Chapter Text

John's pov

John was nervous.

Not just the regular kind of nervous. Not the kind that buzzed in his blood before a bar fight, or the restless edge that came with waiting on test results in the doctor’s office he went to like only two times a year, or even the quiet dread that followed him through most of his adult life like a stray dog that refused to leave. No, this was something else. This was the kind that made his hands shake even when he stuffed them deep into his jacket pockets. The kind that made his stomach churn like he’d downed three cups of gas station coffee on an empty stomach.

He stood in front of the apartment door—their apartment. Third floor, slightly crooked number nailed into the wood. The paint was chipped around the knob from years of use. There was a faint crack running down the side where humidity had warped it. He knew every scratch on that door. Knew the way it stuck a little in the winter. Knew exactly how hard you had to push it closed so it would latch properly.

Home.

The word hit him in the chest every time.

He swallowed.

He should have dressed better.

That thought had been circling him since he’d left work at the garage. Since he’d caught his reflection in the tinted window of his truck and realized he looked like he was about to apologize for breaking something, not ask the love of his life to marry him.

All he had on was a crumpled button-down shirt he’d fished out of the back of his closet that morning. It had been ironed once. Probably years ago. The sleeves were rolled up unevenly, one cuff higher than the other. His jeans were old and worn thin at the knees, faded from too many washes. He hadn’t even noticed the socks were mismatched until he’d already laced up his boots—one black, one dark gray. And the boots… hell. They were still caked with dried mud from earlier in the week. He’d knocked them together a few times on the stairwell, but dirt still clung stubbornly to the soles.

Real smooth, Marston.

Real romantic.

He’d tried, though.

He’d stopped at a public restroom on the way home—one of those cramped ones in the back of a convenience store that smelled faintly like bleach and old cigarettes. He’d stood in front of the cloudy mirror and combed his hair, dragging the cheap plastic comb through it until it lay somewhat flat instead of doing that thing where it stuck up in the back. He’d shaved, too. Or trimmed, at least. Leaned in close to the mirror, squinting at his own reflection while fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. He’d nicked himself twice along his jaw and once under his chin. There was still a faint sting there.

He’d stared at himself for a long moment afterward.

“You look like hell,” he’d muttered.

Because he did. Ugly as hell.

And Javier deserved better than that.

Better than him.

The thought came easy. Too easy.

Javier deserved a man who could say I love you without swallowing the words first. A man who didn’t act like affection was something fragile that might break if handled wrong. A man who could put on a suit without looking like he was attending his own funeral. A man without a past that clung like smoke – not that Javier’s past was any better, but still...

John’s jaw tightened.

He thought about Abigail. About the life he’d tried to build once because it seemed like the right thing to do. Because it was expected. Because everyone said it was what a man was supposed to want.

He had cared. He wasn’t heartless.

But caring wasn’t the same as this.

Maybe somewhere out there was another version of him—a braver one, a softer one—that loved her properly. Maybe that version made her happy. He hoped so. He really did. The guilt of it still sat heavy in his chest sometimes.

But when he thought about Javier, it wasn’t obligation. It wasn’t trying to fix something that never quite fit.

It was want.

It was need.

Javier made him want to try.

To be better. To talk more. To stay. God, that one scared him the most. He’d never been good at staying. His whole life had been movement. Running, leaving, drifting. But with Javier, he didn’t feel cornered.

He felt chosen.

And he wanted to choose back.

His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, fingers brushing against the small box tucked inside.

It felt heavier than it should have.

He pulled it out slowly.

The box was square and covered in brown velvet that felt almost too soft against his rough hands. He’d stood in that jewelry store for twenty damn minutes before he’d worked up the nerve to ask the woman behind the counter for help. She’d smiled at him like she knew exactly what was happening, and that alone had nearly made him bolt.

He opened the box now, careful. Like the hinge might snap if he wasn’t gentle.

Inside, resting on a deep blue cushion, was the ring.

His throat tightened instantly.

It was gold—a simple band, traditional in shape. He’d wanted something that felt solid. Heavy. But carved into the gold were fine lines, subtle grooves that curved around the band. And set carefully within those lines were small stones in warm tones—deep reds, burnt oranges, flecks that caught the light like campfire.

It glowed.

Like sunset spilling across a desert horizon. Like the warm light that filled their apartment in the evenings when Javier left the blinds half open. Like the way Javier’s eyes softened when he laughed, head tipped back just slightly.

It had cost him more than he’d ever spent on anything that wasn’t survival – food, alcohol, and drugs. A lot more.

He’d handed over the money with hands that didn’t shake, but only because he hadn’t let himself think about what it meant. If he thought too hard, he’d start questioning whether he even deserved to ask.

His thumb brushed lightly over the edge of the ring.

“I’m gonna throw up,” he muttered under his breath.

Because what if Javier laughed?

No, he wouldn’t laugh.

What if he looked at him with that careful, guarded expression he wore when he was trying not to get hurt? What if he said John didn’t have to do this? What if he said he loved him, but—

That but would kill him.

John leaned his forehead briefly against the apartment door. The wood was cool against his skin.

Javier had been his friend first. That was the worst part. They’d built something solid before any of this. Shared late-night conversations on that terrible secondhand couch. Shared beers on the fire escape. Shared silence that didn’t feel heavy.

Somewhere along the way, friendship had blurred into something else. Into touches that lingered a second too long. Into arguments that felt too personal. Into moments where the world narrowed down to just the two of them in a room.

Brother-but-not-quite.

And then not that at all.

Now he was standing here, holding a ring like some damn cliché in a rom-com he’d pretend not to watch but secretly liked because it made Javier’s eyes glow and his smile soften at the light of the TV.

He let out a shaky breath.

Even if Javier said no… even if he told him this was too much, too soon, too serious… it would still be worth it.

Because at least Javier would know.

Know that John loved him.

Not in the quiet, almost ashamed, half-hidden half-assed way he usually showed it. Not just in fixing things around the apartment without being asked. Not just in the way he’d remember how Javier took his coffee. Not just in the way he’d sit closer than necessary, shoulder brushing against his.

But fully.

Openly.

With a ring and everything that came with it.

John closed the box gently and slid it back into his pocket, fingers lingering for a moment like he needed to make sure it was still there.

He imagined Javier inside.

Maybe pacing the kitchen while dinner simmered on the stove, music playing low from that old stereo they’d bought at a thrift store. Maybe humming along under his breath in Spanish, words rolling smooth and warm. Maybe sitting cross-legged on the couch with that battered book he’d been pretending not to be invested in.

John smiled faintly despite himself.

God, he was gone.

Completely.

He straightened up, wiped his hands on his jeans, then immediately regretted it because now they were probably dirtier. He rolled his shoulders back like he was about to step into a fight.

His hands shook as he pushed the door open.

He stood there for a second after it clicked, staring at the wood like it might bite him if he wasn’t careful.

Three days.

He had been gone for three damn days.

Dutch and Hosea’s place still smelled the same as it did when he was a kid. Old wood, cheap cologne, something dusty and warm. That house hadn’t changed much. Still too loud. Still too full of memories. Some good. Some… not so much.

Arthur had come over the second day.

Of course he had.

He’d walked in like he owned the place, Eliza right behind him with that small, knowing smile of hers. And Isaac — “young little Isaac,” Arthur still insisted on calling him — tucked under his arm like he wasn’t twelve now. Twelve. Christ.

John had watched them.

Not in a weird way. Just… watched.

Arthur’s hand resting heavy on Isaac’s shoulder without even thinking about it. The way Eliza leaned into Arthur when she laughed, like it was instinct. The way Isaac pretended he was too old to sit close to his parents but still drifted back to them anyway.

And it had hit him then. Quiet. Sharp.

He would have wanted Javier there.

Not as a guest. Not as “a friend.” Not as something vague and half-defined.

He would have wanted to bring him along.

Stand next to him in that kitchen while Dutch talked too much. Let Hosea raise an eyebrow and pretend he wasn’t judging Javier for choosing John. Let Arthur clap him on the back and accept him the same way he’d accepted almost everything else John dragged into his life.

He’d sat on that old couch with a beer in his hand and realized he didn’t just want Javier in his bed. Or in his apartment.

He wanted him in his life. Fully.

So yeah. He’d bought the ring the day he got back.

Didn’t even let himself think too hard about it.

Now he was standing here. Nine at night. After a long shift that left his shoulders aching and his hands rough. Two days after coming back from that “family get-away,” as Dutch liked to call it, like it had been some peaceful retreat instead of a house full of ghosts and old stories.

John pushed the door open.

The apartment greeted him the way it always did — warm air, faint smell of whatever Javier had cooked earlier, laundry detergent, and something distinctly him. Something spicy and familiar.

Home.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

His boots felt too loud on the hardwood. He nudged one off with the toe of the other. It hit the wall with a dull thud. He paused.

He looked down at his socks.

Black on one foot. Dark gray on the other.

For a second — a stupid, fleeting second — he considered just keeping the boots on. Avoid the inevitable teasing. Avoid Javier’s stupid, fond grin when he noticed.

But then he looked at the boots themselves. Muddy. Worn. Definitely not proposal-worthy.

He sighed and kicked the second one off.

“Javi?” he called out, trying to keep his voice steady.

Music answered him.

Loud music.

He couldn’t help the small huff that left him. Of course. Of course there was music blasting. He knew him too well. Some Spanish song, all rhythm and guitar and heat. The kind Javier played when he was in a good mood. Or when he was cooking. Or cleaning. Or dancing around the living room like he didn’t think anyone was watching.

John stood there for a second longer than he should have.

He could picture it without even looking.

Javier in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up. Probably humming along. Probably swaying a little without realizing it. Hair falling into his face. Maybe mouthing the lyrics dramatically when he thought he was alone.

The thought made something tight in John’s chest loosen and twist at the same time.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, fingers brushing the small velvet box.

Still there.

Still real.

God.

He stepped further into the apartment, socks silent against the floor. The lights were on. The lamp by the couch casting that soft yellow glow Javier liked better than the overhead one. There was a plate on the coffee table. A jacket thrown over the armrest. A glass in the sink.

Lived in.

Their place.

Three days away had been enough to make him miss it. Miss this. Miss him.

He cleared his throat.

“Javi?” he called again, louder this time.

The music didn’t stop, but it dipped slightly — maybe the end of a song, maybe Javier turning it down a notch.

John’s heart started beating harder. Stupidly hard. Like he’d run up the stairs instead of taking them slow.

He thought about Arthur again. About how natural it looked. How easy.

John had never been good at easy.

Had tried with Abigail, hadn’t worked. Why was he trying to fool himself into thinking it would work with Javier ?

He wasn’t good with words either. Didn’t say I love you as often as he should. Didn’t dress up right. Didn’t always show up when he was supposed to.

But he was here.

At the very least, he was there.

That had to mean something right ?

He was probably just trying to convince himself though…

He walked toward the living room, each step feeling heavier than it should have. The box in his pocket felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. He could feel it against his thigh, like it was reminding him what he was about to do.

He wanted to be able to stand next to Javier somewhere — anywhere — and say, this is my husband.

The word made his stomach flip.

He reached the edge of the living room and stopped for a second, just out of sight.

He could hear Javier moving. The faint scrape of a chair. The soft clink of something set down on the counter. The music still playing, filling the space between them.

John wiped his palms on his jeans.

“Javi,” he said again, softer this time.

Not just calling for him.

Calling to him.

Javier’s head poked out of the kitchen.

Like he’d just leaned around the corner because he’d heard something odd — or because he already knew it was John and just wanted to see him.

His hair was loose.

Not tied back like he sometimes did when he cooked, not pushed away from his face in that careless way. Just loose. Falling around his shoulders, slightly messy like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. It caught the warm light from the kitchen, soft and dark and unfairly pretty.

And he was smiling.

John’s brain, very unhelpfully, stopped working for a second.

He’d imagined this moment all day. Imagined Javier serious. Or confused. Or annoyed at the late hour. He hadn’t imagined this. This soft, domestic, stupidly perfect sight.

“Hey,” Javier said, voice raised slightly over the music.

He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe like he hadn’t a care in the world.

And he was in his pajamas.

Which, okay, made sense. It was nine at night. The man had every right to be comfortable in his own apartment. But still.

It wasn’t fair.

It just wasn’t.

Because John was standing there in a wrinkled shirt he should’ve ironed, old jeans, mismatched socks, and the lingering scent of work and cheap public restroom soap — and Javier was in an old t-shirt that clung just enough to show the line of his shoulders, and those checkered green pajama pants he’d had for years.

Green. Faded in some spots. Soft from too many washes.

They should’ve looked ridiculous.

They didn’t.

Somehow he still looked more put together than John did.

More… intentional.

Like he belonged exactly where he was.

John felt heat crawl up his neck.

“You’re home,” Javier added, smile widening just slightly. Like that hadn’t been obvious. Like he wasn’t stating the most basic fact just to say something.

John swallowed.

“Yeah,” he managed, because apparently full sentences were too much to ask right now.

Javier’s eyes moved over him, slow but casual. Taking in the crumpled shirt. The tired posture. The socks.

Oh God.

The socks.

One of Javier’s eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly. Not mocking. Not even amused, really. Just noticing.

John resisted the urge to shove one foot behind the other.

“You look exhausted,” Javier said, softer now.

He sounded worried.

John wanted to kiss him.

Instead he shrugged one shoulder, trying for casual and probably missing the mark entirely. “Long day.”

Understatement of the fucking century.

Long day. Long week. Long life.

Javier stepped fully out of the kitchen then, turning the music down with one quick motion on the stereo as he passed. The apartment felt quieter immediately, more intimate. The hum of the fridge suddenly noticeable. The faint ticking of the wall clock.

He crossed the living room barefoot.

There was something about seeing him like this. Comfortable. At home. In worn pajamas and loose hair and a soft smile. It did something to John’s chest that he couldn’t properly name.

This wasn’t a version of Javier the world got to see.

This was his.

“How was work?” Javier asked.

He stopped a few feet away. Not too close. Not too far. Just there. Close enough that John could see the faint crease between his brows — that little line that showed up whenever he was worried but trying not to be. Close enough that John could smell his soap. Something clean. Something warm. Something very, very him.

Work.

Right.

That was what normal people talked about when they came home at nine at night.

John opened his mouth.

“I love you,” he blurted out instead.

It came out too fast. Too loud. Like it had been waiting behind his teeth all day and finally just shoved its way out.

Javier blinked.

And John, realizing what he’d just done, immediately stepped forward and grabbed him. Arms around his waist, face pressed into his neck like he could hide there. Like if he buried himself against warm skin and soft cotton, the words would somehow disappear.

God, he smelled good.

Clean soap and a hint of whatever he’d cooked earlier. And underneath that, just Javier.

John exhaled into his skin, heart hammering.

This was safer. This was familiar. Holding him. Not talking.

But then—

Oh.

Oh no.

The ring.

John stiffened and pulled back almost as fast as he’d lunged in, hands dropping awkwardly to his sides. He took half a step away, like Javier had burned him.

He couldn’t let him feel it. Couldn’t let him feel the box in his pocket and ruin whatever pathetic attempt at timing he had planned.

Javier stared at him.

“You sure about that?” he asked quietly.

He was smiling. A little. But there was a frown there too. A small one. Confused. Concerned.

Like he didn’t doubt the words — just the delivery.

John huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Or a nervous breakdown. Hard to tell.

“Yeah,” he said.

Because yeah. He was sure. That wasn’t the part he was struggling with.

He shoved his hands into his pockets because he didn’t know what else to do with them.

Bad move.

Immediately, his fingers brushed the velvet box.

It was like touching a live wire.

His pulse jumped so hard it made him dizzy for a second. He was suddenly hyper-aware of everything. The way his shirt stuck slightly to his back. The way the lamp light made the room feel smaller. The faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. The music, now low, still playing something soft in the background.

And Javier.

Standing there in green checkered pajama pants like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t about to have his entire evening turned upside down.

Of course he noticed.

“What?” Javier asked.

Just that. What.

But there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The kind he got when he could tell John was spiraling but didn’t want to push.

John’s heart started pounding so loud he was convinced it was visible through his shirt. Like his chest might actually be moving with it.

God.

He loved him.

Not in a casual way. Not in a “this is nice” way.

In a way that made his chest ache when he’d been gone three days. In a way that had him sitting on Dutch’s old couch thinking, he should be here. In a way that made him want to drag Javier into every room he ever entered and say, this is him. This is mine. I choose him.

Like with a dog, his brain supplied awfully. Which wasn’t true, because Javier was the most human man he had ever met and John loved him and-

And if anything John was the dog, begging for affection like he was.  

Javier took a small step closer.

His brown skin looked like it was glowing. His brown eyes big and worried and so full of care. He looked like an angel.

He was an angel. A very pretty one too.

“You’re staring,” he said softly.

Almost amused.

John blinked like he’d been caught doing something illegal.

“Sorry,” he muttered automatically.

He wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for anymore. For staring. For blurting out I love you like a teenager. For looking like a mess. For existing. For being named John. For…Fuck, he did not even fucking know anymore.

Javier’s smile softened.

But the crease between his brows deepened.

He was really worried now. And John felt bad for stressing him out like that.

“You okay?” Javier asked, his voice low and slightly gravely.

John swallowed.

His throat felt like sand-paper, like he had swallowed the ashes of the many cigarettes him and Javier had smoked together since they met.

“Yeah,” he said again, but it came out rougher this time.

His hands were still in his pockets. Still touching the box. He could feel the edge of it pressing into his knuckles like it was reminding him. Do it. Or don’t. But stop hovering.

Javier’s eyes flicked down briefly. Not to his pockets exactly. Just… down. Taking him in.

“You’ve been acting strange since you walked in,” Javier said quietly.

John almost laughed.

Since I walked in ?

Try since I bought that ring.

Try since I left three days ago.

Try since you kissed me first.

Try since I met you.

Try since I was born.

“I just—” he started.

Then stopped.

Because what was he supposed to say?

‘I realized I want you forever while watching Arthur make fun of his kid?’

‘I bought a ring and now I think I might pass out?’

‘You look too good in pajamas and it’s making this harder?’

He dragged a hand out of his pocket and rubbed it over the back of his neck instead, immediately regretting losing contact with the box because now he felt untethered.

Javier reached out slowly, like approaching a skittish animal, and touched his arm.

Just his arm.

Warm fingers through thin cotton.

John’s breath hitched.

“Talk to me,” Javier said.

Soft. Steady.

And God, he loved him.

Loved him in a way that felt terrifying because it was so complete.

He looked at him then. Really looked.

Loose hair. Green checkered pajama pants. Bare feet on hardwood. That stupid, beautiful crease in his brow because he cared too much.

John thought, distantly, that this was the exact moment he would remember years from now. The way the light hit Javier’s hair. The way the music hummed low in the background. The way his own heart felt like it was trying to escape his ribs.

“You’re gonna think I’m an idiot,” John muttered.

Javier’s mouth twitched.

“I already do,” he said lightly.

“I—uh— Do we have any food left? I’m quite hungry?”

John heard himself say it and immediately wished he could physically grab the words out of the air and shove them back into his mouth. Choke on them too, for good measure. And then drop dead.

His voice shook. And the expression on his face absolutely did not match the question. He felt like he might throw up at the idea of eating anything. His stomach was doing flips and knots and something worse. Hungry was the last thing he was.

Smooth, Marston.

Javier tilted his head to the side. Utterly properly confused.

“I— yeah. Some leftovers in the fridge.”

He sounded like he was trying to piece together what the hell was happening. Probably was thinking real hard about it too.

John nodded too fast, almost gave himself whip-lash, and made his nausea worse.

“Can you… heat them up for me?”

Why did that sound so formal? So weird? Who asks their boyfriend to heat up leftovers like that? He lived here. He could do it himself. He was a grown ass man. Twent-six fucking years old.

Javier’s frown deepened even further, now looking like his face was now just frown.

But he didn’t argue.

He just stared at him for another second — long enough that John wondered if he’d already figured it out, long enough that John felt his pulse jump again — and then he turned toward the kitchen.

“Yeah. Sure,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder.

That look.

Half suspicious. Half worried.

The second Javier disappeared fully into the kitchen — out of sight, out of direct line of vision — John moved.

Fast.

Almost falling flat on his face, because why not. Fit the vibe anyway.

He toed off properly from the entryway into the living room, heart pounding so loud he was sure it would echo. His socks made no sound against the floor, which felt wrong. Everything felt too quiet now. Even with the faint clatter of dishes and the microwave door opening in the kitchen.

This was stupid.

This was ridiculous.

He was about to kneel in his own living room like some dramatic idiot.

He reached the spot in front of the couch — the place they usually ate when they were too lazy to sit at the small kitchen table. The coffee table was pushed slightly to the side. There was still a remote lying there. A folded blanket.

This was where they laughed. Where they argued over movies. Where Javier had fallen asleep on his shoulder more times than he could count.

John’s breathing got shallow.

Ok.

Ok.

Ok ok ok.

Okokokokokokokokok.

He did this all the time in life, didn’t he? Jump first. Think later.

Ya can do it Marston.

He slowly lowered himself down.

One knee first.

Then the other.

The hardwood pressed through his jeans. He barely felt it over the pounding in his chest.

On his knees.

Christ.

As soon as Javier walked out of that kitchen, he would see him like this.

On his knees.

Begging.

Because yeah — that’s what it was.

He swallowed hard and pulled the velvet box from his pocket, staring down at it in his hands. For a split second, he thought about standing back up. About aborting the whole thing. About laughing it off and pretending he’d just been looking for something he dropped. About chucking the ring out of the window, and himself with it because why not.

The microwave hummed in the kitchen.

He could hear Javier moving around. The soft scrape of a plate. The fridge door closing.

It was happening.

John let out a shaky breath.

“Ok,” he muttered under his breath. “Ok, ok.”

He flipped the box open, just to make sure the ring was still there.

It was.

Gold band. Warm stones catching the light from the lamp.

His hands trembled.

He adjusted his posture awkwardly, straightening his back like that somehow made it less insane. He wiped one palm on his thigh. Then the other. Too late now.

Footsteps.

Coming closer.

He was going to open his mouth and just throw up on himself.

That was the most likely outcome.

Not a cute little nervous gag. No. Full on, ruin-the-floor, ruin-the-moment, ruin-his-life kind of throw up. Right there on the hardwood where they watched movies and ate takeout.

Or worse.

He was going to open his mouth, throw up and piss himself at the same time.

Or WORSE.

He was going to open his mouth, say the words, and have a heart attack before Javier even answered.

He could feel it happening already. His heart was beating so violently it didn’t feel sustainable. It felt wrong. Too fast. Too loud. His chest was tight. His vision felt slightly too sharp, like everything was on the edge of being too much.

He imagined it.

“Javi, will you—”
And then just. Collapse. Poof. Gone.

But none of that was the worst worst one.

The worst one was simple.

He was going to open his mouth.

Say the words.

Stay alive.

Not humiliate himself.

Not throw up.

Not pass out.

And Javier was going to say no.

No.

Just no.

No.

No, John.

Or worse — a soft, careful, apologetic no. The kind Javier used when he didn’t want to hurt someone but had to anyway.

John realized he was gripping the ring box too tight and forced his fingers to loosen. His knuckles were pale.

The microwave dinged, and he could see Javier’s shadow approaching.

This was it.

There was no version of this where he walked away untouched. Either he stood up engaged.

Or he stood up to go drown himself in the kitchen’s sink.

He swallowed hard.

His throat felt dry.

He tried to breathe in through his nose. It didn’t help. It just made him more aware of everything. The hum of electricity in the walls. The faint click of the clock. The way the lamp light cast his shadow long across the floor.

He thought about Dutch’s house again. About Arthur. About Abigail.

About Javier.

About himself.

He wanted to marry Javier.

Not because he was supposed to.

Because he chose it.

He wanted Javier in every stupid, ordinary future. Wanted to argue about bills and groceries and what color to paint the bedroom. Wanted to sit across from him at fifty and complain about back pain. Wanted to be the one Javier called his husband without hesitation.

The word alone made his chest ache.

Husband.

He almost laughed hysterically at himself.

You’re already on your knees, idiot. At least commit to it.

The footsteps stopped at the edge of the living room.

John didn’t look up yet.

If he looked too soon, he might break.

He stared at the floor instead. At the faint scratch in the wood near the coffee table. At his own knees settled awkwardly beneath him.

He could feel Javier there now. The presence. The shift in the air.

Silence.

Then—

“John?”

Confused. Worried. Careful. Lovely. Wonderful. Beautiful.

Javier.

John squeezed his eyes shut for half a second.

This was it.

“Javier. Will you…”

His voice almost gave out halfway through the name.

He shifted on his knees because suddenly they felt wrong. Too stiff. Too exposed. Like he’d chosen the worst possible position in the world to be vulnerable in.

The room felt too quiet.

Too big.

“Will you marry me?”

There.

It was out.

No dramatic speech. No long build-up. No poetic nonsense.

Just that.

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind they shared on lazy Sundays. Not the easy, familiar quiet that filled the apartment at night.

This was complete, utter silence.

The kind that presses against your ears.

The kind that makes you hyper-aware of your own breathing.

John waited.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Nothing.

His heart dropped somewhere near his stomach.

He forced himself to look up.

Javier looked petrified.

Not teary. Not smiling. Not laughing.

Petrified.

Eyes wide. Completely still. Like someone had just told him something irreversible.

Welp.

Too late to swallow back the words now.

Might as well finish it properly before he kicks you out.

John swallowed and fumbled slightly with the ring box in his hands, suddenly aware that he hadn’t even shown it yet. Like he’d just blurted out the question and forgotten the evidence.

He pulled it from his pocket properly this time.

His hands were shaking. Of course they were.

He opened the box and held it out, like in the movies. Exactly like in the movies. On his knees. Ring presented. Waiting to be judged.

The Last Judgement and all that shit.

“I got this ring… Take it. Please.”

His voice sounded smaller than he wanted it to.

“It would make me very happy if you would… Would marry me.”

That sounded pathetic.

He winced internally but didn’t take it back. He couldn’t. It was honest. Painfully, embarrassingly honest.

Javier still wasn’t speaking.

He hadn’t moved.

If anything, he looked more—

More what?

John couldn’t even name it.

Horrified?

Angry?

Disgusted?

His stomach twisted violently.

Maybe he’d misread everything. Maybe he’d been selfish. Maybe he’d taken something good and simple and complicated it beyond repair.

“If you think this is dumb, I’m sorry, I—”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

He could already see it playing out.

Javier clearing his throat. Saying he didn’t mean to lead him on. Saying he loved him but not like that. Saying this was too much.

John’s brain helpfully started making a list.

Okay.

Clothes. Laptop. Toothbrush.

Leave the couch. That’s technically Javier’s — he found it on the side of the road, brought it home. Take the truck though. Obviously.

He’d come back later for the rest. When Javier wasn’t home. No need to drag it out. No need to make it worse.

He could call Arthur. Yeah. Arthur would let him crash on his couch. He’d complain about it. But he’d make room.

How do you explain that though?

Hey, remember how I finally let myself be happy? Yeah. I ruined that.

He imagined Arthur’s face. The disappointed sigh. The inevitable “What did you do, Johny boy?”

Ruined everything.

That’s what he’d say.

Because that’s what he did. Took good things and pushed too far.

The silence stretched longer.

John’s arm was starting to ache from holding the ring up, but he didn’t lower it. Didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Because if Javier looked too long into them, he would see.

He would see it all.

The grief already blooming there before a single word had been spoken. The way John’s heart was beating too fast, too wrong, like it might actually give out from the strain. He would see it crack. See it splinter. See the exact second it shattered.

He would see John half-crying.

And that—

That would be worse than the rejection.

“It’s… It’s alright,” John whispered.

It came out thin. Barely there.

He wasn’t even sure who he was talking to.

Javier.

Himself.

The universe.

“It’s alright,” he repeated, softer.

Like he was soothing a skittish animal.

Like he was reassuring Javier that the no he hadn’t even said yet didn’t matter. That it wouldn’t ruin anything. That John wasn’t about to fall apart in a way that couldn’t be put back together.

It’s fine. It’s fine. I can take it.

That John wasn’t going to do something stupid tonight. Wasn’t going to walk out and stare too long over the edge of a roof somewhere. Wasn’t going to sit in his truck and think about how easy it would be to just keep driving.

Even if he would think about it.

Hard.

He swallowed, forcing air into his lungs.

“It’s fine,” he added, voice cracking slightly this time.

Forgiven.

That’s what he meant.

Forgiven before it even happened.

Javier didn’t need to feel bad. Didn’t need to twist himself into knots over not wanting John. Because John knew.

He knew.

Who the hell would want him?

John fucking Marston.

Messy. Complicated. Already failed once. Already left. Already been left.

He tightened his grip on the open ring box for a second, then felt his hand start to tremble too much to hold it steady.

Okay.

That was enough.

He shifted his weight, preparing to stand.

He would get up. Close the box. Maybe make some self-deprecating joke. Say something about bad timing. Ask about the leftovers again like this hadn’t just happened.

He would pack later.

When Javier wasn’t home.

He had just started to push himself up when—

The floor creaked.

Fast. Sudden.

Before he could even process it, there was movement.

Javier moved.

Not slowly. Not carefully.

He threw himself forward.

Actually threw himself.

John barely had time to register the shift in air before something solid collided with him. The ring box flew from his hand. He heard it clatter against the hardwood, heard the faint metallic sound of the ring bouncing once—

Twice—

Then rolling.

Rolling somewhere under the couch.

“Oh—” was all John managed before he lost his balance completely.

He fell backward, shoulder hitting first, then the back of his head knocking against the floor with a dull loud thud.

“Shit—” he started.

And then Javier was on him.

Hands in his shirt. Fingers gripping tight. Knees pressing into his sides.

And then—

Javier kissed him. Wild. Like he’d been holding his breath and had finally decided to breathe.

For a second, John just lay there stunned, eyes wide open as Javier’s mouth moved against his like he was trying to prove something. Like he was trying to shut him up  or something.

That was not a no.

John’s hands hovered uselessly for half a second before instinct finally kicked in and he grabbed Javier back. Fist tangling in the fabric of his t-shirt. The other hand finding his waist like he was afraid he might disappear if he didn’t hold on.

He barely even registered the faint ache at the back of his head.

The only thing he could think was—

He’s kissing me.

He’s kissing me like this.

The apartment felt too small suddenly. Too full of heat and breath and pounding hearts.

John broke the kiss for half a second, gasping for air.

“Jav—” he tried, voice barely above a whisper, but Javier didn’t give him the chance to finish.

He kissed him again. Harder this time. Like he was trying to erase every second of doubt and fear that had built up in John’s chest over the past three days. Like he was telling him without words that he was here and he was his.

John had to practically rip his mouth away, jerking his head to the side, gasping for air.

“Javier?” he croaked, blinking against the heat and the sudden dizziness.

“Shut up, John! Shut up!” Javier scolded, teeth clenching slightly, like John had somehow done something wrong by existing right there, by breathing, by—oh god—by proposing.

John froze.

He looked at him. Really looked. Took in every wild strand of loose hair, every wide, blazing eye, every sharp little crease of the frown that made Javier look impossibly alive, impossibly him.

And then it hit him—his lover. His… fiancé?

That’s what he was now, right? That’s what this meant. He had just asked. Javier hadn’t said yes—he hadn’t said anything—but the way he had thrown himself at him, the way he hadn’t moved away, it had to mean something.

The ring.

His brain skipped a beat. The ring!

Where had it gone? It wasn’t in his hand anymore. He didn’t even remember the little clink as it bounced under the couch in the chaos of the kiss.

“Shit, the ring—” he muttered, twisting beneath Javier straddling him, fumbling blindly across the hardwood.

“John—what are you—” Javier started, but John didn’t hear him. He was already dipping his arm under the couch, brushing the floor with desperate fingers, knees scraping against the hardwood as he reached further back.

There. He felt it. The cold metal edge under his fingertips.

“Got it,” he whispered triumphantly, lifting the ring out and clutching it like it was the only thing keeping him from exploding entirely.

Javier leaned over him, breath hot on his ear. “What are you doing?”

John didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he held the ring box up like it was the most important thing in the world—which, in that moment, it absolutely was. His eyes were wide, pleading, desperate, almost like a dog offering a favorite bone to someone they loved, hoping it would be taken.

Javier’s chest heaved slightly. He huffed, a sound somewhere between exasperation and disbelief, and reached out slowly, carefully, as if he were touching something fragile and sacred at the same time.

His fingers brushed the velvet box. Tenderly. Almost reverently. He pulled out the ring of the blue cushion and turned it in his hands, inspecting the gold and stones, the little lines carved so carefully into the band.

John’s heart slammed.

Javier looked up briefly, eyes soft but wide, like he was trying to steady himself. There was that flicker again—panic? Awe? Maybe even a little nausea. He looked a bit like he was going to be sick too, like the weight of the moment had hit him all at once, like he hadn’t had the time to prepare for the last three days like John had – not that he had done it well.

John couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could only watch as Javier held the tiny symbol of everything he wanted to give him, and somehow, impossibly, finally, put on his finger.

John smiled as he kissed him again.

Kissed his fiancé again.