"Your Majesty?" Florian called softly, shifting against the heavy weight that pinned him down.
His back ached—dull, constant, the sort of ache that came from nights without reprieve—but he still tried to twist his body just enough to glance over his shoulder.
There he was.
Heinz.
Eyes closed, face calm, looking for all the world as though he were in the deepest of sleeps.
As if he weren't the very reason Florian's back had never gotten a proper break.
'He's awake. I know he is.'
For the past few days—no, nights—they'd been tangled up like this, "fooling around" as Florian liked to call it in the privacy of his own mind.
And in that time, he'd learned. He'd learned the cadence of Heinz's breathing, the subtle shifts of his chest, the faintest tension in his body. He knew the difference between genuine slumber and feigned sleep.
And right now, Heinz was feigning.
