Jake wakes up without fanfare, inhaling slowly and with purpose. The weight on his neck shifts, and for a moment he struggles to remember who might be with him, let alone where they are. Then it all floods back, and he exhales gently. Silently.

In the night, Evan’s arm has curled around his shoulder and chest, hand crawling up to rest on the side of his throat. It’s unobtrusive. Firm, but not heavy. His fingers aren’t even splayed out, instead cupping Jake’s neck for… warmth? Protection? Had he subconsciously moved in his sleep and sought out the warmest part of Jake? That last one is probably it.

Slowly, silently, Jake breathes in, again. Then out, again. He shifts just as slowly under the blanket as he reaches up to touch Evan’s hand. It’s easy to move the warm, broad palm, but when Evan curls his fingers around Jake’s palm, he regrets ever moving it at all. Why shouldn’t they have a nice moment like this, cuddling together like lovers?

Because Evan would wake up and panic about his hand seeking Jake’s neck, of course.

As their fingers entwine, Evan sniffs, following Jake into the waking world of daylight. He doesn’t say anything, which isn’t a surprise. He does press their hands together tightly— brief, but meaningful. That is a surprise, but a very pleasant one.

Jake squeezes right back, and mumbles, “Did you sleep well?”

Against his back, Evan shakes his head. Jake is only wearing a thin shirt, and Evan even less. His breath is warm enough to make Jake shiver. He asks, “Bad dreams?”

A growl, but the kind that Jake now knows to identify as affirmative.

“Same as usual?” This could refer to a whole host of nightmares. From what little Jake has been able to glean, it’s rare for Evan to have a restful night. He’s just got so much to dwell on. “Your old estate?”

At first, no reply comes, but finally, hoarse and shameful as always, Evan whispers, “Mines.”

“Mines,” Jake sighs. “Right. The foundry?” He shifts again, this time using the excuse of getting more comfortable. It’s easy to line up his body with Evan’s; they fit so well together that the first time they woke up like this, he’d thought they were made for one another. Hell, maybe they are.

Evan’s free arm circles around Jake’s waist readily, pulling him even closer. He’s always ready to take what comfort he can get. Before the two of them met, neither considered himself very tactile. Now, Jake wouldn’t trade this for the world. He moves his knees so that they align with Evan’s legs, resting against the muscle there and breathing softly.

Breaking the silence, Evan mutters, “You.”

Jake presses their hands together again, intrigued. “I was there?”

“In the mines,” he whispers. “In my traps.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate; Jake imagines the grisly nightmare quite vividly (and accurately, though he has no way of knowing that). But he can also feel Evan starting to tremble like a dog during a thunderstorm, or a child during a confession. So he twists as best he can, turning in Evan’s arms so that he can face the man head-on.

Then he frees up one of his hands, reaching up to stroke the side of Evan’s face. Evan’s eyes slide shut instantly, and his lips part in a silent sigh. But he’s still shaking. Jake says, soft but serious, “Bad dream.”

A frown twitches at the corner of Evan’s mouth.

“You wouldn’t let yourself do that no matter who told you to,” Jake continues. “You just love me too damn much.”

For some reason, this seems to upset Evan more. He actually winces as if he wants to jerk back, but they’re too tangled up in each other. He growls, “Sorry,” and Jake isn’t sure what exactly the apology is for. Sorry that I love you? Sorry that I dreamed about killing you? Sorry that you had to wake up like this?

Jake, unsure of what’s being unsaid here, just chuckles. “It’s fine. I’m glad you always keep it fresh.”

This seems to do the trick, or at least distract Evan enough from his own terrible thoughts, as the frown melts off his face. He leans forward and actually nuzzles into Jake’s neck, apparently still seeking that same heat. Jake snorts, hand travelling up to gently rub Evan’s head.

His fingers comb through the soft hair, nails tracing gentle patterns around his scalp, and he murmurs, thoughtful, “When did you grow hair?”

There is a sudden, sharp pain in Evan’s shoulder that dulls nigh instantly.

Evan wakes up, as much as anyone can really ‘wake up’ here. He doesn’t remember his dream, but he assumes it was a bad dream. All his dreams here are bad. Even if something good were to happen, or had happened, to anyone… there is no way the universe would allow him to retain it. He only dwells on the bad things, and he’s got so, so much to dwell on.