Title: Butter and Bernini
Rating R (Some smut to brighten the day.)
Word Count 575
Archie paused with his shoe in his hand.
Horatio's voice was hoarse with sleep, but the word was distinct. He was awake now.
“Freezing out there this morning.” Archie said. “No need to get up yet, you still have time.”
Horatio brought his arms above his head in a bone shaking stretch. Away beyond the edge of the blanket, his toes folded down, in descending order, each one perfect. He was covered by the blanket, but Archie could see the shapes of him underneath. Anyway, he knew what Horatio looked like. Archie had gone, when small, to see the sights of Europe with his brothers. He remembered Bernini.
“God, you're freezing, come here.”
Horatio was so warm. They slept this way, when they dared. Their shared heat doubled, held close by his wool blanket. Archie's blanket underneath muted the chill of the deck, and softened their little nest. Embracing Archie now must have felt like hugging an ice block. Horatio did it anyway. He always did. He was aligning his naked skin against Archie, nosing and kissing Archie's hair. Archie knew his hair smelled of sweat and smoke. Probably salt too. The wind had come up during mid-watch. It had blown spray everywhere. Horatio smelled of sleep. His hand stroked along Archie's spine, head to tail, spreading heat like melting butter.
Archie turned his head, burrowing close. The kiss found the top of his ear, Horatio bit gently, making Archie gasp.
“We have time.”
Archie's voice was hoarse now too, jagged sounding to his own ears. Horatio's hands were on his backside, pressing him close. Archie caught the last word in his mouth, opened for it. Horatio's mouth had always been the softest thing he knew.
Horatio had been half hard, coming out of sleep. That was just the body running drills, Archie knew. Happened to everyone. Horatio had been dreaming of turnips, after all. Nobody liked turnips that much. (Though there had been rumors about seaman Finch.)
This was different. Horatio was rocking against Archie, making him want--
“Oh, your hand--”
Horatio was out of breath too now. He pushed Archie gently back, brought the caress around the front, to Archie's chest, to the muscles of his sides, to the tight front of his thigh, to the dip of his hip. Horatio's eyes were wide and dark. The little room was drained of color, in the dawn light, all the yellow gone to soft turnip gray. So beautiful. Horatio shuddered against Archie's thigh. Archie was bowed, his whole body one plea.
“No, no. Please, your hand on my --” Horatio knew, but was making him say.
“Thus? As you--”
“Oh.” Oh, Honeybee.
The light shone, butter yellow through the folds of canvas. Archie pushed the blanket back. He was warm head to toe, like butter and honey, like day after night.
“What were you saying about turnips?” He was half asleep himself.
“Stupid dream--” Horatio said. “Something about the man you rescued, and-- and turnips, and we were running and falling. I don't know. Makes no sense. G'back to sleep, I think...”
He already was asleep, Archie thought. And Archie could follow. They had plenty of time.