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The night settles warm on the sheets Andrew's has pulled up to his ear.
They haven't drawn the blinds, haven't brushed their teeth, haven't done anything to settle down for bed. Yet here they are, with the cool sheets pulled over their bodies, the window open to let in the night breeze, Andrew's arm folded over Neil.
Neil's warm against him. He stripped down to his boxers before climbing into the bed after Andrew and pressed the whole of himself against Andrew, head to toe. He's got his head tucked safely into the crook of Andrew's neck, his breath fanning over Andrew's skin, his spine a trail of evenly spaced knots under Andrew's palm as he runs his hand up and down Neil's back.
The bedside lamp spills golden light across them both, lights up the copper wire strands in Neil's hair, the freckled shoulder peeking out from the blanket.
Andrew dips forward to press his lips to his skin there, and feels Neil's hum against his neck, slow, satisfied.
Neil's hand quests over Andrew's bare chest, the light dusting of hair there, until he's got a good handful of his pec. He doesn't even squeeze it, really, just holds onto it, warm, dry palm splayed over Andrew's skin.
When he lifts his face out of Andrew's shoulder, just enough to look at him, the light catches in his glinting blue eye, half-visible under his heavy lashes.
"You were incredible tonight," he says, barely more than a whisper, his mouth a red petal.
Andrew hums. He lifts his hand to Neil's cheek and directs him back down, his thumb finding the smooth curve of his cheekbone and running a few obsessive paths down it.
They won the game tonight. Their bodies are long wound down, the heat washed out of their muscles by long showers and a quiet drive home, dinner and a few kisses on the couch. Even Neil, known to thrum with energy for hours, feels calm and languid under Andrew's hands.
Warm, always warm, but humming with a gentle kind of contentment instead of his usual vibrating.
This is not excess energy needing burning off. This is a slow smoulder, spreading under Neil's skin and in his eyes and warming Andrew through to the bone.
Andrew turns his head just far enough to press his mouth to Neil's temple, feel the brush of his hair against his cheek, his nose, breathe in the familiar scent of the shampoo they share, but that smells so different on Neil than it does on himself. Tinged with that unmistakable note of Neil.
"I was watching you from the bench," Neil mumbles into Andrew's shoulder.
"You always are."
Neil rumbles a laugh. "Yeah," he says, lifting his head again, the lamp once more catching in his eye like a wink. It's the left, the one widened just slightly at the corner by the pull of the burn scar atop his cheekbone. A tiny imperfection on an otherwise unfairly symmetrical face.
Andrew, familiar with every line of him before and after the scars, found it only made him annoyingly more attractive.
The kiss, when they finally meet, is as slow as they are. Neil raises his finger tips to Andrew's jaw, tender, a simple touch for touching's sake. He's always loved that, Andrew knows with a stab to his chest. Has always only wanted to be touched and touch in return.
Andrew cups the back of his neck to draw him closer and their mouths move, almost lazily, against each other. Neil sighs, hums, makes thoughtless little noises of contentment into Andrew, little slips Andrew isn't even sure he's fully aware of making.
He wonders if he makes the same noises in turn without realizing.
Time drips steadily by them, unhurried, unconcerned. It stretches and bends around their tangled bodies, Neil's bare thigh slotted between both of Andrew's, their arms wound around each other, Neil's fingers now tracing the shell of Andrew's ear and Andrew's dancing patterns across his scalp, untangling his curls one by one.
A heat is building, somewhere low in Andrew's body, but it's so slow, so snaking, crawling up his stomach and matching Neil's body heat pressed against him, that he can ignore it almost entirely.
Or maybe not ignore it, but accept it as a part of this. Comfortably tucked between them, a steadily growing pleasure with no immediate need to do anything about it.
That, too, is a luxury of a life together he has come to greatly appreciate.
When Neil draws away, and stays away for longer than it takes him to lick the spit off his lip, Andrew opens his eyes to look at him, finds him heavy-lidded and ruddy from the ears to his cheeks. His lower lip disappears between his charmingly crooked front teeth as if to smother a smile and he leans in close, bumps his forehead to Andrew's and tucks their noses together, and says, "I really have to pee."
Andrew snorts. Neil smiles, wide enough to crease his cheeks and eyes with dimples, and Andrew pushes him away by his shoulder. Neil uses the momentum to roll off the edge of the bed and stumble for the bathroom.
He doesn't even close the door. A sheath of bathroom lights falls across the floor, the edge of the rug, the clutter on the dresser.
Andrew lets his head sink back into the pillow and closes his eyes. His body is sore most of the way down, but in the accomplished way of a day well spent. He stretches his legs down the bed, flexes his fingers against the sheets, tilts his head to roll the tension out of his neck.
He's also still half-hard, exposed now that Neil has kicked the blankets away from him, but that is neither here nor there.
When his eyes open again, Neil is leaning in the open bathroom door, shirtless, his plaid boxers riding low on his hips. His scars gleam almost pearlescent in the light, and a smile curls into his cheek.
The sight of him still sends a spear of heat through Andrew's chest.
"Come here often?" Neil asks, his smile wide and lazy, and widening only further when his eyes skip down the length of Andrew's body.
Andrew grabs a loose pillow to chuck at him. Neil evades it with a laugh, finds the edge of the bed with his hands and crawls back onto the mattress, snakes his body up between Andrew's legs, slowly, his eyes never leaving Andrew's.
He sets his hands atop Andrew's thighs, and Andrew's mouth goes bone dry.
"I love watching you in the goal," Neil says, his voice a low simmer, dripping like liquor into the back of Andrew's throat.
"No Exy talk here," Andrew warns, but the scratch of his dry throat takes any heat out of the words, and Neil's smile belies that he knows it.
He lowers himself down, slowly, between Andrew's thighs, his face almost flush with Andrew's hardening cock, still trapped in his boxers. "You're so sexy," he says, and his fingers splay out to dig into the meat of Andrew's thighs.
Andrew tries for a snort, but it comes out more like a choke. "One day you're going to come in your pants on the bench."
"Yeah. I might," Neil says, entirely too earnest, and Andrew has to swallow an honest moan when he lowers his face down at last, drags his cheek along the length of Andrew's cock like a cat, never breaking eye contact.
"Neil," he warns, hoarse, but Neil is undeterred.
He nuzzles his face up against Andrew's cock, his eyes fluttering shut at last in his enjoyment, his mouth finding the head through thin fabric and brushing a kiss there.
Andrew shivers, lets out a slow, quivering breath through his mouth to calm down, but the sight of Neil between his legs is still almost too much.
"Touch me," Neil pleads, quietly, barely audible, his face almost hidden in Andrew's crotch.
Andrew reaches down, rakes his fingers into Neil's curls. Neil lifts his head into the touch, desperate, always desperate for touch, turns his cheek up into Andrew's palm. Andrew lets his fingers trail over the ridges of Neil's scars, the gentle slope of his cheekbone, to the corner of his mouth and the plush of his pink lower lip.
The tips of two fingers catch on the lip, drag it down just far enough to expose Neil's sharp bottom canine. Neil opens his eyes halfway, fixes a heavy-lidded stare on Andrew's face when he sucks both fingers into his mouth.
They rest heavy on his slick tongue, his mouth so warm around them Andrew shivers again, his teeth blunt and hard where they rest against knuckle.
"Neil," Andrew says again, aimlessly.
Neil sinks his mouth down over the fingers like he might on a cock, drags his tongue up over their undersides, lets his teeth scrape over the pads. And all the while his eyes stay so warm, so earnest, so heavy where they meet Andrew's, unwavering.
When he comes off them with a pop of his lips, he says only, "Let me blow you."
Andrew pushes his boxers down without hesitation, and does not even blink at the satisfied smile hitching on Neil's lips.
It doesn't matter. It's only Neil, it's only them. There are not facades worth keeping up here, in their home, their bedroom, where they've long since laid bare every piece of each other.
Neil kisses his stomach, the soft swell of it beneath his navel, lets the tip of his nose brush the trail of blond hair there.
His eyes, when he sets his bottom lip to the tip of Andrew's flushed cock and looks up at him, are both heavy with lust and crinkling at the edges with mirth.
"I mean it, about the goal," he says. "I forgot what it feels like to play knowing I have you at my back."
Andrew tells himself that the way his stomach tightens is a sole result of Neil's breath ghosting over his cock. "Shut the fuck up," he says, his voice strained, but Neil only smiles.
He opens his mouth around him, though, lets the tip of Andrew's cock slip onto his tongue. It's impossibly hotter than it was around his fingers, slicker, tighter when he gives one, two, three hearty bobs of his head.
Another night, Neil might get him off like that. Hard and fast, his throat tight enough to choke himself on Andrew's cock until his spit dribbles past the seams of his mouth and his eyes cross in his head. He can; he has before.
But tonight is not that kind of night. Neither of them feels that urgent tonight, neither of them is fighting a fire begging to be put out. Tonight is a night for comfort, and closeness, and the simple pleasure of each other.
And so Neil shifts between Andrew's legs until he's comfortable and rests his head on Andrew's hip, lets his cock slip comfortably back into his mouth. He kisses it, lets his tongue swirl around the head in lazy circles, sucks it slow into his cheek. Andrew rests a hand in his hair, winds a handful of curls around his fingers and scratches blunt nails across his scalp until Neil hums, pleased, and the vibration of it sends little shivers up Andrew's spine.
He reaches his other hand down to the one Neil has loosely resting on his stomach. Neil twines their fingers together gratefully and looks up at him with his eyes so thick with affection Andrew thinks he might choke on it.
In intermissions, when he lifts his mouth off Andrew's cock to kiss along the head and the length and the skin of Andrew's hip and stomach, Neil keeps on talking.
"Can win every game with you," and, "Wish other people saw what you do for us," and, "Gotta wipe the floor with New York next week so they're fucking sorry." Little thoughts that come to him as he says them, only half-connected to each other. "Not that we'll need that much luck with how they've been playing recently."
It's not new. Neil gets like this sometimes. Chatty. Sometimes he talks about Exy, but just as often about anything else that comes to mind. All murmured into the crook of Andrew's hip while he blows him, their hands entwined on Andrew's stomach.
It makes Andrew's chest swell with a feeling too large to put into words. And so he says nothing much at all, though he hums, lightly, into the pauses Neil leaves, and keeps his fingers scratching across Neil's scalp until he purrs, and rubs his thigh together where he has his legs curled up under Andrew's knee.
"And Coach would do better pairing Emily up with Ricky against their defense, but he won't listen to me," Neil concludes. He kisses the tip of Andrew's cock and looks, suddenly, up at him. "Do you wanna come like this or do you wanna fuck me?"
Andrew blinks down at him, his brain trying desperately to catch up, his tongue trying to unstick itself from the roof of his mouth. A knowing smile curls the corners of Neil's mouth, and he licks another stripe up the side of Andrew's cock.
Andrew yanks at his hair in retaliation, pulls him up and toward him. "Come here," he grunts, and Neil does.
He comes up Andrew's body, lets himself be pulled into a hard, open-mouthed kiss while he wrestles his boxers off and swings his legs up over Andrew's hips.
Andrew draws back to look up into his face, watch the furrow of his brow, the drop of his mouth when he fits a hand between his thighs.
"So wet," Neil laughs, breathless, when Andrew's fingers brush up against him. Two fit inside him with no resistance, and Neil falls forward, hands braced on Andrew's chest to keep from face-planting into him, with a startled moan. His whole body twitches when Andrew drags his thumb over his clit. "God."
Andrew's heart still beats too hard to speak, so he keeps the slick hand he pulls from between his thighs on Neil's hip to guide him down. The other curls around the back of Neil's neck to hold him close, cradle them together.
Neil hums when he sinks down on him, his hands tightening over Andrew's pecs, his lip caught between his teeth.
He puts his weight on Andrew's chest, his back bending into an insane arch when he rocks his hips, and Andrew feels close to bursting at the seams, all the pressure in his chest ready to spill from him.
He pulls Neil down towards him by the back of his neck, presses their brows together like he might breathe easier in the little space between their lips.
"Keep talking," he says, and feels the smile Neil presses into his cheek.
And he does. He tells him useless little things, observations from practice and the run he took this morning, a dinner invitation he forgot to show Andrew when he found it in the mail. "Didn't think you wanted to go anyway," he says.
"I don't," Andrew agrees, and, "Shit," when Neil rolls his hips again.
Neil laves kisses along his jaw, down to his neck, interspersed with little nibbles that make Andrew shudder. He interlocks their hands again, just holds Andrew's hand to his chest between them and squeezes his palm in time with the slow, slow rocks of his hips.
Andrew would let his eyes slip shut, would try to escape the overwhelm, if he wasn't so hooked on the sight of Neil, flushed rosy and a little sticky with sweat in the warm night around them.
And so the pressure builds, slowly, on and on, until Andrew thinks there must be no way he will survive this, no part left of him that isn't brushed up and electrified by Neil's weight atop him, his slick heat around his cock.
Neil's idle ramblings trail off, into soft, mindless noises that slip uninhibited from his lips. His brows pinch, his fingers tighten almost convulsively around Andrew's, but he never picks up the pace. Just rides him slow and maddening, clenched almost tight enough around him to hurt.
Andrew reaches up to touch his face, feels the hot flush of his cheek against his fingertips. "Can you come like this?" he asks, and Neil nods, eyes squeezed shut, biting his lip.
"If you come in me," he challenges, half-smiling.
Andrew grips his hip again. No worries about that, he thinks, and pulls Neil back down to kiss.
They do come like that, long, agonizing, beautiful minutes later. Andrew first, buried deep inside of Neil and so wound up he cannot hold the grunt of effort from the bottom of his throat. Neil only moments after him, with his own fingers pressed to his clit and his nose buried in Andrew's hair.
He stays on top of him while they come down, his sweaty brow pressed to Andrew's, their breath mingling between their faces. Andrew digs his hands into Neil's thighs, massages knots out of them until Neil squirms away, laughing, and rolls into his back beside him, both their heads in Andrew's pillow.
Andrew stares at the ceiling, trying and mostly succeeding at settling his body back into its place in this bed. When he turns his head, he finds Neil already looking at him, his hands folded on his stomach, his eyes open, observant.
He's beautiful, still dipped in gold by the light of the bedside lamp and heady now with the flush still in his cheeks.
Andrew knocks him away by the chin, gently. "Staring."
Neil huffs, and comes right back. "You like it," he says, and Andrew can't deny it.
They're both sweating, the air much too warm for this despite the open window, and Neil's thighs are sticky with other things, but he still fits himself to Andrew's side, throws an arm over his chest and a leg over his hips and buries his face against Andrew's shoulder in a naked imitation of their earlier position.
Andrew, after a moment, snorts, and folds his arm back over Neil.
Something big still brims in his chest, right beneath where Neil's hand rests now and always threatening to spill over. Neil hums, content for the moment, and so warm against Andrew's own skin, his heart still beating hard enough for Andrew to feel against his own arm. He sets his hand to the back of Neil's neck and strokes his thumb over the knob of his spine there.
The feeling ebbs away with every breath they take together, every peaceful brush of Neil's lashes against his collarbone on every blink. It never goes far, not with Neil so close, so his, but he can enjoy it, like this.
Can press his lips to Neil's hairline and breathe him in, and let his eyes slip shut.