comes to stand before him, and Neil quickly parts his legs to welcome him in.
He can feel that they're a little at odds with each other: there's a push and pull happening between them, not quite riding the same current that they usually are. It gets like this, sometimes, when Neil's head starts to scramble and Andrew's not quite pleased about it.
It's been lingering since after the game, though. When Andrew had pushed a hand against Neil's ribs in the changing room, unhappy when Neil refused to show that they ached at all.
He pushes that memory aside. He knows the unsteadiness is currently his own brain. Andrew's plenty pleased — they've both flagged a little, in the time since parting — but the want in the air is thick and heavy. He reaches out, putting his hands on Andrew's hips, encouraging him to come closer. He tilts his head up, half-expecting a kiss, but Andrew's got most of his focus on the medal.
As Andrew turns it over, Neil puts his attention elsewhere. His hands tug at the zipper of Andrew's jacket, wanting to take it off, but the angle makes it a little hard. And Andrew still isn't helping him out with it either. When Neil goes to shift his weight up, to stand up just to get the jacket off, Andrew puts a hand to his chest. Then pushes him back.
It's hardly got any effort behind it. It's more of a flick than anything. Still, Neil goes, stomach muscles engaging as he slowly lowers himself back, ignoring the twinge of his ribs.
He drags it out a little — Andrew's gaze is finally back on him, drinking in the sight of Neil's body moving smoothly under his command, and it's a powerful feeling.
Andrew stands above him, twisting the medal in his hands slowly. He's still way too dressed.
"Hands," Andrew says.
"Jacket," Neil replies quickly.
Andrew raises his eyebrows. Neil waits. Andrew does too.
Slowly, Neil offers up his hands, keeping them separated. His elbows dig down into the mattress as his hands hang loosely in the air.
Andrew, finally, shrugs off his jacket. Neil's fingers curl, aching to touch, but Andrew's still intently watching him. If Neil doesn't keep his hands open and willing, then Andrew might just reconsider.
He stops at the jacket, though. Neil makes a noise of protest, gesturing to Andrew's shirt, but Andrew just leans over the bed, placing his knee down into the mattress and between Neil's own legs.
It'd be easy to move a little further down. To just press and give himself a sense of relief. Andrew would probably let him.
But Neil waits, still as stone, as Andrew holds out the medal. The circular pendant dangles as Andrew pulls the ribbon out as far as it goes, stretching it over his knuckles. Then comes closer, and closer, until he's slowly replacing one of his own hands with Neil's.
He keeps the other end of it stretched out, letting the ribbon settle on Neil's wrist, before he starts to turn his hand. Over and over in a tight circle, the ribbon twists over itself. With the other end still loose enough, he takes Neil's other hand and loops it over his fingers until it's also settled around his wrist.
It's still easy enough for Neil to slip out of the bindings, almost entirely by accident. Andrew taps his fingers, and Neil gets the hint to twist the rest of the ribbon himself. The loops around his wrists tighten until Andrew taps his hand again, signalling him to stop. Neil tests against it, but as long as he doesn't unwind his hands with the same motion, then he's unlikely to slip out of it.
There's a fair bit of distance between his hands, still leaving him fairly mobile. He leans up, once again ignoring the twinge in his ribs, and grabs the bottom of Andrew's shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric. Andrew grabs the twisted part of the ribbon and pushes Neil's hands back towards himself, a silent command to keep his hands out of play.
But as Andrew takes off his shirt, Neil can't quite help himself. He splays his hands across Andrew's abdomen, the ribbon pressing into the skin between his wrists. He uses it to stabilise himself as he presses a kiss to Andrew's skin, wherever he can reach.
Andrew lets him indulge for a few moments. Then he starts to shift, putting more of his weight down on the bed. With a look, Neil gets the hint to make his way up to the top of the bed. It's awkward, shuffling back with his elbows as his hands can't stabilise him when he's on his back like this. He gets his heels up on the bed, using his legs for the last haul up towards the head of the bed.
His ribs definitely protest that movement when he lands a little too hard. He bites down on the noise he wants to make and forces his expression to remain calm.
He seems to get away with it, as Andrew's gaze is lingering on the medal that's dangling between Neil's wrists. Neil flexes out his fingers, watching the way Andrew's expression shifts minutely.
He goes to splay his hands across Andrew's stomach, but Andrew grabs the medal and tugs at it.
"Hands up," Andrew says. "Above your head."
Neil's stomach turns. He does as he's told, fingers brushing against the headboard. The medal clangs against it, and the sound is grating enough that Neil grips it between his fingers just to make it go still.
He's pulled tight with tension.
Anticipation, he tells himself.
His ribs are starting to ache now, demanding his attention. He tries to shift, keeping his hands above his head, to lessen the strain, but it doesn't do much to help.
Andrew settles back on his heels. His hands are running down Neil's thighs, pushing them out as he settles properly between Neil's legs.
It's Andrew. Of course, it's Andrew.
But Neil's starting to recognise that the twist in his stomach isn't excitement. It's not anticipation.
It's just anxiety.
Fear.
No, he strictly tells himself. No. It's Andrew. You are safest here.
He tries to breathe out — an attempt to expel all the strange feelings that he shouldn't be feeling with Andrew. But the pull in his ribs stops him short, and his next breath is a stuttered, shaky inhale.
It's covered by the motion of Andrew pulling his own shirt off, his armbands following in the same motion. The lamps around the room are easily bright enough for Neil to see the scars on his skin.
Andrew. It's Andrew. There is no one else Neil could ever mistake him for. Even if the lights weren't on, Neil would know the weight of Andrew on the bed, knows the way he moves, knows the way he feels. Knows him, entirely, intimately.
So stop freaking out, he snaps at himself. He knows it's Andrew. There's no reason for the freak out. There's no reason to feel like this.
Andrew's hands are back on his thigh, fingers tapping against his skin until his palms cup Neil's knees.
It's hot. It is so incredibly hot, having Andrew between his legs like this.
And yet Neil's heart rate keeps rising. His stomach keeps twisting.
You're fine, you're fine, you're fine, he tells himself. There's not even a moment where he considers that Andrew will do anything he doesn't want. There's not a single thought towards the idea of Andrew hurting him.
But something—
Something isn't right. It's not Andrew.
It's just Neil. Something wrong with him.
He doesn't want to admit it. Of course he doesn't. He knows there's nothing actually wrong. It's just— something in his head, maybe. Something is ingrained in his body, deep down and for some reason showing up now, and it just won't go away.
He wants this. He wants Andrew. He wants to try this delicate thing between them: the spontaneous restraint, something they've both worked hard to get to this point with.
He wants it, he wants it.
But he can tell the anxiety isn't going to get any better. He isn't going to be able to just push it down and keep it out of his head now that it's clawed its way in.
And if this goes further, and if Neil just lets it, and Andrew notices—
It won't go over well. Neil will be breaking the trust between them.
His throat clicks as he tries to speak. Panic is short and sharp.
Move, then. If you can't say it.
He tugs at the bindings around his wrists, but they don't give. He can't slip his hands free. Panic builds and builds, something wild in the back of his mind starting to take over.
All he has to do is untwist his hands. All he has to do is turn his wrists, and he'll be able to slip out of the ribbon. He knows this. He knows. He's safe here.
But he's clumsy in his movements. Forgets that he's holding the medal between his fingers.
Andrew stops moving. The fingers pressing down on his knees disappear, and the confusing mixture of feelings makes everything feel so much worse. He wants Andrew, certainly doesn't want him to go, but he thinks there's the memory of someone else's hands on him, too, and he'd rather keep them all away.
"Neil," Andrew says. He sounds a thousand miles away.
Neil's fucked this up. He's really, really, fucked this up.
Part of him just wants this all to go away. To go back to this being hot, and normal, and something fun.
But that's not fair to Andrew. Not fair to either of them, no matter how badly Neil wants it.
Andrew's sitting back, watching him carefully.
Neil manages to scrape out something just as desperate, for a whole new reason, "I don't—"
I don't want to have ruined this.
His words stop. The desperation slowly starts to unclaw. Now that everything's stopped, the mood gone as fast as it'd come, Neil's brain stops spinning. The humiliation is now what's burning him up.
In the back of his mind, Neil thinks this is really about to ruin everything. Andrew knows something isn't right. And if I can't do this myself, if I can't get it together, if I can't just do this on my own, then he won't trust me to try this again.
"Not tonight," he manages to scrape together.
Andrew's expression twists, but it settles into something neutral with rapid speed. Shutting himself off, even from Neil.
"It wasn't you," Neil says, quickly, needing Andrew to know this. "It wasn't you, I promise. Nothing you did."
Still, Andrew shows no reaction. Neil knows he's hurting more than he wants to show.
Neil kicks himself into gear, forcing himself to move his arms down, elbows back down on the mattress, hands resting above his chest. He's still trying to find cracks in Andrew's mask, trying to find something.
They've stopped plenty of times before. Have tried things that haven't worked. But it's never been any of Neil's triggers that have flared up like this.
He swallows down an apology. He wants to say it, but he knows it won't help the situation. And he knows that it's not something he'd expect of Andrew, ever, to say.
Andrew's eyes flicker down to the bindings around Neil's wrist. Neil gingerly starts to rotate his wrist. Andrew's hands twitch by his side, but then slowly come up. Neil stops turning his wrist as Andrew's fingers hover an inch away from his own.
"Yes or no?" Andrew asks, fingers twitching again to show what he means.
Christ. Neil's made a fucking mess of this entire night. They haven't had to ask this in such a long time.
"Yes," Neil says. Swallows down the ‘always’ he typically used to pair it with.
Always, until Neil was on the cusp of a panic attack right here in a hotel room, and suddenly it was a no.
Andrew takes over, a gentle guide in rotating Neil's wrist around. When the ribbon is loose enough, Andrew slips it from one of his wrists and guides Neil's hand slowly back down to rest against his stomach. Neil wants to reach out and touch, feel Andrew beneath the tips of his fingers, but he doesn't want to disrupt the careful atmosphere they're in.
One more rotation is all Neil needs to get the other hand free, but it takes him a moment to realise he's still clutching the medal tightly in his grip. Andrew pries it free, then places the medal down on the bed, out of Neil's sight.
Andrew traces a faint circle around Neil's wrists, right where the ribbon has left behind a bright red mark. Neil had been stretching against it much harder than he realised.
"It wasn't you," Neil tells him. "This wasn't your fault."
He knows Andrew is angry at him. Knows he didn't speak nearly fast enough, or act quick enough on his own to unwind the ribbon when he realised things were starting to go wrong. But he knows that most of all, Andrew is angry at himself.
"Don't," Andrew says. He puts Neil's hand down on his stomach to join the other, but Neil reaches out and circles with fingers loosely around Andrew's own. Careful in case it's a no, but Andrew's resistant tug is weak.
"You've never blamed me," Neil reminds him. It's a dirty tactic, one Andrew won't appreciate, but it's one that is going to work best: in a mirror reflection of their positions, in previous scenarios where something has become a no, Andrew has never, ever, blamed Neil for it. When Andrew's expression still won't open to him, he insists. "You did everything right, Andrew. I promise."
There. The slightest crack. The anger, coming to the surface.
"Stop," Andrew snaps. This time, he pulls away from Neil.
Neil's hands curl into himself, unsure. The distance Andrew creates is way too far, too much. Every inch feels like it's pulling at his skin, like something in his soul is connected to Andrew, crying out the further Andrew gets from him. But Neil knows he's messed this up, so he doesn't try and pull Andrew back.
Just as Andrew is about to get off the bed, and Neil knows he's probably about to go to the bathroom to get some space, to collect himself, Neil's mouth moves again. He needs to try and minimise the damage. Needs to try and stop Andrew from internalising it, stocking it like gunpowder, ready to spark the moment he wants to be self-destructive.
"It was my fault," Neil says, as firmly as his weak voice will carry. "Andrew, this wasn't you."
"Do you think it's my fault?" Andrew fires back, spinning on Neil with the anger so clear to see now. "When it's me and my shit, do you want to hear me say it's my fault too?"
Neil falters, stunned. Of course, Andrew can play just as dirty.
"Of course not," he says, voice even weaker now. "No, Andrew. Of course not. But I should have... I should have said something."
Andrew's anger starts to smooth out. He studies Neil's gaze, and seems to catch something that he's looking for, as he settles down on the bed properly.
This whole conversation sucks, and Neil understands Andrew's need to get out of the room and get some space. So when Andrew properly settles back down on the bed, deciding to stay, he's mildly surprised. But the relief must be obvious, as Andrew lets out a sound close enough to a sigh, then uses his hands to pull himself back on the bed properly. Closer to Neil.
"You don't have to—"
Andrew cuts him off with a look so pissed off that it immediately dies on Neil's tongue. It's clear: Andrew is not very impressed by Neil sacrificing his wants for Andrew's own right now. They settle into quiet. Andrew's close enough to touch, but Neil resists for the moment as Andrew looks distant, staring off at the ring of light that the lamp leaves on the floor.
Quietly, Andrew says, "I don't always say something either."
He knows, immediately, what Andrew means: sometimes, when he's frustrated with his own boundaries, spiteful about needing them, Andrew will try to bulldoze right past them. He won't speak, won't say no when he should. Neil catches it when he tries it, used to Andrew's tells, but he knows when Andrew is trying to push too hard.
Neil's never quite had the same boundaries for them to be so mindful of. Andrew is good at catching when Neil is restless, when the past is biting at his heels and circling in his mind, but it's never quite been something that's crossed into their sex life.
Still. He knows Andrew will be comparing it, putting them both up to unfair standards, just to try and find all the points where he can use it against himself.
"You realised it quickly when I didn't," Neil insists. "You stopped."
There's a twitch in his jaw showing his tension. And, Neil realises a moment later, it's showing his upset too.
"Andrew," he says. When Andrew finally turns to look at him, Neil raises his hand and offers it to Andrew. "Yes or no?"
Andrew huffs at him. Unspoken, it means I am not taking back that it is just 'yes' with you.
Some of the anxiety in Neil starts to settle as Andrew takes his hand and lets Neil pull him down to the bed. Neil turns on his side, and Andrew falls the same way in a mirrored pose, changing their grip so that Neil can still hold onto Andrew's hand in the space between them.
They breathe together for a long while. Despite Andrew's earlier attempt to get out of the room, now he's settled, lying on the bed like he has no intention of ever leaving.
"I didn't know that would happen," Neil says, running his thumb across Andrew's knuckles.
Andrew stares, unimpressed. The closest to 'obviously' he can say without actually wasting the breath on it. He slips his hand out of Neil's grip, but only so that he can run his fingers across Neil's wrist.
"I want to try it again," Neil says. "Not tonight, obviously."
"We aren't trying again if that's the reaction it causes," Andrew curtly replies. He's quick enough to realise Neil can blow a hole in that argument: if we stopped everything, every time you reacted, we wouldn't have gotten past you giving me a handjob. His resulting scowl is amusing to watch, but Neil is mostly just relieved that Andrew's expressions are open to him again.
He doesn't bother saying it. Instead, he says, "I probably won't have that reaction next time. I think today was just..."
He circles his hand in the air. Andrew's fingers remain around his wrist in a loose grip, but the touch is grounding rather than restraining.
Neil's starting to piece it together: has to, if he wants to figure out what's set him off, and wants to make sure it doesn't trip them up again.
"It was probably my ribs," Neil admits, dropping his hand back down. "All those dedications to Riko during the pre-event. Think something got crossed in my brain."
For a split-second, when he'd hit the floor, he'd had the thought, somewhere from years ago on a whole different court: get up, get up, before Riko or Tetsuji kicks you back down.
There'd just been so fucking many speeches about Riko. About the Ravens and mental health. Neil and Andrew had sat with stony faces, Neil clutching at his pants to try and stop from biting down the grin he could feel creeping up.
Mental health. Not Riko's own brother shooting him in the head. Not Grayson having a hit placed on him for laying his hands on Jean.
They're dead, and Neil can laugh about the irony of mental health all he wants, but it seems like some ghosts just won't fucking lie.
Andrew makes a noise of consideration. If there is anyone who understands what it's like, to know it's one person with them but unable to shake the feeling of another, it's him, at least.
"I want to try again," Neil says, because he doesn't want to finish the night with this door firmly shut. Not if Andrew's just trying to shut it for Neil's sake. "I've liked it. I liked the thought of it today, too. I promise."
Andrew's fingers drum along Neil's wrists. For a couple of minutes, it's quiet, and Neil lets Andrew take the time to work through it even as he feels anxiety start to creep back in.
It disappears the moment that Andrew raises his wrist and presses a kiss to the pulse point.
Muttering, Andrew says, "Just not tonight."
Neil, with his hand close enough to brush a piece of Andrew's hair back from his face, does so.
"Just not tonight," Neil agrees.
Andrew lowers his hand back down. Neil has the chance to slip out of Andrew's grip, but he doesn't take the opportunity. There's no need. Under Andrew's touch, he has never been safer. And he has never wanted to run less than in this moment.
He wants nothing other than Andrew. Who is still lying on the bed with him, who knows exactly what Neil seems to need.
It might not have worked out with the restraints, but there will be other nights to try. For now, all that matters is Andrew, right beside him. As he always is.