badacts:

It’s not a thing.

It’s just – convenient. Or a natural result of living in each other’s pockets. The point is, there’s no reason for Matt to take one look at Neil when they’re moving back into Fox Tower and laugh.

“What?” Neil asks, though he’s mostly drowned out by Nicky’s explosive, “Thank you!”

Nicky attempts to high-five Matt, but Dan hip-checks him out of the way so hard he staggers. “Ignore them, Neil. You’re fine.”

“That’s usually his line,” Allison says. Her mouth is curled up in a smirk, her gaze coolly evaluating. She has an arm slung over Renee’s shoulders, and Renee herself is wearing a much more earnest smile. “I’m curious though, is it all And-”

She’s interrupted by Coach’s voice booming down the hall from behind them. “What are you idiots all doing in the hallway? We’re not delaying practice just because you’re all too busy yapping to unpack.”

“We’re admiring Neil’s outfit,” Nicky says, and then squeaks a little.

Andrew appears from behind Coach’s broad body, a bag over each shoulder. He looks at them all as coolly as ever before walking straight past into their room where Kevin is presumably already unpacking.

Coach looks Neil over and then snorts. “I don’t care. Get your asses into gear or you’ll be running laps till you puke tomorrow.”

That makes the Foxes scatter. Neil follows Andrew into their suite, closing the door behind him.

It’s only then that he looks down at what he’s wearing. It’s a t-shirt and jeans, both black. The shirt is a part of the Fox uniform, but it’s not like he was the only one wearing one. Renee was wearing her team hoodie, as was Matt. Anyway, he knows his outfits have been a source of contention and amusement for the Foxes in the past, but he’s hardly the only one to have ever worn something considered unusual. Allison has turned up to the Tower in both a ballgown and a giraffe onesie for a start, and that’s without even mentioning Nicky’s clothes.

Andrew is unpacking food out of one of the bags into the kitchenette. Neil says, mostly to himself, “I don’t get it.”

Andrew doesn’t look up as he says, “You’re wearing my shirt.”

“This is my shirt,” Neil replies, grabbing the hem of said shirt and pulling it away from his body to examine it. It’s definitely his shirt. He remembers washing it. It’s particularly soft, and fits him a little loosely in the way he prefers.

“You stole my shirt,” Andrew tells him, “Number 10.”

Everything the Foxes have is branded, from their training gear to the stuff they’re given to wear on campus or for media events. When Neil looks at the breast of his shirt, he notices the number three on it next to the fox print logo.

“Oh,” Neil says. “…do you want it back?”

“No,” Andrew replies.

“…okay?” It comes out like a question even though it isn’t meant to.

This time Andrew looks up, if only to give him a flat look. The effect is lessened a little by the way the look drifts, tracing over Neil’s shoulders.

“Do you like it?” Neil asks, because that kind of aimless watching tends to mean one thing. His tone is dubious, but after a moment of silence on Andrew’s part the feeling of guessing right starts to solidify in his gut. 

It’s not as though he hasn’t got used to the idea that Andrew likes things by now, and not just in terms of the things Neil does to him. It’s things about Neil himself – the shape of his legs, the sounds he makes – and Andrew might not always tell Neil those things outright, but Neil reads him very well. 

But it’s…clothes. Neil just doesn’t really get it. 

While he’s been considering it, Andrew has returned to shoving a bag of corn chips and several bottles of spirits into a cupboard. Then he stands, kicking the cupboard door shut, and walks around the little bench towards Neil.

Neil stays still, even when Andrew gets within arm’s length, even when he curls his fingers into Neil’s – his? Neil’s? – shirt and holds on, even…especially when he pulls Neil down and kisses him.

Maybe it’s kind of thing, then.