Todd's not sleeping, but Neil doesn't know that when he tumbles into the room, still flying high as Puck. He catches himself, blinking slowly as his eyes adjust to the moonlight from the brightness of the hall.
Todd wonders what Neil's doing, hovering. But then he feels it, Neil's hand ghosting over his hair, breath warm on his cheek, gentle kiss pressed to his temple, "Goodnight, my poet," barely a whisper. Then the rustle and creak as he shuffles out of his clothes and into bed.
The space between them aches, and Todd pulls the blankets tight as an embrace.