I have a hurt-comfort fic nearly finished but I cannot stand this fucking country right now so you all get teeth-rotting St. Tweedle fluff instead. Set some point in the future in the SW/Vaincre universe. No spoilers. Aside from the fact that Luke and Saint are characters that exist.
Also, those that sent in fic prompts I haven’t answered yet: I haven’t forgotten about them! I will get to them hopefully this weekend. Work is just being rude and kicking my butt.
characters belong to @lumosinlove
Warm light filtered through the windows of Luke’s bedroom, waking Saint early. He blinked blearily out the window, seeing only fuzzy shapes and warm light. Luke had an arm around his waist, warm and solid at Saint’s back. Saint craved mornings like this, when he was free to wake up naturally, not to some infernal alarm. Most of all, he liked waking up with Luke beside him. Sometimes it still felt like a dream.
Saint let his eyes slip shut again, enjoying the warmth and comfort, letting himself relax into Luke’s embrace. So rarely did he feel safe, but in that moment, in the safety of Luke’s house and embrace, it felt almost like nothing could touch him.
He felt before he heard Luke wake, hand sliding along Saint’s stomach and pulling him closer.
“Morning,” he murmured, lips by Saint’s ear. Luke’s voice was low and rough in the morning and Saint loved it. He thought he could listen to Luke talk forever.
“Morning,” Saint replied, tilting his head back until Luke pressed a kiss to his cheek. His skin was rough, in need of a shave, but Saint didn’t even mind.
“What time’s practice?” Luke asked, still slow and sleepy.
“It’s Sunday, Tweedle, we don’t have practice today.” Saint fought a smile. Of course he’d forgotten.
“Oh. Right.”
Luke fell silent again, pressing, soft, slow kisses to Saint’s neck and shoulders, lips gentle and dry. He tangled their feet together, and Saint let him, enjoying the feeling of being so completely wrapped up. He never would have guessed he liked the closeness so much.
“Want breakfast?” Luke asked eventually. Saint shook his head.
“Later. Just, stay here with me for a bit longer.” It came out as a question, a hesitant one, but Luke snuggled closer immediately without another word. Saint let his eyes close drowsily, falling somewhere between asleep and awake, aware only of Luke’s arms around him, Luke’s chest against his back, their ankles tangled together. The contact tethered him, kept him present, comforted him.
Eventually they got up, slowly, sunlight dappling across blanket-warmed skin, with soft smiles and gentle touches. Saint dragged Luke into the shower with him and washed his hair, kissing his neck even as he could taste the bitter chemicals of soap on his skin. Luke let him rinse the bubbles from his hair before he turned, kissing Saint with a hand in wet curls, tugging him closer. Saint let himself be kissed until the water turned cold and Luke finally let him go, running a hand over pink, smirking lips.
Luke made breakfast once they got out and dressed, Saint leaning against the counter and watching. He smirked when Luke nearly dropped a hot piece of toast, laughing at the glare it earned him. They ate at the kitchen counter with their feet tangled together, voices quiet as late morning sun filtered through the windows. Saint watched particles of dust float through the air and wondered faintly when this had become his life.
When they finished, dishes left in the sink for later, Luke collapsed onto the couch, nose buried in a book a mere five seconds later. Saint watched him amusedly for a moment before curling up across from him and switching the television on quietly. Luke didn’t even look up.
Saint had never been one for contentment. He ran far too often for that, to set down roots, get comfortable in a familiar place. He didn’t like letting people in, letting them get close. His secrets were just that, secrets. Others didn’t know about them and he liked it that way. But somehow, somehow Luke had learned them. Luke had taken apart his walls, one brick at a time, never flinching from what he found. Saint supposed that’s what he loved about him.
Maybe it should have felt more like a revelation. A surprise. Something life-changing. But that was the thing about life, it was always changing. And Luke had been changing his life for months now. Loving him wasn’t anything new. It felt, after all this time, like the easiest thing in the world.
Saint looked over at Luke, curled up on their sofa, tattered book in his lap. One of his father’s probably. Or maybe his well-loved copy of The Song of Achilles. He took him in, all tousled curls and soft edges, the faint flush of his cheeks and the tip of his tongue poking out as he concentrated.
“I love you,” Saint said to him, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
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