Most people could not predict it, because outside the bedroom Fighter always lived up to his nickname. However, Tutor was a scholar and one of his favorite subjects was his P’. This new job at his father’s company was rough on him. There were many a day when Fighter would come home, dark circles under his eye, his shoulders tense. Tutor wanted to weep for him on those days. He didn’t though. He did this instead.
Vu Linh holds his cheek in his hand, elbow propped on his knee, and turns to face Vuong Ma. If he had to guess, Vu Linh wouldn’t assume Vuong Ma to be much older than Hac Thien, or even himself. He is young, with smooth and refined features where Hac Thien’s are sharp and angular, and even in the grey of the night, his eyes trap the light in molten amber. Deceptively unobtrusive.
“Baby Yoda,” he said to the little plushie and nodded to himself. And then frowned again because there shouldn’t have been Baby Yoda with him in bed, at least not alone, there should have been Baby Yoda and Mico. He propped himself up on one elbow, looked around his bedroom, and there he was: Sitting in front of his laptop on the floor, with a button-down and a tie, headphones in, and making notes.
Pharm’s fingers spiderwalk up Dean’s back and rest at his shoulders. “There’s soup in the fridge, and roti.” He yawns, and Dean feels a flutter of an exhale against his throat that makes it very hard not to hold him tighter, until it would surely hurt. As it is, Dean has basically swallowed him up. “P’Dean,” he says, with feeling, tugging hair at the nape of Dean’s neck, “let me go so you can eat.”
“I look at you and forget I’m hungry.” This close, he can hear the click of Pharm swallowing. “I forgot everything but this.” Slowly, he moves his hand so he can stroke the side of Pharm’s chest, a glide of his palm. He catches the edge of Pharm’s nipple, and he drops his hand as a scold to himself.