#hgrangertwin

He stops short mid-reach for his keys, the very blood in his veins turning to frozen shards of ice.

“Dare... I...”

“He’s fine, Chris, he’s fine!  Just a little banged-up, a bad fall from the risers, he’s fine.”

The blood rushes back with fiery insistence, boiling until he can feel the heat in his ears and cheeks.

“I told him about jumping off things, I told him!” Chris raves, feeling a sick satisfaction when his voice echoes back from the house next door.  He can’t help it, the yelling-- that sick frozen dread followed by the thaw of relief left him jittery and overwrought.  Kevin’s just the messenger, he knows, but he had been so scared.

Kevin makes a choked-off kind of noise, like he’s trying not to laugh.  “Yes, yes, you’re always right.  In fact, that’s what Darren just said.  He’s been asking for you.”

Chris instinctively slams the brakes where he’s halfway down his driveway.  He clears his throat, trying to ignore the way those words tug on his heart.

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

---

He ducks into the emergency room, pulling off his hat and sunglasses.  There’s a small group of familiar faces in the far corner of the waiting room, and Chris hurries over.

“Thank god,” Kevin says with a strange amount of fervent conviction.

“Where...?  Is he...?” Chris tries, not knowing what question to ask.

“He’s fine,” Jenna says, rolling her eyes and looking thoroughly put-out.

Chris is finally confused, looking between the two of them and Cory asleep in the chair.  “Wait, what am I missing here?”

“He’s...” Kevin tries, looking to Jenna for inspiration.  She sighs dramatically.

“God, sorry Chris, but he’s a whiny baby.  Like the most pathetic injured person I know.  Literally the first words out of his mouth, after owfuckshitdamn--” Chris is seriously impressed at her imitation-- “was Chris is going to kill me.  And since then, it’s just been increasingly grating variations of the two.”

Chris tries to look properly annoyed, too, but his face didn’t get the memo and all he manages is a silly sort of grin.

Kevin groans and Jenna looks entirely too smugly happy.  Chris just gives a little shrug, lips twisted up like he can’t help it.

“Oh, go get your man so we can all go home,” Kevin says finally, lightly shoving Chris towards the doors that lead to the exam rooms.

Chris goes, throwing a quick thanks over his shoulder and pretending like he doesn’t see their satisfied smiles.

---

Darren is... well, pathetic.  Chris can’t think of a better word.  He’s propped up on pillows, left knee hidden under layers of bandages and cold packs, and Chris could have found him just by following the sounds of his little pained groans.

“Finally!” Chord exclaims as soon as Chris pokes his head in the door, his tone identical to Kevin’s.  Chris spares him a glance and a grateful smile before focusing on Darren.  Darren, looking especially small in a pair of baggy sweatpants and an old Michigan tee, his eyebrows all drawn up in pain and his arms wrapped around himself.

“Darren,” Chris breathes without really thinking about it, shutting the door behind him.  His eyes pop open at the words, pained face breaking into a grin despite it all.  Chris just barely stops himself from pressing a hand to his chest at the rush of fondness.

“Chris!  Yay, Chris is here!” Darren half-yells, lifting his arms in invitation.  Chris can’t help the little aww that escapes at his pouting lips, his tangled hair.  He’s just so warm and soft and vulnerable and Chris wants nothing else but to wrap Darren up in his arms.

Behind him, Chord snorts.  “You can take it from here, right?  I’ve got an early meeting with my manager.”  Chris nods, accepting Darren’s bag and discharge papers.

“See you Monday, man.  Rest up, okay?” Chord steps up beside the bed do some complicated-looking handshake.

“Thanks buddy, you’re the best!” Darren says, pointing enthusiastically at Chord’s back.

Chris just shakes his head, accepting Chord’s friendly slap on the back and holding the door open for him as he makes to leave. 

“Hey Chord, be a dear and tell everyone else I said thank you and that they can leave now, okay?”

“Will do!  He’s your problem, now.  Good luck!” Chord calls joyfully, walking backwards down the hall until he nearly topples over a cart.

Chris laughs at the ridiculousness of it all, still giggling when he turns back to Darren.  His eyes are big, face serious as Chris lets the door swing shut.

“I can see your teeth, Chris.  I like when I can see your teeth, it means you’re laughing or you’re smiling so big that you forget to care.”

It’s sweet, but a little too honest, even for Darren.  Chris smiles at him distractedly, wordlessly accepting the compliment even as he skims the papers in his hands.

“So, they gave you Lortab, huh DC?”

Darren screws up his face like he’s trying to remember.  “Maybe.  I dunno.  But I do know that my knee feels a lot better.  In fact I can’t feel much of anything right now, so maybe we should go home.”

It’s so matter-of-fact that Chris almost doesn’t catch the words until he does.  The sweet, heady thrill runs from the tips of his suddenly burning red ears to his tingling fingertips and all the way deep down to the bottoms of his feet.

Chris tucks the papers away, ducking his head to get himself back under control.  He moves closer, offering his arm for support and helping Darren to his feet.  At his little pathetic moan, Chris presses a kiss right at the edge of his curls.

“Yes, baby, let’s go home.”

--

He fusses, probably more than he should, making sure Darren’s pillows are fluffed and his knee is propped up just right, then setting an alarm for his next dose of Lortab-- thank god for 24-hour pharmacies.  Darren is in and out, his eyes slipping closed for just a few seconds, then longer and longer as Chris works.  When he’s finally satisfied and all of Darren’s little pained grunts have turned into low, rumbling pleased hums, he strips and pulls on his sweatpants, watching the way Darren’s eyelashes throw long shadows across his cheekbones in the lamplight.

With as little noise and movement as possible, Chris slips under the covers too.  It’s a little weird to be on this side-- they switched to put Darren’s hurt knee on the outside-- but the pillow smells so much like Darren that Chris presses his face into it happily, breathing deep and unable to stop himself from sighing on the exhale.

“Wha’s wrong?” 

It’s more slur than words, but when Chris opens his eyes, Darren’s are staring right back at him, a little wrinkle of concern on his brow.

“Right now?  Not a thing in the world.”

He smiles and Darren’s concerned expression falls away, his tired eyes crinkling with a grin of his own.

Chris turns to click the lamp off, getting the worst of his dopey grin out in the process.  He rolls back in the darkness right onto an outstretched arm, and Darren curls it to draw him in close.  Chris melts into him, wrapping an arm around his stomach and nudging his toes against Darren’s good leg.  He can’t help but press a kiss into Darren’s soft tee shirt, letting his chest pillow his head and listening to the steady thump-thump under his cheek.

“You’re the best,” Darren mumbles, and Chris hums his assent, just-barely scratching his nails down ribs and petting back up, over and over.

Darren’s confused, doesn’t say anything because he’s been talking.  They’ve stayed up seven out of the last ten nights holding each other and talking until it’s okay again, each restless night ending later and later.  How could Chris say they don’t communicate?

Chris can tell, like he always can, that Darren doesn’t get it.  Even with his arms tightly folded, frustration and hurt rolling from him in waves, he understands Darren on the most basic of levels.  The throb in Darren’s chest twists up tighter.

“I know we’ve talked-- you talked until you lost your voice-- but what are you saying, Darren?  What do you want?”

The question pulls him up short.  His heart, his hands, his very bones are straining forward with the force of how much he wants Chris, to hold him and kiss every inch of him, to wipe every semblance of tears away like he’s done so many times before.  A fresh wave of tears makes him squeeze his eyes shut to try and hold it in because how can Chris not know?  How can he look at Darren and listen to Darren and not know that he’s exactly what he wants?

He’s trying to find the words, to choose them right, to make sure he doesn’t mess it up, running his fingers through his hair until it’s so tangled he can’t anymore.

When he finally meets Chris’s eyes and they’re so blue, resigned and almost defeated, the gravity of his own words finally strike him.  How many times has he said not now or soon or maybe next time?  How long have they been sneaking around avoiding cameras and adhering to silly shit like “controlled sightings” and camera avoidance and tweeting protocols?  How could he not have seen what he was doing, not just to Chris, but to them?

Darren drops his hands hard, open palms brushing his jeans, rough enough to sting.

“You’re right, of course you’re right.  You’re always right.  Chris, baby I’m so sorry, I don’t--”

Chris puts a hand up, cutting him off.  Darren’s hot all over and his throat closes up, he can’t breathe because he knows that look, he knows when Chris is done with talking about something, when he’s made up his mind--

“I know.  Darren, I know.”  No emotion, not even a little. 

“Can you stay?”  He’s begging.  His breathing redoubles now, panic rising fast.  “It’s okay if I don’t show up.”

“No, honey, you know we both have obligations.”

“I can tell Michael I’m sick, I’ll tell her to go fuck herself, Chris we can’t just, please--”  It’s instinct, second nature to try to cross that careful distance they’ve kept for almost an hour now, to hold Chris when he looks so broken.

Darren steps forward, Chris steps back.  Instantly all the fight drains out of Darren, too, and now he understands how Chris feels.  Tired.  Empty.

“Chris--” he tries again, desperate to say something, anything so that they can fix this.

Chris closes his eyes, looking away for the first time.  “Just go with her.”

Darren tries to find the will to be angry, to say something vicious that she rightly deserves, but it comes out a pained moan.

“I don’t know right now Darren, I don’t know.  Just go, please.  Your career’s at a pivotal point.  You need to put forth a good public image.  You need to keep your fans.”

The hollow tone is just an echo of mocking, and Darren knows.  Chris is parroting right back every half-assed reason Darren gave him to try and smooth things over, and so everything Michael’s ever said.  There would be no quick fix this time.  The panic edges up and Darren grabs his own shirttail to stop his shaking hands.

“Chris, I--” he’s so desperate but his voice breaks, and the words stick.

“Darren.”  His eyes are back and Darren almost sobs for joy, because even empty and sad those eyes are his his his.  Chris fixes him with a steady gaze, one hard enough to make the most arrogant guy in the bar back off, as he’s seen in action.  Darren doesn’t flinch.

“I love you.”

Darren locks his knees to keep himself from collapsing.  If he could only find words-- thank god, oh shit Chris--

“Please go.  Michael’s going to start calling.  I’ll be here when you get back.”

Darren can feel Chris’s eyes on his back all the way to the stylist’s house.  He types a dozen versions of a text message, deletes them all.  Ignores two calls from Michael and five from Mia.

Michael’s furious, but even when hard-pressed Darren can’t remember a time when he wasn’t.  She’s insufferable, fussing with her too-short skirt and picking invisible lint off his shoulders until Darren wants to scream.  He breathes, in-two-three-four... out-two-three-four... .  Michael keeps up a constant stream of reprimands in a not-so-subtle hint to Darren that Mia’s there for insurance, to make sure no one gets any crazy ideas. 

Crazy ideas that might start dancing around the truth.

He messes with his phone on the pretense of checking emails, flipping through picture after picture of Chris’s smiling face to try and stay grounded, to keep himself from the breaking point, to try and remember exactly why he puts up with this: so he and Chris can be safe.

Mia’s loudest shriek yet pulls his attention, but a quick glance out the blacked-out windows confirms that they’re not at the venue yet.  Darren spares her a look, willing himself to stay civil.  “Should I even...?”

“Oooh no wonder you’re all up on Krispie Treat.  Hot damn.”

Keeping his lips clamped to stop the bile rising in his throat, Darren cuts an angry glare at her and sees-- oh.

He can’t stop himself from reaching for the screen, a gut reaction.  Oh god his face. And that gloriously uninhibited collarbone nearly stops Darren from noticing.

His eyes fill with tears without his permission at that stupid wonderful cuff, the one Darren knows has his own name scribbled on the inside in Sharpie, just something silly that has become... this.  A beacon of hope.  A sign of peace.  They’re okay.

Darren presses his palm flat against the circle of metal in his pocket, careful of Michael’s watchful eyes.  Later he’ll put it on and remember Chris’s mouth taking it off, Chris’s fingers twisting it as he whispers hot in his ear.

Darren takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, running over his song again under his breath.