"How many people?" asks a voice with clear, groggy irritation.
The other's response is merely a shrug, pulling the blanket over his torso and to his chin. "A lot."
There is a brief silence which is disrupted when that same groggy voice asks another question. "Who?"
Another shrug. "Antonio, Francis, Elizaveta, Ivan . . . it goes on."
" . . . Kiku?"
There is another pause before the sleepy voice replies, "No . . . Although I have thought about it . . . Kiku and me . . . but, perhaps it is best to stay as we are."
"I'm glad something is sacred," he growls. "So, for how many people have you been their bottom bitch?"
His enemy, his lover—hell, what even are they?—scoffs. However, he avoids his vulgar question with another question, "Are you jealous?"
"You're hilarious, Jerk-ules."
There is another soft, heavy silence before the younger shifts closer to the irritated man and places a chaste, airy kiss unto his lips. The sweet kiss is met with a certain hesitance from the Turk, as if he should rather be reluctant instead. "If it consoles you," begins the softspoken Heracles, "you are the greatest lover I have ever had."
Such an intimate confession brings a slight, crooked smile onto Sadik's face, and he curls an arm around Heracles, sighing his bliss. Yet, he feels as if he must continue his tough façade. "Yeah, sure. Let's just sleep, brat."
The Grecian rolls his eyes and settles about Sadik, resting his head upon his chest to where he is able to hear the strong beating of a heart. He is lulled into the sleep by the gentle hand threading through his long hair, stroking his locks. Sadik watches him breathe, and each slow rise and fall of his body is entrancing and hazy. He, too, finds peace and comfort in sleep.
A mask of carved ivory lies forgotten on the bedside table, left with only its dull gleam.