Harry’s nickname around the village is “Inti”, Quechua for Sun.

@seacache

Ferns. Harry thinks he had been talking about ferns, waxing lyrical about roots and lobes, and the shape of their fronds in differing climes, when the heavy heat of Raphael’s hands settle gently on his hips.

He stills for a moment, the air around their bodies thickening until the sound of nothing is as loud as the keening of bees.

Raphael's eyes seem fiercely bright this close: all at once focused and far away. Harry finds his body feels lazy, slowing with the quiet thump of his own pulse beneath those rough, wide hands.

He wants to sway with the weight of the warm desire, push slowly forward, nudge his lips against that deep, sweet skin. He would stay here, his back half burnt by the pipes in the stove, his hips squeezed tight, his body thrumming happily beside the steady lines of Raphael’s lovely limbs.

“Hello.” He finds he can only manage a quiet murmur. His face feels open, pulled apart like waking petals, devouring the sun.

Blinking sleepily, he drags his mind away from the deep comfort of this lovely touch, watching instead the flicker of fear pass across his friend’s face.

Raphael tilts his gaze away, as he always does. His voice is low, and rough with shame. It hurts Harry, hurts him to see someone so frightened of happiness.

He’s not as hefty as Raphael, but he’s taller, and far more stubborn. He smiles at him, resisting the push, just a little. He lifts his own hands, pressing his palm over the broad, firm chest. His fingers splayed until their tips feel the sharp curve of his clavicle, Harry dips his head to catch Raphael’s gaze.

Sunlight is bleeding bright against the stirring of the pollen. Soft motes swirl lazily in the wake of life as it flutters and strives: the loud unending mumble of creatures unseen behind the darkening edge of the forest. Something beats a wing, just once, and a mist of nothing blooms for a moment in the endless expanse of light. Two men sit, half obscured by the grass, eyes watching well-trod worlds that the other will never see. The moon will come soon, to dance and weep above them.  Until then, Harry settles back against the strong, broad body of his friend, enjoying the warmth of his arms as they curl around his own, holding the edges of their book. Raphael’s sight seems to dim in the long evenings, so instead the tales are spun in sounds and song. 

Harry likes it this way. Weaving words for him, reading gently into the night, held steady in his arms. Tonight though, the pages are running out; the play drawing to its triumphant close as he reads. 

“As th'art a man, Give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I'll ha't. O good Horatio, what a wounded name (Things standing thus unknown) shall live behind me. If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain...”

Harry hesitates, stilling his hand where it had been softly rubbing against Raphael’s crooked knee. He tilts back his head, nudging his loosened hair against the scrape of his chin. “You remind me of Horatio, Raphael.” Just a murmur. “A man too often left behind, his heart locked firm in his sensible breast.” He sighs, the cruelty of an endless life, so full of constant loss weighing hard against him. He wonders whether Raphael will miss him, when the time comes that he can no longer battle the inching of hours that govern his life. He pulls on Raphael’s forearm, to lower the book, not wanting to finish the play tonight.

@inkscrawl

Harry had spent far more time than he’d care to admit, timing this particular pounce.

The morning had been spent exploring, which was vital work and important to everyone, no matter what Raphael said. He had found a peculiar little creature, blacker than the thickest obsidian stacks and perched as still as a shadow on the tuft of a drooping stalk. It was patient enough to allow Harry to lie down beside it, the long grass tickling at his nose, seeds sticking in his ever-lengthening mop of hair. He’d had to be very firm with himself about not sneezing.

Harry had watched the insect, its fine antennae nodding lazily in the blinding heat, the dark of its body seeming to swallow up the glare of the sun. There was no shine or gleam of a shell, just lumped segments bunched too close together. It was terribly unpleasant looking, he supposed, but there was a gentle sort of beauty in the stillness, the thin legs, the oddly inverted tail. Raphael would have turned pale at the sight of it.

He had wondered then where his friend was, and found him scarcely feet away, perched on a rounded chunk of quartz. He had decided to watch him instead, propping himself up on his side and tracing the lines of his body, which seemed too solid in the glare of the sun. He was sitting with his back as straight as a rod, knees supporting his arms, eyes lifted skywards, gazing at the sun. His body faced the row of Markayuq, and Harry wondered whether he was praying.  

He had decided to wait until he twitched, or sighed, but the sun was creeping higher in the sky, the tips of his ears were prickling with heat and Raphael was making no sign of moving. It really was too cruel, Harry decided, to provide a temptation of that sort.And wholly unfair to expect him not to satisfy it. He had leaps, ramming his good shoulder against Raphael’s side and knocking him triumphantly into the long grass. Some muttered protestation result, but he is very pleased with his efforts, and angles his body to pin him down properly.

Straddling this solid man, his quiet strength trapped beneath him, feels tremendously satisfying. He leans his weight forward a little, watching Raphael, and taking in the steady gaze as those eyes focus on him. A hot moment pulses between them, thicker than the sun burning through the back of his shirt. He grins down, enjoying the sticky intimacy, and the gentle flush brushing at the edge of Raphael’s cheeks. Hot, frightened, or enticed, Harry isn’t certain.

But he’s certain that there is a fondness there; something wild, and solidifying daily in his friend’s impenetrable mind. Long dark lashes leave shadows beneath his eyes as Raphael looks away from him. Harry hums fondly, dropping his hand to his chest, pressing a flat palm over his heart, remembering the Markayuq, and the peaceful breath it had given him when they had blessed his own body.

Perched on top of Raphael, he lets himself drink in the curious features, rather eager to trace them with his fingertips.He might have to draw him again, he thinks. To get the curve of the brows more faithful to these. He brushes away a little spider, who had settled in the thick line of one of them, letting his thumb trail down and frame his eye.