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1.
It doesn't just get better, after. Ned's fingers still curl with guilt when he thinks about that day with the megaphone, and it's obvious that the team is more strained around Conor. But he can't help but think—and they've just started Candide in Mr Sherry's class, so this thought probably isn't original—that in some wrap-around way, this was the best way for things to turn out.
"Ned," Conor says when they're lying in in their beds, the room lit only by the lights on the path outside. It had taken a few days to find time, but they'd just finished putting back up Ned's posters and Conor's few framed pictures.
Ned turns his head to look at him across the room—the curtain between them hadn't gone back up, not that Ned would ever admit he'd been scared it might. A cold draft from where their window doesn't close right brushes over his arms where they rest on the sheets. "Mmm," he says.
"I just—" Conor huffs. He's never been the best at words. "I'm just—glad it happened this way, I guess. Not that it was the best way," he rushes, "but I'm happy—" a sigh "—happy neither of us has to keep hiding."
"Yeah," Ned says without thinking, and turns to look at the ceiling again. But Conor's waiting for more, and screw it, Ned shies away from sentimentality but he can bear it this once. For Conor, his mind supplies. "So'm I, mate." He pauses. "I wish I hadn't done what I did, but. I'm glad we're here now."
2.
He doesn't know why he does it, except that Conor's laughing at Ned fucking up the order of the cords for the third time in a row, and he looks so happy—beautiful, he thinks distantly, beautiful with his too-long fringe falling into his eyes and his cheeks flushed. And Ned leans forward without thinking or giving Conor any time to protest, presses his lips to the corner of Conor's mouth—a millisecond passes, practically, before he jerks back, blood burning in his face. He doesn't let himself catalog Conor's expression before dropping his guitar on his chair and getting the hell out.
It's dark, and cold, and past curfew, but Ned runs from their music room, runs until he's out of the building and out of breath, and stands there in the middle of the field behind the rugby pitch, nails biting into his palms and shoulders shaking. The grass is damp when he lies down, soaking into the shirt he had painstakingly sewn the pocket back onto, but he stays—nowhere better to go, really.
Retrospectively, as a figure approaches from the direction he came, Ned thinks he probably should have found a better hiding spot. He takes a breath and closes his eyes, scared—terrified out of his wits, honestly—of what Conor will do. When Conor stops above him, saying nothing, Ned doesn't move, just opens his eyes, staring up at him. But even with Conor's unwavering gaze, Ned has no idea what he's thinking—what either of them are thinking, really.
When Conor lies down next to him, Ned's still wide-eyed, heart racing, staring at the black sky with the vague hope that it'll swallow him up. He can feel Conor's gaze on the side of his face, and he's self-conscious, suddenly, of anything Conor could be seeing.
"Ned," Conor says. He feels Conor's fingers curl through his own, and his heart jumps, unsure whether to calm or keep racing. "Ned," he says again, and Ned squeezes back—too tight, maybe, but he can't bring himself to loosen his grip now.
3.
The second time, fittingly, Conor's the one to move in first. It's gotten cold enough that they've stuffed an old flannel into the crack under their window, but their room is still chilly at night. "Prokaryotes," Ned says from the foot of Conor's bed. They've been studying for biology since dinner, a constant flow of term-description-term-description. "Cells that..." Conor trails off. "Ned," he says, and kisses him.
It's longer, this time, not that the instant a week ago was really a kiss. It's lips on lips, this time, nothing more, over and over. Conor's breath tastes like the mints he has after meals, and his neck is warm under Ned's palm. Conor's thumb rubs over his nape and Ned breathes against his lips. "God," he says, and leans his forehead against Conor's. "God, took us long enough, didn't it?"
Conor snorts and tackles Ned down onto the bed, shoving his face into his neck. "Yeah," he agrees, and Ned can feel Conor's grin against his shoulder before he pushes him back for another kiss.
4.
"So, Conor," Weasel starts. Conor is still sweaty from practicing kicks after practice, and paired with an intense desire that he hadn't run into his teammate on the way back, he can't say he's in the best of moods. "How's everything?"
"Alright," Conor says, unsure what Weasel's after.
"Saw you practicing kicking."
Conor makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a hum and increases his pace to be uncomfortably quick.
"I was kind of surprised, I mean, thought you might have... different priorities, now." A few more paces. "I mean," Weasel continues, "Now that you and Ned are... cozy... again, thought you might, you know."
Conor keeps walking. He doesn't let his fists clench like they want to.
"Loose sight of what really matters again."
Honestly, Conor still doesn't know why Weasel started talking to him. They're approaching the door, now, and Conor goes inside without waiting for him; Weasel catches the door before if swings shut and rushes a few steps to catch up.
"Nothing to say?" Weasel asks once they've gotten to the top of the stairs. He apparently still hasn't learned when to give up.
"Didn't hear anything worth replying to," Conor says, reaching his and Ned's room and shoving his way inside. "Night, Weasel." He shuts the door a little harder than intended and turns to see Ned sprawled on the floor between their beds, Candide held open over his face. Conor snorts, and can't help the corners of his mouth turning up. "Ned. You alright there?"
Ned lowers the book to his chest, grinning up at him. "Splendid," he says.
Conor huffs a laugh and shakes his head at him. "'M going to catch a shower," he says, grabbing the towel hanging from the back of his chair. "Be right back."
"Wait—" Ned shuts Candide without appearing to mark his page and rolls to his feet. "Everything good with Weasel?"
"Yeah," Conor replies. "Nothing happened worth repeating." He steps closer to brush a hand through Ned's hair. "We're good."
5.
It's pretty much Wood Hill College tradition to not eat until lunch on Saturdays, so, traditionally, Ned goes to breakfast every day. But now that he and Conor are something, he's a little more willing to sacrifice his defiant ideals in favor of lazy mornings.
Ned usually sleeps like a hibernating bear, which is inconvenient on the five days of the week he has to wake up for class, but surprisingly helpful for dealing with Conor's annoying inability to sleep past eight on the weekends. This morning, though, he wakes up easily to a warm body settling in behind him. "Mmph," he manages, elbowing Conor a bit and shoving his face into the pillow. "What."
"Good morning, Ned," Conor says into the back of his neck—barely a whisper, but still far too loud and cheery in Ned's opinion.
"Why—" Ned's complaints fade into a sigh as Conor drapes a heavy arm over his side. As much a he hates admitting weakness to a snuggle, he rolls towards Conor and tucks his face into Conor's chest. Just this once, he supposes.
"Morning, Ned," he hears again, and feels Conor press a kiss to the top of his head.
When he pulls back to kiss Conor properly, he tastes minty, and he takes a moment to worry about his own morning breath. But Conor is the one who got in bed with him in the first place, and his lips are warm, after all. Despite all his defiance, Ned has never been one to reject worthy offers.
+1.
"Conor!" Ned shouts as Conor works his way out of his mob of teammates and jogs towards Ned's spot at the front of the stands, grinning madly. Ned stands and wraps his arms tight around Conor's neck, delighted by the other's happiness. "God, Conor, that was incredible."
Conor laughs again, breathless and giddy the way he always is after a win. "Thought you didn't know anything about rugby," he manages.
Ned grins and shoves him away, leaving his hands on his shoulders; Conor's hands come up to cover his. "Just a thing or two," Ned says.
Conor lets go to push his sweaty hair out of his face. He hasn't stopped grinning this whole time. "Didn't miss a kick the whole game," he says, which Ned knows already—it's Conor's first game, actually, with no misses or falters.
"You all going out for drinks?" Ned asks, sticking his hands back in his pockets. Conor's smile fades a bit, and Ned remembers the last time the team had done so. But Conor had said his dad wasn't coming to this game, so Ned lets himself hope.
"Yeah, they are, but I think I'll stay in tonight. Stay here while I shower and we can catch the train back?"
"Yeah," Ned says, and he knows his eyes are making the embarrassing crinkles they do when he's happy, but he he can't find it in himself to frown them away. "I'll be here."