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Neil hasn’t even been gone that long. He’s down in New York, negotiating more Moriyama business, specifying the terms of the contract. What age he can retire, what teams they want him to play for, the actual things that matter outside of “80 percent of my income.”
Andrew has no reason to be worried. It’s just a weekend. Neil’s on winter break, staying with Andrew in Boston the entire time. They have lazy mornings and even lazier afternoons since Andrew’s also in his winter off-season. It’s nice. They wake up slowly, wrapped around each other, making up for several months of distance. Andrew visited Palmetto whenever he could in the fall, they spent Thanksgiving together, they text almost incessantly and Skype when they can. They had no reason to miss each other.
But they still did. When Andrew picked Neil up from the airport, they both kept their distance until the door to Andrew’s apartment was closed and locked. Then, Neil latched himself on to Andrew, holding him tight. It would be a lie to say that Andrew’s grip on Neil was looser.
So Andrew doesn’t miss Neil. He’s been gone for less than 24 hours, for fuck’s sake. He told Andrew in advance when his meetings with the Moriyamas were, told him what time they were supposed to wrap up, what time he would be back on the train, promised to text with updates. So Andrew shouldn’t be worried.
But he is. He hasn’t broken out his cigarettes yet, something he’s actively trying to cut down on because for some reason, his traitorous fucking brain decided that being the best goalkeeper on the eastern seaboard is a nice thing and he’d like to keep that ranking, thank you very much. So he’s not smoking. He’s pacing. Around and around his apartment, his phone never leaving his hand, like he’s capable of willing a reply from Neil onto it.
Neil’s last meeting should be wrapping up now. He should be getting ready to come back to Andrew (to come home, his traitorous brain supplies). But there’s nothing.
Andrew prides himself on logical thinking, presenting every possible scenario and working through them by process of elimination to find the most likely outcomes. He doesn’t stress about things. He reacts to whatever happens when it happens, doesn’t entertain the idea of overthinking a specific scenario.
But it’s failing him now. When he spreads all of the ideas out in his mind, like a deck of cards tossed across a table, no matter what they read, he’ll always focus in on the card that tells him that the Moriyamas are unsatisfied with Neil, that they’re just going to eliminate him, quickly and efficiently, and Andrew’s only going to find out through the news of a “tragic accident” involving a “rising star in the Exy world.”
He can’t. He can’t fucking do it, can’t even think about what would happen if he lost Neil for real. Realistically, he knows it’ll happen eventually, everyone’s time on earth ends, but he just wishes that for once in his miserable life, he’ll get something going right where he can have Neil for more than five years. Because the longer he’s with Neil, the more he thinks about permanence, thinks about setting it in stone, thinks about how he doesn’t want it to end, doesn’t want to get bored with Neil anymore. Five years is more than he thought he’d ever get, but now that he has it, he’s greedy. Bee would call it recovery. Andrew knows he’s just going soft.
And that’s okay, most times. But right now isn’t most times. Andrew would kill for the apathy he felt in college right now, because caring is exhausting. Sir is giving him a horribly judgmental look from her perch on the sofa’s arm, disturbed at how her normal napping spot (Andrew’s thighs) is unavailable.
If Andrew stops moving, he feels like he’s going to puke. Or scream. Or punch a wall. Nothing good. So he keeps moving, keeps breathing, keeps checking his phone and muttering under his breath. Neil really needs to text, and soon, because Andrew can’t take much more of this.
He’s on his fifteenth lap around the apartment in as many minutes when his phone buzzes in his sweaty palm. It’s Neil, only twenty minutes after he said he would be done. Shit. Anxiety really does fuck with Andrew’s perception of time.
Sorry. Ran late. Getting on the train now.
Andrew furiously types out a text. He can’t let Neil know he was worried. It’s just not happening. He needs his junkie home before he can be vulnerable.
I’m picking you up from the station. Back Bay.
Okay. See you soon.
Now Andrew just has to wait for a tortuous three and a half hours. It’s fine. He waited longer for news when Neil was in Baltimore, and he has confirmation that Neil is alive and on his way back this time.
But his brain won’t shut up. Neil isn’t expressive over text, delivering facts, waiting for calls or real life to actually show Andrew his emotions. He knows Neil’s texts sound robotic, is aware his own are the same.
He can’t help but worry, though. That it’s all an elaborate ruse, the Moriyamas stringing him along, finally getting cruel retaliation for the way Andrew publicly destroyed Riko and the Ravens’ collapse in the wake of his death. Neil’s never been annoyed when Andrew’s called him without warning, anyway. They’ve both had plenty of nightmares while they’re states apart, dreams where the other is ripped away from them or worse, ripped to shreds. They need to hear each others’ voices, need to know they’re alright.
So Andrew calls Neil, flops onto the couch. Sir places one dainty paw on his thigh, asking permission, and once he gets comfortable, she curls up on his lap, purring.
The phone keeps ringing. And ringing. Sometimes this happens, especially when Neil’s traveling. The buzz of his phone is drowned out by the vibrations of the bus or plane or car or train. Andrew holds his breath anyway.
The call connects, and Andrew chokes on nothing. “Drew?” Neil’s voice is tired, but it’s his voice and the background noise sounds just like the Amtrak and Andrew can breathe, for the first time in hours. Even before he was consciously anxious, there’s been something brewing in his gut, making him feel dizzy and disoriented and now that it’s gone, he’s aware of its existence. When Andrew’s silent for a few seconds, Neil asks, “You okay?”
Andrew huffs into his phone. “I am now.” He’s gotten better with being clear with his emotions in the past few years, so the next words aren’t so hard to say. “I needed to hear your voice.”
“Aw, you were worried about me?” Neil teases.
“Shut up,” Andrew growls. He was, but Neil will be able to see that the moment they see each other. They know each other too well.
“I’ll be home soon, Andrew,” Neil says. “Everything’s fine. It went better than I hoped. I have to play until I’m thirty, at least, and they don’t care what I do provided I make them money.”
“No fucking way.” It’s not possible. They don’t get nice things. Good things don’t happen to them. They don’t get lucky like this. “You’re joking, junkie.”
“Nope,” Neil says, popping the p like an obnoxious teenager. “I played up the factor that I’d be able to play best and make the most money if I was as mentally healthy as possible. Apparently the rat bastard,” he means Riko, “gave them a pretty good idea that extreme pressure to perform doesn’t work.”
The tinny announcement system comes on, announcing Neil’s approach to the next stop, which is-
It’s fucking Providence. Neil’s already in Rhode Island. He shouldn’t be out of New York yet.
“Neil.” Andrew is furious. Either Neil is being a little shit (the most likely option), or something is very, very, wrong. “Where the fuck are you.”
“Almost home,” Neil says, voice breaking on the word home. “One of the meetings I thought I had to be in was canceled because we figured everything out. Surprise?” He jokes timidly. “I’ll be at the station in forty-five minutes, Drew, don’t worry.”
“I fucking hate you.” Andrew does. He hates how Neil is so stupid that on a day where he could have died, he’s coming back to early and keeping it a surprise. He rescinds his statement from earlier. “I was worried.” The words are clipped, coming out of his mouth, stunted. They never had room to grow, to mature, to take root. But they fit better now.
“Shit, Andrew,” Neil says. “Is everything okay?” Stupidly fucking considerate.
“Now it fucking is,” Andrew sighs, too tired from a day of nerves to keep up the front of being angry at Neil. He really isn’t, he never was. He just wants Neil here, now.
Neil sighs and lets Andrew breathe for a few minutes, the sound of the train creating a pleasant white noise to focus on while Sir kneads the tension out of his thighs. “Okay. See you in forty minutes.”
“Don’t be late, junkie,” Andrew warns.
“I won’t.” Andrew can hear Neil’s smile through the line, and he promptly hangs up. They don’t do goodbyes, don’t do hellos. Nothing begins or ends with them. It’s always a push and pull, a movement of the tides, but it’s never static, never waiting for a beginning or an end.
Andrew plays a game on his phone for twenty minutes to pass the time, then goes to grab his coat and a hat. Unfortunately, living in a city populated with sports fans means going outside comes with being recognized. At least if he covers his hair, he’ll blend in better. And it’s cold.
It takes him fifteen minutes to walk to the station, where he waits just inside, scanning the arrivals board for Neil’s train. People flow by him, too engrossed in their own lives to notice him waiting, tucked against a pillar.
A new crowd of passengers pours out, and Andrew spots a bright orange hoodie pulled over silky auburn curls. That’s Andrew’s fucking hoodie. The asshole stole it when he left early this morning.
But that doesn’t matter, because Neil’s back. Unscathed. Their eyes meet, Neil looking up at Andrew’s perch, and he starts slipping through the crowd.
Andrew turns and leaves before Neil reaches him. It’s their thing, now, to not acknowledge each other with more than eye contact until they get privacy. It started out with Andrew now being comfortable with public affection, and now it’s a way to keep suspicion down surrounding Andrew’s romantic life.
Neil trails him until they reach Andrew’s street, then jogs to walk beside him, kicking pebbles at Andrew’s boots. Nobody pays them any mind, even though Neil is wearing Andrew’s garish college hoodie under his coat, making him nearly indistinguishable from the traffic cones across the street.
Neil shifts from foot to foot while Andrew unlocks his door, shedding his coat once they’re inside. Andrew takes his time, untying and pulling his boots off carefully, making sure his coat and hat are hung securely.
Then he turns to Neil, and here comes the next part of their unspoken ritual. In an instant, they’re holding each other. Andrew tucks his face into the junction of Neil’s neck and runs his hands up and down Neil’s torso, feeling out any new injuries. There aren’t any. Neil doesn’t lie to him about these things anymore. So he wraps his arms around Neil’s waist and holds on.
Neil loops his arms around Andrew’s shoulders, tighter than usual. They were both stressed today, and they’re finally letting it show. Andrew feels kisses pressed to his temple, where Neil’s head is resting.
They sway in the entry to Andrew’s apartment, drinking each other in. It’s been thirteen hours since they saw each other last, since they woke up in bed together, but still, it’s been too long.
Andrew walks them backward until they hit the couch, where Neil flops onto his back, pulling Andrew with him. This way, Andrew’s completely on top of Neil, the way that Neil’s confessed to feeling the safest. Plus, he’s a nice pillow.
They just lie there. Sir jumps up next to Neil’s head and one of his hands leaves Andrew’s back for a minute to give her head scratches. But they just lie there. Andrew lets himself decompress, cushioned by the sound of Neil’s breathing and the faint scent of his shampoo. It isn’t a hallucination. They did it. They can have this.
“So,” Neil says, rubbing Andrew’s back. “What are we making for dinner?” No hello. No goodbye. Only a push and pull.
“We’re getting takeout,” Andrew grumbles, face buried in the soft fabric of Neil’s hoodie. “Because you are the source of all of my stress.”
Neil laughs, high and bright, body tensing and relaxing under Andrew. “You missed me,” he teases, running his fingers through Andrew’s hair.
Andrew stretches his neck to press a kiss to the edge of Neil’s grin. “I did,” he admits. “Doesn’t make you less of a shithead.”
Neil tilts his head to give Andrew a proper kiss on the mouth. “Never said it did,” he breathes against Andrew’s lips.
Two showers and an order of Indian later, they fall into bed. Andrew wraps himself around Neil, plastered to his back, and Neil holds both of Andrew’s hands in front of him. Five years ago, this much touch would’ve made Andrew vomit, but now, he just falls asleep, breathing in time with Neil.
They made it.