Jerome talks about the sea, in hushed, drowsy tones, the rise and fall of his words stirring Eugene's hair. Here is the bed, here is the window and here is the dawn that has not yet broken. Jerome's cadence is an insidious thing, Eugene reflects, tempting, oh so tempting, to close his eyes and drift, swallowed up in it. But Eugene is a difficult person, and always will be.

Here are the linen sheets, freshly starched, now sweaty, crumpled, cooling. Here is the space between two bodies, and here is the ghost of a woman who lies between them. Here is yet another prediction they could not make, another complication to add to his failings. Emotions. Attachment. Sloughed-off skin and stolen kisses. Blood and water, shed and bled, given, traded. Eugene stares at the ceiling. Will he start seeing constellations now, alongside his drowned dreams?

"Jerome?" Eugene says, and it comes out so easily now, like he had never worn that name.

"Hmm?"

"Go to sleep." Jerome looks up, surprised at how gentle Eugene's voice is.

Eugene is turned towards him, for once. Jerome does not sigh, but merely closes his eyes and leans into Eugene's awkwardly-held arms, listening, quietly, to his steady heartbeat.

Against the dip of Jerome's shoulder, Eugene watches and waits for the sun to rise.

 

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