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“Hey,” Adrien says, without thinking about it. “I’m tired.”
Immediately, he wishes he hadn’t. Words are like rain, drizzling down his spine, leaving tracks against the foggy window of his mind: the air shifts when they burst out of his mouth, and he can see storm clouds gathering behind his brother’s eyes.
“Not bad tired!!!” Adrien’s hands writhe like weather vanes, desperate to mend the damage; then again, it’s not what they were built for. “Just. Normal tired. Autumn tired.”
“Define ‘autumn tired’ for me?”
“Uh, well…”
It’s a trap, even though the bite is gentle: more words come flooding in, things like night and cold and everything is dying around us. On the one hand, it’s not uncommon for people to choke on their own misery around this time of year; on the other hand, most people haven’t flung themselves off a roof before.
Felix stares at him from the computer chair, the one that might as well be his by now, and Adrien knows he cannot lie: not after everything they’ve been through, not after they almost lost each other forever.
“… I think I’d like to hibernate,” they whisper, and it does not sound as gentle as they hoped. “Just… shut everything out for a bit.”
Felix taps his knee, which is not unlike the drumming of the rain, either. They’re starting to see the pattern — the rising water levels — and press their hands to their eyes.
But then the bed creaks, and soft fingers find their way between theirs.
“I love you,” Felix promises, because that’s what it is: an oath perpetually renewed. “Tell me how I can help.”
Distantly, Adrien wonders how anyone could ever mistake one of them for the other. Do they not see the youngest’s glow, the kind that warms him all the way to his bones, the kind that once set the world ablaze?
“This is helping.” His eyes fall shut, and he allows himself to just… breathe. To take in the safety of it all, the rings on his fingers and his brother holding him upright. Speaking of which… “I wouldn’t mind someone to hibernate with.”
Felix brushes the covers away; they shift, rearranging, and soon Adrien’s head sinks into the pillow, soon his arms find their way around the anchor of his brother.
Brother, he repeats ceaselessly, somewhere between his ribs. And then: little brother, which feels different somehow. Three months of difference that fill him with pride and regret.
“I’m sorry for putting you through this,” they sniffle, too tired to fight the tears back. “You shouldn’t have to worry about me.”
“I hope I get to worry about you for a long time.” Felix lifts his gaze, tender and firm in this way that is so uniquely his. “I hope I never stop worrying about you.”
Adrien pulls the blanket all the way up, and his brother nestles in the embrace.