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They triple-check the area before Gerome even so much as entertains the notion of removing his mask. Wedged uncomfortably between a cluster of ever-present crates, Inigo draws a saddle blanket over the whole mess and proclaims it “Our boudoir,” mispronouncing the word wretchedly. His accent is too broad, Gerome thinks, Inigo’s fingers inquisitive on his bare face, too over-affected. Their lips brush and part in shy, half-baked attempts at kisses, kisses that might go somewhere until Inigo’s tooth clips against Gerome’s lower lip. They spring apart—at least as far apart as they can go in such cramped quarters. Inigo hisses something that might be an oath beneath his breath, cheeks pink in the dusty light.
"I’d thought we might have been getting better at that," he grouses, in part to himself. Gerome makes a noncommittal noise, feeling himself avert his eyes out of habit. He is trying to make himself think of his mask as a crutch, that he should be able to keep himself in check even without it. His success has been marginal at best. "Gods, but aren’t you tired?" Inigo’s hands on his face again, tracing the crow’s feet beneath his eyes with what Gerome is certain he feels is a loving tenderness. Frankly, it feels more invasive than anything else.
"I seem to recall you staying up as late as I."
"Yes," a dismissive puff that sends motes scattering through the space between their lips, Gerome can feel the last hint of Inigo’s breath against his cheeks, "But I have yet to pick up on your wretched habit of waking up at such an absurdly early time—if the sun’s not up, then neither am I, as far as I’m concerned."
"And yet you’re still tired," Gerome notes, his own hand tentative on Inigo’s forearm. He can feel the way Inigo starts through his whole body, every reaction tactile in an almost overblown fashion, completely and totally obvious. It is a veritable miracle that they’ve kept their series of second-guessed fumbles at a relationship a secret this long.
"Because you dragged me out of bed! By the ankles, no less!" accuses Inigo, all mock offense.
"You were," a beat, looking for the right word, "recalcitrant."
"Well, that’s no excuse! If you mean to become nocturnal, by all means, commit to it and leave me out of it!" Inigo wriggles about in the tight space until he’s half-sitting on Gerome’s left thigh, half-hanging off onto the ground. It’s extraordinarily uncomfortable. Head lolling onto Gerome’s shoulder, Inigo intertwines their hands and taps an absent rhythm onto Gerome’s palm, lips parted. Gerome thinks about trying to kiss him again, to reconcile their latest flub—the angle is wrong, though, and kissing is still firmly Inigo’s territory. He insists he’s an expert on the matter, but Gerome is still uncertain as to whether or not this business of kissing with tongues is all an elaborate practical joke on Inigo’s part. "I am tired, though," Inigo remarks. "Given that I, unlike you, don’t have the luxury of plopping my rump down on darling Minervykins when we’re on the move."
"You ‘plop’ yourself on her enough as it is," omitting how much Minerva enjoys Inigo as a passenger, for all his poor form and utter inability to sit still. As if on silent cue, Inigo begins to jog his leg. Gerome stills him with a hand on his thigh, immediately wonders if he’s touching too high or too far in. "Enough. You ought to break that habit."
"Yes, mother," Inigo replies in a tone he would never truly take with his mother. Gerome’s hand remains in place, knowing from repeated experience that Inigo will start up again as soon as he’s forgotten how obnoxious the behavior is in the first place. They sit there, Gerome watching a lazy afternoon sun wax and wane with the cloud cover across Inigo’s skin, his cheeks, collarbone, shirt far more open than could ever be strictly necessary. "I’m not asleep," he mumbles so inarticulately that Gerome is inclined to think otherwise. "Though I’ll have you know, I can fall asleep just about anywhere. One of many useless skills one picks up in the course of being, well, a mercenary." In the course of being alone, he means, though Gerome does not say as much. He prefers solitude, he tells himself, without the incessant attempts at banter or the feel of Inigo’s hair against his cheek.
"Move," Gerome says at last, nudging Inigo a bit. "My arm has fallen asleep."
"Yowch," right back to the faux wounded tone, complete with a pout that does not even approach convincing. "Oh, very well, I’ll just slink off and squeeze myself into a corner here, shall I?" Still, Inigo complies, shoving a crate aside with his feet to make for a little bit more room. Gerome dares to close his own eyes, still consciously willing exhaustion not to set in. He can feel Inigo watching him, and wonders if he’d been quite so conspicuous himself. "Ahem." Inigo actually says the word aloud, rather than simply making the noise, and Gerome has to fight back a sigh.
"Mmn," by way of response, knowing he is only being marginally better.
"Might I, er, that is, I can’t say I’ve ever slept with my head on someone’s lap before." Gerome can only imagine where this might be going. "It’s rather romantic, you know," Inigo continues, a wheedling plea he knows Gerome will give in to should he keep it up long enough.
"Do as you’d like," Gerome replies, trying to sound exasperated even as he can detect the chord of roundabout fondness in his own voice. Inigo must hear it as well, eagerly scootching about like an excitable puppy trying to find a comfortable resting pose. He wraps an arm around Gerome’s thigh and Gerome feels himself tense—his inner thigh is just about the last place he wants any part of Inigo at the moment, not when they are alone and carrying a vague sense of desire they are both too inexperienced to give any substance to.
"This is…actually rather uncomfortable," once he’s settled in for a bit.
"Consider yourself more than welcome to get off."
"Your thighs are too muscular," Inigo says, more a tease than a complaint. Gerome is never entirely sure what to make of Inigo’s consistently non sequitur remarks on his musculature. "I’d always imagined, oh, I don’t know, a nice, cushy milkmaid in a field of flowers. You know how it is," though Gerome very much doubts that Inigo "knows how it is" himself.
True to his word, though, Inigo drifts off into a light, quiet sleep before Gerome can consider mustering up a retort. He settles instead for watching the rise and fall of Inigo’s chest in profile, tries to ignore the earring point jabbing into his leg in favor of the curve of Inigo’s hip, then an immediate sense of guilt at what? His ogling? The disarming thrill when their kisses get heavier than either of them know how to bear? Brow furrowed, Gerome rests his hand atop Inigo’s head, smoothing down that irritable cowlick that Inigo insists on cultivating, claiming it makes him appear “roguishly charming”. In the soft silence, Gerome is forced to own up to the simple fact that this is, indeed, where he’s laid his affections. He can almost bring himself to admit that they might perhaps be well-placed until he realizes Inigo has begun to drool on his pant leg.