I was tagged by @goodboiboomer-fc5 @tomexraider @abosaa @ja-crispea @chyrstis @sharky-broshaw @amistrio @archetypesinthefog and @fromathelastoveritaserum to find something to share with the class! And if you’re raising an eyebrow because you cannot remember tagging me, yes, it is because I have been brazenly unproductive for the past two weeks! I don’t have a whole lot in presentable order. However, I am very, very grateful to have been tagged and I refuse not to participate. Thank you all, truly. 🤍
Hopefully I’ll have something more cohesive next week! In the meantime, I’ll just drop a teeny-tiny bit from the same WIP as this. Do we go all-in for the huddling-together-for-warmth trope? Yes! Do we care that it’s probably not feasible for the Reaping to have extended into the winter months? Not even a little bit!
John rolls, curls his body inward toward Rook, then stops, like he thinks Rook might be willing to lie a little bit if he behaves himself.
Rook could choose to ignore it, if he wanted. There’s a wind coming down off the mountain, fierce enough to make the window creak in its frame. Restless little flurries of snow dance through the darkness and throw themselves against the glass, one after the other. Rook’s almost worried he’s going to have to pry it open in the morning—the window, that is—and squeeze himself through. Maybe find something for them—for John—to eat that doesn’t come out of a can with a questionable expiration date. Hopefully not die in the process. That would be nice.
Rook could focus on that, any of that, and pretend that John isn’t staring at him, opening his mouth and shutting it without a word. Expecting things. Instead, he slides his arm beneath John's pillow, opening up a space between them that John settles into before cautiously draping his own arm over Rook's waist. When Rook doesn't resist, he sighs. Rook can feel the heat of it on his chest. He lets John hook an ankle over his calf, pull himself closer, until John's just a lean curve of pressure against him. Not soft, but not unpleasant either.
It's been a long time since Rook's had company, especially the sort that bothered to stay the night. Six months, or seven—well before he had the excuse of running a capital-R Resistance. Rook's pretty sure that John's had considerably more luck in the same time frame, which is frankly insulting, considering—
Rook stops, derails it. At this point it's possible, likely even, that his kill count is higher than John Seed's and maybe he has less room to judge than he's comfortable with. Rook makes a noise at that thought—one that John must take entirely the wrong way because he makes his own, softer noise in return and fists his free hand in the front of Rook's shirt.
