Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s not until they’re outside Eden’s that Neil realizes Andrew hadn’t played fair. In their last round of Never Have I Ever, Neil got out first. But Andrew has totally eaten a bug. Neil was there, a few months ago, when a mosquito flew straight into Andrew’s mouth. If Neil wasn’t so tipsy, he would’ve been able to catch him in the lie — then, maybe he wouldn’t have lost and gotten sloshed.

“Wait a second,” Neil says, swiveling around to shove a finger into Andrew’s unamused face. “You—“

That’s all he gets out before Andrew’s expression cracks, his baseline apathy shrinking under bright headlights. Neil hears Nicky calling his name, and then he’s being yanked up onto the curb, almost knocking Andrew over in the process.

Neil blinks a few times, breathless, once he’s steady on his feet. He whips his head to watch the car continue to streak by them on the street. Andrew’s fists are clutched in the thin material of Neil’s shirt. He tugs roughly again, pulling Neil close enough that his face presses neatly into the side of Neil’s throat.

They’re still for a moment. Neil makes eye contact with Nicky, Kevin, and Aaron where they stand frozen behind Andrew. He feels completely sober now; his belated sense of awareness rushes in his ears.

Andrew’s breath comes in measured puffs against Neil’s neck. He has Neil pressed close enough that Neil can feel his heart hammering in his chest, matching Neil’s own. Andrew’s whole frame is rigid — his grip on Neil’s shirt hasn’t lessened.

Neil takes a deep breath, then lifts his hands to rest lightly on Andrew’s wrists. Andrew doesn’t react, so Neil slides his palms just an inch up Andrew’s forearms.

“Don’t,” Andrew hisses. Neil holds still, closing his eyes and tipping his head just slightly to press his cheek to Andrew’s hair.

“Thank you,” Neil murmurs.

The tension leaves Andrew’s body on an exhale. He wraps one arm around Neil’s waist like a vice and plants his other hand on the back of Neil’s neck, pulling down so that he can crush his mouth to Neil’s temple. Andrew inhales once, sharply, then releases Neil, stepping back. His expression has smoothed back over by the time he meets Neil’s eyes.

“All that time on the run, and you don’t know how to look both ways?” Andrew asks. Nicky forces out a slightly-choked laugh, and Neil can only shrug.

“Surprisingly, no one ever tried to hit me with their car,” Neil says.

“Don’t tempt me,” Andrew says.

The mood thaws.

Andrew keeps a hand on Neil’s elbow the rest of the walk to the car. He doesn’t talk again until he’s whispering insults under the covers in bed. The words are muted by the way Andrew has wrapped himself around Neil, death threats made soft when whispered into Neil’s hair. Andrew falls asleep halfway through a sleepy description of how he plans to choke Neil with his own intestines. Neil follows soon after.

Chapter Text

“If you want it, just put it in the cart,” Andrew says. “Stop dawdling.”

Andrew and Neil only came shopping to “pick up a few things,” but they’ve been at Target for almost an hour. It’s dead in here at 8 PM on a weeknight, but it’s still entirely too over-stimulating. He’s beyond ready to go home, drink a beer, swap lazy handjobs in the shower with Neil, and fall asleep.

Neil, however, feels no such hurry. He has been staring at a large, mundane canvas print of an abstract fox for almost a full minute — Andrew had made it to the end of the aisle before he realized he’d left Neil behind.

Neil blinks at him. “I don’t know where I’d put it.”

Andrew takes a few steps back, considering the print again.

“There’s space in our room in Columbia,” Andrew says. “On the wall with the window.”

Neil doesn’t respond for a moment, so Andrew glances at him. He’s doing his kicked puppy song and dance, staring at Andrew like he’s just done something either incredibly cruel or incredibly kind.

Andrew, who has done neither, gestures at Neil’s face. “What’s wrong with you now?”

“It’s just,” Neil starts, then pauses to swallow thickly. “I didn’t know it was our room.”

Andrew can’t help it — he rolls his eyes. Then, he takes Neil’s chin in his hand.

“Neil,” Andrew says. “That house is your legal address. You sleep in that room every time we are there. You have that shitty ass dresser that took three hours to assemble. What the fuck did you think was going on?“

Neil shrugs, still looking wounded. “That I was staying in your room, I guess.”

Andrew scoffs, dropping Neil’s face. “There’s hardly a difference anymore, is there?”

Neil’s expression crumples further, and fucking hell, they were just supposed to be in and out. Toilet paper and coffee filters and a new bath mat. There’s no need for a meltdown in the Home Decor aisle.

“Knock it off,” Andrew says. “Don’t make this into some big, new thing. Nothing has changed. Pay more attention.”

Neil nods, but he’s still got that face. The irritation leaves Andrew’s body on an exhale. Neil is being stupid, but only because his perspective is rooted in his fucked-up life experiences. Andrew knows that Neil never takes what isn’t freely given, and he knows how much it means for Neil to claim things as his own. None of this should be surprising.

Andrew checks over his shoulder to make sure the aisle is still empty. He puts a palm on the back of Neil’s neck and draws him close. Neil tucks his face against Andrew’s hair, and Andrew measures the rise and fall of Neil’s chest until it settles into an even pattern.

“Enough of that,” Andrew murmurs, stepping away. Neil’s expression has morphed into quiet contentment, which is less concerning but way more annoying. “Grab your stupid fox so we can go home.”

Chapter Text

Andrew’s boots scuff loudly against the concrete when he finds Neil on the roof.

Neil, still frustrated, keeps his eyes on the pink and orange skyline, his fingers on his cigarette.

Andrew’s tendency to lash out when he is vulnerable is not his fault. Neil understands this, but it does not make being on the receiving end any easier. Especially when Neil has just woken up — especially when Andrew hisses “I don’t need you,” a lie meant to hurt, to push away.

Andrew stops behind him, waiting for Neil to acknowledge him. Neil gives him no cues. Andrew can do what he wants.

He doesn’t expect Andrew to drop to the ground behind him, bracketing Neil with his knees and snaking his arms around Neil’s waist. Neil leans back against Andrew’s chest. One panic-induced jab is not going to change his “always.” Andrew responds by tightening his grip and hooking his chin over Neil’s shoulder.

This close, Neil can only just distinguish the details of Andrew’s profile out of the corner of his eye. Andrew’s expression seems predictably blank, his eyes closed. Neil lifts his cigarette to Andrew’s lips, and his eyelashes flutter a bit as he takes a drag.

For a moment, Neil thinks that this might be it. After two years, he is nearly fluent in Andrewisms. He recognizes this as Andrew’s nonverbal way of countering his words.

But Andrew’s voice is quiet and raspy when he speaks.

“I didn’t mean it. I woke up wrong.”

“I know,” Neil says, and he does — he’s known since the words came out of Andrew’s mouth — but it still melts some of the tension in his muscles to hear the truth confirmed. He stubs out the cigarette and leans his cheek against Andrew’s. “Sorry I left.”

Andrew pinches Neil’s side.

“Don’t. No one is asking you to be a martyr.”

Neil huffs a laugh. Andrew turns his face against Neil’s neck, and Neil can feel the subtle up-turn of Andrew’s lips.

They’ll have to get ready for practice soon. They’ll have to shake off sleepless nights and difficult mornings and move forward, like they do every day. But for now, the sky is painted in streaky color, and Andrew is warm and unyielding. Everything else can wait.

Chapter Text

It takes ten minutes for the rage to clear from Andrew’s vision, then five more to rinse the blood and dust off his stinging knuckles in the Columbia house’s kitchen sink. In this time, Andrew decides that following after Neil is not admitting defeat.

Neil doesn’t acknowledge the Maserati until Andrew swerves up onto the sidewalk in his path.

“Get in,” Andrew says through the open passenger window.

Neil barely even glances at him.

“I told you I needed space,” he says, moving to go around the car. Andrew curses, throwing the car into park and flinging open his door.

“Neil,” he says, and he doesn’t want to know what it is about his voice that makes Neil stop. “You can have space at the house. But you will not run away from me.”

There’s a long moment before Neil gets into the passenger seat and slams the door shut, and Andrew exhales in relief.

The ride home is silent. Neil trails Andrew to the front door, but pauses when Andrew unlocks it and steps aside. Instead of meeting Neil’s eyes, Andrew pulls out his pack of cigarettes and sits down on the porch steps. He listens as the screen door clatters shut behind Neil.

Space. Sure. Kevin took the others back to campus in his new car this morning. Have the whole damn house.

Andrew’s not sure if he’s guarding the entry or the exit. Maybe neither. Maybe both.

Three cigarettes is usually Andrew’s max, but he needs to keep his hands busy. He hasn’t done something so pointless as punching through drywall in over a year. Best not make it twice in one day.

The door creaks open when Andrew is on cigarette five. Neil lowers himself onto the other end of the step.

“I won’t see Dobson,” he says.

Andrew, throat raw, passes Neil the cigarette. “No one said it has to be her.”

“I still don’t know why this is such a big deal,” Neil says, shaking his head.

Andrew sighs. It’s a big deal because he is tired of feeling useless. Because sometimes Neil gets lost in his head and Andrew doesn’t know how to get him out. Because Bee says Andrew shouldn’t expect himself to provide services that require a doctorate.

“I said I would protect you, but I can’t help you with this.” Andrew taps two fingers against Neil’s temple. “Mine is already enough work.”

Neil’s face falls as he finally understands. “I don’t mean to take too much.”

“I won’t let you,” Andrew says. “There are other counselors — find someone who can actually do something for your screwball brain.”

Neil reaches for Andrew’s hand, and Andrew lets him drag it to his lap. Neil’s thumb brushes the fresh scabbing on Andrew’s knuckles.

“I’ll try it,” Neil says, as if that isn’t all Andrew asked for in the first place. Idiot. “Come inside?”

They go in. Andrew makes dinner while Neil does homework at the kitchen island. Later, Neil helps Andrew patch the wall.

Chapter Text

The bus takes forever to warm up, and it’s been too long since Neil has felt the bite of a real winter. Luckily, Andrew is a furnace.

“Are you going to fall asleep like this?” Andrew asks. It’s a fair question. The ride home is long. The back of the bus is quiet; everyone knows better than to bother them after a game. Neil’s head is pillowed in the crook of Andrew’s neck, his cold hands tucked into the pocket of Andrew’s sweatshirt. Andrew has an arm wrapped around Neil’s shoulder, his other hand resting warmly on the thigh Neil has draped over Andrew’s. Despite this, he’s not necessarily tired. Physically, maybe. But they won. Neil’s too doped up on serotonin to sleep.

“No,” Neil says. “Are you?”

Andrew hums noncommittally. Undecided, then.

“We could play a game,” Neil suggests.

“We just finished playing one.”

“No, a car game. Like from my book.” Neil received a coffee-table book of games from Nicky for Christmas, because he apparently lacks crucial childhood experiences. He tries to recall one of the games. “I Spy?”

“I spy something big, orange, and ugly hurtling down a dark highway.”

“Okay, that one might not be good for the road,” Neil admits. “There was one about license plates. You try to see how many states you can spot.”

“Pennsylvania,” Andrew says, already looking out the window. “Pennsylvania. Pennsylvania. Earlier, I saw Pennsylvania.”

“Funny,” Neil says dryly. “Fine, maybe I will sleep.”

Andrew jerks his shoulder a bit, intentionally jostling Neil.

“Twenty Questions,” he says.

Neil smiles, thankful his face is pressed into the fabric of Andrew’s hoodie. Andrew must sense it anyway, because he digs his fingernails briefly into Neil’s cheek.

“Which one is that?”

“I’m thinking of something,” Andrew says. “You have twenty questions to figure out what it is.”

It’s not yellow. It’s not something you can eat. It’s not a solid, a liquid, or a gas.

“You’re out of questions,” Andrew says.

“Fine,” Neil says, jabbing Andrew lightly in the stomach. “What was it?”

“Your irritating lack of self-preservation instincts.”

“How was I supposed to guess that?”

“By asking better questions. Your turn.”

Andrew guesses that Neil was thinking about a mouth guard after nine questions.

“You’re too predictable,” Andrew murmurs, mouth pressed to Neil’s hair.

Neil yawns. “Maybe you just know me too well.”

“Maybe,” Andrew says, squeezing Neil’s thigh. “But you’re also predictable.”

Neil only sighs in response. He’s so warm, and Andrew’s head is still turned so that Neil can feel the soft puffs of his breath in his hair, timed with the slow rise and fall of his torso under Neil’s hands. The whir and steady motion of the bus pull at Neil’s eyelids and at the corners of his consciousness.

“I’m thinking of something,” Andrew whispers.

“Is it sleep?”

Andrew snorts. “Yeah.”

Neil burrows impossibly closer, finally letting his eyes fall closed.

“See?” Neil murmurs. “I know you too.”

Chapter Text

It’s late when the bedroom door creaks. Andrew stirs, because he always stirs when he hears the door, though it’s a comfortable enough sound by now. Kevin slams the door open, so the creak means Neil.

Neil’s silhouette moves about the room like a silent film — he places his duffel on the floor, slowly opens a drawer to grab sleep clothes, and creeps into the hallway. Then the sound comes back on: A crrrrreeeeaaaak as the door shuts again. Running water in the bathroom.

Neil, Kevin, and Wymack have been away signing new players. Andrew did not want to go. He did not want to take six flights in three days. Bee said, “Then don’t go.”

It was fine. Nicky dragged Aaron and Matt into Andrew’s room every evening to drink Kevin’s booze. Andrew finished a paper a week early, then deep-cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom. (Both were disgusting. Neil may have spent half his life on the run, but the other half definitely included a housekeeper. He and Kevin are useless.)

Every night, Andrew went to sleep in a silence he couldn’t stop expecting to break. It’s still early enough in the spring that the night is cold, but too warm for the school to justify running the heaters. Andrew hasn’t spoken a word since they’ve been gone. He’s fine; he just hasn’t had anything to say.

The water stops. The metal rings of the shower curtain usually squeal against the bar, but the dorm stays on mute until the bedroom door opens once again.

The creak, of course, means Neil.

Andrew props himself up on an elbow, and Neil freezes.

“Hey,” Neil whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Andrew backs against the wall, leaving just enough space for Neil to climb under the covers. Twin beds were not made for two people, even two relatively small people. There are lots of benefits to sharing a bed with Neil, but most nights at Fox Tower, it’s not worth the hassle. Sometimes, though, rest is not necessarily about getting the best sleep.

Neil is so close that the room feels full with the sound of his breathing. One of Andrew’s arms is under the pillow. The other is wrapped around Neil’s waist, and Andrew can feel the searing heat of Neil’s skin through his thin shirt. His wet hair is soaking the pillow. It smells like eucalyptus. Neil brushes his thumb against Andrew’s jaw, and Andrew has to close his eyes against the sensory overload.

“Kevin?” Andrew asks, voice creaking like the bedroom door.

“At Coach’s. We fought, so he separated us for the night.”

Andrew opens his eyes, raising a brow. Neil smirks, so Andrew decides it’s not worth worrying about.

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow,” Neil says, yawning. He presses his nose into Andrew’s pillow and closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. “It’s good to be home.”

Chapter Text

It’s not quieter outside, but it’s less claustrophobic. Disappointed fans make their way to cars, some angry and yelling, some trudging despondently.

None of them see Neil when he slides down the wall beside the team entrance. He’s in his gear, fists clenched, rank with sweat worsened in the humid August night.

Neil pulls his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around them, and puts his head down.

The door opens. Neil prepares for the worst, but there is only the subtle crunch of shoes on pavement, the gentle swish of fabric. A light gust of wind brings a familiar whiff of body odor and spicy deodorant that confirms Andrew’s presence.

Neil lifts his head. Andrew crouches in front of him, calm and steady as always. They stare at each other for a moment, and Neil feels himself relaxing with the knowledge that Andrew won’t speak first. He won’t question Neil’s actions, won’t demand answers, won’t judge him. He’s just here, backlit by the rows of parking lot lights, living proof that Neil is not alone.

“I fucked up,” Neil says.

“Yep,” Andrew says. He lowers himself the rest of the way to the ground, sitting cross-legged. One of his hands moves to his hip before he remembers there are no cigarettes in the pockets of his uniform shorts.

Neil rests his cheek on his forearms and stares unseeingly into the distance. “They’ll never follow me after this.”

Losing the first game of his captaincy stings, but it’s what he and Kevin anticipated — they have to adapt their game, and that takes time. But Neil hadn’t expected to be so easily goaded. The red card followed a punch, which followed “How fitting that the Foxes can only win under the leadership of a hooker.”

Andrew takes Neil’s chin, fingers firm and cool as he tugs his face back toward his.

“This is not even close to the Foxes’ worst game,” he says. “You never got the full Fox experience before we started winning.”

Neil shrugs. “I can’t lead if I’m benched. And if I can’t lead…”

They both know the stakes.

“Do you know the difference between my freshman year and yours?” Andrew asks.

Neil’s brow furrows. “Seth?”

Andrew uses his grip on Neil’s chin to slowly shake his head no.

“Some idiot joined the team and refused to shut his mouth or mind his fucking business.” Andrew drops his hand. “You’ll figure this out.”

Neil blinks. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

The corner of Andrew’s mouth twitches. He stands, holding out a hand to pull Neil to his feet. By now, the others will be filtering into the lounge for a dismal post-game meeting.

Neil grits his teeth as he looks to the door.

Neil will figure it out. He always has before. Andrew yanks at his hand, hard enough for pain to shoot through his aching shoulder, and it’s another reminder: He doesn’t have to figure it out alone.

Chapter Text

Andrew has pictured this moment.

He’s paranoid — he has pictured every moment he could possibly anticipate. For some reason, though, this one doesn’t play out the way he imagined.

Neil scores in the final five seconds to win them an Olympic gold medal. This is within the scope of Andrew’s expectations. Neil is an impossibility, and so Andrew is no longer surprised when he makes their life feel like an improbable blockbuster movie.

But after, Neil doesn’t laugh as Jeremy lifts him into the air. He doesn’t meet Kevin at center court to bump fists and share uncharacteristically huge smiles. He doesn’t run full speed to Andrew and wrap his arms around his shoulders, knocking Andrew’s back against the goal with the force of their collision.

Instead, Neil does what Andrew should have pictured all along: He falls to his knees, heaving. The product of his last bit of energy is still rolling away from the red-lit plexiglass.

It’s an image loaded with memories, but Neil’s reckless athleticism is his greatest threat today. Neil raises his head briefly to look back at Andrew, mouth hanging open as he gulps oxygen. Andrew sees him nod before Neil is lost in the gathering huddle of their celebrating teammates.

Dropping his racquet and gloves, Andrew crosses the court of his own volition. It’s another thing he didn’t imagine. Their teammates part for him easily, smart enough not to hug him or excitedly thump his back. Andrew passes his helmet to Kevin, who smiles fiercely, before settling on his knees in front of Neil.

The roar of the court is so loud that Andrew’s brain nearly processes it as silence. Andrew pulls Neil’s helmet off his still-hanging head, then tugs off his gloves. He wedges fingers in Neil’s neck guard and stretches it away from his throat, lessening the constriction.

Andrew lifts Neil’s chin, and blue eyes tiredly blink open. He waits for Neil to focus on his face before he speaks, loud enough for Neil to hear.

“Ready to retire yet?”

The corners of Neil’s still-gaping mouth pull up at that, and he shakes his head. Andrew smirks, and Neil reaches up with shaky fingers to touch Andrew’s lips.

Matt crouches beside Andrew, grin wild. “Should we carry him?”

Neil tries to get to his feet without success, so Andrew hauls him up with hands under his armpits. Ah, there’s the arms around Andrew’s shoulders that he pictured. Andrew squeezes around Neil’s waist in return, crushing his nose against Neil’s sweaty temple.

“I think,” Neil wheezes by Andrew’s ear, “that maybe”—wheeze—“I do need help.”

Andrew huffs. He looks over the crown of Neil’s head to nod at Matt, who crouches and gestures for Neil to climb on his back.

“Come on, champ,” Andrew says, turning Neil toward Matt. Neil lolls his head back far enough that he can brush his lips against Andrew’s jaw. “It’s all done now. Let’s go rest.”

Chapter Text

Everybody’s always fucking talking.

Andrew goes from the dorm to practice to class to lunch to practice to dinner to the dorm — always full of people! Talking! — and baaack for night practice, which should be quieter, but it involves Kevin, so it’s not.

Driving home, Andrew dreams of jerking the wheel hard and spinning off the road. Since he wants his passengers to live, he does not cave to the fantasy.

When he gets to the roof, he realizes that he left his cigarettes in the car. Too late.

The edge proves just as tempting as the side of the road, so Andrew makes the Healthy Choice and lies down several feet from it. The building’s air conditioning kicks on, and the HVAC system roars. Andrew was born to suffer.

There’s never been silence. Oakland was honking cars, barking dogs, rumbling trains. Columbia is quieter, but Nicky is not. And Palmetto? Talking, talking, talking. Andrew hardly talks to anyone. They all talk at him. Telling him what to do, what to know, what he’s doing wrong, what potential he’s wasting.

There’s a bang-bang, then a scrape as the door opens. Footsteps, fabric rustling, then the first good sound of the night: Click-click-click.

Andrew reaches out. A cigarette is placed between his fingers. The smoke curls up toward the sky as Andrew waits for Neil’s interrogation to begin.

Neil knows that Andrew hasn’t been sleeping, that his fuse is short, that he's barely touched Neil — let alone kissed him — for days. Andrew doesn’t have answers. He’s fucked up, is all. He can’t sleep through all this noise.

The questions don’t come. Neil’s windbreaker crinkles as he lies back. He sighs, but it’s not a performative, expectant one. (Neil’s sighs are a personal thing. When he’s frustrated, they’re harsh. And when he’s comfortable, they’re like this: soft, airy, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.)

The air conditioning cuts out, and Andrew sighs too. He tosses his dying cigarette, listening to Neil’s quiet breathing. Bee once told Andrew that the best way to combat persistent irritation is to practice gratitude. She asked him to make a list of things he was thankful for. Andrew told her he might as well trace his hand on construction paper and craft it into a turkey.

The air conditioning kicks back on. Born to suffer. The runt of God’s creatures. Satan’s little plaything.

There’s less asking now. Andrew couldn’t have known that trust worked like this: boundaries are more consistent, body language is easier to read, “No”s and “Stop”s are respected. So he doesn’t risk adding his voice to the cacophony when he rolls over and presses his ear to Neil’s chest, seeking out sounds he can actually endure. Expanding lungs under his palm, a beating heart under his cheek. Neil drops a hand to Andrew’s crown — waits, reads — then starts playing with his hair.

It’s too fucking loud. Always. But if Andrew can’t find silence, then this will do.

Chapter Text

Neil climbs on top of his desk and dumps out the contents of the PSU “swag bag” someone handed him on the quad. Andrew, sitting at the other end to smoke out the window, spares the pile a disdainful glance.

There’s a water bottle, a fox paw-shaped stress ball, a bottle opener. A T-shirt, giant sunglasses, various magnets and stickers. A bright orange, tube-shaped instrument.

“A plastic flute?”

Andrew snorts. “You’re so uncultured. That looks nothing like a flute.”

Neil raises an eyebrow. Andrew trades his cigarette for the instrument, then brings it to his lips. There’s a harsh whistle. Andrew readjusts his fingers, then plays the melody of “Ode to Joy.”

Neil laughs. “Why do you know how to play that?”

“I went to public elementary school.”

Neil’s brow furrows; he was home-schooled through his upbringing in Baltimore.

“Recorders are cheap and simple to learn,” Andrew says. “Elementary schools have to provide some kind of music education. So…” He waggles the instrument in the air.

“Huh,” Neil says, surprised at this rare insight into Andrew’s childhood. He wants to know what Andrew was like as a kid, wants to make sure there were bright spots. Even Neil has some good memories.

“That sounds… fun,” Neil tries. Andrew only shrugs, and Neil thinks that’s that. He’s working on shoving his burning curiosity down when Andrew speaks again.

“My fourth grade class played the national anthem at an Oakland Athletics game. We were terrible.”

“You sounded alright.”

Andrew shoots Neil a look. “I practiced.”

Neil stills at the significance of this admission.

“My foster parents worked a lot, so it was usually just me and this younger kid. I made her a deal: if she stopped trying to steal my recorder, I’d play for her before bed.”

Andrew’s voice is flat, but there’s a distant look in his eyes. Neil holds his breath, waiting to see if Andrew will continue. Instead he plucks the cigarette out of Neil’s hand, stubs it out, and slams the window shut.

“Play another song?” Neil asks softly.

“I only know 'Ode to Joy' and 'The Star-Spangled Banner,'” Andrew says to the window.

“Good thing I’m very patriotic,” Neil says.

Andrew wrinkles his nose, but he brings the recorder to his mouth, closing his eyes.

As he plays, Neil tries to picture it: Andrew, but smaller. Softer. Already introduced to humanity’s worst, but not yet trodden by it. He imagines this Andrew closing his eyes and playing on a baseball field surrounded by other children, or at the foot of a younger girl’s bed.

Andrew finishes the song, then chucks the recorder vaguely in the direction of a bean bag chair.

“Stop that,” Andrew says, gesturing to Neil’s face.

Neil swipes his pile of treasures to the floor, slides forward until their knees touch, and lifts a hand toward Andrew’s cheek. Andrew tips his face into the contact. Neil leans in, then whispers: “I’m just proud to be an American.”

Chapter Text

Nicky and Kevin are hovering in the kitchenette when Andrew returns to the dorm with extra cardboard boxes. Andrew’s eyes sweep the existing half-packed suitcases and bins before settling on Nicky’s face.

Nicky shifts uncomfortably, then gestures toward the closed bedroom door. “You told us not to wake him. We didn’t want to be loud.”

Figures. Ever since the championship, Neil’s been dropping into frequent, impromptu naps. In the dorms, in the car, in the court lounge — once, during a late dinner at the dining hall, Neil slowly slumped against Andrew’s shoulder. Abby is not worried, because Neil only ever lets himself doze off when he’s with people who will look out for him. She says that he’s catching up on years of sleep debt, and it’ll only be concerning if it gets worse, or if it’s still happening after a restful summer break. Bee agrees, though Andrew didn’t tell Neil that.

Still, Neil doesn’t like that it’s happening.

“It always seems like a great idea to rest my eyes, but I hate waking up not knowing where I am,” he told Andrew. “And I really hate when I don’t recognize the hand shaking me awake.”

Andrew is the exception, apparently. “You always make me feel safe.” Andrew ignored Neil for a whole day after he shared this information, stewing in the wretchedness of getting himself involved with this man. The silent treatment had to end when Matt — who was among those warned that morning that if they ever wake a napping Neil, they’ll die — knocked on Andrew’s door to tell him Neil was conked out on his couch.

Now, Andrew opens the bedroom door. Neil’s sneaker-clad feet are the only thing immediately visible behind boxes, which is a little too horror-movie-esque for Andrew’s tastes. Neil is on his back, lips parted, an unfolded sweatshirt loosely gripped in the hand resting on his chest.

Andrew crouches down. He checks Neil’s watch, then the faint purple stains under Neil’s eyes, then the state of the bedroom around them. They were supposed to be checked out of the dorm an hour ago. Andrew doesn’t care that they’re breaking the rules, but moving is tedious, and he wanted to be done by now. Sighing, he reaches out and touches Neil as only he is permitted, dragging his fingertips from temple to jaw and loosely gripping Neil’s chin.

“Neil,” Andrew says firmly, and Neil slowly blinks open his eyes. He focuses first on Andrew’s face, then takes in their surroundings. When he realizes what happened, he groans.

“You’re supposed to be good at packing,” Andrew says as he stands.

Neil yawns, sitting up. “I have too much stuff now.”

Andrew kicks the nearby box, watching as Neil rubs his face and runs a hand through his messy hair. He feels that dangerous flicker of a thing in his chest when Neil looks up at him.

Andrew kicks the box again, this time with slightly more force. “Better get used to it.”

Chapter Text

Neil is warm and solid and alive. Andrew has permission to touch him even when he is asleep, so he does.

It’s a bit inevitable, really, the way they’re crammed together on the dorm room twin mattress. They have ways of making that work, but this is a different thing: when Andrew wakes up feeling like this, it helps to shape his palm to the curve of Neil’s waist, to run his knuckles over the bumps and ridges of scar tissue on Neil’s arms, to wind his fingers through the course hair curling at the base of Neil’s neck.

When Neil figured this out, he said, “Do it.”

“It’ll wake you up,” Andrew said back. He took a drag of his cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs. In another universe, maybe, the burn of it distracted him from the way the skin and bone of his chest had peeled away, displaying the wet, thudding heart that Andrew likes to pretend he doesn’t have.

“Maybe,” Neil said. “Do it anyway. I don’t mind.”

So Andrew wakes up feeling like this, and he can barely stand the fact that he’s still here, but it’s better once he can remind himself that Neil is here too.

He wedges his hand into the space between Neil’s elbow and his side. It’s soft there — cotton over flesh — but Andrew slides his hand further until it is splayed against the harder muscle of Neil’s upper back. Neil shifts slightly, but doesn’t wake. Andrew only has to move his face forward a few inches to rest his cheek on the back of Neil’s hand where it rests on the pillow.

The scars on his knuckles are rougher than usual — Neil has been picking at them. Andrew once spent a whole session with Bee talking about Neil’s scars. How he hates them, how he wishes he could revive everyone responsible for them just so he could kill them again. How he seeks them out, how he hates himself for finding comfort in Neil’s pain. Bee said there was more nuance than that. Later, Neil said, “At least they’re good for something.”

Part of Andrew wants to see how much more he has to move to wake Neil up. He hates himself for that, too — for wanting to interrupt Neil’s sleep just so Neil will look at him in that awful way that makes Andrew want to live. Neil’s stare is endlessly heavy with the truth that he sees and wants all that Andrew is, that he needs nothing from Andrew except his existence, that things are always hard but they do not always have to hurt.

Andrew lies still. Neil’s eyes stay closed, so Andrew closes his too. Neil is warm and solid and alive under his palm, under his cheek.

Tomorrow, they’ll both open their eyes.

Chapter Text

Neil wakes when the mattress dips. Andrew is sitting on the edge of the bunk.

“I’m going to take it.”

Neil squints as his tired mind makes sense of Andrew’s words. There’s a pale edge to the darkness that says morning has not quite come. Kevin is in his bed across the room, dead to the world.

Neil props himself up on his elbow. They have a game tonight, he remembers. San Diego. It’s a six hour flight. They’re leaving early, but not quite this early.

Oh. The flight.

“Right now?” Neil asks.

“Bee said to take half in the morning, then half before we board.”

“What changed your mind?”

Andrew doesn’t answer. He stands, crossing the room to the wardrobe. Neil hears the shake of the pills, then the crinkle of a plastic water bottle. Once it’s done, Andrew sits back down. He takes the invitation when Neil lifts the covers.

“What’s next?” Neil whispers.

“It takes thirty minutes to kick in.”

Neil runs his fingers through Andrew’s hair until the alarm goes off.

At the airport, Andrew is the same as always. His black hoodie and sweatpants make him look like a silhouette against the gate’s large windows.

“Is it working?” Neil asks.

A plane charges down the runway. Neil watches as Andrew’s eyes track it.

“No.”

Andrew takes out the bottle, and Neil hands over his coffee so that he can swallow the pill.

“What about now?” Neil asks once they’ve boarded. He’s in the middle seat, and both Kevin and Andrew have stolen the armrests.

Andrew shoots a look at Neil, then takes another pill. Kevin is too engrossed in a conversation across the aisle with Dan to notice.

“Are you supposed to do that?” Neil asks. There’s a whirring sound as the plane engines kick on.

“Fuck off.”

Andrew crushes Neil’s hand through take off. That’s expected, but the divergence is in the way Andrew’s grip lets up as they climb. They’ve yet to reach cruising altitude when Andrew’s head falls to Neil’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Kevin says ten minutes later, “I have an idea for— Is he sleeping?”

“Obviously.”

“Huh,” Kevin says. “Anyway, you know that dealer with the long shot? I was thinking…”

Kevin and Neil are good at passing the time. Andrew stays limp against Neil’s side, fingers still loosely wound around his hand, breath warm and steady through the fabric of his sweatshirt.

Neil wakes Andrew with a squeeze of his hand once they’re back on the ground.

“Mmmph,” Andrew complains, then turns his face further into Neil’s shoulder.

Neil bites back a smile, which must activate Andrew’s sixth sense. He sits up enough to glare, but the severity of it is impeded by a yawn.

“I think it worked,” Neil says.

Andrew drops Neil’s hand in favor of pinching his thigh. He rubs his eyes, then rests his head back on Neil’s shoulder as they taxi toward the gate.

Chapter Text

Neil sees Andrew across the dining hall first, but it doesn’t take long for Andrew’s eyes to meet his as he scans the room. Andrew swipes his card, then takes a circuitous route to the buffet to pass by the table Neil shares with Nicky and his vice captain, Vanessa. Knuckles brush across the line of Neil’s shoulders, and he tips his head back to watch as Andrew passes by. He only has fifteen minutes between classes on Tuesdays, so he’s just here to grab food and go.

Vanessa pretends to gag, and Neil throws a french fry at her. Vanessa catches it in her mouth, because she is a freak.

“Let them be cute,” Nicky admonishes. “You don’t know what they used to be like. I was convinced it was a hate-fucking thing for months.”

“Okay, but Aaron says you were the most oblivious about them,” Vanessa says to Nicky, stealing another of Neil’s fries. (Neil doesn’t complain — his plate is full of them.) “He says you were so focused on Neil’s sexuality that your gaydar broke.”

“Please tell me Aaron actually used the word ‘gaydar,’” Nicky says.

“Indeed,” Vanessa says through her chewing. “He said it in a mocking way, if that makes more sense. Full of negative connotation.”

“You know, I’ll take it,” Nicky says. “The point is: I was wrong. Neil and my dear cousin fell in love at first sight.”

Neil snorts, remembering how he used to fantasize about punching Andrew in the face. “Hardly.”

“They can be in love away from me,” Vanessa decides. “I’m too lonely to witness the cuteness.”

“We aren’t cute,” Neil says, wrinkling his nose.

Vanessa shakes her head. “You’re right — you guys are on a different level of sickening. It’s the devotion of it all. You’d, like, die for each other.”

Neil is saved from responding when a plate of baby carrots and hummus drops down onto the table in front of him. Andrew’s hand falls to Neil’s shoulder as he leans in from behind Neil to whisper in his ear: “French fries are not a meal, rabbit.”

Andrew brushes his mouth against Neil’s cheek, and then his warmth is gone. He’s already walking away, face forward, by the time Neil can turn his head to look.

“Devotion!” Vanessa repeats, flinging her hand at the plate.

Neil raises an eyebrow at her. “Carrots are a sign of devotion?”

“They symbolize the long, healthy life he wants to live with you,” Vanessa says. She drops her face down onto the table. “Meanwhile, I will die alone.”

Nicky pats her shoulder. Neil’s eyes are drawn across the dining hall again. Andrew glances over his shoulder just before he gets to the doors, throwing up a middle finger when he sees Neil already looking.

Neil smiles. Devotion. Sure. They can call it what they want.

Chapter Text

Andrew hates when Neil smiles. Especially like this: It’s just them, sitting alone in the car at a fast food joint, miles away from campus.

It’s overwhelming to be on the receiving end of this vulnerability. Because that’s what a smile is: a concession, an olive branch, an invitation. Even a fake smile says, “Feel comfortable around me,” and Andrew knows what people are capable of when they’re too comfortable.

Neil’s smile isn’t fake. It’s just a gentle tug at one corner of his mouth. The rest of his face is in cahoots, brows slightly raised, eyes doing that thing — emitting something Andrew can’t quite describe with an intensity that makes his chest hurt.

All Andrew did was steal one of Neil’s chicken nuggets. He changes his mind, shoving the nugget against Neil’s lips instead.

Neil sputters a half-laugh. He covers his mouth as he chews, but his eyes are still crinkled at the corners. Neil’s smiles are always rare, and usually cruel, or cocky, or mockingly polite. Sometimes he’ll allow something genuine with their other teammates. Sometimes he’ll smile like this, and Andrew didn’t ask for that. For any of it. There is a crushing weight to the responsibility of being the person that Neil smiles at most often.

“I hope you choke,” Andrew mutters, stealing a second nugget and looking out the window.

That night, they light cigarettes and sit with their feet in the motel pool.

“Want me to teach you to swim?” Neil asks.

Andrew scoffs.

“How do you plan on protecting us all in the apocalypse if you’re rendered powerless by deep water?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

Neil stubs out his cigarette, then tosses it somewhere behind them.

“There won’t be a bridge,” he says. “That’s the whole point.”

Neil dodges Andrew’s pinching fingers by tipping forward into the pool. The splash soaks half of Andrew’s shirt. When Neil pops out of the water, he holds out his dripping hands in question. Andrew nods, and Neil crosses his forearms over Andrew’s bare knees then rests his chin on them.

Andrew pushes wet chunks of hair out of Neil’s face, and the corner of Neil’s mouth twitches. It’s a warning that Andrew does not heed. He tugs at Neil’s hair, and there it is: full-force, teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

If Andrew was a different person, maybe this is the moment when he’d smile back. He can’t remember the last time he smiled because he wanted to. He can’t remember how to do it in a way that wouldn’t look pained or awkward, and he can hardly stand the spectacle people would make if he tried.

Neil wouldn’t react that way. His eyes would do that thing that Andrew hates but can’t seem to live without. Andrew could try, if he wanted to.

Instead, he traces the stretch of Neil’s lips with his thumb, waiting to see how long it will take to fade.

Chapter Text

There can be something so pleasant about being unpleasant. Andrew starts the day by making Nicky’s face flash with hurt. He repeatedly steps on the heels of a guy twice his height in the coffee line, and raises middle fingers as he walks out of his least favorite class.

Renee proposes they meet up later to spar, then shrugs off Andrew’s silence. He doesn’t want to play pretend, and she doesn’t pick fights she knows she won’t win. Bee fills their session talking to Aaron, denying Andrew the opportunity to rile up his brother until they’re driving back to practice.

Then there’s Neil. A uniquely irritating figure. Andrew hasn't had to deal with him since morning practice, but Neil hits him with a concerned stare as soon as he steps onto the court. Andrew repays it by sending all Neil’s shots on goal back at his ankles, waiting for that temper to flare.

Andrew’s pulse jumps when Neil finally drops his racquet and stomps toward him. The buzzer goes off as Neil slams a hand against the wall next to Andrew’s head and grabs at the grating of his mask.

“What’s your problem?” Neil asks. It’s not even a growl — not even a hiss.

“Seems like you have the problem,” Andrew says, matching Neil’s calm tone.

“No,” Neil says. “You woke up mad. Fine. Pit yourself against everyone else, but not me. I’m always on your team.”

The words douse the fire in Andrew’s chest, leaving him full of ash, full of dust, full of nothing. Stupid Neil. Andrew should have known better. But he’s forever picking fights he can’t win.

He fists the collar of Neil’s scrimmage pinny, tugging. Neil holds his ground, holds Andrew’s gaze.

“This thing says otherwise,” Andrew says, but Neil only rolls his eyes at the attempted diversion. Apparently satisfied, he lets go of Andrew’s helmet and steps back.

Andrew sits out the rest of practice in retaliation. Later, he brakes at the curb of Fox Tower and waits for everyone to get lost. Neil stays in the passenger seat, watching as the others walk into the building. When they’re out of sight, Neil slumps in his seat and yawns.

Andrew hates him. His eyes nearly water as he swallows a yawn of his own.

He slams the car into park and leaves it running. Neil stares as Andrew rounds the car and yanks open the passenger door, his face a dare.

“Move over,” Andrew says.

Neil blinks in surprise, then climbs into the driver’s seat. “Where to?”

Andrew doesn’t respond. It’s December, but he rolls the window down when Neil merges onto the highway. He sticks his hand out, holding his palm steady against the force of the freezing air.

It’s another fight he can’t win. The wind stops biting when his skin goes numb, but eventually his muscles tire. Andrew rolls up the window, then savors the pins and needles as his fingers come back to life in Neil’s warm palm.

Chapter Text

Neil is still wearing his sweatpants. He’s still catching his breath. He’s still lying here in the dark, in Andrew’s bed, with the sheets and blankets kicked to the floor.

Andrew went to clean up. Neil’s not sure if that means grabbing some paper towel or taking a shower. After sex, Andrew is sometimes distant and sometimes mellow, depending whether he’s shying away from the vulnerability or giving in.

Neil doesn’t mind either way. He doesn’t mind waiting here to find out which kind of night it is. He’ll know soon enough. If the shower starts, or the TV cuts on, or the microwave whirs — then Neil will count to ten, to zehn, to dix, to десять, then he’ll get up too, and the night will go on.

After sex, Neil is sometimes boneless and sometimes energized, depending on his own adrenaline and his prior exhaustion and Andrew’s level of creativity. Tonight, Neil definitely has control of his limbs. He could get up, could pull on a shirt and go up to the roof or out to the supermarket frozen aisle. His heart rate still hasn’t settled, thumping in a way that makes Neil’s legs twitch with restlessness.

Neil won’t get up yet. First, he wants to see what kind of night it is.

“Cleaning up” turns out to mean a wet, soapy washcloth. Andrew flicks the lamp on when he returns with it. He sits down on the edge of the mattress as he rubs the cloth roughly against Neil’s stomach, then tosses it vaguely in the direction of his hamper. Andrew’s eyes don’t leave Neil’s face. He looks calm, but not closed off. He’s still not wearing a shirt.

When Neil lifts himself up onto his elbows, Andrew shoves him back against the pillows with a hand on his chest.

Neil fails to hide a smile. Andrew rolls his eyes, but then he’s swinging a knee over Neil’s legs and settling on top of him. His cheek rests on Neil’s chest. His palms cradle Neil’s triceps. The too-fast thump-thump-thump of Neil’s heart contributes to that ballooning feeling in his rib cage, a pressure that almost hurts. He shakes one hand free so that he can bury it in Andrew’s slippery-soft hair. Andrew’s sigh is a warm puff against Neil’s bare skin, and Neil tips his face so that he can press his lips to the crown of Andrew’s head.

It only takes a few minutes for Andrew to fall asleep. Neil is too amped up to do the same. He could still go for a jog. He could join Kevin at the court, or do laundry, or write the paper he has due at the end of the week.

He won’t get up, though. He’ll be patient, counting Andrew’s breaths and tracing patterns into his hair.

Neil is stupid, but he’s not a fool; on this kind of night, he won’t be the one to pull away first.

Chapter Text

“Truth or dare, Neil?”

Andrew, who has been leaning against a wall near the study room door for the last half hour, looks up from his drink and across the room. Neil lounges on the floor in front of the sofa, leaning back between Matt’s knees. His cheeks are pink from the beer in his hand, but his eyes are still sharp and amused as he looks back at Allison.

“Truth,” Neil answers.

Andrew can’t see Allison, but she must do something that puts a hint of a competitive edge in Neil’s expression.

“What’s your favorite thing about Andrew?” Allison asks. “And don’t give me some bullshit about feelings. I’m talking physical. What’s Neil Josten’s type?”

Neil’s gaze slides over to Andrew, but Andrew only lifts his eyebrows in challenge. He’s expecting something smug or teasing in return, a smirk or a shit-eating grin. Instead, Andrew’s stomach drops when Neil’s face turns soft and contemplative.

Shit, Andrew thinks. He should’ve known better. He should’ve left thirty minutes ago. He shouldn’t have come to the basement at all.

“His hair,” Neil finally decides, voice quiet and earnest. “It’s soft.”

It was also the first ground that Andrew ceded, in the early days of whatever they were back then — when Andrew pulled Neil’s flexing hands from his pockets and gave him something to hold onto. “This is enough,” Neil had murmured the following summer, returning his fingers to Andrew’s hair and tugging gently at the strands. Andrew had tried to give him more that night, but he’d quickly changed his mind, sending Neil’s hands back to a place that felt safe. “Whatever you can do. It’s enough.”

“God, you’re boring,” Allison complains.

“I think it’s sweet,” Renee says.

“Me too,” Matt adds, patting the top of Neil’s head.

“Of course you do,” Allison says. “You’re both hopeless romantics. Andrew, truth or dare? Maybe you can spice this up.”

Andrew only holds up a middle finger in her direction, eyes still on Neil.

“You know Andrew has the same hair as Aaron, right?” Dan pipes up.

Aaron makes a choked sound somewhere to Andrew’s left, and Andrew loses Neil’s attention as he turns to Dan, lip curling in disgust.

Andrew should feel thankful for the disruption of Neil’s raw stare. He should feel cold and exposed. He should want to leave. But none of that is true. So instead, Andrew stands against the wall as the night carries on around him. It’s a small amount of ground that he cedes to the rest of the team. But it is enough.

Chapter Text

Five years ago, Andrew wouldn’t have been able to handle this situation. Maybe he would have left the room. Maybe he would have tried to find something to fight, or to fix. There’s nothing to swing his fist at. There usually isn’t, when the worst things happen.

Stuart Hatford is dead. Neil was not close to him, and he is not a particularly sentimental person. But he is scared, because they shared the master that held the gun. He is hurt, because somehow, he still carries grief for a mother that caused him so much harm.

Neil is sitting in the center of the living room, phone still in his hand. The screen has gone blank. So has his expression.

Andrew kneels too. He still is not fluent in the language of comfort, but he’s an expert on Neil. He takes the phone and tosses it toward the couch, then shuffles closer, until his knees bracket Neil’s thighs.

“Look at me,” Andrew says, cradling Neil’s face in his hands. “Breathe.”

Neil blinks a few times as he tries to focus. He takes a ragged breath, and Andrew shakes his head, rubbing his thumb across the faded lines on Neil's cheek.

“You can do better than that,” he murmurs, and Neil lets out a muted, strangled sound — a hysteric mix of exasperation, fear, and pain. He droops, and Andrew pulls him against his chest, wrapping him up in his arms, one palm heavy on the back of Neil’s neck. Neil takes shaky breaths against Andrew’s collarbone.

It feels like there should be more to it than this. Five years ago, Andrew certainly thought so. He remembers Neil kneeling on a different floor — remembers him perched on the edge of a motel bed, shaking in Abby’s arms. Before that day, no one had ever looked to Andrew for this type of thing. He didn’t know how to play that role; he didn’t want to make things worse by doing it wrong.

Andrew knows better now. There’s nothing to do except be here. He turns his head, pressing his mouth to Neil’s temple. He holds Neil up until he can stand again on his own.

Chapter Text

The ancient air conditioning unit in the living room window is making a valiant effort, but June in Columbia is unrelenting. The shades are drawn, tinted orange-gold by the sun. Every fan in the house is running at top speed, racking up an electric bill from hell. The day calls for misery, but Neil finds he doesn’t mind. He has spent summer days in worse places. And for the first time since the break started, the humid air has sponged away his restlessness. He’s content to sit here on the couch, watching Andrew play a video game and moving as little as possible to minimize his sweating.

Andrew’s character gets shot and crumples to the ground with a dramatic cry. Again. The cousins have been trying to beat this level for days. Aaron throws his empty soda bottle at the wall and stomps out of the room as Andrew hits restart. Neil could laugh, but that would require movement, so he lets his amusement settle with the rest of the warmth sitting in his chest.

Neil hears Nicky shouting from somewhere in the house, though his words get lost in the buzz of the fans. Chances are he is stopping Aaron or Kevin from using kitchen appliances. He’s convinced that even the coffee-maker will add to the heat. Kevin’s frustrated words cut through the fan’s distortion: They’re out of bread. That’s Neil’s fault. Earlier, he made the mistake of wrinkling his nose as Nicky sliced up bananas for a peanut butter sandwich. Nicky then made Neil his own, and since then, Neil has made three more. (They are out of bananas, too.)

Andrew swears under his breath when his character dies once more. Neil looks over, even though it makes sweat drip down his neck. Andrew’s brows are drawn together, his mouth a flat line. His expression smooths out quickly, but the moment has already wormed into Neil’s core alongside banana slices and peanut butter and smothered amusement. Andrew’s shoulder, exposed by his tank top, is pink and freckled. Neil can see the sheen of sweat on his skin — he can sort of smell it, too.

Neil meets Andrew’s eyes as he brushes his lips over that damp, freckled skin.

“Is that okay?” Neil asks after.

Andrew stares at him blankly, then turns away and jams his thumb against the game controller. Neil watches Andrew’s profile as the level restarts, content to wait.

When Andrew loses again, he tosses the remote to the side, flopping his head back against the sofa cushion. Sweat drips from his temple down to the corner of his jaw. His hair gleams gold in the filtered sunlight.

“It’s okay,” Andrew says. His face turns stern when the amusement Neil has been holding onto finally wriggles free. Neil hides his smile against Andrew’s shoulder.

The heat doesn’t break even after the sun goes down. Neil is very full, and very sweaty. Things could be a lot worse.

Chapter Text

It’s been a long day, a long week, a long year, a long life. Maybe twenty years isn’t long in the grand scheme, but it’s the sentiment of the thing: Andrew is exhausted. He didn’t think he’d make it this far.

Andrew has moved so many times that he’s numb to the others’ emotionality as they pack up the dorm. But carrying precariously taped boxes and trying to jenga everything into the car is both physically and mentally draining. Unpacking is even worse, but that’s not a problem for tonight.

A lone box still sits in the front hall with Neil’s duffel resting on top. Andrew and Neil pass it when they go outside to smoke, then again when they return. In the living room, Kevin is in the process of shaking blankets out on the couch. Andrew watches as Neil’s eyes are drawn to the recliner, and even though Andrew is exhausted, he knows it’ll be on him to make this call. Of course it is; this is probably not even a decision that Neil is aware needs to be made.

If Andrew is honest, he made his choice a month ago, when they got home from that first trip to Eden’s after spring break. He hadn’t hesitated then to drag Neil upstairs. He made the choice again two weeks ago, when the whole team came to Columbia to celebrate the championship win.

Bee’s voice is in his head: The choice does not need to be final. You have the power to make a new decision every night.

But it’s the sentiment of the thing: it feels final when Andrew throws the duffel strap over his shoulder. Neil shoots him an inquisitive look, so Andrew kicks at the box and nods to the stairs. It takes a beat for Neil to follow, and Andrew knows it's not because he’s stupid. 

By the time Andrew gets to his room, Neil has caught up. It feels very, very final when Neil shoves the box into the corner,  and Andrew drops the duffel back on top. 

“Andrew,” Neil says. He’s standing so close that Andrew is all too aware of the three inches Neil has on him. Andrew looks up, and Neil’s face is right there, his expression calculating as he puzzles through Andrew’s motivations. 

Andrew sighs. It feels even more final when he tips his chin up, drawing Neil’s eyes down to his lips. The kiss isn’t long, but it is searing — Neil’s palm cradles the back of Andrew’s head.

“It doesn’t have to be every night,” Neil murmurs when they part. He’s wearing that expression that Andrew has been dreading all day, so Andrew reels him back in by the collar of his shirt.

Later, under the covers, Neil turns on his side to face Andrew.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Andrew can’t see Neil’s face in the dark, but it’s the sentiment of the thing. He closes his eyes, then whispers, “One hundred and three.”

Chapter Text

Kevin has long since passed out in his bed across the room when Neil is jolted by feet kicking up at his mattress. Andrew keeps it up until Neil swings down from his bunk and under Andrew’s covers.

Andrew turns on his side. Neil waits to be pulled in for a kiss, but Andrew only traces a finger over Neil’s bottom lip before resting his hand on the pillow.

“You’ve been to Paris,” Andrew says quietly.

“Yes,” Neil says, only slightly thrown off by the statement. “We lived there for nearly a year when I was thirteen, and then passed through it a few times afterward.”

Andrew hums. His other hand finds Neil’s hip under the covers, fingers walking up and down his waist. “I never want to hear another word about Par-ee.”

Neil huffs a laugh, turning his smile into the pillow. One of the sophomores, Prue, is the kind of Fox where Neil can’t quite tell what qualified her for the lineup in Wymack’s eyes. She spent her summer vacation in Paris with her adoptive parents, and she hasn’t been able to go a day without talking about it in the month since they’ve been back on campus.

Andrew taps his thumb against the exposed, upturned corner of Neil’s mouth.

“I’m serious,” Andrew says. “This is a warning. The next person who mentions that city is getting stabbed.”

“Noted,” Neil says. “I don’t have anything good to say about it, anyway.”

Andrew pinches at Neil’s bottom lip. “I changed my mind. Negative reviews are allowed.”

“Well, in that case…”

Neil hasn’t even finished describing the heat-damp apartment they’d lived in before Andrew’s hand on his hip goes still and heavy with sleep.

The next day, the team is stretching out after morning practice at the gym. Neil is sitting on the floor, halfway zoned out, head hanging as he reaches for his toes when he hears it:

“I hope Starbucks still has chocolate croissants by the time we get out of here,” Nicky complains to Kevin. “They’ve been running out so fast lately.”

“The universe is telling you to cut your sugar intake,” Kevin mumbles back halfheartedly, as if he doesn’t get a slice of coffee cake every time they go to Starbucks.

“You know, in Par-ee, they call those pain au chocolat,” Prue interjects.

Neil snaps his head up to look at Andrew across the room, only to find him already looking at him. Neil drops his eyes to Andrew’s arm bands, then back up to his face, lifting an eyebrow in challenge. The sour glare Andrew sends him in return makes Neil tamp down on a smile — he hides it by taking a long drink from his water bottle.

In the moment before he averts his eyes, Neil swears he sees Andrew’s lips twitch too.

Chapter Text

There are no flights this year. No Exy, either. Wymack changed the codes to the court before he and Abby left to celebrate the holidays in the Bahamas. Neil does have one new wound: a paper cut he received while Nicky taught him how to wrap presents. It’s deep enough to need a bandaid, but not enough that he’ll remember it this time next year — not the way Evermore haunts the edges of Neil’s mind.

The memories come to him in hazy fractures, seconds-long intrusions that make his stomach roil. The phantom of the Ravens’ grueling schedule is messing with his sleep. Neil tries to lie still in the dark bedroom, but he keeps Andrew up too. Or maybe Andrew just has his own ghosts. Regardless, Andrew wraps himself around Neil from behind until late in the night, a silent commitment to rest even if sleep itself won’t come.

Those are just moments, though; blips in a winter break spent at the Columbia house. The present day is lazy and cheerful and warm enough to chase away the chill of the past.

“Are you having fun, Neil?” Nicky asks.

They’re in the living room, and the space is lit only by the television and the colorful lights on the tree. Earlier, when they’d driven around looking at other people’s Christmas lights, Neil had to sit half in Erik’s lap in order to cram four people in the backseat of the car. The lights were pretty. One house had taxidermy deer that disgusted Kevin but fascinated Aaron. Another had a sign with instructions to tune into a radio station where they were broadcasting music that synced up to the lights flashing on the house. Some of the streets they drove down were lined with houses lit up so brightly that it nearly gave the illusion of daylight.  

Andrew pokes Neil in the cheek, bringing him back to the present once more. Nicky stares at him expectantly. There’s a mug of cooled cocoa in his hands. The credits roll on a claymation movie that Neil had only sort of watched through drooping eyelids. Andrew’s arm is a heavy, warm weight across the back of Neil’s shoulders, and his fingers occasionally trace the seams of Neil’s shirt. He hasn’t let go of Neil since they got home.

“Yeah,” Neil says. Nicky grins. Andrew draws circles against Neil’s shoulder. “Thanks. I really am.”