Lis_Nastya | AFTG art

something in Andrew’s chest tightens every time Neil sets two plates on the table: one with the food already cut up for Andrew, and one untouched for himself. maybe it’s a miniature heart attack. or maybe it’s just Andrew realizing, once again, that his “nothing” knows every one of his habits so well it almost hurts.

Neil loves thunderstorms. Andrew hates them. the problem is that Andrew doesn’t want to leave Neil, and Neil has no intention of leaving the balcony while the storm is rolling across the sky. so, little by little, Andrew learns to compromise. It’s a huge step for him the first time he lets himself lean back against Neil’s chest while they sit together outside. Neil traps him gently between his knees and wraps both arms around his body, shielding him from the world as much as he possibly can, even if he can’t silence the thunder itself. another crack of thunder rolls overhead, and Andrew flinches almost imperceptibly. “You can go inside,” Neil murmurs by his ear for what must be the third time. Andrew only shakes his head. “Why the hell do you even like this?” he mutters, still unable to understand. “I like the sound,” Neil replies once again. “And the way it lights up the sky.” Andrew lets out a quiet snort. “You have terrible taste.” Neil raises an eyebrow, glancing briefly at the top of his head. as Andrew unconsciously nestles a little closer against his chest, Neil instinctively tightens his arms around him and whispers, “I'm not complaining.” he presses a gentle kiss to the back of Andrew’s head just as another peal of thunder tears across the sky. Andrew’s shoulders tense for the briefest moment before relaxing again, while Neil’s embrace grows just a little tighter around Andrew, as does his quiet chuckle grows a little louder against his neck.

we talk a lot about how much of a revelation andrew’s confession is for neil, and not enough about how revelatory neil’s reaction is for andrew. because like. imagine you like this boy. but he doesn’t swing. you know the answer would be “no,” so there’s no point in even asking. then he goes and gets himself needlessly tortured for you, and tells you there’s no amount of suffering he wouldn’t endure for you. not because he thinks you’re weak, but because he thinks you’re worth protecting. he says things that you would interpret as advances if it were literally anyone else. you remind yourself that he doesn’t swing. now you’re at eden’s and he’s asking about your feelings for him in 12 different ways. he really wants to know. so you tell him, in the most casual and crass way you can, thinking that’ll put an end to it. but unfathomably, it doesn’t. he asks you why you didn’t tell him. why would you have? it would have been a “no.” you say that, and instead of confirming it, he just echoes your words, clearly still reeling. you start to leave, and he tells you that he wants to keep playing your game. while the absence of a “no” is obviously not the same thing as a “yes,” you’ve been operating for months and months under the assumption that the answer would be unequivocal. so you keep waiting for that answer, but it never comes. for the first time since you met him, you wonder if maybe it’s not a “no” after all. if maybe you could have this. you can’t remember the last time you were able to have something you wanted. the world tilting on its axis, indeed.

Neil is quietly obsessed with light asphyxiation, but only when it’s Andrew, his tattooed sleeve pressing against Neil’s throat as he pins him to the wall during heated make-out sessions. he’ll quietly guide Andrew’s hand into place himself, slipping his own fingers over Andrew’s and settling them around his neck before pulling him closer, asking him to keep going with a breathless, “Squeeze here.” he trusts Andrew enough to know he’ll never let it go too far, especially when Andrew is fucking him into the mattress. Neil can’t help losing himself in the careful but firm pressure around his throat, every deep thrust drawing out more broken sounds, his eyes rolling back just shy of losing himself completely. sometimes he’ll cross his eyes just enough to catch a glimpse of the black ink winding across Andrew’s hand before his head drops back the next second, the moment Andrew finds exactly the right spot, earning nothing but a barely audible, incoherent, “More… do that again.” other times, Neil clutches desperately at Andrew’s wrist, stealing glances at it from beneath the pillow he’s stubbornly trying to bury his long, drawn-out moans into. realizing that this very hand, with its swollen veins, that is gripping his waist and the curve between his neck and shoulder, thrusting him onto himself—it works on Neil like a catalyst. by the end, Andrew can always find faint crescents left behind by Neil’s teeth along his shoulder and wrists, perfectly matching the barely visible marks his own fingers have left on Neil’s throat. without fail, they smooth gentle kisses over each one, fingertips brushing lingeringly across the fading impressions, both of them knowing perfectly well that Neil will quietly ask to do it all over again next time.

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.