@lone-blade asked: Carver watches him slumber; just as loud and rowdy and rambunctious as if he were awake. The young man practically circumnavigates his bed roll, snoring all the while. The Commander stifles a laugh, and presses lips to the others forehead before heading on his own way.
It can't be helped. He's not a noble, after all! As such, his sleeping as a beast would is entirely expected. Besides, he's bone weary, too, unfortunately, what with his penchant for toiling like some consummate cart horse. Every day, he'll go off venturing on his nag, declaring he's to aid but one man with a task, and on those hours after twilight with the sunk in the hillocks? He'd return. And Maker bless, only after having saved a bloody fucking village. It leaves him about dead to the world, his legs tangled in the blankets and his face well-crimped with the folds of his bedroll. But if it's one thing at all that will have him stirring?
It's Carver.
He rouses. It's that scent of him, ever cozy and delightfully his alone.
"Carver...?" Of course. He has sleep in his mouth and his dumb tongue's gymnastics. But Henry adores these mornings, squirreling them away to but ration them carefully when time will need it. He lays there blinking all warm, the beginnings of morning's light struck torching that figure. His heart swells. And sat so flush to his mounting affections, he's the indulgent to keep him there. "Now, don't you start with me," he says. He grabs him by the ankle to yank him back down. There, he rakes his nails through that scalp as he relishes in the press of that war-scarred body. A barreled chest. A barreled chest with a heart as loud as an ocean. Henry kisses him, sighs and savors, and imagines marmalade, jams, and figgy-flecked doughs.
