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Andrew and Neil were on the cusp of full-out war after Neil had pilfered most of his belongings—Andrew’s plush black hoodie, which hadn’t been washed in days, maybe weeks, and smelled so thoroughly of him that having it wrapped around Neil like an embrace, with his nose buried in the collar, wasn’t nearly enough. Neil wanted to eat the fabric, to see if it tasted as good as it smelled. He’d also taken one of Andrew’s headphones, tethered to his iPod shuffling through whiplash-inducing genres, and even his snacks—chief among them the Pocky sticks Neil tolerated for their lack of overwhelming sweetness and the steady grazing they allowed.
Andrew withstood all these incursions upon his possessions with a neutral facade and the mild quirk of a pierced brow. But Neil knew his recent coup de main—flinging his legs across Andrew with a provocative smirk—was the last act before conflict broke out.
He shoved Neil’s legs off, then hooked his own around Neil’s calf, pinning him down with casual brutality. Arrest, sentencing, execution, all in one gesture.
“Sit still,” Andrew told him with a glare reserved for his “I hate yous,” or for the percentages that followed—an attempt to measure the dimensions and degrees of said hatred, numbers that by now defied the laws of mathematics. Sometimes that glare also preceded Andrew putting his mouth on Neil, and occasionally came right before he put his mouth on Neil’s dick. In short, Neil loved the glare; thrived on drawing it out of Andrew, basking in its heat until his insides felt like they were in freefall and set on fire all at once.
Neil let himself relish it, the glare, the electric press of Andrew’s leg locked around him, and made a sincere attempt to do as he was told. It shouldn’t have been this difficult, considering the soporific quality of their current environment: dead of night, the Foxes sprawled and slumbering in their cushions, Wymack’s melodic snoring carrying all the way from the front of the bus to the back, where Neil and Andrew had claimed the long bench for themselves. From there, they had the perfect vantage of the aisle and, more importantly, seclusion from the rest of the group.
Maybe it was the late hour straddling the edge of some liminal subspace, or Abby’s calm driving that kept the bus gliding down the middle lane at a steady cruising speed, transformed under the quiet of night into something hypnotic, almost anesthetic, the very essence of being rocked to sleep in a cradle.
Under normal circumstances Neil would’ve given in, tethered to Andrew by some small yet vital point of contact, lulled into unconsciousness. But tonight sleep seemed impossible. He felt wide awake, wired with energy that demanded an outlet, thrumming through him with unspent potential. Andrew’s mania was more contained, measured, but he didn’t look remotely sleepy either—not an hour into this slumber fest—as he tinkered with one of the headphone wires, his other hand idly skimming the smooth circular controls of the iPod, skipping songs he didn’t care for in the moment and occasionally lifting his eyes to bestow Neil with another glare, checking if he was still behaving.
Undoubtedly, the nap they’d taken together earlier in the day was to blame for all this.
Andrew had surprised Neil by waiting on the steps outside the science building, a dark hooded figure Neil recognized immediately by the curve of his spine alone when he glimpsed it through the smudged hallway window.
He sprinted the rest of the way, through the corridor and down the staircase, and barely resisted the urge to slam into him with a suffocating hug, no matter how much instinct urged him to. He knew Andrew would not appreciate being ambushed.
Instead, Neil slid into the spot beside him, heart thundering, trying to catch up with the strain he’d just put it through, perched on the precipice of exploding from the mere idea that Andrew had come to pick him up, had waited for him. A meaningless gesture to anyone else, but to Neil, who craved Andrew’s presence at all times, and especially on days when classes kept them apart until evening, it was…a declaration.
“Hi,” Neil said, biting his lip to keep from smiling like a complete idiot.
Andrew’s brows creased ever so slightly when he turned to look at him—a frown, or at least Andrew’s version of one. A clear sign he thought Neil was an idiot anyway.
Andrew’s afternoon class had been cancelled, so he drove them to the diner, blissfully empty between the last breakfast stragglers and the onset of the lunch crowd. They took their usual booth by the window. Neil spread out his Number Theory homework, one of his more advanced courses this semester, and one that gave him a real headache sometimes, pausing only to demolish his burger while he played footsie with Andrew under the table. Andrew, in turn, took his time dismembering an impressive tower of pancakes.
Neil woke up hours later, the remnants of the day draping them in long, cozy shadows, his face smooshed into Andrew’s chest. He rose and fell with the even rhythm of a man still in the throes of an afternoon nap, made inevitable by the weight of the meal they’d consumed. So inevitable, in fact, that Neil didn’t even remember falling asleep—only that he’d toppled Andrew onto the beanbag when they got back to the dorm, intending to kiss him. And he must have, because his lips still faintly tasted of the maple syrup Andrew’s mouth had been drowning in. Or maybe it lingered in Andrew’s shirt—a stray drop caught in the fabric.
Neil inhaled deeply, the cloying sweetness tempered by the scent beneath it, something subtler, distinctly Andrew. Only once he’d gotten his fix did it begin to dawn on him—how strange this arrangement really was.
They had slept in the same bed countless times, but never quite like this. Never this close, never with their bodies pressed flush, Neil’s head on Andrew’s chest. It felt like a cheesy reenactment of some intimate movie scene you’d immediately clock as unrealistic. The position was far from comfortable—one of his arms was completely numb beneath him, screaming to be released. He was pretty sure he’d drooled on Andrew in his sleep. He was damp everywhere his limbs folded, overheated from the press of another body.
And yet Neil couldn’t make himself move. It felt wrong, like in the process of dreaming, they had grown fused together—skin to skin, bone to bone—and breaking apart would tear it all loose, leave Neil raw, excruciatingly exposed.
The notion wasn’t rational. Neither was the comfort threading through his entire being, coursing through his veins, stoppering his heart. He was powerless in the face of an acute feeling that always prowled the edges of his awareness: that this was too good, too easy. A bed of roses meant for someone else, not him.
Unbidden, he began to count the days again. How much longer could he have this? How many more lazy afternoons with Andrew, enraptured in warmth and safety? For so long all he had known was scarcity: that he could only have this for a limited time—49 days, then 20, then 0. There was no visible countdown now, but Neil could still see it. The numbers flashed anyway, imagined on a phone screen, shrinking with each ragged breath, panic slamming into him, eviscerating his calm, feeding on the endless pool of anxiety always waiting, ready to spring.
He didn’t know what to do with it, how to claw his way back from the agonizing truth that even if he could have this for a little longer, it would never be forever. Each night more final, life taking its course, sweeping them away in its entropy, and eventually reducing them both to ash.
Beneath him, Andrew stirred at last.
Neil hadn’t realized his hand was fisted in Andrew’s shirt, knuckles digging into his side, torturing the fabric. He hadn’t realized his body had betrayed him, found its outlet without permission. Andrew’s chest was dampening under him.
Andrew had gotten so used to sleeping with Neil that he no longer startled awake. Still, Neil felt the quiet tension ripple through him as consciousness returned, followed by its gradual release with a deep, measured breath as Andrew took stock.
Then Andrew’s hand roamed until it found Neil’s chin, fingers hooking gently but firmly to lift his face, forcing him to meet his gaze.
“Nightmares?” Andrew asked, voice rough, a low rasp from his throat.
Neil shook his head.
“Then what?” Andrew pressed, eyes narrowing as if he could strip Neil bare, unmask him, drag every demon into the light.
Neil swallowed, then scrubbed at his eyes, willing them to stop unspooling.
“Do you ever feel like… you don’t deserve this?” He gestured vaguely into the scarce space between them. The words felt stupid in his mouth, even stupider coming out of it. But if Neil had to live the unbearably wonderful cliche of a life where he had found his person—had days where he could fall asleep in Andrew’s arms—then did he have any other choice but to keep playing the part where he was terrified senseless of losing it?
Andrew’s lips pursed, perhaps in consternation, as he realized what this was about. “What do you feel like you deserve?” he shot back, one eloquent eyebrow lifting in emphasis.
Neil groaned, dragging a hand through his sweat-soaked bangs as he slipped free of Andrew’s grip. “Don’t pull this Bee shit on me.”
“How would you know?” Andrew asked, never missing the chance to chastise him for still refusing sessions with her.
“I know therapy talk when I hear it,” Neil replied. But looking into Andrew’s eyes—lazy, lit with their own hazel flame in the waning day—was already soothing him. Slowly, the locus of his panic shifted, recentering itself, easing back into its rightful place.
“I’d make a terrible therapist. And you—a worse patient,” Andrew said, giving him a light shove so he could sit up.
“Not to mention the conflict of interest,” Neil added, nodding solemnly before his grin betrayed him. “Which is kinda hot. Like in that show you like. Therapize me, baby.”
He surged forward before Andrew could retort, climbing into his lap and bracing his arms on either side of the beanbag, effectively caging him in.
Andrew froze mid-stretch. “You’re insane,” he murmured. “A lost cause.”
Neil only smirked down at him, rolling his hips a little to see where it would get him.
Turned out, it got him nowhere, because Kevin chose that precise moment to burst into the suite and bark at them to get ready for practice. Neil had little motivation for it, especially knowing practice would be cut short anyway so the Foxes could pack for their overnight trip to Penn State.
He knew he’d be preposterously tired if he didn’t sleep on the way there, but that was a problem for later. For now, he was too busy biting down on a Pocky stick and swinging it in front of Andrew’s face.
Andrew sighed, caught it neatly with his mouth, and stole it away.
Next time, Neil decided, he’d have to eat further down the stick if he wanted Andrew’s lips to brush his.
They never got that far either. Restless under Andrew’s unrelenting grip, Neil shimmied his leg free and draped it over Andrew’s lap again. Andrew allowed it for a moment, his gaze sliding toward the aisle. Neil found the check redundant. Everyone was still asleep, the quiet textured only by the steady hum of tires on the road.
Still, he understood Andrew’s caution. He gave in, swinging his legs down—only to be rewarded with an exasperated look before Andrew pulled the headphones out of their ears, and shifted two seats closer to the window, shielding them from view. With a crooked finger, he beckoned Neil over.
Neil complied, scooting down the bench. The second he settled beside him, Andrew cradled his face and drew him into a deep kiss.
It was equal parts slow and fervent, gentle and vicious, every turn shaded with discordant passion that thrived in the wet glide of their mouths, in the chaotic tangle of their tongues. For a while Neil was content to follow along, to fit Andrew’s contradictions into his own volatile mood, to indulge the entropy they could never escape. But he knew the balance wouldn’t hold. One of them would eventually slip, succumb to the fever, desire more. Neil was already coming dangerously close. He warned Andrew with a nip at his lower lip, a moan trembling from his mouth into Andrew’s.
Andrew took the warning in stride. He let go of Neil’s face, hands beginning to roam. One slid beneath the hem of Neil’s hoodie and shirt to press against his stomach, the other tightened on his thigh.
Neil answered with a low, appreciative sound and kissed him again. Andrew’s palm lingered warm on his stomach while the other crept higher, slipping under the edge of his shorts.
Then Andrew gasped—quiet, but impossible to miss as it broke their kiss.
“Neil,” Andrew murmured, voice rough with admonishment, his finger tapping Neil’s bare thigh right at the spot where boxers should have been.
He wasn’t wearing them.
“Um,” Neil said, unable to contain a small smile. “I wanted to be comfortable on the ride.”
“Uh-huh.” Andrew’s reply was flat, his tone dulled by some unspoken emotion.
They kept kissing, but slower now, tempered by Andrew’s mouth going slack, lazy, as if too riveted by this new knowledge. His focus shifted to his hands, fingers exploring deeper, grazing Neil’s balls, fondling them before rubbing at his taint with steady pressure that had Neil moaning, head rolling back against the seat.
Andrew didn’t waste time. He pressed his mouth to Neil’s neck, determined to take this as far as he could, sucking messy bruises into the skin while his hand groped under the shorts, rolling Neil’s balls in his palm, nudging the sack, teasing his taint with the slide of two fingers.
“Fuck, Andrew,” Neil exhaled sharply in another warning. He was so hard, so pent up with a need that had been building all day he thought he might pass out from it.
“Yes?” Andrew asked, dragging a wet stripe along his neck, all mock innocence Neil wanted to bite out of him.
“Don’t tease if you’re not—” Neil’s words cut off with a gasp as Andrew squeezed his balls, “—going to get me off.”
Andrew hummed, unsympathetic. “Who says I won’t?” he tutted, finally dragging his fingers upward to wrap around Neil’s cock.
“Fuck, right there,” Neil rasped, his own palm closing around Andrew’s hand beneath the fabric, urging the movement faster.
“Neil,” Andrew hissed into his ear, catching the lobe between his teeth, “for once in your fucking life—I need you to be quiet.”
“Uh-huh,” Neil replied distractedly as Andrew’s speed picked up, the strokes messy, never quite finding rhythm, constrained by the fabric of his shorts.
But he tried, he really did, biting the inside of his cheek to keep the noises down, his hips thrusting up into the friction, into Andrew’s grip on his cock. Heat flared inside him, tangled with the tantalizing awareness of what they were doing and where. The danger—though minimal—sent aftershocks racing through his system as his cock leaked freely, his balls tightening.
The orgasm taunted him with its sharp edge, piercing his throat with another moan he swallowed so hard he thought he might draw blood from his cheek. He wouldn’t have minded coming in his shorts if they were back at the dorm, but not here. Not now. So he fisted a hand in Andrew’s hair, not too hard, but firm enough to guide him and yanked his head back to look into his face.
“Close,” Neil said, breathless. “Get down on your knees.”
Andrew’s eyes widened, briefly illuminated by the glow of a passing billboard, then shuttered again as he sank to the floor. He folded into the narrow space between Neil’s legs, pressed tight against the seat in front of them.
Neil shoved one side of his shorts aside and freed his cock. It pulsed in his grip as he angled it down, stroking in brutal, twisting motions that unraveled him fast, lurching him back to the edge that had never been far off. What tipped him over was the illicit sight of Andrew looking up at him, lips parted obscenely, hunger devouring his eyes. Neil’s control snapped entirely. His body floated up as he came, spilling ribbons onto Andrew’s tongue, which he so helpfully thrust out to catch every drop.
Some distant part of Neil, not entirely consumed by pleasure, made sure he pressed his cock deeper into Andrew’s eager mouth, shallow strokes coaxing the last drops from the tip as it still leaked cum.
Andrew took it all, then abruptly rose, coming to perch on one of Neil’s thighs. He leaned over and pressed his mouth to Neil’s.
Neil didn’t resist. He wouldn’t, even if he’d had control of his faculties again, because he knew instantly what Andrew was doing. And it was erotic in the exact way sex with Andrew was at times: the kind of filth reserved for late hours, like the nights at Eden’s when they’d stumble back to the Columbia house sweaty, desperate, tired and unhinged, consumed by the need to take each other apart and leave nothing behind.
It felt like that now, Neil thought, as Andrew kissed his own cum back into him, feeding it drop by drop, a salty, metallic treat spread thin between them until nothing remained but spit and wild breaths. Andrew’s soundless moans brushed against Neil’s tongue, bordering on whimpers; pleasure and ache threaded through them, maybe from the indecent act itself, more likely from the way Andrew was rutting against Neil’s knee, dragging the outline of his cock against the muscle.
“Come on,” Neil breathed against Andrew’s mouth, placing a halting hand on his chest. “It’s my turn to fondle you.”
Andrew gave a faint growl of protest but obeyed, sliding off Neil’s leg to sit beside him. Neil’s hands immediately set to exploring, palming his erection through the jeans, watching as Andrew melted into the cushions, closing his eyes, hips jerking slightly as they spread wider.
It was going to be trickier than it had been with Neil, but the night concealed them, the back seat their own untouchable cocoon. Feeling braver, Neil unzipped Andrew’s jeans, muffling the sound with his palm.
He pulled Andrew’s cock through the hole in his boxers and just held it—never tiring of the heavy, warm weight in his hand, the way it fit perfectly there, peeking out of his fist, the head flushed and wet with precum, gleaming even in the muted light.
“Well?” Andrew asked, cracking his eyes open.
Neil smirked, looking forward to taking Andrew apart.
He gave Andrew a few lazy strokes, then slipped his other hand beneath the waistband, sliding lower so he could cup his balls. The movement pressed him close, so close his nose brushed Andrew’s cheek.
There wasn’t much room to maneuver, but Neil squeezed and rolled Andrew’s balls until he was trembling, teeth buried in his fist, moans rumbling low in his chest.
Neil pumped his cock faster, savoring every shiver, every smothered sound, every ripple of tension that wrecked Andrew’s hips. Experimentally, he pushed his palm lower, pressing two fingers to his taint—the same way Andrew had done to him earlier.
The reaction was immediate: a pointed glare, Andrew torn between keeping his eyes locked on Neil or tipping his head back into surrender.
Neil withdrew quickly, worried he’d gone too far. Maybe he should’ve asked. Their check-ins had grown less deliberate as they crossed each new boundary, mapping each other out without ever stumbling into danger, but Neil couldn’t let himself grow complacent. He started to pull his hand away entirely, cock slipping from his grip—
But Andrew caught his wrist. His breath came hard, his eyes burning with an all-consuming flame as they bore into Neil’s.
“Neil,” he said. “Keep going.”
“Oh.” Relief flooded him. Neil stroked again, firmer this time.
“This too,” Andrew ground out, dragging Neil’s other hand back into his boxers.
Oh.
Neil toyed with his balls again, distracted now, impatient to slide lower. He couldn’t find the right angle, so he tore himself away long enough to grab Andrew’s hips and push until he was hanging off the edge of the seat.
Pressing Andrew’s cock flat to his stomach, throbbing, smeared with a glistening line of precum that stretched to his belly button, Neil slipped his other hand back, fingers roaming, seeking Andrew’s entrance. It clenched at his touch as he drew slow, tentative circles.
“Yes?” Neil asked.
“Yes,” Andrew hissed into his fist.
Neil had to pull back again, though every cell in his body screamed not to. He wanted to hold Andrew forever, to cover every inch of him with his own skin. He could never stop here, not now. Desire swelled like a storm, bursting from one horizon to the next. He realized with a jolt: it wasn’t the end he feared, but the sheer demand of life itself. To do this to Andrew. To do more.
He spit into his palm, slicked his fingers, and returned to claim Andrew’s hole. He rubbed the spit into the tight ring of muscle before pushing in. First to the knuckles, then deeper, thrusting in and out, fucking into him as Andrew rocked above, his cock still trapped between Neil’s palm and his stomach.
Somewhere along the way, Andrew had bitten into Neil’s hood, stuffing it into his mouth. When Neil glanced down, he saw his hands were marked red with crescents of his own teeth.
Still, even through the muffled barrier of fabric, Neil caught it: fuck, and Neil, and hate you, and going to kill you, and like that—a litany of Neils punctuated by the desperate roll of Andrew’s hips as Neil crooked his fingers inside him, Andrew eager to fuck himself harder on the intrusion.
Neil was painfully hard again, losing his mind at the way Andrew’s body swallowed his fingers, clenched around them. He thought back to the rare times he’d made Andrew come like this—prostate milked until he was incoherent, eyes furious and brimming, cursing Neil’s name as his exquisite cock pulsed out onto his own stomach. It hadn’t happened often, but every instance was seared into Neil’s eyelids, lodged in his marrow, lingering on his tongue every time he came, with or without Andrew.
They were so close to it again—another memory to hoard until death. Andrew’s whole body taut, legs folding as he spread himself wider, fucking down harder on Neil’s fingers, cock twitching in his grip—
Then the moment shattered cruelly. Interrupted by a loud yawn. A creak of a seat. Fabric rustling, someone moving. Neil’s adrenaline spiked, snapping him into action.
He broke away, dove for his backpack under the seat, and shoved it into Andrew’s lap.
Andrew wrapped his arms around it, pressing it hard over his crotch, panting, glaring at Neil like he was to blame for every wrong in the world.
Maybe he was.
“I’m going to fuck you at the next rest stop,” Neil told him, lungs burning as he drew the words out. But Andrew was faster, stealing Neil’s breath, taking possession of it, cutting off the inevitable addendum with a hissed, expedited “yes” through clenched teeth.
The rest stop wouldn’t come soon enough. Hours—entire lifetimes—passed while Neil contended with the torment of having Andrew so close and yet not being inside him.
Beyond the window, the night deepened, rich and cloaked in mist rolling off the mountains like plumes of unattended smoke, hazing the lamplight that lined the road to the rest area. Abby might not even have taken the exit if Wymack hadn’t woken and insisted on switching. Neil should have woken him sooner.
Andrew’s head rested against the glass, eyes screwed shut. Even if he’d managed to sleep, Neil knew the stop would pull him from it.
Neil was the first one down the aisle, moving swiftly through the narrow walkway lit by recessed lights. His pulse surged at the sound of footsteps behind him. He hoped it was Andrew, but kept that hope contained, letting it flutter fiercely in his ribcage. He told himself, like a perfectly well-adjusted adult, that even if Andrew stayed behind to sleep, it would be fine. It would.
Except the footsteps quickened. He heard the scrape of heavy boots on pavement. Hope flared, hot and certain now, warming his chest as he pushed through the rest stop doors. His eyes darted for the bathroom sign, then fixed on it, carrying him forward.
There were a few other people at the rest area, but they were inconsequential—mere ghosts drifting through a place that might or might not exist, hidden in the heart of nowhere. Neil spared them not a single glance as his hand wrapped around the handle of the family restroom, lingering only a moment before Andrew caught up to him.
As soon as they were inside—door shut and locked—Neil’s hands were on Andrew, his mouth crashing back to his, pushing him up against the sink.
They both knew they were short on time, that not a second could be spared, so they melted into the kiss, surrendered to its relentless pull, rutting against each other until they were both hard. Andrew’s breath staggered. Neil moaned openly into his mouth.
Only then did Neil push away, spin Andrew around, and grip his hips—wrapping himself around him as they worked his fly open together. Pants and boxers yanked down to his knees, Neil nosed at the crook of Andrew’s neck, inhaling his scent as his hands wandered, rubbing slow, soothing circles into his thighs.
“Neil,” Andrew bit out, arms braced on the sink.
Neil hummed—right, they couldn’t waste time. But he was going to enjoy this anyway: bending Andrew over, fucking him with urgency in a public bathroom while the bus waited outside.
He pulled the small bottle of lube he’d shoved into his shorts hours earlier, squeezed a slick deluge onto his fingers. Andrew’s head whipped back to look at him.
“Neil,” he said again, sharper this time. Neil knew what that reprimand meant.
With a resigned sigh, Neil abandoned slicking his fingers. Instead, he tugged his shorts down, freed his cock, and poured lube straight over it. He gave himself a few sloppy wet strokes that echoed across the tile, shivering at the thought of how it would sound when he was buried inside Andrew.
Andrew spread his legs wider, watching him. But he didn’t bend until Neil pressed a heavy hand to his back and pushed him down over the sink.
Neil erased the space between them, nudging his cock through the cleft of Andrew’s ass, trailing the question along the shell of his ear.
“Yes,” Andrew replied on a broken exhale.
Neil lined the head of his cock to his hole and pushed in.
It was a tight fit, an unbearable stretch, but Neil knew Andrew could take it. They’d done this before. Still, he took it slow, teasing the head in and out, letting Andrew adjust before giving him more.
“Yes, baby, just like that—relax,” Neil coaxed, thrusting deeper, feeding Andrew another inch of his cock.
Andrew took a concentrated breath, emptied his lungs, and relaxed around Neil’s length until Neil bottomed out.
Neil shuddered, cursing, already consumed by Andrew’s heat.
“Fuck me,” Andrew demanded, the rough words slipping from his lips, lush in the mirror over the sink.
Neil’s gaze snapped to the reflection: Andrew bent beneath him, hair askew from Neil’s fingers, a furious blush spreading across his cheeks, freckles usually too faint to catch now stark against his flushed skin. His eyes, lidded and locked on Neil’s reflection, burned down to embers—charred hazel, smoke rising, leaving Neil unable to breathe, let alone move.
“Beautiful,” Neil murmured, as Andrew’s eyes closed, his hole clenching tight around the full length buried in him.
Gripping his thighs, Neil began to thrust, setting a brutal rhythm. His balls slapped against Andrew’s ass, Andrew’s hands slipping against the sink with a squeak as moans poured out, uncontained, echoing loud across the bathroom.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” Neil praised, reveling in the way Andrew clenched tighter at the words. He kept driving into him, cock sliding in and out with a deafening cadence, swallowed whole in indulgent heat and pressure, his own orgasm always too close, impossible to hold back. “You’re gorgeous,” he breathed against Andrew’s ear, pausing to feel Andrew clamp down on him again. “Bending over like that for me.”
“Neil,” Andrew rasped, lifting his eyes to the mirror. “I need to—”
He never finished. Neil pounded into him harder, nails digging into his thigh to drag him closer, closer. He didn’t need to be told twice. His other hand wrapped around Andrew’s cock, stroking him until Andrew’s head dropped into his hands and he shook apart.
“I want to see you come,” Neil growled, yanking Andrew’s head back up. And he did, watched as Andrew’s eyes rolled, mouth falling open around a low, decadent moan, cum spurting hot across Neil’s knuckles.
Neil drank in the sight, branded it into his skin. He released Andrew’s head only to grip him harder, fucking relentlessly until his own climax crested. At the last second he pulled out, stroking himself through it, spilling into Andrew’s stretched hole, watching it gape and clench with aftershocks as cum leaked back out.
The image was so unbearably beautiful his heart stalled, and for a fleeting second Neil feared it might never beat again.
Moments later, he smeared the cum over Andrew’s hole with his fingers, frustration already sparking at the thought of having to stop, to clean up and leave.
“Next time,” Neil said, still panting, “I’m bringing a plug. I’ll fill you up and seal it inside you.”
Andrew’s fingers brushed briefly over the mess before he turned on the faucet, washing himself clean.
“Next time?” he asked flatly. “Planning to turn this into a tradition?”
“Sure.” Neil shrugged, rinsing a paper towel under the warm water, then carefully wiping Andrew down. “This could be our own tradition. Like Christmas.”
Andrew took the towel, crumpled it, tossed it in the trash. Then he stared at Neil a second too long before shaking his head, like he couldn’t quite believe any words out of Neil’s mouth were real.
As they exited the bathroom, they walked straight into Wymack carrying a four-pack of Red Bulls from the store across the hall. He froze, took them in—decent now, but still disheveled enough to give them away. His face drained of color.
“If you say a word to me right now, I’m leaving you both behind,” he warned.
They turned toward each other. Neil nodded enthusiastically. Andrew mimed zipping his lips shut. Then they took off after Wymack, hands laced together, inseparable—Neil realizing sleep might not be so impossible tonight after all.