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Andrew has him pressed up against the wall, some cold-to-the-touch, cream-rough wallpaper that Andrew’s glad he’s not the one thrown up against. Or maybe it would be better that way, to have some constant painful reminder at his back that this is a mistake.
But Neil groans when Andrew hitches up the too-tight shirt that’s been clinging to him all night, up and up, until Andrew’s fingers can trail delicately over the trembling, firm skin there, and Andrew swallows down words like mistake and don’t.
After all, Andrew’s no stranger to being a mistake himself.
He flicks at the button on Neil’s jeans, pulling his zipper down, until the bulge in Neil’s underwear is hot against Andrew’s crotch.
“Do you want this?” Andrew mumbles the words into Neil’s mouth, eyes closed, unable to bear looking at him. If he looks, he might break the spell. He can’t break it. He can’t.
Neil licks his lips, Andrew feels it, the tongue that darts sweetly across his own with the nervous tick. “You know I do, just - can we -”
Andrew doesn’t want to hear any more. He kisses Neil into silence, steps even further into his space, one leg between Neil’s, and shuts them both up.
As usual, Neil is ready to come before Andrew is. Andrew only gets there some of the time. Most of the time this is enough: to feel Neil against him, to grab Neil’s hair and moan in his ear, “Come on Neil, come on -” and then Neil is gripping Andrew’s elbows, shuddering against him, head falling into the crook at Andrew’s neck. Neil is a little taller; Andrew loves to shift up into him at the last second, to use the final friction to send Neil over the edge.
It works, and Andrew squeezes his eyes shut, one palm against the wall on the other side of Neil’s head. He wants to taste Neil, so bad it hurts, wants to fuck him, too - things he’ll never say. That’s not part of their deal.
Neil, when he has his breath back, says over Andrew’s shoulder, “I hate it when you do that.”
“I did not realise you were so against orgasms,” Andrew says into the wall, not ready to open his eyes yet. Neil is warm and pliant against him, almost hugging him where his hand is resting loosely around Andrew’s waist.
Andrew feels the laugh against his shoulder. “In my pants, Andrew. I have to go back to work like this.”
“Then go back to work like that,” Andrew says, low, opening his eyes and looking at Neil’s ear. He wants to lick it.
Neil taps his fingers against Andrew’s waist. “You’re gross, you know that?” But Andrew doesn’t believe the objection.
As the high from making Neil come fades, Andrew’s own arousal dims, until the air in the room feels tacky, like the air in a stale out-of-order bathroom should feel, and suddenly Andrew has to leave.
He pushes off, Neil smiles at him, unreadable, and Andrew says, “Let’s never do this again.”
Neil nods. “Right back at you,” he says.
Andrew points at his dick. “Fly’s undone.” Leaves the room.
He doesn’t care if their colleagues find out or not. He never has done. But he assumes Neil waits the customary few minutes to exit the bathroom himself. Assumes they were quiet enough not to get noticed. The bathroom is down a disused hallway - hence broken and not on the priority list for fixing - the hallway light itself dim, the motion detector unreliable.
When Andrew gets back to his desk it’s to a Kevin with raised eyebrows. “Where have you been?” Kevin asks, shuffling some papers on his desk.
Andrew moves his mouse. “Bathroom.”
Kevin doesn’t ask any more, and Andrew finds the next file he needs to work on that afternoon, and opens it.
Andrew has a date that night. But he thinks he’s made his feelings about the chance for success clear by fucking his ex just hours before.
Andrew thinks about Neil in the shower, gets himself off to the sound of Neil cumming echoing in his ears, then picks out a shirt for David.
David - the guy - is still wearing a tie when Andrew approaches him outside the address he’d been sent. Or, Andrew realises, looking him up and down as David smiles at him from 5 inches above - maybe even worse, put one on especially for Andrew..
He takes Andrew to a Mexican chain restaurant. Andrew isn’t against Mexican chain restaurants most of the time, but he’s against being taken there by David.
Everything David orders, he tells Andrew this isn’t what they eat in Mexico, and he pronounces Mexico like he’s hispanic, and Andrew can tolerate that, but not when he fucks up the pronunciation of several dishes on the menu. Andrew puts twenty dollars on the table, grabs his burrito in one hand, and walks out of the restaurant.
It’s cold, but his burrito is tasty, and he gets his phone out, and calls Lee.
“Well?”
“The worst,” Andrew mumbles through chewing.
He can feel Lee smiling down the phone. “This was your first date in ages! I’m not surprised.”
Andrew can feel himself squinting into the dark. It is only a few blocks’ walk home, and it isn't too cold with his leather jacket on. “Why do I get the feeling you knew that David would be the worst?”
“Maybe I intentionally picked out someone awful.”
Andrew almost chokes on his mouthful. He splutters, “A curse upon you. The guy pronounced tortilla wrong.”
“How can you pronounce tortilla wrong?” Lee asks.
“I sent a voice note to Nicky. Recorded it under the table while Mr Boring was talking. He will back me up.”
“Someone’s confident.”
“Yeah, well -” Andrew tosses the end of his burrito into a passing trash can, suddenly not so hungry anymore. “Fuck you, by the way.”
“I knew this wouldn’t be the one, why waste someone good on it?”
“Goodbye.” Andrew hangs up, feeling betrayed, and a little sick, like maybe the Mexican chain restaurant hadn’t been so fine after all - and saunters home.
The problem with fucking at work (yes he’d been warned, but what choice was there?) - is you have to see the guy every day.
Andrew has been through this before. Only a few times, but he can get away with it, here. The city council building is huge, and has lots of departments. Andrew can find a pretty redhead, a brunette, fuck him until there’s a chance of his colleages’ overhearing - his, not Andrew’s (Andrew never fucks on his own floor) - and be gone before the guy has registered he’ll never be back.
Andrew works in the Children’s Services Departments, processing applications for fostering, adoption, finding extra support, extra money, extra time. It is a grind, sometimes impossible - and he’d never go home if he had the choice.
Kevin is Andrew’s work husband. (He’s ground down Kevin’s internal homophobia to the extent that people in the office now ask Kevin “Where’s your husband?” But Kevin seems to mind less when Andrew is the one to pick him up, drunk, when he can’t drive himself home. Doesn’t seem to mind when Andrew is the one to listen when Kevin breaks down; when Kevin wants to get sober; when Andrew stays with Kevin for a week to make sure no alcohol gets in the house.)
The plan after college was to settle into city life, to hope Neil Josten stayed on Palmetto’s campus before fucking off somewhere else, and for Andrew to never have to see him again.
Who knew the council hired translators.
The first time had gone like this.
Andrew walked into work one day, straight up to Kevin’s desk, and said, “I think you should move in with me.”
Barbara, two seats over, 60, but with the sense of humour of a 25 year old, raised her eyebrows and said, “Finally proposing, are we?”
“Fuck off, B,” said Andrew without looking at her.
“He doesn’t mean it,” Kevin said.
“He does,” Barbara said, amused, but ducked her head back into her own cubicle.
Kevin saved what he was doing, and swivelled to give Andrew his full attention. “Why am I moving in with you?”
Andrew took off his shoulder bag. “My rent is going up.”
“Romantic.”
“It was not meant to be romantic. And I hate your apartment. This way I will never have to visit it again.”
Kevin lived in a shithole. Their pay was crap. And it showed.
Andrew’d had a roommate, until a week ago, when Aaron had suddenly decided he was in love and couldn’t do long distance anymore (“She lives a bus away, Aaron”) and was moving in with her.
“So, Aaron’s leaving?”
“Yep.” Andrew threw himself into his chair. “Today is the worst.”
“You gonna miss him?”
“His playstation.” Andrew sighed. “You do not have a playstation.”
“I do not,” Kevin agreed, turning back to his desktop, and clicking something open again.
It wasn’t until lunchtime that Andrew saw him. The ground floor cafeteria didn’t serve hot food, and Andrew needed something comforting to make up for all the change he was being forced through.
The elevator doors opened on the third floor, Andrew took one step forward, and ground to a stop.
Neil Josten was staring at him, unmoving, clearly having been waiting for the lift. His eyebrows raised in surprise, his hands stuffed into too-tight light-wash jeans. A shirt that didn’t look like it fit him under a mismatched purple shirt. He said, “Oh. Andrew.”
Andrew said nothing. He stepped to the side.
Neil didn’t move. He said, “You work here?”
“Children’s services.”
“Right. That makes sense. I just started.” Neil paused. “Translation.”
“An influx of German migrants I did not hear about?”
“Russian.” Another pause. “And, uh, some other slavic countries. I’m in the slavic division.”
“He is the slavic division!” A guy Andrew immediately despised clapped a hand on Neil’s shoulder. Neil winced. “This guy is saving our ass from being sued for not providing or whatever. Now we’re providing, alright. Wokes, watch out!”
Neil and Andrew said nothing.
The guy wasn’t put off. “Come on Neil, I’m buying you lunch. We sit with Russia, or the Middle East. Whatever you do -” He cupped a hand around his mouth. “-don’t sit with Europe. They are the worst.”
This guy was the worst, and Andrew could tell Neil thought so, but it wasn’t his business, and Neil got steered off towards the cafeteria line.
Andrew turned, threw open the door to the stairs, and all but hurtled down them.
At 5pm on the dot, Andrew grabbed Kevin, Barbara, and Lee, and dragged them to the nearest bar. Barbara stayed a polite hour - one G&T was her limit - and when she left Andrew proceeded to get very drunk.
When Lee - lovely, pastel-colours Lee, who had flirted with Andrew when Andrew had first arrived and Lee had wanted someone to work out his sexuality on - asked, “What’s wrong sweetheart?” Andrew had been just drunk enough to tell him.
The truth is: Neil hadn’t been perfect. Neil was a dream that Andrew had lived in for a year in college. They’d lived in each others’ pockets, classes, beds. Neil’s friends had been Andrew’s friends, and the three years Andrew had spent before meeting Neil now felt like a different lifetime.
Andrew had never felt noticed before Neil. Had never wanted to feel noticed until Neil.
Neil was the hot guy who showed up in the LGBT society Andrew’s final year. A year younger, small and twinky, but with an expression that could light you on fire if you said the wrong thing. Mostly, no one dared approach him.
Neil was the one to approach Andrew.
Neil was the one to say he’d seen Andrew around, he was just looking for someone to get coffee with, no funny business, when was Andrew free?
Andrew was the one to say yes, a beat too quick.
And then - 3 months into coffee, hot chocolate, iced tea, discovering Neil had a bad attitude, few friends and a sense of humour that exactly matched Andrew’s - Neil was the one to ask, “Do you want to have sex?”
Andrew had wanted to, had wanted it since the first moment Neil had walked into the college bar. Andrew was messy, and rushed, and wanted it to be good - he wasn’t sure it was - he slipped his hands into Neil’s pants hurriedly, not knowing when Neil’s roommates would be back, and Neil had said, “Yes, yes, fuck, oh fuck,” and for the first time Andrew had cum at the same time as someone else.
He had never meant for it to be anything more.
And apparently, neither had Neil.
Because at the end of the year, Neil had come to say goodbye, had walked into the dorm room where Andrew was packing, where Andrew had left his dog collar bracelet on the desk, the bracelet he’d been planning to give to Neil, so that he could give it to him while asking when he wanted to come see his and Aaron’s new apartment -
Neil had appeared in the doorway while Andrew had been planning all these things, and broken things off.
Neil said No point and This was fun, and Andrew didn’t ask enough questions, and Neil gave a sort of apologetic wave, expression completely shut down, and left.
The problem was, there has never been any closure. Andrew knows that’s what his problem was - that’s what it still is - that that’s what he’s been chasing. He doesn’t need a fucking therapist to tell him that. Because he doesn’t care. He’ll take the chase over not having Neil any day.
The next time Andrew saw Neil in the office, Neil had been sweaterless, more-fitted-shirt tucked into his jeans, and Andrew said, “Hi,” almost involuntarily.
Neil, queueing for the infamous third-floor cafeteria, looked behind him, surprised. “Andrew,” he said, the sound of Andrew’s name in his mouth making Andrew’s eyes flick to Neil’s lips and back again. “It’s - how are - what’s up?”
“What’s up,” Andrew drawled in response. “Can we talk?”
Neil nodded, never one to back down from a challenge, and followed Andrew to his favourite broken third-floor bathroom.
Andrew had intended to talk. He hadn’t really wanted to talk, but he did want to say words and for Neil to feel as awful as he did. Instead, Neil - for once, mistaking cues - had pushed their lips together the second the door was closed behind them, and Andrew’s traitorous hands were already clinging to Neil’s hair, pushing him back against the door, rubbing their crotches together, making up for lost time, telling Neil yes, yes he could touch him, unbuttoning him and pulling out his cock, and Neil did the same, and the moan of oh, once Neil had his hand around Andrew, making him cum almost instantly - but he waited, waited, waited, and then together -
It was awkward, afterwards. Neil panted, “Fuck. I didn’t mean to -”
“I am sure you did not,” Andrew said, looking down at himself in surprise. “Shit.”
Neil said, “I’ll just - shall I go?”
Andrew nodded at Neil’s jeans. “You can tell.”
“Fuck.” Neil licked his finger and rubbed pointlessly at the damp spot on his jeans.
Andrew zipped himself up, wiped his hands with toilet paper, and pulled his oversized sweater down a little. It would do. “No one will notice if you do not point it out,” he said, walking out of the room.
They had repeated the occasion. A few times. Four. Five. Andrew doesn’t know.
When they bumped into each other in the corridor, when Andrew needed to call Neil because he had a Russian family he dealt with fairly regularly, when he’d overheard someone calling Neil the hot new guy, two middle aged women who were debating if he’d say yes if they asked him out - and Andrew had been hitting the third floor button before he knew what he was doing, had found Neil at his desk, had gotten Neil’s attention and then simply walked away, had his hand in Neil’s pants before the door was fully closed.
And now they’re here, now they’re in this, and Andrew doesn’t know why, or even how - or how to get out of it.
Because he doesn’t want to.
He wants to fuck Neil on his desk, he wants everyone to see, for everyone in the office to see Neil wants me, to see this thing, this beautiful, destructive, asshole of a thing, this thing is mine, to see, he won’t go out with you, I’m the only one he looks at.
Andrew wants to believe it so badly.
So when Neil appears in Andrew’s office - on his homeground - Andrew is like a rabbit in headlights.
Kevin says, “Neil, can we help you?” a little frostily. Kevin has worked out this is Andrew’s Neil. Knows they have to work together. Is civil. (Doesn’t know Andrew had his hands on him yesterday.)
Neil smiles, but it’s empty, void of anything Andrew can read, and says, “Can I speak with you, Andrew?”
Andrew doesn’t speak. Kevin says quickly, “Actually, we were about to go into a meeting. Maybe next time you can email before just turning up.”
Barbara’s head appears at that. “What’s this, dearies?”
Oddly, that makes Neil jump. Though, he’s always been a little jumpy. Andrew smiles, despite it all. He says, “Nothing. I have a few minutes.” He gets to his feet, waves off Kevin’s objections, and follows Neil out the room.
In the bathroom, Neil spins on Andrew and says, “Who’s David?”
It takes Andrew a moment to work out what Neil’s asking. “And why would you ask that?” he replies, feeling cold all over. Andrew doesn’t experience anger like other people, he thinks he burned most of that out years ago. What he does is flick between nothing and white hot rage.
Neil shoves his hands in his back pocket. “I heard you’re fucking some guy called David.”
“No,” Andrew says calmly, “you did not. Because I am not fucking David. I went out on one bad date with David. And only Lee knew. So I will say it again. Why are you asking?”
Neil glares at him. Neil is the one who knows anger, who has lived it close to his skin for decades now, who has no coping mechanisms and could do with some.
It’s been ages since they fought.
Neil says, “I asked Lee about you.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Neil paces up and down the tiny space, and looks ludicrous, and Andrew crosses his arms and waits. “What the fuck is this, Andrew? You think you can just fuck me while you fuck other people?”
“An occasional hand down my pants - that is supposed to keep me from doing whatever I want?”
“It is supposed -” Neil clearly wants to explode, but he glances at Andrew, and something on Andrew’s expression stops him mid-track. Neil takes a breath, runs his hand through his hair. Says, “I don’t know.” He takes another breath, and looks at the floor. “You’re right. I’m -” He stops again. “Let’s just not do this again, ok?”
“Sure thing,” Andrew says, quiet as Neil throws himself out the room.
Obviously, it isn’t that easy. Andrew thinks about Neil when he wakes up, when he gets to work, when he has to decide what to eat for lunch, when he’s dragged to the bar by Lee and Kevin.
Lee says, “How come you don’t dance?”
“Because he’s boring,” says Kevin, knocking a shot down his throat. “I’ll dance with you, Lee.”
Lee, sweet and easy, brightens. “Let’s go handsome,” he says, dragging Kevin onto the dance floor.
Andrew feels morose, something which isn’t meant to have company.
He doesn’t expect Neil to walk through the door. And, once this does register, doesn’t expect Neil to make eye contact, and walk over.
Andrew says, “No.”
And that stops Neil, mid-mouth-open, in one move. Neil stops, and stops, and he’s always stopping, for Andrew.
Suddenly Andrew wants to know. “And if I said yes?”
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Neil says, sounding breathless.
“And?”
“But… I hoped you might.”
Andrew finishes his drink, swallowing the cool whisky in one, hoping Neil will go away, hoping he never leaves. “This is getting repetitive, Neil.”
“I fucked up.”
Now it’s Andrew who stops, Andrew whose heart stops beating, whose hand stops mid-air, acerbic replies stopping where they started forming on his tongue.
Neil is just standing there, as dangerously gorgeous as ever, as solid as Andrew had ever wanted - and Andrew says, “Is there more to this, or can I tell you to fuck off now?”
Neil shakes his head. “You can’t. I want - Andrew, I think - can we talk?”
Andrew considers, lets oxygen enter his lungs a few times, says, “We can talk. Just talk. And then I do not think I will want to see you again.”
Neil nods, a few too many times, like he’s nervous, hands still in his pockets, and says, “Just talk. Outside?” Andrew follows him out, ever the curious one, always following Neil into places where he’ll allow himself to get hurt. For Neil.
The alleyway outside the bar is cool, and Neil hops up and down a few times, his thin sweater clearly a rushed clothing choice for how cold it is.
Neil says, “Right,” as Andrew relaxes himself against brick.
Andrew finds a cigarette in his pocket, and lights it.
“I want another chance,” Neil says in a rush.
“At what?” Andrew asks, inhaling more of his cigarette than he really wants. “Me? I think you had me yesterday.”
“No,” Neil says, shaking his head. “No. At this. At us.”
“So, last year… what was that to you exactly?”
“It was - I thought it was just -” Neil grinds his teeth. He makes a frustrated noise. “I thought it was just sex. To both of us. I thought - that’s all it was.”
Andrew sucks in nicotine, blows it out into the air. “You thought.”
“I was an idiot.”
Andrew doesn’t say anything.
“I think - I was so sure that you’d run, once you could - or that I would. I thought, better to cut it off, to feel nothing for you at all.” Andrew’s heart skips a beat. “I just wanted this to be simple, I’m not cut out for -” Neil gestures between them.
“Believe me, sweetheart,” Andrew says, cold and angry, “neither am I.”
“I know,” Neil says, with a frown. “But, I do want to be with you. I want it, now. I didn’t before. I wondered if - whether -”
“You can have another shot?” Andrew can’t hold his cigarette anymore, he’s shaking too much. He throws it on the ground, stamps his foot over it. “So that you can get off with me, and leave when you get too jittery again?”
“No -”
“Thank you for your proposition. The answer is go fuck yourself.” Andrew turns and slams back inside.
Things could be awkward, if he lets them. He could tell Lee and Kevin the truth, that not only is Neil back, but they’re getting off together, that Andrew mistakenly gave the impression that there was any more to this, any hope of this being more.
Andrew needs to start thinking with his head.
Except - the next day, Neil visits. He turns up, 10am, a coffee cup in hand, places it on Andrew’s desk. “Hi,” he says.
Andrew frowns at him. The anger’s faded some with the alcohol. He says, “Yes?”
Neil points at the cup. “Sugar, right? Milk?”
Andrew picks up the cup, opens the lid, sniffs. Lee, Kevin and Barbara are in a meeting, so Andrew and Neil are alone in the office. Andrew says, “What is this?”
Neil shrugs. “Coffee.” But he is smiling. “It’s - last night was stupid, Andrew. I’m sorry. I really am.”
Andrew hesitates, but only for a second. “Ok,” he says. “I really could not care less about last night.
Neil’s nodding before he speaks. He says, “Ok.” And then, “Same time tomorrow?”
Andrew just watches, confused, as Neil leaves.
Every morning, at 10am, Neil brings Andrew a coffee. Sometimes a cookie accompanies it. It’s incredibly fucking embarrassing. Barbara says, “How sweet, Andrew has a suitor,” and Andrew uses profane language, and Lee says, “Not in front of Barbara!” while Barbara laughs, delighted.
Kevin asks, one evening, while they’re playing on their new Playstation. (A house warming gift to themselves, from themselves, purchased secondhand). “What’s he trying to achieve?”
Andrew shrugs. “Forgiveness? Friendship? A final chance? Who cares.”
Kevin nudges him with his shoulder. “Not you, clearly.”
Andrew swerves his car into Kevin’s at the last second, and Kevin loses his speed bonus.
One day, Andrew asks Neil, “How do you make enough money to buy me a coffee every day? I do not make enough money to buy coffee every day.”
Neil smiles. “I’m the only one who can speak Polish.”
“Money bags,” Andrew mutters, sipping his perfectly-sweetened coffee.
Neil is clearly feeling confident enough to pull up a spare chair, to spin around in it a little, to ask, “So what are you working on today?”
So maybe Andrew is feeling overly generous when, a few weeks later, he says, “I suppose we can hang out. One time. If you do not bore me, or irritate me, we can repeat the experience.”
Neil lights up, and it doesn’t make him even more gorgeous, absolutely doesn’t. Neil grins. “Ok. Tonight? Dinner?”
Andrew shrugs.
And they go out for dinner. And they don’t talk about it. If it was up to Andrew they’d never talk about it again. And he’s still not sure, but he becomes more sure the more Neil talks, about how paranoid and closed-off he’d been during the first few years of college, how he’d only come to the LGBT social because his therapist had recommended it, how his therapist had not lasted long. Andrew had never known Neil had been in therapy. Wondered, out loud, if they’d seen the same one?
And then they were talking. Really talking. And the tightness around his chest that Andrew feels when he looks at Neil - at this perfect, imperfect thing - loosens some, settles into warmth.
After the fourth dinner, Andrew grabs Neil’s sleeve outside, and says, “Take me home.”
Neil’s apartment is nice, and Andrew can tell there’s some family money here, but he doesn’t care to ask. He pushes Neil into the plush sofa, unzips his jeans, and says, “Can I blow you?”
Neil groans his yes against Andrew’s cheek, and Andrew kneels upright, either side of Neil, both of them still clothed, unzips his own jeans, palms himself while taking Neil into his mouth, and sucks him down.
“Andrew,” Neil gasps, hands in his hair, “I missed you,” and Andrew sucks harder, hoping he shuts up, hoping he doesn’t, almost see stars when Neil grips his hair hard and comes saying Andrew’s name, making Andrew cum over his own hand.
Afterwards, they lie side by side, Andrew for once with his head on Neil’s chest, just listening to him breathing.
Neil says, “Can this be it, now? No more fucking up?”
Andrew pinches his nipple, and Neil’s whole body shudders. “That depends on how much of a rabbit you intend to be.”
Neil lifts Andrew’s chin, and kisses him. “I promise, Andrew,” and Andrew keens at that word - knowing Neil knows what it means to him - “this is it.”