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It’s a warm, sticky night. One that tells of summer more readily than the dripping of ice, or the blooming of late flowers.
The heat isn’t unbearable, not yet - but it’s uncomfortable enough that the bedcovers have been kicked down to just a sheet, and despite Mumbo being in his bed, they’re far apart.
It’s a big bed. It’s Grian’s, made expansive and all-consuming. He’s always had a bit of a thing for larger beds. They’re more comfortable, really - the feeling of being able to roll six times and still not reach an edge a smidge addictive.
When he and Mumbo started sharing a bed more often than not, it came to be more practical.
It’s late at night, and Grian stares at the ceiling. He’s spread out on his side of the bed, arms sticking out and away from him so that he can cool down as much as possible. His left arm just barely brushes with Mumbo’s own, but the distance still feels insurmountable.
Summer is rapidly becoming his least favorite season, Grian decides. This is - this is bloody unfair -
“Hey,” Mumbo says so softly beside him, Grian almost thinks he’d imagined it. He might have, actually, if it weren’t for the way their arms brush together, for just a moment, warmth jumping between skin. “You awake?”
“Yeah,” Grian says, just as softly. The night feels fragile, and neither wants to be the one to shatter it. “You?”
“Mm.”
There’s silence, for a few moments - not awkward, just… quiet solidarity. The type of silence that comes with reading side-by-side, both engrossed in their own things, but still present. Still there.
“It’s too bloody hot,” Mumbo complains finally. He shifts in the bed, mattress dipping enough that Grian feels a minute pull in gravity.
When he shifts, as well, he finds that Mumbo’s on his side, blearily looking to Grian. He returns the gesture, laying on his side - legs kicked apart so that his skin can’t stick together. “Hi,” he says and watches in the dim of night as Mumbo smiles, just a bit.
“Hi.”
Grian reaches out his hand and Mumbo offers his as well. They don’t link, but their fingers lay together, touching at a few points. “I think we’re going to have to invest in some ice,” Grian tells him, and the sheet taut between them shakes with a chuckle.
“I’ll see if I can make an A/C,” Mumbo promises, his pointer finger tapping idly at Grian’s palm.
“Good,” Grian says. His pillow is too warm, but he doesn’t flip it. His own fingers trail up, tracing the fragile skin on the underside of Mumbo’s wrist. “It’s too hot to sleep,” he complains and his partner hums in tired agreement. Grian works his way further up, trailing around his elbow, and across the arc of his shoulder.
When Mumbo doesn’t complain he traces his fingertips up the pale skin of Mumbo’s chest.
There’s no hidden meaning behind it, not a prompting of more - Grian simply explores. His fingers are adventurers, mapping territory he’d seen more times than the sun has risen.
He traces along contours, and lingers around the little brown moles that look like an inversion of the night sky, even in the dark of night. His thumb brushes against a softer part of skin around Mumbo’s midsection, and he traces over it once, twice more, memorizing the silken feeling.
Despite the heat, Mumbo shivers, and Grian’s lips teasingly turn upwards.
“You’re rude,” Mumbo tells him. His own hand comes up, not quite clasping as he drags it along the path to Grian’s own. When he arrives, he pulls Grian off of him, and interlaces their fingers instead.
They’ll have to part soon, driven away from each other by the summer heat - but for now, Mumbo brings their hands up and kisses the back of Grian’s. His lips are soft, his mouth hot, and despite being together for over a year, Grian’s heart beats a staccato rhythm at the gesture like it’s the first time they’d touched.
Mumbo glances up at him over the gesture, his eyes reflecting the dim light from outside Grian’s window, and he hopes that it’s dark enough to hide the heat that flushes his face. The back of his hand cools slightly.
Grian uses the angle to move and he caresses Mumbo’s cheek with his thumb. His partner’s eyes close against the touch. The blunt edges of stubble scratch gently against the pad of Grian’s finger.
“Kiss me?” Mumbo requests.
He contemplates for a moment. He doesn’t really want to move - it’s not comfortable here, per se, but he’d found an appropriate angle that leaves as much skin as possible to the air.
But…
He could never say no to Mumbo, either.
Grian braces himself on his elbow, and leans over the cavern of bedding, the stretch of mattress. His gentle caress turns into a hand on Mumbo’s cheek, a barely-tolerated warmth, guiding their lips together.
The kiss is something sweet. It’s languid, and gentle, the type of kiss that exists to savor, and nothing more. Their lips are too warm against one another, but it doesn’t matter in this moment together. Mumbo’s own hands curl into Grian’s hair, winding in the wavy locks.
And then, all too soon, they have to pull away.
“I hate the summer,” Mumbo grumbles as his head falls back, untangling his grip on Grian in favor of trying to cool down.
Grian hums, finding his way back to his marginally-comfortable spot on the bed - only taking the time to flip his pillow over to the cool side. He closes his eyes. That’s better. “No, you don’t.”
“I might. Tomorrow, first thing, I’m buying Etho out of ice.”
“You do that.” Grian’s legs stick together with sweat, and he peels them apart, shifting in the bed. “Maybe we can go swimming, later.”
Mumbo hums in agreement, and slowly, their room finds stillness once again.
And it’s hot, too hot to even sleep, but they lay facing one another, limbs threatening to tangle together if they just inched a bit closer.
Perhaps that’s enough.