No clue where this came from... But, I like it, so, enjoy!
The harsh blaring of an alarm clock wakes me and, for the hundredth time, I try to reach across the bed to turn off the machine without crushing the blond sleeping next to me. As usual, it takes me a minute or two to get the damn thing quiet and it's owner still hasn't moved. My mumbled irritation at the sleeping figure for buying the thing in the first place goes ignored as arms wrap around me (finally moving) and pull me down for a deep kiss, if I didn't know better I'd think that the boy wanted to continue the activities from the night before, but I do know better. I know he's simply trying to distract me long enough that I'll let him sleep.
Like hell.
I do, however, kiss back. Savoring the faint taste of strawberry that always hangs off my boyfriend (he always wears that lip gloss... the first gift after we were reunited last) before leaning down and mumbling in his ear that he needs to get up. I'm answered by an annoyed groan and a purple pillow thumping gently into my chest, though I'm sure he meant to hit my face.
He stays still, pretending to sleep, though I know he's wide awake (he can never fall asleep when I'm awake or away), and remains that way until I smirk and threaten to dump ice water on him. ('I'm up! Like, God, Liet, you'd totally mess up the sheets.') He grabs a hold of my arm, burying his face in my shoulder with the insistence that it's too bright out, (clinging is nothing new, always worried that I'm just a dream and it's still 1942).
I half drag him out of bed and to the wardrobe, where he drops my arm and starts searching for the day's outfit, filled with sudden energy. The choice is a tank top and a sinfully teasing skirt (cross-dressing makes him someone else, someone who isn't almost always afraid) and I have to remind him of how mad his boss gets when he appears in anything that isn't a business wear.
Once the clothes are folded over his arm he grabs my hand and, with a laugh (warm and real, but soft), pulls me down the hall to the bathroom.
He claims the first shower, then tugs off his shorts, laughing at my blush. His fingers twist at the base of his shirt, waiting for me to turn away as subtly as possible before removing it (embarrassment at the scars lacing his back). It isn't until the water starts running that I raise my eyes again, looking in the mirror as I scrub my teeth and shave, though it's not really needed. I continue to waste time until he finishes, the water turning off (there's sure to be no warm water left), and look down again just long enough for him to wrap a towel around himself (making sure to cover his back) before stripping quickly and sliding into the shower.
Sure enough, the water is cold (but that's okay).
Once we're both showered (his hair now holds the familiar sent of strawberries as well), he returns to his death grip on my arm (this time just to be close, he knows we're safe at the moment) and begs for breakfast, as though he actually needs to ask (though, maybe in his mind he does). I laugh and shoo him so I can cook for us, a simple boring breakfast, and, with a pout, he darts off to gather the documents we've left out around the house.
I finish cooking and call him in shyly, smiling as he grins and raises a stack of, mostly completed, papers.
He walks around the table and sits in my lap rather than in his normal spot across from me, ignoring the raised eyebrows. He only eats a little before stopping, choosing instead to sit silent, one arm around my neck, head tucked down against my collarbone (fingers of his free hand tracing along the almost faded scar that rests there, he knows all my scars, even if I don't know his).
We stay still for a few more minutes before the clock is noticed (by him, always by him- I'm never aware of time) and we have to run, scarfing down the last bits of breakfast as we yank on shoes and grab jackets. A fleeting half kiss goodbye (if we skipped it he's have a panic attack part way through the day... I might as well).
Then we're gone.
He's home before me, already curled up on the couch like a cat, in a summer dress when I walk in the front door. His eyes lift lazily and, taking the time to stretch (he really does act remarkably cat like sometimes), slides over to greet me with a kiss (still that sweet strawberry). Then those arms (they feel like home) are around my neck once again and I'm being pulled down the hall to the bedroom, unlike this morning, the lack of ulterior motives is clear.
That night, laying under warm blankets, wrapped around each other, still breathing heavily, I do something I haven't done in a while. I touch his spine. My fingers trace up it, pausing for a moment when he freezes up, but continuing the path carefully when he relaxes again. When I've reached his neck I carefully (oh so carefully) allow my hand to move out, away from the spine and along thing shoulder blades. I feel scars that he's kept hidden from me (from everyone) for as long as I've known him. I know where each came from.
He shudders when I brush past one in particular, one directly across from his heart, his dissolution during The Great War.
And, abruptly, he's crying (my Feliks, he so rarely cries), not loudly (his tears are never noisy) against my shoulder, clinging to me and, for once, he doesn't seem to care weather I can see the marred skin, even if only by the half light filling the room. It's ripped and knotted, a mangled mess that will never be smooth or clean like the rest of Feliks's well kept skin. I hold onto him, mumbling apologies, which he waves away with a teary smile, but he's still not relaxed, so I lean around him slightly, and kiss the skin. Carefully, softly, trying to show as much love as I can. He blushes (and I love his blush), eyes wide. I kiss him and he lets out a shy laugh.
"You still smell like strawberries."
(And he does.)
Okay, so that was strange. I really should be doing homework or at least working on updating one of my other stories, but I can't get them out of my flipping head today...
Hope you liked it! Thanks so much for reading! Please review if you can?