Notes: If you don't like slash, this is probably your cue to stop reading. Title is derived from "Still" by Daughter.

Two feet standing on a principle, two hands longing for each other's warmth
(Cold smoke seeping out of colder throats, darkness falling leaves nowhere to go)
Hate is spitting out each other's mouths, but we're still sleeping like we're lovers

When Andy had died, they'd both needed someone to blame—someone, anyone but themselves. Naturally, they'd ended up blaming each other. Looking back on it, it had been the wrong thing to do. As guilty as they'd felt, neither of them were actually responsible for their best friend's death. Still, they had continued playing the blame game, spitting out words of hatred and accusation.

At the time, they hadn't realized that Darden had died because of shitty circumstances and the mere fact that luck and fate had not been on their side that day.

They'd continued to fight, lacking the objectivity that would have opened their damn eyes.

Severide distinctly remembers the night when he had crossed one too many lines. "I wish it was you," he'd spat in Casey's direction, alcohol thrumming through his veins. "I wish it was you and not him." Casey had recoiled, looking like he'd been slapped. All the guy had wanted to do was take Severide home, too tired to argue but more than willing to look after someone he had still considered a friend. But Severide had said that, and whatever remained of their friendship at that point in time crumbled.

The drive to Severide's apartment had been awkward and tense; Casey didn't so much as glance at him the entire time, instead clutching the steering wheel like a life line. Even when all he'd wanted to do was apologize, Severide had pretended not to notice when Casey broke down the moment he was alone.

Now, with Casey sleeping peacefully beside him, he wonders how the hell they got here.

· · ·

They're drunk, it's pouring and Andy has deserted them. "Jesus Christ," Matt hisses as soon as they're outside. He's only wearing a thin T-shirt, jacket long forgotten in Andy's car. "Chicago weather will be the death of me."

Rolling his eyes, Kelly sheds a layer and offers the warm sweatshirt to Matt. "I only live a few blocks away," he offers. "You can stay the night, if you'd like."

Matt, grateful, pulls the sweatshirt over his head. "You don't mind?"

"What are friends for?"

"Ditching other friends at a bar, apparently."

Kelly laughs. "We can give Darden shit for that later."

The walk back to Kelly's apartment is made in relative silence, Matt too cold to offer anything more than small talk. Kelly is tempted to offer shared body heat, but, unsure of how the comment would be perceived, chooses to say nothing. After they arrive at the building, Matt stares at Severide like he's grown another head when he holds the door open. "No wonder you get all the girls," Matt mutters. "I always thought it was because Kelly was a girl's name, but I guess it's because you're a gentleman."

"I can always let you freeze your ass off out here," Kelly says, glaring.

"No, no," says Matt, all polite smiles and kind gestures, "I'd rather not."

Their journey up the stairs and into Severide's home is hazy at best, but the next thing Casey knows, there are a pair of warm lips on his, kissing fiercely and desperately. When they pull away, Kelly looks startled, like he hadn't actually meant to pounce on Matt. "I'm sorry," Kelly says in a haste, but it sounds so much like a question, and God damn it, Matt just wants to shut him up with another kiss.

"I'm not," he replies, and does just that.

· · ·

When Severide wakes the next morning, he's not surprised to find the other side of the bed empty and cold. They have a routine on the nights they long for each other's touch, but are too afraid to ever admit it: one of them leaves, fearing what would happen in the case they stayed, while the other watches with conflicting emotions.

(It's a general rule of thumb that the person you claim to hate shouldn't be the same person you call your lover, but Severide has never been a stickler for the rules—especially since the person he claims to hate had been an affair pushed to the back of the closet long before Darden passed.)

Repressed feelings are always threatening to resurface at any given moment when they are around each other. Severide knows it. Casey knows it. There are always the silent prayers to a God only one of them believes in when there is a danger too great and too life threatening. There are the momentary sparks of jealousy when women throw themselves in Severide's direction, sober or otherwise, and when women flirt with Casey. There is always something jeopardizing this—whatever this is—and terrifyingly enough, it feels a lot like love.

· · ·

The morning after, there are no walks of shame or abrupt goodbyes. Kelly doesn't leave the bed to make himself a cup of coffee like he normally does after his one night stands, choosing instead to study Matt's body as he stretches lazily, sunlight catching in his hair. "No awkwardness?" Matt asks when he finally notices Kelly watching him.

"Did you want things to be awkward?"

Matt scoffs. "Don't be an idiot. Who actually wants to deal with awkwardness? And why don't I smell any breakfast?"

"It's cute that you think I can cook," Kelly says, eyes twinkling mischievously.

Humming in amusement, Matt slides off the bed, telling Kelly he'll be in the kitchen as he retreats from the bedroom.

"What are you doing?" Kelly calls after him.

"Jerking off in your kitchen," he shouts. "What the hell do you think I'm doing?"

"Were you kidding about that first part or not?"

Casey's voice sounds further away when he finally responds. "Is sex all you ever think about?"

A pause on Severide's end, then, "Is that a trick question?"

· · ·

Andy had been the tether that had kept them a short distance from each other. Even if he hadn't suspected an ongoing love affair between his two closest friends, though his words and actions had sometimes suggested otherwise, he'd always been prepared to put out any figurative fires caused by their disagreements.

It seems like a lifetime ago, but there'd been a time when they had never seriously clashed. Nowadays, they're lucky if they can get through the day without bickering. The lines between comrade and ex-friend and bedfellow blur on the days they are at odds; sometimes Severide wants to push Casey against a wall and swallow down whatever else he has to say, and sometimes Severide wants to punch Casey in the face.

These are the days Severide dreads the most. His emotions are discordant on these days, taunting him with words like love and selfish and coward. They leave him feeling bereft of air, the warring emotions so similar to drowning. (These are the days where words fail him when Casey asks him what the hell they're doing.)

They must be masochists, the pair of them, because they keep coming back for more.

It's hate and love all at once, like some stupidly tragic romance.

· · ·

"We can't keep doing this," Casey mentions one night, when their limbs are still entangled under the sheets.

"It's not healthy," Severide agrees, but they don't pull away from the other's embrace.

There are no halfhearted excuses to leave the following morning, and it is a painful reminder of what they used to have before misplaced blame and too-sudden deaths shattered the illusion of happiness that had encompassed them once upon a time.

(Darkness falls and the cycle begins anew.)

· · ·

Severide is drunk, Darden is dead and it's pouring. Casey answers the door and isn't given a chance to respond before Severide is kissing him ferociously, telling him to shut up when Casey tries to say something. He reeks of alcohol, but there is a sense of anguish in the way he carries himself that leaves Casey unable to deny the other man.

There is nothing intimate or gentle about tonight; it is raw and unfamiliar.

It is painful, in the best and worst way, but not as painful as Severide leaving wordlessly during the night.

History doesn't repeat itself. It steals a treasured memory and completely transforms it.

(He longs for a warmth so different from the cold he is currently feeling.)

· · ·

It takes Casey nearly dying before Severide is able to confront the skeletons in his closet.

Casey is too still and too fragile on the hospital bed, surrounded by a maze of wires, and it is the single most terrifying thing Kelly Severide has seen. As a firefighter, he's witnessed plenty of alarming scenarios—everything from charred bodies to smoldering remains—and the fact is enough to trigger an epiphany deep within him. With unsteady legs, he sits in the chair next to the bed, hit by a sudden onslaught of emotions: regret, guilt and a wistful yearning for the past.

"You don't do anything in halves," is his attempt at humor, before everything is too much and he feels like he is drowning again. "I love you. Do you hear me? I love you."

It's not like the movies. Casey isn't awakened by the power of love, as much as he wishes that were the case.

He doesn't wake up until the fourth day, at which point Severide is ready to cry tears of elation.

"I was wrong." The voice is small and almost unrecognizable, but it's unmistakably Casey's voice; it isn't Shay's voice reassuring him or Boden's voice demanding he get some rest at home. It's Casey's voice and it's Casey staring at him fondly now. "The girls love you because you're a hopeless romantic."

The remark is enough to warrant a snicker. "You're an idiot," Severide says, no real heat behind his words.

"For the record," Casey adds as an afterthought, "I love you, too."

(Hate is no longer spitting out each other's mouths, but they still sleep like they're lovers.)