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Nicotine gum is highly overrated, Andrew thinks. He spits it across the alleyway and digs a half crumpled soft pack out of his gear bag. Both of the two cigarettes inside are wrinkled. Andrew smoothes one out with his fingers carefully, then realizes he doesn’t have a lighter. “Fuck,” he mumbles around the stale cigarette tucked between his lips. The heavy metal door behind him squeaks open, but Andrew doesn’t turn to look. There’s only one person who would come out here anyway, besides him.
“I thought you quit,” Neil says, leaning against the railing next to him and holding up a bedraggled pack of matches. Andrew grunts. Neil strikes a match without removing it from the book, bending it backwards to tuck between the striker strip and the flap. It catches and holds, and Andrew leans forward, inhaling sweet smoke into his lungs like an old friend. He blows a thin stream of it at Neil, who doesn’t flinch, his hair still damp from the showers, wearing a black hoodie that is not Andrew’s, but those jeans are definitely ones that Andrew bought him.
Six months ago Neil had arrived in Palmetto, a bedraggled ragamuffin, and walked onto their recreational adult exy team wearing jeans that would have been at home in Bee’s closet. That had been one of the first things Andrew had rectified when he and Neil had started dating. Fucking. Whatever it was. Whatever it had been. An ass like that deserves jeans that fit, either way.
“I’ve got one left,” Andrew says into the silence. He waves the sad pack in Neil’s direction.
Neil searches his face and then shrugs. “Keep it.” He hands Andrew the little matchbook, and Andrew takes it, tries not to notice how Neil is oh so careful not to touch Andrew as he passes it off. Their fingers are whisper close. “Later,” Neil says, and then he is gone.
Andrew leans on the railing, forcing himself to smoke the cigarette slowly. He thinks maybe Neil sucked all the joy out of it when he left. He thinks maybe he’s a fucking drama queen. Andrew flicks the half finished cigarette in the general direction of the nicotine gum. He folds the matchbook closed, only then noticing it’s from The Borough, the little dive bar that had been his and Neil’s place. Andrew almost hurls the matchbook across the alley too, but instead he tucks it in with the last cigarette, drops the sad pack into his bag along with his non-existent heart, and walks the long way around the arena to his car.
***
They win the championships. It’s a piddly little South Carolina - North Carolina league, but Kevin and Jeremy drag the lot of them over to theirs for celebration drinks. Andrew commandeers the overstuffed armchair in the corner of the Day-Knox’s overstuffed living room and sprawls out with his glass of barely adequate blended whiskey in hand.
Neil is just in view in the wide doorway to the kitchen, laughing and reliving the game with Dan and Matt. He is incandescent. Andrew can’t look at him straight on, but he can’t look away either, which is why when Neil turns his way, his decadent mouth stretched wide in a grin, he catches Andrew watching him.
Neil’s grin slowly fades, and Andrew ignores the twisting dagger to his heart. It’s not like he can complain; he sheathed it there himself. Neil tilts his can of cider at Andrew and inclines his head. Andrew nods, and Neil turns back to his real friends.
“Fucked that one up,” Kevin says, plopping onto the couch nearest Andrew. He has a Whiteclaw in hand, which someone had bought him as a joke, but Kevin had taken to them with gusto.
“I literally shut down the goal,” Andrew says, deliberately misunderstanding him.
“I meant Neil,” Kevin says in a loud whisper.
“I know what you meant.”
Kevin squints at him. “You never told me what happened between you two.”
“And I am not telling you now.”
“But why-”
“Kevin,” Andrew interrupts. “If you don’t drop it, I’m leaving right now.”
Jeremy materializes wearing Kevin’s old PSU hoodie, the number 02 faded across the front from one too many trips through the washer. He flops grandly in Kevin’s lap and hooks an arm around his neck. “Did I hear you say you’re leaving? You can’t leave yet, I just ordered like, five hundred dollars of food from that Lebanese place you like.”
Andrew frowns at Kevin’s husband. For some reason the man insists on not only genuinely liking Andrew, but being likable in return. “Baklava?”
“Pistachio and walnut,” Jeremy says with a satisfied grin. He steals Kevin’s Whiteclaw and takes a big swallow. “Oh, gross. That tastes like where the American dream goes to die.”
Later, after eating his weight in baklava and going home alone, Andrew pulls his favorite bottle of scotch out of the liquor cabinet and finds a tiny, perfectly rendered, orange, plastic fox hiding behind it. Neil engineers things with 3D printers for a living; he used to bring home little animals and hide them around Andrew’s house. Andrew holds the little thing in his closed fist, the sharp edges of its pointy ears digging into his palm while he pours a drink and downs it in one go. When he sets the empty glass in the sink, he hesitates only briefly before deliberately dropping the little fox down the drain, his hand hovering over the switch for the garbage disposal for some indeterminate amount of time.
It’s almost an hour later when Andrew finally crawls into bed, after finding his toolbox, dismantling the drain and the disposal to retrieve the fox, and hiding it away on the bottom shelf of his linen closet with the rest of the little plastic animals that used to live scattered about his house.
***
It snows so rarely in South Carolina that even the hint of winter weather shuts the whole town of Palmetto down. No one has to go to work that day, and Dan cancels practice to the tune of Kevin’s very vocal complaints in the group chat, complaints that get even louder when Matt suggests they head out for ice cream instead.
“I don’t understand why you all couldn’t drive to practice in this snow, but you can manage to drive to shitty ice cream,” he says miserably.
“It’s the principle of the thing, obviously,” Allison says primly, wrapping her cherry red lips around the straw of her milkshake.
“You like ice cream,” Jeremy reminds him, shoving the banana split they are sharing closer to Kevin’s side of the table.
“I do,” Kevin mutters. “But there was no reason we couldn’t have done both.”
“No work and no practice on a snow day,” Dan says sternly, pointing her spoon at Kevin. He shoves a bite of banana and whipped cream into his mouth and glares at her.
“Hey guys,” Neil says, walking up to the table. His cheeks are flushed pink, his hair damp and still littered with snowflakes. He’s got a hoodie on at least, but his little running shorts show off way too much leg for the weather. Andrew looks away quickly, stabbing his mint chocolate chip repeatedly with his spoon.
“What the fuck, did you run here?” Matt half yells as he scoots over to make room for Neil.
“Yeah?” Neil says, a brief flit of confusion on his face.
“It’s like, negative zero degrees out,” Dan says.
“Okay, first of all you can’t negative a zero,” Neil says. “Second of all, it’s not even below freezing. Third of all, my car’s in the shop.”
“Surely Andrew would have picked you up,” Dan says, handing him a menu like they don’t all have it memorized.
“Seriously, Andrew, why are you letting your boyfriend run around in the snow? Someone might snatch him up,” Allison says. Kevin starts to say something but Jeremy places a quelling palm on his arm.
Andrew raises one disdainful eyebrow at Alison. “Not my boyfriend.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she says, waving a hand in the air, the glossy lavender sparkle on her nails catching the light. “Whatever you two weirdos want to call it.”
“We broke up,” Neil says without looking up from the menu. The whole table goes silent, but only for a beat.
“What?” Dan screeches at the same time that Allison says, “Finally!”
Neil looks up very slowly from the menu, his eyes glacial in the fluorescent light of the cafe. He very pointedly avoids Andrew’s gaze and turns to Allison. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Allison shrugs happily, clearly missing the warning signs that she is about to be eviscerated by a wild animal. “It’s about damned time you broke it off with the monster. That never made any sense to me anyway - I mean look at you. You can do so much better. I have at least ten people that are going to want your number.”
She’s already pulled her phone out, tapping away on it, so she misses Neil’s quick movement when he snatches it out of her hand and throws it several feet away from the table. It lands face down on the concrete floor with an ominous crack. Allison gapes at him, her hands hovering in the air like she’s still holding the thing.
“I did not break it off with Andrew ,” Neil says, his voice deceptively calm. “He broke up with me. I have asked you not to call him that. I have asked you not to set me up with people. If you knew anything about me at all - which you don’t - you’d know I am the monster at this table, not Andrew, and if you had any sort of self awareness - which you don’t - you’d realize you are the asshole in this scenario, because while Andrew has never done anything to you that anyone has ever been able to explain to me, you sure are a right cunt to him.” Neil’s voice gets louder and louder, his British accent more pronounced, until he stands, flips his hood up, and finally, finally looks at Andrew.
“I didn’t ask you to defend me,” Andrew says.
Neil stares at him, and then deflates. “I know,” he says, and Andrew is very, very aware in that moment, that no matter what Neil says, Andrew is absolutely the monster at this table. He takes a bite of his ice cream to shut himself up, and Neil nods at him and starts to walk away.
“Neil, don’t go! It’s snowing harder out there,” Dan says desperately.
Neil whirls around again. “I’m from Baltimore,” he bites out. “I can handle a little snow.”
“Baltimore,” Seth repeats, confused. “I thought Neil was from London?”
“Neil, wait!” Matt calls, scrambling for his keys and scrambling after Neil. “Let me drive you.”
Andrew watches Neil storm out of the Sweeties, feeling some kind of way that he is the only one at the table who knows Neil is originally from Baltimore, who knows about the scars limning his skin from collar bone to hip, who knows just how terrifying Neil can be. Except Andrew had never been terrified of him. Not in that way, at least.
As soon as they are out the door Allison rounds on Andrew. “You broke up with him?”
Andrew takes another bite of ice cream and stares her down.
“Drop it, Allison,” Dan says, carefully not looking at Andrew.
“No,” she says indignantly. “Did you know about this, Kevin?”
Kevin looks quickly at Andrew, and then nods once. Allison blinks.
Matt comes back in, looking unhappy. “He took off running, wouldn’t let me drive him.” He rescues Allison’s phone off the floor. It’s cracked straight down the middle, the screen completely shattered to one side. The sight of it fills Andrew with some sort of grim satisfaction that he doesn’t deserve to feel.
Allison tilts her head a little looking down at it. “You are an idiot,” she says without looking up, but they all know who she’s talking to. Andrew doesn’t disagree with her. He stares at his melting ice cream for a minute more before he throws some cash on the table and slides out the door, hoping in a brief flare of stupidity that Neil will be waiting outside, but there is nothing in the dimly lit parking lot aside from a handful of cars and a heavy flurry of South Carolina snow falling dreamily to the ground only to melt on contact with the dirty gray gravel.
***
At the next practice everyone acts like nothing happened. Andrew imagines Neil and Allison had some sort of conversation, because they are still actually talking to each other.
And it’s fine. It is all fucking fine.
They scrimmage, a light one. It’s off season, it’s after the championships, and they are down a few players anyway - Jeremy is stuck at the office, Robin has some event at her kid’s school, and Renee’s been gone almost the entire year, some election monitoring mission in Tanzania.
Since Renee and Robin are the only other goalies, they play World Cup; one goal, Andrew manning it, teams of two taking shots on him. No one can get past him until 45 minutes into practice, when Neil almost crashes into Andrew after tripping over Seth’s racket, the ball landing with a thwack in the top left of Andrew’s goal when Andrew instinctively focuses more on keeping Neil on his feet than defending his box. It lights up red, the color obnoxious against the even more obnoxious orange walls, but it leaves Neil grinning and triumphant right in Andrew’s face for the first time in weeks.
Andrew blinks, a little too hard, trying to regain equilibrium, and realizes he’s lost a contact. He frowns, slips a glove off and slides his hand under his facemask to poke at his eye.
“You lost a contact?” Neil steps impossibly closer. “Here,” he says, both hands hovering. Andrew nods, lifts his helmet off, points at his left eye, and holds as still as he can while Neil peers at his eye. “I don’t see it.”
Andrew blinks a few times. “It’s gone.” The right one is still in, so the world is all tilty and wobbly, fuzzy and sharp simultaneously. Andrew knows if he doesn’t get the other contact out soon he’s going to end up with a migraine. He huffs in frustration.
“I’ve told you to keep a spare pair of glasses in your gear bag,” Neil says quietly, which is unhelpful on so many levels.
“What’s going on?” Kevin asks, sliding to a stop next to them.
“Contact,” Neil says.
“Oh,” Kevin says, leaning in a little too close to Andrew’s face. Andrew bats him away. “Do you have a spare?”
Andrew stares at him.
Kevin sighs. “Of course not.” He turns to shout, “Alright we’re running drills for the rest of practice.”
“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” Neil says, pulling his own helmet off. He smells like sweat, and his hair is plastered to his head. Andrew raises an eyebrow at him. “What, are you going to drive that fancy new Porsche home with one eye?” Neil says, trying for teasing, but it just comes out tired.
“Fine,” Andrew says grudgingly.
They skip out on the rest of practice, heading to opposite ends of the showers. Andrew flicks out his other contact once he’s dressed because it is already making his head start to pound. When Neil finds him in the locker room, he’s just a robin’s-egg blue blob, and Andrew is momentarily thrilled that he can’t quite see right now; he knows what that hoodie does to Neil’s eyes.
They slide into the Porsche 911 that Andrew had bought when he’d made partner. It’s all sleek black exterior and sensuous leather interior, and no one but Andrew has driven it. Except for Neil.
Andrew doesn’t have to give directions, Neil has taken this route enough times that he could probably drive it half blind too. When they’re parked in front of Andrew’s blue craftsman bungalow, Neil cuts the engine and drops the keys in Andrew’s lap, but he doesn’t get out of the car.
“I can call you an Uber,” Andrew offers after a moment.
Neil taps at the steering wheel. “I miss you,” he says. It’s very quiet.
“Come inside then.” Neil’s gaze snaps to him, or at least Andrew thinks it does. He squints back, trying to sharpen the general nebula that is Neil’s face.
“That seems like a bad idea,” Neil says, but it comes out like a question.
“I’m just offering video games and vodka,” Andrew says carefully because Neil is one hundred percent not wrong; this is a bad idea. “You can catch an Uber later, or stay in the guest room.” Andrew really wishes he could parse Neil’s face right then, but he can’t, and he refuses to lean closer to try.
“Fine,” Neil says eventually, and he gets out of the car.
Andrew heads straight for his glasses once they’re inside, oversized tortoiseshells that he never leaves the house in, but Neil has seen them, so whatever. There’s no sense in putting a fresh pair of contacts in this late. His shoulders relax down several inches once he can see clearly again. Andrew has his phone out and is ordering a pizza before he even makes it back to the living room, and it is exactly what Andrew promised after that. They play Tetris and Duck Hunt on Andrew’s vintage Nintendo. They watch Shaun of the Dead and drink good vodka. It’s on Neil’s tenth yawn that he decides he might as well stay the night.
“There’s clean sheets on the guest bed,” Andrew says. “I washed them after Aaron’s last visit.”
“Okay,” Neil says. He’s slumped a little sideways on the couch after three more drinks than he’ll normally let himself have in front of anyone else.
“I’ll get you some sweats then, and a toothbrush.”
“Okay.” Neil doesn’t say that he used to have his own toothbrush here, on the counter right next to Andrew’s. His toothbrush, not a toothbrush.
“Neil-” Andrew starts, and Neil waits, but Andrew can’t unstick anymore words from his throat.
“It’s fine, Andrew,” Neil says. His words are a little slurred, but his voice is steady. “We can be friends. I miss you as my friend.”
The idea makes Andrew want to vomit. “Great,” he says instead, incapable of any other response under the full force of Neil’s arctic blues.
They stand up. Andrew doesn’t bother to clean up. Neil disappears into the hall bathroom and comes out wearing Andrew’s sweats. Andrew almost grabs him, hauls him into his own bedroom, but he doesn’t. Instead he watches Neil disappear into the guest room with a mumbled, “Night,” the door closing solidly and resolutely behind him.
Andrew tucks himself deep under the covers in his own bed, alone and lonely, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and telling himself over and over again that he did the right thing, that this was the thing to do.
He falls asleep before he manages to convince himself.
***
Andrew only feels slightly ridiculous pulling on his skinny jeans and putting product in his hair. It’s been awhile since he’s gone out like this - alone, on a mission - but he needs to move the fuck on. He hasn’t been to The Borough since Neil, but it was his place first. It’s familiar and queer and the whiskey selection doesn’t suck, for all that it is a dive bar.
“Sup, dude!” Roland calls from the other end of the bar when Andrew walks in. It’s quiet for a Friday night, but it’s early still. Roland looks him up and down in a way that Andrew doesn’t entirely hate, before sliding a coaster in front of him. “You look like you’re on the prowl.”
Andrew dusts off a suggestive look and points at something on the top shelf. Roland isn’t his target, but he’ll do, in a pinch. He’s a friend, their history is amicable and has been, on occasion, rather naked and more than satisfactory.
“So it’s like that, then,” Roland says agreeably enough, pouring Andrew his drink and leaving him be with a flirty wink of his own. Andrew inclines his head and turns to lean against the bar, the better to survey his options.
The night clicks on and fills the room slowly. It’s mostly the same old same old, but there’s some prospects. He just can’t quite manage to make himself care. At some point deeper into the night, a cute, pert pixie of a girl swings by his post and offers to buy him a drink.
“I’m gay,” Andrew says.
“Cool.” She grins, unfazed. “‘Cause my friend Tim has been eyeing you all night, and he’s pretty fucking gay too.” She gestures at a booth across the room, and Andrew obliges her, following the gesture with his eyes until they land on a reasonably attractive guy who gives a timid little wave. Andrew immediately hates everything about him - the timidness, the fruity looking cocktail in his hand, the fact that he isn’t Neil.
“No thanks,” Andrew says, ignoring the indignant look on the girl’s face and turning back to the bar. He’s intent on asking Roland what he’s doing after close - or rather, who he’s doing - but before he can even get the words out he sees them. It’s them, not him; Neil, at the other end of the long bar, leaning back in the arms of a very tall man who is definitely not Andrew. The unreasonably tall man leans down to say something in Neil’s ear, and Neil throws his head back against his chest and laughs out loud. The sound boils Andrew’s blood, sets his entire body on fire. He snaps his gaze back to find Roland watching him sympathetically.
“I thought you knew,” he says. “Neil’s been here with Jean a few times the past two weeks.”
“Of course I knew,” Andrew lies through his teeth and slides his glass over to Roland. “Make it a double.” Roland looks like he wants to say something, but he wisely snaps his mouth shut and pours a triple.
The only thing Andrew is flirting with is drunk by the time he walks out of the bar. He had resolutely ignored Neil and Jean Valjean the rest of the night, had resolutely not looked in the direction of their booth, had resolutely turned down Roland’s offer of a ride home if he’d stick around. Instead, Andrew sticks around just long enough to watch Neil leave with Jean, to see them holding hands, to see Jean holding the door for Neil. He gives it just enough time that he is sure they’ll be gone, and then calls Kevin.
“What’s wrong?” Kevin asks sleepily by way of answer.
“Why do you assume something’s wrong?” Andrew is quite proud of how not drunk he sounds.
“You sound drunk,” Kevin says.
Andrew makes a so-so motion with his hand, even though Kevin can’t see it. “Come pick my car up.”
“Come pick your car up,” Kevin repeats. “Why did you bring the Porsche if you were planning on drinking?”
“Wasn’t planning on drinking, was planning on fucking.”
Kevin is quiet long enough that Andrew pulls the phone away from his ear to squint at it and make sure he hasn’t lost the call.
“Where are you?” Kevin asks.
“Borough,” Andrew says, like it’s obvious.
“We’re on our way. Don’t fuck anything.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Andrew says dryly. He hangs up, and pushes out the side door to wait in the cold.
Andrew’s not gonna fuck anyone when he’s drunk, though he sure could fuck with a cigarette. He heads for the front of the building, to the little area that became the smoking section when South Carolina finally caved and banned indoor smoking, even in bars. He’s thinking there’s someone who will bum him a one, if he’s lucky - not that he’s been lucky tonight in any sense of the word.
He’s hunched against the cold as he rounds the corner, and looking at his feet - because maybe he’s drunker than he thought he was - which means he’s left blinking in surprise when he realizes the random couple making out against the side of the brick wall isn’t random, but is instead Jean and Neil.
Jean and Neil.
Jean kissing Neil.
Andrew is frozen, stuck, unable to look away as Jean presses Neil against the wall, slides a hand up the side of his ribs, folds down around him to slip his tongue in Neil’s mouth. Neil makes a noise - a protest, or a moan, Andrew doesn’t know, but it’s enough to thaw him, to unglue him, to launch him at Jean, to wrap both hands around Jean’s arm and yank him off of Neil. Jean may be gargantuan, but Andrew has surprise and unmitigated fury on his side, and he manages to slam Jean up against the wall, a hand at his throat, Andrew’s blood roaring in his ears.
“What the fuck, Andrew!” Neil yells. He doesn’t touch him though, just slides a hand in front of his face to get his attention, because even now - even now. Fucking fuck.
“I-” Andrew starts, but Jean is apparently done with all of this, because when Andrew turns to look at Neil, Jean shoves him off, and decks him in his motherfucking mouth.
It’s anticlimactic, after that. Neil waits with Andrew on the curb, but he won’t speak to him, which. Fair. Jean leans against his car, ten feet away watching with his arms crossed. Andrew hates him with the passion of a thousand suns, and he tells Neil so, after wiping the blood from his mouth for the second time. Neil nods and stares at his feet.
It’s only another five minutes before Jeremy and Kevin arrive. Kevin surveys the scene and doesn’t say a word, just holds out his hand for Andrew’s keys, squeezes Neil’s shoulder, and after adjusting the seat for his stupidly long legs, drives Andrew home in his own goddamned car.
“Tell me why,” Kevin demands, once he’s got Andrew inside and has followed him to his bedroom with a giant glass of water.
“You know why,” Andrew says, flopping onto his bed face first. It’s a mistake; his face throbs with the contact and he’s probably just smeared blood all over his comforter. He rolls over, and Kevin lays down next to him. They stare at the ceiling.
“I don’t know why, actually,” Kevin says. “I thought you liked Neil.”
“I hate him.”
“Andrew.”
Andrew thinks he would tell Kevin the truth, if he could dislodge the boulder that takes up residence in his throat every time he thinks about it.
“I’ve known you a very long time,” Kevin says carefully. “You have always put everyone before yourself.”
Andrew scoffs.
“It’s true,” Kevin insists. “You are a dick about it. But it’s true. If this is some misplaced bullshit because you think you don’t deserve him-”
“He deserves better than me,” Andrew bites out. The words choke him as they squeeze around the boulder. Kevin shifts next to him. Andrew can tell he’s looking at him, but he refuses to look back, closes his eyes and forces the rest of the words out. “He would have figured that out eventually.”
“So you broke it off before he could leave you.” Kevin hums a little, then says, “I’ve never known you to be a coward before, that’s new.”
“Fuck you,” Andrew says.
“You’re regretting it now, aren’t you?”
“Fuck. You.”
“Andrew.”
“Kevin."
“Fine,” Kevin sighs. “But I think maybe Neil would have been something you’d have been good at.”
Andrew squeezes his eyes as tightly as he can and doesn’t move.
Very softly, Kevin adds, “And I think maybe that is something you both deserve, very much.”
Andrew says nothing. Eventually Kevin eases off the bed, turns out the light, and locks the front door after himself with the key Andrew had given him years ago.
***
Andrew wakes up to a pounding in his head and a pounding at his door. The glass of water is untouched on his nightstand, as are the two aspirins Kevin left for him. He swallows them both quickly and drains the entire glass, and then blinks his eyes a few times trying to get some moisture on the stupid contacts that he stupidly fell asleep in. He’d managed to kick his shoes off last night, but he’s still in his skinny jeans and black button down when he flings the door open to find Neil.
“You have a key,” Andrew croaks at him.
Neil frowns. He looks massively unhappy as he takes Andrew in, clothed in his own aborted walk of shame. He’s got deep purple smudges of no-sleep under each eye and a Starbucks cup in each hand. “You’re an asshole,” he says, shoving one of the cups at Andrew and shoving past him into the house.
“Come in,” Andrew says dryly before shutting the door. It closes a little too loudly and he winces, and then sniffs the coffee. Irish cream latte with whipped cream, because of course it is.
Andrew follows Neil into the kitchen, but they don’t make it far before Neil whips around, setting his own cup on the counter and crossing his arms. “What the fuck was that,” he says. He’s not yelling, but he’s practically vibrating with energy. “Last night. What the fuck was that?”
Andrew hesitates, because he knows exactly what the fuck it was, but he can’t tell Neil that his entire being rebelled at Neil kissing someone who wasn’t Andrew, that his heart imploded, that his world ended. So what he says is, stupidly, “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” Neil repeats, incredulous. He takes a step towards Andrew. Andrew sets his own drink down, but doesn’t move. “What do I mean?” Another step, and Neil is shouting now, and he’s fucking loud, and Andrew’s head hurts so much. Neil’s hands fly wide and hover, and his face is blotchy, his jaw is clenched.
Andrew did this. Andrew did this to him. “Do it,” he says.
“Do what?” Neil grinds out.
“Do it, whatever it is you aren’t letting yourself do right now. Fucking do it.”
Neil’s glare crystalizes. His eyes narrow. He opens his mouth to speak and then snaps it shut, and then he fucking does it. He slams his palms onto Andrew’s chest and shoves him, hard, hard enough that Andrew stumbles back a step. Neil moves with him and shoves him again, and again, until Andrew slams against the kitchen wall, and he lets him, Andrew lets him, because he asked for this, because he did this, because he broke this, because he deserves this. Neil shoves him again, one more time, but Andrew’s back is against the wall and so he doesn’t budge. Instead, Neil crashes into him, his fingers digging into Andrew’s chest, his face pressing into Andrew’s neck, and he stays, he stays, tucked close and hard as steel, and it hurts. Andrew’s head hurts, and his heart hurts, but he doesn’t fucking care.
Neil is still, now, heaving breath against the side of Andrew’s neck. Andrew hovers in uncertainty, his hands up and wide; he doesn’t know where to put them, he doesn’t know where Neil will let him, but before he can figure it out Neil drags himself away, pulls back far enough to look at Andrew’s face. His eyes are glassy and wet, but he isn’t crying. He steps back further. “Do I have to ask you again?”
Andrew steels himself. “I reacted. I was drunk. I am sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Neil scoffs. “You don’t get to care who I kiss, Andrew.”
“Says the man who doesn’t swing.”
“Maybe I just needed a push.”
“Ha,” Andrew says. It’s not funny at all, and he’s fucking this up. Kevin is wrong, Andrew is not good at this at all.
Except that something in Neil’s face softens, a tiny bit, and he steps close again. Andrew holds his breath as Neil lifts a hand, as he lays his palm against Andrew’s face. He doesn’t ask, he just does it slow enough that Andrew could move out of the way if he wanted.
“You broke up with me,” Neil says.
“Yes,” Andrew says, because he did.
“Did you make a mistake?” Neil asks the question so incredibly softly, but the words shatter Andrew’s being like a death knell.
“Yes,” Andrew says fiercely. The word tears out of him, leaving wreckage in its path, and it takes the boulder lodged in Andrew’s throat with it. Neil presses his other hand to Andrew’s face and looks at him, and sees him, and Andrew is standing only by the grace of Neil’s palms holding him up, is forgiven only by the benediction of Neil’s touch.
Neil swipes a careful thumb under Andrew’s eye. “Don’t fucking do it again, then,” Neil whispers, and then he kisses Andrew, and it is aching and brutal and beautiful and desperate and soft and too much and not enough all at once. Andrew’s lip splits again, and the wetness in Neil’s eyes spills over, but neither of these things push them away from each other. When Neil does pull away he doesn’t go far. “I am furious with you,” he says against Andrew’s bleeding lip.
“I know,” Andrew says.
“I will fix it,” Andrew says.
“Stay,” Andrew says.
It’s the last one that cracks him open. Stay. It’s what he’d wanted to say from the beginning. Instead, he had told Neil to go.
“Yes,” Neil says. “I will stay.”
Andrew can’t help himself. “And Jean?” he asks.
Neil laughs a tiny laugh, and reaches up to wipe Andrew’s blood off his own lip. “Jean broke things off with me last night.”
“He’s an idiot,” Andrew says.
“Well. Clearly I have a type then,” Neil says, and the smallest corner of his grin makes an appearance. “He said I obviously still had things to work through with you.”
“Obviously,” Andrew repeats.
“Yes,” Neil says. “And I think it might take quite a while to work through them. What do you think?”
“Yes, that,” Andrew says. He presses their lips together again because he can’t help himself, Neil is right there, and he is staying. “I will fix this,” he says again.
“Me too,” Neil says. “You slept in your contacts didn't you?”
Andrew nods.
Neil huffs. “Take them out. Put on some sweats. I’ll make breakfast.”