It was, as it always was, the gentle rocking of the ship that woke him up some few hours later, though how late in the morning it was he couldn't say—there was light filtering in where there had been rain dropping down in tiny pebbles in the night, the blanket damp here and there with evidence of the storm. Gradually, it dawned on Erestor that it was, in fact, neither a blanket stretched up over the lower half of his face, nor a fire in the hearth of his rooms in Lindon that was providing him with the (admittedly superior) sense of warmth emanating from somewhere at his back. The weight on his side was an arm, the very one he had commandeered hours ago for a pillow, and now, without the cover of darkness or exhaustion to insulate him against the full weight of the situation, he found himself rapidly outgrowing the comfort he had enjoyed in comfortable obliviousness all through the night.
Reluctant beyond all sense to return to the world where he and his current bunkmate were irreconcilably and aggressively terrible to each other, he shut his eyes again and willed himself back into the pleasant liminal space he had floated in right before dozing off, finding it easy to do in light of the pleasant mix of crisp morning chill and the bubble of easy warmth he was currently ensconced in. Perhaps it was only that he hadn't been physically held in centuries too long to count that made him so amenable to suffering Glorfindel's obvious lapse in sanity now, though he had to admit that the appeal was definitely more than halfway caused by the steady, understated strength in the visible arm, relaxed in sleep. He hadn't removed his hand from over Glorfindel's all night. A traitorous little thought insisted that it was probably more insurance against him rolling away from Erestor in the middle of the night, as much as he could on their narrow pallet, than it had been an arrangement made for lack of space.
Unfortunately (or not, he wasn't quite sure), Iluvatar had seen fit to sing him into existence with persistent motion sickness that wouldn't be convinced away for anything, not for the clear, simple joy of having found a few hours of peaceful interaction with someone who was, despite all of their awful spats over the years and inability to keep a conversation civil for longer than sixty seconds, one of his closest friends, nor for the reality that there could be nothing left in his stomach from the night prior. Still quite unwilling to move from his place and thereby break the spell that no doubt had a shelflife of only tonight, he resolved to fight it for as long as he could, the pad of his thumb idly running down the length of wrist hooked over his middle. Occasionally he could feel it brush the gentle pulse in his wrist, the spot where the blood tapped lazily against the space just behind the heel of his hand, and he felt another crop of goosebumps over the backs of his own arms, wishing in a moment of inspired insanity that he had the wherewithal to turn in the loose embrace.
But Iluvatar had different plans for that, too. It must have been late morning when the rhythm of the pulse he had been monitoring for what felt like hours changed, the low baritone of Glorfindel's voice filtering over him, too close to an ear. The hairs at the back of his neck were suddenly at attention; he was glad that he had neglected his nightly bed-braid.
"Of course it was me," he said shortly, his eyebrow furrowing critically though Glorfindel couldn't see it from his current vantage point. "You drew the short straw."
Well, at least they'd had the night. Sensing the inevitable clash they were heading towards now that Glorfindel was no longer drunk off horse piss and cognizant of the particulars of the last few hours, he was in no humor to have to rationalize the arm around him and the proximity of Glorfindel's face to the crown of his head to the man himself. One could be forgiven for being amorous after a few drinks, but Erestor had been stone cold sober and surely he was obligated to be more vigilant where Glorfindel could be—
The ship teetered a little, and in a backhanded kind of way, Erestor was a little glad at the sudden churning of acids that had sat all night on their own in his gut; moving like Ungoliant herself was gnashing at his heels, he rolled out of the embrace, hopped over the headboard and to the ground to pull on the same robe out of his pack—half because it was on top and easily accessible, half because he didn't want to waste freshly-laundered garments on a morning spent with his head over the gunwale again—and sprinted up the steps and out of the hatch.
The next two weeks were going to be even worse for the reality that none of the coming nights could ever be as good as the first. He could already tell.