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Only two things have ever kept Kyle Hyde from his sleep. One is the piercing buzz of his shabby, second-hand alarm clock, bleating frantically at his head as he fumbles to shut it off. The second is less obvious.
It isn't the angry impatience of the city traffic, or the birds that nest in the gutters during the summer months. It isn't his upstairs neighbors who coax horrifying sounds from the ancient, uneven floorboards as they pace from bedroom to bathroom and back again. It isn't even the slam of his own front door when his lover lets himself in after returning from work at five in the morning.
No. It's Bradley's goddamn cigarettes.
Fancy, overpriced shit that he has to ash into a water glass on the nightstand because Hyde hid his ashtrays away in a kitchen cabinet after quitting the foul habit himself. One whiff of that smoke and it busts up his dreams like someone squashed the butt out in his face.
Hyde squints blearily at his trusty alarm clock. 6:04 am. The damn thing's not even set. Why would it be? It's his day off.
"What the fuck, Bradley," he rasps, rolling over into a low-hanging snake of smoke.
Bradley glances down at him from where he's leaning against the headboard. "Sorry. Didn't think you were awake." He takes another two drags before pitching it into his water glass. The glow dies with a hiss.
Propping his head up on one hand, Hyde narrows his eyes in disapproval. He doesn't like to be a princess about his indoor smoking policies, but that heady smell of tobacco still drives him nuts, even now. He figures it's his place. He's entitled.
"What are you doing sitting there in the dark like a creep?" he grumbles. "I thought you didn't have to go in today."
Bradley stares passively into the glass as the water slowly turns to muck. "I have to take care of a few things," he shrugs. "I should be able to swing by later."
"Later, huh?" Hyde chews on his lip, thinking. "Hey, what do you say to a little Chinese for dinner? I've had a craving for some Kung Pao chicken that only Lucky Chung's can satisfy."
Bradley lets out a small laugh as he hunches away from the headboard. "Yeah, all right." He gazes absently at Hyde's cheap plastic blinds, where some sort of dawn is trying to get the jump on the day. The sunlight never quite seems to be able to penetrate the room, no matter the hour.
"Hey." Hyde touches his arm, slowly trailing his fingers down to where Bradley has the covers bunched up over his lap. "You went and ruined my sleep with your creepy staring-into-space shit." He looks serious, slipping his hand beneath the blankets to graze the bare skin of Bradley's thigh. "And now I'm awake."
Bradley smiles lightly, easing back down into bed. "What a crock," he mutters, but Hyde only leans in closer and grins against Bradley's neck, snagging the waistband of his underwear with his forefinger. "Fucking liar," Bradley mumbles. "As if you can smell anything when you're asleep."
Hyde doesn't reply, just presses his palm against Bradley's dick, kissing his jaw as he works the elastic down with his other hand. He runs his thumb over the head of his cock, nudging his legs apart with his knee until he feels a hand at his wrist. "Let me," Bradley whispers against his mouth, and moves to straddle Hyde around the hips.
Hyde groans as Bradley tugs his shorts down and takes him in his mouth. Shuts his eyes and tangles his fingers roughly in Bradley's hair, muttering curses at the ceiling as his breath catches in his throat. Bradley leans forward, running his tongue over the hollow of his hip and back down across his thigh, making Hyde gasp and writhe and shudder like he's about to lose it.
"Come on..." Bradley hisses, and Hyde's fingers tighten in his hair as Bradley wraps his lips around the head of his cock.
"Ah, fuck," Hyde groans as he comes in Bradley's mouth, raking his hands across his cheap cotton sheets. "Shit..." He blinks slowly for a few moments, breathing heavily as he runs his hand over Bradley's shoulder. "Come here," he says hoarsely, drawing Bradley up against him.
Hyde kisses him on the mouth, running his hands down his back, but Bradley tenses as his eyes pass over the clock. "Actually..." Bradley begins, but Hyde keeps kissing him, slowly, deeply, and Bradley has to push lightly against his chest in order to get his attention. "Actually," Bradley says again, distracted. "I have to get outta here."
At first Hyde laughs. "What?" he asks incredulously, lifting his head to watch as Bradley climbs off of him. "Are you serious? It's...what the hell, 6:35? You got a seven o'clock appointment somewhere? Some other guy gets his dick sucked at seven?"
Bradley shakes his head, stepping onto the floor. "I told you. I have things to do."
"Yeah, but, now? Right this instant?" Hyde's smile fades as he watches Bradley pull his shirt off the chair, followed by his pants.
"I have to go. I'm sorry." Bradley swiftly crosses the room, in search of his keys.
"They're on the dresser," Hyde says flatly. Once Bradley's fully dressed he adds, "Is this about the case again?"
"No," Bradley answers, bending over to tie his shoes.
"Then why the hell are you acting so weird all of a sudden?"
"Look, I really have to go," Bradley insists as he rifles through his wallet. "I'm sorry." Shoving it in his pocket, he steps over to where Hyde's still sitting on the bed and kisses him on the cheek. "I'll see you later, okay?
"Right."
Hyde falls back on the bed again as Bradley's footsteps disappear down the hall. The door slams shut. 6:41 am. It's still mostly dark out.
Rolling over, he stretches his arm across the mattress and stares at the wall until he falls back asleep. Bradley's side of the bed is still warm.
It's nearly one o'clock when Hyde finally forces himself to get up. He yawns and pulls on a sweatshirt, that groggy, over-tired yawn of someone who's stayed in bed for far too long. Somehow the sun didn't quite make it out today. Peeking through the blinds, he grimaces at the dull, anemic sky, now overcast with the threat of snow.
He yawns again and pads down the hall to the kitchen, taking Bradley's cloudy glass of water with him. "Disgusting," he mutters, overturning its contents into the garbage.
He leans against the sink for a second, trying to wake up, then goes over to the fridge and takes stock. Not a whole lot to work with. Some leftover pizza, a couple of eggs, a carton of milk of indeterminate age. He roots around in the crisper for a block of cheddar. Giving it an appraising once-over, he shrugs and sets it on the counter next to the eggs. "Breakfast of kings," Hyde mumbles as he slices up some cheese and throws it in a skillet with the eggs.
If Bradley were here he'd frown and fold his arms and say, "Why the hell don't you ever have any food?" Though somehow he'd still manage to cook up a decent breakfast.
But Bradley rushed out of here at the crack of dawn, so Hyde can only stand there and prod at his scrambled eggs with a spatula. When they start to look halfway edible, he kills the burner and dumps them on a plate.
Hyde never eats at the kitchen table on account of it being a perpetual disaster. Covered with case files or reports, or cassette tapes stacked across the edge. Back when he and Bradley used to get assigned to the same cases, they would sit at that table until the sun came up again, cross-referencing files and listening to the same tape fourteen times in a row. They'd sit there when they didn't have to. When they were supposed to be sleeping, or taking the evening off to go clear their heads. They'd fall asleep with the lights on and the take-out going stale on the counter.
And then Bradley started spending the night for entirely different reasons, and it wasn't with his head down on Hyde's kitchen table.
He still remembers when it changed between them. They'd been in the narco division back then, partners all of six months. A bunch of the guys had gone down to the bar one night. Dragged them along. He still remembers the table they sat at. Round one in the corner, Scaletti on his left, Bradley on his right. They kept ordering pitchers of the house beer, watered-down shit that tasted like it was brewed in someone's bathtub. Bradley drank it politely like it was a fine brandy. Hyde had taken two sips and switched to scotch.
He remembers the rickety stools that rocked forward every time you reached for your glass. The puddles of beer on the table that he kept sticking his elbow in. The story Mason insisted on sharing about the tail he bagged the other night, yelling across the table and starting over four times because he'd lost his train of thought. He remembers Bradley sitting there quietly, drinking his beer, and how he kept lighting all of Hyde's cigarettes for him, brushing his hand as he pulled away.
He remembers the dismay he'd felt at being attracted to his partner, that night and so many before, and how he'd vowed never to act on it. And then after his fourth drink he'd felt Bradley's knee brush up against his under the table. At first he'd thought he just needed some room, so he'd looked up sharply and inched his chair to the side. But Bradley had brought his glass to his lips and did it again, pressing meaningfully up against his leg as he reached across the table for Hyde's smokes.
They'd left together at the end of the night, abandoning Hyde's car in the parking lot with the excuse that he was too drunk to drive. Hyde had a hard-on like some stupid fifteen-year-old kid, just from Bradley touching him under the table for the last forty-five minutes. They tore out of the parking lot like the place was on fire, and when Bradley stopped at the first light, he'd leaned over and pressed his mouth up against Hyde's, sliding his hand between his legs. He'd tasted like cigarettes and chewing gum.
The ride back to Hyde's place was longer than hell, and by the time they slammed the car into park, Hyde had his fist around Bradley's dick and his pants down past his knees. "Let's go upstairs," Bradley had groaned, pushing Hyde's hand away. They didn't even make it to the bedroom, just fell against the couch and sucked each other off before passing out.
Hyde had woken up the next morning naked and sore, heart racing as he searched for his pants. But Bradley had just walked calmly out of the kitchen in his socks and underwear, like he'd lived there his whole life. "I'm making you an omelette," he'd informed him. "Even though there was jack shit in your kitchen."
After that they'd stumbled into the bedroom and stayed there until the chief decided he was going to keep on calling until someone answered the goddamn phone. When Hyde got out of the shower, Bradley was still there, going over the Hicksford file at his kitchen table.
That was back when he and Bradley still worked on cases together, when they were still actually partners. Before Bradley started taking special assignments that he doesn't want to talk about, not even with Hyde.
Nile, Bradley had said all those months ago. Undercover work for some big-time crime ring. It was just Bradley on this one, but he didn't seem to mind. Sure, he still accompanies Hyde on occasion, and it's not like they don't wake up to each other every other morning, but something's different now, something's changed. Bradley keeps his casework at his own place, and he hasn't made omelettes in ages.
Hyde forks up the remainder of his eggs and chews blandly. He doesn't know why he makes them scrambled. They're always cold by the time he gets to the last bite.
He keeps waiting for his mother to call. Two days until Christmas and she still hasn't phoned with her annual dose of festive cheer.
Hyde's thirty years old and hasn't been back for Christmas since the winter of '69, but that call's something he can always count on, true to tradition as anything. "Fine, Kyle," she'll say, same as the year before. "Break your mama's heart." She's the only one who ever calls him Kyle. Even Bradley, after all these years, never calls him anything but Hyde.
The funny thing about Christmas is that she knows very well they're not getting together. Before she even picks up the phone, she knows. She waits until two days before to call because she knows her son hasn't requested any vacation time, just like he knows that his mother hasn't taken any time off from her job either. He thinks it'd be a riot to just show up one year and surprise her. Ring the doorbell and be standing there with a side of potato salad or something. "Jesus, Kyle," she'd probably say, "I didn't cook enough food for you."
When he'd first told her he was going to become a cop, she'd put on a whole production. "What if you get shot?" she'd demanded over the phone. "Worse, what if you become crooked? What am I supposed to tell my friends when your department is in all the papers for taking bribes? Caesar's wife must be above suspicion, as they say."
"Ma, don't be ridiculous," he'd groaned. "And what the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you keep your head above ground. Or I'll have to live with it."
He'd just laughed. "Well don't you have a high opinion of yourself. All right, how about if I ever get up to anything shady, I'll spare you the suffering and sever all family ties. I'll even send over some schmuck to pose for photos, so you can replace all the albums you've got of me." She'd agreed.
They don't really talk about his job, him and his mom. He figures that maybe she really is worried, afraid of the dangers that come with pissing off criminals for a living. Maybe it's easier not to ask what kind of case he's been assigned to.
She'd sent him a card when he made detective. He still has it somewhere, buried in his dresser. But other than that, she doesn't bring it up. She just knows that he's got a job to do. Knows that he won't be around for Christmas. The guilt trip's only for show.
Hyde's rooting around for the Chinese menu when the phone finally rings.
"Hello?" he says, flipping up the corners of a stack of papers.
"You get outta bed all on your own?"
Hyde smirks. "Who says I'm not still in bed?"
"That wouldn't surprise me either. You're a hard one to wake up. Usually," the voice adds.
"Hey," Hyde says, finding the menu stuck to the side of his fridge beneath a bunch of old memos. "You gonna be back soon? I thought I'd order us some dinner."
Bradley sort of clears his throat on the other end. "Actually, I'm gonna be later than expected. The... I've got some things I still need to take care of."
Hyde shifts the phone onto his shoulder. "Everything all right?"
"Yeah, yeah. Nothing major," Bradley reassures him. "Just a few things that can't be left until later."
"Am I allowed to know what these 'things' are, or is that top secret information?"
Bradley's silent for a second, then says, "It's nothing big."
"Nile?" Hyde asks, leaning forward on the kitchen counter. "Is something going down?"
"Look, I can't really talk right now. I'll see you later tonight, okay?"
"Fine," Hyde snaps. When Bradley doesn't want to talk, he doesn't want to talk. He's learned lately to just let it go. He's about to say goodbye when something pops into his head. "Hey, I meant to ask you before," he says, trying not to sound pissy. "Did Mila make it to your aunt's okay?"
"What, Mila? Oh, yeah. Yeah, she... She got there on Monday. Yeah, she said he enjoyed the train. Never been on one before."
"That's good," Hyde says.
"Yeah. Right now it's... It's safer for her over there," Bradley says. "I'd hate to—" he falters. "I'd hate to have anything happen to her because of me."
"Well aren't you a ball of sunshine. Christ, Bradley, lighten up," Hyde tells him. "Nothing's going to happen to her. She's in Boston now, and anyway, you're not that important. Trust me."
"Listen, I have to go," Bradley repeats stiffly. "I'll see you later."
"Yeah, all right. Later." Hyde hangs up the phone and presses his fingers to his temples. He stares down at the Chinese menu for a minute, then picks up the phone and dials his mom's number.
Keep it up, her card had said. It's under a pile of old sweatshirts in the top drawer of his dresser. He still looks at it every once in a while.
Lucky Chung's makes the best Kung Pao chicken in the entire city. Some people like to claim that it's Ho Fong's who makes the superior dish, but Hyde thinks those people don't know what the hell they're talking about. Ho Fong's doesn't use nearly enough peppers, and Hyde's of the opinion that if the roof of your mouth isn't singed off by the time you're done eating, the cook hasn't done his job.
Bradley, Hyde is sorry to say, has no taste when it comes to Chinese food. He likes his chicken floating in that sweet and sour slop. "Chicken ain't supposed to give you cavities," Hyde tells him, but Bradley just flashes that perfect, charming smile at him and digs in.
Sprawled on the couch, Hyde opens of his carton of Kung Pao chicken and turns on Barney Miller. It's a Christmas episode, go figure. Yemana just dragged some ungodly tree into the squad room and Barney's staring at him like the thing's on fire. He likes Barney Miller, which is weird because he never thought he'd want to sit through a show about more New York cops.
He reaches around behind his head and grabs his beer off the end table. Bradley's purchase, that end table. Hyde wouldn't be caught dead shopping for such a dainty piece of furniture. As it happens, a lot of things in the apartment are because of Bradley. The coffee maker. The coaster set. That little rug that fits around the bottom of the toilet. Stupid stuff that Hyde doesn't give enough of a shit about to buy himself, but that just appeared one day, piece by piece, without him noticing.
They've been together a while now, him and Bradley. They've had time to learn each other's habits, each other's quirks. Like how Hyde can't sleep without any covers on, even when it's ninety degrees and the fan's just wasting electricity blowing hot air in through the window. Or how Bradley always turns the volume on the TV about ten notches too high, which still isn't loud enough for him, but he believes in compromise. They know how to piss each other off. How to drive each other wild. Hyde knows that Bradley throws a fit whenever he trims his hair over the bathroom sink, just like Bradley knows that Hyde gets hard just from kissing, even after all these years.
Bradley's got a key to his apartment and everything. Hyde sort of thinks that he wouldn't mind moving in together, the two of them. They could get a bigger place, someplace closer to work maybe. Hell, he'd even let Bradley decorate. But the thing is, Bradley never talks about it like that, never mentions it.
Part of it's that he's got a kid sister who stays with him. Not that Mila's much of a kid anymore. She could easily live on her own; it's not like she doesn't already. But even then, Bradley only ever keeps a few shirts over at Hyde's place. He still stops off at home to change, sometimes to eat. To sleep too, if they're on opposite shifts. They drive separate cars to work, even when they're leaving from the same place.
It's not like Hyde can find anything wrong between the two of them, not anything tangible. It's just a feeling, this slow burn. Something prickling at the inside of his chest that grows hotter when he lets himself think too much. It's only gotten worse since Bradley got sucked into this undercover gig. He's been trailing Nile for a while now, and Hyde's noticed the changes. Bradley used to keep him in the know, sharing whatever he'd managed to dig up. And then, little by little, he stopped, changed the subject whenever Hyde asked. And all of a sudden everything's different. He goes longer without staying over. Runs with a different crowd down at the precinct. Bradley's in a private meeting with the chief while Hyde's doing the paperwork on a bunch of two-bit liquor store hold-ups.
They haven't exactly gone public with everything that's going on between them, but lately Bradley doesn't even want to grab lunch together. They used to hit up the pizza joint around the corner from the office. Papa Giovanni's, best slice in town. But now Bradley grabs his coat and says he's gotta go, and Hyde just sits there at his desk, counting out change for the vending machine.
They would go out for dinner after work. Classy joints, even. The kind where you have to wear a tie. They'd come back to his place and listen to interviews on Bradley's cassette player, taking notes and chain smoking until they ran out of cigarettes. Then they'd move to the bedroom and screw like a couple of horny teenagers, and when the alarm went off the next morning Bradley would be there next to him, pressing slow, hot kisses against his neck.
They used to spend their days off together. Now Hyde's sitting alone on his couch, eating Chinese out of the carton and watching Fish dress up as Santa Claus.
Sometimes Hyde wonders if Bradley isn't just losing interest. That maybe they only got on so well because they were partners, so far caught up in their work that the passion overflowed somehow. Maybe now that their partnership's going down the drain, the rest is going to follow.
Hyde finishes his beer and pushes himself off the couch with a groan. The Kung Pao was too much to handle. Closing up the box, he sticks it in the fridge next to the carton of sweet and sour chicken, neat and unopened. He thinks they look kind of sad there, all alone on the empty shelf of his fridge.
Hyde's already gone to bed when he hears the faint click of the front door. That creak in the floorboards by the entryway, then the soft rustle of a coat being draped over the chair in the kitchen. The fridge opens, squeaking at the hinge. Closes again. Hyde turns and looks at the clock. 2:13 am. He stares at the ceiling, waiting.
Footsteps sound down the hall, and then Bradley's standing in the doorway.
"Hey. You awake?"
Hyde can smell the smoke on him from there. "There's chicken in the fridge," he says. "You eat anything?"
Bradley walks into the room and starts to unbutton his shirt. "I noticed," he says. "Might've had a bite already."
Hyde grunts. "Pig."
Bradley folds his shirt up and sets it on the chair in the corner, then does the same with his pants. Hyde rolls over onto his side as Bradley gets into bed next to him.
"What'd you do all day?" Bradley asks.
Hyde smirks. "Built a church out of mud and twigs and love. You should check it out on your way to work. I did a mighty fine job." Bradley snorts. "See you had quite the busy day yourself," Hyde continues.
"Yeah, well." Bradley presses his knuckles into his eyes and rubs at them. "I had more to do than I expected, I guess. And then I stopped back at home before I came here. Had to take care of some things first."
Hyde watches him carefully for a second, then says, "You know, I was thinking. You could move in here. Actually move in, I mean, not just a couple of shirts in my closet. We could even get a bigger place, maybe." He looks off to the side. "Or, whenever. But, you know, you wouldn't have to always stop off at your place all the time, coming in completely beat."
Bradley laughs vaguely. "That'll have them talking for sure. I can just hear the guys down at the precinct: 'Those faggots, Bradley and Hyde, I heard they're shacking up now.' Like they don't talk enough as it is."
Hyde sits up sharply, wincing, like he's been slapped. "Is that what this is about?" he demands. "Is that why you've been acting like this lately? Huh?"
Bradley sits up next to him and puts his hand on Hyde's arm. "Whoa, hey, I didn't—"
"No, Bradley," Hyde interrupts. "Is that it? Huh? You don't want any of your friends at work to call you a fucking faggot. I get it."
"Hyde, that's not it!" Bradley grabs him by the wrists, shakes them desperately. "I'm sorry, I—I didn't mean that."
Hyde wrenches himself free. "No? You haven't had enough of me? Your stupid faggot boyfriend isn't going to hold back your career?"
"What? Why would you—why would you even... That's not it! Not at all!"
"No?" Hyde says darkly. "Then what is it?"
Hyde sits there in silence, waiting for an answer. Bradley stares helplessly back at him, hair falling into his eyes.
"I—I love you, Kyle," Bradley finally says, his voice raw. "You have to know that, right?" He takes Hyde's limp hand in his, kneading the palm with his fingers. "I love you so much, I—I don't even know what to do with myself."
Hyde looks at him for a long moment, sitting there in his bed, grasping at his fingers with so much sadness in his eyes. Then he pulls Bradley against his chest. "Hey," he says. "I know."
They fall asleep tangled in each other's arms, Hyde's face buried in the crook of Bradley's neck. Normally they can't sleep all on top of each other like that, but somehow they do, huddled up on the far end of the bed. Hyde rolls away in the night, but his arm stays curled around Bradley's shoulders, like protection.
It's back to work tomorrow. The alarm's all set for 9:15.
So of course, Hyde doesn't wake up when Bradley gets out of bed before the sun rises. Doesn't hear him getting dressed in the dark, or collecting his stuff from the top of Hyde's dresser. He doesn't feel Bradley kiss him softly on the forehead, or whisper into his hair. And he doesn't hear Bradley slide his apartment key off the ring and drop it into the ashtray that Hyde keeps hidden in his kitchen cabinet. Doesn't see Bradley's face, pale and broken, as he takes his coat from the chair, opens the door, and leaves.