#zeblen

This was complete and total bullshit, of course, but Mr Price was not one to just let his students leave. And if you skipped, he’d know and he’d just give you this look letting you know that he knew and you’d feel a little bit violated from the fact. Seriously, how did he always know?

So English was one of the few classes Zebediah Walker actually went to. But today he had somewhere way more important to be, so with his bullshit excuse, he left the classroom and made his way to the clinic like a good student.

Except that was where he wanted to go in the first place.

Oh, Mr Price, if only you knew you had enabled Zebediah on his quest.

Hands shoved into the deep pockets of his leather jacket, hazel-green eyes skimming over the students just lounging around the hallway as if they had the right to park their ass on the dirty concrete and claim that spot of hallway as their own. Usually he was outside near the smoke pit with Quinton – not because Zeb smoked, God no. Smoking was terrible for you and it made him smell like his aunt’s before she booked it for New York City.

(He remembered the stench of cigarettes because it was always so prominent, and when he went to visit Auntie Theresa the day she disappeared, it smelled like air freshener instead of smoke. He remembered the stench because it reminded him of the aunt he hadn’t seen in years and years and years.)

Today, however, he was going to the doctor’s office because he had a mission. And if Zebediah Walker was anything, he was determined.

At least when it came to things he considered important. Let’s not get into the subject of doing his homework on time, we’ll digress and lose ourselves completely.

Slowing his gait at the door to the clinic, he paused in front of it and looked at it with a contemplative expression. He couldn’t hear anyone inside the office, and he knew no one was around right now – most people were in class, or outside, or at the convenience store, or behind the bleachers or hiding out by the dumpsters as the lit up a joint and made friends with the pink elephants or whatever it was high people saw on a hit. It was practically deserted in this part of the school, actually.

Zebediah grinned. Perfect.

Slipping in through the door and closing it quietly behind him, he looked around to see Allen in the small back room that was more closet than room. It held extra supplies and a few other knickknacks and dohickeys that Allen considered to be important.

Oh, sorry, Doctor Townsend.

Leaning against the door and shutting the blinds on the little window that let people peek inside should they feel the inclination, Zebediah waited for the older man to take notice of him.

He really was attractive, Doctor Townsend. Tall and lean and pale with a classic look to his face that reminded Zebediah of the old-fashioned black-and-white movies his mum always watched on Sundays after mass, as if to feel better after listening to the priest tell her how terrible a human being she was and reading the scripture that she didn’t follow despite claiming she did. Black curling hair and grey-silver eyes stood out against ivory skin, and his hands were long and elegant and looked like they belonged on a pianist or something.

They shook, too, and every time Zebediah noticed the shaking he just wanted to grab hold of them and steady both hands and doctor.

Shaking his head from his train of thought, he looked up just in time to see Doctor Townsend’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Z-Zebediah! I h-hadn’t heard you c-c-come in, I’m s-sorry. A-are you feeling w-w-well?”

Zebediah smiled, shifting and pushing himself off of the door carefully, making his way over to the doctor who walked out to meet him. He was just a bit shorter than Allen, he noted as he stopped an inch too close to be appropriate. Give or take a few years and he was sure he’d be taller than the man, at least by a little.

“Can’t say that I do, doc,” the teenager admitted with a shrug. The doctor frowned, placing a hand near Zeb’s elbow and leading him over to the single bed in the corner of the room. Pushing him down to sit, he wandered over to his desk to find a thermometer, his stethoscope and a flashlight – all pretty basic for a quick check in high school. Zebediah shrugged off his jacket while he waited, rubbing the back of his neck and cracking it twice before turning to Allen when he wandered back.

“T-tell me what’s w-w-wrong,” he said in a calm, soothing voice meant to comfort the sick. Allen was practically made for this job, wasn’t he? At least Zebediah thought so. He was everything he imagined a doctor should be, at least.

“Well,” Zeb started, flinching when Allen flashed the little flashlight in his hands into his eye, squinting against the light, “I feel really warm, practically feverish.”

“Mmhmm?”

“And…” he held still when Allen placed the thermometer into his ear (it being one of those fancy ear-thermometer-things that Zebediah had only ever seen behind-the-counter at the Zeller’s Pharmacy). “Sometimes it feels like there’s butterflies in my stomach.”

“S-so upset stomach,”

“Sure,” Zebediah smiled. “We’ll call it that.”

“A-anything else?”

“I’m lightheaded.”

“Hmm…” Allen pulled back, looking at the thermometer and frowning down at it. “Y-you don’t h-have­ a temperature…”

“No?” The teen adjusted in his spot on the bed, crossing his ankles and leaning back on his hands. Doctor Townsend shook his head, looking at him with a helpless little shrug. “Oh, I just thought of something else.”

“Ah?”

“Mm.” He indicated for the doctor to come closer, as if he couldn’t say it too loudly because he was embarrassed. Expression curious and completely trusting, Allen leaned forward to hear what Zebediah had to say.

Once the older man was close enough, Zebediah reached out and wrapped his hand around the back of the other’s neck, bringing him as close as he could get. Allen stumbled forward, automatically resting a hand by Zebediah’s hip, eyes wide and confused, yet before he could say anything the younger man sealed his silence with a kiss.

It was pretty innocent, all things considered. Brief and dry but warm and soft and damn did Allen good. Zebediah kissed the upper lip, then the lower, nipping quickly at the other’s lips, before he pulled back and smiled at him with a cheeky, victorious expression.

“I only get like this when I think of you,” he murmured, grin widening at the frozen shock on the other’s face. Letting go of him after giving his shoulder a squeeze, he grabbed his jacket and slipped away from the doctor, heading towards the door.

Pausing before he left, hand on the doorknob, he turned back to Allen and flashed him a quick smile. “See you later, doc.”

And he slipped out of the office just as easily as he slipped in, leaving Allen Townsend flabbergasted and absolutely confused as to what in the world just happened.

Zebediah was napping on the couch.

 He could be often found there when he spent a few days over at the doctor’s. Allen would come home from a long shift at work, back aching and eyes straining because of exhaustion and feeling over-caffeinated, only to see the shop keeper sprawled over his nice couch, boots off, hands folded over his stomach and snoring softly.

 Zebediah seemed to enjoy napping more than anything else, if Allen were to think about it. Yes, the man enjoyed reading, watching the occasional movie, or curling up next to Allen as he read aloud from one of his books (a pastime the doctor found he enjoyed as well, in all honesty); but if Zeb had the choice between any of those and napping, the older man did not doubt for a second that the freckled man would be out like a light in seconds flat.

Not that he minded, really. He thought it was precious – like an old man found on a park bench sleeping. You just wanted to smile (and perhaps place a blanket over their shoulders, to chase off the chill).

Slipping out of his coat easily and hanging it up in the hall closet, the doctor shuffled his way into the living room to where his gunman slept soundly. Rubbing his shaking hands gently, he padded over to the couch, glanced down at the sprawled figure, before smiling and kneeling down in front of him – intent on waking him up.

Reaching out to shake his arm, deciding to just jolt him awake, he paused as the grey eyes caught sight of the multitude of scars that actually covered Zebediah’s flesh – scars he never saw very clearly unless he was in the right light, and the gunman was holding still long enough for him to examine.

They weren’t impressive scars. Faded, white bumps of somewhat distorted skin, bunching around wounds as it clotted and healed and scabbed over. A few he could see he had picked at to oblivion, creating craters of soft, fleshy, whitened bumps that would only disappear with treatment. Some of the older ones had faded almost completely with his skin, becoming practically impossible to see unless you were looking for them – others looked relatively new, perhaps a few years old (probably from knife accidents or hurting himself while repairing his beloved Impala).

Tracing the lines and spots with careful attention, observing how the freckles seemed to mould and fade with the scars as they decorated his forearms and wrists, he gently took hold of Zebediah’s wrist to look at his inner arm – a soft smile on his face because, despite the imperfections, the man was still beautiful to him. He was, quite possibly, more beautiful because of them.

And then his thoughts trailed off as warm eyes turned cold in shock.

Amongst all the accidental scars that riddled his skin in stories and tales were secrets: perfectly precise lines of faded white that did not look as old as the others. They lined his inner arm with a purpose, counting down the days of his imprisonment within emotions. They began near the crease of his elbow, small and shaky, and grew longer and more sure of themselves as they went down, finally ending in a rather long, thick rope of healed flesh over his veins on his wrist.

“…w-what are you not t-telling me, Zebediah…?” the doctor whispered, biting his bottom lip and closing his eyes before he bowed down and pressed his lips delicately along the thickest of the scars, hands shaking as they gripped onto the arm that was filled with an amount of strength he couldn’t even comprehend.

Zebediah’s breathing changed, then, and Allen looked up in time to see the shop keeper turned towards him with a loll of his head, staring at him with blank recognition. Gazing back into hazel-green eyes, Allen smiled after a moment, moving one of his hands to wrap around Zeb’s palm and squeezing his hand gently.

“…Allen? What’re you doin’…?”

“T-trying to w-w-wake you up,” Allen replied honestly – for truly, he had reached out to the other with waking him in mind. “Y-you sleep v-v-very soundly.”

“Ah…yeah, sorry,” Zeb looked away, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his free hand, his other, grasped by Allen, squeezing his back in delayed reply. He sat up slowly, then, looking around for some kind of clock to tell the time.

“I-It’s quarter to m-m-midnight,” Allen piped up helpfully, eyes crinkling in the corners when the younger man looked over at him with surprised eyes. “Y-you must have been v-very tired, Z-Zeb. Have you been s-sleeping?”

“…I think you’d know that best,” Zebediah said softly, a faint smile curling his lips when Allen looked down quickly in embarrassment, a faint flush to his cheeks. He sighed, then, rubbing his cheek and squeezing his eyes to get rid of the sleepiness that still clung to him. “Don’t think I’ll be sleepin’ tonight, though…didn’t mean to sleep so long…”

Still holding his hand, kneeling in front of the couch, quivering fingers tracing the tanned skin just under the stories Zebediah might never tell, Allen wondered if there was something he could do for the gunman who had done so much for him. He stood up after a moment, tugging Zebediah to his feet, and when the shop keep was steady on his feet, the doctor wrapped his free arm around the other’s waist, forehead resting against his shoulder.

“Allen?”

“…d-dance with me?” he asked meekly, looking up at him from beneath lashes, smiling unsurely. Quirking a brow at the strange behaviour, Zebediah curved his free hand to Allen’s hip, slowly swaying them side-to-side as they started to lazily drift in a circle.

“What’s gotten into you?” He asked after a moment, a smile in his voice but confusion predominant. Allen ducked his head, hiding his face in the other’s chest and tightening his hold on his hand, before shrugging his shoulders haplessly.

“M-missed you,” he murmured into his shirt, relaxing marginally when the broader man pulled him a little closer, a thumb rubbing his side lightly. “H-haven’t r-really…s-spent time with you in a w-while.”

“You’ve been busy,” the gunman stated gently, pressing his lips to the top of his head regardless. “It’s understandable.”

“D-doesn’t m-mean I c-can’t miss you when I d-don’t see you,” He muttered defiantly. Zebediah snorted, smirking against black curls, before the swaying continued without further interruption.

Resting his cheek against Zeb’s collarbone peacefully, Allen stared at their hands with a quiet, private fondness, gingerly squeezing his fingers in a wordless confession; Zebediah replying almost immediately.

He woke up warm.

 Slowly opening grey eyes, stormy due to sleepiness and a general dislike of waking up from a pleasant sleep, Dr Allen Townsend slowly blinked up at the unfamiliar roof above him. He stared at it quizzically, head tilting to the side – the pillow beneath him comfortable, but well-worn with use, flatter than his pillows at him, less goose feathers and more beaten-down stuffing. The mattress was stiffer than his, the blankets warm and soft and worn down with age and multiple washings.

 The arm around his waist was different from his normal mornings, as well.

Smiling, Allen turned onto his side; the warm, comforting arm of Zebediah Walker – owner of Walker’s Firearms and Weaponry – shifted with the movement, curling around his waist and dragging the thinner man closer. He settled against the bulkier man, nose pressed against his collarbone, hands smoothing over lightly tanned flesh, counting the faint freckles he could see. A steady heartbeat pounded away under his palms, healthy and whole and constant; the soothing drum that he paced himself by.

He pressed a quick kiss to the spot just over Zeb’s heart, pulling back in time to see hazel-green eyes – more green than hazel, beautiful in colour – look down at him with the same bleariness he had woken up with. A freckled nose scrunched up after a moment, and the gunman brushed a light kiss over Allen’s forehead, squeezing the other man before slowly pulling himself up into a sitting position, stretching his back.

Allen rolled onto his back, feeling momentarily lethargic, taking in the other’s back and shoulders – strong and solid with smooth skin that had not been touched by the same damage as his arms and hands, spotted like an appaloosa pony. He smiled at the comparison, snickering to himself, and Zebediah turned to look back at him with a quirked eyebrow.

“What’re you laughing ‘bout?”

“N-nothing of i-i-importance,” Allen murmured, sitting up after a moment and leaning forward, shyly kissing the corner of the younger man’s mouth. When he moved to pull back, Zeb touched his jaw with the tips of his fingers, keeping him in place, before kissing him. He pulled back after a moment, forehead resting against Allen’s, and the doctor couldn’t help but smile in a silly manner, ears burning a light pink as a flush crawled over his skin. “Mm…morning.”

“Morning.” Another kiss followed, quick and to the point, and then Zeb was pulling away and standing up, searching for something to slip on. “You didn’t bring an extra set of clothes, did you?”

“N-no,” Allen admitted, smiling sheepishly. “I-I wasn’t e-e-expecting to s-spend the n-night. I’ll be fine, t-though – I’ll j-just wear the s-same thing as y-yesterday, get c-changed when I g-go home.”

“That’s just gross,” Zeb scrunched his nose again – a habit the doctor had noticed the gunman did often – while he grabbed a pair of boxers and slipped them on easily enough. “Just borrow some of my clothes and I’ll toss your stuff into the washing machine. Well…at least the shirt – dunno if your pants can go into a common washing machine.” He glanced back at Allen, then, smiling cheekily. “You seem like the dry-cleaning type.”

“I-I’ll have you know I do my o-own laundry,” Allen said, lifting his chin in a mocking ‘hilier-than-thou’ expression – the smile killed the effect, however, and Zeb couldn’t help but laugh. “You d-do not have to do that f-for me, though, Z-Zebediah…”

“I told you to call me Zeb,” was the quiet answer as Zebediah picked up Allen’s shirt, looking at the tag on the back to see the washing instructions. “And this can be thrown into the wash. I don’t mind, Allen – I’m not doing it because I have to.” He turned to look at the slimmer man, hazel-green catching with stormy-grey. “I’m doing it ‘cause I can. It shouldn’t take long, anyhow. Maybe a little over an hour.” He flashed a dimpled grin over at him, folding the shirt over his arm and disappearing out of the room. “I’ll be downstairs, since that’s where the laundry machines are!”

“A-alright!” The door that led to the shop shut, then, leaving Allen alone in Zebediah’s flat.

Slipping from the bed quietly, the 38-year-old carefully padded around piles of clothes, what seemed to be a tower of books leaning precariously over in a very Tower of Pisa way, and other miscellaneous objects Zeb kept lying around. He picked up a pair of sweatpants from a desk, looking at them closely before deciding that yes, they were clean, and slipped them on – glancing down to see the pant legs pooling on top of his feet somewhat.

He grinned to himself a bit sheepishly, wriggling his toes and admiring the soft quality of the cotton, before moving on towards the drawers, opening them gingerly.

He glanced inside, blinking owlishly in surprise to see that the shirts were actually all folded in an organized manner – practically military, though he didn’t think Zeb had any military training. He rifled through the shirts, picked out a green on with an impish grin, and slipped it on.

Holding his arms out, he glanced down at himself and laughed, amused by the fact he was practically swimming in Zebediah’s clothes. Who knew a slight height difference and somewhat wider shoulders would make clothes that much bigger on a person? Or perhaps Allen was just very, very small.

He looked up when he heard the door open and close again, dropping his arms as Zebediah appeared in the room. The gunman casually looked over at him, giving a brief smile and looking away – before looking back, eyes widening somewhat at the spectacle Allen made.

“…they’re…kinda big, aren’t they?”

“Q-quite!” Allen smiling shyly, tugging at the bottom of the shirt and rocking back on his heels. “T-though they a-are v-very comfortable, I-I must a-admit.”

“Well that’s a relief,” Zebediah smiled, before he walked over to the doctor and tucked back a random curl behind his ear. “…you look adorable, doc.”

Allen flushed at the compliment, ducking his head and hiding his grin. However, Zeb tilted his chin back up, pressing a quiet kiss to his lips, fingertips drifting over his cheek and down the pulse of his neck, settling near his collarbone. He pulled back quietly, briefly kissed Allen’s nose, and smiled lightly.

“You should dress in my clothes more often.”

Sometimes he worried he had too much baggage.

He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, the Atlas with a mortal lifespan and the emotional strength of a fawn. He drank himself into a stupor every night just so he could grab three hours of sleep, and if he didn’t, the ghosts of men and women who had died throughout his life slipped their fingers through the cracks in his mental defence and attacked him, over and over and over again, relentless and merciless. A dead man’s screams filled his ears as he stood behind the cash register day-in and day-out, and he would stare in the middle of the room sometimes, just remembering when the blood had slipped under his shoes, coating the soles a lovely vermillion.

‘Vermillion’. He learned that word from Ezekiel. Sometimes, when his cousin was feeling particularly artsy and pompous, he would use the larger, fancier terms for colours, just to make his cousin throw a torn-up bit of bagel at his forehead. This usually led to some kind of food war in the shop, which Zeb would make Ezekiel clean up afterwards because it was ‘all his damn fault, anyway’.

Zebediah shook his head, rubbing his eyes and staring down at his knees with a blank expression. It was probably around two in the morning, the television was on and playing infomercials about household appliances, and he hadn’t even cracked open a drink that night. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, not tonight at least.

He always felt like a chastised teenager after he spoke to his mother.

The conversation hadn’t been pleasant. No conversation with his mother had been pleasant, not since after the days of the divorce. She had just soured so quickly when Dad had left with Jez, and that had leaked into her relationship with her son. Sometimes he wondered if it was because he looked like Dad, had his eyes and everything. Sometimes he wondered if it was just because he was his father’s son.

And every once in a while, that little voice in his head would whisper, questioning whether his mother had actually ever loved him, or only pretending to because she couldn’t physically have any more children after him and was stuck with him.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, pushing to his feet and grabbing his coat and keys, walking out of the apartment and down the stairs to the Impala. Slipping on the worn leather, he opened the door to his baby, glided into his seat, and pulled back onto the road, driving off God-knows-where.

The roads were completely empty of life, the rumbling purr of the ’67 Chevrolet echoing in the streets. He followed traffic laws regardless of the lack of people, though, leaning against the wheel as he pulled to an idling stop at a red light, the sounds of classic rock softly whispering through the air from his radio. Fingers tapped along with the guitar idly, a slightly off-pitch humming mimicking the singer’s voice as they sung about renegades and the long arm of the law.

His thoughts slowly drifted away from the foul conversation he had had with his mother (are you drinking again, Zebediah? What have I told you about alcohol, it’s the devil’s drink, it is. Your father would always drink it, and look at how he ended up. Dead. Probably drinking and driving. Do you want to die like that?) onto the much pleasanter subject of a stuttering doctor, skin like ivory and eyes like the ocean on a rainy day.

Zebediah smiled against his arm as he thought on his boyfriend, the thought still bringing a sense of soothing calm to his tensed nerves. Shaking hands always managed to soothe knots in his muscles, a quiet voice always softly coaxing him into relaxation and content. He had probably gained years just meeting Allen and having him in his life – he knew he drank less when he was with the doctor. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but whenever he was around the other he tended to avoid a bottle of any kind, as though he was afraid Allen would look at him with sad disappointment.

Hands tightened around the wheel at the thought, knuckles burning white, and Zeb pressed his lips together tightly. He didn’t want to disappoint Allen, not if he could help it.

The light turned green, and he started driving again, hands turning the car in directions automatically, his thoughts completely elsewhere. He finally pulled to a stop in front of a familiar abode, green-hazel eyes looking at Allen’s place with contemplation. The doctor was probably asleep – it was almost three in the morning, now. He should just got back to the shop, drink his nightly six beers, and pass out on the couch…

The sight of a silhouette on the lower floor, however, made him cut off the ignition and slam the door behind him as he walked towards the front door.

Coming up to the door, he thought over the wisdom of this idea, his hand reaching out and rapping on the door before he could stop himself. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he rocked back on his heels, knowing that nothing could stop this now, and if Allen really didn’t want to be disturbed then he could tell Zebediah to leave.

A few minutes passed before the door finally opened, revealing a tired-looking Allen Townsend holding a cup of coffee, wrapped up in a fuzzy blue robe and sleek pyjama bottoms – he probably had a shirt on, too, just one covered by the robe.

“…Z-Zeb? Ah, h-hello..w-what time is it?”

“Three,” Zeb said, looking at him with a sheepish expression, ducking his head. “Sorry to bother you, I was just…out.” He paused, watching as Allen still stared at him owlishly, and he could feel his ears burning. “…I should go, shouldn’t I.”

“N-no, no!” Allen reached out, grabbing onto the hem of his jacket and tugging him inside quietly, smiling somewhat sleepily. “Y-you’re fine, j-just s-surprised me, is all! W-why were you o-out?”

“Needed to clear my head,” Zeb murmured, stepping into his significant other’s home and closing the door behind himself, watching as Allen locked the door quietly, taking a sip of the hazel-nut flavoured coffee he seemed to prefer – he always had that flavour whenever Zeb came by for a random visit.

“W-what w-was cluttering it u-up?”

“…nothing important,” Zeb murmured, shaking his hand and tugging on his jacket mindlessly. A smooth hand wrapped around his scarred one, then, and he glanced down to see their fingers linking quietly, before he looked to Allen to see him staring up at him worriedly.

“Y-you’re s-sure? I-I am a-always willing t-to listen.”

Staring down at him for a moment, Zebediah leaned down, their height difference only slight, and brushed his lips against the doctor’s wordlessly, eyes closed and shoulders relaxing as he fully immersed himself in the feel and the atmosphere that always seemed to surround Allen. A quiet squeak greeted his sudden show of affection, before Allen pressed back with a happy little hum, stepping closer to Zeb so that their chests brushed together.

Pulling back after a moment, Zeb pressed a kiss to Allen’s nose, watching as he twitched it in response, before pressing their foreheads together – a content, youthful smile causing his lips to curl upwards peacefully.

Zebediah had freckles.

But he didn’t just have freckles. He was absolutely covered in them. Swimming in them, coloured by them. He didn’t have the freckles – the freckles had him. So really, Zebediah was freckled.

There were forests of freckles spotting his nose, all the way to the tip and up between his eyes – the stray spot and point scattered along his eyelids and temples. At the corner of his right eye, there was a collective of pretty little blemishes, scattering like a drop of ink might scatter when dropped to the ceramic tiled floor; at the left corner of his mouth was a small handful, drifting to meld in with hundreds along his cheekbone – perfectly kissable. The freckles trailed along his cheeks and dripped down along the sides of his head, creeping onto the sides and back of his neck to flourish across his shoulders and the top of his back.

They crawled along his biceps, creeping along the back to sneak into the crook of his elbow and settle within the crease. They decorated his wrists in tiny bursts of specks and stains, drifting lazily up scarred hands. Along his back, they pitter-pattered along shoulder blades and following the line of his spine, the fleshy paint smatterings spreading out like messy wings at his lower back and along his waist and hips, curving to hug him around the belly and below; freckles flickered up along his ribs and chest like the beginnings of rain.

They came to a point on his tailbone, separating into spatters along his rump and the back of his thighs. They pooled at the back of his knees, cascaded along the backs of calves, and wrapped like spotty ribbon along the tops of his thighs and the dips in his knees. On his left ankle was an explosion of starbursts, connecting loosely with the starry sky of his leg. Freckles trickled down his right calf and spilt over his foot, curling to a close just above his toes.

Gentle fingers dutifully counted the ephelides on his hip, the slimmer man half draped over his torso as he lazily brushed against each spot, head resting against his chest comfortably. Zeb watched him with half lidded eyes, a hand threading scarred fingers through dark hair, the other folded behind his head contently.

“You’re not gonna get ‘em all.”

“Mm,” Allen nodded his agreement, pressing a quick kiss just above his heart. “M-maybe not..” His hand paused in its counting, fingers drumming along the lightly tanned skin that made it that much more difficult to find the stains. Zeb hadn’t been in the sun lately – they practically melded in with his flesh, like camouflage. “B-but that’s n-not the p-p-point.”

“S’that so?”

“Mmhmm…”

Pulling himself upright, Allen turn so that he was fitted against Zebediah’s side, his quivering fingers tracing along the patterns of freckles, playing connect-the-dots and creating mindless pictures. Zeb’s arm wrapped comfortably around his shoulders, hands smoothing along his arm mindlessly as he closed his eyes, relaxing into the feeling of the innocent touches.

“Then why are ya botherin’?”

“Hmm…” Allen hummed, resting his hand over Zeb’s steadily beating heart, looking out at nothing in particular and curving into the warmth of the younger man. “W-well..w-why not?”

Zeb let out a soft laugh, smiling and shaking his head as he dragged the doctor closer.