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He lay down again.
The ceiling had nothing interesting. Barely any contrast, some small stains, some scattered dots. But to his tired mind it seemed like enough, he felt blocked in so many parts of him that the only thing he felt he could focus on was-- nothing.
In that void he heard. It seemed like it finally finished boiling…the water fell on the cup. A little metallic sound repeated, stirring, stirring. A clank, the kettle being placed back on the stovetop.
He had invited him over to show him some demos that he had made with a new equipment, luring him in with the machine. They had that common enthusiasm for them, he always pushed him to buy a new one even when he didn't need it, for anything that could expand their musical palette worked. Anything that could make him better, more competent to come back to the market, worked. It was something he couldn't shake off, even if he tried to be kind to himself.
And in the middle of all of those reasons, peeking though, was his desire to see him. It wasn't only his enthusiasm to compose, he ignored his stomach and his head for the enthusiasm that born within him when he saw him.
And that's how it ended. Atticus found him with his cheek resting over the toilet seat, the uncomfortable position tensing his neck, the heat crawling to his head while exhaustion went down to his limbs. The tiredness prevented him to act faster, to offer him that if he so wanted he could leave.
It embarrassed him in a way. He was a grown man, he had come a long way from his inaptitude to care about himself and he believed he could do it on his own again. He wanted to be alone, just like dogs who hide under beds or tables waiting for the pain to pass or death to come, a sort of vestige to his old habits. Yet, when Atticus lifted him up and stopped the pain that throbbed in his knees from the cold floor, those thoughts lowered their volume. When his warm embrace evolved him, held him to keep him standing and walk him carefully out of the room, they all went quiet.
Trent felt the couch sink beside him and that warmth coming back, an arm sliding around him. He forced his eyes from the monotonous view to the side, Atticus was looking forward, bathed in the bluish light of the TV. Curious he tried to follow his gaze, daring to look ahead-and quickly turned away. He wasn't as ready for that as he expected, his eyes tearing up a little.
Atticus moved his head towards him. He left the cup on the table and got closer.
'I thought you were asleep'
His other hand held his forearm.
'How are you feeling?'
He guessed he was asking out of kindness, because he clearly looked terrible. In his throat there was still some acidity that he feared would grow into something more, so he didn't feel much like answering. But since he was so kind to ask he made an effort and answered.
'Still like shit'
Atticus just looked at him, his hand started to caress Trent's forearm. The arm around him pulled him closer to him.
Trent settled himself more comfortably under the other's neck, his nose grazing the collarbone almost like a cat. The afternoon had fell on him heavily, during it he had drifted in and out of consciousness various times. When he wasn't asleep he thought of the album, of what he wasn't doing, of the new synth on the floor. And of all of the choices that he had to make. That last one made him, painfully, give in, and try to forget about everything for a while.
Atticus held him against him and gradually pulled them both down, adjusting limbs and moving cushions, and got them to lay on the sofa. Trent's head fitted beside Atticus' neck, the side of his face touched the leather of the couch, the cold of it relaxing him.
Maybe, if he closed his eyes, he would start to feel his headache overshadowing.
Hands slid on his lower back, back and fort. Sometimes over sometimes under the fabric, it made him shiver. He laid so close. If he so wanted he could turn his head, rest his lips over the neck…
But he was too tired for it. And Atticus was surprisingly comfortable.
He moved up a little, face to face again, his nose grazing the other's.
One of Atticus' hands rose and combed the long strands of hair away from Trent's face. By this rate his fringe was a mess, it was getting a little too long. It had worn out from his constant dyes and when performing it got all over his face. It wasn't always a problem, but being sick made it feel more like a nuisance, a part of Trent wished to shave it all off.
But not right now. The caresses over his scalp felt way too nice. And so what continued, Att's hand sliding over to the top his neck to do small scratches. His eyes closed over the sensation, his head fell against the comforting and, compared to his, colder chest.
Around them it was dim, the light barely filtered through the curtains. The small light of the synth flickered, awake but silent, and not even the fan of his computer could be heard.
He found himself feeling that was enough for him, at least for today.