"Careful, careful," Oliver murmurs, spine stretching as fingers 
slip up the back of his sleeping shirt.

Three in the morning, and the Great Hall feels blank and deep 
around him. It breathes thickly against the back of his neck, 
and may be watching them.

"Quiet," he almost says, except that kind of defeats the 
purpose, right, and Marcus' mouth is wet but tired against his. 

It moves like the farthest out ripples, slow and stuttered 
inevitable motion. Delayed reaction, but languid and sweet.

The fingers brush circles against his hip bones - stay quiet, 
quiet - and Marcus breathes out a sigh.