Work Text:
Neil looks good tonight. He usually does when he’s in Andrew’s clothes—a collection Andrew curates days in advance for their trips to Eden’s. It’s a minor amusement to tide him over through the measured march of his days at PSU. A private challenge: what can he possibly pick out for Neil to wear that will elevate his features without the man himself balking at it?
This time, it’s almost too easy.
Neil gets expertly lulled into a false sense of security by the innocuous-looking black turtleneck. When Andrew first hands it over, Neil lowers his gaze to the fabric and blinks slowly, lashes fluttering in mild suspicion. But after a moment he accepts it without comment, the sweater passing from Andrew’s hands to his with a quiet rustle.
Andrew knows this mute exchange is about as close to approval as he’s likely to get.
The approval probably wouldn’t survive the actual fitting, but by then it’s already out of Neil’s control.
They’re running late to a Fox–Trojan mixer that formed spontaneously on account of the Californians flying across the country for once to play at the Foxhole Court. Someone from Jeremy’s Knox glittering circle decreed they should have a party before the game rather than after, so as not to taint anyone’s celebrations. Andrew fails to see how a loss against the Trojans could affect his time at Eden’s in any shape or form, but he’s self-aware enough to know that his apathy is uniquely his own, so he doesn’t voice that particular opinion.
They are running late—well, Neil is, as per his modus operandi. As if resisting the concept of time might eventually force it to work in his favor.
He shrugs on Andrew’s clothes in a hurry, pausing the hurricane of his existence only when Andrew drapes the jewelry piece on him.
Then he’s promptly seized by Allison for the finishing touches—a cloud of thick, sugary hairspray and several impatient attempts to wrestle his curls into something resembling tousled instead of just…mauled.
By the time Neil escapes her, he’s immediately whisked away by Nicky and shoved into the backseat of Andrew’s car.
What Neil fails to realize when he first sees the turtleneck—but what Andrew is counting on—is that the sweater is a size too small, and that the fit will be just a little too tight on him.
It’s tight enough that the fabric turns almost sheer under Eden’s strobing lights, clinging to Neil like it’s fighting for its life. It cups the swell of his biceps, runs tight down his forearms before strangling his wrists, and stretches across his chest, carving the outline of his pecs into clean twin curves. The peaks of his nipples press shamelessly through the knit, threatening to bite through the sweater at the slightest suggestion of a chill.
Neil’s filled out in the two years he’s been at PSU, no longer the starved, sharp-edged thing Andrew first met, but the turtleneck alone wouldn’t quite do the job without the rest of the outfit.
The baby-blue jeans are slashed in a few strategic places, mostly across Neil’s thighs, threads primed to be torn apart. Around his neck hangs the gold cross Andrew had clasped there himself, its heavy pendant resting against Neil’s collarbone, the delicate chain flirting with the light every time he moves.
Neil has immediately developed the habit of putting that chain in his mouth.
He always gets restless before a big game, finding creative ways to bounce off the walls in one place, but never quite so literally as…trying to grind down a piece of jewelry with his teeth.
It should be fucking disgusting. And not at all the reason Andrew can’t tear his eyes away from him.
Even amid the very raucous company they’re keeping tonight—three and a half tables of Exy athletes in varying degrees of intoxication, many of them wearing flashy outfits and scant clothing. To Andrew’s right, Aaron is attempting a ‘Brüderschaft trinken’ with Cody, one of the Trojans’ backliners, goaded by Nicky to finish it off with a kiss.
“Come on, at least a brotherly peck,” he coos.
He earns himself a sharp jab from Andrew’s elbow, though Andrew is well aware that’s unlikely to inspire anyone around him to attempt even a modicum of decent behavior.
Directly across from Andrew, to his utter misfortune, is the tall, brooding Frenchman taking shots from between Allison’s tits, his head guided there by Renee’s hand with a smirk that looks downright wicked on her. It should probably be documented somehow—evidence of her corrupted soul. Not by Andrew, of course.
Andrew is a good friend. He will look away and pretend none of this is actually happening.
He can’t ignore it, though, when he catches a glint of the cross again.
Neil’s pink tongue darts out, twirling the chain around its tip before he bites down lightly, worrying the metal between his teeth before letting it slip free.
At some point he must sense Andrew staring, because he freezes mid-motion—the chain swallowed halfway into his mouth again as his gaze slices across the table and lands directly on Andrew.
Neil tilts his head. His eyes narrow slightly, the bright blue of them reduced to a slow smolder.
The look sends an inevitable spark of heat straight down Andrew’s spine, and also maybe to his cock. His jeans, which already didn’t leave much room to begin with, suddenly feel suffocating.
“Weirdo,” Andrew mouths at him, trying to recover. Trying to hide the deeply embarrassing fact that he’s just gotten hard from the way Neil is looking at him.
Neil drops the chain from his mouth. That sly little curve appears at the corner of his lips. Then he mouths back: “No, you.”
Andrew rolls his eyes and feels his lips thin, poised on the edge of something that might be a smile.
To hide it, his teeth graze the rim of his drink—a Roland special that involves far too many fruit liqueurs and an unholy amount of vodka. The scent of pure alcohol burns his nostrils as he tips the glass back. It’s a little sickening, but also distracting enough for the moment, mingling with the fire building in his chest and diluting it to a level he can tolerate.
He nurses it like a low-grade fever while he threads his way through the crowds and the whiplash of lights, charting his escape to the outside—where he can temper it further with lungfuls of night air and cigarette smoke.
Neil is never far behind him, like a shadow intent on devouring him.
Outside, the skies are deep black, threatening rain, the air thick with cold humidity. Andrew uncuffs the sleeves of his fleece and lets them hang loose around his wrists in a useless illusion of warmth. His breath escapes in pale puffs between drags of his cigarette.
Beside him, Neil rounds his mouth and exhales a plume of breath.
Andrew would probably find the mimicry insulting if he weren’t currently riveted by a single curl of Neil’s hair that has broken free from the rest, falling across his cheekbone. The cold has tinted Neil’s skin pink.
Andrew fiddles with the tangle of necklaces resting against his chest over the black tank top, occupying his hands.
Neil mirrors him again, twirling the chain of the cross around his forefinger.
At least he isn’t chewing on it this time.
“I think I want to do it,” Neil says.
Then he reaches over and steals the cigarette from Andrew’s fingers, closing his mouth around the filter and drawing in a small, rabbit-soft breath that does little more than tease the ember back to life.
Now there’s nowhere safe for Andrew to look.
Not Neil’s face, riddled with pitfalls. Not the rest of him, his silhouette lithe under the amber spill of a single overhead lamp.
“Okay,” Andrew says, taking the cigarette back.
Neil clears his throat.
“Tonight,” he adds, as if clarification is necessary. As if Andrew didn’t already understand.
Unfortunately, Andrew does. He knows it from the way the color deepens across Neil’s cheeks. From the way his fingers stop moving, the chain wrapped tight around them like a collar, the metal biting into his skin hard enough to leave indents.
And he knows it because they’ve talked about this before. Too recently for Andrew’s sanity.
So the secret bathroom in Eden’s basement.
That had been how Neil brought it up—casually choosing a moment when it was just the two of them on a rooftop, their feet dangling over the campus lights, Andrew being quietly seduced by the freefall waiting just beyond the edge.
Andrew might have taken a second too long to compose himself. The cigarette smoke had sat harsh and unmoving in his throat.
“How secret is it,” Andrew had mused dryly, “if everyone knows about it?”
Even apparently the likes of Neil, who was notoriously oblivious about most things, especially the more unsavory corners of Eden’s.
It had only occurred to Andrew later, when he was almost finished with his cigarette and there was no reason left for either of them to stay, to level the proper accusation.
“Have you been stalking me?” he asked.
Neil had the gall to look briefly abashed. Or as close to abashed as Neil ever managed—his mouth tightening even as his eyes flashed with defensive fire.
“No. I mean—” He faltered, biting his lip.
Like every criminal, he seemed incapable of entirely suppressing a little pride in getting away with it.
“I was curious where you kept slinking off to,” Neil admitted eventually. “So I followed you one night.”
“And?” Andrew prompted, in his most dispassionate voice.
“And I saw you go into a stall,” Neil barreled on, still chewing his lip. “And there was a line of guys. I didn’t have to stick around to figure out the rest.”
Andrew might have hummed at that and hoped—with the futile fatalism of someone who has already met Neil’s stubbornness—that the subject would simply die there.
It did. For a few days.
Then Neil brought it up again when they were alone in their dorm room, temporarily spared Kevin’s undoubtedly pleasurable company for the evening. They sat at their desks, making a good show of studying.
“I want to try it,” Neil announced.
The words crashed through the room with all the grace of a brutal winter storm rattling a window loose.
Andrew groaned.
“It?” he asked, rubbing his temples.
“It’s on my bucket list,” Neil added, almost absentmindedly.
“It’s on your bucket list,” Andrew echoed, incredulous.
Oh, Andrew knew everything about Neil Josten’s infamous bucket list. The girls had started it because they couldn’t bear learning about one more thing Neil had missed out on growing up. Every Fox had contributed an opinion. The suggestions ranged from Ferris wheel rides and early-morning matinees to apparently—
“A glory hole is on your bucket list?” Andrew repeated carefully, just to make sure he had gotten it right.
That broke whatever trance Neil had fallen into. He looked at Andrew, and then burst out laughing like Andrew had just pronounced the funniest thing in the world.
Which, to Neil’s credit, Andrew often did.
Just not now. Not intentionally.
Andrew watched Neil’s slow descent into madness in silence, gripping his pen a little tighter.
“No, not glory holes,” Neil managed once he caught his breath. “Casual sex.”
“Right,” Andrew said flatly.
He turned back to his book. He had a great deal of reading left for his ethics class, and even The Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals had started to sound preferable to whatever Neil was about to put him through in the name of his bucket list.
“You like it,” Neil said.
It wasn’t phrased like a question. It wasn’t even close.
It was so far removed from a question that Andrew actually, visibly, reacted.
“You like casual sex,” Neil continued, entirely unbothered by the way Andrew was scowling at him.
Against his better judgment, Andrew considered the statement. Did he like it? Was that what that feeling was—the quick thrill that ran through him whenever he dropped to his knees on the filthy tile floor in Eden’s bathroom and wrapped his mouth around some stranger’s cock? Maybe some of it was liking. Or maybe like was too generous a word. Maybe Andrew was simply committed to it. There was a certain order to the mechanics of it that he appreciated. The clean simplicity. The control he wielded. The quiet surge of power afterward—the certainty that he could make someone come on his own terms and walk away without ever really being seen.
There was also the way Neil had phrased it.
Casual sex.
As if there were alternatives. As if there could be something non-casual waiting somewhere in Andrew’s life. As if Andrew could stand having someone close enough for that.
But Andrew had no intention of explaining any of that. So in the end he simply said: “Sure.”
Neil stared at him for a charged moment.
There was no way Neil should be able to peer inside Andrew and see even the faintest outline of the treacherous paths his mind took, but it still felt uncomfortably close to that.
Andrew’s skin itched under the scrutiny.
“Maybe I’ll like it too,” Neil said finally, uncertain. “I won’t know until I try.”
It sounded like something he’d picked up from Allison rather than something he truly believed. But who was Andrew to dissuade him?
He isn’t going to try now, either.
“You know the way,” Andrew tells him dismissively, the last of the cigarette leaving his lungs in slow plumes of smoke.
Neil blinks. The smoke clearly gets to him, stinging his eyes, but he doesn’t step away from Andrew, refusing to surrender territory. His gaze stays fixed, focused in a way that’s difficult to bear.
“Can you come with me?” he asks quietly.
Andrew had expected this question. This strange request. Neil wouldn’t be seeking him out like this if he didn’t intend to drag Andrew straight into whatever madness he had planned tonight.
Anticipating the request is one thing. Knowing how to answer it is another.
“You want me to come with you?” Andrew repeats. He crushes the cigarette against the brick wall, buying himself a moment. “Want me to hold your hand through a glory hole experience while we’re at it?”
Instead of answering, Neil smiles. It’s bright and savage, the kind of smile that makes Andrew feel like he’s stumbled over something unseen, like he might have to brace himself against the wall just to stay upright.
“Could you?” Neil asks.
The words are utterly unserious. So is the smile. So is the way Neil has pitched his voice low, the sound rough and warm in the cold air.
Andrew’s cock twitches again. He’s so hard that all Neil has to do is glance down and he’ll see the outline pressing against Andrew’s jeans.
It doesn’t help that Neil has crossed his arms over his chest, pushing his pecs together, drawing Andrew’s attention straight to the way his nipples have pebbled beneath the tight fabric.
“Could you? Would you?” Andrew mocks. His brain, traitorous as ever, supplies the perfect deranged rhyme. “In the dark? Could you? Would you in the rain?”
Neil stares at him blankly.
Andrew takes advantage of his confusion and turns toward the club door, adjusting himself discreetly as he strides forward.
“Andrew?” Neil calls after him.
“Could you? Would you with a goat?” Andrew sing-songs, louder this time as he pulls open the door and the pulse of club music spills into the night, its cold sanctity irrevocably disturbed.
“What?” Neil asks, suddenly right behind him. His voice brushes the shell of Andrew’s ear as he catches up, sounding genuinely confused.
Andrew resists the urge to roll his eyes for what must be the tenth time tonight.
“Maybe you should add Dr. Seuss to your bucket list,” he says dryly, “instead of glory holes.”
Andrew can still hear that same savage smile in his voice when Neil answers, even if he can’t see it directly. He tries not to look at it, not wanting to get ensnared by its pull.
“That means you’ll come with me, right?”
It’s not a good idea. It might even be a spectacularly bad one.
But Andrew is already coasting on a few drinks, the vodka buzzing pleasantly beneath his skin, the anticipatory high coursing through his veins. He wants to see what will happen, how this will unfold. He suspects Neil might make for a very pretty car wreck.
He also suspects he might get caught in the crash.
None of that stops him from biting out, “Fine. Yes. Come on.”
A moment later he’s striding down the hallway that curves along the left side of the club, descending the solid concrete stairs that lead to the basement. Neil follows close behind him in his matching platform boots, their heavy thud audible even over the bass vibrating through the building.
“Um,” Neil says.
The word comes out oddly hesitant once they fall into line behind two other guys waiting just outside the bathroom. Muted light spills from inside, flickering in rhythm with the pounding music that seems to live inside the walls.
“Changed your mind already?” Andrew asks, arching one brow.
He has always prided himself on having a good read on Neil Josten, on being able to assess him at a glance and produce the perfectly calibrated response. Tonight, though, Andrew feels slightly off-balance.
He isn’t entirely sure what Neil needs. Whether he should be nudging him closer to this terrible idea or pulling him further away from it.
But Andrew must get something right, because the question loosens the tight line of Neil’s shoulders.
“No,” Neil says curtly.
“Okay,” Andrew hums.
He lights another cigarette while they wait.
The next stretch of time passes in smoke and silence—a silence that would almost be complete if not for the music and the occasional muffled sounds drifting out of the bathroom.
Andrew ignores them, lazily drawing on his cigarette. Beside him, Neil does a respectable job maintaining a neutral expression, his gaze trained ahead, vaguely affixed to the back of the man standing in front of them.
It’s almost convincing.
Right up until they cross the threshold into the bathroom and Neil suddenly becomes next in line.
The tension that had briefly eased comes flooding back. Neil doesn’t even seem to realize he’s twisting the chain at his neck hard enough that he might snap it. His eyes have gone darker, unsettled—darting from the stall ahead of them to the murky row of mirrors along the wall. The glass is clouded and peeling, barely capable of reflecting anything.
There’s also a narrow vertical window in the corner, though the layer of grime coating it makes it impossible to tell whether it leads outside or nowhere at all.
Andrew realizes after a moment that the moans they heard earlier aren’t coming from the stall. They’re coming from the sinks. A couple is pressed together there. It feels wrong to look at them.
Not because of the indecency. The two men are still clothed, grinding against each other in a way that’s messy but hardly shocking for Eden’s. What makes it difficult is the intimacy of it.
One of them has his hand buried deep in the other’s blond curls, fist tightening as he pulls him closer. The second man has his mouth pressed against the ridge of his partner’s neck, leaving wet, off-kilter kisses and faint bite marks behind. The man pinned against the counter looks near ruin—his head tipped back, eyes rolling, his mouth falling open around soft curses and broken encouragements.
“Fuck yes, right there—”
Another hard thrust and he might come apart entirely.
Andrew manages, mostly, not to stare.
But Neil is watching. Andrew can tell from the way his mouth has parted slightly. From the way his gaze won’t leave them.
In the dark pools of Neil’s eyes, Andrew can almost make out the reflection of it—the rhythm of those two bodies coming together and apart.
He sees, too, that Neil—who looked so nervous a minute ago, like he might bolt for the door at any second—has been pulled under by the sight of them. Something in him settles. Something else wakes. One of Neil’s hands drifts down toward his lap, palming himself through his jeans.
“Your turn,” Andrew murmurs.
He pours the words straight into Neil’s ear, pairing them with the weight of his touch finding the small of Neil’s back.
He nudges him forward.
Neil stumbles once, then again, until he’s standing almost flush against the bathroom stall.
“Neil,” Andrew prompts when a few more beats pass and Neil remains motionless.
Andrew settles with his back pressed to the same stall so he can watch him, wondering if he actually does need to hold Neil’s hand through this, because Neil is staring down at the hole like he’s forgotten what it’s for, like he’s a million miles away from here.
“Yeah,” Neil answers eventually.
His fingers trace the black tape lining the edges.
“That’s where your dick goes,” Andrew taunts.
Neil looks up at him suddenly, those startling blue eyes locking onto Andrew’s face. His mouth tilts sideways, granting a flash of his canines. It never fails to do something to Andrew’s composure, upending it in a way that feels deeply unreasonable.
Andrew’s erection, which had at some point relented, returns with a vengeance. Andrew thuds his head back against the stall. The sharp jolt to his skull does nothing to dull the ache of his cock straining against his boxers, or prepare him for what comes next.
Neil finally unzips. He pulls himself free.
The moment Andrew catches sight of his cock, the ground lurches beneath his feet. It feels like those moments when the plane finally lifts off the runway, when Andrew goes suddenly weightless and can’t seem to get enough oxygen into his lungs.
Andrew tries to breathe as he watches Neil grip himself and then rise slightly onto his toes to slide through the hole.
His hands ball into fists, a quiet, startled yelp escaping past his clenched teeth the second someone on the other side of the stall takes him in.
Andrew can’t see it; he wishes he could. He caught only the briefest glimpse before: the generous length of him, the flushed pink tip. Now all he can see is the base, the dark brown curls peeking from the waistband of Neil’s boxers. It’s barely anything. Just a tease. And Andrew is already greedy for more, so full of greed it suddenly feels like it might split him open.
“Okay?” Andrew asks.
He wants to reach for Neil, steady him somehow, but he isn’t sure if that’s something Neil wants right now. Neil’s eyes are squeezed shut, his entire body strung tight with tension, like he’s suspended somewhere between discomfort and pleasure.
“Yeah,” Neil breathes shakily.
Of course the deeper greed is wanting to be the one on his knees before Neil.
He could have given it to him at any point, if only Neil had asked. Andrew would have dropped down at the barest flick of Neil’s fingers, the laziest command. Neil must have known that—hadn’t he? With the way Andrew has been dressing him in his clothes and looking at him. With the way they’ve been circling each other for what feels like too many lifetimes already. A part of Andrew understands, though, why Neil didn’t ask. Why asking his roommate and teammate and whatever else they have become to each other—keys and deals and promises—
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Andrew repeats it to himself so it might finally stick.
You are born with nothing and you depart this world with nothing. Or so the sermon goes.
Anyway.
Andrew understands why asking him wouldn’t exactly fulfill the casual aspect of the sex quota on Neil’s stupid bucket list. And he understands, too, why Neil seems so hellbent on trying everything before his luck—or his time—runs out again.
He really does.
Even if Andrew could have faked it. Could have played pretend while he took Neil apart with his mouth. Maybe with his hand too, twisting one of Neil’s deliciously sharp nipples while the other cupped the curve of his ass, drawing him close and letting him fuck his throat. Let Neil encompass him completely. Fill every rough hollow.
Both a shelter and a warning.
And afterward Andrew could have lied and said it was nothing. Less than nothing. Soundless words given to the wind.
Still, another part of Andrew, previously dormant but suddenly blooming with this realization, understands the appeal of this too.
Someone else sucking Neil’s cock. Someone else servicing him. But Neil isn’t thinking of someone else.
When his eyes open, they seek Andrew. They cut straight to him like they could sever him down to the bone.
They go glassy and wide with relief.
Without realizing it, Andrew steps closer, his shoulder bumping against Neil’s.
Neil’s fingers flex in the air for a moment before they catch on Andrew’s arms.
Then his face twists, and it might be pain.
Andrew feels the instinctive tide of violence rise in him—an ugly, familiar urge to slide his knives free and tear whoever’s on the other side of that wall apart.
But the thought dissolves instantly when Neil’s hands move again.
They slide up Andrew’s chest, stopping just short of his throat.
Neil looks at him then, and his voice, when he speaks, is rawer than Andrew has ever heard it.
“Kiss me.”
Andrew’s body responds to the command before he has a chance to fully process it. It’s the easiest battle to lose, the most seamless configuration of them—Neil’s hands going slack against the solid line of Andrew’s chest while his mouth turns firm and insistent against Andrew’s, kissing him, breathing him in—the remnants of cigarette smoke and crushed mint.
One of Neil’s curls falls between them, tickling the tip of Andrew’s nose. Neil’s hair still smells like whatever product Allison sprayed on him, but there is also so much of Neil in it—fresh and sharp and bright, as though the winter air itself has lodged in his hair, trapped against the surface of his skin like ice formed overnight on pavement. Andrew resists dragging his tongue along Neil’s cheek to taste it, to feel the ice melt sweetly on his tongue.
For now, Andrew subsists on the slide of their lips together—slightly messy, missing the mark now and then—the hiss of Neil’s tongue against his, the tease of something deeper, the knowledge that Neil is coming undone beneath it all.
Eventually Neil’s breath turns harsh and heavy, the force of it nearly enough to pull them apart. Andrew fastens Neil’s jaw between his thumb and forefinger and tethers them together, bracing against the tremble that’s beginning to take root, the one that threatens to send Neil stumbling into him and maybe topple them both.
“Fuck, Andrew,” Neil pants against his mouth as another shiver runs through him.
Andrew holds him through it, tugging lightly at Neil’s lower lip with his teeth. “I have you,” he says, and hopes it’s true, that he can weather this for both of them, that Neil is safe here. Safe in some stranger’s mouth, but most importantly in Andrew’s arms.
He slides one arm around Neil’s waist to steady him further, his other hand still cupping Neil’s face like he’s holding a flame.
His entire body is molded flush to Neil’s side. There’s nowhere for him to go. Distantly he’s surprised to realize none of this feels like confinement. He doesn’t feel cornered. He feels more like an extension of Neil in this moment.
He can feel the slight aftershocks when the person on the other side of the stall pulls away, can almost feel the cool rush of air along Neil’s length, the glide of a tongue as if the sensation were happening to him instead.
Andrew hadn’t even realized how close he’d gotten. His cock is pressed against Neil’s thighbone, and the contact—now that he’s aware of it—sends a flare of arousal through every part of him. It’s a burst of relief, this pressure, but also maddening, the way it nearly makes Andrew’s knees buckle or tempts him to grind forward.
For a split second Neil’s whole body goes taut, like he’s suddenly become aware of Andrew’s erection digging into him as well. Yet, the realization only makes Neil’s mouth move more frantically against Andrew’s, shaping sounds that might be moans or curses or something else entirely—but no longer kisses.
They are definitely not kissing anymore.
Andrew is panting. Neil is moaning, shifting his hips, thrusting forward into the eager mouth on the other side of the wall. Sometimes Neil hisses when it becomes overwhelming. Sometimes he tries to speak, his eyes half-lidded and molten as they search for Andrew’s face, as if looking for a mirror of the same wild, unbridled need that must show in Andrew.
“Feels good, Andrew,” he says, voice low and rough, bruised with it. Andrew thinks he might come himself, thinks that if he moved his hips even a little, he might just fucking spill right into his pants.
Andrew untangles his arm from Neil’s waist and lifts it to sweep a damp lock of hair from Neil’s eyes. He wants to see them fully. Wants to drown in that look.
“Are you thinking about me?” he asks, not entirely sure where the question comes from. Even his voice sounds foreign to him—thin and cracked.
“Yes,” Neil hisses again. “Only you. There is only ever you.”
Andrew presses their foreheads together and steals his mouth again, trying to shut him up because it’s too much—Neil always pushing things too far, farther than Andrew can let him go. The restraint isn’t very effective, warped and unstable, and it only makes Neil murmur more fiercely against Andrew’s lips.
“Andrew, I’m going to come. I want to come in your mouth—”
The sound of his voice goes straight through Andrew, down to the heat gathering in his gut, to the very tip of his cock. Andrew is the one hissing now, so close to the edge he could scream. He wants to clamp his hand around Neil’s jaw just to stop the words. He wants to crush his jaw, or maybe his own, just to spare himself the agonizing pleasure, or the pleasurable agony, of this moment.
Instead he holds himself still. Still and pliant while Neil rides out his orgasm, trembling hard against him, pulsing against Andrew’s frame like he’s trying to vibrate out of Andrew’s arms.
Everything about it feels visceral, too intense, like a blade sharpened too many times that Andrew now has to contain with his bare hands.
He doesn’t know how he manages, only that he does, and that Neil is still safe in his arms when it’s over, when Neil slumps against him, dropping his full weight against Andrew with his arms interlaced behind Andrew’s neck.
He shows small signs of life when Andrew drags them closer to the sinks and further away from the stall. There’s another person in line behind them.
Andrew tries not to look at them too closely, in case it’s anyone he might recognize. Instead he focuses on the small relief that the couple from before has vacated the space, that at least there isn’t an audience for what he’s about to do.
It isn’t like him. He wouldn’t ordinarily get off like this, with another person, much less in public.
But the pressure behind his navel is painful. His balls are drawn tight, and he’s so close that he wouldn’t need much. Just—
“Do you want me to?” Neil asks ambiguously, still breathless as he traces the words along the ridge of Andrew’s neck.
Andrew would bet good money even Neil doesn’t know what he’s asking.
“I want you to,” Andrew grits out, shifting to create some room, to unbuckle his pants and take himself in hand. “To shut up.”
He can feel Neil nod against him, a threadbare motion that sends a cascade of curls tickling Andrew’s skin.
Andrew uses one hand to hold Neil’s face the way he did before, because he knows that one dip into those eyes will send him straight over the edge.
“Look at me,” he asks.
Neil does, lifting his gaze languidly. His cheeks are lit with a feverish flush, his arms still a warm circle around Andrew’s shoulders.
Later, he tells Neil to leave. He figures Neil is smart enough to realize it isn’t personal, that Andrew just needs a moment to wash up and see what a mess he’s made of his appearance.
It isn’t as horrid as he expected, but it still requires a few splashes of water to his face and a brush of wet fingers through his hair, which has tangled in the front.
He’s just about done dumping another fistful of cold water over his cheeks when a figure materializes at the sink beside him.
Andrew twists the faucet closed just as Jeremy Knox spits into the basin, then turns on his own tap and lathers his hands with soap.
He is obviously aware he’s being watched—and who is doing the watching—but he seems entirely unperturbed by the run-in or the proximity. He continues rinsing his hands, then fusses with his reflection, fixing his hair and reapplying chapstick to lips that look bright red, like a spill of blood.
He’s wearing some kind of slutty sheer shirt that opens down the back in a crisscross of knots, the ones at the bottom already coming loose, taunting, begging to be pulled.
Jeremy turns slightly to face him.
“Having a good night?”
He flourishes the question with a soft smack of his lips.
“Uh-huh,” Andrew answers, giving him a flat look that drifts a little lower. “Don’t wear your knees out before the big game,” he adds, then pushes away from the sink.
Jeremy laughs, swiping away nonexistent dirt from his pants.
“Thank you, but I’m fine. And you’re still not going to win.”
“Okay,” Andrew says, saluting him. He wishes Jeremy wouldn’t make it sound like such a challenge, because Andrew hates giving a shit about Exy, and that’s exactly what it almost feels like when he considers how hard he’d have to try to shut Jeremy down in the goal tomorrow.