Years
It was years till he found home. Years of running- to places or people or sometimes just away. Years of fighting. Years of crying and lying and wishing he was dead. Years, and even a universe hop or three, before he found where he belonged. Before he was lying in Mickey's arms- like the first time, except he was in Cardiff, not Paris, and he was in Mickey's bed, their bed, in their flat, in their universe. Because it was his universe, now, too, his home. His home. Years of running before he finally fell into bed and slept in Mickey's arms, but it was worth it, because he was finally home. He was home, and he was safe and warm, and he was with Mickey. He was home.