Errol's apartment looked very different from what his home in the village was like. That house was sterile and cold, with everything standing exactly where it belonged, not a millimetre out of place.

From the parts I had seen of the apartment, it was quite the opposite. A few dirty dishes waited in the sink. Clothes were discarded in an armchair in the living room. A couple of books laid on the coffee table instead of standing on the bookshelf.

Very different, but it felt familiar. It felt like Errol.

"I told ye to run," Errol berated me for the umpteenth time.

We sat in the kitchen. He had bandages, cleaning wipes, and everything you might need to treat wounds. With cotton, he dabbed my broken lip. He had already put a plaster over my left cheek and cleaned off the blood that had run from my nose.

"An' I've told ye that was never gonna happen." The comment earned me a hard glare.

He discarded the bloody cotton. Picked some new and reached for my right hand. He cleaned off my knuckles, slowlyand thoroughly, as if they were priceless artifacts. When that was done, he took a cream, which he spread over both of my arms where bruises had already appeared.

We didn't say a thing, and Errol's eyes were fully focused on what he was doing. Never meeting my eyes. His movements were gentle. As if he worried he'd hurt me even further.

When he was done taking care of all of my wounds, he packed the things up, even though his knuckles were worse off than mine, and he had a nasty bruise on the side of his head.

I wanted to object and treat his wounds like he had treated mine. But any type of request, even that one, felt like potentially stepping on a mine.

Errol was pissed.

I knew he wasn't upset with me. Or maybe a little for not having run. But really he was angry because I had got hurt.

Even so, it felt stupid to say or do anything. It was better to just wait for him to calm down a little.

He turned to his kitchen counter and got a teapot going. Then he took two mugs out and tea bags. When it was done, when he was only waiting for the water to boil, he placed his hands on the counter and leaned forward, his back to me where I sat at the table. All of his muscles were tense.

"I got so fuckin' scared when I realised ye hadn't run," he said. His voice trembled, and I couldn't sit still anymore.

I stood and walked over to him. Wrapped my arms around him from behind and leaned my head against his back. His breathing was controlled in a way which made me feel sure it would have trembled otherwise.

"I'm sorry," I apologised, though it was the last thing I was. "But I'm fine."

He got out of my hold, rounded on me, and glared.

"Ye call this fine?!" His hand waved towards my face.

I didn't let his shout get to me. Instead, I hugged him. For a bit, his arms hung slack by his sides. Then he hugged me back, held me with almost crushing strength, and the next moment, his control over his emotions broke.

He started crying.

There was no need for me to say anything. My words wouldn't calm him, anyway. The only thing I needed to do in that moment was hold him as he cried the remnants of his fear out.

"I'm sorry, Alasdair. I'm sorry I didn't protect ye well enough," he whispered between two sobs.

"Ye protected me just fine. I just got hurt tryin' to have yer back." His arms tightened around me even more. It almost felt like he was trying to make me a part of him, or maybe the other way around.

"Don't try that again."

"That's like askin' me to not breathe."

He let go of me, and I moved back a bit so we could look at each other. Though he had cried, he looked as handsome as ever. No puffiness or redness. His stubble was a bit more pronounced than usual. I knew from what I had heard women say about him through the years that the stubble on him was attractive. Studying him, I could certainly see why.

His brown eyes travelled between mine as if searching for something, and the intensity of it made warmth collect in my body. The tension from when we had left the pub was back, and it was even thicker. Swirling between us like a thundercloud ready to be released. Or maybe the cool sea on a hot summer's day waiting for us to jump in.

Then his eyes went down to my lips, and unable to look at his eyes anymore, mine fell to his lips as well.

They looked very soft.

"The water is ready," I blurted out and took a bigger step away from him. Moved to pour us the tea. Errol took a seat at the table while I did, and I could have sworn he let out a shaky sigh as he did.

But it had to have all been in my head. I was going crazy, after all. The way I had just looked at and thought about his lips was enough proof of that.

He is your best friend, I told myself over and over as I poured us the tea. And friends don't look at friends' lips like that.

"Can I look over yer wounds as well?" I asked as I placed the cups down on the table.

"No need. Have had much worse." He took his cup. Blew a bit on it before taking a sip. I firmly set my eyes on my own cup.

"Here in Edinburgh? Cos I've not seen ye worse."

"Aye, there's been a few similar situations."

I wondered if he had protected someone else like he had protected me.

Though that thought proved to be dangerous as it hurt in a way I didn't understand, but absolutely didn't like. A suffocating pain, which I felt certain held the potential to kill me if it lingered for too long.

"Ye're sleepin' here tonight," Errol went on to say. Or rather decide. "I'm not lettin' ye walk outside until the sun is up again."

"That's fine," I told my cup. I didn't feel like leaving, anyway. I wanted, or more like needed, to stay close to him. The evening had been a lot. And I just needed the safety of Errol, of my best friend.

I knew that likely was an intense way to feel about a friend. That others would raise their eyebrows at it. But it was just how it was. We had, after all, been through so much together. Grown up together. Like Frodo and Sam. Their friendship was also intense, but with the journey they went on together, it made sense. They just knew each other that well, knew they could depend on each other to that extent. Just like me and Errol.

Errol being Sam in this analogy, of course. He was the one who had the strength to carry me up Mount Doom, not the other way around.

"Ye got a couch I can sleep on?" I asked next and dared to look at Errol again.

"Don't be stupid. Ye're sleepin' in the bed. I'll take the couch."

"No way! I'm not lettin' ye sleep on the couch!"

Half an hour later, we both got into Errol's bed. We had bickered back and forth about who would sleep on the couch. But as neither one of us had relented, I had finally exclaimed, "It's not like we haven't slept next to each other before!"

Because we had. Plenty of times.

Errol's eighth birthday had been the first time. During a time when everything in life had been easier. Before even the First Incident had happened.

We had been quite a few sleeping over at his place that night. It had been his mother's idea, not his. In fact, I had overheard him tell his mother he didn't want the sleep-over party. But his mother had never cared about what he wanted, but rather cared about what looked good.

So though Errol had wanted to go and sleep in his own bed, he had been forced to sleep with the rest of us in their garage. But when the rest had fallen asleep, he had got up. I had sat up as well.

"Where ye goin'?" I had asked.

"Nowhere. Just sleep, Alasdair," he had answered in a snappy voice.

"I can't. It's too hard," I had told him. He had immediately softened and had taken me with him to his bed to sleep there instead. We hadn't slept a lot, though. We had talked until we hadn't been able to keep our eyes open.

So this would be far from the first time we slept next to each other.

We were both in underwear and t-shirts getting comfortable on the bed. Errol only had one proper blanket, but he had brought out some thinner ones as well, so we wouldn't have to share. He luckily had two pillows, however, so we didn't need to make some make-shift pillow for one of us.

The bed was quite large. Definitely big enough for two people.

As we laid down, my mind pictured Errol on the bed with Cameron. They would share a blanket, of course. They would cuddle throughout the night. Errol hugging him, their legs tangled up together. They would probably kiss and whisper sweet-nothings to one another.

I kicked the thoughts out of my mind. Didn't want to picture it. Didn't like the acid in me the image of the two of them created.

We lay facing each other. The room was in almost complete darkness. Only a bit of light from street lamps found its way through the blinds. Not enough for me to see more than the outline of him. We were so close, yet not touching at all.

I had been feeling tired before. It had been an eventful evening, after all. But laying there so close to him drove my tiredness away. Instead, I felt hyper aware of the fact that I only needed to move a few centimetres and we would touch. Just a few centimetres and his arms would be around me.

All nerves in my body buzzed with that knowledge. My heart had to be beating loud enough for him to hear, and the air between us was hard to breathe. It was thick and grew thicker with every stray thought of mine. Thoughts I didn't acknowledge.

"Errol?" I said after a bit.

"Aye," he answered in a clear voice.

"I can't sleep."

"It's just been a few minutes. Give it some more time."

We went silent again. For a bit.

I had to open my mouth to breathe. The air was so dense you would have needed a chainsaw to cut through it.

"Errol?"

He chuckled lightly. "What?"

"I just... Thank ye for bein' my friend."

He shuffled closer. Moved the blankets so the one covered both of us. Then he put his arms around me.

Just like I had hoped he would.

I could breathe more calmly again. His physical contact having melted some of the unbearable thickness in the air.

"Never thank me for that," he mumbled. "Now sleep instead."

"Alright," I answered, content by having his arms around me. By being engulfed in the safety only he could offer me. By breathing in the scent of a loch during every inhale. By having a hand on his back.

It was calm and peaceful. As well as something else. A danger. But not a scary danger. It felt more like I was at a crossroads and needed to make a decision. Or maybe like I was in a plane with a parachute in hand and had to decide if I wanted to jump.

I moved my hand around a bit. Felt up around his shoulder blades and down his spine. Felt all the muscles on his back. The hardness of them, the shape. Tried to map them out with my fingers and commit them to memory. I wished he wasn't wearing the shirt, so I could feel them even better.

His hands moved as well. One went up to my neck. His thumb brushed back and forth there. A soothing motion, which made me close my eyes. His other moved around my back like mine were. Feeling, almost searching for something. It made me both relaxed and tense at the same time. Like both jelly and a tightly wound spring. Made me feel things I couldn't name, but I knew I didn't want it to end. In fact, I wanted more.

I got annoyed that I wore a shirt as well.

My hands travelled lower. To the hem of his shirt. I paused to listen to my heart; it beat as if I was running up stairs. And to hear my breathing; it was heavy and trembling. I tried making coherent thoughts. Tried to understand what was going on. But I also didn't want to understand. I just knew it felt good, felt right, and that I wanted it to continue. I wanted...

You are going crazy, Alasdair, a part of my brain said, while another sighed in content as he bent his head so his lips were in my hair.

It wasas if I was standing by the open door of an airplane. Parachute ready. One hand holding on to the frame of the opening, afraid to let go. But my feet teetered on the edge, just one nudge and I would be in the air. Falling or maybe flying.

My fingers played with the edge of his shirt for a bit. Rubbed the fabric between them. I tilted my head up, so my nose was closer to his neck, so the scent of a loch filled me more. My movement caused my lips to rest against his collarbone with only the thin fabric of his shirt between and his lips to land on my forehead. There they burned against my skin, but it was a fire I never wanted to escape. They pressed a bit harder, and while feeling them against me, I dared what I wanted and moved my hand under his shirt.

He took a sharp inhale, which made my heart stutter as I felt his skin under my hand. It was as smooth as I had imagined. And it felt warm. Or not just warm. Hot, almost too hot. But it made me crave more of him. To feel more of his skin against mine. To more clearly map out every part of him.

And not just his back.

My hand let go of the frame of the airplane's door. I lifted a foot and was ready to jump.

For a moment, I kept still. Let myself linger in the moment.

My hand on his skin. My nose by his neck. My lips against his collarbone.

His hand which gripped the fabric of my shirt. His other hand which now shifted between stroking my neck, playing with my hair, and moving under at the edge of my shirt's neckline. His lips on my forehead, from which ragged breaths came.

And I wasn't sure I had felt like I did ever before. It was such an overwhelming feeling; scary, but at the same time safe because it was with Errol I experienced it. The feeling was enticing as well. One which seduced.

I let myself be seduced and moved my hands further up his bare back. But as I did, he stiffened. His hands stopped moving, his lips left my forehead, and for a second he held me harder before his hold slackened.

"Alasdair," he said. His voice breathless, as trembling as I felt. But there was also a sharp edge there. One which cleared my head. "Do ye know what ye are doin'?"

I withdrew my hand. Moved away a bit and turned around.

Grabbed hold of the plane again. Took a step back from the opening. Retreated, not ready to jump anymore. The inside of the plane was a safe place to be, after all.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, because I really had no idea what I had been doing. Had no idea what had got over me. My brain had really shut off for a bit.

Errol didn't say anything more. But he moved closer again, spooned me. And I took hold of one of his hands. It was a safe touch amidst all the touches, which had been... I didn't even know what all of that had been. Didn't understand why my heart was still hammering, nor why it pleased me to hear that his breaths were still a bit off and that his hand squeezed mine as if I was his anchor.

None of it made sense.

It wasn't like I felt anything like that for him.

He was my best friend. My Samwise Gamgee. That was all.

I moved my head a bit so my lips rested against his arm, which I was currently using as a pillow, while his came to rest against my shoulder.

I must have got one too many punches to my head during the fight.