![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
twobirdsonesongTitle: Return (Me) To Sender
Pairing: Chris/Darren
Rating/Length: G / ~2,800
Summary: Based on this old Tumblr post.
Read on AO3
Chris almost doesn’t even check the mail that day. It’s a frigid and dreary day of dark grey skies and freezing rain. The weather is no real excuse not to at least put his slippers on and shuffle downstairs to the lobby to get his mail, but he doesn’t want to. The poor mail carrier has to trudge through this miserable winter day; all Chris has to do is get on an elevator.
But it’s warm in his apartment, cozy he might even say, with the mound of blankets he piled on the couch and the mug of tea still steaming on the coffee table. To say nothing of his cat snoring away on the chair in the corner. Chris has hardly moved since he got out of bed, and it’s not like he’s expecting anything in the mail that day anyway. He can just leave it for tomorrow. Except, he justifies, if he gets up and accomplishes this one small task, he won’t be obligated to do anything else for the rest of the day.
Chris bargains with himself as he puts on his slippers and takes the elevator down to the lobby. Luckily there’s no one there to catch him looking so slovenly, dressed as he is in old sweatpants and a long faded Star Wars t-shirt.
A few kitschy magazines make up the bulk of his mail, plus a couple of letters from various charities asking for more money from him. But nestled between an IKEA catalogue and a plea for donations is a postcard. Chris frowns. He doesn’t know anyone traveling; at least no one who would think to send him a postcard.
It’s from Boston and the image on the front shows the historical Boston Commons. A few raindrops warp one corner and it’s a wholly unremarkable postcard until Chris turns it over.
The handwriting is sloppy, a mix of capital and lower case letter slurring together in a rush, and it’s addressed to “the current resident.”
Hey, I used to live in your apartment. I’m drunk in Boston and this is the only address I know.
It’s signed with a messy signature that looks mostly like a D and C and a half-hearted attempt at a smiley face.
Chris is so surprised he nearly runs into the elevator doors. He doesn’t know anyone with those initials, at least no one he can recall, and the only person he even remembers in Boston is an old high school friend who would never send him a random postcard and who definitely doesn’t have his current address.
But it’s kind of charming, in a strange way, and when he gets back up to his apartment Chris affixes the postcard to his refrigerator with a magnet shaped like the Empire State Building.
***
The next day is a Sunday and there is no post on Sunday.
Chris does some laundry, changes his sheets, and looks at the postcard at least three separate times.
***
Chris heads home from a meeting with his agent with a headache forming above his left eye. He loves what he does, but today he’d had to sit through a tedious roundtable with his whole “team” where everyone but him got to voice their opinions of what he should do next.
He picks up a couple of things from the grocery store on the way, even though he knows he’s probably just going to order in anyway. Juggling his shopping bags and his keys and his phone makes the headache flare brutally, but luckily the doorman is there to solve one of his problems.
“Thanks, Theo,” Chris says as the door is closed behind him, cutting off the blustery winter air.
“Need a hand, Mr. Colfer?” Theo asks. He’s already moving towards the elevator bank to call one down, even through Chris still needs to grab his mail. It’s just a couple of envelopes and some other assorted wastes of paper.
“No, I’ve got it. Thanks, though.”
Once inside his apartment, Chris drops his grocery bags in the kitchen, says hello to Brian who’s come to investigate, and tosses the mail onto the counter. It all looks like junk, except for one thing that slides into view.
It’s another postcard, again from Boston, this time of the skyline illuminated by a purple-hued sunset. It’s sublimely ugly and is missing a corner.
Hey. Pretty sure I sent you a postcard yesterday, but I don’t remember what I said. So here’s another one in case I said something stupid. I promise I’m nice.
PS - I still have a key to your door. Weird, right?
DC :)
Chris rereads the card twice. It’s the same handwriting as the first and the same, nearly intelligible signature. He frowns while Brian circles his calves and paws at the grocery bags.
He’s never been the recipient of a prank before, but that’s what this is starting to feel like. What other reason would someone have to send him these things? The first one was almost understandable – Chris too has done some questionable things while drunk, though never buying, writing, and mailing a postcard to a stranger in another city. But sending a second one is just bizarre.
Nevertheless, Chris hangs it up on his fridge next to the first one. It’s look nice, he thinks; they add a bit of color to his off white and fairly bland kitchen.
His headache disappears, too.
***
Chris gets drinks with Jenna and Kevin on Friday night and does not tell them about the postcards.
He thinks about it, between his first glass of wine and his second vodka soda; it would definitely be an interesting story to tell. But he keeps it to himself.
There’s room for concern, of course. Whoever is sending these postcards knows where he lives, if not who he is, and the line about still having a key to his apartment is a little disconcerting. He’s pretty sure he can ask the super if the locks are changed between every new tenant; he’d sort of assumed they were, but didn’t think it was something he’d have to ask about.
It seems like such an odd thing to do – warn someone about a future break in via the postal service. Then again, sending a stranger some postcards is also an odd thing to do anyway.
Chris orders a third drink and lets it go.
***
A third postcard arrives a few days later. Outside it’s grey and snowing and Chris is as surprised as he is not.
The handwriting this time is smaller and neater, cramped together to give the author as much writing space as possible.
I was informed by interested parties after sending my last postcard that the PS might have come across as a little bit inappropriate and potentially worrisome to you. I am sorry. I would never break into your home, which was formerly my home. I promise that I would ask for your consent before entering…
DC ;)
Ps - Did the super ever fix the wiggly bit of the window frame? You’d think for the rent on that place the window frame would be immaculate.
Chris bites his lip as he stares at the little winky face smudged next to the signature. He doesn’t know what to think of all this. There’s no way someone is flirting with him via postcard. Absolutely none. The person sending these can’t possibly know who exactly lives in the apartment, and even if they somehow did, what would be the point in flirtatious postcards to a stranger who can’t respond in kind? He’s considered the idea before, but now it all seems far too involved to be a simple prank from some bored asshole.
But the fact is, the jamb on one of the windows in the bedroom is a bit wobbly and has been since Chris moved in.
***
Chris’ agent wants him to try writing plays.
“Or musicals,” Diana adds, tapping a pen rhythmically on her imposing desk. “The money is in musicals these days.”
“I think the money has been in my books,” Chris responds shortly. He’s not wrong. His books have done exceedingly well over the years, well enough that he can afford to rent an apartment alone and spring for a place to park his car. No small feat in the city, he knows.
Diana lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “There’s no reason you can’t do both. A diversified portfolio can only increase your successes long term.”
Chris doesn’t always like how she refers to him in terms of stocks, even if it’s not entirely inaccurate. “Except I’ve never written a play. Not really.” He doesn’t count the things he tried in high school.
“And you hadn’t written a book until you had,” she counters.
Chris cannot argue with that. There’s a reason she’s his agent after all, even if sometimes they get into quiet, tensely worded arguments over plot ideas and the sexualities of his characters. He can’t deny that he’s been itching to try something new, something outside his comfort zone, but he doesn’t like to fail. “I’ll think about it.”
“Do that,” Diana says and there’s unsubtle warning in her voice.
Chris leaves her office feeling a bit shamed, and perhaps a little invigorated. The books often come easy; this will not, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that.
***
Chris checks his mail on Sunday, just in cast he’d missed something from the day before.
He hadn’t.
***
In the interest of full disclosure, I feel like I should tell you that I don’t live in Boston. I was just visiting and bought a bunch of these. I hope you’re enjoying them as much as I am, which is a lot.
DC :)
PS - I actually still live in New York…
Chris stares at the newest postcard for a long time, too long, really, but he can’t stop the furious churning of his thoughts.
This person lives in New York, still. That bit of information makes Chris’ stomach clench. Of course he’d assumed the person who used to live in his apartment now lived elsewhere – in Boston where the postcards seemed to be coming from. But now that he looks for it, Chris can see the smudged postmark bearing an Upper West Side zip code, not so far from where is he. He checks the other cards on the fridge – sure enough, the second one he received was also mailed from New York, though the first two did come from Boston.
Chris leans heavily against the kitchen counter. If he didn’t know what to do with this before he really doesn’t now. He has no way to write back to this person; there’s no return address. He can’t ask why this person is sending him these cards, he can’t even ask who this person is. It’s a puzzle that troubles him, confounds him, and he can’t do anything about it.
At his feet, Brian meows loudly.
“Well?” Chris asks his cat. “What do you think?” Brian simply meows again, this time a bit louder.
“You just want food,” Chris says, long used to having lopsided conversations with his pet. “You think because I’m in the kitchen I’m going to give you food.” Brian blinks at him. “Well I’m not.”
Chris walks out of the kitchen with the postcard still in his hand.
***
The next week is spent researching the proper formatting of stage plays and flipping through his notes to see if he’s got anything he can turn into a play instead of another novel. If he’s going to do this he figures he’d better start small instead of diving head first into something as daunting and big a musical. Living in New York for the last few years has taught him that yes, the money is in the musical, but he’s not going to put himself in the line of abject failure and disappointment if he doesn’t have to.
Besides, he might be terrible at writing anything beyond a book. He doesn’t know. It’s safer, he thinks, to tread these new waters with some care and consideration.
***
Chris ignores the mail on Tuesday and again on Wednesday. On Thursday he sees a postcard wedged in next to magazines he never subscribed to and bills he keeps trying to switch over to paperless, but he leaves it where it is.
He spends the whole night thinking about what may or may not be scrawled on the back.
“Schrödinger’s postcard,” he tells Brian, who is not impressed with him at all.
On Friday Chris forces himself to grab the postcard and take it upstairs, unwilling to let it taunt him another day.
This time there is no note, no message, no flirtation – only a phone number with a 415 area code.
Chris rubs his thumb over the number, debating. He’s certainly not going to call this person, but his curiosity is never going to let it go. He’s in too deep as is.
He opens up his messages on his phone and quickly fires off a text before he can second-guess himself.
Why are you sending me these postcards?
The response comes almost instantly, as though the person on the other end had been waiting for it.
Oh shit hi. I thought I’d completely scared you off. I sent my number days ago
Who are you?
Darren. Who are you?
Chris
Hi Chris :)
Why are you sending me postcards?
There is a lengthier pause before the next text comes through and Chris briefly wonders if maybe he should have come across as a little…nicer.
Well, I was drunk for the first one and apparently thought it was funny. And then I wanted to apologize for probably looking like an asshole. And then…I don’t know. I wanted to.
Do you really have a key to the apartment?
Yes, but I don’t think it works anymore. The super changes the locks after each person moves out. Sorry that was so creepy of me.
It’s ok
It’s not really okay. This guy, this Darren, has been sending oddly familiar postcards to him for weeks now, one of which included what was probably innuendo.
So…can I come over?
Chris is so surprised he almost drops his phone.
What?
Can I come over? Say hi in person. I do sort of know where you live.
I…don’t think that’s a good idea
It’s a terrible idea. Chris hasn’t vacuumed in a week and Brian sheds. There are dishes in the sink even though he has a dishwasher, his coffee table is littered with notes and papers, and he hasn’t washed his hair in two days. It’s a terrible idea.
Why not?
Because. I don’t know you.
This is how you get to know me. Think of it like a bar. I’m just…coming over to say hello :)))
It’s a really terrible idea. Chris doesn’t pick guys up in bars either, or anywhere for that matter. Dating has never been high on his to-do list and jumping in via attempted postcard seduction seems even more dangerous than trying to write a musical. He doesn’t even know why he’s thinking of it this has a pick-up at all; he has no idea if Darren is gay or bi or just really into meeting new people.
This is a terrible idea, he texts to Darren.
Be over in 30 ;)
***
He’s shorter than Chris imagined, with a mess of dark curls and eyes hidden behind thick-framed glasses, and he says “oh” softly when Chris opens the door.
“Uhm, hi,” Chris responds, just as quietly. He’d managed to put on decent clothes, wash his face, and tidy up the apartment a bit before the buzzer nearly had him jumping out of his skin.
“You…are not what I expected,” Darren says, his gaze trailing slowly up and down Chris’ form, and something in Chris crumples a little.
“I–”
“You are so much better. Can I come in?”
Darren’s grin is toothy and roughish, the top of his head comes to Chris’ nose, and there is nothing Chris can do to keep him out.
“Yeah, of course.” Chris steps back to let Darren inside, but Darren turns into him and carefully leans in, eyes resolutely on Chris’ mouth.
“Wait one sec,” he whispers before stretching up on his toes. Chris has plenty of time to move away, to say no thank you, to do anything but kiss Darren back. He does none of those things.
The kiss is soft, hesitant; barely a press of lips, but Chris feels it all the way down. He grips the doorframe so tightly his hand hurts as Darren pulls back.
“Oh,” Darren whispers against his mouth and Chris can feel his smile. “Yeah.”
Chris most definitely agrees with him.
***
Three years later Chris receives a postcard in the mail with very familiar handwriting on it.
Will you marry me?
DC-C :)
Pairing: Chris/Darren
Rating/Length: G / ~2,800
Summary: Based on this old Tumblr post.
Read on AO3
Chris almost doesn’t even check the mail that day. It’s a frigid and dreary day of dark grey skies and freezing rain. The weather is no real excuse not to at least put his slippers on and shuffle downstairs to the lobby to get his mail, but he doesn’t want to. The poor mail carrier has to trudge through this miserable winter day; all Chris has to do is get on an elevator.
But it’s warm in his apartment, cozy he might even say, with the mound of blankets he piled on the couch and the mug of tea still steaming on the coffee table. To say nothing of his cat snoring away on the chair in the corner. Chris has hardly moved since he got out of bed, and it’s not like he’s expecting anything in the mail that day anyway. He can just leave it for tomorrow. Except, he justifies, if he gets up and accomplishes this one small task, he won’t be obligated to do anything else for the rest of the day.
Chris bargains with himself as he puts on his slippers and takes the elevator down to the lobby. Luckily there’s no one there to catch him looking so slovenly, dressed as he is in old sweatpants and a long faded Star Wars t-shirt.
A few kitschy magazines make up the bulk of his mail, plus a couple of letters from various charities asking for more money from him. But nestled between an IKEA catalogue and a plea for donations is a postcard. Chris frowns. He doesn’t know anyone traveling; at least no one who would think to send him a postcard.
It’s from Boston and the image on the front shows the historical Boston Commons. A few raindrops warp one corner and it’s a wholly unremarkable postcard until Chris turns it over.
The handwriting is sloppy, a mix of capital and lower case letter slurring together in a rush, and it’s addressed to “the current resident.”
Hey, I used to live in your apartment. I’m drunk in Boston and this is the only address I know.
It’s signed with a messy signature that looks mostly like a D and C and a half-hearted attempt at a smiley face.
Chris is so surprised he nearly runs into the elevator doors. He doesn’t know anyone with those initials, at least no one he can recall, and the only person he even remembers in Boston is an old high school friend who would never send him a random postcard and who definitely doesn’t have his current address.
But it’s kind of charming, in a strange way, and when he gets back up to his apartment Chris affixes the postcard to his refrigerator with a magnet shaped like the Empire State Building.
***
The next day is a Sunday and there is no post on Sunday.
Chris does some laundry, changes his sheets, and looks at the postcard at least three separate times.
***
Chris heads home from a meeting with his agent with a headache forming above his left eye. He loves what he does, but today he’d had to sit through a tedious roundtable with his whole “team” where everyone but him got to voice their opinions of what he should do next.
He picks up a couple of things from the grocery store on the way, even though he knows he’s probably just going to order in anyway. Juggling his shopping bags and his keys and his phone makes the headache flare brutally, but luckily the doorman is there to solve one of his problems.
“Thanks, Theo,” Chris says as the door is closed behind him, cutting off the blustery winter air.
“Need a hand, Mr. Colfer?” Theo asks. He’s already moving towards the elevator bank to call one down, even through Chris still needs to grab his mail. It’s just a couple of envelopes and some other assorted wastes of paper.
“No, I’ve got it. Thanks, though.”
Once inside his apartment, Chris drops his grocery bags in the kitchen, says hello to Brian who’s come to investigate, and tosses the mail onto the counter. It all looks like junk, except for one thing that slides into view.
It’s another postcard, again from Boston, this time of the skyline illuminated by a purple-hued sunset. It’s sublimely ugly and is missing a corner.
Hey. Pretty sure I sent you a postcard yesterday, but I don’t remember what I said. So here’s another one in case I said something stupid. I promise I’m nice.
PS - I still have a key to your door. Weird, right?
DC :)
Chris rereads the card twice. It’s the same handwriting as the first and the same, nearly intelligible signature. He frowns while Brian circles his calves and paws at the grocery bags.
He’s never been the recipient of a prank before, but that’s what this is starting to feel like. What other reason would someone have to send him these things? The first one was almost understandable – Chris too has done some questionable things while drunk, though never buying, writing, and mailing a postcard to a stranger in another city. But sending a second one is just bizarre.
Nevertheless, Chris hangs it up on his fridge next to the first one. It’s look nice, he thinks; they add a bit of color to his off white and fairly bland kitchen.
His headache disappears, too.
***
Chris gets drinks with Jenna and Kevin on Friday night and does not tell them about the postcards.
He thinks about it, between his first glass of wine and his second vodka soda; it would definitely be an interesting story to tell. But he keeps it to himself.
There’s room for concern, of course. Whoever is sending these postcards knows where he lives, if not who he is, and the line about still having a key to his apartment is a little disconcerting. He’s pretty sure he can ask the super if the locks are changed between every new tenant; he’d sort of assumed they were, but didn’t think it was something he’d have to ask about.
It seems like such an odd thing to do – warn someone about a future break in via the postal service. Then again, sending a stranger some postcards is also an odd thing to do anyway.
Chris orders a third drink and lets it go.
***
A third postcard arrives a few days later. Outside it’s grey and snowing and Chris is as surprised as he is not.
The handwriting this time is smaller and neater, cramped together to give the author as much writing space as possible.
I was informed by interested parties after sending my last postcard that the PS might have come across as a little bit inappropriate and potentially worrisome to you. I am sorry. I would never break into your home, which was formerly my home. I promise that I would ask for your consent before entering…
DC ;)
Ps - Did the super ever fix the wiggly bit of the window frame? You’d think for the rent on that place the window frame would be immaculate.
Chris bites his lip as he stares at the little winky face smudged next to the signature. He doesn’t know what to think of all this. There’s no way someone is flirting with him via postcard. Absolutely none. The person sending these can’t possibly know who exactly lives in the apartment, and even if they somehow did, what would be the point in flirtatious postcards to a stranger who can’t respond in kind? He’s considered the idea before, but now it all seems far too involved to be a simple prank from some bored asshole.
But the fact is, the jamb on one of the windows in the bedroom is a bit wobbly and has been since Chris moved in.
***
Chris’ agent wants him to try writing plays.
“Or musicals,” Diana adds, tapping a pen rhythmically on her imposing desk. “The money is in musicals these days.”
“I think the money has been in my books,” Chris responds shortly. He’s not wrong. His books have done exceedingly well over the years, well enough that he can afford to rent an apartment alone and spring for a place to park his car. No small feat in the city, he knows.
Diana lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “There’s no reason you can’t do both. A diversified portfolio can only increase your successes long term.”
Chris doesn’t always like how she refers to him in terms of stocks, even if it’s not entirely inaccurate. “Except I’ve never written a play. Not really.” He doesn’t count the things he tried in high school.
“And you hadn’t written a book until you had,” she counters.
Chris cannot argue with that. There’s a reason she’s his agent after all, even if sometimes they get into quiet, tensely worded arguments over plot ideas and the sexualities of his characters. He can’t deny that he’s been itching to try something new, something outside his comfort zone, but he doesn’t like to fail. “I’ll think about it.”
“Do that,” Diana says and there’s unsubtle warning in her voice.
Chris leaves her office feeling a bit shamed, and perhaps a little invigorated. The books often come easy; this will not, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that.
***
Chris checks his mail on Sunday, just in cast he’d missed something from the day before.
He hadn’t.
***
In the interest of full disclosure, I feel like I should tell you that I don’t live in Boston. I was just visiting and bought a bunch of these. I hope you’re enjoying them as much as I am, which is a lot.
DC :)
PS - I actually still live in New York…
Chris stares at the newest postcard for a long time, too long, really, but he can’t stop the furious churning of his thoughts.
This person lives in New York, still. That bit of information makes Chris’ stomach clench. Of course he’d assumed the person who used to live in his apartment now lived elsewhere – in Boston where the postcards seemed to be coming from. But now that he looks for it, Chris can see the smudged postmark bearing an Upper West Side zip code, not so far from where is he. He checks the other cards on the fridge – sure enough, the second one he received was also mailed from New York, though the first two did come from Boston.
Chris leans heavily against the kitchen counter. If he didn’t know what to do with this before he really doesn’t now. He has no way to write back to this person; there’s no return address. He can’t ask why this person is sending him these cards, he can’t even ask who this person is. It’s a puzzle that troubles him, confounds him, and he can’t do anything about it.
At his feet, Brian meows loudly.
“Well?” Chris asks his cat. “What do you think?” Brian simply meows again, this time a bit louder.
“You just want food,” Chris says, long used to having lopsided conversations with his pet. “You think because I’m in the kitchen I’m going to give you food.” Brian blinks at him. “Well I’m not.”
Chris walks out of the kitchen with the postcard still in his hand.
***
The next week is spent researching the proper formatting of stage plays and flipping through his notes to see if he’s got anything he can turn into a play instead of another novel. If he’s going to do this he figures he’d better start small instead of diving head first into something as daunting and big a musical. Living in New York for the last few years has taught him that yes, the money is in the musical, but he’s not going to put himself in the line of abject failure and disappointment if he doesn’t have to.
Besides, he might be terrible at writing anything beyond a book. He doesn’t know. It’s safer, he thinks, to tread these new waters with some care and consideration.
***
Chris ignores the mail on Tuesday and again on Wednesday. On Thursday he sees a postcard wedged in next to magazines he never subscribed to and bills he keeps trying to switch over to paperless, but he leaves it where it is.
He spends the whole night thinking about what may or may not be scrawled on the back.
“Schrödinger’s postcard,” he tells Brian, who is not impressed with him at all.
On Friday Chris forces himself to grab the postcard and take it upstairs, unwilling to let it taunt him another day.
This time there is no note, no message, no flirtation – only a phone number with a 415 area code.
Chris rubs his thumb over the number, debating. He’s certainly not going to call this person, but his curiosity is never going to let it go. He’s in too deep as is.
He opens up his messages on his phone and quickly fires off a text before he can second-guess himself.
Why are you sending me these postcards?
The response comes almost instantly, as though the person on the other end had been waiting for it.
Oh shit hi. I thought I’d completely scared you off. I sent my number days ago
Who are you?
Darren. Who are you?
Chris
Hi Chris :)
Why are you sending me postcards?
There is a lengthier pause before the next text comes through and Chris briefly wonders if maybe he should have come across as a little…nicer.
Well, I was drunk for the first one and apparently thought it was funny. And then I wanted to apologize for probably looking like an asshole. And then…I don’t know. I wanted to.
Do you really have a key to the apartment?
Yes, but I don’t think it works anymore. The super changes the locks after each person moves out. Sorry that was so creepy of me.
It’s ok
It’s not really okay. This guy, this Darren, has been sending oddly familiar postcards to him for weeks now, one of which included what was probably innuendo.
So…can I come over?
Chris is so surprised he almost drops his phone.
What?
Can I come over? Say hi in person. I do sort of know where you live.
I…don’t think that’s a good idea
It’s a terrible idea. Chris hasn’t vacuumed in a week and Brian sheds. There are dishes in the sink even though he has a dishwasher, his coffee table is littered with notes and papers, and he hasn’t washed his hair in two days. It’s a terrible idea.
Why not?
Because. I don’t know you.
This is how you get to know me. Think of it like a bar. I’m just…coming over to say hello :)))
It’s a really terrible idea. Chris doesn’t pick guys up in bars either, or anywhere for that matter. Dating has never been high on his to-do list and jumping in via attempted postcard seduction seems even more dangerous than trying to write a musical. He doesn’t even know why he’s thinking of it this has a pick-up at all; he has no idea if Darren is gay or bi or just really into meeting new people.
This is a terrible idea, he texts to Darren.
Be over in 30 ;)
***
He’s shorter than Chris imagined, with a mess of dark curls and eyes hidden behind thick-framed glasses, and he says “oh” softly when Chris opens the door.
“Uhm, hi,” Chris responds, just as quietly. He’d managed to put on decent clothes, wash his face, and tidy up the apartment a bit before the buzzer nearly had him jumping out of his skin.
“You…are not what I expected,” Darren says, his gaze trailing slowly up and down Chris’ form, and something in Chris crumples a little.
“I–”
“You are so much better. Can I come in?”
Darren’s grin is toothy and roughish, the top of his head comes to Chris’ nose, and there is nothing Chris can do to keep him out.
“Yeah, of course.” Chris steps back to let Darren inside, but Darren turns into him and carefully leans in, eyes resolutely on Chris’ mouth.
“Wait one sec,” he whispers before stretching up on his toes. Chris has plenty of time to move away, to say no thank you, to do anything but kiss Darren back. He does none of those things.
The kiss is soft, hesitant; barely a press of lips, but Chris feels it all the way down. He grips the doorframe so tightly his hand hurts as Darren pulls back.
“Oh,” Darren whispers against his mouth and Chris can feel his smile. “Yeah.”
Chris most definitely agrees with him.
***
Three years later Chris receives a postcard in the mail with very familiar handwriting on it.
Will you marry me?
DC-C :)
