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There are things the Foxes have taught Neil that he never learned in all his years on the run. He's learned how much he likes hot sauce on his food from Nicky's suggestions, how Allison’s haircuts can actually be enjoyable because it means he doesn’t constantly have curls in his eyes, how he doesn't understand most tv shows and movies but feels a quiet satisfaction whenever Dan and Matt invite him to watch new releases.
How Andrew’s touches have become something that Neil’s skin craves, worse than any addiction.
It starts slow, much like how their feelings for one another grew. In the early days, even though Andrew had hated him and suspected him of treacherous things, he’d respected Neil’s boundaries. To grab his attention he’d hook a finger into the collar of Neil’s shirt, careful not to let their skin touch. Even the grip of his fingers against the back of Neil's neck had been firm, unyielding, and limited to moments where Neil's panic required such an intimate form of — not quite comfort, but grounding.
Before Palmetto, Neil had only known the touch of pain. Even his mother, the person who had loved him more than anyone, never bothered to touch him unless it was a punishment. It had become something to flinch away from: nobody could physically hurt Neil if they couldn't touch him.
With Andrew, though — they go slow. They ask permission. They respect one another's boundaries. It's like learning a new language, one that Neil's always wanted to learn.
Every touch from Andrew is a blessing. He'd never known that it could feel so right, that the brush of fingers or the press of lips against the curve of his neck could make him feel whole and unbroken and invulnerable.
Alcohol is another thing the Foxes are slowly teaching Neil. He's never done something as frivolous as drinking for enjoyment, but he's seen the way a cocktail can loosen the tension in Nicky's shoulders and how a few shots can make Kevin lighten up enough to laugh. It's something he's curious about, that strange feeling of lightness the others seem to enjoy, and he trusts them with his life. If he can't try something as reckless as getting drunk around his family, there's no hope.
It's just the two of them in their dorm room tonight, and Andrew's making a drink for himself in their tiny, dorm-appointed kitchen.
"Hey," Neil says. "Make me one, too?"
A grunt of affirmation meets Neil's request. Satisfied that Andrew will refrain from making something as shockingly sweet as he prefers to drink, Neil flips through the channels until he finds an ESPN rerun of a Trojans game.
A few moments later, a cold glass finds itself into his hand, and Neil watches as Andrew plops himself down on one of the beanbags resting next to the couch. An itch starts to grow beneath Neil's skin, but he ignores it. He's become an expert at that, avoiding confronting the things he wants. If Andrew wanted physically closeness, Neil assures himself, he would have sat next to him on the couch.
He drinks slowly. It's something bitter, but Neil relishes the taste. The rerun is a game Neil's watched probably three times before, but he still gets sucked into watching Jeremy Knox's skillful scoring as they watch. Well. While Neil watches, and Andrew stares intently at something on his phone. The next time he glances over at Andrew, though, his attention sticks. Suddenly, intensely, Neils wants nothing more than to touch him. He craves a kiss, or the rough callouses of Andrew's hand brushing against his own.
"Hey," Neil says again.
Andrew looks up. "What?"
"Can I—" he starts, looking intently at the shape of Andrew's body as he curls up on the beanbag. He feels hazy from the alcohol, drowsy with the weight of it in his belly. It's — good.
But it would be better if he were pressed up against Andrew's side.
Andrew sighs, like nothing has ever burdened him more in his entire life. "Come here," he says, and a comfortable warmth suffuses through Neil's body.
A smile threatens to split apart his face. "Okay," he says, and then stands up too quickly in his eagerness. Dizziness rushes through him, and Neil lets out a soft noise of surprise. It hits him belatedly that he's far tipsier than he thought he was, and he shuffles over to the beanbag before dropping down onto it and settling in against Andrew's side.
Andrew's body radiates heat. He seems tense, the opposite of the looseness in Neil's muscles, and he scoots away until they're not touching. His wants are not the only ones that matter, and if Andrew doesn't want this right now —
"Idiot," Andrew says. He hooks a finger through Neil's belt loops and tugs him closer until they're practically spooning. "I said yes."
It's exactly what Neil needs: even through their clothing, the touch is affirming and perfect and soothes the quiet, restless anxiety that always burrows into his chest when he stays in one place for too long.
"I like this," Neil whispers. He feels like if he speaks at a normal volume, the quiet perfection of this moment will shatter.
There's no verbal response, but Andrew lifts a hand and runs it through Neil's hair. He could fairly purr at the shiver that wracks his frame, and Neil nestles in more firmly against the taut muscle of his boyfriend's body.
The Foxes have taught Neil an endless amount over the past two years, but this is his favorite thing he's learned: that touch can be good, that physical closeness can feel like slotting together two puzzle pieces, that he has a home in Andrew's arms.