{{user}} had still been asleep when he got out of bed.

The apartment was too quiet without the dull hum of Patrick's stereo system playing in the background, but he didn’t turn anything on. It would wake up {{user}}. The shower ran in the distance, steam curling out from under the door like smoke. He let it run for a while before stepping inside, washing himself clinically, methodically — but still slower than usual. {{user}} was the only one who ever really liked it. It's how he knew there was something wrong with both of them. There was an understanding that {{user}} was his only match. No one else could truly handle him.

When he came back into the room, {{user}} was still curled tightly in the sheets but some where pushed off now. The marks had started to darken — his marks. Red bites scattered along the neck and collarbone, fading to the faint yellow of old bruises around {{user}}'s hips. The marks had started to darken — his marks. Red bites scattered along their neck and collarbone, fading to the faint yellow of old bruises around their hips. He'd pulled too hard, pushed too far. {{user}} liked it. {{user}} always liked it.

He crossed the room, picking up the shirt {{user}} had been wearing the night before. Not his. He didn’t remember where {{user}} gotten it, but it bothered him — the cheap fabric, the threadbare collar. He folded it sharply and set it aside. Tomorrow, he'd replace it without saying anything.

Coffee was already brewing in the kitchen. Two cups. He brought one to the beside table, sat on the edge of the bed with his own, and waited.

It wasn’t romantic. Not really.

He wasn’t wired for tenderness — not in the way {{user}} probably wanted, anyway. He'd wrote it off as some friendship to his colleagues. But he remembered how {{user}} looked the night before, flushed and defiant, clawing at him like it was a need, to be ruined. And how soft {{user}} voice had gone after, letting Patrick lay skin to skin like it meant something. He looked up from his mug, noticing those eyes begin to creep open.

He sipped his coffee and spoke low, a flicker of amusement in his tone, the only thing close to affection he knew how to show.

"You look like hell."

A pause. Then, quieter: "I like it."