“Blue,” he says, my name soft on his lips. “I remember everything.”
I swallow hard. My pulse drums loud in my ears. I want to ask him if I was worth remembering, too. If missing me ever kept him up at night. If he ever looked at his phone and hovered over my name in the same way I’ve done with him a thousand times. But I don’t ask any of that because the words won’t come, and he breaks the silence first.
“I’d still steal them, by the way… If you’d let me,” he says. The words are so honest they leave no room for misunderstanding, no room for either of us to pretend we’re talking about blankets.
“Maybe I’d still let you,” I say, just above a whisper, and when his smile widens, I don’t regret it.
He pulls me closer and kisses the top of my head, and I’m too stunned to say anything, but I lean into his touch anyway. I let myself believe that it’s okay to want this—to want him. To want this little corner of peace with him in the middle of the chaos.
His lips linger against my hair for just a second longer than they should, as if he doesn’t really want to pull away, but knows he should. When he eventually does, his arm slips fully around me, and I end up curled into his side before I even realize I’ve moved.
It should feel awkward—maybe too much, too soon… but it doesn’t. It feels like four years of silence folding in on itself and coming home to something I never stopped missing.
I close my eyes and let myself sink into the familiar feel and scent of cinnamon. All the tension leaks out of my muscles until I’m loose and half-drifting, held in the circle of his arms. The TV flickers, and I memorize the way his large hand spreads across my back, drawing slow, soothing lines up and down my spine. It’s not sexual at all; it’s intimate.
“Hmm, stay a while?” I mumble.
He wraps his arm tighter around me, pulling me even closer so I fit perfectly against his side. “For as long as you want, Blue,” he whispers, kissing my forehead this time. “For as long as you’ll have me.”
Damien
Ibarelyregistertheepisode playing on screen, having muted it about half an hour ago. For a long time, I just sit there, motionless, letting the light from the TV flicker across the room in flashes of blue and white.
I haven’t moved since he drifted off. I haven’t dared to because I can’t remember the last time I felt this kind of peace. I’m scared that if I move too quickly or breathe too loudly, I’ll wake up from the best dream I’ve had in years.
Noah’s head is in my lap now, knees drawn up, hands tucked beneath his chin. He looks so soft in sleep—mouth parted, lashes dark against his cheeks. A strand of hair has fallen across his forehead, vivid blue in the lamplight. I’m scared to brush it away, scared it’ll wake him or that he’ll flinch on instinct and pull back into himself, shattering this moment of peace.
So, I just watch him sleep, counting each rise and fall of his chest, my fingers itching to swipe at the errant eyelash on hischeek. He’s always been beautiful, even more so in sleep—way too soft and small for someone as fucked up as me.
What did I ever do to deserve a second chance to be in his orbit? To have him here, trusting me enough to fall asleep in my arms, to invite me in without reservation? I think about all the years I lost—four years where I buried every feeling and memory under a pile of bodies to outpace the guilt.
But there’s a part of me that will always wonder if I did more harm by leaving than I ever could have by staying. I don’t think I’ve ever been honest with myself about how much that destroyed me.
And what did it cost in the end? I look at him, still and trusting in his sleep, and the answer is simple. It cost everything. The price of keeping his future safe was losing every piece of myself that ever felt whole.
I blink and realize my vision is blurring. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, quiet and unexpected. I blink again, willing them to stop, but one slips down my cheek anyway. I wipe it with the back of my hand, then reach down as softly as I can to run my fingers through Noah’s hair. The strands are fine and cool, tangling gently around my knuckles. He sighs in his sleep, snuggling closer as if he’s chasing warmth. My heart squeezes, and I selfishly wish this moment could last forever.
“You deserved better,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “You still do.”
The clock on the stove glows bright; it’s late, well past midnight. I don’t want to break whatever this is, but I know he’ll wake up stiff tomorrow, and probably embarrassed from falling asleep on me. I want him to sleep, but I want him to be more comfortable. So, I gently lift his head and move my thigh out from under it, holding my breath as he whines.
Jesus, that noise shouldn’t get my cock twitching right now, especially not when he’s sleeping.Calm the fuck down, Moore.
I stand for a second, legs numb and heart pounding. I take him in one last time before I move, letting my eyes trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the slight furrow in his brow, even while asleep.
He’s changed so much and not at all. A little more muscle where he used to be all elbows and knees, but with the same eyes that caught me off guard when we first met. The same look that had me blurting out the word “blue” like an idiot. The same gentle quiet I always wanted to protect.
For three years, I tried to convince myself that I could just be his stepbrother. I tried to bury every look, every laugh, every time he reached for me in a crowded room or watched me from across the gym.
Maybe I’ll always be just Damien to him—his friend, his ex-stepbrother, his biggest fuckup, and sometimes, even a comfort. Maybe I’m an idiot for sitting here all these years later, aching in a way that’s never really dulled, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Even if he doesn’t feel the same. Even if I’m just background noise to him now, I’d take it. I’d take everything he gave me just to be this close. If loving him means this is all I get, I’ll take it and call it more than I deserve.
Careful not to wake him, I bend down and slip my arms beneath him, scooping him up the way I used to when he was sick as a kid, too tired to make it up the stairs on his own. He’s lighter than I remember—all soft fabrics and citrus-scented shampoo, but he’s still Noah. Always, endlessly, heartbreakingly Noah.
He stirs a little, nose wrinkling, but he doesn’t wake, just burrows closer, lips parting on a sigh. His face nuzzles against my chest, and I can feel the way my breath goes ragged at the contact.
Walking to his bedroom is a test of will. I want to keep him in my arms for as long as I can, even if it’s only a few seconds. I’m holding all the years I fucked up and somehow, impossibly, being given a chance to rewrite them. My chest aches, but it’s the best kind of pain.
