“Yeah,” Andrew murmurs. “Yours.”
Post-coital endorphins have Nicholas grinning in a way he rarely does, his hands digging into Andrew’s hips to keep his smaller body close.
Work hard and you can have it all, Nicholas. Respect. Money. The family empire.
That was what his father drilled into him. He’s spent his entire fucking life chasing it, or some version of it anyway, yet none of it has ever been enough. The thrill of fame is hollow, the riches equally so. If Nicholas had everything, he never understood how he could still want. He understands now. This right here, this is what he’s never had. This is what he’s been missing—companionship, trust,love.
Nicholas is falling in love with Andrew fucking King.
18ANDREW
Giventhe choice between wet socks and death, Andrew would choose, well—neither. But right now, he might as well have wet socks on for how disgusting he feels. Everything is wrong—his awareness of his own heartbeat, his breathing, every place his skin wraps around his bones. It’s all too much. He is so deregulated, he wants to cry. Except he already did cry, right after Nicki had to leave for his morning skate.
Not wanting Nicki to see him, he made sure and held it in, biting the inside of his cheek and insisting he was fine when Nicki asked. What was Andrew supposed to do—admit he was so miserable he didn’t want Nicki to leave him? Was he supposed to say that he wanted his professional hockey player boyfriend to skip his game and stay home to hold him? Absolutely not ever, but especially not knowing today is Nicki’s last game of the season, and he can’t miss it just because Andrew is being pathetic.
Usually, he’s better at keeping it together, but something about their shower last night undid Andrew. There were glimpses before, signs that Nicki really was okay with him at his worst—first at the rage room and then again at his apartment. Yet neither of those things could have prepared Andrew forNicki to comfort him when sick, to tenderly wash his hair and be okay jerking off while Andrew did nothing more than revel in his closeness. He’d never had the freedom to do that before, always so afraid of someone else being confused or upset by Andrew’s untraditional and sometimes changing boundaries with sex, that he often just closed it off behind a wall. Being allowed to enjoy Nicki’s pleasure, not for himself but for him, and then being held after, is the kind of thing Andrew never dreamed someone might offer him.
After Nicki came, he’d rinsed them both, insisting on towel drying Andrew despite the fact that he could technically do it himself. Then he’d dressed Andrew in his own clothing and taken him to his bed before wrapping himself around Andrew. Even after Andrew reminded Nicki he was a disgusting, germ-filled cesspool, Nicki held him all night. Even when Andrew got snot on his pillow and woke him up coughing in his face.
After all that, Andrew simply can’t be blamed for letting the last of his walls crumble.
Somehow Nicholas Whitmore, the man Andrew initially thought was the world’s most self-centered asshole, turned out to be one of the most steady, reliable people Andrew’s ever met. He isn’t put off by Andrew raging or yelling or crying or even being sick, which is unsettling and confusing, but also one of the most incredibly safe things he’s ever experienced. He’s so used to people only liking him at his best, that having someone revel in his messy, difficult side has Andrew feeling almost as deregulated as being sick.
To make things even harder, in less than twenty-four hours he’s gone from probably getting sick to feeling like full blown death, and he can’t pretend to be okay anymore. He doesn’twantto pretend. Andrew is so goddamn tired of hiding and masking.
Right now he’s miserable and sweaty, hot but cold, and everything aches, and the bed still smells like Nicki, and all he wants is his boyfriend to come home and take care of him, to hold him in their bed.
Theirbed.
Rolling over to lay his cheek on Nicki’s pillow, Andrew tries and fails to ignore the feelings that single thought invokes. It’s not their bed. It’s Nicki’s. But maybe…maybe it could be. He’s been so sure keeping Nicki at arms length is important, but would it really be so bad to just let him in? To let down that last wall and accept what Nicki is so clearly trying to give? Andrew doesn’t think so. In fact, the idea of finally letting someone in to see every shadowed, tired part of Andrew feels like being allowed to breathe after a lifetime of holding his breath.
The thought brings a fresh wave of tears to his eyes, the drops staining Nicki’s pillowcase and making his already stuffy nose start to run. Fuck, Andrew hates being sick. It makes him feel vulnerable and needy andweak.
Before leaving, Nicki made sure to open all the curtains so Andrew had a view of the sea from bed, which was surprisingly observant and thoughtful since Andrew didn’t ask. He’s glad for it now, focusing on the endless blue horizon rather than the way his own interoception is dialed up to one hundred. After what feels like an hour, but is probably closer to ten minutes, Andrew’s gone from bad to worse, the nausea that’s been at the periphery of his senses taking center stage.
Maybe it’s because he’s sick, or maybe it’s because he’s been popping pain pills on an empty stomach, but suddenly Andrew’s stomach rolls, and he knows it’s going to be bad. Throwing himself out of bed, because the idea of puking on Nicki’s expensive sheets would fill him with guilt, he drags himself to the bathroom where the contents of his stomach make an unwanted and painful appearance. He retches, his entire bodyconvulsing with the force until there’s nothing left, and he’s puking up clear stomach acid and gagging.
It takes awhile for the convulsions to stop, but when they do, his entire body shakes, and he can barely stand upright. The bedroom is suddenly too far, and Andrew gives up trying to get back, sinking to the floor and laying his cheek against the cold tile. All he wants is to crawl back in bed and hug Nicki’s pillow and pretend it’s him, but he’s not sure if he might puke again, and he’s too scared to do it in Nicki’s bedroom, so he stays on the floor tracing the square of tile next him and counting from one to ten and back in Spanish, hoping the distraction will ease the nausea.
The longer he counts, the more the world blurs, exhaustion warring with unease until his eyes flutter shut.
This is fine, Andrew can just live on the floor now.
* * *
“What the fuck?”
Nicki’s cursing startles Andrew awake, something he deeply regrets when he tries to move and realizes he is asleep on the bathroom floor. The very hard bathroom floor. His body is absolutely unhappy about that, based on the intense pain in his neck and hip.
“Sorry.”
“What the fuck, Andrew?” Nicki sounds angry, which makes Andrew’s entire body tense. He forces his eyes open, trying to see if he made a mess and didn’t notice, but then he catches sight of Nicki’s face, and while his voice sounds pissed, his expression is anything but.
“Why the fuck are you sleeping on the floor?”
“Puked,” Andrew answers, too exhausted to explain in the kind of detail he normally would.
“Fuck,” Nicki curses, “I shouldn’t have gone to morning skate.”
