Which, incidentally, would only prove her right. He gets it now.
Next to him, Claude's breath crystalises in the air in front of them in white swirls, traveling quickly upwards. It mixes with Anakin's, his exhalations not as dense or concentrated, even with the mask covering his nose and mouth. It does the job, however. He can fight people and feel woozy simultaneously, thanks. Claude is flesh and bone and blood, solid and warm next to him, and he suddenly feels an almost painful urge to be closer. They've touched more, the past couple of weeks.
If - when - if they find each other again after this, hopefully they can do more than that.
He wants to give Claude everything. ]
Do you know how long you'll be gone, at least?
[ As he speaks, he reaches out one arm and curls it around Claude's shoulders, pulling him up against him. He folds his fingers around his upper arm lightly, just feeling him. True, he can't warm him up to any noticeable degree because he's icy-cold himself but friction is friction and he'll do what he can, at least. As they both do. ]
Two weeks, to start with. An extension or two may turn out to be necessary, depending on how the situation develops.
[ As Anakin pulls him in by the shoulders, sliding his whole, hard arm around him, Claude more or less melts into him, letting himself be pulled closer until his head can rest against Anakin's shoulder, because Anakin was always taller, but now he's a tower and at a comfortable height for Claude to lean his cheek against the curve of his upmost upper arm. He's not warm, but he's comfortable. He's not warm, but he's willing. Anakin was always more willing than anyone else Claude knew, knows.
Sighing slowly, he slides his own arm around Anakin's waist, his palm knowing where the indent of metal is, both at the front and at the back, his rod-like spine, his various implants. Claude hugs him close, just breathing in the cold air for a couple of seconds. His breath crystallizes in the air, condensing in his beard. There's a damp, hot feeling to it. Everything feels serene and meaningful. Everything is weighty from the importance of this exact moment.
They won't get another one like it in a while. Claude won't even begin thinking about wanting more, because sometimes more is simply not a possibility, sometimes this - what they're holding between their hands - is what they've got.
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Which, incidentally, would only prove her right. He gets it now.
Next to him, Claude's breath crystalises in the air in front of them in white swirls, traveling quickly upwards. It mixes with Anakin's, his exhalations not as dense or concentrated, even with the mask covering his nose and mouth. It does the job, however. He can fight people and feel woozy simultaneously, thanks. Claude is flesh and bone and blood, solid and warm next to him, and he suddenly feels an almost painful urge to be closer. They've touched more, the past couple of weeks.
If - when - if they find each other again after this, hopefully they can do more than that.
He wants to give Claude everything. ]
Do you know how long you'll be gone, at least?
[ As he speaks, he reaches out one arm and curls it around Claude's shoulders, pulling him up against him. He folds his fingers around his upper arm lightly, just feeling him. True, he can't warm him up to any noticeable degree because he's icy-cold himself but friction is friction and he'll do what he can, at least. As they both do. ]
no subject
[ As Anakin pulls him in by the shoulders, sliding his whole, hard arm around him, Claude more or less melts into him, letting himself be pulled closer until his head can rest against Anakin's shoulder, because Anakin was always taller, but now he's a tower and at a comfortable height for Claude to lean his cheek against the curve of his upmost upper arm. He's not warm, but he's comfortable. He's not warm, but he's willing. Anakin was always more willing than anyone else Claude knew, knows.
Sighing slowly, he slides his own arm around Anakin's waist, his palm knowing where the indent of metal is, both at the front and at the back, his rod-like spine, his various implants. Claude hugs him close, just breathing in the cold air for a couple of seconds. His breath crystallizes in the air, condensing in his beard. There's a damp, hot feeling to it. Everything feels serene and meaningful. Everything is weighty from the importance of this exact moment.
They won't get another one like it in a while. Claude won't even begin thinking about wanting more, because sometimes more is simply not a possibility, sometimes this - what they're holding between their hands - is what they've got.
And it's good. Like this. It's good.
It's enough. ]