the flinch - thesehands - All For The Game (2024)

Chapter Text

The only reason you name a dog is so you can tell it what to do.
I don't look dogs in the face, either. Once you look something in the face it starts to want things.

-- Richard Siken

Andrew usually dreamed about men.

There were only a couple of different ways his dreams could pan out. He could dream about every man who’d ever taken advantage of him, or he could dream about every man he’d ever chosen to share his body with. Either way, in his dreams, Andrew was always an object; a means to an end; a passive instrument in someone else’s pleasure.

The subconscious depersonalization was a problem, according to his therapist.

Andrew didn’t like to receive. Not advice, not gifts, not dicks in his ass, not pity or sympathy or birthday cards. Andrew preferred to give, but it was still selfish. The privilege of being able to give was still gratifying to him. He gave on his knees in club bathrooms and he gave on the court and he gave on long distance phone calls with his cousin and he gave to the few people he might be able to call friends when he could bring himself to indulge in the banal niceties that came along with casual platonic relationships.

It was summer in Manhattan when the landscape of Andrew’s dreams changed. He started dreaming about Neil, with his loud mouth and his toned legs and his uncanny, bright smile that appeared rarely, but always seemed to linger when it was directed at Andrew.

Neil spent half of his time lying and the other half wandering aimlessly through the city in the middle of the night. He occupied most of Andrew’s waking thoughts, and then, eventually, his dreams. Andrew didn’t believe in shame or regret, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had been embarrassed about his desires, so he didn’t bother trying to stifle whatever it was he felt for Neil.

He accepted whatever half-truths Neil offered him as their relationship grew, and he provided whole-truths of his own. Andrew laid a solid foundation for Neil’s ever-wavering understanding of his place in Andrew’s life, and he waited for Neil to meet him halfway. Instead, Neil vanished.

The day after Neil disappeared in the middle of the night, Kevin called.

Andrew stared at his phone and let it ring. He was in the process of opening a can of cat food, which was a two-handed activity. He set down the can opener and picked up the phone.

“What,” he said.

“You were f*cking Nathaniel Wesninski?”

Andrew knew Neil’s real name. He knew where he had come from. He’d known since the beginning. Neil was a good liar, but he was an obvious liar. Andrew didn't mention any of that to Kevin. Instead, he said, “Who?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Kevin said. “You could’ve been killed. Do you have any idea who he is?”

“Who?” Andrew repeated.

Kevin made an irritated sound in the back of his throat, and then was quiet. Andrew thought he’d hung up, but when he lifted the phone away from his ear, he saw the seconds were still counting up.

“He’s in witsec,” Kevin guessed.

“Yes,” Andrew said.

“When do they pull him out?” Kevin asked.

“Last night,” Andrew replied.

“Oh,” Kevin said. “Really? Did he get to say goodbye?”

“Yes,” Andrew said.

“Is he coming back?” Kevin asked. “They’re building a huge case against the Moriyamas. He might be the person helping them crack it open. I think Ichirou’s people will kill him before they get him on the stand.”

“He said he wasn’t coming back,” Andrew said. “He probably thought the same way you do.”

“And that’s…okay with you?” Kevin asked.

“He never asked me for help,” Andrew said. “He didn’t think I knew. What was I supposed to do about it?”

Kevin was quiet for a moment, then he said, “You’re already talking about him in past tense.”

Andrew made a scornful noise in the back of his throat and hung up the phone. He finished opening the can of cat food, and scraped it into Cat 1’s dish. Neil had decided which was which, and the orange cat was Cat 1, because Neil thought it didn’t like him, and he wanted it to know he respected its authority. Andrew rinsed the can and threw it into the recycling bin. He lit a cigarette and sat at the kitchen table and smoked until it was time for him to leave for practice.

Usually, he’d have a message from Neil on his phone by now, with a terrible photo of some exotic cheese he’d seen in a store window, or a blister on his heel, or Andrew’s name or face in a magazine. Usually, Neil would have reminded him by now that he was always thinking about Andrew in his own way, while still being somehow blissfully unaware that the entire focus of Andrew’s life had shifted to orient itself around Neil.

That day, there was no grainy photo, and there was no reminder. Andrew shoved his gear into his bag and went to practice.

Andrew liked routine. He hated surprises, and he hated being caught off guard. He’d been forced to learn and stick to a routine in juvie, and it had made him into a creature of habit. Monday through Thursday he had practice at the team center in Yonkers. Tuesday through Friday he had conditioning at the smaller practice court downtown. Friday mornings he met with his therapist. During the Olympics season he also had Team USA practice in Jersey Monday through Wednesday, and on Saturdays. Every fifth Wednesday, he went to the dentist. Sunday afternoons he went grocery shopping. When he woke up every morning he made his bed, took a shower, had a cup of coffee, smoked a cigarette, did the New York Times crossword puzzle, and then went to practice. It was a good, familiar routine. Andrew had been comfortable with it.

With only one casual outing to Koreatown, Neil had completely upended and almost totally destroyed Andrew’s routine, without even realizing it. Once Neil had made the first move and opened the door for Andrew’s attention, Andrew had almost immediately started carving out entire hours of his week to spend lunch and dinner and free period and weekends with him. Now, he suddenly had huge gaps of time in his day that used to be filled with Neil. It had been a lot of work to shift his entire life forward or backward by a few hours to give Neil all the space he needed and deserved, but Andrew hadn’t minded doing it. Once he’d made up his mind about Neil he didn’t go back on it, even if it was inconvenient to permanently reschedule most of his activities. Andrew wondered what he would do with all his new-found free time.

He arrived at practice in a bad mood, and the team played terribly, which made his bad mood worse. The slacking off didn’t bother him because he was deeply passionate about the quality of his teammates' warm-ups. It bothered him because the inanity of their joking around was a waste of everyone’s time. Their coach was out sick, and their captain was more casual in her leadership style. Drills were performed halfheartedly, warmups were hurried through, and practice scrimmages were sloppy, violent, and lacked any real effort or skill. Frustration simmered in him for hours, and the second they were dismissed, he made a beeline for the showers. He changed out in record time.

It wasn’t fast enough. Matt approached Andrew in the locker room, smiling sheepishly. Irritation flared up in Andrew. He had no desire to be mean to Matt; Andrew wasn’t generally a very polite or friendly person, but Matt was harmless, and he’d never been anything but tolerant of Andrew’s prickly attitude. He knew there was only one thing Matt could possibly want. They only had two things in common: exy, and Neil.

“What,” he said.

“Do you want to grab a drink with me?” Matt asked.

“You’re not my type,” Andrew said.

Matt frowned, briefly confused, and then he grinned. He hadn’t been expecting a joke.

“It’s mutual,” Matt said. “There’s a place near here. I won’t invite anybody else. Please?”

“I’ll go if you promise to never say that word again,” Andrew said. “I hate that word.”

“Mutual?” Matt asked.

“No,” Andrew said. “If you’re not ready in five minutes, I’m going home.”

Matt frowned again, opened his mouth to say something, then decided against it. He went to the showers, and re-appeared by Andrew’s locker fully dried and dressed in four minutes. Andrew gestured for him to lead the way, and he followed Matt out of the locker room and onto the street. It was cold, and he had left his jacket in his locker. They had only walked half a block when Matt stopped, peeled off his hoodie, and held it out towards Andrew.

Andrew stared at it. The weather made him miserable, but he hadn’t said anything, and he didn’t shiver or cross his arms or otherwise attempt to warm himself.

“I can hear your teeth chattering,” Matt said. “Just take it.”

With a huff, Andrew dropped his bag, took the sweater, and pulled it on over his head. It was several sizes too big for him; Matt was almost a foot and a half taller than Andrew, but it was warm from Matt’s body, and it was a marked improvement over Andrew’s t-shirt. Once he was dressed and had his bag in his hand, Matt started off again without waiting for gratitude he knew he wouldn’t receive.

The place Matt had picked was a dive bar, a small, ugly little place with a thoroughly worn out dartboard and no menu anywhere in sight. A few men in trucker caps and boots sat at the bar watching the news on the TV. Andrew saw bowls of whole peanuts on the bar and shells on the floor by the stools, which reminded him of Neil, which pissed him off, because he used to be able to look at a bowl of peanuts without thinking about the last time he’d been to a dive bar and had let Neil toss peanuts into his mouth. Matt set his bag down in a booth towards the back, then offered to go to the bar.

“Tap or bottle? They have Domestic or Corona,” Matt said. “That’s about it.”

“Bottle,” Andrew said. “Corona. Slice of lime.”

Matt nodded. Andrew slid into the opposite side of the booth, and tucked his bag under his feet. There was music playing softly, some old country classic about being in a bar, and he rolled his eyes at the saccharine sentiment expressed in the chorus. Matt returned with his beer, and then they sat in silence for a few minutes.

The music wasn’t loud enough for them to not make conversation, and neither of them had any interest in watching the news. Quiet stretched on between them. Andrew often employed or created uncomfortable silence on purpose, but he found it unbearable to watch Matt slowly peel the label off his bottle of Michelob Ultra and shell peanuts.

“We’re friends, right?” Matt finally asked.

Andrew sat back against the booth and leveled him with a look.

Matt sighed, and shook his head, but he didn’t look upset.

“Neil was my friend,” Matt said.

“I know,” Andrew said. Neil had talked about Matt very frequently. He enjoyed Matt’s company. Matt knew a lot about exy and a lot about geography and a lot about being a well-adjusted, decent human being, and he was capable of letting other people in without a second thought. “It was mutual.”

A small smile spread over Matt’s face. Surely he had known that, but it still made him happy to hear it. Andrew tamped down his annoyance at the simple expression.

“Were you in love with Neil?” Matt asked.

“No,” Andrew replied automatically, and he began peeling the label off his bottle of Corona.

“Have you ever been in love?” Matt leaned back in his seat.

It was an extremely personal question, and Andrew didn’t appreciate it. Still, he said, “No.”

“Neil was crazy about you,” Matt said.

“He never mentioned it,” Andrew shoved the slice of lime down the neck of the bottle and watched it sink to the bottom.

“You didn’t know?” Matt asked, with genuine surprise apparent all over his face.

Andrew wondered how Matt had gotten so far in life with his emotions always out in the open for everyone to see. Instead of responding to Matt’s question, he said, “I haven’t heard from him. If that’s what this is about.”

Matt frowned, and slumped against the back of the booth. He looked worried and sad. “Dan’s worried about him.”

“You are, too,” Andrew said. He sipped his beer slowly. He didn’t drink unless it was to keep up appearances, and in this case, he was grateful to have something to do with his hands.

“Yeah,” Matt said. “Do you think he was kidnapped?”

“No,” Andrew lied. “I think he was always a flight risk, and he’s moved on.”

“That’s sh*tty,” Matt said. “I know he meant something to you. You might not want to admit it, but you guys had something really special. Do you think you’ll hear from him again?”

“No,” Andrew said, and that time, it was the truth.

It took Matt a moment, but he accepted the answer with a nod. They finished their beers in silence. Matt didn’t try to ask him any more questions, and Andrew didn’t offer any more information. He went home, took a shower, fed the cats, and lay down in his bed. In a perfect world, or at least a slightly better one, Andrew would be at a Korean fusion restaurant in Midtown with Neil instead of alone at home. He closed his eyes, but he couldn’t sleep. He thought about what Matt had asked him in the bar.

Andrew didn’t believe anyone had ever really loved him. All he had wanted as a child was to be loved, and he had himself convinced that he’d come close a few times, but it was never meant to be. He was passed from foster home to foster home so often that he never learned to form bonds with his peers or authority figures. The men in his many foster homes had never loved him; they had in fact held so little regard for him as a person that their abuse had nearly destroyed him from the inside out.

He had been half-wild by the time he ended up in juvie, and then he’d been forced to stop drinking and to stop cutting and to start playing sports, but the staff there hadn’t done all of that because they cared about him. They did it because they had to. Still, he remembered his time in juvie as among the best years of his life. He hadn’t been abused there; it was a good facility, and the staff hadn’t allowed any harm to come to him. Once he had privacy and free time and wasn’t living in constant fear, Andrew had learned to stop running away from his own fears and desires and weaknesses. He’d kissed a lot of boys in juvie, but he hadn’t loved any of them. His court-mandated therapist had been concerned about his inability to attach or bond, but Andrew had worked against all their attempts to reprogram him into a functioning member of society.

As an adult, Andrew wasn’t sure if he knew what love was. He had formed bonds in college, but they were mostly sustained by his fiercely protective nature. Aaron didn’t like him, but Andrew still protected him, and Aaron had still stood up for Andrew when it mattered. Kevin was a terrible point of reference for any kind of human relationship; he was selfish and closed off and cared more about his job than his family. He had probably never given love much thought during his life, either. Andrew’s cousin claimed that he loved him, but he didn’t understand him, and Andrew believed that without real understanding it couldn’t be real love.

People talked about love, and claimed to have experienced it in some form or another, but Andrew had never experienced it, or felt it, and had never been comfortable talking about it. He just assumed it was another thing that wasn’t meant to be. He’d never been loved, and he never would be. He had long ago come to the conclusion that some people were just meant to live without love, but that didn’t stop him from craving it. The desire for love had been inside him since he was born, and he couldn’t train it out of himself; he buried it as deep as he could, but it was there all the same.

Neil had never discussed love, or other similar emotions, with Andrew. That wasn’t necessarily a cause for concern, because Andrew knew that nobody had ever really loved Neil. It was an alien concept to both of them. He could only think that Matt had been overstepping and making assumptions. Neil wouldn’t have said the word love to Matt, either. Still, there must have been something that had clued Matt in. He stopped himself from wondering about it too much, because it didn’t matter, because Neil was gone. It was useless to waste time thinking about him or what Andrew might have meant to him.

That night, he dreamed about Neil, just like he had almost every night since they’d met. Neil ran away in all of Andrew’s dreams, too, but when he went to sleep the next night, Neil was there again. Andrew had never forgotten a person for as long as he’d been alive. He was glad, at least, that he could keep Neil alive in his mind and indulge in fantasy until the gap left in his life by Neil’s absence had been filled by other things and smoothed over by the passage of time. He slept, and he dreamed, and he tried not to take it personally when Neil ran away from him, over and over again.

Two months after Neil disappeared, Team USA started practicing every day, which meant Andrew was out of offseason Scorpions practice until September. It was a generous exemption for his team to provide, but they allowed it because he wasn’t really taking time off; he was just going to tend goal for someone else. He’d still be practicing, just not with them. Team USA was an impressive roster of well-trained and thoroughly vetted athletes, and Andrew was among only five who had returned from the 2004 team. One of the other five was Kevin. Andrew had a strange but consistent relationship with Kevin; all the man cared about was exy, which made it hard to relate to him as one would with any other human being. Kevin was as devastatingly handsome as he was unbearably boring, and he was one of the only people on Earth that Andrew would consider his friend.

When they started having regular practice in New York, Kevin moved in with Andrew part-time, like he had in 2004. The second bedroom in Andrew’s apartment was still full of Kevin’s stuff from four years ago; nobody else had ever slept there.

“Hi, Cat,” Kevin greeted Cat 1 as he stood in Andrew’s living room with two suitcases and a duffel bag. “Did you get a new sofa?”

“No,” Andrew said. It was a new sofa, but it looked just like the old one. Andrew liked lying to Kevin, because Kevin wasn’t stupid, and he always eventually figured out he had been lied to. The ensuing arguments once he learned the truth were always entertaining.

Daily practice for the fast approaching Olympics meant adopting a thorough fitness and health regimen. Team USA employed a doctor, a counselor, four physical therapists, four nutritionists, and two permanent staff assistants meant to cater to the players every whim. Andrew had already submitted his paperwork to be seen by a counselor of his choosing instead of the team therapist, and he was first on the schedule for the mandatory physical that day.

“They’re going to tell you to quit,” Kevin said. He’d changed into his Team USA warmups: a ridiculous blue tracksuit made of windbreaker material with TEAM USA 2008 emblazoned on the back in silver letters, and some shiny athletic shoes. He’d zipped the jacket up to his chin. There was a matching baseball cap, but Kevin wasn’t wearing it.

“I know,” Andrew lit another cigarette. They’d asked him to quit in 2004, too.

Kevin shrugged. He helped himself to a bowl of cereal, and once he’d finished, he went and stood by the front door. Andrew ashed his cigarette and put on his shoes and grabbed his bag.

“Did you forget your hat?” Andrew asked.

Kevin wrinkled his nose. “The hat’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

Andrew didn’t dignify that with a response. They walked to the subway in silence, and it wasn’t until the train had pulled out of the station that Kevin started talking again.

“When are we going to talk about it?”

“It?” Andrew echoed.

“Nathaniel,” Kevin said.

Andrew looked at him and said flatly, “I don’t know anyone named Nathaniel.”

“You never told me what he was calling himself,” Kevin reminded him, but there was an irritated furrow between his eyebrows. “You haven’t told me anything. You didn’t even tell me you were seeing someone.”

“What is there to tell?” Andrew watched the tile walls of the tunnel whip past the windows.

“Do you think he’s dead?” Kevin asked.

“I don’t think anything,” Andrew stood up and moved to stand in front of the door. He kept his back to Kevin as they stepped off the train and climbed the stairs out onto the street.

The walk to the fitness center was quiet, but Andrew could tell it was just because Kevin was trying to figure out what to say next. He had more talking and more questions to look forward to. It might not be so bad; he might find out more about the extent of Kevin and Neil’s relationship. Neil had brushed it off as nothing, but he did that with a lot of things.

When they arrived, Andrew went to the nurse’s office, and Kevin went to the gym. It was a routine examination: pee in a cup for drug testing, have blood drawn for drug testing, provide a hair sample for drug testing, and answer a slew of invasive personal questions, which may or may not have anything to do with drugs.

“Are you sexually active?” the physician asked. He was a meek, mild-mannered man with salt and pepper hair and small wire-frame glasses, and he had made copious amounts of notes on his clipboard during Andrew’s appointment.

“Yes,” Andrew replied. He sat shirtless on the exam bench while the nurse took his vitals and poked at his arms and neck and legs, testing his flexibility and his reflexes and his reaction time. She directed him to hold out his arms, palm up, and she balked slightly when she saw his bare skin. He ignored her grimace, and sat through the press down and lift up and push back routine while her colleague pried into Andrew’s personal business.

“When was your last sexual encounter?”

“March,” Andrew said, and he prepared himself for the inevitable fumbling, uncomfortable follow-up question.

“I see,” the doctor scribbled on the clipboard. “And did you use protection with that sexual partner? I see a note here in your file that you prefer…”

“I used a condom when I f*cked him,” Andrew said, and he turned his gaze to the doctor’s face. It was two lies in one; he hadn’t really f*cked Neil and neither of them had worn a condom, but Andrew was tested regularly, and Neil was a virgin. Neither of them had posed a risk to the other. Still, he liked the discomfort on the man’s face at the crass phrasing of Andrew’s response.

“I see,” the doctor said again, then he cleared his throat, and then he moved on to the next question. “Do you drink or smoke?”

“Constantly,” Andrew said mildly.

“You are expected to quit smoking before the team departs for Beijing,” the doctor said. “I’m surprised your home team hasn’t said anything to you.”

They had, but Andrew hadn’t listened. He sat through a few more questions, some of which he answered truthfully, and some he didn’t. When the interrogation was over, he put his armbands and his sweater back on, and on his way out, the nurse handed him a plastic bag full of stop-smoking aids. He scowled at her, but he took the bag.

When Kevin saw the bag of Nicorette and stop-smoking patches, he was just as smug about it as Andrew had expected him to be. They went to practice, and Kevin went to his own physical, and then they went back to Andrew’s apartment. Kevin made dinner according to their new nutritional guidelines, and then he disappeared into his room to do whatever it was he did on his own time.

At some point during the evening, Andrew realized it was too quiet. If things had gone according to plan, he would be at a new Italian place in West Village with Neil. Instead, he was sitting on his sofa staring at the dormant TV with a cat in his lap and a strange, unwelcome ache in his chest. He turned on the TV. It was 7:30PM on a weeknight. There was nothing on. He turned off the TV. He sat listlessly on the sofa and stared into the middle distance until Kevin emerged on his way to the bathroom. When he saw Andrew sitting in silence, he frowned.

“What the f*ck are you doing?” he asked.

“What does it look like,” Andrew asked.

“It looks like you’re sitting alone in the dark and staring at the wall,” Kevin said.

Andrew nodded.

“You miss him,” Kevin crossed his arms over his chest.

“I will fill the gap eventually,” Andrew said.

Kevin’s face softened. Andrew hated it when Kevin’s face softened. He stared apathetically back at him. Undeterred, Kevin sat down on the sofa next to him and turned on the TV.

“Oh, man, X-Files is on,” Kevin said, and he took the cat off Andrew’s lap when he settled in to watch.

Andrew sat next to him, and didn’t watch the TV, but he took some small comfort in Kevin’s blessedly quiet presence next to him. It wasn’t what he wanted, but it would have to do. Neil had made it very clear he wasn’t coming back, and Andrew had no choice but to believe him. It wasn’t the first time someone had left Andrew, and it wouldn’t be the last. He was capable of compartmentalizing it. Kevin didn’t try to talk to him anymore, and Andrew didn’t put space between them or get up and leave. It was better than nothing.

Like all children, Andrew had been born without a name.

Unlike most children, he had remained nameless for most of his adolescence.

He was named by the system, ANDREW, because the nameless child before him had been ALLEN, and his brother, who was younger by two minutes, was named AARON because one of the nurses took pity on the runt of the litter and suggested it to their caseworker. His middle name was JOSEPH, because he was born in a Catholic hospital, and they bestowed a Biblical name on all the abandoned babies. He had been ANDREW DOE until he went to juvie, and then he’d become ANDREW MINYARD, and then he’d become Aaron’s brother, and then Andrew had made them both orphans.

Andrew had considered his mother to be largely insignificant, both as a parent and a person, and having her name meant very little to him. He kept it because it tied him to Aaron. Their names had been at the top of every team roster and every class schedule: A MINYARD and A MINYARD, one right after the other, the way it had been the day they were born. Alphabetically, Aaron came first, which worked for Andrew; even before they had formally met, Andrew had put Aaron before a lot of things.

Aaron called Andrew every other Tuesday at 9:30PM, without fail. Sometimes he called from the on-call room at the hospital, sometimes he called from the shower, sometimes he called from a restaurant, and his wife would say hi Andrew and then let them have their conversation without interruption. Andrew didn’t always have a lot to say to his brother. They had been strangers most of their lives, for the first fourteen years they had assumed they were both alone in the world, and then they had spent all of high school developing a tense and bitter rivalry. In college, they had been enemies. Then Aaron had killed a man, and the shape of their relationship had been forever changed. It took a second murder to finally bring them together as brothers, a fact that Andrew had always found to be satisfying in his own morbid way.

Andrew was on the roof when Aaron called on their predetermined Tuesday in July. He wasn’t smoking, but he wished he was. Instead, he had a piece of Nicorette wedged between his upper teeth and cheek, and he was waiting for the tingling to subside so he could spit it out and put a lollipop in his mouth, instead. He had an oral fixation, his therapist said, and she’d given Andrew a bunch of suggestions to help him cope with the absence of a cigarette. Lollipops were fine, but it wasn’t the same.

When the phone rang, Andrew answered it right away. He didn’t wait for Aaron to greet him, and he didn’t bother with pleasantries. He said, “I’ve been seeing someone.”

Aaron, to his credit, rolled with it, and replied, “Anyone I might know?”

“No,” Andrew said. “He was in witsec. He left in March.”

“So you were seeing someone, but not anymore?” Aaron asked. It was quiet in the background, which meant he was at home.

“Yes,” Andrew said.

“What was he like?” Aaron asked.

“You would’ve hated him,” Andrew said.

“Probably,” Aaron agreed easily.

“Team USA wants me to quit smoking,” Andrew said.

“Good luck with that,” Aaron said, and then he changed the subject again. Andrew listened to him talk about his life for the next several minutes. They were going to Montauk for two weeks in the summer. His wife couldn’t wait to watch the Olympics and she wanted Andrew to know they’d be cheering him on. He’d gotten a new therapist and wasn’t having nightmares very often anymore. They’d adopted a dog, and Andrew could meet it if he wanted. By the time Aaron had finished catching him up, Andrew had finished two lollipops, and moved on to another piece of Nicorette. His tongue burned as the nicotine spread slowly through his mouth.

When Aaron fell silent, it stayed silent, but that was customary. If Andrew wanted to share, he would. Aaron left space for it, and if Andrew decided not to take it, they’d end the call. Andrew had already shared everything important. He bit down on the gum and sucked on it.

“Would you have killed him if it hadn’t been me?” Andrew finally asked.

There was a surprised silence on the other end of the line, and then Aaron said, “No, Andrew.”

Andrew had expected as much. It wasn’t like it made a difference to know that; Aaron had been acquitted and his record had been expunged because he had been acting in defense of another. An acquittal with an expunged record had been the ideal outcome, because no real legal proof of it ever happening meant that Andrew hadn’t completely f*cked up his brother’s life by putting him in a position where he could become collateral damage.

“I would do it again,” Aaron said. “If I had to.”

Six years ago he had not been as understanding, but Aaron had put a lot of miles between himself and Andrew, and a lot of therapy and a lot of years in between himself and killing Andrew’s rapist. Aaron had been nasty and almost as closed off as Andrew in college, but he was different, now. He had a wife and a dog and a license to practice medicine in the state of Illinois, and he saw a therapist twice a week and planned vacations in Montauk. Andrew wasn’t jealous. He didn’t want a wife and a dog or a vacation in Montauk, but the idea of that kind of life still pulled at something inside of him, something he had never really taken time to examine.

Andrew, as a rule, did not apologize. He couldn’t remember the last time he had said I’m sorry or my bad or oops. Despite that, in that moment, he bit down hard on his flavorless Nicorette to keep himself from saying something. He wasn’t sure why he had the urge to apologize now, when it was long since past. All his post-Neil free time gave him too many opportunities to sit around and think about his life and poke at his old wounds.

“I think you should call your therapist,” Aaron said.

“Probably,” Andrew said. He leaned forward and spit his gum out over the edge of the building.

Two Tuesdays from that night Andrew would be in Beijing, so there was no follow-up phone call scheduled. They wouldn’t speak again until September, but it was likely their relationship would withstand the two month break.

“Enjoy Montauk,” Andrew said, and he didn’t bother to keep a teasing note of derision out of his voice.

“f*ck you,” Aaron said. “Good luck at the Olympics.”

Andrew unwrapped another lollipop. He hung up the phone. According to his watch, it was almost 10:00. Andrew bit down on the lollipop and cracked the candy off the stick with his teeth. He stood up and collected his gum and his lollipop wrappers, and went downstairs to his apartment, where he took a shower and changed his clothes. Kevin sat on the couch and watched him get ready, and Andrew ignored him. Ten minutes later he was wearing new jeans and a clean white t-shirt and he was on the subway downtown.

The West Village was quiet on weeknights, and it was too late on a Tuesday for him to get into any real trouble. He went to a familiar place, a club where the bouncer knew him by his first name and always let him in without too much hassle. When he arrived he was waved to the front of the line. Once he stepped through the threshold and off the street, the ambience of the club swallowed him. It was dark and cool, lit by strobes and narrow track lighting on the floor around the edge of the bar and booths. The dance floor was the most crowded Andrew had ever seen on a weeknight, and the whole place smelled like weed and cigarettes and a dozen different varieties of cologne. The room was full of men his own age, some a little older, but hardly any much younger. Music throbbed in his ears, and his pulse picked up in response to the energy in the room.

At the bar, he ordered water. A few men approached him, most older, and he dismissed them all. Andrew knew what assumptions were made about his role in places like this; he was short and blonde and well-groomed, but everyone he rebuffed got the message and left him alone. Andrew hadn’t cruised since the day he’d gone to Koreatown with Neil, but he’d done it often enough before then that he wasn’t too far out of his depth. After he’d finished his second glass of water, he spotted a man on the edge of the dancefloor; lithe, well-muscled, brunette, and staring very boldly at Andrew from across the room.

He set down his glass and wove his way through the throng of dancers to place himself in the man’s space. There was an urgency to his process, now. Andrew wasn’t the type to lose his nerve, but he was suddenly in a hurry to get this man alone and let himself operate on autopilot for a few minutes.

“Hi, handsome,” the man said. He had green eyes and a small mustache, and there were tattoos on his forearms. “All alone tonight?”

“Can you keep your hands to yourself?” Andrew asked him.

“Sure, if that’s what you’re into,” the man agreed with a shrug. As if to illustrate his point, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Follow me,” Andrew turned and led him back through the club to the hall by the bathrooms. He unlocked the door to the staff closet with the keycode, and held the door open.

Andrew took a condom out of his pocket and held it up between them.

“Do not touch me,” he said.

Henry nodded, and he asked, “Do you want to kiss first?”

“No,” Andrew said. He took a step forward and slid to his knees in front of Henry. The floor was cold, even through the fabric of his jeans, and the music from the club was still loud, even in the back of the building with a closed door between them and the speakers. The music did nothing to hide the change in Henry’s breathing when Andrew reached up and took his co*ck out of his pants.

Andrew liked giving head. It was by far the act he had engaged in the most as an adult, and he was good at it. Henry’s co*ck was decently sized, but not too thick, and he was cut. Andrew eyed him for a moment, then took him in hand and stroked him to full hardness. The action itself was intimate, but there was always a certain mechanical aspect to it when it was nearly-anonymous like this. It would have been entirely anonymous if Henry hadn’t shared his name, and Andrew didn’t intend to share his. He opened the condom wrapper and rolled it on.

“Don’t touch,” Andrew reminded, and Henry made an irritated sound in the back of his throat, but he said, “Yeah, I got it,” and then Andrew took him in his mouth. It didn’t take much longer after that; Henry was either very inexperienced or very wound up, and Andrew knew his way around a blowj*b. When Henry started pressing his hips forward minutely in partially aborted thrusts, Andrew opened his eyes and looked up so that he could watch his face as he came. His eyelids fluttered in a way that Andrew liked, and he made a soft, plaintive sound that Andrew also liked. It reminded him of Neil. The thought of Neil at that moment made him sit back on his heels and close his eyes.

He let Henry take off his own condom. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, and then he realized that he wasn’t hard. Andrew rubbed absently at his jaw, and he wished for a cigarette. He’d left all his lollipops and his Nicorette at his apartment, and while he’d managed to scratch whatever itch had been building under his skin for most of the evening, he still felt like something was missing.

“What about you?” Henry asked.

“No,” Andrew said. “Lock the door when you leave.”

He left Henry alone in the staff room, and went out the back entrance of the club into the narrow alley behind the building. There was a store on the corner offering beer and lottery tickets and cigarettes. Andrew bought a pack of Juicy Fruit and a bag of Twizzlers, and walked to the subway. The entire evening had confused him. His phone call with Aaron had been strange, weighted, and he’d almost found himself saying things he never thought he’d say. He hadn’t cruised in almost a year, but it had always served his needs before. Andrew always got hard when he gave head. Henry had been cute, even if a little pretentious in a French way, and he’d clearly been happy with the outcome, but Andrew didn’t understand his own reaction to the whole thing. He wasn’t satisfied. His jaw ached and his knees ached and that was usually more than enough; he sought out casual sex because it had always worked for him.

On the subway platform, he took out his phone and dialed his therapist’s after-hours number. In college, his therapist had been a diminutive woman named Betsy, but she worked for the school and he had to stop seeing her as a client when he graduated. They kept in touch, but she wasn’t able to provide him with any mental health advice. His current therapist was a slightly less diminutive woman named Jill. He was one of her only three clients with permission to use the after-hours number. The phone rang five times, and then Jill answered.

“Hello?” Jill sounded half-asleep, and a little annoyed.

“I hooked up,” Andrew said.

“Andrew?”

“I miss him,” he said.

“That’s okay,” Jill replied. “Are you safe?”

“I’m going home,” he said.

“Do you want to stop by tomorrow? I can work through lunch.”

“I didn’t get hard,” Andrew was alone on the subway platform eating Twizzlers, and he was bouncing his knee fiercely, an uncharacteristic nervous tic that had him scowling down at his own leg. He wanted a cigarette. “What if he broke my dick?”

“You’ve experienced sexual dysfunction before,” Jill said. “It’s normal to be physically and emotionally confused after suffering a loss. Your dick isn’t broken.”

“Okay,” Andrew said. “See you at lunch.”

“Fine,” Jill said. “Goodnight.”

She hung up before Andrew could offend her by not replying with a goodnight of his own . He sat on the bench on the platform and jiggled his leg until he started to annoy himself, and then he started untwisting the Twizzlers to eat them one thin vine at a time. By the time the train arrived, he’d worked his way through the whole bag.

At home, he took a shower and slapped on a nicotine patch and lay down in his bed and stared up at the ceiling. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of Neil on his knees in front of him, a cigarette in one hand and a condom in the other. In his dream, Andrew reached for the condom before he reached for the cigarette. He woke up hours later and stumbled to the bathroom to be sick. He peeled off the nicotine patch and took another shower. It had been fifty-one days since he’d had a cigarette. It had been almost double that since he’d last seen Neil. He went back to bed and had the same dream, but this time Neil was holding a cigarette in one hand and his other was empty, outstretched towards Andrew. Andrew still reached for Neil first.

Kevin sat next to Andrew on their flight to Beijing.

After the flight to Athens four years ago when Andrew had been woken up by a well-meaning stewardess and punched their starting backliner so hard he’d screamed, Kevin had been his seatmate for every ensuing Olympics related event. They kept that rule for 2008, too. Kevin knew better than to touch Andrew when he was asleep, and he also knew Andrew hated flying. Instead of remaining silent and sympathetic at Andrew’s side, Kevin teased him.

“If we don’t win Gold, this flight will have been for nothing,” Kevin said. “And then we’ll have to fly home as losers.”

“Shut up,” Andrew ground out.

He’d been offered Xanax and refused it. He’d been offered some tips for self-soothing and refused those, too. It was a seventeen hour flight with no layover, and Andrew was Kevin Day’s captive audience for the duration.

Kevin opened his mouth to say something else, probably something unhelpful, or worse, something about exy.

“Shut up,” Andrew said again.

“Not for free,” Kevin said. “What was his name?”

A harmless enough question in exchange for Kevin’s silence for seventeen hours. Andrew barely had to consider it.

“Neil,” Andrew said. “Now shut up.”

Satisfied, Kevin sat back in his chair and put on his eye mask. He fell asleep quickly, and Andrew woke him up for meals and beverage service, and then he went back to sleep. Andrew didn’t sleep, and he didn’t eat. He sat and stared at the seat cushion in front of him and wished it wasn’t a Federal crime to smoke on an aircraft. The detox period was over, and the cravings were mostly gone, but he still found himself wishing for a cigarette when he was anxious or lonely. He’d stopped dreaming about smoking, but he hadn’t stopped dreaming about Neil.

The first week of the Olympic festivities were irrelevant to Andrew. He knew it was an incredible thing to be part of so he didn’t take it for granted, he just wasn’t interested in parties or shaking hands or bumping elbows with the greatest names in sports. He attended every event as required, fully dressed in Team USA gear. He shook hands and played nice and followed Kevin like a shadow. They shared a room in the Olympic village, and on their third night, Kevin got drunk at an impromptu bar crawl with half of the Chinese swimming team.

“I can’t believe we’re here again, man,” Kevin said. He was still a weepy, morose drunk, just like he had been in college. “The Olympics is a once in a lifetime thing. And I’ve been twice in my lifetime.”

Andrew grunted a response to that. He hadn’t joined in on the bar crawl, but he had answered Kevin’s phone call and met him at the last bar to walk him back to the village. Kevin lay on the floor in their room and stared up the ceiling. There was a trash can and a bottle of Pedialyte by his head. He was wearing his Team USA baseball cap and a pair of boxer shorts and one sock. Andrew was lying flat on his back in his bed chewing Nicorette and tossing an exy ball up and down. Catch, toss, catch, toss. The nicotine burned his tongue.

“f*ck,” Kevin said, and he looked, for a moment, blissfully happy. “My mom would be so proud of me.”

“Yes,” Andrew said.

Kevin pushed himself up on his elbow and smiled at Andrew. It was a loose, gentle smile, soft at the edges in a way that Kevin rarely was.

“Go to sleep,” Andrew said, and he didn’t smile back. “We have to play tomorrow.”

Kevin lay back down.

“f*ck,” he said again. “I’m at the Olympics.”

Andrew turned off the lights. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but soon Kevin was waking him up bright and early, and he stumbled his way through warm-ups and pre-game rituals and then he was called out onto the court for the first of the elimination matches. They played France, and won, just barely, at 9-8.

Over the next few days, they played a series of brutal match-ups meant to narrow it down to four final teams, and then, ultimately, two. They played China, and lost. They played Canada, and won. They played Japan, and lost, just barely, again at 9-8. After a grueling week and a half, the final four was comprised of South Africa, Canada, Japan, and USA. South Africa lost to Canada, and then Canada lost to USA, and then Canada lost to Japan, placing themselves in third overall. Japan and USA were tied in total points, which would make the final match a true decision maker.

“I was really hoping it wouldn’t be Japan,” Kevin said.

In 2004, USA had beaten Canada in the second tie-breaker game. Japan hadn’t even placed, and they’d come back with a vengeance. They didn’t intend to be beaten at their own game again. Their team was incredible, an intimidating, well-oiled machine, and Kevin had made himself sick with nerves by watching highlights from their games over the last week and a half.

“They already beat us once,” Andrew said.

Kevin looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “I know you didn’t just f*cking say that.”

Andrew shrugged. He couldn’t let it matter too much. If it mattered too much, it would be that much harder for him to keep his cool on the court when they faced Japan in their final match the next day. Andrew had also played with Kevin often enough to know that the worst thing he could do would be to show any sort of concern. If Kevin couldn’t rely on Andrew to remain steady and level-headed, then he couldn’t rely on anybody. Kevin rolled his eyes at his dismissive attitude, but Andrew knew he was silently grateful for it.

The next day, their Coach gave them all a very inspiring speech in the locker room, and then announced the line-up, and then told them to play the best they could. Two consecutive Gold wins would be history making, but there was no pressure. Andrew definitely felt pressure, and he knew the whole team did, too. To his own surprise, his hands were shaking slightly as he strapped on his gear before he went to wait in the hall for his position to be called.

Japan played the whole first half like they had something to prove. It scared the sh*t out of Kevin. At half-time, he sat on the bench with his head in his hands and muttered what might have been a prayer to himself in rapidfire French. Andrew didn’t blame him. It was a tight game. They were tied, 8-8. Six of the goals had been scored on Andrew’s second quarter sub. His sub was very visibly crumbling under the pressure, but he was supposed to play the first quarter of the second half, too. They couldn’t afford another six goals scored by Japan, not when they hadn’t been able to create a point gap in the beginning to fall back on.

“Minyard,” Coach said. “Can you play a full half?”

“Yes,” Andrew said.

“Smith, you’re out,” the decision was made. “Minyard is in the whole second half. Can you shut it down?”

Andrew gave him a look. He said, “It won’t matter what I do if the defensive line doesn’t do their job.”

There was silence in the wake of his statement. Nobody was quite sure what to make of it. He spoke very rarely, and if he did, it wasn’t to offer constructive criticism on play style or teammate performance.

“He’s right,” Kevin said. “We all need to do better.”

“Who asked you, Day?” one of the backliners muttered.

“They’re both right,” Coach said. “Quit bitching. I want to see some real playing, and by the end of the third quarter I want to see a point gap so wide I could drive a truck through it. First person to fumble or otherwise piss me off gets subbed out.”

The team took that silently, morose and embarrassed, but thoroughly incentivized. Nobody wanted to be subbed out; they all wanted to be on the court, to be part of history.

“Can you do it?” Coach asked Andrew, quietly, with genuine concern on his face.

“I can,” Andrew said. “Can they?”

Coach shrugged. Andrew took it as a dismissal. He strapped on his helmet and stepped back out onto the court when he was called. After he’d positioned himself in the goal, Kevin came up to him and pressed the grills of their helmets together.

“When’s the last time you played a full half?” he asked.

“Senior year,” Andrew replied.

“You can do this,” Kevin said.

“I can,” Andrew said, and then, “Your backliner is weak on his left side.”

Kevin didn’t reply to that. It was likely he already knew. He knocked their heads together gently, and went to his spot on the line. The whistle announcing the start of the second half cut through Andrew like a knife. He played his best when he was relaxed, when he could pretend there were no stakes and it didn’t matter whether they won or lost. It was impossible for him to pretend the second half of a tied game at the Olympics didn’t matter. Instead, he had to funnel the anxiety and worry that rose up inside him into something else.

He made it through the third quarter without letting in a single goal. It spurred him on to see the anger mount in the Japanese team, and he let his delight in their anger push back against the nerves. Andrew knew he was unimpressive in appearance, and his sub’s performance had been abysmal. They hadn’t been expecting Andrew. He tried to pace himself, but they didn’t go easy on him even though they were ahead, and he had to quickly dismiss any hope he’d carried for an easy third quarter.

By the time they’d started the fourth quarter, his hands were almost numb. His wrists ached. He was pouring sweat, and his legs were trembling slightly. It felt like years had passed since the whistle, but when he checked the clock, they still had nine minutes left in the final quarter. The score was sitting at a too-tight 9-8, in USA’s favor. Kevin had been subbed back on for the final quarter, and he was keeping to the left of his mark. With seven minutes left, Kevin feinted left, tossed the ball to the opposite striker, and moved a fraction of a second too slow to avoid a vicious stick check against the side of his helmet. The left side striker caught Kevin’s pass, took eight steps, and sent the ball sailing across the court, right into the goal, just as his mark took him out at the knees and the ref blew the whistle. 10-8, USA’s favor.

Kevin was owed a penalty shot for the stick-check, and the aggressive backliner was pulled off the court. He made the shot, and the goal lit up. The gap was wide enough that even if Andrew couldn’t keep the goal locked down Japan would have to really work to close it with only five minutes left, but Andrew didn’t relax. He had seen less happen in five minutes. He had seen games change in the blink of an eye. The small reprieve provided by the break for Kevin’s penalty shot had given him the chance to catch his breath, but his limbs felt like jelly.

When play resumed with a whistle, he tightened his grip on his racquet and watched the ball. He was safe in the goal; he couldn’t be body-checked or tripped or have his defensive position taken away from him. All he had to do was watch the ball, and then stop the ball if it became necessary.

A ball sailed towards his goal. Whack. He sent it back, clear across the court. Three minutes left. Another ball, summarily blocked, and then another. USA’s defense was asleep at the wheel, and it was all Andrew could do to heft his racquet and block shot after shot. With twenty seconds left, Japan’s best striker gave one last impressive shot, and Andrew dove to his knees and slid on the court to block it. He didn’t really need to; they had won. He hit the court hard, and stopped the ball with the padding on his elbow. The force of the impact ignited an intense ache up his arm, deep into his shoulder. The buzzer sounded. He didn’t stand up.

Pandemonium erupted, red white and blue confetti filled the air, and Kevin came over to the goal to pull Andrew to his feet.

“You’re f*cking incredible,” Kevin shouted into Andrew’s ear, above the roar of celebration. “I’ve never seen anyone play like that. Where was that in college?”

“They didn’t give us medals in college,” Andrew said, but his voice was strained with exhaustion.

Kevin shoved at Andrew’s helmet playfully, but he kept his arm around Andrew’s shoulders and supported most of his body weight while the entire USA team flooded the court and engaged in ecstatic revelry befitting of two-time Olympic Gold champions. Underneath his helmet, Andrew was almost smiling.

That surprised Andrew, but he tried not to let it show. For team sports everyone got a medal and everyone stood on the same podium, but there was always one towards the middle, or at the front, to receive the first medal for the team and to hold the Olympic official’s hand for the cameras.

“Why?” he asked.

“Don’t be difficult, Minyard,” Bright said. “Call your family and tell them to turn on the TV.”

Aaron would already be watching. Kevin was there with him, and Kevin's dad would be watching, too. There was nobody else for Andrew to call. Instead of replying, he nodded, and followed Bright to the court. It had already been set up for the ceremony, and Japan and Canada, Silver and Bronze, were already in place on their risers. Team USA assembled behind Andrew on the middle riser, and Andrew was the first to bow his head to be medaled. Their coach grabbed one of his hands, and the Olympic official grabbed the other, and when they lifted his arms over his head to thunderous applause and shouts of USA! USA! , Andrew couldn’t help himself. He smiled.

In October, the Scorpions were on track to play in the championships that season. It would be their fourth consecutive championship year, and if they won, their second consecutive championship title. In November, they asked Andrew to start training to play full halves. He agreed, but not for free. The day he signed his new eight-figure contract, he also had therapy. He went right from the team’s office to his therapist’s office.

“Good afternoon, Andrew,” Jill greeted him.

“Jill,” he replied.

“How much did they offer you?” she asked.

“Thirteen,” he said.

“That’s very impressive,” she said. “Coffee?”

“No,” he said.

“Happy Birthday,” she said.

Andrew didn’t reply. As a rule, he didn’t acknowledge his birthday. Aaron had texted him earlier, and Andrew had ignored it, like he always did. Nobody else had reached out to him, because they knew better. He was 26. He was older than he had ever thought he would live to be.

“Are you happy with your new contract?” Jill crossed one leg over the other and picked up her pen, a combination of movements that meant the session had begun.

“Yes,” Andrew said.

“That’s great,” she said, and she smiled, and then she wrote something down on the notepad in her lap. “Did you get your 2008 Jersey framed yet?”

“Yes,” Andrew said.

Jill co*cked her head and fixed him with a look. They sat in silence for a moment, and then Andrew raised an eyebrow at her. He waited for a question or a prompt that didn’t come.

“Is there something specific you want to talk about?” Jill asked, finally, when the silence had drawn on for longer than Andrew was comfortable with.

There was, but he hadn’t expected to be asked about it. Since his confusing experience in the West Village that past summer, he hadn’t tried to have sex again. It was normal for him to go a few months without it, but he hadn’t masturbat*d, either. He in fact had not experienced even a frisson of arousal since he’d had sex with Neil, almost ten months prior.

“I don’t want to talk about my job,” he said.

“Okay,” Jill uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them with the opposite leg on top. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I didn’t get hard,” he said.

“Are you referring to your experience this past summer?” Jill asked. “What brought this up again?”

“When I had sex with Neil, I couldn’t finish,” Andrew said. “Not with him watching me.”

“Did you achieve climax at all during your time with Neil?”

“Yes,” Andrew said. “I let him touch me.”

“I see,” Jill said, in that infuriating way doctors had of saying I see, as if they really did see, and it wasn’t just a rote response meant to make their patient feel heard. “He was the first person to touch you intimately with your consent?”

“Yes,” Andrew said.

“And you’ve been struggling with dysfunction since then?” Jill took some more notes, and then flipped through a few pages on her notepad. “Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know,” Andrew said, because he didn’t.

It had been a spur of the moment decision to let Neil touch him, and he hadn’t expected it to work. Despite his expansive knowledge of sex as a practice and his numerous consensual experiences in adulthood, nobody had ever been allowed to bring Andrew to org*sm. His abusers hadn’t cared about his pleasure, so he had been spared for the most part, but he still couldn’t stand the feeling of hands on his body. He didn’t like people grabbing or groping him, and the mere idea of someone’s hand on his co*ck or between his legs or even on the skin of his thighs was usually enough to fill him with revulsion.

In the moment where he’d decided to let Neil touch him, he had been frustrated, and overwrought, and tired of feeling like he couldn’t enjoy even the most basic sexual encounter. A handjob was beginner stuff. He remembered thinking that he should be able to sit through a handjob and ejacul*te like a normal person.

Neil’s hand had been soft. He had touched Andrew hesitantly, very carefully, and with a noticeable amount of inexperience. Andrew had noticed that, specifically, and then he’d been acutely aware of the fact that he was the first person Neil had ever touched. The thought excited him, and he finished, and then it disgusted him. He remembered hiding in the bathroom, and he remembered kicking Neil out, and he remembered going back into the bathroom and heaving his guts out. Andrew didn’t believe in guilt or shame or regret. He dismissed them entirely. He could not, however, dismiss his frustration or confusion.

“I liked that he was a virgin,” Andrew said. “That’s what got me to finish.”

“Okay,” Jill said. “Was it the act of taking his virginity that excited you, or was it the fact he trusted you enough to share his first experience with you?”

Andrew sat and stared at her for a few moments. He hadn’t thought about it that way.

Instead of responding directly to that, he said, “They all thought I was a virgin.”

Jill frowned. She didn’t reply right away.

“I didn’t tell them,” Andrew said. “They all thought they were the first.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“They acted like it was special,” he said.

Andrew hadn’t discussed his childhood in therapy for over a year. It was another thing he had compartmentalized. He’d done enough work to get himself through the worst of it. He was no longer irrationally afraid of men named Steven, and he no longer got sick at the sight of a children’s soccer uniform. He could eat bananas and he could shower with the bathroom door open and he could enjoy certain sex acts without having a panic attack. Once he had trained the flinch out of himself, he had decided he was done discussing his childhood. Jill had never prompted him to talk about it, but she knew enough to refer back to it on occasion.

“I like watching men come,” Andrew said. He’d liked watching Neil’s face, and he’d liked that had Neil looked so caught off guard by it. His eyes had rolled back in his head slightly, and his mouth had dropped open. He’d made a sound, too, a moan that sounded unlike anything Andrew had ever heard anyone make before. It had been almost unbearable to look at him, and Andrew had pressed his forehead to Neil’s shoulder when he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“That's standard for gay men, I think,” Jill said.

Andrew remembered a few of his partners biting their lips to stay quiet, and he felt good. He remembered Neil's eyes rolling back in his head when Andrew slid a third finger inside him, and he felt even better. He remembered look at me let me see those pretty eyes that’s a good boy Andrew, and he felt sick to his stomach. He asked, “Is that how they felt?”

“Who? Your rapists?” Jill looked surprised by the question.

Andrew nodded and asked, “Is it the same?”

“No,” Jill said. “You’re not a rapist, are you?”

“No,” Andrew said.

“Enjoying giving your sexual partner pleasure is completely different from enjoying seeing someone scared and in pain,” Jill was taking a lot of notes. “They’re not even close.”

“The cause is the same,” Andrew said pointedly.

“Is that why you were upset about your reaction to Neil being a virgin?” Jill asked. “You thought you were re-enacting your own abuse on him?”

Andrew sat still and silent and stared at her.

“Did Neil ask you to stop?” Jill asked. “Was he scared or in pain?”

“No,” Andrew said. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What else did you enjoy about your experience with Neil?”

Andrew immediately knew the answer to that. He liked kissing Neil.

Andrew liked kissing in general. It was the only aspect of sex that he had learned for himself, on his own time, and the first intimate act he made the decision to engage in of his own volition. A lot of things had been taken away from him, some things had been ruined completely, but kissing wasn’t one of those things. Andrew had never willingly put himself in an intimate scenario where he was not the dominant partner, and that included kissing. Even if it was a slow, careful kiss with no end goal in mind, he was on top, or he was pinning his partner down, or he was otherwise in complete control of the kiss. It was easy to find people who preferred to surrender control; Andrew’s aggressive approach to sex was appealing to a very large assortment of men.

He’d shared a casual, on-and-off arrangement with a friend of his cousin’s in college: a bartender with a bright smile, and Andrew had solved the problem of his wandering hands with restraints. He didn’t prefer that, but it was necessary if he wanted to get what he needed from somebody who otherwise perfectly fit the bill. Even when Andrew was on his knees, he had to be in charge. Kissing was by far the easiest intimate act to maintain control over. Neil was perfectly pliant when he was kissed; all the fight went out of him, and he responded beautifully to everything Andrew was willing to give.

“I liked kissing him,” Andrew said.

“Were you his first kiss?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” Andrew said.

“But you still liked doing that, even though you weren’t the first,” Jill said.

“Kissing is different,” Andrew said. “Everyone kisses. Sex is more.”

“Not to you, it isn’t. I think you liked that he trusted you,” Jill said. “He was excited to be with you, and it’s fine that you were excited, too.”

“Okay,” Andrew said.

“Okay,” Jill echoed. “It’s fine to want to have sex with other people now that he’s gone. I understand you had an emotional attachment to him, but all things considered, it’s important for you to prioritize your own needs.”

Andrew nodded.

“Great,” Jill smiled. “Now that you’ve signed your new contract, what are you going to spend all that money on?”

The rest of the session was spent discussing banalities; Aaron’s dog that Andrew had met and immediately hated, Andrew’s raise, the teary phone call he’d received from Kevin when they’d received their MVP awards from Team USA. At the end of it, Andrew was tired.

He took a cab home. He took a shower. He opened the kitchen window and let the cats enjoy the fresh air. He ordered takeout from a place in his neighborhood that he liked. He finished the Times crossword puzzle. He fell asleep on the couch, and he woke up with a stiff neck and a dry mouth. He went to bed. He slept for eleven hours, and he woke up hard. He took another shower, and he jacked off, and he thought about the face Neil made when Andrew had licked his cum off his stomach.

It had been two hundred and thirty eight days since he’d seen Neil, but the memory was as vivid as it was the day it happened. He went back to bed. He decided to stop counting the number of days since he’d smoked a cigarette or f*cked Neil or had a boner. It was useless to keep score. He dreamed about winning the Olympics, but on the podium, it was Neil on either side of him, holding both of his hands.

It was January again, and Andrew needed a new coat.

He hated being cold, which meant he usually stayed holed up in his apartment during the coldest months of the year, but even getting to and from the subway or the garage to get to practice was miserable. He had previously refused to buy one because he was sure he already owned one. He’d torn his apartment apart looking for it, and he hadn’t found it, but he had found a half a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in the hall closet. Andrew hadn’t smoked in almost a year and the craving wasn’t really there, but he was bored and annoyed that he couldn’t find his coat.

He opened the kitchen window, took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and struck his lighter. Just as he was about to light up, the buzzer for the intercom went off. It startled him so badly he dropped the lighter. He went to the door and pushed the button.

“Yes or no?” said a voice.

Andrew pushed the button to unlock the door, and then went and sat back down at the kitchen table. He still had a cigarette in his mouth. A few minutes later, a key turned in the lock, and the front door opened. Someone with red hair and the key to Andrew’s front door stepped into the living room and dropped a hideous bright orange duffel bag onto the floor.

It was Neil.

He fought back the initial impulse to leap out of his chair and take Neil’s face in his hands, to make sure he was real, warm, made of flesh and blood, and not a dream or a hallucination.

Neil did not say hello or it’s been a while or how are you. Instead, he said, “I want to stay.”

Andrew stared at him. He could have used the moment that stretched between them to consider his options, or his response. It had been a while since he’d stopped keeping track of the days since Neil had disappeared, but he knew it had been almost a full year. Three-hundred days, give or take. Neil had walked out for three-hundred days, give or take, and he had just walked back in as if he’d just gone down to the bodega to get milk and a scratch-off. Like it was no big deal, and he was back, and everything would be the way it was.

He’d heard from Matt that Neil was back in the city, but he hadn’t reached out to Andrew, and Andrew had no way of contacting him. He didn’t even know if Neil was still calling himself Neil. Andrew hadn’t let himself dwell on those thoughts. There was nothing he could do about it if Neil decided he didn’t want to be part of Andrew’s life. Now, Neil had clearly come to a decision, and Andrew had no idea what to say or how to respond.

“Can I stay?” Neil prompted.

“I don’t know,” Andrew said, and he meant for it to be cutting and dismissive, but it came out flat and toneless, instead. “Can you stay?”

The number of people who had abandoned or otherwise discarded Andrew was well into the double digits. People wanted to be parents until they realized children needed things. People wanted to make friends with the new kid until they realized their peers might have emotional problems. People wanted to befriend their teammates until they realized that their teammate might be a hard person to get to know. People wanted to share their life with somebody until they realized that people needed things, and they sometimes had emotional problems, and they might be hard to get to know. Andrew didn’t have the energy to be another flight of fancy.

“Yes,” Andrew said.

He offered Neil a cigarette. Neil sat down at the table. He took a single drag, and exhaled slowly. Time passed. Andrew couldn’t take his eyes off Neil. It seemed impossible that he was there, sitting in Andrew’s kitchen, just as beautiful and strange as he had been the first time he’d seen him. He was a little older, and he sat up a little straighter, but his eyes were the same, and he held his cigarette the same way.

“Are you going to smoke that?” Neil asked, with a short nod to the unlit cigarette in Andrew’s mouth.

Andrew shook his head, took the cigarette out, and said, “Team doctor made me quit.”

“Good,” Neil said. He flicked the ash off the end of his. “Those things will kill you.”

He grinned at his own joke, quick and sharp and crooked, like a jack-o-lantern. Andrew’s stomach clenched painfully at the sight of it.

“Congrats on the Gold, by the way,” Neil said. “I watched the last game. I’ve never seen anyone play like that.”

Kevin had said the same thing. Andrew hadn’t watched the game back yet, so he wasn’t sure what had been so spectacular about his playing. He had slept the whole seventeen hour flight home, so he knew it must have been intense, but a game tape was just a game tape. He had the medal and the jersey framed and that was what mattered to him.

Another moment passed before Andrew realized he hadn’t replied. He stood up from the table, and went into the second bedroom. Kevin had left a few things behind when he’d left last year; some Team USA gear he had doubles of, some socks, a roll of athletic tape and a box of condoms. Andrew put new sheets on the bed and put all of Kevin’s stuff in a bag and shoved it into the hall closet. When he finished, he went back into the kitchen and sat down.

“You can sleep there,” Andrew said. “Since you’re staying.”

“Thanks,” Neil said. He’d put out his cigarette. “Are you hungry?”

Instead of replying, Andrew stood up again and put on his jacket. Neil followed him to the door, and they went to the diner a few blocks from Andrew’s apartment. They ordered the same thing they had last time they’d been there, over a year ago, the day they had first kissed.

Their server brought them two cups of coffee, and Andrew put sugar in his and stirred it. The atmosphere was awkward. Instead of drinking his coffee or attempting to make conversation, Neil tore his napkin to shreds, then rolled the shredded pieces of paper into balls, then repeated the process on his straw wrapper and Andrew’s napkin. Once he’d reduced all the paper products on the table to a pile of nothing, he heaved a sigh, and then looked at Andrew.

Andrew didn’t look up from his coffee cup when Neil asked, “Have I ruined this?”

“No,” Andrew said, because he had agreed to let Neil stay, because he wanted Neil to stay, but they hadn’t seen each other in almost a year, and it was going to take more than a cigarette and a waffle to inspire any sort of confidence in him.

“This is uncomfortable,” Neil said.

“You disappeared,” Andrew said, and then shrugged. “I thought you were dead.”

“I had to,” Neil said. “I was trying to protect you.”

“I never asked you to protect me,” Andrew said. “Tell me what was real.”

“This,” Neil gestured loosely between them. “I never lied to you about how I felt. Or what I wanted.”

“What else?” Andrew asked, a thumb pressing into a bruise.

“My real name is Nathaniel,” Neil said. “That’s what my father named me. My mother called me Abram. That was our version of the truth. Everything I told you about me, about the things that really mattered, that was true. I only lied when I had to. I didn’t really want to lie to you at all.”

Neil had looked up from the table and was holding Andrew’s gaze. The blue of his eyes was startling in contrast against the shock of his red hair. When Andrew didn’t reply, he said, “Did you really think I was dead?”

“I had to,” Andrew said.

Neil made a face at that, sad, rueful, a little guilty, and looked back down at the table.

“I would have stayed,” Neil said.

“I know,” Andrew said.

He cut his waffle up into very small bites and ate it very slowly, and he listened to Neil describe all the states he had spent a few weeks at a time in. Andrew didn’t ask about the trial, or about Nathaniel, or about the contract he knew Neil had signed to play with the Jersey Hawks. When they walked back to the apartment, Andrew reached out and linked their pinky fingers together. He didn’t have to look over at Neil to know that he was smiling.

It had been ninety-two days since Neil had moved into Andrew’s apartment. Andrew didn’t celebrate his birthday, or anniversaries, or commemorate dates with personal significance, but he did find himself acutely aware of the number of weeks that had passed since Neil had unpacked his meager belongings and asked what he should contribute to the rent. The answer had been nothing, because Andrew owned the apartment outright, and he made more money than Neil.

With the exception of Kevin’s brief visits, Andrew had become accustomed to living alone. He’d never had as much privacy as the apartment had given him. Growing up in foster care and juvie and a college dorm meant he’d almost always shared a room, with the exception of his cousin’s house, where he and Aaron both had their own rooms. He was used to having someone else in his space. Neil, however, was different.

Neil was quiet, almost too quiet, and had very few hobbies or interests outside of exy and Andrew and exploring the city. His shampoo was a different brand every time he ran out and had to buy more, because he always got whatever caught his eye first, or whatever was on sale. He had a bad habit of leaving his socks under the couch cushions, and he had an even worse habit of leaving dirty cutlery in the sink. It took him four knives to make a sandwich, and he left them all in the sink, every single time.

In addition to becoming aware of Neil’s quirks as a roommate, Andrew had become more cognizant of his own. He had bad days, not as frequently as he had in his adolescence, but still often enough that Neil had noticed. On bad days when he lived alone, Andrew could close the curtains and sit on the couch with a blanket and stare at nothing until he eventually fell asleep or got hungry enough to move. Nobody would disturb him, or ask him questions, or try to coax him off the sofa. Now, on bad days, he still sat on the couch with a blanket, but Neil would always sit with him.

He wouldn’t ask questions, or try to get him to do something else. Every few hours he’d bring Andrew a glass of water and a snack. Sometimes he’d watch sh*tty daytime TV. Sometimes he’d watch game highlights. Sometimes he’d attempt Andrew’s half-finished Times crossword. But he always stayed until night came, and then Andrew would shake himself out of his stupor and go to bed without saying a word, and Neil would turn on the lights and go for a run and take a shower and make himself dinner. Andrew’s near-perpetual silence never seemed to bother Neil. If Andrew felt like making conversation, he would, and if he didn’t, Neil would either talk at him without expecting a response, or he would be quiet, too. The quiet never made Neil uncomfortable.

Aside from Neil's habits as a person who lived in Andrew’s apartment, there were also Neil’s qualities as a person Andrew was trying to build a relationship with. Neil oscillated violently between a nauseating desire for co-dependency and a near psychopathic drive for independence. He would cling like a limpet, and then the next day he would rebuff any and all attention and support. Andrew pointed it out to him, which made it worse for a while, and then it slowly started to get better. He asked for help when he needed it and attention when he wanted it. He gave Andrew space when he asked for it, and stopped talking about exy when Andrew had enough of it. Somehow, they shared an apartment and a life, and it worked.

The only reason Andrew had kept track of the days since Neil had come back was because he had been waiting that same number of days for Neil to respond to his overtures. They had separate bedrooms, which Andrew had established from the beginning. He couldn’t handle sleeping with someone else, and he often responded violently to the presence of another body in his bed, so the arrangement was more for Neil’s safety and comfort than anything else.

Andrew was a blunt, forward person. He wanted Neil, and he did his best to make sure Neil knew it. It would be a waste of time for him to pretend otherwise. Andrew would have preferred to leave the ball in Neil’s court, but he knew that Neil would never make a move on him. Which meant it was up to Andrew to make his intentions obvious without making Neil uncomfortable, and it was up to Neil to respond to them however he saw fit. So far, he had not responded at all.

When Neil mentioned liking a specific food, Andrew made sure it was always in the kitchen. He sent Neil’s laundry out with his own. Neil still had keys to the car, and he drove himself to practice in Jersey sometimes. If Neil made an offhand remark about needing new running shoes, Andrew had them delivered and left them on the floor outside Neil’s bedroom door. He started buying him shampoo, but that was mostly because he was tired of having a variety of terrible drugstore options cluttering up the shower.

Aside from the gifts, there were physical advances, too. He sat next to Neil on the sofa, not on opposite ends, but right next to him, with their legs pressed together. He sat next to Neil on the subway, and at dinner, and on park benches. They kept going to restaurants, and Andrew started gearing them towards more candlelit places, and he bought Neil cashmere sweaters and fitted dress shirts to wear on those nights. Neil responded to all of it graciously, with a smile that he reserved only for Andrew, but he never tried to hold Andrew’s hand, or kiss him, or put himself in Andrew’s space on purpose for longer than was necessary.

By the end of the third month, Andrew was sure that he was going to lose his mind. It was almost spring, and Neil’s team hadn’t made it to the championships. Andrew’s had, so he was going to Chicago to play one of the final away games of the season.

“Come to Chicago,” Andrew said.

“Why?” Neil asked. He was sitting on the kitchen counter with his legs crossed underneath him, eating peanut butter straight out of the jar with a spoon. He’d just gotten back from a run, and his t-shirt was damp with sweat. There were curls stuck to his forehead.

“Why?” Andrew repeated.

“Yeah,” Neil licked the spoon with the flat of his tongue and then stuck it back in the jar. “I’ll just watch the game on TV at Matt and Dan’s.”

Andrew watched as Neil licked peanut butter off the handle of the spoon. He took a step towards Neil.

“Okay,” Andrew said.

“Do you want me to come to Chicago?” Neil asked.

“You can do whatever you want,” Andrew said. He was within arm’s reach of Neil. He smelled like sweat and peanut butter. “Get off the counter.”

Instead of snapping back with some argument about how Andrew sat on the counter all the time and it was technically his house too so he could sit wherever he liked, Neil set down the jar and hopped off the counter. The movement placed him firmly in front of Andrew, close enough that there was hardly enough space to wedge a hand between their bodies. Andrew waited with bated breath. After a moment, Neil took a step back, and then walked around Andrew and left the kitchen. A few seconds later, Andrew heard the shower turn on. He took a few deep breaths. He put away the jar of peanut butter and washed the spoon, and then he wiped down the counter where Neil had been sitting. By the time he’d finished doing that, Neil was out of the shower, and was sitting on the couch flipping through TV channels.

“Stop,” Andrew said.

Neil turned off the TV, and turned around to look over the back of the couch at Andrew.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“If you don’t want this,” Andrew said. “You have to tell me.”

“What?” Neil had the audacity to furrow his brow in confusion.

Andrew crossed the room and stood behind the couch. Neil shifted in his seat so that he was kneeling on the cushion, facing Andrew. Without further hesitation, Andrew reached out and grabbed the collar of Neil’s t-shirt. It wasn’t an aggressive gesture, but it was firm, and his intent was clear. He gave Neil a moment to object. When Neil’s expression didn’t change, Andrew leaned in and kissed him. It seemed heavy, weighted, not really a gesture meant to test the waters. It was an expression of everything that Andrew had thought and felt and kept inside during the ten months he’d spent missing Neil and the following three months of having Neil close enough to touch, but still somehow slightly out of his reach.

When they parted, Neil’s eyes were closed and his face was pinched with emotion.

“What?” Andrew asked.

“I thought you were never going to forgive me,” Neil said, with his eyes still closed. “I thought I’d ruined it.”

“Idiot,” Andrew said. “I let you stay.”

Neil opened his eyes.

“That was it?” he asked. “We could have been doing this the whole time I’ve been here?”

“Yes,” Andrew said.

“f*ck,” Neil leaned in again, and Andrew kissed him again.

This time it was a simple, uncomplicated kiss, gentle despite the vehemence in Neil’s voice and the near overwhelming emotion inside Andrew’s head. Neil opened his mouth, parting his lips underneath Andrew’s, and Andrew pressed forward. He reached up and cradled the back of Neil’s head in one hand and he slipped the other under the hem of Neil’s threadbare t-shirt. Neil was lean, fresh off a half-season spent on the court, and his skin was still warm from the shower. Andrew let his palm rest against the firm muscle of his belly, and then he slowly slid his hand lower to curl a finger under the waistband of Neil’s shorts.

Neil moaned, and Andrew slid a second finger in alongside the first. The muscles in Neil’s abdomen jumped under his hand.

“Wait,” Neil said.

Andrew took his hands off Neil’s body and stepped back.

Neil was a little breathless already, and he looked excited. He turned around to sit on the couch and said, “Come here.”

Andrew sat down next to him.

“I want to sit on your lap,” Neil said.

After a moment, Andrew nodded. In one fluid, graceful movement, Neil settled himself on Andrew’s lap with his knees digging deep into the back of the couch. Andrew rested his hands on Neil’s hips, and Neil placed his hands on the cushion at either side of Andrew’s head. They sat like that, sharing space, sharing breath, in a silence heavy with anticipation.

When Neil leaned in slowly, he pressed his weight down into his hands. He kissed Andrew on the mouth, and then the underside of his jaw, and then his neck. He lingered there, with soft, open-mouthed kisses where Andrew’s t-shirt had slipped to reveal the hollow of his throat. Andrew didn’t purposefully bare more of his neck to Neil, nor did he adapt his body to make room for Neil. He slid his hands off Neil’s hips, down over the back of his thighs, and he gripped his legs just above the knee. He pulled gently, and Neil opened his legs further. The movement pushed him down on Andrew’s lap, so that their bodies were flush together, with Neil’s co*ck pressed against Andrew’s stomach and Andrew’s co*ck pressed against the soft skin between Neil’s legs.

Neil made a soft, shuddering sound, and circled his hips once against Andrew’s body. They were both hard, and Andrew found himself surprised by it. It usually took more than that for him, but the way Neil responded to him was exciting, more exciting than any previous encounter Andrew could dredge forth from his memory to hold in contrast to this moment.

“You can touch me,” Neil said, and he dragged his open mouth against the skin of Andrew’s neck, up behind his ear, then to the corner of his jaw. “I want you to touch me.”

Andrew kept his hands where they were. He wanted to touch Neil. He wouldn’t have allowed them to find themselves in this position if he didn’t. His grip tightened reflexively when Neil shifted his hips again, pressing the hard line of his co*ck a little more firmly against the soft swell of Andrew’s belly. Neil made another sound, a little louder, more of a moan that time, and he dropped his forehead to rest against Andrew’s.

“Tell me,” Andrew said.

He was vague on purpose, not to be difficult, but because he wanted to know what Neil would ask for if he was given the chance to have anything he could think of.

Neil sat up slightly and pushed the waistband of his shorts down. He took off his shirt and tossed it somewhere behind them, then put his hands back where they had been, next to Andrew’s head. His skin was warm, but goosebumps rose over the skin of his chest and arms, and a shiver rushed through him. Andrew reached up and pulled Neil’s head down to kiss him. With his free hand, he traced an aimless pattern over Neil’s belly, up along his ribs, to his nipple, then up to his clavicle.

“Tell me,” he said again, and he nipped softly at Neil’s lower lip, enough to make him whimper and press forward for another kiss.

“Want you to get me off,” Neil said, and Andrew kissed him again with a deep slide of his tongue, and then he reached into Neil’s shorts and took his co*ck in his hand.

The sound Neil made was throaty and surprised, but he hitched his hips forward and opened his mouth against Andrew’s. It hadn't escaped Andrew's attention that Neil was hypersensitive to touch the first time they’d done this, and it was still almost overwhelming to see. With only a few kisses and a hand in his shorts, Neil was a panting, flushed mess on Andrew’s lap. Their noses brushed as he looked down to watch where Andrew’s hand disappeared into his pants.

Andrew pulled his hand out and said, “Spit.”

Neil leaned back and gracelessly spat into Andrew’s palm. He shuddered when Andrew took him in hand again. It was faster then, eased by Neil’s spit and the steadily gathering fluid at the tip of his co*ck. Andrew watched Neil’s face intently, and he decided he liked the way Neil bit his lip when he liked something, or the way his eyelids fluttered when he drew closer, but what he liked most of all was the way Neil’s mouth dropped open and he said, “Andrew,” as he came. It was barely his name, really only an exhalation, but Andrew had never heard anyone say his name like that. He wiped Neil’s cum on his shorts, and he obliged when Neil leaned forward for a kiss.

“You?” Neil asked, still breathing heavily, still slightly dazed, but willing and eager and always thinking of Andrew.

“Yes,” Andrew said.

“How do you want me?” Neil murmured.

Andrew didn’t have to think about it. He said, “On your knees.”

Neil slid to his knees and crossed his arms behind his back. Andrew reached out and took him gently by the hair. Neil allowed himself to be guided until he was sitting up, leaning over Andrew’s slightly spread thighs.

Andrew unbuckled his belt, opened his pants, and pulled out his co*ck. Neil was close enough that he could feel the warmth of his breath on the flushed, sensitive skin.

“Andrew,” Neil murmured. He looked up from underneath his eyelashes, and when he had Andrew’s attention, he parted his lips slightly in invitation.

“Yes?” Andrew asked.

“Yes,” Neil said. He shifted forward on his knees, and waited.

Andrew sank his hand into Neil’s hair again, and guided his head downwards, until his mouth pressed against the head of his co*ck. Andrew’s breath hitched almost painfully in his throat, but he didn’t pull him away.

“Suck,” Andrew said, and he choked on a moan when Neil complied. He pressed his tongue flat against the underside of Andrew’s co*ck, and sank down slowly, until his mouth met the place where Andrew’s hand still gripped himself at the hilt.

“Stop,” Andrew said, and Neil pulled back. His eyes were glassy and his lips were slick. He turned his face upwards and smiled softly at Andrew.

“Good?” he asked.

Andrew exhaled shakily as he nodded. His hand was shaking where it still rested on the back of Neil’s head. Carefully, he guided him down again, and Neil swallowed him again, slower that time, until he gagged, and swallowed, and then lifted his head slowly to sink down on it again. It was messy, wet with spit, because Neil kept gagging himself, but what he lacked in finesse he made up for with enthusiasm. Andrew led him gently with a careful push and pull of his hair, never enough to really hurt him, never firm enough to really matter, but enough that Andrew was still in control.

When his thighs began to tremble, Andrew gave one sharp tug, and Neil lifted one of his hands behind his back into a loose thumbs-up gesture. Andrew pulled him backwards more firmly, until he sat up with a gasp. A silvery thread of spit hung between his lip and the tip of Andrew’s co*ck. Tears glimmered on his eyelashes. Neil licked his lips and swallowed and said, “In my mouth.”

Andrew took a deep breath, another unsteady exhale, and finished himself with his hand into Neil’s open, swollen mouth.

The living room seemed almost deathly silent once it was over. After a moment, Neil swallowed and wiped his chin with his thumb, and then pushed himself to his feet. His legs wobbled slightly as he collapsed onto the sofa next to Andrew.

Andrew fought back a flinch, because it was just Neil, and Neil was safe, and there was no reason for him to shrink away from Neil. He took a few deep breaths, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, Neil was gone. The door to the second bedroom was closed. Andrew put his co*ck back in his pants, and buckled his belt, and sank further down into the couch cushions. One cat jumped up and settled itself on his lap. The other climbed up onto the cushion behind his head and curled itself up into a ball with its head pressed to the crown of Andrew’s skull.

Ten minutes later, Neil came out of the second bedroom wearing clean pants and one of Andrew’s hoodies.

“Hungry?” Neil asked.

“Yes,” Andrew said. He stood up and unceremoniously dumped the cat on his lap onto the floor.

They put on shoes and jackets and Andrew put his keys in his pocket. Once they were outside, Andrew reached out and hooked two fingers into the collar of Neil’s hoodie, drawing him to a halt. He gently directed him across the street towards a garishly bright $1 SLICES shop. A chilly wind whipped past them, disturbing the mess of curls on top of Neil’s head, and sending a shiver down Andrew’s spine. Neil held the door open, and they ducked inside. It was warm in the pizza shop, almost oppressively, and the smell of garlic and bread and oil filled the air.

Andrew ordered pepperoni. Neil ordered plain cheese. They took their slices and sat in a booth towards the back, on opposite sides, with Neil’s legs propped up on the empty seat next to Andrew. As they ate, Neil told him about the time Browning tried to teach him to play euchre at the safe house in Wisconsin. Neil was adept at games, and had fleeced him out of every dollar in his wallet before Browning had realized he was cheating.

It was simple. Domestic, almost. Andrew had decided a long time ago that he wanted Neil. He had tried not to overthink the fragile, fast growing closeness they shared. He hadn’t put a name to his feelings, either, until he’d reached the conclusion that he wanted more than he’d initially planned for. Andrew had never imagined a life for himself where he shared domestic pastimes or casual intimacies with someone. When Andrew met someone new, he understood that after the meeting came the inevitable leaving. Every relationship, no matter how brief, started with his ready acceptance of its ending.

Even Neil had ended, once, and despite Andrew’s best attempts to keep him at arm’s length and to keep it from meaning too much, he had let Neil’s absence affect him. It was worse, now. Even with Neil sitting across from him at the table in the too-bright pizza restaurant, laughing at his own jokes, he wanted Neil closer to him. He wanted him to stay. In his mind, it was already half over. He had met Neil. The next thing Neil would do was leave.

Andrew stood up abruptly, jostling the table slightly. He stepped out of his side of the booth and slid into the seat next to Neil. Without saying a word, Neil moved over to make more room for him.

“I want you to stay,” Andrew said.

“I know you do,” Neil replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

When they finished eating, they went back to their apartment, and Neil got in the shower. Andrew followed him a few minutes later, and stepped under the water with his clothes on. He got on his knees in the steam of the shower and sucked Neil’s co*ck, and when Neil had come down his throat, Andrew sat back on his haunches and said, “Come to Chicago.”

Neil nodded, still gasping, and said, “Okay.”