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The bed is a pool of comforting warmth in the otherwise icy-cold motel room. Some days, it seems like the temperature switches from boiling to subzero and back to boiling just as fast. Wouldn’t want sinners getting too cozy in their environment, right?
The loosened sheets on the mattress aren’t very soft and they aren’t very clean, but they cover the two figures who lie beneath them just fine. Pentious’s tail lies in coils, the tip poking out slightly from under the edge of the bedclothes. Angel’s legs are drawn in so that his chin rests on his kneecaps. His boots are still on, but aside from that, the only items of clothing in the room are strewn about. Pen’s hat is somewhere around here, eye closed as its owner sleeps deeply. Doesn’t matter. He’ll find it when he wakes up.
Angel has been drifting in and out of consciousness for a while now, but he hasn’t properly woken up yet. Pen’s warmth hasn’t exactly helped with that; his arms lie wrapped around his middle, between the first and second sets of his own. The snake demon periodically snuggles in closer, burying his face into the slightly thinner layer of fluff on his back, releasing contented little sighs. His breathing has the steadiness of someone experiencing a pleasant dream that will be forgotten upon waking. Something about the sound makes Angel feel strange. It’s like there’s some sort of unspoken lie hidden in the space between where their bodies press into one another.
His thoughts slowly transform from shapeshifting clouds of half-baked feelings to coherent lines. Lines like, “shit, I gotta get outta here,” and then, “well, I suppose laying here a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt”.
He knows he should slip away before Pentious wakes up, but it’s so nice to be held. Last night had been rough and frantic and completely and utterly fun; the first time they had hooked up, ever so slightly buzzed and wanting to try something new, Pentious had been a stuttering mess, but by now he seemed far more comfortable. All of that intensity, however, had faded away with the early hours of the morning. It’s morphed into something altogether different and not unwelcome. Some sort of instinct creeps up from the pit of Angel’s stomach and paws at the base of his throat, begging him for words to attach itself to like a starving dog seeking a meal. The problem is that he’s never been one for that softer, sweeter sort of language. The language that he’s most fluent in is that of hands and bodies and mouths, and of all of those things being pressed together out of some irrational need to fuse into one, or at least to forget for a moment that they’ll always be lonely individual parts searching for a distraction.
So Angel sighs, and he places a gloved hand (the only one left--the other gloves had already been tauntingly removed, playfully ripped off, shed like an old skin) over where Pen’s claws have interlocked across his torso. He can feel that his hands are a little bigger than his own. Ever so gently, he holds his grip tighter to his skin.
He’s isn’t sure if there’s anything here. If there is, it may fizzle and die without a word of it being spoken. But for him, the touch is enough to keep him from freezing for now.
He tries not to wonder what Pentious would think of that sentiment.