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Andrew remembers it more clearly than he’ll ever admit, the moment he felt the first twinge of emotion in his chest, the way he fumbled with the tray of sewing pins in his usually steady hands.
Andrew remembers that moment because it was followed very closely by the prettiest man he’d ever seen walking through the front doors of his shop, wind-swept hair, high cheekbones, vivid blue eyes (how can someone’s eyes be so blue), and all.
“Hi, I’m Neil Josten,” the pretty man says. “I’m here for my consultation appointment.”
Andrew schools his face into its usual smooth indifference, meets Neil’s eyes with a scrutinizing gaze, and holds it. Neil doesn’t look away first. Interesting.
“Andrew,” he says, remembering belatedly to offer his arm for a handshake. Customer service was never his strong suit.
Neil takes Andrew’s hand with a lopsided smile, a single dimple appearing on the left side of his cheek. It makes something clench in the back of Andrew’s throat. Neil’s grip is firm and warm, and Andrew can’t tell if Neil is letting his hand linger or if unnaturally long handshakes are his norm.
“I’ve never gotten a custom suit made before,” Neil says. “I didn’t prepare anything. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine. This is just a consultation, it should be quick,” Andrew replies gruffly, motioning towards his desk in the corner. Neil follows and takes a seat while Andrew reaches for his tablet. “Do you have any specific requests? What’s the occasion? Business, wedding?”
“No specific requests,” Neil says, drumming his fingers against the edge of the desk. “It’s for a wedding, I’m the best man. Dan and Matt are quite easygoing, so something simple would work fine.”
“Will you be wearing this suit for any other occasions?”
Neil bites his lower lip in thought, his teeth pressing a dent into the soft pink of it, sending a spike of heat down Andrew’s spine. “Probably not. I don’t attend many events that require a formal dress code. Except maybe prom.”
Wait, what?
Alarm bells start going off in Andrew’s head. Prom? Surely he heard Neil correctly. How old is Neil? What kind of teenager looks like that? Is Andrew being punked? He stares blankly at Neil for longer than what’s considered socially acceptable and Neil stares back, visibly confused, until he seems to notice what his words imply. Neil’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and he shakes his hands out in front of him, a frantic little motion.
“I’m a high school teacher,” Neil blurts, his bright blue eyes wide. Cyan, cobalt, cerulean, Andrew’s brain provides unhelpfully. “I have to chaperone prom once a year. It’s not my favorite, but it’s part of the job description, unfortunately.”
The alarms in Andrew’s brain slowly silence into a dull hum. “Learn to phrase your sentences better,” Andrew says, unimpressed, and Neil grins, his eyes curving into crescents.
“My bad.”
Andrew’s grip tightens against his stylus as he jots down, “best man for wedding, looking for something simple,” on his tablet. “So, high school teacher Neil Josten, what do you teach?” he asks, simply because he wants to know more about Neil.
“Calculus,” Neil replies. Andrew lifts an eyebrow. “I also coach the school’s exy team.”
Andrew lifts his other eyebrow. “A nerd and a jock. The worst combination.”
Neil laughs and shrugs. “Mmm, I think there are worse things to be. A killer clown, maybe. An internet scammer.”
“Debatable,” Andrew says. Sunlight filters in through the open windows, highlighting the light freckles dotting the bridge of Neil’s nose. Neil’s hair gleams in the pale light. Auburn, chestnut, copper. The twinge of emotion in Andrew’s chest swells. He ignores it before he does something stupid about it. “What color would you like your suit to be?”
“Navy blue.”
“What color will your tie or bowtie be?”
“Dan and Matt want orange.”
Andrew stops scribbling down notes. He looks up at Neil’s auburn-colored hair and the deep blue of his eyes. He pictures how the similarly colored suit and tie will mute all of Neil’s natural brightness, and says flatly, “Your friends are doing you dirty.”
Andrew doesn’t usually make a habit of judging his client’s choices out loud. He’s not that big of an asshole. But something tells him Neil won’t mind.
He is correct.
Neil throws his head back and laughs, and Andrew admires the soft column of Neil’s throat, thinks about memorizing the line of it with his teeth. “We met playing exy in college—Dan, Matt, and I—at Palmetto State University. Our color was orange. School spirit runs deep, I guess.”
“Exy junkies, typical,” Andrew says, reaching for his collection of navy blue fabric swatches, spreading them on the desk for Neil to peruse. “I played exy in high school,” Andrew continues before he can stop himself. His mouth seems to be operating independently of his brain at the moment. “Goalkeeper.”
Neil’s eyes light up. “Ah, so you’re also a jock.”
The glare Andrew sends Neil could strip paint off a wall, the kind of glare that usually sends people running to a different tailor with better customer service skills. But Neil just keeps giving Andrew a shit-eating grin that’s both guileless and mischievous.
“I’m going to put you in the ugliest suit imaginable.”
“Hmm, your two-hundred five-star Yelp reviews tell me that’s impossible. Though some reviews say you’re a little rude.”
“And what do you say?”
Neil cocks his head to the side and observes Andrew. Andrew stares back, a challenge. “I say they’re no fun.”
Andrew nods. “Good answer, Neil Josten.”
Neil’s left-cheeked dimple makes another appearance at that.
By the end of their one-hour consultation, they’ve decided on a navy blue three-piece, two-button English suit with notch lapels, and have scheduled another appointment for a week out so Andrew can take Neil’s measurements.
Neil says goodbye with another lingering handshake, then he’s out the door. Andrew spends the next few hours trying to rid the image of Neil’s absurdly bright eyes from the forefront of his mind, “try” being the keyword here.
He buries his head in his work and doesn’t emerge until his next client steps through the door.
*
“Stand up straighter, good. Don’t move or else I will stab you with a pin.”
“I see those, ‘the owner is a bit rude’ reviews weren’t lying.”
“I see being a smart ass doesn’t equate to knowing how to dress yourself,” Andrew volleys back, spreading a measuring tape across the length of Neil’s back.
“Touché,” Neil replies easily.
For all measurement appointments, Andrew requests his clients to come in specific clothing to allow for the most accurate measurements—a tight-fitting long-sleeve shirt, a pair of fitted pants, and shoes of the same approximate height as the ones they’ll be wearing with their suit.
This means Neil showed up in an abomination of mixed clothing—a compression shirt meant for the gym, a pair of light-wash skinny jeans that look like they belong to a member of One Direction in the 2010s, and a pair of scuffed dress shoes.
Andrew had taken one look at Neil and said, “You’re fucking joking,” while Neil simply shrugged. Most people can’t pull off such a style abomination, but apparently, Neil can because he has the kind of look that belongs on the cover of GQ magazine.
Shaking his head, Andrew returns his focus to the task at hand, straightening the measuring tape from the top of Neil’s shoulder down toward the knuckle of his thumb. Neil is a little fidgety, Andrew notices, had noticed since their first meeting, when Neil kept drumming his fingers against Andrew’s desk.
Andrew notices a little too much.
Neil has very strong forearms for someone a bit leaner, a runner’s body through and through. He’s wearing a bracelet on one wrist, orange and white macrame. His palms are a little callused, probably from years of handling an exy racquet. Andrew notices too much and hates that he does because this means he’ll spend the rest of the appointment thinking about Neil’s forearms, and how he can cover the width of Neil’s slim torso with a spread palm, instead of paying attention to the numbers on the tape.
Oh well. It’s not like Andrew hasn't stopped thinking about Neil for over a week, since Neil first stepped into the shop with his absurdly pretty eyes, absurdly perfect cheekbones, and absurdly perfect mouth.
Neil does his best to stand still, but Andrew still finds himself pressing a palm against the small of Neil’s back to keep him from slouching, lifting Neil’s chin with gentle fingers to get a proper neck measurement. He ensures that his hands don’t linger, that his touches stay professional, impartial. If anything, Andrew knows better than most how even the simplest touch can be unwelcome.
It’s mostly silent in the shop, aside from the quiet rustle of Andrew’s measuring tape, the hum of the AC running above their heads, and the scritch scritch sounds of Andrew’s stylus against his tablet.
“That painting is beautiful,” Neil says, breaking the silence, inclining his head towards the canvas hung next to a cluster of dress-form mannequins.
“My friend Renee painted it. She owns a gallery on Fifth Street. Go check it out sometime.”
“Oh, very cool,” Neil says, unconsciously swaying towards the canvas of abstract blues and purples. Andrew yanks him back with a stern hand and Neil smiles sheepishly. “Are all your friends good with their hands like you?”
Andrew pauses at the word choice but doesn’t look at Neil, staring resolutely at his tablet. “You say that like I have a lot of friends.”
“Do you?”
“I do not.”
Neil hums. “How did you and Renee meet?”
“Boxing gym.”
Neil’s eyes widen slightly. “You box?”
“Renee and I spar whenever we have free time, usually a few times a week.”
“Think you could knock me out in one punch?”
“If you keep moving around, I just might. Keep still, junkie.”
Neil laughs and Andrew feels it rumble against the tape he has wrapped around Neil’s chest. Andrew decides he really likes Neil’s laugh. He’d like to make Neil laugh again.
In Andrew’s opinion, measurement appointments are the worst part of his job. His clients tend to blab nonstop, trying (unsuccessfully) to alleviate the awkwardness with meaningless small talk, while Andrew simply grunts in response or says nothing at all. Andrew usually wants to throttle half his clients by the end of the day. But it’s not like that with Neil.
Conversation with Neil is easy, simple. Andrew doesn’t have to mince his words or run them through his brain’s nearly non-existent “is this customer friendly” filter. Neil is funny and witty and sarcastic, and Andrew likes the sound of Neil’s voice, each word smooth as they roll off his tongue, sliding down Andrew’s spine with every syllable.
Andrew likes the way Neil’s tone rises when he asks a question, the way it lowers when he teases Andrew, the way his voice grows rough and brusque when Andrew moves onto inseam measurements, breath hitching as Andrew slides the tape up the inside of his thigh, holding it steady at the top of his leg.
“Keep your legs straight. This will be over quicker if you stay still,” Andrew says, crouching to read the number off the tape.
“I’m still as stone,” Neil replies, but Andrew still feels the way Neil shivers under his touch, lithe muscles tensing and flexing beneath Andrew’s fingers.
By the end of their appointment, Andrew has acquired a mental list of Things About Neil Josten and has it tucked away in his brain for safekeeping. Neil majored in Mathematical Sciences at Palmetto State University. Neil speaks both French and German. Neil runs two marathons a year but wants to try running three. Neil can hold a handstand for over two minutes and is teaching himself how to juggle. Andrew doesn’t know what to do with these Neil Facts, but he likes that he has them.
“One more measurement,” Andrew says as he’s double-checking the numbers on his tablet. “Raise your right arm and hold it to the side.”
Neil obediently raises his arm and Andrew bends to press the tape just under Neil’s armpit. That’s when Andrew spots them.
The scars. A lot of scars.
Neil’s shirt had shifted when he moved his arm, the nylon riding up slightly, revealing mottled scars near the bottom of his stomach. There’s a larger scar just above Neil’s right hip, disappearing under the fabric, gone shiny and pale with time. Andrew finds himself wondering where the scar ends. Does it stop by Neil’s belly button? Does it run a jagged path above Neil’s ribcage towards his chest?
Neil’s voice startles him.
“My parents were abusive,” Neil says. Andrew stays silent. He doesn’t try to lighten the mood by making some sort of wildly inappropriate joke. He doesn’t say he’s sorry that someone so awful existed in the world to hurt Neil like this. He can tell Neil doesn’t need his sympathy, doesn’t want his sympathy, has had enough of everyone else’s sympathy. “They’re both dead now.”
Andrew jots down the final number and looks up to meet Neil’s searching eyes, awaiting Andrew’s judgment. “Good riddance,” he says.
The corner of Neil’s mouth quirks up. “Good riddance, indeed.” He stares at Andrew with something incomprehensible in his gaze, something that Andrew wants desperately to decipher and also wants desperately to ignore.
Andrew turns towards his desk before Neil can see right through him. “How do you want to pay your fifty-percent deposit?”
They make an appointment for three months out, when Neil will return for his first fitting and try on his completed suit.
“That’s something we both have in common,” Andrew says as he’s walking Neil out the front door. Neil turns and cocks his head to the side, confused. “Scars,” Andrew clarifies.
Neil’s eyes immediately dart to the black armbands peeking out from under Andrew’s dress shirt, where his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He doesn’t say anything, and for that, Andrew is thankful.
“I can speak German, too,” Andrew tacks on.
Neil smiles, his eyes clear and soft. “Yeah?”
“Ja,” Andrew replies.
Andrew is rewarded with another smile, bright enough that Neil’s eyes disappear into crescents.
*
Renee: your friend came by the gallery earlier this afternoon. he bought a painting for his classroom, he seems nice.
Andrew: not my friend
Renee: either way, he was very kind. he asked me about you.
Andrew: what did you say
Renee: nothing, of course. it’s not my place to tell him anything.
Andrew: thank you
Andrew: i wish aaron and nicky were more like you.
Renee: ❤️
*
“Who is that gorgeous hunk?” Nicky’s voice booms next to Andrew’s ear, loud enough that it bleeds through the punk rock blaring through Andrew’s headphones.
Andrew jerks violently, nearly sending a pair of fabric shears straight through Nicky’s right eyeball.
“Shit,” Nicky yelps, stumbling backward, almost dropping the pile of Greek takeout in his arms onto Andrew’s pristine shop floor. “What’s got you all worked up?”
“Sneak up on me one more time and these scissors are going into your skull.”
Nicky goes to put his hands up in surrender, realizes there are still takeout boxes in his arms, and settles for a quick nod, turning to find an empty table. Andrew pulls his headphones off and throws them against his workstation.
Unfortunately for Andrew, the marketing agency Nicky works at is only a few blocks down from the shop, which means Andrew has to deal with Nicky’s loud mouth for lunch at least once a week. Fortunately for Andrew, many of the agency’s consultants come down to Andrew’s shop on Nicky’s recommendation for custom suits they can wear to fancy meetings to win big-boy deals.
It brings in good money. It’s almost worth the Nicky-induced headaches Andrew is subjected to every week. Andrew grabs a takeout box full of pita bread and hummus and flops onto the nearest stool.
“My question still stands though,” Nicky says around a mouthful of chicken souvlaki. “Who is that pretty, pretty, man?”
Andrew’s eyes dart to the photo of Neil on his tablet, specifically a photo of Neil’s full side profile. Andrew always takes posture photos for reference whenever he takes on a new client. It’s helpful to have them as he works on his illustrations, to see the shape of a client’s posture—if they have sloped or squared shoulders, a pronounced chest or a slimmer build, straight or curved backs.
Andrew had been working on Neil’s illustration, hence why his photo was up, but Andrew still feels oddly like he’s been caught looking at something he shouldn’t have. His gaze must linger on Neil’s photo for too long, because a mischievous grin blooms on Nicky’s face. Goddamnit, Nicky.
“He’s none of your fucking business,” Andrew says, which of course, simply piques Nicky’s interest even more.
“Oh ho, that tone of yours tells me it’s one hundred percent my business. You’re never this secretive about your clients. Why are you hiding him?”
“I’m not hiding him.”
“You are such a liar,” Nicky says because he has a death wish. “What’s his name? How tall is he? Is he rich? Is that his natural hair color? Does he think hot dogs are considered a sandwich?”
Andrew throws a chunk of pita at Nicky, who’s still staring at Andrew like an idiot, the type of stare that means he won’t back down until Andrew throws him a bone or threatens him with murder. The pita chunk bonks Nicky on the center of his forehead.
Andrew scowls, resigning to give Nicky the bare minimum details so he’ll leave Andrew alone. “His name is Neil, he is barely taller than me, he’s a dumb jock who likes math, and I won’t be seeing him for another three months. Now stop asking me questions.”
“Hmmm,” Nicky muses, rubbing pita crumbs off his forehead. “Three months is a long time.”
“Thank you for your input, I clearly asked for it.”
“Good things come to those who wait?” Nicky says, ignoring Andrew, and immediately gets pelted with another pita chunk. “I’m just saying, you haven’t been with anyone since….well, since ever. At least not seriously. Hookups don’t count. What’s another three months?” Andrew aims another pita at Nicky, this time it smacks him in the eye. “Okay okay, stop it! I’ll shut up, stop throwing food at me! I paid for that, you know.”
Andrew throws one last chunk, proud of his perfect aim, before taking another bite of pita bread slathered in hummus.
“So, you’ll keep me updated about this Neil guy?” Nicky asks when they’ve finished their lunch.
Andrew chases Nicky out of the shop with his fabric shears.
*
It turns out Andrew was wrong.
He does not have to wait three months to see Neil again, because Neil shows up at the shop a week later with a six-foot giant trailing behind him.
Andrew looks up from his workstation, where he’d been outlining layers of lining, pocketing, and fastenings with a piece of chalk. He makes eye contact with Neil, then has to tilt his head up at a forty-five-degree angle to make eye contact with the jolly green giant behind him.
“Hi Andrew, I hope this isn’t a bad time,” Neil says, hovering at the door.
“Neil,” Andrew says, wiping chalk off his hands with a rag, nodding for them to come inside. Neil smiles. He seems pleased that Andrew remembers his name, which in turn, irrationally pleases Andrew. “What do you need?”
“This is Kevin,” Neil says, motioning to the very tall and very tan man beside him. Tall Man—Kevin—gives Andrew a friendly nod. “He’s the other groomsman at Dan and Matt’s wedding. We also met playing exy in college.”
“Gross, another junkie,” Andrew says flatly, throwing the rag against the sink.
Neil grins. “We’re coworkers now. Kevin teaches history at the high school. He also coaches the exy team with me.”
Kevin speaks up before Andrew can make another distasteful comment about his hatred of the sport. “I also need a custom suit for the upcoming wedding. I’m here because of Neil’s stellar recommendation.”
Andrew raises a brow at Neil. “Neil hasn’t even seen his completed suit yet. How can he possibly be giving me a stellar recommendation already?”
Neil flushes slightly, a light smattering of pink dusting his cheeks and the tip of his nose. Fuck, Andrew likes that. “That doesn’t matter,” Neil says, almost defensive, looking down at his black and white Vans. He snaps his head back up and looks directly at Andrew. “I trust you.”
Surprise. Andrew wasn’t ready for that answer. Andrew blinks. “I question the validity of your brain.”
“I do too,” Kevin pipes up from the side, and Neil tears his eyes away from Andrew to glare at Kevin. “Like, who does math for fun?”
Andrew gives Kevin a high-five without taking his eyes off Neil.
“It’s not my fault your brains aren’t evolved enough to experience the joy of numbers and equations,” Neil says with an exasperated smile.
“Boo,” Andrew says.
“Tomatoes, tomatoes,” Kevin chimes in, and Neil flips them both off.
There’s no need for a consultation with Kevin since his suit will match Neil’s, so Andrew squeezes Kevin in for measurements. Andrew has the time, his next client won’t arrive for another hour, and maybe, just maybe, Andrew wants to keep Neil in his shop for a little longer. Sue him.
“Hey, not to sound super weird,” Kevin starts, obediently raising his left arm at Andrew’s request. Kevin and Neil have spent the past fifteen minutes roping Andrew into conversation, and just like it was with Neil, Andrew doesn’t hate it. Andrew waves his hand in a go on gesture. “You have like, really nice biceps. I’m kind of jealous. Mind sharing your workout routine?”
“I box. I lift weights. I don’t endure any other forms of exercise because I don’t enjoy torturing myself.”
“Andrew used to play exy in high school,” Neil chimes in, and Andrew turns to glare at Neil, whipping around so quickly he nearly knocks his forehead against Kevin’s shoulder.
“No way,” Kevin says, his eyes lighting up a million watts like the exy meathead he is.
“Shut up, Neil,” Andrew says, but it’s less of a warning, more of an exhalation.
Neil, to no one’s surprise, does not shut up. “He was kind of amazing. A top-five goalkeeper in his league both junior and senior year, and his high school went to nationals all four years,” Neil continues with a smug smirk curving his lips. Andrew wants to wipe it off his face. Maybe with his own lips.
“Someone did his homework,” Andrew says wryly, wrapping the measuring tape around Kevin’s other arm.
“I simply did a quick Google search,” Neil says with a shrug. And because Neil seems to have a penchant for teasing Andrew, he continues running his mouth. “You know every inch of my body, and I now know that you peaked in high school. We’re even.”
Andrew gives Neil a blank look, but he feels something crack and flood within him at Neil’s words. Warmth pools through his entire body. “I didn’t peak in high school. I’m peaking right now, charging people three thousand dollars per suit.”
“Uh huh, whatever helps you sleep at night.”
It’s Kevin who interrupts whatever weird foreplay they have going on. “Hey, our school is having a game this Friday, our first home game of the season.”
“That’s right!” Neil says, eyes bright. “You should come, Andrew. Relive your glory days.”
Andrew blinks. “You want me,” he says slowly, “to attend a high school exy game. For fun.”
“Yeah!” Kevin chimes in, unnecessarily excited, jostling the measuring tape wrapped around his shoulders. Andrew gives him an irritated smack and Kevin straightens his posture in apology. “You can come and give our new goalie some tips. He’s been a disaster since he joined the starting line-up.”
“I wasn’t even that good,” Andrew says, distracting himself from Neil’s insistent stare by scribbling Kevin’s numbers on his tablet.
“Well, the stats don’t lie,” Neil says matter-of-factly. “I find it difficult to imagine you being bad at anything.”
Andrew blinks again at Neil, who is looking at Andrew with something Nicky would call puppy dog eyes, except Andrew is pretty positive Neil doesn’t know he’s doing it. His face is just impossible Like That.
Andrew almost wants to say no out of sheer stubbornness, because he, Andrew Joseph Minyard, does not attend high school exy games in his late twenties for fun. But the idea of not seeing Neil again for months causes something uncomfortable to lodge itself just under his ribcage. Andrew grips his stylus so tightly he nearly snaps it in half.
“Fine,” he finally says. “I’ll attend your stupid high school stickball game.” He’s immediately hit with the full brightness of Neil’s answering smile.
“Great! Give me your number. I’ll text you the info.”
Andrew throws his phone at Neil so he can input his contact info and tries not to think about how he can’t seem to say no to Neil.
*
When was the last time this happened, Andrew thinks to himself when he’s back home, sitting on the couch with a pint of chocolate brownie ice cream in his lap. When was the last time he willingly said yes to a hangout that wasn’t sparring with Renee or some sort of Netflix and chill with Roland? When has he ever said yes to any form of unnecessary socialization?
Yet here he is, staring at a new text message from Neil on his phone.
Neil: columbia high school
tailgate starts at 5pm, game starts at 7pm
meet at gymnasium parking lot. see you there!
Andrew stares at his phone, contemplating how he was manipulated into this so easily.
Andrew: if you think i’m attending the tailgate you’re sorely mistaken
Three floating dots immediately pulse on Andrew’s phone screen. Neil’s reply pops up a few seconds later.
Neil: what do you want in exchange for attending?
Andrew: copious amounts of alcohol
Neil: andrew, i can’t give you alcohol on a high school campus. it’s like you want to get me fired
Andrew: boring
Neil: there will be food trucks. i’ll buy you anything you want
Andrew: anything?
Neil: anything
Andrew: let’s say i want 100 hot dogs
Neil: i’d buy you 101
Andrew: acceptable
Andrew knows for a fact he’ll show up to the tailgate, promise of one hundred hot dogs or not, all because Neil Josten asked him to go, and Andrew thinks to himself that he’s acting kind of fucking pathetic. Andrew doesn’t even like hot dogs.
That night as Andrew is brushing his teeth, Neil sends him a picture—a selfie. He’s smiling at the camera, holding a giant foam finger that dominates nearly half the photo. It’s obnoxiously bright blue and yellow, clashing beautifully with Neil’s hair. It must be Columbia High School’s colors. Neil is smiling that smile. The smile that pushes the left-cheeked dimple out in full force and makes Andrew’s mouth go dry.
Neil: got you a gift!
Andrew: you wasted your money. i’m putting that straight in the trash
Neil: where’s your school spirit
Andrew gives Neil’s latest message a thumbs-down reaction but immediately saves the selfie onto his camera roll. Yep, Andrew thinks to himself.
Definitely fucking pathetic.
*
The tailgate is already in full swing when Andrew pulls into the gymnasium parking lot, and the first thought that pops into his head is I am not parking the Maserati near any of these fuckers. He zips through the crowd towards the furthest, quietest corner of the lot and swings into an empty parking space.
He’s shoving past groups of much taller high schoolers and parents trying to wrangle their teenagers when Neil spots him, waving Andrew over to where he’s leaning against a dark grey SUV.
“You made it!” Neil says with a grin. He’s wearing a bright blue coach’s polo that reveals the hollow at the base of his throat, a highlighter yellow bandana wrapped around his forehead, keeping his mess of curls away from the blue face paint drying on his cheeks.
He looks ridiculous. Andrew likes it.
“Did your school mascot throw up on you?” Andrew deadpans.
Neil winces. “I am their coach. I have to support my team by dressing like I want them to win.”
Andrew stares back, unimpressed, and notices a stray drop of face paint smeared against Neil’s jaw. Without thinking, Andrew reaches up and wipes it off with his thumb, feeling the faint scratch of Neil’s stubble against his skin. It’s not quite a touch, not exactly, but Andrew spies a bit of pink creeping onto Neil’s cheeks. The way that Neil blushes really shouldn’t be so gorgeous.
“Thank you,” Neil says softly.
Andrew ignores him, choosing instead to wipe the paint against the sleeve of Neil’s t-shirt. “You are a mess.”
Neil laughs, reaching out to grab Andrew by the wrist. Neil’s skin is warm and dry. “Come on,” he says, pulling Andrew towards the different food trucks spread out across the lot. “The food trucks are over there if you wanted—”
“I don’t even like hot dogs,” Andrew interrupts abruptly.
Fuck. Andrew loves sounding like an idiot.
Neil simply grins. “I’ll add that to my list of things about you.”
Andrew pauses. Neil has been committing facts about Andrew to memory, the same way Andrew has been pressing any and all scraps about Neil into his brain, collecting and cataloging them to utilize later. Andrew doesn’t know what to do with that information.
“Pick what you want, my treat,” Neil continues, unaware of Andrew’s inner turmoil. He stops in front of a row of food trucks. “There’s popcorn, pizza…I think I saw one selling chicken tenders. There’s also a cotton candy stand, but no one likes cotton cand—”
“Cotton candy,” Andrew says with finality, and Neil laughs before he realizes Andrew isn’t joking.
“You can’t be serious. It’s literally just sugar.”
“I like sweet things,” Andrew says, and Neil’s brows furrow, probably cataloging Andrew’s preference for sweet treats into his Things About Andrew Minyard list. Andrew tries not to think about that.
True to his word, Neil buys Andrew a giant thing of freshly spun cotton candy (“Do you want one hundred cotton candies?” “Shut the fuck up, Josten”), and watches in fascination while Andrew pops a chunk of pure sugar into his mouth. Andrew tilts the cotton candy towards Neil and Neil hesitantly pulls off a wisp, making a face as soon as the granules of sugar touch his tongue.
“My god, Andrew. That is disgustingly sweet, I don’t know how you do it.”
Andrew doesn’t answer, too busy trying to ignore the sight of Neil licking leftover colored sugar off his fingers. He adds, “doesn’t like sugary foods” to his Things About Neil Josten list.
They roam around the massive parking lot, just talking. Mostly, it’s Neil talking while Andrew listens, and it’s nice. It’s been a long time since Andrew has listened to someone talk without wanting to punch them in the face. Neil’s brows knit together in thought as he speaks, his hands folded behind him as they sidestep groups of overexcited teenagers. He’s not looking at Andrew, so Andrew looks at him and presses more Neil facts into his brain.
Neil doesn’t like sweets but loves fruit. Neil started as a backliner in the little leagues before he became a striker. Neil has never seen any of the Twilight movies but he’s recently watched the Harry Potter series in its entirety because his coworker Allison forced him to. Neil is expressive when he speaks, the corners of his mouth tracking up and down in amusement, the tendons and bones in the back of his hand flexing as he gesticulates.
They make it back to Neil’s car just as the gates to the stadium swing open. Neil’s face paint is starting to melt from the heat, smudging across his cheeks. Andrew wants to catch Neil’s wrists and pull him in and cup his face, but he can’t, at least not now.
“Where’s Kevin?” Andrew asks instead.
“He’s at the locker room with the team,” Neil replies. “I told him I’d catch up a little later, I wanted to show you around first.” Something pleasant blossoms in Andrew’s chest, he keeps his expression set. “I do have to get back now, though. Gotta give the team the whole pep talk thing.”
“Go,” Andrew says, waving Neil away.
“You can sit on the first row behind the home bench. I can walk you to your seat?”
“I’m a big boy. I can find my own seat.”
“I’m more afraid you’ll escape before the game starts.”
“That is a valid concern. You know me so well, Josten.”
Neil rolls his eyes and Andrew turns towards the stadium, giving Neil a two-fingered salute before he goes.
Andrew does not make his escape. He finds his seat easily and automatically eyes the goals at opposite ends of the court. It’s been a while since he’s stepped foot into an exy stadium, but he can still imagine the feeling of being in goal, can imagine the impact against his racquet as he slams a blocked shot halfway down the court. Andrew does not care for exy, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten everything about it.
The Columbia Wildcats and their opponents step onto the outer court ten minutes later. Andrew immediately spots Neil trailing behind his team in his bright blue polo and ridiculous bandana. He sends his ratty band of young jocks onto the court to run laps and immediately turns to look for Andrew.
Andrew shifts forward in his seat, leaning his elbows against the low barricade that separates the crowd from the outer court, and suddenly, Kevin’s giant head is in the way of his view of Neil.
“Andrew! You made it!” Kevin says with a grin, towering over Andrew. He’s wearing the same stupid yellow bandana but no face paint. “Make sure to let me know how our goalie can improve.”
“I would sooner gouge my eyes out before giving tips to your ragtag band of mini jocks for free.”
Kevin gives Andrew a hearty slap on the back that would send a less sturdy person flying off their seat. “It was worth a try,” he says before hopping back down.
“Hi,” Neil says, taking Kevin’s place, plopping down on the empty seat by Andrew. “You’re still here.”
“For now,” Andrew says, ignoring how Neil’s thigh is pressed against his. He can feel the warmth seeping through Neil’s joggers and into the fabric of his jeans. “I might just fuck off mid-game.”
“Without saying goodbye first? You wouldn’t.”
“Go coach your team, Josten.”
Neil gives Andrew’s shoulder a playful nudge before something soft smacks against Andrew’s stomach. “Wha—” Andrew starts eloquently. It’s Neil, shoving the offending foam finger from last night’s selfie towards Andrew. Andrew instinctively clutches the prop against his chest to keep it from falling to the ground, and Neil looks absolutely delighted. “Straight in the trash,” Andrew reminds him.
“Make sure you cheer for us!” Neil says, completely ignoring Andrew.
“I hate you.”
“Uh-huh.”
Neil turns back to the court while Andrew sits there with his stupid foam finger. The things he endures for Neil Josten.
The whistle blows and the players on the court become a blur of movement. Andrew entertains the idea of paying attention to the game for just one second, because Kevin was right. Their goalie is a disaster. Instead, Andrew finds himself watching Neil.
He’s started learning Neil’s gestures—the way Neil pushes his hair and bandana out of his eyes with the back of his wrist, the way he bites his lower lip when he’s concentrating on a play. The way he smiles when students come up to say hi, polite and detached, and the way he smiles when he turns to wave at Andrew, bright enough to rival the fluorescent lighting of the stadium.
Yes, Neil is much more interesting.
The Columbia Wildcats lose by one point.
They lose by one point because of a bad call by the useless-as-fuck referee who probably has marbles where his brain should be. By the time the teams trail off the court, Andrew is still annoyed by the outcome, the beginnings of a scowl growing on his face, and he doesn’t register Neil’s presence until it’s too late.
“So,” Neil says, leaning his elbows against the barricade, resting his cheek against a palm. “Looks like you care a little about exy after all.”
“Shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”
Neil ignores the empty threat, giving Andrew a goofy smile instead. “I’m really happy you came, Andrew. I hope you had a good time.”
“Cotton candy was the only good part,” Andrew says.
Neil’s answering smile tells Andrew he doesn’t believe him one bit. Andrew doesn’t even believe himself.
By the time Andrew pulls into his driveway, his head is an echo chamber, repeating Neil Neil Neil Neil Neil. When he gets to his bedroom and collapses onto the bed, he realizes he never threw away the stupid foam finger. It’s still in the passenger seat of his car, ready to mock him when he drives to work tomorrow morning.
Andrew brings a hand up to cover his eyes, squeezes them shut until he sees stars, and drags his palm slowly down the rest of his face.
He takes out his phone.
Andrew: your shitty goalkeeper needs to keep his body square to the ball while keeping the rest of the play in his peripheral vision.
Andrew: he’s too busy tracking all the players. reacts a second too slow every time
Neil: kevin is going to be so thrilled about this
Andrew: 🖕
*
Andrew can’t stop thinking about Neil and it’s a problem.
It’s a problem because he’s not scheduled to see Neil until his first fitting three months later, and what the hell is Andrew supposed to do for three Neil-less months? Sit here and pathetically pine over the guy? Absolutely not.
They text occasionally, Neil updating Andrew on their goalie’s progress, sending Andrew a picture of Renee’s painting on his classroom wall next to a whiteboard of equations. Andrew sends Neil a photo of the stupid foam finger he still has in his passenger seat, he sends Neil an article about the popularity of cotton candy art in Japan.
It’s been a few weeks since the high school exy game and Andrew is sitting on the couch in his pajamas, a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels in his lap, and reruns of Love Island on the TV. Andrew is only half-listening, drumming his fingers against his phone where his text message thread with Neil is open. Their last interaction was three days ago.
Neil had sent him a photo of the flower bouquets Dan and Matt chose for their wedding, bright orange poppies and creamy white blooms in a neat arrangement. Andrew had replied: their gross obsession with orange should be studied
Neil had responded with a laugh reaction and: at least it matches my hair?
Andrew’s fingers hover over his phone screen, weighing his options, and he decides fuck it. He taps the phone icon by Neil’s contact name, presses the phone against his cheek, and after just three rings, Neil’s voice is in Andrew’s ear.
“Andrew, hey!” Neil’s staticky voice becomes clearer after a few seconds. He sounds happy to hear from Andrew. “Is everything okay?”
Oh, no. Andrew did not prepare ahead for this conversation.
“Fine,” Andrew says, squeezing his eyes shut, scrambling to come up with a reason for calling Neil on a random weeknight. “Wanted to know if you plan on buying any accessories from the shop. Ties, bowties, cufflinks. I can give recommendations.”
“Oh,” Neil says. Andrew hears the rustle of fabric as Neil shifts. “I didn’t know you sold those. I was going to buy them off Amazon.”
Figures. “You are not wearing a cheap Amazon tie with a bespoke suit from my shop. What a fucking embarrassment.”
Neil’s laugh is tinny over the phone, it still slides down the edge of Andrew’s spine. “It’s not like anyone is going to notice. I think…. right? Will people notice?”
Andrew rolls his eyes, even though Neil can’t see it. “I bet you’ll choose a tie with polka dots.”
Neil pauses. “Is that bad?”
“I’m hanging up on you.”
*
Andrew: here are a few orange ties and bowties from designers i work with. they match the fabric and style of your suit
Andrew sent a link
Andrew sent a link
Neil: i dunno. i was kind of thinking of this one
Neil sent a link
Andrew clicks on the link Neil sent and is immediately greeted by an absolute monstrosity—a neon orange bowtie with lime green polka dots.
Andrew: that tie isn’t just an insult to me. it’s an insult to all of humanity
Neil: i have it on good authority that i can make the most awful fashion choices look good
Andrew: what the hell makes you say that
Neil: the way you stared at my ass when i came in for my measurement appointment
Andrew stares at his phone. Is Neil… is Neil flirting with him? Andrew responds the only way he knows how—threatening with violence.
Andrew: i am going to reach through my phone screen and strangle you
Neil: empty threats won’t work on me
*
Andrew isn’t sure how it happens, but he goes from thinking he won’t see Neil for months to having Neil’s name pop up on his phone nearly every damn hour.
Not that this is a problem.
Andrew can admit that he kind of likes this. He’s grown to admit he can find joy from even the smallest, most mundane things. He’s not as apathetic as he makes himself out to be.
Not that Neil is mundane. No, Neil is the furthest thing from mundane there is.
There are usually a few hours in the day when they’re both too busy to text, when Neil is teaching his classes or Andrew has his phone on Do Not Disturb during appointments. When Andrew does check his phone again, there are always a few messages waiting for him, a steady Neil Josten stream of consciousness that always makes Andrew’s days that much more interesting.
They talk about Renee and Kevin, Andrew’s annoying Karen-esque clients, what the Columbia High School cafeteria served for lunch that day. Andrew tells Neil about Nicky and Aaron, about Nicky’s ability to send Andrew’s blood pressure skyrocketing with just his presence, about Aaron’s pathetic crush on a girl he met at med school. Neil tells Andrew about his coworkers, about the rumor that the French teacher and Psychology teacher are hooking up but no one can prove it.
When Neil’s coworkers force him into a Twilight movie marathon, Andrew is treated to a string of Neil’s live reaction texts.
Neil: if i were an immortal vampire, i simply would not enroll in public high school
Neil: i don’t get why they’re playing baseball in a vampire movie. they should play exy instead
By now, Andrew thinks he should stop perking up every time Neil’s name pops up on his phone screen. The thrill should’ve faded by now, but it hasn’t.
It’s so quick, so easy, that Andrew doesn’t even notice how effortlessly Neil has molded into his life.
*
“Who are you texting?” Aaron asks suspiciously.
Nicky perks up from where he’s lounging on a desk chair, his feet propped up against Andrew’s workspace counter. “Is it Neil?”
“Shut the fuck up, Nicky,” Andrew says, the same time Aaron asks, “Who the fuck is Neil?”
Andrew ignores his brother, throwing his phone against the counter before popping a waffle fry into his mouth.
Not only does Andrew have to deal with Nicky for lunch today, he also has to deal with Aaron for an entire week. Aaron is taking a break from the stress of med school, crashing in Andrew’s guest room before flying back to Chicago for his thesis defense presentation. It's during times like these when Andrew thinks the saying absence makes the heart grow fonder is the absolute truth. He cares about Aaron, a lot, and he knows Aaron cares about him, but they get along better when there are eight hundred miles between them.
“He’s Andrew’s insanely gorgeous client,” Nicky responds, ignoring Andrew. He sits up straight, nearly kicking his burger to the floor. “Oh! Andrew has a picture of him on his tablet! Andrew, show Aaron that picture of—mmph!” Nicky chokes against the stack of fries that Andrew inelegantly jams into his mouth.
Aaron’s eyes narrow as he fixes his stare at Andrew. “Show me his picture.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“If you ask one more time, I will murder you in your sleep.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I will break into the guest room and smother you with a pillow.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Not only will I try, I will succeed.”
“Okay,” Nicky says, washing the fries down with a gulp of Diet Coke. “I will not let my baby cousins commit murder on my watch. Andrew, you don’t have to show Aaron the picture.” Andrew grunts and takes a bite of his sandwich. He should know better than to let his guard down because Nicky immediately turns to Aaron when Andrew’s mouth is stuffed full of turkey and bread. “I can just describe him. He has the most gorgeous blue eyes, wonderful posture, an unreal jawline. Totally Andrew’s type, if I do say so myself. And he has beautiful, curly, red hai—”
“It’s auburn,” Andrew interjects with his mouth full, annoyed, and immediately wishes he kept his mouth shut when Aaron’s eyes narrow into slits and Nicky smiles so wide it makes him look stupid.
“Yes, auburn. My mistake,” Nicky says smugly. Andrew casually chucks a sewing pin at Nicky and Nicky immediately ducks. “Okay, okay. I will shut up about your boy.”
“Not my boy,” Andrew says, and because there is absolutely no justice in the universe, Andrew’s phone pings at the exact same time.
Three heads whirl towards Andrew’s phone, where a new message from Neil is displayed across the screen. Andrew snatches the phone before his nosy as fuck family can read the message and tucks it into his pocket, trying his best to seem uninterested. He eyes his watch. It’s 12:30 PM, which means it’s Neil’s lunch hour.
Aaron and Nicky continue staring at Andrew. Andrew takes another bite out of his sandwich and studiously ignores the fact that he has Neil’s daily schedule memorized.
“Aren’t you going to respond to Neil?” Aaron asks, a challenge.
Andrew shoves a stack of fries into Aaron’s mouth with so much force, Aaron nearly falls off his stool. Andrew flips him off. “Killing you in your sleep,” he reminds Aaron.
Aaron rolls his eyes but allows Nicky to switch the subject.
The minute Nicky and Aaron leave the shop and disappear around the corner, Andrew pulls his phone out of his pocket.
Neil: wanna come to pub trivia tonight with me, kevin, and allison? $5 beers.
Andrew: what do we get if we win
Neil: the satisfaction of crushing my coworkers into dust
Andrew: i’m in. don’t let me down, josten. i don’t like losing
Neil: 💪💪💪
Neil: 8pm at old towne pub. see you there
*
Andrew walks into the pub at 7:59 PM and immediately spots Neil and some dude trying to hit on Neil. The guy is wearing sunglasses indoors. Peak douchebaggery.
Sunglasses dude is trying to worm his way into Neil’s space, feet planted in between Neil’s, ducking his head to speak into Neil’s ear, and Neil is not having any of it. Neil’s shoulders are tense, his lips are drawn in a thin line, and he’s gripping his beer bottle like he’s debating bashing it over this guy’s head.
It’s like Neil has some sort of Andrew Radar, because he turns the exact moment Andrew steps forward to intervene, and Andrew is suddenly hit with the full wattage of Neil’s bright smile. It’s kind of disorienting, watching Neil’s absolute disinterest morph into something else entirely when he sees Andrew. Neil blatantly turns his back against the guy and motions Andrew over. Sunglasses douchebag scowls before sulking away.
Andrew gives Neil a once-over as he makes his way over. Neil is leaning against the high-top table, elbows resting against the surface, dragging a finger along the condensation collecting on his beer bottle. He’s wearing a short-sleeved button-up with taupe-colored stripes, the top button undone, and a pair of snug jeans that hug his thighs.
Neil looks good, in a way that suggests he has no idea how attractive he is, the kind of effortless gorgeousness that feels a bit like a sucker punch to the chest, and Andrew is suddenly reminded of the fact that he is very, very gay. Not that he’s ever forgotten, but seeing Neil makes Andrew feel like there’s a neon sign over his head that advertises Andrew Minyard is Super Gay to the entire pub.
“So, you do know how to dress yourself,” Andrew says as he slides next to Neil, reaching over to rub his thumb and forefinger over the woven fabric of Neil’s shirt sleeve.
Neil grins and opens his mouth to respond, but the girl beside him speaks up first. “I picked his outfit. You should’ve seen what he was wearing originally. You must be Andrew. I’m Allison, by the way.”
Allison. Neil has mentioned her before—Columbia High School’s graphic design teacher, the coworker who forced Neil to watch all of Harry Potter and Twilight. Andrew turns and gives her a quick appraisal. Sandy blonde hair, perfectly manicured nails, impeccably styled outfit from head to toe.
“And what was this idiot’s outfit of choice?” Andrew asks.
“A tie-dyed shirt and bootcut jeans. Light wash,” Allison adds, making a face, and Andrew immediately turns to Neil.
“Were you trying to join Scooby Doo in the Mystery Machine?
Allison lets out a loud, high-pitched laugh that startles half the tables surrounding them. Neil shrugs helplessly as Allison wipes a stray tear from her eye with stiletto-shaped nails. “I can see why Neil likes you because I like you. And I like a man with a fashion sense,” she says, pointing at Andrew’s leather bomber.
Neil throws his hands up in mock exasperation. “Andrew makes clothes for a living. Of course, he’s going to be fashionable.”
“And I take you shopping all the time, why aren’t you better?” Allison quips back.
Andrew ducks his head to hide the quirk forming at the corner of his mouth.
“Anyway, if you’re done mocking my perfectly fine wardrobe,” Neil starts. Andrew and Allison immediately pin Neil with twin disapproving stares. Neil blows a raspberry at them and Andrew finds that display of childishness endlessly endearing.
Before Neil can continue defending his fashion choices, Kevin appears with a tray of Coronas and lime slices balanced precariously on one hand. “Andrew, you made it!” Kevin exclaims, steadying the tray before offering Andrew a beer. Andrew accepts it with a nod and shoves a lime slice through the neck of the bottle with his thumb. “Neil, did you give Andrew the rundown on our opponents?”
Neil immediately straightens and swallows his sip of beer. “Right! Okay, pay attention, Andrew. This is really important, a matter of life or death.”
“This is pub trivia in an establishment with tacky boar heads on the wall as decor.”
“Exactly,” Neil says, ignoring Andrew's extremely bored stare and the snort that escapes Allison’s nose. “Okay, so the table right behind us—no, don’t be so obvious!” Neil hisses when Andrew turns to assess their enemies. Andrew rolls his eyes and tilts his head to the side in a way that’s subtle enough for Neil. “The blond one who never stops smiling is Jeremy. The taller, dark-haired one is Jean.”
Andrew racks his brain for why those names sound so familiar. Ah yes. “The French teacher and psychology teacher who want to bone each other.”
“Yes,” Neil says with a grin, pleased that Andrew remembers their text message gossip. “The other two are Laila and Alvarez. That group is our mortal enemy. We’re tied right now, which means the result of tonight’s game is everything.”
“Dramatic,” Andrew says, but he’s already made up his mind that he’s going to win the fuck out of trivia. He’s going to pummel Mr. French Guy and Mr. Sunshine to the ground.
They win trivia.
They win trivia because Andrew is the only person who knows that the national animal of Scotland is a unicorn. Kevin whirls around and yells, “In your face, losers!” at Jeremy and Jean while a laugh bubbles out of Neil’s throat, a carefree and joyful thing that lodges itself straight in Andrew’s chest. Andrew hides his amusement behind a sip of beer.
By the time they leave, Kevin is so thoroughly sloshed that Andrew and Neil have to hold him up by his armpits. “Andrew you’re so s—smart,” Kevin slurs. Drunk Kevin apparently lisps on sibilant consonants. “You should come to every pub trivia night so we can kick-ass all the time.”
“Just using me for my brains, are you?” Andrew says placidly.
“You should come next time we go out, trivia night or not,” Neil says casually, and Andrew nearly drops Kevin as they prop the string bean of a man against a brick wall. “We usually come to the pub once a week for happy hour. It’s my turn to buy next week.”
Andrew clicks his tongue. “Buying me beers and getting me drunk isn’t going to get you a discount off your suit, by the way.”
Neil laughs, jostling Kevin, who’s still using Neil’s body as a crutch. “You mean the suit that will pair nicely with my neon orange bowtie?”
Andrew stares blank-faced at Neil before reaching over Kevin’s slouched body, shoving a palm against Neil’s face. He can feel the hot puff of Neil’s breath over his palm as Neil huffs out another laugh.
The look Allison gives Andrew is curious—a combination of fascination, delight, and amusement that looks so similar to an expression Nicky would make, Andrew chooses to ignore it immediately.
When Andrew gets home, Aaron is still awake, sitting on the couch in his pajamas, eating a bowl of popcorn while Facetiming Katelyn. He pauses the conversation and turns towards the door when he hears Andrew. “Hey, where were you?”
“Out,” Andrew responds.
“Out where?”
“What are you? My keeper?”
“Were you with Neil?”
Andrew doesn’t respond because it’s none of Aaron’s damn business.
Aaron cocks his head to the side, his eyes following Andrew as Andrew hangs up his jacket and kicks off his boots. Andrew doesn’t know what his face is doing, but it’s probably betraying him and doing something incredibly incriminating, because Aaron takes one long look at him and says, “Oh. Oh. You’re so down bad, huh?”
Andrew flips him off and goes to his bedroom. He changes, collapses into bed, and tries not to think about Neil—his smile, his voice, his laugh, his fucking tongue—when he slips a hand inside his sweatpants. It doesn’t work. Andrew comes with Neil’s name in the back of his throat and thinks, fuck.
*
After that night, not much changes.
Andrew goes to work, he drives Aaron to the airport, he eats lunch with Nicky, he spars with Renee. The only difference is that Neil is now everywhere, occupying every free space in Andrew’s mind.
He’s constantly on Andrew’s phone, texting Andrew absolutely insane bullshit, messages that Andrew tries to hide from Nicky’s knowing looks. He’s at weekly happy hour, pressed against Andrew’s side, stealing sips of Andrew’s drink, pressing his pretty pink lips against Andrew’s glass while Andrew ignores Allison’s impish stare and Cheshire cat smile.
He invites Andrew to another high school exy game, which Andrew accepts because Andrew is pathetically into Neil. Columbia High School wins with a score of 11-8 and Andrew is dragged to the ensuing celebration dinner at a nearby pizza parlor.
They order enough pizza to feed a small country and spread themselves across rows of booths in a corner. The Wildcats’ slowly improving goalie, Connor, takes one look at Neil and Andrew pressed next to each other in a booth, eyes Andrew’s arm thrown casually around Neil’s shoulder, and says, “That’s sus, Coach Josten.”
Andrew raises an eyebrow.
Neil frowns. “Sus?”
“You and Andrew,” Connor says.
Andrew can tell by the confused look on Neil’s face that a few years of teaching teenagers doesn’t mean he’s well-versed in their slang.
“What about Andrew and I?” Neil asks.
Andrew, as a cultured millennial who knows the definition of the word sus, and as someone who is not above beefing with a high schooler, casually shifts his arm, his fingertips resting not so subtly against Neil’s shoulder.
“Like I said Coach,” Connor says. “Sus.”
Neil continues to frown, Kevin throws them the biggest shit-eating grin and says, “I agree. That’s sus,” and Andrew uses every ounce of self-control in his five-foot body to keep himself from strangling a sixteen-year-old boy and one Kevin Day.
So yeah. Business as usual.
*
Somehow, three months of happy hour, pub trivia, and non-stop texting pass by in a blink of an eye and Andrew is now sitting at his desk, staring impatiently at the clock as he waits for Neil to show up to his first fitting.
There are still five minutes until the appointment and Andrew’s palms are uncharacteristically sweaty, which only serves to irk Andrew more. It doesn’t matter that today might be his last appointment with Neil. It shouldn’t matter. Everything is normal and perfectly fucking peachy.
The chime above the front door goes off and Neil walks into the shop. He’s two minutes early.
“Hi,” Neil says softly.
Andrew looks at him. Neil is smiling at Andrew, a small, pleased quirk of the lips, a type of smile that Andrew is normally not at the receiving end of. It’s a smile that Andrew will never admit how much he likes, lest he ever lose it, and Andrew thinks to himself that he really is in too deep.
He nods and stands, adjusting the measuring tape draped haphazardly around his neck. “Ready?” he asks, motioning Neil towards the back of the shop.
Neil’s suit is already hanging in the changing room and Neil waggles his fingers at Andrew before he steps inside. “Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone,” he teases.
“Won’t be a problem,” Andrew replies, sounding infinitely bored, and Neil snorts, drawing the curtains closed behind him.
Andrew moves to the front of the shop, giving Neil his privacy, picking up a piece of stray fabric and shredding it with his fingers because it’s something to do. He feels restless, pent up, like there are hairline fractures spreading through his insides.
The problem is this:
Neil is a little shit. He’s beautiful. He’s a disaster. He’s unintentionally funny. (Alright, so mostly he just makes it easy for Andrew to make fun of him.) He’s also impossible. He doesn’t treat Andrew like some sort of ticking time bomb, doesn’t attempt to dissect Andrew, doesn’t poke around to find the red or blue wires in an attempt to diffuse him.
He invites Andrew to happy hour, buys him cotton candy, texts him random doge memes, tucks in close against bar tables and pizza parlor booths. He looks at Andrew and smiles that infuriating crescent-eyed smile and Andrew is powerless to stop him.
The problem is also this: Andrew doesn’t have a great track record when it comes to keeping good things, and Neil is a very good thing.
It doesn’t make any sense, because Neil is a little neurotic and a little insane, and sometimes Andrew thinks Neil was put in this world solely to piss him off and turn him on simultaneously. But Neil also has a smile like a supernova, and Andrew really doesn’t know what to do about that.
Andrew chucks the shredded threads of fabric into the trash with much more force than necessary. The curtains drag open.
“So, what do you think?”
Andrew turns.
Andrew turns and it’s like the world blurs, makes his vision center on one thing, and he can’t see anything but Neil. Neil and the navy blue fabric stretched taut over his body, Neil and his clothing-rumpled hair that Andrew wants to smooth off his forehead, Neil and his bright blue eyes devastatingly fixed on Andrew’s, like Andrew’s opinion is the only thing that matters.
And Andrew’s opinion is that Neil looks good.
Neil looks really good.
The suit jacket emphasizes the set of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist without clinging or pulling. The trousers hug his legs, curving perfectly over his ass. Neil sticks his hands in his pockets in an attempt to strike a pose, causing the stretch of fabric to emphasize the musculature of his thighs.
Something kicks in the pit of Andrew’s stomach, the slow burn of desire in his gut sparking into something hotter. Andrew’s hands twitch against his sides, wanting to reach out and touch. Andrew wants to curl his hands around Neil’s waist, wants to drag his fingers along the hard lines of Neil’s body.
Instead, Andrew reaches up and smooths a finger along Neil’s wrinkled collar. Neil sways onto his toes towards Andrew’s touch, and Andrew’s finger grazes the skin along Neil’s collarbone. Andrew is so stupidly, stupidly attracted to this ridiculous man with his dimpled smile and his unreal eyes.
“Not bad,” Andrew says, his hand probably dragging far, far too slowly over the fabric, fidgeting with the buttons, long after the collar is straightened.
“Just, not bad?” Neil says with a laugh. He sounds a little breathless.
“Fishing for compliments are we? That’s not cute.”
Neil huffs. “Well, I think you did a great job, Andrew. I might outshine Matt at the wedding.”
His breath is very warm against Andrew’s cheek. He smells like mint toothpaste. Andrew is suddenly acutely aware of how close they are. He can count Neil’s eyelashes, can see all the different shades of blues in Neil’s impossible eyes. His desire for Neil swells until he can physically feel it. He wants to dig in deep and claw it out of his chest.
Fuck.
He drops his hand from Neil’s collar, pulling back to walk in a circle around Neil, double-checking the fit of the suit. He checks the stretch of the fabric, the length of the sleeves, squats to the floor to see if the trouser length needs to be shortened, but he comes up empty.
“Everything looks good,” Andrew says, walking towards his desk. Neil follows. “If you’re happy with the fit and feel of the suit, we won’t need a second fitting. I just need you to pay the second half of your deposit and you can take your suit home today.”
Neil is quiet, and Andrew can sense that Neil is looking at him.
He imagines that Neil is tracing the line of his profile the way he traces Neil’s, that Neil is memorizing every curve of his skin the way he memorized Neil’s. Neil shifts on his feet, fiddles with the buttons on his suit. Andrew would think he was nervous, if there was anything to be nervous about.
“Earth to the junkie. You can pay in installments if that’s easi—”
“I was hoping I could take you home, too,” Neil suddenly blurts, and Andrew stares.
What?
“What?”
“You’re not going to make me repeat that, right?” Neil laughs weakly, straightening, his lips twitching into a smile. He doesn’t move, just watches Andrew with something incomprehensible in his gaze. One of his hands twitches at his side, like he wants to reach out but won’t let himself. Andrew knows that feeling well. “I like you, Andrew.”
And oh. Isn’t that something?
It’s surprising that a man like Neil Josten wants anything to do with someone like Andrew at all. Most people don’t want anything to do with Andrew. Andrew closes his eyes, this time against a powerful wave of affection, an unfamiliar feeling. He wants to rip it out of his body. He wants to hold it close.
Andrew is quiet for a long moment. “How long did it take you to come up with that line?” he finally asks, voice hoarser than he’d like it to be.
Neil winces and runs a hand through his hair. A nervous tick, Andrew has come to realize. “That bad, huh? Allison helped me come up with it.”
Andrew blinks. He should probably be a little enraged or embarrassed that Allison has been coaching Neil on how to seduce Andrew, but all he can think about is how hopeful Neil looks, fidgeting with the sleeves of his suit jacket.
“One thing,” Andrew says, and ignores the way his throat clenches when Neil perks up at those words. “I require a home delivery fee.”
Neil’s lips quirk, his entire face lighting up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You can pay it by buying me a drink. Whiskey. Top shelf.”
“I can do that,” Neil says softly. His eyes are fixed on nothing but Andrew. “I can do that.”
Andrew doesn’t have a great track record when it comes to keeping good things. But maybe, just maybe, he can keep this one.
*
That night, they meet at a bar by Neil’s apartment and Andrew smacks Neil’s hand away when he pulls his credit card out to pay for their tab.
“Thought you said there’s a home delivery fee,” Neil smirks.
“It’s waived for tonight,” Andrew responds. “Lucky you.”
“Lucky me,” Neil says, and his smile takes on an edge, like a little bit of something dangerous.
Andrew drops a hand to Neil's thigh, splaying his fingers out possessively, feeling a tiny spark of satisfaction when Neil presses closer. Neil is beautiful in an entirely unassuming way. Andrew wants to kiss him, wants to kiss him just as badly as the first day he met him.
“Let’s go?” Neil asks when the bartender hands Andrew’s credit card back. He watches Andrew with an intent gaze, and Andrew wonders if it’s possible to actually drown in Neil’s eyes.
He doesn’t think it’d be a bad way to go.
“Let’s go,” Andrew replies.
Andrew kisses Neil in the elevator up to Neil’s apartment, crowding him into the corner and pressing one hand against Neil’s jaw, the other splayed against the small of his back. Neil kisses back like he wants Andrew to use up every last atom of oxygen in his lungs, his lips sure and intense, but his hands uncertain, hovering over Andrew’s sides in silent question.
“Here,” Andrew mutters against Neil’s lips, grabbing Neil’s fluttering hands and placing them against his waist. “Here and up.”
“Okay,” Neil mumbles, dragging his hands up Andrew’s chest, smoothing across Andrew’s shoulders as Andrew presses intent little kisses across Neil’s jaw, up to his temple, down to his neck, a flurry of movement that makes it just as hard to breathe as it was with their lips on each other’s.
They don’t even turn on the light when Neil lets them into his apartment, after two fumbled attempts at unlocking the door. By that time, Neil has shed his jacket, and Andrew scrapes his fingernails low along Neil’s back, finding himself very much enamored by the high, breathless sound that Neil makes into his mouth.
Neil hums against Andrew’s lips. “Allison and Kevin think we should’ve kissed ages ago,” he murmurs, one corner of his mouth pulling up.
Andrew shifts back slightly to look at Neil, tightening his fingers in the fabric of Neil’s shirt. “Allison and Kevin need to mind their own business.”
Neil laughs and pushes closer, like proximity alone will make Andrew kiss him again, and it does because Andrew is a sucker for all things Neil. He drags Neil in for a firm, breathless kiss that moves from a simple press of lips to Andrew teasing Neil’s mouth open.
“I think they were right,” Neil says, eyes dazed when they break apart. “I can’t believe I was missing out on this for months.”
“Junkie,” Andrew says simply.
They stumble their way into the bedroom and onto the bed, and Andrew explores Neil’s body as it’s revealed to him, tugging off Neil’s shirt, drawing his fingers up Neil’s spine, over the planes of his shoulder blades, and then around to trace the lines of his hip bones just above the waistband of his jeans. Andrew’s fingers hover delicately across the many scars that taint Neil’s body. Neil notices.
“It’s alright,” he says quietly, pressing Andrew’s hand against the jagged scar cutting across his lower stomach. “You can touch.”
Gently, carefully, Andrew maps his hands across Neil’s cruel past—the unmistakable shape of a hot iron on Neil’s shoulder, a puckered scar that Andrew recognizes as a bullet would, a patch of silver tissue that runs from Neil’s shoulder to his hip. A surge of anger shoots through Andrew’s body. It must show on his face because Neil presses a small kiss against Andrew’s jaw, smoothing a finger over the furrow between Andrew’s brow.
“I’ll tell you about them someday,” Neil says softly.
“You don’t have to.”
Neil shakes his head. “I want to. I like this,” he says, catching Andrew’s hand and pressing a kiss to the inside of his palm. It’s quiet and squirmingly intimate, something that Andrew wants to tuck away into a corner of his mind and never share. “With you, this is good.”
Andrew settles on his heels and peels off one armband, then the other. Neil’s eyes roam over the sea of etched lines running up and down Andrew’s arms, and Neil doesn’t need to say anything for Andrew to know he understands. Neil fists his hands in the front of Andrew’s shirt and pulls him back down.
It takes a long time for them to undress each other because they treat it like they have all the time in the world. It’s wonderful, it’s different. Andrew has never felt as thoroughly explored as he does with Neil. Neil tugs off Andrew’s shirt, slowly brushing his fingers over the skin he reveals, tracing the line of Andrew’s collarbones with his tongue, drawing patterns over the lines of Andrew’s stomach with his fingertips, never straying lower.
Andrew drags his mouth down Neil’s chest, pressing a gentle kiss against Neil’s sternum. “Yes or no?” Andrew murmurs, hooking his fingers under the edge of Neil’s waistband.
“Yes,” Neil gasps. Andrew can feel the rise and fall of his chest. “Yes.”
Andrew struggles with Neil’s belt before tugging Neil’s pants down, down over narrow hips, throwing them to some corner of the room. He guides Neil’s hands to his hair and Neil immediately tangles his fingers through the blond strands. Andrew presses his hand against Neil’s lower stomach and keeps it there, feeling the muscles tense and relax. When their eyes lock, the gaze is electric.
“Andrew,” Neil says. He sounds desperate. Andrew likes that.
“Still yes?” Andrew asks, more breathless than he’d like to admit.
“Yes,” Neil gasps, flushed, curls sticking to his face. “Andrew, yes.”
Andrew takes Neil apart with his mouth, Neil’s thighs thrown over his shoulders, Neil’s fingers winding through Andrew’s hair like a lifeline. He wraps one hand around Neil’s thigh, feeling the muscles tense and spasm against his fingers. He hears the way Neil’s breathing comes in sharp pants, high-pitched and half-formed Andrews.
“Andrew,” Neil whimpers again.
When Andrew looks up, Neil has his head thrown back against the pillows, his mouth bitten red, a slight flush crawling up his chest, spreading to his neck and cheeks. Neil arches his back and moans out Andrew’s name and it’s good, impossibly good.
Every time Neil’s pitch goes higher, it makes Andrew’s heart race faster. When Neil gets loud, Andrew wants to make him get louder. Neil shifts to look at Andrew, his face slack-jawed, staring at Andrew like he hung the moon and the stars. It rattles something loose in the warm places inside Andrew, so Andrew decides it’s time to stop thinking.
Neil comes down Andrew’s throat with a broken cry, his body shuddering, curving forward towards Andrew, his thighs trembling on either side of Andrew’s shoulders.
“Oh fuck, Andrew,” Neil gasps, a laugh rumbling low in the back of his throat.
Andrew buries his face against Neil’s neck and bites down, reaching down to unzip his jeans, wrapping a hand around himself as Neil draws random patterns against his back. Neil trails kisses from Andrew’s cheekbones to his jawline, mumbling nonsense into Andrew’s ear.
“Yeah, Andrew,” Neil whispers, and Andrew comes in a rush, his lips pressed against the pulse point on Neil’s neck, breathing heavily, his arm shaking from the strain of holding himself up. Andrew collapses onto Neil’s side so he doesn’t make more of a mess, exhausted and completely spent.
“Wow,” Neil breathes in fits and starts, turning to tuck his face against the crook of Andrew’s neck. Andrew can feel Neil’s heart pounding loudly in his chest.
“Eloquent as always,” Andrew grunts, and he feels Neil’s puff of laughter tickling the back of his ear. Andrew wants to kiss him again, maybe run his tongue behind Neil’s teeth, coax those wrecked sounds out of his mouth again.
Neil seems to be thinking the same thing, because he tugs Andrew closer and presses their lips together, tasting himself on Andrew’s tongue. It’s a strange, leisurely kiss, like Neil is just happy Andrew is here.
“Your shop’s home delivery service is impeccable,” Neil says when they part, shifting to push up onto an elbow, looking down at Andrew. “Five stars. Would use your service again. I’ll even leave you a stellar Yelp review.”
Andrew raises a brow. “Only four stars for you. Your belt was too difficult to take off.”
Neil squawks. “Allison bought it for me. She said it was designer.”
“Well, it was an inconvenience. Wear a simpler one next time.”
Neil chuckles, brushing Andrew’s hair away from his eyes with gentle fingers. “Does that mean we can do this again?”
Andrew rolls his eyes. “Yes, Neil. We can do this again. Now show me where the bathroom is. We’re disgusting.”
*
Later, when they’ve both cleaned up, they huddle together on the couch with random infomercials running on the TV because Neil doesn’t have any streaming service subscriptions.
“So,” Neil starts. He shifts to face Andrew. Their knees bump together. “I have a plus one to Dan and Matt’s wedding. I was hoping you’d like to come with me?”
Andrew turns to look at Neil, who’s hugging a throw pillow against his chest. He looks oddly shy, a counterpoint to the way he’d been when he was splayed out against the sheets less than an hour ago.
“You want me to go with you to your jock wedding?”
“Yes. I mean, I’d like it if you came with me. I’d like it a lot.” Neil might be blushing, though Andrew can’t really tell in the dim light of the living room. “But you don’t have to.”
Andrew thinks about it.
If Andrew goes to this wedding, he’ll be meeting Neil’s friends. He’ll be introduced to Neil’s friends as Neil’s date, which means this thing between them is something, which is more than Andrew has ever had.
This also means Andrew will have to introduce Neil to his own friends eventually, not that he has a lot of friends in the first place. He’ll have to introduce Neil properly to Renee. And worse, he’ll have to introduce Neil to Nicky and Aaron.
His silence doesn’t go unnoticed, and Neil starts to misinterpret. “There’s really no pressure,” he says, shifting on the couch. “Kevin had mentioned you a few times on group calls and Dan and Matt would welcome you with open arms. But really, no pres—”
“I’ll go,” Andrew says. Neil’s eyes widen slightly. He tries to hide his smile behind the pillow, but Andrew sees it anyway.
“Good,” Neil says with a pleased smile. “I’m glad. This is good.”
“Someone needs to be there to keep you from wearing that awful neon orange tie.”
Neil laughs, tilting his head to the side and giving Andrew a fond look, which is. Really, Andrew still doesn’t know what to do with that, sometimes. That look.
Andrew wraps an arm around Neil, pulling him closer so Neil is almost sitting in Andrew’s lap, Andrew’s fingers splayed against Neil’s ribs. Neil goes easily, grabbing his phone off the couch as he tucks himself against Andrew. Andrew looks curiously as Neil unlocks his phone, navigating to Andrew’s shop on the Yelp app, before typing away.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving you a review on Yelp,” Neil says, his tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration. He shifts when Andrew tries reading over his shoulder, holding his phone just out of Andrew’s reach. “Bespoke services, five out of five. Customer service, five out of five. Dick game, five out of five.”
“Josten.”
“Scratch that. Customer service, three out of five.”
Andrew pounces and pushes Neil down the length of the couch, pretending to smother Neil with the throw pillow. Neil lets out an undignified squeak, and when he emerges again, he’s laughing, his hair a mess against the corduroy couch. Andrew wants to mess it up some more. He throws the pillow to the ground and kisses Neil, long and slow, memorizing the taste of him, memorizing the way he chases Andrew’s lips when Andrew pulls back.
Neil’s phone drops to the floor as he wraps his arms around Andrew. That’s fine, Neil can finish leaving his review later.
Right now, they have more important things to do.