Chapter 2
Roman wishes he found it more annoying than he does.
Instead, he's embarrassingly charmed by it, waking up half-buried under a slack Brennan mouth breathing near his ear.
The shirt Brennan borrowed–well, the shirt Roman tossed at him after subtly knocking Brennan's own clothes behind the dresser so Brennan would
to borrow something of his–has ridden up until it's basically useless, resting up around his chest and leaving them pressed stomach-to-stomach, and Roman feels the give and take of each inhale and exhale, flesh pressing together before giving way for the other person to breathe.
There's probably something that could be very gross and poetic in this, their heads close enough together that they're sharing the air their bodies are then keeping pressed together.
For his own part, Roman is just enjoying the novelty of getting to run his fingers over Brennan gently without having to worry about getting swatted away if he does it outside of the grace period of afterglow.
He shifts back just enough to look at Brennan's face, and he can't help but smile faintly when Brennan lets out a low, complaining noise through his nose at the disturbance, brow furrowing in his sleep in complaint of being moved.
Roman shushes him because no one else is awake to call him on the tenderness, and he gently strokes Brennan's hair until he settles once more, something wordless grumbled under his breath but his body going slack and trusting once more, wriggling slightly like he's trying to get comfortable and then letting out a content sigh.
Roman feels a fondness so intense that he nearly wants to bite him about it.
He would like to lie and say that this is just how waking up with one night stands usually goes, but he honestly doesn't have too many experiences to compare to, and the ones he does don't even come close.
He's always enjoyed sex, enjoyed making other people feel good, but he's never really been interested in anything beyond a good fuck, a little touch to enjoy the comedown, and maybe a shared cigarette to finish.
He's had plenty of people, especially girls, playfully whine at him to spend the night, but offering some head as an apology usually gets him grudging acceptance of a refusal to stay or a pointed invitation to go, uninterested in figuring out the awkwardness of sharing a bed with someone for what's never going to last more than a night.
Sharing a bed with Brennan, as it turns out, hadn't involved
awkwardness, which is its own kind of problem.
The whole day before was so good that Roman, hedonist that he is, already wants more before this one is even finished.
He wants to restart it like a record, pick up the needle of time and drop it right back at Brennan knocking at his door.
He wants to be amused at losing Brennan's focus immediately in favor of the architecture of his house, wants to feel the smug satisfaction of then taking his attention back and crowding him against the counter, wants to grin and laugh as they strip each other again, clothes left in a trail behind them on their way to the bedroom, wants to kiss and touch and suck all over again, wants to feel the high of making Brennan feel good, of making someone with so much restraint crumble apart and get greedy in pursuit of their own pleasure.
Wants to fall asleep for a nap spooned close behind him and feed him food and do what can only be called cuddling on the couch and showering together–warm and a little giggly with exhaustion and novelty both–and curl up in bed together to talk about nothing in particular until sleep claims them both.
Wants to wake up feeling satisfied in a way he can't ever remember feeling before.
He wants to do this again, he realizes with a rush of certainty.
He wants to do this again and again and again, wants even more, really, maybe, even if he's not quite brave enough to think about what the specifics of that "more" might be.
He wants to go into a game knowing that his night will end with Brennan in his bed or him in Brennan's.
He wants to know what Brennan likes to put in his oatmeal in the morning.
He wants Brennan to have preferences about what sheets are on his bed.
He wants to know if Brennan sings in the shower when he's not thinking about a witness.
He wants Brennan's pillows to feel familiar.
He wants to know if Brennan always curls close when he sleeps or if Roman will have to reel him in in the future.
He wants, he wants, he wants.
He wants Ethan Brennan, end of sentence.
But he doesn't know how much of him Ethan Brennan wants in exchange.
He suspects he isn't in this alone, not with the way Brennan looks at him sometimes, eyes big and bright and wanting.
He isn't one for many words, but he arches into Roman's touch, always, chases his lips for more kisses and goes sweet and slack and trusting beneath him, rests against his chest to catch his breath like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He thinks Brennan might want more the same way he does, but he needs to
know,
needs to have the reassurance of a soft place to land before he jumps.
He lays in bed and holds Brennan close and tries to work out how to do it.
Ethan's first sensation when he wakes up is warmth, and he curls into it, his first thoughts vague memories of his heated blanket at his parents' house.
His dad used to tease him about being a lizard the way he curled up with it, and even with his bedroom sufficiently warm at his own place, he misses it sometimes, the snuggly comfort of-
His blanket is breathing under him.
He jerks back at once, alarmed.
Vasiliev looks back at him, looking vaguely amused.
"Good morning," he says, and Ethan wishes he could say that the sleep-rough rumble of Vasiliev's voice in the morning didn't immediately go right to his dick, but biology is a motherfucker, and even the last strands of sleep clinging to him like spiderwebs can't erase the want a sleep-rumpled Roman Vasiliev sparks.
From the way the bastard smirks and looks down, he gathers the physical element of his interest hasn't gone unnoticed.
"A
good morning," he amends, and now his voice is a deliberate purr that
definitely
is doing good things for Ethan's libido.
When he crowds him down to the mattress, Ethan allows it, easily.
"Morning," he says, hips rolling up into the warm solidity of Vasiliev above him.
He spreads his thighs more to accommodate him better, and his breath catches when one of Vasiliev's hands fits against the muscle and grips, stretching him wider yet.
They can't fuck again this morning, not without the risk of being too sore to play well–not an acceptable risk, no matter how tempting–but the possibility of it is delicious in its own way.
"Did you sleep well?" Vasiliev says, right into his ear, his free hand sliding down down down until he reaches territory that makes Ethan's breath catch.
He arches into it, head bowing back, and he hears Vasiliev chuckle, mouth against his skin, the sensation enough to give him shivers.
"Yes?" Vasiliev prompts, sounding amused.
"Yes," Ethan manages to grit out, willing to say anything if it means Vasiliev touching him like this more, "now-please-" He rolls his hips up into the pressure of Vasiliev's hand against him.
"Hm," Vasiliev says, and he can hear the exact smile that's on his face right now, the one he wears when he's feeling especially indulgent, when Ethan whining and saying please is enough to get him everything he wants.
What he wants right
now
is everything.
Unfortunately, what he thinks he should probably
is whatever will let them both start their day the fastest.
He has a routine, after all, and he can't let a little-
His thoughts stutter to a halt when Vasiliev's touch gets more decisive.
Vas," he grits out, and he feels it when the words make Vasiliev's hips flex against him, a reflexive little gesture of want.
He smiles, faintly, eyes still closed.
He's noticed it before, the way his pleasure sets off Vasiliev's, like a tuning fork catching a vibration.