Feather scratching on parchment, clawing at his ears and making his skin crawl.
"What are you writing?"
Rustling bed sheets calling to him, a siren song with a high thread count (he couldn't remember the number), beckoning him to leave the desk. His back hurt and his fingers were black, twitching and wanting something else entirely.
A chuckle, low and purring. Amused by the secrecy and not the slightest bit hurt by it.
"More things you can't tell me?"
Blowing bangs out of eyes, rendering them perfectly vertical and then falling right back into place. A testy sigh and the scratching continued.
"I can't tell you much of anything."
Foot hitting stone gracefully, silently. He was sensed in spite of his technique, and he knew it and didn't mind. Arms wrapped around broad chest.
"I know what I need to know."
Creaking chair as he leans back, still holding on to the quill. Lips curl, eyes close.
"Maybe one day I can tell you."
Bark of a laugh, unnatural. The air around them grows tense and he holds on tighter.
"There are some things neither of us can ever tell."
Silence, heavy and full and horrible and painfully familiar.
"If you know that, why do you keep reminding me?"
He had nothing to say to that.
"Come to bed. It can wait until morning."
It couldn't, not really, but it did.