this world is a wasteland where nothing can grow
"Goodnight, Sunjata." Too drunk not to accept the other man's proximity but not drunk enough to avoid blushing about it, as the lights finally dim low enough that the world is difficult to make out, Niki shifts as well to get comfortable. The warmth radiating at his back and the sound of the Heartless's breath is something he tries desperately not to focus on too much, and in the end, blessedly, the alcohol carries him back into slumber before his mind can properly kick into overdrive about it.
He doesn't stir for the rest of the night.
He does, however, wake up early with all the restlessness of the extremely hungover, stirring only enough to know that his mouth is dry, his head is pounding and he appears to have tangled himself to death in the blankets. Only that isn't right at all, because they aren't blankets around him - they're arms.
Niki's breath stutters and freezes in his chest, the necromancer remembering with a combination of mortification and disbelief that the long, drawn out night had not been some drunken fever dream. Sunjata is pressed at his back, his sweater is missing, they'd talked about... about childhood, and scars, and sex, sort of, and he remembers too, the soft heat of the other man's mouth, the way he'd tasted, the way he hadn't wanted to stop there.
The curse dies on Niki's tongue, the necromancer instead trying - as best he can anyway - to start to extricate himself from the bed, hopefully without waking the Heartless.
He doesn't stir for the rest of the night.
He does, however, wake up early with all the restlessness of the extremely hungover, stirring only enough to know that his mouth is dry, his head is pounding and he appears to have tangled himself to death in the blankets. Only that isn't right at all, because they aren't blankets around him - they're arms.
Niki's breath stutters and freezes in his chest, the necromancer remembering with a combination of mortification and disbelief that the long, drawn out night had not been some drunken fever dream. Sunjata is pressed at his back, his sweater is missing, they'd talked about... about childhood, and scars, and sex, sort of, and he remembers too, the soft heat of the other man's mouth, the way he'd tasted, the way he hadn't wanted to stop there.
The curse dies on Niki's tongue, the necromancer instead trying - as best he can anyway - to start to extricate himself from the bed, hopefully without waking the Heartless.
Niki
i used to have strength but i ran out of hope
