The suite had gone quiet, save for the faint hum of conduits threading power through the walls and the steady rhythm of children's breathing. Arik and Cecil lay tangled in the wide bed, one golden head and one dark, the covers twisted around them in the careless sprawl of sleep. Arik's arm had fallen over his brother at some point, protective even in rest, while Cecil pressed in close, as if the act of sharing warmth was instinct.
At the table near the balcony doors, Damian and Gabriel sat in silence, the untouched remains of mint tea cooling between them. Neither had lit the main lamps; only the soft wash of the wall sconces painted the room in muted gold, enough to see without disturbing the boys.
Gabriel's brown eyes lingered on Arik, sharp even softened by fatigue, his hand curled loosely around his glass. "He's remembering," he said finally, the words quiet but edged.
