New Year's Eve. [indesolution]

[amber]

new years eve

fandom buffy the vampire slayer. [indesolution]
characters andrew wells, jonathan levinson.
notes written with exuberance for the indesolution rpg. 31.12.07.


It's a new year. Andrew used to place significance on stuff like that, but that was because each time December 31st rolled around he promised himself his life would get better. Now his internal clock's all wrong; wasn't New Years Eve only six months ago? Shouldn't it be the middle of winter? Nothing feels right here, and yet ironically this is the first time the year has come to close and Andrew's been able to look back and think, well hey. It wasn't, in the end, all that bad.

So they celebrate with movies and D&D and do the whole countdown thing but to Andrew, it's more an excuse to spend time with his friends (it's a celebration, so the normally fragile peace is just that little bit more sacrosanct. So Andrew can relax just that little bit more.)

He's an easy drunk; some Zima, a little bubby as they watched archive footage of fireworks on the television, and Andrew's smashed and giggly. He loses his sense of personal space a little, and when Warren leaves for his own apartment Andrew wraps himself around Jonathan on the couch, all sprawled limbs and kid-like grin, worming his head into Jonathan's lap. He's not sleepy, just listless with alcohol.

"You're my best friend," he says, as though he's going to lead into something else, but then he just leaves it at that. Happiness washes pleasantly through him and he stares up at Jonathan. Maybe it was dumb and obvious but he means it harder than he's meant anything in his life.

The new year was never really a big deal to Jonathan. He has vague memories of counting down with his cousins when he was young, before they all grew up and their tolerance for his crying jags and baby face and stuttering lessened. The family gatherings just made him feel horribly left behind as a teenager, seeing as the other kids had friends of their own to hang out with. Even his parents had parties to go to, eventually forgoing the family functions and leaving the house in his care for the night. He didn't mind, never minded. It was a good excuse to stay up, drink sangria (because he could never get his hands on anything else without help) and watch movies. If he forced the loneliness out of his head by imagining it was any other night, everything worked out just fine, and the fact that it was the beginning of a new year became a tiny added bonus.

Social drinking was never really his thing either. He's had enough bubbly to make him a little dizzy, a lot light-headed, and too introspective for his own good. And that would be fine if they could just watch another movie or go to bed, but when Andrew crawls into Jonathan's personal space-bubble and says those four words, he knows he's done for. Best to keep the word vomit down as long as possible.

He hesitates for a few seconds before laying one hand on Andrew's head and absently pushing his fingers into his hair. It's soft and warm and it makes Andrew happy, therefore that makes him happy — all of this is very uncomplicated, right where he'd like to keep it. "You're mine, you know that," Jonathan says with a sort of sincerity that frightens him a bit. But he can't shut up even when he's sober, and the bubbly sees to that nicely. It's natural to move his hand to the side of his friend's head, run his thumb over the hair just above his ear, a move he feels like he's done a thousand times since his arrival. "So, um. Why are we stating facts?"

Kitten-like, Andrew's head shifts the tiniest fraction and his smile softens, becomes a little dreamier as Jonathan pets him. In this state, it sends gentle tingling through his scalp and down his back, and he sighs happily as he considers Jonathan's question.

Andrew knows Jonathan already knows, which is why he didn't say more, but ever since the letter he's been bubbling with loyalty and affection for his friend in a way he's never really felt before. Maybe it's because Babylon is building a slow, sweet self-confidence, but these days he feels less and less like play-fighting with Jonathan, all that teasing and rough-housing that had hidden so much bitterness. Maybe it's because he's drunk. Either way, there's this attachment; and he wants to share it, as though expressing it will make it even bigger and better.

"I just wanted you to know," Andrew says, his feet wiggling in childish glee. "Because I feel like telling you and because I l-love you..." he stumbles a little over the words, biting his lip as his happiness hesitates a little and then smiling again as he remembers the letter and adds, "In a totally best friend-y way." Andrew is all about lame and mushy and not manly at all - or at least, he is when it comes to Jonathan. But he's never had a lot of opportunity to tell people he loves them so it feels weird in his mouth. Some deeply insecure part of him is afraid Jonathan's going to say something like 'I know', which he now knows means... well, he's a little afraid, is all.

Everything relates back to therapy. Everything does, always and forever. Even the events that happened years before Jonathan started going somehow have roots in the things he learned from his doctors. It's like his life is Citizen Kane, not really linear at all, and everything keeps looping backward to various sessions. Heck, the whole letter idea sprung from a Dr. Rose tradition that he didn't want to let go of. She always encouraged Jonathan to write out the lists and letters, get his thoughts and feelings down on paper, then try to say those things to the people he was thankful for. It never worked. Hey, Mom, thanks for not believing I'm hopeless like everyone else. It just sounds awkward when it comes out of his mouth, so the things he wrote in the letters are mostly things that just don't work out verbally.

But alcohol loosens his tongue and the happy high from the combination of Christmas, the non-failure of Rule 42, the relative peace between friends, and mostly Andrew's head in his lap makes him more apt to try. "Love you too," he says through the chewing on his cheek. He's awkward and trying to look anywhere but Andrew's face and okay, yeah, maybe blushing (in a totally manly way) a little, but he means it. That much should be obvious. "Which, um, I think— I mean, I definitely said in the letter. That was. Uh." Jonathan trails off and lets his free hand gesture as if it could conjure up words out of thin air, in a way that he knows is definitely lifted from watching Warren. "Kind of the point," he finishes lamely, finally bringing his eyes back to Andrew's.

So the tearful hug and even the nod from Warren on Christmas day had let him know that delivering the letters wasn't a horribly moronic idea, but the fact remains that Jonathan is Jonathan. Insecure and self-deprecating since day one. All the reassurance in the world won't change that, but it helps a little, so he cocks his head and stares down at Andrew. "They weren't lame? The letters." Obviously the letters. He really just wants himself to shut up at this point.

Reciprocation, however awkward, sends shivers of delight through Andrew's stomach and he makes a little squeaking noise, quiet and high-pitched and totally unconscious, his eyes all scrunched up and his grin practically splitting his face.

"Are you kidding me?" Andrew is up almost instantly, knocking aside Jonathan's hand so he can pounce on him again. Maybe if he hugs Jonathan enough he'll stop hating himself so much. He thinks the same thing about Warren, too, every day. He never stops to wonder if it would work on himself.

Now he's wrestling Jonathan down onto the couch properly, even less co-ordinated than usual but more determined, snuggling himself in against Jonathan's collarbone and squeezing him again. "You're so dumb," he says fondly, and then realises that's probably not the best way to go about boosting Jonathan's self-esteem. "They were the best!" he adds. "Well, mine was, anyway, and Warren hasn't beat you up again so I figure..." he shrugs a shoulder.

A strange urge grips Andrew and he lets himself slacken his grip a little, letting Jonathan get comfortable because he doesn't plan on moving off his chest any time soon. "I don't mind when you're mean," Andrew says into his chest. "I mean, I like this better, but we're best friends. I get why you say the stuff you do. Um, and maybe I say it a lot more but I really am grateful that we're all here together." He feels like he's echoing Jonathan's letter, when really he's composing a letter of his own, out loud. Because now that he's said it, he needs Jonathan to know why; to know that Andrew's love isn't as easily given as it probably seems from the outside. To know that he's special.

Despite the alcohol and confessions and awkwardness and, really, everything about the moment, Jonathan just laughs when Andrew tackles him. People would make fun of them for it, but this is what he loves about being friends with Andrew. Because he should feel uncomfortable, but he doesn't. Not really. Physically, a little bit — the couch isn't meant for two people to wrestle on, and once they're down, he has to shift closer to Andrew to be more comfortable. There's probably all kinds of pathos behind that, too.

"I'm glad," he says genuinely, stifling a hiccup. For a little while as Andrew talks, all Jonathan can do is smile to himself. He can't even drudge up lingering depression or a less-than-happy memory, at least not right away, and he knows that the feeling is only temporary, but he's working on hanging onto it while it lasts. Just so he'll have recent memories for when things get bad. Mostly he can't bring himself to be bitter because he's too busy listening to Andrew's voice. Jonathan doesn't take compliments well and never knows what to say to them, probably because he doesn't get a lot. And Andrew isn't just saying stupid things he doesn't mean because he thinks they'll make Jonathan feel better. He means it in the same way that Jonathan's letter meant it, except he's better at saying the things out loud.

Jonathan crooks his arm around Andrew and runs his hand down his hair, again and again, while he thinks of what to say. There's something practiced about the motion, one of the few things he does that doesn't feel awkward in his own skin. "I like this better, too," he finally agrees, still unable to get the stupid smile off his face. "I don't like being mean to you or— um, mostly you. I just don't. You don't deserve that, from me or from, you know, anyone." Jonathan pauses for a second and licks his lips before he even attempts to continue, not really sure of what he's saying. "Roxas and that creepy Mukuro guy and, just, people who don't even know you. But um, people who do know you, too. You just don't deserve to get hurt by anyone." His head feels thick when he says it, all of those protective instincts he gained when he had to take care of Andrew in Mexico coming back tenfold. Jonathan tries not think of where that led him, in the end, and instead just holds him. Waits for the inevitable Andrew babble.

At first, it's such a perfect moment. The date seems to make it even better in Andrew's mind, because he knows he'll remember this sweetness forever; that he'll be able to look back on their first Babylon New Years and smile nostalgically. The longer he talks and Jonathan doesn't throw him off the couch in horror, the easier it is to keep talking without cringing into himself. "And I liked your hair at the ball, too," he adds idly. "Also, you always smell nice."

Andrew can hear the way Jonathan really means what he says, that Andrew doesn't deserve to be hurt, and even while it makes him feel loved he also feels a little sad that Jonathan doesn't see that yes. Andrew does deserve to be hurt. He rolls further into the cushions so he can put an elbow next to Jonathan's head and prop himself up a little to give a big smile, but it's a little more wavery than it was before.

"You mean Warren," he says quietly, his eyes darting over to the door. He shouldn't talk about Warren, he knows that much by now. If he says the wrong thing to the wrong person, it could be construed as treachery, which would be... well, it'd be really bad. But Jonathan needs to understand, and Andrew can see exactly what he's trying to say behind the tactful stumbling. "What you have to understand is that maybe I like people like Warren and Roxas and Mukuro. Well, okay, definitely not Roxas. Or Mukuro, really. But I don't mind..." It seems too weird to say aloud, and in the end this isn't therapy. He doesn't want to scare Jonathan away. "Warren and I..." he tries again. He wants to tell Jonathan, he does, but he just doesn't know what words to use. He searches for them in Jonathan's eyes, trying not to lose the moment of closeness that had enveloped them before.

It's not that Jonathan ignores the first part of what Andrew says. It's just that he'll never know what to say in return. There's a thousand things he likes and appreciates about the way Andrew exists, and he doesn't care what that says about him — his nervous fidgeting when he gets excited about something trivial, his wise-like-Yoda voice when he's explaining something to them, his clothes, the way he puts his chin on Jonathan's shoulder when he starts getting angry at someone on the network and tells him not to let the idiots bother him. He wants to say these things and let Andrew know that he's special too, but they get trapped somewhere under his tongue.

Instead, he turns his head to look at Andrew and feels another surge of fondness. The fact that Andrew doesn't know how obvious he is (or if he does know, pretends that he doesn't) makes Jonathan smile again, softly this time. "Right, because I'm totally not smart enough to pick up on that," he says lightly. There's a few seconds where he just watches Andrew's face. Suddenly, there's a sharp inhale of breath and he begins speaking again, wanting to get the words out while they still make some sense in his head.

"You don't mind when Warren hurts you," Jonathan says, "which is, you know, probably good. Considering." He knows his breath reeks of champagne and hopes that Andrew won't think the words any less true. "But, um, I mind. Andrew, I mind a lot. I love Warren and I love you, but—" The words are falling out of his mouth faster than he can realize what he's about to say, and for what it's worth, he's glad that there's an absence of underlying bitterness. "But I don't like what he does to you. I mean. Look what happened last time, okay, I think I have reason to worry." More than anything, at that moment, he hopes he hasn't screwed something up.

Andrew lets his head hit Jonathan's chest again to hide his vaguely horrified expression. Is he that obvious? Does everyone know? He takes a deep breath and straightens himself a little, smiling weakly at Jonathan, but the smile falls away as he listens.

"That's not going to happen again," Andrew says firmly. At least when it comes to all their treachery and turbulent history, Andrew knows the firm ground he can stand on. He's resolved not to let Warren make him do anything he doesn't want to do, and away from the Hellmouth that can be so easy. "I promise." Things are different this time around, and Andrew knows that no matter how he feels about Warren, if it came down to a choice, he would pick Jonathan. He wouldn't ever tell either of them that (because it could go terribly awry, a self-fulfilling prophecy) but in the end, he's learnt his lesson the hard way.

"I don't want you to worry about me." Andrew sighs and lets himself relax against Jonathan again. Even this conversation can't take away his happiness at the moment and he realises he's grinning again, ducks his head to hide it. This should be a serious moment, but his fingers drum a joyful little tattoo against Jonathan's side. "I'm safe with Warren," he lies. "And I... need him, I guess? We're complicated. It's all complicated. But a lot's changed since Sunnydale, in me at least, which is maybe why I can tell you this time. That we. You know." His face reddens; he can't get it out. Not entirely out of embarrassment; Andrew clings to his secrets desperately, just for the feeling of having secrets. Just like Warren would never understand the way Andrew feels here and now, with Jonathan's breath fluttering his hair and his warmth so comfortingly close, he knows Jonathan could never understand the things he has done-- the things he does with Warren. Andrew pulls his friend a fraction closer, squeezes them tighter together, the alcohol dulling the mortification. And he watches Jonathan's face warily.

"Good." Jonathan's free hand drifts unconsciously to his stomach. He doesn't tell Andrew that he's still afraid of waking up and having bled through his shirt, that he still has dreams reliving the high school basement, that he still sleeps with both hands covering the scar, just in case. He's tried to let go of as much as possible, but the fear and pain is still fresh in his mind. Andrew's promises mean a lot to Jonathan, probably more than he can say, so he just nods instead to punctuate the one word.

Maybe if Mexico hadn't happened, there might be the possibility that Jonathan wouldn't worry so much about Andrew. But it did, and he does. Sure, Andrew had been about to betray him right along with Warren, but the fact was that he was still Jonathan's responsibility to shoulder once they made it out of the country. All the anger and resentment in the world couldn't change that fact, and he knows, because he tried. "I'll always worry about you," he mumbles into Andrew's hair before tackling the rest.

"I get it. You don't have to say it, I get it. Really." It's not something Jonathan likes to think about. Ever. But it's crossed his mind, and he doesn't need to hear it out of Andrew's mouth. Ever. Andrew is watching him, so he tries to look pleasant about it, but in truth he knows that his eyebrows have knit together and his eyes are a little alight with the desperation of no, seriously, please don't say it. Jonathan likes this moment a whole lot and wants to hang onto it for as long as he can, so he resolves to fix it before he can ruin it. "Um, let's talk about anything else? Please?"

Andrew's hand follows Jonathan's and tangles with it. He knows that the shirt separates their grasp from the scar he caused, so he just squeezes Jonathan's hand; thankyou for worrying about me, even after everything. His gaze still doesn't break from Jonathan's

A deep breath. He gets it. But he isn't someone who Andrew can talk to about it. Of course, if Andrew persisted Jonathan would listen, like he always did, but Andrew's lips twist in a wry little smile and he knows that no matter how close they are, some things are still oversharing. "Sure," he says. Anything else; it's funny how even when it ends up just being Andrew and Jonathan and sparkling wine and tenderness, there's still the shadow of Warren hanging over everything, tingeing their thoughts and twisting the direction of their conversation. Maybe they are minions after all. He doesn't voice this thought aloud.

"I could go back to telling you how nice you smell," Andrew says teasingly, and he feels the tension dissipate from him. Jonathan didn't freak. Or, not too much, anyway. He didn't realise how stressed he had been about it. "Do you want another drink?" he asks suddenly, not actually wanting to break the contact between them but also not wanting this tipsy feeling to abandon him, leave him washed up and raw on the bare shores of their conversation.

Jonathan offers up a tiny little baruch hashem in his mind, more out of habit than anything for when something goes his way. It's just another one of those little things he hasn't been able to let go of, and for as close as he is to Andrew at the moment, it suddenly makes him feel inexplicably empty and alone. He's quiet with his thoughts before the words shake him into another tipsy laugh, though the pit in his stomach remains.

"You don't have to say that stuff about me," Jonathan says quickly, reverting to his old ways before he can stop himself. "I mean, um, it's nice. And thank you. But you don't have to." He only lets the awkwardness linger for a second before pushing his face into Andrew's hair, mumbling apologies this way and that. This is why he doesn't need another drink, though his body disagrees.

"I do, kind of," he admits. The words are fast and a little strung together, only emphasizing his point. "But um, I shouldn't. Unless you want to deal with me crying about, I don't know, your maturity or whatever and how much I miss my family and oh my god, see, I really, really don't need to drink any more." He makes himself shut up for a second, though he doesn't remove his face from Andrew's hair (because, in truth, he likes that Andrew smells nice too). "Also, that requires getting up."

"I do!" Andrew pushes himself up, deciding that they do both need another drink and if he keeps talking then he'll barely even notice that they aren't in contact anymore. "I do have to say that stuff about you, 'cause you'll actually believe me, so shut up and listen, okay?"

Climbing over Jonathan isn't too difficult and their glasses are still on the table. Andrew picks a few long multicoloured paper ribbons off the side of one. "You don't have to thank me, either. I mean, not that I want you to take stuff for granted." He shrugs, begins pouring two more glasses, emptying the bottle. "But I like telling you stuff. You sort of get this happily embarrassed look that makes me feel good inside."

A glass in each hand, he takes a sip of his own (for courage, or maybe luck) before turning back around and coming back to the couch. "You really are an awesome person," he says, a little shyly. "I mean, you have so much heart, and you get so angry about the right things. And you're not afraid to say what you need to. To us-- me. Even when I don't agree, it's still pretty cool." He hands Jonathan a glass and leans against him; a little awkwardly, because it's hard to snuggle and keep the drink upright, but he thinks he does okay, and nothing spills. "And you taste all my cooking, even if you don't really like it, and you give the best hugs and you let me pick the movie and um, okay. I'm done." There's a beat, and Andrew opens his mouth again - there's so much more - but then grins sheepishly at Jonathan. "Yeah. Um. Done." He takes a gulp of the sweet, cool liquid and muffles a giggle at the bubbles tickling his tongue.

This is a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. Jonathan props himself up a little and takes the glass, giving it a glare and an exasperated sigh before sipping. Bubbly, the evil yet delicious beverage of choice. He's kind of horrified as Andrew keeps talking and talking and talking and, oh my god, he's still talking. Jonathan downs three-quarters of the glass and has to fight against the inevitable grin. Probably because Andrew is right — for all of his self-loathing, and as much as he'll deny it, the sincerity in Andrew's voice is enough to make Jonathan believe just about anything.

"Shut up," Jonathan finally says once his friend is done, though there's no malice in it. In fact, he's grinning stupid again, and finishes off the little that's left of his drink before setting the glass back on the table. Bad, bad, bad idea. Though he does like Andrew's babble, but all of the nice things about him are making him flush a little. A lot. "Just shut up." He seizes the moment of Andrew's distraction to resume petting his hair and get his own babble on. "You're way more awesome than me, okay. I can't do the stuff you do. The loyalty." Because for jet packs and jail cells and skinlessness, the fact remains that Jonathan betrayed the group first.

He shakes the thought out of his head, only to have it replaced by a new one, and before he can edit himself, Jonathan is talking again. "You don't get it, Andrew, how screwed up I was after— um, Warren, and getting kicked out and whatever. And now I'm here and I'm, like. Actually happy." His free hand presses against his eyes, because even though he's still grinning like a fool, he knows he's prone to tears. They haven't come yet, but Jonathan has the sickening suspicion that they will. "It's kind of a miracle," he finishes. All of the rambling and bubbly has knocked down the little regard for personal space that he had left, and he presses his forehead against the side of Andrew's own head. "You're kind of a miracle. You're my best friend, did I say that?" Because he is. He really, really is.

A miracle. The words seem to be on repeat in his head, and Andrew closes his eyes and hugs them to himself, a low hum of happiness escaping from his throat. His heels scuff on the couch. "Yeah, I think you might have," Andrew says, grinning at Jonathan and taking a drink - to his surprise, the glass is empty. He bends to put it on the floor and then tries to return to the exact same position.

He's considered kissing Jonathan before; just idly, without any real desire behind it. Because he wanted to know what it was like, kissing someone who loved you, if there'd be anything between them or if it would just hurt Jonathan. Right now, he's thinking of it again in that same lazy manner; the champagne clouds his judgement and for a moment he wonders if it would kill the moment or heighten it. But when Andrew turns his head it's Jonathan's forehead which he presses his lips gently to. Loyalty, of course, just like Jonathan has said; hopeless, relentless loyalty. It's not Jonathan he's afraid of hurting.

"You're my best friend too," he says quietly, tears stinging his eyes. He blinks, trying not to shed them, and puts his arms around Jonathan again. "I'm so glad you're happy, you know? All I want is for us all to be happy." The last time he'd said that it was plaintive; this time he just sounds tired, like he's been working so hard for it and he knows he has to keep going. The melancholy and the alcohol and the familiar closeness of Jonathan the human teddybear make Andrew a little sleepy, and he yawns. "It's gonna happen," he breathes, a little slurred, a little dreamy. "That's what the new year's gonna bring. Don't you think?"

Maybe he's drunk. Maybe he's still caught up in the happy undercurrent of the holidays. Maybe he's sick in the head. Maybe he's just imagining things, but for Jonathan, time stops, and nothing but this moment matters. Forget the holiday, forget Warren, forget the epic struggle between good and evil, forget the dull ache in his stomach that'll always be there, forget the fact that he got a real kiss just a few days earlier at the ball, this is his world. And he's fully aware of how ridiculous he is for thinking it, so Jonathan just smiles. It's all he can do. He wishes there were some epic gesture he could do in return for Andrew, but nothing comes to mind. It's all too huge for him to handle without his heart feeling like it's going to explode.

Words don't work for a while, until things pick up to normal speed again and the volume gets turned back up. Time goes on and they shift until he's holding Andrew again, because it feels right, because he can't imagine it any other way. "You want us to be happy and you're crying," Jonathan observes, swiping his thumb under one of Andrew's eyes. "But yeah, I think so. I definitely think so. It's going to be a good year."

The silence hangs for a moment before Jonathan decides, screw it, he'll just steal Andrew's epic gesture. It's the champagne and the night, he's telling himself, but in reality it's just Andrew. And on the one hand it means nothing. On the other, it's everything in the letter and more, and he brushes his own lips over Andrew's temple. Time stays normal, and he's grateful for it. There's only so much he can take in one night. And he doesn't say anything. Just rests his chin on top of Andrew's head and stays there.

There's a pause. Andrew is tired, and the new dose of alcohol is making his head spin, and Jonathan's lips on his skin mean absolutely everything. That tiny little gesture; somehow it means more than his own. Abruptly, he bursts into tears.

It's not noisy crying; Andrew just starts shaking a little, his face screwing up and tears beginning to drip down to his nose. It's happy crying - well, mostly. Happiness is just one of the emotions which swirls through him; there's hint of regret, of guilt, of absolute agony over the fact that some part of him wishes things were different (but they're not) and that he could even consider (but he can't.) He keeps himself buried against Jonathan's rapidly dampening chest, sobbing very slightly.

Eventually he gives a big sniff and raises his head, daring to peer at Jonathan's face. It strikes him that crying probably isn't the most normal of reactions, and he tries to give Jonathan a reassuring smile. It comes out as more of a goofy grin, his eyes shining with adoration. "Sorry," he says, looking a little self-deprecatory. "It's just that this is so beautiful, and it feels really right, and I just." A shaky breath. "These are happy tears, I'm okay." He pulls closer again, listening to Jonathan's heartbeat. "We're okay," he says softly.

Jonathan's first reaction is pure terror, that dull whammy of dread when he thinks he's screwed up. Maybe it's only okay when Andrew does it. His hand ceases its repetitive motion and he doesn't even breathe until Andrew looks at him and smiles, when he knows it's fine. It's just Andrew and all his limitless affections. That's the excuse for all the baking and bouncing and compliments and tears and Jonathan doesn't care, because in his mind, it's a valid one.

"We're fine," he repeats, a little louder than Andrew, because it feels good to say the words and mean them. He considers telling Andrew about how he wrote them letters during he Christmas before supervillainy too, or about how sometimes when they were in Mexico he forgot about being on the lam and daydreamed that it was just where life had taken them and that they were supposed to live together, or about his cat Captain Kirk or something stupid to make him laugh. There's all these half-finished thoughts and disjointed stories floating around in his clouded mind, and Jonathan wants to tell them to Andrew, tell him everything. But he doesn't. Jonathan settles for just playing with the curls at the nape of Andrew's neck and breathing, suddenly very conscious that there's someone actually listening to him breathe.

"Can I live here?" he blurts out in a small voice. The words take him by surprise — of all the fragmented questions running through his mind, really. But Jonathan doesn't even think to take it back, just cocks his head a little to look down at Andrew. "I don't mind the couch, and it's better, uh, infinitely better than being alone, and I just like it here," he explains. He knows not every night will be like this, but the realization that his quality of life has increased since crashing with Andrew hasn't escaped him.

Andrew lifts his head a little and gives Jonathan a what are you, stupid? look. "You do live here," he says, and then lays back down so Jonathan can continue petting him.

He's been thinking for a while, actually, that Jonathan should sleep somewhere other than the couch. But when he'd gone to file for a transferral, he's received a firm no from the homophobic government guys. And he couldn't just give Jonathan the room unofficially; Claire still came home sometimes, to get her stuff, and who knew how long it would be before the threat that had scared her out of here died down and she came back?

Despite those obstacles, Andrew was determined. He didn't care what people thought. Jonathan lived here now, and in Andrew's mind he had for a while - Andrew hadn't planned on letting him go back to his new, empty apartment any time soon. "If you want we can buy another bed and put it in my room..." he said, which was the best idea he could come up with. The offer isn't made lightly; after all, despite all his hugging and touching, Andrew likes his privacy and needs his space. But he could handle it - especially since he knows Jonathan would understand if Andrew asked him to sleep on the couch occasionally. Of course, it'll mean Andrew will have to tidy his room, but then that would have had to happen sooner or later anyway. His only other suggestion causes him to blush and bite his lip and pray Jonathan won't take this the wrong way. "Or um, I could share."

Everything about Andrew's answer is both what Jonathan hoped and dreaded. He really, really doesn't want to be a bother. It's easier to think of himself as a crasher or, at this point, a long-term houseguest. He's been trying his absolute hardest to stay out of Andrew's way and not get underfoot, for fear of having to go back to the apartment he's petty sure Mukuro still has a key to. The fact is that he feels safe here. Even with Menchi chewing on his hair while he sleeps.

The bed idea isn't such a bad one, but it still makes Jonathan feel like he's intruding. "The couch is fine, seriously," he says again. "I mean, pretty comfortable, right? Just, um, all my stuff is pretty much here anyway, and. Really. The couch is my new dominion, or whatever." Champagne has made him a little headachey on top of the babble, so he just stays quiet instead. There's a lot to be said for privacy, even if it's just a living room. And, truthfully, the couch really doesn't bother him. If it ever does, he'll just make a fort and sleep there instead. Things could get complicated if he's ever assigned another roommate (hopefully one without a creepy protector-guy this time) but Jonathan resolves to cross that bridge when they come to it.

"Thank you." It's another thing that just slips out, but it doesn't take Jonathan by surprise this time. He's fully aware of how lucky he is to be here, just to be here in general, with the added bonus of friends who understand him (for the most part, and despite how terrifying that thought is) and fight with him and open a business with him and lay here with him. Everything is bigger than he can fully grasp at the moment, and his heart still feels like it's going to burst out of his chest, but he trusts Andrew to know that there's more meaning behind those two words than he knows how to say.

Andrew sniffs, the remnants of his crying still dampening his cheeks, and gives Jonathan a sweet little grin. He can feel the meaning shaking in Jonathan's chest; he knows that he is not just being thanked for the offer of a room, or a bed, or a couch. Whichever. Even if Jonathan says he'll keep the couch, Andrew knows he can always count on platonic midnight snuggles if he needs them.

"Don't, you'll make me start again," he says in a shaky but good-humoured voice. "Also you're welcome." He squeezes Jonathan tightly, habit making him careful of where the wound once was than any actual fear of hurting him. His vision swims, and he realises he's yawning again. He was going to say something about using one of his drawers or his closet so that Jonathan feels a little more settled in, but the words disappear before he can say them, vanished into the ether.

"Happy New Year," he whispers instead. They can deal with that kind of organisation tomorrow, when the daylight is sharp and ordinary and they are no longer enclosed in their hazy pink bubble. Right now, all Andrew wants to do is fall asleep with Jonathan warm and breathing beside him. "Have I gotta move?" he asks, over-exaggerating his bleariness and opening his eyes enough to turn a calculated cute expression on Jonathan. "'M tired."

"Happy New Year," Jonathan says through his own yawn. He's sleepy; not necessarily tired, but he knows if he closes his eyes for long enough, he'll be gone. It's a pleasant change from the usual all-out exhaustion he falls into in the wee hours of the night.

He gives Andrew's question a second's consideration, just to freak him out, before shrugging a shoulder to move his head. There's a strangled whine of protest, but it subsides when Jonathan scoots down the couch and rolls over onto his side to face him. Andrew's hair is messed up from Jonathan continually running his hand through it, and the sleepy grin on his face is a comfort. So, he doesn't mind being hurt, and he doesn't want Jonathan to worry about him — it doesn't matter. He still feels the need to take care of his best friend, and he doesn't plan on stopping. Andrew will have to get used to it.

"You don't get to move," Jonathan mumbles sleepily. All the nice things they've said tonight are still buzzing in his head as he snakes his hand through Andrew's hair, pulling him closer and pressing their foreheads together. He's warm, and he smells like soap and spice and sweet alcohol and every long, scary night in Mexico. The combination of memory and closeness makes Jonathan grin and close his eyes, trace his fingers back and forth through his hair. They're drunk and they need sleep, but Jonathan wants to hang onto the hazy realization that everything feels right. Babylon finally feels right.