Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.
A/N: Double-beta'd by Ice Dagger and Befanini. I experimented a bit here, since first person and present tense are both things that I simply don't use very often. Tell me what you think!
Lacuna
It's an uncommonly lazy afternoon, too warm to be under the sheets, but not too warm to lie together on top of them. He's fallen asleep, and I am nearly so, watching the light fall in shifting stripes across his face as the tree outside the window moves with the breeze, playing on his light skin and hair in a way that I know it does not play on mine, when I have a stray thought.
I will miss you, when I'm gone.
The thought startles me, and I continue to lie there, now watching dust motes dance though the air. I will miss you. How long has it been since I have missed someone—really missed someone? Of course, there have been lovers before him, but while I enjoy their presence I rarely think of them after our paths go to separate ways. But I am certain I would miss this one, though he is so different from myself. It is odd to think about. Particularly since there is no way to ensure that I wouldn't have to miss him. I frown a bit. This wouldn't do.
He sighs, and I quickly rearrange my face back into sleepy contentment, but he never opens his eyes. He just moves closer and slowly, carefully (he is not asleep then, likely never had been) puts an arm around my waist, and even more carefully settles a leg over both of mine. He rests, if rests is the right word, waiting for me to throw him off it seems, before really relaxing into sleep. Yesterday, I would have found such a gesture endearing. Today I am annoyed.
I wait an appropriate amount of time, and then turn to my other side, the movement enough to slide his calf down to my ankle, his fingertips to my back. There. The heat is less oppressive that way. He doesn't move to cover me again. He'll probably be pouting for days, though he will not admit to it. A part of me is wickedly glad about that. Another part is appalled, but I've grown used to ignoring that part of my mind, and take just as much spiteful glee in mortifying it as I do anyone else. There may be something wrong with my head; madness does run in the family. Part of me wants to go mad, too. Surely it is more entertaining to be the madman than to live with him.
There is too little to do, and that makes me think too much, and on the wrong subjects.
Basch sighs beside me and I know my movements woke him. I indulge a cruel smile, since my back is turned to him. He turns onto his other side as well, so his back faces mine.
I try to convince myself that the smile is still there.