(if you saw the one on Instagram no you didn't — behold the difference between a first draft and my line edits lol)
The door doesn't make a sound when Andrew opens it. For a place this old, one would expect a creak to intrude in the silence. But not at Andrew's house. He assures that the doors are well oiled. It's more pleasant to get around if no one can hear you coming.
He leans against the door frame, the rdge of the wood pressing into his shoulder.
First thing he registers is Neil. He's pressing his own shoulder into the glass of the only window. With a set jaw, he shoves against it with all his weight, not making a single peep.
The corners of Andrew's lips tug downward, and he reaches up with his thump to trace the shape as if to erase it from his face. He watches as Neil presses his palms flat on the glass, mouth pressed in a thin line as he attempts to open it again.
The thick paint at the bottom holds the frame to the sill like glue, a seal that hasn't been broken since Nicky accidentally painted it shut a few years ago. A project that Andrew wasn't home for and wasn't pleased to find.
His eyes trace from Neil's duffle on the hardwood floor to the where Neil's knee is tilted on the sill for leverage. He's wearing the clothes he arrived in. The bloodied and torn ones that Andrew had lent him—back when they weren't bloodied or torn.
The honey-colored sunset spills over Neil's hair, catching on the red. Andrew's eyes linger for a moment. But then the moment's over.
Neil startles so hard that he smashes his head against the window, groaning he turns his ice blue gaze on Andrew, his knee dropping from its strategic position. “Apparently not.”
“You know the doors work perfectly fine, right?” Andrew steps aside to leave space for Neil to flee if he so chooses. “Off you go, little rabbit.”
Neil rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, eyeing that space with interest. When he glances at Andrew, his eyes narrow. Andrew narrows his eyes back, but not to be condescending. Neil makes him want to tear his hair out whenever they make eye contact. It's like trying to read a book that won't open. Most people open for him like a book, whether by his knife or his eyes. Neil doesn't.
It's there though—in his eyes. Andrew can see it. The tiniest shift. It makes Andrew hungry for things he shouldn't eat.
“Or, you could stay.” Andrew says it with the casual air of someone reading the weather from the newspaper. Careful. Curated. Entirely a facade. He lets his mouth curl into a tint smirk. Another facade. “You never know, maybe you'll end up chopped up and in our fridge by dawn.”
“That's not true. Besides, you're not very good at running and you're not funny. Be better, Josten, or stop trying.”
Andrew doesn't wait for a response. He turns on his heels and leaves the room. As desperate as he is for it, he doesn't take a glance to see Neil's reaction as he goes.
