Work Text:
Andrew sits in an empty room.
He flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette and ignores how it lands on the floor. He doesn't care.
He's leaving.
His apartment is empty. Andrew tips his head back, against the wall where his couch used to be. It's all barebones, now, this place that was their home for two years. There's the fridge, silent in the kitchen, and the bed he doesn't need anymore. The living room has been gutted, anything he and Neil didn't bring to the new place thrown out or scavenged by their friends.
Wind blows through the open windows. It's far into night, into the early hours of the morning, and the sounds of the city are dull.
Floorboards creak. Andrew's cigarette burns to the filter.
Neil appears, dressed in one of Andrew's shirts and his own pajama pants. They're orange and patterned with little foxes—a gift from Allison—and worn thin with use.
When Neil sits next to him, balancing two cups carefully, he smells like coffee and soap. The little light coming from outside glints off his hair, rusted bloodred in the dark.
Andrew's breath doesn't catch, but it's a near thing. The rough edges of Neil are barely-lit and indistinct, impressions more than details.
Andrew doesn't need the light to know what Neil looks like. He's had years he didn't need to memorize every piece of him, to commit to memory all the things that make Neil Neil. He knows the lines of him as well as the back of his hand.
Andrew drops the remains of his cigarette and takes the cup Neil offers. It's too late—too early—for coffee, but he doesn't care. He won't be sleeping tonight.
Neil sits warm and silent beside him. The sky lightens shade by shade, shadows retreating with the dull roar of a city beginning its day.
Their cups lie on the floor, left with only cold dregs. Neil's hand is warm in his.
Andrew traces the scars on the back of Neil's hand and thinks, now. Today they move. Their new house waits, filled with furniture waiting to be put together and stacks of boxes. The cats that will be theirs wait at the shelter, their new collars around their necks.
Something clicks into place in Andrew. The dark empty within him, so close to overflowing just a few hours ago, recedes and something like the impression of warmth fills him.
Neil brings Andrew's hand to his mouth, presses his lips to the back of Andrew's hand. It's soft and over before it's begun, his hand back in Neil's lap and Neil's smile small and genuine.
Andrew looks at him, at the play of sunrise on his skin and across his scars. He asks, those words long familiar and rarely used anymore, and Neil meets him in the middle.
It's light. It's home.
It's Neil.