"A hot shower for you, then," decided without preamble, tucking himself more tightly around Jon, embracing him as if this was their very last night on earth. Allowing his lover to absorb the full, warm weight of arms against broad shoulders and chest. Robb's leg slid over Jon's, wrapping his whole self around him. Delicious heat - what Jon always craved; a simple solution to many woes - comforted tetchy, goosed flesh. Seldom did Robb intentionally push excess body heat out, but now he did, for he had plenty to spare, and on a late summer evening when Jon should've been teetering on the edge of clammy just as he was…
It made him wonder.
Where's your mind when the chills overtake you? Reliving an old dream, perhaps? Or swept up in a painful memory best kept hidden? Jon still kept so much of his past neatly locked away. He never pried, because he knew that to only be a dead-end venture. Someday Jon might feel ready to let go some of it, and when that blessed moment finally arrived, Robb fully intended to be there. He'll want a proper long cuddle then, too, I reckon. Needs that constant connection like a person needs oxygen to live.
Robb studied his man intently across the scant inches. He'd seen Jon Snow in just about every setting imaginable, witnessed the way light - cast from flickering candles or the murky pre-dawn hour, across a crowded room lit only by unforgiving fluorescents or scorching high noon sun baking studio backlot - played across each curve and fall of muscle. Sometimes, in his more ridiculously fanciful moments, he imagined Jon to be spun from pure moonlight and shadow. Fleeting. Liable to vanish in the blink of an eye.
"We'll grab a bite before we hop in. Fruit, maybe. We'll share." How fortuitous then that Jon followed along so willingly when Robb led them down one path or another. Never so reckless as to cause real harm, mind. Never that; not when he was so obviously protective.
"I'm so proud of you, Jon," he whispered against the crown of his boyfriend's head, a stray curl sticking to his chin whiskers. It felt a little desperate, a tad helpless, even. The unfailing need to touch a certain person so often.