Chapter Text
April 24th
Spot has had quite possibly the longest day of his entire life.
He’d gone to bed at one the night before and woken up at five, because of the damn morning construction going on right outside he and Race’s building. Race, somehow, had remained blissfully unaware in his own bedroom, leaving Spot to die quietly by himself until he had to go to work. The coffee machine was broken, leaving him to drink some Sprite which made him feel uncomfortably queasy, and they were out of milk, so he couldn’t even have cereal. When he’d left for work, his car hadn’t started, making him take the subway, but once he got there, he realized he’d left his metro card at his apartment and had to sprint back to get it. He’d been an hour late for work. At work—his lousy fucking supermarket cashier gig—he’d had to deal with a screaming extreme coupon-er, a broken scanner, and a teenage girl who was drunk at three in the afternoon and threw up all over him.
When he finally got off at nine, he’d had to drag himself onto the subway, nearly killed himself running into a frightening maybe-ex-gang member, and tripped up the stairs in his apartment building because the fucking elevator was out of order.
He pushed the door to his apartment open, eyes half-closed, and leaned against it once it shut. Race was sitting on the couch under a blanket, eyes trained on the TV. He looked up when Spot entered.
“Hi bud.” Race laughed. “How’re you doing?”
Spot made a sound that could only be explained as a squeak. “I have had the worst day on the planet, I want to die.”
Race pouted and turned down the television. “Sorry, Spottie.” He said gently.
Spot shrugged and collapsed onto his stomach beside Race, face shoved into the couch as he groaned. Race, almost without thinking, reached a hand over and brushed it over Spot’s curls gently.
Spot sighed lightly as Race’s hands began to thread through his hair. Before they’d moved in together, Spot hadn’t been touchy with anyone, ever. They didn’t touch him and he didn’t touch them. But Race was different. Race was the clingiest human being on the planet. Touch was his way of communicating, and since Spot still wasn’t so good with the words, it had sort of become his, too.
Race’s fingernails scratched softly along Spot’s scalp and he exhaled deeply before he could stop himself, eyes closing. A low sound, almost like a purr, echoed from his throat.
Race’s hand stilled. “What, you like that?” He asked with a teasing little chuckle.
Spot was too tired and sad and tired again to deny it, even if he would pay for it for the next eighty years. He just nodded, yawning, and hummed easily when Race’s hand started moving again, nails scratching gently through his hair until Spot was asleep on the couch, snoring quietly.
And even though Race could have very easily gone to sleep in his own room and left Spot to snooze on the couch, he stayed in the living room, one hand on Spot’s head, his black curls threading through Race’s fingers.