Archive of Our Own

Andrew wakes up slowly.

It starts with just the fuzzy edges of consciousness, the dark scarlet glow of the back of his eyelids, the cotton of a pillowcase beneath his cheek. He breathes out through his nose, flexing his feet against the smooth softness of his sheets. His brain ticks slowly into being wakeful, flicking over every sensation that doesn't hurt with a sort of familiar amazement.

It's a new thing for him. Well—definitely not new, but still novelty. Still something to be savored.

His childhood and and young adult life had been filled with jerking and gasping awake, tensely gripping to the sheets as his heart pounded. The fear of waking up, wrapped in cotton, to the sound of a zipper opening had haunted him. It still does, of course, but he feels scared only for a fleeting moment, for a brief flex of his fingers.

Most days are peaceful. Are good. Most days, he gets to wake up slowly.

What's even more groundbreaking than that is the weight of another body on the mattress beside him, a knee touching his thigh lightly, the sound of another person's steady breathing close to his ear.

He doesn't flinch, doesn't crowd farther back into the wall behind him to get away. The dip in the bed has grown so familiar to him over the years that he barely even notices it's there, moving his leg forward an inch to press further against Neil's.

He exhales, and blinks his eyes open.

It's bright in his bedroom. White sheets, red hair on the pillow beside him, dust motes glowing white-golden in the sun. He must have left the blinds open. The brightness filtering in through their wooden slats burns his unadjusted retinas.

He digs his nose firmly into his pillow, shutting his eyes against the light. He's comfortable, safe. He can still feel Neil's knee against his skin.

That's more recent, too. Not in concept--he and Neil have been sharing beds since grade school--but the frequency of it. It's often now, has been since college. Neil spends just as many nights in Andrew's bed as he does in his own, falling asleep there while they watch some shit on Andrew's laptop or sneaking in later, once his insomnia finally manages to relax its grip on him.

Andrew doesn't mind. Andrew does the opposite of mind, actually.

These days, when he presses his back to the wall, it's less out of fear and more out of making room for the warmth of someone else's body. And it's good. It's good to trust someone so wholeheartedly, to allow them a place in his bed. Neil was the first person in his life to show him that, and his influence has lasted through years and years of sharing a mattress. He is not haunted by his trauma in the face of the one person he's trusted nearly as long as it's been underneath his skin.

He doesn't think he's going to be able to get back to sleep, though, so he opens his eyes again, adjusting his head on the pillow to stare at the other man. Neil is facing towards him, body curled towards his like a quotation mark, waiting to meet its match. His face is relaxed and trusting, nearly innocent in his sleep.

Andrew would scoff at the thought, at Neil's lack of innocence, but he's tired. He lets his blinks remain slow and bleary, his breaths coming in soft huffs. He watches the rise and fall of Neil's chest, watches the splay of his curls on the pillow, traces the arches and valleys of his face.

It's rare for Neil to sleep longer than him, Andrew thinks, mind wandering in drowsy circles. Neil hadn't been in his bed when he'd gone to sleep. He could've been up late, spiraling down some random YouTube rabbit hole, or just tracing the ceiling with his eyes for a while before he decided to join Andrew. It would hardly be the first time.

At some point between the hundredth and thousandth scan of Neil's face, Andrew notices the high flush on his cheekbones. And then he notices the pale tint to his face, the hardly visible clench to his jaw. He frowns, letting a brief spark of concern flare in his sternum. Neil looks like he's getting sick, or maybe like he had a rough night before crawling into Andrew's bed.

Andrew sighs, and moves his arm a foot or so across the mattress to brush his pinky finger against the other man's. He can deal with Neil later in the morning; right now, sleep pulls at the edges of his consciousness once again.

He twines his pinky fully around Neil's and closes his eyes, letting himself drift off again to the scarlet-colored darkness behind his eyes.

***

The next time Andrew wakes, the light in the bedroom is brighter, and Neil is no longer asleep beside him. He groans, rubbing a hand slowly down his face and shoving his blanket off his lap. The clock on the nightstand reads 9:30, which is late, even for him, and his muscles protest as he stands beside the bed and stretches.

He finds Neil in the kitchen, red hair a messy poof on top of his head and his lean frame slumped against the counter as he halfheartedly sips coffee from a mug. Andrew's previous suspicions are confirmed by the feverish tint to Neil's cheeks and the glassy look in his eyes. He's shivering as he looks up at Andrew, offering a familiar half-asleep grin.

"Hey, Drew," he says, his usual morning voice twice as gravelly as normal.

Andrew shuffles closer, pouring himself a cup of coffee from Neil's still-steaming pot. "You're sick," he accuses, eyeing Neil over the rim of his mug.

Neil shrugs. The slurp of his coffee drowns out a couple muttered syllables.

"What?"

"I said, maybe."

"Fuck your maybes," Andrew mutters, rolling his eyes. He opens a drawer near Neil's hip, digging around for a thermometer and then rinsing it off in the sink. He hands it to Neil, who glares as he pulls on the collar of his loose neon green sleep-shirt. "Take it."

Neil groans and shoves the bit of plastic under his tongue, leaning all the more heavily on the counter. Andrew raises an eyebrow at him, bringing his palm up to Neil's forehead as they wait. He's too warm—Andrew doesn't need a thermometer to tell him that.

He brushes through Neil's sleep-mussed fringe as the redhead takes the thermometer out of his mouth, pulling a face. "One-oh-one point three," he rattles off dutifully, coughing into his elbow right after. "Satisfied?"

"You know I'm not," Andrew sighs. He turns his back to Neil and opens the fridge. They're fresh out of chicken noodle soup, surprise, surprise. "Taken meds yet?" he asks. He grabs eggs from one of the shelves and expects Neil's mumbled no, rifling through their medicine drawer for some Tylenol.

His fingers meet the bottle, pills rattling against the plastic as he turns back toward Neil. He's watching him through hooded eyes, frizzy and wild curls falling in a mess against his forehead, lips tilted in an uncomfortable sort of slant. He tosses the pills Andrew shakes out of the bottle back in a practiced, fluid motion.

The ease with which Andrew ignores the bob of Neil's Adam's apple and the soda-pop fizz it causes in his abdomen is even more practiced.

His attraction to Neil has been there for—well, years. Simmering under the surface, licking like flames at his heels. Neil is not his boyfriend. Neil is not his lover, or his romantic partner, or his to kiss or fuck. But Neil is his. For Andrew, that has always been enough. And it always will be.

"Call in from work," he says to Neil, cracking an egg into an oiled pan, back to the redhead.

He is not surprised when slow steps shuffle up behind him, when he feels a chin hooking over his shoulder and hears nasally sniffles in his ear, Neil's chest to his back. With a quiet awe that hasn't faded over the years, he revels in the ease of it all, in his lack of flinch and bladed edges.

Neil makes a quiet, content noise through his blocked nose. "Mm, in a minute," he says. He watches as Andrew makes scrambled eggs, as his wooden spoon breaks up the yolk. "I'm cold."

Andrew scoffs, thinks that maybe Neil's head is really so thick that he forgot that's what comes with fevers, served up like a bitchy side-effect of constant shivering.

"You think?" he mutters. "Get your snotty face away from me, asshole" he says, but his voice is light. He doesn't want Neil to move and does nothing to make him do so, Neil's chin still digging into Andrew's shoulder, bony and slightly uncomfortable.

He stays. He stays until the eggs are done and shuffles behind Andrew as he moves to scrape them onto a plate. He stays, just like he always has, seeing straight through Andrew's barbed edges.

They eat their eggs. Neil leans his tired head on Andrew's shoulder, curls tickling his jaw, eyes slipping closed. He calls in sick from work.

Andrew's heart ticks up the same way it always does when Neil is touching him. He looks down at the redhead's pale face and feels an intimately familiar feeling crawl into his throat, blocking his airways, lodging sideways in his windpipe. The overwhelming fondness that bowls through him is all-encompassing. The love and companionship and annoyance wrapped all in one.

He wants to protect Neil. He wants, more than anything, to protect Neil.

Andrew sets his fork down and leans his head against Neil's, peaceful at the quiet kitchen counter.

***

Unfortunately, since neither of them are particularly well-off, Andrew does have to go to work today. He would like to stay. He would like to stay with Neil, even though the redhead is an adult, who is more than capable of taking care of himself. Regardless, he wants to keep sitting there with Neil. Keep touching Neil.

That is what he wants everyday, however, so he has gotten fairly good at dragging himself to work despite of it.

By the time Andrew is ready to leave for the lunch shift at the bar he works at, Neil is feeling worse. He's made himself a leech to Andrew's side, hanging off of him like a limpet, sweaty yet shivering. Whatever he's coming down with has settled into his chest disconcertingly quickly, and his coughs sound painful and wet.

Neil is good at many things; being Andrew's greatest weakness, for one. He can run for hours, is scarily fast with numbers, and can tear down anyone with his words if he sets his mind to it. He can also do a backflip, which Andrew regrettably finds kind of hot.

But Neil Wymack is not very good at being sick.

Andrew has already caught him trying to sneak out for a run once in the span of the morning, shoes not yet fully tied and a guilty half-tilt to his lips. It's Andrew's fault for letting the idiot into his life, he supposes. For wanting him to stay even when he doesn't know when to stop moving for a single second and let himself breathe.

Maybe Andrew should stay home after all, if just to make sure Neil doesn't do anything brain-dead-stupid in the time that he's gone.

"No running," he says to an ashen Neil on the couch before him, deadly-serious and already late for work. "I mean it. Don't go anywhere."

Neil rolls his eyes, predictably. "Yep. If I step even a foot out of this apartment, you will trade my soul to the devil and yadda yadda," he says, though his voice is raspy and painful-sounding. "I hear you."

Andrew sighs. He doesn't want to have to leave their warm apartment and get on a nasty bus to be stuck in a slow shift for hours. He is not, stupid, of course, and he knows he has to. Usually, he finds himself to be more practical than he is being today.

He moves closer and taps Neil's over-warm cheek, hesitating. "You're ok?"

Neil is still against him. His calloused hand seeks out Andrew's, grasping his fingers tightly. "I'll be fine. Go to work."

Andrew doesn't like it but he hums anyway, easing away from Neil and squeezing his hand. His forehead has that tiny crease in the middle that means he's in pain. Andrew's thumb goes unconsciously to smooth it away. "Call me if you need me."

"Yeah, yeah," he says easily, smiling at Andrew. "Stop worrying so much, Drew. I'm gonna take a nap. Goodbye."

He shoves Andrew lightly toward the door, and Andrew goes, regrettably, picking up his keys from the dish and walking out of the room. The familiar slam of their apartment door echoes behind him, the hallways and elevator walls the same ones he passes every single day on his way to work and every single night on the way back. It would be boring, monotonous and unchanging, if it weren't for the firecracker of a roommate Andrew gets to come home to every night, who colors his days completely.

Andrew isn't quite sure how Neil came to be in his life. When they went from friends, to best friends, to permanent fixtures in each other's lives. Andrew and Neil turning to AndrewandNeil.

They had met early in high school, bonding over their shared mistrust in adults and overall shitty attitudes. "Bonding" was a loose term—Andrew had thrown a lit cigarette at Neil and Neil had punched him squarely in the face in retribution. They had hated each other for months after that.

Their unlikely friendship had only sparked in order to terrorize the public school system together, Neil skittish and hot-tempered and Andrew angry and overall trying to feel nothing. Both of them too fucked up for their age group and finding companionship in their "troubled" labels. Products of foster care and shitty parents.

Hiding out in the bleachers together and eating lunch in silence had turned into sharing truths, which had turned into spending hours together, and sleepovers, and telling each other anything and everything. Neil became his best and only friend as they made their way through school together. He was there through every foster home and bully and failed class. Someone to confide in, to trust, to lean on.

Andrew was already fucked up and abused when they met, but Neil's protection and companionship has protected him since then. Their troubled youths tied them closer together than any other people they knew, but they had never cared. They were imperfect. They fought and annoyed one another. But they healed one another, too. Neil was the first person Andrew ever loved, and he knows Neil will be the last person to hold Andrew's heart this completely.

Neil was there when Andrew got adopted by Betsy, and vice-versa when Neil was adopted by Wymack. When they had each taken new last names to replace Doe. Kevin—Neil's new adopted brother—was someone new to tie in to their tight-knit group, but their close relationship was never the same as what Neil and Andrew shared. Something deep and unbreakable, even way back then.

Neil was with him when he found Aaron, and all of the instability and chaos that spawned after that. He was just always there. Unshakably. Bailing Andrew out and understanding him on a possibly atomic level, deeper than anyone ever has.

Aaron, Kevin, Neil and Andrew all went to the same college, lived in the same building, met new people. Matt, Neil, and Allison were some brand of manic-pixie-dream-girl friend group that Andrew had never truly infiltrated, and Andrew and Renee became close after she started sparring with him and Neil in the campus gym. Aaron met Katelyn. Neil took up track and field.

And Andrew, somewhere along the way, fell irreversibly and hopelessly in love with his best friend.

The college days were... warmer. There was less fear and instability, and although Neil had been there for him through that, it was still nice to get time for them all to sink into the bliss of normalcy. To find their footing and get comfortable in their skin. It felt like healing. Most nights it was family and movies and Neil falling asleep in arms reach, and they all felt like they could breathe.

Andrew slept around and half-assed dating a few guys here or there, but it had never stuck. At that point, he knew that Neil was the only person he could even think of wanting, and he hadn't bothered wasting his time on other pursuits. He doesn't know for certain when that attraction started, but he thinks it was probably doomed from the start, creeping up slowly on him as years passed with Neil at his side. There was no way around it. No other universe or possibility where Andrew didn't end up head-over-heels in love with Neil.

But even without his romantic feelings, he wouldn't have been overly interested in dating, regardless. Neil was, and is always going to be, the most important relationship in his life, regardless of Andrew's very present attraction toward the other man. Dating others felt boring and unnecessary in comparison, like holding a dim candle up to the sun.

Andrew is attracted to Neil. He has been for a very long time, and he would kiss Neil if he could. Would do more than that. But it doesn't really matter. Neil is so much more important to him than that attraction, someone twined deeply into the marrow of his bones and taking up ample space in his chest. Andrew is more than satisfied with anything Neil is willing to give.

And Neil doesn't do romance, doesn't feel romance (a verdict he had reached after his own experimentation in college), so what Neil is willing to give is what they already have.

And, well--what they have is perfect. It's everything. Nothing about it has to change for it to be enough for Andrew.

It had been the obvious decision for them to get an apartment together after college, an easy and light one that fills up Andrew's sternum with a squeezing emotion. It's been good. It's been better than anything Andrew could have ever dreamed up when he was small and scared before Neil, when he was abused and cowered into corners.

It's good even in hard times, or bad days where Andrew disassociates for hours or Neil panics and his claws at his skin. It's good even in fights, the net of established trust and caring waiting to catch them if they fall.

It's good even when Neil is sick and Andrew is stuck at the lunch shift at Eden's Twilight, a bar not too far from their apartment building.

Predictably, unsurprisingly, his shift so far has been boring. He has wiped the counter five times, cleaned each of the glasses twice, and has so far served an abysmal amount of customers in the hours he's been working. A typical day at the bar yields more customers, what with their slim but adequate lunch menu and the high-quality drinks, but today is a Tuesday. Andrew isn't surprised at the lack of traffic. He is not amused, however, and his skin feels slightly itchy.

He makes it halfway through his shift before he gives in to the urge to text Neil, fishing his phone out of his pocket and leaning against the empty bar, still slightly sticky from disinfectant beneath his elbows. He scrolls mindlessly for a second through their strings of previous texts, through we need groceries texts and where did you put my hoodie? texts and back-forth-videos of cats.

Their apartment doesn't allow pets, but they have a list of possible names lined up for when they move, like disgustingly domestic married straight people do when they're expecting. They're both amused by it, and a running competition had started a while ago over who can come up with the worst possible cat name. They're currently tied at Neil with Sir Fat-Cat McCatterson and Andrew with King Fluffykins.

Personally, Andrew thinks Neil's is a bit better, but he would rather gouge out his eyes than admit that.

He types a single question mark into the text chain and hits send, watching as it joins their thousands of previous messages. A lone ? in a bubble of blue. He sends Game Pigeon's eight ball right after.

Predictably, it takes Neil multiple minutes to respond. Andrew wipes down the counter for a sixth time while he waits, but Neil's response buzzes against Andrew's pocket before too long, which means that Neil isn't asleep. Andrew's lucky he got a response at all, he supposes.

Neil (ICE):  Your way with words astonishes me, as always

Andrew snorts. His phone buzzes with another text a second later.

Neil (ICE):  Doing fine. Have not left the house, per instruction. Reheated leftovers and am now watching great british baking show.

Neil (ICE):  Paul being an ass is not the same without you here to also be an ass, fyi

Andrew's chest squeezes, a smile tugging fiercely on his lips, pulling the corners of his mouth up minutely. He types again, fingers never as fast as Neil's over the 2d keys.

Your iPhone:  You'll have to rely on your own asshole-ishness, then

Neil sends back the middle finger emoji and his turn on eight ball in succession. He did awfully, as always (mobile games are not one of Neil's above listed skills), and a second later he sends Andrew an image.

It's of him sitting on the couch, blanket bundled snugly around his shoulders and the Great British Baking Show visible in the background. The fever and warm blankets have made a bright flush rise on his face, a small piece of his collarbone and half of his mussed hair visible in frame. He has a small, private smile on his pale and ill face, everything about him so familiar and safe it hurts Andrew's insides.

He stares at the picture for as long as he can without feeling too pathetic about himself, and then goes back to playing eight ball. It's harder to focus after that, when all he wants to do is be home with Neil, but he makes do. They play Game Pigeon until the next customer walks into the bar.

And if with every drink he pours, Andrew is thinking about a certain redhead, well. That's really no one's business but his.

***

When Andrew unlocks the door of their home later that afternoon, it is dark and quiet in the apartment. Neil's dirty running shoes are, as always, thrown haphazardly across the entry, the painting Kevin had gifted them for Christmas last year hanging on the wall opposite Andrew. He shoves off his Doc Martens at the entryway and lets his shoulders slump with the comfortable familiarity of it all, tired in that slow way that comes after working a boring shift.

"Neil?" he calls as he makes his way through the dim kitchen, flicking on one of the smaller lights to combat the sleepy darkness.

He follows the sound of the TV to the living room, where Neil is still a bundle of blankets on the couch, much like when Andrew left close to five hours ago. The only light in the room is coming from the low volume television, muted blue light washing the room in a dim and drowsy glow. On screen, Alex Trebek questions competitors on some mountain range in South America.

Andrew sighs, lets his eyes wander to the lump of blankets wedged to the far side of the couch. A bit of red curls sticks up from the pile, tangled and barely visible. He walks closer to kneel on the floor before the mound of fabric.

"I see we've ventured into Jeopardy territory; things must have taken a turn for the worst." he calls, part teasingly, part seriously, and part in greeting. He pokes dubiously at what he thinks is Neil's arm. "You in there, Wymack?"

A beat passes with no response and then the pile of blankets shuffles, unwrapping to reveal Neil's heat-flushed and disgruntled face. His eyes land on Andrew's, bleary and unfocused, and the corner of his mouth tilts up.

"Hey," he croaks. His voice is torn up and gravelly and Andrew winces at the sound of it. "Good shift?"

"Mh, fine," he grunts. He moves his hand slowly to Neil's hair and settles his fingers into the auburn curls, combing gently through the sweat-damp strands. He can feel Neil's fever burning underneath his fingertips."Was fine until I come home to you trying to boil yourself alive," he chides. "Lose the blankets, hotshot, come on."

Neil groans in protest as Andrew jabs him not kindly in his bicep, peeling a few of the layers off of Neil's fevered form and moving them to the other side of the couch. Neil shivers in the exposed air, goosebumps erupting over his arms and neck.

"I'm cold," he groans. He slumps forward to drop his hot forehead against Andrew's shoulder.

Andrew rolls his eyes and scoffs, but it's a gentle thing. He knows Neil is only complaining because he can, now, in the warm and safe bubble they have created with their lives. He has been through worse things than a chest cold—he was homeless for a couple years before they met, and Andrew knows he had dealt with nearly freezing to death then, and infection, and food poisoning from eating trash. This doesn't even come close to the worst he has had to face.

Him complaining over something this trivial is just evidence of the growth they both have done—of the safety they now have and all the softness and indulgence that comes with it. Andrew is more than happy to let him complain about this because it means that a small fever is all Neil has to worry about now, with his history left decades behind him.

Andrew's hand comes up to brace against Neil's back, holding him up and shifting forward so they are both sitting nearly on the edge of the couch. "You have a fever, idiot," he says. "You're baking like shepherds pie under all those."

Neil shrugs against Andrew's collarbone, loose and uncaring. "Okay," he says. "Weird analogy, though."

Andrew shrugs. He likes weird analogies. "It's true," he says.

Neil squints. "I'd rather be a shepherds pie, actually. Shepherd pies are warm. Shepherd pies don't catch colds."

Andrew snorts. "Idiot," he says.

"Yeah," Neil says.

Andrew sighs and scratches at the back of Neil's scalp, trying not to get strands of auburn in his mouth from the nearness of him. The edges of the redhead's syllables are rounded out with an accent, the way they only get when he's exhausted or fevered or scared.

It's a habit left over from early childhood, from days with his British foster families that he had later forced himself to keep. Maybe as a defense mechanism, like a chameleon changing it's skin, always there behind his tongue if he needs it.

"I can hear your accent," he mutters after a second. "Is it cause you're tired or feverish, what do you think?"

Neil leans back to look at him, eyes soft and glassy. "Both, probably," he rasps. He grins, and the tilt of it is smirk-like. "Come for the accent, stay for the existential crisises." He quips. "Is it crisises? Crises? Crisisis?"

Andrew stares. A buoyant exasperated fondness fills his windpipe. "It's crises."

"Oh," Neil says. "Okay."

Andrew huffs out a laugh, leaning forward to squeeze Neil's blanket-clad knee and then getting to his feet.

"Alright," he says. "I'm gonna go grab the thermometer and some washcloths. Any requests?"

Neil hums, leaning back against the cushion. "Tap water?" he asks.

Andrew rolls his eyes. "With no ice," he predicts. "Heathen."

Neil smiles at Andrew as he walks out of the room and into the kitchen, picking up the thermometer left over from earlier and grabbing a glass to run under the tepid sink. It still feels unreal to him that he gets to know someone as well as he knows Neil. Know every nook and cranny, every trivial and crucial intricacy of him. He knows how Neil likes his water when he's sick, of all the things to know about a person, and practically every other minute detail as well.

Andrew's memory has served to be a torture device over the course of his life. It has kept every moment of fear and trauma stored in vivid detail to replay when he's at his weakest, a detailed, awful loop. Despite of it's more horrific qualities though, Andrew will always be grateful for his memory because of this. Neil Wymack is complex and full of multitudes, and Andrew's brain hoards every layer of him greedily.

What's just as incredible to him is that Neil knows Andrew back. He has taken the time and effort needed to learn every one of Andrew's intricacies. He has stayed, no matter what. And now, after years and years together, they are rewarded with this; the complete knowledge of the other's jagged edges, the ability to trace the sharp ridges of their hearts in the dark with closed eyes.

As Andrew runs two clean washcloths under the cool stream of water to wet them, he wonders if they even qualify as sharp anymore, when their roughness has been ground down by years of domesticity and peace. He thinks he doesn't mind that they might be less dangerous or bladed when his chest feels light more often now than it doesn't. When he gets to see Neil's smile every day.

He walks back out into the comfort of the living room with two cool washcloths draped over his arm, a glass of lukewarm water in one hand and a thermometer in the other. He crouches down beside the couch again, beside Neil, who has his head leaned back against the cushion.

Neil looks up at him as kneels, face soft, reaching forward sleepily to take the thermometer from Andrew's proffered hand. He sticks it under his tongue wordlessly. Andrew leans over Neil to drape one of the washcloths across his flushed nape, putting his hand on Neil's arm as he shudders with the cold.

After another couple seconds of Andrew's thumb brushing back-and-forth against Neil's skin, the thermometer beeps loudly into the Jeopardy-filled silence. Neil pulls it out of his mouth and makes a face.

"One-oh-three point one," he reads off, eyes lidded.

"Mmh," Andrew hums, frowning minutely. "It's gotten worse. Did you take more meds while I was gone?"

Neil runs a hand through his hair, leaving it strewn across his forehead messily. "Yeah." He yawns, head falling back and voice tapering off. "It's fine; nothing we can do about it now. Come sit." he pats the couch beside him, rolling his head forward a bit to look up at Andrew through his eyelashes.

Andrew's knees go weak, of course, because he is nothing but putty in Neil's experienced hands. He rolls his eyes to maintain some dignity and then crawls without hesitation onto the couch beside the redhead. "You are the living manifestation of germs," he complains, sitting back against the cushion and dragging one of the blankets onto his lap.

Neil shrugs, uncaring, although Andrew knows it's an act. He hates to get Andrew sick--his clinginess now is evidence of years worth of work on the blond's part, helping Neil to unlearn the guilt and anxiety-ridden fears from his childhood.

"You signed up for this," Neil says, and moves to hold himself above Andrew's chest. "Yes or no?"

"Yes," he sighs. He's gotten oh-so-predictable in the face of Neil Wymack and all that he is. But what is else he supposed to say? 

Neil smiles without teeth, warm and small, and then drops himself all at once onto Andrew's chest. He elbows him neatly in the ribs on the way down, folding with practiced ease into the space there, face smushed against Andrew's shirt.

Andrew exhales, part in a forceful expel of air and part in exasperated fondness. This—cuddling with Neil, getting to hold the whole weight of the wiry redhead in his arms, feeling the planes of his ribs against his own, still feels too big. It feels like holding the sun, like chugging a can of cherry-cola that buoys in his chest.

He brings his palms up to the sides of Neil's torso, readjusting the damp washcloth that had slipped off of his neck. Time and love has made him a mother-hen, but only for Neil. He grabs the remote from beside the redhead's splayed legs to turn up the volume on the TV.

On his chest, Neil shifts his head against Andrew's shirt to watch the screen, mouth open to accommodate for his stuffed nose. His breaths feather softly against the skin of Andrew's arm.

"If you drool on me, i'm genuinely kicking you out," Andrew grumbles. Neil doesn't respond, eyes glazed as he stares at the line of Jeapardy contestants currently on screen.

He makes a small noise in the back of his throat before his chest hitches. Abruptly, he breaks out into coughs, body jolting as he raises up on his elbow to face away from Andrew. The fit lasts for multiple seconds, loud and uncomfortable-sounding, and Andrew's palm comes up unconsciously to rest on Neil's back, holding him up.

When the coughing slows to a halt Neil collapses on top of Andrew again, shaking with fever and pissed. He closes his eyes, rubs a hand aggressively up and down his face to soothe the itchiness and watery eyes.

"I hate this," Neil says lowly, breaths still short and hands curling tightly into fists.

Andrew hums; he reaches down to rub his thumb into Neil's clavicle. "I know," he says calmly. His hand is steady on Neil's chest, heavy and soothing. He taps a finger against his shirt. "Here: list of things you're going to do when you feel better. Go."

Neil likes lists. He uses them to calm himself, a tactic that had started in high school amidst biweekly panic attacks and nightmares. Andrew had been with him then, had helped him memorize random items and come up with new ideas for whichever situation was stressing him out. He knows which type to use for which particular brand of bad Neil is feeling.

Neil sighs, presses his cheek flat against Andrew's ribs. He hesitates for only a second before speaking. "I'm going to go for a run," he says, voice gravelly. "Down to that one park with the squirrels that you never let me go to in the winter because of ice."

Andrew hums. That's as good a start as any. "Okay. And?"

Neil considers. "And ... we can go to lunch at the new Italian place down the street--by the way, our neighbor said the pizzas there are great," he says.

"Noted," Andrew says. "We can go next week, the bar is closed on Thursday. We're getting new countertops or something."

Neil relaxes on top of him all at once, sinking against Andrew's chest. These plans are real, solid--he will not be lost in the haze of fever forever. Andrew ignores the way Neil's elbow is still jabbing into his ribs, presses his palm into his back.

"Okay," Neil murmurs. "I want to walk into a Lush just to prove I can still breathe in through my nose."

Andrew scoffs. "Uh-huh. And?

Neil blinks. "And ... go bowling."

Andrew snorts a laugh. "Really. Bowling?"

Neil's lips spread into a smile, still pressed to Andrew's shirt. "You just don't want to go 'cause you suck at bowling."

Andrew does truly suck at bowling. Neil isn't all that good either, though.

"Fuck you," he says. "As long as we don't invite Kevin, I'm fine. I am not in the mood to get beaten by him this week. His head is already three sizes too big."

Neil's smile grows. "Fine, I won't invite Kevin. He'll be pissed, though, and you're the one who's going to have to deal with it."

"Tragic," Andrew deadpans. "His all-consuming egotism will have to wait."

Neil laughs, a small, amused laugh, and it fills Andrew's insides like helium. He fights down the fizz-pop-bubbles that rise in his stomach, exasperated with himself. He's been whipped for so many years and he still can't handle Neil fucking laughing.

"Remember when I first got adopted," Neil says, shifting minutely to look up at Andrew through his lashes. "And Wymack thought it would be a good idea to take me and Kev bowling because 'bonding'?"

He puts the last word in air quotes, and the thought is so ridiculous Andrew snorts again.

Andrew, of course, does remember that day. Chilly December, the air so cold it bit at all their fingers. Andrew had come bowling with them because of course he had. Him in his five foot, goth teenage glory alongside Neil's wiry frame made quite the obvious visual reminder of the package deal that they came as. Apply for one fucked up foster kid and get two, bound at the hip and devoted to one another.

And besides, Andrew was not about to let Neil go out alone with a new family for the day. Not after everything. Not after the scars on Neil's torso and the ones on Andrew's wrists.

"Kevin was so mad when you got a strike he nearly cried," Andrew says, hand coming up once again to tangle into Neil's hair.

Neil smiles at the memory. "Yeah." He closes his eyes, a sure sign that he's getting tired again. "He was so fucking angry. God, he's so easy. This conversation is making me want to fuck with him."

"What's stopping you?" Andrew asks.

Neil hums. "Good point. Add that to my list of things to do when I feel better."

Andrew snorts. "I'll take note."

Kevin is, admittedly very easy to fuck with. His and Neil's sibling/rivalry relationship had started up near directly after Neil was adopted, both of them too competitive and stupid for their own good. Andrew was drawn into the circle of idiocy not long after.

Neil nods affirmatively against his chest, lips stretching into a yawn. He rests his head a bit heavier on Andrew's chest.

"Tired?" Andrew asks. The light filtering in from the windows still has sun laced through it, and he sighs at Neil's answering half-nod. "It's early," he points out, scratching at Neil's scalp.

Neil lifts his shoulders a fraction. "I'm sick. It's allowed."

"I know," Andrew answers. "Never said it wasn't."

Neil opens his eyes just to roll them, jabbing Andrew weakly in the ribs with his finger. Andrew grunts. Normally he would jab Neil back but today he refrains, keeping his hands in Neil's hair.

He's not surprised that Neil's tired, even if he has been napping for most of the day. A healthy Neil is a Neil full of endless, annoying energy, running his legs of damn near every day, constantly in some type of motion. One of the biggest indicators that he doesn't feel well--mentally or physically—is this. Exhausted and still for once, limbs pressed motionlessly to Andrew's.

He hates it. As much as Andrew complains about Neil's rabbit-like energy, it's who Neil is, something Andrew immediately associates with the redhead. Seeing him without it feels wrong and backward and makes Andrew anxious.

He exhales slowly against Neil's hair. If Neil is going to fall asleep, he wants to get more food in the redhead before he does. "What do you want for dinner?" he asks, thumbing through Neil's curls.

Neil doesn't answer. After a couple long seconds he lifts his shoulders in a minute and uncomfortable shrug, turning his face against Andrew's ribs.

Andrew frowns. "Don't think you can eat?" he asks. He isn't surprised. Neil's fever is high enough for his body to start rejecting food, and Andrew is frankly grateful he ate both breakfast and lunch today.

"I don't know," Neil mutters. His muscles are tensing up anxiously and Andrew's hand settles over his fevered neck to ground him. "I don't—feel good."

He trips over the words. Andrew knows he wants to say I'm fine. He wants to say don't worry about it, and, I can eat, even if it just means he'd be crouched over the toilet later.

"Okay," Andrew says. He rubs his thumb over Neil's skin, because he can. "I have to make food anyway. You can have some if you feel up to it," he says, pausing. "It's okay, Abram," he adds, because he can, and because food is weird for most foster kids, but especially ones as fucked up as they are.

Neil nods, sighs against Andrew's t-shirt. His muscles relax but he still seeks out Andrew's hand against the covers. "Okay," he agrees. "Maybe if you make pasta I can have some plain."

Andrew hums. "That sounds good," he says. He means whatever you need. He means I'll do anything for you.

Neil already knows those things, of course. They have proven them to each other over and over as the years have gone by.

It is not an easy process to get Neil off of his chest and escape the clingy mess that is his octopus arms. Normally, he would have no want to, but getting them both fed so they can go to sleep is high on his list of objectives at the moment. He leaves Neil strewn across the couch, head pillowed on the previously abandoned blankets and eyes already slipping closed.

The clock above the oven tells him that it is 6:30. He rolls his neck and gets the pasta out of the cabinet.

He's tired too, for how early it is. Something about the absence of Neil's usual restless, itchy, infectious energy has rubbed off on him. Their dark and quiet apartment isn't helping either. His eyes are heavy as he boils water in a pot, sticks the angel hair into the tiny-bubble filled water.

As he cooks pasta for Neil—Neil who is not his lover, but is all the same the person he has chosen to spend his life with—the domesticity of it all hits him for the thousandth time. He is endlessly, achingly grateful for the life him and Neil have together. It shocks and astounds him every day, fills his lungs with glitter.

That he can have peace and love and quiet is something incredible. He knows Neil feels the same—it's in the way he continues to share a bed with Andrew, despite how unconventional it is from the outside, in his meaningful eye contact and his fingers hooked through Andrew's belt loops. It's Neil cooking pancakes for breakfast even though he hates sweet things, stealing bites of Andrew's dessert.

Neil would do anything for Andrew, and he has proven that. It is ridiculous how happy and loved he makes Andrew feel in every moment, even if it is not a soft one, even if things are bad or he is angry.

Neil's appreciation for Andrew shows in all of his actions. If Andrew has one goal, it's to accomplish the same.

The pasta is simple but he cooks it with care. It is a fairly quick and easy meal, and he finishes it fast because he wants to go sit with Neil, and because he is tired. He makes two bowls; one for him with cheese and sauce, and one for Neil, scooping the plain but perfectly cooked noodles into the porcelain. He leaves the dishes in the sink to be dealt with later and carries the two bowls back out into the living room. Back out to Neil.

The TV has moved on to streaming a National Geographic documentary, a crowd favorite in the Dobson-Wymack household. Andrew sets the steaming bowls of pasta on the coffee table and sits down in the slim space Neil has left on the couch, shoulder tucked against the leather arm.

Neil is asleep. His curls are falling into his face and shadowing his eyes, breaths softly audible as they pass steadily through his lungs and past his pretty lips. The light of the TV casts him in a flickering glow, colored shadows stretching across his face. Andrew briefly feels the air get knocked from his lungs.

Neil is unfairly gorgeous, as always, even when he's sick and tired and pale. Andrew is swept away, sometimes, when he least expects it, with the want to kiss him. His lips are chapped and slightly parted, and Andrew aches with the want to press them to his own. He closes his eyes.

His attraction to Neil is always there, in every waking moment and interaction, but he has gotten pretty good over the years at looking past it. He has never acted on it—the thought of doing anything that the other man doesn't know about or would be uncomfortable with starts up a potent nauseous feeling in his gut, and an intense self hatred that leaves him blank-eyed with the weight of it.

It's fine. It's worth it. Andrew doesn't regret any of it or want anything to happen that Neil doesn't also want. But that doesn't make it not hard.

He waits, biting his lip, until the feeling passes, the desire slipping back into a familiar and ignorable simmering. Then he sighs, settles a hand over Neil's shoulder to wake him.

Neil is a light sleeper and he is awake almost as soon as Andrew's fingertips brush against his t-shirt, blue eyes cracking open and frame tensing slightly. He recognizes Andrew and exhales a low breath through his mouth, eyes slipping closed again at the recognition of safety.

Andrew nudges him gently. "Food," he says. Neil doesn't move. "Neil."

Neil groans, slits his eyes open again and then slowly pushes himself up onto his elbow. Andrew helps him the rest of the way until he is leaning heavily, warm and drowsy, on Andrew's shoulder.

Andrew gives Neil a couple minutes to orient himself, eyes focused blearily on the documentary about gray wolves that's playing on the television across from him. His fingers find themselves once again buried in Neil's familiar auburn curls, almost unconsciously, threading the strands through his fingers.

Neil hums, stretching his spine out like a cat. "How long was I out?" he murmurs after a couple scenes play, a lone gray wolf in a pine forest, the narrator's voice quiet and monotone. Comforting.

"Not long." Andrew leans forward to grab the two bowls of food from the coffee table and set one in Neil's lap, jostling the redhead in the process. "Twenty minutes or so."

"Mm," Neil mutters, a small noise in the back of his throat. He picks up his fork to nudge at the plain noodles. "Thank you."

Andrew doesn't answer, twirling his fork in the pasta and sticking it into his mouth, hungry after eating early at his shift near seven hours ago. Neil picks up a couple noodles with his fork and eats them slowly, expression twisted and still leaning heavily against Andrew.

They sit in silence for a while, watching the easy and calming documentary as it plays. Andrew likes predators—big cats are his favorite, but wolves are admittedly very cool too. The documentary covers a female wolf and her lifespan, most of the scenes following the lithe, graceful animal through a forest.

By the time Andrew has made it all the way through his bowl, Neil has only managed a few bites of his own food, groaning as Andrew leans forward to set his plate back on the coffee table.

"Are you done?" he asks Neil, putting an arm on his shoulder for leverage.

Neil looks down, pushing at his fork with his pinky. "Yeah," he says. "Sorry."

Andrew rolls his eyes, flicks him gently on his forehead. "It's okay," he says. "Shut up."

He puts Neil's half-eaten food on the table beside his own, leaning back onto the couch and letting Neil slump fully into him, exhausted and cold with fever. Andrew puts an arm around him, drawing him close, rubbing his thumb along Neil's arm.

On screen, the narrator's voice sounds as two gray wolves face each other in a snow-dusted wood, a second having joined the previous single wolf. Their forms are sleek and dangerous, eyes following the other's movements sharply as they move in a slow circle.

"Gray wolves are highly intelligent and social creatures," the narrator says, subtitles popping up below the wolves in time with their voice. "As some of the most elegant and mystifying predators known to man, they have captivated humanities stories and myths for centuries."

Neil's eyes shine with the reflected light of the TV as he watches, heavily lidded with exhaustion. He drags another blanket up from where it was bunched around his legs, and Andrew doesn't complain this time, lets him wrap it around his shoulders and scoot closer.

His eyes flick up to Andrew's. "Can I lay down?" he asks, gesturing with a blanket-wrapped hand towards Andrew's lap.

Andrew's heart stops beating for a three-count because of his love for Neil, and the wild and unpredictable cuteness of him. He nods wordlessly, moves on the couch so Neil will be more comfortable and watches as he settles down against Andrew's legs, curls pillowed against his thighs.

Neil Wymack is not what most would consider adorable. He is a feral asshole, and his resting bitch face is rivaled only by Andrew's. He's hot, sure, with his sharp features and icy eyes, but most people Andrew has met are wary of him at first glance, and a consider him a menace if they look deeper.

Andrew is the exception to many rules, and this is one of them. Maybe he's just lucky enough to know Neil better than nearly everyone else in the world, know the soft parts of him that no one else sees. Neil would not be cuddling into Andrew's lap and looking up at him with those soft eyes if he was anyone else. He would be barbed, just as Andrew would be.

But in spite of it all, undeniably and ridiculously, Andrew finds Neil cute.

He sighs and settles his hands against the redhead, one burying itself in his soft curls and one placed on the dip between his shoulder and hips. He lets his gaze wander back to the TV as his palm runs along the line of Neil's ribs.

On screen, the scenery has changed, the two wolves from before running side-by-side through a forest. They look to be racing, playful, companionable.

"Gray wolves mate for life, and their species is among some of the rare percentage of mammals that practices any form of monogamy," the narrator continues. "The female wolf we have been tracking seems to have found her life partner."

In Andrew's lap, Neil shifts, adjusting his head sleepily against Andrew's legs. He's already halfway back to sleep, eyes in small slits as he watches the wolves run on screen. Andrew's thumb traces his scalp absentmindedly.

"You're my gray wolf," Neil says, all at once and mind-bogglingly. His voice is quiet and tired and steady, and Andrew could drown in the tone of it.

For a second Andrew can't respond, his heart fully inside of his throat. "You're mine too," he replies evenly, even though his insides are a forest fire. "Sap."

Neil snorts, loose and tired, and turns his face into the blankets, tucked close against Andrew and head a comforting weight on his lap. Neil is drifting again, but that's okay. Andrew wants to finish the documentary before they go to bed.

On screen, the wolves lay beside each other in the snow, one asleep and the other awake, eyes alert as it keeps watch.

***

The documentary ends an hour or so later, shifting into some other informational production put on by National Geographic that Andrew finds widely less interesting. He's nearly asleep as well by the time the end screen is displayed, eyes drooping and head heavy against the back of the couch. Neil is still sleeping and warm in his lap.

It takes longer than usual for the redhead to wake up and get ready for bed, Andrew keeping a steady hand on the small of his back as they walk to Andrew's bedroom. He doesn't have to ask which room Neil wants to sleep in tonight; he fists a weak and sleepy hand in Andrew's shirt and drags him through Andrew's door without prompting.

Inside it is dark and quiet and familiar. Neil walks over immediately to the bed and faceplants onto the edge, groaning quietly at the soft sheets and not bothering to move the comforter.

Andrew snorts softly, hesitating momentarily to take in Neil's splayed-out frame with soft eyes.

It takes him longer to get ready for bed, too, with no reason to rush and tired limbs. He makes his way, half asleep, through the familiar steps. He brushes his teeth. He washes his face. He changes out of his work clothes.

And then he makes his way back to Neil, Neil who had found his way under the comforter in the time Andrew was gone, who's hair is splayed out and cheek smushed against the pillow. Andrew fights back a smile as he climbs over Neil to lay at his place against the wall, waking the redhead in the process.

"Mnph," Neil grumbles, incoherent and throaty. "Yes or no?"

"Yes, Neil," Andrew murmurs. Always yes.

Neil rolls over, limbs—for once—uncoordinated, nearly smacking Andrew in the face. He shuffles backward until his chest reaches Andrew's, sleepily reaching behind his shoulder to fumble for Andrew's hand and then dragging it to wrap around his chest.

Andrew chokes back a laugh and gets the message, moving his arms to hold Neil against him. They are so close that, if the light was on, Andrew could count every single one of the baby hairs on the back of Neil's neck. They are so close that Andrew aches with it, with the want to be this close to Neil all the time.

He shuffles to get more comfortable, letting himself relax against the mattress, letting his fingers splay against Neil's ribs. He can count the pulse of Neil's heartbeat. The steady ba-bum that echoes through Andrew's fingertips and bones.

Neil falls asleep rapidly, leaving Andrew awake. He's tired, and sleep pulls at him, but for a while, he just lays there and holds Neil. Neil, who is his gray wolf. Neil, who is his safety.

Eventually, on maybe the thousandth pulse of Neil's heart, he falls asleep.

***

Andrew wakes up blearily to the sound of something rough and loud close to his ear. He jolts upright, sheets pooled around his waist, confused. For a couple moments, all that he registers is that it is dark, and all that he knows is that he had been asleep seconds before.

He reorients himself quickly; he is in his room. He is safe. The weight on the bed is Neil Abram Wymack. And the rough and loud noise is coming from him.

Andrew is more alert, then. Neil is coughing—that's the noise, the jarring and grating and painful sounding noise. Andrew's eyes adjust to the darkness quickly, and then he is turning and scooting closer to Neil, wincing at the hacking coughing fit that had clearly woken the other man.

Neil is half-slumped and curled over on the pillows beside him, holding himself up with one hand as he directs his coughs away from Andrew. Andrew moves to pull him upright, one hand braced firmly on his lower back, and guides him towards his shoulder. His hand snakes around to Neil's chest, rubbing in slow circles against his pajama top.

"Breathe," he mumbles into Neil's hair. The redhead's torso jumps with the wracking coughs underneath Andrew's hands, head tilted towards the blankets in his lap as rough and deep coughs force their way from his lungs.

Andrew hates it. Hearing Neil struggle and generally be in pain while Andrew can't do anything to help is not a new feeling for him, unfortunately, but it is one that burns like acid in his diaphragm. He takes measured breaths and focuses on supporting Neil, on holding him up and being sturdy for him to lean on.

Eventually, the coughing slows and Neil manages to suck in a deep and wheezy breath, relaxing slightly into Andrew's side. He reaches up to rub at his eyes.

"Fuck," he manages finally.

"You sound like a dying chainsaw," Andrew says. His words are at odds with the way his hand keeps rubbing Neil's chest in a slow back-and-forth motion, red hair tickling his chin.

Neil snorts with an aborted laugh, letting out a final short cough. "Thanks."

They lapse into silence. It's still dark—so dark it must be either very late or very, very early, the only light in the room coming from the black-gray outline of the blinds. Andrew fumbles on the side table for the remote and flicks on a lamp across the room, its dim purple light flooding the room with saturated color.

The glare fills up Neil's face, pallid features highlighted with a purplish glow, eyes reflective in the dark room. His head rests in the crook of Andrew's shoulder, feverish brow heavy against his collarbone. Andrew's hand comes up to comb through his hair.

"You okay?" Andrew asks after a while.

Neil sighs, breath softly blowing across Andrew's skin. "Yeah," he mutters. He finds Andrew's hand amongst the covers and squeezes. "Sorry."

Andrew rolls his eyes, because of course Neil is saying sorry. The fucking idiot. "Shut it," Andrew says, not kindly. He exhales. Squeezes Neil's hand back.

"Okay," Neil agrees. "I love you," he says, his words seeping into the night air.

He says it so simply, like it's the truest thing in the world. Andrew knows Neil doesn't feel the same way about him as he feels about Neil, but he loves Andrew with the same intensity, the same completeness, regardless of that. That's the reason Andrew doesn't mind that Neil isn't romantic, because it's enough. To know that they hold every piece of each other's hearts, in whatever way that might be.

"I love you too," Andrew says. He puts his lips against Neil's hair, rubbing his thumb over Neil's palm. "Vicks and then sleep?"

Neil smiles slowly against his skin. "Vicks and then sleep," he agrees.

With that decided, and Neil calm and breathing steadily, he leans slowly off of Andrew's chest, a small tilt of a smile still on his face. Andrew keeps a hold on his arm, because he can, and hands Neil a day-or-so old glass of water that's still sitting on his nightstand, relatively untouched and probably stale. Somewhat reluctantly, he stands from his warm bed and warm Neil and into the cool night air.

The tile in the bathroom is cold under his bare feet, the light he flicks on above the mirror burning bright-yellow against his eyes. He blinks rapidly, crouching to open the cupboard below the sink. He sees hot pink imprints left by the light behind his eyes when he closes them.

It doesn't take him long to find the Vick's, abandoned behind a bottle of Windex from the last time one of them was sick, blue container half full in his hand. He scratches at the label absentmindedly with his thumb, and sighs.

Him and Neil aren't rich, or particularly wealthy in any way. Neil's cough is fully in his chest at this point, and he has a low and simmering anxiety in his stomach over what will happen if it gets worse. They have health insurance, but it's shitty, and while Andrew's sure Abby and Wymack would be happy to pay for anything Neil might need to stay healthy, he still doesn't like being unsure in any way over Neil's safety.

Andrew, of course, knows that Neil is going to be just fine. But growing up the way they both did doesn't make room for much for anything that's not an anxious attachment style.

Neil is so deeply entrenched in his life at this point, Andrew can't even imagine a life without him in it. What would it be like to not have someone like him, someone who knows Andrew so completely and who is always, always there in his corner? Someone he is so comfortable with he no longer questions the encompassing place the other man has in his life?

Andrew shakes his head to clear it and scoffs, quietly. Neil has a cold. Projecting his issues and vague thanatophobia onto him by imagining the worst possible scenario is not helping anything. He gets to his feet, shutting the cabinet below him and flicking off the light.

Neil is waiting for him in the bedroom, looking as though he's barely holding on to consciousness, eyes drooping and frame slumped against the pillow. He smiles warmly when Andrew walks in and sits beside him on the bed, holding up the jar of ointment.

"Me or you?" Andrew asks, raising an eyebrow.

Neil, apparently too tired or throat too sore to attempt at words, just flicks a finger to indicate Andrew, already leaning forward to shrug off his sleep shirt and toss it onto the floor. Andrew sighs, well rehearsed from years of acting put-upon by Neil when really all he feels a smothering and consuming fondness. He moves a bit closer to the redhead and scoops a small amount of the gel onto his finger.

"Yes?" he asks.

"Yes." Neil answers.

Andrew starts, rubbing the ointment into Neil's chest methodically. He keeps his touch clinical and light over Neil's familiar skin, and if he doesn't shudder at the feeling it's only because of years of practice. He is used to this, the warm skin and steady breathing and closeness of it all. Sometimes, Andrew rubs scar cream into the couple of rough and raised patches Neil got in the foster system before they met, hands gentle and warm like he knows no one had touched Neil with before him. It makes him feel... something. Something deep and profound that coils around his bones.

When he is moving on to Neil's throat, fingers lightly working the gel into the skin there, he feels Neil shiver at an errant brush of his finger, torso tensing up. He pulls back immediately.

"Okay?" he asks, scanning Neil's form. His cheeks are more flushed than they had been a second ago, and his eyes linger on Andrew's hands.

Neil swallows, throat bobbing. "Yeah, keep going."

Andrew frowns, but when his hands tentatively meet Neil's skin again, he is pliant and relaxed once more. Andrew continues, but he is sure to be extra careful around Neil's throat, well aware of the sick men that pressed hands to his airways when he was young and cowering in homes that weren't his.

All of the terrors happened decades ago, but when you're a child, they slip under your skin and stay with you. Andrew is well aware of that. Only, it doesn't seem like that's what bothered Neil.

When he has finished with Neil's chest and throat he leans back once more, twisting the blue cap back on with greasy fingers. He wipes off the excess on Neil's shoulder for good measure. When he looks back up to the other man's face it's to find Neil's blue eyes already centered on him, soft and full of depth.

"Staring," Andrew says. Oh god, when did he get to be so predictable. Was it in high school or college or somewhere along the way with Neil's hand in his? Was he doomed from the start?

He knows he was, of course. He's been gone for Neil Wymack since the moment he laid eyes on him. Nothing about his striking appearance or bladed words or whip-sharp brain had left room for him to not be.

Neil doesn't answer, familiar with Andrew's deflections. He keeps right on staring, eyes like glass shards in the dark. Sharp, but never sharp enough to cut Andrew on their edges.

Andrew sighs. "Shirt on or off?" he asks.

Neil wrinkles his nose, flicking his fingers minutely. "Off," he says.

"Okay," Andrew says. "But i'm not touching you without it. You're sticky."

Neil narrows his eyes. He cocks his head a bit to the left, considering. "... on."

Andrew rolls his eyes. "Uh-huh."

Neil is predictable too, of course. Andrew knows him too well for him not to be.

Unfortunately, Neil had tossed his shirt off the bed mere minutes before. Normally Andrew would force him to get it, but Neil is sick and tired, and, contrary to popular belief, Andrew is not cruel.

He is, however, lazy. He leans over the side of the bed instead of getting up, straining his fingertips to fish for the discarded item of clothing. On his third brush against the fabric he manages to snag it with his pointer finger, groaning as he leans back over onto the bed.

"You are so high maintenance," he grumbles to Neil. His hair had fallen dramatically into his eyes on his way back upright—he is in desperate need of a haircut, and so is Neil—and he runs a hand through it to comb it back.

When he looks back up to Neil, proffered shirt hanging loosely from his hand, it's to find the redhead still staring, looking like he just saw a ghost, chapped lips slightly parted.

Andrew hesitates. "What?"

Neil doesn't answer. His mouth closes abruptly, and although it's hard to see in the dim purple light of the bedroom, his face looks about ten times more flushed than it had a few seconds ago. His stare is focused on Andrew's face, following him as he moves, lingering and filled with revelation.

"You okay?" Andrew asks, frowning.

Neil makes a small noise, and he looks dazed as his stare centers on Andrew's lips. "Oh," he murmurs.

"Oh?" Andrew asks.

Neil swallows, hard, throat bobbing. "I... think I want to kiss you. On the lips. Is that something you would want?"

Andrew's world narrows, suddenly and completely, until all it holds is Neil and him and the bed beneath them. The glare of purple lights reflecting off of Neil's eyes, his chapped and plump lips, the smattering of freckles beneath his eye.

He feels the grandness of the question, the years and years and years of companionship and partnership behind it. Him and Neil together in grade school, in college, in adulthood. Andrew has been attracted to Neil for probably half of the time he's been alive, and has been in love with him for even longer than that. He feels like his world is upside-down, at this, at something he thought was impossible and out of the question suddenly dropping in his lap.

His heart is in his throat. The fact that Neil even asks is ridiculous, like Andrew would say no. Like he wouldn't hoard every bit and piece of Neil that the other man is comfortable sharing.

"Yes," he manages to breathe, between one heartbeat and another. "That is something I would want."

Neil stares back at him, a small smile slipping on to his face. "Okay. I think I've wanted to kiss you for a long time now, I just didn't—I didn't realize. I've never wanted to do that before."

Andrew has the profound feeling of the ground as he knows it falling away beneath his feet. He is reduced to staring, mouth dry. "I've wanted to kiss you for a long time, too."

"Okay," Neil says simply. A smile splits his face, warm even on his pale skin, and Andrew turns to dust at the sight of it, familiarly, predictably, like he does every time. "That's good. It's different, because you're ... you. Because I love you. I think that's why. No one else."

Andrew reaches out, grasps Neil's hand and squeezes to make sure he's real, and not a figment of Andrew's imagination he made up to get through the monotonous shithole called life. Even with the physical tether, he's still not convinced. "You are a pipe dream," he murmurs.

They've danced this dance before, and Neil's reply comes readily. "I am not a hallucination," he says, voice steady, eyes shining. "Kiss me, Andrew. I want you to. I want to try. And if it doesn't work, nothing has to change." He rubs his thumb over Andrew's. "You'll still be it for me, no matter what."

And oh, Andrew is falling and breaking apart right there on the mattress, crumbling to a million tiny pieces, a pile on the sheets. He would be terrified, would be scared of the drop, if Neil wasn't right there to catch him, sturdy and trusting as always.

He has only had a measly minute or two to reorient himself with this new reality, with this new blown open door, and his heart races with it all. He could ask for more time, he knows, and Neil would be perfect and understanding and loving as always. But god, after years and years of waiting, that is the last thing he wants to do.

He leans forward. Slowly, to give Neil time to change his mind, to make himself believe that this is real and not a dream, some torturous fictional reality. A fantasy he has devised a million times. Neil does not pull away, breath soft against his face, and the weight of his hand in Andrew's is nearly enough to convince him he's awake.

He kisses Neil. Neil kisses him back.

It is not like anything Andrew's ever had. It is not like the boys he kissed in college in back rooms of bars or in club bathrooms. It is not rushed or explosive or demanding. For multiple seconds, his brain short-circuits with the weight of it all, and the only thought running through his head is the knowledge that Neil's lips are on his.

Chapped and overwarm with a low fever, moving in an unpracticed but passionate rhythm with his own. It all slams into him at once, the realness of it, and a tidal wave of want and Neil and love crashes into his sternum. His hand comes up to press against the back of Neil's head, burying his fingers in the curls, Neil's wrists tucking themselves under the tangle of their legs. Predictably and unbelievably, not touching without permission even after all these years.

It feels like being doused with cold water after an eternity of parched desert. It feels like comfort, and safety, and coming home into the warmth of Neil, who Andrew knows better than he knows anyone else. It feels like everything he has imagined and daydreamed about but more so, infinite and at-home, like it's been there the whole time. It sparks a fire in his chest and numbs his fingers.

Andrew could've stayed like that for hours, lost in the push and pull of Neil's mouth on his, but eventually he pulls back, well aware of Neil's fever and stuffed nose. Their foreheads stay pressed together, breathing mingling in the space between their lips, eye contact heated and filled with meaning. Andrew is pathetically winded, and he catches his breath slowly in the night air as Neil gasps similarly across from him.

Andrew swallows. "Verdict?" he asks, somewhat teasing and not ashamed at the unsteady timbre of his voice. Not with Neil.

Neil grins all at once, and despite being sick and the jumping gasps of his chest, despite it all, presses his lips once more against Andrew's. "Yeah," he says. His voice isn't all that steady, either. His eyes shine where they meet Andrew's. "I think we'll be doing more of that."

He pulls Andrew down again against his smiling lips, and Andrew goes willingly.

***

***

***

"So ... how long have you wanted to kiss me, then?"

A groan. "We are not talking about this."

"Okay, but I want to know. Weeks? Months?"

"..."

"Years??"

"You are insufferable."

"I can't believe you've been in love with me for years and you didn't say anything."

"You know why I didn't."

"Sure. But if you had said something sooner, I would've realized I was in love with you sooner, and then we could've been kissing this whole time."

"Literally why do I even like you."

"Scientists are still quiet on this mystery of life."

"Fuck you."

"Maybe later."

"..."

"..."

A drawn-out sigh. "I've been in love with you since High School, Wymack. Happy?"

Neil's grin grows, spreading across his lips.

"...wow, Dobson. How seriously embarrassing for you."

"I genuinely loathe your existence. Die."

"Mm, pass." Neil's smile turns soft. "You're not alone, though. I've been in love with you since the day you threw a lit cigarette at my face. Just because I haven't wanted to kiss you till recently doesn't make that not true."

Andrew's hands are on Neil's face like they have every right to be. Like they belong there.

"A romance for the ages," he deadpans.

Neil's lips are like syrup on his, breaking their kiss with his grin.

"I'd like to think so."