Rogue's breaths are whispered prayers in the moonlit sanctuary of their bedroom where Sting lies awake in awe, praising each and every verse of them.
The night air drafting in through the open window is crisp and carries a frost heavy silence, while a silvery light bathes the world in monochrome silhouettes.
Though the winter sky is a cloudless dome -aloof and sacred- adorned with countless stars, the wind playing through the barren branches holds a promise of snow.
Maybe tomorrow their whole guild could go out together- have a snowball fight or a sledge race.
The heavy linen blankets cocooning the two men already mimic a vast snow-covered landscape.
Rogue's hair is fanned out on the pillow, ebony strands a stark contrast to the pure white of the fabric, like a sea of silk flooding the space between them.
Carefully Sting reaches out, his fingertips ghosting over the pitch black locks, wondering if they were still as soft as they used to be many years ago, at a time when sharing a bed at a night like this was second nature to them.
The closeness something welcomed and comforting, that kept both of them grounded after the death of their dragons threatened to sweep both children away in a torrent of isolation, guilt and grief.
Tranquil hours made of timid touches under shared blankets and soft breaths entwining as their pulses grew comfortably lazy- thoughts and hearts in sync.
But no safe haven is built in one day as Rogue and Sting were taught by a cruel and unyielding fate. So it comes as no surprise that the very first nights they shared were a far cry from anything close to comforting.
It had taken some time for Sting to sleep without the warmth and security of Weisslogia. Even a full moon night seemed bitch black to him now that the ephemeral aura of his dragon had left this world.
No matter where he and his foster father had ventured before, once the sun had succumbed to nightfall a halo of the softest light had enveloped their resting place and Sting would fall asleep basking in its unearthly beauty.
For the longest time Sting considered the night nearly as radiant as the day light- only calmer, more contemplative- something created for closeness and affection.
So when the steady breath of the dragon caressed his head, the boy would sigh and huddle closer.
And even in slumber Sting had seen the light behind closed eyelids.
Only when Weisslogia was gone did he ever realize how cold, dark and lonesome nighttime truly turned out to be.
He barely slept, the earth harsh and damp beneath his scrawny little body and the starry sky dark, vast and alien above.
It had scared him, made him feel tiny and forlorn, but mostly it reminded him of something beloved that had left him for good. Undone by his very own hands. As puny as they were, the blood of a loved one already clung to them.
It was only when he found Rogue, that his fright ever so slowly subsided.
For the quiet, little boy showed no fear of the dark what so ever.
Far from it- even in the faintest wisp of moonlight he felt exposed, vulnerable and unguarded, thus he shrouded himself in shadows and shrank against the ground until one could have very easily overlooked his presence altogether.
Those ever moving shadows always made Sting uneasy for they obscured not only his lone companion but seemed to swallow up any meager light the indifferent sky had to offer. It was on a late autumn night, maybe three weeks after they started traveling together that a stray black tendril accidentally brushed against his knuckles.
He jerked away violently, already expecting a frostburn to tarnish his scared fingers.
But the cry of terror died on his lips as he examined the trembling hand and found it not only perfectly unharmed but also tingling curiously, the memory of something almost like a caress etched into his skin.
He grew bolder then and extended his hand oh-so-carefully towards the lump of swirling blackness.