[The memory hits him quickly, viscerally. Something that happened, that didn't happen; he can remember being on his knees, the way it had felt right, had felt usual, the way their entire life had felt right and usual and though imperfect, often lovely.
Sometimes he misses the person the void made him. Someone stable. Someone capable of sacrifice, of holding down a home, of being unselfish. His voice is thick, filled with a decade of want: ]
I remember. I remember the way you - looked at me, like it was the first time all over again. [Maybe it was. Maybe every memory of their life was a first time, little pieces of things and life that they strung together and experienced like they'd never done anything like it before. ]
[ He isn't. Can't be. The shower is cursory at best, under the water only long enough to scrub the oilslick from his skin, not bothering to re-dress when he lifts his sling ring from the shower stand and opens a portal into Jim's home in the woods. Towel tucked haphazardly around his waist (pointless, tented), hair still sleep-mussed and sprinkled with shower spray, and for as many months and realities as they are away from a life they never truly lived for a moment he could be stepping out of their en suite in the first apartment they shared, in the first house they owned, emerging from bathrooms in the places they each lived apart before succumbing to the inevitable.
He wants him. Stands there fresh clean, disheveled, dripping a pool of water onto his floor as the portal spins closed. Looking for him. Wanting him badly enough not to feel foolish for any of it. ]
[The reality is that Jim, now, lives as he always has: bachelor-esque, untidy, careless, definitely selfish. Without Eleven to be an example to, he's sunk back into Jim Hopper, non-dad, single-ish, alone. Sometimes Billy and Eddie tidy up the mess; sometimes Jim lets them, like he thinks they think he needs taking care of.
He doesn't. He doesn't. The cabin is untidy, but it's home. Jim's bed is made, his clothes are put away, and he's only undressed because he started pulling his shirt off the second Stephen said he'd come.
This is how he is when Stephen steps through, like a dream, like a remnant of some other Jim Hopper's life: shirtless, belt half-undone, and his cheeks splotchy red. He doesn't even bother with a hello. There's no time for it, between closing the short distance and taking Stephen by the back of the head to kiss him deep, hard - like he hasn't kissed him in months. ]
[ Stephen's palm finds Jim's neck (so much for no hands), fingers curling to press against the reassuring curve of his spine under skin as he meets him with matching fervor. Free hand spreading wide over his side, digging into the surface softness of him to root him firm at the waist - like there's any risk of him going anywhere - Stephen lets him hear the satisfaction of reunion, lets it spill from his throat and into Jim's mouth, warm and rich and resonant.
Still-damp skin to skin, he only pries himself out of the kiss when his head catches up with his hands. Even then he can't quite bring himself to move them. ]
You're gonna make me ooze on you.
[ Romance isn't dead. Even if Stephen's reluctance to tilt his face more than an inch away from Jim's means he can't see it, the sharp lift of his lop-sided smile can be heard if not felt in the words murmured against the other man's mouth. ]
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Sometimes he misses the person the void made him. Someone stable. Someone capable of sacrifice, of holding down a home, of being unselfish. His voice is thick, filled with a decade of want: ]
I remember. I remember the way you - looked at me, like it was the first time all over again. [Maybe it was. Maybe every memory of their life was a first time, little pieces of things and life that they strung together and experienced like they'd never done anything like it before. ]
Don't be long.
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He wants him. Stands there fresh clean, disheveled, dripping a pool of water onto his floor as the portal spins closed. Looking for him. Wanting him badly enough not to feel foolish for any of it. ]
no subject
He doesn't. He doesn't. The cabin is untidy, but it's home. Jim's bed is made, his clothes are put away, and he's only undressed because he started pulling his shirt off the second Stephen said he'd come.
This is how he is when Stephen steps through, like a dream, like a remnant of some other Jim Hopper's life: shirtless, belt half-undone, and his cheeks splotchy red. He doesn't even bother with a hello. There's no time for it, between closing the short distance and taking Stephen by the back of the head to kiss him deep, hard - like he hasn't kissed him in months. ]
no subject
Still-damp skin to skin, he only pries himself out of the kiss when his head catches up with his hands. Even then he can't quite bring himself to move them. ]
You're gonna make me ooze on you.
[ Romance isn't dead. Even if Stephen's reluctance to tilt his face more than an inch away from Jim's means he can't see it, the sharp lift of his lop-sided smile can be heard if not felt in the words murmured against the other man's mouth. ]