Matheus inhaled, the shock of consciousness snapping through his mind. He blinked, eyelashes brushing over fabric. Sitting up, the blanket fell away, tumbling to Matheus’ waist. The air smelled damp, thick with mold. Matheus crawled forward, groping over the dirt floor. His fingers landed on an ankle, narrow, covered in coarse hair. Matheus travelled up the leg, to bare hips, the flare of a pelvic bone, the flat abdomen bisected by a rope of a scar tissue. Pausing, Matheus waited for his vision to adjust to the light coming in from around the door, although he didn’t need his eyes to identify the man at his side. He didn’t know a lot of tall, fit men with thick scars across their stomachs.
Quin lay flat on his back, with his arms forming an X over his chest. Matheus tried to imagine a creepier position for Quin to sleep in, but he came up blank. At least Quin’s pose had a certain appropriateness to it. On Matheus’ left, Alistair curled around a pillow, his knees drawn up, sleeping bag haphazardly thrown over him. He wore a t-shirt, one of Matheus’, but Quin had opted for all-natural attire. Matheus shook his head. Maybe Quin’s polyester suit had finally disintegrated.