#the softest sweetest and probs shortest thing I have written

[sepetajmikolikomehoces]

Bojure snuggles. They’re so cute together, don’t you think? Did you have any thoughts about that tonight?

Oh, I had thoughts. So many thoughts. 630 words worth of thoughts, in fact.

He knows his reputation. Muca. Cat man. Sunshine. Jure is even man enough to admit he quite enjoys them, even plays up on his monikers on more than one occasion. Always a smile, always lands on his feet. Well, mostly. There was that incident in Dublin. And the hunting tower. And the time with the–

He knows. The others know. They know him well enough now to keep the metaphorical door open, because just like cats, Jure will choose his moments of intimacy. He’s just as likely to – quite literally – hang off any of them, as he is to withdraw, to be happy and content in his little bubble. 

It’s a balance, and his scales seem to always be a grain away from tipping this way or that. Jure doesn’t mind, not usually. Not so long as the step from one to the other is easy. A hug, a touch. Spending precious freetime in his garden, phone turned off. They are gradual, he can always feel the shift, can prepare, can plan.

It’s worse when the pendulum swings too far, too fast. Jure loves what he does, would not choose anything else in the world, no one else to share it with. And it’s fine when it’s euphoria, when it’s love like light and energy in his veins and Jure flies high and thinks maybe this is the time he can stay. 

(or at least not crash)

It’s fine. Until it isn’t. Until he is horizontal on stage, tired to the bone. Until he needs a week away from everything. Until he needs closeness like he’ll perish without it but can’t find the right words to ask for it.

“Stay.”

Bojan’s hand on his shoulder is gentle, sending shudders through his body. Everything is happening so much, so quickly, and it’s exciting. New single, new tour, hype and excitement. And Jure is so, so, so tired. The idea of driving home has been haunting him for the past hour as they wrapped up another long day, but home is home.

Quiet.

His own bed.

Too quiet.

Alone.

“Kris has a family thing tomorrow, he’ll stay at home,” Bojan continues, voice gentle and even. “Come over. You can– Don’t feel like you need to drive back home tonight. It was a long day for all of us.”

Jure hesitates, pauses in his efforts to tidy up something that has been in order for a while already.

“I don’t…”

“Please. Please, stay.”

Maybe he and Bojan are the same in a way, Jure thinks as he nods, finally looking up to meet Bojan’s gaze. Fine until they aren’t. How many times have they not ended up seeking each other out for comfort, equally tactile when their moments align? 

So, he goes. Follows Bojan home, follows Bojan’s lead, follows follows follows until within the safety of four walls two arms open and take him. Jure could melt when fingers gingerly thread through his hair, fingertips digging into his lower back and his spine seemingly unlocking vertebrae by vertebrae. His nose pressed against the crook of Bojan’s neck, the warmth and scent there familiar and comforting. From far away, words filter through, slowly unfolding meaning and intent, lining themselves up to lead him home like lanterns in the night.

Easy.

Easy.

Easy.

Like the nap shared on the pullout sofa bed.

Like Bojan clinging to him in tears after Martin’s last gig with them.

Like too many nights in Hamburg, in London, on the bus; wordlessly seeking comfort, always finding arms that will open.

Like now. The steady thump of Bojan's heart, fingertips drawing meaningless shapes from the nape of his neck down his spine and back up. It’s closeness like he needs it. Jure sighs, long and slow, and drifts off to sleep.