Work Text:
Golden fingers had not yet extended outwards to cover the downward slope below him. He zipped his jersey higher than usual to compensate, grumbled half-heartedly in anticipated protest.
Why he had agreed was anybody’s guess; maybe it had been the way the corners of the other’s eyes seemed to soften behind rectangular frames, deep and warm and far too kind to be looking at him like that, and at such an unholy hour as this.
And yet.
Yet there he was, a curved back against the soft glow of the horizon, two shadows gliding in time under a cold sun.