whats-rambled-rambled

[whats-rambled-rambled]

Deadlines & Commitments

Neil x F!Reader

Chapter 5 - Canary Wharf Underground Station

Masterlist; Chapter 4 Summary: The premiere of Don Quixote is here and you're very much not fine. Luckily, Neil know how to deal with that. Or does he? Warnings: Swearing, E-rated language, a decisive step into E-rated content at the very end :) Author's Notes: Apparently this new chapter is whole novel of 14.4k words because I cannot control myself whatsoever 🤷🏻‍♀️ And it's not even all of what was planned in the outline, so excuse the rather rude cliffhanger there. I promise though, a detailed continuation is coming ;) This chapter opens up the section of this fic that haunts my waking hours and sleepless nights so... brace yourselves ✨ As always, they're still very stupid and very into each other. And, as always, I only have an illusion of control over them. Without further ado - I hope you enjoy this nonsense and let me know what you think? 💕 Taglist: @hollandorks, @kristevstewart, @stargirl25 (let me know if you want to be added)

Every strike of the clock hand, bringing you mercilessly closer to the 6 pm curtain call, felt like a miniature heart attack, tightening the deadly loop around your stumbling heart. After you had stumbled back into the apartment close to 1 am after that fateful rendezvous at the studio, you foolishly hoped to get some sleep. But no such grace was deemed deserved for you.

Instead, you tossed and turned until 5 am before giving up entirely and focusing the restless energy on breaking in the pointe shoes for the evening and not messaging Neil. In that exact order.

You only succeeded at that first task.

When there was nothing left to do but show up at the Opera House later that afternoon, and the watch still proved the time did not want to willingly hurry the fuck up, you left the house with just enough minutes to spare to hop on the Jubilee line train as on every Wednesday morning. As if you had somewhere to be.

You drowned out the reasonable part of your brain, which helpfully reminded you how stupid this was, with a Don Quixote score blasting at full volume through your headphones and hurried through the walk with the usual brisque pace. You were not keen to admit that meeting Neil would offer peace of mind that nothing else seemed to provide. Or that ever since the night before, you could hardly get rid of him from your thoughts for longer than fifteen minutes at best.

Most importantly, perhaps, you did not want to think about the fact that whatever was happening between you had an expiration date. It always did. The only question was when and how far it would go before fate came knocking.

You only paused the music and took off the headphones when you stepped aboard the train and spotted Neil. He did not notice you, entirely engrossed by staring out the window, his pair of headphones perched atop his head. With the backdrop noise of beeping train doors closing behind your back, you allowed yourself another long look. Mostly admiring the fluffy golden strands falling over his eyes and the elegant curve of his profile, so striking in the harsh light of the overhead blinking fluorescents. A pathetic, dreamy sigh had to be swallowed for the sake of your dwindling pride as you crossed the remaining space and leaned over the empty seat next to Neil to give his head a light pat. He flinched, instantly taking off his headphones and turning towards you with wide eyes, poised to flee. You shot him an apologetic look, softened with another one of those fond smiles Neil seemed to have an ease of bringing out on your face.

“Why are you here?” the question was placed with that tint of a shocked gasp still present.

The confusion marred his features as Neil’s eyes wandered over your face as if not yet believing you were there.

“Ouch, I was hoping for a warmer welcome,” you shot him your best faux wounded look, following it with an arched eyebrow and a meaningful glance with an addition, “All things considered,”

It was impossible to stop the sudden influx of memories from flashing before your eyes as your brain helpfully offered highlights from the night before. How it felt to have Neil kiss your neck with all the devotion of a classical scholar. What it was like to be wanted by him.

If his responding blush was anything to go by, you were not the only one bombarded by memories. Neil dropped your gaze and swallowed hard, already making room for you to join him in the vacant seat. Only once you were sat snugly next to him, he raised his head again and spoke:

“You know what I mean. It’s early, and I-” he shook his head and reached out to grasp your hand, giving it a light squeeze, “Sorry,” it was paired with an innocent smile, the light of it making his blue eyes sparkle.

After that, there was no choice but to forgive him. Not that there was anything to forgive.

“You’re excused, sweetheart,” you returned the squeeze and enlaced your fingers, pressing your hands palm to palm. The skin contact was almost soothing, validating the very reasons why you had come there in the first place, “Answering your question: generalised anxiety disorder, stress, insomnia. You name it,” unsuccessfully shrugging off the unease, you broke the eye contact to stare at the stray eyelash, dotting his cheek. Without thinking, you reached out to brush it away, earning yourself another bloom of pink on his face and a wonderous gasp. It was a good enough encouragement to say what might yet be the most revealing truth of all, “I could barely stand still, so I figured I might as well get on the train and bother you,” by the end of the admission, you have dropped your gaze to the floor.

That was much better than seeing in real-time the effect of your confession on Neil. That plain understanding in the blue eyes always made you feel a little too seen. A little too transparent.

The weight of his hand within yours offered enough comfort for now. You could feel him trace small circles at the back of your palm, soothing and anchoring you in the present moment.

“I’d happily be bothered by you,” the hint of a smile in Neil’s voice acted like bait, drawing you out of the hiding.

You raised your head with caution, only allowing yourself to relax once you spotted a harmless grin on his face.

“Good,” you let go of his hand with reluctance, trying hard not to let yourself dwell too much on that flash of something close to disappointment on Neil’s face.

Sometimes, you still fooled yourself that those attempts at minimising the intimacy level could change things. That it could somehow make you more immune to his charms or less likely to get used to something that could never be permanent.

“Are you nervous about tonight?” the question offered a needed reprieve from the mess in your head.

As did the earnestness in Neil’s eyes, the desire to hear the answer and interest in what you had to say. Even if the mere reminder about the pre-premiere tightened the knot in your stomach and made you nauseous. You took a fortifying breath and sighed. The sound acted like the perfect preamble:

“God, yeah… It’s like, realistically, I know it’ll be fine. Probably. But I’m just freaking out” another frustrated groan resounded between you as you threw your restless hands and let them fall weightless in your lap.

The tapping foot was much more difficult to wrestle into obedience. So much so that you only stilted when you felt the heavy weight of Neil’s hand touching your knee with a dose of care. You glanced at him, aware of the deer-in-headlights look painted on your face. But, as usual, there were no cheeky puns to lighten the mood.

“It’ll be better than fine,” Neil squeezed your knee before lifting his hand and placing it back in his lap.

You tried not to ponder the devoid feeling left behind as the warmth of his touch faded from your skin. Instead, you turned towards him with an arched eyebrow and a provocative tone, hiding the insecurities:

“And how do you know that?” there it was again, that same desire for someone else to validate the fears and tell you what you have always suspected.

That you were not good enough for this. For anything at all. That it was best you stopped trying. That the only talent you possessed was talking shit and pretending to be someone you were not.

The depths of affection in Neil’s eyes did not seem to offer that type of honesty, however.

“Because you’re better than fine” the conviction in his voice tugged at the remains of sanity in your head as Neil mirrored your position and continued, the heated tone only growing stronger “You’re brilliant. Breathtakingly amazing and fucking incredible” you knew that battle was lost the moment you met his gaze, for now it was impossible to look away. You had been caught back in his orbit, as always, unable to move as Neil delivered the final sentiment, “And because I’m ninety per cent sure your brain is being a lying little bitch. Nothing more” then, just as you had begun to hope you could maybe look away from him or wake up from the spell, Neil leaned in to place a peck on your forehead.

Quick as lightning. It still made your heart pound with renewed energy. Still made you freeze with the wide-eyed look pasted onto your face. Still made you blush like an idiot.

Only after what felt like a solid five minutes you managed to shake it off, working hard to get past the blue screen of death in your brain and twist your lips into a sardonic smirk:

“You should become a PT,” the sparks in Neil’s eyes felt like instant gratification for the attempt at a joke, “People would pay a fortune for pep talks like this,” you hoped he would notice the gratitude shining through the mask you had put up.

That Neil would know just how much it meant.

“That’s more like it,” the answering grin told you that perhaps he did know.

Ever so carefully, he knocked your chin with his knuckles and shot you a wink, offering an out from the conversation you had hoped would show up.

You did not waste a chance like that.

“Are you coming on Friday?” it was another question you just had to ask.

Because, yes, he had technically said yes. Even accepted the PDF of a ticket you had sent him a few days before. But that didn’t mean anything. As far as you were concerned, Neil could still decide he had better things to do than attend a ballet performance on a Friday evening.

You did not dare look at him until you heard a reply.

“Obviously,” chancing a glance, you noticed the minor look of offence slowly transforming into a deadly smirk. Always too easily drawn in, you could feel its power of destruction as Neil added, “I’m even going to wear a suit. With a tie,” the pointed look following the sentence was meant only for you.

And was yours to interpret. There was heat there, blazing up his irises and making it too easy to drown in the blue. You watched as Neil glanced at your mouth, at how your teeth worried at the tender skin. You briefly wondered whether he wanted to know how it would taste on his tongue. You briefly considered asking him to try it.

Except that you didn’t. Because you did not think you had the right. Not yet.

Instead, you let out a low whistle and allowed your eyes to show exactly how this little bit of information made you feel.

“Damn… And you expect me to act normal?” the deadpan look could not erase the want easily seen on your face.

Even with just your imagination to rely upon, you knew the effect would be deadly. That seeing Neil on Friday might crumble your resolve into ashes and kickstart a chain of events you had tried to delay as long as possible. It would be a lie to say you were not anticipating it.

Neil only smiled, undeniably pleased about the effect of his words and your inability to pretend that you were unbothered. He leaned in closer, just enough so you would have no choice but to catch the smell of his intoxicating cologne, and replied:

“During the show? Sure,” the breath got caught in your throat, awaiting the second part of that answer as you stared back at him. The perfect pause executed with a flourish only Neil could be capable of, “After?” only half-aware of what was happening outside his blue eyes, you felt Neil’s hand cup your cheek. You stared as he carefully stroked your feverish skin and delivered the punchline, “We’ll see,” his touch was gone just as fast as you had felt it.

Yet the sentiment sent along with it would remain for much longer. You were sure of it.

“I’m holding you to that,” you held his gaze for a beat, cementing the hope that perhaps this time, those words would end up as something much more substantial than that – than words.

The responding nod was all you could hope for. And more. It opened a space for a comfortable silence, which settled over you like a blanket of ease. It soothed the nerves plaguing you since the moment you tried going to sleep.

After two stops, you broke the silence with a sudden thought:

“Actually, I’ve got an adjacent question that I’ve realised I never asked,” dropping the lead, you chanced a look at Neil.

As if sensing your gaze, he offered you a smile.

“Shoot, sweetheart,” the nickname rolled off his mouth with ease as if he was meant to call you that.

As if it came naturally. You still held a soft spot for ‘Cupid’, but this was something else. Something different.

“What station do you get off at?” ignoring the thoughts, you raised your head to stare at the Jubilee line graphic above the door on the opposite side of the carriage.

It was tricky to guess as you only knew Neil went further down the line than you, further than Southwark. The desire to know has been sparked by the same thing as usual. The sudden realisation that while you knew so much about him – the details of his childhood, the way he took coffee and how much he doubted his importance on the daily (idiot) – you did not know something that simple. It itched and scratched at your conscience almost as much as the mystery of his occupation did. And you felt this would be much easier to get out of Neil.

“Really deep, existential questions, I see,” his chuckle brightened your horizons, effortlessly getting rid of the sudden melancholy, “Canary Wharf,” you turned to him just as Neil offered the information.

Oh. Right. It was impossible not to perk up, lightening up like a dog that just got thrown a treat after hours of perceived starvation. Isle of Dogs painted a picture that fit what you thought of Neil. Except that it also didn’t.

The high-rise buildings and men in suits chasing after the colourful plastic bills. That wasn’t him. But the elegance, the perchance for dreamers to wander into the district searching for their salvation. Yeah, that seemed just about right.

“Ooh, fancy,” the cheeky smile had to do in place of a different comment. You immediately followed it with a question that needed courage to be asked: “Can I accompany you there?”

That was the crux of the issue. The fact upon which the fate of your soul was hanging. Not to be dramatic, that is.

“You know I can’t deny you anything if I tried,” Neil’s reply was strengthened by the look in his eyes, yet again boring into the depths of your soul in search of something he seemed desperate to find.

The soft smile painted upon his lips was hard to ignore, immediately drawing yours from its hiding place. The weight had been lifted off your shoulders, even if just by a fraction.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you met his gaze for once not scared of what you could find there.

All that mattered was the promise held within the unspoken. Now, Friday evening had an importance that went beyond the curtain call and final bows at the end. Now, you could hardly wait for the night to come.

The rest of the journey passed in peace, filled with light conversations and laughter that you hoped would stay with you for a while after you had parted. That it would be enough to keep the fears at bay during the upcoming evening.

Just as you had discussed, when the PA system called in Canary Wharf, and the view outside got transformed into the steely, brutalist sci-fi wet dream that the station was, Neil shot you a quick smile, grabbed your hand and got up from the seat, urging you to follow his steps. You did what he asked, stuck in a daze that only faded when the first rays of sunlight hit your face on the escalator to the ground level. You did not want to say goodbye. As much as it was obvious to you, it was still something you did not want to admit. Not out loud, anyway.

Instead, you tightened the hold on Neil’s hand and pulled him to a stop as soon as you were both standing in the ticket hall, far from the crowds. His questioning gaze was full of fondness. It fuelled the bravery you desperately sought as you placed your free hand on his shoulder and rose on your tiptoes to close the remaining gap. Pressing a tender kiss to his lips was the easiest of fates as you sighed into his mouth and allowed yourself to soften in the embrace Neil willingly reciprocated with only a second of delay. He let go of your hand to place both his palms around your waist, pulling you closer. Without you needing to be the forward one, Neil deepened the kiss with a quiet gasp, betraying the need underlining his moves.

Yet again, the kiss felt ground-breaking. Almost revolutionary in a way you could hardly describe. But, above all else, it felt important.

It was disappointing to discover that you both still needed oxygen after a kiss like that. With reluctance, you pulled back and took half a step away. Your hand stayed clasped over his shoulder, maintaining the precious contact and giving you an excuse to stay close. That first hesitancy to let go was sweetened by the look on Neil’s face, the dazed haze clouding his gaze. Despite the sudden nerves, the multiplying questions about whether you had not just fucked it all up beyond repair, you could not help but smile in the face of his puzzlement.

It took Neil an additional minute to squeeze your waist lightly and ask the question with all the innocence of a confused blonde puppy:

“Is this something that we do now?” his unfairly long eyelashes bated, the blue of his eyes flickering in and out from view in the emphasis of his befuddlement.

You did your best to ignore the pounding heart in favour of owning up to the rash decisions. The truth was you had no clue whether you did that now. It was never discussed. But, considering the implications of half the conversations you have had since the first meeting, it did not seem entirely out of place. Kinda.

So, instead of running away like the cowardice suggested, you shrugged and met his wandering gaze with something resembling composure:

“That’s up to you,” it was something you were sure of.

Something you tried to stick to when in doubt. Only this was the first time you brought it up and stated the rules of the play so Neil would be in on the secret. That haze in his eyes had faded by now, leaving watchful curiosity in its place.

“Why?” the caution in his tone made you swallow past the rising uncertainty and press forward.

Just fucking say it. You took a deep breath and dove in.

“Because I know what I want, but I don’t want that to determine what happens to us” the sentence felt clunky and graceless, but the understanding dawned in his eyes all the same.

Neil studied you in silence for what felt like ages before he placed another question. This one was devoid of confusion:

“And what do you want?” it was the simplest of questions anyone could ask.

But also one that you did not feel the need to answer. He knew it already. You offered him a signature cheeky grin and leaned in again to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Bye, Neil,” you let go of him with the farewell replacing your careful touch. This time, you did not want to look back, so you let the addition carry on the wind as you started walking away, “I’ll text you later,”

***

The pre-premiere night was a relative success. By that, you mostly meant that no one died; you managed to step onto the stage and more or less performed the choreography without fuck ups. None of these things meant that the anxiety had somehow disappeared before Friday evening and the official opening night. It was still present, making you jittery with nerves. Still, lowkey made you wonder what would happen if you bailed and made the second Cupid take up your share of shows.

Because the fact that you were given both openings did not escape your attention. You were painfully aware of the responsibility weighing down your shoulders. The heaviness settled in your bones as you went through the motions of the Friday morning. The only light in the tunnel came from Neil’s texts, reassuring and distracting, as always. You did your best not to dwell too much on what could happen after the show. In this case, your best was hardly enough.

By the time the clock struck 4 pm, you had just finished the final on-stage rehearsal. The sweat trickled down your temples as you escaped the company for a moment of peace. The silence was found in the backrooms, the dusty corridors not yet filled with stagehands, prop masters or assistants. But it wasn’t long now.

You slid down the wall into sitting and sighed. The restless mind already going through the itinerary:

4:25 pm – light lunch

4:50 pm – costume change

5:30 - in-costume rehearsal (short)

6:00 – make-up and hair

6:30 – be ready

7:00 – fucking showtime.

The schedule was simple; it offered no space for doubts. But doubts still came because that was a first. A first role of such a calibre. The first time you desperately wanted it to go well while also fearing that it never would.

And then, there was also that part concerning your addition to the guest list. That one ticket you had requested and a top-tier seat reserved in one of the red velvet boxes. That pair of eyes you wanted to impress the most despite logic and sense. With a tired sigh, you unlocked the phone and started typing a message:

/ 🏹, 4:07 pm/ I genuinely don’t think I’ll make it till curtain call.

/✝️, 4:09 pm/ You better survive. I’ve got plans, you know.

/✝️, 4:09 pm/ And before you try it – those plans require your presence, Cupid.

/✝️, 4:10 pm/ So get your shit together, sweetheart.

/ 🏹, 4:11 pm/ See, you did it again! Pep talks guru in the making.

/ 🏹, 4:11 pm/ I’ll try, no promises, however.

/ 🏹, 4:11 pm/ Are you actually going to wear a suit?

/✝️, 4:13 pm/ Yes. I’m getting ready as we speak.

/✝️, 4:15 pm/ And considering how brave you are, I’m going to be very generous right now.

What? You stared at the last message until the screen on your phone turned black. A thousand possibilities knocked around your head, leaving nothing but confusion in their wake. Because while the brief conversation already did what you expected it to, leaving you just a little calmer, that was not an outcome you expected. It was not anything you expected.

When your phone flashed with the notification of a new message, you lurched forward to unlock it with enough haste to mess up the code twice before finally typing it correctly. The messaging app opened first, already foreseeing your needs. Yet nothing, no conscious thought or expectation, prepared you for the sight. For the one photo without a word of caption. A photo of Neil, standing in what appeared to be his bedroom, judging by the background, sans a shirt.

The trademark smirk on his face, the eyes staring at the phone screen, undoubtedly fully aware of the effect this would have on you. And he wasn’t wrong.

You stared, feeling your face heat up. Gaze shamelessly wandered over the planes of his chest and stomach, displayed in the photo for your perusal. You could already feel yourself going crazy, could feel the arousal pool in between your legs. All because of a photo. Just a photo.

You could try arguing with yourself that this was some anomaly. That you were acting up due to stress and tension, only that you knew it was none of those things. It was just Neil. Neil, and his seemingly perfect body you desperately wanted to get your hands on. And mouth, too.

Fuck. You groaned for the third time within the last fifteen minutes and lightly bumped your head into the wall behind you. Now, a trip to the bathroom before lunch was not only recommended but also mandatory. Slowly, you got up and stared at the screen.

It would be rude not to respond. Or so you dared think.

/ 🏹, 4:19 pm/ Thank you.

/ 🏹, 4:19 pm/ And fuck you.

/✝️, 4:20 pm/ You never know, you might.

/✝️, 4:20 pm/ Good luck and give them hell.

***

In the last few months, Neil has pretty much gotten used to that constant feeling of confusion. To the fact that if his brain could transmit one thought to him, it would be a question. What the fuck? Just so. Just that.

Some days, like on that particular Friday evening, the question would perhaps gain two more words. Precisely: What the fuck are you doing? He did not know. Apart from the fact that, somehow, at some vague point, the friendship with Cupid transformed into something else. Something that had him going insane, sending her photos without a shirt on and potentially letting himself be led into some sort of an arrangement. A situationship that would most likely involve sex, but not love. Not feelings. That much was clear from the start. And that was fine. It really was. Neil didn’t love her; he only… liked her. A lot. And he wanted her.

A lot.

Enough so to ask no questions and agree to whatever fate offered him. It would be fine. And, perhaps most importantly, he already had a friendship out of it, which… was always good. Worth it. Probably.

Neil shook his head against the idiotic thoughts and picked up the pace as he left the station and hurried towards the opera house. The thin coat did nothing against the biting wind, so he attempted to undo the damage by tightening the olive scarf around his neck. Although there was still time left till curtain call, Neil could hardly slow down the pace. The strange sense of anticipation would not let that happen. Oh, so carefully, he adjusted the loose hold over the bouquet of roses. A dozen flowers, equally split between pink and red ones. While Neil knew she would still appreciate him showing up without the bouquet, coming empty-handed seemed wrong.

And then, there was the whole bit about coming to see her after the show. The instructions were relatively simple: leave the main building and walk around the side to Stage Door. There, drop her name to a scary usher, asking for permission to come backstage. It’ll be fine. She said. Neil wasn’t sure it would be fine.

But whatever. For that, he definitely needed flowers.

Only once the glass, grand front of the Royal Opera House appeared in his view, it was easier to breathe. To assure himself that he arrived right on time. Ahead of it, even. Following the stream of elegant theatregoers, Neil liked to tell himself that he fit in. That the attempt at looking like he belonged was successful. In truth, he had twice considered changing out of the suit and only followed the plan because of the very vivid memory of Cupid and the teeth worrying at the fragile skin of her lips that he had come to love kissing. She was worth the pain.

The reality of the evening only dawned once Neil had managed to find the correct box and his seat, a fortifying glass of Prosecco sparkling in the glass flute held in his hand. The ballet programme, acquired at the price of a small donation, opened in his lap. The cast list had snatched his attention first as his eyes unconsciously scanned the character list for the one that mattered the most. His gaze stopped at her name, the betraying finger coming up to trace the letters like the idiot that Neil is.

With a sigh of frustration, he turned the page, revealing a photograph. A still from the ballet itself. Most importantly, a still portraying Cupid in the garden of the Nyads, the painted trees behind her back making up the scene. Except that Neil could barely look away from her to register anything or anyone else in the photo. She was ethereal, the white costume looking ablaze in the cold light of the scene. Feeling his pulse pick up again, Neil snapped the programme shut with a decisive move and dropped it on the tiny shelf by the box edge.

One last time, he checked whether the roses were still alive (thankfully) and took out the phone from his pocket. There were no new messages, but he opened the conversation with her all the same. Without letting himself think about it too long, Neil typed out a simple text:

/✝️, 6:55 pm/ I’ll see you after the show. Good luck, sunshine.

He hit send and exited the app without a second thought. Cupid would see it after, but that hardly mattered. Neil made sure his phone was on mute before he pocketed it again, and turned his gaze towards the stage. The curtain was still down, the red material heavy and embroidered with golden thread. It fitted in with the grand interior of the opera house, the splendour of every spot he laid his gaze upon. Including the dome ceiling with a crystal chandelier hanging down. Neil no longer wondered why Cupid seemed so terrified of this evening, why the weight on her shoulders was so intense. Even the theatre itself was scary in its grandeur.

Before he could follow that line of thought, the door behind clicked open, and a flurry of voices rushed in, followed by the patrons themselves. An elegant, older couple shot him a friendly smile as they took the remaining seats in the box and settled in for the evening. A second bell rang out in the auditorium as theatregoers filled the seats. The night was sold out, as the billing in the foyer informed him. That, too, only made sympathy for her fears stronger. A quick, insane thought crossed his mind that Neil wished he could hug her. Wished he had more reassurance to offer than platitudes in texts that never provided true comfort. But it hardly mattered.

Neil downed the remaining prosecco with the third bell and leaned back in the seat. Fucking showtime.

***

By the end of Act 1, his hands were shaking. He dug his sweaty palms into the armrests and closed his eyes against the bustle of patrons getting up from their seats. And that was before the scene.

Because, sure, Neil knew Cupid would be present during some of the group scenes in the other two acts because she had told him so. But knowing and seeing were two different things. Seeing her right there on the stage, being just as incredible, stunning, and brilliant as he knew she was, was something else entirely. Cupid shone like a beacon, drawing his attention no matter what. Hell, half the time she was present in the scene, Neil was not sure he even registered what was happening. Talk about tunnel vision or whatever.

He had a feeling it would get only worse when her moment came. The solo that started it all. So, while the saner patrons visited the toilets and mingled in the bar, Neil sat frozen through the intermission, staring at the red curtain and hoping the twenty minutes would pass quickly. It was not even something he could explain, not an emotion he had been familiar with before. Sure, there had been crushes. Both fleeting, childish things and passion that made him believe love existed if he could feel so much for another person. But this was neither of those things.

It was endless admiration combined with enough fascination and passion to make Neil want to do stupid things. Like taking her home after and fulfilling all the flirtations he had indulged in since they met. Like placing his hands back on her waist and discovering what it’s like to touch her bare skin. Like hearing her- Yeah, that.

It was exhilarating to remember that an ending to the night of this kind was not necessarily out of the picture. Quite on the contrary.

As the curtain rose for the second act and the events of the plot got him, Don Quixote, and Sancho Panza closer to the Garden and Cupid in all her glory, Neil knew he was fucked. Utterly, hopelessly fucked.

Then, she stepped out. All in white save for the embroidered garland of blue flowers on the bodice and the skirt. She danced each step with grace and confidence Neil never once doubted she possessed. It made the breath catch in his throat and his heart stumble. She was perfect. She leapt and turned with each note, just as in that video she showed him at the start. The joy filled every cell of her body, visible in how she danced. The cheeky smile gracing her lips was a sight Neil was used to, yet still, it made him blush. Even from his vantage point, he could tell no one else could look away from her. From the force of her beauty, knocking down everyone within striking distance. Like the goddess she was.

 The minute was over before he was aware of it, staring as Cupid completed the final set of leaps. She landed in the set pose and froze. The music was soon replaced with thunderous clapping. The heart palpitations in Neil’s chest had been replaced by glee, a stupid grin present on his face on its own accord. There it was again, that pride flaring up in his heart as he watched Cupid smile.

Yeah, he was decidedly fucked. And there was still the third act left. Terrifyingly aware of the company, Neil swallowed hard and dug his fingers into the armrests again. He briefly wondered whether the cubicle walls in the toilets were sanitary enough so he could faceplant into one during the second intermission. He quickly concluded that it hardly mattered. A man’s gotta do, what a man’s gotta do. Or something.

***

The applause was a sound you could get used to. It filled every cavern of your soul and made you forget about the burning in your muscles and the tiredness that made you feel you were close to fainting. All of that vanished when the orchestra finished the final notes of the score, and the principal dancers stepped in, bowing to the crowds. Even from your spot at the back, you could see the patrons rise from their seats and applaud the dancers with faces full of awe. The feeling got stronger once it was your turn to bow before the audience, legs shaking from exertion and a wide grin impossible to wipe off.

Because, somehow, you actually did it. Survived. Thrived, even. Everything went better than you hoped. Better than you dared dream. The conviction, anchored in your heart with that first dose of thunderous applause after you finished the Cupid variation, began to grow roots. It did not vanish as soon as the curtain fell, and you had all begun to disperse, half-limping from exhaustion towards the dressing rooms. It stayed as you chatted and laughed with the girls, letting the costume assistants help you out of the corset.

Perhaps, most importantly, the exhilaration stayed because you could still remember the text you saw right before scene one. A short, good luck message also showed you were wrong to doubt him. Neil showed up. He was in the audience, watching you excel at the role and perform like never before. That thought alone made you smile.

You got as far as changing into the black dress, perfect for both the celebratory banquet after the premiere and whatever else the night would have in store before the commotion at the door to the dressing room made you pause taking off the stage makeup. You looked up just in time to see Carol, the costume assistant, call your name from the doorway:

“You’ve got company, sweetie” the smirk present on her face was unnerving, almost making the horror drown out the joy you felt at that one sentence, “A handsome boy asked Derek about you,” she added, the smile only widening, highlighting the conclusion you would have easily reached yourself by now.

As you felt the eyes of half a dozen girls turn in your direction, you knew you had fucked it. Inviting Neil backstage felt like a good idea until this moment. Until the reminder that you were not going to be alone. Not with the eager, bright gazes of corps du ballet following your every move like a little clan of hyenas. Swallowing past the frown, you let the used makeup wipe fall onto the dressing table as you stood up. In haste, almost knocking over the stool.

“I was waiting for him, actually” you crossed the space, hiding the sudden nerves with an over-confident grin.

For whatever reason, the shyness had returned. It sped up the beat of your heart as you waited for Carol to turn towards the corridor she came from and fetch Neil. Ignoring the desire to leap into the hallway like an idiot, you rooted your feet in the floor and stared down. Right until you heard Carol come back. This time, she was not alone. You leaned out the doorway, your gaze finding Neil with ease. He stood out among the crowd of dancers, dressed in a dark grey suit with a burgundy tie. It was impossible not to let your jaw hang open as your eyes took him in. The expensive suit jacket fitted perfectly. Beneath, you could make out the matching vest as if a two-piece wasn’t enough.

Annoyed by the lack of flaws to pick out, your gaze flicked up to his face. Just in time to see the familiar smirk telling you all you needed to know about where Neil was. But there was no time to dwell on it.

“You’re in luck, Sir” you could see curiosity in Carol’s gaze as she patted Neil’s arm and threw you a look that promised serious questioning next time. Which would be tomorrow. Fuck “I’ll leave you two to it” throwing you a goddamn wink, she turned away and started walking back down the corridor.

“Thanks, Carol” your gratitude got half choked up by the wave of annoyance, but you smothered it to ashes and turned to Neil with a shy smile, “Hi,”

It was nearly impossible not to be dazed by his beauty, even after only two days apart. His blue eyes looked back at you with enough affection to make you quiver. The hard lights of the backstage caught the gold in his hair, making it look almost ablaze. You blinked against the striking picture, but the brief respite did nothing. Neil still looked too good to be true. Which was why you knew that the moment the girls saw him, all hell would unleash. You steeled your spine against the assault and gently steered him towards the room you had just left. He went willingly.

“Hello” at a moment unknown to you, Neil has placed his arm around your shoulder. He went as far as coupling the greeting with a brief squeeze of your bicep before the touch disappeared, and he came to a standstill next to you, “There’s a lot of staring happening right now,” the remark was whispered, yet it roared in the pin-drop silence of the dressing room.

It took no genius on your side to understand what Neil meant even before you raised your head and faced six equally shocked faces of the ballerinas in various stages of grief.

“I know, I’m sorry,” aware that acting on the desire to hold his hand would only backfire, you glared at the girls with a warning, “They can’t behave” you hoped it would convey enough annoyance to make them snap out of it.

Whatever it even was. Because they had seen the men (and women) you have been with. They knew your shtick. And yet.

“Not our fault you haven’t told us you’re going to have a handsome fellow over” Jemima, the only one not to break the stare under your glare, raised her eyebrow in an accusation.

She was always the feisty one. It was a characteristic you admired in her just as much as you disdained it. Especially now, with Neil’s awkwardness coming off in waves and your sudden desire to disappear growing stronger by the minute.

“Would that change anything?” you countered her allegation with a cold question.

Or, at least, you sure hoped your cool was still intact. The reasons for the embarrassment and shyness were impossible to understand. Not without internal analysis you did not want nor could undergo with the audience present. The soul-searching had to wait. Indefinitely.

“Only that we’d bother you about him earlier,” especially now when no remorse was to be found from the girls.

Rolling your eyes skywards, you muttered:

“Figures,” a sigh had to do as a preamble as you risked taking hold of his hand and squeezing it quickly, “This is Neil, guys. Be nice” one glance at Neil, at the silent panic, was enough to make you add “And stop staring” when he squeezed back, you briefly felt victorious.

Very briefly.

“Easier said than done, babe” Jemima shot you an overconfident wink and took those two paces to walk up to Neil. Her dark eyes piercing and inquisitive “Has anyone told you that you’re stunning, Neil?” she studied him, gaze treading the path over his features that you were overly familiar with.

A strange stab of insecurity at the centre of your heart threw you off the kilter. That was… strange. Unprecedented. Unacceptable.

“Once or twice,” Neil’s reply was the necessary anchor to bring you back from the depths of worrying thoughts.

As was the growing horror on his face. You had to step in. 

“Jesus Ch-” choking past the litany of curses, you used the hold over his hand to drag Neil to your dressing table. You could still feel their stares but hoped they would get the hint, “You actually came” unable to keep the wonder out of your voice, you allowed yourself to look at Neil for the first time since the mess started.

He seemed more relaxed now that you have gotten rid of the onlookers. In his gaze, you could only see conviction, as if you never should have doubted him. And you didn’t! Just… needed to see it to believe it. Or something along those lines.

“Of course. These are for you” only now you noticed the bouquet of roses as Neil held it out to you with a smile. Yet it was difficult to pay attention to the flowers when he continued, “You were incredible, Cupid. Blew them all away. Just like I knew you would,” you could feel your cheeks heat up at the attention and the praise.

It was one thing to feel it but another to have someone lay it upon you. Especially Neil.

Neil, with his bright blue eyes and beautiful smile, that always felt like a benediction of sorts.

“Thanks” gingerly, you put down the bouquet on the dressing table and offered him a shy smile, “It’s still sinking in, but I think it was good. It certainly felt good” the promise to elaborate on your feelings was there; implied, and ready for Neil to take on. He did it with an understanding nod, allowing you to switch the topic with minimal clumsiness, “Anyways, I’m just going to finish here, and then I should show up at this banquet thingy upstairs for fifteen minutes, and I’m done” your restless hands played out their choreography, gesturing towards your half wiped off stage makeup and the hair that desperately needed an out from the tight bun.

You hoped the gestures would compensate for the awkwardness you could still feel. For the doubts that kept springing back up like freshly sown flowers in a fertile ground. Except that they didn’t.

“Sounds good” now that you were back at the table, you could see Neil in the mirror reflection.

He nodded, seemingly at ease with the situation and the scenario you had just painted for him. But-

“Unless you’ve got plans and I’ve just-” your anxious voice jumped into action when you let down your guard, voicing all that would not shut up inside your head.

Because you have never talked about his plans. You have never discussed the technicalities of what would be happening after the premiere. Not really. For all you knew, Neil might have just stopped by to say goodbye.

Before you could spiral further, you felt a careful touch at the nape of your neck. Gentle fingers brushing the tender skin and bringing out the shivers. You raised your head to see Neil looking back at you with a soft smile on his face:

“I’m only yours tonight” his hand skimmed lower, ghostly touch brushing over the shoulder blade.

It was gone before you blinked. But the sensation stayed, making you push the uncertainties to the back of your head and lock them away. For now, they were irrelevant.

The flowers, the suit, the photo – it all seemed like maybe tonight you could get what you really wanted. And what you wanted-

“Is that a promise?” picking up the fresh cotton bud, you bated your eyelashes at Neil.

Hoping (praying) he would ignore the crisis that unfolded before his eyes seconds before.

“We’ll see” Neil only smirked as he leaned against the wall closest to your dressing table and crossed his arms over his chest.

All yours, apparently.

***

It turned out that the key to getting more attention when entering the banquet at the Royal Opera House was to have Neil by your side. You could feel the gazes of fellow dancers and their plus ones follow you as you breezed through the hall, rushing towards the table filled with champagne flutes. You did not need to glance behind to know Neil was following you like a shadow. Once a pair of glasses was secured, you turned to him with a victorious smile and wordlessly motioned towards one of the high tables by the wall. It looked like the perfect place to linger until the speeches had been said and toasts raised. After that, you were good to go.

Once that first incomprehensible crisis was over, and you continued with the dressing table tasks, with the addition of Neil’s presence and comments, the strange anxiety has almost dispersed. Its place was taken by the anticipation of what would happen next. It was reflected in Neil’s gaze, the bright blue eyes watching with something akin to enchantment. Almost as if he could not and did not want to look away. It felt empowering in ways you could barely understand.

Now, as you set down both glasses and leaned on the table with a smile, Neil was ready. He mirrored your relaxed pose with ease. The tips of his black oxfords touched your shoes.

“Are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” the question was brought forward with a nervous chuckle and a cursory look around the room.

You could see the remains of restless energy in his movements. How his gaze skimmed through the crowd, searching for reasons why he did not belong. You knew the feeling too well. Tapping your shoe against his to capture the attention, you shot Neil a reassuring smile:

“Perfectly sure. You fit right in” without letting yourself think about it, you shuffled around the high table to stand right next to Neil.

Your shoulders were touching. When you turned to face him, you were struck breathless at the proximity. Up this close, Neil’s eyes felt boundless.

“Is that- Are you just complimenting me?” the baffled pout of his was something else to wonder at.

Something else to ignore if you did not want to make a spectacle in the middle of the banquet hall. Which you didn’t.

Instead, you focused on the disbelief you could see in his eyes, that familiar shade of shyness and insecurity telling you that despite his inherent coolness, Neil was anything but. Nudging your hip against his, you leaned in close:

“I’m also saying that you look very hot right now” your tone dropped to the seductive timbre that, while unnecessary, had a history of making Neil blush.

It was not different this time. You looked up in time to see the pink hue tint on his cheeks as Neil swallowed hard. He glanced at your mouth, clearly weighing the options like you just did. He must have come to the same conclusion, for he looked up again, nervous tongue swiping over the dry lips. Making you itch for a hit.

“How very?” he asked, quietly enough that you had to invade his personal space to hear the question.

Once you got that close, you did not want to increase the distance again. So, you stayed, eyes peering into Neil’s as you rested your chin on his shoulder and whispered the reply into his ear:

“Very” the curious stares of fellow banqueters hardly mattered as you pressed your hand to his suit lapel, “The suit was a top-notch choice. And now that I know what you look like without that shirt… Yeah, very hot” you waited until Neil was brave enough to face you to shoot him a wink.

By now, the picture was burned onto your eyelids. Yet, without a doubt, the photo never held a candle to the real thing. You were sure the hunger for it was clear as day on your face as Neil studied it for a long moment. That same thoughtful look in his eyes always made you feel half a step closer to insanity. Because it was impossible to tell what he thought then.

Remembering your daring gesture, you raised your hand from where it stayed pressed to his chest and folded your palms on the tabletop. For good measure, you took half a step away from him as well. Just so you did not tempt fate. A quick gulp from the champagne flute was also in order.

“So, I take it you liked the photo?” the innocence of Neil’s question made it clear that you were not allowed to let go of the conversation yet.

Not that you minded it. This sort of chat offered an easy space to share all that plagued your mind and soul, consensually and without a dose of awkwardness. Because he asked. And if he asked, then he was bound to know. Slowly, you turned your face again to look at Neil. He was one step ahead, the blue gaze already boring into yours. The hard edge of it softened by a cheeky smile.

“Oh, I did. I just wish you’d sent it earlier when I would have had time to process it in peace” aware that the words would do their job, you returned Neil’s smirk and took another swig from the glass.

If only so that you had something to do until he reacted to your confession. Your eyes scouted the horizon, taking note of the arriving dancers and the ballet directory gathering by the platform. It was not long now before the official part began.

It wasn’t long till you could leave.

“Process it how, exactly?” when your gaze returned to Neil, you found him just as expected.

Blue eyes wide, the magnificent jaw hanging open as his brain evidently pushed at him numerous versions of what your answer could imply. That would explain the dark blush creeping over his cheeks. And, for a beat, you considered it. Considered showing your cards and telling him exactly how he made you feel daily.

But where would be fun with that?

“Ladies don’t disclose their secrets,” you mimicked locking your lips shut with a key and rose on your toes to press a quick peck to Neil’s cheek.

When you leaned back again, he nodded:

“Noted” you could see the questions multiply in his gaze, but Neil seemingly pushed them all back, for when he spoke again, that topic was over, “What do you want to do after this?”

That was a question you needed no time to answer.

“A walk around Soho sounds nice” by now, your post-performance walks were a tradition.

A chance to breathe and decompress after the rollercoaster of preparations followed by the ballet. A chance to remind yourself that it was real. That you were real. Although, usually, you were alone, the concept of having Neil as a companion did not seem off-putting.

Quite the contrary.

“Got you,” his reply offered a chance to breathe out and relax by a fraction.

You shot Neil a grateful smile just as the commotion by the stage caught your attention. It was finally starting.

“Great, now shush” on its own accord, your hand found his on the tabletop and squeezed it once.

When Neil returned the squeeze, you grinned and buried the smile in the champagne glass.

***

The chilly autumn air cooled your cheeks as you adjusted the scarf around your neck, turned the corner of Long Acre Street and glanced at Neil. On the horizon, you could just about make out the Seven Dials pillar, marking the gateway into Soho. Although it was well past 11 pm, you knew that the streets would be full of people. With each step, the tension of the evening melted away, now only anchored by the tiredness set deep in your bones. You would still need a long sleep and a relaxing Saturday to manage tomorrow’s performance. But that, like most things, had to wait.

For now, all that mattered were the golden reflections in Neil’s hair and the tune he hummed as he matched your leisurely pace. Whatever would happen after the walk was very much undecided, so you made sure to banish the uncertainties to the back of your head and focus on the present. For the first time since leaving the opera house, you broke the comfortable silence:

“So… Be honest and tell me what you thought” that infuriating hesitation in your voice was hard to get rid of.

It tinted the sentence with unease and worry, making it abundantly clear that despite your attempts at nonchalance, you were everything but. Worst of all, you knew Neil would pick up on it instantly, too. He was good at reading you like that.

Lost in your head again, you never noticed you had been wringing your hands until you felt his touch, gently stopping the anxious gestures. Your head shot up just in time to see the small smile grace his lips as Neil looked away again and replied:

“I meant what I said earlier. You were incredible. And although my knowledge of ballet comes from Black Swan almost exclusively… Yeah, so fucking cool, Cupid” his eyes were full of admiration you could hear in the praise.

It made your cheeks heat up as the wave of bashfulness threatened to overtake any other part of your being. You swallowed hard against it, briefly tracing the cracks in the pavement to buy some time. Soon, you did what you always do.

“Well, I sure wish there was more gay sex with Mila Kunis at work” Neil’s loud laughter at your attempt at a joke made you grin despite the sudden shyness, “But thank you. As much as I was terrified, it’s all kind of disappeared before I came on for my bit. And then I just tried to do the best I could” shrugging, you allowed yourself a moment to relish in the rare feeling of pride.

That did not happen often. And when compliments came, they hardly held any substance to them. Unlike this, where you could tell Neil meant and believed what he said. The surge of affection was hard to deny, even if you tried to bury it beneath a shrug and a noncommittal smile. It burned through your chest like an ember. It was only a matter of time before it would catch fire.

“You were stellar. I couldn’t look away from you” mindless of your crisis, Neil kept speaking, “Not for a moment” once you made the mistake of turning to glance at him, the softness of his gaze felt like a trigger you did not know you had been waiting for.

Stopping in the middle of the pavement was the easiest part. You reached out towards Neil and grabbed his hand, making him stop as well. The surprise on his face was evident as he closed the space between you and asked:

“Everything alright?” the genuine worry was all but a metaphorical nail to the coffin.

It softened the edges of your raging soul and made you take the decisive step to cup his face between your palms and press your mouth to his. Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, Neil pulled you closer with his hands on your waist, instantly returning the kiss with equal ferocity. You could imagine the picture you painted to the outside souls. The all-consuming desire was written in every gesture and move. The inability to separate until you had to. The easy conclusions anyone would draw at the sight of you.

The conclusions which at any other time would terrify you.

But none of that mattered when you broke the kiss with the taste of Neil’s gasp on your tongue and caught his dreamy gaze. The long eyelashes fluttered as he slowly came to. The pink cheeks and glossy lips were something you could never quite get over. So, instead of surrendering to the foolish wants and stupid desires, you whispered the only other thing that made sense:

“Thank you” sliding your hand down the length of his arm to entangle your fingers together, you offered Neil a smile.

Grinning, he tugged at your joined hands to resume the walk. With the background of Wonderwall playing inside the pub you passed, he spoke:

“My pleasure. Now I expect to be given tickets to every premiere” the cockiness in his tone was a welcomed change.

It helped to close the door on the inconvenient softness and put your focus back on what mattered. Like the support and friendship of someone who seemed genuinely interested in you. That, too, was out of the ordinary for the relationships with men you wanted to fuck.

Not to be crude or anything.

“I’ll think about it,” you quipped, mind already venturing onto the prospects, mulling over what could happen after ‘Don Quixote’. Not without anxiety, “Next there’s this tiny, teeny off-chance they cast me in The Nutcracker… and that’s a really big deal” even saying the words you had thought of before was enough to make your heart rate speed up.

Because that was a possibility. An idea bolstered by the whispers among the girls and the ballet repertoire announced at the beginning of the winter season. But as much as it was possible, you did not dare hope. Not after the disappointments of the past.

“Like crippling anxiety kinda big deal?” as always, Neil had struck the goldmine without trying.

His talent at seeing through your bullshit and all that you tried to leave unsaid was terrifying. Hardly anyone was capable of that. And historically, those that did were most likely to become someone you could not get rid of. Not even if you tried. That, like many things, was a reason to push against the alarms in your head and offer Neil a grin so bright it looked plastic fake.

“Precisely that,” you nodded, mindlessly synching your pace to Neil’s and raising your head to look around the streets.

The warm streetlights cast a cosy glow around the alleys and shop windows, occasionally replaced with a neon or two, ablaze in the night. A million different songs could be heard from the windows and doorways of the pubs and clubs you passed. The chaos of the area was almost peaceful to you in its disarray. The beautiful mess that had no place in your daily world, in the carefully styled ballet buns and perfectly positioned pointe shoes. It was the antithesis of everything you lived and breathed, yet somehow more true to your nature than order could ever be.

The wonder must have shown on your face, for Neil broke the silence with a question:

“Why Soho?” the curiosity was impossible to ignore.

But when so often it would spark your annoyance and inspire the inherent desire to remain a mystery to all but yourself, here and now, it was almost welcomed. Because it came from someone who gave a fuck.

“Because it makes me feel the most at home, I guess. It’s like life can be shit and awful, but as soon as I get here and lose myself between those streets, nothing matters anymore” the weight of the words hung between you as your finger caressed the back of Neil’s hand, unconsciously drawing patterns. Only when the heaviness and sincerity began to feel too stifling, you added, “It must be that unique appeal of queerness, bondage and flashy lights. All at once” as if on a cue, you looked to the right to see one of the many sex shops scattered across Soho.

A classy, black leather harness lured the interested parties from the shop window. A giggle arose in your throat and spilt outward, tinting the night with a new shade of unforgettability. The feeling increased when you turned to see Neil’s grin:

“Must be” the joy in his face blinded you to everything else.

The comfortable silence stretched as you walked around Soho Square. Within the dimly lit park, you could make out the statue of King Charles II. That late at night, the iron gates were closed, leaving you to trace the perimeter of the square. The red brick tower of St Patrick’s watchfully traced your steps as you passed through the common and continued down one of many busy streets.

The wistful silence felt inspiring in ways you could hardly explain. Before you knew what you were doing, the question was out of your mouth:

“Can I ask you another inappropriate question?” at this point, the opener was a tradition.

It always got a smile out of Neil, so you did not consider ditching it.

“Shoot,” he squeezed your hand and peeked inside the pub you passed.

This one’s choice of music was not any less predictable. With the sounds of Mr Brightside, you asked:

“What are you most afraid of?” the origin of a question was hard to trace.

You only knew that it had been waiting for the right moment for quite a while. Perhaps it was because you barely had anyone else to talk about things like these that most people would rather stay unsaid. Perhaps it was that you were tired of ignoring the complex subjects and shutting the door on the uncomfortable.

Perhaps it was just that you wanted to know Neil better.

“Damn, that’s inappropriate indeed,” his low whistle told you even that sort of question was not too close for comfort.

You were yet to find the limit, which was both an exciting prospect and a terrifying concept.

“You know me,” you shrugged, hoping that gesture alone would help you ignore the implications of the sentence.

Yet the look Neil shot you as you risked a glance at him rendered the attempt useless.

“I do know you” the simple confirmation felt like a punch to the face, but you had no time to react. Neil followed the thought with the answer you had asked for, “Okay… It used to be something like being forgotten or not achieving my dreams, but now, I think it’s just that I’m scared of waking up one day and realising that I’ve nothing to live for. It’s that fear of failure, combined with the real chance of no one ever loving me for who I am” each of his words felt like that pinprick of pain in the molecules of your existence. As did the tiredness in his voice, almost emotionless except for the resignation you were well familiar with. It was the same tone of someone so used to the reality of their situation that it hardly made them feel anything anymore. It was a tone you knew well, “Fuck, that sounds depressing” sighing upon the conclusion, Neil slowed down your pace to look at the display of an indie boutique.

You knew that tactic. Understood that it was just a part of the ploy to shift the subject away from his troubles. But, in the light of all he said, you could not stay silent. You stepped close enough to show your intent in the movement and said what you knew was obvious:

“I think people would be stupid not to love you” despite your history with love, you knew that much.

If love existed, Neil was more than worth the pain of it. And anyone who was blind to it was not worth him.

Slowly, he turned to face you. The impassive face let you know that this time Neil would not be willing to get into the polemics over something he did not believe in. Instead, you got a neutral smile and a tender touch, brushing the stray lock of hair behind your ear:

“I wish, sweetheart” the mournful edge to his smile felt unsettling in a way you desperately wanted to ignore. As if sensing your discomfort, he quickly transformed it into a sardonic grin, “There’s also the fear of the world ending, but that’s just millennial quirks, I guess” before you could react to the mood shift, the invisible mic was extended towards you “Anyway, your turn,”

While you always knew that opening this topic would mean you would also have to bear your soul to Neil, the moment it came, you found yourself struggling for words. The truths were there, but they did not want to be released into the night like this. Without a promise that nothing would change after.

Wordlessly, you extended your hand to Neil and waited for him to take it before resuming the walk. It took you another two or three minutes of silence to start speaking:

“It was always the fear of growing old. And I don’t mean like a teenager shaking at the prospect of being thirty someday. I mean me right now, scared out of my mind for the day I realise I’m old. Because there’s no future for ballerinas past forty, if even that” once the words came, it was hard to stop them. They flowed, empowered by years of awful thoughts you could not permanently get rid of and the paralysing knowledge that they were correct. That this was the future awaiting you, “And I know that for all my talk of not needing other people for anything else than a good time, it’s going to bite me in the ass. When that youth fades, I’ll be a below-average woman who doesn’t have anything to offer” the conclusions came upon a weary sigh, with the burdens not at all lessened but only voiced.

For the first time ever, possibly.

The warmth of Neil’s hand in yours was a spark of comfort, urging you to let go of the thoughts and keep walking. You knew that if you stopped, there would be nothing to pick up from the pieces you would become.

“I don’t think you’re below average” although you did not dare look at him, you could feel Neil’s gaze on you.

Those knowing blue eyes wandered over your features like a tender touch you never deemed yourself worthy of. Although seemingly nonconsequential, his protest was not something you could brush over. It reverberated in your head until you felt like you had to shake it out with another pointless shrug:

“The point still stands, though” unsurprisingly, it was the shame that followed, forcing you to look his way and whisper a needed apology, “Anyway, I’m so sorry I asked that. I don’t know what overcame me,”

The most accurate guess would be the demons of hell or your lack of self-preservation.

“It’s okay. I want to know you more, and what better way to do that than through questions you’d ask at a sleepover in Year 9,” the judgement was not present on Neil’s face as he offered you a hand squeeze and a bright smile.

It almost looked like he was back to normal, having put the strange conversation behind you. You sure hoped that was the case.

“True” returning his smile with a degree of hesitation, you took the phone from your pocket to check the time. It was late, almost midnight, and you still had to get home. That sobering thought helped you decide the best course of events, “Should we get on the tube at Oxford Circus? We could then change at Baker Street,”

To deny that you hoped you would not get off at St. John’s Wood alone would be to lie, so you stayed quiet. The idea was slowly simmering in your mind, hoping to come to fruition through luck or the powers that be.

“Sounds good” Neil nodded, already picking up the pace to lead you towards the mentioned station. After a beat, he asked, “Cupid?”

“Hmm?” too occupied with your thoughts, you only made a noncommittal noise.

“You’re worth more than you know” that fondness in his voice was old news by now.

Yet it still punched the air out of your guts, like always. It still made you swallow hard against the inconvenient revelations and focus on what mattered the most.

Which, in this case, was to get Neil to come home with you. Easy.

***

It was impossible to tell which one was the deciding moment. When the course had been set, except that sometime between getting on the Bakerloo at the Oxford Circus and St. John’s Wood, the dice had been cast. Metaphorically, that is.

Somewhere between Baker Street and your station, with your lips formed into an almost permanent smile, you turned to Neil. Noticing the creases around his beautiful eyes and the fond grin on his face, you chanced an invitation that had been rattling around your brain for hours and days:

“Do you want to come to mine for a glass of wine?” miraculously, the tremors did appear in your voice.

As soon as Neil registered the question, you could see something in his eyes shift. Without a doubt, he understood where it was going. Or where you hoped it would go. He glanced at your mouth, almost as if on an unconscious instinct. Your hand resting in his loose hold on your lap twitched, making him tighten the grasp. The silenced stretched, thick, and substantial in the empty carriage. Empty save for the two of you.

It felt like aeons later when Neil finally met your gaze again and offered you a lazy smile.

“I’d love to,” that wolfish glint in his eyes told you he knew what you had been thinking.

It also assured you that this, like many things, was something you shared.

That awareness did nothing to eliminate the giddiness set in your bones, which only grew in strength as you led Neil through the streets of St. John’s towards the outskirts of Maida Vale. Once you arrived at your apartment and somehow opened the door without dropping your keys (a feat indeed), that giddy feeling transformed into nervousness coursing in your veins. It stayed as you opened the door, letting Neil through and following behind him. It was always a strange feeling to let someone else into your world, into that private space, so separate from the grandness of ROH. Unconsciously, you always expected critique or worse – ridicule.

But none came as you walked past Neil in the hallway and took off your shoes with caution. His eyes roamed over the walls and the furniture with interest, taking in every feature with curiosity. Trying the hardest to discard the awkwardness, you walked down the hall towards the living room and the kitchen, knowing he would follow. It was once you had welcomed Neil into the living space that you could no longer maintain the suffocating silence:

“I know it’s not Buckingham Palace, but…” gesturing weakly towards the room at large, you shot him a tight smile.

It was almost as if Neil going off the script and not being a judgmental guest threw you off to the point where you had trouble acting normally. It must have been visible in your body language, for he grinned and replied:

“No, it’s cosy” another broad look around the living room must have satisfied him as Neil took off his coat and scarf and draped them over the highchair by the breakfast bar, “Fits you,” meeting your gaze, he winked.

Instant warmth spread over your body, replacing the uncertainty with something different. Something dangerous.

“Whatever that means” returning his grin, you stalked into the kitchen and threw open the cupboard doors with a simple question, “Red or white wine?”

Settling the two wine glasses on the countertop, you turned to Neil. Only to find him browsing the bookshelves lining your walls between the windows.

“Red. Thanks” he put down the book he had been inspecting and turned to gaze through the windows down the street below, glancing your way in between.

Procuring the bottle of semi-dry Primitivo from the shelf, you recovered the corkscrew from one of the messy drawers. Only when that was done, and the wine could breathe a little (impressing the snobbish people on TV), you turned back to Neil. He was still perusing the bookcase, clearly doing his best to accommodate your strange shyness. Lucky for him, the worst had passed.

“You can have a look around. Just you know, don’t peek into my bedside drawers or go through my underwear” when Neil glanced at you with a scandalous gasp, hand clutching at his chest, you smirked.

That was familiar. Safe. A trustworthy dynamic to settle upon when looking for pointers for whatever would come next.

“As if I would,” the affronted look on his face made you giggle as Neil finished the living room tour and joined you in the kitchen, “Though now my curiosity has piqued. What do you keep in the bedside drawer?”

Sure, you could give him the answer he so desperately sought. But that would’ve been too easy.

“Maybe one day you’ll see” shrugging off his advances, you winked, hoping it would show how much you meant it.

Admittedly, if everything went how you wanted it to, you hoped that vague one day would come. For some reason, when staring at his broad back as Neil picked up your invitation and walked down the hall towards the bedroom, you knew he could never disappoint you. Not in that way. Somehow, it felt like once you crossed that line, which was constantly getting closer, it would be impossible to go back. And in a good way, too. In a way that would make you want to keep going back, again and again. Neil already was like a special kind of drug for you. Nothing could change that.

When he completed the self-guided tour, you were waiting on the sofa with a carefully chosen soundtrack running in the background and two glasses of red wine. As always, it was not difficult to keep the conversations running, ranging from topics such as how you became a ballerina to how the fuck did Neil manage to make his hair look so goddamn soft all the time.

For the sake of the argument you tried to make, you shifted across the cushions closer to Neil and buried your fingers in his dirty-blonde tresses. It did not escape your attention that as soon as you started intently combing through the strands and lightly pulling at them Neil closed his eyes with a telling exhale. Or that his body tensed, betraying wants and needs he probably tried to keep secret. Willing to spare him some shame (for now), you focused on the silkiness of his locks, staring as the colour reflected the warm lighting of the room.

“I seriously need tips on conditioners” with reluctance, you let go after something close to a minute and leaned back.

Just a fraction. Now that you had lessened the distance, you did not want to leave his side again. Without even trying to be exceptionally smooth, you lounged towards your old spot to move the wine glass and settled back against the cushions. The warmth of his body radiated across the minimal space. Some time ago, probably midway through the second glass, Neil has ditched the suit jacket. The vest underneath only did his body more favours, making it impossible for you to stop staring for most of the evening.

“Will do,” Neil nodded, seemingly having recovered his composure. He took another swig from the glass and regarded you with curiosity in his eyes, “Does that do it for you?”

You did not need to ask for clarification. Not with the way you had always seemed particularly fixated on his hair. Or how your hands always betrayed you when you kissed, taking every opportunity to touch them again. With that sort of transparency, you might as well embrace it.

“Definitely” offering him a shameless smile, you picked up the wine glass to down the remains.

That pleasant alcoholic buzz in your head smoothed out the edges of your vision and drowned out the remaining anxiety. Until all you could feel was warmth and contentment.

Only sometime later, after discussing the intricacies of your home lives growing up and the likelihood of you meeting Neil’s work friends (and getting along with them), the mood began to shift. It was hard to tell at first, smoothly falling into your usual dynamic. It was that sudden desire to lean your head over his shoulder and Neil’s inexplicable tendency to touch your knee with every other gesture during a particularly complex story.

One of those was just ending, with Neil describing in detail that one time as a teenager when he accidentally dyed his hair seaweed green when that uninvited voice inside your head would not keep quiet any longer.

“Can I tell you something?” blurting out the question was the easiest part, although its placement at the end of his story was clumsy.

The abruptness made Neil start, his hand hovering right over your thigh twitched. The blue eyes met yours with curiosity shining through.

“Always,” the dusting of pink along his cheekbones confirmed that you were not the only one feeling the effects of that bottle of Primitivo, now empty on the coffee table.

“I’m so glad you came tonight. And that you stayed, too” the earnestness in your voice was something you did not want to get rid of.

It strengthened the sentiment, showing that you meant it more than anything. Although the gratitude was there from the moment Neil stepped into the dressing room, it only increased with every passing hour. Because as he sat there, listening to your bullshit, one understanding came to the forefront of your mind. Something obvious, yet not at all. No one has ever taken their time like this. No one at all.

“Of course, I’ve told you I had fun. I’m beginning to see how incredible it is what you guys do on the stage” the sparks in his eyes drew you in like a moth to a flame as Neil added, “All of those years of practice and perfect technique. I could never” the admiration was another fatal blow to the remains of your composure.

It shone through his words, making it abundantly clear that Neil meant what he said, too. The fuzziness in your head got stronger the moment you tried to comprehend it. Shaking it off with a shrug, you shifted in the seat and leaned away from him enough so you could breathe. Or, at least, get an illusion of clarity back.

“Well, it is tough, I won’t lie” as always, your mouth kept on running before you could get a hold of your tongue, spilling all the facts and observations you had kept to yourself, “But that’s the thing. You came, and you actually watched, and now you’re here, listening to me waffle on about ballet and pointe shoes and all that bullshit, when you could just… I don’t know, leave?” the groan of frustration tore at your vocal cords as you finished the rant on a particularly bitter note “Or you could do what everyone else had when I dared invite them to one of my shows,”

Even the memory of it stung, making you drop your gaze to the drying burgundy spot on the table. In all your naivety, you hoped that would be it. That another topic would come up and make you forget about it.

But Neil had other plans. Not that you blamed him for it.

“Which is?” his question was the epitome of carefulness, with even the tone of his voice doing everything in his might not to startle you and make you clam up amidst the rare moment of extreme sincerity.

It when then and there that you decided Neil was worth a little discomfort.

“Spend the ballet on their phone, tune me out afterwards and only wait as far as coming here or going to theirs to ask me to be a good girl and suck them off” rolling your eyes against the reminder, your fingers restlessly picked at the loose thread in the hem of your dress. The ghost of that familiar dissatisfaction burned through your system almost as if it had just happened, “Because apparently I’m such a turn-on in those tights it’s impossible to pay attention” the attempt at an impression of that compliment never quite landed because of the venom in your voice.

The warmth of Neil’s hand enveloped yours as he stopped your anxious fiddling. You risked looking back up at him and instantly were struck by the heat in his gaze. It sparked something buried beneath the annoyance and incomprehensible feelings. Something you should have never ignored.

“It’s definitely a turn-on, but so is this” unaware of your ongoing spiral, Neil’s hand slid to your knee and squeezed it, “Hearing you talk about things that matter to you” the heat from his touch seeped through your skin, emphasizing the growing derealisation.

Because how could this be real? How could he be real? Neil, with his beautiful blue eyes and the ability to say the right thing when you needed it most. The breath hitched in your throat as you swallowed hard and channelled the storm inside your soul into words:

“Not according to most men” if asked about it later, you knew you would barely recollect what you said, having surrendered into the inherent ability to bullshit your way into everything ever, “And then they never even try to make me feel good. Well, they do, but not… selflessly” you could tell Neil caught the meaning with the way his eyes widened “When after every show I do all I want is for someone to take care of me” you did not get much time to wallow in the misery.

Not with the way Neil took approximately ten seconds to decide before his gaze turned back to you with breath-taking focus. His palm moved inward from your knee to slide between your thighs. The warmth of it encircled your leg as he leaned in close, nosing at your pulse point without a shadow of hesitation. Your abrupt gasp rang in the sudden silence, legs already parting to let him in without the conscious thought taking part in the action.

All the thoughts you could have had perished from your head as Neil pressed a kiss to the side of your neck and whispered against your skin:

“Like this?” the tenderness of his touch was overwhelming in the best of ways.

It took over your senses as he hitched up your dress and continued the slow journey up your thighs to the space between your legs. You could feel the arousal seeping into your underwear, making the material cling to your skin. It would be so easy to let him do whatever he wanted. Only-

“Yeah, but- Do you want to?” the breathlessness of your voice was bound to be an embarrassing memory.

But only once you had recovered the sanity, which was nowhere to be found. Still, you had to ask. There was no question about what you wanted. Not with the need coursing in your veins, begging you to stop fretting and just let go. Begging you to act like you always did.

But Neil was not like anyone you had ever been with. And that meant you cared. Too much, probably.

Leaning back far enough to meet your gaze, Neil tipped your chin so you were forced to look at him and smiled. The hungry determination was still there, only now interlaced with subtle reassurance. For your sake.

“Oh, trust me, I want to” without giving you time to reply, he kissed you quickly and stood up from the sofa, dropping to his knees before you without a word of warning, “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks” that devilish grin tugged at your insides as tilted his head, silently asking for permission.

Permission to change your relationship forever. You took a deep breath, already aware of the mess between your thighs and the insanity in your eyes.

You nodded, saving the voice for later.

Somehow, you knew soon enough you’d need it. Neil grinned like Lucifer himself. You were certainly fucked.

#m delivers as always 💎💎 #more neil content you guys

[whats-rambled-rambled]

badass weekly anniversary edition

[whats-rambled-rambled]

I understand the "I will die for you" ship dynamic, but what about the "I will not let you die, I will not let myself die- we will, at any cost, survive" kind of couple?

[whats-rambled-rambled]

Some can't handle Astarion having wrinkles and Lae'zel being a Who from Whoville meanwhile cool people watch their OCs make out with this thing

[whats-rambled-rambled]

🪷

here to remind you...

...that it's still progress if it's not linear.

falling back down is normal. you're making your way out of a tough situation. setbacks are to be expected.

don't let them bring you down. keep going. keep it moving ✨

[whats-rambled-rambled]

all fanfiction is funnier and sexier and vastly better-written when you read it at three in the morning, in the dark, lying on your side, tucked into bed, with screen rotate turned off. that’s just how it works. that’s just facts.

[whats-rambled-rambled]

Every chapter is filled with little gems, but you already know the fav from this part:

Neil was just… impossible. Ineffable in his wonderfulness.

And in other words:

Deadlines & Commitments

Neil x F!Reader

Chapter 4 - North Greenwich Underground Station

Masterlist; Chapter 3 Summary: Neil's brief disappearance does nothing to extinguish the sparks. As he returns, you make a series of discoveries about each other and grow ever so much closer. Warnings: Swearing, E-rated language, ridiculous amounts of flirting as per usual. Buckle up bc we're amping the pace a little... ;) Author's Notes: Well... that was a long break between the chapters 🙈 My apologies, turns out that having a job takes away the little joys in life like writing silly stories. Anyways, here we are, at last. With another 10.7k. And this one's packed with many good, fun things ;))) Some of those scenes had been months in the making (if not years, considering I first mentioned this AU to Shet in like 2021? I think?). So, yeah. They had it long time coming. More cameos, more nonsensical POV changes and, above all, more certified idiocy by them two kids. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think? 💕 Taglist: @hollandorks, @kristevstewart, @stargirl25 (let me know if you want to be added)

What Neil’s departure from London did not do was change the way things worked between you. Although you only had meagre information about his whereabouts (such as that he was within the same time zone but in a different country), there was no sense of a breach building in the space of that strange yet solid connection. With the anxieties surrounding the imminent ‘Don Quixote’ premiere keeping your blood pressure high daily, you more than enjoyed being able to pick up your phone and message him whenever possible.

He did not always respond immediately, but it was not a must. What mattered was that Neil eventually got back to you. Never disclosing any information about his work trip, apart from the fact that it was warm there even in mid-October, he still made the effort to keep up with your antics. In that sense, the insanity of the date you had risked changed absolutely nothing.

But it also changed everything.

It was as if your free will chose to conspire with the soul’s desires to get what they wanted. Namely – Neil. Because as soon as you had even begun considering breaching the line separating friendship from every other kind of relationship, your brain decided it was done.

Being his girlfriend was not on the list of priorities or wants, but getting in his pants definitely was. It was almost freeing to admit.

The only question left after all that soul-searching was whether Neil wanted you like that, too. Sometimes there were no doubts about that, either.

Almost a week in, with the ballet previews looming on the horizon and no chance of sleep anytime soon, you huffed an annoyed sigh and picked up the phone from your bedside table. Bleary eyes registered the hour (five past midnight) as you opened apps randomly, already giving up on the promise of sleep. It took you another few minutes to make up your mind, open the texts and stare at the conversation with Neil. It had been a few hours since the last exchange concerning the warmth of the climate wherever he was. You had been (fruitlessly) trying to make Neil send you a picture. Of himself. Not necessarily without clothes, but that was the dream. And a girl was allowed to dream, right?

Squinting at the screen, you hesitated for another millisecond before typing out the simple question:

/ 🏹, 00:15 am/ Are you missing me yet?

Neil did not make you wait for long.

/✝️, 00:26 am/ Obviously.

/✝️, 00:26 am/ I’m barely coping here, sunshine.

/ 🏹, 00:29 am/ Gee, you’re making it too easy.

/✝️, 00:30 am/ Making what too easy?

/ 🏹, 00:33 am/ Missing you.

/ 🏹, 00:34 am/ See, I thought my cheeky line would get a lukewarm response, so I was prepared to tease you further.

/ 🏹, 00:34 am/ And now I’ve no quips to offer.

/✝️, 00:39 am/ Apologies. I’ll do better next time.

/ 🏹, 00:40 am/ I’ll make sure of that.

/✝️, 00:42 am/ And what punishment do you propose?

/ 🏹, 00:43 am/ I’ve always wondered what you’d sound like if you begged.

/✝️, 00:44 am/ It could probably be arranged.

/✝️, 00:45 am/ I’ve no qualms about getting on my knees for a beautiful woman.

/✝️, 00:45 am/ But that would hardly be a punishment.

/ 🏹, 00:48 am/ Yeah, but if I let you have that and then left you… on your knees, so painfully hard with no release… How would that feel?

/✝️, 00:51 am/ You win this one.

/✝️, 00:52 am/ And yes, I’m blushing. Fiercely.

/ 🏹, 00:59 am/ Good, I was hoping you are. Goodnight, Neil.

As you hit send on the last message, your head hit the pillows with an audible ‘oof’. Your cheeks burned; the blush invisible in the dark yet still very much there. That was the problem with Neil and your chats. It was impossible to say when they would turn in that direction. When you would both lose control and follow a line of conversation that probably never should have happened. Not that you were complaining.

It was good to know what you could expect from Neil. If things happened the way you wished, they would. Admittedly, he’d look good on his knees. That was a fact.

That night you only got five hours of sleep, but who counted it anyway. What mattered was that you had some excellent dreams. Dreams that you hoped would end up prophetic.

On other days, your conversations were a little more serious. Like that early afternoon when you just finished the final in-costume run of the Cupid variation and exited the ROH to wander the streets of Soho. Whenever you felt close to losing your sanity, the walk around those familiar spots always did the trick. It was easier to breathe, to hope that you would not fuck it all up when the curtain call came. To believe that imposter syndrome was nothing more than a vile bitch.

Sighing against the thoughts muddling your brain, you took out the phone and immediately noticed the new message:

/✝️, 1:49 pm/ How’s the garden of the Dryads coming along?

/✝️, 1:50 pm/ It probably goes without saying that you’re my favourite ballerina.

/ 🏹, 2:06 pm/ Damn, that’s high praise. Especially considering that I’m the only ballerina you know.

/ 🏹, 2:06 pm/ I think the garden is coming along nicely. Not so sure about Cupid, tho.

/✝️, 2:08 pm/ I call bullshit on that.

/✝️, 2:09 pm/ I just know that you’re brilliant.

/ 🏹, 2:12 pm/ Doubt, she said.

/ 🏹, 2:12 pm/ ‘Cause like… How do you deal with the overwhelming weight of expectations?

/✝️, 2:18 pm/ I mean, I panic and lose it instantly, but generally speaking, I think you just sort of… ignore it and trust you are good enough.

/✝️, 2:19 pm/ I know that you are, Cupid. This role was made for you.

/ 🏹, 2:22 pm/ Elaborate, please. I need my ego stroked.

/✝️, 2:23 pm/ Well, she sorts of saunters onto the stage and has a minute to dazzle everyone, yeah?

/✝️, 2:24 pm/ Which is exactly what you did to me.

/✝️, 2:24 pm/ You’ve got this.

/ 🏹, 2:26 pm/ God, you’re irreconcilable. Better come back so I can force you to sit through this.

/✝️, 2:27 pm/ Working on it as we speak.

A smile painted itself on your face with an inerasable stroke of brush. Neil’s constant support and cheerleading were a welcome surprise. Sometimes, your meeting almost felt like a divine intervention. That is if you believed in such things. Because the odds of gaining both a fascinating man to pursue and a friend were quite low. And yet.

As you looped your steps back towards Covent Garden, you made the mental note to visit the box office and add a request for the guest list. It was a rare enough event to have someone you could invite to the performance. And have the right to believe they would come. You were not going to squander that sort of chance.

***

The whirring ceiling fan was starting to get on his nerves with its endless sputtering. And it was not even working, as far as Neil was concerned. The sweat still clung to his skin and trickled down his back to a point where he seriously contemplated ditching the shirt. And that rarely happened. Especially not on the job, with the whole squad confined to a medium-sized safehouse.

The bustle of the city streamed through the windows, cracked open so they could let in fresh air while still having a chance of keeping them safe from snipers and the like. Granted, one could never be fully prepared for an inverted shot, but it was worth trying not to get killed. Especially during a mission that technically was just a recon. Though Neil knew better than to believe The Protagonist when the man claimed something was perfectly safe. He meant well, sure. But despite the appearances, he did not know everything.

So, the windows cracked open three inches had to do. Neil sighed, annoyance digging deep beneath his skin to stay there for a little longer. It was another one of those boring, yet technically productive afternoons in the safehouse. Today, the task was to plan a hypothetical pincer movement. Just in case, they said. Well, Neil sure did hope the case never came to be.

He glanced at the blacked-out screen of his phone, the muscle memory betraying him as he picked up the device almost mindlessly and opened the conversation with Cupid. It had been a few hours since the last chat, which was pretty usual. They did not need to talk all the time. Neil knew that. He also knew that it was probably better they did not talk constantly. Considering that 3 out of 5 conversations always ended up dirty, up to the point where he was blushing like an idiot. And, sometimes disappeared in the bathroom to deal with some troublesome effects of those chats.

Yes, considering all that, Neil knew it was best they took some breaks. But also-

“Blondie, can you give us a hand with this?” the yell from further inside the apartment acted like a bucket of cold water tipped over his head unceremoniously.

Neil whipped his head up, glaring at the open doorway. Unfortunately, being referred to as ‘blondie’ was becoming more frequent. The petulant nature urged him to ignore it, but he knew that was hardly the last one. With another long-suffering sigh, he heaved himself out of the armchair and called back:

“I said I’m coming,” granted, that was over fifteen minutes ago, but everyone could get distracted. Right? “Would it hurt you to ask nicer?” he stalked down the corridor toward the living area with an arched eyebrow.

It was not surprising to meet a mirroring expression on the faces of Ives, Wheeler, and Jeremy sitting in a trifecta of judgment. Neil had no doubts about his place in that makeshift courtroom.

“Yes, when you’re slacking,” Wheeler dropped the disapproving glare with all the air of nonchalance and pointedly glanced at the table covered with maps and blueprints.

Neil had no choice but to sit down in the remaining chair and offer an apologetic pout to anyone willing to hear him out:

“I’m not slacking. I’m just-” whatever excuse he could whip out on a whim got interrupted prematurely.

“Otherwise occupied with your girlfriend. Yes, we know,” Wheeler raised her head once more with a dismissive wave of hand, making Neil consider the possibility that she was close to losing it right there and then.

That possibility was always worrisome, for no anger could compare to that of his friend. Especially when she was pissed off.

But that careful consideration was nothing in the face of the two realisations brought forward by that simple assumption. Firstly - Cupid was decidedly not his girlfriend. Secondly – fucking Ives.

Neil glared at the man in question, hoping his eyes would reveal the murderous intents hidden underneath as his clarifying statement broke the awkward silence:

“She’s not-” he never finished that sentence (perhaps for the better), for the harsh sound of his ringtone filled the room with cacophonic clamour. Neil scrambled to pick up the phone without as much as glancing at the screen, “Hello?” the tentative opener sounded ridiculous even to his ears.

Soon, it was clear he should have checked the caller before picking up.

“Hi, Neil,” Cupid’s silky tone caressed his ear through the device.

Neil knew she did that purposefully, solely inspired to make the idiot inside him blush and giggle like a loser. Make no mistake; Neil was certainly a loser. And an idiot.

Once he felt the shock pass enough to ensure he would not drop the phone he repeated the greeting.

“Umm, hi,” from the corner of his eye, Neil could see the accompanying trio stare at him without trying to be covert about it. Absolute assholes “You’ve never called me before” trust him to state the obvious.

For a second, Neil considered faceplanting onto the table. Equally, the idea of jumping out of the window sounded appealing. The thoughts of potential demise were interrupted by Cupid’s reply:

“I know. I just thought it might be fun to spice things up,” she was definitely enjoying this and the damage she has caused. It was audible in the lightness of her voice, the vowels curled by a cheeky smile he could hear as she asked, “How’s your day?”

No longer happy to ignore his audience, Neil turned towards them with another glare. All three stared back, with Ives going as far as shooting him a knowing smile.

“It’s fine, except for my team being desperate to berate me,” Neil directed the venom in his voice at the trio as Wheeler casually got up from the table and put the kettle on.

The light chuckle from the phone almost made him feel better about it.

“That’s rude,” her remark contrasted with the laughter he could hear in her voice. Yet it was too late to raise the alarm or prepare for what would follow, “Would it be better if I reminded you what a good boy you are?” as soon as Cupid finished the question, Neil felt the full-body reaction she wanted.

A shudder ran through his spine as his face flushed pink. On a last conscious thought, Neil leapt up from the chair and paced towards the window, hiding from the group. A half-swallowed groan broke through his mouth as he tightened his fist, hopelessly trying to forget how those two words sounded on her lips. It was pathetic.

The more tragic outcome was that now Cupid had even more blackmailing material in her arsenal.

“Jesus Christ, you’re evil,” Neil knew he still sounded wrecked.

There was no way of hiding that. Of making her forget this had just happened and the conclusions she could draw from it. Neil barely resisted the urge to smash his head into the window.

“Oh, so it would help,” as expected, Cupid sounded delighted by what had transpired. The cheeky smile he liked way too much was undoubtedly present on her face as she added, “Not so dully noted” may he rest in pieces, apparently, “When are you coming back?” the question sounded almost out of place.

Yet even in his muddled mind, Neil knew it was genuine. That she wanted to know. If that fact meant anything at all, he did not know. And he tried his hardest not to think about it too much.

“Why? You miss me?” ignoring the chorus of ‘awws’ behind his back, Neil allowed himself to ask.

Even if only for emotional validation. Because while she has hinted at it before, Neil was never tired of being reminded. The whole thing with her might have been hopeless, but it did not change how he worked. How his heart ticked and what beat it chose. Tragically, romanticism was tricky to get rid of. Neil experienced that first-hand.

“You know that I do,” Cupid did not mind humouring his whims as she offered a simple admission without a fight.

With all his predictability, Neil could not hold back the idiotic grin from making an appearance. Sure, it had no future, but that did not make him less eager to play along. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Famous last words and all. Probably.

“I should be back in a week. More or less,” that was the hope, anyway.

The few stray thoughts that had somehow escaped the web spun by Cupid, and her attention reminded him about the work still left to be done. Like the fucking pincer movement plan. With threebastards taunting him mercilessly. So much fun.

“Fab. I got you a great seat for the premiere, so… You know what to do,” the hopeful note in her voice was worth the future pain.

He had no doubts about it. The fact was that Neil was looking forward to the ballet. The hazy memories of seeing ‘Swan Lake’, aged six, hardly compared to the Royal Ballet company. It was a good enough reason to attend. The other excellent reason was Cupid herself, but that was best unsaid. And unthought. Somehow.

“Got you,” ignoring the ridiculous thoughts, Neil offered her a smile she could not see and a silent prayer cast into the heavens that he was not lying unknowingly.

“I know you do. You’re a good boy, Neil,” Cupid’s strike came with no warning.

Yet again, she dropped her tone a notch and whispered the damned two words with a breathy sigh. The metaphorical nail to the coffin this time was how she said his name, almost caressing the letters. And yes, this time it worked, too.

Neil had the mind to faceplant into the window and groan with frustration. The inescapable blush warmed up his cheeks as his body shivered. Some… particular parts of his physique also showed interest in what was happening, eternally oh so eager to betray his wish to stay unbothered.

“For fuck’s-” the choked curse got swallowed by the mightiest effort on his side as Neil took a steadying breath and asked, “Why?”

As if happy to punish him, Cupid laughed.

“Because it’s fun,” the unspoken duh made him both more annoyed and more bewitched by her, “I’ll let you work now, but…” as did the carrot dangled in front of his face like the sweetest of baits.

Always the idiot, Neil could not possibly ignore it.

“Yeah?” he could hear her take a deep breath as if steeling herself for a difficult admission.

“I’m glad we’ve met,” Cupid whispered the confession without as much as a pause between the words.

“Me too,” his reply got lost in the static as she hung up.

Letting out the breath he did not know he was holding, Neil lowered the phone onto the windowsill and stared at the city outside. Well then. The call would take a while to process; that was unquestionable.

“Aw, aren’t you two cute?” Ives’ teasing threw Neil out of that pleasantly fuzzy mind space with all the grace of an elephant.

He turned around with the glower at the ready. This time, he could not bite back the curse:

“Shut the fuck up,” on an afterthought, Neil added, “Please,” noticing the soldier open his mouth for a quip, he dropped his tone to a warning timbre. That called for a final caution, “Unless you want to start looking for a new physicist,” his glare slipped over the trio before Neil settled at the table and unfolded the blueprints without another word.

***

When that awaited text from Neil came, bearing the information that he was back in London and happy to meet you whenever you did not jump for joy. Definitely not. What you did do was grin and discuss the possible rendezvous immediately. When that Tuesday afternoon arrived, with the glory of a decent rehearsal and a good coffee in your paper cup, you happily bypassed the crowds at Green Park and skipped the steps down to the correct platform.

That twenty-minute walk to the station was a blessing, just as much as a curse. When Neil proposed the time you could meet on the train, you did not correct him about your location that day. Or that grabbing the Jubilee line would be entirely off the quickest route back home. You just accepted the time and place and ignored the voice at the back of your head reminding you that this was not how you usually behaved.

It could go fuck itself.

Once you settled on the platform, one glance at the watch told you the next train would be the right one. The strange giddiness sparked in your veins, but you blamed it on the three-week gap between the meetings. It was just that, nothing more. Obviously.

The autopilot carried you through the motions until you had boarded the carriage and came face to face with the cause of all this idiocy. Neil smiled, instantly clocking you before you had even placed both feet inside. It was impossible to keep your face neutral, returning the grin and manoeuvring around the commuters to sit next to him on the three plastic chairs facing the sliding doors.

Then, as if seized by insanity, you propelled your body forward with the arms coming up around Neil’s neck to embrace him tightly. His freeze took approximately twenty seconds to thaw as he returned the hug with equal strength. You could feel the warmth of his breath hitting the crook of your neck and making you fight back a shiver that would not do. Instead, you let yourself breathe him in, rest in the moment that was potentially a mistake. Still, you were not going to treat it like one. Not when the warmth of his hands seeped through the clothes as they rested on your waist.

When the lurch of the train reminded you of reality and all its flaws, you ruefully disentangled from Neil and met his wary gaze. His blue eyes scanned your face as if looking for clues towards the reasons for the madness you just allowed yourself. When that offered no answers, Neil broke the silence with a careful observation:

“I didn’t know that we’re doing hugs,” his impassive face offered no clues either, triggering a wave of uncertainty you had to smother.

Because what if you went too far? What if that was not what Neil wanted?

“We are now,” the confidence was missing from the statement, making you add a crucial question, “Is that okay?” you could hear the insecurity in your voice, betraying the worries.

They disappeared the moment Neil flashed you a smile, his hand lightly patting your knee as a complement to the simple reassurance:

“Sure is,” lowering his gaze to catch yours, Neil winked.

Thank fuck. It surely made life much easier. Or the plans you might or might have not made regarding him. Now that the crisis had passed, you shifted in the seat to find a more comfortable position and allowed yourself a selfish look, measuring him up as usual. The slight tan line revealed by the rolled-up sleeves confirmed what you did know about his disappearance. The minor tiredness in how he carried his body strengthened your guesses. The rest of him blinded you as always.

Especially the three buttons left undone, revealing a strip of his chest. And inspiring ungodly thoughts in your head. Ignoring that what could not be addressed. Especially not right now in a carriage full of people. You switched your attention to the other crucial topic. Everything was better than being arrested for public indecency. At least you did hope so.

“How was the trip?” you noted the shift in Neil’s posture.

How he strengthened in the seat, the mask back in place. Although his mystery had fallen into the background over the acceleration of your dynamic, it was still very much present. You had to figure him out. Had to crack the case. Even if it killed you.

For now, though, simply asking mundane questions had to be enough.

“Well… it was fine. The usual” the answer did not help much, however.

Neil looked as if he knew how enigmatic it sounded but could not do anything about it. Upon your questioning look, he only shrugged and offered no further details. This time, you could not let the moment pass without a comment. You rolled your eyes, a frustrated huff interrupting the silence with petulance:

“God, you couldn’t be any less mysterious if you tried,” although anger was not one of the present emotions, you knew Neil would understand the message as you glared at him without heat.

He winced as if admitting to the guilt you hinted at and turned to you with a more open expression on his face:

“Sorry, it’s uh… maybe one day,” Neil met your gaze meaningfully, making you keener to believe him.

You held his gaze for a beat, even if only to have an excuse to look into his eyes and see Neil without the veil of pretence. It was easy to hope one day he would tell you more. That there was one day, somewhere along the line, waiting for you. That whatever was happening would not burn to a cinder in two weeks and leave you bereft. As things like this tended to do.

“I’ll hold you to that,” before breaking the eye contact, you reached for his hand.

It was another insane reflex that was difficult to explain, even to yourself. Yet, still, Neil went willingly. His long fingers tangled with yours without resistance and allowed you to rest your joined palms between the seats, almost like a beacon to whoever was curious about your meeting. And you could see the nosy stares, the inquisitive grandmas eager to judge and label everything and everyone existing within their vicinity.

You used the warmth of your connected hands to anchor you in the present as Neil asked:

“How’s the imposter syndrome? Did it fuck off at last?” the softness in his eyes could undoubtedly be fatal.

As was the way he knew what to ask and hit the jackpot without even trying. Because, of course, the feeling of not being good enough did not disappear. Of course, you still got up every morning with the vague desire to approach the ballet director and tell her you are giving up. That you cannot do this. It almost seemed like Neil could sense your thoughts.

Which was both terrifying and appealing, if you were to be honest. It would make your job easier if he knew exactly what you were thinking. About him.

“I wish,” the suffering sigh was a cheap trick, but viable in your books, “I still think I’m going to embarrass myself, but well,” not willing to give up the comfortable weight of his hand in yours, you offered Neil a one-sided shrug “Can’t exactly capitulate now” the desperate edge to that sentence did not escape his attention.

Sure, you would not actually give up, but that did not mean you were not half-heartedly wishing it happened anyway. Ideally, in the form of someone else doing the job for you. Pathetic, innit?

Neil squeezed your hand, capturing your attention without needing to try at all. The frown was still present on your face, its force turning the corners of your mouth downwards. As always, Neil seemed to see through all that you were not saying. He met your gaze (which was a feat considering you were happy to look anywhere but at him) and spoke:

“I wouldn’t let you,” there was an edge to his voice, a steely resolve that told you the conversation was gaining another layer.

A different destination to the one you had expected at first. Although, with how your chats recently played out, it was to be anticipated. Probably.

Without giving yourself the time to overthink, you leaned closer to Neil and placed a hand on his thigh. You could see his eyes widen upon the move, the pupils blowing up in the quickest form of flattery a man could give you. Sharpening your smile to the perfectly saccharine variant, you delivered the prepared lines:

“Oh yeah?” his thigh muscles tensed underneath your hand as Neil’s mouth fell agape without him being fully in control of the reaction. It was adorable. And an ideally ripe ground to lay the final strike, “You’d force me? Have your way with me?” the sparks in his eyes were a pretty addition to the already gorgeous picture.

At that moment, you knew that you had missed this. No texting could ever replace the real thing. The back and forth with the arresting strength of his eye contact and the unpredictable suspense of what would come next. Like the sudden softening of Neil’s features and an unexpectedly tentative counter to your bold questions:

“If you’d let me,” he swallowed hard as if desperately trying to get rid of the thoughts in his head and simultaneously unable to shake them off.

As if ripping the thread connecting him to you and shortening it at an alarming rate was causing Neil physical pain. The revelation acted like a hot poker pressed against the tender skin of your palm. It was difficult to shrug it off as if it was nothing. It nagged and prodded until you could do nothing but stare dumbly at him, feeling every passing second like a wasted beat of time you would never get back.

Before you could get your shit together in any way, it was too late. Neil had already jumped to conclusions, as you worried he might. His brows furrowed as his teeth nibbled on the chapped bottom lip in a familiar nervous tic. Slowly, as if navigating a mined battlefield, he shifted in the seat, widening the space between you by a fraction. You noticed it anyway.

“You don’t mind that this sort of thing keeps happening?” the question was completed with a vague gesture, slashing the air between you awkwardly.

The inflexion offered no space for doubt. Neil concluded that you very much did mind. That somehow you were not an active and eager participant in the heavy flirting and mutual teasing. Neil was an idiot.

And you had to put that point across instantly.

“Why would I mind?” without thinking, you let your fingers repeatedly stroke his forearm as you leaned back into his orbit to confess what ought to have been obvious, “I mean every word I say to you. Including all that post-Watershed talk” it was delightful to see your favourite smile disrupt his frown.

At the same time, it was nice to have it out in the open, no longer unsaid and implied. Because you did mean it. And you did want it. Whatever Neil would offer, be it a friendship or more. The choice was his.

You could pinpoint when the weight lifted off his shoulders and let him breathe deeper. You stared as Neil absorbed and processed the information, his blue eyes showing a spectrum of emotions. Some were unreadable. Other more obvious, like the devilish sparks that always guaranteed the conversation would take a curious turn. Or the cautious hope, making him look so much younger and innocent. Your unoccupied hand itched with the desire to brush his golden locks from his forehead, so you tightened it into a fist hidden in the coat pocket.

Just like you hid everything that had no place in your life.

At the periphery of your attention, you could register the called stations. Or the fact that your stop was mercilessly getting closer. Only one question could make you forget the reality altogether:

“So, what would you do if I kissed you?” when Neil asked, you were glad you had never forced yourself to look away from him.

That hesitant hope was still there, lightening up his eyes. You let it pull you in, as there was no need to search your heart for an answer. It was fair to assume Neil knew that, too. The question was only a preliminary. But it was still admirable he asked. People rarely did.

You shrugged, highlighting the evident conclusion he hopefully had already reached. It would have been easy to close the gap and let that be the answer. Too easy. It was enough that you could hardly ever look away from him, constantly drawn and arrested by his eyes.

Forcing yourself to break the spell, you met his gaze and offered him an impassive smile. If only to keep up the façade for a little longer.

“There’s only one way to find out, Neil,” you hoped that was enough, that he would understand the ball was back in his court to do as he pleased.

You also hoped Neil came to the right solution. Sadly, that did not seem to come to be just yet. One glance outside the window alarmed you about the surroundings and that you were arriving at your station. The frown twisted your mouth downwards as you risked a glance at Neil. The disappointment in his eyes told you he already caught up.

Two choices were waiting at your disposal. You could either stay, miss your stop to find out what would happen next. Or you could choose cowardice and leave the carriage, delaying the fateful moment a little longer. Definitely not forever.

It was hard to say why you chose the second option. Why you stood up without as much as a look at Neil and feigned a cheery farewell that felt foreign on your tongue. Later, you were keen to pretend it was just the influence of the moment. A sudden spell of insanity.

“Oops, that’s me. See you soon,” it was a miracle that you did not trip in the haste to get out.

You barely registered the surroundings as you bolted towards the sliding door and stepped onto the platform, missing the gap by mere millimetres. It was pure luck that you did not walk into any poor soul as you attempted to get away from the train as fast as possible.

You did not get the time to flee. All because you did not consider one thing – Neil had a choice, too.

When you felt a hand take yours and pull you back, there was that split second of panic. Your disoriented mind rapidly flicked through at least ten different disastrous scenarios, starting at a random appearance of Liam and ending at a violent assault you were about to be subjected to. Only then, at the very end, your brain pushed forward another observation. There was something familiar about that handhold.

Before you had a second to follow that thought, the interrupter pulled at your hand, making you whirl around to face them. Your widened gaze fell upon the undone tortoiseshell shirt buttons and wandered up the neck to land on Neil’s blue eyes, patiently staring back at you. It took you another second to understand what happened. And another one to begin processing what it could mean. Why he did it.

Without being aware of the movement of your body, you stepped closer to Neil, tightening the bubble you both had created in the middle of the platform. People bypassed you as they rushed to the train with the beeping doors hastening their steps. But that hardly mattered. It was just white noise. Unimportant and ignorable.

Unlike Neil, who closed the gap between your bodies to mere millimetres, and wordlessly repeated the question from before. The answer did not change. You offered him a tiny nod, not feeling the need to speak. The surrealism of the moment could not be labelled anyhow.

From the second you had tasted Neil’s lips, you knew it would not be something you could forget. That the feel of him would burn into the cortex of your brain and stay there to haunt you for eternity. You were right.

Your eyes snapped shut as soon as he closed the distance and covered your mouth with his in a soft kiss. His gentle and pliant lips caressed yours attentively without effort, making you cling even closer to him. Your arms came around Neil’s neck as your fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck. It took another second, a blissful beat of existence, to make you kiss him back. Just as carefully. Just like you never kissed anyone before.

Neil’s relief came through in a short gasp, let out into your opening mouth, and the warm weight of his palms came up to rest on your waist beneath the open coat. Following the logic you did not understand, you tilted your head and allowed his prying tongue to lick into your mouth. The liquid heat traversed your veins, warming up your skin as Neil took his time to map out the inside of your mouth. Suddenly, the instant connection you felt made sense. Things clicked into place as you breathed the taste of him and breathed out the uncertainty. It felt right. Good. Unforgettable, even.

It felt like no first kisses and endless one-night stands ever did. And that made no sense.

Soon, that first kiss evolved into another and then the next. The platform, the people and the noise faded into the background as you swapped kisses, barely interrupted by quiet groans and swallowed gasps. On its own accord, your hand ventured up to tangle in his hair, grabbing a fistful of the golden locks and tugging in time with a particularly hungry nip taken out of Neil’s bottom lip. The reward of a barely stifled moan was more than worth it.

As was how Neil held you close and returned your kisses with equal zeal. He matched your energy and pushed you further until the remaining part of your conscience worried about being arrested for public indecency.

When the burn of your lungs excelled that of your soul, you placed a palm over the centre of his chest and pushed Neil back. Just a fraction. Just to catch your breath. His answering whine felt like another spark of pride, making your eyes glow with self-satisfaction. That was better than any other form of gratification you could think of.

When you finally forced yourself to blink your eyes open and look at Neil, you were met with kiss-bruised lips and darkened blue eyes, showing nothing else but hunger. At least ten increasingly ridiculous religious metaphors battled for leadership in your mind, but you pushed them all aside. The most accurate comment went to two simple words, pushed forward by the strength of your soul’s crudeness. Fucking hell. In the best of meanings, that is.

Following deeply rooted instincts, your tongue darted out to thoroughly trace the expanse of your bottom lip. And get remains of his taste, that you had already started missing. As far as kisses had gone, this one was pretty damn spectacular.

Neil seemed frozen, his eyes fixed on your mouth as if that was the only thing he could do. Admittedly, it was adorable. Yet, still, you decided to break the spell, the only way you could think of:

“I think your train has left,” you glanced over his shoulder, noting the expectedly empty platform.

Only now, when the haze of the kiss (or rather a whole make-out session) had begun to lift, you could understand what had transpired. And that Neil was keen to delay his return home for the price of a kiss. Or for the hope of a kiss, for clearly, he did not think he would get that far. Idiot.

You could see it now, back on his face. The slight disorientation and confusion suggested Neil could barely believe that what just happened was real. He blinked twice, then again, as if forcing himself to wake up and met your gaze with wide eyes. Without thinking, you allowed the hand you had pressed flat to his chest to venture up, stopping when your fingers started grazing over his neck. That was the trigger Neil needed to return to reality. He seized your adventurous fingers in a loose hold and placed your joined hands back over his heart. You could feel it racing.

“I’ll wait for the next one,” Neil offered you a half-smile, the uncertainty shining through the tentative joy in his eyes.

It was not something you were used to. Usually, after a kiss like that (never even preceded with a question, because who the fuck still asked for kisses?), you only ever got smugness. And an attempt at a smooth transition to sex, which did or did not succeed, depending on the participating party). Never uncertainty. Never shyness. Never contentment with what happened without pushing you for more.

You didn’t know what to do with any of it.

“No regrets?” the question was also one that you never asked before.

Not after something as trivial as a first kiss. But then, nothing was the way it usually went with Neil. That much was quite clear.

“Not really. You?” as if sensing your growing uncertainty, Neil did not hesitate before answering the question.

He squeezed your fingers, still wrapped in his palm and met your gaze with something almost resembling confidence. Somehow, that was enough. You took a fortifying breath to gather courage and discard the doubts. There would be more than enough time to deal with them later. Hopefully.

For now, there were other things to do and say. Like answering Neil’s question and reclaiming the conversation from its sombre paths. Especially since no cell in your body regretted the kiss. Or any other thing you had ever said or hinted at to him. It is just that somehow, somewhere along the line, your normal confidence had been wiped off the table. And it felt like it was never to be seen again. Not like before.

You hoped to ignore that bit of revelation, too.

“Nope. I’d offer a coffee at mine, but… I think some things need a better build-up,” you hoped the chaos in your head was not easily seen as you dropped the line with an attempt at the usual smoothness and met Neil’s eyes with remaining poise.

You meant that, too. A part of you, the same that had difficulties ending the kiss, wanted to continue it wherever it may lead you. You were quite sure you knew where it was going. And you certainly wanted that. But, at the same time, rushing into it seemed… wrong. As if the fact that you also wanted to be friends with Neil needed a little more respect. A little more time.

You could tell he understood from the way Neil nodded, his eyes still blown out by the darkened pupils.

“Agreed,” he shook his head slightly as if trying to clear it before glancing at the timing screen over your heads. Whatever the impact those 7 minutes of waiting had, the next thing Neil did was to heave a sigh and set his weary eyes on you, “Actually, I might walk back home. Should probably clear my head,” a small smile lifted the corner of his mouth.

Without overthinking the act, you seized his hand and started for the stairs. Just because you were not yet taking him home did not mean you could not drag out the goodbye. Right?

Right.

***

Although the kiss was not forgotten and only added to the general restlessness, you never mentioned it again. It was another layer added to the sprinkled, complex mess that was your relationship. A tiered cake that had so many flavours it was impossible to label it using a concise, less than five-word description. It just did not get discussed.

That was both a blessing and a curse, considering that with mere days left till the public Don Quixote premiere you could barely handle one type of stress and uncertainty. Let alone two. The reality check deadline crept up on you without warning, catching you pacing the flat for over an hour the evening before the official pre-premiere. The event always happened at least a night before the opening soiree and was reserved for the press, Royal Ballet directory and special guests of honour. It also meant that every detail of the performance had to be up to par if one wanted to continue advancing the career in the company. Which you did want. Desperately. It was just bloody unfortunate that the usual insanity of anxiety now was interlaced with something else.

Something that made you stop the pacing and pick up the phone only to open the messages and stare at the text conversation with Neil. It had been a few hours, and considering the 9 pm on the clock, you had a fair right to believe that he might be asleep. Maybe. But that could hardly deter the part of your brain that tended to get ahead of itself. Especially fuelled by stress and anxiety.

Without letting yourself falter, you typed the question:

/ 🏹, 9:04 pm/ “Are you still up?”

Luckily, you only had to hold your breath for an answer (or a lack of it) for less than 5 minutes. For that, your lungs were eternally thankful.

/✝️, 9:08 pm/ “Is this the moment you ask me for dick pics?”

A ridiculous guffaw broke the silence of your flat, along with that necessary intake of oxygen. Conversations like those still happened daily and only increased the want you could not get rid of if you tried.

And you didn’t try. There was no point to it.

/ 🏹, 9:09 pm/ “Nah. Not yet.”

You were having fun, chatting the shit on the daily with someone who seemed more than eager to keep the ball going. That was partially why you reached out on a whim, desperate to get out of the flat even for a little while. After all, asking Neil offered a fifty-fifty chance of an entertaining evening. All other intentions did not have to be disclosed. Even in your mind.

/✝️, 9:10 pm/ “That’s a relief.”

/✝️, 9:10 pm/ “How can I be of service, my lady?”

/ 🏹, 9:11 pm/ “You’ve no idea, babe.”

/ 🏹, 9:12 pm/ “I was thinking of going to the dance studio, that’s open till midnight. Do you want to come?”

/ 🏹, 9:12 pm/ “You’ve said you wanted to see me dance so…”

After sending the third message, you put down the phone and exhaled. That nervousness residing in your bones was new. It was almost as if it mattered what Neil’s answer would be. As if you cared whether he would say yes to the tentative proposition. None of that had ever happened before.

The urge to faceplant into the pillow was derailed by the buzz of an incoming message. With embarrassing speed of reaction, you read the texts:

/✝️, 9:15 pm/ “Happily.”

/✝️, 9:15 pm/ “When and where do we meet?”

You grinned. As you copied and pasted the location pin into the message, you could already feel a different type of nervousness enter your system. It was time for Neil to see you dance. You would also see him for the first time since the kiss. It was high time someone covered this topic on wikiHow. Or, at least, you thought so.

***

Although the Royal Ballet had more than good enough facilities at the Covent Garden building, the company could also use a studio by the Southwark Underground Station whenever you felt like it. Conveniently, that alternative place was open till midnight on weeknights, offering a one-in-a-million chance to run over the choreography for a billion times more before the pre-premiere. Without an audience of your fellow ballet dancers and their critical eyes, at that.

The other perk to the external studio was that nothing stopped you from bringing someone from the outside along. Nothing except for maybe the deeply rooted fear of showing Neil what you could do. Or couldn’t do.

That fear had not left through the Uber drive from your flat, growing in force from the moment you set your eyes upon Neil waiting outside the studio with a smile on his face. You exchanged the usual niceties, bypassing the awkward tint to the interaction with an avoided hug and nonsensical commentary from your side.

The nerves seemed to reach the peak as you left Neil in the main ballet studio room, the space lit up sparsely to maintain the strangely surreal atmosphere of those late autumn nights in London when nothing seems to be tangible and real. Having left the house in a pre-planned rehearsal outfit, you only took off the unnecessary layers, leaving you in a simple bodice and a wrap mid-thigh skirt and pulled on the woollen leg warmers to keep the chill at bay.

Luckily for your racing heart, the ritual of putting on and lacing up the pointe shoes always did its magic, allowing you to centre yourself and take a couple of deep breaths. Until there was nothing left but to march out of the changing room and connect your phone to the speaker, the right track ready for you to press play.

But before you could go that far, you made the mistake of locating Neil in the room. He had settled on the floor opposite you, his back pressed to the mirror-covered walls of the studio. He stared as you entered the invisible stage and offered you an encouraging smile. A slow, gentle warm-up was a valid opportunity to falter. A necessary step you had to take while also admitting that it was convenient. Although, Neil’s attentive gaze following your every move was much less convenient.

Once you had run out of all other options, you started the music, put down the phone and took up position. Desperate to rehearse as much as possible, you chose to go through the entire dream sequence at the end of Act 2. As always, the Minkus score did its magic, helping you settle into the movement and almost forget about everything else.

You followed the steps with practised ease, hearing the dull thud of pointe shoes hitting the hardwood floors with each landing between the orchestral notes. When the cue to finish was near you were almost out of breath. The pearls of sweat clung to your temples as the sweetness of exertion burned through your muscles and tendons. When those final notes rang off in the quiet studio, you held the finishing pose and waited for the music to end. The resulting silence was deafening.

Slowly, as if pained to do it, you opened your eyes. Neil was right where you had left him; his gaze seemingly never trailed away. But the exact look on his face was different. Instead of the ease and unbothered nonchalance he tried to emit earlier, Neil was now speechless. Dazed. His mouth was still agape, and he had to remind himself to close it before swallowing hard. You tried your hardest not to let that get into your head. You failed.

“So… what do you think?” unable to keep quiet for much longer, you released the question into the ether with a permanent frown and a minimal level of conviction.

It seemed to be what Neil needed to wake up from the stupor. He shifted, pulled up his knees to his chin and eyed you with a bright gaze. The desire to look away rose with every minute, but you tried to endure it. Somehow.

“You’re brilliant. Do you know that?” the matter-of-fact tone threw you off kilter, bringing out an automatic (albeit manic) grin from its hiding back onto your face.

Neil mirrored the expression instantly, only widening your smile in the process. Feeling the need to move again, you flexed your calves, completing a set of rapid changements. Only once that was done you could attempt to answer the question.

“Maybe,” you shrugged, unwilling to stray onto that sort of honest territory just yet, “It doesn’t hurt to hear it again, though,” unable to ignore that one voice at the back of your head that had not been convinced, you asked, “Was it actually… good?” the emphasis on the word was automatic.

You could tell Neil saw right through your faux nonchalance as he smiled, a different type of fondness shining in his eyes. That, too, was best left alone for now. The observation was shelved among others of its kind in the darkest cavern of your brain. Ideally left alone for good, never to be touched or thought of again. Just in case.

Neil’s gaze never strayed from yours as he offered you an answer without a hint of exasperation:

“As far as my virgin eyes could tell, it was perfect,” the corner of his mouth rose in the makings of a familiar smirk.

It eradicated any illusions that he did not know what he was saying. Or the effect the sentence would have. You closed your eyes against the sight, hopelessly willing the inconvenient feelings to disappear.

By now, it was painfully clear that Neil could be a bastard when he wanted to. It was just another thing that you liked about him. Perhaps too much.

For a second, you debated following the easy way out he had offered. It would have been effortless to take up the tone and turn the conversation into yet another pleasant back-and-forth that could potentially lead you past the talking. Past that one kiss, that had lowkey driven you insane with the promise of potential.

But the doubts were still there. They still clouded your mind like a flock of hungry birds of prey hunting for a bite of flesh. And Neil was the only person you could talk to and know he would listen. That he would care. For some reason, it was a crucial thing to share. An important topic to raise. Here and now.

“Allow me to ignore that double entendre potential for a second,” your apologetic frown was accepted with a subtle nod and meaningful glance.

“You’re excused, Cupid,” Neil grinned, evidently taking pleasure from the nickname you became fond of.

Especially because it was him, who bestowed it on you.

“Thank you,” shaking off the sudden rush of affection, you completed the gratitude with a cheeky addition, returning Neil’s smirk, “Sir,” only once noted his answering blush, it was safe to delve into what you really wanted to tell him. You took a deep breath, completing half a pirouette to face the mirrors on the wall and asked, “Do you ever feel like you’re just constantly pretending? Like the whole ‘fake it till you make it’ deal, except you never stop faking it?” training your gaze on the hardwood floors, you stared at the tips of your pointe shoes.

The worn-out, ragged edges caught your attention for a split second. You took a mental note to break in the brand-new pair and prepare them for tomorrow’s show. On the periphery of your vision, you could see Neil’s reflection. You could feel him staring, the intense gazing boring holes in the back of your head. But not even that could make you turn and face him.

“Pretty much every day,” Neil’s reply made you look up, meeting his eyes in the reflection. That was not an answer you had expected, “I’ve found that sometimes, if you’re lucky, all that pretending can fool the brain, too,” he signed off the addition with another reassuring smile.

Still, the scepticism reigned free as an unbidden scoff tore from your throat, forcing you to swallow down the sudden desire to retreat from the conversation. Years of practice did not seem to share Neil’s thesis. Things never got easier. You doubted they ever would.

“I’d hope so. Except that, I’m not sure I am that lucky,” that was a given, an undeniable fact of life like the laws of physics or the ignorance of the Tories. Unchangeable. The familiar wave of frustration threatened to pull you down as you allowed the insecurities to speak their part,“I may appear as a fucking cool cat, confident and all, but… I’m not,” hearing the broken note in your voice, you swallowed hard, unable to look at Neil anymore. There was only one final thing to add, “And I wish I could be,”

There. The curtain has fallen, revealing the truth underneath. Now, it was clear Neil had no illusions left about you. No reason to think of you highly. Somehow, you felt lighter. Sure, still unable to meet his gaze, even in the reflection, but it was better that way. Now, when you did disappoint him somewhere along the line, for whatever reason, it would be much less surprising.

You had no doubts whether that moment of disappointment would happen. It always did.

“You have every right to be. Because you are” when Neil spoke, at first, you did not register it. His words flew right over your head before being caught by your heart, desperate to find anything to hold on to. Only then did you hear what he said. You looked up in time to see the remains of the fading blush on his cheeks, “If that even makes sense,” he shook his head slightly as if scolding himself over the awkward reassurance and stood up. The tense shoulders betrayed the lightness he still tried to emit, “Trust me when I say I feel useless and stupid every minute of every day,” the weariness in his voice clashed with the disbelief you felt when hearing what he said.

That made no sense. The turmoil made you turn around in a half-pirouette and face Neil with wide eyes and mouth agape. Your brain was experiencing severe computing issues, the smoke almost sizzling out through your open lips.

He was none of those things. You barely resisted the urge to close the miles between you and shake him by the shoulders, all the while screaming at him to stop saying such bullshit. You did not do any of those things.

“But you’re… you,” instead, you gestured vaguely towards him, armed with words that were not enough.

No words seemed to be apt to describe him. Neil was just… impossible. Ineffable in his wonderfulness. Much better than anyone you had ever known. But that was something you could not say. Not now.

“In my books, that’s not necessarily a good thing,” Neil glanced at you with tired eyes, kicking around at nothing as he slid across the parquet in his socks.

When you entered the studio, he started unlacing his shoes before you could protest. Said something about not wanting the cleaner to have more work. The comment made you smile too brightly before you excused yourself into the changing room and hid your face in the palms of your hands. That state didn’t seem to have passed.

In an effort not to do anything stupid, you backed away till you could feel the barre against your back. Only then you met his searching gaze and made sure to show Neil the extent of earnestness on your face:

“It is. I’ve never met anyone like you, Neil,” the admission was met with a surprised double-take, so you decided to soften the tone with a stupid addition, “The hottest priest in London and whatnot,” you did mean that one, too.

Neil’s huff of laughter felt like a dodged bullet.

“Funny,” the bright sparks in his eyes confirmed the praise with doubled force, making you turn back towards the mirror to avoid being blinded by the strength of his affection. That stuff could be dangerous, “You’re the hottest ballerina in London, so we’re even,” once you registered Neil’s words, the silky tone of his voice that had not been there just a second ago, you knew that trouble was coming.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him close the gap. The warmth settled in your cheeks as you felt the comfortable heat spread around your body. That pleasant anticipation ignited in your bones with every step Neil took. Somewhere, at the edges of reason and logic, you knew you still had a choice. You knew that whatever he had envisioned in his mind, could easily be stopped with one word from your side. What was the problem?

Mainly that you didn’t want him to stop. Did not want to cut short the moment slowly blooming into something crucial. You could feel it buzz beneath your skin as Neil took the final steps towards you and leaned in. His hands came to rest upon the barre, millimetres from yours. Not quite touching but enough so you could not ignore his presence. You could feel the heat from his body as Neil pressed his chest to your back and whispered into your ear:

“A cool cat,” in normal circumstances, the call-back to your rant would have made you laugh.

But those weren’t normal circumstances. Not with Neil’s proximity, his hands slowly tracing invisible lines up your arms. You could feel his breath on the nape of your neck, creating goosebumps effortlessly. And the thing was – this wasn’t anything new. It was far from the first time someone had done this. Far from the first time you had been tempted by someone who desired you. But it was the first time they seemed to take their time for it.

Your head felt dizzy with the revelation as Neil’s fingers lightly brushed the neckline of your bodice and journeyed down. It was a first in the fact that he did not even try touching your breasts, instead respectfully settling over your ribs and tapping a vague rhythm over your heated skin. Without searching your heart, you knew that you did not mind it. Not one bit.

You covered one of his palms with yours, firmly pressing it against your waist and raised your head to seek Neil’s gaze. He was already looking back at you, the blue eyes of his eyes dark and consumed with something you wanted to call hunger. The same feeling could be easily found on your face.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” you frowned at the hoarseness of your voice and the breathless tint to the question.

For the first time, it was impossible to fake your reaction. Impossible to pretend you were not affected. Neil’s answering smile, full of confidence and mischief, made that discovery seem fine. Not troubling at all.

“Is it working?” the warmth in his eyes made you feel safe, not threatened by the potential of what could happen.

Not viable to the pains of consequences. That seemed enough.

Enough to make you gently tug at his hand, asking for the freedom of movement to turn around and face him. Only then, with Neil’s curious gaze beaming down on you like a desirable spotlight, you placed his palm back on your waist and offered an honest reply:

“I think you already know,” as proof, you picked up his other hand and guided it to press against your chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat.

The wolfish grin you received in return was worth any leftover sense of shame and embarrassment. Neil leaned in, and just as you were about to close your eyes, awaiting another life-changing kiss, he left a promising peck on the edge of your jaw. On its own accord, your hand tightened over the wooden railing as you exposed your throat for his use.

Neil wasted no time leaving a trail of kisses down the slope of your neck, only just being careful enough not to leave marks. Each kiss felt like a hot poker pressed against the tender skin of your neck, blazing hot and impossible to shake off. You closed your eyes, letting the sense take in the sensation of his tender care. Of the contrasting burn of stubble, scratching at your skin with a delicious sting.

Every kiss took time, only then to be sealed with a lick of his tongue, eliciting your quiet gasps and barely kept in groans of pleasure. The wave of insanity rose, threatening to take over your brain, save for one consistent thought. One revelation.

No one had cared this much before.

Letting go of his hand, you tangled your fingers in his golden strands, lightly tugging to gain his attention. The answering groan was sure to enter the library of sounds and images you liked to relieve in private. But before you could attempt to formulate the desire painted across your face, the door to the studio creaked, disrupting the silence.

You gasped in shock as Neil took half a step back, warily eyeing the doorway. A thousand curses lodged themselves in your throat as a silhouette of an older man, armed with a bucket and a mop, peered inside the room with a scowl. Fucking Rich, the Janitor.

The older man scanned you both from head to toe and sighed.

“It’s closing time, kids. Go home,” his gravelly voice acted like the much-needed bucket of cold water.

As he turned back towards the darkness of the corridor, you met Neil’s eyes. The depths of exasperation visible there told you this business was far from over. You certainly hoped so.

#also #for someone being so worried about writing neil pov #you write them so they're effortlessly funny #and aaaah that tension! #more neil content you guys #💎💎💎

[whats-rambled-rambled]

yes its fan service but have you considered that the fan they are actually servicing is david tennant

[whats-rambled-rambled]

The End of Time part 2 // The Giggle

#the broken whine that escaped me #i wasn't ready #but everything that followed healed my soul a bit #i love him okay #doctor who #doctor who spoilers

[whats-rambled-rambled]

LOVE that because of Catherine Tate's willingness to just keep coming back to Doctor Who there's now been THREE separate occasions that amount to

The Doctor: oh god oh fuck im so alone

Donna materializing out of the ether: hey you wanna get SILLAAAYYY

The Doctor: YEEEAAAAAAHHHHH

[whats-rambled-rambled]

Doomsday // The Giggle

#ugly sobbing #utter perfection #doctor who #doctor who spoilers

[whats-rambled-rambled]

DOCTOR WHO (2005 - ) I The Giggle

#doctor who #dw spoilers #dont touch me #seriously #puddle of tears

[whats-rambled-rambled]

Being inclusive with your reader insert fic is a kindness. It tells people of color (poc) that you are considering someone who does not look like you in your fic. It shows love and dedication to our craft. It tells poc that they belong here too and they can see themselves in your story.

Poc aren’t look for activism in fic, we know fandom isn’t that serious, but we should be able to have that same level of escapism when we turn to fic and fandom. We belong here too. This space is for everyone, not just one group of people.

Just to give a few examples of how simple it can be: say “skin warmed” instead of blushed, say “cradled your head” instead of running fingers through hair, say “angles yourself to kiss” instead of standing on tiptoes, use italics to indicate Spanish to take out a throwaway line of “you didn’t understand Spanish” things like that. Small changes that do not impact the fic at all but make a world of difference in inclusivity!

And for anything you can’t/don’t want to change, simply add warning in the beginning. Things like hair descriptors, anything reader might wear, some backstory for reader (especially involving family or where the story is set), readers job, things like that. A lot of times just having that heads up before the fic makes a world of difference!

And one example of kindness we as writers always worked to change: until recently (just a couple years ago) it wasn’t common to label the gender of the reader. But those who aren’t female asked writers to label it so they know which to read and which to avoid, and now it’s common to label the gender/pronouns of the reader. So it is possible! It just takes effort! And I’m a writer myself so I know it can be done!

We can pretend to be a bartender or a bounty hunter or an actress or anything else. But we shouldn’t have to imagine we’re a white one.

#hear hear #takes a moment to switch but it's worth it

[whats-rambled-rambled]

Deadlines & Commitments

Neil x F!Reader

Chapter 3 - Canning Town Underground Station

Masterlist; Chapter 2 Summary: Flirting, Leicester Square station mixtape, flowers and breakdowns in the cantina. Or another chapter of an unlikely liaison. Warnings: Swearing, E-rated language and imagery and more outrageous flirting. Author's Notes: Chapter a month might just be the new deal here, apologies. And this one's long, by which I mean over 11k 💁🏻‍♀️ It also seems like now that I've started, I can't stay away from Neil's POV so... yeah. Look out for a cheeky cameo too 😉 Other than that, I can assure you this is just as chaotic and ridiculous as the last chapter. These two are in full control, I'm just a mere scribe, doing my best. Hopefully it works. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think? 💕 Taglist: @hollandorks, @kristevstewart, @stargirl25 (let me know if you want to be added)

Incorporating Neil into your daily (and weekly) life was easy. Almost terrifyingly so if you did as much as stop and think about it. Perhaps the self-preservation rooted deep within forbade you to reflect on it. Which, in hindsight, was a good thing.

After that first victory of obtaining Neil’s number, you did not hold back from texting and bombarding him with daily nonsensical memes that could have driven a different man to madness. Neil, however, took it in his stride. It was rare not to get a reply from him after longer than an hour. And that boosted your courage like nothing else.

Some days, the conversations went like this:

/ 🏹, 12:07 pm/ Show me what socks are you wearing.

/✝️, 12:13 pm/ Jesus, that’s forward.

/ 🏹, 12:14 pm/ That’s basically my second name. So?

/ 🏹, 12:14 pm/ I swear I won’t sell the pic on OF.

/✝️, 12:20 pm/ Well, if you do, then at least share the earnings with me.

Although you started the ridiculous conversation, when the next text came, consisting of a single image of a socked ankle bared by the familiar hand pulling up the pant leg, you nearly dropped the coffee cup in the middle of the Covent Garden. It was just an ordinary Tuesday lunchtime, with the square bustling with sound and movement. Using the rare sunny September day, you escaped the confines of the Royal Opera House to have your coffee break on the kerb. Thanks to the dwindling sense of coherence, you did not drop said coffee when you opened the photo. The socks you had asked for were black with a grey argyle pattern. But that was where the normalcy ended, for the rhombuses were filled with corgi heads. The brown-beige dogs stared at you through the screen with their beady eyes and were the reason for your hysterical laughter.

The overprotective mother tending to her children close by shot you a dirty look. Well, fuck her.

/ 🏹, 12:23 pm/ Neil, you’re too cute. Way too cute.

/✝️, 12:32 pm/ It’s what every guy wants to hear. Thanks, Cupid.

/ 🏹, 12:34 pm/ I never said you’re not hot, though. Which you very much are. So much that I thought of you when…

/✝️, 12:35 pm/ Yeah, don’t finish that sentence. Please.

/✝️, 12:35 pm/ I’d rather maintain my innocence.

/ 🏹, 12:36 pm/ As you wish 😘

That was not a lie. It was a result of yet another tiring day and an early night in bed when it was too early to sleep. So, you chose to fill the time like most women would, letting your thoughts drift to images and scenarios that always did the trick as your hand delved between your thighs. When you realised who you had been thinking of, the tension was so close to bursting that you did not try to shift the attention. When you came, the guilt was nowhere to be found.

After all, it was not a sin to think of pretty boys when taking the edge off. As soon as you realised that Neil did not take the flirty line seriously, that feeling of potentially having done something wrong became non-existent. It was fine. It was all fine.

Other times, especially during those Wednesday mornings on the Tube, your conversations looked more like this:

“I’ve got an invasive question…” changing the subject during your weekly chats was easy, for as soon as you set a weighty gaze on Neil, he sobered up too.

The endless questions did not seem to bother him either. Your boundless curiosity was particularly grateful for that.

“As long as you’re not going to ask me what underwear I’m wearing, I think we’re fine,” the poker face was only disturbed by Neil’s twitching lips, and the sparks danced in his eyes as he inclined his head in your direction, blessing you with the golden strands, “Shoot,”

Every time, you took a deep breath, silently gathering the courage to ask, and then let the question fall from your lips without a pause:

“When was the last time you’ve been in love?” the curiosity was all it was.

Yet still, Neil’s widening eyes made you consider that perhaps something else was underlining that desire to know. And that this question was different than others you had asked. Different from “Dogs or cats?” “Typical coffee order?” and “Any hidden talents?”. But it was too late to take it back.

“Oof, you weren’t joking” Neil seemed to shake it off quickly, only briefly offering you a glare before looking down to find the needed words, “Probably two-ish years ago…?” you were sure you had imagined the broken edge in his voice as Neil swallowed hard and continued “It was a disaster. She didn’t- Let’s just say I went in too hard and too fast, and she got scared. Pretty much ghosted me after a half-assed excuse” when he raised his head and meet your gaze, you could see the depths of hurt in his eyes.

Your heart felt pathetically hollow, but you smothered the feeling to nothing but an uncomfortable sting.

“Ouch,” a wince was easy enough to muster, and you followed it with an apology, “Sorry,” Neil’s crestfallen look was an inspiration for you to place your hand on his shoulder and give him a reassuring squeeze “I know that it doesn’t help, but it’s her, not you” you knew the light statement was the right way to go when Neil cracked a wry smile and gave your other wrist a tap.

“Thanks,” it was evident enough to realise that Neil was eager to drop the subject. It was clearer still that you were going to be the next target, “I won’t ask you the same since I know better, but… Do you really think no one could change your view on love?” yet when the question fell in the space between you, it was not what you had expected.

The surprise must have painted on your face, for Neil looked a second away from taking it back. You stopped him from doing that the only way you could think of – by extending your hand in what was universally thought of as a ‘hold up’ motion. It was not that you did not want to answer. And it was not the first time someone had asked either.

But it was not something you were keen on inspecting and tearing apart to offer an honest answer. It was a fact, pure and simple. A fact that you would believe in till the day you died. There was no place for love in your life, and there would never be. Full stop.

“Yeah, I do,” you met Neil’s waiting gaze and offered him a weak shrug. The strange disappointment in his gaze made no sense, so you chose to ignore it to shift your attention to the world outside the carriage as it arrived at the next station. The belief in your next words was as tangible as anything else you could conceive, “It would take a miracle”.

He did not ask that question again.

Those Wednesday morning conversations also became a source of information, which you had stowed securely in the compartment of your brain labelled ‘Neil’. After almost two months of acquittance, you knew that he was born and raised a Londoner (from Richmond, the posh fuck [affectionate]), was decidedly a dog person and had a chocolate Labrador growing up (a girl named Daisy), listened to alt-rock and 80s music and was what he described as a hopeless romantic. You still did not know what he did for work, only that he was decidedly not a tattooist, literary agent, paramedic, jockey, art critic, dressmaker, choreographer, or bus driver. Whether he was truly not just a priest undercover was still up for debate.

***

Only when you fled the confines of the ordinary tiny London flat kitchen and felt the night breeze of the city on your skin, left bare from the jacket you did not yet put on, had the question of the ages pop into your head. What the fuck? There was no answer. You shook your head against the memories of what had just conspired and stopped on the pavement to put on and fasten the jacket. Even annoyed, you could still feel the biting cold begin to settle in your bones.

You never expected to bump into Liam. Never in a million years would you have considered that those two friends you shared would extend the invitation to that man out of all people. And you certainly did not expect him to come.

Although, as he had unhelpfully explained himself, he only showed up because of the chance you would be there. The audacity made you shake your head vehemently, without a doubt attracting a glare or two from those who remained sober at this hour. In Soho on Saturday night, that was unlikely.

You walked through the cobbled streets with the neon lights lighting your path without an aim or a map. The only objective was to stomp the frustration into the cracked pavement and end up home. Somehow. Specifics were to be determined later.

Sure, rushing out of your mate’s flat like a lightning bolt could be seen as impulsive. But Liam offered you no choice. The pleasant buzz of alcohol did nothing to stop the embarrassment, which grew worse by the minute. The long walk in an unknown direction was a sad but acceptable consequence. Or so you aimed to maintain.

By the time you had seriously begun to consider using the dwindling phone battery to order an Uber and save you from the penance of someone else’s transgressions, the red circle with a navy blue bar appeared on the horizon. Salvation, at last. You picked up the pace, eager to get out of the cold and that one step closer to home. This close to Leicester Square and the theatres just having closed their doors on the last patrons, the bustle seemed quieter somehow, more subdued. It was a blessing for your budding headache and a threat to the thoughts eager to appear with nothing suppressing them.

You crossed the road and descended the staircase with a sigh. The heat of the station enveloped you like a hug as you passed the ticketing gates and spent an unnecessarily long time staring at the Tube map. When the logic kicked in, at last, you rushed over to the correct platform.

Only to regret it as soon as the timing screen came into view. Heathrow Airport 25 mins. The polite PSA text below informed you the line was experiencing delays. No biggie. They were sorry. The usual shit. A curse litany lodged in your throat as your eyes roamed over the platform.

All the noise in your head faded to nothing when your gaze settled on that familiar blonde head of hair. He was sitting in one of the few chairs with his head bowed over his knees in a position so exemplary for a Saturday night in the glorious London town. You skimmed over his body, taking note of the casual jeans and a t-shirt, peeking from beneath the unbuttoned jacket.

Before you knew it, your legs had started carrying you in his direction, a goofy smile present on your face. The improbability of it happening made everything easier. Because what were the odds?

Instead of counting them, you approached Neil, still so blissfully unaware of your presence and delivered an opening line:

“Hello, Father,” the joke did not yet get old, and you still got the kick out of it.

Especially when Neil raised his head fast enough to give himself a whiplash and gasped from shock.

“Jesus- Oh, what the fuck?” clutching at his heaving chest with all the drama he could muster, Neil offered you a look so full of surprise you knew he did not expect this to happen either.

The only weekend plans you had discussed over texts were that you had a party to go to, and he was likely to go out with his workmates at some point. But that was it. Zero specifics, no need to share them because there was no need for either of you to know the details. And yet.

“Is that how you should greet a lady?” playing on his theatrical reaction, you feign a shocked expression.

It was clear you would fail at any attempts of annoyance. Your cheeks were already aching with that kind of wide, manic grin only Neil seemed to cause. You could see his eyes skim over your figure, taking in your clothes with that sort of precision only he seemed capable of. Finally, satisfied with what he saw, Neil raised his head to meet your gaze again and got up to bow lowly at your feet:

“Apologies, m’lady,” before you knew what he was doing, he took hold of your hand and kissed your knuckles. A move so fast you almost thought you had imagined it if not for the fading sensation of his lips still ghosting your skin, “What are you doing here?” with his hand lightly touching your elbow, Neil steered you towards the seats.

Only now, with the surprises fading into the background, you took note of the empty platform. It was just the two of you sitting on the creaky plastic chairs. You shifted an inch closer to Neil, seeking the warmth radiating off his body and replied:

“As I’ve mentioned, I had an invitation to this flat party in Soho… And I went, but then, and you’ll never believe that happened-” recounting the improbable story felt good, and you took pleasure in the attention Neil gave your every word.

“Let me guess… Liam showed up?” his interjection followed your dramatic pause flawlessly.

Of course, he got it. Of course, he guessed. You shook your head at his eager smile, aware of the glee in your eyes:

“Damn, you’re good” your low approving whistle reverberated in the space. Most shockingly, there was a certain level of joy in sharing the story, even as your skin crawled with the embarrassment of what transpired, “Yeah, and it turns out that getting blocked did not make him smarter. It became a whole thing, along with him getting down on his knees in the middle of a kitchen and proclaiming his undying love to me,” you wondered if Liam was still there, kneeling on the tiled floor and waiting for your return.

Partially, you hoped that was the case.

Throwing you out of the strange ruminations, Neil shook his head and offered you a serious look:

“Blimey,” his tsk almost got lost in the PA announcement, crackling from the speakers. When it ended, Neil met your gaze with a sympathetic smile, “No wonder you ran away,” his knee nudged yours, triggering something you would not understand even in months.

Sitting upright, you nodded fervently:

“I had to” the emotions you did not know were present poured out from your lips as the next words fell in the space between you, “And like- He doesn’t even know me? He never saw me on the stage, and he thinks that making me cum a couple of times is enough?” a frustrated growl tore from your chest as you finished the tirade with a tired sigh and simple punchline, “Bullshit,”

There was no time or willingness to take apart where all that anger came from or why it was suddenly so important Neil understood your reasons. It just was. Later it was easily blamed on the alcohol still present in your veins. For now, you met his gaze and shrugged, answering the questions he seemed too shy to ask.

“With that, I must agree. It’s bullshit” nudging you with his shoulder, Neil smiled, brightening the clouds that still seemed to hang over your mind.

You shot him a brilliant grin, brushing away the concerns with terrifying ease. They had to wait, ideally forever.

“Thanks, babe” sugar coated your smile as you allowed yourself to gaze, taking note of the blush spreading on his cheeks. Although you would never admit it out loud, the blue of his eyes was slowly becoming your favourite shade of the colour. It was that thought that triggered your next confession, “Admittedly, meeting you here is a highlight of the night,” you watched as his eyes grew wider, evidently not expecting to hear something that honest. The moment stretched for what felt like ages until you found the strength to look away, focusing on the timing screen and the issues it posed, “Though, those delays are bullshit, too” your eye-roll elicited an instant laugh, which only added warmth to the kindling sparks in your chest.

“Mhmm,” Neil’s hum acted like an anchor, tying you to reality.

It was a better place to get lost in than the chaos raging in your head. You chose to stick by it, following the easy way out with a simple question:

“How come you’re here?” you turned towards Neil, hoping to block the platform and the world beyond from view.

Even if just figuratively and for a short while. If the answering bright smile was anything to go by, Neil was happy to humour you:

“I’ve been out for drinks at a pub, but then our crowd isn’t very… boisterous, so we all went our separate ways, and here I am,” he signed off the summary with an explanatory shrug, but you should have kept your guard up. Once his gaze settled on you with an intensity of intent, a pathetic instinct kickstarted your heart with all the subtlety of trainwreck, “Bored as fuck until you’ve shown up” the joy in that simple sentiment was enough to make your cheeks heat up.

Of its own volition, your brain provided the fresh memory of how Liam’s attention in that cursed kitchen had made you feel. How running away was the only option you saw then. It was different now; the quiet focus of the man sitting next to you was a welcomed change. A company you were happy to keep. For however long you were allowed.

“How long do you think till it’s-” ignoring the shyness that did not seem happy to be buried in Neil’s company, you changed the subject with all the grace of an elephant.

It was evident in how you stuttered, quickly abandoning the idea of finishing the sentence and letting it trail off into the quiet. It was too early to raise your head from the depths of shame it was drowning in. It was all a little too much.

“Could be twenty minutes, could be an hour… or never,” Neil’s voice gained a cheeky edge as if conscious of your minor crisis and happy to offer a distraction.

You risked a peek at his face, finding the signature smirk gracing his face. That expression never failed to feel like a sharpened knife piercing through the walls of your uncertainty. It complimented his face too well, dragging the attention to Neil’s sharp features and his remarkable eyes that always felt like they could see right through your bullshit and the pretending. It was terrifying.

It was then, in the light of his frightening beauty, that you decided what to do next. What was necessary to keep you (moderately) sane. One look at your tote bag lying on your lap offered inspiration:

“Fab,” your dry comment elicited Neil’s laugh and sealed the deal on what you wanted to do next. There was no backing out. You straightened your spine and swivelled on the seat to face him fully. When your knees touched him, Neil’s eyes widened almost comically. But that was only the beginning of the wild ride for him, you were sure of it, “Well, then… Dance with me,” the delivery of that line required a special nonchalance.

One that required you to hold Neil’s gaze long after you had finished speaking, and the words had only just dawned on him. Once they did, his eyes got comically large, and his lips parted on what could only be a mute expression of horror. A giggle got trapped in your throat, but you fought valiantly against it. For now.

“Pardon?” Neil’s choked-out question came after sequenced opening and closing his mouth with nothing coming up.

Your poker face was tearing at the seams. Foolishly.

“Dance with me, Neil,” repeating the request (order?), you extended your hand towards him, signing off the invitation for what it was.

The shock was still present on his face. Despite that, Neil slipped his palm, warm and fitting perfectly, into yours. You could tell that it was not entirely conscious on his part.

You sure did not mind it, though.

“I might have had a drink or two, but I didn’t think I was drunk enough to be hearing things,” Neil’s incredulity bled into his tone as he stared you down as if hoping the sheer disbelief would be enough to deter you.

Tough luck.

“Come on,” squeezing his hand, you switched the tactic with a question, “What’s the worst thing that can happen?” there was no judgment in your gaze, and you hoped Neil knew that.

If asked, you could not explain why that was something you wanted to do with him, there and then of all places. But it still felt important. Urgent, even.

The no-bullshit look you got in return almost made you burst into laughter.

“You’ll see me dance,” Neil deadpanned as if it was clear.

As if that was the peak horror that could befall him at your hands. Using the lifeline of your joined palms, you rubbed your thumb over the tender skin of his hand, hoping to let that act as a reassurance. That was a nonsensical fear to have.

Who gave you, a mediocre ballerina, the right to judge? Absolutely no one.

“And?” you offered Neil a brilliant grin, doing your best not to think about how right it felt to have his hand resting in yours.

That question seemed to catch his attention, pulling him back from the precipice of self-doubt. You watched as Neil pondered the answer, staring at you with that bright-eyed, anxious expression, complete with his teeth nibbling on his lower lip. He picked at the worried, fragile skin, and you did not think about soothing the damage with your tongue. Not at all.

“I don’t know… You’ll leave and block me?” when he finally found a plausible answer, it was the last thing you expected Neil to say.

Despite the seriousness on his face, you could not hold back the laugh that spilt from your lips. What an idiot [affectionate]. The adorable pout in his bottom lip was responsible for the recklessness you chose to implement.

Without thinking about it too much, you leaned in and used your free hand to cup his face, eradicating the remains of the gap between you. As your thumb brushed over his cheekbone, Neil gasped, barely disguising the sound with a cough. The grin spread over your face as you spoke:

“It takes a little more than that for me to block you,” that was true; you could barely fathom blocking Neil, least of all because of such a trivial reason. It was only after a beat that the second meaning of what he said sunk in. The meaning you expected Neil did not exactly consider slipping out like that. You grabbed it with both hands and a knowing smile, “Also… you enjoy talking to me that much?”

The jackpot shot came with a furious blush on his cheeks and an embarrassed scoff as Neil turned away from your watchful gaze. Your hands stayed linked. That, too, was an adorable reaction. It made that pleasant warmth in your chest burner brighter, though you refused to inspect it too closely.

Before you could consider pushing him for a reply further, Neil jumped up from the creaky seat and pulled you to standing using your tight handhold. The fake pep was visible from miles away, especially in that manic grin that almost seemed too wide on his face. But you did not have the time to question it.

“Okay, let’s just dance,” Neil tugged at your hand impatiently.

He did not seem capable of standing still, hopping from one leg to another. If that was a sign of what was coming, you knew you were not ready. Your eyes narrowed in what you hoped was a mildly threatening look:

“That’s a deflection tactic,” still, you took a step closer to him, finally putting that handhold to use.

“Yes, it is,” Neil nodded as his arms opened in a shrug.

That was your answer. You could only cement it with a smile as you allowed him to pull you closer, almost into his open arms, except-

“Wait, we need music,” remembering that crucial missing piece, you let go of his hand and darted back to the tote abandoned by the seats.

“No shit,” Neil’s dry comment was accompanied by the scuffling of his shoes over the cracked tiles.

You grinned, triumphantly holding out the speaker you had fished from the bag. That was the only pro you could think of that came from your earlier practice, and no time in between that and the disastrous party.

“Lucky for you, I came prepared,” you showcased it like a spoil of war and turned the speaker on, awaiting the sound confirming it had connected to your phone. When it came, you ceremoniously placed the device on the vacated seat and pressed play on your phone. Only once the music was playing, you turned back towards Neil with a flourish, “Voila,”

It took him an additional second to identify the song, the synthesizer filling the empty platform with a special kind of vibe. When the proper beat kicked in, you started shimmying your hips and shoulders to the rhythm, awaiting Neil’s reaction. You were not disappointed when he gaped at you with joy barely disguised underneath a frown:

“Really?” still, his foot started tapping with the singer’s voice.

Shrugging, you spun around him, feeling the music fill your body like it always did. You always felt the most alive when dancing. When your feet were following the choreography, and head was deliciously empty of everything but the musical notes and lyrics.

When you stopped to meet Neil’s gaze, you found him staring back in awe.

“What? It’s not me; it’s the holy spirit of the shuffle,” the song started heading towards the chorus, so you added the hand movements, orbiting around Neil and hoping to pull him along, “Can’t argue with it,”

‘Don't. Don't you want me?

You know I can't believe it when I hear that you won't see me

Don't. Don't you want me?

You know I don't believe you when you say that you don't need me’

It was an all-time favourite. A bop you did not have the heart to resist whenever it came on. Now was not any different. Your lips started whispering the words as your body moved through the space, overcome with the feeling of dancing. At that moment, you were grateful for the sensible footwear your past self had chosen that morning. Sure, dancing in high heels was possible, but the Converse made for a much better choice. They slid along the cracked tiles without resistance, allowing you to double the efforts.

It did not matter that you had an audience. Or that it was a particularly attentive one, for you never once felt Neil look away. He was still staring, standing almost stock-still, save for how his feet tapped out the beat. That had to change.

‘Don't you want me, baby?

Don't you want me? Oh!’

You stopped, chest heaving and limbs still too giddy with the effort. You met Neil’s unwavering gaze over the space and mouthed the chorus, aware of the interpretations he could easily reach. That was fine, nothing you were opposed to. In a way, him noticing half your actions did have a tentative hope behind them would have saved you time. And words. But that was a thought for another time.

Once you heard the female vocals come in, you reached out towards him, yet again presenting Neil with your open hand. Yet again, he did not hesitate, letting you pull him close. When the distance had been eradicated, Neil placed his hand on your waist with an experimental level of timidity. As if he was still fully expecting the move to backfire. Silly goose. Your hand ventured up his chest to his shoulder as you steeled your frame into what was expected of ballroom dancing. The habits were hard to shake off, after all.

Despite the booming synthesizers and grooving rhythm, you let him lead you into a slow dance. With each step, Neil’s confidence seemed to grow, for his grip became firmer as he splayed his hand over the small of your back and pulled you closer. It did not matter that his technique would bring your snobbish teachers from ballet study to tears. What mattered was that you felt safe within his embrace, never shying away from Neil’s gaze as it stayed trained on your face. What also mattered was that the genuine smile was fixed on your face. Especially when the song was slowly ending, and Neil was not letting go. What a novelty that was. You worried that once you tasted it, it would be impossible to let go. To forget this careless feeling, encapsulated within a simple, tender hold and open, beautiful eyes.

“That was hardly a song for slow dancing,” when Neil spoke, the remark came upon a hesitant smile, so at odds with how sure his hand was within yours.

“We made do, didn’t we?” you could only offer him a smile, aware of the wobbly edges of your voice and the yearning of your treacherous heart.

Even with years of practice, it sometimes wanted what it could not get. Affection, namely. Or the tenderness that meant something, rather than the mindless touch of a loveless fuck. You hoped one day those two would disappear, leaving you perfectly satisfied with what you had.

As if aware of your dangerous thoughts, the song switch came at a perfect moment. The last beats of The Human League died down, replaced with an equally cheesy rhythm. If not worse. Neil’s reaction was instant. He stopped dancing abruptly, making you nearly miss stepping on his foot. Your eyes darted to his face as curiosity soared in your chest. The barely masked joy you found there only made that warmth in your heart feel like tongues of fire. You disentangled from the embrace to place your hand on his chest and push him back lightly:

“Come on, pretty boy. Show me what you’ve got,” you completed the encouragement with a wink and stepped back to give him space.

The hesitation stage lasted much less this time. Neil stared at you, evidently weighing the pros and cons of giving in, but as soon as Falco opened the song with the lines in German, he had made up his mind. It was your turn to be dumbfounded as you watched Neil thrash to the music, almost keeping up with the beat. He slid across the tiles, barely managing not to slip as Falco went on about Mozart and his flair.

‘Er war ein Virtuose, war ein Rockidol

Und alles rief: Come on and rock me Amadeus’

It was easy to say Neil got lost in the music as his lean body twisted and turned, claiming the space he was allowed to occupy. There was grace in his movement, as well as carelessness, perfectly balancing the dance into an ideal mixture. A rare spark of envy kindled in your chest as you did your best to ignore the question of what it must feel like to be this free. During the poor attempt at moonwalking as he circled you, you could no longer hold back the laugh. Neil’s hands weaved through the air as he threw his head back to shout the hook along with the singer. With each call of Amadeus’ name, the affection in your chest grew, becoming increasingly lethal. A show of that kind displayed not only his trust but also what kind of a man Neil could be if he got rid of his shyness and inhibitions. It was something you doubt you could ever forget.

And that could be a problem.

When the song drew to a close, and Neil’s heaving breaths alerted you that he was probably worn out with exertion, he stopped. The reverberating beats sunk into the background as you met his gaze, aware of the silly softness you could not eradicate from your eyes. Neil looked manic, his pupils dilated and irises sparkling. He was breathing hard, the exhaustion making him shrug off the jean jacket with impatience, so far that Neil did not bat an eyelid when the article landed on the dirty floor. The reveal of an old, worn-out t-shirt underneath that hugged his broad shoulders and biceps just right made your jaw fall slack.

That, too, could be a problem.

Despite the common sense screaming at you to look away, you stared on, aware of Neil gazing right back. A wiser person would have shaken awake in time to switch off the music and call this quits before any further damage could be done. But you were never the wiser person.

You looked on as the song switched into a different era of music, and gentle, cheesy chords of piano and percussion filled the platform with a ballad almost everyone knew. Neil was not any different. You noticed the change in his eyes, switching from playfulness to mild seriousness. As if he, too, knew your fates were being decided at that exact moment.

However, the results of those decisions would not be noticeable until much later.

Using Elvis’ crooning as a backup to help drown your thoughts, you reached out your hand towards Neil, repeating the invitation. It was up to him whether he wanted to take it. Just like everything else in your friendship. The eager hope was hard to nip in the bud. It itched and ached until you could hardly stand still, awaiting the sentencing for what felt like hours. At last, Neil closed the gap and took your proffered hand with an impassive look.

The second time bore all the experience of the first, making it easier to fall in place without hesitation. Neil clasped your hand in his and let his other arm wind around your waist, pulling you close. Much closer than before. Your hand found its way to his shoulder, curious fingers stroking the expanse of his neck, revealed by the t-shirt collar. You did your best not to notice the goosebumps rising on his skin. It was impossible to tell which of you moved first, leading into the gentle sway. Only once you started waltzing around the empty platform, it was impossible to stop.

‘Would it be a sin

If I can't help falling in love with you?’

Halfway through the song, you tilted your head back from where your gaze had been trained on the expanse of his chest and met Neil’s waiting gaze. The shock passing through your system felt like a fatal blow. There was no denying the fact that this was a first. The first time you had ever danced like that with someone, motivated by nothing else but the desire to do it. There was also no denying the fact Neil’s watchful eyes and the soft strokes of his fingers, running along the expanse of your waist down to your hip, felt like nothing else you could have ever experienced before or after. It was well past your usual flirty chats and casual innuendos. Well past the daily playfulness of whatever it was blooming between you. It was well past the worn-out tracks and lived-in spaces.

Absolutely fucking terrifying.

‘Take my hand,

Take my whole life, too

For I can't help falling in love with you

For I can't help falling in love with you’

It was impossible to say what had tipped the scales right then. Whether it was the song lyrics, drawing attention to all those things you would rather ignore till the end of time or the unwavering eye contact you had maintained as you spun across the space with grace that had not been there previously. Or whether it was due to how Neil held you steadily, all the while allowing himself to stare, eyes roaming over your face in a meticulous study. But perhaps it was just a trick of fate, a sudden loss of reason and logic that made you tip forward and give in to the gravitational pull of his orbit. Perhaps Neil was guilty of the same thing.

Before you knew what had failed and why, you were close enough to feel the gasp of his breath fan across your face. The air ghosted your lips as your nose brushed against Neil’s, and the time slowed to a crawling speed. There was no denying the fact that you wanted it. The want hummed underneath your skin and made it hard to think clearly.

You only knew that Neil closed his eyes, and his sharp intake of breath hit your lips, making you tilt forward. Making it oh so easy to let go and-

“This is Piccadilly Line service towards the Heathrow Airport,” the PA system crackled to life, forcing you to separate as if burned.

You blinked awake, barely noticing the train slowing at the platform and the music still playing from your speaker. One glance at Neil told you all feelings were very much mutual. It was a close call. So close you could almost feel the kiss that never happened. An uncertain smile played upon your lips as you turned off the music and jumped aboard the train. You could only hope the King of the Rock’N’Roll himself was wrong about this one.

***

It was a well-known truth that a pretty boy could make you a little stupid. Stupid enough to do things that, under normal circumstances, would be off the table. But all it took was a flash of blue eyes and a charming smile, and boom, logic gone, reason decimated. Usually, there was a price to pay for that.

But the potential costs meant nothing in the face of the revelations the Saturday night brought. Namely, the kiss that never happened but you could easily dream of. Which you did, just to brighten up the restless sleep. Needless to say, that night unlocked some things. Things that perhaps were best left untouched. But hindsight was a gift you did not yet possess.

Instead, you battled with a single idea that was difficult to eradicate. Sure, that night, or how it had almost ended, was never mentioned again. As early as the next day Neil reached out to you and set the tone you were happy to follow. But the memory remained, nagging at your brain for a week and not once letting go. It was a seed that planted another thought. The thought that nothing was preventing you from reaching out for more. That there was no script to follow with Neil. That idea was like a brainworm making a home inside your skull.

Because, yes, you were known to be a little stupid for attractive boys. And Neil was potentially the most beautiful man you have ever met. That proved to be a problem.

Exactly a week after that Saturday, you caved in. The autumn breeze was hitting your face and tangling your hair as you stared at the Thames. There was no better place to start a catastrophic chain of events than the Blackfriars Bridge. Or so you told yourself. You took out the phone to stare at the messages and opened the text conversation with Neil. It took an additional fortifying breath to start typing out the proposition and start the exchange.

/ 🏹, 5:39 pm/ So, I figured, since we already broke the rules on our hangouts last Saturday

/ 🏹, 5:40 pm/ Would you like to grab coffee tomorrow?

/✝️, 5:45 pm/ That’s unexpected.

/✝️, 5:45 pm/ Why the sudden change of heart?

/ 🏹, 5:46 pm/ I liked your moves.

/✝️, 5:47 pm/ I’m pretty sure no one’s ever said that to me.

/ 🏹, 5:49 pm/ Maybe they just weren’t looking. I knew I was.

/✝️, 5:51 pm/ Okay, yeah. I’d like that.

/✝️, 5:52 pm/ Any labels I should be aware of?

/ 🏹, 5:52 pm/ Nah, fuck the labels.

/ 🏹, 5:53 pm/ Unless you want to bring me flowers. Then let’s call it a date.

/✝️, 5:55 pm/ Then it’s a date 😘

You stared at the phone long after the screen went dark. Along with the buzzing joy and anticipation of what tomorrow would bring, there was also an eternal question. The question you had avoided pretty damn well so far. What the fuck have you done?

***

By the time you were meeting Neil in a café (chosen because of its perfect location between St. John’s Wood and Swiss Cottage), those nerves of anticipation had transformed into anxiety. The worst was that you did not even know what you were so nervous about. A date (that was not really a date) was nothing new. You have done it many times before, usually to great results. But suddenly, when Neil was inserted into the equation, all that you got was uncertainty. And a strong fear of fucking it up. It did not make for a good mix.

Part of it dissipated once you turned the street corner and saw him waiting in front of the café, a bouquet in hand, despite your line being nothing more than a throwaway joke. An affectionate smile was impossible to get rid of no matter how hard you may have tried. It stayed as you closed the remaining distance and met Neil’s gaze. Then it got transformed into a stupid grin as your eyes scanned him head to toe (hair just as messy as always, leather and jeans completed with sneakers – in other words: fucking hot). Once that foolery was complete, you could shift your attention to the flowers, now held out in your direction like a sheepish offering.

It was a colourful bouquet of wildflowers, freshly bloomed and coming from a florist rather than Sainsbury’s. The thoughtfulness was enough to make you blush. Before you could delve into an embarrassing attempt at cover-up, Neil broke the silence:

“You haven’t specified what kind of flowers,” his shyness was easily seen from the fidgeting hands and eyes unwilling to stay on your face longer than necessary.

That was your cue to get yourself together and accept the bouquet with a courtesy. That, too, was just a trick to drag that shy smile onto his face. It worked.

“Those are perfect, thank you,” with another smile, you turned towards the entrance and went in as Neil held the door. It was a cosy café with only a few tables and a bar-service ordering. You motioned towards the smiling server behind the counter with a question, “Wanna go order coffee?”

You did not expect in response to your innocent ask for Neil to come to a strange stand-still in the middle of the entryway and measure you with a look that spoke volumes about him having something to say and no way of expressing it. You raised your eyebrow, urging the words to come out and save you from death by perplexation.

After a beat, Neil seemingly found the ability to speak again and stumbled through a sentence:

“I’ve got… uh… a thing,” the emphasis on the final word was accompanied by an awkward shift, his hand automatically reaching up to comb through his hair and messing it up even more.

That did not help. At all. You blinked, aware of the comedy role you had just been awarded without warning. You were vaguely conscious of the server’s gaze, undoubtedly staring at the spectacle presented with fascination.

“Jesus, what thing?” when Neil did not elaborate, you prodded with another question, gaining a slightly hysterical edge.

It was probably that tone which made the most impact. Neil seemed to wake up, his hands gesturing as he attempted to explain:

“A thing about figuring out people’s drink order,” he shrugged, almost as if already embarrassed by ever bringing it up; that would not do, “Like a-”

“A kink?” you interrupted his explanation with a devilish grin, knowing that it would do the job.

That and the teasing, of course.

The reaction was instantaneous. Where previously there had been mild shyness and uncertainty, the furious blush had bloomed. Neil looked horrified as he took a step in your direction as if considering sealing your mouth shut before finally admitting defeat. What you got instead was a glare and an affronted reply:

“What? No! More like talent, I guess,” Neil shrugged, visibly battling the dilemma you were not privy to. You decided to help him the best way you knew how – by reaching out and squeezing his hand. Once. Just once. It was enough to do the job and make your fingers itch with an inexplicable desire to prolong the contact. Luckily, it disappeared when Neil recovered from his internal crisis and gestured towards the counter, “May I?”

You could only nod, happy that whatever had just transpired was past you. Not that it was not fun, but because of the audience that did not deserve to see what had happened. Whatever it was.

“You’ve got me intrigued, so now you have to,” shrugging upon Neil’s hesitant smile, you ventured inside the café, scouting for a perfect table.

Soon enough, the ideal booth had been located and taken as you awaited Neil’s return. You did not have to wait long, for as soon as you settled and placed your coat on the backrest, he sat in the chair in front. That sheepish smile was still in place, so you tried to bring back his confidence with dumb chitchat until you were interrupted by the server approaching your table. It worked. As you both fell quiet, Neil was visibly fighting a grin threatening to transform his face. The pride surged in your veins without respect towards your sense of humility.

The woman shot you both a bright smile as she set neared the table and put a steaming porcelain cup in front of Neil:

“Flat White for you, sir, and for your girlfriend-” you never got to hear the end of that sentence as Neil’s horrified expression and a loud interruption stole your attention.

“Oh, we’re not-” your laughter was almost enough to drown out his protest.

Almost because the server still looked extremely apologetic as she placed a larger cup in front of you with a clink.

“-Caramel Macchiato,” you waved off the atonement she seemed ready to launch and smiled, the curiosity at his choice already occupying your mind.

“Thank you,” as soon as the woman was out of earshot, you turned your cheeky smile onto Neil and covered his hand resting on the table with your palm, “Are you ashamed of me, my darling?” your favourite blush spread upon his cheeks, widening your grin in the process.

A blunder like that was not something you would ever lose sleep over. Even less so, considering that you were there with Neil. Even with your deep-rooted dislike over anything that had to do with relationships and the complications they lead to, you could not possibly be angry over being perceived as belonging to Neil. If anything, it was flattering.

“Stop it,” he shook off your hand, way too gently, and shook his head as if desperate to clear it, “I just didn’t-” after a beat, he dropped your gaze, giving up the fight, “It doesn’t matter, sorry” although you would do anything to understand the thought processes unfolding behind those slightly vacant blue eyes, you were not given a chance. Instead, he took a fortifying sip of coffee and looked at your cup, (not so) swiftly changing the topic “So… how did I do?” the anticipation in that gaze offered no space for a bargain.

You glanced at the beverage in front of you and slowly raised it to get a tentative taste. The warm liquid slightly burned your tongue, but before you could mourn the damage, the caffeine and creamy caramel filled your mouth with pleasurable goodness. It was a top-notch choice, making you follow that first sip with another almost without a break. Burned tongue be damned.

“Very good, actually,” raising your head, you met Neil’s proud smile. It was a much better look than the embarrassed expression from earlier, motivating you to add, “Maybe you should try getting into BGT with that talent,” you winked at him, even if to prolong the blush, which had begun to fade.

But also because it was fun to compliment him, considering that you meant every word and because of your suspicions that Neil did not get them often. That alone was a travesty, in your opinion.

“Very funny,” rolling his eyes at you with a happy smile tucked in the corner of his lips, Neil looked even better.

It was easy enough a conclusion that lightness and happiness were a good look on him. Especially when you were the cause. You tried not to let that go into your head, but… Well.

“I know,” you matched his smile with a smirk of your own, “Hysterical,” with the perfect pause to take another sip of the glorious coffee, you shifted the topic, “How was the week at the clergy?”

Without Neil’s continuous amused reactions to the same old joke, you would have dropped it by now. But how could you if it still got a laugh out of him each time? You couldn’t let opportunities like that slip by. No chance.

This time, Neil hid the joyous huff of laughter in the coffee cup as he pondered the answer.

“It’s been good. Fine,” a noncommittal shrug offered no room for guessing what it was that he did, which was still a mystery, but you counted wins where you could find them, “A bit busy, but what can you do. I might have a work trip coming up soon, so…” it was only when the second part of his reply was processed by your brain, currently preoccupied with staring at Neil’s mouth (which was a very normal state of mind to have), that you perked up.

That was important information. For two contrasting reasons. One was that whatever Neil did for work involved work trips, and that narrowed down the field, albeit barely. Two was that it would mean he would not be around every Wednesday, ready to meet you. That second deduction took hold of your heart with the icy grasp of disappointment.

“So, no more Wednesday meetups?” it was impossible to keep the sadness out of your tone as you settled a wary gaze on Neil.

Sure, it was survivable. But where would be the fun in it?

It was not fun to see that same apprehension creep into Neil’s eyes.

“Yeah, but only like… for a few weeks,” from his sudden dislike of eye contact, you guessed that the estimation might have been an understatement. Though you did hope he was not lying. The pitiful look must have been still present on your face, for Neil followed the statement with reassurance, “I’m sure you’ll survive without me,” he hesitated for a millisecond before returning your previous gesture and giving your hand a comforting pat.

You did not move it away, the pleasant warmth and weight of his palm seeping through your skin and soothing the sudden spell of sadness. It was difficult not to let that inexplicable feeling lead you into the deep end as it was not something you understood. It settled in the darkest cavern of your heart and accompanied its beat with its foreboding presence. There was no choice but to push past it.

“I don’t know, I’m going to miss you,” the confession felt dangerously light on your tongue as you registered Neil’s reaction. His beautiful eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and he quickly dropped your gaze, choosing to stare at the table instead. The only sign that you were heard was how his thumb stroked your hand repeatedly, “I hope you’ll be back before the premiere,” using the only way you knew of lightening the conversation, you made sure to slip in a playful tone.

Ever since the day you had shared joyous news with Neil, he often asked about the preparations for the ballet. He seemed genuinely interested in the process, the rehearsals, and your impressions at every stage.

When you innocently hinted at a costume fitting in your texts Neil immediately asked for a picture. You complied, gleefully posing in the dressing room mirror wearing the whole get-up, complete with pointe shoes, tights, and a white ballet tutu with the accents of blue flower petals. All in all, you had the right to believe that Neil would be interested in coming to see the ballet when it premiered. You had that covered.

“I’ll do my best,” his hopeful smile was enough to distract you, for soon Neil followed it with a question, “Do I get an invite?”

The cheeky smile was back in full force, almost wiping you off the surface of the Earth. More of that, please. Feeling brave, you slowly tangled your fingers with his to raise your joined hands from the tabletop and squeezed his palm. It was a silly question to ask. You had to make sure Neil knew that.

“Well, duh,” you started with an eye roll, taking pleasure from the feel of his hand holding yours, “I’m going to need a personal cheerleader for when I fail big time,” it was a rare thing to hear you admit the fear and anxieties out loud.

Most of the time, they only existed in your mind, never expressed. And especially not in a conversation because that fear of someone else confirming all you feared was overwhelming. It was better to appear invincible to the world than to let them know your weaknesses. Somehow this logic did not want to apply itself to Neil. No, he has heard it all. And yet, he did not seem keen on confirming you were right to doubt yourself.

“That’s not going to happen. You’ll be the perfect Cupid,” punctuating the encouragement with a squeeze of the hand, Neil shot you a brilliant grin.

The nickname was growing on you. It was also the cause of a few silly smiles during the rehearsals when you were addressed with your character role. That was alright, too.

Now, with the force of his beautiful smile shining upon you like a rare beacon of hope, you tried your hardest not to let the praise consume you whole. Instead, you turned to the faithful vice of sarcasm as you let go of his hand and settled your chin on your folded palms. Eyelashes and doe eyes in full force. Naturally.

“Wow, my charms must be working if you’re this blindsided,” curling the corner of your mouth in a smirk, your eyes roamed over his face in familiar patterns.

It was refreshing to remember why you invited him out in the first place. Why you have decided to break the unwritten role and step on the line you both had been tiptoeing from day one. Why nothing was holding you back from reaching for what you wanted.

This time, Neil did not turn away from your taxing gaze and met it head-on. Almost as if permitting you to proceed with whatever you desired.

“You’ve no idea, sweetheart,” mirroring your tentative smirk, Neil offered you a wink and picked up the coffee cup.

You were certainly not going to eschew a chance like that.

***

As far as first dates (could he even call it that?) went, meeting up for coffee and letting the conversations run without a disaster somewhere in between was rare. Even rarer still considering that Neil did not know how he got to this point and whether it was not all a dream. The jury was out on that. Even though Sunday was now two days ago, the meeting was still fresh in his mind, posing a thousand questions.

Because he really did not know how he got that place. The only certainty was that sometime between the surprising Saturday night meeting at Leicester Square station and the day after, Cupid made up her mind and chose to strike. Alternatively, she decided to act considering the realisations he was not privy to. Sure, that night at the station almost ended with a kiss. He knew that. He was there. But it did not offer answers as towards why an almost kiss made her behave in contrast to what Neil thought he understood about her.

Because a date was definitely a step above flirting. And it was hard to understand what that meant. If anything at all.

Now, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, Neil stared out the window of the HQ cafeteria and tried his hardest not to think about it (her) for a change. It was not going well, as one could expect. From the corner of his eye, he could tell Ives was staring. Those piercing blue eyes (bluer than his, which has once or twice been proved during a night out as those things usually are) have been glancing his way instead of focusing on the sandwich on his plate. What a prick (affectionate). After what felt like a fiftieth glance, Neil dropped the napkin onto his place with force and turned towards Ives with a glare. The patience has worn out.

“Oh, just spit it out,” Neil hissed the words with ire.

The grin spreading upon Ives’ lips did not help a bit. The soldier leaned forward, abandoning his food and setting the perceptive eyes upon his friend. Mercilessly. With years of friendship, Neil knew this was not ending well.

“I haven’t said a word,” the man shrugged; a picture-perfect nonchalance.

If only.

“But you’ve been staring,” Neil’s attempt at covering up the tension with a bored tone failed.

He knew that as soon as he saw Ives’ unimpressed smile. There were no doubts about where this conversation was heading. It was the interrogation Neil had feared from day one. It was only a matter of time. Damn it.

“Go ask Henrik. Maybe he can help you gauge my eyes,” in moments like this, Ives’ cockney accent came out in full force, tearing at the shreds of patience Neil seemed to have.

Despite himself, he cracked a smile at the comeback.

“Doubtful,” quickly hiding it in the sip of tea, Neil muttered a quip of his own.

While Henrik, the team’s medic, was a peculiar man, it was improbable he would be into that kind of thing. Unfortunately.

“Eh, I wouldn’t put it past him,” before he could hope this was the end of the conversation, Ives levelled him with another no-bullshit look and delivered the sentence in four simple words, “Mate, spit it out,”

If only it were that easy. For one, Neil did not even know what there was to tell. Sure, he has met a girl. He was probably thinking too much about said girl daily. But that was it. The end of the story. Pathetic, as per usual.

“I’d rather not,” as the last resort of keeping his dignity intact, Neil averted his gaze and fixed his stare on the dirty floor of the cantina.

A solitary potato chip was lying there, attracting attention. For one, maddening second, his brain tried to concoct an elaborate metaphor in which he was like that lonely, forgotten chip on the ground.

Thankfully, the idea was soon dispersed by his irreplicable companion and his booming voice, cutting through the idiotic thoughts:

“I beg to differ,” the hint of reassurance in Ives’ voice was responsible for luring Neil into listening, just as the soldier delivered the question, “What’s her name? His name? Their name?”

Admittedly, the inclusive way of asking was a nice touch from someone who frequently lacked decorum. Or, more accurately, did not bother with it. It was that addition that made Neil crack, with the final resolve crumbling as he tried to protest:

“There’s no- Cupid,” giving out a tired sigh, Neil finally raised his head and repeated the nickname with something ridiculously close to the softness of affection, “I call her Cupid,”

It made no sense. He knew that. But it did not help that whenever he thought of her, that stupid, embarrassing part of his heart was roused awake from periodical slumber. So much for being reasonable.

As soon as Ives whistled lowly and that familiar sardonic grin appeared on his face, Neil knew it was a mistake.

“Kinky,” his murderous glare got ignored in favour of another pressing question, “Who’s the lucky lady?”

Lucky was definitely an overstatement if you asked Neil. But he did not fancy getting into the specifics of the relationships yet. Instead, he happily let himself delve back into memories of that first meeting. He still could not find other apt ways to describe it than a strike of fate. Dramatic? Sure, that was his second name.

He did doubt that Ives would appreciate the insane poetic ruminations, however.

“I’ve met her at the Tube, and she’s a ballerina… Pretty fucking cool, at that” that was a non-negotiable fact. Period.

Yet from the way his friend stared at him, Neil could easily deduct that here, too, he sounded like the insane idiot that he was. An idiot that finds friends on the Tube and lets that develop into something else. Something he tried very hard not to define. It was going splendidly well. Of course.

“Uh oh,” as if reading his mind, Ives, the prick, pasted on a silly grin and bated his eyelashes down at him, continuing the interrogation, “Is that a crush I’m sensing?”

Fuck. That was, indeed, a mistake.

Not that there was a crush because there absolutely wasn’t anything of that sort. Idiot, he might have been, but not… No. No. Which is exactly why Neil had to pause to cover his face with his hands and let out a deep sigh. Conveniently ignoring Ives and his bullshit assumptions.

Only once he felt like the annoyance had simmered to an acceptable white noise, Neil dropped the hands covering his face and met his destiny in the form of an infuriating sardonic smile.

“No, she’s just… I’m fascinated, okay? I’ve never met anyone like her before, and we’ve got a good thing going with weekly chats and… stuff,” running out of steam, Neil let the last word trail off into silence.

He knew what it all sounded like. He did. Except that there was no better way of describing it (them) to the outside world. And he was certainly not keen on showing Ives the texts. Not after the last conversation this morning, which involved more innuendos and another rendition of What socks are you wearing? - his favourite game. Truly. What made the exchange more incriminating, however, was the fact that Cupid’s current socks brandished an image of an adorable pug with a caption: “Send dog pics”. Yeah, that. That was a theme he was so far happy to ignore. Kind of.

“Did you kiss her yet?” another ridiculous question acted like a wake-up call as Neil felt the loathed, crimson blush fill his cheeks.

“What is this? Middle school?” another outburst got met with a stoically blank face, not helping to ease the shame of being so goddamn transparent “No, I didn’t,” I wish, “We danced” offering the alternative lowkey felt like self-sacrifice.

Not because Neil was embarrassed of what had happened that Saturday night but because it stayed a secret to anyone who was not him or Cupid. At least, that is what she told him, much to inexplicable surprise, which he could not and would not try to understand.

“I never knew you dance,” the soldier’s remark, as always, missed the mark.

Annoyance at the whole world, at this rate, rose at a steady pace. Perhaps it would have been more accurate to say that Neil was frustrated at the circumstances of the relationship with the woman in question, but it was too soon for self-realisation to do its work.

“Of course, I do,” instead, it was the distant feel of pity that nagged at the edges of his soul as Neil allowed the dismissive reflection to be voiced without the veil of fake pep, “Anyway, none of it matters. She’s not into relationships, so…” he shrugged, aware of the pitiful picture.

In a way, it was easier to know that about her ahead of time. It was perfect information to push at his brain and heart whenever they got too comfortable with the situation. To remind them (and himself) that it was not going anywhere, and it never would.

But, for some infuriating reason, the heart tended to be a stubborn beast holding no regard for facts. Not that heart had anything to do with this just yet. Of course not. Neil just… liked her. As a human being likes another human being. Platonically.

“Surely, your roguish charm will convince her otherwise,” as expected, Ives looked as if he was trying very hard not to feel sorry for him and was failing.

The reassurance hardly worked if Neil was being honest. The existence of said roguish charm was highly debatable. But who was he to argue?

“Nah, it’s fine. I can be just friends with her” manifesting much, or whatever. It was a blessing to have a different topic to switch to, “Anyway, I’m not going to see her for the next couple of weeks since we’re leaving,” another attempt at a nonchalant shrug got lost in the heaviness Neil could not shake off if he tried.

Going off on a mission right now, in the middle of it all, was far from ideal. Neil liked his job, loved it even, but then, some operations felt like a drag from the moment they appeared on his desk. That was one of them.

“Yeah, Lisbon is on,” from the tiredness written all over Ives’ face, Neil could tell the lack of enthusiasm was shared, “Two weeks, but it might be longer,”

“Great,” sarcasm dripped from the word as Neil glanced at his friend and asked, “We’re going to bunk together?”

It was only half a joke. Because only the company made the perspective of that mission seem a little less daunting.

“You wish, love,” the answering grin on Ives’ face was the perfect punchline to the dramatic conversation. The soldier got up from the table with another quip, “You know I’m not into blondes,” he walked away without another glance, yet the laugh he elicited from Neil could be heard in the room above the cantina.

#this chapter has EVERYTHING #and i mean it #every one of our fav neil tropes y'all #and then IVES #it's not a spoiler is it? #being his glorious self #i am: obsessed #💎💎💎💎💎 #m you talented beast #more neil content you guys

[whats-rambled-rambled]

May your pain medication always kick in right after you take them. May your compression garments always slip on your body with ease. May you always find your footing when you walk. May you wake up with energy and zest. May your sinuses always be clear

[whats-rambled-rambled]

i agree with british people when they say fooking ell

[whats-rambled-rambled]

x

#seeing them live was everything #e v e r y t h i n g #i am 🤏 close to start spamming yall but #*sighs* #anyway #✨them✨ #mcfly