Why? Because he was considering eating it. "For reading," he says instead, propping the bundled coat at one end of his stolen bedroll.
It's not the first time since being cut off that he's wished his things had been on the wrong side of the rock slide with them, but it is maybe the most acute—the thought for the little volume of essays he'd been halfway through more pressing, mostly, than any glancing observation of Marcus' naked body as he wicks wet rain from it.
Stripping back at the top layer of the folded canvas, Flint moves to shift in under it with boots and all. Something definitive in it. When they make camp again in the following days, he will have decided, mostly, not to shoulder over to Marcus' side of the tent's narrow confines to press him with further biting kisses, or to reassert the mark made on the other man's throat, or to continue fucking around for whatever duration of time cutting through this backcountry is required of them, secure in the knowledge that there is quite literally nothing better to do and no one better to do it with.
(Mostly. Any sailor understands that boredom is an incredible inventor.)
He lays out on his back, shifting until he finds the patch of ground which pokes back at him the least.
yes, that certainly makes sense. It will occur to Marcus tomorrow, in the fourth long waking hour of trying not to move too much to aggravate his injury, listening to rain slice over canvas and not even hungry enough to be occupied with the dilemma of their dwindling rations, that a book would be nice to read.
And when Flint chooses not to press back through boundaries, letting invisible walls brick back up between them, Marcus opts not to breach them either. In part because he would prefer not to suffer rejection, sensing its potential, but also some sense that there's wisdom in not making more of what they started. Eventually, the rain lets up.
Eventually, they will be back in Kirkwall, with a new knot of scarring to recall this particular excursion by.
For now, Marcus silently finishes drying himself, to the best of his ability, paying particular attention to his feet, which will be going back into his boots. Ties his hair into an orderly bundle with only a breath of complaint for the motion it requires. The sound of fabric as he dresses himself, and then lays down.
The flooding in of shadow, with the lantern's extinguishing, is so thick as to be nearly tactile.
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It's not the first time since being cut off that he's wished his things had been on the wrong side of the rock slide with them, but it is maybe the most acute—the thought for the little volume of essays he'd been halfway through more pressing, mostly, than any glancing observation of Marcus' naked body as he wicks wet rain from it.
Stripping back at the top layer of the folded canvas, Flint moves to shift in under it with boots and all. Something definitive in it. When they make camp again in the following days, he will have decided, mostly, not to shoulder over to Marcus' side of the tent's narrow confines to press him with further biting kisses, or to reassert the mark made on the other man's throat, or to continue fucking around for whatever duration of time cutting through this backcountry is required of them, secure in the knowledge that there is quite literally nothing better to do and no one better to do it with.
(Mostly. Any sailor understands that boredom is an incredible inventor.)
He lays out on his back, shifting until he finds the patch of ground which pokes back at him the least.
"See to the lantern before you sleep."
no subject
yes, that certainly makes sense. It will occur to Marcus tomorrow, in the fourth long waking hour of trying not to move too much to aggravate his injury, listening to rain slice over canvas and not even hungry enough to be occupied with the dilemma of their dwindling rations, that a book would be nice to read.
And when Flint chooses not to press back through boundaries, letting invisible walls brick back up between them, Marcus opts not to breach them either. In part because he would prefer not to suffer rejection, sensing its potential, but also some sense that there's wisdom in not making more of what they started. Eventually, the rain lets up.
Eventually, they will be back in Kirkwall, with a new knot of scarring to recall this particular excursion by.
For now, Marcus silently finishes drying himself, to the best of his ability, paying particular attention to his feet, which will be going back into his boots. Ties his hair into an orderly bundle with only a breath of complaint for the motion it requires. The sound of fabric as he dresses himself, and then lays down.
The flooding in of shadow, with the lantern's extinguishing, is so thick as to be nearly tactile.