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Andrew settles his phone on the arm of the couch and pulls up the sports channel 15 minutes before the pregame starts. There’s a package of popcorn smoking up the microwave, and the cats run away from the sounds of the popping kernels despite how interested they had been in the food beforehand.
Some may say that his level of preparation for one of Neil’s games is a bit overboard, but Andrew knows better than to be unprepared by now. The one time he’d walked out of the living room for a piss during one of Neil’s pre-game interviews he’d missed three crucial minutes of Neil telling off the reporter and threatening the opposing team’s back-liner. He’d been lucky that Neil’s fans are completely insane and post his every move on Twitter within the minute, but he isn’t willing to take that risk again.
Before Andrew had met Neil Josten, he had thought that the job had been offering to pay entirely too well for the subject at hand. It hadn’t taken him long to understand why exactly being a PR agent for Josten payed nearly double the amount Andrew had been offered for previous jobs.
—
“Minyard,” Josten says, running up to meet him at the door to the Colorado Boulder’s locker room. Andrew had showed up unannounced in the middle of the pro team’s practice, and Josten had obviously rushed to get showered and changed as to not keep Andrew waiting, which Andrew couldn’t care about any less. “I didn’t know you were planning on showing up here today.”
“I wasn’t,” Andrew tells him, because it really had been a last minute decision to stop by on his way back from his favorite coffee shop instead of contacting Josten professionally like any other PR agent would. “Guess it’s your lucky day.”
Josten turns to look at Andrew, managing to look down on his despite the meager three inches of height he has on the shorter man. “Guess so,” he says trepidatiously, “Although I don’t usually take kindly to my PR agents tracking me down.”
“Happen often?” Andrew asks, feeling the slightest tingling of curiosity under his skin. “I’m not surprised.” He lights a cigarette as the two of them emerge from the stadium, cupping the flame of his lighter to shield it from the heavy fluttering of wind. “It’s not like you were difficult to find.”
Almost imperceptibly, Josten’s shoulders tense, his eyes going a little wild as he glances around the parking lot. The curiosity in Andrew’s stomach intensifies, but Josten keeps his mouth shut. Andrew sighs, “Relax,” and Josten’s head snaps to him a little too quickly to be casual. “It’s not a secret where your team practices. Do you think the press pull out their address books every time they want to flock you?”
Josten’s eyes burn into the side of Andrew’s face, but he doesn’t turn to look at his newest client, instead popping the lid off of his near-empty cup of hot chocolate and licking the underside of it free from any extra whipped cream he’d missed. Josten scuffs his shoes on the asphalt, dislodging tiny rocks and sending them skirting across the parking lot. “And your job is to keep me from telling them off when they invade my personal life like that, right?”
Andrew hums, “I never said that,” he says, draining the last dregs of his hot chocolate and dumping his cup in a rectangular trash can. “My job is to make sure you don’t say anything that could bring bad press to yourself or your team, and that you don’t violate your contract.”
Josten huffs a little, following Andrew deeper into the parking lot toward Andrew’s parked Maserati, not even blinking when Andrew shows the beautiful car is his own by clicking the button on his key ring. Interesting. “That sounds pretty restricting to me,” Josten grumbles.
Andrew leans against the hood of the Maserati easily, watching Josten as he slows to a stop a few feet in front of him. “You violate your contract on the regular?”
Josten raises a dark brow. “Have you watched any of my interviews?”
“No,” Andrew lies easily, causing Josten to squint. The truth is, of course, that Andrew has watched nearly all of Josten’s interviews, since he isn’t actually stupid enough to take a job where he doesn’t know what he’s dealing with.
The side of Josten’s mouth quirks up a little. “Liar,” he says, and Andrew feels the word strike deeper in his gut than the man had probably intended. He curses himself—he’s always had a thing for pretty boys that can see through his facades, and no one has ever quite hit both of those marks as perfectly as Neil Josten is currently.
“Maybe,” Andrew allows, willing himself back under control. “But I like the challenge.”
Josten grins a little wider. “We’ll see,” he says, and then he’s walking away, sliding himself into the driver’s seat of an older model Audi. It’s dirty, and Andrew can tell that it could probably use an oil change just from looking at it despite the expensive make of the car, and Andrew slides himself into his own car, wondering if maybe he’s signed up for a little more than he’d thought.
—
On the screen, Neil comes bounding out onto the field with his teammates for warmups, and Andrew grabs his popcorn from the microwave, shaking the memory from his head somewhat fondly. Neil had been a cocky little shit even back then, and Andrew is both displeased and glad that the man hasn’t changed in that sense.
He sits back on the couch with his popcorn, feeding Sir and King small bites as the cats get themselves settled in his lap and at his side.
He sends out a quick text to Neil, despite knowing the man won’t be able to see it until half-time at the soonest.
Andrew: don’t say anything stupid, junkie. you need that contract to buy me ice cream.
As if on cue, Neil comes into frame, a little out of breath from his warmups but otherwise unruffled. He’s got that overconfident smile on his face; the one that makes it look like he’s not even grinning—all sharp teeth and full bottom lip.
“So, Neil Josten, how do you think this game is going to play out?” asks the interviewer in a coy tone of voice. Andrew clenches his phone a little tighter in his hand and digs his other into Sir’s long, silky fur. There are usually only two types of interviewers when it comes to Neil Josten: those who want to provoke his sharp tongue for media coverage and scandal, and those too afraid of getting that tongue turned on them to ask meaningful questions. It always makes Andrew’s job harder as Neil’s PR agent when it’s the former, but it also makes for better entertainment as Neil’s boyfriend when it’s the latter.
Neil takes a moment to catch his breath before saying, without pause “We’re gonna win, obviously.” Andrew groans and begins to prepare himself to start with damage control sooner rather than later.
The interviewer chuckles, moving their microphone a little closer to Neil’s face and asking “What makes you so sure of that, Mr. Josten, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Of course not,” Neil responds, seemingly in a better mood than he’s usually in with a camera in his face and a microphone practically shoved down his throat. He’s always been a little more forgiving with the interviewers with the guts to provoke him. “We’ve been going through drills specifically for this game,” he says, “we’ve got their playing style down to a T, and I know how their star striker plays.”
It’s the truth. Neil has been coming home to Andrew every night for the past week and a half to tell him about his team’s newest drills, and the idea of beating Kevin Day in an exy match had been more than enough incentive for Neil to push himself and his team even harder than he’d thought possible. Still though… the interviewer raises a finely sculpted eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed. “Is that all you have to say on the matter, Mr. Josten?”
Neil grins a little more savagely. “No,” he says easily, “But I’ll get in trouble if I say what I really think.”
Andrew shoves a mouthful of popcorn into his mouth to keep his smile at bay. He doesn’t want to give Neil the satisfaction of effecting Andrew even when he’s miles away—even if there’s technically no way he could no for sure that he’s doing so. Neil has a sixth sense when it comes to shit concerning Andrew, though, and Andrew wouldn’t put it past the man to know somehow.
Andrew knows Neil pulls that shit for him, knowing that Andrew is watching him on the other side of the screen, waiting for Neil’s every word and ready to make a phone call as soon as necessary. Many sources have remarked on Neil Josten’s gradual development from PR nightmare to PR… manageable, and it’s impossible for that growth to have come from anything other than his long-time PR agent Andrew Minyard. Neil still loses control over his tongue more often than not, but he generally tries to be good in this sense as of late. Just for Andrew.
He hadn’t always granted Andrew that luxury, though.
—
“Josten,” Andrew snaps over the line the moment Neil picks up the phone, his mind still glued to the screen of his laptop even as he drives down the freeway, where the most recent instance of ‘Neil Josten Roasting his Opponents’ plays on repeat. “Are you trying to get me fired?”
“You did say that you wanted a challenge,” comes Neil’s tinny voice from across the country. “It’s not my fault you didn’t know what you were signing up for.”
“A challenge,” Andrew repeats, “Not a one-way ticket to death-threat island when fans of Mathews’ find out that I’m the one responsible for your mouth now.”
“Aww,” Neil coos, and Andrew scowls into his rear view mirror. He’d been called to a meeting with Neil’s team’s social media manager before he could even process Neil’s harsh words. “You can’t take a few death threats? That’s cute.”
Andrew’s chest stutters a little, and he has to pay extra focus on the road until he gets himself back under control. “You’re right.” Andrew deadpans. “I care less about the death threats and more about the fact that I’m currently driving 45 minutes out of the city to talk about how bad I am at my job just because you couldn’t keep your goddamn mouth shut.”
Andrew can hear rustling from across the line, and the sounds of water being gulped down. Neil must have just now gotten the chance to grab a drink after his game, most likely after receiving a half-hearted scolding from his coach. “Rude,” Neil mutters, and then “He deserved it.”
Andrew closes his eyes momentarily, willing some patience back into his system. “He deserved to be knocked down a peg,” Andrew agrees, because it is the truth. Mathews was a back-liner on the Seattle team, and he had somehow managed to purposely plow over Neil at every possible chance throughout the game without getting a single card or foul called on him. Mathews had played it off as an accident every time—claiming that he couldn’t stop the momentum behind his enormous body—but anyone from the stands or on the other side of a TV could see plainly that Matthews’ every move had been intentional.
Still though… Neil makes a small hum of approval across the line and Andrew can’t allow that. He’s the one who’s supposed to be discouraging this behavior, not agreeing with it. “That doesn’t mean, however, that you can just get up in front of millions of people and blatantly call him out as a dick-less cheater.”
Another hum from Neil, as if he’s considering Andrew’s words. “I was right,” he mumbles, almost inaudibly if not for the magnified volume of Neil’s voice in his car speakers. Andrew rubs at his temples, waiting impatiently for the Advil he’d taken for his headache before he’d left would start to kick in soon.
“Next time,” Andrew grits out. “Chew out your opponents in private.”
“No promises,” Neil replies sunnily, and really, Andrew has no choice but to hang up the phone. He presses the ‘end call’ button on his car center screen and stretches his arms out on the wheel in front of him. His shoulders pop, and he sighs, not at all looking forward to this meeting.
Fuck Neil Josten.
—
“In trouble with your PR agent, you mean,” prompts the interviewer, the interest in their voice peaking. “With all do respect, Mr. Josten, but that’s never stopped you before.”
Neil’s smile goes a little softer around the edges, and Andrew fights the urge to roll his eyes. Sappy idiot. “Hmm,” Neil hums, drumming his nimble fingertips over his rib cage, “I guess it hasn’t. Minyard does seem to be getting a little too comfortable with my amicability as of late.”
The interviewer clears their throat, seeming to have already caught onto their next topic of conversation. Neil’s team members are still warming up behind him, and the junkie keeps sending longing glances their way. “Minyard,” the interviewer says slowly, and Andrew raises a gentle eyebrow in admiration and grudging respect for this person’s bravery. Nobody really knows why, but it is a widely-known fact in the Exy press that mentioning Neil Josten’s PR agent is a sure-fire way to turn his ire onto yourself.
Neil seems to think the same. He stops glancing over his shoulder and focuses the full force of his gaze into the camera. Andrew’s breath stutters a little at the sight of Neil’s striking features in beautiful HD—with his eyes bright and dangerous, mouth twitchy with pre-game nerves, and eyebrow quirked in the face of a challenge, Neil is a sight, and he’s all Andrew’s. The thought of Neil looking straight into the camera lenses and picturing Andrew looking back at him from the other end is almost too much for Andrew to handle. He snaps a picture of Neil’s face on the TV and sends it to the man in question.
Andrew: [Image attached]
Andrew: stop looking at me like that
“Yes?” Neil prompts the interviewer, his voice a little too far on the side of amused to be a serious warning.
The interviewer takes the opening viciously. “He is something close to a miracle worker—Minyard is—isn’t he? He is famously the only PR agent you’ve ever had that you listen to. Why is that?”
Neil looks into the camera balefully. “Andrew is good at what he does,” he says simply, and even now after all these years, the sound of his name on Neil’s lips lights a fire in Andrew’s stomach.
The interviewer is cut off before they can ask their next question as the referee blows the whistle and Neil is finally allowed to play his dumb sport, and Andrew is brought back to the time he’d first heard Neil say those words in a much different situation.
—
“Jesus fuck, Josten, can’t you go one game without starting a—” Andrew starts as the door swings open, cutting himself off when he finally catches a good look at Neil. He’s bundled in a hotel comforter and standing halfway behind the door. His breath is quick and his cheeks are pale, his eyebrows drawn. Andrew pushes the rest of the way inside Neil’s hotel room, shutting the door quickly behind them and ushering Neil to the full-sized bed in the center of the room.
Neil immediately curls in on himself, bringing his knees up to his chest and digging his chin into his knee. Andrew moves forward tentatively, unsure of what to do for Neil in this situation and unsure of what had caused this mess. “Josten,” Andrew tries, but the man doesn’t even look up, his shaking only intensifying. “Josten. Neil.” Nothing. Andrew hovers a hand in front of Neil’s face but receives no reaction in return. Andrew doesn’t want to touch him like this—he knows Neil’s background, of course, since he’d done his research before agreeing to be the man’s PR agent, and he doubts the man would take pleasantly to being touched in the midst of a panic attack.
Andrew thinks back on that research, thinks about anything he knows about Neil that could snap him out of this. He remembers Neil’s full name on the contract he’d signed when he’d finally agreed to the job. “Abram,” Andrew says, firmly, and it’s not the flip of a switch like he’d been hoping for—but it’s something. Neil’s eyes snap up from the floor and his eyes meet Andrew’s for a brief moment before flitting away again. “Abram,” Andrew repeats, “can I touch you?”
Neil nods, once, glancing away from him again without a word, and Andrew takes that for what it is. He places a steady hand at the back of Neil’s neck and holds tightly, bringing Neil’s head further forward until it’s nearly between his ankles. “Breathe, Abram,” Andrew whispers, and Neil finally lets out a harsh breath of air, sucking another in just as harshly. “That’s it,” Andrew assures, giving into the urge to swipe his thumb over the short hairs at the back of Neil’s neck. He takes Neil’s hand, previously limp on the bedsheets, and presses it to his chest. “That’s it, breathe with me. Abram—Neil?”
Neil lets out a short whimper, but he does as he’s told, taking breaths when Andrew does and keeping his palm firmly pressed against Andrew’s chest with his movements. “Andrew,” he says finally once he’s fully calmed down. “I—sorry,” he finishes, looking off to the side once again.
Andrew lets his hand drop from the back of Neil’s neck. “Don’t,” he says quietly, because he knows these demons well. He knows how it feels to gasp for breath and receive nothing in return. How it feels to be so helpless agains the clutch of anxiety in his chest. How he feels when he sees someone who looks a little too similar to Drake in the street.
Neil looks at him again finally, really looks at him—as if he can see straight into Andrew’s thoughts. “Okay,” he says.
Andrew doesn’t ask, because he knows better than that. Neil will tell him if he wants to tell him, and in the meantime Andrew is perfectly content to settle himself at the desk in the corner and pull out his laptop from the backpack still slung across his shoulders to write a few emails.
Andrew can hear the sound of sheets shifting from the bed, but he doesn’t glance over until Neil asks, quietly, “How did you know? How to calm me down?”
It’s a loaded question whether Neil realizes it or not. Answering it properly would reveal both that Andrew has anxiety attacks of his own and that he’d done extensive research on Neil at some point, and neither of those are things he wants to explicitly disclose. Instead, he says, “I am very good at what I do,” and leaves it at that.
Despite everything, Neil gives a shaky smile. “I wasn’t aware ‘rescuing client from panic attack’ was in your job description.”
Andrew turns back to his laptop. “Not job,” he says, “what I do. I’m good at everything I do.”
Andrew can hear Neil standing from the bed and padding over to the corner. He looks out of the corner of his eyes and watches as Neil settles himself in the window frame with the comforter still wrapped around him. “Everything?” Neil asks, a slight teasing edge in his voice.
Andrew raises an eyebrow. “Yes,” he says, just to be an asshole.
Neil lets out a wind-chimes laugh, bringing the comforter up and around his shoulders: muscular from hours of swinging heavy racquets and sloping from the aftermath of his episode. “Good to know,” he says, and then the hotel room is silent aside from the whirring of the heating system and the taps of Andrew’s fingertips across his keyboard.
A few moments later Neil asks “You’re not going to ask?”
He doesn’t have to expand. “No,” Andrew says. “You will tell me if you want to tell me. It’s not like we’re friends or anything.”
“Right,” Neil says, but the amused tone has returned. It quickly drops, though, when he says “Williams threatened me on the court today.”
Andrew swivels in the desk chair faster than his mind can fully process Neil’s words. He’s not in college anymore and things are vastly different than how they were back then, but Andrew can feel his protective instinct kicking in just as strong as it used to. He doesn’t say anything, just waits for Neil to continue and watches the man slide his fingernails over the fabric of the comforter.
“My past is public knowledge, so it wasn’t that big of a deal to me at the time. I told him off after the game because I was pissed and he deserved it—I’m not sorry about that by the way—but then when I got back to the hotel room there was a letter waiting for me.” He points across the room to where a torn-open envelope lies on the TV stand. Andrew reaches for it immediately.
“It’s nothing actually worrying,” Neil assures as Andrew reads it over. “Just juvenile threats and unsubtle illusions to my past. But it just shook me when I got in here and realized. He probably just asked the front staff to deliver to my room but I couldn’t know for sure and then you were knocking on my door and I thought—” he cuts himself off.
Andrew refuses to let himself regret, but he’s damn close right now. He’d had no way of knowing that Neil was on the brink of a panic attack when he’d knocked, but he’d still been the thing that set him off. “I won’t do it again,” Andrew says quietly, and Neil frowns.
“You had no way of knowing—” Neil starts, but Andrew cuts him off.
“Stop,” he says simply. “I won’t do it again.”
Neil’s shoulders slump a little, and his jaw clenches as he looks back out the window of the sill he’s nestled in. “Okay,” he says quietly, and that’s that.
The next time Andrew glances over at the other man, Neil is fast asleep in the windowsill, chin propped on his palm and eyes gently closed against the evening sunset.
About a week later, Neil knocks on Andrew’s apartment door.
It’s mid-afternoon on a Wednesday, and Andrew is halfway through making himself a pot of mac and cheese, but he lets the man inside anyway, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Neil is in his face in an instant, and he looks a little wild around the edges as he waves his phone in Andrew’s face. “You had something to do with this,” he accuses.
Andrew shrugs when he gets a good look at Neil’s phone. He had done some digging on his laptop while Neil slept that night at the hotel and found quite a few offenses filed against Williams that his team management had attempted to sweep under the rug. It had been a lot easier than expected, and it only taken a few phone calls from there to get the man kicked off his professional team in less than a week. “Yes,” he admits, and Neil lets out a laugh far too giddy for the situation at hand.
Neil stays for mac and cheese, and before he leaves later that night he stops at the door and says “You are good at what you do, Andrew, even if it is far outside of your pay-grade. Thank you.”
Andrew rolls his eyes and fights against the fluttery feeling in his stomach, closing the door behind Neil.
How dramatic.
—
Neil plays fantastically, of course, and he doesn’t even attempt to insert himself into a post-game interview to badmouth the losing team afterwords, which Andrew is both disappointed and incredibly relieved about. He does, however blow a kiss to the camera as he walks off the court—a dumb tradition Neil had started after his and Andrew’s first kiss like the sentimental moron he is.
—
“Andrew,” Neil gasps as he finally catches up to him. “Wait up.”
Andrew glances sidelong at the man, keeping his pace. “I thought you ran for a living,” he draws, causing Neil to scoff.
“Exy is more than just running,” Neil insists, and Andrew just waves a dismissive hand at him. “And it’s 100 times harder to run in jeans than running shorts.”
Andrew glances down at Neil’s jean-clad thighs, only a little disappointed that he isn’t wearing running shorts because he’s actually wearing jeans that fit him nowadays. Still though… “Shame,” Andrew says, and Neil rolls his eyes.
“Whatever,” he says, “I want to go the park.”
Andrew glances around pointedly at the cityscape. “The nearest park is over ten blocks away,” he reminds Neil, who doesn’t look concerned.
“And?” Neil prompts, and honestly what else did Andrew expect?
“You’re right,” Andrew deadpans, subtlety changing course to head in the direction of the park. “Sometimes I forget that I have to take you for walks so you don’t get restless. I should have done more research before I got a dog.”
“Very funny,” Neil retorts, but the amusement is clear in his voice. “I will never have as much energy as a dog. Did you see how many laps Dan and Matt’s Golden Retriever did around the dog park?”
Andrew shutters a little at the thought. Dan and Matt were Neil’s best friends from college, and Neil had dragged Andrew along with them when they, their kids, and their dog stopped by Denver. He’s under the impression that Andrew and he are friends and Andrew had gotten tired of denying the claim. “Those damn kids did almost as many laps as the dog,” Andrew mumbles, relishing in Neil’s short laugh.
“Yeah,” Neil sighs. “They’re gonna be star exy players one day.”
Andrew doesn’t even roll his eyes at Neil’s one-track exy brain anymore. “All of them? Even the dog?”
Neil laughs again, and Andrew mentally pats himself on the back for eliciting such a sound. “Especially the dog,” he says.
They stay at the park until past dark, and Neil convinces Andrew to explore the playground with him once the last of the children clear out.
“Do you know how many germs are on this shit?” Andrew asks as he trails a disguised hand along one of the tunnel slides.
“How many?” Neil asks cheekily, and Andrew glares at him.
“Too many,” finishes Andrew.
Neil climbs up the outside of the tube slide like a gremlin, ignoring the latter not even five feet away. He makes a triumphant noise when he reaches the top, turning around so he’s straddling the begging game of the slide facing Andrew. Andrew waves at him stoically, walking backward toward the swing set and feeling along the chains so he can guide himself into a swing. Just as he does so, he locks eyes with Neil—still perched on the slide—who blows him a kiss.
Andrew falls on his ass. His fingers go slack around the chains a millisecond too soon and the swing slips out of the way, leaving him to miss the seat completely and fall straight to the ground with a surprised “Oof.”
For a second, Andrew just sits there in the mulch, staring straight ahead of him in disbelief as Neil zips down the slide and runs over to him, tripping at the last second and falling onto Andrew with his full weight.
“Fucking ouch,” Andrew hisses, and Neil laughs desperately into Andrew’s neck as he tries to catch his breath.
“Sorry,” Neil gasps out between hiccups of laughter. “I just—I blew you a kiss and you fell on your ass.”
Andrew glares up at him, watching Neil’s face shift in the gentle moonlight and suddenly not wanting him to move. “You also fell,” Andrew points out, a little breathless himself now.
“Whatever,” Neil huffs, making to get off of Andrew and pausing with a surprised expression when Andrew just grabs his hips to keep him in place. “Wha—” Neil starts.
“Neil,” Andrew interrupts. “Yes or no?”
Neil knocks himself back down to his elbows above Andrew. “Yes,” he says simply, happily, and he surges down at the same time Andrew raises up.
It’s a kiss with a lot of build-up behind it, and it feels like an explosion—fireworks behind Andrew’s vision as Neil goes still and then pliant above him in quick succession. Andrew doesn’t waste any time, and he opens Neil’s mouth to his own as soon as he has the chance, tasting him and taking his bottom lip between his teeth, Neil’s hips still fit snuggly in his palms.
It’s a lot, and Andrew feels it all the way down to his toes when Neil goes back for a second kiss after a moment of breath. He takes a moment to laugh at the insanity of it all—Neil Josten, famous exy striker and well-known PR nightmare laid out over him in the mulch of a public park’s playground at midnight, eyes bright and lips tinted red from the paint of Andrew’s insistent mouth. Andrew, PR agent to said PR nightmare, tracing his thumbs over the joints of Neil’s hips.
“Is this public indecency?” Neil asks breathlessly when they finally pull themselves together again in recovery from that kiss.
“You’re not indecent,” Andrew assures, getting to his feet and holding out a hand to help Neil up. Once they’re face-to-face again he kisses Neil under the ear once and whispers “yet.”
Neil grins, and they take the train back to Andrew’s apartment.
—
The cats jump off Andrew’s lap at the first jingle of Neil’s keys in the apartment door, mewing insistently at the door as if that will make it open any faster. Andrew doesn’t even mutter “traitors” under his breath like he usually does, and he just switches off the TV quickly from where the sports channel is still talking about Neil Josten’s to-the-buzzer goal.
The door swings open as Andrew finally raises himself from the couch and pops all the bones in his back, Neil cooing over the cats softly as they wind themselves around his ankle and meow at him loudly. Andrew leans in the open doorway that leads to the entranceway and watches Neil place his exy bag on the floor by the door and promptly scoop both of the cats into his arms.
Neil looks up at him and smiles, and Andrew’s chest still stutters after all this time. “Hey,” he says quietly, tucking King’s tiny face into his elbow. “Did you watch the game?”
Andrew fights the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s my job to watch your games,” he reminds Neil, who just grins wider.
“It’s your job to watch me,” he says teasingly, dropping the cats back onto the floor gently and walking over to Andrew.
“Hmm,” Andrew hums into Neil’s kiss. “Worst job ever.”
“I’m sure,” Neil sympathizes. “I know that your life is so hard, Mr. Minyard.”
Andrew kisses Neil’s nose, and Neil presses his cold face into the crook of Andrew’s neck. “You certainly don’t make it easy for me,” he reminds Neil, who huffs.
“What’s the fun in easy?” Neil asks.
Andrew bites back his own smile. Exactly.