Work Text:
Kamet wakes as Costis curls against him, not quite under the covers. He reaches down, finds Costis’ curls and rakes his fingers through them sleepily. His head is a heavy weight on Kamet’s belly, knees tucked up by his ankles.
“You're home,” Kamet observes, drifting warm and quiet.
Costis adjusts, throws an arm over Kamet’s hips, scrunches himself a little smaller. He's far too big to ever manage that, but his Attolian has always been a contradiction. A too-large amphora for such a small and fragile soul.
“The Mede are coming,” Costis says to Kamet’s nightshirt.
Kamet's breath stops short.