It'd been three days since the fight, and Spot was miserable.
He rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily in the dark. It was too hot under the blankets and too cold on top of them; he'd changed into three different pairs of pajama pants, to no avail; he'd opened the windows and closed them and opened them again. The cacophonic sounds of the city outside did nothing to ease him to sleep like they usually did.
It didn't matter. Spot knew what the problem was.
"Would you just leave me alone? You can't help, so don't fucking bother. Just go away."
He rolled over on his side, checking his phone and squinting at the brightness. It was two o'clock in the morning. Spot scrolled aimlessly on some news website, barely reading any of the articles as he swiped through them. Recipes for the Fourth of July, personality quizzes, stories about firemen saving cats and people doing inspiring things. Stuff he would have showed to Race, had Race been there in bed.
But he wasn't, of course. Spot checked the time again. Two fifteen.
A taxicab honked outside, blaring its horn for a good fifteen seconds. Spot remembered how he and Race would sit on the fire escape when the nightmares kept them both awake, competing to see who could count the longest horn, spot the biggest crowd of tourists, name every building they could see. They'd stay there until one of them fell asleep, slumped on the other's shoulder, and the other would carry them inside.
Spot cursed, flinging his phone down and wishing everything in the entire goddamn city of New York didn't remind him of Race.
"I want to help. You know I want to help. I fucking care about you, asshole, okay? Don't push me away just because you're scared of asking for help from people."
Spot bundled himself up in the blankets, blinking hard. He was still on his side of the bed - he didn't remember when one side of it had become his and the other had become Race's, but it'd happened - and the bed felt too big and too cold and too empty. He rolled over to Race's side of the bed, burying his face in the pillow and inhaling the scent of mint and shampoo and candle smoke and feeling the tension drain out of his shoulders for just a second, surrounded by the feelings of Race and familiarity that so often went together.
Spot managed to sleep maybe fifteen minutes before the scent stopped being enough. It wasn't the same. He buried his face in the blankets and willed himself not to cry.
"What makes you think I'm scared of anything, huh? Maybe you just can't fucking solve everything, like you think you can. Maybe the world isn't that fucking simple."
Around two forty five, Spot wandered into the living room, dragging the blankets behind him, and sat cross legged on the couch, turning on the TV. There was some late-night talk show on with a comedian he'd never heard of, and he watched it without really watching, eyes burning as he zoned in and out. Every so often his eyes would slip closed, but he'd jerk awake just as he began to fall asleep.
Spot flopped onto his side on the couch and groaned, rubbing under his eyes with one hand. The show on TV changed to a rerun of The West Wing. Race loved The West Wing, made Spot watch it with him all the time. Race loved it for the political drama, Spot liked the witty arguments, and they both liked to ogle Rob Lowe.
He scowled and turned the TV off.
"Look, I - goddamnit, Spot, I love you, okay? Maybe I can't fucking solve everything and maybe I don't know what's wrong and maybe I never will, but I love you and I want you to fucking let me in."
Spot wandered into the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, but couldn't bring himself to eat more than two bites. God, he was so fucking tired. He just wanted to go to bed and sleep through the night, but he knew that wasn't going to happen. Spot hadn't slept more than an hour total per night since Race had stormed out of the apartment three days previously. He bit down on his bottom lip, watching his hands start to shake.
"I want you to leave me alone."
Spot stood abruptly from his chair, breathing shakily, pacing around the kitchen.
"Spot, I-"
"Just leave me the fuck alone, okay?"
He slid to the floor with his back against the fridge, burying his head in his arms and feeling the panic set in.
"Fine. It's obvious you don't need me."
A knock sounded at the door, frantic and quick. Spot's head shot up, dizzy and spinning. He stood slowly, pulling his sweatshirt tight around him and walking over to the door. He rested his hand on the knob for a few seconds, debating just going back to bed and ignoring it, but in the end he yanked the door open, maybe expecting Jack with a weird question or Albert looking for a place to crash.
Who he didn't expect was Race, standing in the doorway in pajama pants and an old hoodie of Spot's and looking as tired as Spot felt.
"Look," he said before Spot could say anything, "I'm sorry and I know I shouldn't be here and it's late - well, really it's early - and I know I fucked up, and I said some stupid shit that I shouldn't have but I haven't slept in days and I know it's because I sleep better with you, and I know that sounds stupid but--"
Spot walked straight forward and buried his face in Race's shoulder, wrapping both arms around his waist and holding tight. Race froze mid sentence before letting out a shuddering breath and enveloping Spot in his arms, burying his face in Spot's hair. Spot felt all the tension drain out of his body, as if something in his brain clicked and said oh, that's what we were missing.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled into Race's sweatshirt. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I shut you out, I'm sorry I said those things, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you." Race pulled him in closer, held him a little bit tighter, pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.
"I'm sorry too," he whispered. "I'm sorry I left. These past three days have been hell. I'm so sorry."
"I haven't slept either," Spot admitted quietly. "Not at all. I need--" he cut off, feeling overwhelmingly like he was about to start crying. "I need you there," he breathed, so soft he wasn't even sure Race heard it until Race drew in a shaky breath.
"Oh, Spot, sweetheart," he breathed, and that was all it took. Spot cried into Race's shoulder, shaking like a leaf, both of them swaying back and forth in the still open doorway of the apartment. Race rubbed soothing circles on Spot's back with one hand, his trembling body the only indication that he was crying too. They cried of relief, the sheer relief of having each other back and everything feeling right again.
After what felt like an eternity, Spot pulled away just slightly to look up at Race. "Hi,"he said quietly, and Race laughed softly.
"Hi," he repeated. "Should we move inside? I'm pretty exhausted."
Spot nodded, realizing again just how tired he was. "Inside sounds fantastic," he agreed, releasing Race from their hug only to grab his hand and pull him inside. Spot grabbed his blankets off of the couch and together he and Race collapsed into bed, tangling together in a pile of limbs and warmth. They lay facing each other, cheeks still tearstained and eyes still red and tired.
Race brushed a floppy section of Spot's hair off of his forehead, kissing him softly. "I love you," he whispered, leaning their foreheads together and closing his eyes. Spot smiled and kissed him again.
"I love you too," he whispered back, shifting closer and tucking his face into Race's neck before finally, blissfully falling asleep.
They both skipped class and slept until one in the afternoon the next day, and both agreed it was the best they'd slept in years.
