Whistling carelessly, Neil nods to Rob in the hallway as he passes by, then goes into their shared room. He sits down at his desk, retrieves a pen and paper, the whistling shifting to a hum.
Behind him, the door slams shut.
Oh, yes. Rob wanted to talk to him about something. Neil turns to sit on his chair backwards and says, "You seem a little testy."
Rob stands near the doorway, arms crossed, face impassive. "Would you care to explain who the hell you think you are?"
Funny how a cold voice makes someone seem (even) bigger. If Neil were a lesser person, he'd be intimidated. As it is, he just gets up and crosses his arms too. "I dunno, Bob. I wouldn't want to knock down your predetermined idea of who I am."
"For god's sake, drop your insufferable know-it-all attitude for one goddamn second." Rob, glaring now, steps forward— well, stomps, actually. "What are you doing with Eva and Roxanne?!"
Neil's genuinely confused. "What am I—" What is Rob talking about? Maybe... "Our free time overlapped today, so we took a walk together. That's not a crime now, is it? Roxie and Eva are birds of a feather nowadays, or haven't you noticed?"
"It's not simply today! Roxie has this look when she speaks to me about you, has for a week now. You're sweet on Eva all the damn time— don't start with me," Rob says when Neil tries to get a word in, "you two aren't nearly as subtle as you think you are— but then you send Roxie, I mean Roxanne, flowers? What the devil are you trying to pull, Watts?"
"Oh," Neil says. Then a smug slow grin as he realizes. "Oh. You aren't on your usual holier-than-thou tear. You're legitimately angry at me about this. Well," he scoffs and shrugs, arms raised, "it's not my fault you aren't clever enough to understand the intricacies of our relationship. Ironic, given you've been observing all three of us for as long as you have. Some might call that creepy."
He would have continued to pontificate except, in a viper-quick movement, Rob swoops forward and gets him pinned to the wall, arm barring his escape. Neil is abruptly and fully winded, a wheeze scraping from his throat.
"I'm not clever?" Staring Neil down point blank, Rob's fury is obvious. "Anyone with eyes can see you're leading them both on. You'll get your ego boost and then leave broken hearts in your wake."
Neil has a reply to that, but with Rob's arm pressing against his throat, he can't get words out. It's not like that.
"And when that happens, you... we'll all..." Rob shakes his head and holds Neil's gaze again. "You know as well as I do how often all our paths cross, so don't make me out to be some kind of stalker," Rob growls, pressing harder. "You little weasel."
Lava surges through Neil's veins. He blinks and he's on the floor, on top of Robert, sending blocked and unblocked punches to his face. "Son of a bitch. Say that to me again!!"
(Eva and Roxanne care for him, and each other, and he cares for them, how could Rob possibly think—)
How they got here flashes through Neil's mind in milliseconds during the euphoria of a landed hit, during the shock of Rob surging up and tackling him to the floor:
Hurt became anger became painful fury; he broke free of Rob's hold in a rush of strength and flatout bull-rushed him, Rob's surprise turning him into an easily moved object.
Hello, unstoppable force. Neil just stares, breathing hard. Anger is cooling into something else, something he can't name and isn't sure he wants.
Robert seems just as conflicted. There's nothing to read on his face and the fire in his eyes has dimmed, yet Neil feels the turmoil, can almost touch it like a length of rope between them.
But that isn't what he's touching. His hands are against Rob's shoulders with no tension to push him away, only resting. He feels vulnerable in a bottomless way. Only speaking can pull him back from the unnameable brink.
His words, his trusty weapons, have deserted him.
Rob leans closer, and Neil falls into the gap he closes between their lips.
He's both drowning and overwhelmed by oxygen, and he groans, hands twisting into Rob's jacket, his mouth opening to Rob's tongue.
This isn't supposed to happen. It's supposed to be wrong. But Neil's always been selective about rules.
That's his last coherent thought before movement and touch overtake him. Firstly, he can breathe again. "Oh, god—!"
Because Rob broke the kiss to put one hand on Neil's chest and the other down his pants, into his underwear.
A panting laugh escapes him. Had Rob thought he'd be stopped? His own erection is obvious and Neil has a feral need to return the favor, but he can't seem to move anything besides his hips against Rob's hand. "Ah, ah...!" One hand reaches out blindly and he groans, half in frustration, still unable to speak. He's so close already it's embarrassing. Rob's hand is hot and gentle and he needs to touch Rob back—
"It was going to be Roxie. I always thought that." Rob speaks so quietly that maybe it's to himself, even though he's looking at Neil with a different fire in his eyes now. "For so long, I've wanted... but then..." He sits back, kneels up, hands moving to his slacks.
Neil sits up almost fast enough to get dizzy, hands joining Rob's to pull his pants and boxes down. He reaches for Rob's dick, grasping, squeezing, and his own throbs when Rob shudders and grunts.
"Neil. You're just— you're so..."
He's pure instinct, and need. And what he needs, apparently, is for Rob to push him to the floor again and ruck up his shirt, because he doesn't fight back. What he needs is to get his own pants out of the way, and somehow he manages it in between touching Rob. Rob's hand settles below his clumsily stroking one, and his body presses against Neil's.
Then his hand gets around Neil's dick too, and it presses against Rob's.
The motion is too much. Neil gasps out a string of curses that alone would be plenty to get him the switch for the umpteenth time. "Oh, god, oh my god...!"
Someone's being pretty loud. Neil realizes it's him when Rob kisses him hard again, tongue searching.
He moans with abandon into Rob's mouth, feverishly rocking up against Rob's hand and dick and his own hand, over and over. Please, please, fuck—
His climax is so strong he might have screamed if not for his mouth against Rob's. He hears Rob gasping, a shivering moan, feels sticky warmth over his skin. He bucks repeatedly, maybe whimpering. He's never felt this good.
Then all at once the aftershocks shake him and Rob's mouth parts from his and Neil inhales like he half-drowned. But Rob stays over him, against him. Neil's free hand is gripping his shoulder so hard it takes several seconds for his fingers to loosen. For some reason, he doesn't move his hand.
They breathe together. Neil wonders why he doesn't want to leave his body.
"Ah, damn," Rob mutters presently. He sits up, dislodging Neil's hand, then stumbles to his feet and moves to his bedstand, whipping out a handkerchief from the drawer with one hand and attempting to pull his pants back on with the other.
Neil watches him move away and back to him. He's too soft, cleaning him and Neil up. "Guess you'll have to burn that," Neil says, putting the snark into his voice since he's too tired to smirk.
Rob grunts. He folds the used hankie into itself, then gets a clean one from the drawer, wraps it around the folded one, and stuffs the ball into the laundry bag in the corner.
Speaking is the key that allows Neil to move, too: getting off the floor, straightening his clothes. He straightens Rob's shirt while he's at it, distantly marveling at the lack of internal screaming; Rob gapes, mouth hanging.
He leans down fast to kiss him, but somehow Neil's prepared this time and meets him. No tongue, yet this kiss burns hotter than the others.
When it ends, Rob says, with absolutely no bite, "You're infuriating." Then he turns and walks for the door.
Something possess Neil to ask where he's going.
Rob looks back at him, hand on the doorknob. "I'm taking a walk."
Neil's left staring at the closed door, the image of Rob's back imprinted on him.
After a moment, he turns for his desk. He picks up the pen and paper from the floor and puts them back. He sits down, pulling the chair in, and takes hold of the pen.
In the end, he rests his head in his arms and staring at the wall, a hundred half-finished thoughts vying for attention.
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