The inside of Carlisle's head felt like one of those drums at the that really horrible symposium in June, in the performances no one had gotten. That was the first thought he'd had that morning.
Foreign. Drilling all of his thoughts apart like shards under a ice pick. The way the leather had stretched taut from hours of being played, shaking, threatening to break and somehow, somehow, always remaining there. The way it made.
The light filtered in from somewhere, stabbing him like white hot knives as his eyelids flickered open. A groan escaped him and then the bed shook, demanding his eyelids flutter, focus. On the face of a boy, with such young features, murumuring inchoerent words into his bare should, before settling again, like some cross between a dead weight and an overgrown puppy.
The urge to groan came again. Only this time it came with the bed and the room blurring, his body shivering, and the uncontrollable need to close his eyes again. How much had he drank last night? He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember much of anything honestly.
The assumption was easy. His eyes cracked open again. shifted, slowly, so as not to wake the boy. Yes. Easy. There was a definite lack of clothing going on with the chest pressed against his, the rise of the slim shoulder not far from his chin, and his legs against the sheets.