Work Text:
“Andrew, breakfast is ready,” calls Neil from the kitchen.
Andrew knows that the first meal of the day, breakfast for normal people, is the most important. It nourishes the body with key minerals and molecules needed to maintain homeostasis and it provides necessary energy to perform as a functional human throughout the day.
But Andrew cannot be a functional human because a thief struck his clean laundry in the wee hours of light.
Andrew knows this because one: he was up with Neil all, and by all he means all, night doing very salacious things to his body, and two: his basket of clean clothes is now leaning precariously on the edge of the chair it was set on, properly he might add, two days ago, left to form wrinkles in the time it would take for him to hang them.
Andrew’s favorite shirt is missing.
His shirts don’t fall victim to thieving paws, his two bastard cats prefer nabbing clean socks and boxer shorts to nibble holes into, pulling on threads and leaving him with cinched material.
That leaves only one other possible culprit in the lineup.
Andrew wouldn’t go this far for any plain black tee, but this was not any plain black tee. This was a black tee with the words My weekend? Fully booked screen printed onto the chest in a blue the same glacial color as Neil’s eyes, over an open book. Yes, it was stupid and pun-ny and not something many would expect.
Well, fuck expectations.
The shirt was a cotton blend that felt perfect over Andrew’s skin, easily layer-able with a sweatshirt, and he picked it out himself at a random thrift store when Neil was busy doing something someday.
The point is, Andrew wanted to wear the shirt, his favorite, and it was missing. Do you see the problem here?
Padding out to the kitchen where Neil had his back turned and was patiently plating up whatever he managed not to burn on Andrew’s dishes, Andrew snuck up behind him.
As far as Andrew could see, Neil was just wearing a shirt, which caused an immediate derailing of all courses of investigation. Neil was only in a shirt, proven by a yes or no and a yes and Andrew’s bare hands on Neil’s bare hips. The shirt rode up, giving Andrew quite the view.
“Mm, hi, Andrew. Thank you for joining me. Food is ready.”
And now that Andrew was plastered against his back, he could see the way the blue font brought out Neil’s doe eyes against his tan skin. His copper curls were glowing in the kitchen’s ambient lighting, and they smelled of a sweet peach soap.
Suddenly, the shirt didn’t matter anymore. In fact, fuck the shirt.
Or, maybe fuck the man in it , Andrew’s brain supplied as Neil turns.
Yeah, good plan.
Neil is looking very edible, and Andrew tells him as much, leaning up onto his tiptoes to close the three inch gap and whisper the words right in Neil’s ear.
“The shirt. It’s mine,” Andrew tells him.
Neil responds with an I know and a devious smirk and tilts his head down to brush his lips against the corner of Andrew’s mouth. Andrew can only think of clementines and teal in bursts of radiant color as he tugs Neil closer, holding his face to press his lips where he wants, against Neil’s soft lips, slipping his tongue in Neil’s mouth.
He is quiet when he murmurs, against warm skin with pink cheeks, you are, too, you are mine.
That morning, breakfast was reheated in the microwave.