Work Text:
Sometimes Le Bret lets himself dream of Cyrano’s hands: poet-hands, writer-hands, blotched with ink, calloused where he holds his quill, feathered just like the feather in his cap. Dreams about taking those hands in his own, tracing the life and heart lines, learning the scars from a slipped penknife, pressing his thumb into the dimples behind Cyrano’s knuckles. Feeling those beautiful hands run down his chest, down his sides, down and around his thighs, finding their way to Le Bret’s core. He closes his eyes and dreams of trusting himself, trusting his heart, to Cyrano’s strong soldier-hands.
Then he awakes.