After Mindy had picked up Melanie, M.J. and Frankie had stayed up until the early hours, lost in a marathon of Call of Duty. It was well past three a.m. when they finally gave up and collapsed into bed. Frankie’s bed. M.J. always packed his sleeping bag out of habit, but it rarely left its spot in the corner. If his dad ever discovered the truth that he and Frankie shared the same bed - even though it was strictly platonic - he’d lose it completely. M.J. knew the risk, and still he chose this anyway because he knew Frankie would never love him back the way he wanted; all he'd ever get was the fragile, temporary mercy of proximity.

M.J. stirred slowly, feeling the warmth of sunlight on his face. A gentle squeeze around his waist pulled him out of his sleep. “F-Frankie?” he whispered.

“Hmm?” Frankie’s voice was thick with sleep, barely audible.

“I…think it’s time to get up, dude,” M.J. said softly.

Frankie let out a low whine in protest. “Ten more minutes…” The words slurred into a snore before he even finished them. M.J. let a small, tender smile curve his lips. He eased back into the warmth of Frankie’s hold, the arm still draped possessively across him. Frankie didn’t let go.

And for a little while longer, M.J. let himself pretend he never would.