nobodywantstobeinschoolforever:
“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie agrees with a bob of his head and a thoughtful dip in his brow. He’s not even sure what’s he agreeing to; he’s just relieved Meyer didn’t kick him as far away as he could get him. It’s a good thing he’s beyond fatigued at this point, or he’s certain the hopeful enthusiasm might have buoyed in his voice. He’s not sure the relief wasn’t helplessly transparent regardless, though it’s safer than it might have been.
Charlie chuckles as he follows Meyer across the room, trying to pretend that he doesn’t feel like he’s trouncing over a very well-protected boundary. “Yeah, think I still got a crick in my neck from earlier.” Fuck, he needs to stop talking when he’s this tired. “From—your couch.” Not from you. He’s got something in his neck from that, but it’s more like the memory of Meyer’s hot breath on his skin, his face pressed into the side of it and lips brushing skin and—
It’s not something Charlie should think about with only thin fabric covering him.
He hastily yanks back a corner of Meyer’s blanket and clamors into bed beside him, pulling the blanket up over his hip. Charlie lies on his side, arm bent beneath his head and propping him up slightly. His pulse is ringing in his ears again, or maybe it’s just the memory of Meyer breathing, whining—he curves his hips back, away from Meyer. He’s let too many things out that night; he doesn’t need Meyer knowing that it’s stirring just to stretch out next to him. Although, it’s a small bed. It can’t be helped if their legs bump—or if Charlie doesn’t pull back when they do.
He licks his lips, searching Meyer’s face, with his heavy lids and exhaustion. “Are you—” He hesitates. Meyer’s not okay. Why would he be? And what would he say, even if Charlie asked? “You sure you ain’t gonna be too warm in this?” he says and thinks it sounds stupid. His free hand brushes Meyer’s shoulder, just briefly skimming over the fabric of his pajamas, as he holds his breath and waits for Meyer to change his mind.
The bed’s somewhat larger than the ones from his childhood, one of the few extravagances Meyer’s allowed himself, but not that much wider, and he’s still used to leaving as much space for Jake as he could. So it’s habit, not proximity, that makes Meyer curl up just a bit tighter when Charlie settles next to him.
At least that’s what he’d say if anyone asked. Not that Charlie will. Not that Meyer will be conscious enough for very much longer to give any answer at all.
It’s getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open, even with Charlie crowding into the bed next to him. Meyer’s almost too tired to feel—satisfied? relieved? he doesn’t know what to call it—that Charlie hasn’t left, is right here where Meyer can make sure no one did follow from Atlantic City to finish the job. Useless as he’d be should something happen while he’s in this state, it’s still a comfort to have Charlie close. Whatever else comes of this, at least Charlie’s safe.
He only hums in response to Charlie’s fingertips skating across his shoulder, eyes slipping shut despite himself. The words themselves take more than a few seconds to register, and he can’t do anything more than faintly shake his head. “Don’t think you wanna see underneath it,” he murmurs, words slurring together and half-said into the pillow, exhausted enough to be unguarded about the mess of bruises and bandages hidden by the shirt’s sleeves. It’s not a particularly impressive display. He presses his face harder against the pillow, some of the tension strung across his shoulders draining as consciousness drifts away.
Lying down feels better than he realized. There’s an itch behind his eyes that threatens to drag them closed, but it’s hard to stop looking at Meyer. Though they squeezed into one bed often growing up, it’s different now—at least, it’s different in what Charlie sees. Meyer looks soft, his eyes drifting closed, his lips barely parting as his breathing slows. It tugs at Charlie with a twinge under his ribs. He wants to move closer, shouldn’t, but does anyway—just a fraction of an inch really, enough that his leg brushes Meyer’s, but there’s still enough space between them. Too much, really.
For just a moment, Charlie’s heartbeat doubles in speed, his mind too sluggish to process that line of thought. “Uhhh—I—” he stammers, licks his lips, and wonders if swallowing has always been this difficult. “I dunno about that,” he mumbles into the pillow. He turns his face—it really is warm, isn’t it?—and presses it into the pillow, trying to suffocate the thoughts that are forming too fast. They’d already... done what they’d done, but there were clothes, fabric. Charlie wagers he’s probably seen Meyer less dressed than most, but the thought of touching him, of their skin together, of tracing over his chest with his hands—
He’s not sure Meyer will be awake much longer—if he even still is at all—going by the slowing hum of his breathing. Charlie’s not long for consciousness either, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’s lulled himself to sleep with thoughts that should be more stirring than soothing, but Meyer is right there and it’s a dangerous game to let his mind wander too far in that direction.
Charlie shifts his weight, jostling around a little like he’s trying to get comfortable, just because he needs to move, to shake himself out of it. Sleep is tugging harder and harder at his thoughts, a heavy fog filling his limbs, and he grumbles into the fabric of Meyer’s pillow. It smells like him. Everything smells like him. It’s the last thought that persists as he fades, hand extended into the space between them, reaching. It all smells like him.
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