It’s a hand, Andrew says, not a question, but not quite mockery, when Neil’s gaze lingers a little too long. It’s your hand, Neil says, and doesn’t bother to explain. Instead he slips his fingers through Andrew’s and digs in like he can leave his fingerprints on Andrew’s pale skin. Andrew doesn’t pull away, and they don’t go in until the storm breaks.
I guess you can also call this thing: Andreil, a summary.