“Of course you wouldn’t, Mr. Perfect.”

Roy frowned. “I never claimed to be perfect.”

“Perfect people don’t have to claim it, everyone knows. Where did you find that brandy?”

“In your kitchen, obviously.” Roy took the glass away.

To Cato’s surprise, he came back with two glasses of brandy. He set them down and tossed a chocolate bar on the table.

God, he really is perfect. “My favorite,” Cato said.

“I know. The only thing better than alcohol and sugar is sugary alcohol,” Roy quoted Cato.

“I don’t suppose you’d support me getting drunk right now?”

“Whatever makes you feel better.”

Cato blinked. “Really? What happened to you’re not twenty-one, Cato, there are laws for a reason?”

“It’s your house, Cato, and I’m not buying the alcohol for you. Do what you want.”

“Oh, right. That makes sense.” Cato took a large bite of chocolate, then remembered he was the host and offered the bar to Roy.

Roy steadied his hand -- wow, Cato was really shaking -- and took a bite.

“It’s probably not up to your standards,” Cato squeaked, his heart in his throat. He had not been prepared for the intimacy of that touch.

“I don’t eat a lot of processed sugar,” Roy agreed. “That doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”

“Self-denial. That’s so you.”

Roy laughed and took a sip of brandy. “I guess that’s true.”

“Self-denial is my worst thing,” Cato muttered. He stole Roy’s glass and finished it. “Where’s the brandy?”

“Before you get any drunker, tell me where I should sleep.”

“Oh, there’s a guest room. Lemme show you.” He stood and almost fell over.

Roy caught him, because he always did.

“Upstairs,” Cato told Roy’s collarbone.

“Can you make it up the stairs or should I put you to bed on the sofa?”

“Pfft. I am sold cone stober, Roy. And it’s like, nine. Too early for bed.”

“You always think it’s too early for bed. You’re like a little kid who’s afraid of missing the fun.”

“Don’t wanna miss the fun,” Cato agreed sleepily, tugging Roy toward the staircase.

Roy kindly helped him so that he actually made it up the stairs in one piece.

“This is my room,” Cato announced, throwing open the door. His room was a mess, exactly like he had left it.

“Homey,” Roy said.

“Right, because it’s home.” Wait, was that what homey meant? “The guest room is nicer.” He tugged Roy down the hall, away from his personal mess.

The guest room smelled stale and old-people-ish.

“Oops. I guess this didn’t get cleaned after my grandparents visited.”

“I see. Where’s the linen closet?”

“It’s ... in one of the closets.”

“Logical.”

They found the linen closet. It contained a remarkable number of unmatched pillow cases, and one afghan.

Roy examined a worn Mickey Mouse pillow case that Cato had used when he was six. “Do you have a washing machine?”

“I’m too tired to do housework,” Cato whined. “I had a hard day.”

“Go to bed. I’ll take care of the laundry.”

Why did Roy always have to be so unreasonably nice? Cato leaned into him. “I hate you. Come to bed with me.”

“That’s a unique offer.”

“Oh, come on. You must be tired, too. You do get tired, right?”

“You’ve woken me up enough times to know the answer to that.”

Cato slumped against him. “Why do you put up with me?”

“I’m your RA. It’s my job.” Roy patted him, then turned him around and steered him to the bathroom. “Brush your teeth and drink some water.”

“I’m not drunk!” Cato objected. “Just a tiny bit.”

“Okay. Teeth. Water. Bed.”

Cato brushed his teeth and drank a glass of water. He would have argued, but he was afraid Roy might change his mind about sleeping with Cato.

He had agreed to sleep with Cato, right? In a completely platonic and efficient comradely sense, obviously, not the other sense. Obviously not that.

“Toilet,” he croaked, and Roy slipped out and left him alone.

It was what he had wanted, but he hated being alone. Always had.

When he came out of the bathroom Roy was in his bed reading one of the YA paranormal romances that Cato had devoured in high school, after his father hadn’t been around to tell him to stop wasting his time.

Roy held the covers of Cato’s bed back for him.

As quick as he could, Cato slipped in and hid his face in Roy’s upper arm.

Roy switched off the light. “Goodnight, Cato.”