Your chest expands, but you can't breathe. It's there, everything you wanted, in this buzz underneath your skin. And you can't breathe, but you don't mind, because this is it, this is everything.
Everything there is, everything there can be, is on these twisted, sweaty sheets, and quivering lips and this feeling of being completelytotallyabsolutely spent and not even caring because this, this exhaustion—
No, not exhaustion. Exhausted is long, hard, shift and overtime and dead kids and no leads and coming home alone and he's not there and you're too tired to sleep, and four hours till shift starts anyway, so booze is a no go, and you'll never get much sleep anyway and you can't breathe—but not in a good way and—
No. This isn't exhaustion, this is—you don't want to move because things are so fucking perfect that nothing needs to change and you don't need to breathe and the weight of his head on your chest, and his hair in your hand, and legs and warmth and fingers and skin and touch and feel and kisslickbite and hold. You just hold him and he holds you and it's all over now and you're so tired, but you don't want to sleep and you're warm all over and satiated, content, alive, but not painfully so, and there it is, the sound of him breathing, wet and warm and loud against your skin and—
And you can't breathe and your heartbeat is too fast, and you know he can hearfeel it, against his ear and you wonder what he thinks and feels but you're too tired to ask and you want to move, want to press your hand against his chest and check how fast his heart is pounding, but you can't seem to make your hand untangle itself from his soft sweaty sleek hair, and your other hand is curled around sticky slick sheets and you can't let go, can't let go of him, or this moment, or this heat, or this sticky sweet skin, and a body so beautiful that you can feel its beauty melt into you, and you can feel the beauty of what you've just done and—
And everything is beautiful. The dim light through the blinds only half-closed, and the stereo still on in the next room and the tiny hum he just made against your chest and the way your breathing is starting to slow and your eyes are closing and it's okay to sleep now and you're okay now, you and him, because nothing else matters now and you don't have to think anymore, don't even have to feel and—
"I'm sorry" and wet against your chest as he buries his face into your skin and his staccato breathing and gasp gasp shudder shudder.
You tighten your hand in his hair and you don't ask why he's sorry cause you know he'll tell you anyway, and he's so beautiful when he buries himself in you, loses himself in you, you in him and everything is gone and there's only the two of you and nothing else matters and you're finally calm and warm and fuzzy and everything's okay now, everything except
"I'm sorry my best friend's alive and yours isn't."
Nick turned onto his stomach and closed his eyes. He needed to have sex again; he needed to get that feeling back.