Word Count: 1231

Paris hadn’t slept quite so well in a long time.

He hadn’t ever slept very well in his dorm-room at Hillworth, and instead took to staying up until all hours of the night, fiddling around on his old laptop, listening to music, texting the other night owls on his contact list, or sneaking into another boy’s room. Home wasn’t any better. He felt trapped there, chained and confined to a place he was desperate to escape but too comfortable and familiar with to leave. He tossed and turned, clutching the swan Ladon had sewn for him and staring across the room at the various figurines that littered the top of his dresser, listening to the sound of his father’s rumbling snores reverberating through the walls.

He’d slept better at Ladon’s place, despite the loud neighbors with their late-night arguments and subsequent make-up sessions. He’d felt comfortable there. Wanted, even. He hadn’t needed to worry about anyone sneering at him and making rude comments or grumbling about his behavior. He’d been able to be himself, free in a way he’d never experienced anywhere else. He could talk all he wanted, prance around and laugh and sing and dance to his heart’s content, or just lie there in comfortable silence, basking in the sort of warm feelings that stemmed from fondness and acceptance, letting the world spin on around him and not caring if the rest of it was destroyed so long as he could stay there and never leave.

Being in Chris’s apartment was like being there again. Paris hadn’t even realized how much he’d missed it until he woke up in a bed that wasn’t his own but smelled of someone he liked and knew well enough to identify the mingling scents of their shampoo and aftershave.

His eyes opened to bright sunlight, but he didn’t find it bothersome. On the contrary, the warm light streaming in through the window felt delightful on his face. Paris rolled from his stomach onto his back and reveled in the fact that he could, that the bed was big enough for him to complete such a motion without nearly falling out of it. A smile spread slowly across his face, and he lifted his arms above his head in a long, full-bodied stretch that popped one of his shoulders and separated his toes. When he settled back against the mattress, he turned his head and looked out the window, at blue skies and wispy white clouds.

He lied there for maybe half an hour, thinking of absolutely nothing at all, just blinking lazily and curling up with one of the pillows in a pool of sunshine, before pushing himself up and climbing to his feet, making sure the long t-shirt he’d been given to sleep in covered everything that needed to be covered as he made his way over to the glass barrier that separated the loft from a fall into the living room.

Paris leaned against the glass, his left forearm draped over the top, his right elbow propped upon it, hand cradling the side of his face as he gazed below. He saw Chris on the couch, a pillow over his head to block the light coming in from the huge living room window, his body turned toward the back of the couch, boxers riding up over his thighs and t-shirt wrinkled and twisted out of place as he’d switched positions over night, exposing part of his side and abdomen. Chris turned again, as if he could sense someone watching him, pushing the pillow aside to look tiredly up into the loft.

Another smile curved Paris’s lips, and he removed his hand from his face to wiggle his fingers in a flirty wave. Chris smiled and returned the gesture, and then placed his hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn.

They didn’t speak. Paris didn’t think they needed to. The silence was neither awkward nor tense, but pleasant and calm. They stared at one another, and again Paris thought of very little. His mind was not empty, simply still, quiet. He felt at peace.

They moved at the same time, Paris to descend the stairs and Chris to roll off the couch and climb them. They met halfway, smiling as they passed one another. Before Chris moved out of reach, Paris turned to land a playful swat against his backside. Chris turned to him with a bewildered expression. Paris merely laughed softly, grinning as he mischievously bit at the nail of his thumb. Chris eventually continued on his way with an indistinguishable mumble that did not sound displeased.

Paris ambled down the remainder of the stairs, lifting his arms to stretch again before looking around the lower level. It still astounded him, how large the place was, how open and spacious and grand. It was the sort of place he could imagine himself living in. Well, he could imagine himself living in any place, really, but it was definitely the sort of place he would want to live in if he could afford it. He imagined it would be nice to spend a day out on the balcony, flipping through magazines or chatting about nothing in particular, or curled up in a chair by the living room window, watching a storm roll across the city. He thought it was the openness and the amount of natural light that appealed to him the most. It wasn’t tiny, or cramped, or cluttered, a bit big for one person, he supposed, but comfortable enough for two.

Annabel bounded out of the hallway leading to the back of the apartment, tongue lolling happily as she trotted over to him. Paris kneeled to pet her, letting her lick at his hands, shoulders and neck, but pulling back when she went for the face, giving her a final scratch behind the ears before heading toward the gleaming kitchen as his stomach growled and demanded attention. He found his purse sitting on the island and dug through it for his ipod, plugging it into the radio and searching through his many playlists for some music that fit his mood, as the dog yapped and wagged her tail and followed him wherever he went.

‘The real me is a southern girl with her Levi’s on and an open heart. Wish I could save the world, like I was Supergirl...’

He looked through the cabinets and found a box of Bisquick and a bag of chocolate chips. He set to work, pausing long enough to pull his hair back into a messy ponytail; his bangs fell loose, but he simply brushed them aside and tucked them behind his ear.

He made pancakes that morning—some with chocolate chips, and some without—with some strawberries on the side, and coffee for Chris and tea for himself, and he laughed and pranced and sang and danced to his heart’s content. He felt light and free and wanted, like the world around him and all the troubles in it had ceased to exist…

Like he was home. Only that was silly, wasn’t it? It was nothing like home, nothing like any place he’d ever been before, except, perhaps, those times in a tiny, old apartment on the other side of town, and he didn’t want to leave, but to stay there forever.

And he thought that maybe it wasn’t so silly after all.

Note: Chris was puppeted with Guine's permission and plenty of input. <3