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For how much Bedgar and Angor’s days are filled with endless banter— heatless nonsensical arguments that echo and fade into the rustling birch and dark oak leaves, spotty and wheezing laughter that bounces off of the hilltops, two voices (never one without the other) filling their lonely island with mirth— the thin, metallic clicking of two bedside lamps seals their hillside-tucked cottage in a vacuum of silence come evening. Click-click, and then nothing, save for the rising chorus of evening insects and their chittering that ricochets off of the willow-wooden balcony.
A curtain of silence folds thick and heavy over them, worn mumblings of day-long conversations put to bed alongside the tired bodies that traded them. The lights are flicked out, and in the swelling vacuum that follows, the dialogue between them becomes tangible. Coos and laughter and effortless quip-turned-bits soften to hums, to warm sighs, to the creak of the mattress, to the rustle of fabric, to the quiet comfort of touch traded for touch.
The two are unrecognizable.
As easy as it is for them to embrace the natural back and forth of thoughtless, effortless conversation, and as easy and freeing as it feels to simply be themselves without any worry for what may be listening or who may be lurking, the lingering weight of their shared past surfaces here. This quiet, still, sacred pocket of space in their quaint bedroom with a window to the stars is where touch carries more weight and feels more real than any spoken word ever could.
Words are scarcely shared when the bedroom is as dark as the night sky will allow, stars twinkling faintly above in the space Tom may have once called home. Talking is done between fingertips; a hesitant featherlight sweep of a hand overtop a shoulder to ask a question, the gentle, teasing prod for attention, the loose curl of fingers in fabric too gentle to be anything other than a request for touch.
Chin to shoulder, ear to chest, fingers to fabric at the waist— all touch, never words. A variation on evening after evening, Tom's blunt fingertips wind through the short, fluffy locks along Ben's crown. He scrubs lightly, idly, slowly and slowing in motion as comfort settles warmly under his skin in the form of shallow pinpricks of golden light that wash over them just so. The dull light softens the worn lines and curves of their faces, close but rarely touching, and Tom navigates the space fluidly, lazily.
His hands are solid and warm, warmer still when he glows this way; it eases the uneven thump of Ben's heart and the quake of his weary lungs, softening his day-worn body around the edges and lulling his chest to a soft, steady rhythm. As his lungs slow and his breathing evens, his eyes slip closed with the peace of knowing the air will come easy when Tom holds him in place here.
Eyes sliding shut and chest growing heavier curled against Tom's side, Ben still tries to return the favor, somehow. He can't quite reach Tom's twisted, curled locks from this angle (blindly tucked into his neck), so his arm slides gracelessly back down, over Tom's cheek, as he tries to find his beard instead. Ben settles there, lazily sorting through the curled, wiry hairs, but his attempts to wrangle them free get his fingers tangled instead. Again.
Tom's chastisement comes in the form of a warm, worn hand slipping over the knuckles of his partner's, languid touches lingering as he unwinds Ben's fingers from his face in the same pattern as last night, and the night before. It earns him the same hushed giggle as last night too, though Ben doesn't catch Tom's lazy grin as he quiets them by folding their fingers closer and pulling their joined hands down through the creases of each other to rest gently at their sides.
Ben apologizes by tucking his nose a little more snug to Tom's collarbone and sighing warmly there. The warm air that skates over Tom's skin earns him a heavy sigh in return, golden glow flickering as his eyes shut and his body sinks into their mattress a little heavier.
Whispers are not uncommon on nights like these. The giddiness of cherished touch leaves them oh so content, and the quieted words that pass between them are spoken as though secret, careful not to break the revered silence.
Ben is the first to.
"One of these days, I'll conquer your beard, Tom," Ben sighs, emphasizing his lament by rocking their interlocked fingers back and forth a few times like a cartoon nemesis shaking his fist at the sky.
The smile that curls into Tom's voice is audible as he rasps back, eyes still closed, "You'll never defeat me, Ben," and if it weren't for the kiss pressed to his shoulder warbling his voice out into a hum, he may have sold the line with a little more... evil pizzazz. The shaky note has Been giggling again, though, and Tom's head lolls to the side in an exaggerated eye roll, huffing. "Aww, that's cheating, Ben, you can't do that," He flops his head the other direction, resting his cheek against Ben's temple. "Now the other evil beardsmen will never respect me."
"Aw, what? No cheating— yeah right, coming from mister 'fighting dirty' himself!"
"What, me? I would never ..." He sighs dramatically, tisking. "Fighting Dirty. C'mon Ben, I'd think you'd know me better than that by now," his voice goes pinched and tinselly, which is usually the tone he saves for his 'mocking Ben' voice, but tonight it's a distractor to get Ben giggling again while the fingers he has in Ben's hair slowly drift to his neck. "Noo, I don't fight dirty," he repeats, a little louder, as his fingers curl comfortably around the curve.
The reaction is instant. Ben's giggles get caught in his chest and his shoulders stiffen, fingers pressing a little tighter into the back of Tom’s hand. The breath he pushes out is hollow.
"Tooom..."
"Bennn," he replies easily, fingers slipping into the gaps between his gills perfectly. Ben starts, a heavy sigh punching through him as he sinks a little further into Tom's side. He grumbles under his breath with a huff.
"Tha’s no fair."
Ben has to suppress a shudder when he cranes his neck away from the sensitive touch, but the reaction he gets when he presses his lips firmly to the junction of Tom's neck and jaw is well worth it.
Well, reactions. Plural.
A few things happen at once. The lines of Tom's face brighten, although so too does every curve and edge of the bedroom. Green walls turn sage, blue quilts turn teal, and the warm tones of their skin turn warmer as the golden glow casts the room in brighter light. A shallow dip in the mattress is left behind as his shoulders nearly spike up into Ben's throat, and the sheets are yanked as his bending knees pull them taught.
Most notably, though, is the squeak that croaks out of his throat, and the sound is so sudden that it cuts cleanly through the still night air. The crickets outside stutter to a stop, creating a new sound vacuum broken only by the way Ben wheezes and laughs against Tom's now-glowing shoulder.
"Sorry, Tom," he whispers through a smile and between bouts of wispy laughter. "I think the crickets are angry with you for that one,"
"Ohh, reaaal funny, Ben. Yeah, laugh it up!" Tom's voice is almost a shout, but they're both grinning as Tom tries muffling the glow in the room by screwing his eyes shut. Ben's free hand pats his chest in a half-comforting, half-shushing motion.
"Sorry!! Sorry, but I had to." Ben's thumb sweeps over Tom's knuckles soothingly as he reaches with his free hand to pull the sheets back up, smoothing his hand over Tom's chest as he tucks them back in. His arm settles across Tom’s stomach. The motion has them sharing a sigh, and Ben huffs out the last of the night’s energy with a sleep-growing smile. He can't help but smile as his eyes sweep over Tom's face, eyes screwed shut and all, and he sighs, "I learn from the best."
After a moment, a dim glow washes over the room again as Tom cracks an eye open, and his response comes as a long, thoughtful hum. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Ben," he finally decides, a sleepy rasp seeping back into his throat. Ben hums pleasantly, offering one last shoulder kiss before settling back into Tom's side, snug but a safe distance from any of the spots he knows are most sensitive. Tom's fingers, in turn, find his crown again. They take the same long, deep breath.
The crickets are still quiet. If they listen closely, Tom's squeak may be heard bouncing off of leaves in the valley below. Their eyes find each other, and Ben's blue eyes catch gold as a wordless apology passes between them.
Tomorrow, they'll argue over who started it. Whose fault it was, who ended it. But one look is all it takes for their language to become physical again.
Something hangs in the air, though. Something buzzing where the crickets have stopped. It's a shame, Tom thinks. Ben did always love the chirping. The air shifts as they breathe, slower and slowing.
I can make it up to you, the squeeze of his hand says, and Tom cranes his neck to see Ben’s head bump his shoulder with the motion of a prompting, curious tilt of the head.
They share another glance. This one lingers. After a beat, the next exhale slides them closer. Ben knows what’s coming next, but the warm sigh that leaves his nose is half-startled still when Tom kisses him. Ben's free hand curls comfortably against Tom’s chest, and this apology quiets them both completely. The air moves silently as the same breath passes between them, pushing, pulling, soundless. No sigh, no shuffle, no complaint.
In the vacuum, the echoed sound of chirping fills the space again.