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Andy has never thought he’d be the kind of guy to make out with someone in the back of a cab, but he’s drunk, full of some feeling he can’t describe, his breathing sounding hiccupy, hitched, in his own ears, when Derek’s mouth is lingering on the hinge of his jaw. It takes the car stopping, a pointed noise from the driver, for Andy to remember they’re not alone, they’re very much not alone, and he lights up with embarrassment. Derek’s hand is branding even through dress shirt, so he feels hot all over, mortified and turned on and overwhelmed.
They’re outside Derek’s parents’ house, and Derek speaks, his voice lower than Andy’s accustomed to. “Shit, sorry, what do I owe you?”
“My services have already been paid for by the grooms,” the driver says, stilted, like he’s as embarrassed as Andy is.
Derek takes his hand off Andy’s side to pull out his wallet, grabs a few bills. “Sorry,” he says. “About the--you know,” and almost before he’s finished handing a really generous tip over he’s dragging Andy out of the cab, hand reaching out to steady him when Andy stumbles on the curb.
There’s a pause, Derek looking up at him, face mostly in shadow, where Andy wants to bolt, is afraid Derek does, but Derek’s hand is still curled around his sleeve, steadying, even with Andy’s pulse pounding in his ears, his heart tripping in his chest.
Andy opens his mouth--to say what, he doesn’t know, maybe that this is just as stupid as every other time, even more, because it keeps happening, but Derek’s already walking to the front door, looking back to see if Andy’s following, and that’s what Andy does.
Inside it’s a different sort of dark and quiet, Derek’s parents sleeping upstairs, and they should probably go to their separate rooms, figure this out in the morning, but once he’s kicked his shoes off, Derek’s reaching for him again, with another long, drugging kiss that pushes the panic into the back of Andy’s head.
“Come upstairs,” Derek mumbles into Andy’s mouth, and it’s a slow process, both of them unwilling enough to let go of each other to make getting up the stairs difficult, Andy’s stomach muscles jumping under Derek’s fingers when he manages to tug Andy’s shirt from his belt, gets his hands on Andy’s skin.
Once they get into the guest room, Derek pulls back long enough to grab his bags and stack them in front of the door like a barricade. “Seriously?” Andy asks, giggles, nervous, just the other side of hysterical.
“Shut up,” Derek says, “My parents are nosy.”
“That’ll definitely stop them,” Andy says.
“Enough out of you,” Derek says, and Andy’s still laughing at him when Derek’s pushing his suit jacket off his shoulders.
*
Andy wakes to thin dawn light filtering through the window, the sound of voices downstairs. Derek’s mom laughs just like him, hitching, vaguely evil sounding, and Andy smiles reflexively before he’s fully awake, before he remembers where he is, not under a poster of Joe Buchanan but in a blandly painted room, heat all down his back, Derek’s hand curled loosely around his arm.
Andy goes stiff, but there isn’t anything he can do, with Derek’s parents still home, his clothes puddled somewhere on the carpet, Derek’s nose in tucked in the curls at the nape of Andy’s neck. And he doesn’t even have time to think, because Derek’s mumbling something, tugging him closer, hand on his belly, then pausing, because yeah, Andy’s body is probably not really easy to mistake for a girl’s.
“Morning, Bowie,” Derek mumbles, breath brushing Andy’s skin, then seems to go right back to sleep.
Andy doesn’t know how to take that, like, at all, but then the front door’s closing, and Andy manages to squirm out from under Derek’s arm, finds his underwear in the pile of clothes on the floor, their suits hopelessly crushed, and sneaks out to the bathroom, to piss and then blearily look at himself in the mirror, his eyes red, cheeks flushed. He still feels half drunk.
He didn’t bother to lock the door, and of course within a couple minutes Derek’s wandering in, not bothering with clothes, just wearing the bedsheet like a weird toga, his hair flat on one side. He looks ridiculous, especially when he leans on the counter and almost topples over, eyes half lidded. Andy loves him so much it’s stupid.
“You promised not to run away,” Derek says finally, sounding faintly perturbed.
“Dude,” Andy says, “I was one room away.” If he’d had a choice, he might not have been only one room away, but Derek’s got the car keys, and Andy doesn’t know Brampton, and Andy promised, which is kind of important.
Derek makes a noise like scoffing, and then plasters himself to Andy’s back, nothing but the trailing ends of the sheet visible in the mirror.
“Come back to bed, or make me coffee,” he says, muffled into Andy’s skin, and Andy can’t help the smile breaking across his face.
“Make your own coffee,” he says, reflexive, and Derek makes a protesting noise and wraps his arms around Andy from behind.
“Bed,” he repeats, dragging Andy backwards, and Andy follows him.
They don’t wake up until past noon, and this time it’s Derek who’s up first, so that when Andy opens his eyes Derek’s looking at him from half a foot away, unblinking dark eyes. Andy recoils. “That’s creepy,” he says.
“You’re creepy,” Derek retorts, because his disses stalled when he was ten or something, and then, “Can I blow you?”
Andy stares at him.
“Is that a yes?” Derek asks. “Nod for yes.”
Andy keeps staring, and then nods slowly.
“Awesome,” Derek says.
*
They don’t actually get out of bed until past four, and they haven’t discussed, well, anything, because between blowjobs and napping, there hasn’t really been time. Andy doesn’t bother to dress in more than sweats, and sits at the kitchen island while Derek makes them something to eat that smells nutritious and not delicious.
“Can we keep doing that?” Derek asks, when he’s facing the stove, his back to Andy.
Andy chews his lip and thinks, because he needs to be clear. “What part?” he finally asks.
“All of them?” Derek asks, still facing away from Andy, so Andy can’t see his face, but his voice goes kind of hopeful.
This is suspiciously good fortune, and probably something he should be thinking about a little more carefully, he’s been in love with Derek forever, pretty much, but Derek’s still his best friend and this is moving faster than he can keep up with, but Derek’s cooking, wearing an old Juniors shirt that’s too tight at the chest and frayed around the collar, making them something gross, and just a few hours ago Andy had his cock in his mouth, hips flexing beneath his fingers, and he feels so full he could burst. He doesn’t want to stop feeling this way.
“Okay,” Andy says, quiet, and Derek turns around just to grin at him.
They eat in front of the TV, quiet, companionable, Andy’s feet tucked under Derek’s ass, and that’d mean something, maybe, if they hadn’t sat like this a hundred times before.
When Derek’s parents come home they give Andy these knowing grins that Andy is pretending he hasn’t seen, then make something a little more edible than Derek’s post-sex snack. Andy can’t believe he’s even thinking those words. His life is really surreal right now.
They weren’t supposed to return to Ottawa until they had to, until morning practice beckoned, but Derek mentions that they’re going to head out tomorrow, which is news to Andy but apparently not Derek’s parents, who just smirk while Andy ducks his head over his food. He doesn’t think they were loud last night, but they were both pretty drunk, so maybe.
Andy makes a point in sleeping in Derek’s childhood bed again that night, because this time he’s not drunk, and Derek’s parents are right there, and Derek makes tragic faces at him that Andy’s far too used to seeing to crack to, this time.
Andy sleeps in, and Derek’s packed his stuff for him, it looks like, their stuff stacked by the door before Andy’s even finished rubbing sleep out of his eyes, promises Andy Tim Hortons when he looks longingly at the coffee pot, nudges him out the door.
Andy takes the first shift, which means Tim Hortons is guaranteed, and even though Derek’s clearly been up for hours, he doesn’t pass out in the passenger seat this time, gets a coffee of his own, alert enough to fiddle with Andy’s Ipod, skipping through songs relentlessly until Andy smacks his hand.
Andy would have expected this to be awkward, maybe, nothing to distract them for the first time since they crawled out of bed, and it is for about five minutes before Derek starts taking apart the defensive weaknesses of Boston, who they’re playing once break’s over, picking out the guys most likely to punch him in the face, and Andy settles into it, offers his own opinions and gentle chirps.
“So,” Derek says, when conversation has shifted to comfortable silence.
“So,” Andy says, cautious.
“You’re kind of my best friend,” Derek says, and Andy swallows, hard, because it really sounds like a ‘but’ is about to be tacked on. And he would like to think that he could handle being Derek’s best friend, and having sex with him, and being cool with everything, but he thinks it might kill him, actually, even if he’d say yes, because he always says yes.
“You too,” he says, because it’s neutral and it’s true.
“This is weird,” Derek says, and Andy goes tense all over. “Like, I don’t usually like guys, seriously, I’m not in the closet or anything, but you’re my best friend and I think I’m kind of in love with you.”
Andy pays desperate attention to the road, because the 401 is never empty, and he doesn’t want them to die.
“Breathe, bud,” Derek says, sounding half amused, half concerned.
“You too,” Andy says finally. “The last part, I mean. I’m pretty gay, I mean, I think you know that, I’m not in the closet or--”
Derek starts laughing, and doesn’t stop, even when Andy forcibly detaches his death grip from the steering wheel so that he can hit him.
“We are the worst,” Derek says, through laughter, and it’s basically true.
They swap in Brockville, when Andy’s starting to sag, and he dozes a bit while Derek drives recklessly one-handed, thumb rubbing over the bone of Andy’s wrist. He wakes up once they pull off the highway, cheek cold from a frosted window, and watches the familiar city go by, watches Derek pass Andy’s apartment and then keep going.
“Thanks for driving me home,” Andy says when Derek parks in front of his own apartment.
Derek looks unrepentant. “Come up?”
“Make me dinner,” Andy bargains. “With no vegetables.”
“Deal,” Derek says.
He does end up making a vegetable-free dinner, but it’s three hours later and he scalds himself with hot oil because he’s an idiot who insisted on cooking shirtless, who tried to actually get his chest under the faucet in the kitchen, like some ridiculous limbo game, before Andy finally cracks and goes to the bathroom to wet a hand towel for him, because if he throws his back over this he’s going to be in the shit.
When Andy starts making noises about going home Derek says that it’s too cold, too dark, even though Andy’s place is less than a ten minute walk away, but Andy doesn’t really argue, he doesn’t want to argue, he falls asleep with Derek’s nose between his shoulderblades again, with Derek’s cold feet nudging his, falls asleep still feeling full to bursting, doesn’t know when he’ll stop feeling that way, but it probably won’t be any time soon.
Andy doesn’t go home at all, lets himself get roped into half-clothed marathons where Derek’s added grinding to the acceptable moves to try to throw off Andy’s game, listens to increasingly absurd reasons he can’t go home (and doesn’t argue because he doesn’t want to), eats so much kale he’s going to be sick, because Derek’s a sadist and loves it. Both the sadism and the kale.
The morning of practice Derek wakes him up early with an egg white omelette and a strawberry banana smoothie (with no flax seed, which means he’s trying to be nice), and finally lets Andy go because he doesn’t have any clean clothes. Blumm doesn’t say anything, even though he does give Andy multiple suspicious looks as Andy hums his way through the ride to the arena, but Blumm’s always been good like that.
What’s weirder is that no one says anything to him once they arrive, even though Derek was an asshole and marked him up where his tie’s going to sit, so either his teammates have developed tact over the break, which seems really unlikely, or they don’t even notice anything. Derek’s hanging around too, constantly nudging at Andy before, during, and after practice, but there’s nada. To be fair, Derek hanging off Andy in the locker room has been a common sight for over a year now, but everyone on this team is a jerk and gossip, all the way up to Olsen, so it’s kind of weird.
After practice Andy goes shopping, even though Derek invites him over for video games (he said it while waggling his brows ridiculously, and no one blinked). He wanders around the mall for awhile, because he feels bad that he didn’t get a wedding present for Dan and then traumatized his driver, and stalls in front of a jewelry displays, in front of a chain that looks like the one Derek wears around his throat, that makes his skin look like caramel, not that he’d ever tell him, because Derek would go around smug for days and tease Andy relentlessly about being poetic.
Andy’s got one of his own, even if it doesn’t make his skin look anything other than the freckle splotchy mess it is, and when the sales girl comes over, he buys it on a whim, keeps it tucked in his pocket, thumb rubbing against the grain of the velvet, everything inside him quiet for a minute. Derek is going to chirp him for getting friendship necklaces, probably, but Dan will have something to string his ring on. Andy hates playing without Derek centering his line, he couldn’t imagine playing in a different city than him, on a different team. And that was before they started whatever it is that this is.
He presents Dan with the necklace before the game, embarrassed when Dan looks at him like he’s an adorable puppy or whatever, Derek watching the two of them and clearly saving up his chirps for after the game, since Dan ends up between them on the bench.
It’s a close game, but they win it in sudden death and Andy wins the idle bet on whole would fight Derek (it wasn’t a fight, exactly, but there was some scuffling at the net, so Andy figures it counts), so it’s a good one. The kind that leaves his blood pumping even after it’s over, that leaves a smile on his face that he barely notices.
He’s right out of the shower and kind of effusively complimenting Leon on his goal, but it was a really pretty goal, and won the game, so he’s pretending not to notice that Leon’s totally laughing at him, because he deserves the praise, and Olsen just literally patted Leon on the head and then wandered off to talk about something with Coach.
“You didn’t get me a present,” Derek whines, coming up from behind Andy, and hooking his chin over Andy’s shoulder, which means he’s either still in his skates or standing on his tiptoes. Either way he's sweaty and needs a shower, and Andy should be pushing him off, because he's just gotten clean. He doesn't.
“You don’t deserve a present,” Andy says, without looking away from Leon, because he's polite, unlike some people.
“I do,” Derek says, chin digging into Andy’s shoulder as he speaks. “See if I make you breakfast in bed again.”
Andy elbows him, cheeks heating, but everyone within earshot is rolling their eyes or ignoring them completely, the usual response to Carruthers being Carruthers. Derek’s said way more suggestive things, and all of them have been true (Andy’s hair did smell nice with Derek’s shampoo) even if the context has kind of radically changed. It’s like Derek was the boy who cried innuendo. Everyone’s collectively over it, except for Andy, apparently.
“Why’d you get Riley a Best Friends necklace?” Derek asks, finally returning to the soles of his feet.
“Are you a ten year old girl?” Leon asks, disbelieving, then seems to wash his hands of them and gravitates back towards Olsen to find some more praise.
Derek’s got a hand loosely curled around Andy’s hip, and no one’s looking, and this is his life now, apparently. He bites back his smile before he turns around, because he’s been told to stop encouraging Derek, and he tries to obey, because he really doesn't need any more.
“Come over?” Derek asks, thumb rubbing a loose circle on Andy’s hip before pulling back. He was on tiptoe. Andy is the exact opposite of surprised.
“Make me breakfast?” Andy asks, quieter than Derek, but not by much, because no one takes them even remotely seriously. He doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but it's convenient.
“Anything for you, Bowie,” Derek says, very seriously, and then promptly ruins it by slapping Andy’s ass before he wanders away to the showers. No one bats an eye.