#iivy

They were in II's bed. The room is dark. Both men preferred it to be that way, honestly. They couldn’t sleep, so it wasn’t a sleeping preference, but it was hard to rest their bodies and minds from their duties that day when there was things going on or to think about and distract them from the emptiness their minds could become when they focused. Like a fucked up state of meditation, almost. 

IV had been restless on his own in his room, so he dragged himself to II. Crawled into his bed with him, tucked himself against the drummer’s chest. One arm curled around him, head over his slow beating heart, curled away under his sheets. His head had been screaming at him that no, nobody loved him, he was just the guitarist. But the man beneath him was sturdy, he was reliable and loving and fuck, IV loved him.

II was silently grateful that IV had joined him here. He’d been lying there, restless, couldn’t drift away in his mind like normal for whatever reason. He knew vaguely how high the moon had to be in the sky, knew he needed this rest before tomorrow where he had work to do in the gardens and with Vessel on music, but he couldn’t shut himself off. IV had fixed that though; the other man’s weight and warmth was a wonderful, soothing pressure against his skin. He’d tossed an arm around IV, lying on his back, settled into his pillows. Gods, II loved him.