#it shows how off-balance bandit is that he's appreciative towards blitz

[kiruuuuu]

Well, I hope this one helps a bit, @finest-trashbag? 💝 :) Here’s some more Montagne/Bandit in which we’re approaching the comfort part of this wild ride. We’re not entirely there yet - but we will be. (Rating T, hurt/comfort, ~5.3k words)

The other parts of Protection Mountain can be found via tags or here on my Masterpost! (Mobile version here)

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It’s a mockery and yet he can’t bring himself to tear down the curtain, expose the farce for what it is, leave this pitiful excuse of a play. He can’t. Not when it involves gentle hands cupping his face, stroking his body, carding through his hair. Even in his dream he’s aware of it being no more than an illusion and yet he soaks in the affectionate gestures, echoes of words spoken once upon a time surrounding him together with the non-corporeal feeling of bliss. He loves and he’s loved, two things impossible to dream of in his younger days, then something he took for granted and now something he misses fiercely.

When he wakes up, there are tears in his eyes. It takes a few deep, shuddery inhales to return to the reality of a deserted hotel room, to become aware of his icy feet, the large mattress which is entirely too big for one person alone, his belongings carelessly strewn about on every horizontal surface. If it was a smoking room, he’d have gone through a pack a day probably but everyone noticed his attempts at quitting and so he’s not even granted this small comfort. He feels as if he’s underwater, days have bled together, sleepless nights blurred his perception and left him lost; sounds are muted and breathing seems impossible.

At least he didn’t dream of death again. Not his own, that would’ve been a consolation. No. Not his own.

The fact that he slept at all is a small miracle in itself and can be ascribed to the t-shirt he’s wearing, a piece of fabric he stuffed into his bag without thinking, stole without thinking twice about it and put on the previous evening. It smells heavenly, even now its scent is noticeable whenever he moves and so he pulls the collar over his nose and breathes in, curls up into a ball and wraps his cold hands around his even colder ankles while he thinks of the past. It’s the one thing keeping him sane these days whereas a month (or two?) ago, his future promised hope and stability. He doesn’t like thinking about the future now. Not at all.

He tries, but he can’t get hard. Not even with the familiar smell in his nose, definitely not with the window he left open during the night, still letting in freezing air, not with the help of pictures and videos on his phone. Not even those of him. Especially not those.

Eventually, he gets up because he’s shivering too much, accepting that he’s not even granted this bit of solace though he knows he’d feel worse afterwards, looking for a warm body to hold on to, missing the hands which caressed him in his dreams but are nowhere to be found now. He dresses carelessly, skips the shower and breakfast and gets on the tram taking him to where his love lies bleeding out.

.

There’s too much wrong with him and so Bandit doesn’t like looking in his direction. Instead, he inspects the blanket, the bed frame, the entirety of the room except for its occupant even though he could probably draw it in his sleep by now but at least none of it needs as many crutches to exist as the man before him. He’s fidgeting and probably radiating awkwardness, the underlying wish to be elsewhere though everything he’s ever cared for is right there, close enough to touch, to kiss, to hold on to. He does neither of these things. He feels guilty.

“Did you cancel the appointment?”, Montagne asks quietly after a prolonged silence which was thick enough to be tangible.

“Yes”, Bandit says and inspects the way the sheets are rumpled in great detail.

Another short pause. “You didn’t cancel it.”

“No”, Bandit says and follows the folds with his eyes, carefully thinking about nothing.

“Are you going to? Because if not, I’ll call them. They should give the date to someone who’s actually going to turn up.”

“So you really would stand me up at our wedding?” As soon as he’s spoken the words, he presses his lips together and buries his fingernails in his palm until the physical pain distracts him from the other, dull, omnipresent one. When Montagne sighs and reaches up to touch him, he ducks away and feels pathetic; his own pride won’t allow him to be this weak and vulnerable and so he leaves without another word, striding past everything and everyone until he’s in front of the main doors, wondering what else he’s supposed to do the whole day if not this. It’s all he does. It’s all he can do.

Strings hold him back, almost stretched taut, and so he remains where he is to breathe a bit of fresh air and hopefully reset his emotions. He’s quick to irritate these days, though his rage often tilts over into pure desperation and it’s not something he cares for. Ultimately, he tries to remain as neutral as possible, not to swing into any extreme as his emotional dial seems to need some calibrating. He bums a cigarette off of someone who also doesn’t look like she should be smoking and allows the quiet feelings of resentment, largely towards himself, but also… just a tiny bit…

When he returns, sinks into the chair which constitutes the middle of his universe, Montagne’s expression has softened and yet he can’t bring himself to do more than glance at it. “Give me your hand, Dom”, he demands and uncurls his own fingers.

Bandit studies the windowsill. He’s lucky he didn’t wear the t-shirt or else the smell of smoke would’ve ruin its calming effect. He wonders how Blitz is doing. He should probably call Six and give her an update. He doesn’t move.

“Mon amour. Please.”

Reluctantly, he lifts his arm and places his hand in Montagne’s, almost expecting it to be cool to the touch, as if he really was… gone and the silhouette before him no more than an afterimage burnt into his retina. But it’s warm. His loose grip tightens and a thumb strokes over the back of his hand. Some of the tension in his limbs eases up. Only some, but it’s a start.

“I don’t want you to spend your whole day in here. It’s Berlin, don’t you have people to visit? Places to see? You can watch films in the cinema and tell me about them later. I don’t want you to stay here all the time.”

“Do you not want to see me?” It’s unfair and both of them know it is, so Montagne drops the topic as he did so many already, discards them as unfruitful, as leading to unwarranted accusations. The list keeps growing. Bandit is unbearable and unable to change it.

“There’s something else”, Montagne valiantly tries again and he deserves a medal for putting up with any of this, if Bandit is honest. He’s in pain, not able to walk or even stand on his own and yet he hasn’t sent Bandit away once. It’ll only be a matter of time until he does. “I’ve spoken to Olivier.”

“Have you now?” His gaze drops to the sterile floor with the irregular pattern.

“I’d like you to apologise to him.”

When he withdraws his hand, Montagne tries to hold on it but Bandit shakes him off. “No.”

“You hurt him and who knows what you would’ve done had Elias not been there. And you blamed him for something which was entirely my own, personal choice.”

“And what a fucking braindead choice it was”, Bandit spits out before he can stop himself, his sharp tone of voice biting against Montagne’s calm one.

“So you’d rather he was dead?”

“Yes. If it meant I wouldn’t have to see you like this, yes. If it meant I wouldn’t have had to go through that entire fucking ordeal, yes.”

There’s emotion in his words, so much Montagne senses he’s not just saying it in anger, no, he actually means it – or at least part of it, or thinks he means it. Montagne, too, withdraws his arm now. “You’re better than that, Dom”, he tells him.

“I’m really not.” And this finally gives him the courage to leave, to change the scenery if only for one day.

.

The centre of Berlin never seems to exude the same magic for him as it does for the endless waves of tourists. He rarely comes here though of course he’s intimately familiar with all the relevant buildings, has fed sparrows on the broad street Unter den Linden, walked past the Holocaust Memorial and the Museum Island countless times, seen the Reichstag so much he’s sick of it. It’s mostly just crowded and loud and holds no appeal yet he finds himself on one of the many bridges over the Spree regardless, eating sunflower seeds and spitting the shells over the railing he’s leaning on. He’s in the vicinity of the GDR museum, a horribly nostalgic exhibition which largely glosses over the unsavoury details.

Bandit thinks it’s an ugly city but it’s his, he knows all the shortcuts and small streets none of the tourists ever take, has discovered a wide range of excellent restaurants in the formerly infamous part of the city called Kreuzberg, manages to overlook the sights in favour of the down-to-earth people who don’t mince their words. Being surrounded chiefly by German speakers has become an oddity, something he missed without even realising, and standing still in one spot allows him to eavesdrop on various conversations, couples planning on where to go next, people describing horrendous or amazing experiences on their phones, others talking about mundane things.

He’s lost all perspective. At this point, he doesn’t know what constitutes normal, whether he’s dressed strangely or only feels that way, whether he sticks out like a sore thumb or not. He’s unsure how someone in his situation should behave but also unwilling to ask, he’d rather not admit to Blitz that he decided over Montagne’s head, that he’s unable to find the words to say to Montagne in order to make everything better. To make everything go back to the way it used to be. He feels alien, like an impostor, definitely like he doesn’t deserve any of what he ever received from Montagne. If he could go back in time, he’d refuse his jacket. He wouldn’t sink into his hugs until his pulse stopped racing. He’d stay away and ensure Montagne would be happier that way.

If he doesn’t hear a familiar voice any time soon, he’s going to go insane.

“Hey. Are you alright? Did something happen?”

“Do I really call so rarely that you immediately assume it’s an emergency?”, he asks, vaguely offended and yet simply hearing Blitz on the other end does wonders for his urge to throw himself off the bridge (which is extremely low, he’d only end up soaked) or start a fight with other pedestrians.

“This is literally the first time you called me in months, Dom.”

“Fair enough. How are things at the base?”

“No, no, I asked first. How are you doing?”

He clenches his teeth. “I bet you all miss me horribly.”

Blitz pauses, but one of the reasons why Bandit values him so much is the fact that he doesn’t pry, instead begins replying to his question as if it was completely normal. He even manages to sound natural as he recounts some of the more entertaining episodes Bandit missed and it only takes them a few minutes until they actually conduct something which could be confused with a proper conversation. It turns out a few people do miss Bandit, Rook especially who’s apparently worried sick but has been told to give Bandit some space instead of bombarding him with endless messages. He even snatches Blitz’ phone from him for a moment but quite obviously has been instructed to keep it light as he merely gushes over the fact that he made the world’s best milkshake the other day. Despite knowing they’re both deeply concerned, the display they put on purely for his sake is heartwarming. He even catches himself smiling.

Eventually, the stream of stories dies down and Blitz seems to struggle for a moment before he suggests: “Listen, if you’ve got some time on your hands, why not go visit our boys? Last I heard they still go drinking every Friday at the usual place.”

Bandit’s smile dies down slowly as he ponders the prospect. “They’re not really my scene”, he responds but both of them know he’s saying something different, means to say: When you’re not there. Blitz effortlessly slides into most social groups whereas Bandit is a wilful square peg, his sarcasm and cynicism balanced out by Blitz’ mocking – they’re a good team, but on his own he often feels… incompatible.

“Bullshit. You hung out with Tom in your spare time even.”

Yeah, because we fucked, Bandit is tempted to shoot back but bites his tongue at the last second. Blitz already knows more about his love life than he needs to. “Yeah, you’re right. I should go visit them or else I won’t hear the end of it next time.”

“I think it’s a good idea. Say hi to them from me!”

“I’ll tell them you called them a bunch of incompetent bastards and refused to even show your face”, Bandit replies and hangs up, though he doesn’t miss the laugh on Blitz’ end.

.

Regardless of his confident words, worry eats at him the whole train ride. When he returned from undercover, he was treated differently than before – somehow seemed to hold a higher rank with all the downsides accompanying it. People mouthed off less which in his book means they didn’t see him as an equal anymore, they respectfully stepped around instead of playfully tackled him and showed less of an inclination to fight back, be it about insults or pranks.

Maybe he simply perceived the situation wrong, however. Maybe he just came back as a snarling, rabid wolf who intimidated people by taking jokes a tad too far, purposefully tried to make everyone in his vicinity uncomfortable and showcased humour so dark even the professionals shied away from it. Not Blitz though. He pushed back, ridiculed where it was necessary and warranted, knocked him down a peg whenever he deserved it. Their friendship could’ve gone two ways: horribly awry or developing into mutual respect and he’s glad it turned out to be the latter. By his side, he became accepted again.

Now he fears something similar might happen. They don’t know many details about Rainbow apart from its existence and might display vague hero worship or, worse, try to suck up to him. It’s the one thing he doesn’t need right now, all he wants is a relaxed evening to take his mind off the whole fucking car crash he caused somehow. Just one evening. A brief respite.

The streets he traverses are so familiar and strange at the same time, some houses freshly painted, others vacated, stores changed and asphalt renewed. He stops once he spots the pub, the name forever ingrained in his mind as the one place where it was always safe to get drunk, speak his mind and mess with the other patrons. They never let on they were GSG9 for safety reasons but there was no doubt most regulars guessed something along those lines as they either provoked them in misguided arrogance, flirted with danger or gave them a break. They’re welcome here.

He has to force himself to keep walking but his autopilot takes over at some point, carries him to the door, makes him enter and head for the usual table. As soon as he spots an entire row of familiar faces, he feels his anxiousness spike but it all subsides when Stefan, seated closest to the edge of the table, looks up at him and says: “Well fuck me sideways.”

Bandit just grins while most chatter suddenly dies down and he’s confronted with surprised as well as cheerful expressions. “Long time, no see”, he greets them and laughs when Stefan jumps up to slap his back.

.

It turns out all his worries were unfounded. He’s gladly accepted back, introduced to a few newcomers whose eyes widen when they catch his name (and isn’t that a satisfying feeling), and informed about the whereabouts of others not currently present. It’s almost like sliding into a hot bathtub, soothing for his nerves and allowing him to switch off for the moment, cease to censor himself and garner both scandalised as well as genuine laughs with his dry comments. He makes up a few stories about Rainbow and mixes them with truth, then watches in amusement as his (former) colleagues try to figure out which is which and lets them persuade him to drink a few beers with them. He’s been almost entirely abstinent so he figures a few won’t hurt – besides, he missed the taste of German beer horribly.

He’s brought up to speed on questionable regulations, personal matters, issues in Germany he missed, gets elbowed in the side, agrees to a few bets and wins them all, steals someone’s glass while they’re not looking and confirms a few stories the newcomers have heard about him yet refuse to believe they’re true. As for the topic of his presence, he stays vague and earns understanding nods as well as a few ludicrous speculations he neither confirms nor denies. He should’ve really done this sooner, he realises, he’s slowly returning to his normal self and it’s terrifying how far away from okay he was just this morning.

When some of them take a smoke break, he joins them but doesn’t partake, merely enjoys their company as they’re the ones with whom he hung out often. Tom lingers when they head back inside and so Bandit stays as well until they’re the only two left. “How long are you in Berlin for?”, Tom asks while lighting his second cigarette. He’s slim but strong, an incredibly fast runner and adept at anything stealthy which to Bandit was such a turn on that he jumped at the first opportunity to fuck him – about a week after they met. Neither of them likes to dawdle.

“Probably a bit longer”, he answers and is fully aware of why Tom wants to know.

“I’m off tomorrow. Next week Wednesday, too.” They look at each other in the cold light of the street lamp next to them. “If you want, you can come to my place later.”

Bandit pictures it. Tom is loud and insatiable, would probably rip off his clothes before they’ve even made it through the door and ride him breathless – he can see it clearly in his mind, no obstruction or blurriness. They’d both enjoy it and Tom would let him leave if he wanted to, not follow up if Bandit gave no indication of wanting it. There are no strings attached, it’d be easy and clean, he’d be able to get off which he hasn’t managed in a while. Tom is good in bed and, above all, familiar. Reassuring. A warm body to keep him company.

Never before has an idea seemed less appealing to Bandit. Not for a single second does he genuinely consider the offer and if he’s honest, the thought of letting any other man touch him in that way is distasteful. Even just picturing it makes him cringe vaguely, wish for Montagne, wish for his solid body at Bandit’s back, wish for his strong arms around him. “No”, he answers and plucks the cigarette out of Tom’s mouth to take a drag, “I have someone.”

“Me too”, comes the amused reply, startling a chuckle out of him.

“You piece of shit.”

They exchange a grin. “Nah, she doesn’t mind. I hit the jackpot with her because we both find it hot when the other one sleeps around.”

“Mine isn’t like that. At all.” He returns the cancer stick and smiles when Tom’s lips happen to touch his fingers. At some point, this would’ve been enough for him to drag him away. Now it’s just a little ticklish. “I’ve asked him to marry me, actually.”

A chortle. “Are you serious? Did he say yes?”

“Not yet. But he will.”

“I really can’t picture you as a married man, Dom, not in the slightest. What, are you telling me you’ve gone soft? Enjoy missionary? Cuddle the whole day? Buy him flowers?”

Bandit’s mouth curls into a smile. He has no trouble imagining his life while married to Montagne, no trouble at all. “That’s a good idea actually. I should get him some.”

Tom barks out a disbelieving laugh which Bandit doesn’t even take personally. “Never thought you’d end up this fucking whipped one day, dude.”

And as he searches for a proper comeback, he realises one thing which he somehow… lost track of these days, a fact so immovable and ubiquitous he looked right through it. Lacking it, at times even forgetting it with all its consequences was what made him insufferable – but talking about Montagne to someone unrelated put it back in perspective, drags him back to the ground, reassures him more than friendly words ever could. “I’m not whipped”, he corrects politely and without any offence taken, “just hopelessly in love.”

.

When he returns to the hotel later, he stumbles into Lion on the way to his room, the other man visibly calmer than the previous times they met, though his expression turns to stone nonetheless as soon as he spots Bandit approaching him. “Gilles said I should apologise to you”, he announces a little too loudly.

Lion suddenly looks pained. “Oh please no.”

“I don’t know what should surprise me more – the fact that you’re passing up a chance to see me grovel before you, or that you said please.”

“He’s obsessed with the idea that just because we both like him, we should be best friends. I’ll tell him you were full of remorse and you do the same and we’ll never talk about it, alright?”

This is pretty much the best case scenario, so Bandit just nods. “Sure. Whatever you say. You know, we should actually talk to each other and be nice in front of him so he stops nagging. And maybe even make plans together but then go to two different places because – no offence – I’d rather saw my arm off than spend an evening with you.”

“Likewise.” Lion pauses and squints at him more closely. “Are you drunk?”

“A tiny bit”, Bandit slurs which seems to be all the info Lion needed. “And so fucking in love like you wouldn’t believe. Have you ever been in love? It’s like that. Only ten times better. A hundred. I love him so much.” Maybe he’s a tad drunker than he thought, going by Lion’s vaguely pitying expression.

“Great for you but I really don’t need to hear this.”

“I’m going to marry him, you know. In four months.” He holds up three fingers and then remembers to whom he’s talking. “Oh shit. Don’t tell anyone. It’s supposed to be a secret.”

“As far as I know, he declined”, Lion instantly rains on his parade. Ice cold.

“Listen”, Bandit whispers, “he’s gonna change his mind, alright? I know he will.”

The Frenchman shakes his head. “I don’t think so. It’s to do with his ex-wife. But you should talk to him, not me. Especially not while drunk.”

“Yes. Okay. Whatever you say.” He stumbles off, realises he’s heading in the wrong direction and turns on his heel to wobble past Lion once more. “Why are you even up at this hour?”, he wants to know but doesn’t stop walking to hear his reply because it doesn’t really interest him.

He half misses the response, only hears keep an eye on and forgets about it immediately.

.

When he bursts into Montagne’s hospital room the next morning, he and his flowers are met with a curious glance. “I brought you hyacinths!”, he announces proudly and shoves the bouquet under Montagne’s nose.

“Those are hydrangeas”, his lover corrects him gently but accepts his offering awkwardly, looking around for a vase or something similar before simply standing the flowers up in his glass of water. “They’re lovely. Thank you.”

“You’re lovely”, Bandit shoots back and drags the chair closer to Montagne before sitting down. “How do you feel today?”

“Definitely not as good as you look.” He reaches out and this time, Bandit allows him to put his hand on his cheek, even leans into the touch with a sigh. They exchange a smile when Bandit takes his hand and holds it in his, massages Montagne’s palm and revels in the warmth of the soft skin. Montagne still looks brittle, pale and noticeably thinner, constantly exhausted and fragile but it doesn’t matter. He’ll get better in time. “What happened?”, he inquires quietly, visibly confused yet pleased at the crass change in Bandit’s behaviour.

“First of all, I’m sorry. I – I didn’t expect you to say no, I’ll be honest, but you’re not really in any condition to make this type of decision right now, so we’ll just… we can talk about it when you’ve recovered. Alright? You don’t need this kind of pressure right now.” It’s surprising how easily the words leave his lips but seeing Montagne smile for the second time ever since they were reunited helps ground him immensely.

“Sounds surprisingly reasonable”, Montagne agrees with a certain glint in his eye at which Bandit’s narrow.

“I thought of it myself”, he clarifies quickly and earns a soft laugh.

“That’s good.”

“And I’m sorry for pushing the issue. And for holding a grudge over it.” Montagne’s features are still expectant. “And for going over your head. And all the other… illegal stuff.”

“Well, it’s good to know that you’d be able to help should I ever need a different identity, but I’m frankly still frightened by how easily you obtained everything you had to. You probably could’ve stolen my ID out of my wallet without me noticing.”

Despite his casual tone of voice, Bandit understands where he’s going with this. “I’m not gonna do anything like this ever again. I promise. It was invasive. And wrong.”

Montagne nods and it’s at this point that Bandit realises he’s still angry. Furious, even. “I’m glad you realise this. I don’t want to need to worry about the security of my identity if I can help it.” Regardless, he’s tightly holding on to Bandit’s hand now and lowering his voice: “I thought I was losing you, Dom. You wouldn’t look at me. You wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t even let me touch you. I was scared. Even now, I’m scared for you.”

He can’t even pretend it’s unwarranted as he did indeed feel like he used to on particularly bad days, he realises now in hindsight. Nightmares, a general lack of concern for his own well-being, the omnipresent frost in his bones. It’s a testament to how much his life has improved by Montagne’s side that instead of reverting to seriously self-destructive behaviours, he contacted Blitz, followed advice, took a step back and reconsidered. Not what he would’ve done a few years ago. “I’m not the one in hospital”, he still protests weakly.

“No, but I eat and sleep regularly.”

Fair point. He draws a deep breath and looks up again, didn’t even notice he averted his gaze and now finds a mixture of compassion and sorrow in Montagne’s. “It was hell”, he admits and earns a nod. “It still is, a bit.”

“Yes. It is. And I don’t think you’ve even begun processing that I’m not dead, you still look like you lost me. It’s alright. I’m alive.”

Maybe that’s it. His brain melted together the grief of the early days when he knew nothing, the impotent rage, his powerlessness and now the fear of rejection into a terrifying vortex out of which he still hasn’t escaped. He looks at his lover and tries to convince himself that it’ll all be fine but largely fails. Doubts and anxiety eat at him, unchanged, so when Montagne pulls at him, he gives in.

It’s an awkward shuffling and pushing but eventually, Bandit manages to fit onto the bed next to his lover, rest his head on his shoulder and tentatively put an arm around his waist while trying not to touch any of the bandages. The effect is almost instant, Montagne’s proximity cures his fractured soul and when a hand begins stroking over his side, he relaxes fully against the once invulnerable-seeming body with a final sigh. Montagne is radiating heat as well as tranquillity, his regular breaths raising and lowering Bandit’s arm, his hand stroking away some of his fears.

“I’m so shit at this”, Bandit murmurs against fabric which will be his next target to steal and wear until its scent has been lost, “you’re feeling fucking awful and yet I’m the one who needs reassurance.”

“I’d rather expend the energy to reassure you than have you forge my signature again”, Montagne replies into his hair followed by an amused huff. “It’s excusable though. I’m busy not dying whereas you have nothing to do other than let your thoughts spiral.”

Bandit hums in vague agreement and allows his eyes to fall shut. He wasn’t even aware of how viciously he missed touching his lover, being touched in return, rest by his side. And cuddling, he supposes.

“Have you spoken with Olivier?”

He nods with a clear conscience because it’s true, he did talk to him. If what he says next is untrue, well, it cancels each other out. Right? “I gave him a speech and he hated every second of it.”

“That’s odd. He told me you kept it brief.” Oh shit. Montagne quite tangibly enjoys Bandit’s sputtering for a few seconds and then kisses his forehead. “You two are more alike than you think. But I get the message, I won’t forcibly try to make you interact again.”

It’s a relief to hear, even if Bandit has to admit that dealing with the Frenchman has become less annoying over time. They’re on the same page, stuck in an unfortunate situation and probably should try to make the best out of it. Bandit nuzzles Montagne’s jaw and says: “I take it back, by the way. What I said. I wouldn’t sacrifice a life for this. Not even his.”

“Good.” Another kiss. “I’m proud of you.”

“Do you still -” He hesitates, unsure of how to ask for what he wants to know. Needs to know. “I mean… am I – are you still…”

When Montagne fortunately catches on before he has to outright say it, his arm around Bandit tightens involuntarily. “Of course, Dom, how could you even ask? Of course I love you. I’m so glad you’re here by my side, it helps me immensely. Thank you for staying.” He’s getting choked up again though for entirely different reasons than the last time he was here, so he just snuggles closer and melts against Montagne’s side with a contented sigh. Like this, he can almost forget about the sterile room and the faint antiseptic smell; it’s easy to imagine they’re back in their flat, enjoying a lazy morning before eating breakfast together – and Bandit notices he’s actually quite hungry.

“How did you even decide to bring me flowers?”, Montagne mumbles, audibly sleepy as well now and resting his head on Bandit’s.

A smile pulls at his lips. “I’ll tell you later. For now, let’s just stay like this a bit.”