notes: mild cw for referenced scars, Carlos' from the bowling alley, Cecil's from the boy scouts/interning at nvcr

"It's hot," Carlos comments as he gingerly folds Cecil's fluffy comforter as far to the foot of the bed as possible.

"They still haven't fixed my A/C," Cecil apologizes, climbing into the bed beside him. They lie side-by-side staring at the starlight washing across the fissured shapes of Cecil's ceiling.

"Can I...?" Carlos asks, a finger hooking in the collar of his faded Jurassic Park t-shirt. His lower lip snags on a tooth in a familiar anxious tick. Cecil nods and tries not to steal too obvious a glance at exposed skin. It isn't the first time he's seen his boyfriend shirtless, but he recognizes the way Carlos shies instinctively from view, arms automatically crossing to cover the thick dark hair and pudgy curves and patchy scars. Cecil understands the feeling all-too-well, and self-consciously tugs his own shirt down a little further toward the waistband of his flannel pants. "Goodnight," Carlos murmurs, fumbling for the light and leaning across the narrow bed for a kiss.

He's asleep quickly, snoring in that way Cecil teases him for, but also never hopes to fall asleep without hearing again. Absently Cecil's fingers untwine themselves from the sleeping scientist's grasp to trace lazy patterns against Carlos' stomach.

It's odd, Cecil thinks, to assume things are one way only to have them shift and change unexpectedly from beneath you like an unperceived earthquake. Part of him feels like this is betrayal, somehow refuting a label he's adhered to since adolescence. Frequently he reminds himself that he is free to shift and change like the wind, that there are other labels he's hesitantly typed into search engines and later cleared from Carlos' internet history because he wasn't ready to share all this just yet. He lets out a sigh against the nape of his boyfriend's neck.

Carlos is right - it's hot tonight.

Cecil pushes himself to an elbow and slips off his shirt with slightly trembling fingers. He watches the soft cotton pool in a shapeless form on the floor before turning back to the sleeping man next to him. Arms wrap cautiously around the scientist once more. It's a different sensation altogether - skin on skin, scars on scars, self-conscious squishes all squashed together. Cecil might like it, he muses as he tugs the thin sheet up over them both.

In the morning Carlos finds some way to twist this new development into his own fault and apologizes for accidentally pressuring, but Cecil kisses him with a smile growing bright as the sunrise as he embraces this new breed of butterflies that have begun to flutter oh-so-slowly in his stomach for some time now.

They talk a lot at first, and then they are quiet, and Carlos brushes his fingertips through Cecil's hair - this time allowing them to trace a few of the rough scars that lie against his ribcage beneath the curtain of ebony waves.

And Cecil feels something stir at the touch.
And it's not much, but maybe it's a start.
And maybe there doesn't ever necessarily have to be a finish to whatever this is.

And maybe this - all of this - is okay.

notes: based so very heavily on my own discovery of demisexuality, from back before I realized asexuality is more of a spectrum than a black and white static label.

this has all been in my head for a while now and I'm really glad I wrote it. if you would like to share cute ace headcanons with me in exchange for ficlets and incoherent cooing, I can be found at ducktelepathy on tumblr~