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Neil was asleep.
Muscles relaxed and head curled into the pillow, he seemed… calm. A bit softer around the edges. Not that anything could ever be soft when it came to Neil.
Mere minutes ago, there had been heated kisses pressed onto lips and skin. Minutes ago, Andrew’s hands had roamed over and under Neil’s shirt, following heat patterns and old scars. Leaving his own marks behind. Neil had tried to keep his hands to himself until Andrew had huffed annoyed and put them on his neck. (Shut up. He knows, okay?) One had wandered down to his arm, gripping tight whenever his kisses turned into bites.
He was hovering over Neil, most of his weight bore on his arm. One bare leg between his bare ones. He could feel his pulse between his thighs, slow and steady. Unwavering. It burned hot still, where they were connected, residual heat slowly retreating.
Andrew took a shaky breath.
It hadn’t been the first night they had crept into Andrew’s bed after practice. Andrew guiding him with a hand, pushing him down on the mattress. Splaying fingers over ribs, tugging on now dark hair, molding his body onto Neil’s.
This night had been no different.
Except this time, Neil had fallen asleep before Andrew could kick him out of bed to go into his room. He thought of kicking him out anyway. (Would serve him right.) Or wake him up for some more fun. It’s what he was here for anyway: fun. (Nothing more.)
All he did though, was run his fingers through his hair. It was too dark in the room to actually see much, so he used his other senses instead. Felt along the lines of his face, down his throat to his collarbone. Over planes of muscles to his hip. The smell of sweat and sport equipment was still in the air, but what laid underneath was all Neil. There was barely any sound except for the soft rustling of the sheets with his every inhale and exhale.
Andrew couldn’t believe he had fallen asleep.
Training had been hard, sure, and it wasn’t in Kevin to be forgiven during their nightly practices. Combined with the upcoming game against the Trojans, pressure was high. But that wasn’t anything new.
Something had Neil - vigilant, volatile Neil - loosen up enough to deem Andrew’s company safe enough to fall asleep.
What even - Andrew felt Neil shouldn’t be so damn trusting. Leaving his throat so damn vulnerable to attacks. He was supposed to keep the lines clear. It was his fucking duty to enforce the limits. So that no one would – overstep. Blur the lines.
So that no one would get hurt.
Andrew curled his fingers into a fist. Why was he even so invested? Why did he care what the brat did? His nails left crescents in his palm from the force.
His eyes wandered over his face. Still too thin; his hands bony. Neil’s chest rose and fell in even intervals, unaware his every move was catalogued. Out of habit, he laid his hand right over his sternum, feeling his breath alongside his heartbeat. (Sometimes, Andrew was sure it was still a side effect. A pipe dream. Keeping check on his breathing for longer kept the worst thoughts at bay.)
They were almost in sync.
He yearned for a cigarette. Or a punching bag. Maybe both. Just a way to relieve this - pressure. But all he had was Neil’s even breaths.
“Bastard,” he whispers fiercely.
He just needed a minute to himself, to redraw the lines and rebuilt the boundaries. He would be fine after that.
(Just leave.)
He should.
Instead, he stayed.
Andrew sighed deeply and decided “fuck it.” Glacially slow, he situated himself on the mattress, wrapping Neil in his arms (it’s not like there was much space left).
He gripped on tight and held on.
He could deal with the aftermath tomorrow.