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Routine

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It's become a routine now - their little routine. It's what they do when the moon is a harvest yellow, taking up all its effort just to remain hanging lazily in the sky. When even Mozart, the infernal trickster, has crashed and laid himself to rest. Those are the most beautiful nights - when the duvet feels cool and crisp, when overhanging limbs are bathed in the night's cool air, soothing and somehow so different from that of the day.

These are the nights when Franz, master of melodies, prince of lyricism, finds his grip on eloquency slowly slipping - thoughts and words slurred by sleep, the most powerful drug of all, sending even the ever-tumultuous Ludwig into his own stupor.

These are the nights when he feels most protective of Franz - when he gathers the younger to his chest, huffing warm breaths into soft hair, feeling a sparrow's flutter of a heartbeat calm and synchronise with his own - curling, embracing, guarding - a dragon with the very greatest of treasures. Franz nestles into him in kind, head tucked in like a bird.

These are the nights when it is impossible to imagine any fate in which they are not together.

These are the nights that truly matter.