Chapter Text
It all starts when Neil says that Allison asked if she could dress him for the Foxes’ next joint trip to Eden’s Twilight, and that he said yes. That in and of itself is no big deal—Andrew and his lot are at the club almost every weekend, so he can save the outfit he had planned for Neil for another time.
It doesn’t even really bother Andrew that Neil said he’d hitch a ride with the upperclassmen to the club that night. He may not exactly like Allison, Matt, or Dan, but he can acknowledge that they care about Neil and can be trusted to watch out for him. The only annoyance is that that means that Neil won’t be sitting next to him on the drive to Columbia, and he’ll thus have to tolerate Nicky, Aaron, and Kevin fighting over who gets to ride shotgun until he threatens to drive off without them. (Andrew refuses to admit to himself that maybe he’ll miss Neil sitting next to him as he drives, miss Neil’s careful fingers settling over his own as he clutches at the gear shift. That would be stupid.)
What very much does bother Andrew, however, is when his eyes catch upon Neil walking into Eden’s Twilight just behind Renee. He briefly wonders if he can justify to Neil just slightly maiming Allison, because he thinks that she definitely deserves it right now.
The problem isn’t that Neil looks bad—it is that he looks far, far too good, and Andrew hates it. He hates the shimmery silver of Neil’s top that ripples as he moves. He hates the skinny jeans that look like they've been painted over Neil’s legs; he hates the way that they accentuate the toned muscles of Neil’s thighs as they strain back against the fabric. He hates the heeled boots on Neil’s feet and the way that they make Neil’s legs seem to stretch like miles flying under the Maserati’s wheels.
And when Neil gets close enough to the table that Andrew is standing guard over for him to make out the details of his face, Andrew decides that just maiming would be too kind of a fate for Reynolds. If Andrew hates Neil’s outfit, he despises what Allison has done to his face. He despises the eyeliner making the blues of Neil’s eyes pop, despises the glittering highlight that sharpens Neil’s cheekbones so that they look like they could cut sharper than the knives under Andrew’s armbands. His auburn curls have been pushed loosely back from his face, looking for all the world like someone has hastily run their fingers through it to try and fix it after thoroughly mussing it in a moment of passion.
The icing on the proverbial cake and the thing that Andrew abhors the most, though, is the line of silver hoops hooked over one of Neil’s ears, calling attention to them with the way them gleam in the scattered lights of the club. The small bands start at the top of Neil’s ear and continue down its edge, showing off the cut of Neil’s jaw where it meets the line of his neck and begging for it to be kissed. For once Andrew knows that he’s the one who’s staring, but he doesn’t feel like he can look away.
When Reynolds reaches the tabletop a few paces behind Neil, she smugly remarks “Not bad, if I do say so myself.” She reaches over to lightly tousle Neil’s hair, beaming even harder at the eyeroll the action garners from Neil.
“I still think these pants are too tight,” Neil mutters.
“You won’t need to run in them, babe. They’re designed for looks, not practicality. Isn’t that so, Minyard?”
Andrew doesn’t deign to acknowledge her question with anything beyond a dead eyed stare in her direction, which is when Renee intervenes. “We’re meant to be having a fun night out, aren’t we? Maybe we should try and refrain from antagonizing each other, just this once.”
“Bor-ring,” Allison singsongs, but nevertheless links hands with Renee and starts to move in the direction of the bar. Apparently she can’t resist trying to land one last blow, however, because she throws a “You’re welcome” over her shoulder at Andrew as she sashays away. Andrew hopes she spills every single one of her drinks down the front of her designer dress.
Andrew’s attention is again stolen by Neil when the man in question plops down in the seat next to him with a heavy sigh. “I guess I didn’t think Allison would make such a production out of dressing me up,” he says, leaning close so that he can be heard over the din of the music. “Maybe I was too hopeful.”
“Hopeful? How about naive?” Andrew responds. Still, he reaches out to hover a hand at the side of Neil’s face, waiting until Neil nods at him to actually touch. He tugs on the edge of one of Neil’s ears, careful not to touch the loops of metal placed there.
“They’re just clip-ons,” Neil explains at the wordless question. Andrew could have said as much himself; even in the dim light of the club, it’s easy to see Neil’s ear isn’t the inflamed red of new piercings. “Allison thought I needed to accessorize, for whatever reason. Do you like them?”
“I hate them.”
“But do you hate them-hate them, or do you hate them like you hate me?”
“Is there supposed to be a difference between the two?”
“The first means you really hate them. The second means you like them, but don’t know how to process it.”
Andrew scoffs and pushes Neil’s face away from him. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you.” It’s not a question.
“So I’ve been told,” Neil says, and Andrew wants to kiss that stupid smirk off his face. Instead, he tips his head back to swallow the last of his whiskey, setting the glass back on the table none too gently. Then he slides over the water he got for Neil, though by now it’s lost most of its chill.
As he twists the cap off his bottle, Neil surveys all the other empty glasses that litter the tabletop, then the empty seats around them. “I guess that they’ve already reached the point of the night where they’re drunk enough to dance?”
“They had plenty of time to get there,” Andrew responds.
Neil shrugs. Andrew pointedly ignores the flash of collarbone the gesture exposes. Fucking Reynolds. “I did try to speed things up, but Allison insisted on doing Dan and Renee’s makeup too.”
Andrew scoffs. “Where is Wilds?”
“She stayed with Matt when he went to park the car. I’m sure they’re on their way now.”
Sure enough, Boyd and Wilds arrive just a few minutes later. Andrew returns the nod that Boyd sends his way and acknowledges when Renee and Reynolds come back to the table bearing drinks, but he otherwise tunes out the conversation around him to cast his gaze around the club. He can just make out the top of Kevin’s head where it stands out above the crowd, and assumes that Aaron and Nicky are nearby.
Of course, his gaze eventually migrates back to Neil despite his best efforts. Neil has since removed the label from his water, and is idly tearing it into pieces with his scarred fingers as he listens to the others. The contrast of his shirt and eyes with his hair makes him look like fire and ice. His easy smile softens the lines of his face, but doesn’t make him any less devastatingly beautiful. Andrew hates it.
Nevertheless, he pulls out his phone and opens the text window with Neil’s name on it.
< y/n? he types, and hits send. He’s glad that Neil has finally gotten it through his thick skull to carry his phone with him when he sees him reach for one of his pockets a moment later.
When Neil’s answering text comes through, Andrew can’t keep from rolling his eyes. Nicky continues to be a terrible influence, as evidenced by the row of smirking emojis Neil has sent in lieu of a proper response.
< i changed my mind. offer rescinded.
Another row of emojis answers him, this time with a pouting face. Fucking ridiculous.
Andrew pushes himself back from the table, jerking his head in the direction of the bar at Renee’s inquisitive look. He stacks up some of the empty glasses on a tray and makes his way over. After placing them down on the sticky counter, Andrew makes his way down the service hall and waits for his idiot to catch up.
He briefly wonders what excuse Neil has made to slip away, they realizes what a foolish notion that is. Neil has very little in the way of tact. He probably didn’t even try to pretend that he wasn’t following after Andrew.
It doesn’t particularly matter—of course, the foxes present all know about their relationship—but he just knows that they’re all going to be particularly insufferable with their innuendo when he and Neil make it back to the table.
Then Andrew hears footsteps approaching, and looks up to see Neil coming towards him. He stops within arm’s distance. And for all his earlier silliness, his face is now set with desire.
“So, not a fan of emojis?” Neil says, stretching out a hand.
Andrew doesn’t dignify that with a response, but he does take Neil’s hand to lead them both into one of the storerooms. With the door closed and locked, Neil gently tugs on Andrew’s hand to pull him closer. Andrew steps forward willingly until his chest and Neil’s are almost touching.
“Yes or no?” Andrew asks again, looking right into those too-blue eyes.
“Yes,” Neil breathes out, leading the hand he’s still grasping down to rest on his waist. When Andrew runs his thumb up and down the curve of Neil’s hipbone, the fabric of his stupid shirt is just as soft as Andrew thought it would be.
Andrew moves his free hand to the back of Neil’s neck, leaning in to murmur into Neil’s ear, “Shoulders and above, right now.”
Neil obligingly places his hands on Andrew’s shoulders. When Andrew leans forward that that last inch to place his mouth at the corner of Neil’s jaw like he’s been wanting to all night, he can feel Neil’s fingers twisting into the collar of his shirt.
From Neil’s jaw, it’s easy enough for Andrew to trail down the column of his neck. Neil’s skin is hot under Andrew’s mouth, his pulse jumping against Andrew’s lips. When Andrew scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin where neck meets shoulder, he is met with a breathy gasp; when he moves back up to tug on the lobe of Neil’s ear, Neil lets out a soft moan.
Andrew uses the hand on Neil’s waist to snake up between fabric and skin, feeling the way Neil’s abdomen heaves with each breath.
“Andrew,” Neil breathes out, and the way he says it sends an involuntary shiver down Andrew’s spine. At that, Andrew can’t help but finally, finally, bring his mouth to Neil’s. The press and slide of their lips is more intoxicating than any alcohol, burning him up inside more than any liquid courage ever could.
Neil’s mouth opens so sweetly, so eagerly, under Andrew’s that he almost can’t stand it. Neil’s hands gravitate from Andrew’s shoulders to up to his hair, tugging to pull him deeper into the kiss.
Andrew brings his own hand up to tangle in Neil’s hair in turn. He takes great pleasure in mussing up the artfully disheveled style that Reynolds probably spent so long arranging.