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Dante wakes to a mouse chittering away at something. He surfaces groggily from sleep, ready to shoo it away in case it's gotten into their food stores.
The sound is coming from David's direction.
Dante nudges him with a foot. "Hey—hey, David. There's a mouse—David, your sweet potato—"
The commotion doesn't wake David. And it doesn't shoo the rat either, which is unusual for both of them. Rats typically scatter at noise. David typically wakes at anything.
Dante groans and wriggles out of his warm, toasty makeshift sleeping bag. Cold hits him like a blade—the wind sharp against his cheek. But he perseveres, crawling over to David to check if he's slipped into limbo again. It'd be too soon; there are still twenty-four hours before the next dose, and they've been rationing well. But David was never predictable.
He gulps and gently taps David's shoulder from half a meter away, in case David wakes swinging.
David stirs, turning. Electric blue eyes blink blearily.
And Dante learns the offender wasn't a mouse.
"W-what?" David asks through chattering teeth, breath whistling through missing incisors.
"David—are you cold?"
It makes sense. David's nearing the end of this week's dose. His metabolic rate is falling. He has barely any body fat.
David turns away. "N-no."
"Of course you aren't." Dante brings his hand forward slowly, keeping it in David's sight to avoid startling him, and rests it on David's cheek.
If David looked weirded out before, that expression vanishes. His eyes close, and he leans into the warmth, a shuddering sigh escaping his chapped lips. He's leaning into Dante's hand like a cat. A touch-starved, feral, abused—
"Yeah, no. Scoot." Dante tears away his blanket and shifts David aside with his hip, sliding into the sleeping bag beside him. He tucks David's blanket over them both with his own, wrapping the sides underneath David until he looks like a burrito.
All traces of sleep are gone from David's eyes. He looks faintly alarmed. "What are you doing?"
"I'm cold," Dante says simply, arranging the blankets. "It's warmer this way."
David surprisingly just turns away. Dante experimentally puts an arm around him, pulling him back until David's spine rests against his chest. He waits for an elbow, any sign of discomfort.
Except David just melts. He goes limp in Dante's arms, his groggy voice barely a whisper. "You warm enough, teacher?"
The question ends with a yawn. Dante feels himself smile. His entire back and ass are exposed to the elements, but David's like putty in his arms now. His teeth aren't chattering anymore—there's a faint vibration reverberating into Dante's chest. Tremors, Dante thinks at first, until—
Wait. Was that bastard purring?
Dante extracts a hand to rest it on David's cheek. It's warming up, and it's not tremors. David was purring. David could purr. What biological abomination was this? Dante was going to die. He was going to die of cuteness because his student could purr like a damn cat—
"Teacher?" David's voice asks again, concerned but mostly asleep. He turns and presses his face underneath Dante's chin. "Are you sick?"
Dante doesn't know why he's smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. It's definitely not because David's accepting care. Definitely not because David's impossibly cute. He brings up a hand to fingercomb through David's hair, and the kid melts deeper into the hold, purring like a broken engine.
"I'm fine, David. Go to sleep."
David doesn't need to be told twice. He's already out, snoring softly, breath whistling in warm puffs against Dante's throat. Dante holds him closer, tighter, and falls asleep making sure the chill doesn't creep in.
