[He has nowhere near enough consciousness to take note of or object to the little piece of affection Kratos drops on his head; only the thought that it is warm.]

[Yuan rouses vaguely when he's being hauled around like a potato-sack. This, at least, he can help with; one pulled muscle does not at all make him an invalid. He tries to say something to this effect and promptly faceplants into the pillow instead. But then there's Kratos again, and his boots are off so he doesn't strictly need to get up again, and it has been a very, very long day.]

[He has rarely experienced such fear and such joy in such close company. Yuan turns his head till he can press his face into the closest available part of Kratos instead. And that is... it is enough. There are no thoughts of being discovered, or explaining away what Kratos is doing in his bed. There is only the warmth of his presence.]

[He doesn't think he's ever slept so well.]