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"You must think me stupid," Kevin accuses, tongue made loose from all the alcohol he's managed to pour into himself in the past hour. Now, his head is stuffed with cotton and his vision is swaying like a shaken snowglobe, which is exactly how he likes it on a Friday night.
Eden’s Twilight is loud as always, the stroboscope lights bright as ever, and Andrew sliding into the seat next to him with swollen lips and heat radiating off his body is yet another weekly occurrence.
"Yes, is there anything new?" Andrew asks. He takes a swing of his whiskey, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and when the tip of his tongue swipes over his upper lip, collecting the stray liquid, Kevin follows its movement like a man hypnotized.
"You’re not supposed to leave me here alone," Kevin states, trying for his usual demanding tone, but coming off pathetic even to his own ears. Recently, he has been finding it terrifyingly alluring to be slightly pathetic with Andrew—Andrew, who is ever-unfazed, who offers him a mean oh no if he’s unlucky, and an annoyed, heated look of his amber eyes when he’s really, really lucky.
Tonight, he gets a quirk of an eyebrow and a flat, "And yet, miraculously, you’ve survived."
Kevin swirls the ice in his glass and takes a sip, enjoying the watered-down remains of his vodka soda. He mimics Andrew, licking his lips and waiting for a reaction, but Andrew seems stubbornly set on staring into his eyes instead. Not that Kevin minds, normally more than content with Andrew looking at him like he’s the only interesting thing in the room. Tonight, though? Tonight, he craves something more. A proof of Andrew’s unyielding attention that is more tactile, more marking. Something that will not leave Kevin alone, even if Andrew does.
"You think I don’t know where you're sneaking out to?" he asks, leaning in and tracing the rim of Andrew’s glass with his index finger, right over the spot where Andrew’s lips have just been. "Or with whom?"
Kevin has seen the looks Andrew shares with the bartender, the silent communication happening when no one else is looking. He knows the way Andrew sneaks away after his third drink and the exact shade of his slightly too red lips when brings his fourth. He knows how much time it takes to walk from the bar to their usual table and how fast Andrew can get the drinks that he wants.
Kevin knows, from weeks of shamelessly looking and holding his tongue back, what Andrew’s freshly fucked-out lips look like when he comes back to him.
"It is not the secret that you think it is," Andrew states simply. Not a single muscle in his face twitches to betray any kind of surprise at Kevin’s observation.
Kevin nods vaguely in the direction of the dancefloor that Nicky and Aaron have disappeared onto. "It is from them."
"It wouldn’t be if they paid attention."
"Or maybe you just want me to know."
Andrew shrugs, the fabric of his t-shirt stretching over his biceps. Kevin refuses to be distracted by it, so he keeps his staring to Andrews lips when he hears him say, "What you think of me is irrelevant."
Which, in Kevin’s humble opinion, is complete and utter bullshit. The entire reason they’re here together is precisely because of what Kevin thinks of Andrew, despite Andrew himself relentlessly trying to change his mind.
"I think you are reckless," Kevin scoffs. "I think you shouldn’t be doing that in a public space. I think you could—" He bites his tongue just in time and just hard enough to hurt, though not draw blood. He’s already learnt several times over that telling Andrew he deserves better, deserves more than what he’s willing to give himself, brings the opposite effect. The harder Kevin insists Andrew should want something, the more set Andrew is on hurting himself for it.
His slip-up, predictably, doesn’t go unnoticed as Andrew asks, "I could what, golden boy?"
Kevin takes a leap of faith, powered by alcohol and a momentary loss of sanity from noticing how the blinking yellow lights overhead turn the colour of Andrew’s eyes liquid honey. "I think you could just ask me."
"Look at you," Andrew drawls, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "They are yet to take the cast off, and we’ve already demoralized you."
"You haven’t made me anything I wasn’t already," Kevin protests. Admitting it out loud shouldn’t come this easily, especially not when it’s virtually the first time he’s done so, but the words seem to flow without asking for his permission. "This is my compensation for your protection."
Andrew jerks back, abruptly pulling the hand that’s holding the glass away from Kevin. "I won’t fuck you as a payment."
"And that is not what I’m offering," Kevin replies, stressing the not. "My payment is giving you the knowledge that I would sleep with another man in a heartbeat. Whether I will, with you, is for us both to decide."
That is what finally gives him the reaction he’s been after—Andrew leans back in his seat, taking him all in with an unhurried look as if readjusting his view of Kevin, shifting the pieces of information he has into different places. Kevin would pay a hefty price to get a glimpse of what Andrew truly thinks of him without having to parse through his riddles and discrepancies. Sometimes, now being one of such times, he suspects Andrew himself does not yet know what to make of him, or of their whatever.
"Is the son of exy actually propositioning me?" Andrew marvels, voice dangerously low. "What makes you think I am interested?"
Kevin withers him with a look. If he wasn’t, Kevin wouldn’t have caught him blatantly checking him out numerous times—Kevin’s choice to play oblivious until now, however, is a completely different story. "I have a mirror and a working set of eyes."
"Ah, vanity," Andrew sighs. "The devil’s favorite sin."
"One man’s vice is another man's opportunity," Kevin retorts quickly, set on not letting Andrew stumble down the path of innuendos and metaphors. Late in the night, when he is nearly sober, it is typically easier to corral him back into speaking in clear words, but Kevin is too drunk and too worked up to have the patience for that. "This is yours."
"Is this your best attempt at temptation?"
"Is that a challenge you offer?" Kevin asks, languidly tilting his head backwards to expose his neck. "Because I am not taking it." He then lets his knees fall apart slightly, just enough to spread his thighs in a suggestive way, were anyone looking for it. It is reckless, it is stupid, it is exactly the kind of lustful thing he’d been forbidden from wanting for too long now. "I am telling you yes, and I will tell you again tomorrow if you decide to ask."
Andrew takes the bait, and Kevin cannot find it in himself to judge him for it when he, too, is just a man whose eyes stray more often than proper. "Are we taking a stroll down every cardinal sin? First vanity, now lust, what’s next?"
"Greed, probably," Kevin answers easily. "Pride, next," he counts down. "Sloth and gluttony, these are yours," he adds, not fast enough to stop the jab. "We could test envy when I ask someone else to touch me."
"You would not dare," Andrew warns, making the collar of Kevin’s t-shirt feel unbearably suffocating.
"Dare not dare, it doesn’t matter," Kevin assents. "I would not let them like I would let you."
There it is, out in the open, offered on a silver platter to Andrew for the taking. But Andrew doesn’t pounce on the opportunity—first, he’d rather poke it with the point of a knife to check if it doesn’t bite him back.
"I will not let you touch me the way others would," Andrew states simply, finally. There is not a trace of emotion in the simple sentence, but the weight of it as it leaves Andrew’s lips is crushing.
"But you will touch me, yes? With these hands and that mouth?" Kevin asks, staring at Andrew pointedly until the intense look he gets back lasts long enough to be a confirmation. With that, Kevin assures, "Then it will be enough for me."
"We’ll see about that," Andrew answers. There’s either a bitter undertone to his words or Kevin is starting to hear things. Either way, it doesn’t matter. A win, however tentative it may be, is still a win.
"I guess we will," he muses, throwing back the rest of his drink.
Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait too long, which in some twisted way makes him feel good about himself for the first time in a while.
It takes Andrew measly two days to open the door to the room they’re sharing in Columbia—Andrew’s teenage bedroom, a concept Kevin still struggles to wrap his mind around for a multitude of reasons—with a molten look in his eyes that sends electric shivers down Kevin’s spine.
It might be an overkill of a reaction to being merely stared at, but Kevin had been trying for too long not to think about how much his body wanted some kind of release. The tension of not being able to train and being able to think entirely too much had been gradually coiling tighter in his chest and soon enough lower lower lower. And then one drink too many, one look at Andrew too many, and the dam broke along with all his mental self-restraints. Since that night at the club, he’s been unable to go an hour without obsessing over the possibility of having Andrew do, honestly, whatever to him.
He’s been thinking of Andrew’s hands pushing his thighs open, of Andrew’s eyes roaming over his body with no clothes on, of Andrew’s lips on his skin anywhere and everywhere. The worst, most addicting part is that Kevin has never let himself think of someone else so openly before, so shamelessly. It had always been just glimpses, just images, just dreams buried underneath the heaviness of the early mornings. It had been dangerous, forbidden, prematurely blood-soaked—never so vibrant, so hooking, so sweetly possible.
Within record time, he’s up on his feet, book abandoned on the little, beaten-up couch, and equally as fast, Andrew is in front of him, fingers twisted in the collar of Kevin’s hoodie and pulling down until they’re nose to nose.
Suddenly, Kevin is met with the reality of how much shorter Andrew is from him—and of how much he doesn’t give a single fuck about the awkward angle when Andrew asks, "Are you sober right now?"
"Yes."
"I will know if you’re lying to me." He tightens his grip on Kevin’s collar, forming a fist close to Kevin’s jaw. "You don’t want to be lying to me, Kevin."
"I am not," Kevin promises. "I would not."
Andrew waits a few seconds, keeping him close enough to check his breath. Kevin patiently lets him. He’s always been good at biding his time when the prize is attractive enough—and Andrew is all that and more.
"Yes or no?" is what Andrew finally asks.
"Yes. Fuck, yes," is Kevin’s immediate answer.
"How unnecessarily vulgar," Andrew chastises. With that, he pulls Kevin the rest of the way down, kissing him like he’s been starving to do it, like the way he immediately coaxes Kevin’s mouth open with his tongue is not infinitely more vulgar than any swear Kevin has ever heard. It’s shocking, it’s forward, it’s dizzying, and exactly what Kevin needs right now, Andrew’s touch both overwhelming and underwhelming at once.
Kevin places his right hand safely in the back pocket of his jeans, away from the outline of Andrew’s body, away from the risk of accidentally doing something that would make him stop kissing Kevin stupid. His left hand, oh joy, he doesn’t have to worry about, as he is still too afraid to really move it around anyway. He keeps it cradled to his chest, the hard cast digging into his sternum a reminder of the brittle bones inside. When Andrew takes a step forward and brushes his chest against it, Kevin hugs it even closer, away from any kind of pressure, from any potential hurt.
Andrew freezes, already so attuned to Kevin’s body language that he easily catches even the slightest of his reactions that may indicate distress. He leans away, despite the strangled sound of protest Kevin makes. Slowly, he removes his hand from where it’s twisted into the collar of Kevin’s hoodie and, making sure Kevin can see his movements, places it between his body and Kevin’s broken arm—the back of his hand just barely brushing the cast and the palm of it open and facing his chest, a line not to cross he sets for himself.
"There," he says.
"There," Kevin agrees, mesmerized by Andrew’s quick understanding of his worry. He leans back in, stopping right before Andrew’s lips, overwhelmed with the need to kiss him for it. "Yes?"
"Yes," Andrew agrees, breathing the word back into Kevin’s mouth. It shifts something, that little moment of care between them, slowing down the boiling heat into a steady simmer, and Kevin melts into it completely, opening his mouth for Andrew to explore any way he wishes to. He makes a valiant attempt to keep up, but, and it really shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does, Andrew knows what he’s doing much better than him. Kevin tries to mirror him, then to keep up, and finally to just lap at his lips and tongue with no finesse whenever he feels the moment is right.
Sloth, he thinks, might not be only Andrew’s vice after all, and he might be completely okay with that when Andrew kisses him as if he doesn’t need anything from Kevin but to open up his mouth nicely and take it. As though Kevin just being there and feeling good is somehow the goal in itself. Which would be ludicrous, right?
Kevin pulls away, shaking his head at his own idiocy.
"What do you want me to do?" he asks. Andrew clicks his tongue at the word want. First warning. Kevin corrects himself, "What should I do?" At that, Andrew quirks an eyebrow. Not much better then. "Give me some instructions," Kevin settles on, not wanting to risk even more in his guessing game.
"Ask precise questions."
Kevin huffs, annoyed at how inexperienced the question makes him sound even before it leaves his lips. "How do I kiss you better?"
"Better?" Andrew asks, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the saliva off Kevin’s lips. His fingers smell of cigarettes, but the touch is so grounding that any complaint dies in Kevin’s throat. "You don’t."
Kevin is already halfway to insulted when it clicks: Andrew likes it that way.
Kevin’s head spins.
"Can we move it to the bed?" he asks. It sounds bad when he’s sober—forward in a way he’s only ever been with alcohol or pain clouding his mind. "Not necessarily to… Just kissing is fine too," he corrects himself.
Andrew does not seem to care about his sudden bout of propriety. With nails skimming over the delicate skin of Kevin’s neck, he questions, "Were you or were you not trying to seduce me just last weekend?"
Well.
Thou shall not lie to the person who carries knives and kisses like the world is ending, Kevin supposes.
"Yes."
Andrew splays a hand on his chest, shoving him backwards. "On your back, right hand above your head."
Kevin does as he’s told in three heartbeats. He rests his left hand gingerly on his chest, his right over his head, and tilts his chin up, trying to regain at least a semblance of his so-called dignity. It disappears the second Andrew climbs over him, knees bracketing Kevin’s hips and hands firmly placed on each side of Kevin’s head, their bodies not touching at a single point. Yet.
"Hands to yourself and keep your hips down," Andrew reminds. He noses Kevin’s cheek in a way that would be nearly cute if not for the whisper of, "Touch me with your dick and I will cut it off, yeah?"
Kevin eyes the black armbands dangerously close to his face, wondering not for the first time how many blades Andrew keeps in them. The illusion of safety from having them always near can’t be worth the danger of opened wrists, but then again, he’d rather not know how often split skin is exactly where Andrew seeks safety.
He nods, needing desperately for thoughts to be emptied out of his head.
"Kevin," Andrew says and, fuck, the way his lips curl around the syllables of Kevin’s name will never get old. "Words."
"Yes, Andrew."
Andrew bows down and finally kisses him again, making Kevin marvel at how different it is to be kissed lying down. With a pillow underneath his head he can let himself fully relax, no longer worrying about his body swaying into Andrew or the awkward angle of his neck—instead, he allows Andrew to work his mouth open again and lick into it, deeper than before and easier too.
Kevin doesn’t think—no, he knows for sure—that he’s never been kissed quite like this. Andrew seals their mouths together and presses down hard like he’s trying to mold them together, two pieces of clay dancing on a pottery wheel.
Kevin tilts his face towards Andrew hungrily, which is an obvious, glaring mistake when Andrew pulls away from him, barely ghosting his lips over Kevin’s now, fervent kisses turned into barely whispers of touch.
Kevin whines as the loss—it’s a mortifying sound he’s never, ever heard himself make before.
"Loud," Andrew says. "And demanding."
"I won’t be," Kevin assures, letting his head fall back down against the pillow. Nicely. Politely. "I’ll be good," he adds for fuck knows what reason. A sudden wave of heat pools low in his stomach, and he, with a certain level of terror, realises that this is exactly what he wants to be. Not forced into submission by hands bruising and hurting, but willingly pliant. He wants to be on his best behaviour and so good to Andrew that he’ll, in turn, be allowed to feel good himself.
"You will," Andrew confirms, and that too makes Kevin shiver in pleasure. "But just so you know, I was merely describing you."
Andrew dips back down, nipping at his lower lip and tugging. Next, lower down Kevin’s jaw, decorating it in open-mouthed kisses that make Kevin first sigh in contentment and then whimper softly when Andrew moves on to his neck and sucks over his pulse point, tongue lapping at the soft skin there. He's careful to make it short enough not to leave a mark but to teeter just on the edge of it, just to give Kevin a taste. Encouraged by the slight nudge Andrew gives him, Kevin tilts his head to expose his neck even more, and Andrew eagerly takes the opportunity to claim more of his skin with his lips, making Kevin’s brain short-circuit.
Andrew skims his fingers down Kevin’s side, letting them hover over the zipper of his jeans in silent question.
"It’s still a yes," Kevin confirms. "But tell me how far we’re taking it."
Andrew hums against his throat, seemingly in thought. It’s a lovely sound, deep and melodic, and it brings goosebumps to Kevin’s burning skin. There’s no use lying to himself about just how much he likes Andrew’s voice, all the flavours of it: the quiet monotone of late nights, the low drawl of early mornings, hell, even the manic singsong just before Andrew pulls out one of his knives.
He likes it the most when it’s calling his name and when Andrew murmurs I’m going to suck you off into his ear, making Kevin twitch pathetically in his pants at the words alone.
"Off," Andrew orders, popping the button of Kevin’s jeans. That’s how far his help goes before he’s crawling off Kevin and rummaging through his pockets for what Kevin hopes to everything holy is not a packet of cigarettes.
Predictably, it is.
He stills with his fingers on the zipper of his pants, seriously considering if getting off is even worth getting anywhere near Andrew’s ashtray of a mouth. His mean, lying, nonsense-spewing mouth. His pink, warm, inviting mouth. Of course it’s worth it—it’s Andrew.
"You’d better stay away from my face if you smoke that right now," Kevin warns, trying to appear somehow dignified as he shoves his pants down using one hand.
Andrew quirks an eyebrow at him, an unlit cigarette already at home between his teeth.
"Is your dick on your forehead all of a sudden?" he asks, digging through his pockets for a lighter.
Kevin scoffs, kicking his pants aside. Without them, he’s left only in a loose PSU hoodie and briefs that leave nothing to the imagination. He toys with the waistband for a moment, thumb hooked under and swiping over the sensitive skin there.
"One drag and you’re not kissing me again, is that clear?" he says, trying not to let disappointment bleed into his threat. Getting used to kissing Andrew is a very, very bad idea, but ending the night without feeling Andrew’s lips on his one last time seems much, much worse.
Andrew stares him down, long and pensive, though unimpressed. And then he’s back on Kevin in an impressive display of speed. He tilts Kevin’s head back by his hair and kisses him hard, unforgiving, turning Kevin’s ribcage into a lit furnace. It doesn’t last, but Kevin doesn’t need it to—it’s a kiss that clearly serves more Andrew than himself, and he’s more than willing to let him claim it.
When Andrew pulls back, he moves equally as fast. Kevin barely manages to lift his head from the pillow by the time Andrew’s already clicking the lighter on by the window, calm as ever.
"I said off," he reminds, taking a drag. "Have you not listened?"
"And I’m supposed to, what, freeze my ass off and watch as you kill your lungs?"
"I’m sure you can think of something more productive to do," Andrew says, eyes flicking down to Kevin’s embarrassingly obvious hard-on. "One of your hands is still functional, is it not?"
Kevin is not sure what is more pathetic in the moment: the flinch he manages to suppress or the twitch of his dick he does not.
Slowly, Kevin shoves his underwear down and takes himself in hand. Slowly, Andrew brings the cigarette back to his lips and inhales. Kevin can’t help the weird sense of intimacy that settles over him when he notices that what Andrew is staring at so intently is his face—his eyes don’t escape lower even for a second, and Kevin nearly whimpers at the realization.
There’s something wrong with him; there has to be, for enjoying Andrew’s attention as much as he does. And yet, he can’t help it—when Andrew looks at him, he actually sees him. A mess of a person always halfway to falling apart, but a person nonetheless. With thoughts and feelings, and the right to feel good for once.
"Such loud thoughts you have," Andrew says, ashing the cigarette and flicking the butt out the window. He settles himself between Kevin’s thighs like it’s where he rightfully belongs, pushing Kevin’s legs open even wider as he does so. With one look thrown his way, Kevin knows his hand is to be back securely above his head, and he obeys.
It should be at least a little awkward to be half-naked and bracketing Andrew with his thighs like this, but Andrew looks at him the way he always does—with impassive acceptance—and Kevin looks back as he always does—with hope and trust.
Andrew doesn’t waste any more time—he grips Kevni’s dick at the base and pumps slowly, licking over the tip. The image itself ruins Kevin more than the actual stimulation; there’s something nearly high-inducing about the knowledge it’s Andrew who’s giving him pleasure, something different about the secrecy of it. It is not illicit, it is not wrong—it’s just private, it’s just for them to know, just for them to have.
When Andrew swallows him whole, Kevin can’t help but gasp for him, fingers twisting into the sheets involuntarily.
Now, Kevin might not have the most extensive experience in getting blowjobs, but he can immediately tell that Andrew knows what he’s doing—and what he’s doing is making Kevin’s toes curl. With his warm mouth and wet tongue, he turns Kevin’s spine pleasantly liquid, reducing him to soft puffs of breath and trembling thighs he fights valiantly to keep hinged apart.
What a weird, wonderful thing it is to be taken apart slowly, Kevin discovers. All his previous experiences with being touched happened in the darkest corners of the Nest, fast and without finesse, bringing him to completion against the door as he bit the flesh of his hand to keep himself quiet. Never before has he been spread across a soft mattress with hands brushing up and down his thighs and a beautiful man swallowing around his dick like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. This, Kevin realizes, is what real luxury is. Not an expensive hotel room nor the designer clothes forced upon him for every interview, but the tight coil of heat low in his stomach when Andrew looks up at him with his molten-gold eyes, lazily swirling his tongue around Kevin’s tip like they’ve got all the time in the world.
Much to his chagrin, Andrew seems to be reading his thoughts—he pulls off with a wet pop and regards him with a calm stare that has Kevin squirming. He can barely control his soft gasps or his hammering heart, and here Andrew is—breathing only barely harder, flushed up to the tips of his ears, and patient as a hunting dog.
"Hand," Andrew orders, patting the mattress next to Kevin’s right hip. "Here."
Kevin scrambles to do as he’s told, muscles protesting after being locked above his head for so long. He rests his hand palm down on the bed, and Andrew places his own over his wrist, fingers digging into the thin skin there.
Kevin’s own fingers twitch and twist back into the sheets when Andrew swallows him down again and oh this is much better. This is being held through it, a little reward earned for his best efforts. Kevin rewards Andrew back with a little whimpered yes, just like that.
The way Andrew glares at him would be much more intimidating if he weren’t simultaneously working his mouth and free hand over Kevin’s length. His grip on Kevin twitches, though, and that's as much of an approval as Kevin knows he’ll ever get.
"Andrew— That’s good," Kevin tells him, gaining himself another stare that clearly means I know. A stray curl falls over Andrew’s forehead as he bobs his head, taking Kevin in even deeper. If he could be touched, Kevin would brush it aside and then trace the arch of his eyebrows with his fingertips for the sake of nothing else but being able to. Instead, he repeats Andrew’s name. Once. Twice. Thrice—breaking off into a low moan as Andrew hums around him.
He can feel his orgasm building up inside him, and he lets himself truly feel it. That too is a novel experience without the desperate rush of quicker, harder, and quieter—it's steady and secure, a delicious kind of pressure overtaking his entire body.
"Andrew, I—" he tries, hand flexing under Andrew’s grip in warning. He only earns himself a harder squeeze for it, Andrew’s mouth unrelenting.
Kevin comes so hard that for a moment he’s worried his body might shake apart into tiny pieces never to be put together again. Andrew holds Kevin’s hips down firmly, keeping him from bucking deeper into his mouth as he jolts from how violently his orgasm hits him. That, too, seems to last impossibly long, and only when Kevin’s body turns slack, spent, and utterly fucked out, does Andrew pull off him.
When Andrew sits back, taking his hand away from Kevin’s wrist in the process, it takes everything in Kevin’s power not to chase after him. He presses the open palm of his hand harder against the mattress and moves it underneath his body just in case.
One look at Andrew is enough to knock the air out of his lungs. He looks positively debauched with a heaving chest and the clear outline of his dick straining in his pants. For a moment, with his rumpled t-shirt and messy curls that turn nearly golden in the warm light of the little nightstand, he no longer seems to be Kevin’s fierce protector. Seen through the fuzzy afterglow of Kevin’s climax, he is just a man—a boy, really—who for a moment filed off his claws and dulled his fangs to give Kevin a handful of painless touches.
Kevin knows the answer, but still can’t stop himself from asking the question, still seeped in obvious, disastrous want.
"Andrew, do you—"
"No," Andrew cuts him off sharply, turning away. It stings to have his attention taken away, but Kevin bravely suppresses a shudder.
"Okay," Kevin says quietly, reaching blindly for his clothes strewn across the bed. He really doesn’t want to ask, but is it only fair to offer a tentative, "Should I leave?"
Andrew is already halfway out the door by the time he answers with, "Do whatever you want."
What Kevin wants is nothing Andrew can offer him now, but being allowed to stay is a good enough consolation prize. He dresses himself back in his clothes, trying to will away the thoughts of Andrew’s swollen lips and shiny eyes and capable hands that right now must be wrapped around— No.
He focuses on staring down Andrew’s room, counting the posters on the walls and the books in the bookcase—the proof of Andrew’s momentarily better life before PSU, one with Nicky and Aaron, and a bedroom of his own. Kevin’s bedroom in the Nest was nothing like this: not truly his own, not full of sun streaming through the window at midday, and definitely not safe. So, yes, he likes the room even with its questionable decor, mismatched furniture, and half-broken blinds.
He likes that when he curls up on the bed and buries himself deeper in his hoodie, he can still feel the ghost of Andrew’s patient mouth on the side of his neck. He likes that when Andrew comes back and perches himself on the windowsill with yet another cigarette in hand, he does not berate Kevin for still occupying his bed. He likes that when he falls asleep with his nose buried in Andrew’s pillow, breathing in his scent, it is because he knows Andrew is watching over him.
Perhaps what he likes the most is that he’s allowed to stay in Andrew’s bedroom, on Andrew’s bed, surrounded by Andrew’s things.
Perhaps that’s where he belongs.