Work Text:
They will need to get up soon.
Any minute now, the first rays of cold late-autumn sunlight will come filtering through the gap in the curtains, staining their exposed throats and the gunmetal grey of the chain links in near-white, waking them from their trance. He will have to lift his head from where it lies nestled in the other's soft mess of black tangled hair. He will have to turn his face away from him again.
They will go back to killing each other. Of course they will. This moment is the only one they have ever shared that might be something different. The only moment in which they are not sure what they intend to do.
Their hands will move from each others' faces and the back of their heads to their necks, and they will fight to crush the other's windpipe before the other gets the chance, and before too long one will lose and collapse into the other, limp, and the weight of him will crush them both, and they will lie still together- both straining to lose last.
They have lost already. They pretend not to know this.
Soon there will be sounds from the outside world- the space beyond the two of them will start to exist again slowly; they will have to face it, and pretend they are not doing so together. They will stand an unacknowledged distance apart and they will never have touched, except in fighting. This is not fighting. This is not fighting, and so they can't put a name on what exactly it is instead. This is nothing. This is the entire world, for now, until the sounds start to echo in again.
They will need to get up soon. Soon, but not now. They have one more moment, together, in the dark, not fighting, not touching, soft skin on their throats vulnerable and within reach. Just one more moment.