However, the people under these sheets were not enjoying anything close to sleep.

To the right is one Genjo Sanzo, whose blood has long since been cleaned away, but whose pride still remains dark and deeply bruised.

To to left is Cho Hakkai, tonight playing the role of healer, who insisted with an iron edge that yes, the wound was closed, but yes, he still needed to monitor it.

Silence reigned.

"..Sanzo?"

...for a while.

"Mh."

"Ah. Are you... cold?"

"Mnh," said the man who could say no without actually saying no.

"All right. Good night."

...for a while.

"...has it returned," asked the man who could insert entire paragraphs into three words.

"Hakkai."

"Yes. Sorry."

No, he wasn't.

"Mh," a wordless sound, this time from the articulate side of the bed.

"...what."

"Oh, it's nothing."

Minutes passed. It could have even been hours.

"...Hakkai." In the end, he'd taken the bait.

As if he'd never put out bait at all, "Yes?"

"'Ch." So why did his mouth want to quirk?

"Yes, Sanzo." Mildly, as if he'd just been told to go grocery shopping, and no, not pleased at all, not at all.

Blankets shifted. Hakkai shifted. Sanzo shifted.

And if anyone wanted to ask, the healer had fallen asleep that way while monitoring his patient's progress. And his patient had most definitely not noticed the person pressed against him at all, not at all.

They finally slept, together, them and the moonlight.