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This is the part that Daryl savors, chews into with his canines. The watching, the waiting, seeing Rick thaw from the cold one layer at a time. It’s the heavy belt sitting on Rick’s hips that draws Daryl’s gaze, the way it leaves a faint imprint against the V of his pelvis. Every hard earned grunt and shiver from each other feels like a small victory and vengeance, because in the end, neither of them give in easily, even if it’s to each other.
But there are also nights when they hardly talk, and don’t touch at all. Seated opposite one another, or lying on something thrown on the floor to tamper the hardness. Just the rhythmic slick sound of stroking, and the quiet breathes that fill out the empty cell. Rick lost in his thoughts, and Daryl almost dozing, lulled by the odd pocket of peace, and the coiling wet smell of pre-ejaculate.
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