Crutch

Kent is standing there, arms folded across his chest, talking with Kenan. Megan, one of their Update writers, is in the room too, rustling through a first aid kit that’s been placed precariously on top of the mountains of paper cluttering Kenan’s desk. On the sofa next to the desk lies Colin, with his eyes squeezed shut, and his right foot resting, elevated, on the armrest.

It takes Che all of two seconds of staring at Colin’s ankle to know that it’s not supposed to be swelling like that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Che says loudly.

The chattering of Kent and Kenan’s conversation stops as they look up at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Che sees Megan glance his way, roll her eyes heavenwards, and continue with whatever she’s looking for in the kit. But Che is focused on Colin.

Colin, who suddenly opens his eyes, flinches his head towards the doorway, and lets a small, pained smile twitch across his lips when he sees Che.

“Hi,” he says. His voice sounds croaky.

“Are you kidding me?” Che repeats himself, incredulity clouding his tone. Colin covers his face with his hands.

“I told you this wasn’t going to be pretty,” Megan says to Kent.

“Yeah, there’s been a bit of an accident here,” Kent says.

“No shit,” Che says. He still hasn’t looked away from Colin. “Jost, you’re a writer. Your job is literally to sit at a desk and write shit. How the fuck did you break an ankle?”

“I mean, I’m also a cast member,” Colin points out. “Not just a writer.”

“Your job as a cast member is also to sit at a desk!” Che exclaims.

Colin’s already wincing. “I know, I know, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Che finally walks into the room. He picks up Colin’s left foot which was resting on the floor, and gently raises it onto the armrest of the sofa. Che examines both feet side by side, and the swelling of the right ankle becomes even more pronounced. “Yep, you fucked it.”

Colin rolls his eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Che slides his fingers back around Colin’s left ankle and goes to place it back on the floor. As gentle as he tries to be, the movement jostles Colin’s right foot, and Che clearly sees the colour drain from Colin’s face.

“Sorry, sorry,” Che says. Left ankle back on the ground, he rubs his fingers up and down the calf, once, twice, trying to comfort him. As much as Colin is an idiot for getting himself hurt, it affects Che to see him so obviously in pain. He’s seen Colin drunk, hungover, sleep-deprived after staying awake for 30 hours on a particularly rough week at SNL. But he’s never quite seen him in pain in the way he is now.

Che finds that he absolutely hates it.

“What happened?” Che asks Colin. He leaves his fingers wrapped loosely around Colin’s calf.

“I was walking,” Colin says.

“Well, you were sort of running,” Kent cuts in. Che swivels his head around to look at him.

“Were you there?”

“Yeah,” Kent replies. “I was walking down the corridor, and turned left, and Colin ran into me. He sort of fell on his ankle awkwardly, trying to move out of the way.”

“It was my fault,” Colin admits. “I was moving too quickly.”

“It was a freak accident,” Kent disagrees. He shrugs his shoulders, raises his hands as if to say, what can you do? “I mean, how many people walk up and down these hallways every day? It was bound to happen at some point.”

“Work health and safety are going to have a field day with this,” Kenan adds.

“I’ve got a bandage,” Megan interrupts. “And I’ve sent someone for ice. They should be here in a minute.”

“I think we should call an ambulance,” Kent says. “He can’t walk at all.”

“Oh, no,” Colin protests. “It’s fine, we don’t need to go that far.”

“Shut up,” Che tells him. “You were the one dumb enough to break your fucking ankle.”

Colin shoots him an exasperated look.

“I don’t think an ambulance is worth it, though,” Che says to Kent. “There’s a hospital near here, right? We can call a cab and take him there.”

“Do I get any say in what’s happening?” Colin asks.

“Nope,” says Che.

Eventually, they decide that Megan and an intern will accompany Colin to the hospital. Che wants to go, but it would be dumb; he’s needed at the pitch meeting, which is happening in—he checks his watch—half an hour.

“Call the cab,” he says, and the intern picks up her phone.

The next hurdle is how to get Colin outside of the building. Che solves this pretty easily by sliding one arm under Colin’s back and the other under his knees.

“Woah!” Colin yelps. “What are you doing?”

“We need to get you outside, and I’m pretty sure we don’t have a wheelchair nearby.”

“Um,” Colin starts, clearing trying to find a reason to protest; but as he looks around and sees everyone waiting expectantly, he just nods. “Okay.”

Colin wraps one arm around the back of Che’s neck, and Che bundles him together and lifts. It’s not the smoothest transition ever.

“You’re fucking heavy,” Che tells him. “Maybe if you stopped going to the gym and being healthy, this would be easier.”

The insult, intended to rouse Colin into joking with him, completely misses its mark. “Mhmm,” is all Colin says. His grip on Che’s neck is growing weaker the further Che walks, and it hits Che that he really must be in a lot of pain. His hands squeeze Colin’s back and knees more tightly in response.

Eventually, they reach the elevator, and luckily they only have to wait a moment before the doors open and they can go inside. Che manoeuvres Colin inside carefully, and then asks, “Can you stand for a second?”

Colin’s silent for a beat, but then he nods, forehead moving against Che’s shoulder.

Che slowly, carefully, oh-so-gently lowers Colin’s feet to the ground. Colin places his weight onto his left foot, keeping his right bent upwards. Che can tell it’s hurting him to stand, even on his good foot, but Che was scared of dropping him. He wasn’t kidding earlier - Colin is a bit heavy, especially with the muscle he’s put on over the summer. It had been hard not to notice how Colin’s shoulders were filling out his collared shirts in an even more pleasing way than before.

Objectively speaking, of course.

Now that Colin’s standing, though, he doesn’t pull away from Che. Instead, his arms tighten further around Che’s neck. Colin’s head is tilted to the side so that his temple is resting on Che’s chest, and he’s leaning most of his bodyweight onto Che, using him to help him stay upright.

Che figures he should probably help him—he doesn’t want Colin falling over and placing any weight on his sore ankle—so he leaves his arm curled around Colin’s waist, and brings his other hand to rub up and down his back. He’s trying to soothe Colin, and Che is feeling kind of useless, because he doesn’t really know what else to do. He can’t make the pain go away. He can’t even stay with Colin while he goes to the hospital.

Che just stands there as the elevator gets closer to the ground floor and thinks about the picture they must make, standing with their chests pressed together, arms around each other. He thinks about how it feels to have Colin so physically close to him, in a way they’ve never quite been before—at least, certainly not for this long of a time period.

And then the elevator doors open, so Che stops thinking and concentrates on lifting Colin back up without jostling his ankle too much. He’s moderately successful.

Outside the building, he helps Colin awkwardly into the backseat of a cab. The intern sits next to him, and Megan is in the front seat, already telling the driver where to go, and make it quick as you can, please.

“Text me when you have news,” Che tells Colin through the window.

“Okay,” Colin says, nodding. His eyes are drifting closed.

And then they’re driving off, and Che is left with the image of Colin bundled into the backseat, his face wincing in pain. It doesn’t leave Che in the best headspace, heading back into 30 Rockefeller. But there’s nothing he can do about it now, except focus on the pitch meeting, which he’s about to be late for.

The rest of the workday passes in a blur for Che. As a head writer, his to-do list is a mile long, and he’s needed by everyone all at once. It can be overwhelming, and it requires his undivided attention; but today he cannot keep his focus like he normally does. Not with his phone sitting silently in the back pocket of his jeans.

Finally, around six p.m., it buzzes. Che knocks his elbow on the armrest of his chair in his haste to grab his phone.

I’ve got the all clear from the doctor, Colin has texted him. I had to wait for ages before someone would see me.

fucking ridiculous, Che replies. what did they say?

It’s actually better than I thought. Not broken, just fractured.

those two words literally mean the same thing, Che retorts.

Heading home now, comes the next text, ignoring him. No one ever talks about how much crutches hurt your armpits.

is there anyone there to help you get home????

Nah, Colin replies. They’ve called a cab, I’ll be fine.

Che rolls his eyes. Then he sends five eye-roll emojis as well, accompanied with, if you trip and hurt your other ankle while trying to manoeuvre nyc on crutches all by yourself, it will be the greatest joke in update history.

Unfortunately, Che has let Colin be his friend for far too long, so Colin sees straight through the joke to what it actually is: a warning, a message, telling Colin to stay safe.

Thanks dear, is all Colin says.

When nine p.m. rolls around, Che decides that twelve hours spent at SNL is enough for today. He packs up his stuff, says goodbye to whoever is around, and heads home. He’s exhausted, and it’s only the start of the week. Che can already tell that this week is going to be a tough one—especially now that Colin’s got a broken ankle.

At least Che has got one thing to look forward to this week: watching Colin’s face grow more and more exasperated every time Che calls his ankle ‘broken’ and not ‘fractured’. It’s the little things.

When he gets to his apartment, Che collapses into his bed and drifts off to sleep, feeling amused and content with the knowledge that Colin is okay, which means Che gets to go back to annoying him and generally being a good-natured asshole.

And then Che is woken up suddenly by the loud ring of his phone.

Che values his sleep. He literally needs it to function, and he’s not about to have it interrupted by his stupid phone of all things. So a while ago he set up the Do Not Disturb function, made it so that all notifications were blocked when he was sleeping, except for calls from four people: his mom, his dad, his sister, and Colin.

It’s a knee jerk reaction to blink his eyes open in the dark, hear the loud ring of his phone, and feel jolt of worry and adrenaline shoot through his chest.

Che rolls over and grabs the phone from his nightstand. It takes him a couple of goes to actually answer the call, but when he does, he shoves the phone up to his ear.

“Hello?” he tries to say, although it comes out sounding more like a random mix of consonants.

“Che,” Colin says, in a way Che’s never quite heard him say his name before.

Che can tell immediately that something is wrong—Colin’s voice quavers on the vowel in his name, and his tone is just all off.

“What? What is it?” he asks, wide awake.

“Che,” Colin repeats, and there it is again, that wrongness. “I fucked up.”

“You what?”

“I’m on the ground,” Colin explains, his voice shaking, “and I can’t get up.”

Che pushes himself to sit up on his bed. “Where are you?”

“Home,” Colin replies. “I was so dumb. I got up to pee and—I don’t know what happened, but I tripped and now my ankle is fucking—it hurts so much, Che, and, and I think I hit my head—”

“Fuck,” Che swears under his breath. No, he has to stay calm. Che’s never heard Colin sound so hysterical before, and it’s scaring him. “Okay, okay, I’m coming, just wait, I’m ordering the Uber right now.”

He pulls his phone away from his ear, taps the loudspeaker button, and opens the app, quickly typing in Colin’s address. He has it memorised, for some reason. Which is hilarious, actually, because Che forgets his own address half the time.

There’s silence for about twenty seconds, then Che tells him, “Okay, I’m coming. It’s ordered, I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Really?” Colin asks in a small, nervous voice. “You don’t have to—I just don’t know what to do.”

“Shut up,” Che tells him. “I’m coming. Stay where you are. Call me if anything happens.”

“Okay,” Colin says, and the sudden note of relief in his voice is very clear.

Che lets his phone fall away from his ear. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

He gets ready to go in three minutes and is down in front of his building in five. From there, it’s luckily only a short wait before the Uber pulls up and Che climbs in. It’s a quick trip. Colin doesn’t live too far from Che, though that means nothing to the insane traffic of New York City. But it’s nearly three a.m., and there is no traffic to speak of, and it makes for a speedy ride through the streets.

When the Uber pulls up in front of Colin’s building, Che has opened the door and started running before the car even comes to a complete stop.

He races inside, smashes the elevator button and waits, anxiously, for it to lift him up to Colin’s level. When it gets there, he exits and walks down the hallway until he gets to Colin’s door. The doorknob actually opens, to his surprise. He hadn’t thought this through—he has no idea what he’d do if it was locked.

But he gets partway through the door before he hears “Careful!”

Che stops. Peering around the door, he sees Colin, sprawled out on the floor.

“Hi,” Colin says weakly.

“Fuck,” is all Che says.

Colin is a mess. He’s dressed in a baggy T-shirt and shorts. His left ankle is covered by a sock, and his right is about three times its size and covered in bandages. Colin’s hair looks like a bird’s nest, it’s that messy, and his eyes, gazing up at Che, are red-rimmed, with dark bags adorning his undereyes.

“What in the sweet everloving Christ have you done?” Che asks, bewildered and concerned and freaking out all at once. Colin just lets out a tiny wheeze of a laugh.

Che manages to get himself inside the apartment and close the door. He crouches down on his haunches, near Colin’s head, and meets his eyes.

“Come on,” Che says. His voice is softer this time. “What happened? I thought you were in the bathroom.”

“I was,” Colin tells him. “But then I remembered that I had to unlock my door to let you in. So I dragged myself out here. It took forever.”

“You dragged yourself?” Che sweeps his eyes down Colin’s body and looks at his ankle. “You couldn’t stand up?”

“Whenever I try to, I, uh, feel like I’m gonna vomit. Also, I’m in a fuckload of pain right now.” Colin closes his eyes briefly.

Che audibly exhales. Then he nods his head, decided and determined. “Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna help you sit up, okay?”

Che places his knees on the ground. He bends over enough to slide an arm underneath Colin’s back, the other circling around Colin’s stomach.

“Hold my shoulders,” Che tells him. Colin lifts his arms and does as he’s told. “Ready?”

“Slowly,” Colin instructs, gritting his teeth. “Do it slowly.”

“Okay. Three, two, one,” and Che tenses his muscles and raises Colin to a sitting position.

Just that small movement has Colin suddenly breathing heavily. He moves one of his hands to the floor behind him, so that he can lean back a bit. Che lets him catch his breath.

“Is your ankle hurting?” he asks quietly. Colin nods his head, eyes closed.

“It’s the nausea, too,” he explains. “The doc said it was pretty common to feel like vomiting for the first few days. If the pain is really bad.”

“And it’s really bad,” Che confirms. Colin nods again.

“I don’t even have to move it.” Colin says, sounding dejected. “It just aches so bad.”

Che can’t stop himself from rubbing his hand up and down Colin’s back, trying to comfort him. “Come on. You’ll feel better when you’re back on your bed. I can’t lift you up from here, we’ll have to get you standing first.”

It takes a minute of manoeuvring, but eventually Colin wraps his arms back around Che’s neck and places his left foot flat on the floor, and Che lifts him up to standing.

“Okay,” Che says, over Colin’s laboured breathing. He bends down to wrap an arm around the backs of Colin’s legs. “Three, two, one—”

And then Che is lifting Colin into his arms, exactly as he did this morning, with one arm around Colin’s back and the other underneath his knees. As Che slowly walks towards Colin’s bedroom, his eyes constantly dart around in front of him. He makes sure Colin’s ankle avoids hitting the top of the sofa, or the doorway of his room. They nearly make it the whole way without any accidents, but just as Che is lowering Colin’s ass to the bed, Colin’s legs slip, and both ankles fall down quickly, banging together.

Colin’s gasp is the loudest Che has ever heard a person make before. His arms lock around Che’s neck like a vice, and Che can feel Colin’s entire body seizing up in pain. He’s tensed so hard that his muscles start trembling, and Che tightens his hold his left arm has around Colin’s back, and is very careful to not move his right arm under Colin’s legs at all.

Colin has his head buried in the crook of Che’s neck. His closed eyes are pressed right up against Che’s skin. The proximity means that Che can feel the quick, hot breaths of Colin’s pained panting, and the wetness that is seeping out of Colin’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Che says, and his voice breaks across the word. “I’m so sorry, Colin—”

Colin just squeezes Che harder in his embrace. It hurts, but Che doesn’t mind at all.

They sit there, Colin on the bed, Che awkwardly crouched next to him, and wait for the waves of pain to pass. Che keeps rubbing his hand across Colin’s back, trying to somehow coax Colin’s breathing back to something normal. He hopes that it’s soothing. Che feels absolutely wrecked. He’s never seen Colin like this—in this much pain, with this much worry and tension coursing through him. Che doesn’t like it at all. He’s never felt like much of a caring person, but in this moment, the only thing he wants to do is make Colin feel better.

After a few minutes, the pain seems to subside. Colin’s grip on Che’s neck loosens in degrees, until his slack arms are just resting on Che’s shoulders. His breathing slows down, and the tension seeps from his limbs.

“You wanna lie down?” Che murmurs in his ear. Colin doesn’t say anything, he just nods.

Slowly—so slowly, so carefully—Che lowers Colin back down onto the mattress. Colin stretches his legs out, and Che makes sure that his ankle is far from the edge of the bed. It’s only then that Colin finally speaks.

“I’m so dumb,” he bursts out. His voice is loud and uneven. The hysterical tone that Che had briefly heard during their phone call is back, and it sounds stronger than it had before. Colin covers his face with his hands and repeats, “I’m so dumb, I’m so fucking dumb.”

“Shh,” Che quickly sits down on the bed next to Colin’s hip, very careful to not touch him or make any sudden movements. “You’re not dumb.”

“I am!” Colin bursts out. He snatches his hands away and looks at Che, and Che is shocked to see Colin’s eyes glassy with tears. “I’m dumb, I’m so stupid, I don’t know what I was doing today, you even said it yourself—”

“Hey!” Che cuts in. It’s distressing to see Colin so wildly despairing, and Che’s hands twitch with a sudden, desperate need to touch him again. Without thinking about it he reaches out, grabs at one of Colin’s hands and holds it tightly between his own. “Only I’m allowed to say that you’re dumb and stupid, okay? No one else.”

“But it’s true,” Colin says, his face downcast and miserable and a little wild-eyed. “And now I’m stuck with this fucking ankle for—I don’t even know, four weeks, six weeks, it could even be longer, and it—it hurts,” and when Colin’s voice cracks on that last word, it slices straight into Che’s heart.

Che squeezes Colin’s hand so tightly that it probably isn’t comfortable, but he needs Colin to feel that he’s here.

“Listen, listen,” Che tells him. “It’s gonna be okay. Okay? Remember what the doc said—it’s only a fracture, not a full break. It won’t be this painful for long.”

Colin sighs and closes his eyes briefly. Silence sits around them in the room as he digests what Che has said. When Colin opens his eyes, he looks at Che and quirks an eyebrow. “I thought those two words meant the same thing.”

Che lets out a laugh—more like a quick, loud exhalation through his nose—and drops his head down. “You’re a fucking smartass,” he tells Colin, but he thinks the insult is softened too much by the affection that drenches his voice.

The corners of Colin’s lips lift in a small smile. He blinks, once, twice, and his eyes are drooping closed again.

“You wanna sleep?” Che asks.

“Hmm,” Colin says. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

Che’s eyes widen. The way Colin says it—it must be the painkillers kicking in, he wouldn’t—Che can’t, it’s too much—

But he can, can’t he? Colin has a sofa. He clearly wants Che to be here. And truthfully, Che would despise himself if he left Colin here, in this state of subsiding pain and panic, after everything that has happened today.

So Che nods his head, even though Colin’s eyes are shut, and says, “yeah, I’ll be here. Go to sleep.”

“M’kay,” Colin mumbles.

Che sits still. It only takes about a minute for Colin’s breathing to even out, and his hand falls limp between where Che’s are holding it. He gently lowers it to rest on the bed, slowly pushes himself up to standing, and walks out of Colin’s room.

Then he lets out a deep, long sigh of air, as though he’s been holding his breath for the entire day.

Che doesn’t have any pajamas or spare underwear or even a toothbrush. He doesn’t care. It’s all he can do to pull the throw pillows off the sofa and collapse onto it, exhausted. There’s a TV remote on the low table in front of him, and a quick flick through the channels lands him on some syndicated reruns. With the volume down low and the light of the TV casting shadows across the walls of Colin’s apartment, it takes Che barely a minute to fall asleep, too.

It feels like only three seconds have passed between when he went to sleep and when he wakes up to find Colin sitting on the table next to him.

Che opens his eyes and closes them quickly—it’s too bright. “Hmph,” he says.

“Good morning.” Colin’s voice is warm. Strong. Familiar. He sounds very tired. Che coughs to clear his throat, rubs his face with his hands, and blinks his eyes open again. It seems like Colin has already had time to get ready for the day.

“You’re dressed?” Che asks him, voice croaky. “Everything was okay?”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” Colin says. He gestures to his body. “I put on loose clothes. Today is just writing day, after all.”

“Mm yep,” Che says. He’s still half asleep. “How’re you feeling?”

“Honestly? Kind of shitty,” Colin tells him. “But. I took the painkiller this morning. And I’ll eat some food when I get to SNL.”

“When are you going?”

“Now. I’ve just ordered an Uber. I told Kenan I’d meet with him this morning to write. So. I gotta go.”

“What?” Che opens his eyes and sits up slightly, more alert now. “Okay, give me a second—”

“No it’s fine,” Colin reassures him.

Che levels him with a look. “Dude, I literally have nothing except one backpack with me. Let me get up, I’ll walk out with you and make sure you don’t trip and break your other ankle, and then I’ll get an Uber back to mine.”

Colin bites his lip, looks down at Che’s body, still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. He nods.

They don’t talk about last night. Che’s not sure if Colin remembers much of it.

He doesn’t ask.

Colin’s ankle is extremely sensitive for the first few days after his injury, and even the slightest, unintentional movement can jar it. Che knows immediately whenever it happens—Colin’s entire body seizes up with tension, his eyes shut tightly, and his face pales. Colin grits his teeth together, and Che knows it’s because he feels nauseous, the pain so sharp and fierce that bile roils in his stomach.

When this happens and Che’s around, he’s taken to flinging his hand out, palm upwards, and Colin will grab onto it and squeeze incredibly tight. They stay there, waiting, holding out until the pain and nausea subsides. And it always does, eventually. Then Colin will take a deep breath in and out, and Che will see the tension filter away from his shoulders. Colin always loosens his hold on Che’s hand, then squeezes it again, more gently this time, while flicking his eyes up to Che’s in a silent thank you.

When Che isn’t around, he’s not sure what Colin does. Fights through it, he guesses. There is a bucket that Che put in their office, but as far as he can tell, Colin’s never actually needed to use it. Which is good, then, that it’s never gotten so bad that he has needed to throw up.

But when a head writer breaks his ankle, necessity dictates that routines and meetings be changed, and it means that Che does spend more time around Colin, now that their small Weekend Update office has essentially become the head office of this week’s show. All meetings with Colin take place there.

It’s nice that Colin spends the majority of his time in one place, because it makes it a lot easier for Che to take care of him and check up on him when he knows exactly where Colin will be. But it also means it’s really fucking irritating when Colin pretends like he doesn’t have a broken ankle and tries to go about and do normal shit that is made a thousand times more difficult by crutches and small hallways.

On Tuesday it’s mostly fine. It’s pretty obvious to Che that Colin is still fairly shaken up by what happened on Monday night, and doesn’t trust himself on the crutches yet—especially because even the smallest amount of pressure on his ankle brings him a fuckton of pain. So on the odd occasions that that Che goes to their office and finds Colin gone, he quickly finds Colin either near food or in the bathroom, and each time, someone else is there with him, just keeping an eye on him and helping him out.

The day passes without any major incidents. Che sees Colin periodically throughout the day, in between all their meetings and duties as head writers and Update anchors, and every time Colin looks more tired and more in pain, but that’s only to be expected. Che is surprised by how long Colin sticks it out. When Che comes back to their office at twelve a.m. Colin is still sitting up and typing at his desk, eyes flicking between the screen and a paper script to his left.

Tuesday is writing day at SNL, and it’s very common for Colin and Che to stay late at the office or just not even go home at all. Che can tell, with one glance at Colin, that he’s planning to stay overnight.

And that’s just not going to happen. Not on Che’s watch.

Not with Colin sitting there, blue light from the computer monitor highlighting the deep, dark bags under his eyes, his pallid skin, the way his body keeps making aborted little movements because he wants to move around to try and alleviate the pain he’s in, but in doing so he will make the pain even worse for himself.

Che walks inside their office and flops down on the sofa. It’s a quiet night, with only the sound of Colin typing on the keyboard filling the air.

Well, Che thinks, they better have this argument sooner or later.

“When are you going home?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Hmm?” Colin replies, distracted by the script in front of him. “Um, I think I’m just gonna stay here tonight.”

Che nods. As expected.

“Bullshit,” Che says calmly.

Colin blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Nah, Colin, come on,” Che goads him. “That’s a dumb idea. You’re tired and in pain. You need to sleep.”

“I will sleep! I have a sofa right here.”

“A sofa that isn’t long enough for your legs,” Che reminds him. “It will be uncomfortable. It will be painful.”

Colin just shrugs. “Then I’ll sleep on the floor. I can sleep anywhere.”

“Not when you’re in pain and feel like vomiting all the time!” Che says, a bit more loudly. He finds himself growing annoyed at Colin; can’t he see that he desperately needs rest? “Why are you being like this? You’re being dumb right now.”

“This is what I’ve been telling you,” Colin says, and Che could slap him, he’s so irritated. He’s irritated at Colin not taking caring of himself; he’s irritated that Colin remembers, through the haze of pain and medication, what happened last night, and that he’s using it against Che now. But Che restrains the urge to open his mouth and get angry. When he looks at Colin, he can see that he’s in a lot of pain. He needs his painkiller, he needs some water, and he needs to lie down in his bed, not on a shitty sofa in his office.

And although he doesn’t want to admit it, Colin needs someone to take care of him right now.

Che shies away, generally, from grand declarations of love and friendship, but he knows it’s important to be honest. Che is Colin’s best friend. He really, really doesn’t like seeing Colin hurting; he really, really wants to help Colin feel better.

So instead of getting mad and lecturing Colin on how important it is to get proper rest for a speedy recovery—like Che’s a fucking nurse or something—all he says is, “Shut up, grab your things, I’m coming with you,” and pulls out his phone to order an Uber.

There’s a silence. Che doesn’t look up from where he’s putting Colin’s address in his phone.

“Um,” Colin says.

Uber says there’s a car five minutes away. Che taps the screen to order it, waits for confirmation, and then looks up and flashes his screen at Colin, who peers at it.

“…Okay,” Colin agrees.

The Uber is a bit late, but it works out fine, because Che and Colin are slow in getting out of the building. Che’s carrying Colin’s backpack and his own, and keeping a close eye on Colin, who is so tired that his wobbly use of crutches looks even more unstable than it was earlier today. But they get outside and Che awkwardly helps Colin shuffle into the car, and when they arrive at Colin’s building they perform the same process but in reverse, Che half-pulling, half-lifting Colin out of the Uber and helping him hobble across the sidewalk.

Colin can barely speak, he’s so tired. His arms are shaking on the crutches. It kills Che to see him like this.

“Come on,” he says quietly. He coaxes one of the crutches away from Colin’s armpit, places it in Colin’s other hand.

“Wait—what are you doing?” Colin asks.

“You can’t even walk right now,” Che says. “Put your arms up.”

He leans down and, just like yesterday, lifts Colin up with one arm around his back and the other under his knees.

“Jesus Christ, this again,” Colin says, but he does hold on to Che, and manages to keep the crutches from smacking Che in the face, and Che carefully guides them through Colin’s building and inside the elevator.

“Okay, okay, hop down for a second,” Che says quickly, because he’s tired too, and his arms are giving out. He lowers Colin to the ground, and Colin rests all his weight on his left foot. He keeps his arms around Che, though, and stays close to him, and suddenly they’re in the same half-embrace they were in yesterday. As if Che needed the reminder. As if yesterday wasn’t already burned into his brain.

“Second time in two days that I’m in your arms,” Colin murmurs, clearly thinking the same thing. “I feel like a damsel in distress.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, technically it’s Wednesday now,” Che tells him. He breezes straight past Colin describing himself as in Che’s arms, because that’s just a big fucking nope right now.

“Oh, well okay,” Colin says, lips curling into a smile. He moves his head backwards to the edge of Che’s shoulder and tilts up, so he can look Che in the eyes. “What does that make me then?”

When Che turns his head and sees the look that Colin’s giving him, something shudders in his stomach. Their faces are very close together. Colin’s head is resting on his shoulder, and his body is pressed up against Che’s, and Che can’t think of a single witty reply, because his mind is cycling through a thousand frantic thoughts like your eyes look so pretty up close and I really like the way you smile and your chest feels so warm against mine and oh my god are you looking at my lips?

But then Che remembers that Colin is still on the good, strong painkillers, and he took one just before they left SNL, so they’re probably kicking in and affecting Colin right now.

He jerks his head away just as the elevator doors ding and open. Colin puts his crutches back under his armpits and limps out first, and neither of them says anything as Che unlocks the door and they both stumble inside Colin’s apartment.

As much as it takes Colin a lot longer to move around now, the time it takes them both to get ready for bed is impressively quick. Che himself is exhausted, and he knows Colin has it ten times worse. Colin manages to change into his sleeping clothes without help, and he even tosses Che a spare shirt.

“It’s probably a bit small, sorry,” he says, but Che just shrugs. It’s better than sleeping in what he wore today.

Che turns the TV on again and turns it down low. Before he lies down, though, he gets up one more time and pads into Colin’s room. Colin is already under the covers, though his right ankle is sticking out on the bed—even small amounts of pressure can still hurt it a lot.

“Are you good?” Che asks, standing next to the bed. Colin nods.

“Yeah. Tired. Ready for sleep.”

“Same,” Che says, and reaches out to switch off the bedside light. “G’night.”

“Night. And—thank you.”

“No problem, man,” Che says, and walks out of the room.

He lies down on the sofa and gets as comfortable as he can. He shuts his eyes and tells himself sternly to go to sleep. He definitely doesn’t think about how he just spent the entire time in Colin’s room staring at the hair on his forehead, resisting the urge to brush it away with his fingers. That would be a stupid thing to think about. So he doesn’t.

Wednesday passes in much the same way that Tuesday did, except that Colin gets more annoying.

He’s not actually trying to be annoying on purpose. But it’s so clear to Che that Colin is still incredibly weak, constantly tired, and shaky on his crutches. He shouldn’t be moving around a lot, especially with his ankle being so sore, and Che tries very hard to make it so that Colin doesn’t have to move. He gets Colin food and water; all Colin’s meetings are scheduled to take place in their shared office; there’s no reason for Colin to be getting up except to be going to the bathroom, which is only just around the corner from the office.

But for some godawful reason, Colin decides to ignore the fact that he is still in pain and trying to recover, and goes out of the office for the most random of reasons. Che catches him leaving once, and watches, as if in slow motion, as Colin’s crutch gets caught inside the doorway and makes him wobble dangerously on one foot.

“Hey!” Che snaps, lunging towards Colin and grabbing him around the waist to steady him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just going down to see Kyle,” Colin says. The bastard sounds far too nonchalant for someone who nearly just fell onto his broken foot. “I’ll be back soon.”

Che has to remind himself to breathe. He has to remind himself that Colin is struggling, and all he wants is his life to be like it normally is. Even if that means pretending that walking isn’t both a monumental effort and a safety hazard for him.

“Oh, I just saw Kyle before,” Che says quickly. “He was gonna head up here and see you, he just had something to do first.”

“Oh,” Colin’s brow furrows in confusion. “But I thought—”

“I don’t know man, that’s just what he said,” Che breezes onwards. “Come on, get back inside, I need to show you some scripts.”

Che herds Colin slowly back into the room. With Colin seated on his chair, Che situates himself on the sofa and pulls out his phone.

i don’t know what Colin said to you, he texts Kyle, but he literally cannot walk right now so i don’t care, if you need to talk to him then get up to our office NOW.

hahahahahahahahaha, is the only reply he gets. It’s nice to know that his co-workers are so sympathetic.

But other than having to constantly check that Colin is staying in their office, the rest of Che’s day at work passes as normally as it always does. By the time ten p.m. hits he’s ready to throw both his computer and the pile of scripts next to him out the window, so he figures it’s time to round up Colin and take him home. Unlike last night, Colin doesn’t protest. Likewise, when Che makes the Uber drive to his place first so he can pack a quick bag of clothes and toiletries, Colin is silent. So at least he’s now silently accepting Che’s help, even if he is pretending he doesn’t need it.

When they finally get into Colin’s apartment, though, Che quickly realises that the real reason Colin didn’t try to stop Che coming home with him was that he is just too fucking tired. Colin makes a beeline for his room as soon as he’s through the door, and within ten minutes he’s already changed his clothes, brushed his teeth, and has tucked himself into his bed.

“Goodnight,” Che says, and the only reply he gets is silence.

Che takes a bit longer to wind down this evening. For a while he just sits on the sofa watching TV. Then he switches to flicking through his phone. Eventually, he feels his eyes start to droop, and he lets his phone drop to the sofa, stands up and stretches.

He brushes his teeth in Colin’s ensuite. He’s careful to not make much noise, but to be honest, it probably doesn’t matter—Colin is completely out of it. On his way back to the sofa, Che stops and stands next to Colin on the bed.

It’s funny, Che thinks to himself, as he watches Colin’s sleeping face. He’s worked with this man for years now, and has known him for even longer. He’s spent more days with Colin over the past five years than he has with any of his family or other friends. He feels lucky, and honoured, to call Colin his friend, and he would have thought that there would be nothing, after all this time, about Colin that could surprise him. But the past three days have changed that.

Che can’t stop thinking about the pain he saw in Colin’s face at three a.m. on Tuesday morning. How it twisted his features, reduced him to a hysterical, stressed-out mess, confused and upset and scared. He’s never, ever seen Colin like that before, and he never, ever wants to see him like that again. It scared Che to see him like that. It scares Che even more to see his own vehement reaction to Colin’s pain.

As he stares down at Colin’s face, last night’s whispers sneak back into Che’s head of their own accord. He wants, again, to touch his fingers to Colin’s forehead, brush away his hair.

Last night, he resisted. Tonight, he cannot.

Che’s hand reaches out. His fingertips glide, soft like a butterfly’s touch, along Colin’s smooth skin. His hair is soft as Che gently pushes it to the side, and then back, baring more of Colin’s forehead. It feels so nice. Everything Che has done while Colin has been awake has been to comfort Colin. This, right here, seems to be for Che’s own comfort; it soothes him to do this.

That thought makes Che jerk his hand back. No.

He quickly leaves the room without a second thought. It’s time to sleep. It’s time to switch off his brain for the evening. Clearly, it cannot be left to its own devices.

As much as Che wants to take care of Colin; as much as he wants to be gentle and understanding, and is upset that Colin is so clearly in pain; his irritation with Colin’s complete inability to stay in his office and rest his ankle finally comes to a head on Thursday afternoon.

They’re in their office, preparing for their evening read-through with the Update writers. It’s been a full day of Colin finding any and every excuse to leave the room and hobble through the studios on his crutches. It’s led to Che saving Colin from falling on three different occasions—because Che isn’t going to let Colin just wander around on his own—and it doesn’t help that every time, Colin squirmed away from him. Che felt tempted to let him fall on his ankle. Just once. Maybe he’s definitely an asshole. But he’s stressed because of the show, and tired because of the show, and feeling completely over it.

So here they are, sitting on their chairs in their office, and going through Update jokes.

“What about the article today?” Che is saying. “I reckon we can pull something hilarious out of that.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that,” Colin says. “Have you got any ideas? I actually wrote some down.”

Colin glances across his desk, then around the room. He picks up the crutches leaning against the desk next to him, awkwardly stands up, places them under his arms, and then takes a few shaky steps to the other side of the room. Che watches him as he stops where the end of the couch is—where Colin’s laptop is perched on the armrest—and Colin picks it up, and then stares down at it thoughtfully. Che can see him visibly deciding on how to use the crutches and carry the laptop at the same time.

It’s the end of Che’s fucking rope.

“Will you stop fucking doing that?” Che bursts out.

Colin’s head whips around to face him, and he has the gall to look confused. “What?”

“Will you please stop being an idiot and pretending like you can do everything normal?” Che points to the laptop. “I’m literally sitting right here. Just ask me to pick up the laptop and give it to you.”

“I’m not—” Colin breaks off. “It’s nothing, man, I just wanted to look at my notes.”

“You just wanted to pretend like you can stand up and walk around like normal, but guess what, you fucking can’t,” Che says, exasperated. “Newsflash: you cannot walk around normally right now, you have a broken fucking ankle. Just accept it, and ask for help.”

Colin just stands there in the corner of the room, one crutch stuck under his armpit, his other hand holding the laptop. His ankle is raised up from the floor. He’s just looking at Che, and his expression is one of confusion and frustration. Che sighs.

“Sit down,” he instructs. Colin doesn’t move at first, but eventually he breaks eye contact with Che, and slowly lowers himself onto the sofa. Che leans forward, so that his elbows are resting on his knees.

“Listen,” Che says, looking directly at Colin. “I know this is shit right now. You know that I know, I’ve seen you lying on your apartment floor.”

Colin winces, and his cheeks colour slightly as he looks away, and the gesture of embarrassment tugs at Che’s heartstrings and makes him want to throttle Colin all at once.

“And that’s okay,” Che carries on quickly, moving his head to catch Colin’s eyes again. “It’s good, actually. I’m glad you called me. I would be so angry at you if you didn’t call anyone. Just… it’s okay to ask for help, alright? In fact, I want you to.” Che leans forward a bit more. “I want you to ask me for help, okay? For the entire time you’re stuck with this broken ankle. It’s fucking dumb to just… sit around, and suffer, when I’m right here and ready to help you.”

There’s a pause. Then—

“Really?” Colin asks. He’s looking back at Che with… something in his eyes. Maybe it’s doubt.

“Of course!” Che says. He even says it more animatedly than usual, and stares at Colin beseechingly. “I mean, jeez, that’s what friends are for, right? To help you when you really need it.”

“Oh,” is all Colin says. There’s silence for a moment. But then Colin blinks a few times, as though snapping out of a trance, and nods. “Well then, I… will. Ask. For help.”

“Good,” Che says, leaning back in his chair.

“And thank you,” Colin says quickly. His eyes dart between his hands, twirled around each other in his lap, and Che’s eyes. “Seriously. That’s really nice of you. All of this has been really nice of you.”

“Of course, man,” Che says. He even smiles. It feels like a breakthrough.

The rest of Thursday passes pretty smoothly, despite the fact that both Colin and Che have the Update production meeting that evening, and both of them have been behind on their writing for the week. They read a bunch of jokes, they talk about what works and what doesn’t, and it all goes fine.

It’s not too long after the meeting ends that they decide to go home. They follow the same easy routine they’ve developed over the past few nights: ordering the Uber, taking the elevator up to Colin’s apartment, heading inside and letting the day fall off of them. Where they end up is on the sofa, a pizza on the table before them and Brooklyn Nine-Nine reruns on the TV.

Colin, however, is restless. His ankle is propped up on the table but he can’t sit still, readjusting his seat every five minutes. It doesn’t escape Che’s notice.

“You sore?” he asks Colin, popping the last bite of pizza in his mouth. Colin sighs and rubs his hands vigorously across his face and head.

“Yeah, the ankle is hurting,” Colin says. “But it’s also my head. I have the worst headache right now.”

Che frowns. “When was your last painkiller?”

“I already checked, I have to wait an hour, minimum, before I can have another one.”

“Hmm,” Che says. He sits up straight and leans over to grab a napkin from the table, wiping his hands clean before closing the lid of the pizza box and settling back down onto the sofa. “We can wait it out together. Just one more hour.”

“Yeah,” Colin says quietly. He opens his mouth to say something else, but then stops himself, closing it again. Che sees it, though.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Colin shakes his head. When he sees the dubious look Che gives him, he sighs. “It’s stupid.”

Che pulls his knee up on the sofa and angles his hips towards Colin so that he can look at him directly. “Try me.”

Colin sighs again, more harshly this time. His fingers massage at his temples. “It’s just—I had a dream. Oh god, that sounds dumb.”

“Quit it,” Che orders. “What did you dream?”

“Last night,” Colin says, “I had a dream that…well. I dreamed that you were stroking my hair to help me fall asleep.”

Che violently resists the urge to splutter in shock. He can do nothing to stop the heat of embarrassment rising to his cheeks. Fuck fuck fuck. Was Colin awake when Che touched his hair last night? Why did Che even do that in the first place? Risky, dumb, stupid. Fuck.

“Oh,” is all Che says, and it comes out sounding severely strangled.

“I know it’s so dumb,” Colin groans, burying his face in his hands. “I didn’t think anything of it. But now we’ve been sitting here, and my ankle is killing me, and my head is even worse, and I feel so sick to my stomach, and—I don’t know—I just started thinking about how nice that would feel.”

Che says nothing. He’s trying to think about what he’s going to say, but Colin takes one look at him and then drops his head, shaking it side to side.

“Don’t worry about it,” Colin says dismissively. “It’s dumb, I know.”

“It’s not dumb,” Che cuts in quickly. “Stop calling yourself that. Let’s try it.”

“What?” Colin snaps his head back up.

“C’mon, let’s try it,” Che repeats. He brings his leg back down so that his thighs are pressed together. He pats his hands down on top of them. “Come lie down.”

Colin blinks at him. Che doesn’t want to give himself time to think about all the reasons why this is a bad idea. He taps his legs again.

“I wanted you to ask me for stuff,” Che reminds Colin. “This is exactly the type of stuff you should be asking for. I wouldn’t know to do this, otherwise. And literally—please believe me—if there’s anything I can do to stop you from being in this much pain, then I want to do it.”

Colin’s blank expression melts, right before Che’s eyes, touched by Che’s words. But before Che has any time to start getting embarrassed, Colin is nodding. He carefully moves himself to lie down lengthways across the sofa. He rests his head on Che’s lap, and his ankle is safely balanced on the sofa pillow.

When Che first brushes his fingertips across Colin’s forehead, he tries to move as though he’s never done this before. He’s not sure Colin would notice, though, either way. As soon as Che’s fingers make contact with his skin, Colin lets out a deep, long sigh. The tension in his muscles visibly melts away, as though Colin is sinking down into the couch.

Che uses both of his hands. One focuses on the skin of Colin’s face, ever-so-gently brushing along his forehead, nose and cheeks. The fingers of his other hand run through Colin’s hair, pressing with a bit more force to try and relieve the headache, trailing his fingernails across the scalp.

Che finds that he is enjoying himself immensely.

They say nothing else as they watch the rest of the episode on the TV. Only when it ends does Che say something.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Good,” Colin murmurs. He sounds blissed out and half-asleep. “Not painful anymore.”

Che’s lips quirk up into a small, satisfied smile. “Good,” he says.

Colin nods, and in doing so, rubs his cheek against Che’s thigh like a cat. After a second he stops and takes a deep breath in, sighs it out, long and slow. Then he draws in another breath.

“Is this weird?” Colin asks.

Che shrugs, even though Colin can’t really see him. He doesn’t think it’s weird, but he also knows that he’s terribly, debilitatingly biased.

“Only if you think it is,” Che replies.

“Hmm,” Colin seems to ponder this for a moment. “Nah. Not weird. Thank you, man.”

“You’re welcome,” Che says. The affection lacing through his tone is undeniable to his ears.

The TV is playing something else now. Che knows they need to get up, and Colin needs to go to sleep. In his bed. Not with Che, on the sofa.

But for a moment Che simply studies Colin. He tries to memorise what it’s like to have Colin this close, this intimate. The slope of his nose. The smoothness of his skin. The softness of his hair. The way it feels to be allowed to touch Colin like this, so gently and lovingly.

Che watches, and pines, and thinks to himself, if this is the most I can ever have of Colin, I’ll take it.

Friday at SNL ends up being so fucking busy that they don’t actually leave the SNL studios at all.

There’s so many last-minute bits to write, sketches to coordinate, and the checklist seems to stretch on forever. Colin and Che are fuelled by coffee, candy and the wild-eyed adrenaline that the pressure of their job puts them through. They make the joint decision to stay the night, even though it nags at Che, because it really won’t be good for Colin. But if they don’t stay and work their asses off, they really won’t get everything done in time for the show, and they’re head writers, damn it, it’s kind of their job to make sure the show stays afloat.

As the hectic day drags on into the night, they catch sleep where they can, alternating on the sofa in their office. Che tries to make Colin’s ankle as comfortable as possible, and reminds him to take his painkiller.

There’s a quiet moment, at five a.m. on Saturday morning. Their twenty-hour workday has reaped them the sweet, beautiful reward of not having to be anywhere until nine in the morning. Colin is passed out on the sofa, where he’d collapsed two hours ago, his poor body and brain unable to keep going. Che feels a rush of empathy for him. The normal stress of a work week at SNL is bad enough; this week has been more stressful than most; and Colin has been dealing with constant pain and inconveniences every day. And he’s been doing it all like a fucking trooper. If Che didn’t know him so well and hadn’t spent the past four days helping him navigate the difficulties of having a broken ankle, he would never know just how much pain Colin was actually dealing with. No wonder he’s crashed out.

The only space in the room big enough for Che to lie down is alongside the couch. Wearily, he picks himself up from his chair and uses the armrest of the couch to help him lower himself down to the floor. His joints crack at him angrily, reminding him of just how long it’s been since he worked out or stretched.

Before he lies down fully, Che turns his head to the couch and watches Colin. His face is smushed into the sofa cushion and his brow is slightly furrowed. It worries Che—is Colin in pain while he’s sleeping? When was the last time he had his painkiller? Che glances up to check the clock in their office. It’s only been three hours since his last dose. They’ll need to wait another three before Colin can have any more. Good thing that’s the perfect amount of time they have to nap before they’re required to get ready for their morning meeting.

Che lets his eyes fall back down to Colin’s face. He looks Colin’s smooth cheeks, the slope of his nose, the locks of his hair that have fallen across his eyes. Che gets an overwhelming urge to reach out his fingers and brush the hair aside. He goes to restrain himself, but then stops. He did it, last night. He did it the night before as well, even though he’s been trying to not let Colin know that his dream wasn’t actually a dream.

So Che reaches his fingers out tentatively, strokes them across Colin’s forehead. His hair is soft, his skin is smooth, just like Che remembers. Che thinks about what he said to himself last night—that he would be happy if this was the closest he ever got to Colin. But then he wonders what would happen if he moved his hand to the nape of Colin’s neck and stroked him there. He thinks about what he would do if this sofa was bigger, wider, with enough room for Che to actually squeeze up next to Colin and fold an arm over his waist.

Che jerks away from Colin sharply. Shaking his head, he grabs a pillow and lies down, closing his eyes. It’s not the first time he’s slept on an office floor at SNL, and it won’t be the last.

Saturday is just a big fucking blur, and three hours of sleep on an office floor is nowhere near enough to deal with it. It just feels like an extended Friday, stretching on forever, except with the added stress of putting on both a dress rehearsal and a live, supposedly polished show.

Somehow, some way, they make it through the last-minute changes and meetings, they get through the dress rehearsal, and now they’re here, backstage, waiting to go on for Update.

“Okay, you can start heading out,” a stagehand tells them as he runs past.

The good thing about Colin breaking his ankle is that no-one will actually know that he’s injured, because he’s sitting behind a desk for his entire segment on the show. They just need to head out early to get him seated and get the crutches out of the shot.

The set is still be constructed around them, but the desk is in place, so Che walks behind Colin as he slowly makes his way up to his chair. He pulls it out, turns, and starts to sit down.

But it’s a fucking rolling chair, and Colin’s crutch somehow knocks it to the side, and he wobbles, falling, and knocks his right ankle into the ground as he makes sure he lands on his ass in the chair.

Che is lunging towards him, but it’s too late. Colin’s face goes white as a sheet, and Che sees his eyes well with tears for a split second before Colin’s lowering his head, hiding his pain.

Che quickly sits in his own chair and shoves himself towards Colin, holding his hand out.

Colin grabs it immediately and squeezes it so tightly that Che thinks it’s going to bruise.

They sit there, on stage, production happening all around them. Che is grateful, at least, that they’ve brought Colin out earlier than usual, so they don’t have to go live immediately. It gives Colin the time he needs to wait out the waves of roiling pain and nausea.

If Che thinks too much about Colin’s pain he starts to get irrationally frustrated—probably with how helpless he feels—so instead he keeps his head down as well, pretending to read a script in his left hand, but really is watching Colin’s hand held tightly in his right instead. Che finds that the more he looks, the more he likes the picture. Their palms are pressed flat together and their fingers are gripping the backs of the other’s hands. Although Colin’s grip is too hard to be enjoyable, Che finds that he nevertheless likes the sensation of holding hands with Colin. It’s weirdly comforting. It’s something that Che wants to do all the time.

He doesn’t want to analyse that thought too closely.

“We’re on in sixty seconds,” someone tells them both, and they nod in unison.

Che shakes Colin’s hand gently. “Will you be okay?”

Colin takes a deep breath in, holds it for three seconds, and then lets it whoosh out of his mouth. His eyes flick open, and he nods, lifting his head up, ready to face the world again, despite the lingering pain that Che knows must be there.

But although he prepares to go live, Colin doesn’t let go of Che’s until the last possible second.

Che can’t analyse that too closely either.

They get through Update without any major hiccups, and the show continues into its last sketches and clips. When everything’s finished and the end credits are running on screen, Che finally lets out a big sigh of relief. A week-long sigh of relief. He didn’t know he could do that before he started working here.

Both he and Colin go to the afterparty, but they really only spend an hour there sitting in a corner nursing beers, before Che feels Colin’s head on his shoulder.

“Time to go,” Che says, and Colin doesn’t protest in the slightest.

The Uber ride back to Colin’s place passes in a tired, hazy blur. Che watches Colin’s head drifting down to rest against the cab window, and then jerking upwards when he woke up briefly. Che finds himself wishing that he was sitting closer enough to let Colin rest his head on his shoulder again, like they did at the party.

But then they arrive at Colin’s building and head up to Colin’s apartment, falling into the little routine they’ve forged over the past week.

Colin’s a pro on his crutches now, but as they walk into the elevator, Che notices that Colin looks wobbly. Sure enough, as soon as the doors close Colin is leaning back against the wall, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes.

“Nearly there,” Che says. Colin just nods his head.

The elevator doors open, and they walk towards Colin’s apartment door. Che unlocks it—it’s easier for him to carry the key during the past week, it saves time—and they practically fall inside the apartment with their eagerness to just sit down.

Colin pushes the door closed. He moves one crutch to lean against the wall, leaving his arm free for Che to pull his coat off that arm, then swapping the crutch around to remove the coat completely. Che hangs it up on the hook, hangs his own coat up next to it, then hands Colin’s crutch back to him and lets him walk into the apartment first. Che trails behind him, cautious of Colin’s wobbly behaviour in the elevator, but he makes it to his room fine; so Che leaves him there and goes to drop his bag down next to the sofa.

The sofa.

Che lets out a long sigh.

After four nights sleeping on a sofa, and one night sleeping on the floor of their office, Che’s body is screaming at him every time he moves. He should probably stretch. It would fucking suck to pull a muscle in his back again.

But the floor seems too far away, so instead of rolling around on the carpet wincing in pain in the name of ‘stretching’, Che pads over to Colin’s kitchen, grabs two glasses and fills them both with water. When he had been reading up about how to care for ankle fractures on Google—which was something he’d found himself doing every day this past week—an article had stressed how important it was to stay hydrated. When you had an injury that made it difficult and painful to walk anywhere, grabbing a drink of water goes from being a simple task to a mountain of effort.

Che walks back through the apartment, a glass of water in each hand, and comes to a stop in the doorway of Colin’s room.

Colin is lying down on his bed. He’s fully clothed still, and one of his arms is thrown across his eyes. Che can hear his slow, slightly shallow breathing, can feel the exhaustion radiating from every part of him.

The sight of Colin lying there, dejected and tired, tugs at Che. It pulls him into the room, makes him place the glasses down on the bedside table, propels him to slide a hand under Colin’s upper back and lift him up to a seated position.

“Wha’sit,” Colin mumbles. His arm falls from his face to rest across his body. Che sits down on the bed next to him.

“It’s water,” Che replies. He grabs one glass and holds it towards Colin. “You need to remember to drink.”

“M’kay,” Colin says, and does as he’s told. Che nods, satisfied when Colin finishes the glass.

“I think just I’ll—I mean. I think I’ll just wear these sleep clothes tonight. I mean. Fuck!” Colin’s head falls down to hang between his shoulders, shaking in a silent, delirious laugh. “I can’t talk. I’ll just wear these clothes to sleep tonight. I can’t—speak, let alone move.”

Colin goes to lie back down on the bed, but Che’s arm around his back stops him.

“Come on,” Che says. “You know you’ll be uncomfortable if you don’t.”

Colin worries his lip between his teeth. Then he tilts his head towards Che, and their faces are only inches from each other.

“Could you please?” Colin whispers. “I—Che, I literally feel like I can’t move—”

“Shh,” Che says. A thrill of delight spurns through his stomach against his will to hear Colin asking him for something. He doesn’t even have to think about his answer. “Yeah, come on, give that to me.”

Che takes Colin’s glass and places it on the bedside table. He then gingerly removes his arm that’s holding Colin upright, and, seeing that Colin can remain upright, slides down the bed to remove Colin’s left shoe. It comes off easily. The only thing covering the bandages on his right foot is a loose sock, and Che slowly peels it off, being extremely careful to not bump or move Colin’s swollen ankle.

“Good job,” Colin congratulates him.

“Thanks.”

Next is Colin’s trousers. It should really be awkward to have your best friend pull your trousers off, but Che is surprised to find that this situation is not. Colin lies down to undo his button and zip. He places his left heel on the bed and pushes his hips up, and from there it’s easy for Che to slide Colin’s trousers down to his knees, and then, when Colin straightens out his legs, down to his ankles. Pulling them off without hurting the broken ankle is a little trickier. Colin winces once when Che accidentally bumps him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Che says quickly, stopping his motions.

“It’s okay,” Colin reassures him. “It doesn’t hurt half as bad as it did a few days ago. And you’re being really gentle.”

Che doesn’t know what it is; but there’s something about hearing Colin say that to him that makes his cheeks heat up, makes him want to squirm with happiness. He steadfastly ignores any such inclinations and pulls the remainder of Colin’s trousers off of his legs.

“Okay.” Che straightens up and hangs the trousers over a chair in the corner of Colin’s room. “Last time you have to sit up tonight.”

“I can’t do it,” Colin complains.

“Yes, you can.” Che follows the same motions he did earlier by sliding an arm beneath Colin’s back and lifting him up, Colin groaning the whole way. Together they work on Colin’s buttons, although Che manages to get all of them done in the time it takes Colin to undo just one. Che slides the shirt off Colin’s shoulders, then moves to sit behind him, so that he can pull it off easier.

He tries not to, but it’s impossible to avoid touching the smooth, muscled skin of Colin’s arms. When his shirt is off and in Che’s hands, he just stops for a moment, staring at the warm expanse of Colin’s back. Che can see the muscle definition. He can see the smoothness of Colin’s skin. He is absolutely incapable of stopping his traitorous hand from reaching out and glides across that warm skin. It clearly has a mind of its own, as it cups Colin’s far shoulder and then slides up and down his arm. Che doesn’t know what is going on. He’s never talking to that hand again. He’s cutting it off.

The effect his touch as on Colin, however, is obvious. Colin’s shoulders sag down as he curves into himself. It’s like he was a balloon, and Che’s touch has totally deflated him. Colin is so tired that he’s making Che feel even more tired than he currently is—which should be a new record.

“Come on,” Che coaxes him. Rubs his (traitorous) hand up and down Colin’s arm one more time, then draws away. “Lie down.”

“But I have to brush my teeth,” Colin protests, even as he’s already lowering himself onto his elbows.

“We can break from routine for one night,” Che says. His voice sounds soothing. He can’t remember the last time he used that tone in his voice. He’s trying not to think about how often he’s sounded ‘soothing’ over the past few days.

“M’kay,” Colin agrees. He’s already closing his eyes, head resting on the pillow. “In the morning I’ll probably be embarrassed that I asked you to take my clothes off,” he tells Che dreamily. “But I’ll worry about that then.”

“Okay, man,” Che agrees with him, a smile ghosting across his lips. Delirious Colin is hilariously cute.

Che drapes Colin’s shirt over the chair and then stands up straight. Something pops in his back and he winces, stretching his arms up. His whole body feels broken right now. It aches all over. Che groans internally at the thought of cramping himself onto the sofa for another night.

He drops his arms from their stretch with a small exhale. Turning to leave the room, Che darts his eyes towards Colin one more time.

But rather than being fast asleep, Colin’s eyes are open and watching him.

“You okay?” Che asks, pausing.

“Come sleep with me tonight,” Colin says.

Che blinks. “What?”

“The sofa out there must be uncomfortable,” Colin says. “You’ve been sleeping there for, what? Four nights now?”

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Che reassures him. “I want to be here. I would just be worrying about you if I was back at my own place. Here, I can help you out. I told you to ask me for stuff, okay?”

“I know,” Colin nods. “That’s what I’m doing. I’m asking you.”

Che shuts his eyes briefly.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “I mean, ask for stuff for yourself.”

“But this is for me,” Colin interrupts him. “I don’t want you to be lying on that sofa when there’s a perfectly good half of a bed here you could use.” He stares at Che beseechingly. “Come on, Che. Please. For me, at least, if not for yourself. Although I don’t understand why you’d turn down a bed to sleep on that thing out there.”

Che doesn’t understand why he’d turn it down either. So, he doesn’t.

He leaves Colin’s room for a few minutes. When he returns, he’s dressed in pajamas, carrying a toothbrush and toothpaste, and heads towards the ensuite. Unlike Colin, Che can’t sleep without brushing his teeth. It’s routine. It centers him.

When he’s finished in the bathroom, Che flicks off the light and walks around to the far side of the bed. It’s a king size, which is lucky, because anything smaller probably wouldn’t comfortably fit him and Colin, with their broad shoulders and tall frames. Even so, when he slides under the covers Che tries to keep to the edges of the bed, wary of Colin’s ankle.

“It’s okay,” Colin tells him, reading his mind. “You can get a bit closer. My ankle is on the outside of the bed, so I don’t think you’ll touch it.”

“Okay,” Che replies. He shifts about two inches closer. Colin snorts.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“Goodnight,” Che replies.

Che doesn’t think he could possibly fall asleep now. He doesn’t even quite know how he managed to get here, in Colin’s bed, sleeping opposite him. He doesn’t even have time to process. But the past 36 hours at SNL catch up with him all at once and drag him into a deep sleep.

When Che wakes up on Sunday morning, he notices two things.

The first thing is that Che has migrated across the bed during the night, and has somehow managed to sling his arm across Colin in an embrace.

The second thing is that his arm is resting sort of low across Colin’s hips, and there is the unmistakeable press of an erection against his forearm.

Che clears his throat.

“Uh, Colin,” he says croakily, hoping that he’s awake.

“You know,” Colin’s voice cuts in conversationally, “I really should feel relieved. This is the first boner I’ve had since I broke my ankle.”

Che can’t help it—he snorts out a laugh. “Well congratulations, dude.”

“Mm, I don’t really think so,” Colin disagrees, and Che lifts his head towards him, watches as he covers his face with a hand. “It’s kinda tainted by how embarrassed and sorry I am right now.”

Che laughs through his nose, a sharp exhalation of air, and rolls away from Colin to the other side of the bed. Sitting upright, he lifts his arms and stretches, feeling satisfied when some joints crack. He lets his arms fall to the side and stands up.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Che chuckles. He walks out of Colin’s room, making sure to angle his hips in a certain way to ensure Colin doesn’t see the matching erection tenting Che’s own pants.

Che thinks he managed to play that pretty cool, although on the inside, his mind is screaming.

For a big change of pace, Che spends hardly any of his day with Colin. He needs to head back to his place and wash his clothes, run errands, and generally catch up with all the stuff he hasn’t been able to do while living away from his apartment for almost a week.

Late in the afternoon, Colin texts him.

What do you want for dinner?, he asks.

Relief washes over Che. He’s glad that Colin is assuming that Che will return to Colin’s apartment, because it means Che doesn’t have to awkwardly try and ask if Colin wants him back or not. Colin would definitely take that, wrongly, as a sign that Che wants to stay home, and Colin would insist that he’s fine, and that’s just not what Che wants at all.

Instead of having to go through that mountain of confusion, all Che needs to text him is, thai curry.

Red curry? Green? Massaman?

yes, Che replies, then chuckles at the knowledge that Colin will definitely roll his eyes when he reads that.

They spend a pretty content evening sprawled across Colin’s sofa. It’s big—way bigger than the sofa in their office—and there are three types of curry spread out on the coffee table in front of them, so it’s basically the best way to spend the one free evening they get from SNL every week.

By an unspoken agreement, they head to bed early. They need to be at SNL at eight a.m. tomorrow, and they’re both entirely and utterly exhausted.

By an unspoken agreement, they also sleep in Colin’s bed again.

When Che wakes up on Monday morning, it’s a lot earlier than he usually gets up. It’s still dark in Colin’s room. His arm has somehow managed to cuddle Colin again during the night.

“Hey man,” Che slurs, blinking his eyes open. He can just see the outline of Colin’s head in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” Colin hisses, and he sounds like he’s wishing that the bed would just open and swallow him up, make him disappear. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—”

“Wait, what?” Che asks, concerned. He starts to shift his arm off of Colin, to hoist himself up and turn on the light, but in his morning clumsiness his hand shifts downwards and not to the side, and there’s suddenly the unmistakable feeling of a stiff cock beneath his palm.

A restrained moan, gurgled from the back of Colin’s throat, punctures through the silence.

A question suddenly, irrationally, leaps to Che’s lips. He hesitates. He knows he should just do what he did yesterday morning. He just needs to laugh it off, roll out of the bed, leave Colin to his own devices. They’ll have to get up in a couple hours anyway.

But. Che has an idea.

He knows he would chicken out if this was daytime. But the darkness in Colin’s room conceals them both, shrouds them in a safety blanket, and gives Che the courage to ask: “Did you come yesterday morning?

Colin hiccups. “What?”

“After I left your room yesterday,” Che says. He was going to say left your bed, but that feels too big, too scary, too… something. “Did you come?”

There’s a pause, and it’s long enough to get Che feeling nervous, unsure, and he’s about to take it back when he hears—

“No,” in a small voice. Colin clears his throat, but he still speaks softly. “No, I didn’t. I—couldn’t. I tried. But. I don’t know.”

“Maybe the meds,” Che says.

“Maybe,” Colin concedes.

“Or maybe—” Che gulps. He’s about to say his second dangerous thing of the morning. “Maybe it’s because it was you. Your hand. Maybe you need someone… else.”

Colin is silent, but a sudden and suspicious confidence is surging through Che’s veins—and he’s not sleepy now, oh no, he is wide awake.

“Sometimes I get like that,” Che continues. “My own hand won’t cut it. Maybe you lost interest this morning when it was just you. But when I just did this—” and he brushes his hand upwards, making it slide across Colin’s dick again, pulling another of those back-of-the-throat, cut-off moans out of him, “—you seemed pretty damn interested.”

Che can feel Colin holding his breath, his stomach trembling slightly beneath Che’s hand.

“You can ask me to help you,” Che murmurs. He’s pushing slightly. He needs to stop. “Remember what I told you—”

“Yes,” Colin breathes out.

Che freezes. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Colin repeats, and it’s breathy, it’s gasped out, but it’s firm. “Yes, yes, please, Che, yes—”

Colin’s pleading shoots straight to Che’s dick and forces him into action. Without even thinking about it, Che’s moved his hand back down, palming Colin’s dick through his pants, trying to wrap his fingers around the outline of it, hindered by the material.

“Oh!” Colin gasps, louder this time. Pressed up against Colin’s side, Che can feel Colin’s whole body go taut. It’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough.

Che moves his hand away, eliciting a shocked whimper from Colin—Jesus—but it’s only to slide his fingers beneath the waistband of Colin’s pants, following the trail of hair down, down, until Che can wrap his hand firmly around Colin’s length and tug.

“Fuck!” Colin cries out, a hoarse whisper punched out of him. “Oh god, oh—”

The first thing Che notices is that Colin is uncut. He was going to touch Colin the way he would his own cut dick, but he seamlessly adjusts his approach. Che wraps his fingers around the middle of Colin’s dick, grips hard, and starts to pull, up and down. He must be doing something right, judging from the way Colin flings his head back into his pillow, so he keeps at it, experimenting with tugging Colin’s foreskin up and down over the head of his cock, and then drifting his hand down to the base, gripping it firmly, enjoying the weight of Colin’s cock in his hand.

Colin seems to be enjoying it, too, judging by the whispered moans that he can’t contain.

It’s not the most comfortable, and it’s Che’s left hand, so it’s not his best work; but Che props himself up on his elbow, pressed lengthways against Colin, and can feel the heaving of his chest with every laboured inhale and exhale. Che’s leaning over him slightly, and Colin’s hot breaths push upwards to grace across Che’s cheek. He’s so close to Colin that, although Colin’s only quiet, barely speaking above a whisper, Che can hear every word.

“Please, please,” Colin murmurs, in time with Che’s hand pulling at his cock. And for some insane reason, propelled by this wave of courage that’s overwhelming him, Che opens his mouth and says—

“What is it? What do you want?”

Colin’s groan is louder this time. He’s breathing very heavily.

“Please,” he repeats himself, gasping. “Please, can I—could I—”

Che takes this opportunity to change his grip on Colin’s cock, pulling up and tightening his grip around the head. It makes Colin suck in a big breath and babble: “Touch you, Che, please can I touch you—”

Fuck.

“Yes, yes,” Che barely gets out, but that’s all Colin needs apparently, because his arms fly upwards from where they were pinned by his sides—where Colin was restraining himself, Che realises—and his hands grab at Che’s shoulder, holding tightly without stopping his movements up and down Colin’s dick. Colin’s right hand has a better angle, and it moves smoothly down Che’s arm, and Che realises that Colin is feeling up his muscles, feeling out the bulk of Che’s shoulders, and fuck fuck fuck.

Che has to concentrate a lot harder on jerking Colin off now that Colin’s fingers are roaming over him. It distracts him, to have Colin’s hands on him in such a purposeful way. Che knows that Colin is using his hands to feel how big Che is, looming over the top of him. Che knows, even moreso, that Colin is getting off on it: his hips have started making aborted little movements upwards, as though Colin desperately wants to thrust up, but knows he can’t move too quickly, or else he’ll jar his ankle.

Che urges his hand to move faster, and concentrates all his effort on making his left hand do what he wants it to, gripping Colin firmly, pumping his dick. Colin’s entire body goes still when he comes, and his fingernails dig into Che’s shoulders, making him shudder. He hopes that there are marks left for him to look at tomorrow.

“Oh fuck,” Colin breathes out, chest heaving. He just lies there for a moment, and Che desperately wants to drag his fingers across Colin’s stomach—he knows the come must be there but he can’t see it, and he wants to, he wants to feel it—so he does just that.

“Ah!” Colin exclaims softly, and Che feels his stomach flex beneath his fingers—he must be ticklish. And then Colin’s arms move from where they’d locked onto Che’s shoulders. They start sliding up and down again, and the sensuality of his hands on Che’s skin is infinitely heightened by the fact that Che desperately needs to come.

“Are you going to—I mean,” Colin breathes. His hands move down Che’s body, but they can’t reach his crotch from this angle. “Did you come, will you come, please—”

And Che knows him, loves him for this, knew he would be like this in bed; never the one to take and take and not give, always thinking of the other person, even when he’s got a broken fucking ankle—

Che lets out a small groan and rolls over, gets one knee up and his left hand on the far side of Colin’s head. In this position he can push upwards, taking his weight off of Colin completely, but looming over him, leaving their heads close together. It also leaves Che’s right arm free to brush over his own cock, and he shudders at the first touch.

“Fuck, yes,” Colin breathes out. He elongates the ‘ess’ sound of the word, and it sounds so fucking sexy that it overwhelms Che’s senses.

But this is Colin, and somehow he manages to take the word ‘overwhelm’ to new heights, because when one of Colin’s hands wraps around Che’s dick along with his own, Che’s mind actually short circuits.

He was right in what he said to Colin. It does make a difference, having someone else’s grip on your cock. It’s not the same as when Che jerks himself, but it’s made amazing by the fact that it’s Colin, who explores Che’s dick just like Che explored his, testing out different techniques.

It’s a bit too dry, though, and Colin must sense that, because he pulls his hand away, rubs it across his stomach to collect his own come, and then uses that to slick up Che’s dick.

“Fuuuck,” Che groans. He didn’t mean for that to be so loud, but—fuck. Colin’s hand is now warm and slick as it pumps up and down on Che’s cock. It’s maybe the hottest thing that’s ever happened to Che, save for a few minutes ago, when he made Colin come.

Che moves his own hand away from his cock and braces it on the either side of Colin’s head. At the same time, Colin’s other hand is suddenly fondling Che’s balls, rolling them gently, cupping them both together, while his other hand keeps jerking Che’s dick.

Fuck.

When Colin’s hand reaches back and a fingertip brushes over Che’s puckered hole, it’s game fucking over. Che comes like that, with Colin’s other hand squeezing the head of his dick, milking all the come out, making it fall onto Colin’s stomach and mix with his own. Che squeezing his eyes shut against the sensation, burying his head in Colin’s shoulder, his thighs shaking with the strength of his orgasm and the struggle of trying to not collapse on top of Colin.

The silence in the room is now filled with the sounds of both of their panting breaths, harsh and laboured.

After a few seconds, Che manages to push himself away from Colin, falling onto his back. He should say something. He should do something, like get out of this bed. But Che feels sleep violently dragging at his brain, forcing him under. He’s comforted by the fact that he can feel Colin relaxing down into sleep too, his body relaxed under the weight of Che’s arm, which is carefully hugging Colin’s waist.

Monday is…awkward.

When they finally, properly, wake up on Monday morning, Che and Colin realise that they’ve overslept, and they don’t have time to talk about it.

‘It’ referring to, of course, the fact that they both made each other come their brains out only a couple hours ago.

Fuck.

Che wishes it wasn’t so awkward. He spends the whole day freaking out because Colin’s acting weird, but he’s probably only acting weird because Che is freaking out, and it creates a massive shitty feedback loop that results in an abnormally quiet Uber ride from Colin’s place to the studio.

They spend the whole day together, but apart. They’re in the pitch meeting together in the morning—all three and a half fucking hours of it—but they’re surrounded by other people. The same happens during the rest of the day—meetings and writing sessions are always done with others with them; it’s never just Che and Colin on their own.

It’s okay because they’re both professionals, and they know how to act around each other at work. They’ve been doing it for so many years.

It’s not okay because it means Che and Colin never get the chance to really talk on their own, and Che has no idea whether he’s supposed to be going home with Colin tonight.

Che spends the entire day worrying, and it all turns out to be for fucking nothing. Because at nine in the evening, when Kent leaves their office and they finally are alone together, Colin just turns around and asks, as though nothing is wrong: “Will you come back to mine tonight?”

It’s not are you?, leaving Colin’s desire out of the equation; it’s will you?, Colin directly asking Che to, because Colin wants it. He’s requesting it. He’s asking.

Che told him to ask. He wants him to ask.

“Yeah,” Che replies. He feels immensely relieved.

After another hour of writing, they pack up and head out. Che feels very familiar with the Uber route from SNL to Colin’s apartment now. Colin doesn’t need any help getting out of the car, anymore, nor with getting up to his apartment.

It’s suddenly clear to Che that Colin is far more independent now. So why is Che still here with him?

They walk into Colin’s apartment and go through the regular routine: coats off, bags down, grab some water. Except Colin, instead of heading into his room, lies down on the sofa; Che, not knowing what to do, hangs around in the kitchen, sipping his water. He watches Colin let out a big sigh and close his eyes.

“You look exhausted,” Che tells him.

“I feel exhausted,” Colin parrots. “And it’s only Monday.”

Che lets out a chuckle. Colin opens his eyes to look at Che, then lifts his arm and beckons. “Come here.”

Che walks around to the sofa, and slowly lowers his ass to sit on the coffee table. But Colin shakes his head. He shuffles over on the sofa, squishing himself up against the backrest, and pats the pillow beneath him.

It’s a wide sofa, and there is room, but Che just raises a skeptical eyebrow at Colin.

Colin widens his eyes beseechingly. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to ask for stuff.”

Che rolls his eyes. “Technically, you didn’t actually ask,” he snarks, but he does shift his hips over to sit on the sofa next to Colin. He waits expectantly. “Yes? What?”

Colin bites his lower lip. Che tries not to watch it and fails.

“There’s something,” Colin begins, “that I should have done by now, and I haven’t. And I want to. Do it, that is.”

Che squints his eyes quizzically. “Okay?”

Colin clears his throat. “Can I do it? I’m—this is me, asking.”

Che feels very confused, but eventually he nods. “Sure…?”

“Okay,” Colin says, and then lifts up his hand and uses finger to beckon Che towards him. “Come closer.”

Che shoots him a quizzical look and leans in a bit. Colin shakes his head.

“No, closer,” Colin says, and Che gulps. He leans over further, and stops, but Colin keeps beckoning him.

“Closer,” Colin says, and Che’s leaning so far over Colin now that he has to place his hand to the left of Colin’s head to hold him upright, a mirror image of his position on Monday morning when Colin jerked him off.

It’s only then that Colin raises his hands and cups the sides of Che’s head. He pulls him down, slowly, eyes flicking between Che’s eyes and his lips. Che can barely fucking breathe as Colin’s eyes get too close to his to focus properly, and then as his eyelids droop down, he feels Colin press their lips together.

The kiss is dry, warm and sweet. It’s nothing crazy: just lips pressed together, close-mouthed. Colin pulls away for a split second and angles his head slightly to the left before leaning in again, and this time his lips press to Che’s lower lip. He pulls back and does it again, and Che feels his lips responding to Colin’s, moving with them.

It feels wonderful. That’s all Che can think as he and Colin trade these sweet, PG-13 pecks. It’s actually kind of earth-shattering if Che stops and thinks shit, this is actually happening, I’m actually fucking kissing Colin. So he doesn’t stop and think at all. He just lets it happen, lets himself become more involved in the kiss. He lets himself learn how to kiss Colin, what he likes, what rhythms they naturally fall into. He experiments with quicker kisses and slow, languid presses of lips together. Che feels locked here, bent over the couch with Colin’s hands holding his face just where he wants him, and Che fucking loves it.

And then Colin presses a particularly wetter kiss to Che’s lips, waits for them to part, and then brushes his tongue between them, asking.

Che has given Colin everything he’s asked for over the past week. He’s definitely not going to stop now.

The feeling of Colin’s tongue sliding into Che’s mouth is… hot. It’s very, very hot. It switches something on inside of Che. Whereas before he was gentle and tentative, scared that this was all going to fall apart if he moved one muscle the wrong way, he’s now bolstered by a wave of confidence. Che moves one of his hands to Colin’s cheek, holding his head still so that Che can return the favour and slide his own tongue between Colin’s lips.

“Hm,” Colin mumbles, a tiny, breathy sound, but it sends a quick thrill through Che’s stomach, and heightens the tension between them immediately. It’s the first audible reaction from either of them, besides the sounds of their lips smacking apart. Che pulls back briefly and then does it again, swiping his tongue into Colin’s mouth, and Colin’s own tongue comes to meet his, and… it’s fucking great.

The speed of their kisses has sped up, now. Somewhere beneath the dull roar of lust in Che’s brain, he can hear their breathing growing more laboured. Che’s fingers stroke down the side of Colin’s face, his other hand still holding him up and over Colin, their chests only a few inches apart. Now that they took that step and started kissing with open mouths, tongues making everything wetter in a delicious way, neither of them wants to stop.

And then, as Che goes to explore Colin’s mouth again, Colin closes his lips around Che’s tongue and gently sucks.

It’s Che’s turn to let out a breathy moan. He feels the air rush out of his nose in a surprised exhale. His eyelids flutter—they actually fucking flutter—and his brain feels like it’s short-circuiting. Jesus, it feels so fucking hot. It makes Che think of other things that Colin’s delicious, rosy red lips could suck on. The sensation runs straight through Che’s body to his cock, and he feels himself stiffen in response.

“Right,” Che says, and pulls up and away from Colin, their lips smacking apart. He moves further enough up that Colin’s hands fall away from his face, hanging in the air awkwardly.

“Shit, are you okay?” Colin asks, and he genuinely looks concerned, the asshole.

“I’m fucking fine,” Che says, exasperated. He’s breathing heavily. So is Colin. “I’m just two seconds away from escalating this to the part where I jump on top of you and take your clothes off, and that probably wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Oh,” Colin says. He looks crestfallen. “It wouldn’t?”

Che levels him with a deadpan stare. “You have a broken ankle.”

“Oh, yeah,” Colin says. Then his eyes widen and flick back up to Che’s. “Wow. Shit. Yeah, I do.”

“Did you forget?” Che asks.

“I… guess I did.”

There’s silence for a moment. Che breaks it with a snort, which then develops into an actual laugh.

“So basically what you’re saying,” Che grins, “is that I just kissed you so good that you forgot about your literal broken ankle.”

“Nope, no, definitely not,” Colin quickly tries to recover. “That’s not what I said—”

“I’m pretty sure that’s just what you said,” Che is still grinning down at Colin like he’s just won the lottery. “I guess my kissing skills must be pretty fucking fantastic.”

Colin scrunches up his nose and lifts up one shoulder, shrugging as much as he can while lying down on his back. “Ehh, I don’t know,” he says. “You could probably take some pointers.”

“Fuck you and fuck your pointers,” Che murmurs, and leans down to slide his nose again Colin’s and capture his lips in another wet, lingering kiss.

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