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Neil doesn’t know what to expect when Andrew walks through the door, metal bell clanking and the sound of lilting coffee shop music drowned out by the look Andrew gives him.
Andrew pulls out the chair opposite Neil and he clenches his hand more firmly around his mug. Andrew sits down and Neil sips at his too-hot coffee. Nods towards the other mug. “I got you a mocha,” he says. Andrew simply curls his fingers around the warm mug. They sit in silence for a moment. Neil’s forgotten how to do this.
“How have you been?” It’s a stupid, inane question and he regrets it the minute it’s out.
Andrew raises an eyebrow. Shrugs.
Neil deserves that. “How’s Boston?”
They haven’t seen each other in over a year. Neil remembers a lot of it – heat against skin, exy rackets clacking against each other, the ridges of a key against his palm – but he fumbles over this, how they used to talk to each other. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, like he’s tripping over a forgotten language.
Andrew lifts his mug to his lips. “It’s cold,” he says.
Neil nods. “It would be.”
He looks out the window, watches people moving hurriedly against the wind, tightening scarves around bodies. After a minute Andrew says, “It’s busy. People smile too much. I hate the subway. The coffee’s ok.”
Neil looks back at him and doesn’t fight a smirk. “People smile too much? You’d get on well in New York then.”
Andrew stares out the window. “I could hate the subway here too,” he comments.
Neil grins around his coffee. “You’d fit in well here, the cabs drive almost as bad as you do.”
“Never heard you complain before,” Andrew mutters.
“I’m just saying it would be harder to tell here that you were always a second away from a car crash because almost everyone is.”
It’s quiet after that. Neil gulps down more coffee, rises to go to the bathroom. When he returns he looks at Andrew for a moment. Let’s himself miss him in a way he hadn’t so far: watches how his slightly overgrown blonde hair curls around his pink-tipped ears in a way that makes Neil’s stomach drop, light eyebrows frowning in contemplation, eyes flicking up to him murderously.
Neil sits down. “It’s good to see you.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. He considers painting over them with sarcasm, but suddenly feels exhausted by the effort.
Andrew looks at him, eyes hard with something Neil can’t read. “You too,” he says finally, and doesn’t look away before asking, “So when did you get here?”
Neil clears his throat. “Saturday. Matt and Dan helped me move. Not that there was much to bring,” he admits. He’d been slightly embarassed at having two people to help him carry four bags and a box up the seven staircases to his tiny flat. He had an ensuite next to his dinky bedroom, and an open plan kitchen/living room. But New York was expensive, and he didn’t want to waste any money on things he didn’t need.
“You met the team yet?”
“No, I’ve got a week yet til summer training starts.”
Andrew nods, looks at his mug. “I’ve heard that Ryans already has a boner for you.” Neil almost chokes on his coffee. “Professionally-speaking,” Andrew says, raising his mug to lips that Neil remembers now are doing that thing where they strain against skin from the effort of not-smiling.
Neil grins. “Ryans is the only one I’ve spoken to. He reminds me so much of Kevin it’s painful.”
Andrew rolls his eyes. “You really are a masochist.”
“It’s masochism to want to play with the best backliner in the pros?”
“It’s masochism to think that any of this matters.”
Neil’s grin turns into a soft smile. “That’s not the impression I get from watching your games.”
Andrew huffs. “You haven’t got anything better to do?”
“Nope.” Neil pulls his sleeve over his hands, playing with the edges but not looking away from Andrew. “Really, you have no excuses anymore. Who’s up in Boston that you’re trying to keep your promises to, or to impress, or to save?”
Andrew looks out the window and for a second the air leaves Neil’s body. “I wasn’t asking–” he starts.
“I didn’t think you were,” Andrew cuts him off. His jaw hardens.
“You want to see where I live?” Neil asks suddenly. Anything to get them off this conversation.
Andrew shrugs, but downs the end of his coffee and gets up. Neil follows him out.
It’s early still; Neil walks straight past the subway entrance, Andrew stuffing his hands in his pockets and hurrying to match his stride. It’s bitterly cold and Neil does up the top buttons of his coat. Out of nowhere a burgundy beanie has appeared on top of Andrew’s head and it’s all Neil can do not to glare at the way it makes his hair spill out from under it. Instead he keeps his eyes on his shoes, on passing tourists. At one point Andrew gets out a cigarette, fumbles lighting it with heavy gloves on, holds out the pack in question to Neil who shakes his head.
“Don’t you know cigarettes are bad for you,” Neil says.
“Never heard you complain before,” Andrew says.
They walk for a while in silence, and it’s nice, and Neil wonders if this is what he was forgetting. Eventually they come to a small park. It’s nothing special – four rusting fences bordering some wilting grass and a couple of benches. Neil gestures to it. “This is my park.”
Andrew raises an eyebrow. “Well,” he says. “Central’s got nothing on you.”
Neil grins and elbows him forward, and they sit on Neil’s bench. He points to a block of flats opposite, brickwork patchy and white paint flaking off a door that even Matt could break into. “That’s mine too, the top window in the middle.”
Andrew nods, tilts his head to look up at the barred window. “Cool,” he says, and in that one word it suddenly occurs to Neil how hard Andrew is trying.
He has to look away, to hide his grin behind his glove, before sighing, “You can say it.”
“Say what?”
He can’t help himself. He grins at Andrew. “It’s shit.”
Andrew smirks, and Neil’s throat goes dry. “Well I didn’t wanna be the one to say it Neil, that seems rude.”
“It’s what I can afford,” Neil says, shrugging.
Andrew nods, stands up. “Then it’s cool,” he says again. “Show me.”
Neil unlocks his apartment and shoves the door open, letting Andrew walk ahead of him. Andrew, though, comes to a complete stop almost immediately. A small brown-and-lime couch is stuffed into a corner, a heater one side and the kitchen counter on the other. A door leads off into the bedroom and Neil smirks as Andrew turns slowly in the middle of the tiny space.
Neil shuts the door behind him, leaning against it, waiting for judgement.
Eventually Andrew faces him, and when he does his head is resting in his hand. “For – christ’s sake – Neil,” he says into his hand.
“Cosy, right?” Neil says, grinning, taking Andrew’s elbow and moving him forward one inch and spinning him to face the couch. “This is the living room,” he announces, like they’re on a tour, gesturing to the brown-and-lime monstrosity that faces a bare wall. He spins them towards the kitchen counter. “And this is the kitchen,” he says, taking in view the oven and the hot plate. The sink is at least clean, and there’s a small refridgerator under the counter next to the bin. Neil moves to open the bedroom door, revealing a double bed and a wardrobe nestled snuggly against one another. “There’s a bathroom through there,” he says, and Andrew walks through to investigate. When he returns he’s shaking his head.
“You couldn’t pay me to use that shower,” he says.
“Hey,” Neil says, “I spent Sunday cleaning in there.”
“Right, that’s it,” Andrew says, grabbing Neil’s wrist and stomping out of the apartment.
They spend a few hours shopping. Andrew makes Neil buy things he doesn’t need – a bathmat, a microwave, a rug for the living room, photo frames, a bluetooth speaker, a blanket to throw over the couch – anything but lime, Andrew insists – pays for a few things himself – no you can’t see have you heard of a fucking present Josten – helps Neil wrestle it all into a cab. By the time they get back it’s late, and neither of them have eaten since breakfast, so Neil orders food while Andrew hammers a nail into the wall above the now-purple couch. Neil has to admit that the place already looks better. The small microwave – which has to sit on top of a cupboard – makes the kitchen look less terrifying, and the light purple blanket makes the couch look more inviting. Neil looks in the bathroom to see Andrew has hung up the blue towels, placed the matching bathmat on the floor, and smiles, bewildered; didn’t realise a few spots of colour could make everything so much better.
When he returns Andrew has hung up the photo frame and stepped off the couch. Neil moves forward to see a team photo of the Foxes from three years ago – the last one they took before the girls left. It had been tacked up to the wall by Neil’s bed. He smiles at it, taking in the glowing happy faces of his old teammates, all the way to Andrew’s stoic expression, tolerating Neil’s arm thrown around him at the edge of the frame.
Andrew sits heavily on the couch, and Neil joins him. Andrew has his phone out, and suspiciously looks as though he’s browsing laptops. Neil rolls his eyes and tries to wrestle the phone away, but Andrew’s arm blocks him easily, firm hands catching his wrists and holding them against his chest, and Neil’s breath catches for a second. He remembers this.
“I don’t need a laptop,” he says, but it comes out quieter than expected.
Andrew raises an eyebrow at him. “A man can only have so many issues,” he says, looking back down at his phone.
Neil almost laughs, but he’s having difficulty concentrating. “I managed five years of college without one,” he tries again, trying hard not to move under Andrew’s grip.
“They don’t have computer rooms in exy stadiums,” Andrew says. “And define ‘managed’ I heard you barely scraped a degree.”
Neil watches as Andrew chooses a laptop, places it in his basket, buys it without a second glance. He probably won’t even ask Neil to pay him back. That’s not the sort of person Andrew is. This time when Andrew looks at him Neil doesn’t have time to mask his expression. Can’t hep notice the way Andrew’s eyes flick to his lips before releasing his arms. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you missed telling me what to do,” Neil says. He doesn’t mean it to sound flirty, but something in his voice betrays him and Andrew angles his body towards him.
“Someone’s got to,” Andrew says, and now his voice is low, and Neil remembers that. “You would have just put up with brown-and-lime.” He raises a hand towards Neil’s hair, pauses, and Neil nods.
“It’s cost-saving, is what it is,” Neil breathes as Andrew fingers pick their way through Neil’s hair. His hands are gentle one second and rough the next, stroking patterns into his skull.
“It’s masochism,” Andrew retorts, leaning forwards.
“I don’t need a microwave,” Neil stammers, eyes closing against their own will at the feeling of Andrew’s grip tightening in his hair.
“Shut up,” says Andrew, and then his lips are tumbling against Neil’s. Neil responds like he’s been suffocating, like Andrew’s lips are the light-source his brain has been craving for 12 months. He keeps his hands still in his lap but his lips are moving over Andrew’s and his tongue is fighting through them and then he’s licking into his mouth, and Andrew’s hands are running from his hair across his neck to his shoulders and back again, leaving fire in their wake, and after a while Andrew moves back slightly, and Neil moans against retreating lips, and Andrew says, “It’s a miracle you’re not dead,” and Neil marvels that Andrew is together enough to speak, his own heart beating a mile a minute, not trusting his eyes enough yet to open, but then he remembers.
He opens his eyes, looks up into Andrew’s hard gaze from his place slightly pushed into the cushions, Andrew towering over him. “A miracle,” he says through uneven breaths. “Thank god you’re here.”
“You going to do what I say?” Andrew asks, quietly. And Neil nods. “Put your hands above your head,” Andrew says, voice low, almost a growl, and Neil does, crossing his wrists, fingers clinging together, anticipation crashing into his chest. Andrew trails a finger down his chest.
And then the buzzer sounds at the front door, and they both freeze. Neil blinks, like maybe it wasn’t real, but then it’s like the entire apartment is buzzing and Neil jumps to his feet, hurrying over to the door and pressing the button to let the delivery person up.
He accepts the bag, tips the delivery guy, and shuts the door heavily behind him. For a second he doesn’t dare turn around. He hears Andrew move towards him, and the bag is taken from his hand, hears it being placed on the counter. Neil turns round to see Andrew hunting for forks, and moves to help.
Andrew has connected his phone to Neil’s new speaker which he places on the counter, picks a playlist, and sits on the couch with his noodles, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. When Neil’s breathing has evened out he joins him, poking at his own food unenthusiastically.
Neil thinks it’s probably good they were interrupted.
They haven’t spoken in a year, and Neil feels the weight of this sitting heavily between them.
How easy it was to sink back into it all.
Andrew pauses, fork in his mouth. “Is this your go to take-out?” he asks.
Neil shrugs. “It’s the closest one,” he replies. “Why?”
Andrew closes his eyes, like he’s praying for patience. “I don’t know if you really grasp the concept of delivery,” he says slowly, eyes opening and poking his food again, “but you don’t have to order from the closest place.
“What’s wrong with it?”
Andrew picks up a noodle with his fork and lets it fall back down. “Hoisin? More like… who-sin.”
Neil bursts out laughing, ignores the look of surprise from Andrew. “Did you just make a joke?”
“Hey they think I’m a hoot up in Massachusetts.” Andrew continues eating his food, though it’s peppered with grumbles and further inspection.
“That’s a lie,” Neil says. “Don’t lie to me. I know for a fact you haven’t said more than five words to any of them.”
Andrew huffs, but doesn’t correct him.
When they’ve finished and Neil’s put the empty containers in the kitchen, hopped up onto the counter, legs dangling, the sky outside is fading to a dark blue, and Neil points out the window. “This is why I picked this place,” he says. “Look.”
Andrew stands, hands in pockets, and turns to the small window. Fading sunlight hits his cheeks, and Neil watches Andrew instead of the sunset, watches pinks and blues reflect in his happy eyes. Knew Andrew would love this. Couldn’t help thinking of him when he’d looked round the place at sundown, after a long day in the stadium, drawn to the window as sun set gently over a distant New York skyline. Remembering the countless times he’d gone up to the roof at sundown to see Andrew, legs dangling content over the edge, leaning towards the sky.
Eventually Andrew scoffs. “It’s got nothing on Palmetto,” he says, because loyalty is important to Andrew, but Neil notices the way Andrew hasn’t drawn his eyes away yet. When he finally drags his eyes to Neil’s, he looks surprised to see Neil watching him, to see the easy smile on his face. Walks towards him and rests hands on the counter at either side of Neil’s hips, leans his forehead gently against Neil’s.
“Hey,” Neil says. It’s not nerves, or lack of conversation. It’s just what he remembers.
“Hey,” Andrew whispers.
“Do you want to – talk?” Neil asks, eyes closed, mouth open, feeling Andrew’s breath hot against his own.
“No,” says Andrew, and leans in to kiss him.
It’s softer than before, like Andrew is pressing the memory of sunset into Neil’s lips. Shadows in the room flicker around their bodies, lulling them into darkness, as time passes and Neil lets it. Lets Andrew kiss remembering into him. Neil’s grip is hard on the counter beneath him, and he strains against the desire to move his hands, legs stock still with Andrew’s body pressing hard against them, and then Andrew’s hands are on Neil’s knees, moving them slowly apart, pushing between them, and Neil’s breath hitches in his throat, and Andrew’s tongue surges forward to catch it, and Neil stops breathing altogether.
They only pull apart when the room is enveloped in darkness, a distant streetlight too far below the window to do more than cast a beam against a wall.
“Mm,” says Neil, because it’s what he remembers.
If it was lighter, he might have seen Andrew smiling softly against his lips, but he still feels it, licks Andrew’s bottom lip like he can burn that smile into his memory. Andrew catches his lip in his teeth, pulls away gently.
Andrew’s breath is slightly uneven, and when Neil opens his eyes Andrew’s are firmly closed, but there’s something in his expression, so Neil waits, kisses him on the jaw while he does so, surprised when Andrew doesn’t move away, kisses him there again, traces patterns down his jawline.
“There’s no one in Boston,” Andrew mutters.
Neil stills. It only takes him a second to work out what Andrew is talking about. “I really wasn’t asking,” he manages against Andrew’s neck.
“You can have that one for free.”
Neil considers this, and moves back to Andrew’s face, kisses him and then moves back to look at him, waits until he opens his eyes. “That’s not how this game is played,” Neil says. “There’s no one here either.”
Andrew looks away. “You’ve been here five minutes.”
“There’s no one, Andrew,” Neil insists, one hand tugging at his sweatshirt pulling his attention back to him. “Shall we do this?” He asks it casually, the only way he knows how, like they didn’t end this a year ago, both acknowledging that they didn’t know if this would survive long-distance, Neil all miserable acceptance and Andrew calm breaths; like Neil hadn’t just spent 12 months trying to forget this; like his heart didn’t jump into his throat the second Andrew walked into the coffee shop.
Andrew looks frustrated. “Nothing’s changed,” he says.
“I know it hasn’t,” Neil replies, shrugging. “But Boston’s not so far away. We may even be playing each other in the fall. I just…” He tugs at Andrew’s shirt again. Looks into his eyes. “Let’s do it anyway.”
Andrew gulps, moves his hands to Neil’s arms. “You’ll be the death of me,” he breathes, and Neil knows he’s won. Catches Neil suddenly in a bracing kiss. “Idiot.”
“Junkie,” Neil grins against his lips.
“Take that back.”
“No.” And, after a while, “The counter’s uncomfortable.”
“Never heard you complain before,” Andrew says.
“My bedroom is three feet away.”
“Too far.”
“Come on, I’ll let you tell me what to do.”
“Mm.”
Later, when the sun rises, light spills into Neil’s apartment, striking against purples and blues and golds, sparkling in the glass of the photo frame on the wall, lights up the present Neil hasn’t seen yet. A smaller frame, tucked into the corner of the kitchen counter, a photo of the two of them, faded over time, staring at each other like they’re everything.