[ It's well into a moonless night, evening having fallen not long after their chaotic escape from the Circle. Bereft is an apt term for it; Fenris spends several of his own minutes listening to the thin patter of budding branches against the window whenever the wind blows, painfully cognizant of the way his back feels cold and naked without a body nearby. Clinging to the same feelings every night for a year has cultivated in him a sense memory he didn't know he had, and now, in their absence, he faces the hopeless revelation that he can't bear the thought of parting with them. Not now, at least, not so easily and immediately.
And much like every other night they've shared up to tonight, there's no point in pretending he's not awake, that Anders isn't creaking the floorboards just inches away, an overture, seeking—and finding, as Fenris retreats with a rustle of blankets toward the center of the bed and waits for Anders's weight. He'd say he'd been a fool to expect that anything would change right away just because they're free(?), but truthfully he's never even thought about it. But here they are, and he has to, and the best strategy he can muster is to simply... carry on. That's what this has always been between them, after all, isn't it? Carrying on, stubborn, perverse as necessary. Something to hold onto.
He feels the first curl of heat as his bare torso makes contact with the fabric of Anders's arms; he can't even be blamed, really, it's practically a conditioned reaction. Not so differently, it's no longer possible to blame thirst for the hoarseness of his whisper. ]
A dream, I am sure of it.
[ It's gentle, faintly self-deprecating, but the relief is palpable. One of his fingers smooths over and over again over a small fold in Anders's shirt, something in him soothed at its softness. Then his breath catches in his throat, just a subtle little failure to continue speaking, momentarily and quite suddenly feeling as though he's become overwhelmed with emotion. ]
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-03-03 08:09 am (UTC)And much like every other night they've shared up to tonight, there's no point in pretending he's not awake, that Anders isn't creaking the floorboards just inches away, an overture, seeking—and finding, as Fenris retreats with a rustle of blankets toward the center of the bed and waits for Anders's weight. He'd say he'd been a fool to expect that anything would change right away just because they're free(?), but truthfully he's never even thought about it. But here they are, and he has to, and the best strategy he can muster is to simply... carry on. That's what this has always been between them, after all, isn't it? Carrying on, stubborn, perverse as necessary. Something to hold onto.
He feels the first curl of heat as his bare torso makes contact with the fabric of Anders's arms; he can't even be blamed, really, it's practically a conditioned reaction. Not so differently, it's no longer possible to blame thirst for the hoarseness of his whisper. ]
A dream, I am sure of it.
[ It's gentle, faintly self-deprecating, but the relief is palpable. One of his fingers smooths over and over again over a small fold in Anders's shirt, something in him soothed at its softness. Then his breath catches in his throat, just a subtle little failure to continue speaking, momentarily and quite suddenly feeling as though he's become overwhelmed with emotion. ]