Chapter Text
Neil was slowly overcoming the last of a fever.
The season reaching full swing and the relative cold of a Palmetto winter settling in made for the perfect grounds to knock Neil off his feet. Not hard considering the idiot hardly slept between classes, practice, and further night practice with Kevin. He'd seemed to finally be on the mend yesterday morning, and after a full 3 days of rest it was hopeful that he’d be back in working order today or the next day. This was good because Andrew was bored of playing nurse maid. Kind of. It was relaxing to have Neil quiet for once, but it ate at him with irritating persistence to know that this was the first time Neil had ever been “allowed" to get sick. Andrew was damned if he was going to leave Neil with any more trauma - the university could really only afford so much of Bee's time. It was preferable to prevent incident wherever possible, so he had refused to leave Neil’s side lest the idiot go into full isolation panic mode and take them all down with him.
Andrew climbed quietly up the ladder to Neil’s bunk in order to take his temperature. He lay the back of his hand onto the warm skin of Neil’s forehead.
“I’m fine.”
Andrew levelled him with an unimpressed stare.
“Really I mean it.”
Neil hadn’t yet opened his eyes all the way but his voice was clearer than the tired wheezing tone he’d sported the last few days. Neil’s skin was warm but not troublingly so. Before Andrew could start to retreat, Neil let out a small, annoyed sigh and lifted his own hand to bat Andrew’s away. Only, he didn’t let go once their hands reached the mattress by Neil’s head. Neil's palm rested there, holding Andrew's down, solid but yielding if Andrew needed to push him off.
Neil’s body was usually warm like a South Carolina May. Call it high metabolism or whatnot, Andrew thought it might be more like all his organs running on caffeine and desperation for a decade. An old car that cooked itself to steaming but never seemed to stop chugging along. It got him where he needed to go by the grace of God, or possibly a divinity more infernal in nature. Neil’s body was warm, but his limbs tended to run cold. When they shared a bed, Andrew, a bonafide furnace un-needing of extra warmth, often woke to Neil, still asleep, clutching his arms close to his chest unconsciously seeking warmth. Maybe that was why Neil seemed to want to have his hands on Andrew whenever possible. Neil followed the hands-off rule thoroughly, but when given the chance, he always splayed his hands out wide, as much skin on skin, or skin on hair, or skin on fabric as possible. Now, Neil’s palm was steadily warming to match Andrew’s at point of contact.
Andrew took in the soft edges of their palms pressed into the sheets, the heat of Neil's pulse against his traveling up thorny bones and tendons and arteries landing in his cheeks. Whatever natural instinct that miraculously still flickered inside Neil had been eroded in Andrew with every new set of unwelcome hands until nothing remained of it but Andrew’s own unfading heat. Andrew didn’t get to unconsciously chase, he had to do it with his eyes open and all the lights on. He had to choose. He had to pursue.
So he did.
It was suspiciously easy with Neil, to follow the warmth of skin and reach for the next sensation. Keeping his palm open and pliant under Neil’s, he traced the delicate line of Neil’s inner wrist with his thumb. Broad strokes with slight pressure. Andrew had to be conscious, and the pad of his thumb seemed to be developing a new awareness to match. Andrew imagined all the millions of nerve endings in his fingertip lighting up and shooting sparks where they met the puckered collar of Neil's scars.
Neil’s eyes did open then. Their eyes met. Something twisted in Andrew's stomach and if it were possible, he might have felt the beginning of shame, or insecurity or some other such useless thing. He had worked tirelessly to become invulnerable, and meeting proof that there was still something that could illicit a weak response told him to clamp down on Neil's wrist and cut off the circulation before he could ever use those hands to make Andrew feel anything again. but there it was, a tiny sliver in his chest that had him wanting to shrink away like an embarrassed tween at a school dance. Neil only held Andrew’s gaze for a moment more with sleep soft eyes before fitting his fingers into the alternating grooves between Andrew’s own. The shrinking instinct met a quick, clean death. Andrew’s fingers curled over Neil’s knuckles in slow response. That too was a lucid choice, but it bordered dangerously close to natural. Andrew tucked that notion aside for later prodding.
Neil’s breath was coming evenly, and he seemed well enough that Andrew trusted him to be telling the truth, but it was still better that Neil get as much sleep as possible and wake up in his own time. With one last press of his fingers into Neil’s, Andrew began his slow retreat. Unwelcome hesitation stalled his process, protesting the introduction of cold air onto his comfortably warm skin. It was like if he let go now, the last minute had never happened -wiped from memory, erased from the novel. 'Character's hallmarks must be maintained throughout or the narrative will crumble'; and other rules of the road from the journey to perfect isolation. It was easier to accept the death of this moment than it was to exist with the memory of it happening once and never again. Andrew wanted to let go on principal of assured self destruction. He wanted to hold on and somehow knew that to do so would be to really finish him off, nail in coffin for good.
He was spared this dilemma by Neil declining to let Andrew’s hand out of his grip. Or rather, when Andrew pulled back, Neil rose with him. His hair all askew from the pillow and his eyes blinking open with unusual slowness. It was either a testament to the fever, or to Andrew’s presence that Neil wasn’t wide eyed and alert to imaginary threats right after waking. Andrew chose not guess which heat source was the culprit. Neil finally looked clear eyed at Andrew for a long moment before giving his hand a last squeeze and asking
“Breakfast?”
Parting was as cold as Andrew had guessed, and some part of him stomped with dissatisfaction as he regained full dexterity to climb down Neil’s bunk and into the kitchen to fulfill his request.
Andrew remembered the snug fit of their fingers all day. When his coffee mug was hot enough to scald against his palm, when Neil gripped his racket at practice to clack sticks, when he pushed Neil into the sheets of his bunk to force him to nap before afternoon practice. He once again remembered the sensation of their palms heavy together when two days later Andrew agreed Neil was well enough to engage in kissing and light fondling. Inside Andrew's chest, something smug and satisfied seemed to hum in harmony with a slender strand of starving desperation. It had only been six days since he'd had Neil like this. It had been on the roof, and if Andrew had known it would be the last for some time, he'd have given into Neil's protests that he could stay up another hour and be fine.
Kissing Neil had become perfectly familiar, but somehow it never failed to grip Andrew's entire attention. Like the places where their skin met was the force keeping the lights on. The only thoughts his brain was capable of holding were made of spit and swollen lips, dilated pupils and fingers tugging at mussed hair. Now, he had Neil pressed against the bathroom door after they finished getting ready for bed. He was trailing toothpaste kisses all over Neil’s mouth and neck. Andrew’s hands squeezed into Neil’s lower back, while Neil’s roamed every inch of Andrew’s jaw and scalp. It was getting late and practices felt earlier and earlier every day with the approaching winter.
“Bed”
Andrew mumbled somewhat reluctantly against Neil’s mouth. Neil let out a dramatic sigh and dropped his forehead to Andrew’s shoulder. Now, when they managed to quit kissing for the night, they always stayed close like this. Quiet and still for seconds, more and more collecting over time until it was a kind of ritual to spend a full minute just breathing each other in until their hearts beat at an acceptable rate for the hour of night. The short hairs of Neil’s undercut tickled Andrew’s ear. He silently thanked Allison for her work as he tugged Neil's hips forward away from the door so they could leave the bathroom for bed. Neil kept his head down but turned his nose into Andrew’s neck for a breath before finding Andrew’s wrist and tugging him to follow. Neil was half out the door, Andrew in tow, when Andrew wriggled out of Neil’s grip and right back into it but with their palms loosely cupped together this time. Andrew was almost convinced he'd stood frozen there for all time in its entirety, vast and meaningless. But no, Neil paused with him for only a moment, unwilling to risk a look back at Andrew. He only gave a small squeeze and stroked Andrew’s skin with his thumb just as Andrew had done days ago, and carried on to the bedroom.
They parted at their bunks, and climbed into bed. Andrew counted slow inhales and exhales, opening and closing his fist in tandem until eventually sleep claimed him with the gratitude and humoured chiding of a parent after chasing a child through the house at bath time.
He dreamed about Neil and the warmth of a scarred hand in his.