dream a little dream of me | Glowfic Constellation

of-the-west

He laughs, drunkenly, feeling Camillo’s hands moving him, feeling him trying to gasp under the pillow —

—he presses it down a little harder as he comes, gasping.

Air is starting to feel a little more urgent -- if not quite as urgent as it might feel if he weren't tasting Anatole's scent on the pillow with every useless gasp, thrusting into Anatole when he tries to struggle.

Maybe there are more urgent things than air.

The burning in his throat and chest is like Anatole's hand inside him -- lights him up with a warmth almost like another orgasm.

of-the-west

Anatole removes the pillow.

The night air is crisp and cool and clear and he's never felt so alive.

He's laughing and crying and pulling Anatole down to kiss him, pushing him back to gasp in more air, pulling him in again, in again.

of-the-west

Incredibly, he finds himself laughing too.

He pulls Camillo close to him and rolls them onto their sides, tangling their limbs together.

"You're beautiful," kiss, "I love you," kiss, "you're so soft," kiss, "you're so good," kiss.

He's mostly asleep. He's mostly double asleep. He can't be held accountable for what he's saying. Sue him.

of-the-west

“Go to sleep,” he says, still laughing.

(It’s the middle of the night. The warm feelings can’t hurt him.)

"Okay," Camillo says, amiably, and he's out.

of-the-west

…truly, these are incredible powers.

of-the-west

It takes a little longer, but he manages to drift off himself as well.

Camillo, having napped most of the previous afternoon, wakes up first in the morning light.

...he's like a kitten. Camillo can't possibly wake this boy up.

of-the-west

He does look very peaceful in his sleep. And much less devious.

They’re still a little tangled up, but much less so.

Camillo makes a game attempt at disentangling himself with maximum delicacy. Maybe he can get them both some breakfast. And whatever they do for hangovers around here, for Anatole.

of-the-west

He makes a disappointed sort of noise and pulls in a handful of furs, but doesn’t fully wake. Camillo is free to retrieve his clothing and seek breakfast.

Ugh, clothing. Fine. He will put on pants and venture out into the great cold world for leftovers and, ideally, something with electrolytes.

Dorothy is at the main table again this morning.

She is really not looking well.

There’s venison and bread and cheese available for the taking. No immediately apparent electrolytes at this table, at least.

Fine. No electrolytes; second best option.

And, as he fetches it:

"I'm getting Anatole some hair of the dog. Want any?"

“…it couldn’t hurt.”

She rubs some of the sleep from her eyes.

Camillo searches about the hall for an unclaimed horn and an empty flagon, and, in the process of looking under benches, retrieves the packet from the cuff of his pants.

Mead in the horn. Mead in the flagon.

Packet in the horn -- most of it, he doesn't expect to be able to get her two drinks. A tiny bit of the packet in the flagon, for the headache Anatole will no doubt be nursing.

"Here."

“Thank you.”

She takes the horn.

“…while you’re here. I want to ask you for a favor.”

Please don't make this weird.

"Sure. Anything."