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Cecil wakes up in cold sweat.
A nightmare. He is acquainted with those. More often than not, his night’s sleep is ruined by them. Cecil had never been a heavy sleeper, he woke up in the middle of the night pretty much every day and even the sole vibration of his phone was enough to disrupt his sleep, but those dreams tended to be the main reason of interruption. The plot varied, but this time, he had dreamed that he was drowning. A burning sensation through his body, starting at his windpipe, stopping by his toes and fingertips at last. Meanwhile, his vision gets blurred, the colours are shifting and dancing with each other before it goes as black as the night.
He tries to take deep breaths, hesitantly, afraid that his lungs will feel like lava again. It was all a dream. It was just a dream, he assures himself.
Cecil turns to his right to look at the clock on his bedside table, only to find someone lying next to him. Moonlight shining on exposed collarbones, alabaster. It takes a few seconds for him to recognise the figure. Camus. The prince had forgotten about his existence, somehow, with the state of absolute terror he had found himself wrapped in.
Camus is already awake, and looks at him with eyes barely open, brows frowned, he probably has just woken up and is now trying to figure out what Cecil is doing. He reaches out to Cecil, it takes longer than normal until his numb, stiff arm finally finds the smooth neck. “You’re soaked,” he tells the other, his voice comes out unexpectedly light, it’s soft and tender and so different from his usual demanding tone. The count takes his hand back.
Cecil nods, he looks away “I had a nightmare.”
Camus stares at him in silence for a few seconds before sitting up beside the younger. “A nightmare?” He yawns. Cecil thinks it’s sweet. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I saw that I was drowning,” Cecil sighs. The blonde takes his hand in his, strokes it lovingly, it’s unforeseen, yet the prince is barely surprised by the sudden displays of affection anymore. “Again.”
Cecil feels the count move closer to him, and a sweet kiss is planted on his temple. “Just a dream,” Camus whispers into his ear. “Come. Let’s sleep.” He pulls the younger into his embrace, gives him another kiss as he caresses the dark hair. The way Camus talks is relaxing. The melting sweetness of his voice is more or less because he has only now woken up, as Camus normally has this certain carelessness to him that lets him speak of the softest things in the toughest tone, unwavering, cold, awaiting obedience. But now it’s the exact opposite, it’s loving and thoughtful, makes Cecil feel how Camus’s heart squirms and emotions rush to his mind right in his own ear drums.
It’s pleasingly slow as the prince places his head on Camus’s shoulder and breathes out, Camus keeps his eyes on him as he does, carefully watching every movement of every muscle. The way moonlight envelopes Cecil is fascinating, to say the least. Eyes now a few shades lighter than usual, the traces of sweat on the smooth skin resemble dew. The blonde can’t help but smile at the sight. He wants to burn it in with every small detail, the quiet whistle of Cecil’s breaths, the way his lashes flutter and his arms wrap around Camus’s torso.
“I don’t want to go back to sleep,” Cecil speaks after short minutes of staring out the window. Camus doesn’t make a sound, so he explains himself further “It feels like...like I will have the same nightmare.”
Camus slips out of his embrace before he can react, leaving him alone on the bed “Allow me.” Cecil sits up, again, watches the other as he walks to the kitchen. The prince pricks up his ears in hope of figuring out what Camus is doing, yet nothing is heard except the subtle ripple of some sort of liquid, maybe, possibly poured out of a jug. Camus was quiet to a fault in everything he did, needless to say, it was unsettling at times. Some habits were hard to shake off, for sure.
A clear cup is in his hand when Camus comes back, a few light coloured petals are easily seen afloat in the gold liquid. Camus sits beside Cecil’s legs, right on the bed’s edge, a rather uncomfortable position. Not that he seems to care. “Wild daisy,” he introduces as he hands Cecil the cup, doesn’t pull his hands away until he’s assured that his lover has a stable grasp. “Soothes nerves, helps one relax, and sleep too... I also added honey. You like it.”
Cecil smiles and takes a sip, indulging in the taste. Honey was an excellent choice, the sweetness was just on point and it seemed to Cecil that it would have been too bland without the addition. The drink is warm, yet definitely not hot, just the way he prefers. Camus was thoughtful in an almost cute way when he wanted to be, and he didn’t hold back when he did. The love and care Cecil found in the icy eyes were invincible, unrivaled to any other.
Camus’s gaze lingers on the prince as he drinks the tea, availing himself of Cecil’s stare being anywhere but on him, mostly on the cup in his hand. When Cecil finally faces Camus, finding the man watching him in silence sends a shiver through him. It’s always flattering to be the object of Camus’s attention. Unlike the cellist, who maintains the steeliness of his gaze, the other feels his cheeks increase in heat.
Suddenly flustered, he holds out the cup towards the older “Would you like some?” Wavy locks rock left and right in response, the offer declined in silence. “Please?” Cecil feels like a high schooler trying to get an indirect kiss. That was, undeniably, the effect the blonde had on him. Camus gives up upon receiving such insistence, takes the cup with a sigh, their fingers brush against each other and it makes Cecil jolt in excitement. Although Camus is much better at keeping his composure, he notices the blue eyes widening for what is only the fraction of a second. The count takes the smallest swig, gives the cup back to Cecil “Drink the rest.”
Cecil obeys. He attempts to put the now empty cup on his bedside table when he’s finished, yet Camus grabs it from his hand and takes it to the kitchen. He returns in mere seconds, sits again on his previous spot, sort of closer. “Did you enjoy it?” He asks, holds the other’s hands tightly.
Cecil scoffs “How could I not? You made it for me after all.” The blonde smiles, his teeth show and he lowers his head, gazing at their enlaced fingers. Moments later, Cecil feels subtle kisses on his hands, each digit is kissed tenderly, the soft lips on his skin are just as kind as they are on the prince’s own mouth, if not kinder. “Camus,” he whispers, the man doesn’t even pay him a glance.
“Come here,” Cecil spreads his arms just so slightly, fortunately, the count is receptive enough. He moves closer to the former, chests pressed as they take each other in their embrace. Camus kisses him, it’s definitely not as rough nor as heated as some of the kisses they had previously shared, however, Cecil feels something stronger in it. It’s somehow more intimate, chaste, like an unspoken promise of loyalty and the announcement of unconditional, honest love.
“We should sleep,” Camus mutters, kisses the side of his neck. Cecil squeezes him in his arms, hums in agreement.
Camus crawls across the bed, lies down on his side once again. The prince doesn’t waste time before he snuggles up to Camus, plants a kiss on the chiselled jaw.
“I love you, Cecil,” Camus speaks, eyes already closed, voice low and deep. “Do you know that?”
“I know,” Cecil replies. “I love you too.”