5. His legs, as though with a will of their own, shifted restlessly under the blankets, the murmurings of the cotton echoing around the quiet room like muted whispers. The man next to him remained frustratingly still, and silence continued to reign, with the staccato ticking of the wall clock offering solitary and tentative acknowledgement.
He opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again, the name on his lips a weighty presence, compelling him to lick them self-consciously. He tasted salt, warm like tears and tangy like regret, with the bitter bite of blood. Swallowing the words, he turned further into his pillow, his back a harsh line against the white sheets, building a wall against the man next to him.
Hands reached to grasp at the blanket, seeking warmth against a cold that went as deep as their bones, and like blind fingers reading unspoken words, they met. He froze, and so did the one he loved most, loved, but could not trust. The touch of those familiar fingers along his knuckle burned like bright salamanders, glowing in the darkness, knowing and hurting and self-destructive, threatening quick flames. Those fingers closed imploringly over his own, hand pressing against hand, and with his back still to the other man, he blinked back tears, and pulled back his arm.
Silence reigned once again, violently, and he willed the night to deepen, and waited to lose himself in this bed made with lies, with distrust, with desperate love.