I have literally no excuses anymore. This is shameless, domestic fluff that has nothing to do with current affairs, which will probably be my policy the next ~2,5 months. Canon, what's canon?
John blinks, blinks again, stares blearily at the tv on mute, showing some inane show. He must have dozed off again on the couch. He groans, reaches blindly for his phone. The screen shows 11.28 pm and several missed calls. No new messages. Good. If it's urgent, his team will leave a voice mail. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.
He slowly sits up, smiles at the blanket on his lap. Henrik must have draped it over him.
His yawn ends in a groan, body aching in pain. He massages his shoulder. It's times like these that he becomes aware of his aging body, not when he's searching for suitable trial candidates, not when he's in theater performing long, complex surgeries.
His eyes sweep across the room in search for the remote. He freezes when there's only one on the table. He's upended the small basket containing every remote of this place, pressed at random buttons before he's found the right one. Henrik has explained to him, several times now, but his words are a foreign language to him. So are the gadgets Henrik loves so much. John has yet to use most of them, somewhat intimidated by the complexity of technology. And he's afraid he'll break Henrik's possessions.
He hits the red button. Typical Henrik, always tidying up after him.
He stands, joints cracking. John knows this place far better than his own, temporary rented flat. He's spend countless hours systematically going from room to room, studying every detail, soaking up as much information as he can. The only room he's left alone is his study.
His socked feet mute his steps up the stairs. He passes the first door – spare room – and steps through the second. The smell of Henrik's shampoo and the fogged cubicle ignites a warmth inside him and makes him smile. He shrugs off the hood on his head brushes his teeth. He grins as he rests his toothbrush beside Henrik's. Snuggled against each other.
He swipes away the condensation on the mirror, checks his appearance. His hair is still a bit wet from the shower he's taken earlier. He used to shower in the morning, before he's taken the trial here, met Henrik again and can now be regularly found in his house.
They have yet to shower together, but one day it might happen. And John will make sure it won't be limited to sharing shampoo and the shower head.
His mind provides some very alluring scenarios in the meantime.
He peers inside the bedroom. All lights are on. Knowing how frugal Henrik usually is, this sight tells him it's for John.
He's sitting in a chair, legs crossed, pen in one hand. An ordinary sight if this is anybody else. For someone as private as Henrik to let his guard down near his presence, that is exactly what John finds so special. Enticing even.
Henrik glances up. His eyes find his, soften for a moment, before they glint in that particular way. Just like that, his arousal vanishes.
John narrows his eyes. The first time Henrik's whispered cute is forever carved in his mind. He woke up in his bed, sleepy, sullen, shabby, the complete opposite of Henrik looming over him, already dressed for the day, looking pristine and perfect as ever. What made it worse was that nothing had happened the night before. Just sleep. Well, Henrik slept. John...watched him as the seconds slowly passed, memorizing every detail of his face, the shape of his body under the blanket, this whole experience in case that night would be their only night.
Fortunately, John had been wrong.
"You could have woken me," he mutters, not liking how petulant he sounds.
"And disturb your rest?"
Now Henrik's definitely thinking about the word cute as his gaze sweeps up and down his body, lingering on his wrinkled hoodie. John tugs at it, suddenly wishing he's payed more attention to his clothes too.
Too late now. John scratches a cheek. He resists the urge to fight back. Henrik will have won, then. But one look at him and John knows he's already lost. He can't stay angry with him, not when Henrik stares at him as if he's special and deserves his attention, his care, his endless love that John knows Henrik possesses, but rarely shows.
His hair's still slightly wet. He wants to find a towel and dry his hair, use that opportunity to stroke his hair. Perhaps later.
"Have you eaten?" he asks.
"Yes. It was delicious, thank you." If Henrik notices the change of subject, he doesn't show.
Another successful dinner. He's a good cook. Henrik's better in John's opinion but he always disagrees, and it always leads to a stalemate. He decides to accept the compliment this time.
"But John, you must work on the portions. Last time I counted there are two of us."
John shrugs, busy giving himself a pat on the back. "Better too much food than not enough. I'll eat it tomorrow." He'll eat it now – he never says no to food – but Henrik's very fussy about eating in bed. No matter how he tempts him, but this has no crumbs, I brought an extra large plate, I'll change the sheets tomorrow!, Henrik won't budge.
"There's a difference between cooking for two, and for four."
Well, John hates it when there's not enough food. Not enough of anything, really.
Henrik shakes his head fondly and turns his gaze to...whatever is on the desk.
"What are you doing?" he asks, crossing the room. One part of him is curious, one part misses not having Henrik's full attention, and one part always wants to be closer to Henrik in every sense, always closer and closer and closer until he doesn't know where he ends and Henrik starts.
He catches a whiff of his hand cream. Henrik has borrowed his once, and hasn't stopped since. John doesn't mind, because really, what's his is Henrik's too. He bites his lower lip. It's becoming hard not to ravish Henrik right here, right now.
Henrik's reading something, quickly turns the page.
He blinks. He recognizes it. It's his latest paper, one that isn't published yet.
Henrik refuses to meet his gaze, caps his pen. That is his only response, and John hates that this is as flustered as he can become. Besides, he doesn't understand why Henrik wants to hide this from him. In fact, he's glad. For once his interest in his work isn't accompanied by distrust and questions that feels too much as an interrogation.
"How did you..." John trails off, tilts his head to one side.
"Yes?"
He waits for Henrik to explain how he got his hands on something that only existed as a file on his laptop. When he remains silent, only raises an eyebrow, John sighs. He should have known. Suddenly Rox's strange reactions made sense. She had once asked for the password on his computer. He only stared back blankly, said that there's no password. He probably should take better care of his electronic devices.
Touche. He supposes this is payback for all the times he's stolen Henrik's keys from a warm pocket or his locker and forced him to either call his cell phone or ring his own doorbell.
He glances at Henrik. At least he looks sheepish, but the glint in his eyes tells John he's enjoying this.
"My theater slot has been pushed back two hours."
The silence that follows doesn't drown out what Henrik really means: he was bored.
He swallows a chuckle and shakes his head. "If you haven't chased me away..." He pauses for effect, lowers his voice. "I could have provided you with some excellent distraction."
Henrik gives him a look, clearly not impressed.
He winks, but quickly sobers, straightens his back. "You know I don't mind staying after hours, right?"
There's nearly nothing he won't do for Henrik. He can ask him anything. He'll obey. He'll give him the world if he wants it. But that's exactly the problem. Henrik doesn't.
Henrik nods, but John's not sure if he understands, not sure if he truly believes him. But still, this is better than silence, leaving without a word, or that insufferable wall separating them.
He perches on the desk, makes sure he's close, but not too close. When Henrik doesn't lean back, or worse, retreat to a place in his mind that John can't reach, a bubble of satisfaction grows inside him. He stares for a long moment at Henrik, feeling the urge again to grab his face, kiss him, tease him until Henrik kisses him back. He'll deepen the kiss, melt into him. Dark spots will appear in his vision and a light headedness will cloud his mind, but he'll continue a few more seconds just because he can.
He can't help it. Here he is, a freshly showered Henrik, so close John can almost taste him. He has needs. His body agrees, already excited from the scenario in his mind and is eager to reenact it, to go even further. He moves a hand to hide the evidence straining his sweatpants
Henrik uncaps his pen, nudges his paper closer.
He frowns. "What are you doing?"
Henrik ignores him, continues to write.
That put an end to his excitement. He grabs his paper without warning. The tip of the fountain pen leaves a wobbly line of ink on the page, a sign that Henrik's caught off guard. Good. Usually it's the other way around. It's good to shake things up once in a while.
"John," he chides him softly, but firmly.
He ignores him now, scans the page, pleased that he's becoming used to Henrik's neat handwriting. But he sobers when he reads words long winding. That's ironic, since Henrik's comment seems never ending too.
"Is the whole thing like this?" he asks, half joking, half dreading the answer.
Henrik glances back in silence. John recognizes that look. Doesn't trust it either. He's up to something.
He turns to the previous page, sees more criticism scribbled in the margins – inconclusive evidence, too technical – but then his eyes catch a word, underlined twice.
A typo.
He wonders if it's too late to jump out the bedroom window, pack up his stuff and flee to Antarctica.
"There is more," Henrik says. Of course he adds fuel to the fire.
He hides his face behind this hideous piece of work that's his own.
"On page three there's-"
John stops listening. It doesn't work. Not really. His voice always attracts him, roams about his mind afterwards, the same way a bloodhound can follow a scent, several days old.
"Please stop," he mutters as Henrik's sums up his mistakes.
Henrik does stop. But just when John thinks he's done, he takes a deep breath and says, "On page five-"
He groans loudly. This is too mortifying. The words useless and failure echo in his mind.
Henrik pats his thigh, a gesture meant to comfort him. His eyes carefully peek over his paper, expecting him to continue this ruthless massacre. No, Henrik only stares at him, with that look. That's even worse: he's definitely thinking about silly words such as adorable and cute.
He huffs, glares at the cause of this fuss and barely notices when Henrik stands. He straightens the strings of his hoodie, left, then right, nods, then frowns. He reaches behind him, tugs his hood better in place. If John tries really hard, he can pretend Henrik's hugging him. He can use a hug. Or better yet, crumple his work and start over again.
But before he can do anything, Henrik takes a step back, nods again and leaves without a word. John stares at the now empty spot, blinks, lowers his head and glares at the offending words. It's their fault that Henrik's left, that John's alone now. But the longer he stares, the more the urge grows to sit down.
His feet take him to the bed, as if John and his body have become separate entities. He sits cross legged on the middle of the mattress.
He starts at the beginning. The comments...make sense, in a way. John prefers practice, not theory, has difficulty paying attention to detail, has never liked paperwork. It's never ending, just as the trial is filled with hardship, suffering, death. And so many other things that need his attention. His heart fills with despair and clouds his mind.
A hand rests on his knee.
John flinches, stares up, meets Henrik's concerned eyes. He glances away and grits his teeth. He hates that, adding more burden to his heavy load.
And he hates it that he can't stop himself now, hates how weak and small his voice sounds when he asks, "You don't like this?"
He gestures to the diagram on the page. He tries not to read the commentary, but the words are already committed to memory – unclear and confusing.
He's spend much time making them, a fresh breath of air compared to the words. So many words. He ached to snatch a pencil and one of his sketchbooks, and draw from imagination and memory. The rare moment he allowed himself to daydream, he would think about what ifs, see a different career, one where he turned another hobby into his career.
But these are all dreams. The reality is grim and cruel and greedy. It demands everything from him, sometimes more than he can give.
"It's not relevant here," Henrik explains, pulling him back to the present.
John stares at it, blinks once to clear his mind. He has a point, even if he doesn't really see it. Henrik always knows better.
"It's only an opinion," he says slowly, softly now.
Yes, but it's Henrik's opinion. And it's Henrik again that fights his views, criticizes him. They've had discussions about quality of life, about death, about means to an end. About choices too: save one side – one person very dear to you, or many strangers.
They've never come to an agreement.
Henrik strokes his knee, his attempt at companionship. When John ignores him, his hand slowly inch up his thigh, fingers crawling higher and higher. That means something else entirely, but John's not in the mood. Not anymore.
He shrugs him off. Regret follows when Henrik leans back, keeps his hands in view. His face is carefully blank.
A tense silence fills the room. John bows his head. He knows he should apologize. With every second that passes in silence the distance between them increases. But guilt and remorse anchor the words deeper and deeper in his throat, until it becomes impossible to say anything at all.
Henrik slowly sits down, pats his lap. A familiar gesture. Like a firefly that's drawn to the light, so too does John come closer. He carefully rests the heels of his feet on his lap, doesn't fight Henrik when he nudges his feet better in place. He strokes his sweatpants, rests a hand on his ankle and slowly peels off his socks, one by one. He holds back a groan.
Henrik massages his feet. These hands of him, the strength, ambidexterity...they're unreal. There's no other explanation.
John smiles as Henrik neatly folds his socks. Sometimes, he can't believe that Henrik has made space for his things, for him. John still can't believe how easily he forgives him, even when he can't apologize – literally.
"Time to sleep," he says.
John's about to disagree, but tiredness clings to Henrik. He must be exhausted now that the adrenaline from his surgery has worn off. Henrik isn't the youngest either, and knowing that he's an early riser...
John hands his paper over in silence, not missing the swift look of surprise. He accepts his token of apology. Still, he feels a bit morose when Henrik places it out of reach, and rests his glasses on top.
John pulls his hoodie off, drops it on his lap so he won't throw it on the ground, a habit that annoys Henrik.
Henrik waits. John shrugs. Henrik sighs, folds it neatly and sets it beside his socks, turns back to him and tugs his t-shirt back into place.
"What, only sleep?" he jokes half heartedly. Exhaustion has crept up on him again, painfully reminding him of his age and how intense the last couple of moments were.
Henrik only gives him a look.
John winks, shuffles back to his side of the bed. Henrik carefully sits, but then he surprises him when he leans forward and kisses a corner of his mouth. The minty smell lingers. It's things like this, and not a passionate tryst that leaves John flushing like a naive, shy teenager.
Henrik pretends nothing has happened, already reclining on his side of the bed.
"I'm not paying you for the proofreading, you know," he says as he follows suit. He means it.
Henrik chuckles. "I wouldn't want it any other way." He rearranges the blanket around him, as if tucking in a child.
John's not interested in the blanket's heat or comfort. Not when there's a much better option available.
Henrik flicks off the light on his bedside table. John mirrors him.
"You better complete what you started." The darkness gives him courage. That, and Henrik lying on his back with his eyes closed.
But he now opens them again, turns to him.
His grin falls, realizing the innuendo. For once that's not what he meant.
"Of course. I'll try to be as objective as possible." His eyes, so brown, almost black, sparkle with amusement.
John huffs – alarm over nothing! – and shuffles closer, dragging his pillow with him.
"You better," he mutters and inhales deeply. He's so close to him that their breaths mingle.
Henrik places an arm lightly around his middle, as if hoping John will stay, but expecting him to leave. Never.
He should prove him wrong, kiss him, ravish him, make him forget about everything except pleasure and bliss.
Henrik turns, faces the ceiling and clasps his hands on his stomach. His eyes close and his breathing slows down.
John sighs. Under the blanket, his hand finds a way to him. Meeting no resistance, he wriggles under his arm, splays his hand on his chest and feels his heartbeat – strong, calm, steady.
One hand curls around his wrist, giving it a reassuring squeeze, thumb caressing his pulse. John rubs his forehead on his shoulder in response, closes his eyes and sighs again as their heartbeats match and lull him to sleep.