fuck your american spelling
This is a stay-in-bed-and-read type day. The sky is overcast and rain is drizzling in a thin, cold mist. Pedro lays in bed, Mehdi tucked into his side. They’re both awake but unwilling to move just yet.
Pedro, eyes closed, traces loose shapes up and down Mehdi’s ribcage, his fingertips light enough to make Mehdi shiver and smile and complain quietly about the goosebumps that trickle across his skin like water.
Pedro just sighs, slow and steady and content, and turns his head to ghost his mouth across Mehdi’s short, soft hair. Softer than lamb’s wool, Mehdi’s mother told him.
They relax into the mattress together, shift closer, hold one another tighter. They kiss, softly, gently. Everything is tender in this half-awake state of theirs. Mehdi breaks the kiss in favour of resting his head on Pedro’s lean, bony chest, moving around until he can hear Pedro’s heart thumping warm and strong. He knows, as Pedro traces a slow finger down the length of his spine, that Pedro’s heart is beating for him.