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Summary
“What the fuck are you doing?!” Neil hissed, amazed there was even breath in his lungs whatsoever. How could there possibly be air to breathe when Andrew was holding his entire life in his pale fucking hands, middle and index finger paused mid page turn, the contents of Neil’s duffel surgically unpacked, arranged on the lower bunk where Andrew sat perched on the edge like a harbinger of death.
Andrew smirked, and the muscles in Neil’s hand curled (involuntarily) into a fist.
“I think the question is, what the fuck are you doing?”