Freedom
Alex dozes like a cat in the sun. The bruises are still horribly vivid, but the fierce red of the stitched-together gash is fading nicely, turning to hide again under the smooth tan he’s redeveloping.
And though Ryan watches, he daren’t touch them. He fears two things—firstly, of course, that it would hurt, and secondly, that it will wake him up.
They are curled in the hammock, side by side and rocking in the breeze, shaded from the harshest of the glare by the cherry trees. It’s a tight fit, has been since before (in Ryan’s case, at the very least, if not so much Alex’s) they were conscious of what might happen were they to touch.
The breeze is just strong enough to rock the hammock to and fro like a child’s cradle, and it ruffles Alex’s hair almost affectionately. Ryan itches
