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Neil remains unconvinced he’s a lightweight, but after two hits, he’s slouched against the arm of the sofa, smiling and wiggling his disgusting feet in Andrew’s lap. (They don’t smell or anything. Neil’s hygiene is generally good. But Andrew is certain every single one of Neil’s toes has been broken and then healed incorrectly. It’s a wonder he can run so fast still with his toes all pointing in slightly different directions.)
“Now you,” Neil says, holding the joint out to Andrew. “If you still want to.”
It’s a pre-roll this time. Thankfully. The first time Neil went to the dispensary, he’d brought home flower and rolling papers. He’d made a mess trying to roll a joint. Luckily, Andrew’s years in juvenile detention did teach him a thing or two. But he’s no professional. This shit in Andrew’s hand right now? It’s pristine.
The weed thing is new. Neil’s toes don’t bother him, but his shoulder does — it’s from an injury last year that won’t get all the way better until he stops exerting it for good. The doctor says that as long as the pain stays mild, he’s fine to keep playing. Since Neil’s alternative is asking Ichirou to retire early, and also because the man lives and breathes to play Exy, he’s chosen to suck it up and manage the pain.
It’s fine, normally. It only flares every so often. They gave Neil medicine for the pain, but he won’t take it. Then, his doctor told him that many athletes use medical marijuana for pain management. It’s technically not allowed in the league, but they only get drug tested once a year. Wymack, who is familiar with their current coach, assured Neil that he would never get a “random” drug test during the season. He’s too valuable a player, and plenty of coaches around the league disagree with the current ruling on medical marijuana.
So now, apparently, Neil Josten is a pothead.
He’s only actually gotten high a few times throughout the last two weeks of their off-season break. He takes a few hits and then melts against Andrew’s shoulder or into his lap, alternating between dozing off and smiling dopily until Andrew closes Neil’s eyes again himself.
This time, though, Andrew’s getting high too. There’s a faint whisper of worry that whooshes around his brain as he looks down at the joint. Andrew hasn’t smoked weed since he was a bored teenager with nothing else to do, and he can hardly predict how he’ll react to this. But he decided yesterday, when Neil asked if he’d join him, that it doesn’t really matter how he reacts. The only one here is Neil. They’re at home, in their living room, where nothing bad has happened and bad things are unlikely to happen. He’ll be fine. Worst case scenario, he’ll pull a Neil and sleep it off. (An alternative worst case? The weed makes him horny, and Neil refuses to fuck him, because they agreed to no stoned-fucking tonight. That would truly be a shame.)
And best case scenario? Andrew might get to finally try that thing people call "relaxing." Maybe, just maybe, he'll get a break from all the stupid fucking ruminating he's always doing.
Andrew lights the joint again and takes a hit. It’s different from a cigarette — headier, less enthusiastic. Andrew feels the blurring nonsense of it shoot up through his sinuses and behind his eyes.
Neil is wiggling his feet again, big toes poking at the meatiest part of Andrew’s thigh.
“Good?” Neil asks. Andrew nods, then takes another hit. It’s the speed of it that is impressive. He rests his head back against the couch, blinking at the ceiling a bit as his limbs turn to oatmeal. Very mushy. Not bad, though. Andrew kinda likes oatmeal — especially when there’s cinnamon in it.
With effort, Neil stands up. He plucks the joint from Andrew’s lax fingers, taking another hit before putting it out on the ashtray for now. Neil putters in the direction of the kitchen. That’s another benefit of the weed, actually. Neil, whose appetite is normally limited to necessity, gets hardcore munchies. Their strength coach will be pleased to find that Neil has gained a bit more heft over the break.
Andrew gets up and follows Neil, because he doesn’t really feel like keeping his hands to himself right now. He presses himself up against Neil’s back, wrapping his arms around Neil’s waist and hooking his chin over Neil’s shoulder as he sticks a bowl of Easy Mac into the microwave. They both stare as the cup spins on the plate, whirr whirr whirr.
“Do you want some?” Neil asks once he’s added the cheese packet and stirred. He didn’t really get all the powder to disintegrate, but Neil is an animal and doesn’t care.
“No,” Andrew says, because he’s not really hungry. Instead, he licks Neil’s neck — salty, Neil-y — which makes Neil laugh around a mouthful of macaroni.
“Go put a movie on,” Neil suggests. “I’ll be right there.”
Andrew licks Neil one last time before releasing him and going back to the living room. He doesn’t put that much thought into the movie choice, just goes with his gut, and his gut often tells him to watch About Time.
Neil returns just as Domhnall Gleeson starts monologuing.
“Again?” he asks. “We just watched this last week.”
“You slept through it,” Andrew points out.
“I’ve seen it, like, fifteen times. I didn’t miss anything.”
Neil aims for the couch, but Andrew redirects him with a hand at the small of his back.
“Chair,” he says, and Neil obeys easily.
“Okee dokee,” he says, dropping into the overstuffed armchair and holding his arms out expectantly.
There is a perfect way for them to sit in this chair — Neil sitting normally, shoved to the right, Andrew’s ass tucked into the space at his left with his legs across Neil’s lap. Neil wraps his arms around Andrew in a way that makes Andrew feel like a warm mug of coffee, clutched tight between cold hands. (The metaphor has flaws, Andrew can admit. Neil’s hands are actually very hot, and as part of their assimilation into Boston culture, both of them prefer iced coffee.) (Also, isn’t that a simile?)
“You know what sucks?” Andrew says, movie forgotten. Neil is very distracting, and Andrew’s seen this movie way more than fifteen times.
Neil hmmmmms? at him with squinty, happy eyes.
“So many of the comparisons people use in regular conversation are similes. But it’s weird to reference a simile. No one says that. They just say metaphor. But technically metaphors are specifically comparisons that don’t use ‘like’ or ‘as.’ So it’s wrong to call a simile a metaphor, but also, is anything that’s colloquially used truly wrong? Except if you go with that, and just say ‘metaphor,’ then you risk some asshole coming by and trying to tell you why it’s actually a simile.”
Neil sucks his lips into his mouth and nods slowly, indicating that he processed none of that.
“It’s just easier to make a simile sometimes,” Andrew continues, tugging at the strings of Neil’s hoodie. (Part of him wants to put the strings in his mouth, wants to gnaw and pull with his teeth and get his spit all over them.) (Like a kitten.) (That’s another simile, by the way. See how much of an asshole it sounds like to just talk about similes? In the wild?). “They’re more accessible. I feel like a cup of coffee versus I am a cup of coffee. We’re not doing spoken word poetry here.”
“Sure,” Neil agrees, tracing a finger along Andrew’s jaw, around the shell of his ear, and back again. Andrew opens his mouth again (to say what? He’s not sure) and realizes that he has probably quadrupled his usual daily verbal word count in the last five minutes alone. He snaps his jaw shut, momentarily filled with dread that it’s happening again — no filter, no ability to hold back any of his thoughts.
Neil furrows his brow, touching next to Andrew’s eye. “You okay?”
Andrew blinks a few times, then realizes that this is actually nothing like that. He stopped. His mouth is closed, because he decided to close it, and the words unsaid aren’t hitting the back of his teeth with a battering ram. He’s just… chatty.
“Lots of words,” Andrew explains.
Neil nods.
“I like it,” he says. “Tell me more about figurative language.”
Andrew snorts. He gives in and puts the strings of Neil’s hoodie in his mouth. It’s not as satisfying as he imagined, so he spits them out.
“Anthropomorphism,” Andrew says.
“Yeah?” Neil says.
“I don’t really have opinions on that,” Andrew says. He shifts out of coffee cup mode so that he can straddle Neil’s thighs, leaning over to grab the joint off the end table. He lights it again, then holds the filter up to Neil’s lips. Neil’s eyes close as he takes a drag, pretty pretty lips touching Andrew’s fingers. He takes the joint away to put it in his own mouth, but lifts his other hand to rub his thumb against Neil’s bottom lip as he blows out smoke.
“You’re anthropomorphic,” Andrew says, then pulls on the joint. He blows the smoke directly into Neil’s face, getting a wrinkled nose in response, then puts the joint back on the ashtray. Andrew pokes at Neil’s cheek. “A talking Fox.”
Neil tilts his head to the side so that he can suck Andrew’s finger into his mouth. Andrew feels his jaw drop as Neil sucks with enough pressure that his cheeks start to hollow, then yanks his hand away. He smacks lightly at Neil’s shoulder in warning, because goddamn, they said no fucking, so Neil cannot be doing shit like that with his mouth. It gives Andrew ideas. Visuals. Imagery.
Andrew plants his hands on the chair on either side of Neil’s face, shifting forward and raising up a bit on his knees so that he’s looking down on Neil — a phenomenon he always enjoys. Neil likes it too. He grins, tipping his head back so that he can meet his eyes. The weight on the back of the armchair has it angling backward, but Andrew’s pretty confident that it won’t tip. They’ve done significantly riskier things in this chair.
“I think,” Neil starts, but he has to take a break when Andrew swallows to track the movement in his throat. “I think you just called me a furry.”
Andrew makes a gurgling sound that is suspiciously close to laughter. “How do you know what furries are?”
“Nicky sends me things.”
“Is Nicky a furry?”
“No,” Neil says. “He just finds them interesting. I do too. They’re so unapologetic. And creative.”
Andrew does laugh then, a short and crackling thing, rough with disuse. Neil’s face softens, and he pokes a few times at the hollow of Andrew’s throat.
“What are you doing?” Andrew asks.
“Trying to find your laugh button,” Neil says. “Like at the toy store.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Andrew says, but he smiles again.
“Yes,” Neil says, hands on either side of Andrew’s face. “You’re pretty.”
“Stop,” Andrew warns. Neil shrugs.
“I never tell a lie,” he says, which makes them both laugh. Andrew’s forehead falls down to bump against Neil’s.
“I am absolutely blasted right now,” Neil whispers.
“Blasted?”
“Yeah, like. Fucked up. Fucked all the way up to space.”
“That’s not a thing,” Andrew says, pulling back enough to see Neil’s face.
“It is. It is a thing. Matt said it once.”
Neil looks so serious that Andrew wants to bite him, so he leans in and nips at Neil’s nose. Neil goes cross-eyed trying to watch.
“Whoah,” Neil says. “I think that turned me on.”
Andrew snorts, leaning back. “It did not. You’re so blasted.”
Neil grins, supposed libido immediately forgotten.
“See, it’s a thing!”
“You can add -ed to any word and it sounds like a euphemism for intoxication,” Andrew says.
Neil blinks at him a couple of times, then winces.
“What?” Andrew asks.
“You’re so smart,” Neil whines. “All these big words. I’m literally getting hard.”
Andrew pats at Neil’s crotch. “You’re lying.”
“I’m getting hard in my head,” Neil says. “You make my head so hard.”
“You’re walled,” Andrew says. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Too wheeled. Blended.”
“I’m armchaired,” Neil says.
“That one’s not as good,” Andrew says.
“You made my head too hard to be clever,” Neil admits. “Say more.”
“We’re snowed,” Andrew says. “We’re sauced.”
“Sweet Baby Ray-ed,” Neil offers. Andrew snorts.
“That sounds a euphemism for something else,” Andrew says. He leans close to Neil’s ear and whispers, “I want you to Sweet Baby Ray me.”
Neil groans. “We said no fucking. I’m gonna get hard for real. Dick hard.”
Andrew licks Neil’s ear, but pulls back. He puts himself back in coffee cup mode, resting his head on Neil’s shoulder and closing his eyes. He is soothed by Neil’s soft breathing and the dulcet tones of Rachel McAdams and the calm, liquid state his skeleton seems to have adopted. Neil’s arms snake around him, a palm solid on Andrew’s hip, a forearm resting against Andrew’s spine, fingers playing with the hair at the base of Andrew’s skull. Andrew lifts a hand to rest it heavily on the back of Neil’s neck, making Neil sigh. He kisses Andrew’s forehead, then rests his cheek against the top of his head.
“Hey,” Neil says as Andrew is on the cusp of dozing off. He hums in response.
“My heart is hard,” Neil whispers, and Andrew would normally smack him for that, or kick him out of the chair, or otherwise punish him for making Andrew feel warm and goopy and utterly silly. But Andrew’s too comfortable to move.
“Good metaphor,” Andrew murmurs into the fabric of Neil’s sweater. He feels the slight jolt as Neil huffs a small laugh. Andrew smiles, because no one can see his face, and because nothing is making him do it, and because he just wants to. And maybe because his heart is a little bit hard, too.