Page 49 of Fought it Through the Teeth

Morgan doesn't know how to thank him for that. He doesn't know if there are words for it. So he cooks the crayfish and doesn't burn them and hands Bohdi the first one when it's done.

They eat in silence. Cracking shells with their fingers, pulling out the small morsels of white meat, not looking at each other. It's almost peaceful. It would be peaceful if Morgan's mind would leave the study behind.

He can't. Every time his lids drop the image is there — the wide, incredulous eyes, the blood, the sound. He keeps his eyes open and eats his crayfish and watches the fire and adds another branch when it needs one.

They finish eating. Bohdi wipes his hands on his already-ruined trousers and leans back against the log, and Morgan banks the fire down to coals and unpacks the bedroll.

There's one. One bedroll and one blanket is what the stableboy had time to grab. It would be absurd to discuss the logistics of who sleeps where and who sleeps with what when the answer is obvious and the alternative is one of them freezing in the open air while the other is an asshole wrapped in comfort.

They climb into the single bedroll together. Neither of them remarks on it. Bohdi pulls the blanket over them both and lies on his back with one arm behind his head, and Morgan lies beside him, close enough that their arms touch from shoulder to elbow. The warmth of the shared space is immediate and disorienting. The last time they were this close was —

He doesn't finish the thought. The bath. The water. Bohdi's mouth on his and his body in Bohdi's lap. Hours ago. A lifetime ago. A different world.

Morgan says, "What a fucking mess."

Bohdi laughs.

The sound is startled, broken out of him by force, and it transforms into something genuine and honest and so exhausted it's barely recognizable as amusement. Morgan can hear in it that Bohdi has been through the worst night of his life too, and that the absurdity of their situation has finally, mercifully become funny.

Morgan feels some of the tension go out of his spine at the sound of it. Not all of it. Not even most of it. But some — enough to breathe deeper, enough to let his shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.

"Complete and total clusterfuck," Bohdi agrees. "Start to finish."

Then Bohdi puts a hand on Morgan's ribs.

Gentle. Easy. The palm settling against the place where Ivan's boot landed, over the shirt, with a pressure so light it barely qualifies as touch. It's not a grab. It's not an advance. Bohdi has been carrying a specific, focused concern for hours and is only now, in the dark and the quiet, allowing himself to look at it directly.

Morgan's pulse jumps. He feels it and he hates his own body for its inability to distinguish between tenderness and desire, because both live in the same place and both respond to the same touch and he is too tired and too raw to sort them apart.

"Haven't even checked your wounds yet," Bohdi says. "What a shit bodyguard."

"I'm fine," Morgan says. "I'll be fine."

It comes out steadier than he expects. The words are automatic, the same reflex he's been running on his entire life, to Eskil and to his own reflection and to anyone who gets close enough to see the cracks. They are not true and they are not convincing, and Bohdi doesn't challenge them, which is its own kind of kindness.

Bohdi is quiet for a moment. His hand stays on Morgan's ribs, warm and still, and the firelight plays across the branches above them and the blanket is pulled up to their chests and the world is very small and very dark and very close.

"You were so fucking brave, Morgan," Bohdi says.

Something catches under his ribs. Morgan swallows. Hard. The sting is behind his eyes and he bites the inside of his cheek and holds it back.

"All I did was get the shit kicked out of me," Morgan says.

Bohdi's hand curls around his waist. Still gentle. Still careful. The fingers adjusting their grip, not tightening but settling, wrapping around something he intends to keep.

"You know that's not true," Bohdi says. His voice is low and rough, and he means it. Bohdi always means it. "You saved us both."

Morgan bites his lip against the burn behind his eyes and the words settle in his chest and stay there — warm and solid, a coal in the ashes, something to hold. He doesn't believe them. Not yet. The version of events that lives in his head is the one where he failed and was only saved because Bohdi fought through a drugged stupor and did what Morgan couldn't. That's the version he'll carry.

But Bohdi said brave and Bohdi said you saved us both and Bohdi's hand is on his waist and Morgan can feel the truth in the words — distant, indirect, warming something that hasn't been warm in a long time.

"I don't feel brave," Morgan admits. His voice is very quiet. Stripped of the sharpness, the wit, the armor. Just Morgan, twenty years old and very tired. "I feel like I'm on the verge of losing it completely and I'm only hanging on because you keep pulling me along."

Bohdi chuckles. It's soft. Low. The rumble of it moves through the bedroll and into Morgan's body through the places where they're touching — shoulder, arm, the hand at his waist.

"That's my job, my prince," Bohdi says.

Morgan breathes. Bohdi doesn't move his hand.