“Hey,” Yazid mumbled, and lifted an arm.
Ali put the tea on the side and climbed into bed fully-clothed, the searing heat a welcoming balm. He cuddled up to Yazid’s side and kissed a bruise he’d left with his teeth last night.
“Okay?”
“Mm. Who’d you call?”
“Mum.”
“Uh-huh?”
“I have to call the hospital tomorrow,” Ali whispered. “I’m…I’m going to do it. I’m going to donate.”
“Okay,” Yazid said, the passive tone a relief. “I’ll book a hotel tomorrow then and we’ll head up for your blood-sucking sessions.”
Ali laughed, the sound too high and giddy.
Yazid’s arm tightened around his back.
“If I back out, that’d be okay, right?” Ali whispered into the quiet gloom.
Yazid hummed.
“Yeah. Now ssh, this is a good film.”
“You’ve seen it a hundred times.”
“Yeah, but Kenneth Branagh is actually kind of fit in this,” Yazid whined.
Ali pinched him.
“Oi, enough of that. You had plenty last night.”