He wakes sprawled on top of Harry in the night, the room too warm, skin too hot, his burning face pressed into Harry's neck. When he breathes in Harry smells like sweat and good cotton, and it only adds to the confusing mess of sensation he's woken up with. He's about to roll off of Harry discreetly when he realises his friend is awake and looking at him in the dark. Raphael swallows, heart pounding suddenly. His groin and thighs feel heavy. "I woke you," he says quietly, in Spanish.
@seacache
Harry grins against his friend.
The close heat of body pressed tight against body is something to be savoured, up here in the sky. In the town of snow and salt and sun, and breath lit ivy that blooms impossibly in the air.
This is real, he thinks.
The weight of a man, the pulse of him. He huffs, shifting closer, gleeful at the horrible sticky-musk of their sleep.
“Probably,” he mutters happily.
He hadn’t really understood.
“Nice way to wake up though.”
He lets his hands brush lightly at Raphael’s strongly muscles sides, tipping his head enough that the soft light crawling up the bed catches his hair, and crowns the gleam in his eye.
“Shall I make the coffee?”
