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They had always shared a room within the Sabertooth dorms; nobody even thought about it anymore. Two beds, one on each side of the room, slightly larger than a single bed but still enough for one person. Because that was what everyone expected, for Sting and Rogue’s companionship to end at just that, at friendship. Because Jiemma wouldn’t accept it any other way. But when the lights dimmed and the hallways became silent and still, there was a rustle of sheets; a creak of a floorboard; a cool palm pressing softly on the lowest part of Rogue’s back.
“You awake?” Sting whispered, careful not to wake either of the sleeping exceeds.
“Yes.”
There was a brief flash of cold night air against Rogue’s skin, a chaser to the intoxicating feel of Sting’s warm body which followed. He wrapped his arm over Rogue’s middle, tucked his head underneath Rogue’s chin until all he could see and inhale was blond tufts of hair. It was awkward and a little uncomfortable, but Rogue wouldn’t have it any other way.
He was almost ready to fall asleep, the ghost of Sting’s breath and the smell of his shampoo and lullaby that Rogue so desperately needed, but Sting kept curling his toes and rolling his fingers, a recognisable sign to Rogue that there was something the other man wanted to say. Rogue opened his mouth to ask, but Sting didn’t give him the opportunity.
“Do you ever think about running away?” Sting blurted, voice muffled under his own hand, and Rogue wondered quietly how words spoken so quietly could carry so much weight.
“Of course I do.” Rogue answered carefully. There was another question in Sting’s words, an unspoken addition that neither were truly ready to acknowledge.
Do you ever think about running away… with me ?
Sting shivered slightly, and Rogue pulled him impossibly closer. “Then why don’t you?”
It was rare for Sting to sound so vulnerable; so uncertain. They were both proud of their guild, Sting more so than Rogue, but it was difficult to maintain such morale when they were attached to nobody other than each other. Their role within the guild was selfish, and Rogue often wondered if it were worth it when their master was so openly homophobic.
Sting had known that he was gay since he was young; Rogue had figured it out the moment he had first met Sting. They were the most unlikely yet natural couple, but in their guild they were nothing more than best friends. Brothers. It made Rogue feel sick. But he put up with it, because the money was good and the fame not completely unwelcome. Because it made Sting happy to be here.
“There are… perks to being in this guild.” Rogue tried, and when he was met with nothing but silence he assumed that Sting had fallen asleep. But then a hand found his, securing a lifeline when Sting inclined his head up and muttered,
“Is it worth it?”
Another unspoken question.
Am I worth it?
This one was easier to answer.
“Absolutely.”
Rogue pressed his lips against the crown of Sting’s head, squeezing the other man within the circle of his arms. That seemed to satisfy the blond; he exhaled happily and settled down under the quilt. Rogue waited for the soft snores which proved that Sting was finally unconscious before he allowed himself a small smile. It was a small pocket of bliss that Rogue revelled in, mapping out each and every inch of Sting’s body and committing them to memory. He had no other choice, because no matter how content Rogue felt at that moment, the weight of the truth could have suffocated him; when he woke the next morning, he would be alone in his bed. Sting would be across the room, where he was expected to be, and they would start the charade again.