Work Text:
Everyone knows night eventually changes into day. It happens the other way around, too; the lights of the daytime grow into shadows, stretch longer and longer, until they manage to cover every little corner of a person’s world. The shadows dance until the music stays, and the music stays until the sun isn’t in the sky anymore. Until the lazy yellow of the afternoon morphs into a luminescent, silver glow. Until the moon takes over her tinted little empire and introduces the world to the wonders of her stars.
And even when that night is squeezed tightly against the aftershock of a terrible day, even when you cannot do anything to prevent it’s terrors, it has it’s beauty. And even then, it follows the daily, nightly schedule of the stars and the moon and the sun.
Beams of the morning sun shine right through a hastily shut curtain. Neither of them had half a mind to close it, the night before, but Andrew doesn’t particularly mind it. Doesn’t mind it, when those particular beams brighten up the dark-red of Neil’s hair, spread in full contrast against the white of the sheets. Doesn’t even mind it, when they dance across the striker’s relaxed face, doesn’t mind to know that it’s real. It must be, because if he’s as rotten inside as he knows himself to be, there is no way he could come up with anything so beautiful.
Even when that relaxation shifts into a small frown, even when Neil is awake and complaining about the sun in his eyes—the way those blue sparkle from the sun—, Andrew doesn’t mind not shutting the curtains the day before. And Neil doesn’t think it to be that big of a problem, either. He leans his head back against the pillow, twists so his cheek nudges against the fabric.
It has been years. It has been literal years, since this was new, since this was anything unusual, but Andrew’s breath still catches when he has all the attention of Neil’s sapphire eyes directed at him, and only him. It’s unreal. Magical, even.
“Did you sleep properly, after?” Neil asks, and Andrew shrugs in answer, shoulders knocking against the soft of their mattress.
He didn’t. But he doesn’t find it important to share; feels like more than a word from him would upset the serene atmosphere of the morning.
Instead, Andrew lets the rasps of Neil’s voice slowly fade when with his voice even, he keeps talking about nothing in particular. The warmth of Neil’s body lulls Andrew into a comfortable ease. When he was sleeping, Andrew found it difficult just to let loose. He was more awake, back then, looking over to the door every few minutes, awaiting something uncomfortable, or loud and threatening. A step-brother’s excruciating entry, an unwanted visit from a serial killer father. Fire, snow, rain, storms. Not any of those things happened, but it all caused a sleepless night for Andrew, in exchange.
The mattress dips under the weight of Neil’s body, as he sits up, and starts to turn. It shifts again, when Andrew reaches out, and again, when Neil stops.
“Stay.” Andrew asks, voice low, and barely even there, but Neil hears it, because he’s Neil, and he considers with a hum.
“I asked you twice, if you wanted me to leave. You didn’t reply,” The striker offers, as an explanation to why he has just gotten up, and Andrew finds it ridiculous. Finds having to deal with the feelings these actions—he listens. he listens, and when he doesn’t hear anything, he doesn’t bother, and he cares and he listens—deliver ridiculous.
“I’m telling you now.“ Andrew says, and does not tell him again, because he doesn’t like repeating himself; Neil understands anyway. Purely because he’s Neil. Purely because he cares.
And he does go back, because Andrew asked him to, and because Neil cares.
Andrew has gotten to few conclusions as clear as this one.
When Neil talks, he says the truth, now, because he thinks Andrew deserves it. When Andrew talks, Neil listens, because he thinks Andrew deserves that, too. When Neil looks at Andrew, he looks like he’s seen the sun and the moon and all their glories and magic, simply, because he thinks Andrew deserves just as much admiration. When Andrew says no, Neil takes it as nothing more or less than an express of Andrew’s feelings. Maybe even appreciates the limited freedom Andrew gives away his emotions and opinions with.
Andrew plays with the thought, too. Thinks about deserving all that, while saying yes to Neil’s hands, and body, and self. Thinks about that, while laying his head on Neil’s chest, too. Thinks about that when his eyelids begin to weight tons, too. Thinks about that when his breathing slows, thinks about that while he falls asleep.
And Andrew dreams about saying yes and deserving it.