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The hours between midnight and dawn were Zach's favorite hours of the day. It was quiet. And on nights like this, time moved slowly, the quiet growing heavier, and before long, Zach was struggling to stay afloat. So, he let himself sink, head just above water, the silence dragging him down, somewhere between waking and sleep.
It was a strange, exquisite feeling—he couldn't think, couldn't speak, could only flex his fingers at the keyboard and tablet, his eyes darting across the screen, light burning into his retinas.
On other nights, though, Zach floated atop the rolling seas with ease, guided by his lifeline—a voice in accented English, a high-pitched giggle, a slow, steady breath as the sunlight emerged over the horizon.
Oney—Chris—was Zach's biggest achievement. He was expecting a few lines of curt feedback from his favorite Newgrounds animator when he sent those first few PMs, but Chris wanted more. He wanted to hear and see Zach—to know Zach. Zach couldn't fathom why, and it scared him, to let someone chip away at the walls he'd put up. But when Chris laughed at his drawings or his silly voices, Zach's head went fuzzy, and the rush was intoxicating, addictive like a drug.
He was so high on Christopher O'Neill that he moved to a new city with a bunch of strangers instead of applying to college or getting a real job like everyone else his age. His dad couldn't look him in the eyes and his mom's smile was tight-lipped, but their disappointment faded away when he showed up at Stamper's house and Chris was standing at the doorway—broad shoulders squeezed between the frame, a mega-watt smile spreading across his face.
And from then on, he and Chris were inseparable. Their relationship, so far limited to Skype calls and the occasional trans-Atlantic trip, bloomed in bright Technicolor with their ability to see and hear and touch.
Zach thought if he tapped his shoes three times he might be sent back to Kansas. Stamper's shitty pre-war family home became the gilded road that Zach floated on, and between hanging out with Chris—staying up all night with him, talking about nothing and laughing at nothing—he was making cartoons all day and getting paid to do it.
Zach was working on one such cartoon that night. The baseboard at his feet hissed and creaked softly, straining its pipes against the harsh winter outside, where sugar-white snow flurried silently.
His keyboard click-clacked loudly, drowning out Zach's name being called from the doorway—so when he felt a large, warm palm on his shoulder, he jumped.
"Wha-?"
A tall figure had materialized at his side, broad shoulders rounded in a fragile cower. Chris had tears in his red eyes, lashes clumped together darkly. His breath came in short, erratic bursts.
"I-I'm sorry, I—" Chris rubbed at his face, "I'm—I'm just, fuckin'—"
Zach was stunned—he'd never seen his friend like this. He leapt out of his seat, heart racing with adrenaline.
Angry tears streamed down Chris' face, "I fuckin'—ugh. There's something wrong with me.
I miss my parents. So fuckin' much, dude. And—and I miss Ireland. I miss home. I hate being—fucking, I dunno, in-between. And I hate this country and this house and everyone here, and—"
"Hey, hey, hey," Zach cooed, "can—can I—"
Slowly, he brought his hands up, pried Chris' hands away from his face and replaced them with his own.
Chris sniffled, catching his breath. Touch seemed to ground Chris—a hand on his when they were watching a scary movie or walking through Abington at the crack of dawn, a light touch on the shoulder when Chris got frustrated at a project he was working on—Zach had learned it all.
"It's okay," Zach reassured, voice low. "You're okay. Breathe."
Chris met his gaze, then, and even in the dark, it pierced through Zach and caused a dull pain to blossom in his chest. He averted his eyes as if burned, like those stories in the Bible about humans witnessing angels.
Chris leaned forward and dropped his head onto Zach's shoulder, hiding his face. His skin was hot against Zach's neck.
"I dreamed my parents' house burned down," he confessed.
"Chris," Zach sighed, "I'm sorry." He petted Chris' back, rubbing small circles into his shirt.
They remained like that—Chris leaning into Zach, Zach supporting him—for what felt like an eternity.
Something seemed to click for Zach, then, like figuring out the punchline of a joke, or the right look for a character. Chris needed help, he had come to Zach, and Zach was going to help him. It was as simple as that, and didn't have to be any more complicated—even though the churn in his stomach screamed otherwise.
"Do you—would you feel better if—" Zach stammered, "you could—stay here. If you want."
Chris tensed up for a second, his muscles going rigid under Zach's touch, before he let out a breath and turned his head, lips grazing Zach's throat as he murmured a hushed "okay."
They got into Zach's bed with slow, perfect movements, as if submerged underwater, and faced each other, noses inches apart. Chris' eyes were like shining crystals embedded in stone, and Zach could only stare at them, paralyzed, mind going blank—like everything he ever knew was this pair of dark eyes in the middle of the night, pupils blown out and black.
Chris looked away, color rising in his cheeks. "Can—could you—" he stammered.
Zach shuffled closer, impossibly, and touched Chris' cheek gingerly. Chris' eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a small sigh that carved itself into Zach's chest.
Chris' breath was steady now, as sure as the tides. His soft, chapped lips were parted, eyelashes caressing his pale skin. He looked completely at peace—calm and sated. It was in stark contrast to his demeanour a few minutes ago—almost like an afterglow. Zach had done that. He wanted to do it again.
Zach shook the thought out of his head—his disgusting, perverted head. He should let Chris sleep in peace, lest he get molested by Zach in the middle of the night. Zach gently extracted his hand from Chris' cheek, but Chris stirred, and his hand darted out to tug at Zach's shirt.
"Zach?" He mumbled, alarm high in his voice.
"I'm here," Zach assured.
"Don't leave."
Zach pulled Chris closer as if compelled, wrapping an arm securely around his friend's back.
"Never, Chris," he murmured, low and hushed, as if he could keep the words between them.
Chris drew himself closer, tucking himself perfectly in the crook of Zach's neck. Zach calmed his beating heart, focusing on Chris' touch—the heat that radiated from him burning the skin underneath Zach's shirt. He wasn't sure when he woke up there wouldn't be a large burn print on his torso in the shape of Chris' hand, marring him forever.
Sunlight reflected off the snow and pierced through the window, a stark white light that woke Zach from sleep. Tufts of ash blond hair tickled his chin. Chris smelled like a crisp, green apple, a blooming cherry blossom in the dead of winter.
They had shifted in their sleep, and Chris was now laying atop Zach, who was on his back. Zach stared at the top of Chris' head, feeling a low panic settle in his stomach. They hadn't done anything—Zach had comforted his best friend during a time of distress, that was all—so why did he feel so dirty?
It wasn't regret—Zach would never have turned Chris down, not when he was in that state—it felt more like guilt, shame, impending doom.
But then he looked down at Chris—who was suddenly awake, blue eyes bright and gazing into his own—and Zach had never felt so clean in his life.
"Whatcha thinkin' 'bout?" Chris asked, a small smile on his lips.
Zach was caught off-guard. "Your beautiful blue eyes, babe." He grinned slyly.
But instead of a loud giggle, maybe an off-handed 'shut up, faggot', Chris' smile faltered.
He grabbed a fistful of Zach's shirt, and Zach was scared Chris might sock him in the nose, right there in his own bed. But he pulled himself up Zach's body, so their noses lined up, and Zach didn't even know what had hit him until he felt lips on his, a tongue in his mouth, salty and sweet.
Zach could feel himself falling, air rushing past his ears violently as he plunged into the abyss below. He couldn't scream—Chris had taken all the air out of his lungs.
When Chris pulled away, there was worry etched in his face, chest rising and falling hard. They stared at each other, and Chris could probably hear the calculations Zach was performing in his head.
"Say something, please." Chris' voice was broken.
Zach reached up and ran his fingers through Chris' mussed hair until they reached the back of his head. He drew Chris closer. Zach placed his lips on Chris', languid and leisurely—like they had all the time in the world, like he wanted to make it last. In response, Chris made a small pained sound in his throat. Zach licked into Chris' mouth, velvet and hot, and it tasted better than stolen glances and platonic touches.
Zach's hesitation seemed so trivial, then—strange, to even think Chris didn't want this, that Zach couldn't make it right. He would—he'd do this properly, he wouldn't fuck them both over.
At least, he prayed he wouldn't.