#lamsfic

“He’s got orange ears,” Alex offers, because that’s the only thing he really notices about the turtle. He’s crouched down next to John on the weirdly damp floor of the pet store, arms already getting a little sore from carrying approximately six hundred pounds of turtle-related supplies. He’s kind of ready to go now, since they’re not even getting the turtles themselves until next week, but John had wandered off some time ago and Alex hadn’t been surprised to find him here, lovingly staring at the turtles as they wobble around the tank, or, like most of them are doing now, swim around it.

“They aren’t orange,” whispers John, all soft, attention completely on the turtles, “they’re red. Red-eared sliders.”

Alex sets some of the turtle stuff on the floor discreetly. The sole turtle that’s on the land portion of the tank slides into the water, and John gasps, excited. Alex could almost swear he hears John go “yes,” tone all weird. His voice is a little scratchy from excitement and Alex almost wants to tease him, but he doesn’t. The moment seems a little too pure, a little too sweet for him to be mean to John, even jokingly.

John leans into Alex’s shoulder a little heavily, moves his finger slightly so he’s pointing at another turtle now. “Look at that one, right there. The big one. She’s beautiful.”

Alex squints. “There is no way you know that’s a girl turtle.”

John shrugs, and drops his arm lazily, fingers curling into half fists as his hand falls onto his lap. There’s wet patches on the knees of his jeans where he’s been kneeling on the floor next to the tank, and another wet patch on the collar of his shirt. He’s been chewing on it again, Alex knows, and he suddenly feels so very soft. Loving. It should be gross but somehow it’s just endearing.

“I’d call that one Burr,” says Alex, after some time has passed, and points at the turtle with a ridiculously small shell in proportion to its body. It’s trying to get back on land but its feet aren’t doing a very good job getting it there. John snorts and taps his knuckles against Alex’s cheek, but he’s being affectionate about it, not exasperated, so Alex just grabs his wrist and kisses his knuckles before he can pull his hand away.

“Which one do you think you’re going to get?” asks Alex into the skin of John’s knuckles. It tastes like salt and soap and Alex leans forward a little, presses his face into it.

John hums. “I don’t know if these specific ones will be here next week. We’ll see.” His wrist twitches. Alex notices that his fingers are shaking, just a little. Probably from the awkward way they’re angled half out, still bent at the knuckle. The artificially blue lights make Alex want to close his eyes.

“We’ll see,” repeats Alex. John’s nose presses into his neck, lips cold against his collarbone. Alex kisses his hair, and he smells a little like the pet store, a little wet and seaweed-y.

This doesn’t usually happen. Most mornings he wakes up around eight, long after Alex has already gotten up. He doesn’t get to do this often enough - doesn’t get to watch Alex sleep often enough. Which sounds weird, he knows, but it’s just. He’s always so busy, always doing something, always on his feet or typing or yelling, and even though John loves that Alex, adores him, it’s just -

This Alex makes John’s heart clench in his chest. This quiet Alex, this sweet, vulnerable Alex. Guards down. The soft center of him bared.

And fuck it makes a rush of affection so strong he almost gasps go through him like a shock, and then he’s shuffling closer and re-tangling their legs together, sliding his hands under Alex’s soft t-shirt, over his hips, over his ribs. Protective.

He falls back to half-sleep, then. Cotton balls behind his eyes. Heavy. Alex breathes breathes breathes in his arms and he can feel his ribcage expanding with every breath, feels his own ribs touch Alex’s back every time he breathes, and somehow that feels like too much. Feels raw. Feels too tender. John rubs his hands over the bones he finds on Alex’s body, limbs heavy with sleep, the movement slowed down to half speed.

John presses his nose into Alex’s neck right below his hairline. Alex flinches a little, and John winces, kisses his skin apologetically. Breathes in his shampoo, his warm skin. Alex relaxes. John closes his eyes.

The next time John opens his eyes it’s because Alex makes a sleepy noise in his arm about an hour after he’d closed his eyes.

“Mm,” says John into his shoulder, suddenly mostly awake again.

“Why are you awake,” asks Alex, but he’s still so sleepy the question falls into more of a statement. He’s warm, pliable, and John presses into him a little harder, wraps his arms around him a little tighter. John doesn’t feel like telling him that he’s been awake for over an hour. Alex doesn’t have to know. He’d probably frown, even, and John doesn’t want that. It’s too early for frowns.

“Hm,” hums John directly into Alex’s ear and that seems to cause him to momentarily forget what they were talking about because he shudders and then goes a little boneless against John. John tightens his arms around him. He’s warm and so very comfortable. He really wouldn’t object to staying here forever.   

A quiet moment passes. Then the clock strikes seven and Alex jolts awake.

“I gotta get up,” says Alex, and then he does. He puts on a sweater John is pretty sure is his but he’s too lazy to get up to investigate and then he walks into the bathroom. John stretches his body across the bed, corner to corner. Closes his eyes. Rubs his temples.

Alex appears to the doorway, toothbrush in his mouth. He’s put on his pants and all.

“Stop,” he says. John cracks open one eye, makes grabby hands in Alex’s direction. Raises one eyebrow.

“Eight thousand cuddles,” he says solemnly, “eight thousand cuddles and I will stop.”

Alex cracks up. Alex splutters around his toothbrush and then he goes and spits into the sink and rinses his mouth and moves things in the bathroom and then he comes back in his soft sweater and jeans and gets on the bed on his knees and kneewalks over to John.