[ Any gentleness on Cambridge's part is due more to a drunken lack of control in his movements than anything else. In the warm, dark lee of Durham's back Cambridge stretches expansively as he edges closer; Durham's body is taller and broader than his, what with years of squash and cricket and all those terribly middle class sports that Cambridge has scorned all his life. Cambridge is comparatively leaner - a naturally rakish kind of skinny that is in no doubt aided by his propensity for liquid lunches over real ones. Even the food that Cambridge does bother to eat can only ever be of the highest quality, and in the face of anything less than gourmet then Cambridge would sooner go without. Feeling cold and small beside the other man as he sleeps, Cambridge briefly tightens the arms he drapes over Durham's torso. His fingers, seemingly determined yet not quite connected to Cambridge's brain due to the staggering amounts of scotch consumed that evening, wander and roam restlessly before seeking out the lower hemline of Durham's night shirt and skirting lightly along the warm skin beneath. With his eyes closed in the darkness Cambridge smirks privately to himself; there's something bizarrely enjoyable about sneaking up on Durham in such a way that it almost seems a shame to wake him. The hand he snakes up Durham's shirt slows and his touch lightens to a teasing faintness as he entertains notions of just how much he could possibly get away with before Durham realises exactly what was happening. ]
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