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.