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Neil is already awake.
Andrew can tell even before he opens his eyes — the slight whistle of breath through nostrils instead of a wide-open mouth is the first giveaway. The second is the fingers that wind their way through Andrew’s hair when Neil figures out he’s up too.
“Hmm,” Andrew says, turning his face deeper into the pillow. It’s quiet enough that Andrew can hear the sleep-spit-sticky sound of Neil’s lips parting to smile.
“Morning,” Neil rasps. Andrew reaches out in the direction of the sound, laying his palm flat on Neil’s face when he finds it. He intends to push him away, but consider this: If he does, then Neil won’t be able to continue playing with Andrew’s hair. Neil’s grin widens under Andrew’s hand as he deliberates. It’s a lose-lose situation. Andrew turns to Plan B, wrapping his arm around Neil’s waist and pulling him closer. Neil’s nose bumps against Andrew’s cheek, his hair tickling Andrew’s temple.
“Mmmmph,” Andrew announces, scratching small circles between Neil’s shoulder blades. Neil hums in agreement, tilting his face slightly to press dry lips to Andrew’s jaw.
The bed is warm, but not overly so. They sleep with the overhead fan on regardless of the season — neither of them like to wake up sweating. The whole bedroom situation is ridiculously indulgent. A white noise machine whirs softly on the nightstand. A Glade plugin fills the room with the mild scent of bamboo and waterlily. The sheets and duvet cover are butter-smooth, stretched over a memory foam mattress that cost a small fortune. There are tastefully designed blackout curtains around the windows, but they rarely actually draw them — Neil likes the way the sun slowly slips into the room each morning, and Andrew doesn’t really care either way.
Sleep hygiene is important, both for professional athletes and for trauma survivors prone to night terrors. They’re both old and mature enough now to allow themselves silly things that make their lives easier. (They’re both old and mature enough to at least try and allow themselves silly things without reason at all.)
Neil sighs, and his breath does not smell like bamboo nor waterlily. Andrew’s endured worse. He turns slightly to knock their foreheads together, walking the pads of his fingers down the grooves of Neil’s spine. They don’t have anywhere to be today — a rare day off that is actually a day off; no practice, no press, no social obligations, no urgent errands.
Still, Andrew knows, Neil wants to get up; he’s never been good at lingering in bed. It’s unfathomable to Andrew that this could be boring. Lying in a silent, still room with a blissfully sleep-sluggish brain is basically Andrew’s favorite hobby. He relishes in the raggedy looseness of muscles that haven't yet had the opportunity to accumulate tension. He clings half-heartedly to dreams that don’t stick so harshly in his memory as real life does — broad-stroked paintings in warm colors rather than razor-sharp photography.
Andrew opens his eyes, comfortable with the sight that instantly sears itself into his mind. He’s got mornings and mornings and mornings worth of similar images in his head — bits and pieces of hair tinged crimson by the sun, of rough scar tissue and scattered freckles pulled taut over sharp features and lean muscle. Andrew leans his head back a bit in Neil’s hand, letting the base of his skull be cupped gently in his palm. Neil’s eyes are clear and blue, pools of calm water, for now undisturbed.
“Hi.” Neil shifts under the covers, hooking his thigh up over Andrew’s hip.
Andrew blinks in return, but the action is slow — his eyelids are still heavy. And the bed is warm, but in the good way. Neil’s breath smells foul, but he also smells like the coconut leave-in conditioner Andrew worked through his hair last night. Neil is smirking when Andrew’s eyes refocus. Andrew raises an eyebrow.
“You look like a sleepy kitten,” Neil explains. Andrew snorts.
As if summoned, there’s a gentle thump at the base of the bed. King has deduced that they are conscious — there will be no more rest until she is fed. She worms her fluffy orange body into the narrow space between their chests, rolling onto her back and purring loudly. This cat is shameless. She’s got an act. When she wants something, she is the most affectionate cat in the world. Neil is hopeless against her wiles; he takes his hand out of Andrew’s hair to scratch under King’s chin. She nips at his fingers playfully, turning slightly so she can knead her paws into Andrew’s stomach through his T-shirt. Thankfully, Andrew clipped her nails yesterday.
“Come for a run?” Neil asks, looking up from the cat. Andrew genuinely considers the question. It’s not so bad when they run the small loop trail near their apartment building. Neil usually rockets off while Andrew maintains a lazy jog. It never takes more than twenty minutes for Neil to lap him, though, and he matches Andrew’s speed for the rest of the run. He'd thank himself for it tomorrow, when they're back in the team gym.
But Andrew’s mind still hasn’t woken all the way up — he’s maintaining a state of “could fall back asleep at any moment.” His face feels dependent on the soft pillow it rests on, and his hips are settled in a position that pleasantly stretches his spine.
“Go without me,” Andrew croaks. Neil leans down to press a series of smacking kisses across King’s face. Her purring takes on a gurgling quality that is slightly concerning. Neil attempts to repeat the move on Andrew, and this time, Andrew does not have qualms shoving his face away. Neil laughs, using the momentum to roll over and out of bed. He twists and pulls at his limbs for a moment, popping and sighing. King springs to her feet too, bounding toward the bedroom doorway, then looking back to urge Neil along.
“Want the curtains drawn?” Neil asks.
Andrew shakes his head.
“Take your phone,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Andrew watches as Neil unplugs his phone from the charger, then lets his eyes fall closed again. Neil moves around the room like the ghost he was trained to be — Andrew hears nothing but the quiet snick of the bureau drawer, the quick ziiiiip of Neil’s windbreaker.
King meows impatiently, and Neil meows back at her out of habit.
“I’ll bring back coffee from that place,” Neil says, voice closer than Andrew had expected. He cracks an eye open just long enough to reach up and grab Neil’s chin, running his thumb over his bottom lip and pressing it into the corner of his mouth.
“Be safe,” Andrew mumbles into the pillow. Neil nods, just enough for Andrew to feel the movement.
Later, he’ll haul himself from the bed to the sunlit kitchen, hunkering down in the breakfast nook until the sugar and caffeine from his latte take effect. Then he’ll make eggs and toast, or maybe he'll take Neil to that new brunch spot that opened a few streets over. There’s a book he’s been meaning to finish, a movie Neil mentioned wanting to stream. Neil’s best pair of black jeans have started to wear through the seams at the inner thigh — if they’re up for it, maybe they’ll venture out to the shops. If they’re up for it, maybe Andrew will lure Neil back into the bedroom and spend hours taking him apart, bit by trembling bit.
For now, though, Andrew can only see the pinks and purples and reds swirling behind his eyelids. He’s warm. The apartment is quiet and safe — he and Neil have the only keys. He’s swaddled like a fucking baby, and he doesn’t even have the wherewithal to be as ticked off by that imagery as he would normally be.
Andrew drops his hand from Neil’s face, tucking it under the pillow with a sigh. The last thing he registers is Neil pressing a kiss to his cheek.