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Aaron wasn't supposed to like Neil. At first, it was easy—Neil was Kevin's shadow, Andrew's obsession, another presence invading Aaron's already crowded life. Neil was reckless, secretive, and always in the middle of chaos. Disliking him was simple. But then Aaron noticed Neil never looked comfortable—anywhere—class, practice, even while asleep, especially not in sleep. Aaron began noticing things he wasn't meant to see: Neil always faced a wall, was startled by door slams but not by shouts, and tensed when someone suddenly reached for him, his face guarded. Neil rarely initiated touch—handshakes, pats, shoulder punches—and Aaron recognized this because he did the same. It started with laundry, not to spend time together, but because Fox Tower had only two machines, and everyone chose Sunday evenings. Aaron entered the basement with a basket and saw Neil there: one washer running, the other stopped but untouched. Neil sat atop the folding table with a textbook, ignoring the machine. "That's yours," Aaron said. Neil looked up. "It finished fifteen minutes ago." "...Then why haven't you moved it?" "I didn't want to touch someone else's clothes." "What?" "If I move them, they'll know someone touched their stuff." Aaron stared. "Neil." "Hm?" "They're towels." "...Oh." Aaron sighed dramatically and moved the towels. He shoved the damp towels into the basket beside the dryer and transferred Neil's clothes into the empty machine. Wasn't. "...Great." Neil tilted his head. "What?" "We're basically the same neurotic asshole." That earned the smallest twitch of Neil's mouth. "So Andrew says." Aaron snorted. "Andrew thinks everyone is an asshole." "He usually has a point." "...Unfortunately." The quiet settled again. Comfortable. Not awkward. Just… Present. Aaron hated how rare that felt. The machines kept humming.
Neil suddenly asked, "Why do you hate being touched?" Aaron shrugged.
"I don't hate it." Neil looked at him. Aaron sighed. "I hate not knowing it's coming." "...Yeah." "If someone warns me..." "...It's different." Aaron looked up.
"...Yeah." Neil nodded slowly. "I don't mind if I know." Aaron stared.
"Really?" "I just..." Neil searched for the words. "...Need to choose." Aaron understood immediately. Choice. Nobody had ever given either of them one.
Aaron looked away first. Choice. It was such a simple thing. Something everyone else seemed to have without thinking. Who touched them. When. Why.
A hand on a shoulder during a conversation. A hug after a bad day. Someone grabbing their arm because they were laughing and not because they were being Aaron had spent most of his life learning that hands signaled impending trouble; probably Neil had too. The heavy, unspoken thought lingered between them. “You ever notice," Neil said quietly, "that people just... touch each other?" Aaron frowned. "What?" Neil closed his textbook. “On the team.” Aaron looked confused. "They're always doing it." "Oh.” Neil understood exactly what he meant—Nicky hugging everyone, Kevin grabbing Neil's shoulder when excited, Matt patting backs, Dan squeezing hands to reassure, and even Andrew, in his own intense way, touching those he trusted. Aaron found it annoying until now, when he wondered if he had never really understood it. "They don't think about it," Neil continued, “They just do it." "Yeah." Neil stared at the washing machines. "I think that's strange." Aaron scoffed. "You're saying that like you're not the strangest person I've ever met." Neil glanced at him. “Including Andrew?" "Especially Andrew.” Aaron saw a small smile and hated noticing it. The dryer clicked; neither moved. After it stopped, Aaron looked over. "Your clothes." Neil looked startled. "Oh." He hesitated before opening the dryer. Aaron noticed, "You're waiting." Neil looked at him. "For what?" "For something.” Aaron gestured vaguely. “You're standing there like the dryer’s going to attack you." "I don't trust machines." "They're just machines." "That doesn't mean anything." Aaron rolled his eyes but understood—more than he wanted to. Neil slowly pulled out his clothes, one piece at a time, careful, as if everything could be dangerous. Aaron watched him fold, not out of interest but because he recognized the movements—the precision, the need for everything to be right, as a way to control something. The dryer clicked again; neither moved until it stopped. Aaron glanced at Neil. “Your clothes." Neil looked startled again. "Oh." He hesitated before opening the dryer. Aaron noticed, "You're waiting." Neil looked at him. "For what?" "For something.” Aaron gestured vaguely. "You're standing there like the dryer’s going to attack you." "I don't trust machines." "They're just machines." "That doesn't mean anything." Aaron rolled his eyes, yet he understood—more than he wanted to. Neil carefully pulled out clothes, one by one, cautious as if everything might be dangerous. Aaron watched him fold. Not because he was interested. Because he recognized the movements. The precision. The need to have something done correctly. A way to control something.
They sat there longer than necessary. The laundry was done. The basement was empty. Neither of them had a reason to stay. Neither left. Finally, Neil said,
"Can I ask you something?" "Depends." "Can I?" Aaron sighed. "That was not a question." Neil ignored that. "Can I touch your shoulder?" Aaron froze. Not because he didn't want to. Because Neil asked. Nobody asked. Nobody ever asked.
"Why?" Neil looked embarrassed. "I don't know." That was probably the most honest answer Aaron had ever heard from him. "I think..." Neil hesitated. "I think I want to know what it's like." Aaron's chest tightened. Not in fear. Something else. Something uncomfortable. Something almost like grief. Because Neil wanted something so small. Something everyone else got without asking. Aaron looked at his hand. Then back at Neil. "...Okay." Neil moved slowly. Painfully slowly.
Like Aaron might change his mind, his fingers brushed Aaron's shoulder.
Barely any pressure. Aaron flinched. Not away. Just reflex. Neil immediately started pulling back. "Sorry." "Don't." Neil stopped. Aaron swallowed. "Don't apologize." Neil looked at him. "You didn't do anything wrong. The words felt strange. Like they belonged to someone else. Neil's hand stayed. Warm. Careful.
Aaron realized something. He wasn't afraid. Not completely. Because Neil wasn't taking, he was giving. After a moment, Aaron said, "Your turn." Neil blinked. "What?" Aaron nodded toward himself. "You asked." Neil looked confused. Then nervous. "Okay." Aaron held out his hand. Not dramatically. Not like some big emotional gesture. Just an offer. Neil stared. Then slowly placed his hand in Aaron's. Their fingers didn't intertwine. That felt too much. Too intimate.
Too fast. They just held on—two people who had spent years avoiding touch. Two people who had learned that hands hurt. Learning, slowly, that sometimes they didn't. Neither spoke. The washing machines hummed. The basement lights buzzed. And for once, neither of them felt the need to leave.