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Bastogne was behind them, but those forests had taught the men of Easy quite a lot— like scissors could be a luxury good their medic would kill for or that taking a dump in someone else’s foxhole wasn’t a court-martial offense, although it should bloody well be. Most importantly, though, it had shown regiment that they were due for a much-needed change in leadership.
Lieutenant Speirs was nothing like Norman Dike. His every move was effective for they had no energy to waste and he barked orders confidently, certain of each and every one. Being the first to put his own life on the line wasn’t a problem for him. Whatever stories and rumors and less-than-kind words that campfires carried about his character didn’t faze him. Anything that wouldn’t further their objective or help lighten their load simply wasn’t worth his time.
They were still reigning in Foy when Lipton decided he rather liked the change. It was late afternoon when he finally got a chance to sit down for the first time that day, absent-mindedly watching a small crowd gather for the army photographers. Life was slowly pouring back into their frosty bones, and they were playful in front of the cameras, alive. Lipton allowed himself to bask in that small break they had more than earned, taking off his helmet and running a hand through his hair. It wasn’t long before he heard steps in the snow and half-turned his face to find Speirs standing behind him, observing the scene as he smoked.
“Sir.”
Instead of replying, Speirs handed him an almost empty pack of Lucky Strikes. With a small nod and sheepish smile, Lipton took the last one and put it between his lips, then waited for him to speak.
“Good job out there, Lipton,” Speirs said after a minute. “It’s easy to lose focus when officers are… insecure. You did well keeping your men in line.”
That was definitely the sweetest word Dike would ever get from him, Lipton thought.
“Thank you, sir.”
Speirs seemed to consider him for a few moments. “What do you think of him?”
As always, Lipton measured his words carefully. He took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled calmly, facing away to conceal his feelings about the man to the best of his ability.
“Honestly,” Speirs punctuated.
“Well,” he started, trying to buy himself a few more seconds by exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I expressed my concerns to Major Winters, sir. He doesn’t seem to be cut out for leadership.”
“So I’ve heard,” the lieutenant hummed. “You were right to do so. Looking out for the men should be any good sergeant’s priority, after all. Even when that means ruffling an officer’s feathers.”
In the distance, Winters was walking with Colonel Sink. Even from afar, he seemed as angry as Lipton had ever seen him despite their victory. One could only imagine why.
“I’m inclined to agree, sir,” Lipton said with a small, secretive smile. Speirs caught it and didn’t bother to hide his, accompanying it with a throaty chuckle.
Speirs flicked away his cigarette and picked his M1 back up. “Seems to me you’d do well to speak your mind more often, First Sergeant.”
Taken by surprise, Lipton wasn’t quick enough to reply before Speirs walked away, following in Sink and Winters’ footsteps towards regimental headquarters. Lipton’s eyes were on him until he couldn’t see him anymore.
By nightfall, Ronald Speirs had become E company’s new C.O. The very next day, he personally insisted the sergeant attended an officer meeting, then put Lipton in charge of the 2nd platoon for the attack on Noville.
⁂
Every last man who had been in that forest was eager to put it behind them and dying for a well-deserved break after securing a series of towns near Foy. They were desperate to be warm, safe, with full bellies and a roof over their heads. So they figured the collective groan that left them when word came down that they were to be sent out to Alsace instead was probably heard from the other side of the Atlantic.
“Un-fucking-believable,” was the most common reaction, closely followed by “What?” and “Seriously?” and, “Are we the only goddamn battalion in this entire continent?”
The road ahead was long and cold, and their spirits weren’t much better. Lipton had to brave through the winds in the back of a truck, shivering and praying they’d reach their next stop before he froze to death. Once they did, they mobilized fast— billets for the night were assigned, a temporary HQ was established in one of the larger houses, and supplies were distributed.
After settling in the men, Lipton realized just how out of breath he was. He leaned against a wall, which only made him aware that he was trembling. The headache he’d been enduring all day was getting worse, so he closed his eyes and tried to recompose himself. The world appeared blurry and distant when he opened them again.
“Lipton?” a voice called next to him. When he didn’t reply, a hand fell firmly on his shoulder, and Lipton saw who it belonged to. Speirs’ shape seemed to dance and blend with the houses behind him. “Lipton. Are you alright? Lipton?”
With more effort than he’d anticipated, he managed to clear his throat and mumble a vague, “Sir,” before collapsing.
“As I explained, sir, it could be just a cold that went unattended, or it could be something worse,” was the first thing Lipton heard after coming back to his senses. The bed under him felt heavenly and warm, and he let himself sink in, just a little. “He needs to be examined and—”
“Can you do it?”
The one interrupting was Speirs. Hazy as his mind still was, Lipton recognized his voice right away.
“I’m afraid not. If we reach Drulingen by tomorrow, he should be able to see a doctor there,” Roe patiently explained, like it wasn’t the first time. “Until then, I’ve done everything I can.”
The captain sighed deeply. “Fine. Get out then,” he spat out sharply, then reconsidered. “And, huh, thank you.”
Right after the door closed, a coughing fit rattled Lipton’s entire body. He was thankful when he felt a wet cloth being pushed against his forehead.
“Go—” he started, still coughing. Once it was finally over, he managed a faint smile, and Speirs looked relieved. “Go easy on him, sir.”
Speirs’ hand didn’t move— it was pressing firmly on his forehead, moving the towel down to his temples and up to his hairline. Lying there under his gaze suddenly made Lipton feel exposed and weakened, infinitely small.
“Will do. How are you feeling?” he asked, and there was more concern in his voice than Lipton had expected to find there. Grunting, Lipton made an attempt to prop himself up on his elbows to no avail; Speirs put a single finger over the blanket where his chest was and forced him back down with just a look. “You should rest, lieutenant.”
The title made him feel as dizzy as he had when Speirs broke the news to him, with candlelight kissing his face and the peaceful atmosphere in the church, out of place, too warm and kind to be a part of their reality. Lipton hadn’t gotten that official nod yet, but, as far as he knew, Speirs was not concerned with that.
“I feel better, sir,” Lipton tried, unconvinced with his own lie. “Is everyone settled in for the night?”
Speirs gave him a sympathetic smile. “I assure you everything’s taken care of,” he said, almost sweetly. It made something turn in Lipton’s chest. “Except you. What do you need?”
That particular brand of smoothness the captain had was not easy to anticipate. It just slipped into their conversations so casually that Lipton was starting to wonder if he was even doing it consciously.
“Nothing, nothing. I really am—” Lipton started, but his body betrayed him once again, leaving him almost gasping for air. He felt exhausted and his throat raspy when it passed. “I just need to eat something. I’ll be fine, sir.”
Speirs nodded then stood up. There was a small bowl with water on the bed table, and he washed the cloth in it before announcing, “I’ll get you something warm for that throat. Anything else?”
Lipton’s cheeks burned hot and not with fever, but he was glad to have something else to pin it on.
“Sir, you don’t need to—”
“Anything else?” Speirs repeated, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.
It dawned on him that it would be easier to take over Berlin bare-handed and alone than it’d be to talk Speirs out of something that he’d set his mind on. So he bittersweetly swallowed his protests and pride, then shook his head. “No, sir. Thank you.”
“Alright, you rest here then.” Speirs started walking towards the door, then shot him a look and added, “I’m serious. Don’t even try it.”
Lipton even put his hands up in surrender, and that seemed to please Speirs. In a quarter hour, he was back with a couple of steaming bowls and a pair of army blankets tugged under his arm.
It wasn’t that the soup wasn’t inviting. Rather, it looked a bit too good to have come from their rations. “Where’d you even find that?”
“Don’t be too impressed just yet,” Speirs half-smirked. “It’s just bouillon soup with some canned vegetables I found in the kitchen.”
“You really didn’t have to,” he stuttered. “But thank you, sir. Really.”
“Eat up, Lip. We need you back on your feet.”
Lipton smiled even though Speirs couldn’t see. The mystery of why his C.O. was wasting his time going the extra mile for him would have to remain unsolved, but there was comfort in the caring way he said his name and the easy silence they shared. No, Speirs didn’t make him feel weak or small— he made him feel seen. Loudly appreciated and needed. And for a man who was used to being in shadows that was just as scary.
It was funny how the heart worked, and wanted and wished for anything but what it could have.
But Lipton was used to that, so it was enough.
They ate silently, a testament to how hungry they had become on the road. No wonder; four cigarettes in several hours of travel and maybe a chocolate bar wasn’t a good substitute for food.
“So?” Speirs asked when they were done.
“Best meal I’ve had in months, sir,” Lipton said and meant it. “Thank you again.”
“Well, considering the awful Belgian restaurants you’ve been frequenting lately that’s no big surprise,” he retorted. Lipton laughed despite the pain in his throat.
“You’re right about that. What terrible service Bastogne had.”
“Never going back,” Speirs said, and hoped God was listening. He was about to fish the cigarettes from his breast pocket, then decided against it. “Criminal waiting times.”
Lipton simply shook his head, still smiling. A few moments of silence passed, moments when he slowly realized how his body was shutting down, exhausted and chilled.
“You should get some rest. It’s not long to Drulingen tomorrow, but you come with me anyway.”
His brain had some trouble processing whether that was an order, an offer, or a favor. “Sir?”
“In the front of the truck. Can’t have you getting worse,” Speirs idly explained, settling the empty plates away then letting himself flop down on the sofa. Lipton blinked. After a short pause, Speirs spoke again with his eyes closed, “And stop that, will you?”
Lipton frowned. “Stop what, sir?”
“That.” He pointed a finger at Lipton without looking at him. “I like Ron better.”
A hearty laugh— the kind of laughter that came out of someone who didn’t really regret what they said but hadn’t meant to be that forthcoming about it. The kind that was followed with something like sorry, what I meant to say was I would like you to…
But, of course, Speirs wouldn’t.
“Ron,” Lipton murmured, as if he was pronouncing a new word, something almost magical. Then, louder, more confidently, “Then thank you, Ron.”
When he woke up in the morning, there were two more blankets over him, and Ron was still there.
And the morning after, in Drulingen, Ron was there too. Restless with worry after learning of his pneumonia.
On the third night, Lipton tried alcohol for the first time on the promise of an elderly German couple that said it would make him feel better. Speirs joined him, laughing at his disgusted face, but he didn’t mind.
Alcohol made for a funny experience. It made Lipton’s tongue loose, his sirs almost disappear (almost) and his lungs felt clearer than they had in days. Most importantly, it made Ron smile freely and laugh louder and then shush himself as if he was a teenager who didn’t want to be caught drunk instead of a soldier who’d lost his youth to the army.
The thought made Carwood’s chest tighten. There he was, in front of him, the boy who would’ve never guessed he’d be dubbed The Killer by his peers for something he didn’t do. The boy who had stayed on the other side of the ocean. The boy whose eyes were bright with hope at that moment despite it all.
Ron didn’t mind when he didn’t speak for a while. Usually, he was the quieter of the two, but that night, he did ask.
“What’s on your mind?”
You, Lipton wanted to say, but didn’t.
Instead, he asked some innocuous question about supplies, watched Ron turn back into Speirs, and put up no fight when he insisted Lipton take the only bed in their billet.
In the morning, his cough was gone, his fever was gone, and Lipton felt inexplicably full of life.
Speirs was evidently delighted with the recovery. Almost a miracle, the doctor had said. That very evening, Winters, Nixon and Welsh gathered to give him the news of his promotion and watch Speirs pin the lieutenant’s bars on him.
Lipton didn’t take his eyes off him. In return, Ron looked anywhere— Lip’s throat, the metal bars, his own trembling hands— but at him.
That was Speirs’ weakness, Lipton figured, pleased with himself. He thought he was better with secrets than he was. But they poured from his eyes in the right light.
⁂
Spring was drawing near, and with it came the soothing chirping of birds in the early morning and the clear skies— as clear as they got in Germany, at least. They hadn’t seen combat in a while. They trained and guarded and trained and guarded. But poker nights were commonplace for the officers these days, the enlisted men enjoyed the sun and the taste of peace, and, at last, it was easier to breathe.
Lipton had never been much of a poker player. His tells were obvious and he never quite got the hang of it. Growing up, he had watched his father play almost religiously every Saturday at home with his buddies, but he’d failed to teach little Carwood to play like he did. Sometimes he had enjoyed pacing around the table and snitching on the others’ cards, although they were only pretending not to notice. At least until he told on his father to spice things up and got a good tickle fight out of it. The memory still made him smile, and it had made Ron smile, too, when Carwood told him one night.
“Was that the last time you broke the rules?” Speirs had laughed. “I bet it’s the most illegal thing you’ve done.”
He truly had no idea, despite Carwood’s bests attempts to tell him.
All in all, Lipton ended up either folding or losing most times, and being relentlessly picked on by Harry each night. It was fun to watch them try to rattle each other, and tonight was no different— except he was almost certain Ron had just let him have a game where Nixon and Welsh folded immediately, which he found frankly endearing.
It was almost midnight when Lipton decided to call it a night, following in Harry’s footsteps. On his way out, he remembered the supply list pending approval that sat in their billet, and wondered where the hell his mind had been all night— as if the culprit of his forgetfulness wasn’t sitting to his right, all but humiliating their intelligence officer.
“No problem,” Ron said dismissively. “I’ll just take Nixon’s last $2 here and be right after you. Don’t worry ‘bout it, I’ll sign it and find Perconte myself first thing.”
At this point, he was used to Speirs being more than obliging to him. It was something Lipton thought he did without even thinking about it, but only with him, and even though he wouldn’t admit it, he took his fair share of pride in knowing that if Speirs had a favorite, it was him.
If only he would admit it. Say something, anything to Lipton. It had been months of not-so-subtle looks and his don’t call me sir all the time and Lipton biting his lip every time they shared a billet.
But Speirs was still his captain, after all. “I can bring it over myself, sir.”
“Don’t sweat it, Lip. Go get some rest, it’s been a long day.”
“Thank you, Ron—” he replied without thinking, too immersed in his thoughts. “Sir.”
It wasn’t only Speirs’ familiar gaze on him he felt on his way out. Nixon was staring too, as he had been the day he got his promotion. Given how Nixon himself behaved around Winters, whatever he knew or thought he knew was no concern to Lip.
Lipton and the other officers were all billeted in that same building, and he was to share what used to be a children’s room downstairs with Speirs. The house was relatively big and fairly lavish— or it had been before it was readied for several American soldiers and, admittedly, looted. Lipton washed his face, still not used to having running water again, tidied himself up and went to their room.
Before he even had the chance to get himself ready for bed, a sound of shattering glass echoed down the hall. Lipton frowned, knowing it was only Speirs and Nixon left downstairs, and set out to find its origin.
When he reached the dining room, Speirs was alone, with his head buried in his left hand. Lipton took a step closer.
“Sir? I thought I heard—” Speirs’ head snapped up, then Lipton looked closer. There were shards of glass littering the table and a broken glass that Speirs was trying to hide under his hand.
Then he noticed the blood on the back of Ron’s hand. It wasn’t the blood itself that worried Lipton— it was his demeanor, the lost look on his face. Lip hurried towards him, then took Ron’s hand in his and wordlessly asked, although he had a feeling he wasn’t going to get a straight answer. Speirs’ arm was trembling.
“I just… Well,” he stuttered, confirming his suspicions. “Guess I’m a sore loser.”
Lipton hummed, frankly almost impressed that his captain was not capable of coming up with a better lie when put on the spot. “I see,” he murmured, taking Ron’s hand in his— there was a long cut in his palm where the edge of the glass had dug in and a few small fragments. “C’mon then. My first aid pouch is in our billet. And don’t even try it.”
The words had the intended effect; he saw Ron give him a shy smile before letting him guide them back to their billet. Speirs was awfully quiet, even when Lipton sat next to him and started cleaning the blood off his palm. Undeniably, sometimes being that close to him irrationally hurt. There were a million different ways Carwood wished he could touch him, but their hands and knees against each other would have to suffice.
“Are you alright?” he asked softly, noticing the expression on Ron’s face and knowing it had nothing to do with the pain in his hand. They had both been through much worse than that. “Hey,” he tried again when he got no answer.
Speirs blinked, as if he had just awakened from some trance. “What?”
Lipton gave him a soft look in turn, trying to convey quiet support for whatever was troubling him. “I asked if everything’s alright. You seem to be miles away,” he said, carefully pulling out a glass shard from Speirs’ skin.
A low hum was all the answer he got, so he decided not to push it. It was silent as Lipton finished cleaning out the wound and wrapping a bandage around Ron’s hand, feeling eyes following his movements.
“Sorry,” Speirs mumbled, and his voice was nothing like Carwood had ever heard it; nowhere near commanding, confident or strong— just uneasy, almost fearful. It made Lipton not want to let go of him just yet. “You didn’t have to.”
Eager to put his mind at ease, Lipton smiled warmly. “I know that, sir. I wanted to.”
There was a pause as Ron met his gaze, all desperate eyes and a very tired face that Lipton just wanted to hold until it all passed, but couldn’t. Instead, he settled for cradling his wounded hand, tracing the shape of his fingers to communicate all the things he shouldn’t think, or feel, or say.
“I’m alright, Lip. Thanks,” Speirs tried to reassure him, but even he realized that he hadn’t managed to hide how pained he sounded. Then his fingers closed around Carwood’s and he appeared to find his strength. “Thank you.”
It took Lipton by surprise; he knew Speirs could easily put his walls back up as he did whenever he felt too vulnerable, too exposed. But he didn’t— that was his way of letting him in, of wordlessly saying I’m glad you’re here. His pulse was picking up a speedy pace under Carwood’s touch, so he tightened his grip, starving to hold him but used to the crumbs.
Then Speirs breathed again. It seemed he couldn’t bear to look at Lipton then.
They were in too deep not to take the last plunge. It was almost painful not to. That would be the night, Carwood decided. If Speirs didn’t say anything, he would forget rank and politeness and risks, like he had that night in Bastogne, and speak his mind like Ron had once advised him to.
“Ron?” he tried, his voice shaky. At least it made him open his eyes, and there it was, clear as day, the hunger and need Lipton had been fighting off himself. “That’s okay, Ron.”
Finally, finally, Speirs dived in— slowly at first, a trembling hand on his shoulder, ghosting the line of his neck. Ron’s breath hitched when Lipton leaned against his touch. His name fell from Speirs’ lips, like a prayer or a plea, and he was so, so close to just leaning forward and—
A tender hand traced the scar on his cheek. “I’ve been wanting to—” Ron’s voice was a caress from the inside and he just wanted to say yes, anything, yes . “Would you let me?”
Would I let you? A small chuckle escaped Carwood. He felt embarrassingly close to begging.
“Please,” he murmured, no longer hiding the desperation that nested in his bones. Lipton moved his face closer, ever so slightly, yet he could feel Ron’s uneven breath on his chin. “Please.”
It was almost like Speirs was scared he’d run away; as if he couldn’t fathom what he had just been not only allowed but asked to do. His hand cupped Lipton’s jaw tenderly, his thumb lifting his chin. Little by little, Ron closed the distance between them, and the second their lips so much as grazed each other, time stood still.
Or it should have— Ron’s kiss was gentle and unsure at first, still asking for permission. But Lipton knew, he knew it had been inevitable all along. To hell with their ranks and their fears and their laughable act where they pretended this wasn’t exactly what they wanted; he needed more, he always had, and Ron was at long last allowing him to claim it.
Patience flew out the window. Speirs had unfairly soft lips that tasted like whiskey and a mischievous tongue, and he deepened the kiss as if he couldn’t bear not to, his body moving closer to Lipton’s. Not that it bothered him, quite the opposite— he was very, very pleased with his captain’s eagerness— but how he wished Ron hadn’t danced around it for months.
It made Carwood laugh. There was a man who hadn’t hesitated for even a second before crossing a town crawling with enemy artillery not once but twice, but couldn’t allow himself to desire someone who so clearly, so loyally and unashamedly wanted him too.
Lipton needed him.
“Something—” Ron tried between breaths, but Lipton gave him no chance to get a word in. It took Ron’s fingers separating their faces to find that kind of restraint in him. “Something amusing to you, lieutenant?”
“Only how long this,” Lipton licked his lips, tracing the shape of Ron’s mouth with his finger, “took you.”
Speirs’ eyes widened, and that was when Lipton realized that no, he truly, genuinely hadn’t known. If he had, he wasn’t sure there were rules or armies enough in the world to stop Speirs from having him.
“What?”
Lipton grinned, and decided he could tease his oblivious superior a little, as a treat.
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t seem the type to deny yourself the things you want,” he murmured. “Are you?”
Speirs tried and failed to steady himself, choosing instead to wrap his arms around Lipton’s shoulders. “No, lieutenant,” he breathed, biting his lip. “I’m not.”
And then he was unleashed— his mouth fell back on Lipton’s with electrifying force, fingers tangling on the short hairs in the back of his neck, pulling him closer and closer. Enjoying the treatment, Carwood allowed him to take his time, palming Ron’s sides intuitively and urging him to his lap. Ron went gladly, only breaking their kiss to get a better angle once he was above him.
It was all too much and not enough at once, and they craved more; the idea that maybe it could never be enough crossed Carwood’s mind. Maybe they had wasted too much time, and Ron certainly held him like it’d be his last chance to do so, greedy and demanding where he’d been slow and considerate just minutes ago.
“I love your lips,” Carwood mindlessly confessed while both of his thumbs framed Ron’s face. In the almost null space between them, Ron gasped, grinning like a devil, and couldn’t help but press his hips against Carwood’s. It caught him off guard, making him grunt, or moan, or both at once, and to say Speirs looked pleased would’ve been a severe understatement.
It was more mischief than consideration that had him asking, “Like that?”
For a second, Lipton was paralyzed with the thought of having his commanding officer grinding against him, kissing him stupid, melting him with every brush of skin against skin.
“Ron,” he grunted, breathless. Then he came back to his senses, not wishing to stop for a second. “More. Please.”
Something snapped in Ron at the sound of his name spoken with that raw desire, and he was all too happy to comply, diving back against his mouth. They moved together as if their bodies had known each other in another lifetime. Adrenaline ran through Carwood’s veins as he experimentally slid a hand into his army green slacks, undoing one side of his suspenders just to be able to yank his shirt out of its tuck.
“Eager,” Speirs admonished, undoing his own belt for good measure.
“Haven’t you kept me waiting long enough, sir?” he retorted, mouthing at his neck and caressing the skin on Ron’s lower abdomen with his fingertips.
The ghost of a laugh fell on Carwood’s ear. “I had no idea, fuck—” Ron struggled to concentrate with Lipton arching up into him, then found encouragement when a strong hand pulled him in by the waist. “C’mon then. I need you.”
It had taken all of his willpower not to before, not wanting to rush over Ron, but now he yielded all self-restraint and gave in to desire. With deft fingers, Lipton flicked open their pants, exhaling hotly when Ron pressed his crotch against his hand.
In another time and place, he would’ve liked to take his time; he would’ve liked to tease, to trace every inch of Speirs’ body with his mouth, to undress him delicately and let him do the same in return. At the time, though, the urgency was too great, so they end up simply moving clothes out of the way. Ron tried to do so without getting off his lap, which resulted in him clumsily tackling Lipton onto the bed.
Speirs took the chance to pull the other’s trousers down just enough, then crawled on top of him, gently pinning Carwood’s wrists to the bed and keeping their faces at a distance to get a good, long look. The intensity of his stare made Lipton feel as though he was fully exposed, and Ron licked his lips, hungry and impatient, but still needing to savor the moment.
“Ron,” he whined, pleading, desperate for Speirs to call his name again.
The purr sent Speirs spurring into action; he pulled Lipton up into a fiery kiss, making short work of their underwear before curling his hand around the base of Carwood’s cock. He breathed a sigh of relief against Ron’s mouth that gradually became a series of whimpering sounds as Ron’s hand began to move, and Lipton didn’t hesitate to mirror his movements then, seeking more contact anywhere, everywhere. Neither of them was under the illusion that they were going to last.
When Speirs’ breathing grew labored and rugged, Lipton bit on his bottom lip, and Ron had the audacity to give him a breathy laugh in return. “Carwood,” he was smiling; he sounded sweet and dreamy and like everything Carwood could ever want, but that wasn’t what he’d been going for. So Lip snatched his hand away, wrapped his fingers around them both and sat up so their eyes would be level as he brought Ron to his breaking point.
Then his name cascaded from Ron’s mouth with increased urgency each time, both a blessing and a curse, an imploration and a demand, and it wasn’t long until Carwood followed him over the edge, collapsing onto the bedsheets. But he hadn’t been prepared for Ron to rest his head on his chest afterward, nuzzling his face against his neck as he regained his breath, saying, “I want you with me.”
Carwood was quick enough to pick his jaw and heart from the floor, running his fingers through Ron’s damp curls. “You already have me,” he assured him. “Not just for the night.”
When Speirs met his gaze again he looked smug as a cat, his eyes glistening in the darkened room. The softness of Ron’s lips when he kissed him slow and needy felt unreal and impossible, even after all of that. How young they truly were and how they had almost been stripped of that youthful type of love. Almost.
The bed creaked loudly under their weight, a sudden reminder that there was still a world outside of each other. It dawned on Lipton that he hadn’t even locked the door. They stared at one another wide-eyed for a long few seconds, as if waiting for something inevitable to happen— then Ron bit his lip mischievously, and he was so, so unfairly precious.
Lipton made a show of will and declared, “I should probably get the door.”
“Yeah,” Ron conceded, chuckling but not letting go. Pulling him closer, rather. “Probably.”