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Frank can’t sleep.
He used to be one of those people that could sleep anywhere—stranger’s couches, airplanes, a dentist’s waiting room on one memorable occasion—but that all changed when the end of the world came. Now, his consciousness has a hair trigger, waking him for the slightest sound that might spell his death. It saved his life, out in the wilds between Baltimore and here, but now that he’s safe in bed with Bill, it’s mostly annoying.
Tonight, it’s the wolf pack howling outside the boundaries of Lincoln. Frank knows that the fence is more than enough to keep the wolves at bay, but he still can’t relax. He’s never heard wolves before, but he supposes nature is healing with the fall of humanity.
Bill is still asleep, his face lax and breath huffing between his lips. He deserves all the rest he can get.
Frank climbs out of bed and leaves the room as quietly as he can. He hasn’t been here long, a few weeks at most, but he already knows where the creakiest floorboards are. He waits outside the bedroom door but Bill doesn’t call out for him.
At the back of the house is a ladder stolen from one of their non-existent neighbors. Frank props it up against the house and climbs, refusing to look down until he reaches the roof. He should probably get Bill up here to look at the shingles, in daylight of course, but for now he sits down on the slope of the roof and looks up at the stars.
He’s seen stars, of course, but growing up in the city means he’s never seen them like this. Tiny pinpricks of light everywhere he looks, the Milky Way spilling across the sky. Another thing this post-apocayptic landscape has brought them. No light pollution.
“Frank?” Bill’s voice calls from below.
Frank blows out a sigh. So much for not waking him. “Up here, on the roof.”
Bill huffs and there’s a screech of metal as he climbs the ladder. “What are you doing up here?”
“Looking at the stars. I couldn’t sleep.”
“You couldn’t do that from the ground?” Bill settles down on the shingles beside him, leaning back on his elbows. He tilts his head and lets out a soft whistle as he looks up.
“It isn’t the same.” Frank reaches over, rests a hand on top of one of Bill’s. “I used to climb onto the roof back home all the time, growing up. Drove my parents crazy. My mom always said I was going to break my leg one day and no one would know.”
“Did you?”
“Not even once.” Frank lets his head slip over until it’s leaning on Bill’s shoulder. “Brought my first boyfriend up there, too. He was afraid of heights so we didn’t stay long but it was still nice, sharing that place with someone.”
“I’m not afraid of heights.”
Frank hums. “You’re not afraid of anything.”
Bill doesn’t respond to that, just stares up with the stars reflected in his eyes. Gorgeous, Frank thinks, and he says, “Have you ever seen the sky this clear?”
“Only once, when I camped on Mount Greyback.” Bill’s voice goes a little husky, like the first time they kissed and the first time they fucked, and Frank swallows down the urge to laugh. “Do you know the constellations?”
“Only the Big Dipper. You?”
“Same.”
“Maybe we should come up with our own.”
Bill huffs out a laugh, already shaking his head. “I’m not creative, not like you.”
“Ah, I don’t think that’s true,” Frank teases, but he doesn’t push it. He goes quiet, letting his fingertips stroke over the back of Bill’s hand. The moon overhead is full and Frank tries to remember if that was also true when he arrived outside Lincoln. Even the passage of time is starting to lose its meeting. There’s the cycle of days and nights, sure, but beyond that the days and weeks and months start to blur together. There are no workdays or weekends or even holidays if they don’t choose to keep track of the calendar.
“What are you thinking about?” Bill asks and Frank has no idea how long they’ve been sitting here with their own thoughts—there’s that blurring of time again.
“Whether I’ve been here a few weeks or a year.”
Bill bumps Frank with his shoulder. “Can’t have been a year. We haven’t made it through our first winter yet.”
The sound of that—our first winter—sends a jolt up Frank’s spine. They still haven’t talked about it, the fact that he said he would stay for a few days and now it’s a few weeks and he really doesn’t know how he’s going to face leaving this little haven. Leaving Bill. He wonders how dangerous it would be for them to have sex up here, beneath the stars. “You know, I bet one of our neighbors has a telescope.”
“Do we need a telescope?”
“Might be fun.” Frank slides closer until Bill finally takes the hint and throws an arm over his shoulders. Frank snuggles close, reveling in Bill’s warmth on the cool night. “Not everything has to be about survival.”
“I know.”
Frank turns his head, brushing a kiss across Bill’s beard. “It’s settled then, I’ll go for a walk tomorrow and look.”
“If you break into any garages, look for spare canisters of gasoline. I think I found them all but it doesn’t hurt to double-check.”
Frank laughs and shakes his head. “Okay, I’ll look.”
“Are you ready to come back to bed yet?”
“No.” Frank snuggles closer against Bill’s chest, until he can feel the beat of the man’s heart against his elbow. It’s nice, the constant reminder that they’re both still alive. This comfort might not last forever, but he’s sure as hell going to cling to it as long as he can. “Stay with me a little while longer.”
Bill presses an indulgent kiss into Frank’s hair and says, “Okay.”