If You Must Hold

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Baz

Simon's bed feels inconceivably soft after weeks of sleeping (poorly) in a hospital bed. His arms are warm around me, reminding me that I'm safe. That I'm home.

He's asleep, his breath tickling the back of my neck (Simon is still a mouth breather). Drowsiness is tugging at me, too, and soon I won't be able to fight it off. For the moment, I force my heavy lids to remain open. Instruct my eyes to stay focused, just for a little while longer.

I'm staring, transfixed, at the shaft of moonlight drifting in from the window. Not because there's anything the matter with it. Just because it's light. Because I spent an eternity floating in a space so black no light could ever even dream of escaping through. Because it's impossibly bright in a universe so dark. Because it's beautiful in its luminescence.

Maybe I'm also thinking of the way it shifts and dances on Simon's golden skin. How it weaves through his bronze curls. How it turns his bright lips a pale, soft pink. How it makes shadows under his eyelashes, making them look long and dark and full. How it lights him up, showing him in a way that only I get to see. How fucking beautiful he is.

One last smile quirks up the corners of my lips before drowsiness claims me as its own, and I drift into the blissful quiet of sleep.

One last smile quirks up the corners of my lips before drowsiness claims me as its own, and I drift into the blissful quiet of sleep

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