// OOC : hello camthony nation i have a offering
The couch springs creaked when Camfee shifted his weight, settling deeper into the cushions. He'd been sitting there for the better part of an hour, laptop balanced on his knees, scrolling through the same three webpages without reading a word of them. His phone sat face-down on the armrest, screen dark now after the flurry of messages that had passed between him and whatever part of Anthony was still capable of typing.
Camfee stayed put. He'd said he would.
The house was too quiet. Anthony's parents were upstairs - they hovered, but had backed off after Anthony asked them to. The floorboards upstairs creaked occasionally, and Camfee's gaze kept drifting to the hallway that led to the bathroom.
His footsteps were soft. Hesitant. Bare feet on carpet, then tile, then the hardwood of the living room threshold.
Camfee didn't look up right away. He kept his eyes on his laptop, giving Anthony the space to decide how close he wanted to get, how much he wanted to reveal. He could see him in his peripheral vision - standing in the doorway, gripping the frame, wearing the same clothes he'd had on yesterday, a grey hoodie with chewed drawstrings over a band shirt and sweatpants. His hair was matted on one side, pressed flat from lying on the bathroom floor probably, the blonde edges frizzing a little. No glasses. He looked stripped raw, skin too thin, brown eyes too wide.
"Hey," Camfee said, still not looking directly at him. He closed his laptop and set it on the coffee table, freeing his hands, his lap, making space without demanding it be filled.
Anthony didn't move. He was shaking - visible tremors running through his arms, his shoulders, a fine vibration that made him look like he was coming apart at the seams. His mouth opened, closed. Opened again. No sound came out.
"You're okay," Camfee said. "You're okay, Anty. I'm not going anywhere."
Anthony made a noise at that - something wounded, something that might have been a sob if he'd had any voice left to give it. He took a step forward, then stopped, swaying on his feet like the floor was tilting beneath him. His hand came up, hovering over his temple and he shook his head, hard.
"Come here if you want," Camfee said, keeping his voice low, keeping it easy. "Or don't. You can stand there. You can sit on the other end of the couch. Whatever you need."
Anthony took another step. Then another. He moved like he was underwater, like every motion required conscious effort, and when he finally reached the couch he didn't sit - he folded, knees buckling, dropping into a heap on the floor between Camfee's feet. His forehead came to rest against Camfee's knee, and his hands found Camfee's thighs, gripping the denim like it was the only solid thing in the room.
Camfee looked down at the top of Anthony's head, at the way his shoulders were hitching, dry and desperate. He wasn't crying - he was too exhausted for tears, too wrung out.
"Anty," Camfee said, and reached out, slow and telegraphed, giving Anthony time to pull away. He didn't. Camfee's hand settled on the back of Anthony's neck, thumb brushing over the hairline, feeling the heat of him, the sweat, the tremors running through the muscle there. "I've got you. I'm not mad. I'm not leaving."
Anthony's fingers tightened in Camfee's jeans. He turned his face inward, pressing his cheek against Camfee's knee, and made that sound again - broken, wordless, please.
"You want up here?" Camfee asked. "You want to sleep?"
Anthony nodded, the movement jerky and desperate, and Camfee shifted, opening his arms, making room. Anthony climbed onto the couch like a child - awkward, uncoordinated, all limbs and no grace. He collapsed against Camfee's chest, fitting himself into the space Camfee made for him, tucking his head under Camfee's chin. He was freezing - skin like ice, breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts against Camfee's throat.
Camfee wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in close, feeling every rib, every knob of Anthony's spine through his thin shirt. He settled his chin on top of Anthony's head and started moving one hand in slow circles between his shoulder blades.
"I'm not mad," Camfee said again, because it bore repeating, because Anthony needed to hear it until it sank in. "Whatever happened, whatever- um.. βSheβ did or said - I'm not mad at you. It's going to be okay."
Anthony's hand came up, fisting in the front of Camfee's shirt, holding on like he was drowning. His whole body was rigid, vibrating with the effort of staying conscious, of staying present, of believing that he was safe enough to let go.
"Sleep," Camfee murmured against his hair. It smelled like copper and fear, like the chemical aftermath of adrenaline. "You're exhausted. Close your eyes, Anty. I've got you."
Anthony went limp all at once - the tension draining out of him so suddenly that Camfee had to adjust his grip to keep him from sliding off the couch. He turned his face into Camfee's neck, nose pressing against the pulse point there, and his breathing began to even out, slow and heavy and desperate.
Anthony's hand unclenched from Camfee's shirt and fell to rest over his heart, palm open, feeling the steady beat there. Camfee covered it with his own hand and held it.
"Sleep," he whispered again, though Anthony was already gone, already under, finally getting the rest he'd been denying himself for twenty-four hours. "I'm here. I'm not leaving. I've got you, Anty."
Camfee closed his eyes and kept his chin where it was, kept his hand moving in those slow, stupid circles, and waited for the morning.
