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1. Nap.
Casey jolts awake.
He gasps, heart fluttering like a hummingbird. He looks around in a panic, eyes blind from the bright light stabbing his eyes. He flinches out of the way of it, but residual white blobs drift and bob over his vision. Disoriented and confused, he blinks frantically, afraid to move until he can see. What happened? Where is he?
Casey sits up, finding no obstructions to his movements. Something thuds into his lap.
Blond lashes flutter rapidly, until the blobs dissipate. His eyes regain focus on the thick book in his lap. Crime and Punishment. Slowly, his memories float back to the surface. He’s laid across the couch, feet dangling off the end, because they keep saying they’ll buy a new couch long enough for both of them but never get around to it. Warm afternoon sunlight streams from the open window onto his face. The cool summer breeze brings a hint of the salty scent of the ocean.
Casey blinks and shakes out the cotton fuzz in his brain. He must’ve fallen asleep reading. He closes the book, careful not to bend the page corners so Court doesn’t get upset, and sets it on the floor next to the couch. The fuzzy carpet tickles his fingers as they graze by.
Drowsily, he stands from the couch, stretching his arms over his head, the hem of his shirt riding just above his jeans. He yawns, shimmery droplets pooling at the corner of his eyes.
Casey slowly blinks at the sight in front of him.
Sitting in a basic black office chair, Court is staring intently at the monitor in front of him. A little frown decorates the corner of his mouth, and a wrinkle adorns the middle of his brows.
Casey indulges in a small smile, the barest hint of it tugging at his cheeks. Padding over to stand behind the chair, Casey drapes his arms over Court’s shoulders, hands clasped right at his heart, and kisses the neat head of burnished blond hair. He rests his cheek against the soft strands, as Court wraps one large calloused hand around Casey’s wrist. By the concentration bewitching Court, Casey expected to see tax forms or the twins’ school emails on the screen. Instead, he is assaulted with images of blocky trees and foxes.
Caset hums into Court’s hair, his silent inquiry vibrating through them both.
“The fox won’t eat the berry,” Court complained, frustration bleeding into the low timber of his chocolatey voice with a light note of whine. “They keep running away. I’ve been trying to feed them for an hour.”
Huffing amusedly into the strands of hair tickling his neck, Casey hums another note. Then, he presses another kiss into Court’s head, withdrawing his arms. Court’s grasp on his wrist tightenes before letting Casey’s hand slide through them.
He needs to go prepare berries for the twins. They should be home any second now, and they will need to eat something before they join Court on their server. They would be more than happy to gleefully teach their usually all-knowing older brother how it’s done.
***
2. Enemy.
Casey stares at the intruder.
It is all wrong.
Casey’s hackles are raised higher than when he met Standard for the first time. His hand twitches. His instinct is yelling at him to do something about the intruder, to remove it from his sights. He wants to do it so badly. The alarm bells ringing in his mind so loudly he can’t think of anything else.
“Case. Don’t even think about it.” Court chastises sternly. He stands next to Casey, ready to hold him back.
Casey ignores him in favor of staring down the intruder. He can hear the intruder’s mocking laugh taunting him.
“Casey.”
Casey will be quick. No one except the intruder will get hurt. He’s done it many times before, what’s one more?
“Look at me, Casey.”
Reluctantly, Casey meets Court’s eyes, still minding the intruder out of the corner of his eyes.
No matter what state of mind Casey is in, he will never not look at Court when he asks. He loves looking at Court. How could he not? Court is a masterpiece, his Galatea, his Aphrodite. He is the red streaking through the gloaming sky, the clear aquamarine waves on an empty beach, the sunlight filtering through spring-green leaves of the apple tree in their backyard.
Court is his Polaris, and Casey will always look toward him to find his way.
Casey will look at Court until his last dying breath. The corners of his eyes soften at the thought.
It coaxes Court to relax. The tension flows away from his shoulders, like bubbles flowing down the drain after a nice soak. He points with his head toward the door. “Let’s get going. We can get dinner after we pick up the boys.”
Casey nods once. Court breathes a sigh of relief.
As soon as Court turns his back, Casey swipes the paper plate of cookies off the kitchen counter with one hand. Court whirls back right around, but it was already too late. The dozen cookies scatter across various corners of the floor, disintegrating into a sandstorm of sad little crumbs.
“They need to go in the trash now,” Casey states, matter-of-factly. By the forlorn look Court gives him, Casey knows the hint of mirth and pride in his voice—that usually no one would pick up but himself—does not go unnoticed by Court.
It’s alright. It is worth it.
This morning, one of the moms in Ryland’s class had adamantly shoved the plate of cookies into Court’s hand when he dropped off the twins for school. Casey knows for a fact she was recently divorced and has been prowling for innocent, susceptible young dads who are good with kids and have hearts of gold ever since. Though the twins would have loved the cookies, half chocolate chips for Ryland and half white macadamia nuts for Colt—that cougar even did her research, of course she has ulterior motives—Casey cannot let his displeasure go unvoiced.
Court sighs once more, but Casey knows he isn’t mad by the light caress he gives his hand as he passes by to grab the broom.
Casey gives one more triumphant look at the remains of his enemies. He should have some time tonight to bake some cookies. Perhaps a dozen chocolate chips, a dozen white macadamia nuts, and a dozen sugar cookies.
***
3. Purr.
Casey has never felt so comfortable before.
They are watching one of the Despicable Me movies once again, though Casey doesn’t remember which one it is. Court sits in the center of the couch, one arm stretched out against the back. The twins are on the carpet, because they can’t sit still. Ryland sprawls on his stomach with his head on his crossed hands, feet kicking absentmindedly and the patchwork blanket laid over him flapping with the movement. Colt sits with his back against Court’s legs, hugging a pillow to his chest. Whenever a tense scene happens, Colt squeezes the pillow tightly, eyes barely peeking over the edge.
Casey is laid down on the couch, his head in Court’s lap, his legs curled up in front of him, and his arms tucked comfortably under the fox blanket he’d wrapped around himself.
He promised the twins he’d pay attention this time, so he would actually know what they are blathering about when they eat their afternoon snacks after school. But, he is so comfortable. His eyelids are the heaviest they’ve ever been.
All of a sudden, the coziness evaporates into the cold winter air.
There’s an itch on his head.
He wants to scratch it.
But then he’d have to move.
Casey doesn’t want to move.
His brows furrow at the internal struggle, disgruntled.
Before he can gather enough willpower, a hand settles on his head exactly where the itch is. The fingers gently scritch at the bother.
Casey sighs in relief, resettling into his loafing position. Lightly rubbing his cheek against Court’s thigh as thanks, he tightens the blanket around himself.
He turns his attention back to the movie. His blinks slow once again, the colors on the TV screen blurring, His thoughts slow.
He feels a soft vibration throughout his body.
What is that?
Distantly, he hears a huffing chuckle from above, the rumble echoing warmly through his bones, layering over the softer vibration. There’s a tint to the chuckle. Not mockery, but…
Adoration, his drowsy brain supplies.
He wonders what is so funny. Neither Casey nor Court have ever laughed at the movie, though the twins always find it hilarious.
Oh, I’m purring, is the last thought his mind registers before he falls into sleep.
***
+1. Hunt.
Court’s yell for Casey echoes through the house, sending Casey dashing toward his and Court’s bedroom. He skids to a stop at the door, muscles braced for a fight.
He blinks.
Court is standing over an open duffel bag. Deep rust-colored thumbprints and smears pepper white sheets and hard drives.
“What is this?” Court’s tone is one of forced calm.
It takes everything in Casey not to bolt out of their bedroom, out the front door, into his car, and start driving to the next state over.
He thought Court would be happy about it.
The only reason Casey doesn’t run is the fact the twins are outside playing in the yard and they would surely ask where he is going.
The prolonged silence causes Court to turn to him.
Casey is sure he kept his anxiety from his face—because he shouldn’t bother other people with his anxiety, it was his problem not theirs—but Court’s nose scrunches in the way it does when he feels guilty and now Casey feels guilty and-
A familiar hand gently wraps around his and brings it to a warm chest. A steady ba-dump ba-dump pulses under his fingertips. He counts his breath by the beats. Another hand settles on the back of his neck, the heat easing into his muscles like wrapping a warm towel after swimming in freezing cold water. A calloused thumb rubs calming circles into the fluffy tufts that he never cuts because Court likes them.
The hand draws him closer until his forehead rests against Court’s and they share the air in perfect matching rhythm. Court hums a little tune. Casey recognizes it to be the song they’d danced to after the twins went to bed the night before.
At the end of the song, Casey gathers up his courage.
“The guy that’s been tailing us. It’s everything he had in his office.” Casey whispers, as if the quieter he is the less monstrous he would be. His hand, the one on Court’s heart, fists Court’s shirt, as if he was holding onto Court’s heart, as if that would stop Court from leaving.
“And him?” Court asks, just as quietly.
Casey just nods. His heart is climbing up his throat again.
Court shushes him, his fingers threading through the sandy strands.
“Thank you,” Court whispers against his lips, before closing the distance between them. “I like the gift.”
Casey closes his eyes, one hand clutching Court’s heart and the other cradling his cheek closer to him, as close as they could be. He allows himself a small smile against Court’s lips.
So this is the happiness they write about in the books.