carmilla: (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern)
[personal profile] carmilla
Guildenstern’s face was buried in the crook of Rosencrantz’s neck, his arm flung heavily across his chest. Rosencrantz stirred, rolled over until they were lying nose to nose.

“It’s morning,” he observed, sleepily, “assuming, naturally, that when we went to bed it was night.”

“I don’t remember,” said Guildenstern, unconcerned, and his hand twisted in Rosencrantz’s hair as he leaned forward and kissed him.

For one moment, in the sunlight and the rumpled bed and the unruly tangle of limbs, there was perfection. Then the peace was broken.

Somebody was banging on the window. Someone who was calling their names.
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