iknowwhoyouaredamianos - Tumblr blog

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

😮‍💨😮‍💨

andreil spooning, pls?

This is an extremely old ask and one I have been dodging for at least a year because I never knew exactly how to write it. Apparently I do now. Thanks Anon, I hope you're still around to read this. If you are and you like it, feel free to send another anonymous ask letting me know, or dm me if you're not shy.

(cw: lots of talk about scars, kind of scar worship, brief and minor allusion to Andrew's past)

Objectively speaking, Neil Josten is not an attractive man. He used to be, and could have been, were it not for the pulled and rippled skin healed after years of abuse. He could have been, but a good half of his face is marred with burns and the other side is cut in three places. This does not begin to cover the extensive damage done to his torso and arms and hands, and every bit of ruined flesh takes away from the beauty that Neil Josten could be.

Many people avoid looking at his scars. Neil notices this, of course — when he is standing in line in the dining hall, when he is talking to a girl in his calculus class, when he is calling out to the freshmen backliners to keep better watch of the ball. He is aware how people strain to look him directly in the eye or look at him not at all, how people will constantly shift their gazes to anything and everything that is not his abused face.

The older Foxes are generally the exception to this rule — they had seen his arms and face when they were still healing, and have long since grown used to the scarred version of Neil's features. They are no longer disgusted or revolted or any other synonymous word, though he is certain anger at his past still simmers under their less-affected skin.

Neil is not bothered by the public's view of his scars. He pretends he isn't, anyway — and for the most part that is not a lie. He reminds himself that they help him look less like his father, reminds himself that they give him interesting (albeit disturbing) stories to tell, reminds himself that the looks he gets from the waitress at the restaurant are normal reactions to violent sights and he has no reason to be bothered by her horrified expression that she was not quick enough to conceal.

He wonders, then, how Andrew grew so skilled at reading between the lines of Neil's silence.

"I like your scars," Andrew says as the waitress walks away with their drink order, tone bored as always and expression indifferent as usual. "It seemed like you could use a reminder."

You're the only one, Neil thinks, but he offers Andrew his silence instead.

"They are objectively unattractive and I like looking at them," he continues, and that is enough to make Neil's expression scrunch up for a brief moment of confusion. He knows the weight scars hold in Andrew's mind, and is not entirely certain why Andrew would be so keen to stare at them. "I like to read, but books can be rather boring. Far more interesting to read the story written on a man's skin."

Neil can't help a soft laugh at that, more of a breath than a sound and a small twitch of the lips to accompany it. Today is not the best day for talking, he is finding, and he can't help but feel slightly guilty that he agreed to go to a restaurant with Andrew when he cannot contribute much to the conversation. "Not a very happy story," he mutters, staring down at his hands and where the skin of his wrists meets the black fabric of his armbands. Today is an armbands kind of day, when he needs to hide as much of his skin as possible. He does not think he could handle any more revolted expressions today.

"You are a Fox. In what world would your story be happy?" Andrew asks, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands.

It's a rhetorical enough question that Neil gives a shrug to, but his eyes are still fixed on his fingers and the ruined flesh of his hands. There is a phrase about knowing something the way you know the back of your hand, and Neil cannot tell if he finds it truer now or before. Most hands are unremarkable, plain things. He thinks he would prefer it if his hands were the same, but they are not. His hands now are far more knowable, he thinks, and tries for a moment to think of the time when they weren't.

"Stop," Andrew says.

Neil frowns, looks up at him. Stop what?

"You are picking at your scars," Andrew explains, reaching forward and pulling Neil's hands apart, touch lingering a moment longer than necessary before he lets go and returns to his previous position.

Oh, Neil thinks. He hadn't meant to. "I didn't notice," Neil says after another moment, and he watches himself this time, tries to keep his mind focused on not touching his marked skin.

Andrew hums. "You never do." Neil isn't quite sure what that is supposed to mean, so he does not ask and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Andrew's gaze seems heavier tonight somehow, and he isn't quite sure why.

The rest of their outing goes rather smoothly — aside from the looks that the waitress seemed unable to stop giving Neil. Andrew would have stepped in, Neil knows, but he had already asked Andrew to refrain from intervening.

When they return to the dorm, Neil feels more exhausted than he has in the past few weeks. Perhaps it is the ball of self-hatred curling in his stomach, perhaps it is the anxiety at Andrew's shift in demeanor. It hasn't been bad — quite the opposite, really. Andrew was more verbal today, Andrew seemed more content than usual, Andrew appeared to be having a good day, and Neil could not be any more happy for him. Unfortunately, Neil has been quite the opposite, and it seems to be taking its toll on his energy levels.

This, Andrew picks up on as well. Neil isn't sure how he does it, and thinks that perhaps he will ask sometime soon when he feels less like he wants to crawl out of his own skin.

"Get ready for bed," Andrew says, but it is less of a suggestion and more of an order and if he were not so tired, Neil would be tempted to disobey.

As it stands, Kevin is spending the night at Wymack's for a reason unknown to Neil, so the dorm is empty and Neil has no real motive for refusal. He heads into the bedroom without further comment and tries to avoid the closet mirror as he changes out of his clothes and into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. He thinks the shirt is Andrew's, but it's hard to tell at this point — so much of what he owns has been gifted to him by Andrew that he isn't quite sure what is what.

"Neil," Andrew says from the doorway, and Neil turns to look at him.

There is something to be said about Andrew Minyard and how inexpressive he tends to be. Neil can count on one hand the people that can read Andrew well enough to know what he is really feeling, himself included. As it is right now, Andrew on the surface looks bored, or apathetic, or completely removed from the current situation. Neil has learned, however, how to read his forced casual posture, his practiced flat expression, his perfectly still fingers. Andrew is nervous.

"What?" Neil asks, because even if he does not exactly want to talk, Andrew seems to be waiting for some sort of an acknowledgement.

"Sleep in my bed tonight, yes or no?"

Oh. Neil does not move, does not react, does not do anything other than blink at Andrew. It will not be the first time they have shared a bed, but Neil cannot shake the fact that something is different tonight. Andrew is nervous, he has been behaving strangely, and Neil cannot figure out what has changed.

He realizes belatedly that he needs to provide an answer, so he nods once, then confirms it verbally with a soft, "Yes."

Andrew gestures to his bunk and Neil lays down obediently on the near end of it, facing the room and leaving as much space as possible for Andrew to sleep against the wall. Once Andrew has changed into something more comfortable, he turns out the lights and waits a moment more before climbing into bed behind Neil, back pressed against the cool wall as expected.

"Neil," Andrew says again, and Neil offers a quiet hum in response. "Yes or no?"

"Yes," Neil says again, because he does not think Andrew would fully be able to see it if he nodded his head, and because things like this — whatever this is — require verbal consent.

Andrew hesitates another moment, then reaches forward and touches Neil's arm. "Move back," he says, and it is Neil's turn to hesitate before obediently shifting backwards. He does not know when it is enough, but the closer he gets the more Andrew pulls until Neil's back is flush with his chest, and Andrew has an arm entirely wrapped around him, fingers resting on Neil's chest.

It is nicer than Neil expected, feeling the solid weight of Andrew behind him. It is different than when they are standing, but somehow the same. He knows Andrew is likely feeling his heart beat faster, finding amusement in the sensation for his own personal gain. Those steady fingers slowly crawl down Neil's torso and slip under his shirt, climbing back up his skin to trace his scars.

Andrew gives him ample time to say no, or to push the hand away, but Neil doesn't. He can't, not when he is too busy wondering how Andrew knows his scars so well, forgetting for a moment about Andrew's perfect memory. That, and he isn't sure that he wants to. Neil may be somewhat bothered by his skin, but Andrew's hands never hurt, and Andrew's fingers always seem to soothe the phantom burns and aches in his skin.

"I like your scars," Andrew says, echoing his earlier statement. "Ask me why."

This is a new kind of game, Neil figures — Andrew does not often tell him what to ask, but he is curious all the same. "Why?"

Neil feels Andrew's nose brush against the back of his neck before a soft kiss is pressed there, and then Andrew speaks. "There is a certain kind of comfort in being able to tell exactly who is in my bed," he murmurs, and Neil suppresses a shiver at the feeling of Andrew's breath on his neck. Andrew thumbs over one of Neil's scars, kisses him again. "There is no mistaking this skin for anyone else's when the room is dark and I can't see enough to know for certain."

It's a revelation that Neil hadn't thought of in the past, but is all the more thankful for now. There are plenty of nights where Neil sleeps in his own bed, but on the occasion where Andrew has had a good day and Neil shares his bed, it is nice to know that there is a definitive reason Andrew seems more calm.

"I didn't know ��� I didn't know you took comfort in it," Neil says after a moment, laying one of his hands over Andrew's, the fabric of his shirt keeping them from touching completely.

"You do now," Andrew says, and Neil can hear the sleepiness starting to creep into Andrew's words. Neil's heart is calmer now, and he stifles a yawn in favor of nestling back against Andrew a little more. "You don't have to like them," Andrew continues, voice a murmur. "They're ugly, but they're you."

(And for lack of a better word, Neil? I like you.)

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40048017

@iknowwhoyouaredamianos for @thatlosernoonelikes

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

andreil spooning, pls?

This is an extremely old ask and one I have been dodging for at least a year because I never knew exactly how to write it. Apparently I do now. Thanks Anon, I hope you're still around to read this. If you are and you like it, feel free to send another anonymous ask letting me know, or dm me if you're not shy.

(cw: lots of talk about scars, kind of scar worship, brief and minor allusion to Andrew's past)

Objectively speaking, Neil Josten is not an attractive man. He used to be, and could have been, were it not for the pulled and rippled skin healed after years of abuse. He could have been, but a good half of his face is marred with burns and the other side is cut in three places. This does not begin to cover the extensive damage done to his torso and arms and hands, and every bit of ruined flesh takes away from the beauty that Neil Josten could be.

Many people avoid looking at his scars. Neil notices this, of course — when he is standing in line in the dining hall, when he is talking to a girl in his calculus class, when he is calling out to the freshmen backliners to keep better watch of the ball. He is aware how people strain to look him directly in the eye or look at him not at all, how people will constantly shift their gazes to anything and everything that is not his abused face.

The older Foxes are generally the exception to this rule — they had seen his arms and face when they were still healing, and have long since grown used to the scarred version of Neil's features. They are no longer disgusted or revolted or any other synonymous word, though he is certain anger at his past still simmers under their less-affected skin.

Neil is not bothered by the public's view of his scars. He pretends he isn't, anyway — and for the most part that is not a lie. He reminds himself that they help him look less like his father, reminds himself that they give him interesting (albeit disturbing) stories to tell, reminds himself that the looks he gets from the waitress at the restaurant are normal reactions to violent sights and he has no reason to be bothered by her horrified expression that she was not quick enough to conceal.

He wonders, then, how Andrew grew so skilled at reading between the lines of Neil's silence.

"I like your scars," Andrew says as the waitress walks away with their drink order, tone bored as always and expression indifferent as usual. "It seemed like you could use a reminder."

You're the only one, Neil thinks, but he offers Andrew his silence instead.

"They are objectively unattractive and I like looking at them," he continues, and that is enough to make Neil's expression scrunch up for a brief moment of confusion. He knows the weight scars hold in Andrew's mind, and is not entirely certain why Andrew would be so keen to stare at them. "I like to read, but books can be rather boring. Far more interesting to read the story written on a man's skin."

Neil can't help a soft laugh at that, more of a breath than a sound and a small twitch of the lips to accompany it. Today is not the best day for talking, he is finding, and he can't help but feel slightly guilty that he agreed to go to a restaurant with Andrew when he cannot contribute much to the conversation. "Not a very happy story," he mutters, staring down at his hands and where the skin of his wrists meets the black fabric of his armbands. Today is an armbands kind of day, when he needs to hide as much of his skin as possible. He does not think he could handle any more revolted expressions today.

"You are a Fox. In what world would your story be happy?" Andrew asks, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands.

It's a rhetorical enough question that Neil gives a shrug to, but his eyes are still fixed on his fingers and the ruined flesh of his hands. There is a phrase about knowing something the way you know the back of your hand, and Neil cannot tell if he finds it truer now or before. Most hands are unremarkable, plain things. He thinks he would prefer it if his hands were the same, but they are not. His hands now are far more knowable, he thinks, and tries for a moment to think of the time when they weren't.

"Stop," Andrew says.

Neil frowns, looks up at him. Stop what?

"You are picking at your scars," Andrew explains, reaching forward and pulling Neil's hands apart, touch lingering a moment longer than necessary before he lets go and returns to his previous position.

Oh, Neil thinks. He hadn't meant to. "I didn't notice," Neil says after another moment, and he watches himself this time, tries to keep his mind focused on not touching his marked skin.

Andrew hums. "You never do." Neil isn't quite sure what that is supposed to mean, so he does not ask and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Andrew's gaze seems heavier tonight somehow, and he isn't quite sure why.

The rest of their outing goes rather smoothly — aside from the looks that the waitress seemed unable to stop giving Neil. Andrew would have stepped in, Neil knows, but he had already asked Andrew to refrain from intervening.

When they return to the dorm, Neil feels more exhausted than he has in the past few weeks. Perhaps it is the ball of self-hatred curling in his stomach, perhaps it is the anxiety at Andrew's shift in demeanor. It hasn't been bad — quite the opposite, really. Andrew was more verbal today, Andrew seemed more content than usual, Andrew appeared to be having a good day, and Neil could not be any more happy for him. Unfortunately, Neil has been quite the opposite, and it seems to be taking its toll on his energy levels.

This, Andrew picks up on as well. Neil isn't sure how he does it, and thinks that perhaps he will ask sometime soon when he feels less like he wants to crawl out of his own skin.

"Get ready for bed," Andrew says, but it is less of a suggestion and more of an order and if he were not so tired, Neil would be tempted to disobey.

As it stands, Kevin is spending the night at Wymack's for a reason unknown to Neil, so the dorm is empty and Neil has no real motive for refusal. He heads into the bedroom without further comment and tries to avoid the closet mirror as he changes out of his clothes and into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. He thinks the shirt is Andrew's, but it's hard to tell at this point — so much of what he owns has been gifted to him by Andrew that he isn't quite sure what is what.

"Neil," Andrew says from the doorway, and Neil turns to look at him.

There is something to be said about Andrew Minyard and how inexpressive he tends to be. Neil can count on one hand the people that can read Andrew well enough to know what he is really feeling, himself included. As it is right now, Andrew on the surface looks bored, or apathetic, or completely removed from the current situation. Neil has learned, however, how to read his forced casual posture, his practiced flat expression, his perfectly still fingers. Andrew is nervous.

"What?" Neil asks, because even if he does not exactly want to talk, Andrew seems to be waiting for some sort of an acknowledgement.

"Sleep in my bed tonight, yes or no?"

Oh. Neil does not move, does not react, does not do anything other than blink at Andrew. It will not be the first time they have shared a bed, but Neil cannot shake the fact that something is different tonight. Andrew is nervous, he has been behaving strangely, and Neil cannot figure out what has changed.

He realizes belatedly that he needs to provide an answer, so he nods once, then confirms it verbally with a soft, "Yes."

Andrew gestures to his bunk and Neil lays down obediently on the near end of it, facing the room and leaving as much space as possible for Andrew to sleep against the wall. Once Andrew has changed into something more comfortable, he turns out the lights and waits a moment more before climbing into bed behind Neil, back pressed against the cool wall as expected.

"Neil," Andrew says again, and Neil offers a quiet hum in response. "Yes or no?"

"Yes," Neil says again, because he does not think Andrew would fully be able to see it if he nodded his head, and because things like this — whatever this is — require verbal consent.

Andrew hesitates another moment, then reaches forward and touches Neil's arm. "Move back," he says, and it is Neil's turn to hesitate before obediently shifting backwards. He does not know when it is enough, but the closer he gets the more Andrew pulls until Neil's back is flush with his chest, and Andrew has an arm entirely wrapped around him, fingers resting on Neil's chest.

It is nicer than Neil expected, feeling the solid weight of Andrew behind him. It is different than when they are standing, but somehow the same. He knows Andrew is likely feeling his heart beat faster, finding amusement in the sensation for his own personal gain. Those steady fingers slowly crawl down Neil's torso and slip under his shirt, climbing back up his skin to trace his scars.

Andrew gives him ample time to say no, or to push the hand away, but Neil doesn't. He can't, not when he is too busy wondering how Andrew knows his scars so well, forgetting for a moment about Andrew's perfect memory. That, and he isn't sure that he wants to. Neil may be somewhat bothered by his skin, but Andrew's hands never hurt, and Andrew's fingers always seem to soothe the phantom burns and aches in his skin.

"I like your scars," Andrew says, echoing his earlier statement. "Ask me why."

This is a new kind of game, Neil figures — Andrew does not often tell him what to ask, but he is curious all the same. "Why?"

Neil feels Andrew's nose brush against the back of his neck before a soft kiss is pressed there, and then Andrew speaks. "There is a certain kind of comfort in being able to tell exactly who is in my bed," he murmurs, and Neil suppresses a shiver at the feeling of Andrew's breath on his neck. Andrew thumbs over one of Neil's scars, kisses him again. "There is no mistaking this skin for anyone else's when the room is dark and I can't see enough to know for certain."

It's a revelation that Neil hadn't thought of in the past, but is all the more thankful for now. There are plenty of nights where Neil sleeps in his own bed, but on the occasion where Andrew has had a good day and Neil shares his bed, it is nice to know that there is a definitive reason Andrew seems more calm.

"I didn't know — I didn't know you took comfort in it," Neil says after a moment, laying one of his hands over Andrew's, the fabric of his shirt keeping them from touching completely.

"You do now," Andrew says, and Neil can hear the sleepiness starting to creep into Andrew's words. Neil's heart is calmer now, and he stifles a yawn in favor of nestling back against Andrew a little more. "You don't have to like them," Andrew continues, voice a murmur. "They're ugly, but they're you."

(And for lack of a better word, Neil? I like you.)

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

My AFTG Summer Exchange contribution for @abraxos-is-toothless . I hope you enjoy this little summer ficlet.

@aftgexchange

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

early morning run w/ Neil and Kevin 

PLEASE DO NOT USE, EDIT OR POST MY ART TO OTHER SITES

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

Started a little drabble series to kick my writer’s block to the curb. This one was for @alexwh0

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

just some protective bf neil vs the upperclassmen memes

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

My face is having uncontrollable spasms. Great. It hurts really, really, really bad.

I think part of why I have trouble explaining pain to the doctor is when they ask about the pain scale I always think “Well, if someone threw me down a flight of stairs right now or punched me a few times, it would definitely hurt a lot more” so I end up saying a low number. I was reading an article that said that “10” is the most commonly reported number and that is baffling to me. When I woke up from surgery with an 8" incision in my body and I could hardly even speak, I was in the most horrific pain of my life but I said “6” because I thought “Well, if you hit me in the stomach, it would be worse.”

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

Andrew Minyard really looked Neil Josten in the face and called him a pipe dream and it still took Neil 300 pages later to clock that the fucker was completely in love with him

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

home sweet home; andreil

I can’t help but think a lot about Neil and Andrew just doing domestic, mundane, couple things.

Neil and Andrew at the grocery store. Neil noticing Andrew’s stocking up on all the sugary foods and beverages he can get his hands on, so he wanders off to the veggies and health food aisles to make sure Andrew balances his diet. “No more ice cream breakfasts, okay?” Neil says, when Andrew just shoots him a blank stare, Neil shrugs. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m just trying to keep your inevitable risk of diabetes at bay.” Andrew barely blinks. “You’re diabetes,” he mumbles. At this, Neil breaks into a small, slightly teasing smile, “Besides, I want you to cook for me.” “And I want you to shut up,” Andrew replies, dryly. “I guess neither of us are going to get what we want.” Despite this, slowly, steadily, Andrew does start improving his eating habits, and when he realizes that Neil is a disaster with an electric lighter after he almost burns down their kitchen twice, Andrew begins cooking for him on the regular. Neil always ends up staring at him while he cooks, and Andrew pretends like it doesn’t affect him, like it doesn’t make him hyperaware of his every move. Bee suggests new recipes to him every weekend, and Andrew begins to cook so surprisingly often that Neil would never dare say it aloud, but he swears that Andrew might actually be enjoying it.

Neil gives Andrew a shoulder massage on the really bad days and distracts his mind with talks of the latest additions to the Fox lineup and how he thinks they need to up their game if they want to succeed. This is new. This feels new. Andrew is not used to this sort of thing and has trouble at first, tensing up against Neil’s touch almost immediately, and so Neil knows to be extra careful. This is alien territory for both of them because Neil has never known how to be gentle and Andrew has never known gentleness, but it turns out that Neil’s really good with his hands. Eventually, Andrew leans his head back against Neil’s stomach as he kneads the tension out of his muscles and just lets go. It’s difficult at first, because the last time Andrew allowed himself to be this defenseless, this bodily loose and relaxed… No. This was different. This was Neil. Neil would cross himself out a thousand times over at even the mere idea of hurting him. He was okay. He was… He was safe. After giving him a massage, Neil leans in to kiss Andrew’s neck, but before he has the chance, Andrew’s already flipped him over and straddling him, “Yes or no?” he mumbles gruffly, but Neil’s already choking out a hoarse, breathless fuck yes as Andrew runs his hands up his arms and entwines their fingers before entrapping him under his body with a vehement, sealing kiss that leaves them both gasping for breath. 

Andrew falling ill with the flu and insisting that he doesn’t get sick, even as he’s coughing up his lungs and running a high fever. Neil doesn’t buy into his bullshit for one second and insists on dragging him to the doctor’s office. That’s when Andrew quietly admits his loathing of doctors, stemming from a general distrust of society and never having been to one before. Whenever he got sick before, he would just take care of it on his own. And then he had Abby. Neil insists that despite Abby’s qualifications, Andrew needed to go see a real doctor. Neil successfully wears him down and they end up visiting the doctor together. In the waiting room, Andrew is crushing Neil’s hand so tight Neil knows it’s going to leave a bruise. Neil doesn’t care. He managed to convince Andrew to make the trip. That’s all that matters.

Whenever the Foxes come to visit them, Andrew cleans out the entire house. Makes sure every surface is scrubbed and not a thing is out of place. He makes them all take their shoes off at the doorstep and warns Nicky he’ll make him bleed if he hoists his legs up on the recently polished coffee table.

Andrew and Neil working out together, and Neil once again, being flabbergasted by just how much weight this boy can lift. It feels like some strange metaphor for all of Neil’s baggage he took at face value and handled like a rock. “You’re staring again,” Andrew points out, sitting there in a muscle t-shirt, his skin slick with sweat, his blond tufts pulled back by a thin black bandana, performing a 180kg deadlift like it’s practically nothing. “Yeah,” Neil manages. “Get used to it already.”

The two of them getting away for the weekend from everyone and everything. Driving, driving, halting at terribly lit gas stations in the middle of nowhere to buy cigarettes and soda, star-gazing on the roof of the Maserati, Andrew knowing every constellation by heart, Neil gaping at him in quiet, captivated awe. The two of them falling asleep in dingy motel rooms after making messy love. The comfort in the little things and just purely enjoying one another’s existence, one another’s presence. Neil’s head on Andrew’s shoulder, Andrew pressing a kiss to the pulse point of Neil’s throat, Neil fiddling with Andrew’s hair, Andrew shivering when Neil bites promises into his neck, Andrew’s hands underneath Neil’s shirt, killing his scars with his kisses.

Listen I could go on forever but I need to STOP.

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

neil josten absolutely uses baby talk around his cats and i refuse to believe otherwise

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

Andreil + kissing

I feel like because it’s such a little, every day thing that neither of them got to have growing up, it means so much more now and so they’ll take their damn time with their kisses and put their all into it

because their kisses mean something and they know it

just whenever they have any inkling of privacy they’ll be making out (and then eventually even when they don’t have privacy)

like Neil will start staying in the car when they go to edens when Andrew goes to park it, just so that they can spend two minutes making out once they’re there

in the kitchen when they’re making coffee and Neil is sitting on the counter with Andrew holding up his legs around his hips

and the other monsters come in and make their breakfast around them

and Neil and Andrew act like they’re not even there

also the roof, right?

it doesn’t have a ledge -  it’s just a flat roof 

so if they’re sitting there legs dangling off and lips pressed together and hands in hair

people can obviously see them?? from the parking lot?? oh well, it’s kissing time

but seriously just imagine looking up at your dorm building and seeing these two tiny boys kissing with abandon on the ledge of a 4 story building - and then on top of that, it being a normal occurrence 

and then just imagine them on their road trips

sometimes they’re literally on the road

and Andrew is driving or Neil is driving

and it’ll be late at night and they can see the stars and they’re the only ones in sight

they’ll look over at each other and how the moonlight pools along their skin

and they just pull the car to the side as quickly as possible

if it’s warm they’ll get out and lay on the hood and kiss under the stars

if it’s cold they’ll huddle in the backseat and Neil will sit in Andrews lap and kiss until the windows start to frost over before driving off again

Neil likes kissing Andrew in the places they go together - whether it’s a beautiful view or the alley behind their hotel where they went to smoke

because even though he never has to or wants to run again 

something in him likes to know that no matter where he ends up he’ll have a memory of Andrews lips on his

and then there’s rainy days right

and it’s so great cause they lived together so they’re able to do all this in college and once they’re older (ignoring that sad middle part when Andrew had graduated/they were on different pro teams)

but they like rainy days

it’s quiet and peaceful and if they don’t have practice Neil won’t get up early to run

because there’s something about watching Andrew through the haze of a cloudy day, Neil thinks it makes him the brightest thing in the room, all gold hair and honey eyes

and later they’ll make cocoa for Andrew and tea for Neil - “its leaf water josten I can’t fucking believe Kevin convinced you to drink that”

they’ll sit and Andrew will read or watch tv and Neil will watch Andrew

and eventually Andrew will take pity on him and put down his book and they’ll kiss for the rest of the night

because as much as the sensation of falling makes Andrew’s heart stutter, the way that Neil grounds him firmly to this world and this time him with their lips pressed together makes him feel just as much

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]

[iknowwhoyouaredamianos]