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it's so hard to love you (but i'm gonna try)

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Casey lies in bed. Severide is facing away from him, head pillowed on his arms. He thinks about getting up, but abandons the notion to indulge in the sight of the open nakedness of the man lying beside him. He lightly traces his fingertips across Severide’s shoulder blades down to the dip where his hips connect to his butt.

He asks with his fingers questions he never dares think about when the other man is awake, like can I try putting my dick in your ass for once? When they first stumbled into bed with each other, Casey naturally found himself taking it up the ass. He doesn’t have a preference one way or the other, but sometimes he finds himself, in the privacy of his own home, imagining what it’d feel like to have Severide with his face smashed in his pillow, Casey’s fingers splaying him open, pushing into him and coming inside him. It would be painful for the first time – it was for Casey’s first time with Severide; he couldn’t look the other man in the eye for a full week after their first night without blushing profusely and stammering around the other man. Thankfully, he got over that quickly or he would’ve had to reconsider transferring.

Severide would hurt after wards, but nothing a little rest in bed for the entire weekend wouldn’t cure, except that Severide never stayed the entire weekend. They’d meet up after work on Friday, and by Saturday morning, he’d be gone. Casey would be left wondering what Severide was doing for an entire day before they’d see each other again. They didn't have an exclusively mutual relationship, but once Casey committed himself to something or someone, he committed wholly. He didn’t know if the same could be said of Severide.

Yet for the time being, the fantasies remain just that – fantasies, little scenarios of what-if that he can take out and turn this way and that until he gets himself off. He then turns his face into his pillow, ashamed of how little he can say when it really matters.

This morning he wonders if Severide can stay for the day. This morning he wonders if he can get the words out. They have the day off, and, barring any emergencies they might get called in for, the day belongs to the lazy; the rain pattering outside the windows softly not making Casey relish going outside for errands.

He sighs, the sound only a forlorn whisper that the sleeping cannot possibly hear and buries his nose in the back of Severide's neck, his favorite place to nuzzle. He throws an arm around Severide, hoping the man will not call it spooning when he wakes up. Possibly he will. Of course we weren't spooning, my arm just somehow found its way around you. It happens. Sometimes, he does have imaginary conversations with Severide. Things he says and things Severide says back to him. A kind of volley of measuring the safety of his words and desires and dreams.

Maybe, someday soon, it won't be all in his head.