by Deckard

Sumter fell asleep first.

Security assured in the wilds of former suburbia. Nocturnal ambiance, sheets stirring soft around the broken window and Flint sinks onto his haunches in a blue wash of moonlight, nose nearly at the pastor's. Whiskey on shivery breath. Subtle warmth, steadier now that he's crouched in bare feet and tattoos and the scarred ridge of his spine.

Three bedrooms. He selected the largest for himself and now he's hunched on the floor in the smallest, measuring brows and nose and cheekbones softer than his own.

The kind've mug that won't mind if he sleeps here too.

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