Work Text:
Devon woke up to an empty patch of mattress and the smell of charcoal.
Not burning — charcoal dust, dry and a little bitter, the smell that clung to Jake's fingers and the cuffs of his sleeves no matter how many times he washed them. Devon had stopped noticing it as a smell months ago.
Now it just meant Jake, the same way some people's houses smelled like coffee or fabric softener. Theirs smelled like graphite and fixative spray and, apparently, six a.m.
He rolled over, blinking against the thin gold light leaking through the blinds, and found him.
Jake was sitting up against the headboard, sheet pooled low around his hips, sketchbook propped on his bent knees. His hair was doing the thing it did when he slept on it wrong, sticking up in soft dark tufts on one side, and his rings — he never took them off, not even to sleep,
Devon had given up arguing about it — caught the light every time his hand moved. The charcoal stick was smudged black at the tip of his thumb and index finger, and there was a faint gray streak along his jaw where he must've scratched an itch without thinking.
He hadn't noticed Devon was awake yet. His eyes were narrowed slightly in concentration, tongue just barely between his teeth, the way he always looked when a line wasn't coming out right and he was too stubborn to let it go.
Devon watched him for a long moment. Just — watched. The slope of his shoulders, bare and warm-looking in the morning light. The little furrow between his eyebrows. The way his whole face went soft and unguarded when he thought no one was looking, like art was the one place he never had to perform being okay.
It still did something to Devon's chest, moments like this. A quiet, unspectacular ache that he'd stopped being scared of a long time ago.
"Mornin', artist."
Jake's head came up, and the furrow disappeared, replaced instantly by that easy, crooked grin — the one that still, after all this time, made Devon feel a little bit like he'd won something.
"Hey, you." His voice was rough with sleep, low and a little scratchy in a way that did unfair things to Devon's stomach at seven in the morning. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't." Devon shifted closer, propping his chin on Jake's thigh through the sheet, looking up at the sketchbook. "What're you drawing?"
"Nothin'."
"Jake."
"It's nothing, it's not — " Jake tried, halfheartedly, to angle the book away, which was how Devon knew immediately that it was, in fact, something.
He made a grab for it anyway, laughing when Jake yelped and held it up out of reach, charcoal-dusted fingers leaving smudged prints on the pages as he scrambled.
They wrestled for it for exactly four seconds before Devon gave up the fight in favor of just climbing into his lap instead, knees braced on either side of Jake's thighs, arms looping loose around his neck.
"Cheater," Jake muttered, but he wasn't holding the sketchbook away anymore. He wasn't really holding onto anything except Devon, one hand sliding warm along his bare waist, thumb tracing slow along his hip bone like it belonged there. Which, at this point, it did.
"You love it," Devon said.
"Unfortunately."
Devon finally glanced down at the abandoned sketchbook, now trapped between them, and felt his ears go hot before he even fully processed what he was looking at. It was him.
Obviously it was him — it was always him, lately, in a hundred different half-finished versions scattered through Jake's sketchbooks, but this one was this morning, was five minutes ago, was Devon asleep on his stomach with one arm thrown over the pillow and his hair a disaster and his mouth soft and parted.
"You drew me drooling."
"You weren't drooling," Jake said, entirely too fondly for someone being accused of anything. "You looked peaceful. I like drawing you when you don't know you're being looked at."
"That's either really romantic or extremely creepy and I need a second to figure out which."
Jake huffed a laugh against his collarbone, and Devon felt it more than heard it, a warm puff of breath against his skin that made him shiver despite the sun already climbing hot through the blinds. "It's romantic. I've decided. You don't get a vote."
"I never get a vote."
"You get all the votes," Jake said, tilting his head back to look up at him properly, and something in his expression shifted — softer, quieter, the teasing edge sanding away into something that always made Devon's breath catch a little, even now, even after all the mornings just like this one. "You get every vote there is."
"That's a very generous democracy you're running."
"It's a monarchy, actually. You're just the only person in it."
Devon laughed — a real one, surprised out of him — and Jake grinned up at him like he'd won a prize, dimple flashing, and it was so stupid, it was such a stupid, cheesy thing to say at seven in the morning with charcoal smudged on his jaw and his hair sticking up everywhere, and Devon loved him so much it felt physically inconvenient sometimes.
"C'mere," Jake murmured, and Devon didn't need telling twice.
He leaned down and kissed him — slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that came with no agenda except this, right here, is nice, let's stay in it a while. Jake's mouth was warm and tasted faintly of sleep, and he made a small contented sound against Devon's lips that Devon felt in his own chest like an echo.
The sketchbook slid off the bed, forgotten, and neither of them moved to catch it.
Jake's hand slid up from his hip to cup the back of his neck, fingers threading loose into his hair, and Devon melted into it the way he always did — completely, easily, no walls left to keep up.
His own hands found Jake's shoulders, then slid lower, palms flat against warm skin, feeling the shape of him, the way his breathing changed, quick and shallow, when Devon's thumb brushed over his collarbone.
They kissed like that for a long time. Not frantic. Not going anywhere. Just soft presses of mouths, the occasional smile breaking a kiss apart because one of them said something stupid against the other's lips, noses bumping, breath mingling warm between them.
Jake's rings were cool where they pressed against the bare skin of Devon's back, a small shock of temperature against all that heat, and Devon arched slightly into it without meaning to.
"Cold," he mumbled against Jake's mouth.
"Sorry." Jake didn't sound sorry. He dragged his hand slower this time, deliberately, tracing the curve of Devon's spine just to feel him shiver again, silver catching against warm brown skin. "Kinda love that you do that."
"Do what?"
"That." Jake pulled back just far enough to look at him, eyes dark and warm and a little wrecked already, just from this, just from kissing. "The way you react to me. Every time. Like it's still new."
Devon's chest went tight in that specific, familiar way. "It kind of always is. With you."
Something flickered across Jake's face — that old vulnerability that still lived somewhere under his skin, the part of him that used to believe he didn't deserve good things, that everyone who loved him eventually left or died or turned into something monstrous.
Devon had learned to recognize it fast, the way it crept in at the edges even on good days, even now, years out from all of it.
He brought a hand up to cup Jake's jaw, thumb brushing along the smudge of charcoal there, gentling him back.
"Hey," Devon said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I know." Jake's voice cracked, just slightly, on the second word. He turned his face into Devon's palm, pressed a kiss to the center of it. "I know. I just — still can't believe I get this. Get you. Some mornings I wake up before you and I just look, for a while. Make sure it's real."
"It's real." Devon leaned down, forehead resting against his. "I'm real. We're okay."
"We're okay," Jake echoed, like he was testing the shape of it, and then he was kissing him again, deeper this time, one hand sliding to the small of Devon's back to pull him closer, chest to chest, nothing between them but warm skin and the thin cotton of Devon's sleep shorts.
Devon melted into it, fingers curling against the nape of Jake's neck, and felt the exact moment the kiss shifted — not less tender, just more, want threading through the softness without chasing it away.
Jake's mouth moved slower, more deliberate, tongue tracing the seam of Devon's lips until he opened for him with a small, helpless sound. His hands mapped familiar territory — the dip of his waist, the curve where his back met his hips — like he was drawing him again, this time by touch instead of charcoal.
"We've got till noon," Devon murmured against his mouth, breathless already, "before we're supposed to meet Lexy and Grant."
"Mm." Jake's lips found his jaw, his throat, unhurried. "That's plenty of time."
"Plenty of time for what?"
Jake pulled back just enough to grin at him, dimple deep, eyes glinting with something warm and a little wicked. "For me to remind you how much I love you. Slowly. Multiple times, if you'll let me."
Devon's laugh came out shaky, half a groan. "You're ridiculous."
"You like it."
"Unfortunately," Devon said, echoing him, and Jake's answering smile was blinding.
He guided them down together, easy and unhurried, Devon's back meeting the mattress, sheets rustling, Jake's weight settling over him like something familiar and safe.
The morning light slanted gold across the bed, catching dust motes in the air, catching the edge of Jake's cheekbone, the fan of his eyelashes as he looked down at him with a softness that had nothing performative in it at all.
"Hi," Devon whispered, for no reason except that Jake's face, this close, always made words simpler.
"Hi yourself." Jake kissed the corner of his mouth, then the other, then properly, slow and thorough, one hand braced by Devon's head and the other trailing down his side, thumb hooking gently into the waistband of his shorts without pulling, just — asking, the way Jake always asked, even wordlessly, even after years of this.
Devon answered by pulling him closer, hips tilting up into his, and felt Jake's breath stutter against his mouth.
"You sure?" Jake murmured, because he always checked, every single time, some old careful part of him that never quite let itself assume.
"Jake." Devon's hand slid up into his hair, fond and exasperated and impossibly soft all at once. "I'm sure. C'mere."
That was all it took. Jake kissed him again, deep and unhurried, and the rest of the morning folded into warmth — the drag of his rings cool against heated skin, the low sounds caught in both their throats, the sheets tangling around them as Jake took his time with every inch of him like he had nowhere else in the world to be.
He always led like this, unhurried and attentive, more interested in the way Devon's breath changed than in getting anywhere fast, pausing to press his mouth to the inside of Devon's wrist just to feel his pulse jump, murmuring things against his skin too quiet and too tender to be teasing anymore.
The sun kept climbing outside the blinds. Somewhere below them, a bus hissed to a stop on the street and pulled away again. Neither of them noticed. There was nothing in the room but heat and light and the sound of Jake's name, soft and broken and full of trust, the last coherent thing Devon managed before everything else dissolved into sensation.
Warm skin against warm skin, the metal-cool press of rings tracing patterns nobody would remember the shape of, Jake's voice low and wrecked and reverent against his ear saying his name like a vow, like the only prayer he'd ever meant.
And when it finally, finally crested — for both of them, together, the way it always seemed to happen now, like their bodies had learned each other's rhythm as well as their hearts had — the sound that left Devon was so soft, so unguarded, that Jake made a noise against his throat that was almost pained with how much he loved him.
Afterward, neither of them moved for a long time.
Jake had gone boneless half on top of him, face tucked into the curve of Devon's neck, breath slowly evening out from ragged to something warm and even. Devon could feel his heartbeat, still a little too fast, thudding against his own chest where their skin pressed together.
He carded his fingers slowly through Jake's damp hair, not saying anything, just — being there, letting the quiet stretch out soft and unbroken.
"Hey," Jake mumbled eventually, voice muffled against his collarbone.
"Hey."
"You're stuck with me forever now. Just so you know. That was, like, official. Binding."
Devon huffed a laugh that shook them both. "Is that how it works?"
"That's exactly how it works. I don't make the rules." Jake lifted his head, finally, propping his chin on Devon's chest to look up at him, and Devon's breath caught a little at the sight of him like this — hair a wrecked mess, cheeks still flushed, eyes soft and heavy-lidded and so, so full of him.
"You look happy," Devon said quietly.
"I am happy." Jake said it simply, like it still surprised him a little to say out loud. He reached up, tracing Devon's jawline with a single, careful finger, rings catching faint light.
"Like, stupid happy. The kind I used to think only happened in the sketches I never let anyone see. And you're just — here. Real. In my actual life instead of just a drawing of what I wished for."
Devon's chest ached, warm and full. He caught Jake's hand where it lingered near his temple, pressed a kiss to his knuckles, right over the cold metal of his rings.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said again, quieter this time, meaning it the way he always meant it — like a promise renewed every single time he said it, because he knew some part of Jake still needed to hear it more than once.
Jake's eyes went a little glassy, and he ducked his head to hide it against Devon's shoulder, but Devon felt him smile against his skin.
"I love you," Jake mumbled. "So much it's honestly kind of embarrassing."
"I love you more."
"Not possible." Jake lifted his head again, mock-offended, though the effect was ruined by how soft his eyes still were. "I loved you first. I have seniority."
"You had a crush on me and hid it behind small talk for weeks. That's not the same as loving me first — also, that's my line."
"Semantics." Jake kissed him, slow and lazy, punctuating each word between presses of his mouth. "I. Loved you. First. Legally binding. I'll draw you a contract."
"You'll draw me anything, apparently," Devon said, glancing toward the abandoned sketchbook still splayed open on the floor by the bed, and Jake laughed — that full, unguarded laugh that still felt like a small miracle every time Devon got to hear it, the kind of laugh that fourteen-year-old Jake, hollow-eyed and flinching at shadows, would never have believed he'd get to have.
They stayed tangled together a while longer, trading slow kisses that had nowhere urgent to go, Jake's fingers tracing absent patterns along Devon's spine, Devon's palm resting flat and warm against Jake's chest, right over the steady, ordinary thud of his heart.
Sunlight had shifted further across the room, warm and golden, catching dust in the air like something out of one of Jake's paintings — the kind he made now, the soft ones, no monsters in them anywhere.
"We should get up," Devon said eventually, not moving at all.
"Should we, though."
"Lexy will actually murder us if we're late. She's been talking about this brunch place for two weeks."
Jake groaned, dramatic, and flopped fully onto his back beside him, one arm slung over his eyes. "Fine. Fine. But only because I love you and I fear Lexy Cross more than I fear most things that have tried to kill me."
"Healthy priorities."
"I contain multitudes." Jake peeked out from under his arm, grinning at him, soft and lopsided and utterly, hopelessly fond. "C'mon, artist's assistant. Let's go be domestic and mildly incompetent at breakfast."
"You're mildly incompetent at breakfast. I have never once burned water."
"That was one time— "
"It was toast, Jake. You cannot burn toast into liquid."
"I have many talents," Jake said with as much dignity as a person could muster while stark naked and pink-cheeked and grinning ear to ear, "and cooking simply isn't one of the ones I chose to cultivate."
The kitchen, twenty minutes later, smelled like coffee and the particular acrid warning-smell of something about to go wrong.
Devon padded in first, hair still damp from the shower, sweatpants slung low, to find Jake standing at the stove in one of Devon's old hoodies, spatula in hand, staring down at a pan with the exact focused intensity he usually reserved for charcoal and canvas.
"Don't panic," Jake said immediately, without turning around.
Devon stopped in the doorway. "That is the single most alarming thing you could've opened with."
"It's fine. I'm handling it."
"Jake, there is smoke."
"There is a small amount of smoke, and I am one hundred percent handling it– " There was a small, ominous pop from the pan, and Jake yelped and jerked back half a step, spatula raised like a weapon against an egg that had, somehow, developed opinions of its own.
Devon crossed the kitchen fast, laughing so hard he could barely breathe, and nudged Jake gently but firmly out of the way with a hip check, already reaching to kill the burner and slide the smoking pan off the heat.
"How," Devon managed, still laughing, surveying the carnage — one egg fused permanently to the pan, a faint scorch mark that definitely wasn't there yesterday, and Jake standing there looking simultaneously wounded and completely unbothered, "how do you face down a killer doll without flinching and somehow lose to a single egg."
"The egg had the element of surprise." Jake set the spatula down with the solemnity of a soldier retiring his weapon. "Also I think Chucky, may he rest in several pieces, was honestly less unpredictable than eggs."
"That is deeply concerning."
"I contain multitudes," Jake said again, wrapping his arms loosely around Devon's waist from behind as Devon took over the stove, chin hooking over his shoulder to watch him work with an expression of pure, unearned innocence. "You contain the ability to not set things on fire. It's very sexy, by the way. Extremely attractive quality in a partner."
"You're impossible."
"Your impossible." Jake pressed a kiss below his ear, and Devon felt the words more than heard them, warm breath against his skin, and he leaned back into it despite himself, spatula still in hand, eggs sizzling gently and correctly in the pan in front of him.
Outside, the morning kept going — traffic, birdsong, the ordinary hum of an ordinary Saturday. No screaming. No dolls. No countdown to anything except brunch, and Lexy's inevitable teasing when they showed up ten minutes late, hair still a little damp, unable to stop smiling at each other for reasons they wouldn't have to explain.
Jake's chin stayed on his shoulder, watching him cook, humming something tuneless and content under his breath, one ring-cool hand splayed warm against Devon's stomach like he had nowhere else in the whole world he'd rather be standing.
And he didn't. Neither of them did.
It was, Devon thought, flipping the eggs Jake absolutely would have ruined without him — charcoal dust still faintly visible under Jake's fingernails, sunlight pouring gold across the kitchen tile, his boyfriend's laugh still ringing warm in his ears from twenty minutes ago and probably about to start again any second — a very, very good morning.
Just an ordinary one. Which, after everything, was the whole point.