He turns blindly toward the voice, knowing it means comfort and something good, even if he doesn't know, in that moment, who it belongs to. That part doesn't matter.
"You in there?"
The question – a question, that means an answer, but he doesn't have the answer, not right now. He doesn't have to know, it's okay.
A hand on his cheek, skin a little rough. He tries opening his eyes, but the dim light is too bright.
The voice is amused, but not laughing at him. Not unkind, and so it makes him smile a little. Happy that the voice's owner likes him, happy that they're here together.
The hand strokes his hair back from his forehead, runs fingers through it in a way that makes him want to purr. That's not a noise he can actually make; he sighs instead, stretching a little. His shoulders ache slightly; he wriggles them deeper into the – oh. He's in a bed.
Of course he is, and he doesn't quite know why that was a surprise. He isn't any more sure, though, why it should have been obvious. He pushes those questions away, concentrates on the fingers in his hair.
"Sit up for a minute, I've got water."
He doesn't want to, he's comfortable like this, drifting, and he knows, in a fuzzy, confusing way, that this is the start of being dragged somewhere he isn't sure he's ready to go yet.
"I know. Do it for me."
He can't say no to that, doesn't ever want to. He lets strong hands manoeuvre him into sitting, leaning into warm and solid and familiar. He wants to curl up in it – in him, body and hands and voice and care, but there's something stopping him, no matter how he tries to push it away.
The water's cool, soothing his throat that he hadn't known was sore. The glass knocks against his teeth as he raises it again, but this time the light is bearable, so he keeps his eyes open. Shadows at the edge of the space. He doesn't recognize them, but like the voice, they're okay. Safe.
"Do you want a shower?"
He's sticky with drying sweat and it's not the greatest feeling ever. He's comfortable though, in this space, and he isn't ready to leave it yet. He shakes his head.
The voice doesn't tell him it's going to happen, but he's being moved anyway, back down into a nest of soft and warm and familiar scent that –
The voice – Cam – is pleased with him, and that wraps around him as warm and sure as Cam's body does.
It's late, he thinks, and quiet. He's still drifting, but he's starting the see that first glimmer of light above the waves. He's all tangled up with Cam, tucked under heavy blankets. Cam holds him close with one arm, runs the other hand down his back, over and over, sure, firm strokes.
His shoulders still ache a little, and between his legs, his thighs stretched out, stretched open. It's nice, like a reminder or a memory, even though he knows it won't last.
He can hear Cam's heart beating under his ear, easy and strong. He wants to lose himself in the rhythm of it, but he can't, not quite. The pull up is getting stronger, starting to overpower the current he's drifting in.
When he breathes in, he smells the two of them together, sweat and come, and leather, just faintly. That smell makes him smile, another memory painted in his senses, stored there to pull out when he needs something he doesn't have.
His mouth is still a little dry, but that's okay, he can live with that. He doesn't want more water, wants to keep a taste that isn't really there any more.
He closed his eyes at some point. He doesn't remember doing it, but he must have because now he has to open them. He does, finds Cam watching him in the near dark, sees Cam smile and watches his mouth say, "Hey. You back with me?"
"Yeah. I'm here," John says.