Maybe

Dewey was snoring.

It was the least endearing thing about him on a list that was alarmingly short. It was that and leaving the wrappers to his gum everywhere, including Rowan’s bed somehow. The overly charming exterior that was Dewey did nothing to counteract the vexing sound of his snores now.

Rowan glanced over, annoyed.

Dewey's long arms and legs hung haphazardly over all sides of the couch, making it look like a bomb had gone off and he was a casualty. A dim yellow streetlight shone through a gap in the curtain across the arm dangling over the side of the couch, its black sleeve pushed up to the elbow. The rest of him fell into the open-mouthed shadow of the room.

One of them should have turned on lights forever ago, but it wouldn't have helped either of them get to sleep.

Rowan blinked and turned back to his beer.

This was the first time Dewey slept since Rowan found him two and a half days ago behind the grocery store. And it was a good thing too. He couldn't sleep until Dewey did or risk him slipping off again.

Rowan tipped the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. It hit his mostly empty stomach with a dissatisfying slosh.

It didn’t taste good tonight. There was a sourness to it that normally wasn’t there. Maybe it was because Dewey wasn’t drinking with him. Rowan took a swig of water and looked over at Dewey again, struck by a deep sense of longing.

Why couldn't he just have a normal life? Bad luck hounded Dewey.

Rowan slid two pieces of gum between his teeth and left the living room, leaving his beer on the counter.

Stepping outside, he leaned on the back door to the balcony. It was a hot night. Humid. Lightning flickered madly in the sky.

A storm was coming. It was fat on the horizon and dark. Heavy already. Rowan's eyes scraped along behind the lightning, searching for the ends of the storm and finding nothing.

They didn’t need the rain, but it was always welcome. Warm, wet wind rushed over Rowan’s skin. Dewey loved thunderstorms. Maybe he would sleep more peacefully if he heard the storm.

White lightning raced across the horizon.

Dewey occupied more of his thoughts than he was comfortable with these days. His mother’s death was only going to make that worse. Rowan shoved his hands in his pockets with a slow exhale.

What was happening to him?

The storm was close now, so heavy in the sky Dewey could feel the pressure of it.

Maybe it was going to be a bad one. Or one of the best. Maybe it would drop tornadoes left and right or maybe it would throw straight-line winds at them like a wall. Or maybe it would just be a perfect mix of everything and give a beautiful light show to boot.

Rowan scanned the sky for a moment and stepped back inside.

No matter what kind of storm it was, Dewey’s room was the best one to be in. Facing both south and west, the room was a natural magnet for summer storms. Plenty of nights, Dewey ran down the hall to bang on Rowan’s door and tell him to come watch the storm. Rowan couldn’t count how many times they sat on his bed, staring out the big windows at the approaching storm.

The tired features softened as he walked into the living room.

Dewey was still in his haphazardly scattered state on the couch, but all of his muscles were lax now. There wasn’t an ounce of tension in his face. Sleep settled across him comfortably like a cat seeking warmth. The slipped sleeping meds did their job and there was no better sight.

Dewey could be mad at him in the morning. When he was well-rested. When he wasn't on the edge of killing himself anymore. They could have a big fight about the morality of spiking each other's drinks and then laugh about it later.

As long as he slept now.

Sliding his arms underneath the lithe figure, Rowan scooped him up effortlessly and carried him off to bed.

Maybe this was all right. Or maybe it was the kind of thing that Dewey would really be upset about. But Dewey never yelled. Not even when Rowan messed up. He hugged Dewey tightly to his chest as he fiddled with his door. Maybe this was exactly the kind of care Dewey needed. Maybe he needed to feel loved again. Maybe that’s what this was. Some kind of love.

There were a lot of maybes these days, Rowan thought as he set Dewey down on his bed. His socks and shoes were already off since Rowan had already convinced him to change into pajamas just because an hour or so back. There wasn’t much more to do but slide the long legs under the thin sheet and set the thermostat on the air conditioner. He’d run the place cool tonight. Cool for pleasant dreams.

He walked over to the window nearest Dewey and lifted it a crack.

Screw the bill.

A clap of thunder growled through the house, rattling the frame. Dewey let out a contented sigh and shifted below the grey sheet.

Rowan started to leave the room when a quiet whimper stopped him. Dewey hung off the bed, reaching for something with a frown on his face. Slowly, as though he were walking across coals, Rowan crossed the room and sat cautiously on the floor with his back pressed up against the bed frame. Dewey's hand slapped inelegantly across his shoulder, securing him as another flash of lightning cut through the room.

Another round of booming thunder shook the house.

Lightning lit up both of their faces, catching one in a quiet moment of peace and another frozen in subtle terror as he finally placed the strange feeling in his chest.

Rowan looked outside, pensively watching the lightning spider across the sky, his mind full of maybe, maybe, maybe.

The clouds couldn't hold back the rain and down it fell. Rowan simply sat and listened.

And Dewey snored.

__________________________

A/N: Other pieces are below. This has gone from a little project to the start of a book. I took a little break last week because the creative well was *e m p t y*. But back at it again! (Hopefully with renewed vigor)

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Dew Drops

Rain Drops

Gone

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