A/N: I'm feeling really creative right now since I'm currently playing Gaston on a Tumblr RP. Apparently I've earned a lot of attention because I do it so damn good. I came up with this entry just this morning, and so now I'm thinking about making this into a little silly series. All in good stride.

~1

Gaston stirs in "our" bed (admittedly, it's shared. The only other room that he could potentially sleep in, next door to mine, is the guest room, which is frequently occupied by my mother and her medical dependencies. Arthritic, if you must know).

Hogging, murmuring a snore through the nose and throat, the nervous spectrum between – and then he turns over, taking the comforter and all the sheets with him. The springs groan obnoxiously. Typist reflects bitterly with a cringe *…I really need a new fucking mattress. And desperately.*

Never-mind…Donkey Kong over here isn't helping. Let him wear it out.

Typist is attempting to be quiet as she goes about her Monday, Wednesday, Friday routine of rising early for class. She's been conditioned (like lathering hair) through years of practice in public school - but not without mortification.

She slips gingerly about, occasionally stealing a glance at Gaston's rather handsome face – unmistakably, undeniably. It's almost submerged, buried under the comforter. Already bedhead has set in. And sometimes his snore growls and catches in his throat, then falls silent. And sometimes his face is strained like constipation – only with an unwanted thought protruding into his sleepy suspension; other expressions very peaceful, like docility, and a child who knows nothing of the world we live in.

I'm in front of my mirror fixing my hair, and fully dressed when he bolts upright. A sight for sore eyes. Well, as far as hair goes. But adorably irritable in his expression, as if woken by obnoxious noise.

I hadn't time to say "I was being quiet."

"WHERE'S LeFOU?"

…

Why is that the first thing you think of?

Hands reached and clasped onto the back of my head, fingers wound around my coif, yet unformed as it were. I stand just turned, my stance a clear reiteration of my incredulous temper.

At first I deign giving him an answer as I gauge his bitter look.

"—I don't know," I chopped. "- He'll be along shortly."

He's nowhere to be found, actually…Though I can't tell him that…

"Anyway babe – you need to getcha ass up and take a shower before I go to school."

Half asleep, he glares at me. Frowns, and blinks.

I'd forgotten for a moment that he's French and might not be fully acclimated to such casual English.

"A manly shower." I smile.

He throws himself back down into the aged bed. Unceremoniously.

He snarls, a growl rolling dryly in his throat, snatching the covers close up to his face, up to his unruly mopped head. "I'm NOT coming out of hereee!" he spat, his voice swelling and glorious as usual. It raised on the end. "'S FAR too cold this morning!"

Perfectly composed, unmoved to sympathy, I walk over and pat his thick muscular thigh, under the comfortable padding of the igloo that has formed.

….

This is usually how my mornings go with him.

NO ONE is as cranky as GASTON.

…And then his body becomes a drum for my hands.

"But really babe - you gotta stop drinking. You'll get liver disease...- Seriously."

A/N: He's heavy as fuck. All I could do was hit him, really. Hungry Man over here drank me out of house and home last night. *sighhhh*