Work Text:
The thing about being with Andrew, in whatever sense of the word they are, is that it shifts from day to day. That doesn't exactly phase Neil, he's lived with uncertainty his entire life. He relies on it. He doesn't think he and Andrew would have ever gotten anywhere near where they are if either of them were reliable in the usual sense. He knows it baffles the rest of the Foxes. How much Neil relies on Andrew. He knows they think it's one-sided, or that they used to think that. They came around slowly after Baltimore, and then even more when Andrew stepped between Neil and Riko like it meant nothing at all.
They all definitely think he and Andrew are doing this because Andrew is bored and looking for some kind of high. They don't seem to realize that Andrew calls Neil a junkie for a reason. Andrew is a big part of why Neil didn't walk away. He let himself be bloodied and bruised for Andrew's sake, and he would do it again.
(Bile will still rise when he remembers that it was futile, that the hope of sparing Andrew the pain of being assaulted was a fantasy that Riko conjured to hold over his head and jerk Neil around like a dog on a chain. Fuck that. He's nobody's dog; he's a Fox.)
They're trying out sleeping in the same bed. Andrew is trying, in that way where he pretends he doesn't give a fuck. Maybe it's not pretending. Maybe he really is that bored. But Neil has seen flashes of it, the way he's started to give more on the court. The way sometimes, his mouth will tick up very faintly when Neil teases him. Imperceptible to anyone that isn't Neil. The way his eyes will brighten and squint at the edges right after he makes Neil cum, a slight edge of warm satisfaction. He's an instinctive player. He had to read tells to survive, and now it's helping him slowly unravel Andrew.
His mother would be rolling over in her grave if she could see him now, but maybe they're not so different. Andrew would never hurt Neil like his father did, but sometimes he wonders if his mom ever thought that about Nathan. But no, that's his mother speaking. Whispering that he needs to run away, that Andrew will be his undoing. Neil wants that. He wants to be undone by Andrew's callused hands and intense mouth.
Andrew lifts his head from the pillow. Fine blond hairs splayed across his face. It's longer than it was in January. He cut it in rehab, and Andrew had offhandedly admitted that he'd done that with a stolen pair of scissors to stop Proust from pulling it. Hearing that, when Andrew had taken Neil's hands and guided them into his hair and let him pull as much as he pleased, had felt like someone dropped an egg into his hands and told him to keep it from ever cracking. But he's growing it out now, feigning disinterest in cutting it. He seems to like Neil touching it, as much as he likes anything, and Neil reaches out to twist a strand between his fingers. Hesitating right before he does. Andrew catches his wrist and grips it, moving his hand to bury in his hair. Nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing ever so slightly, like a cartoon dragon blowing smoke. Neil's mouth curves up at the mental image.
"Don't smile at me like that," Andrew grumbles.
"Okay," Neil says, trying unsuccessfully to tamp down his amusement.
"I will throw you out the window," Andrew threatens, but he hasn't moved an inch. Neil scratches at his scalp and watches Andrew's eyes go half-lidded.
"I would drag you out with me," Neil echoes back. A version of a now very familiar reframe that has long since lost any truth or bite.
Andrew flickers his gaze. An eye roll by his standards.
Neil knocks their foreheads together. He's been getting a bit more bold with these kinds of touches. The ones that don't involve grasping hands. The ones that Andrew can easily back out of. They give, and they don't take. Bumping shoulders together when they're close, knocking his knuckles against Andrew's, nudging his ankle with a socked foot when they're watching a movie.
"Stop acting like a stray cat, it's not going to win you any favors." Still, Andrew pushes back into the contact, hard. Almost mean, by anyone else's standards.
Andrew Minyard is not anyone else. Then again, neither is Neil. It's why they work. It's why Neil feels so much for him. He's never looked at anyone and wanted like he does when he looks at Andrew. And maybe he would feel guilty about that, worry that he's objectifying him or using him, or any of the concerns Aaron threw in his face during spring break, if Andrew wasn't the one who came to him first.
"Mm," Neil hums. "And yet here you are. In my room."
"It's quiet in here," Andrew says flatly, betrayed by the way his eyes squint shut almost imperceptibly as Neil scratches his nails over his scalp.
"I thought quiet was boring," Neil pokes. Teasing him.
"No," Andrew says. "I never said that."
"I distinctly remember you saying something like that."
"You must have been talking to Aaron," Andrew dismisses. "Only he would say something that stupid."
It's the same kind of teasing as always, but there's less of an edge to the way Andrew says his brother's name. Pleased by that, Neil leans in and presses his mouth to Andrew's jaw. Feeling the barest hint of stubble. Neither of them grow much facial hair. He kisses again, lower, and feels Andrew shiver against him, like the net of a racquet strung over tight.
"You and your neck fetish," he grumbles.
Neil nips at him. Andrew swats the back of his head, but it turns into a groan as he soothes his tongue over the spot.
"You like me," he says.
"Absolutely do not," Andrew argues, pulling him in for a bruising good morning kiss.