Ross’ tattoo is disappearing under the black of Ross’ briefs as they’re tugged up his hips and over the curve of his arse, and Jonty feels drowsily bereft. He stretches out his hand to where Ross is sitting on the edge of the bed, touches the small of his back; he gets a smile for his trouble, directed over Ross' shoulder.
“Go back to sleep,” Ross says softly.
“Come back to bed.” Jonty pushes himself up on his elbows, angling hopefully.
Ross leans over him, brushes a rueful kiss across his mouth, and it’s heaven in the second before he pulls back.
“Can’t,” he says, “I’m going to chapel, then to the tank.”
Jonty flops back against the pillows, disgusted.
“You’re no fun at all in the mornings,” he says. “I should get a different boyfriend, just for the mornings.”
“Be nice to me,” Ross says mildly. “I’m praying for your heathen soul.”
“Well, I wish you wouldn’t. I’d much rather you were fucking me.”
Ross refuses to rise to his bait (in any sense of the word); he just makes a non-committal sound, gets on with pulling on his socks. Jonty lasts about five seconds before kicking off the sheets and knee-walking across the bed, draping himself over Ross’s back, digging his chin into his shoulder.
“Do some of the Bible, then, if you’re going,” he says. “Save my soul before you leave me in my pit of filth and debauchery. The queer bits,” he adds, and the rumble of Ross’ laugh vibrates warmly in his chest. “I’m sure there’s something about seed that’s quite provocative.”
“Sorry,” Ross says, “I’m mostly big on the apocalypse. Hence my preoccupation with smuggling you into heaven.” One of his hands comes up to cover Jonty’s where it’s resting on his chest. “If it happens any time soon, you’re absolutely fucked; you need all the help you can get.”
Jonty doesn’t say anything to that, just buries his nose behind Ross’ ear, where the skin is warm and still smells like bed. Ross leans back against him for a long moment, but soon enough he’s pulling away, standing, reaching for the unitard that should look ridiculous but that Jonty finds disconcertingly arousing. Fucking Lycra.
He stands himself, retrieves the yellow hoodie from the corner where it lies crumpled, helps Ross shrug into it despite the fact he’s a grown man and can bloody well dress himself.
“Wrap up warm, dear,” Jonty’s tone is mocking, but his hands are firm on the zipper. “Scarf, hat?”
He brushes Ross’ hair back where it’s falling in his face, just to keep touching him.
“I love you as my own soul,” Ross says into the quiet. “There, how’s that? Paraphrasing a bit, probably, but the gist -”
Jonty has to kiss him, then, doesn’t have a choice. Has to keep kissing him, can’t give up the sweet clinging curve of Ross’ mouth against his own, opening against his own, tongue finding his, arms tight around his body. His back arches with want.
They break apart, reluctantly, breathing hard, hands slow to detach themselves from clothing. Jonty looks at Ross, limned in the pale light filtering through the curtains, and it’s better than any stained glass window.
“I’m really late,” says Ross, and kisses Jonty again, quickly, close-mouthed, apologetic.
“Go on, fuck off,” says Jonty, and he’s smiling like a fool. “Send in the next man.”