Summary: Chandler wakes up cold.
Disclaimer: Not mine…or are they? No. Really. They're not!
Note: Just a quick drabble, as I am having a break from revising for my A2-level exams (the first of which is on Thursday! Argggg!) And this popped into my head. I hope you like it.
Chandler wakes up cold.
In the middle of the night his eyes snap open from another dream, not necessarily a nightmare, he doesn't wake up with a stereotypical scream or a gasp, nor does he shoot straight up in bed, breathing heavily. But the dreams aren't particularly nice either. Filled with men in long dark coats with a deerstalker hat and a long knife concealed under the layers, filled with two identical forms, perfect carbon copies, elegantly adorned in tailored suits and their hair slicked sideways, a faultless mirror image of each other.
He wakes up cold. The heavy winter duvet that should be keeping him warm thrown off the end of the bed, crumpled in a heap on the floor from where he's kicked it off of himself during his sleep. He shivers and takes a few deep breaths after quickly turning on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in a calming glow that leaves only the corners sprinkled in shadows. Making it easy for Joe to convince himself that he's alone.
That thought is both distressing and a comfort.
He shivers again and grabs the duvet from the floor, pulling it over his body and smoothing out the wrinkles. He sits like that for as long as he can hold his eyes open, just to make sure no one is hiding in the shadows. It's an irrational, childish fear of the bad guy being concealed in the gloom. But Chandler can't help the tightness in his chest that appears whenever he is alone in the dark, his fingers itching to turn the light on, just to check no one is there, then off again. On, off, on, off, on, off…
Once the light has been turned off again, plunging the room into an oppressing darkness, Chandler grips the duvet hard and rubs the thumb of his right hand vigorously over the tips of his fingers, preventing them from moving to the light switch. Preventing himself from giving into his compulsions, for if he did he wouldn't sleep again this night.
Chandler falls asleep cold.
The night when Chandler doesn't wake up cold is a shock.
Instead he is warm, and it's a warmth that has nothing to do with the duvet that is for once, still wrapped around his body, but rather everything to do with the small body wrapped around his own. The heat radiating from the pale flesh like that from an open flame, keeping him comfortable and warm in a way that no amount of covers and blankets could do.
Emerson's head is laid on his chest, his torso pressed against Joe's side, one arm and one leg thrown over the other man, clinging to him in sleep like a limpet. Every square inch of Joe's flesh that is in contact with Kent's is searing, the young man's heat bleeding into his own skin, heating it and causing a flush to quickly blossom over his body.
He stares down at the young man with only the moonlight that filters in from his window as illumination. His skin is so pale it appears almost white, an ethereal glow in Joe's darkened bedroom. He allows the tips of his fingers to run along the length of Kent's forearm that extends across the older man's chest, his eyes caressing the flawless expanse of flesh that is bared to him.
Normally, at this moment Chandler would turn the light on, just to chase the demons away, but now his eyes are not focused on the dark corners of the room where the villains may be hiding, instead they are focused solely on the young man in his arms. The young man who without even realising it, manages to make him warm, make him feel something other than the cold iciness of fear and makes him able to wake up without needing to flick the light switch on.
Joe doesn't wake up cold anymore.