Work Text:
Kevin isn’t sure what he’d been expecting to find in Jeremy’s drug dealer’s living room, but it certainly wasn’t Neil Josten high off his ass and wrapped like a koala around a thick-armed man Kevin has seen smoking at the periphery of parties. Not just wrapped, actually, they are kissing—no, they are making out —slow and deep and languid and Kevin has apparently lost all control of his face because for some reason he cannot make himself look away.
“I know,” says the man who’d opened the door for them. “It’s disgusting. I’ve never felt so single.”
“I don’t know,” Jeremy says, rocking back and forth on his feet next to Kevin, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Looks pretty hot to me.” He leans forward a bit more on his next rock, then turns a surprised face to Kevin. “Is that Neil?” he asks in a stage whisper.
“Yes,” Kevin says.
Neil responds to the sound of his name, if nothing else—his eyes open and fix on Kevin, but it takes a few agonizing seconds for his mouth to catch up and turn away from the kiss. The dealer’s mouth drags across his jaw and tucks into his neck.
“Kevin,” Neil says. He drags the word out slow and syrupy and chases it with a softly pleased smile. It’s entirely uncalled for, that smile, the shape of Kevin’s name in Neil’s mouth. Kevin is affronted, being subjected to it, he tells himself sternly.
“The Kevin?” the dealer says just loud enough for them to hear, lifting his lips from Neil’s neck to pin Kevin with one barely lifted eyebrow.
“The Kevin,” Neil agrees. He gets the smile under control, tucks it into the corners of his mouth, forcing a dimple into his left cheek.
“Interesting,” the man says, then shifts his gaze and adds, “Knox,” with a small head tilt.
“Andrew,” Jeremy says, with his own solemn head tilt - a move Kevin has never seen his roommate execute before just now. He may even pull it off. Kevin isn’t sure. Neil still hasn’t looked away. Kevin is caught in a fly trap, sticky eyes and a dry mouth.
“Seth will take care of you,” Andrew says. His eyes are back on Kevin now, though he’s clearly talking to Jeremy. Kevin’s fly trap just got stickier, two sets of eyes holding him frozen in place until Andrew adds, “Have a seat, The Kevin.”
There’s only one seat to have: the one next to Andrew and Neil on the sofa. Lowering himself onto it feels as intimate as crawling into bed with them.
Jeremy disappears into a back room on Seth’s heels, the traitor, and Neil’s head swivels slowly so he can pin Kevin anew from this angle, his arctic eyes softer and bluer than Kevin has ever seen. “Hi,” he says, letting his head fall against Andrew’s shoulder as he stares.
Kevin might be in a vampire movie, if the way Neil is looking at him is any indication.
Or a porno, maybe.
He’s not sure which he’s less prepared for.
“Is your friend cool?” Andrew asks.
Neil smirks, then lifts one hand in the air, tilting it back and forth in a see-saw motion.
“Good enough.” Andrew frees one hand from its entanglement in Neil’s t-shirt to lift a black vape pen from the couch cushion between them.
It takes Kevin longer than it should to realize it’s being handed to him. He takes it—it’s slim and metal, cool in Kevin’s hand.
“You just inhale,” Neil tells him.
Kevin brings the vape to his lips. Before he can inhale, Andrew’s hand drops to Neil’s hip, slides to his lower back and fists in his t-shirt, exposing a stretch of tanned skin. The slope of it is mesmerizing, a smooth arc into a swell that disappears under the low-riding waistband of Neil’s sweatpants.
He knows what he’s doing, Kevin realizes. He lifts his eyes to meet Andrew’s and inhales, filling his lungs and nose with fragrant smoke.
Kevin doesn’t even have time to clock his mistake before he is coughing, hard. Harder than he’s ever coughed in his life. He doubles over, holding the vape out and away from him like the viper it is while his lungs clog up his throat in their desperate attempt to exodus his body. His eyes are wet, his face hot, and he doesn’t even notice when the offending thing is plucked from his waving hand.
“Not that much,” Neil says, rather a bit too late.
Kevin risks a look at Andrew. There’s a smirk playing on the man’s bottom lip, but he says nothing, just touches the vape to his own lips and breathes in smoothly. There is no coughing, no reaction at all save for a long, slow stream of vapor curling around him and Neil when he exhales. Asshole.
“I have an idea,” Neil says, sitting up just enough to whisper in Andrew’s ear.
Kevin can’t hear what he says after that; he’s too distracted trying to parse if he feels anything yet. His brain is fuzzy, sure, but that could just be his proximity to a very drapey Neil and the arresting visual of Andrew’s lazy, possessive hands pushing bits of clothes awry. The ruffling of Neil has a purpose, it appears, when Andrew finally produces a tidily rolled joint. A little more rustling reveals a bright pink BIC lighter. He tucks both into Neil’s hand.
A voice from the back calls, “Hey boss?”
“Duty calls,” Andrew says, almost cheerful, and then, in a move that looks—but definitely isn’t—effortless, he stands, taking Neil and his weight with him.
Kevin feels immediately and unfairly bereft for all of three seconds - and then Andrew drops Neil into Kevin’s lap. Kevin freezes, pure fight or flight, except he can’t move, not with a hundred and fifty pounds of lithe striker currently arranging himself contentedly around Kevin.
Andrew says, “Don’t break him,” and then he’s gone. Kevin is unsure if Andrew means him or Neil. He files that away for detailed analysis later and turns back to the problem at hand.
The problem: Neil, one warm hand curved over Kevin’s shoulder for balance, up on his knees, his calves pressed alongside Kevin’s thighs. Kevin has to tilt his head back to see his eyes. His hands go instinctively to Neil’s hips, and then he realizes what he’s doing and drops them as though scalded.
“It’s fine,” Neil says, chasing his words with one hand carding through Kevin’s hair, just above his ear. The touch sends sparks down his spine, catching fire under his skin when Neil finally settles his full weight on Kevin. “We’ll do it like this,” Neil says, and Kevin helplessly watches Neil’s lips wrap around the little white joint, watches Neil flick the lighter once, twice, then inhale, the paper burning in a fascinating pattern under the flame.
Neil tips his head back and exhales, blowing a long stream of smoke into the air.
“Ready?” he asks. Kevin nods, and this time when Neil inhales he holds the smoke in, lips zipped tight as he drapes an arm over Kevin’s shoulder, hooks it loosely around Kevin’s neck, pulls him close. When Neil’s lips part, the smoke on his breath fills Kevin’s mouth and keeps coming, a long stream of it. It’s smoother, and Kevin doesn’t cough this time, just sips and sips from Neil until the distance between them is nothing, until Neil’s lips are pressed to his, his arms wrapped around Kevin’s neck.
It’s an obvious invitation. Even Kevin isn’t that dense. He RSVPs with his hands, folding them around Neil’s lean hips, pressing his thumbs into warm skin and muscle. Neil’s answering hum reverberates against Kevin’s mouth, and it is nothing to open for him, to welcome the warm velvet slide of Neil’s tongue against his. The kiss sinks him, drops an anchor in his chest and sends them both to the bottom of the ocean.
Neil makes a sound in the back of his throat, low and satisfied. One of his hands makes its way to Kevin’s hair, fingers tangling loosely, and if that isn’t bad enough, he spreads his knees in one smooth motion and slides down Kevin’s lap until they’re pressed together everywhere. Kevin can feel his ribs move with every breath. He can feel Neil’s pebbled nipples pressed against his chest, Neil’s curving lips against his own.
It’s a devastating kiss, a never-ending kiss. Kevin forgets how to breathe, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t need to breathe, he’s deep under water, cradled, held up, and he has his hands on Neil Josten’s really fucking perfect ass. He squeezes, hard, and Neil breaks the kiss with a breathless laugh and a gentle tug at Kevin’s hair.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
At first Kevin thinks Neil’s asking how he feels about the kiss, and Kevin says, “Really good,” but the words sound far away, even though he knows he formed them himself. Or he thinks he did. He’s pretty sure he said them outloud. Kevin frowns. His arms feel rather heavy, and he might be glued to Neil in a way that is irreversible, and he’s not actually sure, now, what Neil is asking him. “I think I am high.”
Neil grins at him, wide and bright, and a voice that isn’t his says, “He thinks,” with an edge of amusement Kevin knows is at his expense.
Kevin’s head sways towards the voice. It’s the drug dealer again—Andrew—propped up in the doorway and looking pretty comfortable. Comfortable like he’s been there a while.
Neil takes advantage of Kevin’s distraction to lean back in, to press open mouthed kisses down his neck, dragging a soft moan unbidden from Kevin’s mouth. He feels the touch everywhere, in his toes, in his chest, in his dick. Neil brushes the shell of Kevin’s ear with his lips and Kevin manages a low, urgent, “Neil,” clenching the fabric of Neil’s sweatpants involuntarily. Neil hums at him without breaking from his ministrations and Kevin tries again. “Andrew is back.” Something about this announcement feels important, but Kevin’s eyes promptly roll into his head when Neil takes Kevin’s earlobe between his teeth, and he forgets.
Andrew huffs in quiet amusement and then he’s on the move. Kevin tries to track him, but Neil is leaving a trail of fire down Kevin’s neck again, testing his teeth at the base with a sharp nip that he quickly soothes with his tongue. Kevin slips his hands down over Neil’s ass, wraps them around the backs of Neil’s thighs, fingers brushing something heavy between his legs. Kevin strokes. His fingertips drag over twin curves, feeling ridges on skin and realizing only when Neil gasps and pushes up onto his knees again that he’s fondling Neil’s scrotum.
Neil’s hand tugs Kevin’s head back. He looks down at Kevin, eyes glittering, mouth red.
I did that, Kevin thinks, and then Andrew’s weight shifts the balance of the cushions and Kevin thinks, we did that, and then Neil’s mouth is on his again, hot and demanding.
It’s been an entire year and yet not nearly long enough when Neil pulls back again, one hand still tangled in Kevin’s hair for leverage as he holds a hand out beside them. Kevin watches dazed as Andrew deposits the pink lighter in Neil’s palm, props the half burned joint between his fingers. It’s a magic trick; Kevin knew Neil had been holding those things, and yet Andrew appears them from thin air.
But that was a century ago, a millennium, and Neil’d had both hands on Kevin.
“Again?” Neil asks, like it’s nothing, tucking the joint between his spit slick lips and flicking the lighter.
Kevin says, “Again,” eyes rapt as the golden light reflects on Neil’s cheeks, eager to climb back on this merry go round: flick, inhale, sink, kiss, repeat
They get all the way to sink and Neil’s lips ghosting over his again, Kevin trying and only just failing to pin him down into a kiss, and something that sounds a lot like somebody Kevin knows buzzes off to his left.
The second buzz penetrates. “Kev?”
Jeremy.
Kevin lolls his head, an unbidden sound of protest escaping him as he loses the proximity of Neil’s lips to look at Jeremy. His roommate is standing over them, a worried look darting back and forth between Kevin and Andrew.
Kevin tightens his grip on Neil defensively. “It’s okay,” he says, thinking he does a very good job of sounding reasonable from his place at the bottom of the ocean. “Andrew gave him to me.”
“Loaned,” Andrew corrects absently. And then, “Your zipper is down.”
Is it? Kevin checks, alarmed, but his is fastened tight. Jeremy’s, on the other hand—
Jeremy looks down. “Huh,” he says. A bit of a flush rises on his cheeks. Or maybe it was already there.
“What were you doing?” Kevin asks.
“Hey,” Neil says, framing Kevin’s face between his palms, effectively redirecting Kevin’s attention before Jeremy has a chance to answer him. “Let’s do this again sometime.” He cards a hand through Kevin’s hair and Kevin’s eyes flutter closed involuntarily, then snap open again when Neil crawls out of his lap and plops himself right back where he’d started.
For a brief harrowing moment, Kevin feels the loss of him like a limb.
And then he’s distracted by the fact that Seth very much isn’t wearing a shirt anymore.
“Wait,” he says. There’s something on the tip of his tongue, some sun rising over the horizon, but it stays just out of his reach, tantalizingly.
“Nope,” Jeremy says. He zips himself up briskly—the metallic whine makes Kevin wince all the way on the couch—and grabs a handful of Kevin’s shirt on his way past, tugging him up to standing.
Kevin sways a little on his feet, tethered to Jeremy’s grip on his shirt, tethered by the roots his feet immediately grow into the soft carpet beneath him. He blinks down at Jeremy, catalogs his messy hair and kissed-red lips and can’t stop the molasses slow grin that spreads over his face.
Jeremy, in turn, narrows his eyes at him briefly, before they open so wide Kevin can see every bit of his brown irises surrounded by white. “Kevin Day you are blitzed,” he says, tugging at Kevin’s shirt with each word. Kevin sways with that, too.
“I know,” Kevin says, grinning wider, so wide he can feel his teeth drying out.
“Alright, big guy,” Jeremy says fondly. “Let’s get you home.”
Home. There’s no lapful of Neil Josten there. Kevin looks longingly at him, but he’s back in Andrew’s lap, a satisfied smile pressed against whatever Andrew’s moving mouth is saying to him.
The bells hanging from the knob jingle when Jeremy opens the front door. Neil looks up and catches Kevin’s eye, catches him longing.
“See you at practice, Kevin,” Neil says, and he smiles at Kevin in a way that makes Kevin want to drop to his knees and beg for mercy.
Kevin will see Neil first thing in the morning. At practice. For soccer. Kevin loves soccer.
“I know,” Neil says, amusement dancing in his tone. Had Kevin said that outloud? Or does Neil just read his mind now? Kevin gapes at him.
“Bright and early!” Jeremy says – before Kevin can ask Neil if he reads minds – and starts for the door, towing Kevin along behind him.
Kevin remembers, with a sudden and ferocious certainty, that he also loves ice cream. He never lets himself have it. Which is stupid. If he can make out with Neil Josten, he can have a little ice cream. As a treat. “We need to stop at the store,” he insists. “For ice cream.”
“We have ice cream at home,” Jeremy tells him.
“We do?”
“Yep.”
“You, Jeremy Knox, are a wonder,” Kevin says, distracted enough by the thought of cold creamy goodness on his tongue that he almost doesn’t mourn the door clicking closed behind them, sealing him away from Neil and his decadent mouth except … he’d said let’s do it again sometime.
A smile bubbles up from some deep, neglected fathom of Kevin’s being, stretches itself across his face as insistently as a wave crashing upon the shore, pushing his cheeks so wide they’d hurt if he could feel them.