#coccham crew cuddle pile

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

look into my eyes (find me there)

Coccham Crew Cuddle pile found family fluff. Inspired by @mirkwoodest's post here about them all sleeping in a giant cuddle pile, and the lyric @whenimaunicorn sent me yesterday: "if you stare into anyone's eyes for long enough, you might find them."

AO3, if you prefer

Tagging: @obipoelover, @sopranobuddy15, @2cool1002, @emberoflife, @ughsupongo, @punkrocknpearls, @tiyetiye @aadmelioraa, @volvaaslaug

Sihtric comes awake to his right arm tingling under Uhtred's weight and the distinct musky scent of Finan filling his nose, and he's certain that's Osferth's bony shoulder digging into his cheekbone. He'll probably have an imprint of Baby Monk's shirt on his face when he lifts his head. He feels and thinks and knows all this without even opening his eyes. Only the faintest light pierces the darkness of his eyelids, and the ship rocks beneath them to the river's gentle waves. There is no need for them to wake up just yet, and Sihtric is not quite sure what roused him.

The sails--woven by Eahlswith's hands and Lady Gisela's hands and the wives of all the other men with prayers to both the Danish and Christian gods for safety and speed and eventual peace--are reefed but not furled, and snap softly in a brisk breeze. Sihtric feels it on his nose and cheekbones, the first kiss of autumn, but his Danish blood runs thick, and surrounded by so many bodies, he welcomes the coolness. This is not why he's awake.

There's an unfamiliar snoring too close to his right, maybe four paces away. The volume of it is slightly higher than his usual sleeping companions, the soft snort at the end unfamiliar but not unknown. Sihtric's brows wrinkle, but he doesn't bother to open his eyes as he mentally ticks through the list of who's on the ship. Too loud to be Kjettil, too whistly to be Aldwulf.

Rypere?

Remembering that he's dead is like a lightning strike, and the sudden jolt of his muscles results in three sharply indrawn breaths, the delicate balance of their sleep broken. Finan's fingers find a braid but he does not tug, Osferth's shoulder is tense and digging into the hollow just beneath Sihtric’s cheekbone, and Uhtred's concerned blue eyes fill his vision. Neither of them so much as twitches.

"What?" Uhtred's question could easily be mistaken for the sigh of a sleeping man by any unfriendly ears.

Sihtrin inhales deep and slow, shifting closer, settling in with his mouth just below Osferth’s chin. Finan tugs on his braid, once, insistent, holding him in place because he wants to hear, too. He glimpses the plane of Osferth's chin out of the corner of his eye, imagines the line between his brows that he knows is there. "That snoring." Osferth twitches, just a little, when Sihtric’s breath tickles across his neck on its way to Uhtred’s ears.

Uhtred cocks his head slightly, the tiniest of movements to raise his ear from Osferth's chest. After a moment he raises his brows, then his head, glancing around wildly before melting back into their pile of cloaks and furs and sleepy bodies. "Steapa," he whispers, louder, but not loud enough to awaken anyone else on the ship.

Sihtric purses his lips. "I thought for a moment it was Rypere." He touches his hammer, feels Finan tug grumpily on his braid before fumbling for his cross.

"Jumpy Dane bastard," Finan mutters around a yawn, but his hand finds the nearest part of Sihtric's body--an outstretched forearm--and his fingers follow the slightly raised trail of ink that threads along Sihtric's skin. "C'mere, I'm cold." Finan tucks his face into the hollow of Sihtric's shoulder, the icy tip of his nose resting on the knot of a scar Sihtric got protecting Osferth's weak side in his second battle.

Sihtric shifts just enough to slide his cheek from Osferth's bony shoulder to his slightly less bony chest and focuses on the rise and fall of it, marveling at how close it is to the rhythm of the river. Maybe even the bastard of a king is connected to the land in some magical sense that Sihtric cannot quite comprehend.

He is not a man who cares for kings or for countries, he is not hungry for land or silver or any woman besides the one he has, and he will never understand the way Uhtred yearns for Bebbanburg. He has not followed Uhtred all these years, forsaking the king and country they technically fight for multiple times, because of some mythical sense of belonging to a place. Where would he belong anyway, except here? He is both Dane and Saxon, a war-monger and a peace-protector, where else would he belong if not here?

Sihtric only belongs to people: to Eahlswith and her courage that no one but him quite understands, to her gentle hands and biting wit; to Uhtred and his flaring temper, his will of iron and his tongue of fire; to Finan and his laughter and his daring and his creative cursing; to Osferth and his compassion, his unabashed faith in all of them and God, his quiet and unassuming strength; to the way they all sigh against him in their sleep.

He opens his eyes and finds Uhtred already looking at him, mouth relaxed in a small half-smile--how many people know, besides him, how often Uhtred smiles in his sleep? There is no need for words in such a moment as this, but Sihtric knows that he is found, that every piece of his being is known and loved, and who could wish for more than that?

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

I just wrote the opening for the Coccham crew cuddle pile fic, and it might legitimately be my favorite thing I've ever written.