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You wake with a steadiness. The room is warm, and your eyelids are heavy. Despite your fatigue, you open them, greeted with the view of your sleeping lover, peaceful in his stillness. Studying his face, you are all too aware of how much younger he seemed in sleep—calm compared to his usual defensive stoicism. Your tired eyes rake over his form with a practiced tenderness, as if you were scared to wake him with the silent act of admiration. The moment is quaint, domestic. Far too sweet to suit either of you.
As if listening to your thoughts, he stirs awake. Espresso eyes peel open slowly to meet yours, a low huff emitted from his nostrils in acknowledgment of your presence. He blinks slowly and methodically, not unlike a cat with a trusted owner. He cracks a smile. It’s small, lopsided. Almost timid. Your heart soars at the sight, the preciousness of the image not lost on you. You can’t help but cup his cheek; your touch gentle and delicate on his rough skin.
The motel room you currently reside in can only be described as shitty at best. Everything is dingy and the bathroom light doesn’t work. The television stand sits empty, the bedside bible is molded, and the nightstands are riddled with aged cigarette burns. But the bedsheets seemed clean enough when you both fell into them the night before, and as far as you could tell you hadn’t suffered any bug bites in your sleep. All you needed was a surface to lay on, and a pillow to rest on anyway. One can only sleep in the car for so many consecutive nights before the bare pavement starts to look inviting.
He brings you out of your thoughts as he shifts closer to you, his movements shaking the chintzy bed frame. Burly warm arms envelop your body, holding you to his like a teddy bear. Lips press to your neck in a fond greeting. Breathing in and out. Heart beating, one, two, one, two. The moment is quiet, quaint, comfortable.
“I’m sorry.”
Your eyes open as the warm velvet of his voice rumbles into your ear. He’s hiding his face in your neck, that beautiful aquiline nose tucked into your hair. His eyes are closed, a simple attempt at hiding his emotions.
“What for?” Your voice muses back, softened and smoothed for him. Only him.
He sniffles, opening his eyes and looking away. A thick swallow, like he's gulping down a lump of something. He takes a moment to reply, breathing hitching with every attempt at speech.
“You don't deserve this. You deserve better,” he states plainly, as if reciting a fact. His eyes never meet yours, instead focused on your shoulder. He makes no attempt to let you go, but his face betrays his discomfort.
You furrow your brows. What does he mean? If you wanted anything else, you would've left already. But you didn't want more, or less—just him.
“Stan-” you start, your right hand gently cupping his cheek. He bats it away.
“No. You deserve better. You're too classy and too smart to be slummin’ it with a shithead like me. I’m a screw up-”
“No, you're not,” you try to interject, a soft smile on your lips attempting to soothe him.
“I am,” he points at you for emphasis, “and I’m ruining your life more and more with each second you spend with me.” Stan runs a hand through his messy curls, the long ends draped over his shoulders. “This is nice in theory, but you would be better off on your own. At least then you could hold down a job and find a nice guy to shack up with.”
The corners of his eyes glisten with unshed tears, turning his scleras pink. His misty orbs dart away from you again, as if afraid to let you see his upset. “You're better off with a good husband and some brats, and I’m better off dea-”
It's your turn to interrupt him. With a roll of your eyes, you lurch forward to press your lips to his. He grunts in surprise, eyes widening as he processes the action. You pull away and cup his face, your eyes boring into his.
“Stanley, for fucks sake, shut up.” He does. A quiet sniffle interrupts the tense moment as his tears slowly begin to slide down his cheeks. You brush them away with your thumbs, your gaze never straying from his eyes. “I love you. You. And unless you genuinely want me gone, I’m staying with you. It doesn't matter what bullshit we've gotta deal with, because we have each other.”
He looks away shamefully, disbelieving your words. A storm rages behind his eyes, the loud part of his brain screaming guilty commands while the quiet part tells him to listen. Stan forces his eyes back to yours, swallowing down the painful ball forming in his throat.
“Do you seriously want me to leave? Yes or no?” You ask him, face flat and candid. A moment of silence falls between you two, both of you staring at each other intensely.
He shakes his head. You nod yours. An understanding comes to pass.
“Okay. Then I’m with you til you do.” Your whispered words conjure more tears in his eyes, and his lips fall into a deep frown. The sight is heartbreaking—the image of your dearest friend, lover, and partner in literal crime so utterly shattered. You pull him into a constricting embrace, a hand planted in his hair while the other runs firm circles against his back.
His shoulders shake as he cries, strong arms holding you in an equally tight embrace. He grabs at your shirt like you're going to disappear, his face buried against your shoulder. His tears soak through your shirt, but you don't care about that right now. All you're worried about is showing him how much he is loved.
Whispered sweet nothings fall from your lips, reassuring him the best you can. You compliment your favorite parts of him: his commitment, his heart, his personality, his intelligence. He loves you so hard and works tirelessly in his own way to keep you happy and fed. And God, he's so smart. So much smarter than he gives himself credit for.
He weeps openly, that smoky voice of his scratching out loud sobs and whimpers. The scene is so uncharacteristic of the tough man, but you cradle him through it. He needs it.
“Love you,” he gasps. “I just- ‘m so sorry… so sorry you have to deal with this.”
You shush him, kissing his forehead. “It's okay. I love you too, Stan. That's why it's okay.” Pulling his head away from your shoulder, you gaze upon his messy face. Your lover is an ugly crier, but he's never looked more beautiful to you. Your thumbs wipe away more tears as you pull his face to yours.
Eyelids flutter shut, and your lips meet in a tender kiss. His quiet cries shake his body, but his lips work against yours regardless. He kisses like he's been starved for years, hands grabbing at your face for more. Soft noises die in your throat as you continue to kiss him, drinking him up like water. His tongue licks at your bottom lip shyly, and you open up your mouth obediently. As your tongues dance and teeth clash, you both lose yourselves in the sanctity of each other. Moans are muffled into each other's mouths, and you grasp at each other desperately. Eventually, you pull away for air. Your faces are flushed and your lips puffy. He stares at you like a wet kitten, pathetic yet loving in every way possible.
“I'm staying, and that's final,” you breathe out, hands fixing his hair carefully.
He smiles, nodding. “Okay. That's okay with me.”