The pressure crushes me and I'm awake.

I sit up in bed and look over-- past the broad mountain of your shoulders-- at the night stand to see that it's only 5:31AM. Which would usually be good if I hadn't come in at 3AM.

I'm just supposed to be working on compositions today. But every time I readjust my position on the bed, I wake myself up. I think of all the things I have to do, how much there has to be done, how much only I can do. The stress er-punches me awake. There's no stopping this ticking time bomb of a heart once it's started up with the nagging reminders of to-dos.

I wouldn't be surprised if I have a heart attack by age 30, honestly.

I rake my fingers through my hair. I need a shower. I need to do so much. 

A sigh spouts out of the tightness in my throat, and I don't realize that it's a particularly loud sigh until I feel your hand at the small of my back, starting to move up and down, your fingers curling and uncurling, massaging away the knots that you've always been able to see so clearly. My eyes shoot open at the contact, but flutter closed again immediately. My back has been carrying all of the weight of my small burdens. It feels broken, but somehow, your touch starts to mend the aches.

I can't help but moan because your hands are ing magic-- Have I ever told you that? I should do that more often-- and I hear your tired laugh muffled against the comforter. I look down to see you looking up at me from where you lay, arm still extended toward me, hand still trying to fix me.

"You shouldn't be up right now." You don't even need to look at the clock to know that I'm up well before I should be. Though I suppose the navy-colored sky visible from the window helps in telling you that if the sun isn't up yet, then I shouldn't be either.

I shrug, which I'm sure you feel more than see against the expanse of your palm. 

"Stress," I say simply, and the lifelessness of my voice rings in my ears.

You don't say anything in response, just keep rubbing the worn muscles of my back, your silent way of saying, "I figured, and I'm sorry".

I take this time to get my eyes adjusted to the light, or, rather, lack of light. Your mane of blond hair, usually coiffed back, is free of hair product and loose in strands, molded to your pillow, the side of your face. You don't bother to push any of the stray hairs back into place. You let me see you uncoiffed, unpolished. I smile at your disheveled appearance, and you return the smile with your eyes. There's a spark of mirth in them despite the ungodly hour. It never fails to amaze me how you can do that, turn on that happiness, shut out outside noise, so swiftly. I smile until I don't, when I see that you're sporting some impressive dark circles under your eyes as well. It makes me wonder if we made some sort of competition of it in tired mumbles. Then I wonder if I'm the reason for your fatigue.

We stay like this for a couple more minutes, your hand slowing down in its tender pace because it's 5-goddamn-30 in the morning and you're actually sane enough to feel tired at this hour. I decide that that is not the case for me, and still your hand, bringing it back to your chest.

"Pretty sure I'm up," I conclude, your hand that I'm still holding against you, giving you permission in my own wordless code: "It's okay. Go on without me". 

You really are trying your best to stay awake, and I feel my smile widen when I notice your eyes drooping closed, then forcing themselves open with a jerk, still trained on me.

"I'm just gonna go take a shower and call someone to take me to the studio, work on stuff." I say this, but I really don't want to do this right now. I just want to keep existing in this moment, where I know I have things to do, but for just a bit, I can concentrate on this sensation. With you. Anxiety-free. 

But you need sleep, and one of us should get it. So I turn my body away as a means to get out of the warm clutches of the bed. But you've still got my hand in your grasp. And before I can question it, you're tugging on it.

"What?"

"Come here," you mumble.

My brows come together in confusion. "I am here."

You shake your head, hand releasing mine, arms expanding like wings. "No, come here." Only this time I understand what you mean. The offer is tempting, but something stops me.

"I can't."

"Stuff can wait." You wave it off, arms still outstretched. "Come here," you say again.

"But Bae... I'm all gross..." I'm whining like a bratty child, but I don't care. My hair's a greasy mess and I was so wiped out from time in the studio that when I arrived home just three hours ago, I simply stripped down to my boxers and passed out. I'm filthy, and suddenly I feel bad for having you rub my back, for making you within close proximity of me.

You huff as a substitute for rolling your eyes, because you've given up trying to see in the darkness, eyelids too heavy to keep open anyway.

"I don't care. We'll be gross together." I see you smirk over the wave of the comforter and push your shoulder, laughing with you while muttering a "shut up". 

There's a second where we are both completely silent, while I'm contemplating your offer. And along with the temptation of possibly getting more sleep, we don't get to do this nearly enough. Be alone together. Then I realize that it's been nearly a week since we were together like this, schedules finally permitting. 

If I was dumb enough to pass up this opportunity, then maybe I do need sleep.

I lower myself back down and no sooner that I put my head on the pillow do you guide me with your arms to turn around, my back pressing against your chest, those arms wrapped securely around the dip of my waist. My breath hitches when I feel the silk of your lips lightly kiss the back of my neck, fingers rubbing lazy circles near my hipbone. 

I can't even remember why I was going to go to the studio instead of do this anymore.

Exhaustion creeps back into my voice as I half-moan, "Your hands are magic." I pat myself on the back for actually remembering to say this, and earn a small but firm squeeze on my hip as a reply.

I shift my weight so that my aching back is more firmly against the heat radiating from your toned torso. I'm melting in the warmth and my legs bend further to tangle themselves in yours. It's like we're trying to fuse together, to be more than skin and bones. To feel something more. We're trying, at least, I'm sinking deeper into your calming energy. You nuzzle against the valley of my shoulder blades, soft puffs of air hitting the skin as your breathing evens out, which I assume means you've gone back to sleep.

I take your hand and press it to my chest. My heart is still a frantic mess, though the reasons are not all the same as they were just five minutes ago. I want you to feel the way my heart pounds against me, and I hope that your touch alone can quell its wild energy.

But even if it can't, and I don't sleep any more today, your presence is enough to make me curse the outside world and fall more steadfastly into your gravitational pull. The weight of your arms, the pressure of your body against mine is the only pressure I want to feel.

I want to be where you are, always, I think to myself as I drift away.