Title: It's Going To Happen Again
Pairing: Anderson Cooper/Keith Olbermann
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Unbetaed, detailed description of clinical depression
Summary: A decision is made.
Notes: The prompt: "Make it a happy ending. Take a scenario that you can't imagine having a happy ending -- say, someone's stranded in an alternate universe, forever, or sent off to be executed -- and fix it." There was only one answer. I stand by my assertion that this happy, though it may not be an ending.



An hour after the sixth or seventh time Keith talks Anderson through the existential hole he's sunk into (of course you're real, you're standing here with me, no, I know what you mean, I just mean it doesn't matter, you're here, you're you, the man you are hasn't been consumed by whatever you are on screen) he turns away from the sun setting over New York, walks into his kitchen, wraps his arms around Anderson from behind and pulls him in tight against him.

Anderson looks up, expression bemused, and Keith's heart twists as he remembers the fourth Conversation they had, the one where Anderson gave him that precise look as he explained that not being happy didn't bother him because he'd never really been happy so it wasn't like he had anything to compare it to. No, really, he'd said. It's not a problem. I mean – it probably is a problem, but I don't really think about it so it doesn't really matter. So don't worry about it. Okay?

No, Keith thinks. Not okay.

And he says, “I love you.”

Anderson's expression doesn't change so much as blossom and Keith thinks again of what he realized that night – that he's seen Anderson amused and interested and orgasmic and even comfortable but never, not once, has he seen him happy. And right now he's still too confused, too uncertain, but this is the closest they've ever come.

“That conversation we just had,” he says. “We're going to have it again, aren't we?”

Anderson's eyebrows draw together. “Uh, yes?” he says, and twists around in Keith's arms to face him. “Probably. Unless - ”

“We're going to have it again,” Keith says. “And then we're going to have it again. And we're going to keep having it for as long as we need to keep having it. Or one of us dies. Which won't be for a good long time. Okay?”

There's a pause, heavy, and Keith can see Anderson processing. Keith thinks that he doesn't feel his emotions so much as decode them and sometimes it takes a while. At last Anderson's eyebrows raise and he smiles, again, and this is it, this is nearly it, so close.

“Okay,” he says, and lays his hands on Keith's hips. “We can do that.”

“Of course we can,” Keith says, and repeats himself. “I love you.”

The last of the process breaks down and something in Anderson's eyes melts. His smile swells and his arms wind around Keith's waist and hold tight. He presses his face into Keith's shoulder and says, “Love you, too.”

Something in Keith loosens – loosens but doesn't relax. This is good, this is a good thing that's happened. There's so much he can't fix, that he'll never be able to touch, but this, this holding, this conversation, this he can do and he will for as long as Anderson will let him.

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