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He’d meant what he’d said.
Sure, he’d gone periodically to search for answers, to satisfy his curiosity, to find out what the hell was going on but it was never during the moments when Ian’s footsteps approached the pod room, never when the man sat, for countless hours, in the little folding chair, and read to him the tale of The Count of Monte Cristo.
He’d settled down beside the chair, after pressing a kiss to Ian’s cheek; after all, no one could see him now, he could be as bold as he liked. But that was enough, because it wasn’t enough at all, and it was all he could bear to touch his lips to Ian’s skin and feel nothing, to have to stop himself from floating right through. So he’d kiss his cheek, gently, and affectionately, before he found his spot on the floor, leaning against Ian’s legs.
Ian read to him as if he was there, and it simultaneously touched Shiloh’s heart and broke it, because he was right there and there was nothing he could do, or say, to let Ian know. All he could do was listen, and he did with rapt attention, losing himself to the sound of Ian’s voice and the story he wove, laughing at his little asides and the way he asked him what he thought, happy that if even for a moment he could forget, if just for a moment he could pretend everything was okay, that they were okay, that everything would okay.
He’d look up at him, and smile, smile at the way Ian’s brow furrowed as he read, the way his face lit up with laughter when he thought he’d said something particularly funny. He’d smile because he was glad, no matter what happened, that he had met Ian.
There was so much he wanted to tell him; so much he had wished he had said. He wanted to tell him how much he adored him and he wanted to tell him just how glad he was. And, when Ian’s eyes drifted closed, after long hours of reading, and the book fell gently into his lap, Shiloh did just that.
“I miss you,” he said as though Ian could here him, resting his arms on Ian’s knees. He’d reach up uselessly, trying to brush the mess of bangs from Ian’s face, making a face at them when they refused to move at all.
“So stubborn,” he said, his laughter soft in the quiet room. “What am I going to do with you?”
He could think of an infinite number of things. Ian had been his first kiss, his first boyfriend, his first everything. But they weren’t enough firsts. There were so many things he’d wanted to do, so many things left unfinished. He’d wanted to take Ian to dinner, to the movies, he wanted to do all those cliché and sappy things because for the first time in his life he had someone he wanted to share them with, someone that he wanted to make those memories with. He was so incredibly glad to have met Ian it hurt to think about, it hurt to think that their last first might have been their last.
“You’re… Special to me, you know? Even if your bangs don’t listen to me, even if you sometimes don’t listen to me, even if… Well, maybe its because of, not even if,” he smiled up at him fondly. “Maybe it’s because you don’t listen to me, and you kiss me anyway. Maybe it’s because you call me terrible nicknames, maybe it’s because your hair is so darn stubborn. Maybe it’s because…”
It was an awful lot of maybes, and Shiloh knew they weren’t maybes, but sure things, he knew that everything had started to matter a whole lot more the minute he’d let himself believe it, the minute he’d known. He knew it by the way he looked forward to the buzz of his phone, the knock on his door. He knew by the way that when he looked at Ian, he saw the exact same things he felt. He felt the warmness of Ian’s glance, and his body in his arms, and he felt the way he suddenly had something worth protecting.
Something worth living for.
He didn’t intend to give it up lightly. Not as long as Ian stood by his side, not as long as he sat there, day after day, clinging to hope. Shiloh shook his head, brushing away the water welling up in his eyes. He wouldn’t give up either. He refused to give up, because there was always hope, they just had to keep trying, and everything would be okay.
“It’s okay, it'll be okay,” he murmured, even if Ian couldn’t his arms wrapped around him as he said it. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“I can’t wait to see what happens next, you know. And I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were such a bookworm. All that and you wouldn’t even that manual for me!” He laughed again. “I can’t believe you. If you think you’re getting out reading to me after this, you’ve got another thing coming. I’m gonna find all sorts of terrible things for you to read, manuals, chemistry books, just you wait. Maybe someone on the island has that terrible book, what’s it called… 50 Shades of Grey? That’ll be fun, I bet you can’t wait to read that one.”
He smiled, imagining it, imagining Ian protesting and eventually giving in, imagining the two of them laughing over it when their shifts were done for the day, forgetting for a little while the hardships of the island. He imagined everything was normal, against the backdrop of glowing runes and the quiet hum of machinery, he imagined that this nightmare wasn’t real.
“I can’t,” he said after a quiet pause, sliding back down and leaning his back against Ian’s legs while he slept. He pulled his knees up to his chest, rocking gently. “I can’t wait at all.”
“I can’t wait to come back, Ian.”
