Archive of Our Own

Andrew sits down at his usual study table and tries not to groan.

The chair doesn't help; the library at his school is ancient. The musty tomes around him may disintegrate upon first touch. The AC above them rattles like something out of Final Destination. He's got money on when the first screw will fall. The chairs haven't been reupholstered in decades, the cushions worn and flattened by who knows how many asses.

He wonders if any of those asses have ever felt like his does. His muscles ache under his weight as he settles, a slight burn with every shift. His calves and thighs cry out for a stretch and he flexes them slightly, sighing deeply at the pull. He'd done much the same the other night, but his toes had curled then, thrown over shoulders.

He twitches, muscle memory. His inner thighs itch, scratched from stubble.

These chairs are too low, even for him. The amount he has to squat is too much for what he went through last night, pulling at sensitive tendons. Damn. He needs more leg days at the gym. Despite it all, a pleasant shiver runs down his spine as he's constantly reminded of hips pressed flush to his and feral grunts in his ear.

Andrew never knew he could be so flexible until he was being bent in half.

Finally comfortable, Andrew pulls out his notebooks and project notes, putting the throb in his body to the back of his mind.

When he looks up, his entire study group is staring at him. Openly. Where were the days of sitting in the back of the class, no one paying him any mind?

Andrew pauses, a standoff where he's the only one with a gun. It should be a threat no one would dare challenge, but begrudgingly, Andrew has to admit this group is the closest thing he has to friends at the moment.

They've stuck together throughout this whole year, same coursework, similar classes. It had started transactional; notes for missed lectures, textbook sharing to save money, a pre-formed alliance for group assignments so none of them ended up with slackers.

But along the way, they got it into their heads that things were no longer as impersonal as Andrew intended. Maybe that was his own fault. After all, the only reason he ended up in this group was because one of the members, Julie, noticed a D&D sticker on Andrew's water bottle.

(They're not his friends, he says as he dungeon masters their campaigns the first Friday of every month.)

Fuck the groan, Andrew should've taken more care with hiding the hickeys littering his neck. The hoodie he's sporting isn't doing much, collar stretched and warped from one too many washes, one too many instances of Andrew himself pulling at it while it was keeping someone else warm. Jealous of fabric, of the warmth it provided, Andrew thought he could do a better job at heating up the wearer's skin.

So now the neckline was fucked, and the hoodie belonged to him, a trophy he swore he'd never display.

Nick bobs like a fish until the words finally spill out. He's looking at Andrew's neck, not his face. "Again? Does your boyfriend not get tired?"

Andrew tenses. No, actually, his mind can't help but answer. But Andrew's the insatiable one. Past his exhaustion, past his sore muscles, he wants.

That's for no one to know but himself. Nick should keep his inquiries where they belong: the campus robotics club.

But they've had this conversation before, one too many times since Andrew's…situation started. He'd walked into the library with a limp on several occasions, his phone had to be silenced during D&D due to too many texts.

Hook-ups, he'd said, and believed it less and less over the months that followed. He wasn't the only one.

Andrew takes a measured breath, eyes back on his notes. "I'll count to three."

Julie is the next to chime in while Becca nods beside her. She's got her eyes trained on him while her fingers type rapidly on her phone. He knows from the texts he gets from her that she doesn't care about typos. He's yet to figure out how they manage to be readable despite that fact. Her Sonny Angel hipper stares at him from atop her phone, judging him sweetly. "We'd stop bugging you about it if you just told us who it was…"

The who flashes before his eyes, unbidden. Andrew's brain thwarts his attempts to keep him locked away. Blue, heavy-lidded eyes crinkled at the corners, a never-there smile that stays stuck whenever he's around Andrew. There's a tiny scar on the corner of his lips. Andrew likes to lick it.

Andrew's fingers skip over where they thrum through pages, and he resists the urge to rip a page out.

His group—his friends stare at him.

Andrew wishes he could blame it on them, wishes his insecurities were simpler, stupider. He could say no, they couldn't possibly find out because they would hate Andrew's redacted on principle. They would judge him, and therefore, judge Andrew.

In reality, Andrew has never given a shit what others think. It's not about anyone but himself and his inability to show the world this…this. Not because it reveals that he wants someone, and every vulnerable, embarrassing admission that follows that, but because it reveals how much someone wants him.

Someone wants him. He's just supposed to share that like he's not convinced himself it won't eventually end?

Instead, Andrew arches a brow at them. "How do you know it's one person?"

They've heard his Grindr app go off. They've seen Andrew flirt and approach men in bars back in the early days of their group. Why or how they've locked onto this scent of Andrew having a relationship, he'll never know. He chooses not to ponder it, knowing it's also probably all his fault. He, who shows nothing on his face and gives very little away, somehow reeks of the love of someone else.

"That jacket is a bit long on you," Taylor pipes up from where they sit. Their eyes are locked on a book Andrew knows they've already read. The group turns to them, shocked. Taylor's the quiet one of the group, more so than Andrew, but in a shyer, less intense (asshole) way. They come alive about PC builds and video games and not much else during school hours. This is, needless to say, the biggest betrayal Andrew could've been faced with. "You've been wearing it for like, over a month."

"And it's not black," Becca adds. Manicured fingers tap the scratched tabletop, a police spotlight.

She has him there. It's not. It's maroon. "A bit long," they'd said. Andrew looks down at it, lets himself feel the fit of it without getting too distracted by the scent he imagines it still carries. The sleeves are tight around his biceps, the fabric snug to his stomach and waist. On first glance, it could very well belong to him. It's an old, loved thing. It's pilling in many spots; the washer's done a number on it. But the sleeves sit long, past his knuckles, and the hem stretches past his butt, the result of a three inch difference and a lankier form.

Andrew thinks of muscled calves and a defined back. That's where the hoodie's owner carries his bulk, whereas Andrew carries it…everywhere else. The owner's waist is small, limbs short but lithe. It leaves the fabric billowing in some spots, clinging to others. He guesses, in the privacy of his own mind, he can admit that's why he likes it. It's enveloping, but it doesn't fit perfectly. It can squeeze him and drown him. It's not his, and the rush of heat from remembering who it actually belongs to is so euphoric Andrew can't bear to leave it hanging in the closet for too long.

In other words, it's not quite right, and not enough so for him to be going for an oversized look. It's the uncanny valley of hoodies.

Andrew has nothing to say to that. He fixes his glasses, black and boring, too big for his face.

"I'm going to hire a private investigator," Becca tells the group. Her glasses have a gold chain on them. It's plain, but it adds something. He kind of wants one. It whips around as she swings her head to the others. "One who specializes in secret dick appointments."

"I'll drop out of this group project the day before we're due to present."

The group goes silent before grabbing their notes studiously, as if the conversation never happened. At least they still know one thing: Andrew doesn't bluff.

Some time into the planning session, note cards scribbled and shared between them in a mess of highlights, there's a brief commotion from the entrance to the library.

A rowdy group of jocks walk in, the last notes of their outside conversation an unwelcome rift through the hushed mumbles of the study tables. A word or two gets cut off before one of them shushes their friends loudly. One jock jostles another until their laughter is smothered, as if they remember where they are, their high volume bouncing back in their faces when it hits the wall of silence. A few of their shoulders sag when the librarian sends them a dirty look. The group as a whole walks towards the stairs to the second level, where the cafe sits, a study area more accommodating to booming voices and raucous procrastination.

The group moves, a flock of energy drink-fueled geese. Bobbing heads, short, squeaking sneakers. Andrew's wearing his glasses, but his vision blurs as the mass becomes one, a paint palette of colored gym shorts meshing into a single splotch.

But then, apart from the rest, one lags far behind.

Andrew's breathing stutters, but the echo of the jock's ringing laughter covers it up. No one but him has to know.

Neil walks like he's pretending to be a person. He mimics his teammates with a lazy drag of his feet and careless strides and lets his backpack hang too low on rigid shoulders. There's nothing relaxed about him. Not to Andrew. He has licked and sucked along the tension in Neil's jaw until it evaporated, has groped the muscle of his back into submission. He's seen Neil truly at rest, legs spread on Andrew's bed and softening cock sitting on his abs as he watches Andrew flit around the room.

Neil's eyes don't dance with laughter and affection right then, they don't zip with the potential desire of round two. They flit, a habit, from one exit to another. They pierce the gaze of anyone he catches staring, an ice-cold front. He does not back down until they look away, and yet he shrinks when they do. Paranoid, antisocial, a real fucking weirdo.

Andrew likes that in a man. And God, Neil's wearing that fucking bandana again. It's an obnoxious orange with a white, repeating pattern, faded from all the sweat and roughhousing it's endured. It pushes Neil's auburn bangs back, some curls slipping out the sides. Andrew's eyes flit to the mess of them at the back of Neil's neck. They're soft. He's fisted a hand in them while riding Neil into oblivion.

Neil wiped his face with that fucking bandana afterwards.

It serves a filthier purpose now. Exposing the dangerous crease between Neil's brows, the sharp jut of his cheeks. His face, mean and open and devastating.

Andrew shifts in his seat, a shit idea; he feels his lower back and thighs protest, and it does nothing to relieve him of the want he suddenly feels. He shifts again. He's being a masochist with the onslaught of memories, by not looking away from the eye candy so sweetly offered to him by the coincidental overlap in their schedules. Neil shouldn't be here. But he is. Is Andrew not supposed to look at the muscles under his loose tank top, the sides low and teasing the scars that line Neil's torso? If he leans a certain way, he might see the darkened skin of Neil's nipple.

Andrew finally looks away when Neil reaches up to grab the stair railing, and he catches sight of his underarm hair. He tries not to spin back to his notes too quickly. It's wasted effort. His friends are staring too, and Andrew understands.

Unfairly pretty, was Andrew's first observation of Neil at the start of the year when he saw Neil running laps around the school's park. Now, that observation falls short. Everyone feels the same.

Neil surveys the floor below as he climbs the stairs, brow pinched. Andrew instinctively goes to remove his glasses, barely stopping himself last minute. He's sitting with his back turned, hunched in the corner. Neil can't really see him, and why would he even be looking for him?

"Jesus," Nick says under his breath.

Becca giggles. "Right? He's so..."

"Too bad he's a huge dick—"

Andrew tenses, then relaxes a second later. Oh. Is a huge dick. Not has.

No one else would know that. Only him. Andrew puts down the pencil he was holding like a knife.

"I heard," Taylor says, closing their book and lowering themselves, as if Neil would be paying them any mind. "Did you watch the last press interview he did? He cussed that reporter out and didn't even care!"

Andrew did see that interview. He replayed it a couple times.

"I wasn't surprised but damn," Julie says. "I mean, I guess it does always look like he's in a bad mood."

And Andrew tries not to get defensive in his own head. It's pathetic. They aren't wrong. Neil's mean, sometimes cruel with his words. His icy smiles cut glass and elicit the phantom sound of nails on a chalkboard. Andrew simply tends to forget about his resting bitch face. Neil looks at Andrew like an excited puppy, eyes big and bright, hanging on his every word. Neil's a heat lamp around him, burning bright. He stings in a different way, like life being breathed into Andrew.

He tunes back into the conversation before he gets lost in blue eyes that aren't even there.

"He looks like he'd call me a slur."

"He's so cute, though."

"That man's not cute, he's hot."

"Calm down. Something tells me the likes of us don't have anything in common with him."

"Yeah. He only cares about Exy."

"Mmm. I'll let him talk about Exy if he lets me—"

Andrew chooses then to put it to rest before he puts them to rest. "You won't let anyone do anything as long as your part of the project is late."

Julie deflates, the panic of approaching midterms flooding her senses. Forgotten for a moment, never gone. It snaps the rest of them out of it, and they all forget about Neil and Andrew's mysterious love life in favor of frantically diving into coursework.

Later, Andrew sits in the same library alone on a different floor, among the mustiest of encyclopedias. No one ever comes back here. It's their favorite spot. That morning feels like a lifetime ago.

"What are you reading?" Neil asks. He's got his head in Andrew's lap, bandana gone. His legs are stretched out on the carpet, gym shorts riding up obscenely. He's comfortable, cozied up to Andrew like a cat. Andrew's got one hand tangled in his curls and the other holding his own book open. Neil's chest makes a good armrest.

Andrew skims over the same sentence three times. He can't blame it on the contacts he now wears, glasses hidden in his bag. It's fruitless to try studying with Neil. It requires him to look away from Neil's face, from softening blue, and he can't do that. He might miss something. A new tick of Neil's brow, a purse of the lips. Novel expressions, things he still has yet to know about him. Neil is an exhilarating subject, so endlessly interesting; Andrew could dive deep for hours, bits of gold slipping through his fingers as he pans the river.

"I'm rereading one of the myths I'm using for my paper," Andrew answers.

Neil's face scrunches up, then brightens in recognition. "Oh, the uh—Alicia?"

Andrew tells his heart to not flutter. "Alcestis," he answers quietly, too quietly.

Neil nods, nuzzles his face into Andrew's belly. "Tell me about it. That'll help, right?"

Andrew rolls his eyes. Neil's not dumb by any stretch. He's chosen the godforsaken major that is math, a minor in computer science. But he is numbers, he is code. His major, unfeeling, but Andrew's is bursting with it. He never expected Neil to get what that meant, to realize that Andrew, against all odds, bursts with it too.

But Neil never ignored the piles of books in Andrew's room, never refused to watch one of the strange, artsy films in Andrew's backlog. He listened, wanted to listen, like he wants to listen now. And Andrew can't wrap his brain around that. Perhaps it's something in Neil's code, outside of Andrew's wheelhouse.

"It would bore your single-minded brain to death," he says, because he can't say all that. "I can't be responsible for killing the school's star athlete."

Neil's expression then isn't new. His face twists in disgust at the reminder that he's a someone. A hot, sought-after someone. Neil loves Exy, loves to play it. But the popularity that comes with it, the whispers and attention, he could do without.

But as soon as the disgust arrives, it leaves. Neil's hand comes up to rest on the wrist Andrew's holding the book with, thumb smoothing over his skin. Neil smiles when Andrew shivers, but there's nothing smug about it. Like he, too, is a glutton for evidence that Andrew wants to be around him.

Someone so popular should not vie for attention, least of all from Andrew.

But his gaze is piercing, pleading up into Andrew's. "It won't bore me. Promise."

A promise. The most sacred bond to Andrew, something he'd made very clear early on when Neil promised to be back at Andrew's apartment by a certain time one night. It had been storming outside, the streets slick and dangerous. Neil was thirty minutes late.

He hasn't misused the word since.

So Andrew tells him. He goes over the plot, the original myth and its variations. He tells Neil his take on the themes and moral lessons the author at the time was trying to convey, how it relates to the historical events going on around that period. And Neil doesn't only listen or zone out, he asks questions, offers his own less informed takes that get Andrew heated and gritting his teeth. And Neil smiles under the scrutiny, basks in Andrew's glares as Andrew argues his own points. And it does help. He hates that it helps. He looks at things differently from unforeseen angles and adds annotations that breed questions and answers.

Neil's a fierce debate foe, armed with bullshit he can make real.

The more fun Andrew has, the more he tries to look like he'd rather be anywhere else. And Neil doesn't say anything about Andrew's poor acting. He plays with Andrew's hoodie sleeves gently, because his heart is on them.

And after Andrew's had enough of coursework, Neil pulls up Andrew's favorite true crime podcast for them to listen to for the last half an hour before they have to leave. Neil, who has little interest in the podcast, has it favorited on his Spotify. That too, makes Andrew push his face away.

Eventually, when the late afternoon rolls around, they part ways as they always do. They linger too. Like they always do. They share a third goodbye kiss behind one of the campus statues outside the library, hands tangled, clipped together like magnets. Neil sighs into the kiss with a satisfied hum and presses down, rocking on his tiptoes until he gets Andrew's head tilted further back. Andrew grunts; if he lets Neil's tongue in to play then they'll never leave. It's hard to resist this Neil, eager Neil, Neil with all his energy, not yet beaten out of him through Exy drills. Neil, hungry.

Andrew finds the willpower somewhere to push him away. Neil huffs, smile lopsided and not at all ashamed of being caught. The teasing glint, the confident droop of his shoulders nearly has Andrew pulling him back.

Instead, he shoos at him, like he's nothing more than a pest. Neil starts in the direction of the Exy stadium for evening practice, their fingers still connected. Andrew waits for the moment that always comes, the moment Neil gets so far away that their link breaks. But just before it happens, Neil pauses. He moves, gliding up Andrew's hand until he's pinching the sleeve of Neil's, now Andrew's, hoodie.

A Neil that thinks too hard is a dangerous one; he's either about to say something completely idiotic or something that forces Andrew's heart to stop and start anew. Sometimes it's both.

Does Neil want the hoodie back? Fat chance.

When Neil's quiet for too long, face too thoughtful, Andrew rips his hand away. Neil lets him go, but takes a while to drop his own hand from between them. He glances back at Andrew, a light dusting of red at the tops of his cheeks. Andrew told him not to look at him like that.

Andrew grunts, means for it to be demanding. It comes out petulant and whiny. But he won't ask, refuses to.

Neil grins as he takes a step backward. His blatant once-over burns Andrew to the core. "One day, when you're ready, I'll give you my team jacket."

The one with the obnoxious orange lettering, Neil's name and number on the back.

Neil turns around then, fading into a speck in the distance. Andrew's heart takes longer than usual to recover, unsure of what to do with it. He can't reject something he's clinging to with all his might.

By the time he can breathe again, Neil's disappeared from view.

—

A study session should not count as foreplay, but Andrew finds it happens more often than not.

Neil gets back to Andrew's on campus apartment after his practice, chest flushed and body drenched in sweat. He doesn't look tired when he sees Andrew, but he never does. There's a feral haze to him, a wild spark in his eyes that only comes after an exceptionally hard workout. Instead of draining him, sating the beast, Exy actually gives Neil more energy.

It's disgusting. Andrew's legs unconsciously shift open where he's lounging on the couch. Andrew's not sure what Neil did with this energy before him, probably ran it out in miles. Now, as an unintended but well-established habit…

He drives it into Andrew.

This time, Neil's not as quick with it. He rounds the couch slowly, but his body thrums. His fingers dance along the line of Andrew's shoulders as he passes, and the scanned pages he's holding detailing Euripedes seem less interesting than they were a few minutes ago. Andrew tries not to crinkle the paper, but Neil's hips are soon at his eye level. Thin shorts. The bulge, already there. Andrew can smell him, musk and sweat and the grass from the lawn Neil cuts across to get here. Andrew stomps on the urge to just start licking his thighs.

"Studying?" Neil asks, there but not. His voice is scratchy, not from lack of water. Neil's one of those freaks who carries around a water jug the size of his head. No, this is that faraway gravel, deep and lost. So horny it's grinding his syllables.

Andrew's legs spread further, and he's not in the mood to play hard to get today or entertain this conversation. He aches with the weight of Neil from the last night, but it's less pain and more anticipation. It's fading, a welcome reminder of pleasure and trust Andrew thought he'd never have. He wants to renew the stretch, doesn't want to be without this dullness.

Andrew swings his legs to the floor, but before he can lift his hands to pull Neil's shorts down, Neil speaks.

"Hey, why don't you wear your glasses around me?"

Andrew pauses, eyes stuck on the elastic of Neil's waistband until Neil's fingers tilt his chin up. Too stunned, Andrew goes. That unhinged look remains, blue eyes brimming with fantasies, with Andrew at the center. But alongside it, genuine consideration.

Andrew blinks at the crease between Neil's brows. His hand goes up to fiddle with his glasses, but finds nothing. Andrew wears contacts around Neil. Andrew doesn't know why. (He does.) Andrew doesn't get insecure. (He is.) He started from the moment he found out he and Neil shared a lecture, never stopped even after Neil smiled at him in that way no one else ever sees, as if it was cause and effect.

"What?" Andrew cringes at his own voice, at the weakness in its foundation.

"I see you around campus a lot," Neil supplies, stroking Andrew's jaw.

Andrew glares. "We are in different departments."

"Fine, I look for you," Neil spits back, braver than Andrew but just as hard-headed. "And maybe I take the long way through humanities. You're always wearing glasses."

Andrew keeps his shoulders squared out of pure defiance, rejecting the impulse to shrink. "Is this relevant right now?"

"I like them," Neil says. Long fingers reach up to trace the skin under Andrew's eyes, dark from sleepless nights. Andrew's eyes flutter when Neil brushes over his eyelashes. "I like how you look. You should wear them more often."

The tension snaps for Andrew. His mouth parts, greedy, like he's expecting Neil's fingers there next. But Neil stays caressing, soft. Fine then.

"You're the worst," Andrew tries to grumble, but it comes out breathless and affected. A year in and he doesn't know how to handle this, does not know what to say. He gives his mouth something else to do.

He yanks Neil's shorts down. He's not wearing anything underneath, and his hard cock springs up and slaps Andrew's chin. He feels the smear of precum and like a dog, upset at missing a single scrap, he lurches forward and sucks the head of Neil's cock greedily into his mouth. He drags it along the flat of his tongue until all he tastes is salt and Neil, dripping and adoring. Ravenous and unreal.

Neil winces and grabs Andrew's shoulders in a vice grip. "Ah, babe, I didn't shower—"

Andrew snorts. Is Neil stupid? He should know that's Andrew's favorite.

He challengingly raises his eyes to Neil's, slapping the head of his cock against his tongue. He doesn't break the standoff as he licks a long stripe up the underside of Neil's cock, where the vein pulses. He tastes sweat and moans, almost for show. It's to excite Neil, to get that athlete blood pumping. So why do Andrew's hips rut forward? Why are his clothes suddenly too tight?

High and obnoxious, the sound repeats. Neil will never know he's never made such a noise with anyone else, debauched and just as feral as Neil. He catches only a fraction of Neil's surprise before he's throwing his head back, hands fisting in Andrew's shirt.

Andrew swallows Neil down to the hilt, and this stretch of his lips is familiar, comforting despite the burning at the edges. Andrew shimmies down the length like he's devouring something delicious, until he's got his nose pressed in damp curls.

"Shit," Neil curses through a laugh, disbelieving and on the edge of slipping. Andrew likes it when he falls, when the last of that reserved and shy boy from the library disappears. "You love this, huh? Gonna take me deep like this?"

And Andrew should hate that, the way Neil's control slips until he's muttering the most obnoxious, domineering shit. But Andrew's back wants to arch, he wants to pull out all the stops. He's not sure what it is. He never liked this before, being told what to do during sex, the mouthiness, the exposure of just how slutty he was being.

But it's Neil. Of course, it's because it's Neil.

Andrew nuzzles Neil's pubic hair as he swallows around the weight of him, every curse and grunt music to his ears. He hums around Neil in lieu of an answer, and Neil gives him a fully body jolt.

"You're so good at this. Pull back, pull back," Neil orders breathlessly and Andrew goes until he just has the head of Neil's cock in his mouth. Neil reaches forward to drag the corner of Andrew's lip away, and Andrew can't see it, but he can feel the small bubble of precum as it pops under Neil's thumb.

He moans and sinks back down. He wonders if he had his glasses, if they would obscure or highlight the blush on his face.

Neil rolls his hips to avoid thrusting wildly, and Andrew pets his hip in praise. He doesn't choke. Takes pride in that fact. But he does for Neil, just to hear those grunts go from strained to animalistic. Andrew starts bobbing his head in short jerks, fakes choking when he goes back in deep. Neil grips his hair but doesn't pull. It's an encouraging touch, a silent praise that has Andrew grinding his ass down into the couch.

He's not nearly naked enough, is reminded of the fact when Neil throws his own shirt over his head and across the room. Neil's abs start to clench under Andrew's roaming hand, and he's biting his lip too hard, teeth sharp enough to draw blood. His hips start to stutter and stop, the thumb caressing the bulge through Andrew's cheek trembles.

Andrew blinks up at him, drunk and full, a silent question. He tilts his head, sucks a little harder.

Neil nods furiously. "Wanna swallow it?"

And knowing Neil, it's a genuine question, but he sounds so fucking wrecked, looks so fucking good, Andrew can't not come undone. He bobs his head furiously, abandons his own reputation for clean blowjobs. He swallows around Neil until there's drool spilling out and keeps going, moans loud alongside the squelching.

Is he going to swallow it?

Well, since Andrew likes the taste so much…

A rough sound barks out of Neil, bounces off the ceiling. He's petting Andrew's hair with desperate hands, mussing it up, clinging onto what he can for control. He devolves into whining, babbling, everything Andrew wants from this man who hides from the world. "Andrew, oh shi—"

For a moment, Neil forgets his manners. He grabs the back of Andrew's head and thrusts forward twice. Andrew lets him, drops his hands. He gets used, and he loves it.

Neil spills over his tongue with a pathetic whimper, and Andrew lets it collect there, plays a balancing act with it as it bobs around his mouth so it doesn't drip out. When Neil pulls his cock out, the trail of spit breaks after three seconds. It's a record. Haha. Andrew clamps his mouth shut to keep his prize locked down, only relents when he feels the familiar pressure of Neil gripping his chin and tilting his face up.

Ah. Now, that boy from the library is definitely gone. Neil's a black hole. Commanding, lost to what he wants like Andrew is, wanting to see Andrew, wanting to show him.

"Up," Neil says. Andrew tilts his head back.

"Open." Andrew does. He shows what he's sure is an impressive amount of cum painting the inside of his mouth. Thick, because Neil seems to be that way in every sense.

Neil's breath catches. "Swallow."

Gladly. He moans as he does, closing his eyes. He misses out on the appraising look Neil no doubt sends him, the darkness crossing his face. But he feels it, all Neil's attention, all Neil's desire, and he's not done with it.

Andrew makes quick work of stripping, no longer self-conscious about it. He doesn't hesitate to give Neil his back anymore, doesn't even look back to subconsciously confirm he's not a threat. But Neil reassures him, regardless. There's a gentle press of fingertips to his lower back, a tentative "it's me." Neil's hands are unique. Long and calloused. They treat Andrew not as something fragile, but precious. It could be no one else.

It has Andrew bending over the couch armrest further, legs spread and presented for fucking. He used to hate the feeling of his skin bared to the air like this, knowing there's an expanse of cellulite and stretch marks. Neil's hands gripped him harshly the first time, almost involuntary. But that greed, the hungry way he groped and squeezed had wrung the life out of that hatred.

It makes Andrew feel tantalizing, and he wriggles his hips back. He's hard and dripping between his legs, but he's had enough of his own hand for a lifetime. Neil's adept, with and without his own, at making Andrew come apart at the seams.

And Neil's hands do come to him, but not as quickly as usual.

Something lands in front of him on the couch.

Black lines, too white paper flecked with the black dots of a Xerox.

Andrew blinks, vision blurry, as he stares down at it. Contacts, and for what? But when he can make sense of reality again, he realizes it's the booklet he was reading before. Neil cups his ass and trails up and down in soothing motions; Andrew doesn't quite fit in his hands, spilling out. He hears Neil's predictable intake of breath; Andrew rolls his eyes like he doesn't swell from it and shudders when Neil does it again.

Neil breaks away to open the lube at the same time Andrew throws him an unimpressed look over his shoulder.

"What?" Neil asks, grin cheeky. He pushes messy bangs back from his face and Andrew wills his knees to not buckle. "You always say you need to study, don't you?"

There's a challenge in Neil's eyes that drips from his words. It's in times like this Neil feels like a stereotypical jock, maybe the only time. Arrogant and smug. Andrew licks at his own lips, as if it catch the haughty words and mix it with the cum still stuck to the insides of his cheeks.

He glares, but it isn't long before he turns back around. When has he ever not risen to Neil's bait?

Steeling himself, Andrew reads. Neil's first finger slips in without resistance.

"For many scholars, Euripides’ Electra stands out not just as a simple retelling of the myth, but as a new take on the events surrounding Agamemnon’s death and its aftermath," Andrew begins. He's read this part already. It's safe.

He whimpers. They do this too much for Neil to be taking such care, stroking Andrew's insides with one finger, ghosting the edges of his favorite spot. Andrew does his best to keep his hips in check, to not rock into it too much. From Neil's huffed amusement, he's failing.

But Andrew won't stutter, won't slip up. He's a locking mechanism, tight control. The most serious person in class, the man whose voice won't rise a decibel even in debates.

"In some interpretations…" Neil gives him another finger, crooks them just right. Andrew groans. He loses the sentence.

"Mmhmm," Neil hums, scissoring slowly, long enough for Andrew to get used to it, before drastically picking up the pace.

Andrew chokes. Finds another sentence, random, halfway down the page from the last. Each word is lead on his tongue. At a certain point, when Neil's three fingers deep, none of it sounds like English.

"The…characters are perceived as unheroic and morally flawed in their motivations and—fuck." Andrew braces his hand on the couch as Neil takes his fingers away, as Neil lines his cock up. This couch is shit. Hand-me-down cracked leather. Andrew's palms slip and the material broadcasts it loudly as he scrambles.

Neil enters him nice and slow. He picks another random passage. "Orestes is labeled a big cock—coward, while Electra is lambasted for…for…"

Lambasted. Neil sighs. What a funny word. The stretch is so nice. Andrew's body welcomes Neil home, a full-body relief.

He turns the page just to have something to do, the force of it has the staple tearing at the corner where the booklet is all held together. A last hurrah. Andrew can sympathize. Andrew hiccups, the words blurring on the page below. He's not sure his glasses would've helped any better. Neil groans as he finally rests, hips flush to Andrew's ass. Someone so short and lithe should not have this much weight, should not feel so monumental and grounding. Andrew's back arches as he pushes his ass into Neil, letting him feel the soft caress before he tightens up.

He smirks when Neil winces, but it devolves when Neil rocks forward, sending Andrew's face towards his homework. Bastard. Neil pets his back like a caged animal, gives his spine an encouraging farewell kiss.

"Lloyd's article…challenges these…claims by—" And then, Neil sets a pace. It's not a kind one. His hands grip under Andrew's hips and pull him just where he needs him to be, and then he gives him everything that wasn't burned up during practice.

Andrew gives up trying to read and all but flings the papers away, a few coming undone as the staple gives up the fight alongside him. "Fucking me so good, oh shit."

Neil pounds into him without faltering, like a timed drill. Precise and controlled. His breathing gives away the beast, ragged and deafening, broken up by pathetic little grunts that make Andrew's head swim. Like Neil's not in control, Andrew is, and Neil's not ashamed to constantly beg for more through each pitiful whine.

And Andrew can't get lost in that implication too long, may lose himself completely if he obsesses over how good he's making Neil feel. That Neil only makes those sounds with him, for him, because of him and no one else. Andrew answers him with his moans, encouraging and lilted just right. Just enough to drive Neil insane. Together, a chorus of shamelessness, they are still no match for the slap of skin.

Andrew feels his ass bounce where it slaps against Neil's thighs. Later, he'll peek at the redness there, blow cool air on the burn. Neil speeds up without warning and rocks Andrew forward. His arms give out, face buried in the couch.

Andrew's moan is decidedly not pretty this time, but it has Neil's arms wrapping around him, hugging him close. Neil's face nuzzles his back, kissing and biting with a reverence, like he'd drop to his knees and lick Andrew's shoes if asked.

Neil sighs, his pace hesitates. "Yeah, it's good for me too. You feel so—"

And if Neil is holding back any of that remaining athlete strength, Andrew doesn't want him to.

Andrew sits up with the last of his own strength, leaning against Neil's chest as he grabs the back of Neil's neck. Neil's drenched in sweat, more than when he arrived. Their skin sticks and glides together, and what should be sensory hell becomes heaven. Andrew tries to kiss him, but the angle makes it so their tongues only brush midair. "Harder. Let me have it."

"Fuck."

And Neil does. He brings his hand to press against Andrew's stomach as he pounds into him, eventually wrapping a hard around Andrew's leaking cock. He strokes him how Andrew likes; firm, unrelenting. Andrew's soaked all over, the lube on his inner thighs cooling in the air around them. Andrew starts to see stars in the corners of his eyes. He can't tell what moans are his anymore, only that they're plentiful and quickly climbing to the peak.

"Like that?" Neil asks, and Andrew hates him. He hates how that should sound corny as hell, but from Neil, it's all genuine. This person who cusses out reporters and is an intentional shit stirrer, so eager to please.

Andrew can only nod, and along comes another reason he hates Neil. Because Neil hesitates. He doesn't get a verbal confirmation, Andrew's law, so he refuses to make assumptions. His hips start to slow and Andrew clenches around him cruelly. "If you stop, I'll kill you."

He's too close for Neil to stop. Don'tDon'tDon't—

"Mmm, won't," Neil promises. He bites Andrew's ear, movements frantic. The two of them, skating close to the edge. Delicious heat builds and builds in Andrew's gut as his feet arch involuntarily, sending him on the tips of his toes.

Neil rubs his palm over the head of Andrew's cock. "I've got you. Let me feel you."

Andrew chokes on his moan as he comes. The heat travels through him until he's flushed and warm all over, too exposed but so right. He spills onto Neil's hand and lets himself be made a mess of, sinks into the pleasure and savors it instead of trying to get through it as quickly as possible. With Neil, he can stay like this. He nearly squeaks through it, the grunts melting into something softer as his nerve endings tingle.

Neil's close behind, fucking him through it in shorter thrusts, sharp and desperate and secretly adorable in Andrew's opinion. Infuriating, somehow twice as intoxicating, because Neil never acts embarrassed about it.

"Where do you want it?" Neil grits out. Andrew nearly laughs.

He licks at a line of sweat on Neil's chin. "As if you don't have somewhere in mind already."

Neil snaps, pulling out and pushing Andrew down between the shoulder blades. Andrew goes, almost smug with it. Neil steps back until he's spilling onto Andrew's ass, stripping his cock with abandon. Andrew feels the droplets cling to him, dripping and sticking to curves and divots.

He has a suspicion that's why Neil likes it. For a while, Neil just stares. Chest heaving, Andrew's soft breaths accompanying his. Neil has a hand on Andrew's lower back as it dries, appraising. Andrew wonders what he'd get at auction.

Eventually, Andrew speaks through the thick haze. "Perv," he scolds. It's too light, too airy, to have any bite.

Neil snorts but doesn't disagree. He rights Andrew's heavy limbs until they can sit side by side, boneless. Andrew hates cuddling. He scoots closer into Neil's chest. They need to shower, need to probably clean the poor couch that has been through enough, but for the moment, they bathe in the quiet, in the slow regulation of their breathing.

Andrew traces the lines of Neil's abs and tickles the trail of hair that starts there until they jump in surprise. Neil nudges him with his nose. It's good. Part of Andrew, a habit not broken and one that may never be, waits for the day it's not anymore.

He stretches out a leg and that bone deep ache reverberates back, a physical silencer of those thoughts.

"Hey, that weird movie you want to see is showing tonight," Neil says. "Wanna go?"

Andrew closes his eyes slowly. The weird movie Neil is referring to is Kiki's Delivery Service, but Andrew lets that slide. Neil remembered, remembered enough to check the times. Andrew should go to the school's next Exy match. Maybe he won't sit so far up in the stands this time.

Sighing, he glances up at his boyfriend. "Will you buy the candy?"

Neil grins. "As much as you want."

—

Andrew leaves his friends at their lunch table to throw away his trash when someone bumps into him. He's got a team jacket on, the school's garish colors blinding. But Andrew knows he's not on the Exy team. He goes to too many games. He would've seen him.

The guy, all broad-shouldered and bathed in superiority (football maybe), stares down at him. He encroaches on Andrew's bubble, all glares and disgust. Andrew himself feels it expand. Warning signs, lanterns along the moat flare up. An intruder, a breach. Andrew's hands fist at his sides. He's no stranger to a fight, is far too used to them coming his way unbidden.

He attracts violence, the cruelty of others. Like he is a receptacle for it, a beacon for people to take frustrations out on. But one day he decided to reject that placement, and he's never looked back.

The guy raises his hand, whether to shove or pull, Andrew doesn't care.

It won't be something he walks away from unscathed. Not with the size of this guy, the ferocity and insignificance he must feel. But Andrew will give as good as he gets, and it'll be a lesson no one in the lunch room forgets.

"Watch where you're—"

Before he can throw a punch, a lunch tray slams into the guy's chest. It bends, cheap plastic. The force of it, of the guy choking on air, echoes across the crowded room. The chatter ceases as the guy sputters on the ground.

Andrew knew Neil was there, of course. He's never not aware of Neil in his vicinity. But…Andrew's pretty sure he'd been on the other side of the room entirely.

Neil's not looking at him yet. Icy blue meets the stunned look on the football player's face, unforgiving and cold. His face scrunches, like the stench of him is too much.

"Watch it," Neil says with unveiled disgust. His lip twitches, forcing down what Andrew knows is a sadistic smile. He wonders if that's Neil's "glasses." Andrew should tell him too, that he likes it. "You could get hurt next time."

Neil's no physical threat. He's small and built more for running than fighting. It's his aura alone, merciless and uncaring, that does it. It's clear from those words, so dripping with the promise of something worse, that Neil is something dangerous. It keeps the football player on his ass, unable to move, unable to form a coherent thought as Neil pins him down. It's not a challenge he ends up deciding to take as he rises to his feet and backs off.

Campus security walks through just then, the usual patrol, and the football player scurries off without further incident. Slowly, the lunchroom returns to a steady equilibrium.

Andrew should walk away. Neil will, no doubt. He knows Andrew's need for privacy, has always understood the arrangement. Andrew should make it easier, leave first. They'll see each other later. He stays.

Neil turns to him. He has that apathetic screen back, keeping himself a reasonable distance away. Andrew never realized before, how close Neil usually stands to him. His face communicates little, but Andrew feels it. Immense care and unwavering devotion, rippling off Neil in waves.

"Okay?" Neil asks quietly. A confirmation, a need. A plea, and then he'll go. Andrew swallows the lump in his throat.

He takes in the crowded lunchroom, his friends sitting not too far away, watching this all happen. He tries to remember why he cares so much. He didn't care the night before, walking out of the movie theater with Neil's hand in his.

He probably stopped caring a long time ago. Old habits die hard. But they die.

Neil's brow furrows at him, a slip of the mask. Andrew doesn't want him to wear it anymore. Andrew adjusts his glasses, breathing in fire and conviction into his lungs.

He leans up and kisses Neil's cheek, voice a whisper. "Yes."

Andrew's okay. He won't say anything more than that. Anything more would be too much to risk someone taking a bite out of what is theirs.

He pulls away slowly. Neil's eyes blink once before bursting with joy.