Work Text:
Leaning up against the wall, Toast fumbles around in his pockets for his key. He’s surprised he managed to make his way back home, even more surprised he was able to convince the bartender not to call his partner to pick him up. He locates the keys and dedicates his focus towards fitting the right one into the keyhole. It only takes five or six attempts.
The door swings open to a dark and empty room. Toast shuts it behind himself, shrouding his vision in black. He feels along the wall, fumbling for the light switch. He just barely grazes it once, then twice, then a satisfying click as the room is bathed in soft yellow light.
Exhaling a breath in resigned anticipation of the obstacle ahead, he bends over to remove his shoes. Maintaining balance progressively grows more and more difficult, until he finally gives in and drops down to sit on the floor.
Untying the laces proves to be significantly more challenging than opening the front door, and Toast finds himself wishing he’d held off on trimming his nails until tomorrow. The alcohol inhibiting his coordination combined with the size of his hands makes the task feel akin to trying to thread a needle with one of the thick chopsticks from Ghost’s favorite takeout place.
Toast huffs a laugh, a small smile breaking onto his face at the thought. He should get that again. He likes the way Ghost’s face lights up every time he sees that bright red logo on a plastic bag.
He recalls one time he’d needed plastic bags to hold something—can’t even remember what—and had grabbed one without thought. Ghost had been so disappointed when he realized it wasn’t food. Toast felt so guilty, he went and got them some takeout the very next day.
One shoe down, one to go.
Toast has ordered from there so many times he might as well know the menu by heart. At the very least, he has all of Ghost’s orders memorized, down to different item preferences for different moods. Toast wonders what he should get him tomorrow. Something in apology for his late night out and the ensuing hangover, probably. Ghost has never been fond of his drinking habits.
Second shoe successfully unlaced.
Setting his shoes aside in the entryway, Toast braces himself against the wall to push up—slowly, carefully, so as to ensure he wouldn’t fall and wake Ghost. Then comes the hardest part; turning the lights back off and making his way upstairs. Learning from past mistakes, Toast takes a moment to check the floor for any tripping hazards that may be strewn about. There’s nothing tonight, and he relishes the tiny victory of being one step closer to falling into bed.
He flicks the lights back off, plunging the room back into darkness. Moonlight filtering through the curtains illuminates his objective, the stairs, and guides his way. He stumbles a couple times, tripping over his own feet, but doesn’t fall or otherwise cause a ruckus. The stairs serve as somewhat of a safe haven in his blind journey, the railings acting as a tangible form of stability as he cautiously makes his way up the steps.
At the top of the stairs he feels along the wall to his right, counting the number of doors until he reaches his own. He almost goes crashing down as he finds his own door unexpectedly ajar, but manages to catch himself on the doorway with his other hand. He looks up, blinks into the faintly moonlit shadows of his room, and stills.
Lying in his bed, curled up into a sleeping position Toast could never understand to be comfortable, is Ghost. Toast’s second pillow lies in his arms, smothered into his chest. His mouth hangs slightly open, soft snores intermittently disrupting the silence of the night. His hair’s a bird’s nest, and Toast is sure he’ll be drooling by morning.
Toast feels a fond flutter in his chest at the sight. He takes a moment to attempt to commit the picture to memory, before stepping into the room. He does his best to keep quiet as he strips off his clothes and digs out a pair of sweats. He doesn’t have the heart to remove the other pillow from Ghost’s arms, and so resigns himself to the inevitable neck pain on top of his hangover in the morning.
Crawling into bed, he maneuvers the blanket over himself, turning onto his side to face his partner’s back. He considers sliding closer, wrapping his arms around over top of Ghost’s, the thought of larger warm hands encompassing small, colder ones. Instead, he shuts his eyes and uses his own arm as a makeshift pillow for the night.
Takeout tomorrow, he reminds himself, falling easily into the depths of sleep.