#mostly comfort

You flicked the stove off and set the kettle down onto a different burner, grabbing the honey out of the cabinet and dutifully stirring in a spoonful and making sure that it was fully dissolved before placing the tea bag into the lightly sweetened water, giving it a lackluster stir.

“There you are, been lookin’ for you. Welcome back, cher.” Gambit’s cheerful voice rang out right as he wrapped his arms around your waist, the man wasting no time burying his nose against the back of your neck in order to breathe in the scent of your shampoo for a moment before giving a sigh of contentment and peppering little kisses across your shoulders. 

You let go of your cup, letting it sit on the counter to steep, and placed your hands over Gambit’s, which were resting on your midsection as he gently rocked the two of you. His clinginess wasn’t anything new –Gambit was naturally a very tactile person after all, especially with people he liked– but his needy behavior always seemed to escalate whenever you two were separated for more than a day.

This time, it was you that had been sent out on a mission –one that ended up lasting a total of three days– which meant that it’d been four days total since you’d seen Gambit, and that was reflected in the borderline desperate way he held onto you, like you’d suddenly disappear if he let go.

“I'm okay.” You said, only to immediately wince when your voice came out noticeably hoarse, like you hadn’t used it in awhile. You tried to clear your throat, but the attempt immediately devolved into a coughing fit –your lungs crackling in a concerning manner– and you shoved Gambit away from you so that you could rush over to the sink, leaning over the edge as you hacked up some phlegm and spit it into the metal basin with a look of disgust.

“Tu te sens bien? Somethin’ wrong, mon cœur? You bein’ real quiet.” Gambit murmured against your shoulder  and you braced yourself for him to implement his usual tried and true method of needling at you until you gave in and told him what was bothering you.

“Alright, fine, you caught me. I'm sick.” You admitted defeatedly once you realized that there was no hiding it anymore, your shoulders slumping as you miserably shuffled back over to where you had left your tea, pulling the bag out and throwing it away.

“Sick? Why didn' you say somethin' earlier?” Gambit repeated as he stared at you with visible concern, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out and take you back into his arms, but he didn’t. Whether it was because he didn’t want to catch whatever you had or because he was upset with you, you weren’t sure. “Have you seen the doc, uh, Jean?” He continued as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his hip against the counter as he waited for your response.

“Um… no?” You replied slowly, a nauseating mix of guilt and defensiveness bubbling up your throat as you watched Gambit’s expression instantly morph into one of mild disappointment. “It's not like I planned on taking a dip into freezing cold water, but Logan fell in and needs must.” You snapped, frowning at the memory of watching Logan sink beneath the waves after being tackled into the water, the panic you’d felt when you realized that he was falling fast and you might not reach him in time.

Who knew that having a metal-coated skeleton made it a bit difficult to swim. If you hadn't gone in after him like you did, Logan would have most likely drowned, unable to get back to the surface by himself.

“Mon dieu, you stubborn idiot.” He muttered under his breath as he shook his head, reaching up to briefly pinch the bridge of his nose between two fingers before finally letting his hand brush against your back, rubbing up and down your spine soothingly until the tension in your body –which you hadn’t even noticed– eased.

“Yeah, well, you’re not any better.” You said petulantly, though most of the righteous anger you’d felt had already dissipated since you knew rationally that Gambit was right… as he usually was when it came to your recklessness and inability to properly take care of yourself, the man having had first hand experience with your self-destructive tendencies.

You swallowed hard, your lips pressing into a thin line as you tried to ignore how talking so much agitated your raw, scratchy throat as you picked up your mug and took a slow sip of your tea, hoping to help ease the discomfort since it didn’t seem like Gambit would be willing to drop the subject anytime soon, being the overprotective boyfriend that he was.

“But we not talking ‘bout Gambit right now, cher. We talkin’ bout you.” Gambit stated and, despite his words, there was no real bite to them. If anything, he sounded more affectionate than anything else as he spoke, his hand never faltering as it continued to idly glide over your back. “You and Wolvie should’ve been more careful.” Gambit added on as an afterthought as he pulled away, making his way over to the fridge and pulling it open in order to look at the contents.

Gambit said something else as he rummaged around the shelves, but it fell on deaf ears, your focus turned inward as the wording brutally reminded you of the fact that the last time you spoke with Gambit, it was during a pretty intense argument about how you needed to be more careful. An argument that luckily just ended in you promising to not put yourself in needless danger –if not for your own sake, than for Gambit’s continued peace of mind– before you left on the mission with Storm and Wolverine. 

A promise that you hadn’t hesitated to break the moment that someone’s life was on the line.

“Cher?” You heard Gambit call out to you and you blinked as you came out of the dark place your thoughts had led you to, glancing up to meet Gambit’s worried gaze. And whatever he saw in your face had his expression softening as he reached out to gently cup your cheek, brushing a calloused thumb under your eye.

“Sorry.” You mumbled quietly while sniffling miserably, your fingers twitching where they were wrapped around warm porcelain as remorse made your already congested, aching chest feel tight. 

“Don' do that. You got nothin’ to apologize for.” Gambit reassured, his tone light as he set the labeled container he’d been in the middle of scrutinizing back into the fridge in order to give you his full attention, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that never failed to make you feel like prey.

“But I broke my promise? To be more careful? You must be mad at me.” You said nervously, your eyes welling up with frustrated tears as you stared down at your cooling cup of tea in order to avoid meeting Gambit's gaze, terrified of the disappointment that you might see there since you weren’t in a good enough headspace to emotionally handle Gambit being upset with you.

The air in the kitchen shifted and an involuntary shiver rolled down your spine at the tension that had abruptly filled the room, looking up to find Gambit suddenly standing right in front of you without having made a sound.

You waited for the inevitable fallout now that you’d pointed out that he had every reason to be furious with you, but he remained silent. He didn’t scold. Didn’t sigh or roll his eyes or crack a joke to deflect like he normally would have when the conversation became too heavy. Instead, he gently pried the mug from your hands in order to set it aside and then cupped both of your cheeks with warm palms until you had no choice but to hold his gaze.

“Listen here, mon amour,” He murmured, pausing for a moment to make sure that you were paying close attention before continuing. “You jumped into arctic water to save Logan’s thick skull from sinkin’ to kingdom come… after promisin’ me you’d take care? Yeah, that stings a little.” He admitted with a little laugh, a half-smile tugging at his mouth that somehow looked sad and proud all at once as he stared into your eyes, his thumbs dutifully sweeping away the occasional tear that slipped past your waterline.

“But mad? Non, cher. Never.” Gambit whispered like a confession as he leaned in and pressed his forehead against yours with a gentleness that felt like forgiveness. Your eyes drifted closed and you reached up to cling to his wrists, not because you wanted him to let go or because you wanted to get away, but to simply ground yourself as you matched his steady breathing. “You slipped on one promise while on the job. Shit happens, mon amour. I know dat as well as you do… don't mean it don't scare me near stupid.”

You let out a weak chuckle when he pulled away just far enough to plant a light kiss on the tip of your red nose, his own quiet huff of laughter blowing out across your face. You opened your eyes and your heart did something funny in your chest when you were met with Gambit’s boyish smile, the one that was reserved for you and only you; raw and real and nothing like the usual charming grin he used to get out of trouble.

You both took a moment to recover from the emotional moment you’d shared before Gambit pressed one last kiss to your forehead before stepping away, returning to the fridge in order to collect the container he’d been looking at earlier and bring it over to the stove before squatting down and searching one of the lower cabinets for a pot.

“Now sit down before you fall over and let me make you somethin'. Might even let you have some sweet potato ice cream if Gambit’s feelin’ generous.” Gambit said with a lopsided grin, and you took his advice and sat down at the breakfast bar, watching his long fingers reach for the various ingredients on the counter with practiced ease. “But you better not shut me out next time, hear? Ain't nothin' you go through I ain't willin' to face beside you, even if it's just a damn head cold.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” You agreed with a small smile, lifting your cup back into your hands so you could breathe in the steam before taking a long sip, watching Gambit begin puttering around the kitchen over the rim of your mug.

Though, it wasn’t long before the tea alone wasn’t enough to keep you warm, your incessant cold rearing its ugly head and making you shiver in your over-sized hoodie, suddenly freezing despite the comfortable –bordering on warm now that Gambit was cooking– temperature of the kitchen. And you silently cursed when you realized that the sudden chill that you couldn’t shake was a surefire sign of a developing fever.

You debated the merits of getting up and making the exhausting trip to the living room in order to take one of the throws from the couch to wrap up in but, before you could even get up, Gambit turned away from the stove, pausing when he noticed that you were shivering. He abandoned the pot bubbling away on the burner and crossed the room in two quick strides, hurrying over to your side in order to press the back of his hand against your forehead, checking your temperature.

“Merde, cher, you’re far too warm.” He tutted under his breath when he felt the heat radiating off you, the Cajun brushing a strand of damp hair from your temple. Then, in one smooth motion, he took off his signature trench coat and swung it around your shoulders like a cape, fussing with it like a mother hen until he was satisfied. “Dat should do for now.”

You pulled the coat tighter around yourself as Gambit returned to the stove, waiting until his back was turned to you before caving into the urge to bury your nose into the collar of his coat to inhale the scent of cologne and musk that lingered on the fabric, staying like that until a new scent began to fill the air.

You emerged from Gambit’s coat and perked up with thinly veiled interest as the delicious smell of something smoky filled the kitchen, your stomach giving a grumble of complaint as it reminded you that you had had nothing to eat but some applesauce all day due to your throat being sore. You eagerly leaned forward in your seat in order to try and get a better look at what it was that Gambit was cooking on the stove.

Sir Crocodile doesn’t do sick days. He never has. 

So when you woke up, your voice as raspy and rumbled as a Sea King, he acted accordingly…with the grace of a cactus.

“..morning..*kaghk*..wani”

His eyebrow raised, still shirtless in the shared bed between you two, and softly nudged your face away immediately with his hook. “..Mmm, absolutely not, babydoll.” 

You give a small grumble and whine, turning to face your husband, pawing at his chest. “..waniii.” you croaked out.

“Amore, you’re staying in bed. No exceptions.” He side eyed, lifting the blanket just enough to keep you covered, while he gets up, his cigar and whiskey scent lingering in the mattress sheets. He turned his back away from you, opening the closet to get ready for his day out of bed.

“but-hakk—hackkkt—hhchkk-” It sounded so painful, just by hearing it–your chest buckling and convulsing. “-it's just the common cold, dear.”

Crocodile had just started buttoning up his white undershirt—two buttons done, the third half-looped—when he heard your lungs fighting with themselves. He took a deep exhale and slowly, turned his head toward you, and crossed back to the bed, with all the sentiment of a man who would rather get cold seawater dumped on him than to admit his love to his wife aloud to anyone else.

“Exactly why,” He muttered, brushing hair away from your face, before leaving a soft kiss on your scalp without hesitation–“you’re staying in bed.”

You attempted what might've been a pout, but with your face half-buried in the pillow and your nose completely blocked, it came out more like a congested scowl. "You can't just—snrf—imprison me in my own bed—"

"Watch me." He straightened up, resuming his button routine with renewed focus. "I'll have someone bring up food. Medicine. Whatever." Each button clicked into place with finality.

"Waniiii—" You reached out dramatically, like some tragic heroine in a stage play.

He didn't even look back. "That won't work."

"But I love youuu—"

"Still won't work."

"I'm dying—"

"You have a cold." He shrugged on his coat, then his fur one, the massive thing settling on his shoulders like a warlord's mantle. "You'll survive."

You watched him check his rings, his hook, the small adjustments he made every single morning. The morning light caught on the gold, on the polished surface of his hook, and you felt a surge of stubborn affection mixed with congested misery. Then, just as he reached the door, you played your final card: a pathetic, rattling cough that sounded like your lungs were filing for divorce.

His hand froze on the doorknob.

You coughed again for good measure. Really sold it this time. Added a little wheeze at the end.

"...Unbelievable." He turned around, and the look on his face was somewhere between annoyed and resigned. "You're weaponizing your illness."

"Is it working?" you rasped, batting your eyelashes. Or trying to. They were kind of sticky.

He stared at you for a long, long moment. Then he yanked his fur coat back off with one aggressive motion and tossed it onto the chair. "You're more trouble sick than you are healthy, and that's saying something."

"So you're staying?" Your voice pitched up with delight—then immediately cracked into another coughing fit.

"I'm making a call." He pulled out his Den Den Mushi, and the snail's eyes immediately shifted—becoming sharper, more severe, the entire expression hardening into something unmistakably Daz Bones. "Daz. Clear my morning schedule."

"Sir?" The snail's mouth moved with Daz's distinctive monotone. "Is there an emergency?"

"Because I said so." His eye twitched. "No, there's no emergency. No, we're not under attack." His gaze slid over to you, and you gave him your sweetest, most innocent smile. "My wife is...indisposed."

"...Indisposed," Daz repeated, and even through a snail you could hear the careful neutrality. "Should I send a doctor?"

"She's sick, Daz, not—no, I don't need you to send a medic. Just—" He set the Den Den Mushi down on the dresser for a moment, dragging his hand down his face in exasperation before picking it back up. "Soup. Send someone with soup. The good kind. Not whatever slop the kitchen usually makes. And tea. That herbal nonsense she likes."

"...Understood, sir. Anything else?"

"No. And Daz?" His voice dropped dangerously. "Not a word to anyone."

"Of course not, sir."

He hung up, and you couldn't help but notice the snail looked almost relieved as its features returned to normal.

You stared at him, stunned. "You just…canceled your morning for me?"

"Don't get used to it." He settled into the chair beside the bed, pulling out a stack of paperwork from seemingly nowhere. "I'll work from here. You stay in that bed, or so help me—"

"You do love me." You grinned, all dopey and congested.

He didn't look up from his documents. "Debatable at the moment."

"You're sitting with me."

"I'm supervising. There's a difference."

"You canceled meetings."

"I postponed them." He scribbled something with sharp, irritated strokes. "Temporarily."

You snuggled deeper into the blankets, watching him work. His brow furrowed in concentration, cigar smoke curling lazily upward, the scratch of pen on paper filling the comfortable silence. It was…nice. Domestic, even, in a way that seemed absolutely contradictory to everything Sir Crocodile represented to the outside world. Here he was, one of the most feared men in the criminal underworld, doing paperwork in a bedroom chair because his wife had a cold.

After a few minutes, you reached out and tugged gently on his coat sleeve.

He glanced over, eyebrow raised.

"Can you read to me?"

"...Excuse me?"

"Your documents. They're boring enough to put me to sleep." You gave him your most pitiful look. "Please?"

He stared at you like you'd just asked him to dance a jig. "You want me to read you…financial reports?"

"Mmhm. Your voice is nice."

"My voice is—" He stopped himself, looking physically pained. "You're delirious. That's what this is. Fever delirium."

"No fever," you countered smugly. "Just a cold, remember? You said so yourself."

He looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this exact moment. Then, with the long-suffering sigh of a man who knows he's already lost, he cleared his throat. "Fine. But don't blame me when you're bored to tears." He lifted the first document. "Quarterly earnings report for the western trade routes. Revenue increased by fifteen percent compared to last quarter, primarily due to—"

You were smiling. He could see it even though you'd turned your face into the pillow.

"—reduced naval interference and optimized shipping schedules. However, operational costs have also risen by eight percent due to—are you even listening?"

"Mmhm. Keep going. S'nice."

He huffed but continued, his deep voice rumbling through facts and figures, and you felt yourself starting to drift. Somewhere around the part about "projected growth in the eastern sectors," your breathing evened out.

Crocodile noticed immediately. He stopped mid-sentence, watching your face go slack with sleep, and felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest. Sentiment. Disgusting.

He set the papers down quietly and stood, moving to your side of the bed. You'd kicked half the blankets off already—typical—so he pulled them back up, tucking them around you with more care than he'd ever admit to using. His hook brushed against your cheek, cool metal against warm skin, and you made a small noise in your sleep.

"Inconvenient," he muttered, but there was no heat in it.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He crossed the room in three strides, opening it just enough to see one of the newer subordinates holding a tray. The man looked absolutely terrified.

"S-Sir, the soup and tea you requested—"

Crocodile took the tray without a word. The subordinate seemed frozen, staring past him toward where you were sleeping.

"Is the lady alright? We heard she was—"

"Fine. She's fine." Crocodile's voice dropped to something dangerous. "And if I hear that anyone has been gossiping about my wife's condition, I'll personally ensure they regret having a tongue to wag. Understood?"

"Y-Yes sir! Understood, sir!"

"Good. Now get out."

The door closed with a quiet click. Crocodile set the tray on the bedside table, looking at the spread. They'd actually listened—the good soup, the herbal tea you liked, even some honey on the side. He'd have to remember whoever prepared this. Maybe not kill them during the next budget cut.

He settled back into his chair, paperwork forgotten. Instead, he just…watched. Your chest rising and falling, the occasional congested snore, the way your hand curled under your chin.

Pathetic, really.

That he'd been reduced to this. Canceling meetings. Reading financial reports like bedtime stories. Threatening subordinates over soup preparation.

His wife. His beautiful, stubborn, currently-ill wife.

About an hour later, you stirred. Your eyes cracked open, immediately finding him still sitting there, and you smiled—small and tired but genuine.

"You stayed."

"I said I would."

"Thought you might've been lying. To make me sleep."

"I don't lie to you, babydoll." He leaned forward, pressing the back of his hand against your forehead. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a Sea Train," you admitted. "But better. Because you're here."

"Sentiment will get you nowhere."

"Got you to stay home, didn't it?"

He couldn't argue with that. Instead, he reached for the tea. "Drink. It's probably lukewarm by now, but it'll help."

You struggled to sit up, and he was there immediately, propping pillows behind you with an efficiency that would've been impressive if it wasn't so obviously practiced. You took the cup, wrapping both hands around it.

"You're good at this," you observed.

"At what?"

"Taking care of people."

"I'm not—" He stopped himself, looking uncomfortable. "I'm ensuring you recover quickly so you stop being a nuisance."

"Right. That's definitely it." You took a sip, and the warmth felt like heaven on your throat. "Thank you, Wani."

He grunted in response, but you caught the way his expression softened. Just a fraction. Just enough.

"If you tell anyone about this," he warned, "I'll deny everything."

"Your reputation is safe with me, dear." You coughed, then added, "Though I think Daz already knows you're soft for me."

"Daz knows to keep his mouth shut."

"Does he know you read me financial reports to help me sleep?"

"That was a one-time thing."

"Was it?" You gave him a knowing look over the rim of your cup. "Because I'll probably need help falling asleep again later. I'm very sick, you know. Might need several more readings."

He stared at you. You stared back, picture of innocence except for the mischievous glint in your fevered eyes.

"You," he said slowly, "are the most manipulative woman I've ever met."

"You married me."

"Clearly a lapse in judgment."

"Take it back."

"No."

You coughed pointedly.

He rolled his eyes. "You're also the most important person in my life and I'd burn the world down before I let anything happen to you. Happy?"

"Extremely." You beamed at him, then immediately ruined the moment by sneezing directly into your teacup.

Crocodile looked like he was contemplating murder.

"...I'll get you a new cup."

"My hero," you said, congested and completely sincere.

And despite everything—the ruined morning, the ridiculous situation, the fact that he was currently playing nurse to a woman who was absolutely milking this for all it was worth—Crocodile found himself almost smiling as he went to get fresh tea.

Almost.

Because Sir Crocodile definitely didn't do sick days.

But for you?

Well.

Maybe he could make an exception.

The hospital was a haze of fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic. You remembered the paramedics, the cold air of the ER, and the dull, throbbing ache in your shoulder and ribs. You had a mild concussion and a hairline fracture in your clavicle—nothing life-threatening, but enough to keep you confined to a sterile room for a few days of observation and recovery.

As the nurse processed your intake forms, she had paused, looking at the tablet in her hand. "Your emergency contact has been called, he has asked us to let you know he's on his way"

Your heart had stuttered, a sensation more jarring than the crash itself. You had meant to change your emergency contact listed for months, you never thought you would end up in the hospital so you could put it off while you mourned your relationship. It was still Ryland.

You hadn’t spoken to Ryland Grace in a year. A whole year of silence, of avoiding the coffee shops you used to frequent, of almost sending him articles, nearly buying him silly shirts, of your mind wandering to him in the night. Now, your own procrastination was pulling him back into your life.

The door to the room creaked open about 15 minutes later. Ryland sort of spilled into the room, he was wearing a rumpled tee shirt(one of his signature goofy ones) and a baggy jacket, and his hair was a chaotic nest as if he’d been running his hands through it in a panic for the entire drive over. He looked exactly as you remembered: brilliant, frazzled, and wearing an expression of sheer, wide-eyed terror.

He stopped dead in the center of the room, his gaze locking onto yours. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the steady *beep... beep... beep* of the heart monitor. "You're alive," he breathed, his voice cracking slightly. As if he hadn't been sure, despite the fact you only sustained minor injuries "you came " you retort, your voice sounding small and raspy.

Ryland let out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh, and he practically collapsed into the plastic chair beside your bed. He didn't touch you—not yet—but he leaned in, his eyes scanning your face, the bandage on your forehead, and the sling supporting your arm with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.

"I got the call and I—I think I forgot how to breathe for a full minute," he rambled, the familiar cadence of his nervous energy returning. "I was in the middle of a lab demo, and I nearly knocked over a beaker of chemicals because my hands were shaking, and I just started driving. I didn't even realize I'd left my headlights on high until I hit the parking lot. Why didn't you change the contact? I mean, not that I'm complaining! I'm glad I was the one called! But it's been a year, and I thought... I thought maybe you'd hate me enough to delete me from every single database in the tri-state area." You managed a weak, tired smile. "I didn't hate you, Ryland."

He looked away, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "Right. Yeah. Of course. We just... we drifted. Or I pushed. Or we both stopped pulling. It was a systemic failure of communication." Even in the middle of a crisis, he spoke in terms of systems and variables. It was one of the things you had loved about him—the way his mind categorized the world—and one of the things that had made your relationship so difficult. He lived in the abstract, in the theoretical, often forgetting that the person standing right in front of him needed something more tangible than a logical explanation.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his voice softening. "Sore," you admitted. "And tired."

"The doctor said a concussion," he explained, glancing at the chart at the foot of the bed. "Mild traumatic brain injury. Essentially, your brain took a little bounce inside your skull. Not a bad bounce, but enough to cause some inflammation and brain fog. You should be resting. Why are you talking to me? You should be sleeping." "I was. I'm awake now," you laughed.

Ryland finally reached out. His hand hovered over yours for a second, hesitant, before he gently rested his fingers against your skin. His touch was warm, familiar, and it sent a jolt through you that felt more potent than any medication the nurses had administered. You didn't pull away. Instead, you turned your hand over, interlacing your fingers with his.

He squeezed your hand, his grip tight, as if he were afraid you might vanish if he let go. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"Why? You didn't crash my car" you try to joke, blinking back hot tears "Not for that," he said, looking you in the eyes. "For everything else." You smile for the first time since the crash, "I know"

The first twenty-four hours were a blur of medication and fragmented sleep. Ryland didn't leave. He had called his department to tell them he was taking a personal leave, and he spent the hours in the uncomfortable hospital chair, reading aloud to you in a low, soothing drone when you couldn't sleep, or simply holding your hand while you drifted off.

It was a slow, tentative dance. The hurt that had simmered for the last year had been extinguished by the sheer terror of the accident, replaced by a fragile, aching vulnerability. You found yourself watching him when he thought you were asleep, watching the way he chewed his lip when he was thinking, the way he meticulously organized the water pitchers and tissues on your bedside table.

On the second day, the need for comfort decided settle in. The initial shock had worn off, leaving behind the raw edges of your shared history. "Why did you stay?" you asked him during a quiet afternoon. The sun was filtering through the blinds, casting golden slats across the linoleum floor. Ryland paused, his hand paused in the act of peeling an orange for you. "What do you mean?"

"Why didn't you just call a family member? Or a friend? You could have just told the nurse you'd notify someone else and left it at that. You didn't have to come here. Not after how we ended." Ryland set the orange slice down on a plastic plate and looked at you. The awkwardness was still there, but it was layered with something deeper—a profound, enduring affection.

"Because you were the one who called me," he said simply. "And because... well, logically, I've spent the last year trying to convince myself that I was better off focusing on my work, that the distractions of a relationship were hindering my productivity. But the second I heard you were hurt, all that logic just... evaporated. It was like a chemical reaction. One catalyst, and the whole structure collapsed. I realized that I don't care about the productivity. I just care that you're okay." You felt a lump form in your throat. "Ryland..."

"I missed you," he added, his voice barely a whisper. "I missed the way you challenge me. I missed the way you tell me when I'm being an idiot. I've had plenty of people, friends who agree with me or argue with me on a technical level, but no one who actually *knows* me. Not like you did."

You reached out with your good arm, brushing your fingers against his cheek. He leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. For a moment, the hospital disappeared. The smell of bleach and the sound of distant paging vanished, replaced by the memory of late nights in a shared apartment, the smell of old books and burnt coffee, and the feeling of being completely understood. "I missed you too," you admitted. "I hated that we stopped talking. I just didn't know how to start again."

"I'm a scientist," Ryland said, opening his eyes with a small, tentative smirk. "I'm usually much smarter than this, but..I dont know if I want to be this time"

Over the next few days, the conversations shifted from the accident to the gaps in your lives. You told him about your new job, the places you'd traveled, the way you'd learned to live in the silence he'd left behind. He told you about his frustrations with the school, his students, and softly, the crushing loneliness that had settled into his bones the moment you'd walked out the door last year.

There was a tenderness to his care that felt new. In the past, Ryland had been prone to neglecting the "small stuff"—forgetting anniversaries or losing track of time. But here, in the sterile confines of the ward, he was meticulously attentive. He made sure your pillows were fluffed, he advocated for you with the nurses when your pain medication was late, and he brought you a specific type of peppermint tea from a shop three miles away because he remembered it was your favorite.

One evening, as the nurses were finishing their rounds and the room dimmed into a soft twilight, Ryland was helping you sit up. He was being incredibly careful, his movements slow and deliberate as he supported your back. As he pulled away, he didn't move far. His face was inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. The air between you felt charged, heavy with everything that had been left unsaid for years. "Can I?" he whispered, his eyes searching yours.

You didn't answer with words. Instead, you leaned forward, closing the gap. The kiss was hesitant at first, a question asked in the dark. It tasted of peppermint and longing. It was a reconciliation, a bridge being rebuilt brick by brick. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily. "I'm not letting you change your emergency contact again," he murmured. You laughed, a genuine sound that made your ribs ache, but you didn't care. "I think I can live with that."

The discharge process was a flurry of paperwork and instructions. Ryland insisted on driving you home, treating you like you were made of the finest, most fragile porcelain. He helped you into the passenger seat, buckled your seatbelt for you, and drove at a speed that was probably ten miles under the limit.

Once you were settled back into your own home—a place he hadn't seen in a year—the reality of the situation set in. You weren't the same people they had been all that time ago. The edges had been sanded down; the arrogance had been replaced by humility, and the silence had been replaced by a hard-won honesty. Ryland didn't leave that night. He stayed on your couch, though he spent most of the evening sitting on the floor by your bed, talking to you until you fell asleep.

The next morning he was up at six, making you breakfast and helping you ease up in bed. Pain meds and pancakes for breakfast. He chilled water bottles and made sure you weren't spending too long looking at screens.

Every ounce of care that had fizzled out of your relationship was pouring out in droves, kissing your forehead, checking on you every couple minutes, everything you needed and more.

The perfect moment came a few days after. You two were snuggled on the couch, watching a comedy show. Changbin still kept quiet instead of laughing at the jokes. You turned to look at him and asked.

'Changbin?'

'Yes sweetheart?'

'I don't mean to pry...but are you okay? You've been off these past few weeks and I don't know what's wrong. Won't you tell me what's going on? I'm getting worried about you'

His eyebrow raised as he looked at you, trying to figure out your intent. His soft smile quickly turned into a scowl as he sat up on the couch to face you.

'You're getting worried about me? So what? You decide it's okay to ask me when I finally have a break?! When my guard is down cause I'm tired?'

'That's not why I....'

'I'm so sorry Y/N. So sorry I can't be happy go lucky 24/7. You know we have a new album release soon and I've been in the studio with 3RACHA these past weeks working deep into the night.' He throws up both his hands and raises his voice

'Changbin, I didn't mean it like that. I just....'

'After a busy day, all I want is just to relax on the couch with my partner. Not as an idol but as the human behind it, Seo Changbin! You know i've been busy! I can barely get a breather these past weeks! I just want a little bit of quiet! I'm tired, that's all. Actually, just...go home Y/N. We'll talk about this another time. '

You didnt expect that. Changbin had always been honest with you. You knew he wouldn't lash out without a good reason. Clearly something was bothering him, so why didn't he tell you? He knew you would never make fun of him, didn't he?

You sigh and shake your head. Whatever it is, it won't be resolved tonight.

'I don't know what's going on. I just don't like seeing you upset and down. You are my amazing and lovely boyfriend. I don't want you to feel less than anyone. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out, like we always do. Promise' you smile softly at him and give him a quick peck on the nose.

Changbins nose scrunches, his anger dissapating a little. 'Okay sweetheart, just...drop it for now okay? I'll see you soon, i'm just really tired and I want to get an early night'

You let out a deep sigh 'If that's really what you want...then okay. We will talk about it later. Sleep well Bin and see you soon'

- At Y/N's appartment -

Back home at your appartment, you drop your bag and hang up your coat. What could've upset him so? Are preparations not going well? Are the members being mean? No, they wouldn't just do that. So, what then?

You sigh and open up your Instagram account. The relationship between you and Changbin isn't public so you don't have to hide your identity online. As much as you'd love going public, you understand why you can't.

You start mindlessly scrolling trying to get your brain off of Changbin for a bit. That's when you find a video titled 'Changbin being way too loud again'.

Confused, you click on the video. It's a compilation of clips with Binnie. The first clip is of him rolling on the ground in mock pain after Seungmin shot a soft dart at his leg. The next clip is him during a fanmeet, dressed in pink with majestic angel wings and a sword? screaming as Lee know chases him with a sword of his own.

Unable to stop yourself, you start smiling at the video, giggling as Changbin gets startled in the haunted house or yelps when he's hit with a water gun during a SKZ code.

Silly binnie, you think. But then you read the comment section:

'Who does he think he is? Being so loud? Like he's allowed to do that when he's not even the visual?'

Another comments replied with 'yeah, it also just seems fake doesn't it? He's clearly doing it for attention. You're the least biased member, get over it already ugh!'

'Seriously, he thinks he's so amazing because he's in 3RACHA? Please, Chan and Han would be better off as a duo!'

You find a lot of these hate comments, they just keep going. Making fun of your sweet loving boyfriend. Your boyfriend, who works so hard and does so much for Stray Kids, 3RACHA and STAY. Never faltering or saying he's too tired and always ready to mediate for his members when neccesary.

Could this be the reason he's been down??

While it makes sense, he was usually able to brush these comments off with some support from you and his members...did he forget how much you all love him? Well, that can't happen now can it?

The following morning, you sent a quick text to Chan, asking if Bin can have the sunday off from 3RACHA duties. Chan readily agrees saying he deserves a day off. You explain the situation to him and suggest a group dinner at the dorm. Chan says he'll make the arrangements and promises to make the members not tell Changbin before you do.

Friday rolls around and you're back at the dorm. You had texted Changbin and Hyunjin that you were cooking tonight. You had spent the last hour making kimchi jiggae and some of his favorite ban chan. Around 7pm they both came barelling through the front door.

'Honey im hooome' hyunjin sang, chuckling at his own joke. He hung up his jacket and quickly retreated to the bathroom for a hot shower.

'Hello my lovely chef!' Changbin said as he wrapped his strong around around your front, giving you a tight back hug '-is all this work for me?'

You nod, turning your head to give him a kiss on the cheek 'yeah! I know you've been super busy with the comeback so I figured I'd cook dinner tonight'

'You're the best, you know that right? I'm sorry for lashing out last time. I'm feeling much better, promise! ' He says, nuzzling his nose into your neck. Changbin was always clingy after a long day, it helped him calm down and relax after work.

You chuckle 'You deserve it, you deserve all of it. Now, shower first then food. It's okay Bin, i'm glad you're feeling a bit better and I accept your apology. We can cuddle on the couch after dinner and I might have a little surprise for you! I think you'll really like this one too!' You hint before shooing him off. Soon after, both Changbin and Hyunjin remerge, make up removed, freshly showered and in comfortable clothes.

You give both of them a big bowl of kimchi jiggae, side dishes and rice. Dinner goes by quickly, the two men busy eating with big mouthfulls, making pleased noises every so often. The biggest compliment you can get as a chef: a silent dinner table.

After dinner, Hyunjin says he's doing the clean up so you pull Changbin over to the couch. You sit down and reach into your pocket. Retrieving a thin envelope.

'Surprise baby, open it' you hand it off to him.

He doesn't hesitate and does so. Inside are 2 tickets for an amusement park that's just a short drive from Seoul.

He looks at you, tilting his head like a confused puppy

'An amusement park? Baby, i'd love to but I have 3RACHA duties and...'

You shake your head, 'no, you HAD, past tense, Chan is giving you the day off so we can go.'

'He did? That's amazing, you're the best, he's the best. Wait! That's why he was so quiet today!! He promise not to spoil it, didn't he?'

You grin 'Yep! I wanted it to be a proper surprise. So...what do you think? Just you, me, rollercoasters and horribly unhealthy food for a whole day. How does that sound?'

He puts the envelope down and pulls you towards him, kissing you deeply. After the kiss he puts his forehead against yours 'Like a dream!' He breathes

You chuckle and kiss him back. 'Good. I'll be sure to pick you up around 9.

-Sunday-

As promised, you arrive bright and early at the dorm, letting Bin know you've arrived. He quickly comes down and you two drive to the park.

The first few hours of the day are spent in rollercoasters. Everytime you reach the top, you grab Changbins hand and scream stuff like 'oh my god' and 'its so high, its so high, AHHHHHH'

Changbin does the same, screaming loudly as you barrel through the curves and twists, not holding back anymore. ' Y/N, it's too high, it's going too fast!! AHHH'

After the 5th ride of the day, you two sit together on a park bench. Fresh hotteok in the one hand, Changbins arm wrapped around your shoulders.

'This is lovely, I'm so glad I asked Chan to give you the day off. You earned it.' you take a bite of your hotteok, quickly puffing out steam trying to not burn your tongue.

He chuckles and smiles 'Yeah, I really needed this. You always know what I need, don't you?' He sighs 'I'm sorry for yelling at you last week. It wasn't okay and I know you said it was fine but...'.

You shake your head 'Bin, don't worry, I know you've been so busy and I didn't mean to add to your stress...and then the fans did...' your hand covered your mouth but it was too late, Changbin had already heard it.

He shakes his head before looking down at his lap 'You saw, didn't you?'

You nod softly 'I did. I didn't go looking promise!! It just suddenly popped up on my feed. I didn't know those 'so called fans' were being mean to you again. I don't even want to call them fans when they act like that. You don't deserve that, any of it. Why didn't you tell me this was going on?'

'I didn't want to appear weak' he muttered, so soft that if you weren't sitting so close to him, you wouldn't have heard. 'I should just shrug it off and continue, right?' He's silent for a bit

'-but I couldn't this time. I just started thinking and once I started...I couldn't stop. Am I really that loud and obnoxious? Does STAY hate me? Would 3RACHA be better off without me? Should I just leave Stray Kids?'

You shake your head ' Absolutely not! Listen Bin, you know I'd never lie to you, right?' He gives a quick nod.

'Right, so let me tell you. I love your laugh, I adore how passionate you are and how full of life you are. Your members think so too and they appreciate all your hard work and passion. You're not obnoxious or annoying. You're my favorite person and that won't change. I love you exactly as you are. My amazing, strong, resilient, soft, cuddly and damn attractive boyfriend. Don't shrink yourself for people who don't even know you. I love you Bin, forever and always'

It's quiet for a while, until you hear a soft whimper. He collapses into your side and sobs quietely, tears running down his cheek and dropped onto his lap. You wrap your arm around him and pull him to your chest, holding him close, softly stroking his back.

'Oh Binnie, it's okay. I'm here, let it out, I've got you'

After a while, he slowly untangles himself and looks at you. Wiping his nose with his sleeve. Eyes bloodshot and hair all messed up.

'I don't know what I did to deserve you but I'm happy every day that you picked me. I love you Bunny. Thanks for holding me when I'm not strong"

You shake your head, teary eyed yourself 'Strong doesn't mean invulnerable Bin, you're allowed to hurt and I'm here to support you through it all. Ups and down. You're not getting rid of me that easily' You give him a teasing shove with your elbow. He lets out a loud laugh at your final comment.

You ruffle his hair and pull him up from the couch 'Come on! We have a few more attractions and only so little daylight left. Let's have some more fun'

- Back at the dorm -

When you arrived back at the dorm, the lights are off and it's quiet.

Changbin is first through the door 'Hyunjin? Hello? Anyone here? That's odd, I'm sure he said..'

'SURPRISE!!!' The lights flick on and there are all the members of Stray kids. Han is holding a balloon with 'best Hyung' on it and Felix has a box of his famous brownies.

'Hey hyung, how was your day? Y/Nnie invited us over for dinner and we heard you felt down about the comments. Soooo, here we are. Ready for a fun night? Lee know and Han brought party games and soju, so prepare for max mayhem' Seungmin proudly declared

Changbin blinked as he processed the info before a giant smile broke out all over his face and he yelled 'Hell yess! LETS GOOOO!!!'

The rest of the night was, as expected, loud. It didn't matter though, your Bin was finally smiling and back to his usual antics again. Laughing with 3RACHA and chasing Seungmin after he misbehaves.

Turns out, all he needed was just a little reminder: that no matter what anyone says, he has people who love him for him, exactly the way he is.

The end

He’s wrangled the 118, looped in Maddie, and even Athena to sleuth Evan’s favorite desserts, best-loved drinks, go-to songs, old photos that make him laugh. The miracle isn’t just that everyone’s set to show up – it’s that somehow, Tommy’s still standing in the middle of it. The hurricane hits tonight, and he’s desperate for the calm at its center.

He’s had a hell of a week himself. Long hours in the air, rescue after rescue under a failing power grid, helicopters slicing through heat haze as nature fought back with wave and wildfire. Then the bakery botched the cake order. The bar ran out of three ingredients on Evan’s cocktail list. The guest list shifted like the wind. It’s been one thing after another.

Tommy’s more than ready for a drink. Hell, he’s ready for a nap.

His head pounds with a low, insistent thrum, sweat sticking his jacket to his back. Every breath feels tight. It has to be the heat, the stress, the adrenaline. That’s all. Nothing more. He moves to the bar, checking in with staff, scanning every glass and garnish with a meticulous eye.

Eddie’s first through the door, Chris beside him.

“Can you believe he asked if he could drink at this thing?” Eddie gripes. “He’s fifteen, Tommy.”

Tommy offers a fist bump that Chris waves off. “Too cringe,” he declares, flopping into a chair like his soul just gave out.

People filter in, slowly at first, then all at once – Chim, Jee, Bo – Maddie is arriving later with Evan. The Wilsons with Denny and Mara already begging for cake. Athena with May and Harry. Trivia friends and basketball buddies brushing dangerously close to Evan’s arrival window.

Tommy’s pulse ticks higher. The dull ache in his head spreads down his jaw, and his throat burns with a quiet rasp every time he swallows. The lights feel too bright. There’s a low-grade nausea circling his stomach like a shark. He blames it on nerves. On everything he’s kept hidden these last few weeks, all the lies he told Evan just to pull this off.

He deserves this, Tommy thinks. Just a little longer.

Every time Evan asked about his birthday and Tommy told him he couldn’t get off work, his heart would break a little more, but as soon as he’d text Eddie or Maddie, they’d tell him to ‘Man up, Kinard – you’re weak. Don’t let his pout work on you!’

Then, finally – finally – the elevator dings.

Tommy’s palms are sweaty, his muscles shaking with either adrenaline or exhaustion, he can’t quite tell which. Curls shimmer in the light. Bright blue eyes widen in surprise and joy, and Tommy’s breath catches in his chest. Evan’s smile beams like an echo of the sun itself – and Tommy smiles right back. Uncontainable. Unstoppable.

Evan glows. Despite the heat, the hell of the last week, their time spent apart – he’s radiant. Beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be possible for someone who’s also probably running on coffee and willpower alone.

Tommy exhales a grateful, aching breath.

“Happy Birthday, Buck!” someone yells, and voices pick up from across the room. Evan grins, waving, making a slow arc through the room, but his feet always point toward Tommy. They haven’t pointed anywhere else – not since they reunited, maybe since the very beginning.

When Evan reaches him, he doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks. Fondly. With warmth and something that looks a lot like love. And then he kisses Tommy, soft and sure, his breath lime-sweet and tequila-warm, his hands gentle where they settle against Tommy’s hips.

“Happy birthday, Evan,” Tommy murmurs, lips barely leaving his.

“Thank you, Tommy.” Evan smiles again and their teeth collide softly.

If this is all Tommy gets, if this is his last breath, he’ll die a happy man.

It’s a perfect moment, if such a thing exists, and Tommy’s loathe to let it go, but they have celebrating to do and Evan has people to see, so he reluctantly pecks Evan once more before pulling away. He presses his hand against the small of Evan’s back and guides him to the bar.

“Two tequila shots,” Tommy says with a confidence he doesn’t feel. His throat burns just thinking about it. “And a couple of beers.”

Evan bounces between guests, charming and eager, soaking in every detail. He asks Tommy’s co-worker, Teddy, about his new fish – names them, remembers them – and then turns to Tommy with a sheepish whisper, “Wait, what was his name again?”

“Teddy,” Tommy chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re fascinating.”

Evan tilts his head and smiles at that, his cheeks rosy with the compliment, and by the time they’re two drinks deeper, the flush only grows. When they make their way to a table near the middle of the room, Tommy’s grateful for the chance to sit. His muscles ache, heavy and tired in a way he doesn’t remember feeling recently.

The headache has dulled, but Tommy can’t be sure if that’s just the buzz masking the pain for now, or if stress was the culprit. Goosebumps trail up his arms, despite the heat. He shudders, subtle, but not enough to escape Evan’s attention.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, forcing himself to sit up a little straighter. “Are you having fun?”

Evan nods, smiling, hand resting warmly on Tommy’s thigh. “I am.”

They’ve been chatting with friends for the last hour and Tommy feels like he might keel over at any moment. It’s not even 7:30 and he’s about ready to call it.

Instead, Tommy leans in, kisses Evan’s temple, and gestures to Maddie to join them. She does, and he rises carefully, bones heavier than they were ten minutes ago. “I’ll get another round. Maddie, anything?”

“Pinot, please,” she smiles.

When the pair of them turn to Tommy and smile, it’s a little bit like seeing kindness incarnate, their eyes glistening with emotion even in happiness.

Tommy turns away, his smile falling the second Evan’s no longer looking. He dabs sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, swaying just slightly. Another chill wraps around his spine. Every step takes just a little more effort, and every breath claws into the back of his throat. The headache spikes as he reaches the bar.

“Hot toddy,” he tells Atticus, the bartender, ignoring the wide-eyed look. “A glass of Pinot, and a beer.”

Atticus raises a brow but nods, and Tommy drops onto the barstool like he might never get up again.

“You okay, man?” Eddie asks, suddenly beside him, eyeing him like a hawk. He’s nursing a drink of his own, not a drop of sweat in sight.

“Me? Yeah. Just tired.” The smile he gives wavers on the upswing. His teeth might actually be chattering.

“Your face disagrees,” Eddie says, sitting at the stool next to Tommy.  

Tommy frowns, but nods. “I’m fine – it’s Evan’s night, I’m not gonna miss this.”

“Course not,” Eddie agrees easily. He takes Tommy’s wrist and glances at his watch, counting before turning to Tommy and shining his phone light over his eyes.

“Jesus,” Tommy groans, flinching at the glaring beam. “Christ, would you – stop – blinding me?”

“Pulse is fast. You’re pale. Sweaty.” Eddie hums, giving Tommy a clinical glare.

Tommy thanks God when Atticus returns with his drinks. He reaches for them, only for Eddie to intercept. “A hot toddy, Tommy? Really?”

“It’s refreshing,” Tommy lies. Poorly.

Eddie just scoffs, flagging Atticus again. “Hold on, Tommy. Can I get a glass of water? And – you got any Tylenol back there?”

Atticus delivers both with a sigh, and Eddie all but shoves them into Tommy’s hands.

“Tell me if you get worse.”

“Sure,” Tommy lies again. “Now, can I please go back to my boyfriend?”

Eddie waves him on, but follows like a watchdog. Standing behind Tommy like a hospital nurse, ready for him to fall at any given moment. Tommy’s a little grateful, if he’s being honest, but he’s mostly annoyed, and he turns to roll his eyes at Eddie before sitting back down beside Evan, the world spinning just slightly. Evan clocks the drink right away.

“Hot toddy?” Evan asks, “In this heat?”

Tommy just nods as he scoots his chair in, avoiding Evan’s gaze like the plague, hopeful he can remain seated the rest of the night and praying he survives with the world right-side up.

“Yo-you okay?” Evan asks, leaning in close and brushing his broad palm across Tommy’s shoulders. It’s just Tommy’s luck that when he does, another chill courses through him. He shudders again, and that’s it. “You’re sick.”

Tommy’s head shoots up in disbelief. He’s been working hard and thought he was doing a good enough job covering it, when really, he’s been walking the plank and preparing to dive headfirst into circling sharks below. “Am not,” is the best he’s got.

Evan just tilts his head and smiles sadly, “Are too.”

In Tommy’s already weakened state, he’s no match for Evan’s sympathy and caring looks. He wears his heart so openly, it’d be impossible not to buckle under it.

Instead, he changes the subject, desperate for a few more minutes of a perfect night with a man that means so much to him. “Did you see the card Chris made you with the motorized–”

“Tommy.”

“I can head home,” Tommy says quickly. “You stay. I’ll just head home and sleep it off.”

“And celebrate my birthday without you? No thanks.” Evan’s fingers brush through Tommy’s curls, palm lingering on the back of his neck, warming up each chill that courses through him. “Let me say goodbye an-and we can go.”

“No, Eva –” Tommy doesn’t even finish before Evan’s off, hugging Hen and Karen and thanking Athena and the kids. He’s so warm and heartfelt, Tommy blinks and Evan’s already circled the room, blinks again and finds himself face to face with Evan who’s crouching in front of him, hand outstretched.

“Let’s go, babe.”

Tommy already feels like his bones are made of lead but every minute that passes adds heaviness he can’t push away. By the time they make it to the car, Tommy’s throat is sore and his jaw aches with it. When he collapses into the passenger seat, he barely registers Evan shutting the door or starting the engine.

Streetlights flash against the dashboard and the crawl of traffic hums against the glass. Tommy’s sense of time dulls and he carries an exhaustion that’s heavy and worn. The radio plays softly in the background but he can’t make out the words, the edges of the world fuzzy and dark.

He's pulled from the darkness when they arrive home, the soft glow of his porchlight bouncing against the forest green of the door. He stumbles through it and Evan steadies him, the quiet rumble of his fond chuckle the only noise in the house.

Evan peels off his shoes carefully. Tommy’s jacket is removed with the same amount of careful kindness. An ice pack presses against his forehead. Another to his jaw. Even those small touches make him wince. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Your neck hurt?” Evan murmurs.

“Sore, yeah,” Tommy admits, and he’s been doing a great job of being upright until now but he’s worried if he’s not horizontal soon, his body will insist. Evan hums, and somehow it’s laced with care. It lasts only a second before he shifts, Tommy’s wrist held in his hand, fingers finding his pulse.

“I’m fine,” Tommy says, knowing he looks anything but. “Probably just a cold.”

Evan just sighs, moving gently and disappearing into the kitchen. Water runs. Cupboards open. He returns with a glass and helps Tommy down the hallway. They make a quick pit stop in the bathroom before heading to the bedroom, and Tommy’s planted on the side of the bed.

Evan carefully unbuttons Tommy’s shirt and pulls his arms out gently, quickly draping a t-shirt to replace it, so he’s not shivering in his fever-soaked skin for long. He moves to Tommy’s legs and takes off his socks and pants, lifting Tommy’s hips gently as he tugs them down and replaces them with sweatpants. He pulls the comforter back and eases Tommy onto the pillows, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead before slipping in beside him.

“Sorry about your birthday,” Tommy whispers in the soft space between them. “I wanted it to be perfect.”

“It is,” Evan says simply. “I already got everything I want.”

Tommy blames it on his fever, illness spiking his emotions, as tears burn behind his eyes and Evan brushes his thumb across his cheeks.

It’s the happiest Tommy’s ever been. Even with the heaviness of sickness, even with the night cut short, even tucked between the sheets in sweatpants in 100-degree weather. Tommy pulls Evan’s palm to his lips and kisses gently and exhales.

“Love you,” he whispers before drifting off.

*

*

Tommy’s out before Buck even has a chance to reciprocate – eyelids drooping shut, mouth slightly parted, slack with sleep. Threading his fingers gently through Tommy’s curls, Buck keeps his eyes on him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest as Tommy instinctively shifts closer, drawn to Buck like gravity.

He stays like that for a while, not usually one for quiet solitude, but with Tommy, it feels right. Time passes differently with him. Slower, softer. A perfect rhythm for the end of Buck’s birthday. He didn’t lie when Tommy asked if the day was perfect. Every day that ends with Tommy at his side is perfect. And Buck’s grateful for each one – especially knowing what it feels like without.

His own body grows heavier with the pull of sleep, and before long, his eyes slip shut. The night shimmers between the shades as he slumps lower into the pillows, curling his arm around Tommy as he drifts off beside him.

He’s yanked from a dreamless sleep by a wet, harsh cough, the rustling of sheets torn free and heavy footsteps stumbling across the room.

Buck blinks awake, abandoning the weight of sleep in favor of concern, worry that drips into his consciousness as he listens. He expects the telltale signs of retching from the bathroom, mumbling grogginess from a fever – instead all he hears is the continuous sharp cough that echoes as Tommy stumbles down the hallway.

Buck’s up in seconds, socked feet soft against the hardwood as he follows. He finds Tommy at the sink, hunched over under the silver flicker of moonlight through the window, glass clutched in shaking hands. He’s trying to drink but coughs between each swallow, a low wheeze lacing every breath. Dark rings hang below his eyes where the shimmer of his smile is dulled by a feverish haze.

“Hey. You okay, baby?” Buck murmurs as he steps closer.

Another rough cough – deeper this time, lands heavily on a wheeze, and his own chest tightens with worry. Buck’s no stranger to pain, experienced with broken bones and near-death injuries. But Tommy sounds like he’s drowning on dry land, his lungs eager for air they can’t seem to capture.

Tommy’s drenched in sweat but shivering, cheeks flushed under sickly pale skin. His hoodie’s pulled tight over his head, but his eyes are unfocused, swimming in fever. He looks wrecked.

Buck guides him to a chair at the kitchen table with gentle hands, watching as Tommy collapses into it, groaning softly. Buck fills another glass, sets it down, then grabs a washcloth and dampens it, kneeling to press it to the back of Tommy’s neck.

“Alright,” Buck says quietly, steadying his voice despite the knot in his chest. “You’ve got a fever, some chills. What else hurts?” He keeps the question gentle despite his still-racing heart, eyes tracking Tommy’s slurred response and still-trembling hands.

“Achy,” Tommy breathes out shallowly. “Throat hurts.”

Buck hums in acknowledgment, brushing his thumb over Tommy’s knee before rising and collecting supplies. He’s quick to take Tommy’s temperature while he grabs fever reducers, spotting the penlight tucked in the first aid kit.

“Okay. Let me see?” Buck gently presses his thumb against Tommy’s chin, urging him to open his mouth.

Tommy barely reacts, sluggishly opening his mouth. Buck lifts the light and peers inside – and swears under his breath.

Tonsils swollen, bright red, speckled with white. Definitely Strep.

Tommy winces, swallowing thickly as Buck lets out a quiet sigh and leans in, thumb grazing over the nape of his neck in comfort.

“I think it’s Strep, Tom,” he says gently.

Tommy groans and slumps forward, forehead landing against Buck’s stomach. Buck presses his hand to the back of Tommy’s neck again, soothing in slow strokes.

It’s not quite 5 a.m. If they wait an hour or two, urgent care will be open…way better than dragging Tommy to the ER. Buck hatches the plan quickly.

“C’mon,” he whispers. “Let’s get you back in bed – get a-a little more sleep. We’ll go right when they open an-and get you started on antibiotics.”

He feels Tommy nod faintly against him and carefully pulls him back to his feet. Once he’s tucked into bed, Buck moves around quietly, pulling together shoes, wallet, and a clean t-shirt.

He fills a thermos with tea, texts Maddie with an update – she responds almost instantly, warm and full of advice, even offering to drop things off. Buck can almost picture her, rocking with Bo, the sky just starting to lighten in the nursery.

By the time Buck’s dressed and everything is ready, it’s nearing 6:30, and he knows the urgent care opens at 7. Eager to get Tommy some relief, he peeks into the bedroom.

Tommy is curled up in a tight ball under the covers, snoring softly, face twisted with discomfort even in sleep. Buck’s heart clenches a little more. The urge to fix it – to shield Tommy from pain – nearly overwhelms him.

Just then, Tommy coughs and shuffles against the sheets, groaning as he turns. Buck steps in, crouches low, and brushes his hand through damp curls. “Hey,” he murmurs, “let’s get you checked out, and then you can sleep all day, alright?”

Tommy nods with a cough, groans low in his throat, but Buck waits. Eventually, Tommy swings his legs over the side, eyes glassy with fever. It’s slow going, but Buck has nowhere else to be. Nowhere he’d rather be.

They make it to urgent care, and the visit is mercifully quick. Positive strep test, prescription in hand. By the time they’re home again, it’s only mid-morning, but Tommy’s fading fast.

Tommy sinks into the couch, energy depleted. Buck removes his shoes, hands him a bottle of Gatorade and the little cup of neon pink liquid. It coats the tiny plastic cup and Tommy grimaces when he tosses it back, chasing it with Gatorade and a shudder.

“Like I’m 18 again,” Tommy rasps, voice dulled by pain but no less dry than usual.

“A-at least this won’t come with a hangover,” Buck says, grinning as he settles beside him. He lifts Tommy’s legs into his lap, rubbing gently at his socked feet.

“Wanna watch a movie?”

Tommy nods faintly, eyes already slipping shut. “You pick.”

Buck picks Star Wars – the prequels – and turns the volume down low. He tugs a blanket over Tommy’s legs and sinks into the cushions, one hand resting lightly on his shin, the other rubbing slow circles into his ankle.

Time moves like the tides, passing in swaths and pulling daylight with it, the quiet of the house a soft cocoon where just they belong, tucked in together – safe and warm.

Buck’s favorite birthday has always been his tenth. Maddie attempted to bake a cake for him with bright blue frosting and lopsided candles, tiny plastic action figures jammed into the top. He can’t even remember who graced the highest level, just her – the joy on her face, smile beaming down at him. A spark of happiness he saw less and less as they grew older.

Their parents were both working, dismissive of the importance of his first decade on earth, but not Maddie. She hung streamers from his ceiling fan, drew a banner of motorcycles and race cars, made him feel like the center of the universe.

To her, maybe he was at the time. She was certainly his.

He’s had a lot of birthdays since – some alone, one behind bars – and even with the 118, surrounded by love, he’s never quite felt like this.

Like someone’s universe again.

Until Tommy.

And maybe Tommy is sick and they’re running on four hours of broken sleep and electrolyte drinks, but if every birthday from here on out is just like this – just the two of them, choosing each other – Buck will count himself the luckiest man alive.

His tenth birthday was always his favorite.

Until now.

And next year, he’s sure he’ll say the same thing all over again.

Given that this is a bar he works at, the stalls often fill with every drunk imaginable. The quiet ones that need a moment to breathe, the guys who can’t keep their hands to themselves (who Eddie has to often throw out), a few who are completely sober and just there to piss, and then the oddball loner. But since they’re drunk—well, the bathroom is often the majority of their custodial staff’s paycheck. Eddie doesn’t handle all that vomit bullshit well, despite tending the very thing causing customers to do that.

It’s tonight, though—New Years Eve, forty minutes to midnight, forty minutes to 2023—that the very thing he hates leads him to the only thing he unconditionally loves. He’s cleaning up the spilled beer on his countertop when he gets the innate, incredible urge to pee. The bar is crowded, so he wrestles in another tender, and speeds away to the men’s restroom. Everything’s going according to plan, as much of a plan as there is when it comes to using a public bathroom, up until he hears it. Somebody in the stall adjacent to him, retching up their entire soul in the toilet bowl.

He winces, just finished drying his hands off, anxiety teeming like water about to boil over, and moves on autopilot to knock on the door. “Y’alright in there, man?” Looking at the bottom of the door, he spots only one pair of sneakers—some Nike Cortez that are roughed up and peeling, falling apart from how much they’ve been used—assuming is easy; the guy doesn’t have any buddies in the bathroom with him. “Noticing there’s nobody else but us in here right now,” Eddie comments. “Can I fetch somebody for you? Help you get home?”

The guy jerks with another sound, moaning miserably once he’s done. He flushes the toilet, but makes no other move. “Alone,” he musters, “she just left me here.”

Eddie bites his tongue. Failed New Years date. Oh, boy. He sighs quietly. “Do you, uh, have someone you can call? Or…uh, I could see if my manager’s free, she could order you a Lyft? They should be free tonight, considering everybody’s drinking.”

“I…I’ll be fine,” the stranger croaks, “been in here a while. I’m sobering. Barely had anything to drink, honest.”

“You think you’re done with the worst of it? Make your way outta the stall?”

“Why? So you can berate me for making a mess of your bathrooms?”

Jeez, this guy is defensive. “No, man. So that I could get you some water, a ride home, maybe some food?”

He groans in the stall, still hunched over the toilet. “Don’t wanna go back out there. Got a fucking headache, all the booze and shit will make it worse.”

Eddie rubs a tired hand over his forehead. “My shift’s over in literally five minutes. Would you…would you feel comfortable enough to go to the diner next door with me? I’ve got some Advil in my employee locker. And I could get you a cheeseburger.”

The guy goes completely quiet and still.

He goes to try and shimmy around with the door, maybe get it off its hinges or something, make sure he’s not choking or—

But then he sniffles softly. “That sounds really nice,” he says, “you’re really nice. What’s…what’s your name?”

“Eddie, and yours?”

“Steve,” he breathes. “Sorry I’m such a sack of crap. Wasting your time.”

“Mm, you’re making it easier for me to clock out, actually. Wasting my time would be somebody trying to return a drink that’s been remade correctly five times. That’s when somebody should be sorry.” He peers down at his watch, right on the money to clock out. “I’m gonna get myself out of the schedule and I’ll come back to get you, okay? We’ll just hang out at the diner. And…I’ve got Lyft on my phone, I’ll call you one when you’re feeling a bit better.”

“Okay,” Steve sighs. “I’ll be waiting.”

He makes a quick turn out of the bathroom, rushing back towards the break room before he can get caught and berated by the other bartender he left to attend to customers. It’s as easy as 1-2-3, punching out, putting away his apron, and grabbing for his things inside his locker. Thankfully, there’s still a bottle of Advil. Granted, there’s only enough for one dose and he typically needs to take one after his shift for his sore feet, but he’ll make do this one time. This one exception—Steve.

Once back in the restroom, the stall that Steve occupied is now empty. Though, standing at the sink and lazily washing his hands is probably the most gorgeous stranger Eddie’s ever seen. Blue jeans and a deep red sweater, hidden under a tattered, brown leather jacket. Lean and tall, broad shoulders, big hands; moles dotting every square inch of bare skin, pink lips, droopy hazel eyes, and a nose that could rival every statue masterpiece. Then, he makes direct eye contact with Eddie.

Caught out. Stilled. But then he chuckles awkwardly, trying to ease some sort of tension—a tension Eddie can’t see. “Managed to get away from the toilet,” he says, “room’s spinnin’ a little.”

Quickly, Eddie’s coming up beside him, placing his left hand on Steve’s back. “How much did you drink, man? Somebody should’ve cut you off.”

“Only a few shots and a beer,” Steve mutters. “Guess I’m more of a lightweight than I thought I was? I don’t know…don’t know…it’s been a while. Usually come here when I got someone to sit down with.” His head lolls back down towards his hands, scrubbing at them loosely under the water. There’s a tired, defeated, sad glint in his eyes. “Been striking out,” he mumbles, “people looking for…for situationships. I don’t even know…what does that mean? I wanted a date, not sex.”

Eddie sighs through his nose and eases his hand up and down the curve of Steve’s spine, petting him as if to soothe him. Which, he supposes, that’s exactly what he’s doing. It’s not the first time he’s met a person out of their luck, crying into their drink. But the look in Steve’s eyes physically hurts. It reopens a hot chasm inside of him, bubbling like magma.

“Just take a minute,” Eddie murmurs, “let the room settle.”

Steve nods, slow and tired. Heavy. “Sorry, Eddie. I swear I’m better than this.” There’s a flash of a smile at those words, one that falls away just as quick as it came. He sniffles again, wet and unmistakeable. “Gonna be ringing in the new year alone, though. And I’ve got a headache. But…hey, I met you. Highlight of my night.”

When he chances a new look of Steve’s face fully, Eddie notes the fresh tracks of tears staining ruddy red cheeks. He coos softly under his breath, pressing his hand more firmly into his back, and stretches out to grab a distant paper towel. The water is still streaming from the faucet, and so he dips the napkin’s edge into the warm pour. Gently, he shifts Steve to face him better and brings the damp corner to his cheeks, patting over the tracks, rejuvenating the color in Steve’s skin so that it all matches.

For a moment, he’s caught out by the still watering hazel eyes on him—damn gorgeous they are, even like this—but they blink at him and he feels it, the stretch of Steve’s small smile. He returns it, of-fucking-course he returns it.

“Let’s get you cheered up, baby,” Eddie says softly, “the sky’s too full of fireworks for you to be sad.”

His palm strokes over Steve’s back, a heavy sweep of warmth. There’s the lulling rise and fall of his lungs, each breath unwavering and strong now, and not as nasally as it had been only moments prior. A hand sets on Eddie’s left hip, secure where it rests, fingers tightening into his belt loops.

“You always hang out with random strangers from the bar?” Steve questions quietly. There’s a hint, a little bit of something coating those words. A tidbit of heartbreak, if he had to give a name to it.

This close, Eddie can smell the last dredges of alcohol on Steve’s breath. There’s also the scent of his cologne, even as stale as it’s gone when he’d been hunched over the toilet, but it lingers. Peppery and warm and decadent like a slice of apple pie from the diner next door. He’s already getting that Steve’s as sweet as one, just needs to be righted slightly so it stands tall on the center of the plate.

The next words out of his mouth are tender and quiet, “No,” Eddie whispers, “you’re the only one.”

Steve hums, soaking up just as pie crust does. His hand tightens again on Eddie’s side. And then he sways them, half-steps, knees knocking. The sink is still streaming and there’s red rimming Steve’s honey eyes. It’s all so private. It’s almost just theirs. 

“Saying I’m an exception?” Steve then murmurs. 

His words land like gentle pecks to Eddie’s lips. And they’re closer than before. And he’d let them get even closer, if there was room.

“Why, you wanna be?”

“Mhm,” Steve buzzes.

The restroom door opens, a foot sandwiched in the gap of their space and the entire world. Eddie doesn’t let go, even if he was supposed to. Steve does, wearily aware. He finds himself not disappointed, though, not even in the slightest.

“You wanna be an exception over burgers now? There’s apple pie, too.”

“Yeah, Eds”—and oh, how that makes his chest flutter something incredible, his heart a newborn bird eager to take flight—“I wanna be your exception.”

If he wasn’t intrigued and swooning before, he most definitely is now.

But as it is, he simply pats Steve on the back and leads him out towards the bar again. Zipping through crowds of girls and forcing his way between boys about to brawl. There’s beer spilling out onto his clothes, that he hopes isn’t getting on Steve’s—doesn’t want to tarnish the absolute darling beauty he’s managed to rescue from the swamps of a muggy bar bathroom. Though, maybe it’s unavoidable. Maybe it’s just what is meant to happen.

Because something about Steve, his hand gripped tight in Eddie’s, the bounce of his step, his glassy eyes and loose smile when Eddie looks over his shoulder—something about the Steve of it all feels as close to myth alive as he’s allowed to believe. And, well, if there are more than three religions and some people don’t believe in any of it at all, then he can hold onto whatever the hell he wants. If Steve at his heels, chest slamming into his back as the cold outside air finally whips them in the face, is destiny, then…Eddie finally believes in destiny.

When the bar’s doors slam behind them and they’re overcome with the noise of distant fireworks and cars rolling by on crowded asphalt, Eddie begins to let go. Though, Steve grips to his fingers a smidge tighter than before.

“Wow,” Steve breathes beside him.

Eddie looks to him. His profile. The sharp angle of his nose, droop of his eyes, and curve of his easy smile. He follows his gaze, up to the sky.

A spattering of stars, only broken by the even brighter bursts of twinkling fireworks. Pinks and yellows and whites travel stark across the sky, each ember firing like a shooting star going home. He places his right hand over his chest, the beating of his heart a tumultuous, daunting thing. And he sighs, panting a short breath—

Let me keep him, he wishes, after tonight, let me have him. Please?

Steve squeezes their hands together, fingers sprawling so they can intertwine. His palm is sweaty, he’s shaking slightly. He laughs, though, a sputtering, unbelievable sound. “Thank god I’m outta there,” he whispers. Eddie gazes at the stretch of his neck, how his Adam’s apple resettles after bobbing out each individual word. There’s moles dotting there, too. Constellations, even more wonderful than the stars above them.

At least, Eddie thinks so. Objectively, he’s correct. Won’t hear anybody else on the matter.

He sinks his teeth into his lower lip and turns his eyes back to the sky. “Yeah,” Eddie murmurs, “you can only take so much being cramped in there. Everything’s a little more…”

“Sobering?”

“Real,” he corrects. “Everything’s more real.”

Their fingers are pretzeled together still. And as if to punctuate Eddie’s point, Steve makes him feel the pressure of their hands. As if to say, “We’re a little more real out here, too.” He supposes they are. And he supposes the budding warmth in his sternum—where he’s believed his soul to be his whole life—is real, too.

Eddie blinks, watching white streaks dissipate through the sky. His stomach grumbles, though, and he’s reminded with a back-handed slap why they’re out here. There’s plenty of time to watch fireworks later, but he’s only got such staggering minutes with Steve. And he promised food.

Maybe it’s too honest and maybe it’s a lot stupid—considering Steve is still such a stranger, an enigma to his brain—but he’d promise a whole lot more if he was allowed.

For now, he starts to drag them towards the diner. Only met with minor resistance from Steve’s stance. He relents quickly, though. Following after Eddie like a lost, scruffy puppy. Through the next burst of fireworks, he hears Steve’s stomach give a low grumble, too.

The greasy air of the diner hits him in one strong gust. Salt and cheese and a sprinkling of cinnamon. Pink bubblegum, too, as a hostess greets them at the door and leads them to a booth in the back right corner of the restaurant. The vinyl must be sticky when Steve bounces onto it, grimacing as his fingertips stay stuck like paw-pads on ice. Eddie finds out a second later when he saddles in right across from Steve, collecting the menus from the edge of the table as the hostess struts away to her bored stool at the coffee counter.

He hands over one menu, Steve taking it from him gingerly. With a passing, soft, “Thanks.” His eyes fall to the plastic sheet in his hands, seemingly enthralled by everything there is to choose from.

Eddie already knows what he wants, choosing to gaze ahead.

There’s a tiny pout to Steve’s lips, subtle an gentle, but definitely present. He’s muttering under his breath, thumbs tracing down the margins of the menu, half-formed sentences like, “Cheeseburger…tomatoes…lettuce—hmph—bacon optional, sounds good.” Steve takes the sleeve of his jacket and brings it up under his nose, wiping hastily at its tip. His face isn’t puffy or red anymore, just tinged with exhaustion. Even like this, slumped over a menu and recovering ever so slowly from the cold that had seeped into their bones and the roller coaster of emotions that had worked through their combined blood, Steve’s beauty is magnetic. But his thinking face? His consideration? His marveling wonder outside?

Aside from his looks, the rest of him still draws Eddie in.

Or maybe Eddie’s easier than he thought he was.

Or…or…Eddie knows what he wants.

“Oh, shit,” Steve breathes, “they’ve got fucking onion rings.”

“They’re pretty good,” Eddie amends.

Steve slams his menu to the surface of the table, hands spread, eyes wide insistently. “Of course they’re fucking good! They’re onion rings!” he softly exclaims. “Ooo, get ‘em with barbecue sauce and a Dr. Pepper? That right there is the champion of all meals.”

“Is that what you want?”

The menu’s picked up again. “Mmm…it does sound good…nah,” Steve says, eyes intense on the choices, “I’m still lookin’.”

Eddie snorts indignantly and greets their waitress. Ordering a basket of onion rings for the table, a couple waters, and a Dr. Pepper for “The man of the hour” with a half-gesture at Steve still muttering under his breath. It’s endearing how long it takes for Steve to finally settle on something, even if their combined grumbling stomachs get louder and louder, roaring over the tinny television in the opposite corner to their booth.

“You better pick something soon, else Anderson Cooper’s gonna blackout before the ball drops,” he gently teases, head nodding to the television. Steve looks to it, snorts, and glances back down at the menu. “I could also just pick something for you, if you’re too indecisive?”

“Chicken tenders,” Steve decides, “with crispy fries and a side of ranch.”

“Are you twelve?”

“Hey,” he objects defensively. “I happen to be a man of taste, thank you very much. It just so happens that I’ve got a young soul ’s’all.”

Eddie hums, face betraying him as it splits with a shining smile. Jeez, this guy is endearing. He leans over the table a bit, resting his chin in his hand; Steve mirrors him, smirking. Soft and low, he asks, “You still got a headache, Stevie?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “It’ll probably stick with me tomorrow morning. Which sucks. I should’a left the bar as soon as my date stormed off. Would’a saved me a lot of trouble.”

But then you wouldn’t have met me, he wants to say, and that would suck worse.

“I’ve got Advil when the water comes. It’s the last dose in the bottle, but it should help. And also the Dr. Pepper. Caffeine might be good.”

“I don’t wanna take the last of your pills, man. You probably need it more than I do. Been working all day on your feet, I’m sure.”

He merely shrugs. “Yeah, well…I wanna help you. It’ll bring me some comfort if I can make you feel even a bit better, y’know?” Steve doesn’t say anything to that. Just looks at him like a confused, lost dog. Like he’s being offered scraps from a hand that doesn’t shake when he sniffs it. “But if it really bothers you,” Eddie continues, “then we can figure out a way for you to make it up to me.”

Steve cozies deeper into his hand, blinking long at Eddie. “That sounds good,” he breathes. “Say the word…”

“We’ll figure it out before you go home, okay? Not something for you to worry about now.” He fishes the bottle of Advil from his pants’ pocket and opens it swiftly, spilling the tablets into the well of his palm. Steve’s other hand is flopped over on the table, atop his menu, relaxed. Eddie places the pills in his hand and closes his fingers. No argument. “After you eat, I’ll order your Lyft. And then…maybe I can get your number?” He’s cautious about the conversation, though the words hit him at once. Failed date, New Years Eve, situationship. Eddie rushes to add,  “Just so that you can text me when you get home safely, that’s all. Don’t…I don’t wanna come off as, like, preying on you or something. Y’know, after the whole…Yeah. Just. Wanna make sure you get home safe.”

As soon as the breath rushes out of him, it’s like Steve breathes it in, responding with a syrupy, tired giggle fit. His hand fists the Advil tablets tighter. A flush colors his skin, travels down his neck as he loses himself to his laughter. The stretch of his smile and sprawl of his giggles make his nostrils flare. And Eddie doesn’t know how, after seeing the same on so many other guys, but the way Steve’s face simply moves with his joy stirs something in him. Awakes a part that had been hiding in a seemingly unending hibernation.

Shit.

Catching his breath and wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes, Steve resettles. Breathes, “You were so worried!”

“I was!” Eddie exclaims. He makes a dramatic show of crossing his arms over his chest, pouting his lips. “I didn’t wanna overstep. It’d be un-gentlemanly of me.”

“Oh,” Steve sighs, breath finally caught. There’s a big, goofy smile on his face still. His eyes glassy with—what Eddie assumes to be—happy tears. “You’ve already treated me way better than ninety percent of the dates I’ve been on, man. Don’t worry about…about being careful when asking for my number.” He rests in his palm again, his posture growing tired, slumping into the table. “I was gonna give it to you anyway.”

“Ninety percent? Who the hell do I need to fight?”

“People who are…unimportant and too full of themselves? I don’t know, Eds, it doesn’t matter. I’ll probably just…I don’t know,” Steve murmurs. He shrugs half-heartedly again. “I’m gonna go home after this and go to bed, wake up with a raging headache, and probably wish that you were still sitting across from me. Feel like you’d know how to make it better.”

Eddie hums. “Well,”—he positions himself better, sitting up in his seat and folding his hands on the table—“tonight, I’m gonna make sure you ring in the New Year happier than you are right now. And then, when you get home, you’ll text me that you did. I’ll tell you to have a goodnight’s sleep. In the morning, when you wake up, I’ll text you again, ask if you want some coffee. Maybe, if you’re comfortable, I could bring it over to your place and we could have a simple breakfast?”

“You’d do that?”

“If you want me to.”

Steve goes silent, noticeably contemplative. His eyes adrift to the table. In the mean time, Eddie orders their food and passes over the drinks when they arrive. He nudges Steve to take his pills and points out something that Anderson Cooper’s doing on the television.

But he doesn’t bring up tomorrow morning, not right now at least.

Because maybe he’s overstepping this. He’s putting himself in a position Steve doesn’t want him in. Only thirty minutes ago, they were complete strangers in a bathroom bar, groaning and grumbling at each other for being so defensive and combative. Maybe Steve’s got a friend waiting for him back home? Waiting to let him back inside and take care of him in the secret way only true friends know how.

They aren’t anything more than mere acquaintances. No matter how many half-lidded flirty glances Steve passes his way. No matter how many times Eddie’s eyes wander to Steve’s mouth as he gobbles down his serving of onion rings, a wish ringing out in his head, words caught star-bound in his throat, admiring.

He’s allowed to admire.

Not allowed to have, though.

And maybe he won’t ever get there. This will be it. A late night dinner, wishing Happy New Years, jokes tossed across the table like clumsy frisbees taking flight, and an aching in his chest. Feelings blooming in his sternum so suddenly, so abrasively, they’re thorns staggered sharp into his lungs. 

He breathes, his chest seizes, and the whiff of Steve’s stale cologne burrows inside him. He blinks, his eyebrows shoot up his forehead, and Steve’s strong shining summer smile brands to the deep crevices of Eddie’s brain. He laughs, their giggles blend, and the process starts all over again.

Is this what sunflowers feel like? Soaking up the sun, all that they can, and then begin the brittle early death of wilting into oneself? They have to wait so long to be born again.

Eddie doesn’t want this to be a one time thing, dead in the middle of winter, dead before it could be alive.

Steve will have his number, though. He’ll have a weakened headache in the morning now that he’s had some caffeine and begun processing a couple Advil. From there, though, the future is possible, but unseen. He’s not sure if he’s even something Steve could be looking for.

Wishful thinking, he tells himself, hopeful wishing.

“Dude, try this!”

He blinks back to himself, presented with a chicken tender thrusted into his face. It’s dripping in ranch, so Steve’s hand is cupped underneath it, trying to save the table. Eddie gapes, looking to Steve’s face.

The chicken tender is pushed into his space harder. “These are the best tenders I’ve ever had in my fucking life, and I need you to support me on this. Try it.”

At Steve’s request, he gingerly takes a bite. For some odd reason, he finds himself holding their intent and intense eye contact, unwavering. It’s just a chicken tender, nothing to write home about. Not like it tastes any different than the ones he can pick up from the Dairy Queen by his apartment, but if Steve’s saying it’s the best one he’s had…

“That’s pretty fuckin’ bomb, Stevie,” he says. It’s not a complete lie, but it’s not the complete truth. But it does earn him bright eyes and warm cheeks, a side by side dance in the booth across from him, and a pleased little grin. So…maybe these chicken tenders are the best, especially if they get a pretty boy like Steve to look at him like that.

“Told you,” Steve says around his next bite—half of a chicken tender and two folded onion rings. “You ever dip ‘em in gravy, though? That would blow away your socks, blow up your mind, and suck your dick.”

“You, uh, you really don’t fuck around when it comes to chicken tenders, do you?”

“I don’t fuck around with anything. I’m a set-in-stone kind of guy.”

The seriousness in his tone makes Eddie involuntarily choke on air, his eyes drifting away, flush high on his cheeks. He takes a few, quiet bites of his cheeseburger. It’s mediocre and spilling with grease, the bun is stale and the ketchup is weirdly cold, but he savors it. At least it isn’t another basket of tortilla chips and jarred salsa from the bar—he’d probably rip out his own stomach if he had to eat any more of those.

Steve tries to offer him another chicken tender, but Eddie pushes it back gently towards him. Tries not to coo over the soft, sad pout that the gesture earns him. “It’s your food,” he says, “I wanna make sure you eat it, sweetheart. You need it more than me.”

“But I wanna share it with you.”

“Stevie,” he murmurs, “I’ve already got my”—

He’s offered the chicken again. With a very forceful, “Take a bite. You worked for hours, I can tell from how tired you seem, and I want to share this with you.” And then—the bastard—adds a puppy-eyed pout to say, “Please? It would help me feel better.”

Eddie sighs dramatically, leaning forward and taking another bite. He raises his eyebrows, gazing at Steve as he rescinds his food offering. “Happy now?”

Steve nods, smiling as he does so. “Very.” He pops a fry in his mouth and crunches down on it, his grin as big as the Cheshire Cat’s. And then, his focus goes back on his basket of food, none the wiser to Eddie’s openly affectionate adoration.

He forces himself to look away, to stop getting caught up on the Steve of it all, this night. Probably one of the best New Years Eves he’s ever had. Eddie takes a deep breath, though, and looks to the television.

Forty seconds to midnight.

How’d their night drive by so damn fast?

“You gonna count down with me?” Eddie asks, interrupting the lull of silence that filled between them.

“Mm, among one other thing, yeah.”

“What other”—

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve quickly adds, dropping his food into his basket, “how much time do we have?”

“Fifteen seconds.”

He watches Steve wipe his fingers on a nearby napkin, counting aloud with “Fourteen.”

And as the numbers go down, Steve pushes himself closer over the table. Eddie can only match with him.

Ten.

This close, Steve no longer smells like his cologne. Just barbecue sauce and onion rings, the grease from chicken tenders, and a lighter thing that he can’t quite place. Something happy, whatever it is.

Eight.

“Anyone ever tell you that you have nice eyes, Stevie?”

“Don’t think anybody’s really taken notice.”

“Well…”—Eddie breathes gently—“you have really nice eyes.”

Five.

Steve slides his hand across the table, gripping for Eddie’s left. Their fingers tangle, pretzeled together. Warm, even there. His smile is warmer, though, and Eddie begins melting at the sight of it. He wonders if Steve is thinking the same thing.

Three.

“Two,” Eddie breathes.

He squeezes their hands. “One,” Steve sighs. And with it, he surges the last few inches over the table, pulling Eddie towards him, planting a delicate kiss on his lips. It doesn’t carry longer than a couple seconds, but it lingers. Lingers like the decadent, sweet scent of apple pie. They’ll have to get slices before parting.

The diner fills with cheers, whoops and hollers. There’s a burst of multi-colored light outside, painting the left side of Steve’s face with pinks and blues and yellows. Maybe it’s all so cliche. Maybe Eddie tripped and fell, went into some head trauma-induced coma where he can only dream of a picture perfect world waiting for him.

But Steve squeezes his hand again, fingernails pinching into his soft skin.

Eddie knows he’s awake.

The haziness has cleared from Steve’s eyes, replaced with romantic determination. And Eddie knows he must be mirroring something like that, too.

“Happy New Years, Steve.”

“Happy New Years, Eddie,” he murmurs—the breath ghosts over Eddie’s lips, close enough to kiss them—“best night I’ve had in a really long while, thank you.”

He wants to kiss him again, so he does. Gentle and quick, sweetly though, and drenching.

If a night could last forever, he’d pick this one right here.

“My pleasure,” he says and means it to the core of his soul.

“Can I take you up on that coffee tomorrow? I have donuts back home, we could make a morning of it.”

Eddie swallows, sure that Steve hears him. His palm sweats and the thing inside him, stirring and rolling the whole night, is finally, finally alert. “Of course, sweetheart”—it fills him with giddy pride the way that nickname brings a flush to Steve’s cheeks—“what time?”

“I’ll call you when I’m ready. I wanna hear your morning voice.”

“You flatter me.”

Steve raises their joined hands to his lips, kissing the back of Eddie’s. His lips are sticky, somehow, but sweet. The next time they kiss, he hopes Steve tastes like pie. “Good,” Steve whispers, “you deserve to be flattered now.”

And maybe it wasn’t the most romantic start to their relationship…

But Eddie wouldn’t have it any other way.