Sting's PTSD won't let him sleep, and the only thing that helps is Gray's singing.

TW for past traumatic injuries and PTSD/nightmares


"Did you sing to me?"

The question comes late one night when Sting and Gray are curled up together in bed, feeding each other popcorn and half-watching Queer Eye.

Gray frowns. "Sing to you?"

"Mm."

"When?"

Sting rubs the fabric of the blanket between his fingers and says, "In the hospital."

Gray doesn't answer right away, and Sting peeks up at him, taking in both the pink flush of embarrassment and the expression of grief that flits across his face. He takes Sting's hand and runs his fingers across his palm. "You remember that?"

"Sort of." Sting chews his lip, trying to catch the fragmented melody that's been flitting around in his head for the last while. "There's… pieces. It was all so hazy."

"I know," Gray murmurs.

They're both quiet for a minute, and Sting can't help but slip back into memories. It's all bits and pieces – some of it what Gray's told him, some of it his own recollection of things he's not quite sure are real. He remembers shouting and the sound of breaking glass, and a pain to match the scar that runs from behind his ear to his collarbone.

Everyone says Sting is a hero. There's an article about the whole thing online – Good Samaritan in critical condition after saving woman from mugging. Sting doesn't remember, though. Not when he's awake, anyway. When he's dreaming, pieces come back, and he wakes up yelling for Gray to help him as he bleeds out onto the pavement.

And Gray does help him. He holds Sting tight and kisses his forehead, strokes his hair and reassures him that he's safe.

"I think I need the meds tonight," Sting says quietly, looking back down at their joined hands.

"Yeah?" Gray's voice is soft. "You want them now?"

Sting nods. It's nearly midnight and he should be tired, but instead he's raw and electric and not quite right in his own skin.

Gray leans over to the bedside table and fishes around in the drawer for a second, then comes back with two small white pills. Sting swallows them dry, then rubs his face and flops back against the pillows, sighing in frustration. He shouldn't need them anymore – it's been almost three months. He should be better.

Gray grabs the remote and turns off the TV, then moves the popcorn bowl to the bedside table and tugs the blanket up over both of them. "I love you," he says as he gently pulls Sting to his chest and starts to comb his fingers through Sting's hair. "And I'm so proud of you, even when you're struggling and scared." Sting feels Gray press a soft kiss to his forehead, and the gentle gesture nearly makes him cry.

"Could you..." Sting trails off and Gray nudges him.

"What?"

"...sing to me again?" Sting shifts back to he can look at Gray. "I can't remember the song, but your voice..." The tips of Gray's ears start to turn red and Sting shakes his head. "You don't have to, I just—"

Gray stops him with a gentle hand on his cheek, then quietly starts to hum. Sting slowly relaxes back against Gray's chest, listening to the flutter of his heartbeat as a background to the soft words of the song.

And you can tell everybody this is your song
It may be quite simple but now that it's done
I hope you don't mind
I hope you don't mind
That I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you're in the world

Sting cuddles up closer to Gray, running his hand across Gray's chest and down to his stomach. Gray keeps singing, combing his fingers through Sting's curls and tracing patterns across the back of his hand.

When the song is done, Gray surprises Sting by starting another one – this one Sting doesn't recognize, but the melody matches the fragments of memory he's pulled from his time in the hospital. Something settles in his chest, fitting into the broken pieces that he can't quite remember.

He's nearly asleep when Gray stops singing, and he manages a quiet thank you as Gray dims the lights.

"Always," Gray murmurs. "Anything for you."