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Andrew leafed through his book, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose like they too were reading the fine words of Poe. It was ironic, and in some ways, unfortunate, Andrew’s affinity for Poe’s works- but he couldn’t bring himself to deny himself of the finer pleasures in life.
In that same vein of fine pleasure, Andrew looked up to quietly observe the redhead opposite him. The couch was long enough for both of them to sit, legs tangled comfortably, King nestled in the mess of theirs legs and Sir outstretched on the floor below them. The wooden cabinets of books around them gave the room a woody glow from the yellowed lights of their little outer-London cottage. It was probably nearing on ten in the night, and Andrew should tell Neil to shut the curtains that let the light of their little library out onto the porch.
Andrew stared at Neil, the cozy warmth of his ridiculous fuzzy socks that he insisted on wearing in winter. For all his jibing, Andrew felt a foreign sense of molten gold pouring into his stomach at how far Neil had come- distantly, he knew, pride- that he and Neil had cultivated themselves a home . A permanence and a nothing so distinctly something that is had become everything.
Andrew felt a fuzzy nudge at his elbow, and snapped away from his thoughts.
“Stop thinking so loud,” Neil said with the simplest of amusement, looking briefly down to his own book to note the page number before abandoning it and rearranging their limbs to lie nigh on Andrew’s chest, kissing his jaw on his way back down.
Andrew looked at those crystalline blue eyes for a moment before taking the hand that owned the fingertips that were brushing the bristles of his stubble. He pressed his dry lips to the fine bones covered in dextrous tendons and flesh, and Neil wasn’t so much shocked by the rarity of these expressions of affection but more gently and fondly smug. Like he had done something other than breathe to earn Andrew’s gentler side.
“Softening with age, maybe,” Neil whispered, so quiet it was almost a mutual thought than an utterance. Andrew rolled his eyes and bit his finger, and was rewarded with a press of soft, full lips to his cheek. Andrew adjusted the blanket to cover them better, tucking them both into the same warmth.
They laid there for a few long breaths, Andrew’s eyes slipping shut for a moment as a nigh Pavlovian response to such great peace. Maybe he truly was getting old. Approaching forty, he felt right next door to ancient.
Soft lips graced his forehead and a warm hand snaked itself under his shirt. Andrew begrudgingly felt the corners of his lips upturn. He opened his eyes to barely a slit.
Neil’s freckles were the extent of his view, until the gentle press of lips met his nose.
Andrew gave an amused huff. “I await the day you leave me to rest in peace.”
Neil only cupped his cheeks, having adjusted himself to be both sat and lying across his chest, toes to nose in contact. “The only peace you’ll ever get from me is a piece of my mind,” he said, in the same way someone would say that they loved the other person’s eyes, before kissing him sweetly, and when Andrew opened his eyes, he was met with the most wondrous of grins.
Andrew rubbed both his hands up along the leanly muscled panes of Neil’s back, remaining entirely under Neil and the blanket, the position a milestone in itself. Andrew could spare a tiny drop of molten gold for himself as well, for how far he had come also.
Bee would be proud to see him now.
Andrew held onto him, not in a desperation, but in an acclamation of them both. Truly, he must be becoming softened with age because as he leaned into the crook of Neil’s neck, he caved and mumbled to him, “I’m proud of you.”
Neil didn’t react immediately, hand stilling at its post in Andrew’s hair at his nape. He then pulled away, tilting Andrew’s head up. “You’re such a softie,” he said, trying to layer fondant of teasing over the thick sponge of emotion in his throat. Too fast, the sponge filled up and Andrew gave him the dignity to pretend to not see the little wetness growing in his eyes.
“I’ll kill you, Josten.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, you grumpy old bastard.”