—

[griffyn]

It shouldn't be possible. Sometimes John hates himself for still thinking that way, as if enough years haven't passed that he should be better, comfortable. That he shouldn't be waking every morning with a lingering sense of dread, waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him again. Most days, he can't choose between being frustrated with himself for accepting happiness again as though it's something he deserves, something that can't be used against him, and being frustrated with the fact that he can't simply accept it for what it is and leave it at that. When he wakes with a familiar, warm body next to him, his eyes always flicker open sharply, to see that he's still there, still breathing, untouched right now by anything but John. Being the half of the equation without telepathy makes him nervous, these days; he doesn't want Freddie to hear all the things that swirl in the torrent beneath his veneer of calm. He doesn't want Freddie to doubt that he's anywhere except where he wants to be. Saturday mornings, the kind that John is thankful for by virtue of their quiet. He loves his daughter, fervently, unconditionally, but her active teenage social life is something of a blessing when it means he and Freddie have the house to themselves. Summer sunlight filters through a gap in the curtains, catching the bare skin of Freddie's shoulders, and John wakes with his nose pressed against the short hairs at the nape of Freddie's neck. He came home late last night, returned a few days early from whichever far-flung location he'd been sent to this time. They don't always let John know the specifics, despite his advisory position, which is fair, generally speaking. Less fair, he feels, when it regards Freddie, but that's little more than a matter of personal bias, the sort that he's been told to keep on a leash if he and Freddie are to continue as they are. Which they are, surely. Almost six years have passed since the young man, reluctant was sent to John's doorstep. Six long, impossible years. His arm, loose around Freddie's waist, instinctively tightens as John presses himself closer, creeping further into the sanctuary of the other man's body. There's a slight, small patchwork of bruises on Freddie's forearm. The sight remains bemusing to John. It was always bemusing, even when John was the one causing the bruises during their prolonged, challenging months of training. There was something about Freddie, in his personality as much as his looks, that made him seem as though he was carved from marble, cold and impenetrable, even though John indulges so often in his intoxicating heat, has seen so many cracks in that perfect façade. Caused so many cracks, ones that he painstakingly, carefully mended. These days, Freddie is more like silk. Cut of a fine cloth. The marble is there when he needs it, but not in John's presence. There is softness, elegance and immeasurable value in him, the sort that John was always conscious of, but now he admires it, adores it. Loves it, even. Freddie smells just faintly of cologne and of long-haul flights, sighing in his sleep as John draws them together that little bit more. His hair is absurdly soft, his back solid and comforting against John's chest. Christ, how John hopes Freddie doesn't peek inside his mind on a regular basis. The things he thinks, particularly relating to Freddie, are the sorts of things that would sicken any normal person with their infinitely syrupy quality. Sometimes he thinks he would be sickened by it too, if he didn't feel it all so very earnestly. In a room of art, John would still see only him. This difficult, intelligent man and the world of possibilities he unwittingly opened up to John again, and the possibilities that John offered him in return. They don't quite match, and on a certain level, perhaps they never will, but they fit together in such a way that John dares to think they were made for each other. To save each other from their respective crises. God help him, he hopes Freddie doesn't look into his mind. He does not think of Isaac often, these days. In a year, he will have been involved with Freddie as long as he will have been with Isaac, and that's frightening. Could it be that disasters are rigged to occur on a timely basis, every seven years? He hopes not. He prays, wades through his unstable relationship with faith, that they are not. He wants the seventh year to pass without incident, without earth-shattering troubles. He wants it to pass like any other year, like one of the years they've shared since they met. John misses Isaac, still, but not the way he used to. No longer a dull, persistent ache, but a flickering ember of something that was once good, and should be remembered for that than for what it became. Without really thinking, John drags his nose gently down the line of Freddie's neck, presses the lightest of kisses against a patch of sun-drenched skin. The dread, the fear has subsided. Until the next morning, he is content again.