janus_reads

everyone knows Neil as the sharp-tongued, unsociable man with the skeptical, almost cutting gaze. only Andrew knows how trusting and pliant he becomes in his presence. the mouth that once had nothing but harsh remarks now falls inexplicably quiet, giving way instead to soft murmurs and quiet requests for one more kiss. the guarded distance Neil keeps from everyone else melts into the instinctive way he leans into Andrew’s touch, every movement carrying the quiet, unquestioning trust of a cat curling against the person it has chosen as its own, as Andrew’s hand drifts lazily along his waist. only Andrew knows how tactile he is, how disarmingly gentle this sharp-edged creature becomes once the door is closed, resting against Andrew’s side in the lingering quiet after intimacy. and the knowledge that he alone is allowed to see this version of Neil never fails to tighten something deep in his chest.

Andrew isn’t tactile? bullshit! at least not when it comes to Neil. I absolutely refuse to believe that the man who, in the very first book, was already brushing his fingers across Neil’s back hard enough to “send goosebumps down his spine,” and who was already fighting the urge to kiss him by the second book, somehow isn’t tactile. I refuse to believe he wouldn’t finish his coffee, toss the mug into the sink, and, on his way past Neil, casually catch him by the waist to steady himself just long enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek. I refuse to believe he wouldn’t stand behind Neil while he washes the dishes, lazily draping an arm around his waist, absentmindedly tapping his fingertips against Neil’s thigh as he waits. or quietly take Neil’s hand into his own, trace the familiar lines of his scars with his thumb, and finish by pressing a few soft kisses against his knuckles. I refuse to believe he wouldn’t pull himself closer before they fall asleep just to bury his face in the crook of Neil’s neck and breathe him in. or idly trace little, meaningless shapes across Neil’s knee with the tip of his finger during yet another team meeting. do I think Andrew is more tactile than Neil? no. not in the way people usually mean it. Neil’s affection is obvious. It’s visible, instinctive, impossible to miss. Andrew’s is quiet. It’s found in barely-there touches, fleeting brushes of his hand, small gestures that almost anyone else would overlook. Neil always notices.

Neil "if you see me being threatened by a 5'0 blond do NOT dare to try to save me i'm exactly where i want to be" Josten

Andrew thought he made himself unbreakable, unknowable, that there wasn’t a single crack in his armor that someone could peek through and see his fleshy, bleeding insides. But then someone did. Neil did. And he saw the rotted truth of Andrew and he asked to stay. And he didn’t poke around, or push. He looked, and looked, and looked, and decided that Andrew was someone to stand by. Someone that could support his weight and hold him up. He saw strength when others had seen weakness. Andrew covered himself in thorns so anyone who dared to get too close would cut themselves on his sharp edges. Oh, but Neil didn’t mind cuts and scrapes. He would gladly bleed for Andrew. Andrew, who thought he had built a fortress around himself that couldn’t be sieged. But Neil didn’t mind standing outside his borders, content with just staring within, and waiting for a “yes” that might never come. How dare he? How dare he? Andrew was furious. He wasn’t built for harmless glances and soft touches, he made sure of that. Who was this nobody, this nothing who thought he could come around and make Andrew believe in something he wouldn’t tolerate in his life? God, did he hate Neil. He hated his patience. And his staring. And his ability to navigate Andrew’s sharp edges without cutting himself. It makes him sick how easy it is with Neil. Wasn’t Andrew better than that? Didn’t he make sure something, someone, like this would never happen? What makes Neil Abram Josten different? Why does he get to see what Andrew hides from the world, from himself? Why can’t Andrew tell him no, make him leave and never return? Why does that feel like his dead, cold heart is being ripped from chest? Why does he grip the bars of his cage and shake like a feral beast at the thought of not having this man in his life? He was supposed to be better than this. He was supposed to be protected from something like this. Oh, what a disappointment Andrew has become. Another fool at the mercy of the most dangerous thing in the world.