From the very first, they found touching easy. Only a few words into their acquaintance, and Roger shared his cigarette with Peter.

Soon after, when Peter cried silent tears over that horrific scene in the basement, Roger's warmth was there to comfort him; all it took was Peter's hand over Roger's heart for a moment, and they were both ready to keep going. Keep going long enough to get themselves out of there. Together.

From then on, they were never apart for more than minutes; mostly, they were within arm's length. It was important for them to know they could just reach out and the other would be there. Warm and solid and already so very familiar in a world gone mad and cold and dead.

The isolation of the shopping mall suited them just fine, because as it turned out, they didn't need anything besides each other. Their touches became so frequent, it just felt wrong when they were absent.

Even with Stephen and Fran around, they always stayed close enough for their arms or legs to brush. Fran would look at them knowingly sometimes, envying their closeness. She prefered it when Stephen didn't touch her. But it made her happy to see how the intimacy made Peter and Roger glow.

Stephen knew as well, but his envy was borne of jealousy. He had been Roger's friend for a lifetime, and there was Peter - tall, strong, handsome, heroic Peter - taking everything from him he had always been afraid to ask for, or even admit to wanting.

Peter and Roger had their own world. In their microcosm of four, they built a little universe of two, orbiting around one another. When Peter smiled, Roger was happy. When Roger felt overwhelmed by the horrors outside, Peter was sad.

That was when they came to realize that if the touch of the other's hand could comfort, then an embrace would heal. Roger fit into Peter's arms so perfectly. There was no problem sorting out their limbs, because Peter could wrap around him with ease, sheltering Roger completely. Roger's blond hair would become a mess, standing up on end once Peter's fingers had run through it for minutes and hours. One cheek would end up glowing pink with warmth after resting against Peter's broad chest long enough, and then Peter would laugh at him until he got distracted by Roger's eyes, because they too would glow as if he had a fever.

And Peter would look into them as the light blue turned so dark they met his own deep brown eyes halfway. His long fingers would brush that pink, flushed cheek, and then the other until that too began to glow. And when his fingers first strayed, purely by accident, to trace the soft, full lower lip of Roger's mouth, it gave him new ideas.

Cuddling was healing. And kissing - whether soft and slow and hesitant, or deep and demanding... kissing was love.