Coen unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment, shuddering off the cold as he stepped into the warm of their home's entry hall. He brushed his jacket off, pulling it off and hanging it on the coatrack. He out the toes of his right foot to the heel of his left foot, tugging his shoes off and repeating the process with his other foot. The brunette didn't bother to look over his shoulder as Ansel trailed through the hall after him, wringing his white, cotton scarf in his hands as he stepped through the doorway, looking slightly troubled.

Ansel hung his scarf up after a moment's hesitation and set to work on unbuttoning his warm, grey wool coat as Coen stalked into the kitchen. The blonde boy pursed his lips after watching him disappear around the corner and he stomped his feet on the welcome rug before the front door to get all the snow and ice off the treads, shutting the door and locking it after him. He lifted one foot at a time, in a very delicate manner to hold his balance on one foot, and yanked off his boots. He headed down the hall to his and Coen's room after placing his jacket on the rack.

The two boys had finally agreed to share a room several months ago after they'd both equally gotten a bit scared of sleeping alone, even though their apartment had multiple rooms in it. And neither of them really wanted to admit their fears, they could both be a bit stubborn if need be. But they did. Eventually.

It was a dark, rainy night, the water dripping and drumming against the window panes every time the wind shifted direction. Coen had just woken up and was sitting up in his bed, catching his breath from the nightmare that had scared him senseless. The brunette looked around his shadowy room with wide eyes, clutching onto his comforter tightly, utterly spooked at his horrid dream since he thought he had outgrown "bad dreams" years ago.

He ran his hands through his hair slowly, panting and calming himself down some, dropping his arms into his lap to glance over to the door where the dim living room light shone under the door. They always kept a soft light shining somewhere in case one of them had to get up in the middle of the night. Coen carefully kicked his legs over the side of his bed, getting to his feet and crossing his arms tightly over his chest as he padded towards his door and fumbled for the handle, swinging it open and creeping out into the hall. He immediately headed to his left, past the bathroom and pausing before another door. The anxious brunette opened it slowly, peeking in through the crack, his gaze falling on the bed longingly and he tiptoed inside, shutting it silently behind him.

As Coen took slow steps closer to the bed, he could just make out the twinkle of two eyes, shining in the moonlight and he swallowed, peeking at the lump of blankets worriedly. "Did I wake you?" He squeaked out in a whisper, fiddling with his fingers, his eyes still round, blinking nervously. If Coen squinted, he could just faintly make out the soft shaking of a head and he gave a little, relieved nod. "Th- that's good..."

The clap of thunder caused Coen to jump in shock and surprise and tremble slightly, his arms wrapped tightly around himself in fear. Ansel scooted over in his bed to the other side, making room for Coen, and patting the mattress before him, grinning softly up at him, his teeth sparkling slightly from the streetlight leaking in from the window. The frightful brunette hurried over to the bed at the invitation and quite literally threw himself under the blankets, pulling them up to his chin and peeking over at Ansel's moonlit, illuminated face. "Thanks," he whispered which earned him a gentle nod.

Ansel scooted a bit closer to him so their bodies brushed against each other, wriggling an arm out of the covers to wrap around Coen's shivering shoulders and he made out the brunette's small smile as they cuddled close together. Coen's tense muscles slowly began to unwind and relax as he hugged Ansel back tightly, the two of them nestled close throughout the night, both of them falling asleep soon after they closed their eyes.

The blonde boy gave a small smile at the memory, opening the door to their room, heading in and padding over to his side of the bed. Many people were quick to judge Coen and thought he was just another romantic who was carefree, humorous, and sly, but they really had to get to know him better. For example, an outsider looking in would never know that the brunette's favorite color was pastel blue or that he had a secret love for stringed lights, or that he was like a little kitten, petrified of storms who had a fetish for popping bubblewrap.

Ansel knew, however. And he was glad he did. He also happened to know that Coen wrote short poems of lily ponds and beach sunsets; of croaking frogs in the rain and tulip-munching cats when he was about twenty, or that he always had to busy his hands when he was speaking in front of people or else he'd get nervous and loose his train of thought, whether he tugged on the seam of his shirt or fiddled with something like a paperclip-

Ansel sifted through the small stack of books (all in which he finished reading in less than two weeks) he kept on his beside table until pausing to grab a small, white notepad and pencil, tucking them both in his back jeans pocket. He headed back to the kitchen, hearing Coen's soft muttering.

The blonde crept in quietly, lingering around the doorframe for a moment to watch him, before padding in and walking to the pantry to grab some bread. He avoided Coen's gaze, hearing his mumbling cut off and he walked self-consciously over to the fridge to grab the cheese and butter. He made his way back over to the counter and started fixing them both some grilled cheese sandwiches, setting them in the pan to cook; Coen's voice making him jump in surprise.

"Why are you creeping around like this place is rigged of lasers?" He asked, his voice hiding any, and all emotion. "I'm not gonna set off an open fire on you if you accidentally make a sound." Ansel swallowed, turning to face him, feeling like an animal entrapped under Coen's steely gaze. The blonde's gaze flitted up to Coen's eyes before meeting the floor again.

"Hold my gaze for longer than fifteen seconds," Coen whispered as he let out a soft, shaky breath. Ansel swallowed the saliva that pooled in his mouth, moistening his dry throat once more. Bright blue irises snaked their way up from the clean, white tile, pausing for a moment to linger on the pair of broad shoulders, brows furrowed, eyes looking anxious before finishing the journey. Past the round chin, the two flared nostrils, slinking past the pair of sharp cheekbones and finally resting on the nutmeg-colored eyes, the pupils dilated ever so slightly.

Ansel began a slow count in his head, timing the brunette's steely gaze that he stared at evenly. One Mississippi, two Mississippi...

Coen took a few quiet steps towards the blonde before the stove, reaching up with a careful hand to brush a stray wisp of hair gently from his face, biting his lip hard as if to keep from loosing it and yelling at him. Instead, he held everything in and took a deep breath, dropping his hands to rest, tensed, at his side, his gaze not wavering from Ansel's soft, pale eyes.

"Why do you look so scared?" The brunette choked out, doing an excellent job of keeping the hurt from wandering into his tone. "Right now. You look terrified that I'm standing right in front of you..."

Eight Mississippi, nine Mississippi...

Ansel fumbled behind him to dig into his jeans pocket, wrapping his trembling fingers around the notebook and his yellow, sharpened Ticonderoga pencil, pulling them back in front of him. He held the cover back with his thumb, flipping a few dozen pages filled with scribbles of words on both sides before stopping on a blank page. The blonde looked at him for a few more seconds, staying true to Coen's request and returned his eyes to the pad of paper. He wrote something down quickly, with very curvy and elegant script and handed the notebook back to Coen, who read it silently, envying his handwriting.

I guess I just didn't like what you said back at the bookstore, it read. Plus, you acted all mad at me afterwards and you know how that is...

Coen's gaze softened as he took it in and he handed him the book back, looking up at him. "I'm sorry," he sighed, running a hand through his untamed, brown hair as he kept his eyes firmly on Ansel's. "I just... I've been thinking about that kind of thing lately..."

Ansel scribbled something down and rotated the journal so Coen could read it.

Like the incurable disease and dying you mentioned earlier? The blonde had written, looking up to Coen with narrowed eyes which made the brunette rub the back of his neck anxiously.

"Yes," he answered curtly, his eyes unfocused as he looked past Ansel. "Don't you ever just think about the future?" Ansel nodded in response, trying to ignore the churning feeling he felt in his stomach.

"Does it ever scare you...?" Coen asked, his voice faltering slightly, continuing when Ansel didn't move.

"Because I worry," he whispered, his eyes round as he justified himself. "Forever's a long time, you know; to be dead and all. What if there's nothing waiting for us in the "afterlife"? What if everyone's just making stuff up to hide the fact that death is inevitable and we'll all just be corpses forever. For all eternity. Even after the earth and planets cease to exist. We'll all be nothingness..."

Ansel stared at him in silence for a moment, his keen eyesight catching the glistening of Coen's eyes, confirming his suspicions that meant that Coen had been thinking this over for quite some time if he was this worked up about it. He sniffed, about to write something else down before he caught whiff of the burning scent and he whirled around to the stove.

The quick thinking blonde grabbed the spatula and flipped the grilled cheese he'd forgotten all about that was sitting it in pan, and tossed the blackened sandwich into the garbage.

Then Coen lost it.

It was very out of character for the happy-go-lucky brunette to start flat out bawling, but once Coen caught sight of the burnt grilled cheese being disposed of, something inside him must've snapped.

Ansel turned back around to him, grabbing his wrist gently, having shoved his notebook and pencil back in his pocket, and let him over to the table while the poor brunette wept, saying things like, "That sandwich will never have a purpose. What a metaphorical little sandwich. Just like us. Purposeless and thrown away."

The blonde inspected him worriedly, sitting him down and pulling up a chair to sit beside him. He dried Coen's tears with his soft sweater sleeve and pulled out his notebook.

We can have a conversation about all of this later, but right now, take deep breaths while I make you a new sandwich, okay? is what he wrote.

Coen gave a small, weak nod, taking deep breaths and making those little gasping/squeaking noises as he tried to calm down some. He started hiccuping soon after.

Ansel offered a tiny grin, hiding the fact that he was deeply troubled for him as he headed back to the stove and preparing another grilled cheese, looking over his shoulder consistently to eye Coen.

As Ansel flipped the sandwich, he didn't quite catch Coen choking out in a whisper, "Everything good here dies. Even the stars," in between hiccups.