STOP THIS IS SO CUTE 🥺🥺🥺

stan looks at bill, he looks around the apartment. “how did we end up here- cold and all alone.”

surely it was the years they spent, distancing themselves hard from their families. it had taken its toll, it had left them hungry and aching for something more. it had broken them down, and all that was left was thin frames of two men scraped away by the cold.

stan looks to bill, hand tangled in his hair, almost as if he’s saying you’re the author, write us out of this one. but bill can’t, no matter how much he would love to. they are stuck. 

the blankets are pulled tight over them, and it never feels like enough. 

“it’s cold,” stan complains, reminding both of their situation on this particular night. 

“it’s always cold.” bills quick to answer, he knows it is cold. he knows that he’s lucky he’s inside, mumbling under a blanket rather than outside screaming for shelter. 

their one bedroom apartment was enough, and with blankets tucked at every corner to prevent leaks of wind it could even be cozy. 

in the winter, they dreamed for a summer night to drag them into sleep, to hold their bodies with the soft glow of the sun peaking through the blinds. in the summer, they dreamed of a winter evening, the wind roaring outside as the held each other closer than they ever did. it was their condition, to always long for what they could not have. 

stan leaned into bill, “tell me a story.” he buries his face into his chest. it was hard to look at bill, the hollow cheeks and even emptier eyes of a starving artist.

bill pulled him closer, fingers burning into stans back in the best way. “a story...” he pauses. he worries for a second that his creativity is gone, it had been so long since he dreamed up something better. editorials paid the bills, he didn’t have time for childish stories.“it is warm. sunlight dances on our kitchen floor. there’s a buh-bird on the windowsill. tell me again wha-what it is...” bills voice is light, leaving stan with just enough to see it. 

“a grasshopper sparrow...”

“yes yes, a sparrow. he’s singing for you.”

it hurts, in a strange way that he could only feel in a vacant sense. an empty stomach begging for anything. “i don’t want to think about it.”