Eric wakes up at 3 o'clock in the morning on the couch.

Eric wakes up at 3 o'clock in the morning on the couch with a blanket over himself, his pants half off because he must've forgotten to button and zip them after one of the two million times he got up to pee last night.

His head spins and his stomach rolls, nausea threatening in his esophagus but never quite following through on its promise. In a rare attempt at being social, he'd agreed to go out with several co-workers he'd hardly even ever spoken to (thinking back on it now, he isn't sure he knows them any better now) - and tipped back several bottles of belgian brews way stronger than he'd intended on drinking, plus shots of whiskey, and maybe a watered down corona, and by the time he'd come home, which was a miracle in on itself, he was the kind of wasted he hadn't had reason to be in at least two months. 

He threw himself onto the couch while the dogs lapped affectionately on his toes and spent the last of his coherent hours before the inevitable drop off longing  for late welcome home kisses. For soft whispers of important conversations in the dark. For tired touching and some long overdue TLC after their rather brutal night the other night. For Yoochun. 

And then he fell asleep. 

Oops, he thinks, shifting against the cushions, the wounds on his side burning and stinging painfully as he stretches to bring himself to full wakefulness, the sensation drawing out a sharp, tired hiss from between clenched teeth. The apartment is dark, which can only mean that Yoochun had in fact come home, had seen him, had maybe tsked and shaken his head then gone to bed. As disoriented as he is and as guilty as he feels for not having been able to stay up long enough to greet him, the thought of finally having him to sleep beside knots up in his stomach anxious, impatient anticipation.

He pushes himself off the couch with some difficulty, taking a couple baby steps at first to test the strength of his knees and his coordination. So far so good. He isn't that old yet-- 

His pants he slides completely down his legs, kicks off of his ankles and sighs in relief at the loss of that uncomfortable hot and scratchy feeling that falling asleep in your clothes leaves behind. The shirt goes next, though it hurts to lift his arms even half-way, and once he's stripped to his boxers, he kicks the clothes under the coffee table so neither of them trip over it in the morning and takes himself up the stairs to their loft.

The dogs are curled up between Yoochun and the wall, snoring and sighing almost human-like. His fiance is lying with his back facing him, the covers tucked up under his armpit. Eric can't see his face, but he hopes it doesn't look too bad.

He hopes he isn't angry.

Pushing a hand through his hair, he takes a deep breath to settle his stomach and cuts the post-drunk bluesy train of thought before it flies off the rails like he's prone to do. He tugs the corner of the quilt back and slides into his side of the bed, lowering his head down on the pillow for a moment while his foggy mind to settle. Then he rolls onto his injured side, ignoring the pain as he pushes himself closer to his sleeping fiance and carefully slips an arm around his chest, moving slowly so that he doesn't accidentally wake him, and tucks it under his armpit so that they're pressed shoulder to shoulder, chest-to-back, and Eric can feel the steady, sleepy rhythm of his heart against his palm. He brushes a kiss over the back of his neck, noses through his hair for a whiff of his shampoo and the cigarette smoke that marks the end of each long day and stays there like that when the exhaustion makes moving away feel like a chore. Shutting his eyes, he lets the second wave of sleep wash over him and thinks, this is better.