Work Text:
It’s always this way.
The constant, low churning in his gut, somewhere between excitement and dread.
His heart begins to race.
His head whirls.
Warmth gathers low in his belly. The flutter that’s never far away, begins.
Sweat collects tacky on his palms. His upper lip. His groin.
He closes his eyes, and breathes.
It doesn’t help.
It never does.
He’s shaking.
He wonders when it began. This euphoric terror.
When it began to feel like floating.
Like life.
He wonders if it’ll ever end.
If he’ll survive it when it does.
His lips are dry. He moistens them routinely. Nervously.
His hand trembles as he lifts a tumbler to his lips. Sups of the sweet burning succor within.
He’s parched.
Only one thing can slake his thirst.
Not alcohol, nor water.
The knock at the door startles.
He ghosts his palms over faded denim. Flicks at non-existent lint. Smooths his shirt.
The door opens on blue comfort.
Closes on sustenance. On tranquillity.
On love.
Misha draws him in and kisses him gently.
Everything settles.
He’s home.
…it’s always this way.