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There is light drifting in from the window. The curtains are closed, however, the chilly influx of air pushing through the floor ventilation system causes both cuts of fabric to ripple in its circulation, creating dancing flickering abstracts of sunny golden warmth on their white bedsheets. Raymond is wide awake, his internal clock ticking in the rhythm of his nightly schedule, in contrast to the sleeping form beside him.
After taking the night off to spend with his husband and a very eventful evening, he managed to doze for nearly three hours before the restlessness had kicked in. Prior to ten minutes ago, he had been responding to emails on his laptop angling the direction on a diagonal (at the expense of his wrists) to avoid assaulting the exhausted professor to his left with an obnoxious blue-toned light. He had since then retired the activity, placing the laptop on his nightside table.
He has taken up watching Kevin sleep instead.
Three hundred and seventeen days. Substracting only the ones he had spent in France, the number of days Raymond had suffered apart from the man with his fingers curled and tucked underneath his chin seems absurd to him even still. Had someone told him a year ago that he would be spending almost the entirety of said upcoming year separated from his husband, he would have laughed in their face. And likely inquired about the specificity of such a claim, discussed it in length with Kevin out of panic, and investigated the source of it thoroughly due to sheer disbelief. Days maybe. Weeks, even.
He had been counting on a little calendar he kept in the drawer of his nightstand when Kevin had been in France, crossing off a day each time he woke alone, replaying what now seemed like such insignificant arguments between himself and his husband before he had left. France had seemed like the biggest obstacle- that surely nothing could be more agonizing than pushing through those six months.
Raymond reaches out and traces his index finger down the arch of his husband’s nose. His eyelids flutter in response.
"What time is it?" Kevin inquires in a barely audible mumble, shifting his head slightly towards the touch.
"Nearly eight."
He had never been so wrong. Florida had been a hell far, far worse than a European sabbatical.
"Why are you awake?" Kevin’s hand, tucked below his chin, uncurls and brushes Raymond’s forearm lightly, trailing down to the elbow. His eyes open, only slightly, the fog of sleep heavily apparent in his pupils, "Nightshift. Sorry, I forgot for a moment."
"I should be the one apologizing for waking you."
Kevin wriggles himself closer, "Hardly necessary. I must be horrible company, considering. Where is my shirt? I remember putting it on before heading to bed."
"You did. However, if you can recall, I removed it very shortly after- when I had distracted you."
And what an intoxicating distraction it had been. Raymond is still lingering on the details. Becoming reacquainted with his husband physically had been sensory overload. There are three freckles on the righthand side of Kevin’s hipbone that formed a perfect isosceles triangle- he had kissed each one incessantly. A faded scar on his left thigh. Kevin had obtained it accidentally when he was fifteen from a brotherly quarl over a letter opener. His dimples alone had sent Raymond into a ten-minute rapture- much to Kevin’s libidinous impatience at the time.
"Ah, yes. It is slowly coming back to me now. How many times did you distract me again?"
"Three."
Between each one had been lengthy interludes of languid touching and mindless wordplay, both basking in the tidal wave of dopamine coursing through them.
"Good heavens," Kevin murmurs. There is a bit of cheek to the quiet exclamation, Raymond can tell, as his glorious dimples resurface briefly, "Although I don’t think we should take to arguing about math problems with such vivacious intensity on the regular, I can’t say I’m dissatisfied with the end result."
The curve of his spine, flushed cheeks, and insatiable shameless pleas could rewire every atom inside of Raymond’s brain if he had a fraction less self-control. The man can already trigger his desire as if it is a simple light switch- turned on by a single swift motion.
"The math problem was only a vessel," Raymond replies, "I wanted you so badly I could’ve clawed my skin off but there was so much between us. Actually, it was Detective Diaz who- very unprofessionally, mind you- made this known to me."
"What exactly did she say?" Kevin asks. He looks much more awake now in his mischievous curiosity, his hair is ruffled.
"She said that we needed to bone. Her terminology was not to my tastes nor was the statement."
"Well, she was right, wasn’t she?"
There is a certain playfulness in his tone as he places his mouth on Raymond’s shoulder delicately. Kevin continues to speak against his skin, sending bursts of warmth from his scapula down to his pelvis, "You know who else is right, Raymond?"
"Hm," Raymond offers. He is distracted. He is fairly certain the nucleus accumbens of his brain is being flooded by sensation causing his prefrontal cortex to be rendered a simpleton temporarily.
"I am. About the math problem."