💓 YODELS LOUDLY
It’s midnight and the sky is darker than Faris ever likes to see it, they have to wake, proper, in but five hours, and yet Locke’s head lays upon their chest and Faris scarce want’s to break the peace of it. His breathing is steady, warm against the gentle slope of their stomach, and they resist the urge to wiggle, the need to move. It tickles. He’s awake, they think, watching his fingers stroke back and forth over the thick down of the rug. Sometimes he falls like that - falls into sensation and texture and looses himself in the mere motion of a caress and Faris thinks nothing in the world has ever been more endearing.
It takes them too long to realise that the rhythm of his fingers matches the very beat of their heart.
Badum
Badum
Badum
He listens to their heart so quietly, so intently. It seems rude to disturb him, but with realisation comes the need to touch -- The need to reassure themselves this man is real, this man cares, this man listens.
Gentle fingers rise to the nape of his neck, stroking, idly.
Faris tries not to think on the hole that should be there, on the ruin that their chest should be. They try not to think on the silence, pressing and dark, and still.
Their fingers move, resting where neck meets jaw, the edge of an earring digging into their skin--
--His heartbeat flutters against their fingertips and they breathe in time.
