#and drafted on thursday bc sunday is HECITC for me

[clumsyclifford]

kiss in the kitchen like it’s a dance floor

Calum hums. "I could stay with you."

Again Michael's heart gives a lurch. "Really?"

"Yeah, why not?"

HELLO!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY @jbhmalum​ this is for you i got cute in the ao3 notes and im worried about repeating myself but anyway i really just love and treasure you je t’adore i really wish i could compliment you better in french but i simply do not have the words so suffice it to say that i am so so happy to know you i love reading your fics you are so unbelievably talented not to mention just mad cute and just overall an absolute delight i hope your birthday is super amazing and yeah i love you lots

so here’s a really fluffy domestic malum quarantine getting together fic per the birthday girl’s request i know you’re all thinking fluff???? from bella??? but joke’s on you because i wrote this several weeks ago don’t worry i am still emo inside

title from sunflower vol. 6 by harry styles <3 king shit

read it here on ao3

At risk of sounding overdramatic, Michael is going to die unless he sees Calum in the next week. Possibly less. He's experiencing severe Calum withdrawal, and it shows. Sleeping alone sucks more than Michael can put into words. There's no warm, steady weight against his back anymore, just the flimsy brush of his own duvet. He tucks it as tightly around himself as possible, but it's just not the same as Calum's embrace. 

"I miss you," he whines over FaceTime one evening. 

"You better," Calum replies. Then, immediately, "Sorry, I mean, I miss you too, obviously."

"You're on thin ice here," Michael grumbles. 

"You already know I miss you," Calum tells him.

"I hate being in quarantine. This sucks so bad, Cal."

Calum nods, sighs. "You know…I've been in, like, proper quarantine for two weeks. More than that. Haven't seen anyone or done anything."

Michael makes a face. "Really? No one? Nothing?"

"Yeah, but I mean." Calum tilts his head on the screen. "I could probably come to yours."

For a moment Michael's heart leaps into his throat, and then, just as quickly, it plummets. "You can't," he says. "The travel, and plus then you'd be going back, and I'm pretty sure I've been in some suspicious places recently. I mean I'm being careful, but you know. I don't want you to get it or bring it back with you."

Calum hums. "I could stay with you."

Again Michael's heart gives a lurch. "Really?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"That'd be so amazing," Michael breathes. "Beyond awesome. Oh my God. Can — would you? Seriously?"

"Are you kidding me?" Calum gives Michael a look, like, do you even know me?  "Michael. Like, I don't want to overstate things here, but I miss you more than I think I've ever missed anyone, excepting possibly Duke."

"Not as much as I miss you," Michael returns. "I've never missed anyone more. At all. Dogs included." Instantly that feels wrong. "Okay. That's a lie. But —"

"Ha!" Calum crows. "I miss you more. Get destroyed, Cliffo."

"You know what," Michael says petulantly, "maybe you shouldn't come visit."

"Funny," Calum says. "I'll sort my shit out here and then I can probably leave in a few days, is that alright?"

It's more than alright. It's actually the most brilliant thing Michael's ever heard. The prospect of seeing Calum lifts his mood way up into the stratosphere, and he grins, bubbly.

"Yeah, yeah, perfect," he says. "Can't wait."

The look on Calum's face says he can't wait, either.

-

It's been too many weeks to count since Michael's been hugged, but the moment Calum is in his arms, the time melts away. "Oh my God, I missed you so fucking much," he murmurs into Calum's shoulder. Calum chuckles.

"Yeah," he says, all fond. "Missed you too, Mikey."

"Let's never stop hugging," Michael suggests. "Ever."

Calum pats his back. "I think life would get pretty difficult pretty quickly."

"I don't really see how."

"The bathroom, for starters."

"We'd figure it out. I've seen you naked."

"That's not. Really." Calum laughs. "Fuck. I really missed you. Come on. Invite me in."

"No," Michael says, as Calum pulls reluctantly out of his hold. Calum frowns. "You might have corona."

"Oh, fuck off."

Laughing loudly, Michael leads Calum in. Immediately, Southy and Moose are at his heels, yapping excitedly. Calum kneels, grinning. "Hey, guys! Miss me much?"

"They can just smell Duke on you," Michael says in mock-contempt. It's generally accepted that Moose and Southy favor Calum over, well, basically anyone, but Michael refuses to cave. They're his fucking dogs.

"Oh, fuck," Calum remembers, straightening up, to Moose's displeasure. "Duke."

"Go get him," Michael says. "I'll put your shit in your room."

Calum smiles at Michael, the big, bright one, eyes crinkling in the corners so they almost disappear. Michael thinks if he had to pick one thing to wax poetic about forever, it would be this smile, and how it makes him feel gooey and melty inside whenever Calum turns it on him.

"What?" Michael finally demands, when Calum doesn't say anything.

Calum shakes his head. "Does it have to be something, man? I'm just fuckin' happy."

Michael breathes out, feeling lighter than he has in ages. "Me too."

And with that, Calum turns and goes to get Duke from the car. Michael carries Calum's stuff to Calum's room, which is actually a guest room that's been broken in by Calum enough times that they started calling it his. Not that he stays there that often. Borne of habit from both childhood and hotel rooms, Michael and Calum always elect to share the bed. This, among millions of things, has made Michael's life hard in quarantine. Sleeping alone sucks.

Michael gives the room a once-over as he deposits Calum's bags down. It has minimal decorations but the few that are here are very much Calum. A photograph of the sunset off the beach near their childhood homes hangs above the dresser, and there's a comically large poster of Alex Gaskarth above the bed, which, Michael is somewhat sure, had been the result of a lost bet. 

Arms wrap around his middle. "Hey."

"You get Duke set up?" Michael asks, resting his hands against Calum's and tilting his head back.

"On a trial basis, yeah. He's gotten really territorial about his food, though, so if either of your kids tries anything…"

"My kids?"

"Your dogs," Calum says dismissively. "I'm just saying, Duke could kick their asses."

"Um, excuse me?" Michael twists around, prying himself out of Calum's grip. "First of all, it would be two on one, and there's no way your weak-ass mutt could —"

"Weak-ass mutt?"

" — also, Southy can and will scratch, and I know for a fact Moose has never read the Geneva Convention."

"Yeah, but they like me more," Calum says cheekily. Michael makes an offended face, and Calum swoops in and kisses his cheek.

"Hey, don't try that shit. They do not like you more."

“Okay,” Calum says, in a very unconvincing voice. “So. What’s for dinner?”

“Nothing for you if you keep this up,” Michael grumbles, scowling.

Calum chuckles. “I can look through your pantry and make something?”

“I just said I’m not feeding you.”

“Right, that’s why I’m going to be feeding you. ”

Michael huffs. “Don’t cook, we can order something.”

“No, I’m gonna cook. I’ve missed cooking for you.”

“Really? For me? ”

“Yes,” Calum says, looking strangely at Michael. “For you. I’ve missed spending time with you. Doing things for you. Why do you think I sent you the care package?”

“Because you love me?”

“Yeah,” Calum says, which is a little unfair, because Michael had been teasing and had expected Calum to tease in return. But Calum just looks matter-of-fact. “Exactly. So let me cook for you.”

Michael squirms, torn between the desire to make another joke or to let Calum’s love settle over his shoulders like a second skin. “Okay,” he concedes. “I’ll be supervising so I know you won’t poison me, though.”

Calum’s eyes crinkle with his smile. “Oh, no. Hanging out with me in the kitchen while I cook? I can’t think of anything worse.”

“Stop being so fucking sappy,” Michael whines. “You’re making me feel bad for being bitchy.”

“No, by all means,” Calum says airily. “Keep mocking me, your best friend, while I remind you over and over again how much I’ve missed you. I don’t mind at all.”

“You’re a shit,” Michael says, swatting at Calum’s shoulder. “Go make me dinner, peasant.”

“Bossy.”

“You asked to make dinner!”

Calum laughs, and turns to go start dinner. Michael trails after, because whatever he says, however he mocks Calum, he’s missed him far too much to let him out of Michael’s sight for too long. 

(And also, Michael likes to try and distract Calum while he cooks. It’s in his top five favorite sports.)

-

Having Calum here feels so natural it makes Michael wonder if they’d ever actually spent any time apart or if it had been a hallucination. They fall back into routine so easily, routine established from every part of their lives spent together; traditions created back in school, behaviors formed and reinforced through years of sharing hotel rooms, habits only known to the other. Calum slots back into the Calum-shaped gap he’d left when quarantine started, and it’s as if he’d never been gone. 

Michael likes the bubble they’re existing in now, where they speak to no one but each other, go nowhere but the store to replenish depleted groceries, and pretend that time isn’t passing in the outside world. They make a dent in their long list of movies to watch together, and occasionally make fun of. Calum runs in the morning while Michael sleeps, and every morning wakes him for breakfast while Michael bitches. They walk their dogs together. 

(Michael gapes when Calum lets Duke off his leash.

“Since fucking when?” he accuses.

“He’s a grown dog,” Calum says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Michael, he’s like a foot long with attachment issues. He won’t go anywhere.”

Michael stares reproachfully at Moose and South. They stare innocently back. Calum chuckles and pats Michael on the back. “You can let ‘em off as long as I’m here. You know they won’t run away from me.”

“Fuck you,” Michael retorts, looping the leash once more around his wrist. Dream on, he thinks, eyeing his dogs.)

And it’s easy, for a week or two, to think that this is just how people are, or if not, that this is just how they are, how Michael and Calum exist in the world. They’ve been best friends since forever, and there’s no one else in Michael’s life who fills the shoes that Calum does — and why should there be, when he has Calum? It’s not like Michael’s ever needed anyone else, or anything else. Homeless or starving or broke or on a deserted island or stranded in outer space or drowning in an ocean or on death row, Michael’s only wish would be Calum.

Of course it would, though. Calum is everything. Michael’s known that for ages.

They don’t even start under the pretense that Calum will be staying in “his” room; from his very first night at Michael’s he doesn’t even open that door, just follows after Michael when Michael declares he’s going to retire for the night and slips under the blanket with him, wordlessly, a silent agreement that there’s no reason to torture themselves sleeping alone when they don’t need to. This quarantine has given them both a new perspective on solitude; namely, avoid at all costs. So Michael snuggles up to Calum, content even to be the little spoon if it means Calum’s the one whose front is all lined up with Michael’s back, whose arm is slung tightly over Michael’s middle, an unspoken promise that Michael’s not getting away from Calum if Calum has any say. It’s comforting to be held, but not necessary; Michael wouldn’t leave Calum’s arms if the house were on fire.

(Okay, maybe if the house were on fire. But he’d definitely wake Calum for that.)

They do the bare minimum promoting CALM — mostly Michael likes leaving that stuff to Luke anyway, who, as lead singer, gets the bulk of the attention for it. Sometimes Michael decides to be resentful about that, but now it’s nice to know that the world doesn’t expect much from him, from either of them. They FaceTime with Luke and Ashton, who express openly and loudly how envious they are of Calum and Michael spending time together. The world spins on, with Michael purposefully ignoring it. Life is wonderful.

“Right, what’s next on the list?” Calum asks, handing Michael a glass of water and collapsing onto the couch. He kicks his legs up and stretches them across Michael’s lap. Michael gives him a look, and Calum just gives Michael a cheeky grin as he takes a sip of his own water.

“The Umbrella Academy, ” Michael says.

“Isn’t that a show?”

“Yeah, well, it’s next on the list.”

Calum frowns. “Why haven’t we got a separate list for TV shows?”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Because we’re idiots? Or because we probably never anticipated having this much time to actually get through the list. Do you want to watch it or not?”

“Oh, definitely,” Calum says. “Isn’t that, fuckin’…Mikey Way’s, or something? One of the MCR guys?”

“Gerard. Yeah.”

“Dope,” Calum says. Michael reaches for the remote while Calum pulls his legs off of Michael, shuffling around on the couch until his head is on Michael’s lap, legs thrown up over the armrest. Michael settles his free hand onto Calum’s crown, running his fingers along the short hair over his scalp. It’s not that he prefers Calum with more hair — generally speaking, Michael’s favorite version of Calum is always whichever one exists at the moment — but he does miss having more hair to play with. He suspects Calum misses that, too. Calum always liked Michael playing with his hair.

“You might have trouble drinking if you’re laying down like this,” Michael observes wryly, although he hopes Calum doesn’t sit up. It may be stupidly domestic, to be like this with Calum, but that’s always been them, and Michael likes it that way. Prefers it. Friends are stupidly domestic sometimes. Aren’t they?

“Whatever,” Calum says, setting his glass blindly onto the floor in front of the couch. “Don’t, like, kick to the right, and we’ll be fine.”

Michael shakes his head fondly and hits play on the first episode of the show. It’s a good show, and for the first episode he and Calum are both equally taken by it. When it ends, Duke shuffles into the room in search of company, and Calum pats the couch to invite him up. “My son,” he whispers as Duke precariously attempts to climb the couch. “Come here, my son. I can lift you up. I can show you what you want to see and take you where you want to be.”

“Are you,” Michael says, briefly distracted from starting the next episode. “Are you singing Capital Cities to Duke?”

“Shut up,” Calum says, making grabby hands towards Duke until Duke gets the message and comes close enough for Calum to grab. “You’re just jealous ‘cause neither of your dogs want to hang out with you.”

“Because they’re normal dogs who sleep at this hour.” Duke settles himself onto Calum’s chest, collapsing with an adorable whoomph, nose brushing up against Calum’s chin. It’s too cute for words, the pair of them. Michael feels his heart clench inexplicably, and looks away.

“Jealous,” Calum sing-songs. “Go on, start the episode, what’re you waiting for?”

“I don’t think you’ll be able to watch with Duke sitting on top of you.”

Calum makes a dismissive noise. “I’ll be fine.”

And he is fine, right up until he falls asleep about fifteen minutes in. Michael notices straightaway, and wonders when exactly he got so attuned to Calum that he can tell in an instant if he’s awake or asleep. Sure enough, glancing down, Calum is exhaling gently, steadily enough that he’s obviously dropped off. Duke is dozing on Calum’s chest. Once again, Michael’s heart does that squeezing thing that leaves Michael vaguely confused. It’s just Calum. It’s always just Calum; what’s happening now that never used to happen before?

For a moment, Michael entertains the idea of just sitting here forever. It’s a tempting option. Michael’s hand has stalled in Calum’s hair but it still rests there, fingertips grazing the nape of his neck, and Calum’s chest is rising and falling rhythmically, raising and lowering Duke with it. The scene is endearing, charming beyond explanation, the kind of thing that makes Michael wish you could frame moving pictures like they do in Harry Potter, just to watch this moment for the rest of his life. He’d put it up in his bedroom, and look at it whenever he was in need of some sense of peace. 

If Calum is asleep, though, it must mean he’s tired, and they should probably go to bed if that’s the case. Michael gives himself another long moment to just watch his best friend sleep, face restful and all creases smoothed. He clicks off the TV.

“Cal,” he whispers.

There’s no response.

“Calum,” Michael repeats softly, scratching his fingernails over Calum’s scalp. “Calum, babe.”

Calum hums and his eyes open groggily. He lifts an arm to rub a hand over his face, and Duke jerks awake. “Hmm,” Calum manages, staring up into Michael’s face with a vaguely blank look. “Oh. Fuck. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Michael says. “Bedtime, though. I’m kind of tired anyway.”

Calum grabs Duke in his hands and then, with an almighty groan, heaves himself into a sitting position, gently lowering Duke to the ground. Duke leaves the room, possibly to go and harass Moose and South into letting him sleep with them. Michael sees a lot of Calum in Duke.

For a second Calum just sits, elbows braced against his knees, face in his hands. Michael furrows his brow. “You feeling okay?”

Calum breathes out. “Yeah, yeah. Just — more tired than usual, I guess.”

“Sleep in tomorrow,” Michael offers. “Lazy day. I love lazy days.”

“Mike, all your days are lazy days.”

“Fuck you, firstly, and secondly, none of my days are lazy days with you.” Michael pokes at Calum’s shoulder. “Which is obviously completely different, because it means we can cuddle all day, or do whatever. And get takeout! Come on, Cal, lazy day, lazy day, pajama day, lazy day —”

“Okay, okay,” Calum relents. “Yes, fine. Fine.” Michael grins and wraps Calum in a hug from the side, and Calum shakes his head, although Michael knows him well enough to know it’s fond exasperation at worst.

“Lazy day,” Michael sings lightly. Calum huffs a laugh. “Let’s go to bed.”

They go, and Michael’s heart does that squeezing-clenching thing again when Calum burrows into Michael’s chest once they’ve gotten under the duvet. He seems to be tipsy off tiredness, but it’s not anything Michael hasn’t seen before, and he doesn’t know why he’s reacting differently all of a sudden.

Must be the tiredness getting to me too, he thinks dismissively, pretending not to think about the fact that he’s no more tired than usual and he’s been tired before, without weird thoughts about Calum cramming their way into his mind. Best to sleep it off.

(Part of him doesn’t want to sleep it off, though. It’s a lovely fantasy, thinking he and Calum might be something more — not that he wants that, necessarily, but if he were going to want it, he doesn’t think it would be so bad. In the safety of his own mind, in fleeting thoughts, it’s nice to think about. Calum’s Calum, after all. It makes sense that eventually even Michael would start to think things. Just as long as he knows they’re all far-fetched things that are far too delusional to ever be anything but silly, sleepy, inexplicable ideas.)

“G’night,” Calum murmurs, sending a buzz from his words across Michael’s skin. Michael shivers, and hopes Calum doesn’t pick up on it.

“Sleep well,” Michael says quietly, lips brushing Calum’s hair. “And if you get up before ten, I’ll spread rumours about you on Twitter.”

Calum barely breathes out a giggle before he sighs and falls asleep. Michael doesn’t see the point in being awake without Calum, and without ceremony falls asleep as well, warm from Calum’s body lined up against his own.

-

Despite Michael’s threat, he still wakes up to an empty bed, covers thrown back where Calum must have gotten out. Of course he has. Michael starts brainstorming vaguely irritating rumour ideas to put on Twitter.

It’s eleven, though, which means that technically Calum could have woken up after ten but before Michael. Either way, Michael’s waking up alone again, and that’s annoying.

He shuffles out of bed, pulling on Calum’s Youngblood hoodie as he pads into the kitchen, where, predictably, Calum is making breakfast. Michael wraps his arms around Calum’s waist and hooks his chin over Calum’s shoulder. Calum jerks at the touch before apparently realizing who it is, and settling backwards into it.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Calum greets him, turning his head to give Michael a kiss on his temple. It strikes Michael as a strangely romantic thing to do, which isn’t a thought he needs to be having. “I promise I wasn’t up before ten.”

“Hmph,” Michael grumbles, which is morning-Michael-speak for come back to bed, but Calum either doesn’t understand or chooses to ignore it. Eyeing the griddle on the stove, he adds, “Pancakes?” 

Calum nods. “See, when you wake up early, this is the kind of thing you have time for.”

“Worst lazy day partner ever,” Michael sniffs. “I want to cuddle.”

“What if we eat breakfast and then cuddle?”

“What if you come back to bed and then we eat pancakes when we wake up?”

Calum chuckles. “I don’t know how you’re tired right now. It’s eleven.”

“I don’t know how you’re not,” Michael says, horrified. “It’s eleven.”

Calum just laughs. “I love you,” he says, apropos of nothing, and Michael’s heart does a triple backflip.

“I know,” he says. “If this is a ploy to get me to forgive you for getting me out of bed at eleven in the morning, it’s not working.”

“It’s not a ploy,” Calum says. “But it is working.”

It is working. Just for saying that, though, Michael stubbornly wishes it weren’t, but it’s too late; Calum’s already softened his defenses, thawed his prickly morning mood. “Fuck you,” he mumbles. Calum makes another half-laugh noise and even though Michael’s not looking at his face, he can tell — he can almost feel — the way Calum’s eyes crinkle with his smile. 

“You can grab the syrup from the fridge,” he tells Michael. Michael hugs Calum tighter and buries his face in Calum’s neck.

“No,” he says, voice muffled in Calum’s skin. “Shut up.”

“You can’t cuddle me while I’m making pancakes, Mikey.”

“Fucking watch me.”

“Mike.”

“Shh, napping,” Michael mumbles, closing his eyes. He can feel Calum’s racing heartbeat pulsing in his neck, against Michael’s cheek, and distantly wonders why it’s racing. Calum relents, thankfully, and for a moment they just stand there, in the peaceful quiet of the kitchen, Michael’s hands loosely curled into Calum’s shirt. They fit so well it’s almost criminal. “This is perfect,” he sighs, breath hot against his own face where it bounces off Calum’s skin.

Calum settles a hand on Michael’s. “What is?”

Michael hums. “This,” he says again, although he knows that’s mostly meaningless, and it could mean anything. “You. You being here. Just this.”

It’s still kind of nonsensical, but Calum seems to understand anyway. It’s what they do best, understanding each other when nobody else can, when nobody else would bother trying. “I missed you more than I think it’s normal to miss someone,” Calum says quietly. To an outsider listening in, it would sound like a change of subject, but Michael knows it isn’t. It’s perfect to me, too, Calum is saying. It wasn’t any good before. The words hover before them, almost like giving Michael the option to ignore them. 

Michael had known that, of course. Michael had also missed Calum more than it’s normal to miss someone. He’d kind of just figured that was how they operated. Calum is saying it like it should be news, like it should mean something monumental, but it’s all the same to Michael. He missed Calum more than a normal person ought to, but not more than Calum deserves. It’s Calum.

“Your heartbeat’s really fast,” Michael murmurs, also a surface change of subject, trying to say so many things, like I missed you too, an insane amount, and is this new for you, too, or just for me? and have I never noticed that your heart pounds when I hug you, or has it just never before? and it’s okay with me, whatever the answer is. He’s almost afraid to pick his head up, scared that he’s going to see the look on Calum’s face and not like it, scared that it’s going to be what he wants it to be. Scared that something is going to change, but almost more afraid that nothing will.

Calum breathes a laugh. “Of course you would notice that.”

“My face is on your neck,” Michael says. “How could I not notice.”

“I meant it,” Calum says, which Michael had also known, and he knows what Calum means, too; not just that he’d meant what he said, but also what he hadn’t, the unspoken this that Michael had been talking about in the first place.

“So did I,” Michael says, meaning that he meant everything he didn’t say, and he wonders if Calum had understood it, but it’s Calum, and they’re them, so of course Calum has understood it.  He picks his head up off Calum’s shoulder and Calum twists himself around in Michael’s arms, hands fluttering over Michael’s shoulders before landing. Michael is tempted to point out that he probably shouldn’t turn his back on an open flame, and he probably would if he didn’t think it would ruin the moment. They’re definitely in a moment right now, which should probably be weird, but it isn’t. This should feel weird, but it doesn’t, because it’s Calum.

Michael wonders how many exceptions he’s made in his life for Calum, and how many more he’ll make at the drop of a hat. There’s the world, and then there’s Calum, and the rules stop applying somewhere in transit.

Calum rests his forehead against Michael’s. “I thought that maybe it was just me.”

“How could it be just you?” Michael says softly. His own heartbeat is thudding in his chest. “If it’s you, then it’s me. That’s always been true.”

“This is different,” Calum says, except it’s not. “You changed your mind. Recently.”

Michael blinks. “How do you know that?”

“I just,” Calum shrugs, helplessly. “I don’t know. I could just tell. I can tell.”

“I didn’t change my mind,” Michael says, because he doesn’t know what to say to everything else Calum’s just revealed. Like that Calum must have known before Michael knew. And that Calum must have been waiting for Michael to screw his fucking head on right. And that Calum had noticed, the moment it happened. “I just realized, you idiot. You should have fucking told me.”

“This is my fault? ”

“You knew!”

“I thought it was just me,” Calum repeats. 

“Well that was a stupid fucking assumption to make,” Michael tells him. “You were waiting for me to realize.”

“I wasn’t waiting, I was just…” Calum frowns. “Hoping.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Well, I’m here now,” he says. “I’m all caught up.” They’re dancing around it, he notices, because Michael is just finding his footing and Calum is probably waiting for Michael to say psych!, and neither of them wants to say it. Once they say it, it’s a fact.

It’s a fact already, though. It’s been a part of the MichaelandCalum history since they met, and they’ve both just been idiots about it, basically.

Calum’s eyes crinkle as the ghost of a smile starts to lift at the corners of his lips, and before Michael can even begin to wax poetic about it, they’re kissing. It makes so much sense to be kissing that Michael doesn’t even think, for a moment, that it’s strange. It just feels nice, and feels right, and Calum’s mouth is warm and tastes like chocolate, inexplicably.

Calum exhales sharply when they part. “Fucking finally,” he says, breath hot on Michael’s lips.

“You could have told me we’re in love,” Michael says. “I wish I’d fucking known.”

“Don’t blame this on me. You could have opened your fucking eyes.”

“Pancakes,” Michael remembers. “You’re making pancakes. You should make them.”

“I think, maybe,” Calum says, and then nothing else, just catches Michael in another kiss, sweet like the last, familiar like everything to do with Calum, one of Calum’s hands curling steadily around the back of Michael’s neck. Michael doubts if he’s ever felt more at home than he does right now.

“Okay,” Michael says hoarsely against Calum’s mouth. “More of that. Pancakes later.”

Calum grins. The pancakes sit on the island until they’re cold, vapor dissolving into the cool kitchen air. The world spins on. Life is wonderful.