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Summary
The scent of Felix’s sheets, his sleep shirt, the safety of his embrace turns Chan pliant as Felix rests one hand in Chan’s curls, and the other around his bare waist.
Chan pushes a breath out, slow. It heats his face where it rests at the juncture of Felix’s neck. His fingers pulse, but he keeps them close, curls into himself. He wants to slip out between his own ribs, soak into the mattress. He must deranged the way he never wants to leave, wants to be under Felix until it hurts, until–
“Chris,” Felix scratches his scalp. “Need you.” His voice is a whisper. That’s what’s special about Felix, how deep he understands that, to Chan, it’s about the service. It wouldn’t help to ask about what’s wrong, because Chan answered that when he walked through the door.