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Andrew Minyard met Neil Josten when he was six years old behind a tree in their neighbourhood.
Neil, at the time, was sporting a scraped knee—not the type where the skin was just flaked. The type of scrape where the entire skin was gone on the area. It was bleeding and it looked—extremely painful.
Neil wasn’t crying. Andrew knew this because he couldn’t stop looking at his face. He had freckles. A small pimple on the bridge of his nose. And a gnarly scar Andrew didn’t think a child should have.
So basically—
“Are you a zombie?” Andrew asked, because what the fuck.
Neil blinked at him.
He didn’t look scared. Or confused.. His arms were wrapped around his knee like he was trying to keep it from falling off.
“I don’t think so,” Neil said eventually.
Andrew squinted at him. “Then why’re you bleeding like that.”
“I fell.”
“Oh.” Andrew paused. “Was it bad?”
Neil looked down at his leg like he hadn’t realized it was still there. “I think I’m okay.”
It didn’t look okay. It looked like someone had taken a potato peeler to his skin.
Andrew didn’t know what to do with that. He’d scraped his knee before and cried so hard he’d hiccupped for an hour. This kid looked like he might fall asleep on the spot.
“Do you live here?” Andrew asked.
Neil nodded.
“Where?”
He pointed toward the houses down the street, kind of vaguely. “The red one.”
Andrew just gazed at it, then, he sat down next to him, cross-legged in the dirt.
“You want me to get my cousin?” Andrew offered. “He’s old. He knows how to do band-aids.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not.”
Neil looked at him again. His eyes were very blue.
“You’re weird,” Neil said.
Andrew shrugged. “You’re the one bleeding like a zombie.”
“Do zombies even bleed?” Neil ended up responding.
——
Andrew Minyard realised he had a crush on Neil Josten at eight years old.
Andrew didn’t know what the word was at first. He just knew that when Neil laughed—the way his whole face scrunched up—it made Andrew’s chest feel funny. Like butterflies, or maybe little pinches.
They were sitting on the front porch steps of Bee’s house, watching the sky turn pink as the sun set. Neil was drawing ‘A+N 4L’ with chalk on the step, telling one of his stories about how he’d almost fallen off his bike again. Andrew slightly smiled, but then he realized he wasn’t just smiling—his heart was racing, and his stomach was tight like when he was about to get in trouble.
“Why do you always look at me like that?” Neil asked suddenly, eyes sharp.
Andrew blinked, confused. “Like what?”
Neil grinned, the mischievous one he usually reserved for Nicky and Aaron. “Like I just gave you honey comb ice-cream or something.”
Andrew’s face went hot. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to pretend it was just the sun.
“I dunno,” he said, trying to sound casual but failing.
Neil’s grin got bigger, and Andrew felt that flutter again—only louder this time.
Andrew didn’t know what to do with it, but he was pretty sure he liked it.
——
Andrew Minyard was ten years old when he had his first kind of kiss.
It was one of those perfect summer afternoons—too hot to run, but too bright to nap.
Andrew and Neil were lying on the grass in the park, looking up at clouds that looked like monsters and spaceships.
“Bet I can catch a cloud,” Andrew said, reaching up like he could grab the sky.
Neil laughed, his freckles jumping. “You’re ridiculous.”
Andrew turned to him. “Yeah well, I’d rather be ridiculous than boring. Like James Williams in our grade.”
Neil’s smile softened, and before Andrew knew it, Neil’s hand was brushing against his.
Andrew’s heart pounded like a drum.
“Hey,” Neil said softly.
Andrew blinked. “Hey.”
There was a pause—just long enough for everything to feel loud.
And then Neil leaned in and pecked Andrew on the cheek.
Andrew froze, cheeks burning, eyes wide.
Neil just grinned like it was no big deal and said, “There. Now I caught a cloud.”
Andrew laughed nervously but didn’t pull away.
Because maybe, just maybe, catching clouds was better with Neil.
——
Andrew was thirteen years old when he realised jealousy was an emotion.
Neil laughed louder than usual at something a girl in their class said, and Andrew’s stomach twisted.
They were supposed to be inseparable, but now Neil was hanging out with people Andrew barely knew.
After class, Andrew stood by the lockers, pretending to be interested in his math homework, but really watching Neil across the hall.
He felt a flicker of something—was it jealousy?
Neil caught Andrew staring and gave him a small, “What?” look.
Andrew quickly looked away. “Nothing.”
But his heart said otherwise.
That night, Andrew lay awake thinking about how much he hated feeling like he wasn’t enough.
He didn’t know how to say it, so he just stayed quiet.
——
Andrew Minyard was fourteen years old when he realised life can be, well—shit.
Andrew sat on the edge of his porch, knees pulled up tight, arms wrapped around them like armor. The air was thick and heavy with the smell of rain yet to come. The sky above was a dull, ugly gray, and the world felt just as heavy inside his chest.
He didn’t say much these days. Didn’t want to. The words felt like poison, like admitting weakness. And weakness wasn’t something Andrew allowed himself—not anymore.
Neil slid down beside him, careful not to startle. He popped open two sodas with a practiced flick and handed one over. The hiss of carbonation was loud in the quiet.
“Come on, Minyard,” Neil said, voice casual but with a hint of something softer underneath. “You can’t brood forever.”
Andrew took the can but didn’t open it. His eyes were fixed on the red label, like it might explode if he looked away.
“I’m not brooding,” Andrew said, voice low and clipped.
Neil smirked, but didn’t press. He knew when to hold back. Instead, he nudged Andrew’s shoulder gently.
“You’re not alone. You know that, right?”
Andrew’s jaw clenched. His fingers dug into his knees. “Feels like I am.”
Neil said nothing, just stayed close enough to be a presence. The silence stretched out, comfortable and heavy at the same time.
After a long moment, Andrew muttered, voice barely above the wind, “I don’t know how to be… me.”
Neil turned to him, expression soft but fierce. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now. Nobody does.”
Andrew glanced over, surprised at the gentleness in Neil’s eyes. For a flicker of a second, the walls Andrew had built cracked.
“I’m tired,” Andrew said quietly. “Tired of pretending. Tired of fighting.”
Neil swallowed, then reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Andrew’s forehead. “Then let me fight for you. Just a little.”
Andrew stared at Neil, at the honest promise in his gaze, and something shifted deep inside.
For the first time in weeks, Andrew let himself breathe—slow, shaky breaths, like he was finally allowing himself to be human again.
He opened the soda can, took a sip, and let a small, almost imperceptible smile cross his face.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said.
Neil grinned, nudging him again. “Course I’m right. I’m always right.”
Andrew rolled his eyes but didn’t push Neil away.
For now, that was enough.
——
Andrew was sixteen years old when he had his first proper kiss.
Neil slid into the seat across from Andrew in the crowded cafeteria. The noise was loud, but Neil’s stomach was twisting in nerves. He wasn’t sure why.
“Where were you during gym?” Neil blurted out before Andrew could even open his mouth.
Andrew raised an eyebrow, fork halfway to his mouth. “Behind the bleachers. Problem?”
Neil swallowed hard. “No, no. Just… thought maybe something happened.”
Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”
Neil’s cheeks flushed, voice stumbling. “Like… did you, uh, kiss someone?”
Andrew blinked, fork paused mid-air. Then he smirked. “Yeah. I kissed someone.”
Neil’s heart thudded so loud he was sure everyone could hear it. “Who?”
Andrew shrugged, unimpressed. “Some guy. It was behind the bleachers. Big deal.”
Neil nodded quickly, trying to sound casual. “Right. Of course.”
There was a silence. Neil fidgeted, suddenly feeling like he didn’t belong.
“I’m gonna go,” Neil said, standing up abruptly.
Andrew blinked, fork still in hand. “Wait—what? We just sat down.”
Neil smiled awkwardly, cheeks burning. “Yeah. I—uh—I gotta get to class.”
Andrew stared after him, confused. “Okay, whatever.”
As Neil walked away, his chest felt tight, and Andrew was left wondering what just happened.
——
Andrew Minyard was eighteen years old when he finally got what he wanted.
They sat on the worn-out kitchen floor, backs against the cold cabinets, the quiet hum of the refrigerator filling the space between them. The McDonald’s bag lay forgotten on the counter, half-empty fries scattered on a plate nearby.
Neil’s fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, eyes darting everywhere but Andrew’s.
And then—
“I know we don’t keep secrets. I don’t know why I didn’t say this before. Or why I thought it was okay to pretend I didn’t feel it. But it’s like… you’re always there, right? I know we are supposed to be bestfriends And it’s stupid I’m just…” He let out a breath, shaky. “I think I like really like you.”
Andrew’s eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as Neil’s words spilled out like a confession and a question all at once.
“Shut up,” Andrew snapped, but his voice was rough and low, not angry.
Neil blinked, surprised, heart pounding.
Without warning, Andrew’s hand cupped Neil’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly over the skin.
His other hand slid around Neil’s waist, pulling him close until there was no space left between them.
A silent question brewed between Andrew’s eyes. Neil understood. Jesus. Fucking Christ. He always did. So he nodded.
And then Andrew kissed him.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
It was fierce, claiming, and everything Neil hadn’t dared hope for all those years.
Neil’s hands found Andrew’s shirt, gripping it, grounding himself in the heat and the reality of the moment.
Andrew tentatively let his own hands wander underneath Neil’s shirt, feeling the hard muscle underneath. He found his nipples and gave them a slight twist.
This earned a sudden soft moan from Neil causing them to startle from each other.
When they finally broke apart, breaths mingling, Andrew’s forehead rested against Neil’s.
“Unfortunately, I might agree with you” Andrew whispered.
Neil smiled, his chest swelling with something fierce and new.
“You usually do,” he replied.
——
Andrew Minyard, at any age, had never wanted to go to college.
College was for people with plans. People who cared about teams and futures and what came next. Andrew had Exy because it gave him something to do. Something to win. That was it.
They were sitting in the gym after practice, the lights buzzing overhead, half the team already gone. Andrew was peeling off his gloves when a voice cut across the echo of bouncing balls and sneakers.
“Minyard.”
He didn’t look up right away.
“Andrew Minyard,” the voice repeated, this time closer. Sharper. Less like a suggestion.
Andrew finally turned. Some guy—late forties, PSU jacket, perpetual frown—was standing next to their coach. Cigarette smell clung to him even though he wasn’t smoking. He looked like someone who hated being impressed.
“My name’s David Wymack,” the man said. “I coach at Palmetto State.”
Andrew raised an eyebrow like that meant anything.
“I’ve been watching you. You’re a solid goalkeeper. Rough as hell around the edges, but you’ve got something.”
Andrew didn’t answer. He didn’t blink, either.
“I’m offering you a scholarship,” Wymack said, undeterred. “Full ride.”
Behind him, Neil hovered. He was still catching his breath from practice, curls damp, brow furrowed in disbelief like someone had just offered him a ticket to the moon.
Wymack jerked his chin toward him. “Your friend too. Captain’s pick.”
Andrew didn’t move. He thought about saying no. About walking away just to see what Neil would do. He didn’t care about teams. He didn’t care about college. He hated Exy half the time.
But he looked at Neil.
And Neil was looking at Wymack like maybe—just maybe—this was something real.
Andrew sighed, sharp and quiet.
“Fine,” he said. “Whatever.”
Wymack nodded once like that was the expected answer. Like he hadn’t doubted it.
“I’ll see you both at PSU,” he said, already turning to leave. “Try not to break anything before then.”
“Alright. Coach.”
Dry. Flat. Mocking. A little like a dare.
Neil huffed a laugh beside him.
And that was that.
——
Andrew was twenty years old when he lost his virginity.
Him and Neil had their thing going on for two years now and never actually had penetrative sex.
It didn’t matter. Whatever they had was beyond physical. It always was.
They’ve done everything else, explored each other’s bodies.
After Andrew gave Neil a blow job in the quiet of his own room a few weeks after their first kiss, it was like a dam had broken.
They continued exploring each other, their personal preferences, what makes Neil squirm a little more. Moan a little louder.
And vice versa.
But they never got far enough to have sex.
Until now.
The dorm room was dim, the soft light casting long shadows over the rumpled sheets. Kevin was thankfully gone, as Nicky.
Andrew made sure they didn’t return.
Neil’s heart hammered loud in his chest, the silence between them thick with everything they hadn’t said — all the times of wanting, of waiting, tangled in this one moment.
Andrew sat beside him on the bed, jaw tight, eyes flickering everywhere but on Neil. His hands were clenched in his lap, restless but steady.
Neil swallowed, trying to steady his own shaking fingers. “You sure?” His voice was low, uneven.
Andrew snapped his head up, eyes sharp and intense. “I’m not backing out.” His voice was rough, a little breathless.
Neil bit his lip, heart swelling. “Good. If you’re positive.”
They moved closer, slowly — every touch deliberate and cautious, but the heat between them was impossible to ignore. Andrew’s hands trembled just slightly as they found Neil’s hips, pulling him nearer.
Neil’s breath hitched when Andrew’s lips grazed his jaw, then his neck, soft and searching. The fire in Andrew’s touch surprised him — fierce, protective, like he was staking a claim.
Andrew’s voice was a low growl. “Tell me if it hurts. Or if you want me to stop. I mean it, Josten. Use your words.”
Neil smiled, shaky but sure. “I trust you.”
They kissed then — slow, messy, and hungry. Andrew’s hands traced Neil’s back, memorizing every line, every curve. Neil’s fingers clutched at Andrew’s shirt, grounding himself as waves of heat rolled through him.
When Andrew finally slid beneath the sheets, nervousness flickered behind his eyes — the raw vulnerability Andrew usually kept hidden. Neil cupped his face, thumb brushing over his cheek. “Hey. We’re in this together.”
Andrew swallowed hard, then smiled, small but fierce. “Good.”
After Andrew was done prepping Neil, he helped Andrew put on the condom, even though he, himself, had never done that before.
He also helped pour the lube on Andrew, and around himself. Copious amounts.
The night was a mixture of whispered breaths, awkward pauses, and fierce tenderness — hands learning, hearts racing, bodies finding rhythm in the chaos.
Neither said much, but everything was said in the way Andrew held Neil close afterward, in the way Neil traced lazy circles on Andrew’s back as they fell asleep tangled together.
It was messy, imperfect, and exactly right.