Mike woke up in the night when Stephen zipped their sleeping bags together, blind in the pitch-darkness, and wriggled around until his backside was jammed into Mike’s lap.
“Knock it off, you pest,” Mike mumbled, dropping an arm over Stephen’s waist anyway.
“S’cold.”
“Bollocks it is.”
A hand groped. “No, they’re not.”
“Lay off,” Mike grumped.
“Bloody hell, worn you out?”
“Too knackered for that.”
“Old man,” Stephen taunted.
“Watch it!”
“Prove me wrong.”
Mike found an ear and bit it until a high whine told him to knock it off.
“Don’t start what you can’t finish.”
“Finish me off then.”
“In the morning,” Mike promised, locking the arm over Stephen’s waist in a tight squeeze.
Sleeping bags were a bloody struggle on his own, never mind with Stephen joining in the burrito party. Tw
