its funny, robby thinks, how dennis has changed so fundamentally his view of his bed and his bedroom. he used to dread it, feel it sink like lead into his veins, holding him down.
now he lays in bed in the morning watching the sun catch dennis's hair and make it golden and glowing as he snuggles into the older man. dennis's presence in his life and in his bed gives robby the first urge he's had in years to ask for five more minutes before the alarm so he can stay in this shimmering, cozy moment.
he now stays in bed for hours on his days off- and for the first time it's not because he's too depressed to lift a finger, let alone sit up. he's not rotting away under his sheets because of a soul-crushing exhaustion and pain he can't beat anymore, he's cuddling closer to the younger man under the fresh covers next to him to give him a kiss, because there isn't anything he wants more than spend the day with their beating hearts pressed together.
robby's bed isn't a place of isolation and stagnation anymore, and the TV in the corner doesn't play all night. there are bright flowers and odd trinkets on the stand now, instead of weeks of unwashed dishes and rubbish. his bed doesn't feel like defeat and his room isn't a prison- now it's a place full of love and laughter and sex, a place where he's smiled more in the last six months than in the last six years.
he knows it's not possible, but he feels like the window lets more light in now, and the breeze is cleaner, soft on his skin where it used to bite. dennis has four freckles on his back. robby knows this because the bed he used to sob in now houses two laughing men who kiss each other all over and count these things for fun.
they paint the walls together that spring, and robby picks out a blue that matches dennis's eyes.
