@songofthestone (from here)
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 leapt, 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.
“I’ll help you milk the goats,” he grins, “if you’ll let me draw you again.”
He can’t entirely tell if Harry knows what he’s doing or not: if he knows that Raphael is not immune to the closeness, or the heat, or the press of Harry’s hand. He thinks he might: Harry is a remarkably observant man by nature, and he’s been around Raphael long enough that he must have noticed something. It’s a frightening thought. But if there were anything to truly be afraid of, he doubts Harry would be pressing him down into the grass like this, grinning at him, still as pleased with him as ever.
He nearly shies away when Harry brushes at his brow, eyes flicking back to him. He doesn’t feel the spider, only the unexpected touch, Harry’s lingering, warm fingertips. With the sun behind him he’s unbearably golden, too bright, too handsome. Looking at him, it’s hard to remember to breathe.
He is going back to his family, Raphael reminds himself firmly, And you can’t go with him.
He huffs, taking Harry’s forearm to push his hand gently away from his face, glad to be dragged back to thoughts of irritating goats and the irony of sitting still for an eternity again. “I haven’t changed since the last time you drew me,” he points out, still holding Harry’s wrist. “What’s the point?” He shifts under him, itching where the grass tickles at his ear and neck.
He can’t ask for anything without also giving in return, and Harry knows it. Raphael doesn’t have it in him to be irritated: it would be worse to receive a favour without reciprocating, anyway. There were worse things he could have asked for. Like for Raphael to accompany him into the woods, to search for horrible, crawling things to look at.
“Fine.” He lets go of Harry’s wrist. It really is too warm to be this close to him. He hates that he wishes they were closer. That it feels good to be under him. To be the focus of his attentions. “But if you start taking hours, I’m moving whether it ruins your bloody drawings or not.” Raphael starts to sit up again, pushing at Harry’s chest. “Off, you useless lump. I’m melting.”
