2 of 365: Stomach

He wakes with his belly facing up. He holds a pillow over his eyes, lazily swipes at the streak of dry spit at the edge of his mouth. He peeks from underneath the pillow, stomach dropping at the sight he only thought he dreamt about. He strangles a yelp, moves so fast to hide that he feels the strain on the inside of his thighs, the soreness around his arms and shoulders. He moans into the pillow. There’s a storm in his belly.

“Are you okay?”

He flinches at the voice, the deep sound of it soft and wary. He swears he’s in a shipwreck, he could die here, but his stomach flips when the voice calls out to him again, and he swears in death he could be happy.

He mumbles something.

“…uh. What?”

“I said come back here.” He pauses, peeks out and pouts. “Please.”

The voice doesn’t call out to him, but a hand wraps around his bare stomach, pulling into a warm chest. A leg swings over his own and he pushes back, his lips stretching into a smile at the small moan he hears. He finds the hand around his stomach and locks their fingers together. The storm in his stomach seems to settle.  He relaxes to the warm breath in his hair.

“You hungry?”

“Is that a real question?”

“I was just asking.”

“Uh, I could use something to eat.”

“…Your breath stinks.”

“Asshole.”

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