#vulnerable = being in your threadbare pajamas

[solarstranger]

SIMPLE AS THAT (3.9k)

pairing. k. akaashi x reader

synopsis. akaashi keiji's been at his wits' end with his job as a manga editor for months now. the last thing he needs is for his marriage to fall apart.

c.w. minors dni. fem!reader, timeskip!akaashi, aged-up (25 yrs old), established relationship, minor manga spoilers, hurt/comfort, a special appearance by one (1) kuroo tetsurou, nsfw/mature themes (this is an understatement. there's explicit shit. be warned)

a/n. marriage in crisis always slaps, y'all. it's one of my favorite tropes, and it took a lot of courage for me to write it, let alone with a character whom i love but am still trying to get a feel for in terms of characterization. that said, this is equally a character study of akaashi as it is a fic, so i hope i was able to portray him accurately! i love haikyuu so much, and i'm glad i'm finally venturing into writing for our volleyboys <3 enjoy!

It’s times like these that Akaashi wishes he was born a little softer around the edges.

A little less high-strung. Maybe a little more gracious. Certainly a lot more understanding and capable of exercising patience.

Patience that he miraculously has been able to demonstrate throughout grade school, exemplify in high school, and barely muster throughout college and the early years of being an intern, then finally, a progressively respectable editor.

He doesn’t know exactly when it all began to change, although if he could wager a guess, it wasn’t something that merely happened overnight. Stuff like this rarely does. All he knows is that patience was always something that he had to work for—never something that came naturally—and it was his patience, among other things, that somehow propelled you to gravitate towards him in the first place.

But, right now, as he watches you in your threadbare pajamas in the foyer of your new condominium unit, chin subtly trembling and tired, moist eyes stubbornly boring a hole into his forehead, he finds himself bidding an unspoken farewell to that distantly familiar gravity, and gazes at its replacement that’s not-so hidden in the way your shoulders are raised in palpable tension, or the way you’re standing a cautious distance away from him.

“Well?” you ask, a little louder and seemingly more sure than you were just a second ago. “Aren’t you gonna say something?”

Despite himself, Akaashi hesitates.

You stare at him—expectant—for another beat, before finally shaking your head, lips pulled taut into a frown. “I’m guessing you’re not opposed to it, then.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“And you don’t see how that’s worse?”

The ebony-haired man huffs, his grip on his sling bag tightening. “You know I’m exhausted. If you have any idea the shit I have to put up with at work, then—”

“Jesus, Keiji, are we really doing this again?” you shake your head, running a frustrated hand through your bed-mussed hair. “I know, and I understand. Which is why I’m suggesting we spend some time apart.”

Akaashi’s breath hitches. Hearing it the second time apparently doesn’t make it any easier.

He’s known it for a while now. Scratch that, he’s known it since the day he met you. The fact that he’s the lucky one, the one who has to thank his stars he’s crossed paths with you—let alone married you—and that if god forbid you ever grew apart, you’d be the one that got away.

But patience was never something that came naturally to him, and it's something that’s gradually and definitively worn thin, which is why he ends up blurting the next thing.

“Fine. If that’s what you want.”

He wasn’t lying about being exhausted.

After he said that last bit, ultimately (inadvertently) agreeing to your proposition, he dragged his slippered feet across the living room—right past your vulnerable albeit steady form—and straight into your master’s bedroom, where he hurriedly stripped off his clothes up to his boxer shorts before plopping himself down unceremoniously onto the firm mattress.

He doubts five minutes even got to pass until he knocked out and was fully unconscious.

He must’ve fallen into deep, uninterrupted sleep, because he doesn’t have any recollection of waking after that—at least, not in the wee hours of the morning blanketed by the moonlight shining through the barely open windows. It’s his alarm clock that manages to rip him out of his slumber with a jarring ringing, and he’s quick to slam down the button the second the noise reverberates throughout the otherwise quiet room.

Which, now that he thinks about it, is almost too quiet.

It’s this thought that prompts Akaashi to shoot up from where he was lying, turning to look at your side of the bed, which is decidedly and indubitably—

—Empty.

Instantly, he feels his pulse quicken, and a million unpleasant thoughts start racing through his head. His gaze shifts to your bedside table—similarly empty, with no sign of a note or a letter, or—god forbid—your wedding ring.

Akaashi deflates in partial relief. He guesses that’s something.

Shifting towards his own bedside table, he reaches for his phone only to find several work-related emails that were sent overnight waiting for him, a few Instagram notifications, and a handful of text messages—none of which are from you.

He pauses, thumb frozen in front of his slightly cracked screen. He supposes he can call, or even shoot you a message, just to confirm where you are and that you’re alright.

But, then again, you were the one to insist on spending time apart.

And he agreed.

Whether or not it was an informed decision doesn’t matter now, he thinks to himself. Besides, maybe you two did need this. He can’t remember the last time he was truly alone—in this home or in general—although it’s not like you’ve been talking a lot and spending much time together in the past few months, either.

If it weren’t for that damn job…

Akaashi straightens up at the thought of work, glancing at the clock beside him.

7:34 AM.

He scrambles out of bed.

He’s going to throw up.

At least, he thinks he is, the way he does every time the building’s elevator dings, signalling his arrival at their company’s floor like clockwork.

Still, he forces one foot to step forward, then another, then another, until he magically finds himself at the entrance of his cubicle—

—Where his direct supervisor is waiting for him.

“Masahiro-san,” Akaashi croaks, gaping at the middle-aged man who’s seated comfortably in his not-so-ergonomic office chair. “G-good morning.”

“Good morning,” Masahiro nods, slightly spinning to fully face the younger male. “Cutting it kinda close, aren’t we?”

Akaashi immediately tenses. “Uh, my alarm didn’t go off. I had to rush here to make it on time.”

Whether or not that fib just now was convincing, Akaashi doesn’t know, but the man nods again, before leaning forward. “Well, it’s good that you’re here now. I have some important news that I ought to tell you first before the meeting.”

“What is it?”

At that, Masahiro stands up to his full, towering height, using it as an advantage to look out for any surrounding eavesdroppers. Once he notes that the coast is clear, or at least as clear as it can be, he turns back towards the ebony-haired man, but not before beckoning him closer.

Akaashi hesitantly cranes his neck forward.

Masahiro takes a deep breath, as if to steel himself. “Our newest series?” he starts, tone grim, and Akaashi bristles, “It’s getting discontinued.”

The word is out in the form of a shout before Akaashi can rein it in.

“What?”

“Shh,” Masahiro brings a finger up to his lips, vigorously shaking his head, “You’re not supposed to find out yet, but I wanted you to know first.”

“Why?” Akaashi finds himself asking in a hushed whisper, alarm laced in his voice. “Am I getting laid off like the others? Is that it?”

“No! You’re one of our best editors here, if not the best.”

Masahiro opens his mouth as if to say more, before backtracking and heaving a heavy sigh. “You’re not losing your job. It’s, well, actually, the opposite.”

Akaashi braces himself for what’s next.

“You’re gonna have to work overtime to compensate for the lack of manpower, for at least a month.”

Akaashi blanches. “A-and if I can’t?”

Masahiro stares at him for a moment, perhaps processing the ostensibly unexpected question, before averting his gaze, features contorted into a frown. “Well, we might have no choice but to retain someone else who can.”

“Don’t you look like shit.”

Akaashi looks up from where he was staring blankly at his untouched plate of gyudon, a striking image of a suit-clad, grinning Kuroo carrying a tray of what looks like ramen filling his vision when he does. The blue-eyed male doesn’t fight the urge to roll his eyes.

“What, no comeback?” Kuroo goads, taking the seat in front of him, his back facing the floor-to-ceiling windows of their usual lunch spot, allowing Akaashi a good view of the people walking down the sidewalk under the blinding noon sun. “Someone’s going through it.”

“I’m really not in the mood, Kuroo-san.”

“Evidently.”

Akaashi barely manages to suppress an exasperated sigh. Kuroo studies him for a beat, gaze drifting down to the younger male’s now cool plate of food, before darting back up to the latter’s face. “Trouble at work?”

“I guess you could say that.”

Kuroo hums. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Akaashi pauses for a moment, before slowly shaking his head.

The slightly older man nods. “Alright, then. How about at home? How’s the missus?”

At the mention of you, Akaashi—despite himself—stiffens, a reaction that, to his chagrin, doesn’t go unnoticed by his senpai. Kuroo’s eyebrows furrow at the sight in front of him, and he hesitates, before finally settling with: “Akaashi. Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Akaashi grits out through his teeth, finally picking up his well-forgotten chopsticks in the hopes of diverting the man’s attention. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong, and yet you can’t even look me in the eye?”

Akaashi freezes.

Kuroo pulls his lips into a thin line. “You know I don’t like to meddle in personal affairs, but you’re doing it again, man.”

Akaashi looks up, frowning. “Doing what?”

“Being cold,” Kuroo answers without a single hair of reluctance. “Withdrawn. What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Are we seriously doing this?” Kuroo deadpans, and Akaashi can’t help but tense at his words, which are uncannily similar to the ones you uttered to him yesterday in the heat of your argument.

Jesus. What does it say about him when both his wife and best friend think he’s being obstinately stubborn?

Akaashi gulps, before slowly setting back down his pair of chopsticks beside his plate. He finally forces himself to look at Kuroo, who’s observing him with such unmistakable concern that everything—in spite of himself—just practically bubbles out of his mouth.

“S-she left.”

Kuroo blinks. “What?”

Akaashi takes in a shaky breath. “She left,” he parrots, “She asked for time apart.”

“Wait, wait, wait. She left your house?”

Akaashi nods. “She wasn’t in bed when I woke up this morning. She probably left so that she wouldn’t have to talk to me again.”

Kuroo gapes at him. “Did you tell her not to go? When she asked for time apart?”

“I—” Akaashi tries to start, before trailing off. He shakes his head. “I couldn’t say anything. She caught me at a bad time—I just got home from overtime, and I knew I’d probably end up saying something I didn’t mean if I opened my mouth.”

“So you just agreed,” Kuroo finishes for him, “To your wife leaving.”

“I didn’t know she would just leave like that.”

“So, what? You thought spending time apart would mean merely avoiding each other under one roof?”

“I didn’t even get to think, okay?!”

Kuroo clamps his mouth shut, stunned.

A strained silence envelops the air around them.

“I’m sorry,” Akaashi eventually offers after a brief moment of stillness, eyes downcast. “It’s just—I’m going through a lot right now.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, too, for pressing,” Kuroo offers lowly. “But this thing with Y/N is clearly bothering you, and I think it’d be in your best interest to fix it before it’s too late.”

“Fuck—I know,” Akaashi huffs, “But I don’t know how I can when I’m barely holding down my job and—”

“Then go find another one.”

Akaashi shoots him a look. “As if it’s that simple.”

“It is that simple,” Kuroo argues, shifting in his seat. “You didn’t even want to be a manga editor, right? You wanted to work in the literary department. So quit and find something else. And if being in that line of work is impossible right now, then suck it up and find a different job. It won’t be forever, and it’ll be stable enough for you to fix whatever’s going on at home.”

“But—”

“I know. It sounds scary, even for me,” Kuroo admits, “So I can only imagine how this is sounding like for you. But here’s the thing, Akaashi. There are a million jobs out there, and you’re a smart kid. You’ll likely have your pick of the litter wherever you go.”

“I doubt that. The job market’s shit right now.”

“Okay, fair, but you get my point. As I was saying, there are—okay—a thousand jobs out there, but—”

Kuroo pauses, and Akaashi swears it’s only for dramatic effect.

The taller man grins.

“You only have one wife.”

He’s not supposed to be here.

For one, he’s pretty sure he was just able to enter your company’s building because he blended in with a group of boisterous employees as they walked past the blissfully unaware security guards, or it could also be the fact that the color of his ID lanyard is oddly close to theirs, allowing him to further disguise himself as one of the team.

In any case, it granted him access. That’s what truly matters; the hows should be the least of his extensive list of worries, at least for now.

Akaashi quickly scans the building’s directory, acutely aware of the concierge eyeing him from behind her desk, before his eyes finally land on the name of your organization, written to the side of which is your floor number.

It’s times like these that Akaashi wishes he had never quit volleyball, or at the very least, kept on regularly exercising.

Because he wouldn’t be standing in front of you in your cubicle, with hot sweat dripping down the insides of his crumpled polo, chest heaving in exertion from all the running up countless staircases he did just now, if he had—

Just.

Kept.

On.

Exercising.

“Keiji,” you gawk at him from where you’re seated in your chair, what seems to be a takeout container laid out neatly on your desk in front of you. “What are you doing here?”

Akaashi swallows, his mind suddenly—infuriatingly—turned blank at the sight of you. He clears his throat. “I needed to see you.”

You stare at him for a moment, confusion evident in your face, before quickly moving to put away your food and standing up to fully face him. “I thought we agreed to spend some time apart?”

“I needed to see you,” Akaashi finds himself dumbly repeating.

You falter, looking unsure. “What about work?” you ask instead, eyeing his attire, “Shouldn’t you be returning from lunch break by now?”

“I told my boss I needed to take the afternoon off.”

“What? Why?”

“Because,” Akaashi seethes, “I just had to see you.”

You frown. “You should’ve just waited ‘til you got off before coming to see me. Your boss isn’t going to be happy about—”

“I don’t give a shit.”

And when you only gape at him in shock, he backtracks. “I mean, I do, but that’s not as important right now.”

“…I’ve been complacent,” Akaashi declares when you don’t say anything for a moment, opting to wait for him to explain himself. “I got so caught up in trying not to lose my job and the security it brought me that I didn’t notice I’ve been neglecting you.”

“I understand, Keiji, which is why—”

“No, let me finish. It was stupid of me. To let things get this far. I don’t know—I guess I just got too comfortable with the knowledge that you’re married to me, that I forgot that didn’t mean I’ll always get to keep you around.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Keiji,” you attest, stepping closer to bring a hand up to cup his cheek, to which Akaashi presses himself further against your hold. “I just came up with that suggestion because I figured you needed the space to recollect yourself without me breathing down your neck and making it worse for you.”

“You never make things worse for me,” Akaashi immediately interjects, his firm hands finding their place on your hips, squeezing them. “I’m sorry I ever made you feel that way. I promise I’ll do better.”

“I know,” you smile, caressing his jaw. “I believe you.”

Akaashi returns the affectionate gesture, before leaning in to softly peck your lips. “Thank you, love.”

“Of course, baby.”

“L-let me make it up to you?”

You blink at him, bemused. “How?”

Akaashi looks around your office for any sign of other people, before looking down at his watch. “Are your workmates still out for lunch?”

“Yeah? They typically come back by 1.”

“Great. We still have seven minutes.”

“Wha—”

That’s all the foreboding you get before Akaashi all but lifts you and plops you gently down on your desk, and you’re about to say something in protest when he practically dives in and captures your lips into a searing kiss, shutting you up before making you groan.

He doesn’t wait for your go signal to let him enter your mouth, tongue frantic in its attempt to pry your lips open until they do, the wet muscle swiftly laving over the insides as his busy hands make quick work of riding up your pencil skirt until they’re bunched up at your upper thighs.

“Kei—” you try to mumble against his lips, although you’re instantly cut off by another sloppy kiss, and all thoughts momentarily dissipate from your mind when he squeezes at your flesh—so roughly and unexpectedly that you choke out a moan—one that Akaashi instantly silences with his mouth on yours.

“Let me make you feel good, love,” he breathes against the crook of your neck, where he’s now peppering a trail of kisses down the expanse of it, “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

“I n-need you to s-stop,” you try to say, although it comes out as more of a whimper when Akaashi conveniently sucks at your pulse point, before soothing it with a long lick. “People are gonna see us, Keiji.”

“People aren’t even here,” he counters, insistent on kneading your outer thighs. “Besides, I haven’t tasted you in so long. I bet you taste even better now that you’re terrified of being caught.”

“Keiji,” you whine, trying to wrestle yourself out of his hold, but to no avail—not with how hard he’s pinning you down with his entire body weight into your desk.

“What is it, love? What do you want from me?”

“Keiji.”

“You want me to eat you out ‘til you cum? Is that it?”

At the mention of him giving you head, your thighs involuntarily clamp around him, a reaction that doesn’t go past Akaashi, who only smiles smugly to himself.

“Looks like you want my mouth on you,” he chuckles, “Am I right?”

“N-no,” you manage to choke out, desperately clawing at his arms as you—despite yourself—grind against his crotch.

“No?”

“No, we don’t have time,” you croak, gasping when your barely clothed clit snags at the bulge of his zipper. “Fuck me, Keiji. I want you inside me.”

“Oh, shit.”

That’s the last—and only—thing Akaashi manages to say before hurriedly unfastening his belt and undoing his pants, pulling them down with his briefs in one go, and you have to physically stop yourself from grabbing for his cock the second it springs free from the restraining material.

He must notice your interrupted motion, because he shoots you a knowing look, but not before gripping his dick and pumping himself a few times, darkened eyes not once leaving yours. “As much as I want you to stroke me, as you said, we don’t have time.”

“Here,” he reaches for your skirt, tugging it up even higher until your underwear is in full view, the sight of which absolutely drenched making him throb painfully in his hand.

“Fuck, love. Had I known you were this pent-up, I would’ve come here sooner.”

“Shut up and put it inside me already, Keiji.”

At that, Akaashi chokes out a laugh, but doesn’t hesitate to pull your damp panties to the side, lining himself up with your sopping, pulsing entrance.

And because patience was never something that came naturally to him, he doesn’t wait any further before pushing in.

The millisecond that he does, he barely manages to smash his lips onto yours in time to muffle your moan—a moan that would, no doubt, be heard by nearby, receptive ears, and it’s that very thought of someone listening in to you getting screwed that sends a sudden albeit undeniable thrill down your spine, and you do the unthinkable.

You cry out.

This time, Akaashi fails to contain your sounds, and a hand quickly shoots up to cover your mouth, while the other remains on your waist, keeping you pinned to your desk.

“Be q-quiet, love,” Akaashi rasps, although his hips are unrelenting in pistoning in and out of you as if trying to make you do the opposite. “I don’t want a-anybody else hearing how—ugh—fuck—g-good you sound when I’m fucking you.”

“I c-can’t,” you mewl in protest, frantically grinding against him, “I can’t h-help it.”

“Yes, you can,” Akaashi breathes out, bending his knees just the slightest bit, his grip on your mouth preemptively tightening the moment he thrusts in at the new angle, causing you to let out a strangled moan that makes him impossibly harder.

“Is that it?” he prods, hitting the same spot over and over again, just as an array of expletives spills out of your slack mouth. “Is that the spot?”

“Y-yes,” you blabber, before clenching your thighs around his hips, bringing him even deeper inside you. “Harder, Keiji—shit—p-please.”

“F-fuck. Anything for my wife.”

No more words are exchanged between the two of you except for hushed pants and groans as Akaashi earnestly follows your command, hips roughly snapping in and out of you in record speed, his grip on your flesh strong enough to bruise, his mouth never leaving your parted lips.

You don’t know exactly when it happens, but the signs of your impending orgasm come sooner than later at his ministrations—obvious, familiar signs that Akaashi notices first.

“Are you gonna cum, love?” he huffs into your neck, thumb rubbing persistent circles on your aching clit, to which you bob your head in response, too fucked out to muster a coherent sentence.

Fortunately—and to your relief—that’s enough for Akaashi, who only smiles against your cheek.

“Be a good wife and cum for me, then.”

That’s all you needed to hear to come undone, unintentionally biting on Akaashi’s shoulder to quiet your cries when you do so, an action that catches the ebony-haired man in sheer surprise, causing him to cum.

Hard.

So hard that trails and trails of his cum leak out of your pussy when he tentatively pulls out of you a moment later, the silence juxtaposing the frantic moans that were just shared between the two of you a minute ago deafening.

Although that silence doesn’t get to go on for far too long, because the distant sound of a door opening followed by animated chatter suddenly resonates throughout the air, and your heads snap to look at each other—mortified.

Fuck.

˗ˏˋ while likes are appreciated, they don’t do much on tumblr! if you want to support me and writers in general, reblogs, replies, and tags are the way to go. feel free to drop an ask, too—i’d love to chat. have a nice day! ´ˎ˗

[eury--dice]

history, huh?

chapter 2: prope

(check the rb for chapter 1 on tumblr + ao3 links!)

Blue’s gum popped loudly on the other line. Adam couldn’t remember the last time he saw her chew gum, but somehow it seemed fitting that she picked up the habit then, with him overseas. “Any weird paintings?”

“I’m legally obligated not to tell you,” Adam replied, flicking his eyes over a textbook. He scanned his eyes over a page, but the fonts and colors all blurred together, creating a grey and red mass of string in front of him instead of a helpful breakdown of France’s pre-revolution economy. His phone, propped up on a tiny potted fern, revealed Blue Sargent in all of her early-evening glory. He wondered what the tabloids might think of her like this: her thick and short black hair held back by clashing vibrant hair clips, dressed in one of Gansey’s old Aglionby sweaters she converted into a halter top, felt-tip pen ink somehow smudged on her cheek. There was something wonderfully grounding about her familiar chaos.

“Contracts are a suggestion and nothing more.”

“Don’t let your mother hear that. She’ll have us both thrown in jail.” Ronan’s words from earlier popped into his head, but he had the luxury of ignoring them with the prince out of sight, and so he did. 

“C’mon, Adam, you know she’s a softie. You’re in Kensington Palace. You have to tell me something exciting.”

Adam scrounged for something to tell her. He glanced around his room again, still caught off-guard by how much it felt like a castle. Admittedly, he didn’t have a great reference for what castles were supposed to feel like; the only other castle he had been in was the Bishop Palace on a tour with his mother at age eight. His hair raised on end at random moments here the same way it did then, the draftiness leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable. He couldn't quite shake the idea that someone was watching him, caught between air molecules and screaming for someone to hear them. The White House sometimes gave him the same feeling. Realistically, he knew people passed over every spot on the earth and nothing made the walls of the White House or Kensington Palace any different in that regard. But the history in them intimidated him. The presence of greats, from founding fathers to celebrity politicians to monarchs, was a guarantee rather than a possibility. He couldn’t help but feel watched by them, feel their expectations and disappointment thick in the air.

Living there all the time as Ronan did must be lonely, surrounded only by ghosts. 

He pushed his feet against the floor, leaning back in his chair so that it balanced on two legs. His leg swung back and forth to dully hit the wooden underside of the seat while the other braced him. Adam didn’t quite want to tell Blue any of that. He knew she would understand, both because she was Blue and because her family was a big believer in the supernatural and psychic. But he didn’t know how to say it without a long-winded rant. “There’s a coat of armor outside my room,” he admitted in a low tone. “I’ve been waiting for it to twitch its finger and beckon me closer.”

“I’m sure if you ask nicely it will let you pursue your weird metal fantasies.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Adam said without heat, finally flipping the textbook shut. “No kink-shaming over the phone.”

“I watched the Wizard of Oz with you at age eight, Adam. You can’t hide your reaction to the Tin Man from me.”

Adam rubbed his eyes. “I need ice cream to deal with this bullying,” he announced, standing from the borrowed desk and snatching his phone up.

“Aw, at least I know that the English haven’t been able to suck all the life out of you if you’re complaining and want ice cream.”

“They haven’t managed it yet, but we’re only one photo op in.”

“Well, if the excess of British does manage to sideline you, let me know. I know Gansey will want the heads-up for the tabloids.”

“As long as you don’t feed them headlines again, I’d be happy to.” Adam rounded the corner into the spacious kitchen reserved for guests of the Crown. He’d roll his eyes at the needless expense if the White House didn’t provide the exact same accommodations. 

“I’m telling you again, I know nothing of the allegation.”

Adam gave her a flat look. “Who else would pen ‘First Son Denies Fur Son Residence in the Residence?’ Besides the obvious reason for it being bad, it was clearly you.”

Blue blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Sometimes I hate your intimate knowledge of my love of wordplay.”

“And I yours of the diplomatic taxidermy gifts I receive.”

“I’m sure the Minister of Foreign Affairs’ son meant well, he was just...creepy.”

Adam sighed, opening the freezer with one hand to reveal a box of pre-packaged ice cream cones. “They always mean well.”

He pulled the box from the freezer and shut the door, turning on his heel to face the counter. But he stopped short when he noticed it was no longer just him and Blue alone in the kitchen. 

Prince Ronan stood in the entryway to the kitchen, disarmed in the half-light with his flannel pajama pants and black t-shirt combination. Over-the-ear headphones sat on his head, but he pushed them down to loop around his neck. The music was so loud it bled into the air, carrying the harsh sound of drums until they reached Ronan across the kitchen. On his screen, Blue studied Adam and his sudden pause, and the voice of Gansey carried over from somewhere far away - “I’ve got a new article,” it sounded like, though Adam could barely hear anything. 

“Call you back,” he said quietly, disconnecting from the call. Ronan looked almost apologetic when Adam looked back up towards him.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” he confessed. “Goody-two-shoes like you.”

Adam wanted to take offense to it, but something stopped him. “I could say the same for you.”

“Yes, well, insomnia calls.”

“Doesn’t it always?” The two shared a tight smile. 

“I was out,” Ronan explained, gesturing to the box in Adam’s hand. “Knew there’d be a stock here. I’m...sorry.” The word sounded bitter and foreign on his tongue.

“It’s fine,” Adam said. “Midnight snacks are to be taken seriously or not at all.” He slid the box across the counter, suddenly very aware of his threadbare, faded crimson coca-cola tee shirt and GU sweatpants. He couldn’t stop feeling the slide of them against his skin. 

Ronan clutched the box once it reached him, looking to Adam with something close to surprise. Still, he opened the box and selected an ice cream. 

While he was distracted, Adam snapped a picture, the flash bright in the dim kitchen. 

The stare leveled at him by Ronan should’ve been enough to pin any self-preserving person in place, but Adam rarely did what was best for him personally. “What the fuck is that for?”

“Two social media posts a day,” Adam replied, speeding through the filtering process and tapping to the captioning. “It’s part of the contract.”

“Of course it would be,” Ronan mutters with great disdain. “Fucking social media addicted hounds.”

“Not a fan of technology?”

“Oh, sure, other than the fact that it’s a blight consuming the world by slaughtering brain cells and slowly giving us radiation poisoning.”

“You could’ve just said ‘yes.’”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

Adam smiled brightly. “Not giving me a headache from all of the pomposity?” 

“Exactly. No fun.” When Adam continued to stare blankly at his screen, Ronan rolled his eyes. “Does it take you this long to caption everything you do? If so, I understand why so little governing takes place.”

“Because the monarchy is oh-so-powerful,” Adam replied, but then decided to cut them off before it could turn into a full-blown fight. “It always takes me a minute to think of something good.”

Ronan grabbed the phone from his hands. “You’re overthinking it,” he dismissed, making a few decisive taps before handing the phone back to Adam, photo captioned but not yet posted. insomnia ice cream ft. @PrinceRonan. 

“Thought you hated technology?”

“Hate and lack of proficiency are two different things.” “...Of course,” Adam said, clicking post on the photo. Ronan turned and walked toward the door, the song on his headphones audibly changing. Not one for goodbyes, then. The feeling he had in his room was back then, the idea that ghosts clung to the air around him and stole oxygen with their demands. Although Ronan had not yet left, Adam already felt as though he were lonely. Lonely, but not alone, still technically with Ronan and all of the ghosts thickening the air.

Adam, in a fluid movement he didn’t really plan, dumped half of the ice creams on the counter and held out the box across the marble countertop as though bridging some wide ocean. The coolness of the marble inched closer to the skin of his forearm where it hovered a few inches in the air.

“You can take these if you’d like.”

Ronan froze, his back straightened and still before he turned ninety degrees back to look at Adam. “Pardon?”

“The ice cream cones. It’s probably better you do, honestly. I just eat them when I’m bored. Calories I don’t really need.”

Ronan’s startlingly blue eyes studied him for a moment, roaming every line of Adam’s face as though searching for some trickery and then jumping to the box in Adam’s outstretched hand. “Thank you,” he said at last in an undertone, accepting the offered box. And, leaving Adam with some hint of a smile, Prince Ronan was gone, Adam all by himself and the faint memory of intense guitar music leaking from expensive headphones still lingering in the air. 

  Once they landed firmly in PR territory, Adam felt a bit steadier on his feet.

PR he knew like the back of his hand, armed with years of experience from campaigns and political terms. It was not innate for him like for Gansey, but like everything else in his life, Adam was a star pupil and quick to pick it up thoroughly. He studied diligently, examining the facial expressions of everyone around him, examining each furrow of brow and twitch of lips and bellow of a laugh, practicing and perfecting on his own to ensure that he blended in seamlessly and, when necessary, stood out brilliantly. America’s First Son, valedictorian-intelligent and attractive enough to stop hearts for a moment upon seeing him. By the time he sat on ITV This Morning next to his enemy, he certainly knew all the tips and tricks and expertise ensuring a successful interview, and luckily Ronan seemed to know his way around a talk show as well. His thoroughly British host seemed appropriately charmed by their dynamic, a golden-child American and England’s simultaneously proper and wild Royal. 

Adam excelled at PR not because he was natural but because he was over-prepared, and so he was comfortable with the rhythm he and Ronan fell into - referencing each other’s favorites, cracking dry, sarcastic jokes about ice cream, fist-bumping and throwing arms around each other’s shoulders for effect when needed.

He counted it as a win that his resentment never made it into his words or his actions. Instead, he distracted himself with what they were doing, savoring the news alerts of their “clearly natural” friendship and the thumbs-up and “!!!” texts from Gansey and Blue whenever something exciting reached the press. He ignored Ronan for the most part, and Ronan mostly ignored him. He clenched his teeth and smiled at how rough-and-tumble Ronan looked under stage lighting, as wickedly handsome as a poisoned and sharpened dagger, unfairly attractive even with his head closely shaved. 

Then the time for their second photo op rolled around, sometime after Adam posted an empty-feeling snapshot of Ronan on a deserted London sidewalk with the caption love a nice mid-afternoon walk, and his mood plummeted sharply. 

As well as people and hospitals generally went together, Adam did not have a particularly terrible relationship with any hospitals, especially the Royal Marsden NHS Foundation Trust. He did not enjoy them, sure, but who did? And his discomfort may have gone below the surface-level “death and sickness occur here” jitteriness most people felt, but the majority of the unease coiling in his stomach came from the utterly staged feeling to everything. The First Son and Prince came bearing gifts of books, but they probably did more harm than good for all of the children by displacing all the medical professionals and disrupting their steady routines with full camera crews.

It felt hypocritical, and Adam definitely didn’t want to be shoving cameras in the faces of cancer patient children, but the decisions weren’t up to him, and so he slipped back into PR mode. He shook the hands of nurses and posed faux-candidly for cameras. The only real things he did were with the kids - once they knew who he was, they asked for stories of celebrities and monuments, and although Adam was no fantastic storyteller, he did his best to answer every question and then some. He read to them, too, from the new and donated books, even when the cameras left in search of Ronan. Anger was hard to hold onto when he looked into their faces and resolved to cheer them up. 

He read until his voice began to grind at itself, tucked next to kids on narrow hospital cots. They were all ages, and all perfectly suited to throw Adam back into memories he didn’t want to relive. Looking at the books, with the gaudily-colored pictures and ridiculous rhymes, was easier than looking at the children. They all looked to him with similar looks painted across their faces and twinkling in their eyes, one that made Adam’s heart twist, because he knew that he’d worn that expression so often as a child when he thought someone could help him or save him. They looked at him like he was hope itself, some savior come to grant them a wish and a recovery. He didn’t want to disappoint them.

The visit of the First Son and Prince of England must have cut into naptime because at some point Adam looked up from the book to realize that the camera crews had retreated and all the patients in his ward had dozed off.  He slowly unfurled himself, gangly limbs and all, to stand without disturbing the child who rested so fitfully on the hospital cot. His steps were soft and random against the tile, mostly just a blind search to try and find Ronan. It wasn’t long before he heard Ronan’s voice stretching over space from the next room over. Adam slowed, hoping to stay just out of sight while still observing Ronan.

The Prince perched on the edge of a narrow hospital bed, reminding Adam ridiculously of a bird poised to take flight. Since there were no cameras near him, his posture was slightly relaxed like it had been in the kitchen the night previously. A little girl clung tightly to his hand while he gestured wildly with his other, her eyes wide and hanging onto his every word. Ronan’s voice was somehow hushed and grand at the same time, his posh accent dulled to something a little more rural.

“When three hundred years had come and gone, the four swans traveled South to the sea of Moyle, braving the turbulent tides that wanted to draw them under.” He leaned closer to her and tugged lightly on her free hand with his free hand, perhaps to echo the water he mentioned in the story, and she gripped it tightly, nearing laughter with every second. “They swam past the cold and stormy seas, their feathers ruffled but unharmed when they reached Inis Glora. The swans had grown tired over their long journey, the years of their lives catching up to slow them down.”

Adam, without thinking, felt a bit of a smile take over his face. He was taken aback by the change in Ronan. The boy sitting on the bed seemed lightyears away from any other version - he’d gone a little hazy at the edges, as though he were made of smoke, as though Adam was dreaming and viewing some kind of apparition. His tailored lines still stuck out jaggedly, cutting a harsh figure, but he seemed at ease and gentle for the first time Adam had ever seen. One hell of a storyteller, too. Adam wasn’t sure he wanted to know why, as the Prince of England, Ronan could let all of those Irish words roll off of his tongue as though they came naturally.

An Irish children’s tale. An Irish children’s tale. Why would he know any of those? The answer nagged at Adam’s brain, but he couldn’t find it in himself to dig.

The girl was quiet as Ronan’s voice trailed off until it became nothing. The swans had returned to elderly humans and lived with a priest who blessed them for the rest of their days, and Adam assumed that she was processing the anticlimactic ending. Finally, she said, “I like those endings best.”

“You do?” Ronan asked, patience yielding in his tone. “Why do you like them?”

“Sad endings are too sad, but happy endings aren’t real.”

Adam could only see the back of Ronan’s head, but he could hear him clear his throat and see him squeeze the girl’s hand in his much larger one. “Me, too.” He leaned away from her a little, letting go of one of her hands. When he spoke again, a smile was in his voice. “You’re much wiser than the adults I know. I might have to offer you a position advising me.”

The girl laughed again, a giddy and wild and hopeful thing. “You’re very silly,” she informed Ronan, likely too young to realize any breaches in etiquette. Luckily for her, Ronan didn’t care, either.

“I am very serious,” he said, his face no doubt translating that sentiment very well. He squeezed her hand again. “I’ll be back with an offer in fifteen or so years, don’t you worry.”

“Is that a promise?”

Ronan stilled at once, the muscles in his back set just as they had been in the kitchen. Adam didn’t envy the situation she’d inadvertently put Ronan into. As childish and silly as her question was, there was a little too much weight to the response for him to casually offer a yes or a no.

“Do your best to get better,” he said at length, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

And, oh, that expression of hope was back shining on her face, and Adam had to shuffle to his other foot, looking away. The people were the reason he liked politics, liked the idea of trying to help build a world even a fraction better than the one he was raised in, and yet he couldn’t look. Couldn’t bear the thought of letting anyone down.

Ronan glanced behind him, clearly catching sight of Adam, just as a nurse bustled into the room and cheerfully announced that it was time for medicine.

“Thank you,” the little girl said before releasing his hand.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Ella,” Ronan said with a stiff formality that made her giggle again. “And of course,” he added, a little more softly.

It was perhaps not a polite enough exit for a prince, but after Ronan clumsily thanked the nurse and stepped back into the ward to meet Adam, he knew it was the best they would get. Ronan continued moving past him in the direction Adam assumed the cameras must have gone.

“Ah, so you do have feelings other than anger,” Adam said, trailing Ronan into the hall. 

“Don’t act so fu... completely surprised,” Ronan replied, turning his head towards Adam. At first, he thought Ronan might have been uncomfortable with the idea of Adam seeing the interaction, but instead, his face started to squeeze into something close to a smile, his eyes crinkling and the corners of his mouth lifting. A pop from down the hallway shuttered the expression before it could become fully formed. A shout cut through the air just as Persephone appeared between Ronan and Adam as though materializing from thin air. Her impossibly long, white hair clung to the sleeves of their sweaters with static friction as she shoved them with surprising strength into a closet. 

Her voice was still serene and airy despite the sudden tension settling on everyone’s chests. “Wait for the all-clear.” And the door shut with a thunk behind her. 

Adam leaned his head against it with a sigh, before very rapidly remembering that they were two high-profile targets in a possible active shooter scenario and doors weren’t exactly safe. He scrambled backward, accidentally knocking into Ronan and sending them tumbling into the wall. Of all the closets to be unceremoniously shoved into, they had to be stuck in one barely large enough for the brooms stacked to his right. 

“Can you stop falling into me, please?” came Ronan’s voice, taut with something close to fury but probably closer to anxiety.

“But you love it so much,” Adam bit out, trying to backtrack. Ronan’s face had somehow ended up in Adam’s hair, and he could feel Ronan’s long lashes close, paired with a troubled exhale. Adam managed to extract himself from Ronan and slide against one of the walls, crouching beside something he suspected was a bucket. Ronan followed his example, leaning against the opposite wall until he slid to the ground. Adam couldn’t see Ronan very well, but judging from the faint rustling sounds of buzzed hair against cotton and quick, deep breaths, he wasn’t handling the situation very well.

“This is a new one,” Adam said. “Assassination attempts, I mean. Is this common for the royalty?”

“Shut up,” Ronan said, his voice faint from his position closer to the ground.

“I’m blaming you if we die, you know.” When he received no response, Adam continued. “I probably could have made it at least a couple more years. No one’s ever tried to shoot me before. Guess I’m not important enough on my own. Who knew our fake friendship could be so deadly?”

“Fuck off,” Ronan replied, his breaths still deep.

“I’d love to, mate,” Adam said, forcing faux-jolly British inflection into the last word, “But we’re stuck in this closet for the foreseeable future, or until we get shot.”

“I meant shut up before that happens.”

“What, you’re not keen on life-threatening scenarios?” Ronan didn’t respond, and Adam felt a bit of genuine concern leak into his other thoughts. “Are you doing alright? I thought you of all people would be used to this.”

“Not keen on tight spaces,” he grit out, his teeth likely bared in that dangerous way that made Adam’s hands curl into fists. “Now fucking stop for a minute.”

They sat in silence, nothing but their breaths filling the space between them. The silence must have started to grate on Ronan because he broke it first.

“It doesn’t happen all the time, you know.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m telling you.” Ronan breathed something that sounded like dumbass. “Once, when I was small and out in public with my father. Declan was there, too. I can’t remember much of it. That’s the only other time.”

“Suppose it’s as good a story as any,” Adam said, his voice just a hint louder than Ronan’s whisper had been. “Glad I can hear it trapped in this minuscule closet with you.”

“You’re the one with the foot digging into my hip, not the other way around.”

“Where the hell am I supposed to put it, Your Highness?” He nudged his foot and Ronan surged forward, clamping a hand around Adam’s mouth and the other clenching in Adam’s collar, practically hovering above where Adam stretched out uncomfortably. Adam much preferred this almost-fighting to their pretending to be friends.

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to die today.” Adam tried shifting to free himself, but Ronan had a firm grip and he couldn’t gain any ground. Instead, he licked Ronan’s palm, and Ronan was quick to drop his hand in disgust with a quiet noise of discontent. He found himself pinned with one of Ronan’s glares, the intensity tangible even in the dark.

“I don’t want you to die either, you sodding idiot. I’m not the only one in here. You talking is ruining both of us.” “Clearly you’re not, this might actually be comfortable without you and your ridiculous, showy muscles. But I didn’t realize you cared, sugar,” he said, thinking fleetingly of his mother, “if I was breathing or not.”

“Right now, your life is tied very closely to mine, and so I do.”

“Sweet as honey,” Adam taunted, thickening his drawl. Most of the time he tried to school his words into something a little more Northern, but he enjoyed the way the southern accent bothered Ronan.

“No peace, none at all,” Ronan muttered. “Not even in the looming face of death.”

Adam could have said the same, really. The last thing he expected to see from Ronan while shoved into a dark closet with him was any genuine emotion. But the stories, the fear in the enclosed space, the story of his father-

His father. Of course. 

“Was that story from your father?” He asked, although he already was sure of the answer.

Ronan’s response clipped. “Yes.”

His conscience was still mostly intact, and so Adam began to feel a little bad for picking a fight while in a stressful situation and then bringing up Ronan’s grief. “You’re a good storyteller.” Ronan’s silence was judgemental and disbelieving, so he persisted. “What, I can’t give a compliment? You are.” 

“My siblings and I had stories read to us like everyone else, Parrish. We’re not programmed, bland colonialism robots.” A pause. “Well, Mathew and I aren’t.”

“Of course not, imperialism comes first.”

“You’re welcome for the country, then.”

A brief silence followed. It felt, inexplicably, like the two of them had been toeing a line ever since Adam stood outside of Ella’s door and heard Ronan speak to her. They were inching closer with every word spoken.

“My father was the real storyteller,” he admitted, and Adam internally marked another inch traveled. “Since he was an actor and all. He always told us those stories even though he wasn’t technically supposed to. I just...imitate.”

“Imitate?”

“Yes,” Ronan said, providing no other explanation. “Why do you give a damn, anyway? You don’t want childhood tales and neither do I. You hate me.”

“We’re stuck like this forever,” Adam admitted. He’d known it before, but speaking the words made them feel more real. “Neither of us likes it, but here we are, shoved in a closet together. We have to pull off this act for the rest of our lives, Ronan, and I need something more than a cheat sheet your PR team slapped together.”

Ronan was eerily still for a long moment before he finally spoke. “Then why do you hate me?”

The question caught Adam off guard. “What?”

“Why do you hate me?” Off of Adam’s wary look, he threw the words back in his face. “We’re stuck together just like you said. I need some kind of answer.”

Adam sighed, acquiescing. “Do you remember what you said in Rio?”

“The fuck are you talking about, Parrish?”

“The Olympics?”

“When you threatened to push me into the River Thames?”

“No. You being a condescending dick at diving finals.”

Ronan was still for a long moment before bringing a hand to his shoulder and easing himself back away and off of Adam. “Oh. Shit.”

“So. You remember?”

“Vaguely.” A pause, elongated in the dark. “You heard?”

“Yes.” 

“So that did it, then?”

“Yes.”

But Ronan must have known he had more to say because he stayed silent. 

“I probably would have hated you no matter what,” Adam finally admitted, some low part of his gut feeling heavier with the admission. “It’s just - I wasn’t even the First Son then, and everyone was already comparing us. And it didn’t matter if they thought I was better or you were better or whatever, it was just - the idea of you bothered me, a white boy born with the power to make such change and unquestioning support from millions who was throwing it all away instead. And I’ve been compared to a shit ton of people in my life, from my mother to Blue and Gansey to just - everyone, but somehow with you, it was always the worst. So yes, it was the diving finals.”

“But it was also you being self-conscious?”

“But it was also you being an asshole.” 

“Yeah, it was,” Ronan admitted lowly, and Adam blinked at the admission. “I was - I definitely was one. I think I was one all the fucking time back then. It doesn’t excuse anything, but my father passed on...not long before, if you can understand.”

Adam didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, but he nodded all the same. He felt something in his throat tighten. “Of course. I don’t think I’d realized.”

“It doesn’t excuse it,” Ronan repeated. “I’m sorry.”

This was something heavier, truer than his other apologies - something beyond deeply-ingrained politeness that allowed him to apologize for petty things. It was as though he genuinely asked for forgiveness, like Adam had any real choice in the matter, like Adam’s forgiveness was something Ronan actually wanted. Adam never expected to receive a genuine apology from the Prince of England.

“I appreciate it. And I’m sorry as well. For...not realizing.” Ronan’s figure visibly relaxed even though it was barely visible.

“So, depressing Irish stories. Is that your default?”

“I’m afraid the Irish don’t have a lot of serotonin-filled stories.”

“There’s the English in you,” Adam said to a breathy laugh from Ronan. “Do you remember any more?”

“Probably couldn’t forget them, if we’re being honest. And not speaking to the press.”

“They hate me at the moment, so you have nothing to worry about.” He paused before he continued. “Would you tell one?”

“...why?”

“I don’t know. We’re stuck in here, aren’t we?”

“Be careful what you wish for. I’ll write you in as a Celtic witch.”

“I always thought I’d make a very dashing villainous magician. If that’s the price to pay, I can live with it.”

Ronan was silent, and Adam thought that he had given up on any conversation. However, he spoke again, his voice oddly light. “Once, the fierce Fianna believed in many things, none as much as the beautiful Eden laying in the Western Sea. Tir na nÒg, it was called, and the name passed between them like a secret.” Suddenly breaking character, Ronan said in his normal whisper, “That means “land of the living” for any uneducated parties.”

“Dick. Go on.”

There was something captivating in this new way Ronan spoke paired with the near-darkness and tight space of their closet. “Fionn, the leader of the Fianna-”

“Great naming process, by the way.”

“Shut the hell up or no story.”

Adam shut up.

“The leader of the Fianna led them to hunt the deer along the shores in County Kerry, including his son, Oisín. But Oisín soon caught sight of a single, bright light in the distance, all the way through the thick green of tree foliage. As it drew closer, he saw that the light was, instead, a beautiful girl with hair of spun gold astride a snow-colored mare. When Fionn inquired as to who she was, she informed them that she was Niamh of the Golden Hair, daughter of the King of  Tir na nÒg, and she had come to take Oisín as her husband-”

Ronan cut off abruptly, and Adam almost asked why, but a moment later he heard the source of the silence - heavy footsteps outside the door. Suddenly, neither of them breathed, instead choosing to sit in total petrified silence.

And slowly, mercifully, the door crept open, spilling cold white light along the floor of the cupboard and across their splayed legs. Persephone stood in the doorway, her expression relaxed once again.

“False alarm,” she said breezily, reaching out her hands to haul them back to their feet. Adam shifted uncomfortably on pins and needles as his legs shot back to life. “Fireworks, not guns.”

“Fireworks in a hospital?”

Persephone shrugged. “It was some teenager.”

“Always is,” Ronan said, dangerously close to a joke. He blinked rapidly, setting his shoulders back to stand at his full height. He slanted a look towards Adam, his mouth curving into something wicked but not intimidating, all bark and no bite. “Bonding is over, then.”

“Thank God.”

[avyssoseleison]

Part 3 of pack Alpha!Cas x younger Alpha!Dean | (4k words)

The week passes in a calm manner.

Each day consists of little more than Castiel preparing meals while Dean sleeps, bathes or drinks the hot beverages set before him, and of both of them eating together in what is usually silence, but sometimes also light, easy conversation. It is obvious that Dean’s vagrancy has worn him down, physically and mentally, and now that he is no longer driven by his survival instinct and an abundance of adrenaline, his body is finally calling in its long-overlooked need for rest and safety. Castiel leaves him alone for the better part of the day, seeing as Dean is asleep most of the time anyway, and only intrudes upon his space whenever he calls him for the meals he insists he eats or whenever he steals a secret glance into Dean’s room to ascertain himself that the boy is fine.

Dean’s room -- that is, the former guestroom -- has turned into something that looks more like a den than a place of human dwelling. On his first night here, just after Castiel had taken him in from the woods, Dean kept complaining about being cold, no matter how many blankets Castiel brought him, and still asked for more, so Castiel kept them coming. Which is how Dean ended up with an excessive amounts of blankets, pillows and a couple of space heaters in his room, all neatly arranged in a circle around the mattress that Dean dragged from the bed onto the ground. He curls up in there as soon as he is done eating or bathing, and Castiel will not deign to worry about his electricity bill as long as Dean is warm and comfortable. Castiel never enters the room beyond opening it and looking inside, because in his weaker moments, he does not trust himself not to give in to his basest instincts that call for him to cradle Dean to his chest and curl up with him.

That being said, he is more than aware of the inappropriateness of his thoughts; not only is Dean another Alpha, but also in his charge. But, maybe it is precisely because of the latter that he feels as he does: after all, as the pack Alpha, it should be only natural for him to want to take care of a member of his pack, regardless of how recent the membership itself is. And as an Alpha in general, wanting to provide a person he considers to be in need of his help with a safe space is certainly to be considered even more natural. In this case, it should not matter that Dean is an Alpha and no Omega, not just because his smell is sweeter and more enticing than any other scent Castiel has ever picked up on in any case, but because Dean is young and vulnerable, and he found him in a truly miserable state. Castiel would extend his help to anyone he found like this, frozen and frightened, and the feelings that Dean evokes in him would probably be caused by anyone else who were in his pitiful position.

Yes, Castiel reassures himself as he puts some more marshmallows onto the creamy crown of the hot chocolate that he makes for Dean for the third time today, there is nothing odd about any of this.

Before he can delve even further into this issue, he is interrupted by the sound of steps on stairs, and before he has the chance to complete topping off the hot chocolate, Dean sidles into the room, and all thought is lost.

Dean looks slightly healthier by now, thanks to all his sleeping and the food Castiel insists he ingests. He is still too skinny, not dangerously so anymore though, and his cheeks have taken on a pink tinge that goes well with his perpetually bed-tousled hair. Even right now, he seems to still be blinking the sleep from his eyes and trying to fully wake his mind, yawning every now and then. Yet, he looks somewhat different compared to the rest of the week, a bit more formal -- he must have been upstairs to search for new clothes in Castiel’s closet, something else than the sets of pajamas he has worn all week. Which would also explain why he came from upstairs when his room is on the ground floor.

Castiel had almost forgotten what they meant to do today: to go to the town hall, finally register Dean as an official pack member, and maybe set a date for a pack meeting in which he could be formally introduced to everyone else. He remembers now. Dean was shy and uncertain about this at first, but Castiel could easily coax him into agreeing to this as he was handing Dean a piece of pie that he had baked for him. Besides, registering was a necessity. There were rules and laws in the pack for a reason, and Castiel, as the pack Alpha, should set an example by adhering to them, instead of putting himself above them. And since one such rule was that every person living on pack grounds, whether temporarily or permanently, had to be registered within the first two weeks of their arrival, Castiel wanted to get Dean down to the town hall sooner rather than later. At least, as soon as he was well enough to do so. And he had seemed fit enough for a short walk by yesterday, so Castiel told him they that would take care of this today, and Dean agreed. Yet, Castiel forgot all about the law and the outside world again as soon as he started preparing food and brought Dean some books to read, so this matter slipped Castiel’s mind pretty much as soon as he told Dean that they have to tend to it.

Which is why the sight of a dressed-up Dean is a puzzling one, at first. Dean keeps sticking to the turtlenecks, even when Castiel encourages him to wear whatever he wants from his closet, and it is not much of a surprise. They do hide his scars well. It is as little of a surprise, perhaps, as Castiel’s wish to stay in the same room as Dean whenever the boy rifles through his clothing, choosing what he will wear for sleep or what might fit if he has to leave the house, and to aid him in finding clothes that would fit his slight frame, maybe even help him change, should he still be too fatigued to do so himself. Castiel’s mouth goes dry at the image of holding Dean up against his body, his head resting back against Castiel’s shoulder, as Castiel slowly slides the fabric over his freckled skin, covers his vulnerable body in his clothes and scent.

Castiel does no such thing, of course. He is well-aware of the inappropriateness of his daydreams, so he stays far from his bedroom whenever Dean is in there, and he already vows not to go in there until evening, when hopefully any remaining scent of the younger Alpha has long dissipated. Still, he cannot help but stiffen as Dean walks into the room, dressed in the aforementioned turtleneck, a somewhat fitting pair of jeans so old that Castiel cannot even remember them, thick wool socks and an even thicker cardigan.

Warm and soft, he is the very picture of domesticity.

“Are you still cold?” Castiel asks around the lump in his throat. Dean looks gorgeous, and smells even better; the trace of the soap he used last night has finally faded, to give way to his natural scent, which has blended with what remains of Castiel’s own on his clothes.

“A bit, yeah,” Dean says, his words like a shrug. He tugs his sleeve up, as if wanting to make no big deal out of being cold, then seems to think better of it and tugs it down again.

Castiel frowns. “If so, please feel free to put on more clothes and turn up the heat in the entire house anytime. I want you to be warm. I also have thermal underwear that you may use.”

A soft, amused sound -- almost a laugh but not quite -- escapes Dean’s lips at that. “Thermal underwear?” he echoes.

His voice sounds different from before. Lighter, playful, teasing even. Which is entirely wondrous to Castiel, who finds he does not mind to be teased by Dean, not at all. Instead, he revels in the sly expression on Dean’s face, the burst of sweetness in his scent, the recognition that for Dean to tease him at all must presuppose a trust unimaginable even a few nights before. Castiel is the Alpha, yes, and Dean is on his territory and part of his pack, but he is not scared anymore, not as he was a week ago. Already, Dean is far from baring his neck and begging for death by Castiel’s hands to put him out of his misery. There is a tad more confidence in him now and he moves with a certain sense of safety that straightens his shoulders and lifts his head.

Castiel can only hope for this to hold; for Dean to grow into this apparent safety and to be able to rely on it for more than just a simple tease.

That he cannot do so yet is obvious by the troubled looking slowly creeping upon Dean’s features the longer Castiel remains silent. While Dean does not apologize or prostrate himself before him, thank god, his eyes do dart downwards, as if he has done something wrong by joking about the underwear.

Cursing himself inwardly for taking so long to react, Castiel tilts his lips up in an hopefully soothing smile and, quite without intending to, steps closer towards the boy.

“It can get very cold around here, so every member of the pack owns at least a couple of pairs of thermal underwear. It would be foolish not to. You have experienced first-hand how freezing it can be, especially far from any houses and out in the fields and forests, if you are not dressed appropriately.” His own reminder distresses him; Dean’s tattered clothes went straight to the trash, but not before Castiel had taken a closer look at them and their countless holes, lacking isolation and overall threadbare state. The image of Dean lounging in thermal underwear in front of his fireplace and drinking hot chocolate is much nicer. “You must have been hypothermic for quite some time, so for you to still feel cold comes as no surprise. You should keep trying to stay warm, eat and rest as much as you can to regain your strength.”

Dean, thankfully looking more comfortable again, shifts his weight from foot to foot. “About that. I was wondering if I there was anything more for me to do than taking care of the dishes. I mean, I’m already feeling much better already, and I’d probably feel even better if I could make myself useful. Y’know, to even out everything you’ve done and are still doing for me.”

Castiel creases his brow. “There is no need for that. I am glad to hear and see that you are feeling better, but you should rest still. This should be your main concern right now, and nothing else. Besides, you have nothing to ‘even out’; it is a given that I would do this for you. After all, you are a member of my pack now. I am responsible for you.” He is proud of the conviction with which he says this, as if this were in fact all there is to this.

Dean does not seem quite as happy with this as Castiel. “Yeah, but I could rest and not be a total parasite at the same time. I mean, I could take care of some other tasks around the house that you don’t wanna do, like, I dunno, shovel snow or vacuum-clean or whatever.”

“‘Shovel snow’?” Castiel asks, incredulous. “While you are still cold from wandering out in the frozen woods for all of the season? And need to sleep in a room as hot as an oven all day, just to rest and recover at least some of your strength?”

A light flush graces Dean’s cheeks and he plays with the hem of his cardigan. “Okay, maybe not that, then. But there’s still stuff I could do, ways in which I could be useful. I don’t have to sit on my ass all day and let you do everything for me.”

“You have been through a lot already. Resting, so that you may actually recover, is not ‘sitting on your ass all day’. It’s the reasonable thing to do, a consequence of the hardships that you endured, the struggle you survived, and nothing to feel bad about. Furthermore, you are helping me by helping yourself. My current main objective is providing you with a space in which you feel safe enough to allow yourself to recover. A place where you know that you will be taken care of. Seeing you sleep and getting healthier shows me that I am doing something right -- that I am succeeding in what I set out to do.”

Dean’s skin takes on an even deeper, prettier flush at this, and his scent beckons with a light note of flowers. “You do succeed.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I am feeling safe here and I’m glad that it was you who found me and is taking care of me. I know that if anyone else or simply no one in general would’ve found me and taken me in as you did, I wouldn’t have made it much longer out there. That I’d never have survived the winter in this damn cold.”

Castiel tamps down on the whine that threatens to crawl up his throat at the image of Dean, weak and freezing, dying alone in the cold of the forest. He already had to struggle with this image before, a mere week ago -- and whereas the thought was already almost too much to bear back then, it strikes absolute terror in his heart now. If Dean had not been sighted or if Castiel had not have the mind to take him home, Dean might already be no more by now. He might have died in those very woods, a stone’s throw away from Castiel, and Castiel never would even have known. They might have found his body eventually, maybe in the winter or maybe not even before spring, and Castiel would have looked at his remains and pitied but not grieved him.

“Dean,” Castiel says, against the ache in his heart.

“I wanna show you that I’m grateful for that. That I recognize how much you’ve done for me, and that I can give back at least a little. If there’s anything I can do, any way I could be helpful, I’ll do that.”

For a fleeting moment, Castiel is struck by the urge to drag Dean to bed and use his hands and lips to help the boy relax, to make him experience any good feeling his body is capable of experience, and then carry him to the bath tub and back to bed, where warm and clean sheets and a good night’s sleep would await him. Dean would not be able to come up with unreasonable ideas like these then; he would have no choice but to rest and allow his body to claim what it needs.

And by god, Castiel has no explanation and no excuse for these urges, could not even begin to point out what is wrong with them, so all he hopes is that they do not taint his scent, will not let Dean in on his uncalled-for desires.

Dean's nose flares wide for a moment, scenting, and as soon as he inhales, he stares at Castiel, freezes and-- takes a half-step back.

“Dean,” Castiel says once more, rejected and ashamed, and his mouth moves slowly, more on instinct than intention, working against whatever feelings threaten to overwhelm him. “I appreciate the thought, but you are really in no condition to be doing anything but rest. In the same way that you recognize that the cold would have taken you in eventually, I recognize that the conditions in which you have lived since spring have already taken a toll on you, especially the lack of food and warmth, and that you need to recover from that now.”

“Yeah, but like I said, I could still help.” Dean argues, and thankfully swaying forward, as if he has already forgotten the mortifying exposition Castiel's body just subjected both of them to, as if he did not feel disgust or fear at the mere implication. Maybe Dean misread the reaction, contributed it to something else. All Castiel can hope for is for Dean not to have thought of Castiel’s change in scent to be a direct result of Dean’s offer, to not think that what he longs for is a repayment in the crudest of nature.

Shuddering inwardly, Castiel pushes on. “And like I said, it would be of great help to me if you allowed yourself some rest.” He sighs, pinches his nose, forces himself to breathe through his nose instead. “I do not consider taking care of another person who is sick and weak a burden. Instead, I see it as my duty, and not a disagreeable one. I do not mind seeing to your safety and health myself -- in fact, I enjoy that you are trusting and comfortable enough with me to accept this. If I did not want to care for you, I could simply call a nurse to do so in my stead. Remember, I am the Alpha of this pack and if there is one true privilege that comes with the position, it’s that I can delegate my tasks to other people. But it was me who found you in the woods and decided to put you under my care and protection, so it is only right that I do care and protect you. To see you regain your strength and claim a safe space for yourself is,” he hesitates for a second, because he knows he will not be able to stop this train of thoughts once he gives words to it, knows that he has already made a fool of himself today, “ nice. To know that you feel safe in my home, with me, is more than I could have possibly expected mere days ago. Your trust, and to be allowed to care for you, is-- a pleasure.”

Castiel barely dares to look at Dean, and to his relief, Dean does not dare to look at all. All he does is scuff his feet and keep blushing. “Ah,” is his only reply, which is fitting, Castiel guesses. He, too, does not know what to say about whatever he just spouted.

“And that is why,” Castiel presses on, not quite sure of whatever point he wants to make now, only that talking is the only way they can move beyond his shameful little confession, “you may repay me in whatever measure you deem acceptable once you are fully recovered, but for the moment, your highest and most coveted repayment is for you to rest and be healthy again. No snow shoveling, no whatever else beyond doing the dishes. Just eating and sleeping.”

Dean seems to mull this over in his mind, if his silence and expression of deep thought are anything to go by. He is does not seem bent on arguing any further, at least, which Castiel already counts as a small success.

Finally, Dean speaks again. “And getting myself registered?” He glances back up at Castiel, as a small smile, more an olive branch than anything else, curves up his lips.

“Yes,” Castiel says upon a relieved exhale, “that as well.”

“Okay, so I’ll do that,” Dean says, and then, he almost rushes out, “and if it’s so important to you, I’ll do what I can to get back on my feet and we can talk about this again sometime later. I do want to repay you, but if that’d more trouble than help right now and actually only mean more work for you, then I won’t bug you any further. You took me in when you had absolutely no reason to, and don’t think that, just ‘cause I might be relatively young and another Alpha, I don’t know how to show gratitude.”

Castiel huffs out a laugh at that. For Dean, with his big eyes and unmarred, beautiful face and lithe body to see himself as anything but in the prime of his youth, is amusing. “Don’t worry, I would never think that,” Castiel reassures him, amusement probably reflected in his voice. “And I will hold you to that, regardless of the fact that you are relatively young and another Alpha.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” Dean grumbles, and Castiel enjoys the pinkening of his ears probably more than he should.

“I'm not,” Castiel fibs, only to earn another grumble from Dean that has him laugh lightly.

“If it’s all the same to you, then I’ll go look for that thermal underwear now,” Dean says, and as if his own words reminded him of the persisting coldness of his body, a shiver runs through him.

The knowledge about what to do when another person is hypothermic tickles at the edges of Castiel’s consciousness. Of course, as someone who has lived in this region for all of his life, he knows that, when someone’s core temperature has fallen to such a degree that their body has troubles getting itself warm, the one true way to help them is for both of them to strip down, cover their nudity under the same blanket and press their bodies so close to another that the heat transfers. Castiel also knows that he could never propose such a thing to Dean -- as well as, for Dean to still be cold despite his frequent bathing and his warm little den, his mind probably needs to shake off the frozen forests more than his body does.

Either way, for Dean to work on a sense of warmth is a good thing. “Please do,” Castiel encourages. “In the meantime, I will,” he looks towards the long-forgotten mug, from which the cream has already melted and dripped down, so that the hot chocolate has overflowed and leaked onto the counter, framed by tiny marshmallows, “make you another cup of hot chocolate and then get changed as well.”

The embarrassment is well worth the smile that draws up Dean’s lips and softens his features. “You do that,” Dean graciously allows, and with one last, amused glance back, he turns back towards the stairs, “see you later.”

“See you later,” Castiel promises back.

It is only when Castiel watches Dean’s ascent -- and he wishes he could say that he unreservedly enjoys watching him leave, but despite the tad of gained weight, the slightness of his body still worries him -- that he wonders about how, despite their differences in opinion and the slip-up of his scent, their conversation was still such a pleasurable one. That Dean contradicting him proves that he is on his way to recovery, and he realizes that he has to be healthy again to do good on his promise and repay Castiel. Not because Castiel wants him to -- he would happily tend to Dean for the rest of his life, it it meant he got to see him regularly, which would be repayment enough, and then some -- but because he wants Dean to feel useful and good about himself, wants him to lose his haunted gaze and replace it with an easy smile.

The first thing to do so, he supposes, is to give the boy some more hot chocolate and then register him as part of his own, a member of his pack, for everyone to know. So, he steps back to the cupboard and gets out another mug, just as he hears his bedroom door open.

[theschubita]

They were lying in Roger's bed, huddled close together. Roger had one leg thrown over Brian's, head on his chest, idly tracing patterns on Brian's chest. They were both bone tired, feeling drained; Brian thought it was a good kind of tired. He had one hand in Roger's hair, gently runnning his fingers through it, which had Roger almost purring. Outside, the rain had stopped, and it was so late it was already early, the complete darkness slowly fading. Despite being completely exhausted, Brian couldn't fall asleep, almost too tired for it.

Roger hummed appreciatingly at Brian's ministrations, dry lips pressing a chaste kiss under his collarbone. Then another, and another, until he lifted his head and started peppering kisses all over his chest. Brian smiled into Roger's unruly hair, heart both heavy and light. After everything, he was thankful for Roger, thankful that he could read him just like that, knowing what he needed before even Brian realized it.

His train of thought was interrupted when Roger brushed his lips over Brian's nipple, and Brian exhaled stutteringly, feeling much more awake now. He glanced down and almost regretted it; Roger was looking up from beneath his eyelashes, quickly hiding a smirk. Brian was about to say something, maybe to protest because he was too bloody tired, but then Roger latched onto his nipple in earnest, and Brian threw his head to the side, low groan escaping him. As Roger started to swirl his tongue around his nipple, biting and kissing at it in turns, Brian sunk his hand into Roger's hair more firmly.

His cock was definetly getting interesting now, starting to tent in his borrowed pajamas. Roger's hand came up from where it had been resting on Brian's stomach, lazily trailing up towards Brian's other nipple, touch ghosting over it, before he pinched it lightly.

This time, Brian didn't bother to try to stifle his moan. Through hazy eyes, Brian looked down into Roger's deep blue eyes, glinting up at him almost mischievously. Brian slowly uncurled his hand from Roger's hair, trailing down over Roger's threadbare shirt, until he reached the swell of Roger's ass, fingers slowly spreading before he squeezed.

Roger moaned weakly around Brian's nipple, arching into the touch. Brian moved his hand, dipping down between Roger's cheeks, massaging firmly.

"Oh, fuck," Roger breathed, jerking against Brian's hip with tiny motions. He let his head fall back onto Brian's collarbone, panting heavily. He trailed his hand down Brian's chest, touch lightly trailing over the tent in Brian's pants.

"Don't tease," Brian muttered, other hand grabbing Roger's hair, pulling him up roughly until their noses brushed, both panting heavily into each other's mouths. Brian tugged at Roger's hair again, marveling at how responsive Roger was, how pliant.

Brian wanted to fucking wreck him.

His eyes trailed down to Roger's charming little mouth, wet with salive, swollen and red. Brian pulled Roger down, and Roger's mouth opened instantly, yielding instantly to Brian's tongue, moaning into the searing kiss. Brian shifted Roger until he was more or less straddling his tighs, clothed erection brushing. Brian pulled away with a low groan, which made Roger grind down purposefully. Brian shuddered, breathing heavily, and Roger leaned down, laughing softly into his skin. Brian surged up until they were kissing sloppily, grinding on each other like teenagers. Something about the fact was unbelievably hot. He used the hand still cupping Roger's ass to pull him down, squeezing rhytmically, making Roger buck, thighs trembling. A drawn out whine escaped him, and he threw his head up, breaking their open-mouthed kiss in the process.

Then Roger shifted down, further down Brian's thighs, pulling the pants down with one hand. Brian looked up.

Roger bit his lips. "Wanna make you feel good, Bri," he said, sliding down further on the bed. "Can I?" Brian heaved himself up on his elbows, with some difficulty. Roger looked at him, waiting, color high on his cheeks. Mouth dry, Brian could only nod, and Roger leaned down, breath ghosting over Brian's leaking cock. Then Roger moved, lips closing over the head of his cock.

Brian shouted, head falling back onto the pillow, hands trying to find purchase in the sheets. Roger hummed, encouraged, slowly licking down the underside of Brian's cock, teasing a vein as he went. Brian couldn't help the jerk upwards, and one of Roger's hands came down on his hip with a light, reprimanding slap.

"Sorry," Brian breathed, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling, unable to see anything, entire focus on that delicious tounge at the base of his cock. Roger moved up again, before he wrapped his lips around the head of his cock again, this time slowly sinking down, agonizingly slow, and Brian almost came right then and there - it wasn't just the lips wrapped around his cock, but rather who they belonged to.

Roger Meddows Taylor had his gorgeous lips wrapped around his cock.

"Holy fuck," Brian said, reverent, looking at Roger, golden hair sticking to his head, blue eyes lidded, looking like the most delicious thing Brian had ever laid his eyes upon. He reached down, brushing Roger's hair aside from his sweaty forehead. Roger, eyes falling shut, leaned into the touch, slowing down momentarily. Then, he opened his eyes again, blue eyes dark, pupils dilated, dark eyelashes fluttering.

Brian thought he knew desire, but he had been sorely mistaken - the look Roger gave him - a mix from vulnerability to something suggesting he knew exactly what he was doing to Brian - made him tread his fingers through his hair, yanking down Roger more firmly down on his cock, and the sudden movement made Roger's face pinch uncomfortably. Brian let go as if burned.

"Shit," he said, trying to move away. Roger set his other hand on Brian's hip, effectively stopping him, mouth slowly pulling off Brian's cock with an obscene pop.

"Brian, relax," Roger said sternly. Brian couldn't quite take the tone serious with how debauched he looked.

"But - I hurt -"

"Brian," Roger said, corner of his lips twitching. "You just surprised me. In case you couldn't tell - I like my hair pulled," Roger said, managing to sound both amused and and huffy. Brian had sort of figured, but his easy admittance made heat pool low in his gut. From the way Roger wasn't bothering to try and hide a smirk, he knew Roger knew what kind of effect his words had on Brian.

"Can I go back to sucking your dick, now?" Roger asked, leaning down, eyebrow raised. Brian just groaned, head falling back again. Roger chuckled, and once again sank down on Brians cock in one fluid motion. Brian tried his hardest to keep his hips still. Roger pinning them down firmly helped. Roger swallowed around his cock suddenly, before bobbing his head up and down, before he pulled almost entirely off, tongue languidly dipping into his slit. Brian whined one hand untangling from the bedsheet, coming to tangle in Roger's hair again, before he pulled - a bit more gently this time. He watched Roger's face carefully for any discomfort, but Roger looked nothing but pleased, going down entirely to the base of his cock, nose almost brushing Brian's dark hair down there.

Roger looked amazing, and when he started to bob his head down more quickly up and down, tongue flat at the underside of his cock, Brian felt the heat in his gut building, spreading over his entire body, making his toes curl, and he tugged at Roger's hair again, this time in warning. Roger looked up at him with those pretty eyes of his, hazy from pleasure.

"Rog - Rog, I'm -" he said, barely managing to press out the words through the building heat, but Roger just hummed, quickening his pace again, before he swallowed again. Combined with the heady look Roger was giving him, it was enough to send Brian over the edge, howling desperately as he did.

After what felt like an eternity, Brian managed to pry his eyes open again, body still riding some of the aftershocks. He blearily looked down to Roger, and the sight that greeted him almost made him come a second time.

Roger looked used, in the best possible way; he seemed to have swallowed most of Brian's come, but a tiny amount was dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, down his chin. When he saw Brian watching him, he grinned, licking his lips.

Roger was the fucking devil.

"Oh, God," Brian said. Roger laughed quietly, scooting up until he was almost bumping his nose with Brian's tugging at a stray curl gently.

"You can call me Roger," he said, breath tickling his cheek. Brian rolled his eyes; this felt familiar, and Brian was both grateful and maybe a bit mortified. His best friend, his band mate, his soulmate just hat given him the best blow job of his life. His eyes drifted down to Roger's cock, straining against the confinement of his underwear. He moved forward, hand drifting down, feeling suddenly a bit guilty. Roger swatted his hand away.

"You don't have to," Roger said, voice strong. "I wanted to do this for you," he continued, the same vulnerable look from earlier present. Brian wasn't sure what the look meant, but there was no way in hell he was letting Roger go untouched after that.

"Oh, I'm not going to blow you," Brian said, voice low. Roger looked confused, but then Brian flipped him onto his stomach, pulling down his underwear as he did. Roger got halfway up, still not quite following, when Brian pushed him down again by the hollow of his back - gently, giving Roger plenty of time to object, until Roger was settled down, ass slightly in the air.

"Brian, what -" Roger started, turning his head to look at Brian, but Brian took it as his cue to part his cheeks and give a slow, experimental swipe over Roger's hole with his tongue.

Roger jerked violently, high moan escaping him. Brian smiled inwardly, licking more firmly into Roger. He hadn't been sure how Roger would receive it, but judging by the incoherent string of curses mutteret into the pillow, he clearly liked it. Roger was pressing back into Brian's tongue, while trying to get some friction from the tangled bedsheet. Brian gave Roger's hole a last, loving swipe, before he pulled away.

The noise Roger made was downright filthy. Brian moved to cover Roger's back with his body, mouth latching on his neck, where the hair had parted to reveal their soulmark. He pressed a loving kiss just under it, and Roger jerked, bucking up.

"Roger," Brian said softly, breathing into his ear. Roger turned his head to look at Brian, teary-eyed from frustration. Brian moved his hand between their bodies to Roger's ass, long fingers finding his hole, slightly loose. He experimentally pressed a finger down, and Roger spread his legs, sliding down on the bed further.

"Bri," Roger whined, absolutely wrecked.

"Can you come for me?" Brian asked into Roger's skin. "Just like that?" He could see Roger's eyes widen, could feel him moving desperately against his hand.

"I - I don't - I've never -" Roger stutters, breath laboured. He was so close that Brian could almost taste it in the air.

"Now, Roger," Brian said, and he didn't recognize his own voice, almost gluttoral. It did have the desired effect, however, as Roger practically sobbed his way through his release, hips jerking weakly against the sheet.

Eventually, he slumped down, completely boneless, eyes shut tightly. Brian heaved himself to the side, so he wouldn't crush Roger, maneuvering them both until he was plastered to Roger's back, one leg wedged betweet Roger's, face buried in his hair. Roger shifter slightly in Brian's arms, just enough so he could look at Brian comfortably over his shoulder. Brian raised one heavy arm to reach and stroke over Roger's cheekbone tenderly, blue eyes closing in the process.

To have Roger like this, soft and mellow, in a way he somehow knew only he and the others did, made him feel absolutely overwhelmed by emotions, the event leading up to them both being tangled together like this catching up to him.

He loved Roger.

He lover Roger, and Freddie, and John. He loved them as friends, as brothers, and as lovers, too. They were the missing parts of a whole, and he wanted it - wanted them, but he couldn't -

Chrissie's angry, tear-stained face flashed across his mind, and he was almost appalled to find that he didn't nearly care as much as he should. He felt a lump wedge himself in his throat, trying to swallow it down. Roger opened his eyes again, aware of his sudden distress.

"Brian?" He asked, voice careful. Brian shook his head, forcefully swallowing the lump in his throat down.

"It's nothing," he said. Roger looked at him doubtfully, but didn't push. Brian sighed, moving to kiss his temple, before he tucked his head securely under his chin. Roger huffed, breath tickling Brian's collarbone. "Thank you," he said after a moment.

"For what, sucking your dick?" Roger said, and Brian didn't need to see his face to know he was sporting a shit-eating grin. He swatted him lightly.

"For being there for me, you tosser," Brian replied. Roger sank further into his chest, content.

"Anytime, Bri. And you know, that goes for suck-" Brian pinched him.

"Go to sleep," he muttered.