an unkindness of ravens

vingt-quatre

— vingt-quatre ; twenty four —

IT WAS 3AM, THEY had practice in four hours, and Henri was lying in bed making out with Soren.

Henri suspected that Soren was still a little drunk, which was why he was giving up precious sleep he always made sure to get before practice. Unlike Henri, who slept when he had time and took frequent naps to catch up when he had a spare minute, Soren always stuck to a strict sleep schedule. The latest he'd ever stayed up for Henri was one in the morning. Henri had even tried going to his own bed after they'd finished each other off against the bedroom door, expecting Soren to send him on his way, but all thoughts of sleep vanished when Soren threw him down on his bed.

"I'm not finished with you yet," he had said, his gaze
dark and hungry as he stared down at Henri.

That was how they'd ended up here, too exhausted to do anything more than move their lips in sync, but Henri didn't mind or care. Pressed against Soren with one hand curled around his neck and the other flat against his the hard muscle of his chest, familiarising themselves with each other's mouths, he didn't think he even needed sleep. A small part of Henri couldn't help wondering whether Soren's sudden possessive streak was because of Zena, because of the husky tenor to his growl when he told Henri he didn't want anyone else touching him.

Henri pulled away from Soren slightly but stayed close enough that their noses were touching. "Hey," he said, in French. It was something he did when was talking to Soren alone — there wasn't necessarily a reason for the language change, he just missed talking in French and didn't want to lose his touch on it from so much English. Soren usually played along because it was good practice for him, considering his major, and today was no exception.

"What?"

"I didn't peg you as the jealous type," he said, as casually as he could.

Soren finally opened lazy green eyes. "Would you like to watch me push Jude up against a wall and give him a hickey?"

"No," Henri said, sitting up and scowling on instinct. Just the thought of Jude and Soren made his whole body burn with an unexpected jealousy and he tightened his grip at the nape of Soren's neck. "That's different and you know it."

"Enlighten me, Henri."

"I hate Jude and he hates me. You have history with him." Henri traced a light pattern across Soren's skin and followed the movement with his gaze, feeling Soren's eyes on his face. "Zena means nothing to me and that kiss was something she pretty much paid me to do."

Soren raised an eyebrow. "Prostitution? I expected better of you."

"Shut up," Henri said. "If I recall correctly, you told me you hate me and you don't care about me. Along with daily reminders that I'm stupid."

"All facts. Your point is?"

"Why would you care who I kiss?" Henri rolled so he was sitting atop Soren, straddling his hips with both hands against his chest as if to pin him down to the mattress. "If I mean nothing to you, which I clearly don't, surely I can kiss all the girls and boys I want. Right?"

Henri was just messing around — the real fact was that there was no one else in this world, girl or boy, that he wanted to kiss — but Soren still glared up at him through narrowed eyes.

"Right," Soren said dryly. "Then the deal must go both ways. If we aren't exclusive, I can kiss all the guys I want."

"And who would you kiss?"

"Jude, for starters."

"Maybe you should go and make out with him in your bed instead of me," Henri scowled, hearing the bitterness in his own words and not managing to force it out. "I'm sure you'd have a better time."