The Quiet Before
The first light of dawn seeps through the stained glass at the far end of the hallway, throwing shards of ruby and sapphire across the marble floor, and Karim lies awake beneath it long before the sun fully commits to rising. He has learned, over these last weeks, that sleep is a negotiation rather than a certainty — his son has taken up permanent residence against his bladder, and his back aches in that particular hollow just above his hips no amount of pillows seems to soothe. Six of them are currently arranged around him like the walls of a fortress, one wedged beneath his swollen belly, another between his knees, and still he shifts, restless, silver hair fanned out across the black silk like spilled moonlight.
He presses a palm to the curve of himself and feels an elbow, or maybe a heel, push firmly against his ribs.
"Rude," he mutters to the ceiling. "Absolutely rude. Some of us are trying to enjoy the last few hours of having a bladder that functions like a normal human bladder."
Beside him, Nikolai stirs, one heavy arm sliding across Karim's hip with the unconscious possessiveness of a man even sleep cannot fully disarm. His voice comes low and rough, not yet awake…