Work Text:
When Charles opens his eyes, he finds himself slumped over his desk. In the dark of the room, he can barely make out the shapes of the objects sitting on it. His laptop, his art tablet, his sketchpad, and his pencil case. “Fuck,” he thinks, as he taps one of the letters on the keyboard to see the words: ‘2:27 a.m.’ He has work in just a few hours. And an hour or two after that, class. A quiet sigh escapes him as he rises from his chair and stumbles sluggishly towards the bedroom. Careful to not let the blanket draping him touch the hardwood floor, he opens the door.
As expected, Vincent is sound asleep.
Outside, the warm, dim light from the street lamps fills the room with a subtle brilliance. It gives the sleeping boy a heavenly glow. As Charles looks around, he can’t help but gaze at the boy. His silky gray hair, his supple pale skin, his at-peace smile. But more than those things, the slow, unsteady rise and fall of his chest. He feels a sharp pang in his; overbearing anxiety and concern pierce through him.
Over the past few years, he’s seen Vincent grow. More importantly, he’s seen him heal. No longer is the possibility of his suicide a constant source of worry for Charles.
Still. He finds himself terrified of losing him. He fears that one morning, he’ll wake up to find Vincent completely still. Dreading the thought, his breathing hitches. Hands trembling, he slides underneath the layers of blankets and sheets.
Charles moves closer to Vincent, leaving a small space between them for his own sake. Then, with one of his shaking hands, he reaches for Vincent’s, intertwining their fingers. As the heat of Vincent’s body soothes his fears, his lungs calm and his mind quiets itself. Finally, he slips back into slumber.
He hopes that he can fall asleep like this every night. ( And he will.)