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It's on an unassuming and dim Monday mid-October, a sea of dark and majestic clouds blanketing the sky in rolling waves of an incoming thunderstorm, that Neil begins to suspect that something might be wrong with him.
He's out on his usual morning run, sweat dripping down his temples in rivulets and lungs burning in the comfortable and familiar way that seizes his chest and has euphoria rolling through his body, as the peculiar feeling slithers down his spine for the first time.
Initially, he brushes it off, dismissing it as a strange spike of adrenaline, a last remaining residue of his instincts from his life on the run, stubbornly sticking to the bottom of his shoe no matter how hard he's tried to scrape it off before.
He decides to take another turn left and add one more loop to his usual route, heading for the trail winding along the edge of campus, past underbrush and a dense thicket of colored autumn foliage varying from bright and lush orange tones to a muted sienna.
The longer Neil works his legs, step after step after step, breath after breath after breath, the more the sensation dissipates, getting lost somewhere in between the rhythm of his own accelerated exhales and the steady burning in his thighs.
By the time he reaches the Fox Tower, he's basically dripping all over the asphalt, sweat-soaked and spent, yet the moment he slows to a halt and starts to stretch out his sore muscles, the knot at the base of his spine returns.
It's a barely-there pressure, radiating to the back of his thighs and leaving behind a restless, tingly sensation, like ants crawling all over his skin, littering it with tiny bites that itch just enough to be nerve-wracking.
Just to be sure, he cranes his neck, casting an inspecting look, but all that he's met with is smooth skin.
Weird, he thinks, but doesn't pay it further mind. Maybe he pinched a nerve.
Despite the nagging feeling still sitting uncomfortably at the base of his spine, Neil opts for taking the stairwell, taking two steps at a time. When Neil lets the hot water patter over his tender muscles later and the bathroom slowly fogs up with clouds of steam, he finally relaxes, tension uncoiling bit by bit as the water runs along his back.
He almost forgets about it until something happens again two days later.
The weather has changed to a gloomy and constant drizzle, small and unassuming raindrops pattering against the window of their shared living space as Andrew and him lounge on the couch with the TV set to a random entertainment channel.
Neil couldn't care less about the reality TV show, more focused on Andrew's intoxicating body heat and the small circles his thumb is rubbing into Neil's ankle where the hem of his sweatpants rides up and reveals a sliver of skin.
It's something they've done for a while now, casual touches here and there. In the beginning, their friendship had been a careful labyrinth of yeses, nos, and tentative maybes, hackles raised and claws poised to strike. As time passed and their trust in each other strengthened, physicality went hand in hand with being glued to the other's side.
The brush of thigh against thigh while pressed into the bench of the stadium's lounge, the soft tickle of Andrew's hair grazing his neck as he's dozing on Neil's shoulder during a bus ride, the rhythmic tapping of Andrew's fingers against the fluttering pulse on Neil's wrist when he's close to a panic attack — it's become a layer of comfort Neil can rely on when the world is crumbling around him, a pillar of stability when everything else is falling apart.
Neil has never cared much for the characteristics of his second gender, has never put much weight to the fact that his designation as an alpha comes with certain expectations he's never managed to fulfill.
While his mother had beat him black and blue if he so much as let a tendril of his scent slip, his father had let him know early on that him presenting as anything else than an alpha would result in his demise.
It had been enough of a risk for Mary to frantically drag Neil along with her in the dead of night, sealing their fate of eternal runaways with the alternative being death, torture, or worse.
When Neil presented as an alpha two years later, incoming fangs itching and throbbing as his body adapted to the heightened sense of so many smells assailing him all at once, Mary had shoved a pack of suppressants his way and told him to suck it up.
In the end, Neil would never know if, under different circumstances, she would have been capable of affording him the tenderness of a mother's embrace on the brink of his first rut, helpless and scared.
It should have been the first warning sign, his mind drifting to that particular memory, as he's enveloped in Andrew's heady scent of pine and smoke, sinking further and further until his thoughts are nothing but buzzing static. Neil doesn't even realize that he's drifting to sleep until he's jerking awake again, skin coated in a thin layer of sweat, and Andrew's questioning gaze burning into him like a hot iron.
"What's wrong?" Andrew's stoic voice cuts through the silence.
Neil frowns and wets his dry lips. "Nothing."
When Andrew only lifts an unimpressed brow, Neil concedes, huffing out a breath.
"Something. I dunno. It's probably nothing."
"Whatever you say."
Andrew doesn't press the issue, but Neil can tell that he wants to, that, should it occur again, he'll press down on the wound until Neil will hiss and trash and tell him what's going on. Neil couldn't, even if he wanted to, because the answer is evading him at every corner.
It's a phantom knowledge, ducking into narrow and dark alleyways and escaping Neil's searching stare every time he tries to pin it down. His skin is itching with the definite conviction that something is wrong, but he can't seem to see the whole picture, no matter how hard he tries.
The next time something happens, it's in front of the whole team. They have a game tomorrow, and Kevin has been an absolute nightmare during training. By the time Neil loses his cool, Kevin has already snapped at the backliners and run his mouth about Andrew's listlessness when it comes to everything Exy-related, so it comes as no surprise when Neil's thread of patience thins out until it snaps with a reverberation that echoes across the whole court.
What is unusual, however, is how it occurs.
He's distracted today, and misses the goal by several inches for the third time — too preoccupied with the fog clouding his mind, making it hard to focus on anything.
Not soon after the ball ricochets off the plexiglass and sadly rolls away on the court floor, he hears Kevin's exasperated scoff.
"What the fuck is up with you today?"
Frustration settles low in Neil's gut, a bubbling feeling that has him clenching his teeth as he huffs out a ragged breath. It's not like he didn't try, he really did, it's his limbs that feel all wrong. Awfully lanky and like they're grown sideways, skin prickling uncomfortably under the scratchy material of his jersey.
"Leave me alone," he barks out, slinging his racquet over his shoulder with reckless irritation and wincing when the stick collides painfully with his bone under the propelling force.
"We can't afford for you to be sloppy! You need to get your shit back under control or—"
"Or what?" Neil sneers. "I have one bad week and suddenly we're demoted to League two? Piss off."
"I'm being serious. You aren’t leaving until you've managed at least one clean shot."
Neil refuses to meet Kevin’s burning gaze and responds to the threat with punishing silence as he heads past him and in the direction of the locker rooms. The rest of the team is still preoccupied with Wymack's relentless drills, but Neil is almost certain that he's gained Andrew's attention by now.
He hopes they'll be done soon, too, so that he can get back to the dorm and indulge in a much needed evening spent smoking on the rooftop — just him, Andrew, and the twinkling blanket of stars following the swirling clouds of smoke as they drift higher and higher. In his mind, he's already halfway there, watching Andrew's lips pucker around the stem of the cig as he sucks the acrid smoke into his lungs.
The picture is crystal-clear and vivid, enough for him to forget his horrible form today, when a heavy hand suddenly lands on his shoulder and attempts to stop him in his tracks.
"Hey, are you listening to me? I said you won't leave until—"
Flinching back and ramming his elbow into Kevin's gut is as instinctual as breathing, the imprint of another Alpha's hand making his stomach curl with dizzying nausea.
A switch is flipped.
His skin feels brittle, stretched taut over muscles, sinews and bone, leaving no room for him to breathe. The helmet he's wearing seems to shrink, caving him in, constricting his airways and forcing him to suffocate, and all he knows is that he needs to get it off off off—
Neil feels more than sees someone approach from the corner of his eye and blindly lashes out, clenched fist only whirring past empty air. Useless and trembling fingers grapple with the clasp of his helmet until he finally manages to wrench it off, his own desperate and ragged breaths echoing tenfold in his ears.
Free fall is nothing compared to the mix of panic and rage spreading through his chest in an electrifying net of primal instinct, gripping his lungs tightly and punching the air out of him so that he’a gasping for breath. The oppressive mix of different smells around him only contributes to his growing discomfort, plugging up his nose and making his head throb.
It's too much, his instincts torn between curling up and waiting for the danger to pass or baring his fangs and tearing through his enemies until his pulsing fangs are dripping crimson.
Neil's body settles on fighting, his control over his body seemingly switched off as he lunges at Kevin.
Kevin is screaming something at him, teeth bared and hands clawing at Neil's armor, but all Neil sees is red, all he knows is that Kevin must be put in his place for touching Neil.
He's ready to slash open skin and show the world what it really means to be the Butcher's son when his nose picks one scent apart from the nauseating cocktail of overstimulation. There are tendrils of pine and smoke drifting over, the first whiff of the familiar tang a blissful balm to his frenzied mind and alerted senses, swirling around him until it seeps into his every pore.
Neil has never quite understood the concept of trusting people blindly.
Sooner or later, you're bound to cross paths with someone who will gut you for all you're worth and leave you bleeding out on the sidewalk, turned into a pathetic excuse of a person who put faith in humanity and got back-stabbed in return.
Neil never understood why people would take the risk of laying their life into someone else's hands until Andrew came along.
Andrew, with his knives and his cigarettes, armbands pulled tight over his forearms. Andrew, whose presence so quickly became the unyielding backdrop in the face of danger, so much so that it scares Neil just how much he really needs him.
It's beginning to make sense to him now, the temptation of trusting someone so profoundly. Somewhere along the way, Andrew became that person for him, with all his edges and dents moulded to something softer by the sandpaper of their unconventional friendship.
Neil feels the weight of that trust now, enveloped in Andrew's familiar scent and steadied by a sturdy grip on his neck, fingernails just shy of digging into Neil's scent glands as he hauls Neil off Kevin with ease.
Despite the fact that it's Andrew, Neil's instincts scream at him to claw his way back to Kevin, to leave a permanent mark that signifies not to mess with Neil. He bares his teeth at Andrew, struggling to escape the tight grip around his chest, but all Andrew does is dig in his fingernails harder until pain blooms at the base of his neck.
Hissing, Neil strains against Andrew's hold, all flailing limbs and rapid fire breaths.
"I told you to leave me alone," Neil screams, voice pinched from the effort of fighting against Andrew's unrelenting grip.
From his place on the ground, Kevin looks stricken with horror, his face ashen and eyes wide. His left hand is clutching his racquet in an iron-knuckled grip, almost as if to ground him after Neil razed him down.
Across his cheek, right above his face tattoo, two faint red lines start blooming. Belatedly, Neil realizes that it's his doing from when he dug his fingernails underneath Kevin's helmet and dragged them across sensitive skin.
All at once, Neil's anger deflates, just for the heavy weight of shame to crash down on his shoulders with unprecedented ferocity. Suddenly, he's shrinking in on himself, and thus inadvertently curling further into Andrew.
"Anyone care to tell me what the fuck is going on here?"
And of course, their little display of aggression has gained the attention of the rest of the team, Wymack's before anyone else's. Somewhere in between Neil tackling Kevin and Andrew getting a hold of Neil, Wymack has crossed the court and now looms before them with a soothing hand placed on Kevin's shoulder.
Neil can't bear to cross his gaze, fearing that he won't be able to stomach what awaits him.
"I'm sorry, Coach," is all he manages to rasp out, gaze trained carefully on the ground. "I don't know what happened."
"It's alright, lad. Just…make sure to calm down."
Neil keeps his eyes on the floor, even when Wymack pulls Kevin back up and leads him away. Feet shuffle somewhere to his left, accompanied by hushed whispers and heavy stares full of unsated curiosity, but Neil ignores them all in favor of rooting himself to the ground and bathing in regret.
"You are aware that we have to leave the court eventually, right?" Andrew murmurs dryly. Neil has lost all sense of time, doesn't know if he's been standing here for seconds, minutes or hours.
And there it is again. The seed of trust that's been planted somewhere along the way, roots already formed and a budding green sapling now peeking through the earth, a rare sight of life blooming within a desolate landscape of one too many attempts to run away and begin anew.
Neil still feels unmoored and has no clue what led to this weird episode, but Andrew's chest at his back and the soft rhythm of his breath ghosting against Neil's neck serve to steady him, if just a little.
There's no needling of what happened, no explanation necessary, because Andrew will give Neil the space he needs to talk about it on his own terms.
He'll have to make sure to apologize to Kevin later, but for now, Neil inhales Andrew's familiar scent and allows himself another minute of peace before he silently tugs Andrew along with him to the locker rooms.
If Neil thought that swinging at Kevin would, in fact, not be the weirdest thing happening this week, he might not have gotten up the next day. But alas, Neil is unable to see into the future, so he unfortunately does. He drags himself to his 10 a.m. statistics class, and as soon as the professor dismisses them, he meets up with Andrew in front of the science building to get lunch together. And this is where things just get weirder and weirder.
They get food, Andrew loading up on desserts and a small portion of fish, and head to their usual table. Everything should be the same, but it isn't.
Neil’s nose itches. Fogginess has settled over his brain, and despite the loud chatter around him, Neil can’t capture a thing. Nicky is talking, has been talking, for who knows how long, but Neil’s eyelids are heavy and his body entirely foreign to him. Five minutes after he's sat down, his plate is already empty, and yet Neil’s stomach still aches with the hollow pang of hunger.
It must be apparent, since Andrew clicks his tongue next to him before wordlessly giving Neil his piece of baked salmon with rice. Neil hums in gratitude and brushes his foot against Andrew's shin before digging in.
All the while, Andrew observes him with a look Neil is only too familiar with. It's the look he gets when they let the TV run on the channel that runs the Trivia quizzes Andrew swears he doesn't like. Neil hasn't told him yet that he murmurs the answer under his breath every time a new question pops up, because it's simply too endearing for him to put a stop to it.
He's racking his brain for the answer as to what earned him Andrew's scrutinizing stare when a scent hits him.
Neil blinks, brows furrowed. Irritation overcomes him.
It is awfully…sweet.
Neil’s head turns towards the source without even willing it. His eyes widen then, his attention sharpens. A blonde girl that Kevin swears up and down he isn't hooking up with —as disproved by a grainy video of them sucking face in the library taken by none other than Allison herself— comes strolling in their direction. Neil thinks her name was Liv. Or Liz?
She skips around the table, unaware of Neil’s gaze following the movement, until she reaches Kevin with a grin and snakes her arms around his neck. “Will you wish me good luck for practice? We’re trying a new routine.”
Kevin, with a hand resting on the girl’s forearm, as though to stop her from potentially strangling him, rolls his eyes and says with a tone of voice that is so blasé only Kevin Day could have said it, “You don’t need luck. Luck is for losers. You’ll do perfect.”
Nicky chokes on his chocolate milk, while Aaron groans loudly. "Oh, how I suddenly miss the days when you were still dating Thea."
Liz's lips twist into a sickly sweet smile before she sends a vulgar gesture his way. "I don't think the 5'2 student athlete who comes crawling back to Katelyn whenever she dumps him has any right to talk."
Aaron immediately clamps his mouth shut, while Kevin just mutters an exasperated, "For the sake of the team, please don't do this."
But Neil barely registers any of it. His eyes are on Liz. Strange. He had never paid much attention to her. Thinking about it now, her perfume is almost cloyingly sweet, clogging his nostrils, a nagging pain already throbbing at his temples the longer he's subjected to it.
He feels nauseous, the scent familiar in its nature, but he just can't seem to place where he has smelled it before. Was it on the run with his mother…?
A harsh poke in his ribs breaks the stupor.
Neil turns his head to face Andrew, eyes narrowed in frustration and confusion.
Andrew is watching him with an expression Neil can’t decipher. Eyes lidded like a cat enamored with the mouse it's about to capture. Then he mouths a word Neil could recognize anywhere, even without being able to read lips.
‘Staring.’
Neil furrows his brows. "I wasn't."
Andrew raises a brow before taking the straw of his own chocolate milk in between his lips and audibly sucking it dry. "You were."
"Not my fault she's fallen into a pot of perfume."
Andrew raises his brow even higher. "Do you mean her pheromones?"
Neil balks. "I—No!"
"And here I thought you didn't swing."
"I am not interested in Kevin's rebound," Neil says a bit louder than strictly necessary. It earns him a dirty look from Liz, which he does his best to ignore.
"I'm sure that Kevin will share with you if you ask him," Andrew continues as if he never heard Neil, his tone now biting. Anger boils low in Neil's gut, threatening to rise to the surface. He doesn't care about Kevin's omega cheerleader and has never cared much for omegas in the first place. His mother made sure to beat that instinct out of him.
For some reason, the thought of Andrew assuming he does has him swallow around a lump in his throat. He doesn't want to share with Kevin; does not want an omega in the first place. Andrew should know better, yet for some reason he spits poison Neil's way when Neil has done nothing to earn the sting of Andrew's razor-sharp defenses.
"Whatever," Neil only mutters instead of arguing. "I'm tired. I'll go back to the dorms to take a nap." He doesn't wait for a reply; besides that, Neil has felt drained over the past days, like all of his energy has seeped out of him, leaving him functioning off reserves and pure spite.
The heavy weight of Andrew's gaze follows him all the way through the dining hall and out of the door, but Neil steadfastly ignores it. Maybe he's just catching a cold.
If he thinks about it, he does feel a bit feverish.
Back in the dorms, the first thing he does is down one of the vitamin drinks Kevin always stores in their fridge. Maybe he can still prevent his body from succumbing to an infection. After that is done, he starts pacing around the living room, one circle after another, but the racing train of thought that frazzles his nerves just won't stop.
He'd love to go for a run, feel his feet hit the pavement, his lungs working hard to suck in air, but his limbs seem weighed down by an invisible force, so he sinks down on the sofa instead and fiddles with the remote.
As soon as he switches the TV on, the all too familiar voice of the moderator of Andrew's favorite Trivia quiz show blares through the room, and Neil has to reel himself in lest he do something stupid and hurl the remote at the screen.
Fate seemingly can't help but remind him of his grievances today.
Neil could switch channels, and he almost does, but then the door to the dorm clicks open, revealing none other than the object of Neil's ire himself. Andrew strolls in with his usual air of nonchalance just for his eyes to zero in on the TV immediately. They don't talk, don't even acknowledge each other, but when Andrew disappears into the kitchen and re-emerges with his favorite tub of ice cream just to flop down on the sofa next to Neil, Neil exhales a quiet breath.
Their silence isn't uncomfortable per se, though a noticeable tension hovers between them like a thread about to snap. It's unusual, and brings along a distance Neil years to breach. He's never been good at talking, has only ever learnt how to run away from his problems, but he's trying. With Andrew, he's trying.
When Neil chances a look at Andrew, he's not surprised that Andrew's attention has already drifted away from the show and latched onto Neil.
Neil doesn't think before he bursts out, “I can’t believe you don’t get sick from eating that on the daily.”
That's all it takes to dispel the suffocating weight of unspoken apologies. Andrew's shoulders relax, and he pretends to throw the spoon at Neil. “Fuck off, Kevin.”
Neil shakes his head and only hears the plastic lid click open while his attention returns to the television in front of them. The moderator rambles for a while before he eventually poses the question 'What does SPF in sunscreen stand for?
"Sun protection factor," Andrew mutters under his breath. He frowns then, a crease forming between his brows that has Neil's fingers itching to smooth it away before adding, "What a stupid fucking question."
"Who wears sun protection anyway?" Neil wonders aloud, and Andrew's head turns around almost comically slow.
"Literally everyone. Or do you want to look old and wrinkly by the time you turn thirty?" He says it slowly, like Neil is a toddler who just learned how to speak.
Neil only shrugs. "I just don't get sunburns."
"We'll be speaking again in 10 years. I'll give you 5 before your first melanoma."
Neil's chest fills with giddy warmth at the prospect of him and Andrew still living around each other by then. They'll certainly have gone pro, signed with a team, and maybe even made it to Court. If they live in the same city, they could get an apartment together, just like right now. The image pops up unbidden in his head: a cozy little apartment filled with reminders of their years at Palmetto, pictures and tokens of the Foxes, small knick-knacks here and there.
They'd fill the space almost as well as Andrew's presence would, Andrew's shirts strewn about their shared rooms and his scent an ample and familiar constant. His thoughts are running so far ahead of himself that Neil almost misses the weird tingly sensation in his lower gut. It's so sudden that it startles him, shaking him out of his elaborate fantasy like he's been doused with ice water.
That was weird.
The next fifteen minutes go by without any issues, their peaceful quietude only interrupted by the TV's constant buzz and chatter. Neil, however, is silently brooding; he keeps replaying the image in his head and asking himself with frenzied urgency 'What the fuck is wrong with me?'
When Andrew offers Neil to try the ice cream, Neil declines with a headshake.
While he has been eating more carbs-loaded meals lately, Neil still has a distaste for anything sugary. He could throw up just from thinking of eating as much ice cream as Andrew seems to enjoy doing.
Despite a healthy distance between their bodies, Neil is suddenly more than acutely aware of the body heat emanating from Andrew. Whenever their knees brush against one another or their shoulders, a bolt of heat shoots up his spine, and the weird and tingly feeling from before returns.
Neil’s nose picks up on the familiar mixture of pine and smoke coming from Andrew’s scent glands. He is rather close to Andrew’s neck and for some reason, it is making his mind slow down to a sluggish pace.
What questions are they asking now, anyway? What is Andrew saying? It all blends together as the fog keeps invading his head, a cotton-fuzzy blanket of comfort draped over him and bathing him in Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.
Neil licks over his canines. His gums are throbbing, giving hot pulses. He has been chewing on the inside of his cheek all week to work the tension out, but nothing has been helping.
His concentration is waning.
The fading rays of sunlight bathe their living room in a vivid sheen of scarlet hues as the sun dips lower, the open windows letting in the cool autumn breeze. In spite of it, Neil’s cheeks are flushing hot. He swallows a dry lump that has formed in his throat the longer he's subjected to Andrew's scent. Something builds in him, tapping against his skin from the inside and begging to be freed.
Like a spring that is stretched to its limit, Neil is suddenly loaded with unspent energy. About to burst, about to snap—
“Ah,” Andrew groans, the lazy lilt to his voice that he always carries, “fuck.” Neil turns to face him like a deer hearing a crack in the forest. “I spilled it.”
A speck of vanilla ice cream has dropped onto Andrew’s black shirt. It quickly succumbs to Andrew's body heat as it melts and soaks inside the cotton. Andrew’s face paints the picture of perfect nonchalance, his voice seemingly unconcerned.
“Huh.” Neil blinks. He forgets what he is supposed to do as his eyes track the movement of Andrew swallowing another spoonful of ice cream, the bob of his throat, tongue darting out to lick his lips. Neil doesn't know what has gotten into him when he says, "Let me go get you a shirt.”
“I haven't done the laundry yet,” Andrew cuts in smoothly before Neil can move, "Give me one of yours.” Not waiting for any sort of protest, Andrew puts the pint of ice cream on the glass table in front of them, takes off his shirt and tosses it at Neil — Neil, who is caught in a daze, unable to think properly, brain screeching to a halt.
He nods, though, but doesn’t move. “Okay.” His fingers dig into the soft cotton of the shirt. It’s Andrew’s. It smells like him.
And he wants Neil’s shirt.
That smells like him.
Through the smog clouding his mind, instinct takes over and the guttural urge to sink his teeth into Andrew’s exposed skin almost has him drooling. Neil’s breathing quickens, and he forces himself to act — he takes off his shirt and gives it to Andrew.
Andrew lifts a brow, and through his stupo,r Neil almost misses the amused uptick of his lips. "I said one of your shirts. Not the one you're wearing."
Neil stands rooted to the spot, stupefied, with two fucking shirts in his hand, in all his half-naked glory. "Uh." His brain has closed down and is currently rebooting, all the while Andrew stares at him expectantly, honey eyes sparking mischief.
Neil considers it briefly, half a brain left to weigh the options against each other. It's practical if he gives Andrew the shirt he's been wearing and gets himself a new one. Quick. Maybe Andrew feels cold? Yeah. It's practical. Practical over primal. Definitely…
Except Neil would be lying to himself if he said that there hasn't been a voice that's been nagging at the back of his head, telling him to claim, to possess, to show that Andrew is the one he's chosen.
‘Andrew’s going to smell like me.’
‘Andrew is going to wear my shirt.’
‘Mine. Mine. Mine.’
"Are you going to keep both shirts for yourself?"
Neil swallows, looks down at the shirts bunched up in his hands, and then back up at Andrew. He tries very hard not to let his gaze stray further south than Andrew's chin, but that proves to be a challenge; Andrew's lounging against the sofa, head tilted sideways, and muscles flexing as he adjusts his position. Neil has seen his pecks; they are well defined, and the sight of them now almost unravels him. Unconsciously, he takes a step forward and then another one and another one until he's looming over Andrew.
Andrew cranes his head back to make eye contact, pupils blown wide and lips parted, and something wild and crazed takes hold of Neil. His body has a mind of its own as he leans on the sofa and brackets Andrew in between his arms. The space between them shrinks and shrinks, until only a scant few inches remain between Neil's lips and Andrew's neck.
This close to Andrew's scent gland, the pine and smoke aroma is so strong that Neil is dizzy with it. It's muddling his thoughts, senses zeroing in on the nub underneath Andrew's skin. His fangs are throbbing, gums aching, as static keeps buzzing in Neil's ears and that scent. It's beckoning him closer until Neil's nose is brushing against soft skin, followed by his tongue licking a hot stripe right across Andrew's scent gland.
Andrew's breath hitches, a quiet moan slipping off his tongue, followed by a strangled "Neil."
Then hands land on his shoulders, searing hot, and sense returns to him all at once. Neil recoils so hard he bumps hard against the coffee table. The stabbing pain in his knee is a welcome distraction from the turmoil of disgust and horror churning within his chest as he realizes what he just did.
Andrew looks frazzled, cheeks flushed red and breathing heavily, but Neil doesn't wait for him to speak. All he can think of is how he practically threw himself at his best friend, instincts gone haywire and totally out of control.
He manages a whispered "I'm sorry" before he drops both of their shirts and flees to the bathroom, where he locks himself in and sinks to his knees, back pressed against the door.
Minutes later, Andrew knocks on the door and says something Neil can't hear over the deafening rush of blood in his ears and the sound of his drumming heartbeat. He ignores him.
By the time Neil has willed his instincts to calm down and his heartbeat has slowed down to a normal pace, day has long bled into night. Tinting darkness surrounds him, and Neil blearily fumbles for the light switch. He squints against the sudden brightness and then heaves himself upright to brush his teeth. He refuses to look at his own mirror image longer than a few seconds and hurries it up.
When Neil quietly slips into his and Andrew's shared bedroom, Andrew is already fast asleep. Guilt and shame still weigh heavily on Neil, and it's all he can do to bury himself under the covers and wait for sleep to claim him, hoping that all will be forgotten by tomorrow.
Neil doesn't remember ever going to sleep when the autumn sun eventually peeks through the blinds, announcing the arrival of yet another day.
He remembers tossing and turning left to right, remembers the rhythmic sounds of Andrew's breathing, and the urge to get up and climb into bed beside him. When Neil dares a glance at the bed beside him, rumpled and unmade sheets greet him with no Andrew in sight. Maybe it's for the better.
Neil has no desire to revisit whatever the fuck happened on the couch yesterday, less even when his condition has all but worsened. His body is flushed hot, most likely running a fever, throat parched, head pounding with an incoming headache. On top of that, there's an insistent tug low in his abdomen, a pressure-pain that has his skin tingling with oversensitivity. His teeth ache, like he's been clenching them all night, and his gums throb painfully. All in all, Neil simply feels terrible.
With no choice but to ride it out, Neil lets himself fall back onto his bed and clambers underneath his blanket again. In a futile attempt to make himself feel better, Neil reaches out and checks his nightstand for some painkillers. When he finds none, he hesitates briefly, hand resting on the knob of Andrew's designated drawer. A particularly nasty sting in his temple has him throwing any doubts about invading Andrew's privacy overboard, just to regret it immediately.
Andrew doesn't have painkillers. To Neil's silent horror, he is absolutely unprepared for what he finds instead. There are batteries, a sleeping mask, and right next to that, a box of condoms, a half-empty bottle of lube, and something that looks suspiciously like a flesh light.
Neil freezes, his hand shaking as it hovers above the open drawer. It shouldn't be a big deal that Andrew has…needs. Just because Neil doesn't feel the urge to get off, doesn't mean that Andrew can't do that in the privacy of their dorm room, either.
But it's more complicated than that, isn't it? Neil stares at the fleshlight like it has personally killed all of his remaining family members and tries to surmise why Andrew's sexual activity has suddenly become important to him. If there's one thing Neil is good at, though, it is running away from his problems. It's what he does now when he slams the drawer closed and buries his head under his pillow.
The next few hours blur together in a soupy cloud of feverish dreams and the acute reality of Neil's body slowly succumbing to something. By this point, Neil is not entirely certain it's a simple cold, because his nose is more sensitive than it ever was before. It's why he smells Andrew even before he hears or sees him, evergreen taiga mixed with dusky smoke.
Andrew doesn't bother knocking, so Neil almost doesn't catch him slipping through the door. He probably hadn't if it wasn't for the steady burning in his abdomen increasing as soon as Andrew's scent spikes, a push and pull of ebb and tide.
"Neil?" Andrew sounds almost disbelieving, but his voice barely reaches him. Neil realizes several things all at once. First, he is not sure he can be in a room together with Andrew right now, because every instinct Neil possesses is screaming at him to lunge at Andrew and claim him.
Second, Neil is painfully and embarrassingly hard.
"Why the fuck didn't you say that you were going into rut? Shit, you reek," Andrew says, his voice suddenly so much closer than it was before.
Rut.
Neil throws the word around in his head, bouncing it back and forth until it ricochets off every single surface. He's gone into rut, and in hindsight, the signs were so blatantly obvious that Neil almost starts laughing hysterically if he thinks of it now.
"I don't—," he starts, just to flinch when he shifts his legs, his erection brushing against the scratchy fabric of his cheap pajama pants. "I didn't know."
Andrew curses under his breath, and then calloused fingers firmly tip his chin up, and Andrew is right there, inspecting him with narrowed eyes. It's a minuscule touch, something Andrew's done a hundred times before, but right now it sets Neil ablaze. He groans low in his chest, blood singing with arousal, and Andrew lets go of him like he's been burned.
"You can't ride this out alone. I can ask Kevin to hook you up with one of Liz's friends—"
"No," Neil says vehemently, desperation carrying into his tone. He can't decipher the look Andrew pins him with, is too far gone by now to think about it any longer. "No," he repeats again, more insistently, and for the first time in days, clarity returns to him as he grasps what his alpha needs.
A drop of sweat pearls down his temple, face flushed so hot he knows it must be showing, but he couldn't care less how disheveled he looks right now. Andrew has seen him in worse conditions, is the only one who has looked into Neil's broken and bleeding heart and not shied away from the blood-stained mess of gashes and wounds.
"Andrew. "
"Neil."
Neil bites down on his bottom lip so hard he fears he might tear through it. “I—”
‘I need you’
‘I want you’
The words remain at the tip of his tongue as Neil tries — and fails — to calm his racing heart. Neil is stuck between the instinct to run and to take Andrew for himself. The mere thought of touching anyone else nearly makes Neil retch.
“Abram.”
The muscle under Neil’s eye twitches. “I don't think I can control it.” It comes out wobbly enough that he barely recognizes his own voice.
“You shouldn't.” Andrew’s tone carries a note of finality that finally catches Neil’s attention. And then, just when Neil thinks his self-control can not possibly be stretched any further, it is completely torn to shreds when he realizes that Andrew is still wearing his shirt. The shirt Neil gave him to mark him with his scent, born from his awakened instincts to stake a claim.
The fingers of Neil's left hand curl around the hem of it, stretching the fabric and pulling Andrew down. Andrew goes willingly, until he's at eye level with Neil, a dark expression flashing across his face.
"I don't want to be alone," he whispers. His hand starts trembling again when he remembers his first rut, remembers how Mary left him with no one and nothing to help. Ice-cold dread crawls down his spine as the memories flicker across the canvas of his mind, a racing train of thoughts that sends him spiraling into panic.
He's yanked back to reality when Andrew reaches out his hand, lips pressed together in concentration as he rubs his wrist across the scent gland on Neil's neck. All at once, colors burst in Neil's vision, a myriad of hazel, blond and everything encapsulating Andrew.
His shoulders slacken as the tension seeps out of him, and his mind screeches to a halt. Then warmth blooms in his chest, his focus honing in on the single point of contact between them. Andrew's scent engulfs him, a scent that's now mixed with Neil's. Neil blackscreens when Andrew mirrors him, nosing along his cheek until his nose traces a searing path across the scent gland. The moment Andrew's lips close around it and suck before laving his tongue over it is when the remaining tatters of his sanity shatter into a thousand pieces.
He moans, hands inadvertently coming up to pull Andrew closer until he's straddling Neil, legs on either side of Neil's hips, and so close to where Neil wants him.
"Hold on," Andrew murmurs, putting his hand to Neil's chest to establish some distance between them. Neil almost snarls, lips curled back and fangs exposed, but a bruising grip on his neck has him hissing and clamping his mouth shut."You can't fuck me."
Neil holds his breath, waiting for Andrew to continue, fingers playing with the soft strands of hair at the back of his neck.
"Not right now, not when you're like this," Andrew explains. His tone is definite, leaving no room for rebuttal, a clear boundary drawn to protect himself.
Neil knows about Andrew's past, would never dare to cross that boundary, but a long-since-buried instinct within him raises its hackles and bares its fangs upon realizing that he won't be able to knot Andrew, that he won't be able to sate the impulse to breed.
"But I can fuck you," Andrew continues, the hand on his chest traveling upwards until it lightly wraps around Neil's throat. Neil's eye twitches as he fights his body to stay still, fights the instinctual part of himself not to buck up and force Andrew into submission.
Andrew makes it easy for him, really, when he leans down to brush their lips together in a featherlight caress.
"Will you knot me?" Neil asks, breathless. For the first time that day, Neil finds himself witness to the slow erosion of Andrew's composure, a shudder racking through him.
Logically, Neil shouldn't want it, shouldn't even entertain the thought. His body isn't made to take a knot, isn't made to be claimed like that, his inner alpha rebelling at the mere thought.
'And yet,' something whispers to him, 'You're curious what it feels like.'
"Yeah," Andrew says, a dark and raspy tinge to his voice, and finally leans down to press his lips against Neil's. Andrew kisses unforgiving, lips firm yet soft, steady and unyielding. He doesn't mention Neil's clumsy attempts to kiss back, slotting their lips together again, before sucking his lower lip between his teeth. His hands cradle Neil's jaw in a possessive hold, and Neil has never felt so safe, so thoroughly owned by someone else.
At the same time as Andrew licks into his mouth, his knee slides in between Neil's legs and grinds upwards, so Neil has no chance really but to open his mouth and moan against Andrew's lips when his knee firmly brushes against Neil's throbbing erection. Grinding back is instinctual, resistance futile in the face of the blazing arousal shooting through his core.
"I need—"
"It's okay," Andrew shushes him, one of his hands stroking down the outline of his spine, spreading out his fingers on his lower back right above his ass, and digging in his fingernails possessively until it stings. "I know what you need."
The next few seconds are a blur, but somehow Andrew manages to peel off Neil's shorts, carelessly tossing them to the side and staring down at the wet patch where Neil's cock is leaking through his underwear. Instead of taking it off, though, Andrew brings his hands to Neil's thighs, spreading them until Neil feels the stretch, and just looks, eyes raking him up and down.
One of his hands smoothes over his inner thigh and up towards his abdomen, drawing teasing lines across the sensitive skin, occasionally dipping lower. Neil is so hard by now that his brain has stopped functioning entirely, all his blood pooling south. Andrew cupping his cock through the fabric shouldn't feel as good as it does, shouldn't have Neil's eyes rolling back in his head, but it does. Pleasure pools low in his gut, a steady thrum of sweeping waves that crash over all at once.
Neil comes with a breathy groan, wholly unprepared for the blinding ecstasy catching hold of his body and pulling him under. His cock twitches as he stains the cotton of his underwear with sticky come, a knot forming at the base of it, and he doesn't have it in himself to feel even an ounce of shame for coming practically untouched.
It just feels so fucking good.
Then slowly, like wading through sugar, Neil comes back to himself in pieces. He grimaces at the tacky feeling of his wet boxer briefs, shifting his legs to feel more comfortable. Andrew's warm palm rubs soothing circles into his inner thigh, massaging the sore muscles, and then his eyes seek out Neil's, piercing and ablaze.
"More lucid yet?"
Neil groans, squeezing his eyes closed. "A bit."
"Feeling better?" Andrew's voice carries a hint of smugness, so Neil squints at him and playfully whacks him across the head.
"How about we go back to when you said that you were gonna fuck me."
A laugh leaves Andrew's lips, warm and rich, a caramelizing sweetness to it, and maybe Neil is less lucid than he thought, because from his limited understanding of sexual arousal, it is not normal to get hard from the sound of someone else's laugh alone.
"I just made you come, and you're already begging for more?" Andrew tuts. "Tsk. Tsk. How greedy."
Neil's chest flutters with an emotion he can't decipher, followed by white-hot embarrassment crawling up his throat. "I wasn't begging."
"No? It sounded an awful lot like it, though." Andrew points his chin at Neil's sullied underwear, and Neil flushes red.
"I wasn't."
"Well. You will be then." Andrew gives a pointed look at Neil's cock that's making a valiant effort to ignore its refractory period, rising back to hardness and straining against the wet spot on his underwear, knot slowly deflating.
"Anything you wanna tell me while you still have a mind of your own? Non-negotiables, boundaries, that sort of thing?"
Neil hesitates, rummaging around his thoughts, but comes up empty. He has no experience, no idea what he likes and dislikes. There's no guidebook on how to navigate hot and steamy rut sex with another alpha who just also happens to be your best friend, either, so in the end, it all comes down to trusting Andrew.
He shakes his head, splaying open his legs and guiding Andrew's fingers to the band of his underwear. Andrew's breath hitches, the only sign that he's just as affected by this as Neil is, before his fingers hook under the waistband of his boxers and pull them off slowly.
With every passing second, Neil feels the force of his rut returning, brain going hazy, and thoughts slowing down until all he can think of is touching, feeling, and having Andrew. It's easy to drag Andrew down by his neck to kiss him again, easier even to let Andrew in when his tongue prods at Neil's lips.
Urgency quickly outweighs any intention to lose themselves in the wet slide of lips and tongues as more pressing matters soon come into focus. Without meaning to, Neil bucks up his hips, hard cock rubbing against Andrew over the fabric of his jeans. Andrew laughs, hot breath fanning over Neil's skin, and then his lips trace a searing path over his cheek and down his jaw, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin near Neil's scent glands.
Neil is not prepared for when Andrew reaches for his own pants, fumbling with the zipper, wrestling his jeans and underwear down. His shirt soon follows, haphazardly discarded, and then Andrew surges down and kisses Neil again, open-mouthed and wet, red-hot desire translating into every swipe of tongue against Neil's own.
Andrew works himself downwards, kissing down his neck and collarbone, tongue sucking and teeth scraping. The first press of skin against skin when his chest flattens against Neil's has a bolt of heat shooting down Neil's spine, his heart gaping wide open as he craves nothing but to get Andrew closer, to tuck him in between his ribs and keep a piece of him where no one else will ever be able to reach.
He pulls Andrew towards him, arms looping around his neck and hands fisting in his air. Andrew hisses, but lets him, burying his head in the junction of Neil's neck and pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to his scent gland.
In this position, the outline of Andrew's erection is unmistakable — it presses insistently against Neil's thigh, searing him down to the bone. Neil scrambles to rid Andrew of his last piece of clothing, the fabric seeming practically offensive now.
As soon as Andrew's boxers land somewhere on the floor, Neil can't help but sweep his gaze over Andrew's body.
And Neil, Neil wants.
Has never wanted something so bad like he does now, has never felt such need thrumming through his veins before. He shifts his hips, the movement aligning his cock with Andrew's — and promptly lets out a long groan when Andrew thrusts his hips forward, fucking up against Neil and letting their lengths slide together.
"Andrew—," Neil says, but Andrew doesn't let him finish before shoving two of his fingers in between his lips and pressing down hard on his tongue.
"Suck," he says, and although Neil's first instinct is to kick Andrew off of him, he does as he's told, curling his tongue around the digits and coating them in saliva. Andrew's eyes never leave Neil's face, gaze transfixed, even when his other arm reaches for the nightstand to pull out the lube and the fleshlight.
Uncertainty bubbles up in Neil, but before it can catch hold of him, Andrew removes his fingers from his mouth, leaving it painfully empty. Neil wishes he would kiss him again, anything to take off the edge and feel him closer. He flinches when Andrew's fingers skim over his dick, featherlight, before pivoting below and circling his hole.
"Last chance to back out of this."
Neil scoffs and grits his teeth. "Just do it." He knows that Andrew doesn't mean it, that he'll stop as soon as Neil so much as lifts a finger.
"Your instincts won't like this at first, so I need your consent to handle it as I see fit."
"Do whatever you need to, just fucking get on with it—" Neil's sentence bleeds into a gasp when Andrew's index finger breaches him, and suddenly Neil understands. His gums throb, chest swelling with pressure, and without being able to stop his body from acting, he surges up and bares his fangs.
Then Andrew's hand is there, wrapping around his throat, the firm pressure on Neil's carotid artery just enough to restrict the blood flow and make him lightheaded. Those few seconds are all Andrew needs to straddle one of Neil's legs and add another finger. Neil hisses and thrashes, instincts taking over, but Andrew doesn't budge. The grip on his neck never relents.
It quickly dawns on Neil that this is what Andrew meant: for Andrew to be able to fuck him, Neil needs to submit. Andrew's scent envelops him, pressing down on him from all sides, and lulling him into a hazy dream with nothing but Andrew's presence to guide him, and Neil feels himself careening over the edge of a cliff, feet slipping.
His breath speeds up, chest heaving and head growing fuzzy, until Andrew crooks his fingers and hits a spot within Neil that has him letting loose out a drawn-out moan. Sparks fly across his nerves, blood alight with pleasure, and then Andrew does it again, and Neil melts into the mattress.
The grip on Neil's throat falters, hand now rubbing soothingly over his scent glands as Andrew pumps his fingers in and out of him, and all Neil can think is that maybe his body was made for this. It molds itself to Andrew's wishes, pliant and responsive, the strings of a harp Andrew plucks and pulls to his liking.
He doesn't even flinch when Andrew pulls out and returns with his fingers slicked up thoroughly just to push back inside and continue his mission to take Neil apart.
His second orgasm builds steadily, another knot already forming at the base of his cock, but just when he thinks that he's about to fall over the edge, Andrew removes his fingers entirely and squeezes his dick so hard Neil whines.
"Shhh, be good." Neil feels it then, the blunt head of Andrew's cock nudging at his entrance, so close to where he needs it. Heat spikes in his gut when he realizes just how big it is, heavy and hard, and all Neil's.
When Andrew pushes in, all Neil feels is overwhelming pressure, his walls gripping Andrew like a vice. It doesn't deter Andrew from pushing forward until his hips are flush to Neil's ass, and Neil's mind blanks when he bottoms out.
It's so much all at once, Andrew over him, in him, filling him up and bracketing him in, a novel experience Neil's brain can't yet comprehend, even when his body is already asking for more.
His hands try to find purchase, smoothing over Andrew's sweat-slick back before digging into his shoulder blades as if to brace himself for what's to come. The first thrust rocking his body punches the breath out of him, his head falling back and eyes fluttering closed.
Andrew's thrusts are powerful, his hips driving into Neil with practiced ease, hitting his prostate with every measured stroke. Electricity zaps through him, licking along his spine and needling his abdomen. Neil shouldn't be surprised, really, but even deep in the throes of his rut, he can't help but think that Andrew knows how to fuck.
His arms are braced on the headboard, rattling the bed with every slow and firm push in, hips flexing and abs clenching with the effort to keep up the pace. Andrew is perfect, smells perfect, but despite everything, it's not enough. Breathing hard, Neil bends his legs and wraps them around Andrew's hips to pull him in, before rocking back on his cock with desperate abandon.
Like this, he can feel Andrew so much deeper, balls slapping against the underside of his ass as he fucks him open, labored breaths puffing against Neil's cheek where his head hangs low.
When one of Neil's hands smooths down his back just to press down on the swell of his ass and pull him even closer, Andrew groans, a sound low in his throat, and smears a kiss against Neil's cheek.
"Andrew," Neil warns, heat stirring in his abdomen, balls strung tight, a cacophonous wave of bliss razing down his last shreds of rationality. "I think I'm going to—"
Andrew fumbles for something to his right, chest sinking on top of Neil with only one arm to hold him up, and when his hand returns, it's to veer in the direction of Neil's cock. Neil barely registers it, too focused on his impending orgasm, but then suddenly his cock is engulfed by a wet, tight heat, practically molding itself to his length, and he throws his head back and comes with a shuddering moan.
Andrew fucks him through it with no restraint, cock in his ass, and hand on the fleshlight that's massaging Neil's knot. Through the murkiness enveloping his head, Neil almost misses it when every thrust starts to meet resistance, the beginning of Andrew's knot catching on his rim.
He only just manages a slurred "Fuck, Andrew" before his breath stutters in his chest as Andrew's knot inflates and pops inside. It is all he can do to drag Andrew downwards and crash their mouths together to ride out the blinding wave of ecstasy.
It's more teeth and tongue than anything else, but all that matters is the fervent need for proximity and the high-pitched moan Andrew smothers against his lips. Andrew's hips haven't stilled yet, grinding into Neil with rhythmic, gyrating motions as if to fuck his seed deeper into him. Despite the initial bumps in the road, Neil's alpha stays subdued and quiet, readily accepting everything Andrew has to give.
In his fucked out haze, Neil almost wonders whether it could take if only Andrew fucked him hard enough, plugged him up with his twitching knot, and kept him there until his come would be dripping out of him.
The thought follows him into his rut-drunk delirium, even when Andrew brushes his sweaty hair out of his face and buries his head in his neck to lave Neil's scent gland with his tongue. The scraping of his teeth over it elicits a full-body shudder from him, and right then and there, Neil wishes for nothing more than Andrew to sink his teeth into his skin and claim him.
Neil never thought he would get to have this, never even realized that he wanted it, but the desire lies on the tip of his tongue, the possibility of it happening sweet and intoxicating.
Andrew's soft hum brings him back to the moment, the vibrations of it traveling across his skin and sending goosebumps all over it. "Are you with me?"
Neil nods, attempting to scoot back to get a better look at Andrew, and promptly chokes on a groan when his knot tugs on Neil's sensitive rim, pinpricks of pleasure-pain zapping up his spine. "Yeah…"
"You look good like this," Andrew says, then, to which Neil only throws him a puzzled look. "Fucked out, I mean," he adds, a sharp and dangerous smile curving his lips.
"Don't get used to it," Neil mutters. He gasps when Andrew uses that moment to push his leg back, spreading him further and exposing the place where they are still connected. Neil shivers, eyes drawn to it like moths to a flame, hypnotized by the way Andrew's knot slowly deflates.
"Look at how well you're taking me," Andrew says in place of a reply, his hips resuming slow and sensual grinding motions to push his cock even deeper.
It's not much conversation from there on out. As soon as Andrew's knot deflates enough for him to pull out, he flips Neil over, presses his wrists into the bedding, and fucks him through the mattress until he shudders through another orgasm and spurts all over the sheets.
The next time, Neil straddles Andrew's waist and tries to ride him, but quickly discovers that his muscles are sore from exertion as he's burning through his rut. Andrew's only too glad to take over and fuck Neil brainless, and after that, everything blurs together. Sex, sweat, Andrew's warm breath against his lips, arms wrapped around him as a deep voice coos a litany of filthy praise into his ears— he retains fractures and feelings, all blending into a cocoon of safety and bliss.
By the time Neil's fever breaks, he almost doesn't want it to end, and finds a pang of anxiety tugging at his heart. Lucidity returns to him slowly, thoughts still wading through fog, but having Andrew there helps.
He disappears for a few minutes just to return with a damp washcloth and wipe them both down before he throws several protein bars onto the bed. Neil absentmindedly reaches for one and tears it open, but hesitates to scarf it down.
A question eclipses his growing hunger, occupying his thoughts and making him want to fidget. Maybe it is stupid, considering what happened, but Neil isn't quite sure how they'll move on from here.
Deep down, he knows that something changed, at least for him. If he's being honest with himself, their friendship has long been morphing into something else entirely, but up until a few hours ago, he'd been uncertain how to file that change away.
With both of them being alphas, he's never entertained the possibility of more.
He didn't even consider the possibility of two alphas sleeping with each other, much like you don't crave food whose existence you're not aware of.
After getting a taste of it, though, Neil gets it. He's a changed man, and all it took was some knotting, and well, Andrew.
"Stop worrying and spit it out."
Neil raises his head, blinking, and then finally takes a bite from the protein bar to distract himself from his thoughts. "I was just wondering," he begins, uncaring that he's talking while chewing, "what this means for us."
For anyone else, Andrew's blank face wouldn't give away any signs of emotions, but Neil notices the twitch of his eye and the way his jaw shifts the moment Andrew clenches his teeth. "I thought you didn't swing."
"You literally had your knot up my ass, like, an hour ago."
Andrew's face does something funny then. "I was helping you with your rut."
Neil loudly swallows down the last bite of the protein bar and ignores the glare it earns him from Andrew. "I wouldn't let anyone else help me."
"Meaning?"
"I wanted to ask you to bite me."
Silence falls heavy around them, only interrupted by the rustling of sheets when Neil pulls his legs to his chest. He holds his breath, waiting for Andrew to break it. When the seconds tick by and he doesn't, Neil drags his eyes back up to his face.
He's not prepared for the flash of vulnerability flickering across Andrew's features, and even less prepared when Andrew reaches out a hand and softly smoothes his thumb over Neil's bottom lip. "Do you mean it?"
Neil hums and scooches closer until he can bury his face in Andrew's neck and inhale his familiar scent.
It's as much a yes as it is a question, so when Andrew relaxes and tilts his head back to give Neil full access, delight and giddiness explode in his chest.
And well, if he goes a bit crazy with the scenting, who is to blame him, really?
-
The next day at breakfast, Kevin is, for lack of a better word, moping. Both Neil and Andrew ditched him for night practice without a heads-up. Jean would never have done this to him.
He's so engrossed in his own miserable thoughts that he doesn't even notice Allison approaching until she sets down her tray with a heavy thud. "So, do you know anything about what Andrew and Neil were discussing yesterday? Something something 'sharing'—"
"Shut up," Kevin interrupts her, irritation flaring in his chest.
"Hm. Never mind. I think we got our answer right here."
He looks at her, confused, but when Allison only points a manicured fingernail at the entrance of the dining hall, his gaze follows, and it clicks.
Apart from the fact that Andrew and Neil are even more attached to the hip than usual, their uninhibited and combined scents practically scream 'We fucked each other's brains out instead of training with Kevin'.
"Good for them," Allison says, propping up her hand on his chin and watching them both line up at the buffet.
Kevin only feels slight irritation. "Sex is absolutely no excuse to miss training, no matter how dire the circumstances."
Maybe he should call Jean. He would understand.