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The clock on Bif Taylor-Tremblay’s nightstand reads 12:18PM, and he swears he can see the number behind his closed eyelids. He’s been tossing and turning all night; not tired, not awake, but occupying some restless space in between. There’s no reason for it. Often he finds that he sleeps better in his room at Harrington House than he ever had at home. When he was younger, he felt strange and alone in his own large bed, swallowed up in his equally large bedroom in a newly built mansion with empty hallways that echoed and only housed him, his father, his mother.
Harrington House is the opposite in most ways; there’s usually some noise going on, the sounds of the tens of other boys living, studying, playing, fighting. And it’s quiet now, so far past curfew, but if he strains he can just make out the sound of the television on low next door.
Bif doesn’t so much make the conscious decision to go to him, then to let his feet lead their own way. But he’ll always follow, half-asleep, half-dead, he thinks, maybe even when he actually dies, his feet will still take him to Derby Harrington’s door. He steals his way across his bedroom floor. He crosses through their shared bathroom; Derby’s door is unlocked as always, the handle twisting smoothly in his grip.
There’s a television droning quietly in the corner of his room; he’s unsure what Derby was watching earlier, because it’s late enough now the only thing playing is infomercials for inane gadgets and old movie star’s record compilations. Derby is fast asleep in bed, propped up by an egregious amount of pillows behind him. There’s an open textbook spread over his lap, along with a notebook, a pen nestled in the crease of its spine.
In his light blue silk pajama top, the fussy kind with white piping along the collar and smooth buttons down the front, he looks at peace, face slack. The floor’s clear for him to walk across, a stark contrast to the dirty clothes and upended gym bags Bif often leaves on his own.
Harrington House, where Derby had reigned for four years, did not lend itself to twin extra-long dormitory living; the four-poster bed frame sat imposing in the middle of the room. Derby looks impossibly dwarfed in comparison. Bif leans against the plush duvet and clears his throat, whispers, “Derby? You up?” And then immediately cringes from how stupid of a question it is.
Derby’s eyes flutter open, and for one moment, with Bif’s knee leaning against the end of the bed, looming somewhat over him, he looks startled— and then his eyes are guarded, blinking back the tiredness as he looks around.
“Any reason you’re barging into my room this late?”
“I’m sorry.” Bif mumbles.
Derby quiets his breathing, lets it out in one soft sigh. “I’m not cross.” Blearily, he closes the open textbook he finds on his lap, pushing it off the bed for it to land with a dull thud against the carpet. “Is everything alright?”
Suddenly Bif is feeling very stupid for having even come in here. Derby throws his arms over his head, stretching.
“No— well, I—“ Bif fumbles.
Derby’s pajama top has lifted along with his arms, showing a glimpse of stomach; from the way he’s sitting, his belly looks soft, gentle creases when he settles back into his slumped posture. Bif’s heart almost always skips whenever he catches Derby vulnerable; when he’s not performing.
It’s gone in a rustle of silk, Derby raising one trite eyebrow as he lies back into his decadent mounds of pillows. “You woke me up for, ‘uhm, well’?”
“I didn’t think you were asleep.”
“It’s midnight.”
“I know…” Bif trails off. “I, uh…”
Derby sighs, and peels back the corner of his covers. “Come on.”
Sometimes Bif feels like a slobbery, unwanted puppy, especially so when the inevitable giddiness washes over him when indulged. Bif shoves the pillows out of the way and tries not to look too obvious when he’s scrambling underneath the covers. Derby throws the quilt up in a large billowing wave, and by the time it comes down slow and soft over their heads they’re both fully under all of the covers.
“So,” Derby whispers from his pillow, “What did you wake me up for again?”
“I was cold,” Bif whispers back from his own pillow, what feels like an insurmountable gulf of bed between them, “and bored.”
Derby’s nose wrinkles. “That’s a stupid reason.”
“You want me to leave?” Bif asks.
Derby peers into Bif’s eyes. “No.” He murmurs, “I don’t.”
It’s body-warm and quiet underneath the blankets, the television buzzing faraway, the low lights of infomercials filtered through sheets and quilt. He feels the way buildings feel under fresh snowfall, silent and pristinely fragile. The sharp corners of Derby’s face— high cheekbones, strong nose, plush lips— are fuzzy along the edges in the shadows. Achingly familiar and comfortable.
“You’re—“ Handsome, he almost confesses. Bif bites his tongue.
Derby pauses, and something knowing and smug crawls across his face. It’s all softer with sleepiness still touching his face, dark circles smudged under his eyes. “Yeah?”
He could say “Nothing”, but maybe Bif is tired, too. He admits, “You look good.”
“Like this?” Derby’s scoff of insistent disbelief is too loud for this safe space of warmth and brushed cotton. “Woken up in the middle of the night after being caught studying, probably drooling on myself…”
“Ugh,” Bif’s groan is loud enough to interrupt Derby. “You look good. Okay?” He wants to say, you always look good, to me, but he refrains from sounding any stupider than he already has tonight. Without his usual pomade, Derby’s hair is undone over his forehead, pieces that Bif reaches out and combs his fingers through. The furrowed line of Derby’s brow smooths over. “And you weren’t doing any of that. Well, except studying.”
“Except studying.” Derby repeats in a whisper, otherwise uncharacteristically mum. Bif feels himself flush. Because if he were honest, even studying looks like something grand and important when Derby is the one doing it. The quiet seems to seep back in, Bif’s thick fingers still buried into the roots of Derby’s hair. He starts to run his blunt fingernails against his scalp. It feels like a spell. The magic of the night is back again, in the green glowing numbers of the alarm clock showing blurred through the sheets, the way Derby’s face looks, pressed to his pillow, eyes drooping as he scratches his nails against his scalp.
His eyes slip fully closed. “Don’t stop,” Derby mumbles preemptively.
Bif’s smile is lopsided. “Won’t.” He promises. Derby’s lipa quirk silently in reply, nudging his head up a little into Bif’s wide palm. And he won’t stop, raking steady furrows through his hair. He’ll do it forever– until he falls asleep, at least, watching Derby’s face grow slack, his breathing start to deepen, settle, slow.
Bif finally starts to feel sleep blurring the corners of his own eyes. His hand slows, the strokes growing shorter, lighter. His hand settles against the back of Derby’s skull, warm wrist against his neck, arm draped over his body.
He’s nearly fully asleep when Derby moves; half-asleep in his own right, finally breaching that gulf of bed in between, twisting under the covers. Bif’s hands settle naturally around his waist, presses his face against the back of Derby’s head. Contact point to contact point, Derby fits warm against his body, spooning, flush; like safety, like home.