Work Text:
Objectively speaking, Neil Josten is not an attractive man. He used to be, and could have been, were it not for the pulled and rippled skin healed after years of abuse. He could have been, but a good half of his face is marred with burns and the other side is cut in three places. This does not begin to cover the extensive damage done to his torso and arms and hands, and every bit of ruined flesh takes away from the beauty that Neil Josten could be.
Many people avoid looking at his scars. Neil notices this, of course — when he is standing in line in the dining hall, when he is talking to a girl in his calculus class, when he is calling out to the freshmen backliners to keep better watch of the ball. He is aware how people strain to look him directly in the eye or look at him not at all, how people will constantly shift their gazes to anything and everything that is not his abused face.
The older Foxes are generally the exception to this rule — they had seen his arms and face when they were still healing, and have long since grown used to the scarred version of Neil's features. They are no longer disgusted or revolted or any other synonymous word, though he is certain anger at his past still simmers under their less-affected skin.
Neil is not bothered by the public's view of his scars. He pretends he isn't, anyway — and for the most part that is not a lie. He reminds himself that they help him look less like his father, reminds himself that they give him interesting (albeit disturbing) stories to tell, reminds himself that the looks he gets from the waitress at the restaurant are normal reactions to violent sights and he has no reason to be bothered by her horrified expression that she was not quick enough to conceal.
He wonders, then, how Andrew grew so skilled at reading between the lines of Neil's silence.
"I like your scars," Andrew says as the waitress walks away with their drink order, tone bored as always and expression indifferent as usual. "It seemed like you could use a reminder."
You're the only one, Neil thinks, but he offers Andrew his silence instead.
"They are objectively unattractive and I like looking at them," he continues, and that is enough to make Neil's expression scrunch up for a brief moment of confusion. He knows the weight scars hold in Andrew's mind, and is not entirely certain why Andrew would be so keen to stare at them. "I like to read, but books can be rather boring. Far more interesting to read the story written on a man's skin."
Neil can't help a soft laugh at that, more of a breath than a sound and a small twitch of the lips to accompany it. Today is not the best day for talking, he is finding, and he can't help but feel slightly guilty that he agreed to go to a restaurant with Andrew when he cannot contribute much to the conversation. "Not a very happy story," he mutters, staring down at his hands and where the skin of his wrists meets the black fabric of his armbands. Today is an armbands kind of day, when he needs to hide as much of his skin as possible. He does not think he could handle any more revolted expressions today.
"You are a Fox. In what world would your story be happy?" Andrew asks, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands.
It's a rhetorical enough question that Neil gives a shrug to, but his eyes are still fixed on his fingers and the ruined flesh of his hands. There is a phrase about knowing something the way you know the back of your hand, and Neil cannot tell if he finds it truer now or before. Most hands are unremarkable, plain things. He thinks he would prefer it if his hands were the same, but they are not. His hands now are far more knowable, he thinks, and tries for a moment to think of the time when they weren't.
"Stop," Andrew says.
Neil frowns, looks up at him. Stop what?
"You are picking at your scars," Andrew explains, reaching forward and pulling Neil's hands apart, touch lingering a moment longer than necessary before he lets go and returns to his previous position.
Oh, Neil thinks. He hadn't meant to. "I didn't notice," Neil says after another moment, and he watches himself this time, tries to keep his mind focused on not touching his marked skin.
Andrew hums. "You never do." Neil isn't quite sure what that is supposed to mean, so he does not ask and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Andrew's gaze seems heavier tonight somehow, and he isn't quite sure why.
The rest of their outing goes rather smoothly — aside from the looks that the waitress seemed unable to stop giving Neil. Andrew would have stepped in, Neil knows, but he had already asked Andrew to refrain from intervening.
When they return to the dorm, Neil feels more exhausted than he has in the past few weeks. Perhaps it is the ball of self-hatred curling in his stomach, perhaps it is the anxiety at Andrew's shift in demeanor. It hasn't been bad — quite the opposite, really. Andrew was more verbal today, Andrew seemed more content than usual, Andrew appeared to be having a good day, and Neil could not be any more happy for him. Unfortunately, Neil has been quite the opposite, and it seems to be taking its toll on his energy levels.
This, Andrew picks up on as well. Neil isn't sure how he does it, and thinks that perhaps he will ask sometime soon when he feels less like he wants to crawl out of his own skin.
"Get ready for bed," Andrew says, but it is less of a suggestion and more of an order and if he were not so tired, Neil would be tempted to disobey.
As it stands, Kevin is spending the night at Wymack's for a reason unknown to Neil, so the dorm is empty and Neil has no real motive for refusal. He heads into the bedroom without further comment and tries to avoid the closet mirror as he changes out of his clothes and into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. He thinks the shirt is Andrew's, but it's hard to tell at this point — so much of what he owns has been gifted to him by Andrew that he isn't quite sure what is what.
"Neil," Andrew says from the doorway, and Neil turns to look at him.
There is something to be said about Andrew Minyard and how inexpressive he tends to be. Neil can count on one hand the people that can read Andrew well enough to know what he is really feeling, himself included. As it is right now, Andrew on the surface looks bored, or apathetic, or completely removed from the current situation. Neil has learned, however, how to read his forced casual posture, his practiced flat expression, his perfectly still fingers. Andrew is nervous.
"What?" Neil asks, because even if he does not exactly want to talk, Andrew seems to be waiting for some sort of an acknowledgement.
"Sleep in my bed tonight, yes or no?"
Oh. Neil does not move, does not react, does not do anything other than blink at Andrew. It will not be the first time they have shared a bed, but Neil cannot shake the fact that something is different tonight. Andrew is nervous, he has been behaving strangely, and Neil cannot figure out what has changed.
He realizes belatedly that he needs to provide an answer, so he nods once, then confirms it verbally with a soft, "Yes."
Andrew gestures to his bunk and Neil lays down obediently on the near end of it, facing the room and leaving as much space as possible for Andrew to sleep against the wall. Once Andrew has changed into something more comfortable, he turns out the lights and waits a moment more before climbing into bed behind Neil, back pressed against the cool wall as expected.
"Neil," Andrew says again, and Neil offers a quiet hum in response. "Yes or no?"
"Yes," Neil says again, because he does not think Andrew would fully be able to see it if he nodded his head, and because things like this — whatever this is — require verbal consent.
Andrew hesitates another moment, then reaches forward and touches Neil's arm. "Move back," he says, and it is Neil's turn to hesitate before obediently shifting backwards. He does not know when it is enough, but the closer he gets the more Andrew pulls until Neil's back is flush with his chest, and Andrew has an arm entirely wrapped around him, fingers resting on Neil's chest.
It is nicer than Neil expected, feeling the solid weight of Andrew behind him. It is different than when they are standing, but somehow the same. He knows Andrew is likely feeling his heart beat faster, finding amusement in the sensation for his own personal gain. Those steady fingers slowly crawl down Neil's torso and slip under his shirt, climbing back up his skin to trace his scars.
Andrew gives him ample time to say no, or to push the hand away, but Neil doesn't. He can't, not when he is too busy wondering how Andrew knows his scars so well, forgetting for a moment about Andrew's perfect memory. That, and he isn't sure that he wants to. Neil may be somewhat bothered by his skin, but Andrew's hands never hurt, and Andrew's fingers always seem to soothe the phantom burns and aches in his skin.
"I like your scars," Andrew says, echoing his earlier statement. "Ask me why."
This is a new kind of game, Neil figures — Andrew does not often tell him what to ask, but he is curious all the same. "Why?"
Neil feels Andrew's nose brush against the back of his neck before a soft kiss is pressed there, and then Andrew speaks. "There is a certain kind of comfort in being able to tell exactly who is in my bed," he murmurs, and Neil suppresses a shiver at the feeling of Andrew's breath on his neck. Andrew thumbs over one of Neil's scars, kisses him again. "There is no mistaking this skin for anyone else's when the room is dark and I can't see enough to know for certain."
It's a revelation that Neil hadn't thought of in the past, but is all the more thankful for now. There are plenty of nights where Neil sleeps in his own bed, but on the occasion where Andrew has had a good day and Neil shares his bed, it is nice to know that there is a definitive reason Andrew seems more calm.
"I didn't know — I didn't know you took comfort in it," Neil says after a moment, laying one of his hands over Andrew's, the fabric of his shirt keeping them from touching completely.
"You do now," Andrew says, and Neil can hear the sleepiness starting to creep into Andrew's words. Neil's heart is calmer now, and he stifles a yawn in favor of nestling back against Andrew a little more. "You don't have to like them," Andrew continues, voice a murmur. "They're ugly, but they're you."
(And for lack of a better word, Neil? I like you.)