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Okay, one thing to clarify - Michael Jones was not afraid of horror movies. Not even a bit.
Except this one. Something about it really wound him up and he couldn’t figure out what. Maybe the music box soundtrack or good actors or the distinct lack of jump scares to provide relief. Whatever it was, Michael was still on edge long after the movie had wound to a close.
He rolled over in bed again, kicking the sheets off of him and turning the light on. He couldn’t even begin to fall asleep with the lights off.
His heart was still beating a thousand miles a minute, and he knew from experience that he would not ever fall asleep if he couldn’t calm down. So he forced himself awake fully and out of bed, tugging on a shirt from the floor just in case someone else happened to be awake at three in the morning, Michael would look at least a little more appropriate.
Then he wandered down the hallway, one hand on the wall and he was thinking about how much like the beginning of a horror movie this was, and okay, he nearly screamed when he sees Ryan fucking Haywood, all dolled up in his skull mask carefully and quietly closing the front door.
Instead of screaming, he very calmly asked, “What are you doing, Ryan?”
Ryan looked up, carefully pushing off his mask. “Nothin’,” he said in a way that heavily implied he was up to something. “Why’re you awake?”
Avoiding the question, Michael zeroed in on the hint of an accent revealed in Ryan’s voice as he spoke, drawn out by sheer exhaustion. “Where are you from?”
“Georgia,” Ryan answered, shortly but not impolitely. He shed his weaponry, heavy leather jacket, and body armor onto the coffee table, then went through the motions of pouring out a glass of water before he spoke again. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“It isn’t,” Michael said carefully, feeling like he was always walking on eggshells with Ryan. “I was just curious.”
“Yeah?” Ryan arched an eyebrow, took a sip of his water. Michael studied his smudged face paint, red smeared into black smeared into white. “Where’re you from, then?”
“Figured my accent was pretty distinctive,” Michael said, and perhaps he exaggerated it a bit, just then, just for Ryan, drew out the vowel sounds specifically for Ryan.
“Hm,” Ryan agreed. “Natural curiosity gets the best of us.”
“Where were you?” Michael insisted. “Everyone else’s asleep.”
“You aren’t,” Ryan said, as if that was the only part that mattered. “There was a guy. I dealt with him.”
“You don’t look like you dealt with anyone,” Michael challenged lightly, offering a small, tired grin.
“Stopped at a motel. Figured Geoff wouldn’t appreciate me trailing blood through his fancy penthouse.” Ryan traipsed into the kitchen and Michael followed, seating himself neatly on the counter while Ryan dug around in a cabinet, eventually pulling out a decently sized pot.
“Figured you’d tell me to go fuck myself or something,” Michael admitted. Ryan glanced at him, setting the pot on the stove and setting it to low heat.
“Why would I do that?”
“You’re the Vagabond,” Michael said, waving his hands for something that vaguely resembled emphasis. “You know, your big scary ‘I hate everyone’ routine.”
“This may surprise you, Michael,” Ryan said, “but it’s not usually a routine.”
“Funnily enough, I’m not surprised.”
Conversation lapsed into a strangely comforting silence, Michael watching Ryan dig various ingredients out for his - whatever he was making - and set them out.
Michael must have been more tired than he’d thought, because it took him a lot longer than it should have to realize Ryan was making hot cocoa from scratch. He pointed as much out to Ryan.
“You’re right, Michael,” Ryan agreed easily, like he was used to dealing with overly exhausted man-children. “I am making hot cocoa.”
Michael just nodded, blinking owlishly.
“You really need to go to bed,” Ryan suggested, stirring the warm milk in his pot gently.
“Can’t,” Michael said.
“Yeah?” Ryan said. He hadn’t known Michael to be one to deal with insomnia, but he could be wrong. “Why not?”
“Jack is mean.”
“Jack’s not sleeping in your bed, is she?” Ryan asked. He was now thoroughly confused.
“Made us watch a horror movie,” Michael added, like that explained anything. It only served to confuse Ryan more.
“You love horror movies,” he pointed out. Michael shivered.
“Not this one,” he shook his head. “Fuck that.”
“Right,” Ryan said slowly. “Okay. Tell you what. You’re clearly not gonna go to sleep on your own, so how about we drink hot cocoa, and then afterwards we can go check your room for monsters.”
“M’not a kid, Rye,” Michael mumbled, words slurring together in some form of half-asleep speech.
“Or you could just come sleep with me,” Ryan suggested. He regretted the words the moment they slipped from his mouth, stupid, stupid- there was no way Michael Jones would ever reciprocate those feelings in a million years-
“Okay,” Michael said carefully, like he was expecting a trap. “Hot chocolate first, though.”
“Of course,” Ryan said, like his heart wasn’t running a million miles an hour.
Michael nodded his approval, and promptly nearly fell off the counter.
“Careful,” Ryan warned, already steadying Michael. “Jesus, Michael, give a guy a heart attack.”
“M’fine.”
“Uh huh,” Ryan said, unconvinced. He carefully ladled his artfully crafted cocoa into two mugs, afraid to take an eye off Michael for even a second at this point. He looked like shit, but he kept shaking himself awake every time he got close to sleep. Ryan handed Michael a cup. “You need to sleep.”
“Yeah, whatever, Mr. Insomnia,” Michael murmured.
“Mr. Insomnia yourself,” Ryan said. “Unlike some people, I actually get enough sleep every night.”
Michael opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. “That’s fair,” he agrees.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence as they both drank their cocoa, and when they were done Ryan put both cups into the sink and led the way to his bedroom.
“Mi casa es tu casa,” he said, already heading into the bathroom. He scrubbed off his face paint with near scalding water and then toweled off, heading back into the bedroom. Michael had perched himself in the middle of the bed, sitting cross-legged. Ryan approached him and Michael looked up.
“Hey, Rye,” he said.
“Hey, Michael,” Ryan parroted back.
“Will you kiss me?”
Ryan was stunned into silence for a moment, caught in Michael’s curls and his freckles, focusing too closely on every little detail-
He ducked in and kissed Michael. It was gentle and soft and chaste and exactly what they were both looking for right now. Ryan pulled back, guiding them to lay down on the bed. Michael curled in on himself, tucking his head into Ryan’s chest.
“Thank you,” he murmured, closing his eyes. Ryan nodded, draping his arm over Michael. Then he closed his eyes too.