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It’s morning, too early yet to even think about time. There’s a golden-white light filtering through the gap in the curtains, pouring itself across the floor and the bottom of the bed. There’s a spot where the light forms a sort of column in the air lit up by dust- or snow, or maybe falling stars, thinks Mac as he blinks his bleary eyes. It’s the first and only thing he sees through the drawn out process of realizing he’s awake, and he’s thinking now with a whimsical touch, of a million tiny angels dancing in the light.
So he’s waking calm, content and comfortable to the point that he could almost slip right back underneath the waves of languor ebbing over him. But as the little world that is his room begins taking shape around him, he feels a weight on him, sees a dark shape at the edge of his vision that it takes a long moment for his hazy brain to realize is a head of sleep-mussed hair.
His heart starts skipping in his chest.
Mac tries to look down without moving. It’s all hair from this angle: the usually perfect hair that’s curled itself into a mess in sleep, the dark eyelashes that look so much longer from above. Then there’s the shadow of stubble over a jaw Mac hasn’t seen so free of tension in what feels like a lifetime. The light from the window doesn’t touch him yet, no tiny angels dancing over his head. Of course not, because as much as in this moment Mac might want to describe that blissfully unconscious face as cherubic, it’s always been clear that Heaven collectively wants nothing to do with Dennis Reynolds.
And he knows that. And that’s okay.
As Mac realizes, with a sudden warming rush of memory, who that pale and perfect creature curled against him is, the idea that this is the closest either of them might ever get to heaven doesn’t seem so bad.
Dennis is laying on his side, both arms trapped between himself and Mac, one laying flat between them with the back of his hand pressed against the outside of Mac’s thigh. The other is curled across his own bare chest, fingers hovering over his collarbone. His head is on Mac’s shoulder, and Mac’s arm is laying straight beneath him, hand almost hanging off the edge of the bed. Dennis fits perfectly into the space he’s occupying, like it was built for him. He really does look peaceful.
Mac moves as gently as the morning light itself, afraid to even breath for fear that he might wake him up and ruin everything. He brings his free hand, from where it had been resting on his stomach, to rest on top of the hand Dennis has against his chest. The arm that’s pinned by Dennis’ head curls itself along the curve of his spine so Mac can actually hold him.
Then comes the anxiety, the hammering of Mac’s heart inside his stone still flesh as Dennis shifts in his sleep, and Mac thinks that once again he’s pushed it too far, wanted too much, and ruined everything. Dennis will wake up and this vanishingly rare moment of peace will crack right open. But Dennis doesn’t wake, doesn’t pull away. He melts into Mac’s embrace, which is more than Mac could have possibly hoped for.
Thinking that’s the last time that he’ll ever move again, he watches Dennis’ sleeping face and hopes that he feels safe. Mac for his part feels safe enough, with Dennis breathing steady against his chest, to fall asleep again in a matter of moments. Still, he can’t help holding onto him like he’s afraid he’ll drift away, right out the window and up into the light, there to remain (like other every heaven Mac has ever known) forever out of reach.
☆ ☆ ☆
It’s morning still, no longer early but not too late yet, when Dennis stirs from sleep. The light has migrated across the bed, the wind drifting through the screen to play with the curtains in a light-and-shadow dance that’s flickering over Dennis’ face. He imagines the sun consuming the earth, the apartment on fire again, his eyes burning out of their sockets.
He turns his face into the pillow to spare himself the inconvenience of going blind.
A weary moment passes before he realizes two things: the sun doesn’t rise facing his bedroom window, and his pillow seems to have a collarbone. He wants to stretch his arm, to pull himself awake and to investigate the body pressed against him, but he’s stopped by the warm weight of someone’s arms wrapped around him.
He doesn’t usually wake like this, wrapped up in someone else’s embrace. In fact it’s increasingly uncommon these days, for him to wake with anyone beside him at all, regardless of position. It’s not a fact he cares to dwell on. So he doesn’t. He will however dwell on the soft and warm and profoundly pleasant situation he is in, and how exactly he got here.
Eyes closed to the world, Dennis falls into the memory of the night before. Some pieces of it playing out with astonishing clarity- whiskey and kisses and those arms and how they clawed their way under his clothes. His shirt thrown to the floor (doubtlessly still laying there, wrinkles now having set in), his body thrown into the bed (he can feel the give of the mattress as he was pushed into it), his belt unbuckled, jeans unzipped (though neither made it all the way off ). It gets fuzzy past that point, but the missing pieces can't possibly have contained sex- he'd remember it, surely, but more importantly, he'd have gotten it on camera, would have dragged Mac by the hair into his room if he'd thought that would happen.
Still, here he is in this impossible position, with an impossible little question escaping him.
"Mac?"
It's a little bit louder than he means it to be, in the stillness and silence of the bedroom, with his voice all dry and morning deep. There's no answer though, except for the gentle tightening of Mac's arms around his body. He can't see Mac's face very well without moving, but he can watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, can admire the spray of freckles across his skin. If he were to nudge his head forward a bit he'd feel the tickle of facial hair against his forehead.
It occurs to Dennis that he could wake him up right now, could rub it in his face how gay this is, or wrap himself around Mac like a second skin and finish what they started last night. He thinks about angling his face up to press his mouth against Mac's neck. How gently he could wake him and take him apart. How he'd follow the shadows dancing across his skin with an open mouth and have him squirming before he could even tell whether he was still dreaming or not.
It's tempting- deeply tempting- but so is exploring the unfamiliar sensation of simply being held. There's a profound and simple intimacy to this, and though he'd be loathe to admit it, he feels a sort of safety here, with Mac's chin resting just atop his head. More than that, he feels smaller, even if only by comparison, and that lends itself to a feeling of beauty. It's like he loves himself more when Mac does too, and this feels like Mac loves him very much.
So he doesn't wake him up. Not yet. Instead he buries his face below Mac's shoulder, forehead pressed against his ribs, eyes free of the sun. He has one hand resting between his chest and Mac's side and he winds that up and over Mac's chest to rest there instead, fingers idly tracing a little circle on his skin.
He means to revel in this, he really does. To just lay there and bask in the sensation of being loved. But there's a thing about being loved, and a thing about loving, too. When it's hard, it's hard as hell, but when it's easy like this? Dennis is asleep again before he can even think the words too easy.