Archive of Our Own

The topic comes up in conversation one day- the hypothetical reality of the pair diving into the world of hickeys.

It's Neil's mouth that the suggestion falls from, because of course it is. The striker can't keep one insane thought to himself; hormone-laced or not. Andrew wants to tell him to be quiet, to shut the hell up- but then he wouldn't be able to watch Neil's pretty lips form the words and syllables...

And that just simply won't do. Not at all.

"We don't have to," Neil says from his spot on the couch, and Andrew hates the way his shoulders shrug. Neil's lean, toned shoulders that have no business looking so enticing and strong during day-to-day activities such as doing the laundry or scribbling math homework. No business at all.

"But you want to, or you wouldn't have mentioned it." Not a question; not an accusation; simply a fact.

"I want to, but mostly I want whatever you want."

Blue eyes look at Andrew and it's like he's falling to the bottom of an icy lake with no means of saving himself. He stares at those eyes, mesmerized deep down where only the old leaves and vines still grow. Andrew contemplates.

"When?" He asks.

"Whenever you want to, if you want to."

Another shrug and Andrew feels something inside him burn. His lungs feel packed full of hardened honey and an ill-advised want that he used to know better than to put faith in.

'Used to.' Before Neil stepped into his life. Or fell, rather; after a well-aimed swing with a ‘borrowed’ racket.

"Okay."

Andrew doesn’t mention the proposal again. Neither does Neil, because all he’s content to do is wait on Andrew. And wait he does.

Between classes, Neil waits. After practice, Neil waits. Even when he’s sandwiched between Andrew and one of the old beanbags in their dorm, all Neil finds himself doing is waiting, waiting, waiting.

Sometimes Neil catches himself thinking that perhaps Andrew’s “okay” was his almost-nothing-always-everything’s way of telling him ‘no.’ But Neil slaps that idea away; burns it out of his brainwaves the same way that the iron-mark from his father burned his flesh all those years ago.

He trusts Andrew to tell him no if that’s what he means. And Neil knows that it goes both ways. It’s their foundation; their key principle; their oath to one another.

So Neil lets the ponderings of ‘what if…’ come and go, sooner rather than later, and he simply waits. Taking what Andrew gives him in the breathless moments they share in the locker room; the smoke-filled air they share up on the roof. Neil takes and takes and takes, but only what Andrew gives him. Only ever what Andrew will give him.

It’s all he could ever truly want.

"W-Wait..." Neil's voice is soft, hushed; dipped down low like he's telling a secret. He pants, chest heaving in shallow breaths and gaze locked on the man between his legs. Andrew kneels like a man starved before him- and Neil is the appetizer that's served before dinner.

"Should I stop?" Andrew asks, easing out from between Neil's bare legs. A single blond lock hangs in his face; Neil wants to brush it away, but doesn't.

He just shakes his head; auburn curls fall like a sweaty curtain over his forehead and eyes. Neil nibbles on his lip.

"I'm alright... I just need a second," Neil says with an honesty only reserved for Andrew, and his skin erupts in goosebumps when Andrew trails the tip of his nose along the sensitive, scarred skin of his inner thigh. Hazel eyes stay locked on Neil like a dot on a map; a highlighted date on a calendar.

"Too much?" And Andrew's eyes look golden in this lighting.

"Never."

Nothing Andrew chooses to give him could ever be too much, Neil thinks.

Quiet blankets over them, and this moment, and this scene. The material of Neil's hoodie sticks to his chest, skin slick and damp with how much he adores this man. Everything about Andrew. Anything. All of the above. Every infinite possibility and detail and jagged edge...

Maybe Neil goes quiet for longer than he thinks he does. Maybe he focuses too much on his breathing; on the electricity carrying along his hips and thighs and there...

"Be still," Andrew tells him an indefinite amount of time later, pale hands braced on Neil's thighs and oh is the contrast in their skin tones something to take a photo of, something to appreciate, something to burn into memory...

"Okay-" Because Neil will never ask Andrew 'why.' He trusts him too much. Always.

That established trust doesn't make Neil any less prone to gasping when Andrew leans back in and flicks his tongue over the other's tan skin. Neil sucks in a breath, needy and subtle; Andrew's ears pick up on every millisecond, because of course they do.

"Fuck," Neil curses, and he watches the show that Andrew puts on for him.

Hooded eyes focused; fingers with their nails painted a morose black rubbing slow circles into Neil's defined gracilis muscles; one hand sliding under the back of Neil's right leg to hoist it up onto Andrew's built shoulder. White teeth appear behind pink, parting lips as Andrew caresses the skin of Neil's inner thigh with lips and tongue first, and then he lets himself bite; nibbling gently.

Andrew starts off slow, getting this sensitive strip of skin introduced to his teeth before he commits his lips to sucking a dark mark into Neil's flesh. Lips working together as two perfectly matched crescents; tongue darting out to whisper over a scar; hazel eyes training themselves on Neil's eyes and cheeks and nose. Andrew doubles down after a moment, sucking a little harder; letting the mark really take shape.

Neil is buzzing. Up his legs, in his skinny-strong arms; down his sternum and the tingles circle around to kiss his spine. He shakes, little trembles that lace themselves into his entire being, his entire heart and soul as Andrew works. Marks him.

And for the first time in his life, Neil can't help but to think: 'It feels so good to be marked.'

Not out of needless violence, or poorly rooted anger, or a heart simply evil. Only from a root-source of safety and sanctity; a place only Andrew holds the key to. A place where...

"Good?" Andrew asks as his tongue flicks over the newly bruising patch of Neil's skin. He has a much better view of the mark blooming on Neil's inner thigh, among other sights that make something deep in Andrew's stony eyes dance and shine. Neil has to crane his neck forward a little, tilting his head to the side to see around his... excitement.

It's one of the most beautiful things that he's ever seen: as Neil or Nathaniel or Stefan or Chris or...

"Yes," Neil says, and as always: means it. The hickey is dark and full-bodied; gentle yet tender. He admires the blond's 'handiwork' and lets his lips part, ready to maybe ask for another- just one more, if he sits still, if he's good-

But Neil's request dies on another shallow gasp when Andrew swallows him whole again. Tongue set to an older practice, eyes finally closing to give himself some peace so Andrew’s own pants don't get too tight in the front, as if they aren't already, from watching Neil...

And all the while, Andrew still rubs those sweet little ministrations into Neil's muscles. He never slows, reduces pressure, or gets lazy. He just goes on like it's the most natural thing that he could idly be doing in this safe space, even though there are a hundred other things.

"I don't think I'm doing this right..." Neil mumbles a week later- back arched, scarred arms holding himself up over Andrew's strong legs. Andrew is shirtless; external obliques chiseled, his belly firm but thick with equal parts muscle and fat. He looks like a demigod, lounging on Neil's bed with his entire torso bare and it's all for Neil, Neil, Neil. Only Neil gets to see Andrew like this, and it's enough to make him feel drunk off principle.

"No," Andrew agrees. He puts his hand behind his head, watching Neil. Face stoic, eyes intense; like a single ember in a field of dead grass, and Neil is the only timber in sight. "You're kissing me," Andrew says, and if he were anyone else there would be a judging 'just' there.

But he isn't just anyone. He is exactly who he is, as is Neil. That's why this works- why they do. And from different angles, this is new for them both. Neil has never marked; Andrew has never been given a mark that wasn't born of greed or hatred- or both.

It's hard to place, but there's a soft jittering hidden inside this seemingly comfortable moment.

"Show me how to do it?" Neil requests, as if he wasn't keenly fixated on what Andrew was etching into his skin the other day with lips and teeth and tongue. As if he shouldn't already know, with how blatantly he was watching Andrew's mouth. The goalie's soft lips, his hooded gaze on...

Neil's tongue darts out on its own and he licks his lips at the memory, which burns both hazy and raw inside him; chews on the neurons like a mouse on a piece of cheese before the trap springs. Only this is much safer, much nicer.

He isn't expecting Andrew to shake his head. But the blond does.

"Figure it out. You have time," Andrew says and Neil doesn't miss how hazel eyes hide away behind pale lids. He sees Andrew go away for a moment, hide for a millisecond- and then the other male is back, gazing at Neil as he always does. Slowly, Neil nods.

Andrew is giving him this time to experiment, but Neil knows that him figuring out how to leave a mark, a hickey sooner rather than later would be better for them both. So he sets himself back to task, dipping his head back down to Andrew's taunt abs that bulge a little around his belly fat.

“Tell me if you change your mind,” Neil murmurs, and all he hears above him is Andrew giving an acknowledging grunt.

Neil tries again. And again.

Slow, cautious, a little meticulous—- he presses his lips back to Andrew’s skin, trying to envision the mark he wants to leave. A little dark, not at all sore; crescent-shaped and ghosting. Different from the mark that Andrew left on him. More faded and light. Something that screams ’Andrew.’

Neil’s mouth comes to have a mind of its own, and he comes to find himself letting it. He kisses his own teeth, sucking a section of Andrew’s pale skin between the white ridges and caressing it with his tongue. Neil’s lips come together to brush each other over and over, repeating the motion on the soft flesh and harder muscle underneath. Color crescents, the mark flourishes.

He wants to get a little lost in it, once he realizes that he's catching on. Like adjusting his Exy racquet midturn during a match, slamming the ball down the court towards either one of the backliners or Andrew himself. Neil is sharpening this new skill; getting better and better at it. He strokes over Andrew's skin, wet and a little raw, and finally pulls away to see his progress.

Oh, I like that.

Twin marks, one a little lopsided but both 'love bites' no doubt overlapping each other. Leaving two marks wasn't intentional- the result of Neil's experimenting at the start- but Neil finds himself appreciating the look of them. Almost exactly how he had wanted... Although he finds it almost stupidly ironic that they manage to fit together into the shape of a heart.

He looks at Andrew for either permission to keep going, permission to stop—- or both.

Unlike Neil, Andrew isn't focusing on the hickeys. He's gazing at the artist himself, lips a little parted and mouth a little more dry.

Neil expects him to say something, but Andrew doesn't. Strong, sun-starved hands come to cup Neil's neck, his jaw, his cheeks... And then Neil finds himself being pulled in for the kiss of a lifetime, just like the first- back on the roof all that time ago. He thinks he hears Andrew mutter his tried and true 'yes or no?' and Neil barely manages to get most of his one-syllabled 'yes' out before Andrew swallows the rest of the noise whole.

Time stops, the world flips. Literally. Andrew switches their positions, pushing Neil down. And Neil goes, letting the narrow twin- the mattress size, not the size of Andrew; the goalkeeper is built like a miniature tank- take his full weight as Andrew takes hold of his wrists.

Like a leaning tree branch caught in a windstorm, Neil moves exactly how Andrew prompts him to. His knees separate so that the blond may slot himself between them, his lips part to give Andrew further access to his mouth. Soft sighs escape them both, and half the time Neil finds himself unable to tell whose is whose. And he finds himself liking that, too.

The hood of the Mas is cold against the back of his thin cotton tee. Neil finds himself draped across the sleek black composite, the stars twinkling in the night above him. Andrew's hands wander over his sides, his hips, his arms; mapping him out as Andrew has done what feels like a thousand times before. Neil closes his eyes as Andrew's lips travel higher, kissing overtop his shirt, pushing it a little out of the way so that he can finally touch the skin of Neil's jutting collarbones.

The touch is electric; the kiss is lava incarnate. Andrew caresses the sensitive skin like he's coaxing a petal out of its bud, a snowflake out of the sky. He is gentle and slow, but his mouth feels so warm as it works its magic over Neil's flesh, his nerve-endings, his very being.

Neil sighs, deep and transfixed.

"Problem?" Andrew asks him, pulling away just the tiniest bit. A fraction of space is granted between them, but Neil's scarred hands come up to cup the air behind the blond man's head- never quite touching. He shakes his own.

"No," and that's all Neil replies with, because does he need to say anything else if the answer is a firm and easy 'no'? Surely not. And yet...

"Can you go a little harder? I want the mark to last longer this time," Neil admits. Andrew stares.

"Longer?" Andrew repeats, in lieu of arguing Neil's request for 'harder.' Hazel eyes gaze upon Neil, brimming with intensity and yet a perpetual sliver of patience. "It lasted fairly long the first time," he chides, not denying Neil's want; simply inquiring a little more than usual. Which is new.

Neil thinks that maybe he likes new. Just as much as he enjoys parting his lips, the ghost of a smile curling them as he gazes up at Andrew.

On Neil, the expression looks a little manic.

Andrew is used to it by now.

"Ten days," Neil tells him, unprompted. "The first lasted ten days before it went away fully. I want this one to last a little longer. Til we have our next match in a couple of weeks. I want to see the last of it peeking out over the top of my neck guard."

Neil's words have Andrew going stone still, but oh is his skin still warm against the other boy's. Andrew continues to let his eyes rake over Neil, pools of gold-esque brown mostly sticking to Neil's scarred face, but Andrew is forever hellbent on analyzing Neil's body language as well.

It's relaxed. A little hopeful. Languid. A little more daring. Neil looks up at him with eyes of challenging water sprite blue, and Andrew knows sooner rather than later that he's lost. Not just a battle against Neil that he has yet to even wage, but also one against himself. Andrew thinks maybe he lost both wars simultaneously.

It's only to himself that Andrew will admit he finds himself not giving a fuck.

"You want it to last longer," Andrew says, slow and calculated. Pale hands slide up the bottom hemline of Neil's shirt just so he can push his thumbs against the pronounced divets of muscle that connect Neil's hips to his pelvis. Andrew squeezes Neil by the waist a little. Neil sighs.

"Three days. Give me a mark that lasts exactly three days longer." Neil holds up the middle digits of his right hand to accentuate his request.

Andrew contemplates, but it doesn't take an astro-genius to know that he needs clear consent—- wants it. For this, too.

"Are you sure it's a yes?" He asks. Neil nods. The moon crests above them; the stars burn.

Andrew drapes himself back over Neil's body like their hearts aren't hearts at all, but rather macro-magnets stuck inside human skin and bone.

Hands staying bolted to Neil's narrow waistline, Andrew's lips find Neil's skin again. He presses a kiss to the column of Neil's neck, ghosting over his Adam's apple. Andrew lets his tongue flick, getting a taste of this unique palette that's so very Neil: salt, cheap soap, a bit of Kevin's cologne lingering on his skin from their hanging out post-midnight practice, which didn't end so long ago. Back to the dorms they had whisked the Queen, as though Kevin were Cinderella leaving the ball dreadfully late- and then the duo had promptly driven out here for some fresh, royalty free air.

And to make out to their hearts' content without Kevin eavesdropping again. Although they both sometimes found themselves liking it. Alas:

The faint scent of eucalyptus and sandalwood mixing on Neil's skin has Andrew's mouth salivating with the need to erase it, to leave his own calling card there instead. He lightly bites the inside of his own lower lip as a warm-up, a precursor, before he nibbles at the side of Neil's neck. He's met with a noise that's half groan, half pleasant sigh. Andrew wants more of the former; likes both. He bites a little harder, turning his head, adjusting it just right-

"Andrew-!"

And there it is. Breaking through the night like a comet, bending to Andrew's will like steel to a forger... Neil twists, tangibly tantalized and coming to be so very turned on by Andrew's motions. The sound he makes rings like a thief of the night, stealing away all of Andrew's focus until nothing else exists but the desire to hear it again.

And hear it once more, he will.

Andrew lets his teeth and tongue play maestro, kneading the thin skin of Neil's neck and the junction where it connects to his scarred shoulder. He bites, harder than before; laps at the spot to soothe the first strike of redness as Neil lets out what can only be described as a desperately satiated moan. Over and over, again and again: a bite, a soft tongue, a not-so-soft moan. Neil sounds guttural and so far gone after mere minutes, his legs trying to close around Andrew.

"No," Andrew tells him, a hand bracing against the inside of Neil's leg; the same thigh where Andrew laid the first mark that started all this. He eases Neil's legs open again, and Neil lets him. Fire burns in Neil's belly. A melody floats around in between Andrew's ears. It sounds just like Neil’s uneven breathing mixing with his moans.

"Good boy," Andrew says to help placate his nothing's need. Neil makes a whistling sound through his teeth. He shivers.

Together they stay like that for what might be three minutes, ten, thirteen. Neil withers against Andrew's ministrations as the goalkeeper takes him apart, slow and meticulous. A hot mouth over Neil's collarbones; tan fingers tightening in the sleeves of Andrew's jacket after he's given them permission. Neil's lips curling around noises that Andrew would bow his head low to the ground just to hear better; Andrew's touch leaving Neil with tingles that make the striker's lungs feel like a drum-set with how erratically he breathes. The night remains dark. They stay in this pocket of time meant only for them. It feels right.

The 'bruises' flourish and fester as Andrew works; tingle and ache. One, two, three- small by themselves but enough to make up quite a mighty mark when clustered in close together. Andrew pushes easy kisses over them after, helping to coax healthy blood flow back to the skin. Neil's hands have buried themselves in his hair. Andrew doesn't find it in himself to mind. It’s… nice.

"You're everything," Neil tells Andrew, who steals his lips away for overdue kisses upon kisses upon kisses. Neil momentarily ends the stream of caresses so he can breathe, and Andrew props himself up on the hood of the Maserati beside him. Neither speaks for another age. The stars are still winking at them from above the stratosphere.

"I am nothing. We are nothing," Andrew reminds as PSU's #10 sits up, and tresses of chestnut-auburn curl wildly in every which way from their... indulgence. Mostly Andrew's in regard to action and power; Neil was truly just happy to be there.

He's always happy to be by Andrew's side. There's nowhere he'd rather be. And Andrew knows it, too. He can read the sentiment in Neil's kiss-drunk face just as easily as he can see the words coming from a third of a mile away:

"You know that isn't true. But okay."

Andrew doesn’t argue, sigh, or grunt. He simply pulls out his pack of cigarettes— his very last— and shakes the final two out. One goes to Neil, the other props itself between those same lips that just minutes before were hellbent on kissing Neil stupid and claiming the other boy as his, all his.

Andrew lights them both up without a word; a cool evening breeze comes by to hug them. Neil shivers as it touches his new ‘love marking.’ Tan fingers reach up to caress the spot.

Neil can’t see it, but he already knows that it’s exactly what he asked for, because Andrew will only ever give him what he asks for. Maybe sometimes a little more, but never any less.

“Thank you,” Neil says, and leaves the sentiment there. He doesn’t say for the cig, for the indulgence, for the hickeys both past and present, for the constant give, give, give of kisses.

He just lets his cigarette smoke swirl in the night and mingle, dancing with Andrew’s as they enjoy the sticks in silence. Neil keeps his fingers on his neck until Andrew finally gets ‘fed up with his obsessing’ and reaches to take the striker’s hand.

Pale skin inter-tangles with tan slivers of bony digits and Neil Josten isn’t a romantic, but in this moment he finds himself thinking that he’s never seen something so pretty as he gazes.

That will change once he climbs into the passenger seat of the Mas and peeks at his visor-mirror. Neil will see the dark, heavy color blooming, the newest proof of Andrew’s having been there, and he’ll have another ‘prettiest thing.’

But for now it’s this, as well as the sight of Andrew’s eyelids closing once the blond catches him staring and leans back in towards him.

The two kiss all over again, an endless struggle of tongues lashing against teeth and hands in hair. Their cigarettes die out, but the depth of their peace and comfort found in each other has never been more pronounced.