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The air in their Brooklyn apartment was still vibrating with the remnants of the argument. It hadn't been a screaming match—they weren't really the screaming type—but it had been sharp. Pointed. The kind of disagreement that left a bitter aftertaste and a ringing silence in its wake.
"I’m not saying you can't handle it, Will, I’m saying you shouldn't have to!" Chance’s voice had been strained, his hands cutting through the air between them in the kitchen.
"And I’m saying it’s my decision!" Will had snapped back, his chest tight with a mix of exhaustion and stubbornness. "I don't need you to swoop in every time things get difficult. I’m twenty, Chance. I can talk to my own boss without you looking up labor laws for me."
"I was just trying to help."
"Well, maybe I don't want help right now. Maybe I just want you to listen!" Will had gestured toward the hallway, his eyes flashing.
Chance stills in the his place. Opens his mouth and then, closed it. He runs away finally, only to turn back and look at him.
It stings. Will can't do this right now.
"Just... go. I can't do this tonight. I need space."
Chance had looked at him for a long beat, his expression a painful mixture of regret and hurt, before nodding slowly. "Okay. I'll stay on the couch. Goodnight, Will."
"Fine. Goodnight."
Will had retreated to their bedroom, shutting the door with a firm click that felt far more final than he actually wanted it to be.
-
Now, three hours later, Will was discovering that "space" was a cold, unforgiving thing.
Their apartment was nice—a bright, high-ceilinged place in a quiet corner of the city. They’d spent months picking out the perfect rug and hanging Will’s sketches on the walls. It was a home they had built together, a sanctuary from the noise of New York. But tonight, the sanctuary felt like a tomb.
The bed was wide. Impossibly wide. Will lay on his side, his back to the empty space where Chance usually slept. He could feel the lack of him like a physical weight. Usually, the room was filled with the rhythmic sound of Chance’s breathing and the radiating heat of his body. Tonight, there was only the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant, muffled sound of a car horn outside.
Will pulled the duvet tighter around his shoulders, but the chill wasn't coming from the air. It was coming from his own chest.
He was still mad. The logic of his anger was still there—he did need to stand on his own two feet, and Chance did need to learn when to step back. But the anger was becoming increasingly difficult to hold onto when all he wanted was to feel Chance’s arm draped over his waist.
He missed him. It was a ridiculous, pathetic realization to have while he was technically only fifteen feet away, but it was the truth. He loved the man in the other room more than he loved being right.
Will tossed and turned for another twenty minutes before he finally gave up. He sat up, his hair messy and his eyes stinging from the lack of sleep. He didn't turn on the lights. He knew the layout of their home by heart.
He pushed open the bedroom door and padded softly down the hallway.
The living room was cast in shadows. Chance was a long, narrow shape on the sofa, buried under a pile of blankets. He looked smaller than usual, curled up to fit the length of the cushions. Will stood at the edge of the rug for a long moment, his heart hammering against his ribs.
His boyfriend must sense someone, cause he stirred immediately.
He’d always been a light sleeper, especially when things weren't right between them. He shifted, pulling the blanket down from his face to see Will standing there in the dark.
"Sweetheart?" Chance’s voice was rough with sleep, but instantly alert. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
Will didn't answer with words. Instead, he moved forward and began to climb onto the narrow edge of the couch. It was a tight squeeze—Chance was already taking up most of the space—but Will didn't care. He nudged Chance’s shoulder until his boyfriend shifted back against the cushions, making just enough room for Will to tuck himself in.
Chance didn't protest. He didn't bring up the fight or the fact that Will had been the one to send him out here. He simply lifted the edge of the heavy wool blanket, creating a warm pocket, and guided Will inside.
Will pressed his face into Chance’s chest, the familiar scent of his soap and the warmth of his skin finally quieting the frantic buzzing in Will’s head.
"The bed was too cold," Will murmured into the fabric of Chance’s t-shirt.
He felt Chance’s chest heave in a heavy sigh. Chance’s arms came around him, pulling him as close as the cramped couch would allow. One of Chance’s hands found the back of Will’s head, his fingers gently threading through Will’s hair.
"I'm sorry," Chance whispered into the crown of his head. "I'm sorry I overstepped. I just... I hate seeing you stressed."
Will let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling into Chance’s shirt. He gave a small, stubborn shake of his head against Chance’s chest. "I’m still mad at you."
He heard the soft, fond huff of a laugh from above him. "Okay, baby," Chance murmured. "You can be mad."
Will pulled back just enough to look up. In the dim light of the city streetlamps filtering through the window, he could see the softness in Chance’s eyes. Will’s own eyes were glassy, a few tears finally slipping free and dampening his cheeks. He felt raw and vulnerable, the shield of his anger having completely crumbled.
"Hug me," Will whispered, his lip trembling. "Please."
The request seemed to break something in Chance. He made a low, pained sound in his throat and pulled Will into a crushingly tight embrace. He tucked Will’s head under his chin, his large hands rubbing comforting circles into Will’s back.
"I’ve got you," Chance said, his voice thick with emotion. "I’m right here."
"I'm sorry, I don't why I said I needed space" Will says quietly, "I just thought you'd leave first, so I said it before you could.'
Chance pulled back just enough to wipe a tear from Will’s cheek with his thumb, his gaze intense and unwavering.
"Listen to me, Will." He shakes Will's head gently with his hand.
Will looks at him.
"No matter what happens—" Chance starts, "no matter how much we argue or how frustrated we get with each other, I am always going to be right here."
Will smiles at that, Chance caresses his cheek, "You can be as mad as you want at me. You can stay mad for a week if you need to. But I’m not going anywhere. I won't leave until you get sick of me and tell me to."
Will let out a wet, startled laugh, the tension finally snapping. "I just told you to leave three hours ago."
"Yeah, well," Chance smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the tip of Will's nose. "I didn't believe you then, and I don't believe you now. You're stuck with me."
Will laughed again, a real one this time, and buried his face back into the crook of Chance’s neck. The couch was definitely too small for two people to sleep comfortably, but as Chance pulled the blanket up over both of them and kissed the top of his head again, Will knew he wasn't going back to the bedroom.
"I love you," Will whispered.
"I love you more," Chance replied, his voice drifting off as he settled deeper into the cushions. "Now go to sleep. We're both going to have back pain in the morning."
"Worth it," Will murmured.
Wrapped in each other’s arms, the argument felt a world away. The couch was cramped, the city was loud, but as Will finally drifted off to sleep, the bed back in the other room didn't feel cold anymore—because the only place he needed to be was right here.