Chapter Text
Everything is exactly where it should be.
It’s the first thing that registers when Will jolts awake, heart stuttering violently in his chest. His breath comes in quick, panicked puffs, as if he’s been dragged out of water. For one long, disorienting second, he expects pain. He braces for it automatically, muscles locking, body preparing to run or fight or scream.
And then, nothing. He blinks his eyes open again warily.
The ceiling above him is faintly yellowed with age but unmarred by cracks or stains. Sunlight filters through the lacey curtains obscuring the window to his left, casting a warm, honey-colored glow across the room. The air smells like clean cotton and something faintly floral, like soap that’s been sitting too long in a linen drawer. There’s no distant roar, no skittering sounds behind the walls.
It’s quiet.
Will swallows, mouth dry. His fingers curl reflexively into the bedspread beneath him, half-expecting it to dissolve, to turn rotten under his touch. Instead, it’s soft. Quilted fabric, worn thin in places, patterned with tiny blue flowers that feel familiar in a way he can’t place.
He sits up slowly, still suspicious. The room unfolds in gentle increments. A wooden dresser against the far wall, its surface neatly arranged: a ceramic lamp, a framed photograph turned face-down, a small stack of books aligned with near-obsessive precision. A closet door, slightly ajar, revealing the muted colors of hanging clothes inside, everything pressed and orderly. There’s a chair near the window with a sweater draped over the back, as if someone set it there intending to come back for it later.
Will frowns, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He tries to recall how he got here, but his memories slip through his fingers like smoke. All that’s left is a sense of before, heavy and indistinct, like trying to remember a dream after waking up. His body still buzzes with leftover adrenaline, his nerves buzzing as if they’ve been wound too tight.
The door creaks when it opens, and Will startles despite himself, shoulders jumping.
“Oh, hello,” a voice says gently, amused rather than alarmed. “You’re up earlier than usual.”
Will turns. The man in the doorway looks like something out of one of his mom’s Homes and Gardens magazines, picture-perfect against the backdrop of the bedroom. He’s dressed casually, ironed slacks and a cream-colored sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. His light hair is neatly combed out of his face. There’s something about his posture, the way he leans lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, that’s like he’s done this a hundred times before. Like he’s been watching Will wake up for years.
“Bad dream?” the man asks, already stepping into the room. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He reaches for the nightstand and presses a glass of water into Will’s hands, cool and solid and real. “You were tossing around pretty badly. I thought about waking you, but you always hate that.”
Will blinks at him, stunned into silence.
The man smiles, small and knowing, like he’s pleased to see Will coherent again. Slowly, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal, he slides onto the bed, settling beside Will.
“Easy,” he whispers. “You’re awake now. It’s okay.”
Will’s hand tightens around the glass. He looks at the man one more time, scrutinizing, before taking a cautious sip. It’s unexpectedly refreshing, soothing his hoarse throat before he even realizes it was sore. The feeling sends an unexpected wave of emotion through him, the feeling of being real.
“I…” His voice comes out rough, unused. He clears his throat. “I don’t remember falling asleep.”
“That’s not new,” the man says lightly. He reaches out and adjusts the collar of Will’s pajama shirt with a casualness that makes Will stop, his thumb brushing his skin. “You always work yourself up, and then you crash.”
Will just squints at him, and the man seems to catch up all at once. “It’s me, love,” he croons, hand moving to stroke the nape of his neck, “Henry.”
Oh, right, Will thinks, relaxing just a bit. Goosebumps spread in the wake of Henry’s touch, making him shiver pleasantly. He already knew that, didn’t he?
Henry’s smile widens just a little, relief flickering briefly across his face before leveling back into something carefully calm. “Come on,” he urges, squeezing Will’s arm. “You’ll feel better once you’re up. I made us breakfast.”
Will hesitantly follows him down the stairs, trying to hide his gawking as he looks around. The banister is cool under his hand, polished smooth by years of use. The walls are lined with family photos, his own face smiling stiffly at the camera, frozen in black and white.
The kitchen is warm and bright. A kettle whistles softly on the stove, and there’s the smell of toast and eggs and something sweet, maybe cinnamon.
Henry moves easily around the space, setting a plate in front of Will at the table before he can even think to ask. “Eat,” he insists, gentle but firm. “You get so irritable when you don’t.”
Will stares at him for a moment, and Henry seems to realize something with a start, snapping his fingers. He stands, rummaging through the pantry, before returning with syrup in hand. “Sorry, love. I completely forgot.”
At that, the knot in his chest begins to unfurl. His favorite. He takes the syrup gratefully and pours a glob over his eggs. He only hesitates for another second, fork hovering above the food, before he takes a small bite. God, he’s starving.
He eats slowly at first, then with more confidence as the minutes pass. Henry watches him over the rim of his cup, eyes sharp and attentive. When Will meets his eye, Henry just smiles, taking a long sip of tea.
Will offers to wash up after breakfast, to which Henry only puts up a cursory protest. The water is warm, the suds soft against his skin, and Will lets himself get lost in the rhythm of it. Henry lingers nearby, leaning against the counter and stirring his tea. He hums a tune under his breath, a melody Will doesn’t recognize. The grandfather clock ticks away across the house, pacing him like a metronome.
“You’re doing this all wrong,” Henry says suddenly, his voice much closer than Will expects. Will stills, an apology already on his tongue. Henry doesn’t wait for it, though, just stepping closer and tilting Will’s hand just so. He moves the sponge along the curve of a mug, guiding Will’s hand. “See? There. Much better.”
Once the dishes are done, Henry claps his hands softly. “Perfect. You’re a natural.” He leans closer, resting his chin on Will’s shoulder, letting his breath ghost across the side of his neck. Will shivers at the intimacy of it, leaning back to chase Henry’s warmth. Henry laughs when he realizes, squeezing his hips once.
“You’ve got a bit of energy yet,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing. “Won’t you sit with me in the living room? You left your watercolors in there earlier.”
Henry’s touch flusters him, so he just nods, not trusting himself to speak. In the living room, a couch sits perfectly centered atop a braided rug, its cushions indented as if recently used. Will hesitates, perched on the edge until Henry nudges his knee with his own.
“Relax,” Henry says softly, already settling beside him. He reaches for Will’s wrist, palm warm as he tugs him closer.
Will flushes but lets himself be pulled in, his shoulder brushing Henry’s chest. Will breathes out, melting into the contact.
The watercolor set is spread out neatly on the coffee table, brushes rinsed and lined up, paper already taped down. On the page is a faint wash of color that Will vaguely recognizes as the back garden he’d seen through the kitchen window. He blinks at it. “I don’t remember starting this.”
Henry hums, reaching past him to pick up one of the brushes. “You’re so easily distracted, sometimes,” he says fondly. He passes the brush to Will, their fingers brushing briefly.
Will dips the brush into the prepared water, hand somehow steady. The motion feels natural, instinctive. Henry watches him work, chin propped on his hand, eyes tracking every stroke with a quiet intensity.
After a while, Henry stretches an arm along the back of the couch behind him. Will leans into it without thinking, cozying into his chest.
“Comfortable?” Henry asks.
Will nods. He is. That’s the strangest part.
Henry’s hand comes up, combing through Will’s hair unhurriedly. Will’s eyes flutter closed, a long sigh escaping his lips. He can feel Henry’s smile when he presses a soft kiss to his head, gently taking the brush from Will’s hand and setting it back in the water.
“There you go,” Henry whispers, pleased. “You always feel better when you let yourself rest.”
Something tugs at the back of Will’s mind, a faint sense of unease, like he’s forgotten something important. But Henry’s thumb traces small, soothing circles at his temple, and the feeling slips away as fast as it came, smoothed over by Henry’s touch.
Will sinks into him, painting forgotten on the table, the steady rise and fall of Henry’s breathing lulling him into a doze.
Henry’s right. He has time to worry later. Now, he deserves to rest.
After that weird morning, things go back to normal.
Will wakes up when he’s supposed to, languid in the light of day. The clock on the bedside table reads 6:11, though it always seems to say something like that—never quite morning, never quite evening. The numbers don’t mean much, and Will doesn’t care to dwell on them. Why does it matter what time it is?
When he pads into the kitchen, Henry is already up, as he always is. He’s wearing a sensible sweater vest today, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up while he brews a pot of tea. Will can’t help but smile at the sight of him, his presence quickly becoming his favorite part of every day.
“Morning,” Henry greets affectionately. He’s not surprised to see him, but then again, he never is. He’s never surprised by much at all, Will thinks. “You sleep okay?”
Will yawns, rubbing at his eyes. “Mhm,” he mumbles, his socked feet slipping on the tiles as he slides up to hug him from behind. It’s true, he does feel fine. Better than fine, actually.
The hug pulls a real smile out of Henry, twisting in Will’s arms to kiss his forehead. Will relishes in it for a long moment before moving to set the table, keenly aware of Henry’s eyes on him from across the kitchen, observing.
“You don’t have to,” Henry says mildly as Will reaches for a stack of plates.
“I know,” Will replies, equally mild. And he does know, but he does it anyway.
Breakfast becomes routine after that. Eggs, toast, occasionally oatmeal when Henry says his stomach’s acting up. Will learns quickly. He learns how long Henry likes the toast left in and how much sugar he takes in his tea. The way Henry smiles at him when he gets it right makes his chest swell with pride, makes him want to learn more about Henry. Everything about him, even.
“You make this place feel alive, you know,” Henry says one morning, passing Will a clean glass. The compliment settles warmly in his chest, purring like a cat.
Their days become a predictable thing, but Will can’t help but find the predictability comforting. Time starts to blur around the edges. Days don’t end so much as they… loop. Meals repeat. The light through the windows always looks like late afternoon, warm and yellow. Eventually, he stops checking the clock. Nothing changes when he does, and there’s nowhere to be, anyway. Nothing pressing. No reason to rush.
It feels good to see the counters shine, so he usually spends his days cleaning. He folds laundry because Henry thanks him, because it keeps his hands busy, because the house seems to settle when everything is in its place. When he’s not busy with the house, he paints. He started out painting the garden, but recently, he’s taken to painting Henry himself. He loves to paint, and he loves the way Henry always watches him, eyes tracing every brushstroke.
Every so often, he catches himself messing up Henry’s neat, blond hair, instinctively painting something curly and dark. When he notices, he paints over it silently, and Henry never says anything in reprimand.
Sometimes Henry insists he rest. “You do enough,” he’ll say, steering Will toward the bedroom. “Let me take care of you for once.”
And sometimes Will insists right back, smiling without quite meaning to. “I don’t mind.”
Henry’s face softens every time. “You’ve always been like this,” he says fondly. “Taking care of everyone else.”
That feels true, though Will doesn’t really know why. He doesn’t mind, though. He loves taking care of Henry, the way Henry always takes care of him. He’s so doting, always making sure Will is comfortable and happy. The least he can do is some chores around the house.
The first crack is abrupt. Will is drying dishes when it happens, hands moving automatically, the plate warm beneath his fingers. He catches a glimpse of himself in the shining ceramic, his hair perfectly styled, his skin pleasantly flushed. He blinks, but his reflection does not blink back.
A flash of irritation spikes through him, sharp and sudden, so out of place it almost knocks the breath from his lungs.
He has to resist the urge to throw the plate just to hear it shatter. He wants to scream, but swallows his tongue when he tries, choking on the sound. The feeling vanishes as fast as it came, leaving him dizzy and gripping the sink.
“Hey,” Henry soothes, calm as ever when he appears beside him, taking the plate from Will’s hands before it can slip. “Easy. You okay?”
“I don’t know,” Will admits, embarrassed. His face feels hot. “I just… got mad. I don’t know why.”
Henry makes a thoughtful sound, setting the plate aside. He massages Will’s shoulders. “That happens, love. You’ve been through a lot.”
Have I? The thought flickers, half-formed.
Henry continues, reassuring. “Besides, everyone gets mad sometimes. Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.”
“Oh,” Will swallows. “Sorry.”
Henry smiles, one hand coming up to stroke his cheek. “You never have to apologize to me.”
All at once, the shame drains away, replaced with something warmer. Like this, with Henry looking at him with such open affection, it’s difficult to be embarrassed about anything at all. He always sees right through him.
Later, he hears a sound.
It isn’t loud, but it rings in Will’s ears, disorienting. A harsh, metallic scrape, like a bike being dragged across concrete. Then, a low, wet noise that makes Will’s stomach drop sickeningly.
It’s so antithetical to the rest of the house that he freezes mid-step, standing dumbly on the staircase with a laundry basket propped on his hip.
“Henry?” he calls, suddenly very afraid.
Henry appears at once, like he were already on his way. “What is it?”
“I thought I heard…” Will trails off. The sound is gone now, leaving nothing but the thud of his own pulse in its wake.
Henry studies him for a moment, then reaches out, taking the laundry basket from him. “You’ve been overtired,” he admonishes gently.
Will nods, even as a faint image flashes behind his eyes, red, slick, something cold against his cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut.
“See?” Henry tsks, as if reading his thoughts. “That’s exactly what I mean. Thinking like that will only hurt you.”
“Before,” Will gasps, the word tumbling out without warning. “I think I used to—”
Then, it’s gone. The rest of the sentence dissolves before he can blurt it out, leaving behind a lifeless ache.
Henry’s response is immediate, but not harsh. Never harsh. “There’s no need to dig into that,” he chides, pulling Will into an easy side embrace, abandoning the laundry on the staircase and leading him the rest of the way downstairs. “Why would you want to go back to something that always frightened you?”
Will leans into him, breathing slowly returning to normal. “I guess I wouldn’t.”
“Exactly,” Henry agrees, a sense of finality to his voice, and then it’s as if nothing ever happened. He likes that about Henry.
Sometime that evening, or maybe the next, Will finds himself puking into the downstairs toilet. He doesn’t remember deciding to move, only the sudden lurch of his body acting without permission. The walls tilt, and his stomach flips violently in an unmistakable warning.
“Oh,” he barely gets the sound out before he’s bolting for the bathroom.
He makes it just in time. The porcelain is cold under his palms as he drops to his knees, retching hard. There’s nothing graceful about it. His body folds in on itself, convulsing, throat burning as bile forces its way up. The sound echoes too loudly in the small room, wet and ugly.
He hates it. Hates how loud he is. Hates how little control he has.
Henry is there right as the first wave ebbs, one hand steady on Will’s back, the other pushing his hair away from his face with practiced ease.
“That’s it,” Henry murmurs, unalarmed. “I’ve got you.”
Will gags again, shoulders shaking. His eyes water, vision blurring. He squeezes them shut, mortified, every nerve screaming that something is wrong, wrong, wrong. The taste in his mouth is acrid and clinging.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps hoarsely between waves. “I—I didn’t—”
Henry cuts him off with pressure, firm fingers at the base of his skull, grounding him. “Stop.”
Will stills, trembling, breathing ragged through his nose as another wave passes without anything left to give. He slumps forward, forehead nearly touching the rim of the toilet.
Henry rubs slow, comforting circles into his back. “You’re not in trouble,” he comforts. “Your body’s just purging all the stress.”
Stress. That makes sense. Will nods weakly, his head pounding too hard to think straight.
The sickness comes back once more, harsher than before. Will cries out this time despite himself, a broken sound ripped from somewhere deep in his throat. When it finally ends, he’s shaking all over, spent.
Henry flushes the toilet and hands him a cool washcloth without being asked. Will presses it to his mouth, then his eyes, trying to hide the tears streaking down his face.
“I don’t know what came over me,” he croaks.
“Sweetheart,” Henry insists softly, “it’s not your fault.”
Will blinks at him, dizzy. The words feel true in the way things always do when Henry says them.
“I don’t feel real,” Will admits, his voice wobbling.
Henry’s thumbs brush beneath his eyes, wiping away his tears with deliberate care. “That’s what happens when you overwork yourself,” he replies smoothly. “Your mind starts grasping for things that aren’t there.”
Will frowns faintly. “But—”
Henry doesn’t let him finish. He pulls Will into his chest, firm enough that the argument dies before it’s born. Will’s ear presses over Henry’s heart, steady and unbothered.
“Listen to me,” Henry rumbles. “You don’t need to solve anything tonight, okay? We’ll get through this together.”
The room feels smaller in his arms, and Will can’t help but go lax against him, giving up. “I feel stupid,” Will mutters.
Henry snorts amusedly. “You feel sick,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
He helps Will to his feet, one careful step at a time, keeping an arm tight around his waist. Will sags against him, too drained to pretend otherwise.
By the time they reach the bed, Will can hardly stay upright. Henry eases him down, pulls the blankets up, and presses another cool cloth to his forehead.
“Rest,” he commands, leaving no room to argue. Will goes readily, turning onto his side and curling inward, his stomach still rolling.
As he slips into sleep, his thoughts try to drift somewhere dark, flashes of deep red and loud noise, but Henry’s hand settles between his shoulder blades insistently, banishing the images as quickly as they come.
“There you go,” Henry murmurs. “You’re safe.”
The unease flutters once more, weak and distant, then fades under the weight of his exhaustion. Henry stays there until Will’s breathing slows, his quiet snores echoing through the room.
Will’s trying out a new recipe.
He’d found the cookbook tucked away in one of the far cabinets, dusty but obviously well-loved. The recipes are all handwritten in an unfamiliar scrawl, and some of the pages are stained, like they’d been splashed with batter.
Henry had seemed surprised when he first saw him with it, which startled Will, too. Henry’s never surprised.
“Oh,” he’d said, pausing in the doorway, a blink of something unreadable crossing his face. “You found that.”
“I hope that’s okay,” Will says now, hovering over the counter with the book open in front of him. “I wanted to try something different.”
Henry steps closer, gaze dropping to the page Will’s chosen. His expression softens into something nostalgic, maybe.
“I think that sounds lovely,” he agrees, resting a hand on Will’s lower back. Will beams, craning his neck expectantly, and Henry indulges him, pulling him up into a smooth kiss.
That’s another thing they’ve been doing, recently. Kissing. It always feels particularly special for Will, butterflies erupting in his stomach every time Henry’s lips slide against his own. Henry always kisses him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and it makes him giddy.
Henry pulls back first, thumb brushing the corner of Will’s mouth. “You okay?” he asks, attentive as ever.
Will nods, a little breathless. “Yeah. Just—yeah.”
Henry smiles like that’s exactly the answer he expected.
They cook together after that, shoulder to shoulder. Henry doesn’t take over, doesn’t correct him unless Will hesitates just a little too long, murmuring guidance when he needs it. ‘Just a little longer. Not yet, love. You’ll know when it’s ready.’
Will likes that. The trust.
The smell of the batter reminds Will of something just out of reach. Standing on tiptoe, craning to see over a counter, the low hum of someone else moving nearby. Yet again, the image flickers and fades before he can grab onto it, leaving only a hollow pressure behind his eyes.
He blinks hard and keeps stirring.
“You don’t have to be so careful,” Henry says, stepping in close again. His hand settles over Will’s on the spoon, stirring with a bit more force. “It’s not going to fall apart if you make a mistake.”
Will swallows. “I know. I just… want it to be good.”
Henry’s hand squeezes his reassuringly. His eyes are warm when Will peers up at him, already looking down at him to meet his gaze. “Darling, everything you do is good.”
Like always, the praise sinks deep into his bones, and Will’s shoulders loosen. He leans back into Henry without thinking, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces.
“You’re shaking,” Henry notices, eyebrows pinching together.
Will glances down at his hands. They’re steady now. He must’ve imagined it.
“I’m fine,” he dismisses embarrassedly. “Sorry.”
Henry hums, unconcerned. “No need to apologize.” He presses a kiss just below Will’s ear, and just like that, Will forgets all about it.
The pie takes longer than he expects to bake and cool, but Henry is unperturbed. When it’s ready, they sit at the small kitchen table, knees brushing beneath it. Will watches Henry intently as he takes his first bite, holding his breath until he nods in approval.
“Incredible,” Henry compliments, reaching his free hand out to squeeze his thigh. “You did wonderfully.”
Will just smiles, ducking his head.
Later, Henry has somehow managed to corral him back into the living room with him, the record player spinning on in the background. Some romantic ballad Will doesn’t know, but it sets the mood, so he appreciates it nonetheless.
They’re tangled up together, Will’s most recent project, another portrait, lying abandoned on the table. Henry is almost flat on his back, and he doesn’t argue when Will flops on top of him, burying his nose in his neck.
“Someone’s clingy,” Henry coos, voice low. His hand drifts to Will’s hair, combing through it, like he always does on lazy days like this. “What are you thinking about?”
“Just how good today was,” Will sighs, his cheek smushed against Henry’s chest. Distantly, he feels as though he should be thinking of something, that some part of him should dwell harder on this perfect afternoon. But it’s easy to let the world around them slip away when they’re like this, and he can’t resist the temptation.
Henry laughs good-naturedly, his other hand squeezing his hip. “You always forget to rest,” he rumbles, pressing a flittering of kisses to Will’s temple. The words are familiar. Henry seems to be growing increasingly worried about him getting enough rest, but Will can’t bring himself to feel nagged. It’s nice, being so cared for.
He giggles at Henry’s kisses, squirming in his arms. It makes Henry laugh again, and then he’s guiding Will into another kiss, deeper than the others they’ve shared. It’s patient, coaxing, like they have all the time in the world.
Will groans lowly into the kiss, fingers curling into the front of Henry’s cardigan. The record plays on, the needle skipping a bit between verses. Henry tastes faintly of sugar and spice from the pie, addicting.
When Henry pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest their foreheads together. His nose brushes Will’s affectionately.
“See?” Henry murmurs. “You’re calmer already.”
Will hums in agreement, eyes half-lidded. His chest feels loose and warm, the last remnants of earlier unease dissolving into something pleasantly heavy.
“I like days like this,” Will says quietly.
Henry’s hand smooths down his back, slow and reassuring. “I know you do.”
The certainty in his voice gives Will pause, wetting his lips as he stares up at Henry. Henry always knows. How Will feels, what he wants, what he needs—sometimes even before Will himself. It’s comforting. It’s also… strange, in a way Will can’t quite articulate.
He frowns faintly, the thought slipping away before it can take shape. Henry notices anyway.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
Will chews on his lip for a moment, then shakes his head. “Nothing. I think I’m just tired again.”
Henry smiles, satisfied. “You’ve had a big day.”
Have I? The question flits through his mind, but Henry’s hand is already moving, tracing gentle patterns along Will’s spine. The sensation makes his breath hitch, thoughts scattering completely.
“Stay with me,” Henry says, not quite a request.
“Always,” Will agrees unthinkingly.
They lapse into a comfortable silence after that. The song ends, and another begins, the melody blurring into background noise. Outside the window, the light hasn’t changed much, still warm, late-afternoon gold. Will doesn’t question it anymore. Time does what it wants here.
At some point, Henry shifts beneath him, careful not to jostle him. “You should drink some water,” he encourages. “You’ve been curled up here for ages.”
Will groans but complies, sitting up just long enough to accept the glass Henry offers him from the table. The water is crisp. When he hands the glass back, Henry sets it aside and pulls Will right back in, tucking him close.
“Henry?” Will speaks up after another moment, back to toying with the buttons on Henry’s sweater.
“Yes, love?”
“Do you ever think about leaving?” The words are out before he can stop them, hanging awkwardly in the air between them.
Henry stills just enough that Will feels it, his hand pausing on Will’s back.
“Leaving?” he repeats dubiously.
“Yeah. Like… going somewhere else. Doing something different. I don’t know… like a vacation?” Will shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know why I asked.”
Henry’s hand resumes its movement, unruffled. “There’s no need for that,” he says easily. “Everything you need is here.”
Will nods, an odd sense of relief washing over him even as something twists faintly in his gut. “Oh, right. Of course.”
Henry presses a kiss to his temple. “You don’t have to worry about anything outside of here,” he adds soothingly. “That’s my job.”
That’s enough to reassure him, the silly idea falling away easily. He relaxes again, his body responding faster than his thoughts ever could. It’s nice, having someone else take responsibility for things. He’s always been bad at knowing what to do next.
They stay like that until the light outside deepens just slightly, edging closer to evening, though evening never quite arrives. Henry eventually gets Will upright again, saying something about supper. Will helps without being asked, moving around the kitchen with the practiced ease of routine.
Later, when they climb into bed together, the sheets are warm, freshly laundered, like always. Henry reads for a bit while Will snuggles into his side, tracing idle shapes across his stomach. The book’s pages turn with steady regularity.
Will yawns, eyes drooping.
“Sleep,” Henry murmurs, setting the book aside and clicking off the lamp. Darkness settles over the room, though there’s still a hint of light seeping in through the curtains.
Will shifts closer, his forehead buried in Henry’s shoulder. “You won’t leave, right?” he asks, whispering even though it's only ever the two of them there.
Henry’s arm tightens around his waist. “Never,” he promises. “I’m right here.”
Will nods, the last of the tension draining from him. For another brief, fleeting moment, just before he slips under, something distant claws at the edges of his mind. A sense of wrongness, like he’s being watched from the inside.
Henry’s hand strokes through his hair, steady and calming. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s better.”
The feeling wanes once more, and he drifts to sleep without further fanfare.
Once again, everything is exactly where it should be.