Liable to fall sleep in just about whatever position is demanded of him, at this point, Marcus is accommodating of shifting around until stillness settles, and they find themselves in something like a loose embrace, with space enough between them that the whole arrangement isn't untenably hot in this warmer season.
They could have slept back to back and there'd be a comfort in it. To share a space, and listen to the breathing of another, something that reaches far back towards a shared bedroom with a high window, and then memories of a larger chamber and a row of beds, and the ragged edges left behind when both of those things were abruptly taken away, and it's nothing he thinks of now but nevertheless informs the slackening of muscle and peaceful sink into unconsciousness that is deeply, richly more pleasurable than the kind that occurs without those sense-memories.
But also, more present, it's nice to catch his palm against bare, warm skin, the faint tickle of fingertips curling before soothing it, resting in place. The smell of bedclothes that is unique to Flint, and beneath the slowly fading invasion of smoke, that of parchment, leather, lantern oil. Nudging a knee forward and letting the press of it against thigh create a sharply warm point of contact, the bristle of hair and drying water and sweat.
Come the morning, or pre-morning, Marcus will certainly make a play for pity, but not for long. By the time he finishes dressing by the window and wordlessly moves off to collect his armor, he exits the quarters immediately after, accidentally leaving behind a vambrace on the chest at the foot of the bed.
But here and now, there is an instinct to press much closer, to map their chests together and tuck a thigh between legs, to breathe in against the other man's neck and demand to be grasped at. The heaviness of sleep, like an anchor plunged into water, rescues them both from whatever that might entail.
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They could have slept back to back and there'd be a comfort in it. To share a space, and listen to the breathing of another, something that reaches far back towards a shared bedroom with a high window, and then memories of a larger chamber and a row of beds, and the ragged edges left behind when both of those things were abruptly taken away, and it's nothing he thinks of now but nevertheless informs the slackening of muscle and peaceful sink into unconsciousness that is deeply, richly more pleasurable than the kind that occurs without those sense-memories.
But also, more present, it's nice to catch his palm against bare, warm skin, the faint tickle of fingertips curling before soothing it, resting in place. The smell of bedclothes that is unique to Flint, and beneath the slowly fading invasion of smoke, that of parchment, leather, lantern oil. Nudging a knee forward and letting the press of it against thigh create a sharply warm point of contact, the bristle of hair and drying water and sweat.
Come the morning, or pre-morning, Marcus will certainly make a play for pity, but not for long. By the time he finishes dressing by the window and wordlessly moves off to collect his armor, he exits the quarters immediately after, accidentally leaving behind a vambrace on the chest at the foot of the bed.
But here and now, there is an instinct to press much closer, to map their chests together and tuck a thigh between legs, to breathe in against the other man's neck and demand to be grasped at. The heaviness of sleep, like an anchor plunged into water, rescues them both from whatever that might entail.