Clusterfuck

vi

"H-hey," Leo breathes, a cloud of white forming from between his lips and piercing the cold. His teeth are chattering. Toby hears it.

"Hey," Toby sighs, his eyes falling shut with the slow collapse of his chest. He doesn't really know what else to say.

"So. Um. I... didn't know you're friends with Jordan."

"I haven't exactly had a reason to tell you."

Leo raises his eyebrows and nods. "Touché."   

There's a silence then, and it's awkward. Not the kind of silence that they experienced a million years ago, back in the library, when Toby was too nervous to speak. Not the kind of silence that can be romanticized, passed off as a cutesy little quirk in their relationship. No, this silence is as awkward as awkward can possibly be. Toby wants nothing more than to get away from it. So he tries.

"Well, see you," he murmurs, and for a split second bothers to wonder just how exhaustion can make him much more confident in being blunt. Probably because he's just done.

"Wait, Toby," Leo says quickly, and Toby does. Mostly because he realizes that that is the first time he has heard his name from Leo's lips. Not that it matters or anything. But. It's an interesting observation.

Toby swallows. "What."

Leo glances downward, and Toby notices his dark eyelashes are glistening with frost, contributing to the twinkle in his eyes that never die out, apparently, no matter how dark it is outside. "Aren't you cold?" he asks quietly.

Toby blinks. "Uh. Yeah." Because it's really fucking cold outside, so obviously. "What, are you not?"

"I am," Leo assures him, and his dimple is there. It's always there, but Toby can't stop looking at it now, for whatever reason. "But aren't you worried you'll catch—what was it? Hypothermia?"

Just how many cocktails did Leo "DIY" tonight?

"What are you talking about?" Toby asks, knitting his eyebrows together in confusion.

Then he watches as Leo's smirk stretches wide on his face, prominent as ever, as Leo holds up Toby's coat. Toby wants to kick himself.

Twice in one day? Both times, returned to him by this guy?

"You know, you're always in such a rush to leave," Leo says, unfolding the coat and holding it up with the inside facing Toby. "Why are you always so eager to move on to the next place? One of these days, you'll get sick."

Toby's about to hit him with the "Thanks, mom," but he doesn't. Because that would be hypocritical and Toby is not a hypocrite.

Unlike earlier that day when he'd simply passed over the article of clothing, Leo seems adamant on making no such gesture this time around. Toby's heart does a ker-thump as he rotates on his heels and turns his back toward Leo, allowing him to pull the coat up over his arms and shoulders for him.

Toby turns to face Leo again and croaks out a brief "Thanks," before going to fiddle with the zipper, but Leo's already beat him to it. His long, bony fingers get there before he can, and he fastens Toby's coat slowly, as if they've got all the time in the world. As if Toby doesn't have an unconscious roommate in the passenger seat of his car.

"You're always in a rush," Leo says again, and—did he get closer? Toby's mind is reeling again, and he feels more like his usual self: less confident, at a loss for words, blushing like a schoolgirl. God. Leo's shampoo really smells like lemons. "You'll probably jam the zipper again."

"I won't," Toby squeaks. He hates how quickly his carelessness, invoked by sheer fatigue, and overpowered by gay adrenaline, just dissipated into thin air.