#h-haha

He can’t remember when the two of them had dozed off in his living room upon the comfortable furniture (somewhere between Graves’ sarcastic remark about Fate finally settling down and the decision to lay back and enjoy each other’s body warmth. Fate stretches his back, the bones in his neck and shoulders creaking in retaliation, before comfortably resting back in his place. Half of his body is numb and his left arm is starting to feel the sting of pins and needles, but he honestly couldn’t care less. His free hand (not trapped between the couch cushions and Graves’ massive arm) spreads its fingers across Graves’ chest, mingled with Fate’s dark hair and the fabric of Graves’ shirt. A steady heartbeat thrums there, gentle and strong. 

So contrasting to Fate’s own rapid beating. 

Why, exactly, was he so ... on edge with this? Was it possibly the risk of death at the hands of the man who he is currently being squished into a lounge with? Is it the fact that the intimacy they had when they were younger (and far more naive, far less broken) is somehow alive and even stronger than before? 

Or maybe it’s because Graves smells like ash and burnt wood and beer and so wonderfully, delightfully, sinfully, familiarly, lovely, wonderfully Malcolm that it makes Fate feel dizzy. 

The hand trapped in the cushions sends a sharp jolt up his shoulder and that means it is time to reevaluate positioning. Carefully, Twisted Fate pulls up and away, careful not to wake his partner (partner? Didn’t sound right, but what else could he call him? He felt too old to have a boyfriend) as he frees his hand. He lowers down again, fully on Graves’ chest, and lets their breathing harmonize for just a moment.

Because a moment is all Fate can handle before the butterflies in his stomach return and he feels like a foolish child, falling for the closest thing to perfection they can find. 

His eyes trail back to Graves’ face -- and for just a tiny bit, he looks young again. The lines and wrinkles disappear in the soft light from the moon and stars outside, the pain of the years has slipped away in the vast nothingness of dreams, and all is calm. 

All is quiet.

Fate shuffles forward just a bit to press a harmless, chaste kiss to Graves’ cheek, satisfyingly planting it directly upon the bone, before he hunkers down into the crook of Graves’ shoulder and lets himself vaguely drift off.

Or so he thinks.