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Posner wakes up with damp cheeks and blurry eyes, which could also be attributed to the lack of sleep he got, he supposes. He cries a lot when he's awake, even as early as struggling to make toast in the kitchen some mornings, but it's this that let's him know. He turns to face Scripps, pressing his face into his chest before he leans back and tests the boundaries of Scripps' arms around him. "I'm not well, again, aren't I?"
"Unwell," Scripps whispers into his hair, as he knows it isn't really a question, but not a statement deserving silence, either. A moment later he's kissing just above Posner's eyebrow, and he pauses in his movements to give his answer proper time "Yes, you are,"
Posner nods slightly, so Scripps continues down the side of his face and to his jaw, whilst they figure out together what this will mean. There's no possible way he could describe Scripps' tone in these quite monumental moments, not without doing it a disservice. It's sort of quite, and soft. But soft like he might say a covering of snow is, not the feather of a beautiful silken bird. Almost...light. Neutral, with a peaceful wall around the phrases escaping his lips. There's a feeling of nothing, in a way that is sparing you, keeping you safe from emotion that would be overwhelming if he let it colour his voice or seep through as painful subtext
- and Posner thinks the accent helps.
"We knew that, I'm just glad you said it," Scripps throws out there with a sort of shrug that Posner (having his eyes shut) can only feel. He's taken by the striking urge to make tea for the two over them, and as he shuffles out of bed Scripps pulls himself up to accompany him. He's shivering under a plain burgundy t shirt, and pulls one of two similar green jumpers off the side of a wooden kitchen chair, abanded in the middle of the room when they were finished hanging photographs last night. From the thickness of the thing he can tell it's not his.
"We make tea every morning Don, but I can't help but feel I'm trying to tell myself something today," he waits patiently for the kettle to boil, half knowing his brain can't be on much else other than just before.
"Well I'm making us toast, and I know," he wraps his arms back around Posner, "that I'm telling you I love you,"
"You love my bloody homemade bread, maybe,"
Posner turns to place the yellow and orange mugs on the table, not having to step away from the kettle to reach, which means he's perfectly positioned to slip Scripps' hand into his and move them over to the favoured side of the table. There is a moment, and then a feigned sigh "I meant 'not well', you know. It sounded like it reflected my feelings more,"
A real sigh, then. "I fucking know," Scripps laughs, grinning softly and turning his head to kiss Posner again. "Now eat you toast," he murmurs between subsequent kisses, "...the bread is delicious"