#quarantime

Holster tries to toss a throw pillow back onto the couch, and misses because it bounces off of the armrest, and does his best to look like that’s what he intended the whole time.

“Dude,” Ransom says, because even though he’s aware most people don’t call their boyfriends dude, it’s hard to shake after four and a half years of being best bros. Even six months of dating hasn’t changed anything— Ransom still said ‘dude’ the whole year he was pining away, and, as it turns out, so did Holster, so the habit is firmly ingrained.  “Can you just put in your contacts?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Holster says, picking up the TV remote and pretending to brush dust off of it. Ransom knows he’s pretending because he just kind of swipes at it once or twice with his free hand and does not hold it closer to his face to see what he’s doing. “I’m doing great. Great enough that I think I don’t actually need to wear contacts or glasses ever again.“ 

Ransom raises an eyebrow at that, and even though Holster wasn’t even looking at him before, he turns and looks over now, and whatever he sees makes him grin, forgetting about the remote for a second, and Ransom can’t help but smile back.

“It’s just a scam by the optometry industry to make me think I get headaches because my eyes are shit. I mean, my eyes are shit, but I can handle it. Dr. Robbins is just trying to con me.”

Holster punctuates that by going to put down the remote, misjudging the distance of the coffee table, and banging his shin into it spectacularly. 

Ransom is up off the couch before Holster’s even within four inches of the coffee table, because one of his best skills is, and always has been, anticipating where Holster is going to be when, and maybe more importantly, when he’s going to need Ransom’s help. And he’s there right behind Holster and catches him when he instinctively wheels backwards and trips over his own feet.

“Aw, fuck,” Holster says, with the resignation of someone who’s used to checking and getting checked and still hasn’t completely forgotten what that feels like, and thus, bruising his shin via inanimate object is more of a novelty than anything. But because he’s Holster, he also tilts his head back to look at Ransom and says it with the best sad-puppy eyes he can muster.

Which are pretty damn good.

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” Ransom says, but that’s the longest he can hold out against the puppy eyes, especially combined with being able to wrap his arms around Holster and hold him. “Are you okay?”

“My pride is irretrievably wounded.” He gets his feet back under him and stops leaning on Ransom, but any disappointment Ransom might have felt is mitigated by the fact that Holster immediately pulls him in and presses a light kiss to his lips. “Would you believe me if I told you all that was on purpose so you would get up and come over here?”

“Hm, probably not. Would you believe me if I told you your glasses are on top of your head?”