Work Text:
Tom was lying on his bed, face buried in his pillow and Ron’s hand in his hair where the older man was sitting next to him. Ron was reading aloud from the textbook perched in his lap, the compromise they’d drawn after Tom had a panic attack that left his head swimming and his frame quivering, but still insisted on studying. Tom had agreed to rest only after Ron offered to read their assigned chapters aloud, his roommate’s voice smothering the Admiral’s shouts lingering uninvited at the edges of his consciousness.
Tom sighed softly, frame lax as he half-heartedly kept up with everything Ron was saying. He’d go over it again on his own when he did the required questions based on the chapter, but this way he wouldn’t have to do his initial read-through of the text. And, even if he’d never admit it, this was all he really felt up for, at the moment. He’d spent years functioning through the familiar, all-encompassing dread, his mind screaming at him anytime he let himself break for any reason.
It was exhausting.
As such, the argument he’d initially given Ron had been lackluster at best, especially when his best friend’s fingers began weaving through his hair. It was just so painfully relieving to have someone willing to make him rest in the first place. But now even that comfort didn’t feel like enough, wasn’t as solid as he needed.
Tom very rarely did things compulsively–that was far too dangerous in most instances–but with his mind foggy and limbs leaden after the panic attack he decided not to give himself a chance to overthink it this once. So, he sat up behind Ron, his roommate’s hand lifting as he allowed Tom to move. Ron continued reading, the lack of reaction enough to prevent Tom from growing self-conscious. He leaned forward to press his face into Ron’s back, arms wrapping securely around the older man’s shoulders and fingers curling into Ron’s shirt.
Ron’s free hand immediately came up to smooth gently over Tom’s forearms, but he finished the paragraph he was reading before asking, “Alright?”
“Mmm.” Tom shifted a bit closer so he was leaning more comfortably against Ron’s broad back, the steady warmth enough for the itch of his skin to settle. Ron hummed at him, then continued reading, still softly brushing Tom’s arms, palm warm. Tom would never get enough of how tenderly Ron treated him. Always like he was something fragile, something precious.
It was almost enough to make Tom not feel like a screw-up, for a few merciful minutes.
Through some magic it was easier to breathe against Ron’s shoulder, the fresh scent of coffee and rain Ron carried clearing his head a little more, piercing memories like light in a fog. Ron felt solid and real under his cheek and part of him ached at the thought of spending so many years without this comfort. Mourning who he would have been if it weren’t for the Admiral. The overwhelming terror from earlier was barely a shadow, now, with Ron’s warmth to steady him and the older man’s voice wrapping around him like a blanket.
He felt safe.
Even though he’d reached out, had lowered his guard. He hadn’t been pushed away. Ron hadn’t left.
He’d never wanted anything more than that.