#littled0ve

one. the first time, they’re working late in the library at milner and borden. by the time the clock ticks past ten-thirty, they’re alone save for the occasional first year paralegal or intern who shuffles through the stacks, striving to make a good impression on the boss by working long hours. everyone else has families to get home to, husbands or wives or kids or roommates waiting for them to come home so that they can get along with their evenings and their lives. colby supposes that he does too, but he makes the quiet but conscious decision to stay and work, always having some excuse for why things demanded his immediate attention. as for patrick? he’s not sure why he stays but he’s glad that he does. colby’s phone beeps softly and he glances up across the small table that they’ve both littered with legal pads and stacks of documents. patrick is bent over a brief, his nose inches from the page, eyebrows wrinkled over and forehead creased. as colby watches, the tip of his tongue pokes out from behind his lips in concentration. it doesn’t matter what hour it is — colby realizes that there’s nowhere that he would rather be than right in his chair. ”patrick, i—“ there’s a soft rustle in the stacks as someone turns a page and colby scratches his nose with the tip of his pen. pushing back from the table, he stands up. ”i’m grabbing a coffee from the break room. do you want one?”

two. colby is running late for a meeting. he hadn’t meant to sleep over at patrick’s in the first place, but they had both fallen asleep on the couch sometime in the early hours of the morning talking about their childhoods and even the awkward angle of his neck hadn’t been enough to rouse him. and he certainly hadn’t meant to forget to set an alarm on his phone, since he was no longer asleep next to his usual alarm clock in his own bedroom. by the time the sun is peeking through the curtains of the living room and he’s being woken up by the natural light, colby is in full-out panic mode. he has never been a master of the ten second shower but he somehow manages it, using his finger to brush his teeth as he goes. his shirt is wrinkled and he has to borrow one of the ties that is looped over the back of patrick’s closet door to avoid complete public embarrassment. there’s no time for coffee and he can’t figure out where all of the papers that he had been looking over the night before are — until he sees patrick standing next to the door with his briefcase, neatly packed and ready to go. the wave of relief and gratitude that washes through colby’s body is instantaneous as he strides towards the door to take the briefcase out of patrick’s hand. ”thank you so much.” his head is shaking as he leans forward to press a kiss against patrick’s lips. ”i—“ then his phone buzzes insistently with an incoming message and colby’s eyes flicker downwards and his tone changes as he groans, ”—‘m so, so late. i’ll see you at work,” before rushing out the door.

three. the ride home from the hospital is quiet, both patrick and colby absorbed in their own thought. the antibiotics that they gave colby for the burn (it was really stupid, in hindsight, to prioritize rescuing the dumb birthday cake over listening to every piece of kitchen safety that he had ever learned) make him a little light-headed. he stares at patrick from the passenger seat — looking out the window made his head swim in dangerous ways, anyways. ‘today,’ colby decides, feeling a little loopy as he looks towards the other man, ’today i’ll tell him how i feel.’ it is a relief to get home, back to patrick’s apartment, where he can flop down on the couch. as he collapses, the long burn scorched across his arm scrapes the fabric of his jacket and he winces. “i’m an idiot,” he declares as he looks up into patrick’s concerned face. he glances down to find that their hands are both poised, slowly mimicking each other’s movements. as patrick’s fingers wind their way down his coat, undoing each individual button, colby does the same to his own as they fall into sync. colby thinks of his mother’s words, telling him that his hands always shook because he lacked the confidence that a politician needed to succeed. but colby’s hands aren’t shaking now. “only compared to me,” patrick teases gently and colby can only smile. inevitably, being around patrick makes being called stupid lose some of it’s sting. “oh, shut it,” he retorts, before pulling patrick down to kiss him. and patrick, of course, kisses brilliantly, alternating between pressing hard against colby’s lips, daringly invading his mouth with his tongue, and then pulling back so the kiss is feather light, a mere brush. and colby, stupid colby, forgets all about promises and declarations under the onslaught of patrick’s soft, wet, willing lips against his own.

four. colby has no problem typing the words onto his laptop. the problem is that he’s doing it at two in the morning and patrick finally has the sense to tell him that he’s had enough. “colb, come on,” comes the groggy voice as the older man comes out of the bedroom. “can’t you type that loudly in the morning, when we’re both awake?” “sorry, but this is too good,” colby insists, typing even while talking from the couch. “i’ve got some good stuff for my closing argument and it really needs to all come out while it’s there in my head, for posterity.” patrick groans, dragging his feet to the couch to read over colby’s shoulder as he continues to type. there’s almost a hint of amusement in his voice as he points out, “you used that analogy in your first cross-examination. and you used that reference twice in the last case. and the rest of it was in your introductory case speech two years ago.” colby examines his words over again and lets out a heavy sigh as the realization that patrick was right sinks in, not bothering to ask how he remembered all that about his previous work in the first place. “great. now i have to rewrite the whole thing in six hours. so much for sleeping tonight.” “stop.” without asking, patrick picks the laptop off colby’s lap and moves to sit next to him. he briefly skims the document and then starts to type even more quickly and loudly than colby had been moments before. despite cringing from the noise and running on exhaust fumes, patrick has the whole speech rewritten and proofread in twenty minutes — a speech that looks completely like it was written by colby himself, with barely anything plagiarized from the younger man. colby looks at patrick in amazement as he comes to that realization as he reads through it. “patrick this is… it’s perfect. it’s… i love it!” “good, now thank me by going to sleep,” patrick murmurs, even as he drags colby back toward the bedroom with him as soon as he’s pressed the save button. the relief that colby feels is so palpable, his exhaustion so real, that he forgets by morning that there is another word besides “this” that he thought of saying after “i love.”

five. the next time, colby doesn’t remember falling asleep on patrick’s chest while they watch the phillies game. the phillies were ahead at least three runs when he last checked, but suddenly it’s the ninth inning and they’re down one heading into the bottom of the inning. the remnants of the chinese that they had ordered in is still open on the coffee table in front of them, not enough to salvage any leftovers from. he doesn’t move to rub the sleepiness out of his eyes, instead letting them track upwards into patrick’s face. the other man’s eyes are trained on the tv and he can see the reaction in them at every strike, ball and foul call. a soft smile graces colby’s face as he watches him, keeping his breathing slow and still. there’s something whispering in the back of his mind, a soft insistence that grows louder the longer he lays like that, staring upwards into the hazel eyes up above him. the whispers begin to form words, words that terrify him but that he finds himself wanting to say anyways. after a long minute, they’ve worked their way all the way to his tongue and he parts his lips to say them out loud — and then his phone rings, a loud and intrusive noise that sets his nerves on end as he jumps and reacts, far too quickly for someone who was supposed to be asleep. as colby’s fingers move instinctively to mute the call, he sees willow’s face on the caller id, smiling out at him. as he puts the phone back down on the couch, he whispers a muted, ”sorry,” to patrick, his earlier words suddenly far, far from the tip of his tongue.

+one. 

the world is exploding. the earth is ripped asunder. dirt and sad fill the air, his nose, his lungs. it clouds his eyes with grit and ash, but the flames are bright against his lids, hot against his face and lashes. people die, smaller explosions ricochet, he cannot hear himself screaming, but his throat is raw, torn open like the ground that swallows him — and then colby wakes up, to darkness, to dampened sheets and salty cheeks. his comforter is on the floor. as his hand clutches his shirt, he tries to slow his frantic heart. colby shudders at the vividness of the dream, gasping into the silence of his room. but then he notices the muffled tires on pavement and the soft rain pattering against the window and — the sounds of a bow, plucking expertly at the strings of a fiddle.

it’s three in the morning.

it’s not often that patrick plays his fiddle — it’s even more rare that he plays it at odd hours of the night. colby is a heavy sleeper; there is never any danger of waking him with the music. but when patrick took to playing his fiddle at this time of night, it was because he was in a mood, one that abandoned his usually impeccable manners and simply didn’t care for the tolerances of anyone who was around, and the music that came from his bow spasming on the strings was brittle, hard, and noisy. it screeched. but this was not noise. this was mendelssohn, this was music, and it came from right outside the bedroom door.

it’s beautiful in the smooth way it flows into the room and brushes his arms like a caress. it calms the breath in his lungs and soothes the pounding of his heart. it empties the rush of blood from his ears, his veins, and the tremors in his body still. it clears the dream from his thoughts, leaving colby slowly blinking as it sings a soft fog from the corners of his mind, comforting, cocooning. and slowly, colby drifts with the song, sinking, smiling.

“i love you,” he whispers, reaching, sleeping.