No Rush
by Silvia
The twins are bunched up in the center of their bed, knees hooked together and hands knotted into fists. Heads pressed close together, their breath fanning across each other's faces, stirring their bangs as if from a breeze through the window.
Fred whispers, "It's morning," and his lips brush over George's cheek. They're a bit rough, dried out from sleep, and he licks them.
Wet, glossy mouth now, and George watches it, pink like the glint behind the 8am clouds, and says, "Saturday, we can sleep in."
Slick bob of Fred's Adam's apple, "We're not sleeping," and he shifts like he might move, but he doesn't.
"I feel like I am," George murmurs, shoulder sliding against, off, his pillow, mouth meeting the sharp of curve just above Fred's collarbone. Soft there, and thin, as if stretched too tight.
Fred's quick fingers spider up the back of his neck to clutch at the tangled mess of hair above it, winding in and holding.
"Are we dreaming?" Fred breathes, light and barely there.
The collarbone is stubborn against his teeth, and George mouths it before raising his head to rest against the open underside of Fred's chin. "Do you want to be?"
"I want," and hands are scrambling at George's back, rucking up his shirt, twisting in it, dragging his weight up to rest on Fred's stomach and thighs.
"Just. We're sleeping in," Fred says, and George nods into the front of his sleeping shirt, feeling hot damp palms shiver over his skin as his lungs rise and fall.