It was a Tuesday during August when Neil didn’t move into Andrew’s
apartment.
It was official – he was a Lion now, which meant hauling his
ass over to Los Angeles in time for the pre-season training camp. Most traded
players relied on their agents to do the heavy lifting. They just hopped on a
plane and expected their belongings to turn up on the other end and a car and
house to be sorted out for them.
Neil had done no such thing. For starters, when he dropped
his key off with his agent to return to the letting agency, his apartment had
been as empty and spotless as when he moved in a year ago. There was only an
overstuffed duffel bag – battered and fraying in one corner, not the sort of
thing an athlete making seven figures a year needed to carry around – and an
Exy racquet slung over his shoulder. He said he’d sent the rest ahead.
The other thing was that he’d hopped into the passenger seat
of a sleek Masarati idling on the side of the road, and driven himself the fifteen
hours to LA. He hadn’t needed an apartment either, but the forwarding address
he left was on the fourth floor of a modern build. It was a two-bed, but the
second bedroom was an entertainment centre and home office rather than a
bedroom.
The last few trades of the season were still being wrapped
up, but Neil’s move to the LA Lions had been finalised almost a month ago now,
on the down low.
Denver had been
bemused – Neil had done well for them, but not so well he warranted snatching
up after only a year into his pro career, especially not at the amount the
Lions offered.
All works are in! We’ve got a great array of pairings and characters who hopefully there’s something for everyone.
Thanks so much to everyone for participating, with extra thanks for the pinch-hitters who turned things around with lightning speed. Please do comment/like/reblog your gift if you haven’t already, and any others you like!
Written as a pinch hit for @idnis as part of the @aftgexchange based on the prompt “You’re the cute nerd that keeps getting pushed around but you just punched your bully and I gotta save you.” I hope you like this high school AU I came up with! Happy belated Valentine’s Day, and have a great rest of your February 🙂
CW: some use of ableist language, violence
****
The thing about Andrew is that he is always watching. Charles Darwin dubbed himself a machine that observed facts and ground out conclusions. Andrew is very much the same; he is a machine that observes facts and churns out hypotheses and scenarios, different permutations of how the core principles can mutate and evolve. The only difference is that he uses the word ‘machine’ in its literal sense. It’s what everybody around him thinks, anyway.
Call it paranoia, but Andrew likes to be meticulous, to be able to predict how the people around him will behave and act under normal and abnormal circumstances. He has always believed that it is better to be safe than sorry, but maybe that can be credited to the fact that he doesn’t believe in regrets.
His latest object of scrutiny is a five-foot-three redhead by the name of Neil Josten.
He’s a scrawny little thing, all long limbs and overgrown, messy hair. He wears nothing but oversized hoodies that are either in grey or a lighter shade of grey, the hood almost always pulled over his head like he doesn’t want anybody to see his face, which is – a shame, if Andrew were to be frank. From the glimpses that Andrew has managed to steal, Neil has a nice face, with a delicate nose and chiseled cheekbones that could cut through glass. It’s an ironic thing to say, because the right side of Neil’s face is marred by two long, jagged knife scars. As if being a scarred runt isn’t pathetic enough, Neil is also part of the mathematics club.
The scars and failed attempt at blending in are mildly interesting, but what really keeps Andrew on his toes is the sharp look in Neil’s muddy brown eyes. He keeps his head ducked and his body curled like he wants to fit himself into the corner of the walls or merge into the shadows, but Andrew sees past all that; he sees the needlelike focus in Neil’s eyes, the firm set of his jaw like he’s biting his tongue, the vigilance in his shoulders like an iron rod, the jitteriness in his wiry frame like he will make a run for it at a moment’s notice.
Andrew has heard all the rumors about Neil Josten, extrapolations that the students make from the morsels of information they could pick out ever since he moved here in the middle of the academic year. Some say that he was sold to the mafia at a young age, others insist that he is the son of a crime lord from the east coast. Most agree that he is quiet, bland, which is how a few of the seniors started razzing him – he’s such an easy target, they like to boast. But what began as juvenile insults escalated into pure bullying when the ex-girlfriend of one of the dickheads asked Neil out and got publicly rejected during lunch at the cafeteria.
Another ridiculous thing about Neil is that girls find his enigmatic aura and brooding facade irresistible, but most of the boys find the whole thing aggravating, like they think that Neil is somehow limiting their own chances of fishing girls and getting laid. The fact that a mousy and unremarkable thing like Neil opened his mouth long enough to bluntly reject the advances of a senior cheerleader has sparked a mini storm in their little high school.
Andrew deems it all banal.
Today, like all the other days, Jefferson greets Neil good morning with a body slam that sends Neil careening into the lockers. As he and his buddies totter down the hallway, bumping each other’s fists and tossing their heads back in malicious laughter, Neil remains slumped against the lockers, chest heaving as he sucks in a deep breath, his eyes closed; he looks like he is trying to collect all semblance of patience and control.
Andrew wonders with detached curiosity if Neil will snap and burst into flames at some point, a match dropped into a tank of oil, or if he will continue to let himself be the resident punching bag.
His question gets answered later in the week when an unsuspecting freshman bumps into Jefferson at the cafeteria and spills the food on his tray over Jefferson’s jersey.
It’s one of the rare days that Andrew spends lunch period at the cafeteria; it’s snowing outside, which means that it is far too cold for Andrew to climb up to the roof for a smoke. But filching cups of pudding from other people’s trays can be a fun way to pass the time, so Andrew stays indoors and ignores the rest of his peers as he finds an empty corner with his stack of stolen pudding and shovels spoonfuls of the dessert into his mouth.
When Jefferson grabs the freshman by the collar and pins him to the table next to Andrew’s, everybody around them makes a noise of surprise, staring wide-eyed at them.
Andrew couldn’t care less; he knows how this type of situation normally plays out.
Hypothesis: People like to stick to the status quo.
Prediction: The bullied cowers in fear and sputters out apologies, the bully gets a few punches in, the spectators whip out their phones and murmur amongst themselves, and in the anticlimactic finale, the teacher arrives at the scene a little too late and ushers the bullied to the nurse’s office.
Conclusion: Same old, same old.
As Jefferson draws an arm back in preparation for a punch, a penknife zips through the air and slices the side of his hand. He keens in a cry of pain as the crowd falls into stunned silence. The knife skitters onto the floor near Andrew’s feet, blood smearing a part of the blade, and his eyes snap towards the direction the knife flew from.
“Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size for a change?”
Collectively, everybody turns their heads towards Neil, who’s standing on the bench a few tables over. His hands are stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie, and his eyes are deceptively calm.
“What did you just say to me?” Jefferson demands, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest.
“I didn’t know that you were hard of hearing in addition to being stupid,” Neil says, head tilted to the side in mocking pity. A few students snicker.
“You little shit,” Jefferson snarls, “I’m going to fucking kill you.”
Neil grins, razor-sharp. “I would like to see you try.”
As Jefferson charges at him, Neil leaps off the bench, swerving from left to right to avoid getting punched. What he lacks in size, he makes up for in speed. It also helps that Jefferson’s movements are sloppy, his cheeks flushed from getting humiliated in public and his hand steadily dripping blood onto the floor. At one point, he slips over some of it and barely manages to hold himself upright.
Seeing an opportunity, Neil smashes his fist into Jefferson’s face.
Hypothesis: Rejected.
The crowd around them reacts with gasps and exclamations of astonishment.
One of Jefferson’s friends – Ruiz – springs up behind Neil and twists his arms behind him. Struggling to free himself from the hold, Neil doesn’t manage to evade the oncoming hit from Davis, a different guy in Jefferson’s clique.
Andrew has an empty tray in his hands and is bashing it into Ruiz’s head before he realizes he’s even moving. As Ruiz crumples to the ground with a groan, Andrew swings a kick to Davis’s groin. Without wasting any time, Andrew catches Neil’s wrist, yanking him away from the scene and remembering to snatch the penknife before they book it out of the cafeteria.
He hears the principal’s voice bellowing a “What’s going on here?” as he and Neil run through the hallways.
Impossibly, Neil laughs, delirious, and Andrew doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more addictive sound.
He leads them outside to his car, unlocking the doors with his key fob and letting go of Neil’s wrist as they hop inside the vehicle. Andrew cranks the engine and heater on after he locks the doors, trying to catch his breath. Beside him, Neil runs a hand through his hair, snowflakes clinging to the auburn strands. His hair is a crimson pharos against the grimy, snowing backdrop. There is the hint of a smile on his lips, and Andrew catches himself staring just as Neil turns to face him.
“I’ve wanted to punch that asshole since the first day I moved here,” Neil says. “Glad I finally did.”
“Took you long enough,” Andrew remarks, impassive.
Neil blinks, twice, expression pulled into mild surprise. But then it changes back into boyish delight. “So you do talk.”
When Andrew does nothing but stare at him, he gives a light shake of his head.
“Rumor has it that you haven’t spoken a word to anyone ever since you got off your court-mandated medication,” Neil says as if he’s reciting the words from a passage.
“You know who I am,” Andrew says, not a question.
“Everybody knows who you are,” Neil says easily.
Good, Andrew thinks. He has let the rumors surrounding his history circulate like wildfire for the past couple of years; it has built his reputation for him and kept others from venturing too close without him ever having to actually do anything. His perpetually blank expression and all-black ensemble have lent a hand in fortifying the forcefield around him, and he wants it to stay that way until graduation.
“And your locker is right across mine,” Neil continues.
Andrew meets Neil’s stare, twisting around in his seat and draping a hand over the steering wheel.
“How are you sure which twin I am?”
Neil raises his eyebrows. “Are you seriously asking me that question? You two are so different from each other.” He stabs a slender finger in Andrew’s direction. “First of all, you wear black all the time. Second, your armbands. Third, your face.” Neil passes a hand over his face as he says this, mouth and eyes a mimicry of Andrew’s flat expression. “Your face is like this all the time, but your brother’s isn’t. Fourth – ” he pauses, his eyes raking over Andrew’s upper body as he tips his head to the side and frowns slightly. “I think you might have more muscle than him, too.”
Andrew doesn’t know how Neil could say that in such a straightforward, non-sexual manner, but he pushes this thought to the side and says, “I know who you are, too.”
Neil goes stiff, his expression shuttered. “Is that so?”
Huh, Andrew thinks. The kid’s secrets might just be as big as the rumors suggest.
Andrew holds one finger up. “You are a lousy fighter,” he says, sliding his gaze to the blossoming bruise on one side of Neil’s face. He holds up a second finger as he continues his list. “And you have an atrocious fashion sense.”
“My clothes help me blend in,” Neil snaps. “And I may not know how to properly throw a punch, but I can at least -”
“Throw knives?” Andrew interrupts, bored. When he plucks the penknife out of his pocket, Neil’s eyes widen, just a fraction.
“You picked it up,” he says. “Thanks.”
Andrew flips the knife over in his hand, studying the shape and weight. It looks quite expensive, and extremely sharp.
Neil swipes it off his palm, and Andrew seizes his wrist just before he could pull away. Neil tries to wrench out of his grip, but Andrew holds on even tighter, until he can hear bones creaking.
“Why did you help me?” Neil asks in a vicious tone, teeth bared. “What do you want from me?”
Andrew gazes at him. He has never gotten a close, proper look at Neil, but now that he has, he notices the ring around Neil’s irises; he is wearing contact lenses. Andrew wonders if brown is even Neil’s real eye color.
“I want nothing,” he informs Neil. “But you are puzzling, and I intend to figure you out.”
Neil’s mouth flattens into a terse line. “I’ve never done anything to you before. Leave me alone.”
“Not to me, no,” Andrew allows. “But after what I have seen today, I will not take any chances.”
Neil scowls deeply. It’s a good look on him, if Andrew were to be honest.
“It’s a one time thing,” Neil insists, “do you really think that I’m going to slash everyone with my knife just because they’re acting like an asshat?”
Andrew gives the ghost of a shrug. “Better to be safe than sorry. Fool me once, strike one. Fool me twice, strike three.”
A huge frown overtakes Neil’s face. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Pop culture references fly over his head. Great.
“That is what makes it funny,” Andrew says.
Neil rolls his eyes. “Are you a comedian now?” Then: “Let go of me.”
Andrew lets go of him, watching unsympathetically as Neil rubs his wrist and pockets his knife.
“Look, it’s nice of you to lend a help and all, but I would really appreciate it if you just leave me the fuck alone after this.”
“They are going to make your life a living hell,” Andrew says, matter-of-fact.
“I think I can handle a bunch of high school bullies,” Neil says coolly. “I’ve handled worse.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“I thought you knew all about me?” Neil says, faux-confusion gracing his features.
“How about a deal?” Andrew proposes, ignoring Neil’s little dig.
“Oh? Do tell,” Neil says, a perfect imitation of Andrew.
Andrew’s only response is an unimpressed look.
Neil eyes him skeptically. “What would you even offer me?”
“Protection.”
“Like I said, I’m perfectly capable of -”
“I will teach you how to fight.”
Neil narrows his eyes at him. “And in return?”
“You will teach me how to use knives.”
Neil fidgets with the end of his sleeves, pulling them over his knuckles. “How do you know that I’m even good enough to teach you?” he says quietly. “And why should I take your words seriously?”
“I observe people, and I listen,” Andrew says plainly. “And I only speak the truth.”
“So you’re basically saying you’re a watered-down, counterfeit version of the Lorax,” Neil quips. When all Andrew does is stare stone-faced at him, he shrugs. “I know some pop culture references. I haven’t been living under a rock, you know.”
“What is your answer?” Andrew presses.
Neil looks out the windshield as he mulls it over.
Hypothesis: Neil, like everybody else, thinks that Andrew is a soulless machine.
Prediction: Neil refuses the deal, and he will never speak to Andrew or associate himself with him ever again, and they pretend that this conversation never happened.
Conclusion: Andrew should really know better.
“Alright,” Neil says, turning towards Andrew again. “I accept.”
Andrew looks at the fake color of his eyes, at his busted pink lips, at the stubborn lines of his face, at the way he meets Andrew’s gaze unflinchingly.
This is my gift for @dancyon as part of the @aftgexchange with the prompt “the twins bonding.” I had fun writing the scene with the twins before I realized that I needed to include some context, hence the super silly and kind of extraneous part with the Monsters + Matt in the beginning. I really hope you enjoy this – I haven’t written a lot about the twins before, so I’m kind of nervous about posting the fic,,,, I hope you have a wonderful Valentine’s!
****
Like many other mishaps in Aaron’s life, this one starts with Nicky exclaiming an “Oh!” like he’s received an epiphany.
Aaron doesn’t look up from his laptop. Matt does.
“How about we play something instead of watching a movie?”
“You mean like video games?” Matt asks.
“I mean like something we don’t normally do,” Nicky says, “like rock-climbing, or paintball.”
“You don’t like rock-climbing,” Aaron reminds him without tearing his gaze away from the physiology article he’s reading, “or anything that requires physical exertion.”
“Aaron Michael,” Nicky says, scandalized, “need I remind you that I am a collegiate athlete.”
“We played paintball last year, before the girls left,” Matt recalls, fondness coloring his voice and wistfulness filling his eyes, “it was a lot of fun.”
“Yeah, it was,” Nicky agrees. “Well, minus the part where Neil single-handedly shot and eliminated most of us. Remind me to never give the kid a real gun.”
“Any other ideas?” Matt asks, slurping on his can of beer.
Aaron groans. “Why are you encouraging him?”
“How about bowling? We did that a couple of times before.”
“You know I hate bowling,” Aaron asserts, unable to help himself.
“How about laser tag?” Matt suggests.
Nicky grimaces. “Let’s not play anything that requires shooting. Neil is going to kick all of our asses.”
“Why is he suddenly included in our plans?” Aaron asks, lips twisted like he ate something bad.
“Don’t be a spoilsport,” Matt chides, playfully kicking Aaron’s shin, “it’ll be fun to have all of us if we decide to do something.”
“Even Kevin and my brother?” Aaron asks dryly.
Matt winces.
Nicky sits up straighter, legs folded underneath him on the couch, his excitement rising. “How about roller blading?”
“I still have bruises from when we went last time,” Matt says sadly.
“Miniature golf?” Nicky tries.
“We’re banned from all three mini golf courses in the city,” Aaron states bluntly.
Nicky inhales sharply, like he just realized something.
“Oh no,” Aaron says.
“What is it?” Matt inquires, sitting sideways on his chair at the desk to look at Nicky.
my gift for @nakasomethingkun via the @aftgexchange!! you’re a super cool writer and i got really excited when i saw you were interested in a p&p au 😀
This is my gift for @sunrise-and-death as part of @aftgexchange, with the prompt “Neil actually taking the time (now that he can) to figure out his feelings about his appearance, sexuality, and/or anything else like that.” I…ended up mostly projecting myself onto him, but I sincerely hope you’ll like this little thing I wrote for you :’) I hope you’ll have a wonderful winter ❤
tw: mentions of past abuse
****
It doesn’t bother him.
Really, it doesn’t.
That’s what Neil is trying to convince himself to believe.
“You’re in a relationship with a guy,” Nicky had said, “I’m pretty sure that makes you gay.”
They had been watching Wonder Woman, and Nicky had swooned over the actor who plays Steve, while Matt had commented on how attractive both Steve and Diana are. Neil had kept mum, and when he had been asked about his opinions, he had shrugged and said, “They’re both pretty good-looking, I guess.”
This hadn’t been the correct response, apparently. Luckily for him, it was only the three of them in the room at that time, but it had spawned a whole debate on his sexuality, even though he had been quite sure the team had settled that bet a while ago. It might have been because Nicky had been a little tipsy.
The thing is, being called gay doesn’t bother him at all, it’s just – he doesn’t think it’s something that fits him correctly. But it doesn’t matter; labels aren’t that important to him.
Well, that’s how it used to be, anyway.
Nowadays, he likes labels – craves them, even.
Number 10, starting striker. A Fox. A mathematical science major. Neil Josten. A real person.
But his sexuality hasn’t been a concern for him. He had kissed a handful of girls before, but that had stemmed more from his curiosity than from any feelings of attraction. He remembers kissing a boy once too, when he was in France; the boy had approached him and expressed his interest, and Neil had wanted to find out if he swung in a different way.
But he doesn’t swing in any particular way – in fact, he doesn’t swing at all. The blow of his mother’s hands and the sting of her words had pummeled any sense of curiosity out of him, but he doesn’t think she extinguished his sexual desire. He thinks that he never had any in the first place.
And then, Andrew.
The thing is, even with Andrew, Neil hadn’t initially thought about it in a sexual way. After all feelings of hostility and wariness were stomped out and replaced by something different, something that’s much – softer, he hadn’t really thought about kissing Andrew or about touching him. It wasn’t until Andrew kissed him on the roof that he considered the possibility of intimacy.
And that, too, is something he finds hard to comprehend. He’s had plenty of time to study Andrew, to understand the intricacy of his mind and the reasons behind his actions, to commit his features and his mannerisms to memory, but it isn’t until much later that he thought about the curve of Andrew’s lips, or the ripple of his muscles, or the glint of his hair, or the set of his jaw, or the depth of his eyes – and then he had realized how beautiful Andrew is, the kind of beauty that sends his pulse racing and his cheeks burning. He thinks it might be because he trusts Andrew, whole-heartedly. If he didn’t, he would never have even thought to try this out with him.
The thing is, he can objectively tell who is pretty and who is good-looking. He remembers how when he first entertained the thought of being intimate with Andrew, he had a good, long look at Matt and Nicky and a few other boys, just to see if he felt any semblance of attraction to them. He didn’t, and he still doesn’t. Girls, too, he supposes, are nice to look at, but he doesn’t ever think about doing anything romantic or sexual with any of them.
A metal tab bounces off his cheek. He blinks out of his stupor to find Andrew staring at him, impassive, a can of beer in one hand.
“Sorry,” Neil says, rubbing his eyes, “I spaced out for a bit there.”
The television drones on, a movie that Neil stopped paying attention to half an hour ago.
Kevin is in Nicky, Aaron, and Matt’s room, probably playing World of Warcraft on Matt’s new computer. They had introduced him to the universe of massively multiplayer online role-playing games, which Neil himself had found to be dull when the boys tried to rope him into it too. He’s also had enough of assuming a different identity and playing a fictional character, thank you very much.
The dorm room is quiet with just the two of them, and Andrew burrows his feet further under Neil’s thighs, trying to leech off more warmth. He’s wearing Neil’s sweater and the heater is on, but Andrew has always been sensitive to the cold. Neil himself doesn’t mind it; winters in South Carolina aren’t too extreme anyway, and he is always happy to act as Andrew’s human furnace.
He’s still watching Neil, slurping on his beer loudly, probably on purpose, because it gets Neil to meet his gaze and arch an eyebrow in question.
Andrew doesn’t enlighten him, so Neil keeps on staring back at him too.
“What is keeping you so occupied, Neil?” Andrew finally asks. Neil counts it as a win; Andrew can usually hold out in silence for much, much longer.
Neil shrugs. “It’s nothing.”
The corner of Andrew’s eye twitches. He leans over to place his drink on the coffee table and reach for the remote control to switch the television off. When he straightens up, he looks at Neil again and crooks a finger at him.
Neil feels a crease forming between his brows, but he nods and gets to his knees on the cushions. Andrew has been sitting with his back to one couch arm, and Neil crawls forward, a hand braced against the back of the couch to steady himself. Andrew catches his other hand to guide him forward until he’s straddling Andrew’s lap, knees bracketing Andrew’s hips. Neil would have been able to keep calm if not for how Andrew presses Neil’s hand flat against his chest and lets go; a sign of trust. Neil’s mind goes into overdrive.
The thing is, this isn’t new. Borders have been redrawn and walls have come tumbling down and gates have come unlocked with keys. Yes or no? has become less frequent and they have grown to be people that they never thought they would ever dream of being even a few years ago. They still have miles to go, but they have realized that time isn’t chasing them down anymore; this has become slower, much gentler – gentler than two people with so many jagged edges are supposed to be capable of.
But Andrew’s heart beats steadily beneath Neil’s palm, thud thud thud, and Neil understands this, even if he doesn’t quite understand labels and sexual orientations and the concept of being attracted to other people.
He stares and stares and stares at the fan of his fingers, at the rise and fall of Andrew’s chest in time with his breathing, until the back of Andrew’s fingers brush against his left cheek, tracing the burn scars.
He feels the heat of Andrew’s other hand hovering near his waist, a question in his eyes.
“Yes,” Neil says.
Andrew brings his hand to rest against the small of Neil’s back, and the other continues its ministrations on Neil’s cheek, cradling his face, fingertips rubbing circles on the skin behind his ear.
“Let’s try this again,” Andrew says. Neil knows he’s trying to keep his face absent and his voice blasé, but the attentiveness of his concerned eyes betrays him. “What is bothering you?”
It doesn’t bother him.
Really, it doesn’t.
Andrew angles Neil’s face up a little, so that he can’t hide his eyes behind the curtain of overgrown fringe.
Neil must have been quiet for too long, because he sees the bob of Andrew’s throat as he swallows, hard, his jaw stiff.
“If it is something you can’t tell me,” he says, “then I won’t make you say anything. We will leave it at this.”
“No,” Neil says quickly, “it’s not like that.”
A tiny wrinkle knits itself between Andrew’s eyebrows. This, too, is something Neil thinks about, how Andrew lets him see these little shifts in his expressions, rare and almost undetectable as they are. Neil brings the hand that’s not occupied by the cycle of Andrew’s expanding and deflating lungs up to his forehead, smoothing the wrinkle out with careful fingers.
“It was something that Nicky said,” he starts, tentative. Immediately, Andrew tenses. “It’s not anything that you’re thinking about,” he assures.
Andrew relaxes, keeps on stroking the side of Neil’s neck, right over his pulse.
“It was something about my sexuality,” Neil continues, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, “and I just – don’t think it’s the right label for me.”
Andrew waits, giving him room to think of the words he wants to say.
“When I say I don’t swing, do you believe me?” he asks, suddenly curious and anxious.
Andrew’s right hand drops down to join his left on the other side of Neil’s waist. Neil knows he’s also taking his time to put his thoughts into words.
“I didn’t, when you first said it,” Andrew admits, voice sedate, “but after a while, I realized that you have never looked at anybody else.”
“Oh.” Heat flares across Neil’s cheeks for some reason. Andrew himself isn’t unaffected; while his face remains unmoved, his hands are clenching and unclenching at Neil’s sides.
It’s one thing for Neil to acknowledge how attuned he is to Andrew and another for Andrew to point it out. He knows he’s boldly said it before, that the only person he’s interested in is Andrew, and by no means is he embarrassed by the intensity of his feelings for him, but somehow, in this current situation and with the turmoil he’s going through, it all feels a little overwhelming.
Andrew, because he is Andrew, regains his composure first – not that it ever looked like he lost it.
“So you are telling me that you are having a sexual crisis,” he says, deadpan.
Neil sighs, looking away. “I guess you could put it that way.”
Andrew’s hand returns to his cheek, and he meets Andrew’s eyes, moored.
The thing is, even though he likes the physical aspect of their relationship, there are times when he doesn’t like the heat tugging at the bottom of his belly, the manifestation of desire. It makes him feel – weird, like he doesn’t belong in his skin. He wants Andrew; he understands this. But sometimes he enjoys holding hands and holding each other in bed – something they’re still learning to do – more than he enjoys doing anything sexual. Kissing, too – well, Neil likes kissing. A lot. Specifically, he likes kissing Andrew. He wants to be able to kiss Andrew until he’s old and grey, now that he has the chance to actually grow old and grey. If there is one thing about his mouth that he appreciates, aside from granting him the ability to verbally eviscerate his enemies, it’s how it allows him to kiss Andrew, to kiss his lips and his forehead and his neck and his soft tummy and his pale arms. On the days that Andrew can’t stand to be touched, Neil is content to simply sit next to him on the roof, breathing in the smoke from the cigarette dangling between Andrew’s lips.
“I’m not attracted to other guys,” he says after a long silence, “and I’m not attracted to girls either. I don’t understand how somebody could look at another person and say they’re hot, or that they would like to sleep with them if given the chance. It just doesn’t work that way for me.”
“But,” he says, then stops. He raises his hands towards Andrew’s neck, slowly, and Andrew nods his consent. Neil tilts forward, arms slinking over Andrew’s shoulders until he can cross his wrists behind Andrew’s neck. Their gazes are locked together, and Neil leans closer until he can count the lashes that frame Andrew’s hazel eyes.
“But,” he continues, “I’m attracted to you, and only you. And I understand the way I feel about you.”
There is a flicker in Andrew’s expression, a water ripple.
“Don’t say such stupid things,” he says, words murmured against Neil’s lips. Neil is struck, not for the first time, by how beautiful Andrew is, the kind of beauty that sends his mind stilling and his skin cocooned in warmth.
They kiss, and they kiss and they kiss, and when they part, it is only to look at each other again. Neil has his hands on the nape of Andrew’s neck and in the hair at back of his head, carding through the golden strands gently.
“I think,” Andrew says, timbre voice brought to a soft rumble, “that you might be asexual.”
“Hmm,” Neil responds, distracted by the warmth of Andrew’s arms around his waist, the sturdiness of Andrew’s body beneath his. “But isn’t that when somebody doesn’t experience any sort of sexual attraction?”
“Not necessarily,” Andrew says. Neil is sure that if he asks, Andrew wouldn’t mind explaining it to him. But right now, he is content and comfortable, and there is always tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. They have time – Neil has time.
He drops his face into the crook of Andrew’s neck and shoulder, bussing a kiss on his clavicle. That is where he stays, arms looped over Andrew’s shoulders, hands in his hair, face buried in his neck, their legs tangled around each other’s. Andrew maneuvers himself until he’s flat on his back, holding onto Neil all the while.
Andrew empties out a shuddering breath. “It is the same for me,” he says, so very quietly, like he is afraid.
“What is?” Neil asks against his collarbone, also very quietly, scared of shattering the fragility of the moment.
“I wouldn’t…” The arms wrapped around him pull him closer, tighter. “I would not have done this with anybody else.”
For an absurd second, Neil is surprised that he isn’t emanating a glow; the happiness he feels right now seems so huge and bright, like it is swallowing him whole. He is safe and snug, right here in Andrew’s arms, and it is a brand of happiness all on its own.
“Yeah,” Neil says softly, because he wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what.
Andrew kisses him on the crown of his head, feather-light.
And really, nothing could ever bother Neil right in this moment.
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Okay, so this is my very last-minute gift for @nakasomethingkun through @aftgexchange. So, I meant there to be stuff related to the 4th of July and to Andreil reuniting during their long-distance relationship, and this… sort of has that stuff. Anyways, it might not be exactly what I meant it to be, but I kind of like it, so hopefully you will, too?
Neil Josten didn’t pay much attention to birthdays. He willfully ignored his own, did little more than slide a phone to Andrew on his, and in that tradition, America’s birthday was hardly a blip on Neil’s radar.
Other people turned the Fourth of July into an entire spectacle party. Other people woke up early, spent hours in the car, and made their way to a beach or a backyard. They made small talk with people they would have avoided otherwise; they drank more than they would have otherwise; they ate food they wouldn’t have otherwise. Other people turned a regular day into something else, like it was so unique that this country had come to be.
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Nothing but My Aching Soul 