Andrew stretching his neck and saying ‘do it again’ when Neil kisses his neck
Neil had always known he was going to die. It was times like now that made him think he might die happy. Andrew was sitting between Neil’s splayed legs, laptop perched on his lap as he determinedly watched a meandering stream of youtube videos and not the game highlights his coach had sent him to look over. It was so wonderful to have Andrew here, in the same place, in the same chair as Neil that he couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed at Andrew’s refusal to care about Exy. He had his own homework he was supposed to be doing, but he had abandoned Homer to gaze at the swoop of hair that had come loose from Andrew’s tiny bun, streaking a pale line to the knob at the top of Andrew’s spine. The bun was new. The shock of it had stung Neil, when he had first seen it; he’d noticed on Skype calls that Andrew’s hair had been getting longer, but he hadn’t realized it was long enough to tie back. The fact that he had not been there to see Andrew comb it back for the first time, wrap the elastic around the knot, hurt like a broken rib. (“Idiot,” Andrew had said, when he’d seen Neil looking. But this morning he had stood in the bathroom beside Neil to brush his teeth and fix his hair, and Neil had gotten to watch, reflection as delighted as Andrew’s was indifferent, to see the slim black hair tie snap from Andrew’s fingers to the loop of blonde hair. It felt shockingly intimate. He wanted to do that for Andrew, some day, if Andrew would let him.) Neil pressed the pad of his thumb to the base of Andrew’s skull, pressing in gently. There would be some things that always needed asking for, but in the years they had both been at Palmetto they had forged a careful rose of yesses around the dangerous precipice of no, and Neil cradled each yes greedily. Andrew shifted minutely, head dipping forward only as much as someone sitting as close as Neil could see. The smile that broke across Neil’s mouth was the kind Andrew would scoff at Neil for having, Neil could tell without seeing it. He kissed it away on the spot beside his thumb, beside that streak of hair, and reveled in all the places Andrew was soft. And then he drew back, becasue he had a theory, and he wanted to see if it was true. Andrew’s neck arched in Neil’s wake, just barely, as it had tilted forward. It was harder than Neil had anticipated not to follow the invitation and kiss there again, but he had experience in self-restraint. He waited, one hand slipping down to Andrew’s shoulder and the other still holding his battered fifth-hand copy of translated text over the arm of the chair. Got distracted by the divot Andrew’s glasses made behind his ear. Neil wasn’t patient, except for when it came to Andrew. “Neil,” Andrew said eventually. Neil supressed another smile at the edge of irritation in his voice. “Andrew.” “Neil.” “Andrew.” Huff. Andrew’s hands tensed on the edges of his laptop, fingers curling viciously. Neil wanted those hands on him-- but. This was good, too. Just Andrew here, warm and present, smelling like Neil’s laundry detergent. The sweater Andrew was wearing was Neil’s. They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t need to. “Do it again,” Andrew muttered. He arched his neck further and Neil, happily, followed.
