cut off my t-shirt sleeves (claim a new continent) - anything (rpf?)
Manhattan is fucking cold in January.
Stephen should've grabbed a jacket off the hook, but he didn't; he should've at least shoved that damn pager into his jeans pocket, but he didn't. If this is what 'making it' in the business actually means, he doesn't want it anymore. He could go back down south and help his mother tend to the house on James Island, or fly out west and help out at his sister's firm. He could even tolerate the Chicago winters if it meant seeing Paul and Amy every day again.
Yet, here he is. The sun-dappled days on the lawn at Northwestern are gone, now, and this is his chance. He took it and paid everything for it, unsure if it was worth it even in the early days when he held himself close and Jon—well, Jon—even closer.
He feels a hand clasp around his shoulder once he hits fifty-second and tenth, halting his stride and holding tight.
Jon is winded, lungs burning like a house on fire.
"You're," he wheezes, "a dick. Don't... don't make me run... after you."
"I don't want to do this anymore," Stephen says. His lashes are stuck together with rain and certainly not tears.
Jon's posture changes; hardens. "This this," he asks, gesturing between them, "or this this," he asks, and splays his arms wide to gesture at the city itself.
Stephen feels like a piece of shit, now.
He grabs Jon by the front of this thick, gray sweatshirt and kisses him hard, stubble against stubble, losing breath that's already gone.
"Okay," Jon says. His chest is heaving but his eyes are bright, a smile spreading fast.
They stand there silent for a moment and the city noise envelops them. Jon imagines heading south to help Ms. Colbert tend to the house on James Island (though he loves Manhattan). He imagines meeting Stephen's sister—the lawyer in California—and spreading out to nap in warm, pale sand. Paul and Amy, faceless for now but not for long, flash through his mind, implanted by Stephen's soft voice before bed. He could get along with them, too, and if they split rent evenly, maybe—
"I could do this for—I could always do this," Stephen says, and gestures between them as Jon did a moment ago. "It's everything else I can't stand right now. It's the fucking network notes. They want to silence us, and this, I swear to God—"
"No one needs to know about us," Jon says firmly; quickly. "I don't give a shit if some Viacom executive wants us to stay behind closed doors."
Stephen's face screws up like he might cry or throw a punch (or both).
"Why? Why don't you care?" he asks.
"I have you," Jon says. "Right now, for me, that's enough."
A leather jacket is draped over Stephen's shoulders and he softens.
He surveys the city with new eyes. He still fucking hates the cold, and the subway, and the suits. He still misses his other homes.
But he'll fight to keep this.
