(snippet, link to full oneshot in rbs)
Willie laughs, and Alex breathes.
It feels cheesy, terrifyingly vulnerable and too romantic for his brain not to wind itself until his entire being is coiled like wire, but Alex thinks about the greenhouse, about drumming, about the small purple plant on his grandfather’s desk that would tilt to follow the path of the sun. He thinks about it all and can’t help but see the sun when Willie sits back down with laughter dancing through the space around them until Alex can almost see its golden streaks in the air. He can’t help wanting to bask in Willie’s light, can’t help but shift closer.
He can’t look away, but he can breathe. It’s easier, somehow, like Willie’s grip on his shoulders had pried open the iron to let air in. Willie is a steady presence in front of him, warm in a way Alex thought impossible when he was falling apart in a dark room only weeks ago—when he thought he would spend eternity damned to darkness, with his best friends just out of his reach and light nothing but a distant memory.