Thread by @CeilingKiwi

(y’all remember that “hank has alzheimer’s” thread I did not too long ago? Let’s do something along those lines but a littler happier this time)

Connor opens the front door as gently as he can, listening for the sounds of Hank from within the house.

This time of day, Hank might be napping and Connor doesn’t want to wake him. Even though the longing to be with Hank at every moment of the day thrums in him like a constant ache, Hank’s rest is more important to him.

He’s almost always listening for sounds of Hank when he’s home. Whenever he has to be apart from Hank or whenever Hank is asleep, Connor turns up his audio processing to catch every soft breath, every quiet heartbeat.

Now more than ever, he’s aware that his every moment with Hank is a gift he has to treasure. Now more than ever, every moment he has to be away from Hank tears at him like he’s missing a vital piece of himself.

So he listens for Hank as he opens the door—and as he hears the creak of Hank’s recliner and a soft sigh, something inside of him lights up as he realizes Hank is awake.

Hank is sitting up, trying to detangle himself from the electric blanket he’s wrapped in. “Connor, baby…” His voice is slightly hoarse with sleep.

Connor moves across the room so he can kiss the side of Hank’s head. “You don’t have to get up for me.”

“I want to,” Hank says, a little stubbornly. He slowly continues pushing the blanket off of himself and pulls himself out of the recliner. His back and hips creak and pop, and he winces as he straightens up.

Connor tries to ignore the flash of grief that jolts through him as he registers the biometric signs of the pain Hank has to live with in his old age. After all, Hank’s eyes are clear and he’s smiling at Connor. If Hank is happy, then Connor should be happy too.

Connor wraps Hank in his arms, folding his body against him. Feeling the fragile bones through thin, sagging flesh.

Hank stoops a little now, no longer as tall as he was, and Connor can tuck his face easily against the scalp that’s visible through Hank’s wispy hair.

He peppers kisses along Hank’s unshaven jaw until he reaches Hank’s mouth. He swipes his tongue along Hank’s teeth, and Hank just chuckles softly. “Jesus. Can’t believe you can still get yourself going with this.”

“Don’t say that,” Connor chides softly.

He reaches to oh-so-carefully pull one of Hank’s arthritis-knobbed hands into his, bringing it to his mouth to kiss the swollen knuckles. “You’re the most beautiful being alive."

"That's sweet, but you don't have to lie to me, Connor."

"It's not a lie," Connor says. "Humans might not find signs of advanced age attractive, but I’m not human. Every wrinkle, every age spot, every bump, they’re all parts of the man I love. I only wish this body could sustain you forever.”

Hank closes his eyes, his frame sagging as he lets Connor support him. He has a slightly pensive look on his face that suggests that he doesn’t quite believe Connor… but he doesn’t try to contradict Connor, either.

He doesn’t point out that Connor will be classically beautiful for the rest of his existence, or suggest that he’s not good enough for Connor the way he is now. Connor supposes that after decades of Hank struggling to overcome his self-loathing, this tenuous peace is a victory.

“Let me rub your back,” Connor murmurs, and Hank hums his approval. He lets Connor lead him over to the couch, where Connor sits next to him and enjoys the feeling of his husband’s body under his hands.

Maybe later they’ll make love. Slowly and gently and with nowhere near the same enjoyment for Hank that they once had decades ago. But if they do, it won’t be solely about the physical pleasure of the act.

It’ll be a reaffirmation, a tiny promise to themselves that their lives together aren’t over yet. A promise that such fragile acts are worth enjoying while they still can.

But if they don’t, that’s alright too. If Hank hobbles to bed and he’s in too much pain or too tired or feeling too old, Connor will just hold Hank. Connor loves every night he spends at Hank’s side, and being able to keep Hank’s aching bones comfortable is a sacred duty for him.

For now, he rubs Hank’s back. And when Hank closes his eyes and begins to snore, Connor pulls the blanket off the recliner and wraps Hank up in it, settling Hank against him and thinking to himself how grateful he is for one more day with Hank, one more hour, one more moment.