[Chuck's bashfulness has always been a constant in their interactions. Mike's ease in giving him compliments and words of encouragement brought it up to surface most of the time, it was part of Chuck in himself already. But then, Mike limits himself to watching him nod, sandy eyelashes over freckles as he brushes his hair away from his eyes - he had reached for him without thought, much like he had when they first met, when they first got into a mess, when Chuck was facing immediate danger, when they first celebrated a victory or their mere survival.
Mike was the type of guy who'd let his body move according to his gut, intuitive and instinctive and with a level of survival that was off the charts [along with his borderline suicidal tendencies translated into recklessness], but right then, he frowns at his own subconscious will. With something rasping loudly onto his ribcage, he sighs, swallows down a knot in his throat, pulling his head high enough to kiss just below Chuck's eye, his mind struck in one mere thought: You knew this was going to happen. Time to own to it, Mike.
[Mike's touch had either of two effects on him: usually it made him nervous, pulled at his strings and made him titter and whine, hands pressing and fingers curling around shoulders, a loud "trust me" hanging heavy in the space between them, and the worst part is Chuck did - though to be fair so far Mike'd lived up to it, so it's only normal that Chuck would do so, time and again, no thought to it, and immediate regret afterwards, culminating in a refreshing feeling of relief once his feet landed safely on the ground.
Other times, Chuck found it relaxing. When he was too tired, or too stressed, whenever he found himself thinking too much about too many things at once, the warmth always made him step away from all of it, if only for moments. Like now, when he smiles, leans closer, closes his eyes and lets himself melt into it.]
[It's easy. It's just so easy to turn into him, pull him closer as he draws his head back to rest on the mattress. And more than happy about that, Mike is thankful about what originates such effortlessness, and what happened so far to build it. So it's easy that he holds Chuck close, strokes his back - it's a part of him that Mike knows well, even - into tranquility, or the affirmation of it.
The air seems to cool slowly, but Mike stays still, even as it makes him very aware of how bundled his boxers are around his thighs, and how it makes him set his jaw a little at the overly sensitive skin. Very vaguely, he feels a burn on his wrist, and he looks over Chuck's shoulders to look at it. His lip twitches ever so lightly at the memory of how exactly he got that, against the elastic band of underwear, but it's nothing that he's bothered about. On the contrary.
He's getting really drowsy, though, despite all the sudden little discomforts nagging at the back of his head. All the ants crawling underneath his skin and through his chest before sitting on the bed were gone, replaced with the sense of drowning quietly into sleep, in Chuck's scent and weight.] Think I'll sleep well tonight.
[His hand nests at the small of Mike's back too, thumb running aimlessly over the skin. He nods quietly, and stretches his muscles while moving as little as he can. Chuck, for once, has nothing bothering him, though right now he finds himself too rested, too sore and too tired to think - he doesn't want to either, and it's nice to realize there's nothing that he needs to worry about, not right now... and not about any of this either.] Yeah, me... too.
[He feels the cold too, though. And he figures Mike has to be feeling it too. He at least still has his shirt on, even if his boxers are too wet for comfort. He wants to get up and change them, even if he doesn't want to pull away from the warmth of Mike's presence. He slides his hand down, tugs Mike's boxers back up, figuring he can do at least that much without having to move a lot.] You want me to get your shirt?
[Jerking his waist a little to help Chuck out, he smooths out his hair in a silent thankful gesture. Mike still thinks about that idea, but he ends up shaking his head.] We can just get the blanket. Sheets are going to the wash anyway...
[He looks up, though, tilting his head to look at... the foot of the bed. He grins, talk about a tussle.] Unless you want a pillow.
[Chuck follows Mike's gaze-- and laughs, because he hadn't even realized they were lying upside-down in the bed. He's mostly surprised that he didn't notice while he was being pulled along to the mattress.]
Yeah, and I think your covers wouldn't reach my feet like this either. [And his feet could get really cold during the night. He shows no intention of moving for a while, then, making monumental effort to not even sit up, he squirms like a worm on the bed and turns himself around. That probably took more effort and time than it would have if he'd just stood up... details.]
[Smiling like an idiot, he follows suit, sitting up and then crawling over to lay down right-side-up, tugging the blanket also bundled on the foot of the bed along with him. Draping it over them, Mike lays back under the covers, stomach down, face turned to Chuck as he makes himself comfortable.
... then he wiggles, tugs him close, even if the position is awkward. Hi, Chuckles.]
[Chuck scoots closer too, though resting on his side, and lays a hand across Mike's back. He buries his face under the covers up to his nose, then leans over, pecks Mike's cheek himself instead. He feels a little silly, really, but he wouldn't dream of letting that stop him from acting like an idiot.]
Good night, Mikey. [And this time, he does mean it.]
[A quick peck on his nose even as Chuck pulls back, and Mike grins, eyes closing, feeling a little like a kid and yet utterly not. He knows they're going to wake up stinky and sticky and lazy and with some nerves teasing at the edge of their skins, but he'll make sure those will be subdued the moment he feels them going at it. Because if they can reach this kind of environment together even for a few moments, in the midst of all the chaos, then he'll do his very so they can seize it. Chuck deserves it, if anything.]
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Mike was the type of guy who'd let his body move according to his gut, intuitive and instinctive and with a level of survival that was off the charts [along with his borderline suicidal tendencies translated into recklessness], but right then, he frowns at his own subconscious will. With something rasping loudly onto his ribcage, he sighs, swallows down a knot in his throat, pulling his head high enough to kiss just below Chuck's eye, his mind struck in one mere thought: You knew this was going to happen. Time to own to it, Mike.
No matter how.]
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Other times, Chuck found it relaxing. When he was too tired, or too stressed, whenever he found himself thinking too much about too many things at once, the warmth always made him step away from all of it, if only for moments. Like now, when he smiles, leans closer, closes his eyes and lets himself melt into it.]
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The air seems to cool slowly, but Mike stays still, even as it makes him very aware of how bundled his boxers are around his thighs, and how it makes him set his jaw a little at the overly sensitive skin. Very vaguely, he feels a burn on his wrist, and he looks over Chuck's shoulders to look at it. His lip twitches ever so lightly at the memory of how exactly he got that, against the elastic band of underwear, but it's nothing that he's bothered about. On the contrary.
He's getting really drowsy, though, despite all the sudden little discomforts nagging at the back of his head. All the ants crawling underneath his skin and through his chest before sitting on the bed were gone, replaced with the sense of drowning quietly into sleep, in Chuck's scent and weight.] Think I'll sleep well tonight.
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[He feels the cold too, though. And he figures Mike has to be feeling it too. He at least still has his shirt on, even if his boxers are too wet for comfort. He wants to get up and change them, even if he doesn't want to pull away from the warmth of Mike's presence. He slides his hand down, tugs Mike's boxers back up, figuring he can do at least that much without having to move a lot.] You want me to get your shirt?
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[He looks up, though, tilting his head to look at... the foot of the bed. He grins, talk about a tussle.] Unless you want a pillow.
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Yeah, and I think your covers wouldn't reach my feet like this either. [And his feet could get really cold during the night. He shows no intention of moving for a while, then, making monumental effort to not even sit up, he squirms like a worm on the bed and turns himself around. That probably took more effort and time than it would have if he'd just stood up... details.]
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... then he wiggles, tugs him close, even if the position is awkward. Hi, Chuckles.]
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Good night, Mikey. [And this time, he does mean it.]
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Good night, Chuckles.