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Andrew has some random guy pressed up against a wall in a back corridor of some bar he can’t remember the name of. It’s been a long day, an even longer night, and all Andrew wants to do is suck a dick about it, let his brain go numb and empty. He’s just dropped to his knees and smacked the guy’s wandering hands away when he gets the call.
“Seriously?” the guy groans as Andrew sits back on his heels, rummaging through his jacket pocket for his phone.
“I have to take this, go away,” Andrew says without looking up.
“Seriously?” What’s-His-Face repeats. He looks stupid with his half-hard cock hanging out of his pants.
Nonchalantly, Andrew slides a blade from the sleeve of his armbands. The message is clear: Leave now before I cut your dick off. The man lets out an undignified squeak and peels toward the exit.
The phone in Andrew’s hand continues vibrating and he pushes onto his feet before answering. “What?”
“Hello, Andrew,” Renee’s voice floats through the other line. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Andrew grunts, and Renee hums, used to Andrew’s curt responses.
“We have a new client. I’d like to assign you to the job.”
Andrew sags against the wall, his entire body protesting the idea. He’s been on back-to-back jobs for the past few weeks, this is his first free night in what feels like ages. “No. Find someone else.”
“They requested the best of our best, which we all know is you,” Renee replies calmly, and unfortunately for Andrew, this is true.
Andrew is their organization’s best hitman—meticulous in his planning, never misses his mark, and never leaves any traces behind. This means he’s highly requested, which was nice when he was new to the field and slowly building his reputation. Now, it’s just an inconvenience.
Lighting a cigarette, Andrew shuffles toward the exit, sidestepping plastered bar patrons as he pushes into the damp midnight air. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“You’ll be paid well,” Renee says and Andrew knows she’s telling the truth. He’s been paid handsomely for all of his previous jobs.
Andrew says nothing, taking a moment to tap ash off the tip of his cigarette. He’s just being an asshole, really. He’s never said no to a mark Renee has assigned him, and as much as he hates to admit it, he lives for the constant rush of adrenaline a new job brings, the risk and uncertainty. It reminds him that he’s capable of feeling anything at all.
It’s silent on the other line as Renee waits patiently. “Fine,” Andrew finally says.
“Wonderful,” Renee responds. Andrew can hear the smile in her voice, bright and cheerful. “I’ll send you all the relevant information. Be ready by five in the morning.”
“What?” Andrew blurts because his original plan was to sleep past noon, but Renee hangs up without further clarification.
Andrew scowls and shoves his phone into his pocket, flicking his pinched-off cigarette into a nearby trash can. Renee better be right about the pay, because no one in existence is worth being up at 5 AM for.
1.
Andrew has never regretted accepting a job this much in his life.
It’s barely past five in the morning and he finds himself hiding behind a dumpster in an alleyway across from Nathaniel Wesninski’s apartment complex, running on a scant few hours of sleep.
Nathaniel Wesninski. Age 27, Renee’s notes had said.
The only son of late mob boss Nathan Wesninski, “The Butcher of Baltimore.”
A valuable asset to the Moriyama crime empire. Extremely skilled with any weapon. Avoid close contact, highly recommend striking from a distance.
Easy enough.
Andrew’s initial plan was to break onto the roof of a neighboring building and take a sniper rifle to poor Nathaniel’s head. Most mafia types tend to live in gross luxury, penthouse apartments in the ritziest part of town paid with blood money to show off their wealth and status.
Unfortunately for Andrew, Nathaniel is not like most mafia types, it seems. Nathaniel lives in a quiet, residential area of town where every building is only a few stories max, and his quaint apartment complex is the tallest building for miles and miles. To top it all off, he lives on the uppermost floor. Inconspicuous and hard to reach.
Smart man, Andrew thinks to himself.
This brings Andrew to inconvenience number one.
There is no plausible vantage point high enough for Andrew to use his trusty sniper rifle, which means he’s stuck with the next best option, ambushing Nathaniel with his good ‘ol reliable handgun and silencer. He won’t exactly be striking from a distance, but it’ll do.
Inconvenience number two is that according to Renee’s notes, Nathaniel wakes up at the asscrack of dawn every morning to go on a run, and naturally, this is the best time for Andrew to strike since most apartment residents are still in bed.
Andrew isn’t sure why this particular client wants Nathaniel dead, and he doesn’t really care, doesn’t like involving himself with the details. However, anyone who chooses to partake in cardiovascular exercise for fun shouldn’t be allowed to live in the first place, in Andrew’s professional opinion.
He debates lighting a cigarette for breakfast because his own cardiovascular health is fucked to all hell already—why not fuck it up some more—when the door to Nathaniel’s apartment building swings open. Andrew tightens his grip on the gun tucked under his belt, positions himself to intercept Nathaniel, then promptly blanks out because what the fuck.
Andrew had read through Nathaniel’s profile: Auburn hair, blue eyes, 5’3”, slim build, scarring along face and arms.
What his profile failed to mention is that Nathaniel is unfairly, brutally attractive. Andrew wasn’t even aware that someone could be this attractive, that someone’s eyes could be this many shades of blue, that someone could have a jawline so sharp it makes Andrew want to punch straight through a wall.
Nathaniel is unfairly, brutally attractive, and wearing the shortest, most obscene running shorts known to man that show off the musculature of his thighs and the curve of his ass, and Andrew’s brain derails off track, careening sideways before plunging over a cliff.
Before Andrew can save his brain from its untimely nosedive, Nathaniel bends forward to fix his shoelace and Andrew immediately fixates on the few centimeters of newly exposed skin, thinks about tracing every inch of tanned skin with his tongue. His grip on his gun falters and oh, right. He’s supposed to be killing this guy.
Cursing under his breath, Andrew curls his finger back around the trigger, just as Nathaniel bounces on the balls of his feet, no doubt ready to start his run.
Andrew lines up his aim, ready to kill Nathaniel in front of his own home, except Nathaniel has already started his run in the opposite direction, and he’s fast, sneakers pounding against the pavement further and further away from Andrew.
“Shit,” Andrew hisses as Nathaniel turns the corner and disappears from view.
Andrew stands dumbly in front of Nathaniel’s apartment complex, blinking the image of stunning blue eyes and high cheekbones from behind his eyelids. His fingers twitch with the urge to wrap themselves around Nathaniel’s slim waist.
He settles with lighting a cigarette—breakfast of champions and hitmen who have pathetically missed their mark for the very first time in their career.
Well, fuck.
2.
“Are you alright?” Renee asks when Andrew calls to let her know things didn’t quite go according to plan. “It’s not like you to miss your mark.”
“I am fine,” Andrew says, squeezing his temples before dragging his palm slowly down the rest of his face. “Bad timing.”
“I see,” Renee replies, but her tone suggests that she knows Andrew isn’t telling the full truth, she’s always known him best. “Well, it says here that Nathaniel meets his friends every Tuesday for lunch.”
This is how Andrew finds himself on the front patio of some trendy health food joint on a random Tuesday. The restaurant advertises healthy meals designed to invigorate the body and mind, whatever the hell that means. All Andrew knows is the menu makes him want to break into the kitchen and burn every vegetable within his reach.
Nathaniel and his friends are seated at a table in the corner and Nathaniel has skillfully chosen a seat where it’d be nearly impossible for anyone to kill him without getting caught: his back to the wall, a clear line of sight of the main street, and a peripheral view of nearly every other table in the restaurant.
Unfortunately for Nathaniel, Andrew is not just anyone, and he’d asked the waiter for the one table in Nathaniel’s blind spot. Andrew has one of his knives tucked under the table and a backup strapped around his ankle, but those knives aren’t the ones from his armbands. His armband knives are his personal knives, never to be used on the job. The ones he’ll use to kill Nathaniel are sharper, quicker, will lodge themselves deeper.
Shielding himself behind a menu, Andrew watches as Nathaniel pokes at his colorful salad, watches as he laughs at whatever stupid joke his friends are telling, as his smile curves his eyes into crescents.
An opportunity presents itself a few minutes later.
Two of his friends stand to leave the restaurant, leaving only Nathaniel and his pretty blonde friend with an insane manicure who seems to be glued to her phone.
This is it.
Andrew has a perfect view of Nathaniel, can send the knife soaring with a flick of his wrist, and his pretty blonde friend will be too absorbed with her phone to notice the blade lodging itself perfectly in Nathaniel’s throat, severing his carotid artery.
Andrew discreetly hides the knife under his napkin, ready to strike. Because there is no justice in the universe, Nathaniel chooses that moment to take a long sip of his smoothie, sealing his pretty pink lips around the straw. The smooth plastic presses against Nathaniel’s soft, plush bottom lip, sending an intense spike of heat down Andrew’s spine, makes him think about how those lips would look wrapped around his co—
“I’m going to use the restroom,” Nathaniel says to his friend, standing from his chair, and god fucking damn it, this can’t be happening again.
She waves him off, not even looking up from her phone, and Andrew scrambles to come up with a backup plan. This is fine, this is perfect, actually, Andrew thinks to himself. He’ll simply follow Nathaniel to the bathroom, ambush him while his pants are around his ankles, and leave him bleeding out on the cold tile.
Pocketing his knife, Andrew pulls his cap further down over his eyes and makes his way toward the restrooms in the back of the restaurant, weaving past waiters carrying trays of rabbit food disguised as healthy salads. He finds the men’s restroom easily and locks the door behind him, eyeing the stalls to figure out which one Nathaniel is in. He frowns when he finds all the stalls unoccupied.
“Looking for me?” a voice drawls and Andrew strikes before he’s even assessed the situation. He finds himself face to face with Nathaniel Wesninski, his knife pressed against the base of Nathaniel’s throat, caging him against the row of sinks. “Hi,” Nathaniel says, barely fazed, an amused smirk on his lips. Andrew hates him.
Nathaniel surprisingly doesn’t fight back, despite Andrew’s knife against his throat, and Andrew presses the blade harder against Nathaniel’s neck, enough that a tiny drop of blood beads against tanned skin.
“Shall we have a chat?” Nathaniel asks, voice smooth, every syllable sending heat pooling in Andrew’s stomach, and honestly, fuck Nathaniel. No one should be allowed to be this hot and have a voice that sounds like actual sex. Andrew needs to kill this guy right now.
“I think I’ll just slit your throat,” Andrew says flatly. “There is no need for conversation.”
“No?” Nathaniel replies, a crooked grin on his face, courtesy of the jagged scar on his cheek, and that’s when Andrew feels it—a knife pressed against his own torso, up against his right kidney. Andrew narrows his eyes and Nathaniel smiles broadly, intently capturing Andrew’s eyes with his. “I really think we should chat.”
“Then talk,” Andrew says.
“May I ask you to drop your knife?”
“Will you drop yours?”
“No.”
“Then don’t ask stupid questions.”
Nathaniel simply hums, his knife still pressed against Andrew’s ribs. “Who sent you to kill me?”
“I do not know,” Andrew answers truthfully. “I don't ask for details.”
“What is your name?”
“Shut up, it is my turn. How did you notice me?” Andrew snaps, annoyed, because he’s never been this sloppy all his years in this profession. It’s a little embarrassing, honestly.
“You stare a lot,” Nathaniel says with a shrug and Andrew blinks. “Your eyes were boring holes into my head the entire time I ate lunch, and I sensed someone watching me when I went on my run. You are not subtle.”
Andrew thinks about how he got distracted by Nathaniel’s ass in tight shorts and Nathaniel’s lips wrapped around a smoothie straw and scowls. “I am subtle.”
“Hm, maybe just not with me, then,” Nathaniel says with another uneven smirk, and Andrew’s grip tightens around his knife. “Your armbands aren’t exactly subtle either.”
“The armbands are not an assassin thing. They are a me thing,” Andrew says sardonically, and Nathaniel tilts his head to the side, assessing.
“I see. You also didn’t order anything when you sat down.”
“Everything on the menu looked like shit.”
Nathaniel throws his head back and laughs. Andrew should probably use that opportunity to slash his knife against Nathaniel’s jugular. Instead, he admires the soft column of Nathaniel’s throat.
“You must be hungry then. I know a good burger joint around the corner.”
“What,” Andrew says, because, what?
“Burgers. My treat.”
“I will kill you,” Andrew warns.
Nathaniel cocks his head to the side before pocketing his knife. “If you really wanted to kill me, you would’ve done so by now, no?” Andrew glares at Nathaniel, unable to argue against that statement before slowly lowering his own knife. Nathaniel takes that as the confirmation it is. “Let’s go then.”
Andrew planned on stabbing Nathaniel the minute he turned to leave the bathroom (honestly, it’s shocking Nathaniel turned his back on Andrew at all), but Andrew is hungry, and more importantly, he is curious about Nathaniel.
Ten minutes later, Andrew finds himself at a hole-in-the-wall burger joint with a cheeseburger and a chocolate shake on his tray. He had watched the line cooks like a hawk as they made his meal. He’s not getting himself poisoned just because he wants free food.
Nathaniel sits across from Andrew with his arms crossed, watching Andrew take bites of his burger. Andrew stares back, memorizing every scar, every freckle on Nathaniel’s face. His brain won’t let him forget, anyway.
As Andrew pops the last bite of burger into his mouth, Nathaniel breaks the silence, leaning forward against his elbows. “You really won’t tell me who hired you?”
“I already told you, I do not know,” Andrew replies around a slurp of chocolate shake.
Nathaniel studies Andrew’s face, decides Andrew isn’t lying, and leans back against his seat, inclining his head towards Andrew. “Your turn.” Good, he’s learning.
Andrew thinks about what to ask, there’s so much he wants to know about Nathaniel. “What do you do for the Moriyamas?”
“This and that.”
“My notes say you are a valuable asset. Must be more than simply this and that.”
“I guess you will have to stay curious. Why didn’t you kill me the first time?”
“Got distracted,” Andrew mumbles.
“I see,” Nathaniel says, almost knowing, eyes glinting under the flickering fluorescent lights of the restaurant. He stands, throwing a few crumpled bills on the table. “Well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again…” He frowns when he realizes he still doesn’t know Andrew’s name.
Fuck it, Andrew thinks. The next time he sees Nathaniel will be the last. Andrew is going to kill Nathaniel because that is his job. “Andrew,” he replies. “Minyard,” he adds after a second, because Nathaniel surely has the connections to dig up his entire history anyway.
“Andrew,” Nathaniel repeats with a smile, a small, pleased quirk of the lips as he pushes out the door. “You can call me Neil.”
3.
Andrew decides he’s going to be proactive this time. He’s already fucked up his first two murder attempts. He is not fucking up this one.
According to Renee’s notes, Nathaniel—no, Neil—attends some all-important mafia business meeting every Thursday evening, specifically, an all-important mafia business meeting with none other than Ichirou Moriyama.
Andrew doesn’t know much about the Moriyama crime empire, but he does know that Ichirou Moriyama has more power and influence in his left pinky than most politicians around the globe, probably has a number of them under his payroll.
The fact that Neil meets with Ichirou weekly solidifies that he’s more important to the Moriyamas than he lets on. It’s a shame Andrew has to kill him. Andrew better hope he doesn’t leave a trace, he can only imagine what Ichirou’s retaliation would entail. It probably wouldn’t be pretty.
Adjusting his gloves, Andrew pulls his hood over his head and sneaks around the back of Neil’s apartment complex, confirming that Neil’s parking space is empty. Andrew had closely reconned the building ahead of time, found where all the security cameras are hidden, figured out where the security guards barely patrol.
Strangulation by garrote is his killing method of choice this time. Less blood and less noise, which means less cleanup for Andrew. He makes his way up the fire escape, landing quietly on Neil’s balcony. The apartment is silent and all the lights are off.
Perfect.
He leans against the balcony doors, rummaging through his pocket for his lock pics, and then… he promptly falls through the balcony doors that have magically opened behind him.
“What the fuck?” Andrew curses as he lies starfished on the floor.
Neil’s upside-down face comes into view as he stands over Andrew. “Hi. We meet again, Andrew.”
“What the fuck?” Andrew repeats.
“I had a feeling you probably know my schedule, with you being hired to kill me and all,” Neil says, casually waving his hands. “So I decided to switch it up a little, just for fun.”
Andrew glares up at Neil, imagines bashing a brick against his smug, pretty little face. He is going to murder Neil with his bare hands, job or not because he’s never met anyone more infuriating.
Neil reaches out with a hand and after a moment of contemplation, Andrew accepts the gesture, letting Neil haul him to his feet. “So, Andrew,” Neil says, walking towards the kitchen. He flips on the light, flooding the apartment with a warm glow. “What did you plan on killing me with this time?”
“Garrote,” Andrew replies dryly, watching as Neil flits around the kitchen, pulling random ingredients out of the fridge.
“Ah, a bit barbaric, don’t you think?” Neil says, squatting to reach something under the stove. If Andrew uses that time to admire Neil’s ass in those criminally tight jeans, that’s no one’s business but his. “My gun is in the top drawer,” Neil says, pointing his frying pan toward a cabinet by the sinks. “I’d prefer it if you used that. Quicker, more painless.”
Andrew stares. There must be something fundamentally wrong with Neil because who in their right mind would point out a murder weapon in their own home, in front of their own murderer.
“I am not sure why you aren’t dead already,” Andrew says blandly. “Everyone should want to kill you. You are a nightmare.” He immediately wants to take it back when Neil’s smile turns wry. A flurry of emotions flash behind those blue eyes, but they’re gone after a single blink.
“So I’ve been told,” Neil says, rather flippant, and goes back to sorting ingredients. “Would you like to stay for dinner? I just came back from the grocery store. That would’ve been a good time to kill me, by the way. Trader Joe’s was surprisingly empty.”
Some unnamed feeling gnaws at Andrew’s chest. Neil cannot be real. He has to be a hallucination, or Andrew must have bashed his head in at some point and lost his mind because what? As much as he hates to admit it, it soothes Andrew, lights up the cold, dark insides of him, knowing that Neil doesn’t see him as a threat, doesn’t look at him with fear and uncertainty in his eyes.
“That depends,” Andrew responds. “What is for dinner?”
“Since you don’t like vegetables, I was thinking chicken fettuccine alfredo?”
Andrew blinks. It’s stupid, but he likes that Neil remembers how he wasn’t a fan of the offerings at the health food restaurant. The unnamed feeling in Andrew’s chest swells. He squashes it down before he does something stupid about it. “Fine,” he says.
“Good,” Neil replies with another crooked smile, shoving a bag of pasta into Andrew’s hands. “I trust you know how to boil water?”
They flit around each other in the kitchen in companionable silence. Everything in Neil’s kitchen could be used as a weapon: knives, cast iron pan, meat tenderizer, even the wooden spoon if Andrew is creative enough, but Andrew doesn’t think about killing Neil even once.
At one point, Neil lifts a spoon of alfredo sauce to Andrew’s lips and Andrew opens his mouth to taste without a second thought. “It’s good,” Andrew grunts. Neil’s answering smile is so stupidly wide that Andrew places his entire palm against Neil’s face and shoves. He can feel the hot puff of Neil’s breath as Neil laughs.
“So, Andrew,” Neil says as they sit at the dining table with their heaping bowls of pasta. “What got you into the business of murder?”
“My friend Renee. She joined first, recruited me after.”
“Two killer best friends. Hot.”
Andrew sends Neil a look as flat as a piece of plywood and Neil grins, slurping a strand of noodle into his mouth. “How did you get involved with the Moriyamas?”
“I made a deal with Lord Moriyama after my father’s death.”
“A deal.”
“Yes.”
“Would it kill you to be more specific?”
“Also yes.”
Andrew takes in this information, considering it before nodding. Neil taps his fork against his lips as he decides on a question. “How many people have you killed?”
“Twelve,” Andrew replies. “Thirteen after you,” he adds and Neil raises an eyebrow in amusement.
“Guess I’m lucky number thirteen.”
“Anyone who has to deal with you is the unluckiest motherfucker on the planet.”
“I’m not sure, I think you’re pretty lucky to have met me. I made you pasta.”
“Stop talking,” Andrew snaps as Neil gives him the biggest shit-eating grin. “Who do you think hired me to kill you?”
“I’m involved with the yakuza. Lots of people want me dead, though most aren’t brave enough to try.”
“Full of yourself, aren’t you?”
Neil unhelpfully shrugs one shoulder and takes another bite of pasta. “What is your usual weapon of choice?”
“Sniper rifle or knives.”
“Ah, classics.”
“Are yours cleavers, Mr. Wesninski?” Andrew asks, mocking, and Neil’s face immediately falls. The way he recoils makes it seem like Andrew has struck him.
“I am not The Butcher, and I never will be,” Neil says coolly, a collected tone that most people would take for distance or disinterest. But Andrew is good at reading people, can tell Neil is a finger’s width away from lashing out and is trying very, very hard to contain himself.
Andrew has heard of The Butcher of Baltimore, how he was so unnaturally cruel, never showed any remorse, was practically inhuman. Andrew thinks about the gnarled scars on Neil’s face and arms, the gash that stretches from the edge of Neil’s lip up to his right cheekbone, long-healed but viscous, and the pieces slowly click together.
“No, you are not,” Andrew says, because Neil is not like that at all. Neil could never be like that.
It’s not a lie, but Neil studies him for a long moment, as though he’s trying to gauge the truth of Andrew’s words. The tension slowly leaks from Neil’s shoulders, the ice-cold defensive wall he’d been building gradually melting until he’s back to his usual self. “My turn to ask a question?” Neil asks cheerfully and Andrew rolls his eyes.
Over the course of a few hours, Andrew learns more about Neil than he ever thought he would, considering Andrew should’ve killed him by now.
Over a glass of wine, Andrew learns that Neil has traveled to all seven continents and enjoys learning new languages. Over dessert, Andrew learns that Neil can run a sub-five-minute mile and his favorite animal is a fox. Over a cup of decaf coffee, Andrew learns that Neil can do the splits and his mother taught him how to play the piano before she died.
Andrew is not one for sharing personal information, it took years of friendship for Renee to reach that point with him. But after just two poorly executed murder attempts, Neil knows that Andrew is afraid of heights, Andrew hates flying, Andrew loves chocolate, Andrew prefers Del Taco over Taco Bell, and Andrew wanted to be a race car driver growing up.
One thing that surprises Andrew is that he genuinely enjoys Neil’s company. Andrew usually fights the urge to deck someone in the face after just a few words exchanged, but it’s not like that with Neil. Neil runs his mouth and he’s witty, sarcastic, and insightful, and Andrew thinks he could get drunk off the way he feels when he makes Neil laugh, when crinkles appear around Neil’s eyes and dimples appear on his cheeks.
It’s late by the time Andrew stands to leave.
“You can go through the front door this time, no need to use the fire escape,” Neil says with an impish grin and Andrew flips him off. They both reach for the doorknob and Neil’s fingers brush his, lingering a moment before pulling back, his skin warm and dry against Andrew’s. “Have a good night, Andrew,” he says softly.
“Do not die before I get to kill you,” Andrew says in lieu of a goodnight.
Neil smiles, tiny and genuine. “I would never.”
Andrew drives halfway home before he realizes that he, the hitman hired to kill Neil, and Neil, the valuable Moriyama asset skilled with any weapon, both had knives in their hands at some point during the night and neither of them even tried to stab each other. Instead, Andrew had been wined and dined, like they were on some sort of date.
He slams his foot against the brake. Honks and tire screeches blare behind him as he takes a hard right and swerves onto the shoulder of the freeway. Andrew brings a hand up to cover his eyes, squeezing them shut as he leans back against the headrest. The unnamed feeling in his chest returns and swells.
“Fuck,” Andrew mumbles under his breath. He shoves a cigarette between his lips and chain smokes until he makes his way home.
4.
Renee calls asking for an update, and Andrew can’t even promise her anything because he suspects his fourth attempt will probably go just as pathetically as the first three. “I am working on it,” he says simply before hanging up on her.
He’s followed Neil to a club, one of the bougie ones downtown, nestled between skyscrapers with bottle service that costs an arm and a leg. Neil had stepped out of a sleek black car that screamed yakuza money, silver briefcase in hand, flashing a winning smile at the bouncers who immediately let him inside without checking identification. Clearly, Neil is not here to dance and get wasted, which is a shame because Andrew could really do with a few drinks right about now.
Andrew needs to kill Neil. Andrew needs to kill Neil because if he doesn’t, he’ll do something incredibly fucking stupid, like try to kiss Neil, and he really cannot be doing that. Though it’s not looking promising, he hasn’t even come up with a plan on how he’s going to kill Neil this time. He pretty much told himself tonight is the night and let that be enough.
Following a club employee, Andrew sneaks in through the back door and is immediately slammed with an overload to the senses. It’s warm and loud inside the club, a combination of bright neon lights and grungy electronic beats that seem to reverberate through Andrew’s bones.
It’s just past midnight, which means everyone is too plastered to notice any illegal happenings around them, the perfect time for Neil to conduct shady Moriyama business. Andrew spends a good amount of time searching for Neil, weaving through the throng of bodies, but it’s difficult to focus when he’s surrounded by that many lights, the haze, the hot press of bodies that seem to be closing in.
Leaning against the bar counter, Andrew surveys the crowd and debates buying a drink. He’s feeling jittery, like he’s a bundle of restless kinetic energy, ready to snap. He shouldn’t drink on the job, but is he really on the job if he’s probably not going to kill Neil tonight, anyway?
The decision is made for him when a bartender pushes a glass of something bright towards him. “Sir, your whiskey sour,” he says.
“I did not order this.”
“The gentleman over there did,” the bartender says, nodding towards a corner of the club.
Andrew looks, and there’s Neil. There’s Neil and he’s as infuriatingly attractive as he had been the first three times Andrew tried to kill him. He’s wearing a black textured polo, the first few buttons undone, tucked into form-fitting slacks and a pair of Chelsea boots that give him a few extra inches of height. The briefcase is gone, which means Neil must’ve completed whatever yakuza-related task he was assigned.
Just seeing Neil triggers a physical reaction in Andrew, his mouth going dry, one of his hands twitching at his side with the need to reach out and touch. Taking the drink, Andrew stalks toward Neil, feeling the condensation from the glass, cool against his fingertips. He stops when the tips of their boots press together, their chests nearly touching.
“Hi,” Neil says, eyes bright.
Andrew takes a slow sip of his drink. “I’m more of an old fashioned guy,” he says.
“Into the classics, are you?” Neil smirks, swaying closer to be heard over the DJ. Or maybe, he just wants to be closer to Andrew.
“How did you know I was here?”
“I told the staff to alert me if they spot a short, angry blond man with goth energy.”
Andrew gives Neil the flattest look he can manage, but something lights up in his chest, electricity flowing through his veins at the way Neil’s lips nearly brush against his cheek. “That eager to see me, are you?”
The smile on Neil’s face takes on an edge, like a little bit of something dangerous. “Dance with me?”
“Are you not here on special Moriyama business?” Andrew asks, mocking.
“Already finished.”
“I do not dance.”
“No?” Neil asks, his breath warm. He smells like aftershave and mint toothpaste. “But I bought you a drink.”
“You bought me the wrong drink,” Andrew says, sliding a hand up to curve around the back of Neil’s neck before he can think better of it, feeling Neil’s pulse against his thumb. Neil sways towards Andrew, his breath hitching as Andrew grabs a fistful of hair at the back of his neck, yanking lightly.
I should not be doing this, Andrew thinks to himself. I cannot be doing this. But Neil’s eyes are darting towards Andrew’s mouth, his eyes dark and lidded, his lips slightly parted, and that’s it.
“Yes or no?” Andrew murmurs against Neil’s jaw, and Neil’s pupils are blown wide when he breathes out a desperate “yes.”
Andrew angles his head to the side, pulls Neil forward, and sweeps Neil into his mouth. Neil shivers hard, practically melting against Andrew, and that’s all the encouragement Andrew needs. He teases Neil’s mouth open, biting down on Neil’s plush lower lip, and Neil fucking whimpers, hands flying up to grasp at Andrew’s shoulders, hard enough to bruise.
It’s easy to get lost in it, kissing Neil, the movement of their lips growing more daring and desperate by the moment, Neil’s tiny whines lighting up Andrew from head to toe, shooting straight to his dick. Andrew’s drink sloshes in his glass, contributing to the sticky mess of fluids on the floor, but he couldn’t care less, not when Neil is kissing Andrew like he wants Andrew to consume every last atom of oxygen in his lungs.
He doesn’t know how long they’ve been kissing, but the music has changed, switched from a heart-pounding electronic beat to a slow, dirty, rhythm, and his thigh finds a home between Neil’s legs. Neil gasps, arching against Andrew, immediately starting a slow, steady grind that makes Andrew’s head spin.
At this point, Andrew is half-hard in his pants, and he’s pretty sure it’s intentional when Neil’s thigh skims against his clothed cock. The rough pressure sends a shiver down Andrew’s spine and he lets out a hiss, nipping at Neil’s bottom lip in retaliation.
“My my, is that the gun you’re planning on killing me with, or is that something else?” Neil drawls against Andrew’s mouth. It’s a stupid joke, one Andrew would normally roll his eyes at, but instead, he freezes, feels like he’s been doused with a bucket of cold water.
For some reason, that catches on something in his brain, the idea that Neil isn’t afraid of him, that Neil wants him, that Andrew has a very good thing within his reach and he cannot keep him, cannot hide Neil away and keep him safe because Andrew has been hired to kill him with his own two hands.
He can vaguely hear Neil’s voice, can feel his own body moving, but he’s too busy trying to regain awareness to tell what’s going on. Andrew is trapped in adrenaline, in fight or flight, because he shouldn’t be kissing Neil, can’t be kissing Neil. When he finally manages to fight his way past the pathetic senseless panic, he has his knife in his hands and his face is cupped between Neil’s steady palms.
“Andrew,” Neil murmurs, his eyes devastatingly fixed on Andrew’s, his thumbs rubbing reassuring circles against Andrew’s cheeks and Andrew can’t look at him, won’t look at him. “Andrew, look at me.”
“Don’t,” Andrew says tersely, shaking out of Neil’s touch, hastily sheathing his knife. And it’s ironic, Andrew thinks, that he’d taken out a knife from his armband, one of his personal knives, when he’s trying so desperately to treat Neil as nothing but a job responsibility.
“Andrew—”
“We can’t,” Andrew croaks, and he sounds so fucking pathetic. His nails dig painful crescents against his palms, nearly drawing blood.
“You won’t hurt me.”
“I am getting paid to kill you.”
“But you won’t.” And Neil sounds so sincere, so sure that Andrew won’t hurt him. He looks at Andrew guilelessly, blinks those big blue eyes at him. It’s a look Andrew is normally not at the receiving end of, so unfamiliar that he doesn’t know what to do with it, barely restrains himself from fisting his hands in the front of Neil’s shirt and pressing their lips back together so he doesn’t have to see Neil looking at him like that.
Andrew drains the rest of his drink, grimacing before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You,” he says, almost a growl, poking his finger roughly against Neil’s chest, “do not know me. This is nothing.”
Neil’s entire body goes rigid, a spark of anger igniting his eyes into a bright blue flame, as if he’s about to tell Andrew he’s wrong, goad Andrew into an argument because Neil was put on this earth to be the most difficult thorn in Andrew’s side. There's hurt in his eyes, and so much fire, that for a moment it actually startles Andrew. Because it doesn’t make sense, how much Neil seems to care about Andrew when they barely know each other.
And now it's Andrew who's angry, although not at Neil—his anger is self-contained, roiling like snakes in the pit of his stomach, nausea. A ferocity so strong it scares Andrew, just a little. He can't let himself go, like this—not now, with so much built up behind the dam he's built inside himself.
Neil notices, and the tension in his body leaves after a moment, a river flowing out into the sea. “Andrew,” he exhales quietly, the fire gone from his eyes.
The weight of Neil’s attention is staggering, too intense, too much, so Andrew turns. Andrew turns and pushes his way out of the club and Neil does not stop him. Andrew sucks in a lungful of fresh air and wrestles his phone out of his pocket.
He calls Renee.
“Hello?” Renee’s voice answers. Andrew does not respond. Thirty seconds pass, a minute, two minutes. “Andrew, are you alright?” Her voice is soft, and kind, and worried.
Andrew hangs up without saying a word.
5.
Andrew makes it two weeks.
Andrew makes it two weeks before he breaks into Neil’s apartment again. He doesn’t care about stealth this time. He walks straight through the front lobby, takes the elevator to the top floor, and picks the locks to Neil’s front door.
There’s no one in the living room when he steps inside. It looks the same as the last time he broke in (or attempted to break in)—a lamp on to combat the evening darkness, a cashmere blanket draped over the couch, a book open facedown on the end table, framed photos lined up against the fireplace mantle—lived in, homey, very not yakuza-like.
He hears the water running, muffled against the insulated walls, and Andrew heads toward the sound, pushing into what appears to be Neil’s bedroom, just as lived-in and homey as the living room. The bathroom light is on and Andrew doesn’t even knock, just pushes the door open and walks right in. Neil is standing in his boxer briefs, a hand under the spray of the shower, making sure the temperature is acceptable before he steps in.
Their eyes meet and Neil’s eyes widen in surprise, like he thought they’d never see each other again. He turns toward Andrew and Andrew takes in the litter of scars scattered along Neil’s torso, some harsh and gnarled, some gone shiny and pale with time, and feels the overwhelming urge to protect, keep safe, never let anyone hurt him, hurt anyone who hurts him.
“Yes or no,” Andrew says, voice hoarser than he’d like it to be.
“Yes,” Neil whispers, quick and rough with anticipation, and then Neil is surging forward, his mouth cutting Andrew off as he presses their lips together, just as desperately as he did back at the club, and Andrew lets his mind go blank. He kisses Neil, hot and slow, pressing Neil back into the shower with gentle force, Andrew still fully clothed, armbands and all and not giving a shit. Neil gasps as his bare shoulders hit the cold tile.
“I could kill you right now,” Andrew says, wrapping his fingers lightly around Neil’s throat.
“You could,” Neil murmurs against Andrew’s lips, frustratingly honest. “But you won’t.”
“You do not know me.”
“I do not know you,” Neil says, pulling back to look at Andrew. He swipes his thumb gently against Andrew’s left eyelid, wiping off a stray water droplet. “But I can.”
And fuck Neil, fuck Nathaniel Wesninski, fuck Renee for giving him this job. Andrew crashes their lips back together and kisses Neil like he means it, kisses Neil in hopes that he might make himself understood. Yes, he wants this, wants Neil. Yes.
It’s a desperate kiss, but thorough—Neil parts his lips and Andrew traces the line of his lower lip with his tongue, maps out his teeth, memorizing him, tasting him. Neil whimpers, ducking to press kisses along Andrew’s bare neck and jawline as he runs his fingers beneath the hem of Andrew’s soaked shirt, fingers pausing in silent question.
“Yes,” Andrew says, and they both pull away for the required two seconds it takes for Neil to strip Andrew’s shirt off before snapping back together. “You can touch me anywhere above the waist,” Andrew mumbles against Neil’s lips, and Neil’s hands immediately roam over Andrew’s chest, dragging his fingers over corded muscle.
“Okay,” Neil says. “You can touch me anywhere.” And Andrew does.
Andrew presses Neil against the cool glass of the shower, away from the spray, and kisses his way down Neil’s chest, pressing his lips gently against the first knotted scar on Neil’s shoulder, stopping for a moment to tease a nipple with his tongue, biting down against Neil’s hipbone before soothing it with a kiss, and Neil’s fingers press themselves pale against the glass as he gasps. When Andrew’s fingers curl their way to Neil’s waistband, Neil makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan, his hands joining Andrew’s in the fight to strip his underwear off.
Sliding to his knees, Andrew presses a kiss against Neil’s thigh before looking up at Neil, and Neil looks back at Andrew with hooded, blown eyes. “Yes, god Andrew, yes.”
And Andrew doesn’t need to be told twice. He leans in and takes Neil’s cock into his mouth, already slick with precome, the taste sharp and sudden against Andrew’s tongue, and Neil’s eyes flutter closed, his head thunking back against the glass. Andrew gives Neil a sharp suck, licking a stripe from root to tip and Neil’s hands immediately lash out, tangling his fingers in Andrew’s hair. “Andrew,” Neil gasps, and Andrew can’t do anything but hum against Neil, taking him in deeper.
Neil’s body is flushed pink, from his chest to his neck to his cheeks, and his back arches as he fights to keep his hips still beyond the small desperate thrusts he can’t contain. “Andrew, you’re so—fuck—” and his words trail off into a moan when Andrew takes him to the back of his throat.
It doesn’t last long enough, not nearly enough for Andrew to savor the taste and weight of Neil inside his mouth, or on his tongue. “Andrew,” Neil chokes out, and he’s coming with a gasp down Andrew’s throat. Andrew can see Neil’s legs shaking, the steam and water droplets making his skin look luminescent.
Neil slides down to the shower floor right beside Andrew, and it’s slow and startlingly tender, how he kisses Andrew then, tasting himself on Andrew’s tongue. Andrew is painfully hard in his soaking-wet jeans, but that doesn’t matter, not when he finds himself pulled in by the gentle coaxing press of Neil’s lips and the way Neil nudges their noses together, a kind of unrelenting gentleness that Andrew doesn’t quite know how to handle.
“Do you want me to,” Neil says, motioning towards Andrew, and Andrew shakes his head.
“Not this time,” he says and watches as a bright smile lights up Neil’s face because not this time means there will be a next time.
Andrew goes home with kiss-swollen lips, wearing a pair of Neil’s sweatpants and one of Neil’s hoodies because his clothes were sopping wet by the time they climbed out of the shower. If he falls asleep in Neil’s clothes, it’s nobody’s business but his.
Andrew breaks into Neil’s apartment the following night with Neil’s clothes freshly laundered. Neil looks up from his spot on the couch, a pair of silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and his laptop balanced on his thighs. Before Andrew can pocket his lock picks, Neil has shoved his laptop haphazardly to the side and pulled Andrew onto the couch, practically crawling into Andrew’s lap.
Andrew wraps his arms around Neil’s waist, buries his face against Neil’s neck as Neil clenches a fist in the fabric of Andrew’s shirt, shifts closer like he’s trying to crawl inside of Andrew’s chest, and Andrew presses their lips together, loses himself to the feeling of wanting Neil, having Neil.
Andrew breaks into Neil’s apartment the night after that while Neil is cooking dinner and hikes Neil onto the kitchen counter, making himself at home between Neil’s thighs. The kiss they share is slow, languid, and when Neil hums against his lips, Andrew can feel the vibration where their chests are pressed together.
Neil tightens his legs around Andrew’s waist, shifts his hips forward, tangles his fingers through Andrew’s blond strands. The kiss turns messy, on the edge of frantic, and they both don’t realize the chicken is burning until the smoke detectors go off and Neil reluctantly peels himself off Andrew to fix the problem before the whole building has to evacuate. They order Thai takeout instead and eat on the couch, sharing containers of pad thai and pineapple fried rice, Neil’s legs pillowed on Andrew’s thighs.
Andrew breaks into Neil’s apartment the night after that and lets Neil touch him. He has Neil pressed against the mattress as he kisses down Neil’s sternum, sucks a bruise against Neil’s collarbone. Neil is spread out against the sheets, blissed out after an orgasm, but he quickly sobers when Andrew leans back to peel off one armband, then the other. He lets Neil stare at the thin, white lacerations spread across pale skin, watches the way Neil’s eyes harden and his fingers tighten against Andrew’s hip, and Neil doesn’t have to say anything for Andrew to know that he understands.
Neil’s hand is warm when Andrew wraps his hand around Neil’s, guiding him. Neil’s fingers are long and slender, and when he jerks Andrew off it’s quick, unrelenting, it’s exactly what Andrew likes and exactly what he needs. When Andrew comes, it takes him by surprise, almost. It feels like something inside him has been shaken loose, and Andrew buries his face in Neil’s shoulder to ride out the tremors.
“Neil,” he says, muffled against Neil’s neck.
“Andrew,” Neil murmurs back, because he understands. “Stay,” Neil says after they’ve laid pressed together for hours, when Andrew stands to leave.
Andrew shouldn’t, because I’m supposed to kill you, he wants to say. I’m supposed to kill you, and someone like you shouldn’t exist, someone who understands someone like me.
“Okay,” Andrew says instead, because maybe, just maybe, this isn’t nothing after all. “Okay.”
1
Andrew wakes up the next morning and Neil is still asleep, his breath warm and steady against Andrew’s collarbone. Andrew lays there for a moment, watching Neil, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way his skin glows under the yellow-orange sunrise that filters in through the windows. Neil has bedhead, a drool stain on his lip, and a pillow crease mark on his cheek and Andrew will not kill him.
Slowly, Andrew slips out of Neil’s bed. He throws on his shirt, grabs his phone, and makes his way out onto the balcony, lighting a cigarette. Dragging a heavy breath of smoke, Andrew leans against the railing, staring as the cigarette slowly burns toward his fingers.
Then he calls Renee.
She answers after one ring. “Andrew,” she says. “Good mo—”
“I will not kill him,” Andrew says, cutting her off, his voice raw, from too many cigarettes or from spending so much time with Neil’s cock down his throat, Andrew isn’t sure.
It’s quiet on the other line as Renee processes this information. “I see,” she says calmly.
Andrew taps his cigarette against the railing, fingers jittery, watching ashes scatter into the cool, morning air. He feels a bit like he’s been shaken apart and put back together again, but not quite the same, like there are hairline fractures on his insides—overwhelming, but in a good way.
Andrew thinks about Neil, about Neil spread out beneath him on the bed, humming against Andrew’s neck, sweaty and exhausted and beautiful. He thinks about “I am not The Butcher, and I never will be." Thinks about “you won’t hurt me,” thinks about “I do not know you, but I can.”
“I will not kill him,” Andrew repeats. “If they send anyone else, I will kill them.”
Renee is quiet for a long moment, and that’s when Andrew realizes he’s shaking, his hands trembling with a private kind of fury. He takes a final drag of his cigarette before grinding it against the railing, tossing it to the ground below. He listens to Renee’s steady breathing on the other end.
“I understand,” Renee finally says, and the tension in Andrew’s body collapses, cracks and sends his whole body slumping forward. Andrew leans against the balcony for balance. “Does he make you happy?” Renee asks, and it doesn’t surprise Andrew in the slightest that Renee knows. She’s always been able to see right through him.
“He is a nightmare,” Andrew says and Renee laughs, soft and fond. “But yes,” Andrew answers, and means it.
“Good,” Renee says. “You deserve to be happy.”
And Andrew thinks, maybe he does.
When Andrew returns inside, Neil is standing in the living room, his pajama pants low on his lips and his hair a riot of curls. Andrew doesn’t even have to ask how much Neil heard, because he recognizes the look in Neil’s eyes, the way they shine, the smile on his face curving his eyes into beautiful blue crescents.
Neil does not speak. Neither does Andrew, and maybe there’s nothing to say. Andrew feels like he’s standing balanced on the edge of something—something foolish and reckless and impossible, but somehow it’s all possible because he is with Neil.
Andrew reaches for Neil and Neil goes easily, lets Andrew wrap an arm around the back of his neck, lets Andrew press his thumb gently against Neil’s pulse point. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be reassurance, but that’s how it feels, and when Andrew turns to look at Neil, Neil’s eyes are already fixed on his, and Andrew realizes that Neil never needed to be reassured in the first place. You won’t hurt me.
Neil leans forward slowly, and his eyes flutter shut when he presses his lips lightly to Andrew’s own. It’s a tiny thing, chaste and soft and brief. It’s the gentlest kiss anyone has ever given him, and it makes something inside Andrew ache, horribly, like a first closing around his aorta and squeezing—but it’s a sweet kind of pain, and that’s what makes Andrew pull away to stare at Neil’s perfectly pleased face.
“Like I said,” Neil says around a smirk as he brings his hand to rest at Andrew’s jaw, “you stare a lot.”
“Maybe I will kill you after all,” Andrew says, dry amusement coloring his words, then immediately contradicts himself by sliding back to grab a handful of Neil’s sun-struck hair, kissing Neil again because it’s as easy as breathing, as easy as Neil’s hand against his jaw, easy as the soft sound Neil makes in the back of his throat when their mouths press together.
“Other people will try to kill me,” Neil says when they part.
“I will not let them,” Andrew says, and means it with every fiber of his being.
“They’ll try to kill you, too, because you are important to me.”
And Andrew’s chest swells at the simplicity of those words, the possessiveness it implies. “I will not die so easily.”
“Good,” Neil says. “Good.”
Andrew has pathetically missed his mark for the very first time in his career. Andrew has missed his mark for the very first time in his career and is letting said mark press sleepy kisses against his cheeks. Andrew has missed his mark for the very first time in his career and Andrew will kill anyone who hurts him.
It makes no sense, but somehow, it makes more sense than anything else Andrew knows.
“Pancakes for breakfast?” Neil asks, pressing a kiss against Andrew’s jaw before tugging him towards the kitchen. “I bought chocolate chips just for you.”
Andrew thinks that sounds perfect.