Act 2, Scene 5.

The King's Chamber.

It was dark when King Macbeth was awoken in the night by the creak of disturbed boards. Moonlight streamed in through the thin curtains and illuminated a figure; he smirked to himself, knowing was in the room with him.

"Banquo, my wife could have been lying here with me," Macbeth whispered, although they both knew how unlikely this was. It seemed the whole kingdom knew of  the dark distance growing between their King and his Lady. Linen sheets against his cheek was colder than the breeze breathing against his back with only one person lying between them.

Suddenly a soft weight fell across him, a mess of curly hair filled his face and warm breath trickled down his neck, no noise made as feet crossed the complaining floorboards.

"But Macbeth, my son lies in my chambers tonight," Banquo murmured in reply.

With the door locked and the guards hastily dismissed, he lay beside the once Thane of Cawdor, now King of the country and mirrored the smile that cut through the dark as the bed shifted when Macbeth rolled over.

Macbeth's hand faltered for a moment before resting on the other's hips: perhaps he hadn't washed all the red away, and it would stain Banquo and give last night's deed away. Their gaze met, even in the gloom, and he pressed their foreheads together, asking quietly, "is he not old enough to sleep on his own? One day he must succeed you, mark me, and without a comforting hand on his shoulder every time the owl hoots too loud in the night."

"You are too harsh on my son," he reprimanded softly, raising a hand as if to strike him but resting the back of it against his rough cheek instead, "he only misses his mother."

"Did those memories make you lonely again?"

After an uncomfortable silence the hand withdrew and Banquo moved as if to sit up and leave.

"Banquo," Macbeth caught his hand and implored him to stay; "that was an insensitive question, please, forgive my hurtful tongue. I will become lonely, too, but by my own mistakes."

"Churl," came the subdued reply, but he lay down beside him again, tangling their fingers together. They fell into silence.

Heartbeat beginning to gallop, Macbeth lowered his eyes to Banquo's open shirt, then up along his strong shoulders. He was built to be a powerful fighting animal, to protect his son and freedom, and the fitness of his body and old and new scars proved him worthy. Truly such a miserable man as himself was blessed indeed to have Banquo at his side. And he wasn't not beautiful, either... 

Lips Macbeth was watching lifted into a smile at his unsubtle gaze.

"I must return to my own bed tonight," Banquo warned.

"What treachery- this is your bed tonight."

Raising an eyebrow, he lifted a hand and brushed hair from Macbeth's brow before sinking his fingers into it. With a wider smile he raised himself up onto one elbow and upturned the King's mouth to his own-

"Control yourself, my King." He kissed his nose condescendingly, knowing it was a tease and chuckled quietly.

Macbeth watched him sink back onto the bed with a disgruntled harrumph.

Banquo knew what Macbeth had done. He could read this man so easily, even when he tried to bind himself as tight as a Bible, long before they began to share one bed on cold nights. What had happened to Duncan dripped with suspicion, and Macbeth reeked of guilt to anyone who knew him even a little well. Indeed, Macduff wasn't keeping his thoughts to himself, and Banquo had decided not to keep his own from himself: hurting himself by denying suspicions wasn't worth the pain, but facing it and suffering beside Macbeth felt the most righteous to him.