Character(s): Caspian X, Edmund Pevensie
Setting: Somewhere in Voyage of the Dawn Treader, most likely on the Lone Islands.
Notes: Slightly crackish, and a tiny bit of angst that's blink-and-you'll-miss-it. But mostly fluff, because there's been too much pain this week already. Characters you recognise belong to C. S. Lewis.
Summary: Ed’s laughing. At you.
He’s stopping. Why is he stopping? Is it something I—
He’s laughing. At you. You frown, not appreciating this sudden hilarity at your expense, and when he doesn’t stop pointing at you and laughing the frown becomes a scowl. It isn’t as if you’ve done this often. You’re feeling somewhat vulnerable standing here in your drawers, a new experience for you and not one you’re particularly enjoying, and you can’t help thinking something’s wrong. You’d been so pleased to see Ed again, but being laughed at while being undressed by the man you love is not how you’d expected this reunion to go.
Some of your annoyance makes it into your tone, and you have to give Ed credit; he does his best to stop laughing.
‘I know, I know. But long johns?’
He seems to find it hilarious. You, however, find it annoying and say as much.
‘It’s been years since we last saw each other; I’d thought we never would again, and all you can do is laugh at my underclothing?’ you ask, incredulous.
Gathering up as much dignity as you can muster in your half-undressed state you collect up your clothes, including a crumpled shirt now boasting a distinct lack of buttons, intent on getting out of there as fast as possible. You don’t care who sees you; being laughed at is doing nothing for your libido. Or your temper.
When Ed notices what you’re doing, the giggles come to an abrupt stop.
You ignore him, your entire focus now on retrieving the last of your clothes (how did my sword belt get all the way over there?), although your body is screaming at you to stop being an idiot and go to him.
Ed tries again, this time in a much more subdued tone of voice, and again your treacherous heart leaps at the sound of him. You sigh, unable to stop yourself reacting to him even when you don’t want to. How did I end up like this?
‘Yes?’ Your soft-heartedness doesn’t carry through to your tone, you are glad to hear.
‘I’m sorry.’ His tone is small, almost childlike, and you remember just how young he still is.
You sigh (again), drop the small bundle of clothing you’ve accumulated and turn to him, holding out your arms. He walks into them and you hold him to you, relishing in the feel of his body so close to yours. It’s been at least a thousand days since the last time you woke up beside him and you’ve ached for him during every part of the interim. It’s been so long.
You cup his jaw with your hand, running your thumb against his cheek, before accepting his apology with a deep, and fierce, kiss that should make it clear your feelings for him haven’t changed. He reciprocates almost straight away; the slide of your tongue against his reignites the passion between you and before you know it you’re back where you’d been a few moments before: frantic to be skin-to-skin again and competing to see who can get the other undressed in the shortest possible time.