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Andrew realises he’s faced with two choices: hold onto this or let it go forever.
And he hates that.
Almost as much as he hates Neil.
He watches as Neil turns away, walks up the length of the room once, stops, looks back. “It’s ok,” he says, his voice drained of any emotion, face set. Sure. Resigned. “You always said this was nothing.”
Andrew nods. Remembers there’s a cigarette dangling between his fingers, so brings it back up to his lips, holds it there, doesn’t even bother breathing in.
“Ok,” Neil says again, and leaves the room.
Andrew flicks his eyes to the door, stares at it. Lets thought get replaced by blankness. By the time it occurs to him to take a drag on the cigarette, there’s no spark left.
He just waits. Leans his back against the wall, legs tucked under him, half-smoked cigarette resting on his knee. Thinks about lighting it again. The air feels really still in the room, a place that’s usually chaotic and loud, bodies moving around him, the day moving on while Andrew just lets it.
He likes control. He likes letting some things just happen. Cares and doesn’t care in such equal measure he sometimes feels like he’ll be torn apart by it.
The cigarette remains unlit as light is sucked from the room.
Neil doesn’t come back until Andrew has already given up, lying under his covers with his eyes closed but mind wide awake, hears Neil patter around the bedroom, quiet, soft, hears him climb into the bunk above his own. Opens his eyes to stare up at the mattress above him. Thinks he’ll just keep waiting. Let this night happen. Thinks he’ll wait until he hears the familiar heavy breathing and stillness that comes with sleep, until he lets himself fall.
It doesn’t come.
Andrew knows the others can tell something’s wrong.
There’s no point changing routine; Andrew will be gone in a couple of weeks anyway, so he doesn’t say anything as Neil climbs into the passenger seat, staring out the window as Nicky and Aaron talk in the back, at first oblivious as ever.
At practise Neil throws himself into his captaincy the way he normally does before a match, in the run up to whatever end-of-the-fucking-world game they have next. But the season is over, and the semester is ending soon, and the freshmen look a little confused, Nicky and Aaron racing after their younger teammates under Neil’s orders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And Andrew stands in the goalpost, barely able to remain upright.
Neil gets into an argument with Jack, throws his racket to the ground like he’s gonna fight him, but Nicky and Robin are there in a heartbeat, and Andrew is thrown like the last two years just didn’t happen, and even Jack looks confused, but not so much he can’t yell a hearty, “The fuck is wrong with you?” after Neil as he lets Aaron push him back, expression hidden under his helmet, head tipped a little towards Nicky’s uncharacteristically quiet voice.
Robin raises her voice to tell her team that will do for the day, and Andrew’s the first off the court.
He showers, barely letting the water hit his skin, hears the others start showers either side of him, doesn’t wonder which stall Neil is in, is out in record time and leaning against his car, staring at his pack of cigarettes.
Can’t decide whether to smoke or not. Cares and doesn’t care in equal measure. Wants to crumple the pack in his hand and set it on fire.
And then Nicky is there, hands in his pockets. “What’s up with Neil?”
Andrew gives him an unimpressed look. They’ve had this conversation a hundred times. But this time, when Andrew says, “How should I know, he’s not my problem,” even he can hear it comes out less pissed and more flat.
Nicky raises his eyebrows. “Ah, uh, ok,” he says slowly, pretending like he doesn’t get it, but Andrew knows he does, and that just makes everything worse.
“Shut up,” says Andrew pre-emptively, in lieu of the violence he really wants to cause.
Nicky frowns at him, but takes one step back at the same time. “What happened?”
“Don’t.” Andrew gets into the driver’s seat, slams the door behind him, throws the pack of cigarettes into the glove compartment, flexes his hands on the wheel, thinks it’s an age before one, two, three people climb into his car and he carries them away before the last door is properly shut.
No one says anything, and Neil is first out the car when they get back to the tower.
Aaron says, “What’s going on?” Andrew can tell this is addressed to Nicky.
Nicky says, “He wouldn’t tell me.”
Andrew doesn’t know what annoys him more; that they know there’s no point addressing their conversation to him; that they know and aren’t bothering to try anyway.
Something is threatening to spill out, and he has a promise to keep, so instead of inching towards his knives he says, “None of your fucking business,” and leaves the car.
He regrets it though, walking towards fox tower, hands in his pockets, hearing Nicky and Aaron follow after, knows it would have been better to say nothing at all. There’s no point in regret, sure, so he re-calculates: at least they know now, and he won’t have to say anything about it at all.
Neil is in the living room, shoving books into his bag.
Nicky says, “See you later? Lunch?”
And Neil nods, smiles, leaves the dorm without even looking at Andrew.
Nicky does look at him, but says nothing. But Aaron says, “What the fuck have you done?”
Andrew shuts the bedroom door behind him.
The week passes much the same. He and Neil avoid each other when they can. Don’t speak when they can’t. Andrew watches him instead of the ball at practise, feels more than sees it flying at the goal behind him, hears Kevin’s voice shouting at him, familiar and irritating all at once, but of course it’s in his head because Kevin graduated a year ago with Matt, both immediately joining pro teams, on opposite ends of the country, like they want Andrew and Neil to do.
Like Neil wants them to do.
The next ball almost hits him in the thigh, and instead of cursing out the dead-end sophomore striker Andrew just walks off the court.
Wymack follows him. Yells at Robin and Neil to keep the scrimmage going, the team rearranging themselves in Andrew’s absence.
In the locker room Andrew takes his helmet off, hears Wymack’s body hitting the wall, hears nothing.
Shoves his helmet into his locker.
Wymack says, “Have you chosen a team yet?”
It’s not the telling off he was expecting, not the shouting match he was hoping for.
So he says, “Why would I do that.”
Wymack huffs. “So, we’re back to this.”
“Yep.”
Andrew has been back and forth all year. He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to spend his whole life standing in front of a line drawn on the wall, shoving a ball away from it. Doesn’t want to spend his life doing that.
Wymack said it wasn’t his whole life, no one played professional sport forever; Kevin asked what else he was going to do, a challenge in his voice before Andrew hung up on him; Neil said they were no longer planning something far ahead, that this was now, this was tomorrow; and Bee had said it was only for now, that sometimes choice doesn’t have to be a chain round your neck, but an answer to the questionwhat do you want today.
Today, he thinks, peeling his gloves off. He can’t answer the question.
Wymack says, “Andrew,” to get his attention, like he’s got anything to distract him from this irritating line of questioning, “What changed?”
Andrew slams his locker shut. Opens it. Slams it shut again. Punches his fist into the door and hears the really fucking satisfying crunch of metal and skin, heart contracting from the pain of it and adrenaline coursing through his body a split second before the skin on his knuckles throb and pulse sending jolts through his body.
Wymack is there in a second of course, gently prying Andrew away from his locker like he knows this is something he’s safe to intervene in, and that’s fucking irritating.
So Andrew lets Wymack pull him away, and then shoves him, once. Says, “Don’t you get tired of this, Coach?” Tries for levity but all he hears in his own voice is all the fight gone.
Wymack is frowning at him, like Andrew is stupid, and says, plainly, “No.”
Andrew turns away.
Wymack says, “Shower, then my office Minyard.”
Andrew hates choice. Stands with his head under the shower. Rubs raw knuckles through his hair. Feels like he’s constantly having to choose between caring too much or not at fucking all. Sometimes it feels like a choice; sometimes he just lets it happen to him.
By the time he’s back in the locker room the others are there too, Nicky standing next to Neil like he can shield him from whatever hangs in the room, Neil facing his locker as Nicky babbles. Andrew knows Aaron’s watching him, so he pulls himself away and goes to Wymack’s office.
They have a conversation.
Or at least Wymack does.
At one point Aaron enters the room, leans against the wall with his arms folded. He doesn’t say anything, and Wymack doesn’t pause his speech, and Andrew doesn’t acknowledge him. Aaron’s started doing this sometimes. Andrew just lets it happen.
Wymack gets out the folders again, and talks Andrew through the offers again, and goes through the pros and cons again, and says, “It’s not that you have to decide now, Andrew, I think you could probably take a month and these teams will still be fighting over you. But me and Betsy have talked, and we would feel better if you made a decision before you leave Palmetto.”
That’s new. Andrew raises his eyes at last, fixes Wymack with an intense gaze. “Feel better?” he says, making it a question with no room for dodging. Wymack leans back in his own chair, unimpressed as always by Andrew’s anger. Andrew leans forward, puts one hand on the desk. “What do you think I’m going to do?”
“Nothing,” Wymack says, one eyebrow lifted, “that’s the whole point.”
Andrew stands up. “You people,” he says derisively, “don’t get it.”
Before he can leave Aaron says, “What else are you going to do Andrew, now that you’ve fucked things up with Josten?”
Andrew doesn’t look at anyone. Hears Wymack bark, “What?What’s happened now?” and Aaron answer, “The fuck should I know, they won’t say anything,” but Andrew’s slamming the door open and slamming himself into the hallway. At the car it takes three flicks of his lighter to get his cigarette lit, and then Aaron is taking it out of his mouth and crushing it under his feet.
Andrew points one finger at him. “Do that again,” he says, “and I’ll break your hand.”
“You won’t,” says Aaron, and folds his arms. “Andrew. What. Happened.”
Andrew feels for another cigarette, eyes not leaving Aaron’s. He makes a choice. “Nothing,” he says, lighting up without looking at it, almost smiling at Aaron in amusement. Actually does feel the corners of his lips lift a little, sees surprise on Aaron, takes a drag and breathes smoke into his brother’s face. “Just like it was supposed to.”
Then it’s the weekend, and they don’t go to Columbia, and Andrew and Robin go out for breakfast, and don’t speak at all, and Andrew’s pleased for it, but of course they get back to the dorm and Neil is sitting with Nicky and Aaron, and Andrew doesn’t like the quiet that permeates in the room the second he enters it, so he grabs a bottle of vodka and heads out again, and sits on the roof, and doesn’t think at all.
But Nicky.
On Sunday, one week since Andrew had said nothing and Neil had said It’s ok; one week until they’re done, for good; one week until the semester’s over; until Andrew can leave this place and never look back – as the sun is nearly done, spreading itself gently out across the sky; as Andrew is contemplating whether he’ll have to go inside for his jacket soon, the ends of the late April sun breathing on his face – Nicky appears next to him on the roof, lowers himself slowly to concrete, arranges himself with an uncertain look down at the drop, and folds his hands into his lap.
Andrew stills. Feels – doesn’t know. Can’t predict this. It’s obvious why Nicky’s come, but he never has before, and Andrew allows himself a minute to feel off-centre before saying, “What do you want Nicky? I hope you don’t think this will achieve anything.”
Nicky shrugs next to him, holds out a bottle of whisky. Andrew takes it. He’s not one to ignore free gifts. Takes a gulp, and waits a minute, and then two, and then it’s been too long and Nicky has never been this quiet in his life, and it’s unsettling. Eventually, almost furious, Andrew turns his head and stares at him.
Nicky tears his eyes away from the pink glow in the sky and looks directly at Andrew. And smiles a little. He says, “Just wanted to spend time with my favourite cousin.” Andrew doesn’t say anything and Nicky grins. He laughs and shrugs, looking away again. “Alright. You share the top spot with Aaron, but that’s impressive, I’ve known that little shit way longer.”
Andrew doesn’t have time for this. Takes a swig of his bottle. He can’t think of anywhere else he needs to be though, so he doesn’t say anything. Figures he’ll let Nicky do this thing and then maybe he’ll be drunk enough to just sleep.
Nicky says, “It’s ok if you don’t want to talk, but I would just feel ten kinds of shitty if I didn’t at least try to talk to you. Ok?” Andrew doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at him, doesn’t move. Lets this happen. Feels discomfort bubbling underneath his skin. “Aaron told me you haven’t picked a pro team. Kevin called to bitch that you haven’t been picking up the phone. Neil – well. Sorry Andrew but Neil told me.”
Andrew resists the urge to throw his bottle off the roof, but in his head it whistles through the sky, scrunches itself against concrete fifty, sixty feet below them, liquid staining the sidewalk. Andrew says, “So?” and takes another swig. Settles the bottle at his knee and pulls out his cigarettes.
“So, I kinda wondered if you wanted to come to Germany for a bit.”
Everything pauses, just a little; the noise from traffic and the birds and even his own breathing, because; that doesn’t make any sense. Andrew doesn’t stop himself from looking at Nicky, hands still, both holding onto the pack of cigarettes he’d been tossing back and forth.
Nicky just smiles at him. “I asked Eric, and he’d love to have you. And I know Aaron and Kate are starting their jobs like, what, the second after the semester ends? Fools. I’d have faked some kind of illness, gotten a couple weeks break at least, but I guess they’re going to be doctors, ha, maybe that’s not such a good look.” He waits, but Andrew doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t trust himself to move. “I dunno Andrew.” Nicky looks away. “What do you want to do? You can do anything, you know? It doesn’t have to be exy, it doesn’t have to be Neil, it doesn’t even have to be me. But, I dunno.” He looks back. “Is there anything you want?”
Andrew looks away, can’t bear this anymore. Really does think he might throw the bottle off the roof. Says, “I want nothing, Nicky, you know that.” But even he’s tired of those words; they’re just a placeholder now more than anything else, and he knows that, and he knows Nicky does too.
Nicky says, carefully, slowly, “Andrew, I don’t think that’s true.”
And then they just sit in silence for a while.
Andrew knows he’s faced with two choices; hates binaries. Hates ultimatums. Hates feeling like he’s pressed into a corner with nowhere to run.
Says this to Nicky.
Nicky says, “I didn’t know Neil made you feel like that.” Nicky knows Andrew isn’t talking about exy, or least not only exy; exy and Neil are the same thing anyway, as far as tomorrow is concerned.
Andrew rolls his eyes. “Did I say that.”
“I didn’t know whatever it is you and Neil are made you feel like that.”
Andrew finally pulls out a cigarette, but he just holds it, unlit, in front of his face, inspects it.
Nicky says, “I think you don’t want to end things with him.”
“Too complicated,” Andrew says quickly, the first thought that enters his mind, letting words spill from his mouth.
“Not really,” says Nicky. “We haven’t put the house on the market yet. Take it off me.”
Andrew just looks at him. “And?”
“You could live there for a while. Get a job in Columbia. Wait.”
Wait, thinks Andrew. Til what.
He shakes his head. “We’re selling the house,” he says, strengthening his words with decision, with no room for doubt. “Aaron’s tuition,” he reminds Nicky. “You’re buying a house in Germany.” He says the words like they hurt, he knows he does, but it doesn’t; this is just fact. They need the money more than any of them need a house sitting unused and unwanted in Columbia.
“And what about you?” Nicky says, urging, prodding, the first sign of desperation he’s let out the whole conversation.
Andrew looks away. Finally lights the cigarette and lets the calm scent of smoke filter through his senses. Says, “Worry about yourself.”
Nicky says, “It’s not that complicated, Andrew. You don’t even have to make this decision if you don’t want to. You know Kevin’s already picked a team he thinks you should be on, Coach probably has too. Why not let them tell you where to go?” When Andrew doesn’t answer he adds on, a little more cautiously, “Why not let Neil?”
“Because,” Andrew spits, half-angry, half-no idea what he wants to say. Grits his teeth.
Nicky waits, and then presses, “Because?”
“Never work.” Andrew throws the words off the roof, lifts the bottle to do the same, the image of smashed glass irresistible and insistent, but Nicky’s hand is there fast, fingers wrapping around the bottle, tries to pry it away. Andrew lets go.
“Seriously?” Andrew takes a long drag from his cigarette, holds it a little, breathes out. “Seriously Andrew? That’s what’s stopping you? Because you don’t think it’ll work?”
“It won’t,” Andrew says, feeling a little steadier now, the smoking calming his nerves, his chest. “Why would it.”
“Um, because he fucking loves you?”
Andrew gives him an unimpressed look. “Don’t.”
Nicky shakes his head. “Call it whatever you want. I don’t get you Andrew. Why does this have to change? Yeah you’ll be in some state across the country, but let me tell you, being with someone you can’t see is so much better than not being with them at all. Man, you’re an idiot.”
“Nicky,” Andrew says warningly, but nothing follows it. He wants to get up, leave, push Nicky away, tell him to shut up. But he doesn’t.
Instead he drops his head to his hands, exhausted suddenly, feels the cigarette burning between his fingers for a heartbeat, two, three, before Nicky takes it away.
“I think you want this so much, you don’t know what to do with it,” Nicky says, his voice somewhere nearby, but light, unthreatening. Andrew just listens. Just lets it happen. “I think you’ve never had to want Neil before, because he’s always just been there. You’ve been taking him for fucking granted for what, three years, and now he’s asking you to choose him past all this and you don’t know how to do it. You’re leaving, and you’re really just going to leave it all here too?”
Andrew lifts his head. “What’s the point.”
“The point is whatever you want it to be. You can have whatever you want, Andrew. You’ve been choosing him every day for four years, and all he’s asking you to do is to keep making that choice. You’re the one making this complicated, no one else.”
“Neil doesn’t know,” Andrew says, shaking his head. “He doesn’t know what he wants. Maybe he thinks he does. This will get too hard. I won’t be here to protect him. He won’t want it.”
“Oh my god.” When Andrew darts a look at Nicky he’s rolling his eyes. “You are the biggest pain in my ass. Maybe let him decide that? When did you get all insecure.”
Andrew narrows his eyes at him. “Don’t be an idiot, I’m being practical.”
“No, you’re afraid, and you’re pretending this is logic. You don’t want to make a choice, so you’re making no choice at all. But you don’t get it – not choosing is a choice. You’re choosing to let him go. You’ve never had to ask for anything before and you’re fucking it up.”
“Think whatever you want,” Andrew says.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
Andrew takes his unlit cigarette back from Nicky, lights it again, sucks in a breath and sighs. “What.”
“What do you want?”
Andrew doesn’t reply.
But he thinks.
He wants to not be backed into a corner.
He wants to drive his car, and drink whisky, and feel like he’s going to fall fifty sixty feet but know he’s not.
Nicky just keeps looking at him.
So Andrew says, “I don’t know.”
He feels angry and empty all at once.
On Monday he ignores five calls from Kevin, and listens to half of one voicemail. Andrew if you don’t call me back we’re done.
And, on Tuesday, five more. Call me back.
On Wednesday he heads to the roof, takes out his phone, and listens to Kevin’s half-exhausted berating for ten minutes before saying, “Kevin.” Kevin shuts up immediately. “I don’t care.”
Kevin sounds confused when he says, “I know. That’s why you have to let us care instead.”
“Us.”
“Me and Neil.”
Andrew locks his jaw. Tries to tell him. Stops. Kevin doesn’t know. Which means Neil hasn’t told him. Which means –
“Andrew?”
Andrew takes a step towards the edge of the roof, and looks down fifty sixty feet, and says, “It feels like falling.”
Kevin’s quiet for a minute. Then he just says, “Yeah, Andrew. It does.”
On Thursday Andrew walks into Wymack’s office and says, “I’ll sign whatever you want me to.”
On Friday campus is in full party-mode. By mid-afternoon parties are popping up in every block, banners that say Have a good summer and Go Foxes, leftover from matches, everything orange and white.
When Andrew gets back to the dorm after his final class, the others are packing. Nicky and Aaron have boxes in the living room, Katelyn sitting in one corner with Robin as they try to intervene in some argument about the playstation.
Andrew ignores them, opens the bedroom door.
Neil is sat cross-legged in a small patch of sunlight, duffle bag to one side, his safe on the floor in front of him, unlocked.
He doesn’t look up, but as Andrew shuts the door behind him says, “I need more bags.”
He’s not moving, and maybe hasn’t been for some time. Around him are clothes and books and random junk, open duffle at one side and backpack to the other, and Andrew knows what’s happening, this happens every year, Neil has a quiet freak out, and Andrew teases him, and ends up half-packing for him, throwing their shit haphazardly into the car before they drive to Columbia, or the coast, or Wymack and Abby’s or, wherefuckingever.
Neil says, “What do you want.”
But Andrew just slides to the floor, pulls his knees up and lets his eyes follow Neil round the room once Neil has given up on Andrew answering, trying to fold things into his two meagre bags, makes a pile of things that won’t fit in a neat stack next to them, at one point takes a hoody back out of his bag that Andrew thinks is his, throws it onto Andrew’s bed.
And then Neil sits on the edge of Andrew’s bed, and sighs, and says, “I’m going to Coach’s house.” Andrew nods. Neil isn’t looking at him. “Are you going to Columbia?”
Andrew finds his voice at last, tests it out first. “Yes. Nicky’s putting it on the market. We need to box it up.”
“Fun,” Neil comments drily.
“Yep.”
“And then what?”
Andrew can’t stop looking at Neil, even as Neil glares a little at him for his silence, looks away, hands picking uncertainly at his sleeves.
Can’t stop the feeling in his stomach, like he knows he’s falling and knows he’s going to hit the ground, like he should be looking for a way out instead of just looking at Neil, but he can’t, he can’t look away, can’t stop his eyes tracing the strand of hair curling over Neil’s forehead, the bags under Neil’s eyes, the fingers worrying at the ends of his sleeves, his eyes darting around the room as Neil looks at anywhere else but him.
Takes a deep breath. Feels it hit everywhere at once.
Says, “Maybe I was wrong.”
Neil looks at him then. Slides off the bed, sits on the floor and holds his knees to his chest. Says, “Since when are you ever wrong about anything.”
It’s a joke, maybe. Andrew ignores it and says, “Maybe this is less complicated than I thought.”
Neil sounds close to breaking when he says, “Yeah?”
And Andrew can’t stand it.
For a second he just listens to his family next door, loud conversation making up for the fact they’re probably wondering what’s going on, wondering how what they think is Neil and Andrew’s goodbye is going, probably getting a little drunk themselves as they prepare for their own goodbyes, but –
Andrew isn’t thinking about any of that. Lets the noise wash over his head. Neil is looking at him.
A second later he stands, walks over to Neil and sits down next to him, leaning against the bed, shoulders touching. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t want to say anything. Just wants this to happen, now. Wants Neil to just take it from him.
But of course he doesn’t.
Neil says, “I need you to say it, Andrew.”
Andrew says, “I hate you.”
“Andrew –”
“Stay.”
Andrew turns his head and just buries his face in Neil’s shoulder. “Stay,” he says again, urgent this time.
Neil lets out a little sigh, one of the ones Andrew has missed, physically missed, and says, “How do I know you won’t change your mind again?”
“You don’t.”
“Andrew.”
“I won’t. You know I’m not going to – I can’t call you every day. We’ll barely see each other. I don’t know why would you want this. How do you know you won’t change yours?”
Above him Neil hums, reaches round the back of Andrew, fingers curling round his neck. “I suppose I don’t know. But I won’t.”
“Ok.” Andrew is still speaking into the soft material of Neil’s shoulder, but at least now one of Neil’s hands is picking gently through his hair, at least Neil is here, at least they’re talking, touching, breathing the same air, and suddenly Andrew has no idea how he nearly let this go.
Certainty hits him, clear and present; he thinks around it, hums into Neil’s shoulder, feels Neil’s face press against his hair in response, thinks That is a stupid idea, and sighs, irritated with himself. He lifts his head and props his chin on Neil’s shoulder, looks at the side of Neil’s face as Neil stares uncertainly at nothing. Think about how he nearly lost this. How he doesn’t know if it will work but he knows he wants it to, doesn’t know how to keep it, doesn’t know how to say it but says anyway, “What if we make another deal.”
Neil smirks at that, the first sign of happiness on his face, and Andrew wants to kiss him. “I thought we were done with those.”
“Neil.”
“Ok fine. What.”
Andrew lifts a hand and covers Neil’s eyes. Neil huffs a little, but stills his hand in Andrew’s hair. Andrew takes a little breath, holds it, and then just lets this happen. “This is all your fault.”
“What is?”
“You are the one who brought it up.”
“I just asked whether you wanted us to continue seeing each other after you graduated. You didn’t say anything –”
“What did you expect?”
Neil frowns beneath Andrew’s hand, impatient, infuriated, one hand tightening and softening in Andrew’s hair. “I expected you to grow up, admit this means something to you. Andrew, I can’t makeyou –”
“Then marry me.”
Neil goes completely still. Andrew doesn’t blame him. He doesn’t feel still at all though, currents rushing through him like he might get carried away any second, rushed off the edge and over and down and down and –
“What?”
Andrew removes his hand from Neil’s eyes and covers his mouth instead. Neil looks unamused. Andrew says, “I don’t care about that. Don’t say anything. You won’t say anything intelligent anyway.” Neil looks like he wants to roll his eyes but he can’t move them away from Andrew for a second. Andrew shifts so that his whole body is facing Neil. Says, with certainty, “I was wrong.”
Neil lifts a hand and peels Andrew’s hand gently away, holds it in his own. “Is that what you want?” he says quietly.
“I don’t know,” says Andrew. He thinks for a moment, tries to categorise this between caring too much and not caring at all. Between being backed into a corner and choice. He has no idea though, no idea of anything at all beyond not being able to look away from this person in front of him, so instead he glares at him. “Do you?”
Neil grins at him, actually grins, kisses him hard and a little sloppy and Andrew’s heart pounds against his chest and against Neil’s. Neil’s mouth is warm against his own, and how could he have missed this when it’s only been two weeks, but he lifts a hand up to Neil’s ear, brushes fingers into his hair as Neil shivers a little against him, as Neil licks his tongue with his own, as he calculates that he’s been kissing Neil every day, or as close as they can get, for three years.
Eventually Neil pulls away, still smiling at him, and says, “Probably not.”
Andrew taps a finger against Neil’s jaw. “What did I expect, from a runaway, clarity? How foolish.”
“The others would be unbearable.”
“They would.”
“And I never said I needed that.”
Andrew tries to pull Neil in again, feels almost intoxicated by the need to taste this over and over again, but Neil holds him back, looks at him seriously, and says, “We’re doing this though?”
Andrew nods, smirks a little. Hates himself. Hates Neil. Mutters, “I’ll push you off the side.”
And Neil’s expression just melts, eyes burning into him, and Andrew wants to kiss him, so he does, just to the side of his mouth, lips pressed briefly against warm skin, Neil’s hands gathering round his waist. “Do it.” Neil's voice is a soft whisper above him, and Andrew just closes his eyes. “I’ll drag you with me.”