Lincoln was still lost in thought, his unseeing eyes resting below furrowed brows, when a gentle touch instantly froze his musing. His eyes flew over to notice Will grinning, smoothly transitioning into a pout when their eyes met. Will’s outstretched finger resumed its light taping, targeting the creases adorning Lincoln’s forehead.

“You’ll be an old man at twenty five” He chides in explanation, smoothing them out as Lincoln’s face relaxed from it’s formerly tense expression.

“With you around, it’ll be twenty three. At best”, Lincoln retorts, thrusting an accusatory finger at his friend and using the motion to hide the shiver that brushed down his spine as Will’s finger continues down to trace the features of Lincoln’s face. His touch swept down Lincoln’s nose and hesitated before dropping down to pause on his lips. Will’s eyes flickered up to meet Lincoln’s then quickly away and the finger was lifted as his hand rose to sweep back his unruly curls.

Will’s head fell heavily back onto the pillows, his body tensing with forced control. “God, Lincoln,” He manages, the words resting weightedly in the air. Will’s mouth lightly connected with the back of Lincoln’s neck and his warm breath curls around the exposed skin. This time Lincoln is powerless to hide the shiver that runs through his body. A dark flush creeps onto his face and his body stills. Every nerve in Lincoln’s body seems to extend from that point of contact and he was instantly dependent on the intoxication, a puppet on a string unable to move without the guidance of his puppeteer’s skilled hand.

A broken whine pitches out with his breath and Lincoln’s chest feels unbearably tight, the struggle for breath put second to the mess of emotions wreaking havoc on his ability to function. A bead of sweat slides down his throat and comes to a halt in the divot of his collar bones, soon chased away by Will’s wandering hand.

“Lincoln…” Will murmurs, his mouth resting just above Lincoln’s ear, “If I don’t find somewhere to bathe, I might start growing a garden from all these layers of grime. As that is a situation I would very much like to avoid, I suggest we get going.”

For a moment the words seem to echo inside of Lincoln’s head, the humorous comment as alien as a foreign language. When he finally processes them, he notes with detached acceptance that the young man next to him, nonchalantly rising from the bed to dress, will very likely drive him insane. The worst part? Lincoln isn’t sure that’s a bad thing.