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There isn't any sound in their room besides Martyn's soft breathing— and her own, but your brain filters that out, doesn't it? He's curled up in Cleo's lap (the weight of a full-grown man on top of her isn't something Cleo knew she could handle, but here they are) with his face pressed into their chest.
They have their hand tangled in his hair— it's really nice to do, now. Martyn's been doing a lot better mentally since Wild Life started, and he's been washing his hair a lot more often. His hair's actually soft and silky, instead of greasy. They can't blame him for feeling too down to keep clean, but they can still be happy he's better.
He's upset— they both are, really. He's lost three lives this session and is down to yellow. It's not that Martyn ever planned to make it far this season, he doesn't need to, but he told Cleo, with his weepy little eyes, that he doesn't want to die so he can keep being with her. Isn't that the sweetest thing?
She scratches lightly at the back of his head, and he huffs, shifts his position to curl into her more. When Martyn's really upset, he gets like this. Doesn't talk much (it's a bot off-putting, because he's normally so loud), just wants her to pet him in the dark and the quiet. Helps him process his feelings in a different headspace, apparently. If it helps, it helps.
It helps them too, they think. Cleo tends to deal with emotions by... not dealing with them, but with their wet puppy soulmate in her lap as evidence of how bad that can end up, she's decided to try.
It's easier to think, petting Martyn's fur (hair, they correct, but boy do they wish they'd teamed with him in Secret Life so they could pet his cute little ears and tail he had). It's grounding, she thinks. There's a reason so many solo players have ended up with wolf packs; it's because crying out your woes into a thick pelt of wolf fur fixes everything. Martyn's close enough.
Despite all his comforts, Martyn's weight is making Cleo's legs go numb. “I'm sorry, darling, gonna move us so we're laying down.” She whispers, and Martyn whimpers as he's moved. It's hard not to cringe at a grown man whining, but... really, it's just cute he's comfortable enough to go all puppy with her.
She sits Martyn up, and shifts down the bed so she's laying flat. Void, when they move their legs, the pins and needles of sensation returning is gross. They pat their chest once they're comfortable, and Martyn flops back down on top of her.
One thing about sharing a bed with Martyn, is that she's learned how much of a clinger he is. They'd heard tales from Ren and Scott (plus some passing mentions from Skizz and Mumbo), but somehow the message hadn't really gotten through.
He clings like he's trying to crush her ribcage. Which is surprisingly fine; Cleo likes pressure, and Martyn's also like a portable furnace, Cleo appreciates that on their cold, dead, zombie flesh.
Martyn squirms to get cozy, wraps his arm around her side, squeezes, of course. Swings his leg over hers. Once he's still, Cleo starts petting him again. He would've whimpered and whined about it until she did anyways.
It makes him happy. He's their soulmate, and they want him to be happy. Especially when he's had such a bad day, Cleo just wants him to fall asleep feeling all the love she has for him (even if she rarely says it, they hope he gets the message through their actions, through their hand in his hair).
At some point they'll both wake up, and Martyn will be in danger again, but for now he is safe in her grasp. His breathing is slow and even, he's probably asleep. It's no wonder with how tired he must be. Cleo kisses the top of his head.