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Inspired by this post and dedicated to the ever-lovely moonix who encouraged me after I got a bit Extra in the tags :)
Slight warnings for Andrew being medicated and allusions to the Drake incident at the Hemmick house, non-graphic, also mild gore.
Neil, Andrew thinks cheerfully, has no business looking half so nice as he does things. No business whatsoever. It’s quite rude, honestly. It makes him grin and grin and grin, especially because Neil hasn’t a clue. Sometimes it makes Andrew think of yelling it in his face just for a reaction – hey Neil, we can all see your junk through those teeny shorts and may I say thanks – but when he’s coming down again he’s glad he can keep some thoughts behind his teeth, at least. Other times he catches himself watching, staring, lingering, and hears toxic whispers in his ears.
He prefers the ups. They’re more fun than the crash.
He also prefers it when Neil wears shorts to the gym instead of long pants. Luckily for him, Neil seems to like the breeze around his knees. The breeze knees, his thoughts rattle around and around and around, merrily merry-go-round, round and round, the breeze knees, Bee, Bee’s the bee’s knees, Neil’s knees Bee, round a round, who likes this ride? Can we stop? Faster faster, higher higher, what’s the time tickety tick, when’s it time, is it time yet, and up we go again, whee…
Vomit from a scary ride is more fun than vomit on an exit ramp, everyone knows that. One has candyfloss and the other has ice cream. There’s bile in both, though, nobody tells you that, and it stings just as bad both ways.
But Neil’s knees! They look so funny when he runs in place, like a little toy soldier with a wind-up back. Set him down and watch him go! He won’t watch back, though. He doesn’t see things when he runs, Andrew knows. He stares into the wall in front of his treadmill with a vacant gaze and goes and goes and goes without a thought in the world. His feet are fast and his legs are the longest parts of him and Andrew is interested.
When Neil runs at the gym he looks happiest, which should be sad, but really just increases his gravity and Andrew orbits unwillingly, getting another water bottle and detouring by his machine on the way back. It’s rudest that he has the good gall to look best running. At practice, at games, the gear is always blocking and covering.
In the gym, there’s just teeny weeny shorts and a loose tee and Andrew is glad his overactive imagination doesn’t have to work so hard for once.
This could be a problem, but right now it’s just funny how his eyes keep wandering while working out, how Neil jogging away is so intriguing. His strides are loose and easy like a proper athlete, conserving his energy and relaxing his body. He doesn’t fight the machine like most do – scrambling to keep up with the tread, breathing too hard, flapping their arms about. Neil knows what speed to set and matches it easily, not to say he isn’t exerting himself. Sweat beads and rolls down his skin, droplets collecting at the backs of his knees and running down his calves into his socks. His thighs bunch and flex powerfully with each graceful, loping stride.
And his ass. Renee, sweetheart, put a dime in the swear jar would you? Because God damn.
Andrew laughs, because this is far too amusing and he is acting far too stupid. Wow, he tells himself through the giggles, who did we think we were kidding? Remember that time we tried getting off thinking about Janice Tyler in middle school? And we thought it was just because she was too ugly?
Meanwhile, Neil runs and runs and Andrew imagines licking sweat from the taut muscles in those thighs.
Andrew would also quite like to burn that bandanna. It’s so awful and tacky, and he should be used to Nicky and the girls wearing them, even Kevin does when he’s between trims, but it’s so much better-worse with Neil.
As is everything else he does, a little voice reminds him, and Andrew tells it to hush, hush, nobody wants to think that, don’t be so soft. Soft things don’t get crushes, they get crushed.
Better-worse, Andrew decides, is the right word for Neil today. Sometimes when he’s bored and spiralling in the clouds, he thinks up words for Neil. Some days it’s Untrustworthy, or Mercury-tongue, or Smartie, or Ginger Snap (ha! That was a fun day for Day but Day did not have a fun Day, Day was in mayday, Day is never fun but that was a fun day to watch Day, thank you Kathy and thank you Ginger Snap), or Legs or Lies or Math-Man.
Better, because Neil is tying up his hair. This makes it bounce and curl when he undoes the bandanna, Andrew tells himself conspiratorially. That is nice. Better, because with his hair away from his face his eyes jump out – brown? Really, Neil? Brown? – and his cheeks jut and his jaw leaps and his lips… mm. Renee, darling, got another dime? Better, because Neil reaches up to fix his hair under that orange eyesore, and Andrew is a fan of his skinny-strong arms and narrow shoulders and the line of his jaw.
Worse, because Andrew is watching him again. It keeps happening? He’s not sure why. He should have got it all out of his system by now surely. Neil is nice and cosy in his imagination and in the stolen little moments in the shower, cosy and well-known when Andrew’s blood is up among other things.
Worse, because it’s looking like the only way Andrew is going to stop looking at him and wanting is if he can work it out on Neil’s skin and not just his memory. But that’s bad because Neil has had his flag planted in no-fuck land since his first day and Andrew is in a neighbouring country but he won’t invade, he won’t sneak across borders, he won’t even skirt them.
So he lets himself look every so often, lets his mind wander occasionally, indulges here and there. Because it’s not happening and he’s not going to sulk or pout.
That bandanna can burn in hell, though.
Neil is stroking himself. Okay. That’s fine. Fine, his giggly thoughts add appreciatively. He’s just woken up from his dizzy reboot, first buzz of the day to get him through the bus ride, and he sees Neil stroking himself.
As omens go, this could be an amazing day, or an awful one. Does palmistry work if it’s another person touching their own body and not reading your palm? Maybe Bee would know.
Neil is staring off into space with his I’m Completely Fine face with his eyes a little too distant and his mouth a little too grim. He’s tracking lines through his shirt with his fingertips in precise, strange ways. He definitely does not know he’s doing it.
Andrew’s buzz falters a little and his arms itch under his armbands.
He’s never seen the scars Neil has never admitted to having, but it’s times like these Andrew feels the knowing tugging at his gut.
He watches Neil touch and pet and soothe himself, tracing over a line here, a curve there, digging into a small circle there. He watches, memorises the patterns, and wonders.
What do they look like, under that fabric? Who put them there? How long has he had each one? Are there any more hidden away other places? Are they pale like Andrew’s, neat and thin? Are they pinkish and corded and twisty? Do they feel smooth or gnarled? Do they leap out or press in? How long did each one take to heal and scar? How much did they hurt? Did they make Neil feel alive, like Andrew’s did? Or did they make him feel half-dead? Does touching them make him happy? Does it make him sad? Is Neil trying to feel something? Poor empty little boy blue, not a blink for Seth and not a care for his own shredded hide. Are the scars Neil’s rooftop? His own poke at the emptiness inside?
This is getting to be a problem, he realises and tears his eyes away. A pretty little fantasy like Neil shouldn’t catch his attention like this. Nothing gets his attention like this on his meds – he can’t even focus enough to drive. He’s not flying as high as usual, his gaze more focussed on the ground than the clouds.
His eyes flick back to Neil like window-wipers, away and back, but though he toggles it off they don’t stop moving, the image doesn’t wipe away.
He watches Neil’s hand instead – that’s safer, that’s hotter, that’s a better distraction. His fingers are long and slim and bony, always with at least one band-aid or bruise. Andrew can relate; his own are normally bruised or roughened from exercise or sparring. His fingertips skate so lightly over his shirt, so delicate, so gentle. Over and over, rubbing over a particular spot with distracted anxiety. The joints lock and loosen and his hand looks like a mastery of light and fragile bone as he rubs and pets and sighs quietly to himself.
He wonders if Neil jerks off like that, if he does it at all. If he’s slow and distracted and light, or if he would enjoy going hard and fast, pedal to the floor and reckless like he plays on court. He wonders where those hands have been, what Neil likes, how he touches himself in the shower, how he soothes himself at night.
He wonders if those light, delicate hands could work around Andrew’s thorns. If Andrew could map those hands with his tongue, bite down and suck, taste, a messy preview for a messier finale.
Andrew looks away and huffs against the window. Better just shove his wallet in that jar, Renee. As dear Luther would say, he’s a sinner just for thinking it.
The world is woozy with his pills and spinning from the concussion and a riot of dripping scarlet. Candy red, his brain supplies, and he laughs in agreement. Like toffee apple syrup before it hardens. You gotta crack a toffee apple first, though Andrew could swear he heard a crack and a smack. Maybe that’s why everything’s dripping?
Somewhere under it his traitor body is shaking and clenching and bleeding and oh it’s been years since he felt like this but he knows it very well. The only thought he can hold onto is that it’s so goddamn perfect – sorry Renee – that he spent so long enduring Drake to keep Aaron safe, and the fucker turns up in Luther’s house like he had every right to be there.
It’s hilarious, really.
No, it’s not. But it must be, because somebody is laughing and just won’t shut up.
Oh, that’s him laughing. Must be why it sounds so deranged.
Hilarious. Hil – arr- ee – ussss. Us, us, us. Where is Aaron? Why did Drake stop? He never stopped before.
Then someone else is touching him but it’s light and breezy and quick, tugging a sheet over him. Oh good, he was starting to get chilly what with having his shirt shredded from the fight and everything from the waist down yanked off. Considerate.
Must mean it’s Neil.
Yep.
Neil is wheezing something, eyes wild and blood spattered over him. Andrew thinks he might be trying to say his name but something’s caught in his throat.
Something is definitely caught in Andrew’s throat, and he feels Neil’s hands on his shoulders, steering him down so he can puke on the floor. Take that, Maria. Now you get to clean blood and spunk and vomit off your carpet, like the fucking trifecta. What’s that she’s always on about? Son, Father, Holy Spirit? Whatever. Sorry, Renee. Neil’s hands shake a lot but help pull Andrew back to sitting and stop him toppling over. They keep tugging at the sheet to give him some kind of dignity but Andrew gave up on that at the age of seven.
At least Aaron is safe and Nicky is safe and Kevin is safe and Luther is soon to be dead meat and Neil is – Neil is still here. Neil is still sitting beside him. Neil keeps tugging at the sheet and trying to apologise with words he doesn’t know.
Asshole.
But. He was the asshole who realised what was going on. Who came to defend Andrew. Who came to help and keeps clumsily trying, for all this is his fault for persuading them all to come.
But he kicked down the door and brought a weapon and Drake is lying with his brain over half the wall.
For that, Andrew gives him custody of his knives, and temporary guardianship of Kevin ‘vodka in a sippy cup’ Day-care.
In return, Neil gives him scars and a secret name and warm, warm skin and promises and stories tantalising enough to keep Andrew’s interest.
He goes. Neil stays (Neil goes, but he doesn’t find out until later, oh no).
The drugs go.
Things get a lot less funny.
But they get a lot clearer, too.
Neil handles Andrew’s lighter like a child playing with a favourite toy. Andrew watches him as they smoke, staring out blankly into the night. The burn of the smoke and buzz of the nicotine keep him centred against the stomach-churning vertigo of the drop to his side. He’s feeling out the edges of fear again, trying to connect his body’s reactions to his feelings.
It’s not working so well tonight.
He’s reacting better to Neil. He doesn’t think that would be surprising even if he could feel that.
He watches Neil rub his thumb over the lighter and walk it between his fingers and over his knuckles. His face is blank and vacant, a handy mirror to Andrew’s own, and he has forgotten to give Andrew’s lighter back. He thumbs at the lever and sparks it every so often, always just about avoiding burning his fingertips. He traces over the metal casing of the Zippo and the embossed spiralling designs and digs his thumbnail into them. He turns the lighter over and over in his hands now he’s stubbed out his cigarette, obsessively fidgeting with it and tilting it back and forth so the liquid inside sloshes. He flicks the top off and back again, clickety clack. It never stops moving in Neil’s hand and Andrew is wondering why it’s so hard to look away.
He thinks of Neil tracing scars through his shirt and wonders if he finds handling the lighter soothing in the same way.
That’s a dangerous thought to think.
It’s sloppy and stupid to dangle over a fall, convinced your feet are planted firmly.
Better to think about the various ways Andrew could push him to the tarmac and kiss the smoke from his mouth. Better to think about the blueness he doesn’t bother to hide anymore, stark and pale and just as pretty in sunlight as under the strobes of Eden’s Twilight. Better to think about that little surprised ‘huh?’ Neil makes when confused, and to think about startling it with his own mouth. Better to remember the way Neil looked and looked and looked at him, you like me half a question on his lips. Better to imagine putting his hands on Neil’s body and feeling out his scars now he’s finally seen them. Better to imagine the warmth of his skin and the taste of his tongue. Better to think about running hands through that mop of curls, to imagine Neil stuttering and moaning bashfully. Much better to imagine Neil panting and shuddering, arching up and wanting more.
It’s probably bad manners to be mentally undressing and teasing the person sitting next to you, but Andrew can’t care. Neil isn’t even looking his way, so who gives a shit.
He just keeps obsessing over the lighter, his thoughts obviously far, far away but his hands busy with the metal.
Neil finally lets his fingers stray too close to the flame and jumps at the sharp sting. It’s not serious, Andrew knows in a glance. It’ll smart for a day or two, but they have burn cream at the dorm and it serves him right for being so handsy. He should know better than to be careless with anything of Andrew’s, and usually does know better.
Neil inspects his injury and shrugs it off; he’s had Riko’s bandages off for a week now, he probably didn’t even register the burn as painful, probably just surprising.
Then he turns to look at Andrew and the heaviness lifts from his expression, something like quiet joy spreading over his face. He holds the lighter out with a small lift to his lips, and his eyes reflect the streetlamps below.
“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to steal it.”
Andrew rolls his eyes in reply and takes his lighter back. He turns away and lights up afresh before tucking the lighter back in his hoodie pocket. He feels Neil’s eyes on the side of his face, watching just as intently though no doubt with less libido. He ignores the gaze and keeps hold of the lighter in his pocket as he drinks smoke.
It’s hot to the touch from Neil’s hand and Andrew could swear he can feel Neil’s fingerprints all over it, smudgy and well-intentioned and distracted. It’s far too pat.
His numb heart trips and stutters and races in his chest, and whether it’s from the height, the warmth of the lighter or Neil’s steady thoughtful gaze, he’s not sure but it’s definitely something, and something will always be better than nothingness.
Hm, he thinks as he slides a look Neil’s way later. Maybe better-worse.
I am being very stupid, Andrew acknowledges calmly as his gaze snaps up at the sight of Neil jogging back to Fox Tower. He was just trying to have ten minutes in his car, alone, without Kevin bitching about plays or Nicky chattering or Aaron grumbling. He just wanted ten minutes of blissful quiet, and it was too sunny to be on the roof at midday.
But no. Neil is running, because Neil is as Neil does.
Of course.
He watches as Neil slows to a stop at the base of Fox Tower and starts stretching out and… hm. Hmmm.
Maybe this isn’t such a bad interruption.
He watches Neil carefully stretch each and every muscle on his narrow, wiry frame. He rather enjoys the hamstring stretches and shoulder rolls. But even more appealing is the way Neil apparently decides the day is too nice to spend studying, and sits instead in a patch of sunny grass outside the dorms. He tilts his head up to the sunlight, eyes closed and legs crossed. He smiles up at the sky and Andrew balls his hands into fists.
This is nothing, he tells himself furiously. He is nothing.
(A very pretty nothing)