ramblesandreblogs:

Leave the light on

At first it’s the light on the bedside table. One day Oliver lets it slip that he really has trouble falling asleep with the light on and Connor makes him stop. Then it’s the light under the microwave. Oliver leaves little post-its on the button about dinners left warm in the oven or leftovers covered in the fridge. 

In the condo, it’s the office light because it’s closest to the garage door. Flicking it off becomes part of Connor’s evening routine. Bag down. Coat hung. Reach around the door and flick off light. More often than not, on the few nights he actually gets home before Oliver goes to bed, he ends up turning on the office light because reaching around the door for that light switch is such a part of his routine he can’t break it. 

In the first house, it’s the lights by the fireplace.  

In the second house, it’s the light up the stairs. 

In the last house, it’s the lights in the laundry room. Alerting Connor of shoes left strewn about and backpacks littering the floor as he comes home after a day of spending too much time defending people he doesn’t believe in. After toeing off his shoes, he reaches down to hang up small coats that slipped off their rungs and slip mittens back into pockets. He bends to re-pair up sandals and slippers and jelly shoes. When did those come back in style? 

One day, Connor says to Oliver, “You know, you don’t have to leave the lights on. I can find my way in this house blindfolded.”

“I know,” Oliver says, resigned as he picks up stuffed animals left around the living room. In all their years together, he’s never said a word about Connor’s late nights at the office. “I just like leaving the light on. It’s like one of those beacons in old stories. The light helps you find home.”

Connor thinks of their children, sleeping safety above them, the dog passed out on the landing of the stairs, the evidence of the life they’ve build together surrounding them in this modest two-story in the comfortably middle-class neighborhood. “I don’t need a beacon,” he assures and the reverence in his voice startles him. “Nothing could keep me from finding my way back to you.”

Oliver sets down the basket of stuffed animals and kisses him, soft and sure, as the furnace kicks on and the house settles comfortably around them. “I know,” he says, brushing a thumb over Connor’s jaw. “I just – I just like leaving it on. I don’t like thinking of you coming home to darkness.”

Connor kisses him again and resolves, for the thousandth time, to stop having so many late nights stuck at the office.