Andy.

I love mornings.

I like waking up early for work. Seven is a good time because in the summer, it's right as the sun is rising, and even if I would sleep later if allowed, something about waking with the sun makes it all feel natural, like maybe I'm supposed to be awake at this time. I guess I am- I read somewhere in a magazine (you know, one of those you pick up in the dentist's while waiting your turn, and you don't actually mean to read it, but the next thing you know, you are) that sleeping and waking earlier helps you feel more energized and prepared for your day.

I also like waking up so early because all the world, for once, seems so peaceful. It's so quiet at this hour, except for maybe some birds chirping here and there, but it's so nice. The air always smells so fresh; the whole area around me feels so clean. I usually shower in the morning, just to feel like I'm a part of that cleanliness, and while I'm waiting for my coffee to finish, I take a moment to sneak out into the yard and just sink my bare feet into the grass to feel morning dew.

Morning is a great time to relax before work- or anything else really. I've found ever since I've started this routine of enjoying the beginning of a day, I've not let the rest of my day get to me so much. I guess the saying that goes how you start your day is how you live your day was pretty spot on. Whether it's the stress at work, the traffic jam, or the late nights where I hadn't slept before the morning- once I step outside and just take a moment to breathe the new day, none of it matters anymore.

But there's something I really, truly love about waking up early in the morning.

It's watching him sleep.

I know, I know, it sounds a little awkward. But you don't understand. In sleep is the only time Chucky is peaceful. The world is at peace, I said.

And he is my world.

He's almost always holding onto something- be it the pillow, the sheets (or sometimes, even my arm). It's rare to see him smile, but in sleep, it's almost always there, or at least, ever since we've moved here. There are still rare nights when he'll wake up, sobbing, and neither one of us will have much sleep afterwards, but for the most part, he's always so serene when he's asleep. It's like I get to see this other side of him that no one else does- a secret between just the two of us.

This particular morning, he's holding onto the sheets, a small fist curled around the cotton like it's the most treasured thing in the world. He's almost never frowning and for once, I can just study his face at its most natural state.

I love the freckles that are sprinkled across his nose and cheeks.

I love how his nose is always pinker than the rest of his skin. His face is like a child's now; it's ironic, how we've seemed to switch places. Every once in a while, his breath will catch for some reason, and he'll suddenly gasp to make up for lost air. His breaths are fast and short.

Every muscle that twitches on his face while he sleeps makes me wonder what he's dreaming about. Sometimes he mouths words, but he doesn't actually ever speak. This morning it looks almost as if he's saying my name. I let a smile out- gosh, how I wish I could just stay here and watch him instead of going to work. But for now, this moment is fine, just watching his back steadily rise and fall with his breathing.

I love the way the sun makes his hair look almost golden.

I only barely run my finger over his lips. It still amazes me, how he was once just plastic, and now it's human flesh that I'm touching. Wasn't it just yesterday my mother came home and gave him to me? It feels like it. I remember that I had had him in my arms constantly. I had loved him so much, and I was a lonely little boy at six, so I can imagine I had probably talked- too much. There are dark memories between us too, but I push them away- why dwell on those when I have so many good things to remember?

I love how after all we've been through we're here now, together.

I love how I love him just as much as (if not more than) when we first met.

It's past seven-thirty now. I should have been ready by now, but I've gotten carried away. The clock is blinking the time at me. Smiling, I lean over to kiss him good-bye; he may not feel it, but I like leaving it there, just in case. It's more of a sentimental thing for me, if I'm honest. Even if he never knows it, I will always tell him good-bye before I go in my own way. For me, kissing him good-bye is like letting him know that I'll be gone now, but I'm coming home later. It's like a promise.

This morning though, he wakes from it. Mumbling something that only sounds like muffled ms and ns (or at least, that's all I can make out), he shifts around under the covers until he opens his eyes, ginger hair tousled in more directions than I can count. He gives this bleary look at me, blue eyes still hazy from sleep and says the most gorgeous thing anyone could hear first thing in the morning:

"What the fuck did you wake me up for, you little shit?"

I bite my lip to hold back a snort as his signature scowl settles in over the once soft features he'd had before. He rubs his eyes and groans, pulling the covers up over his head. "The sun's out too, you son of a…" I just watch the covers shift to mold back around the small shape, barely hearing his string of curses, probably aimed at me. I can see his tiny fingers barely holding onto the edge of the comforter.

I slide my torso underneath the comforter to pull his meager body close to me, pressing lips against his warm forehead. "I'm going," I press softly with kisses against his ear. He doesn't respond; I suspect he's either already asleep or he's just pretending so that I will let him be to do so. I assume the latter. I take only a few more moments to brush my fingers through unruly hair and watch as he slowly sinks into sleep again. I really need to be going.

"I love you," I whisper before sliding out. I've already reached the closet and begun to slide on some work slacks when I hear a soft, "Fuck you," and then a small groan. I smile at the familiar words that I hear daily. What else could I expect? He's not one for sentiments and tender sayings. That one phrase that he uses quite often is probably the closest I'll ever get to them- but I'll take it. I know by now, that's just his way of doing things.

But this morning, he's a little different.

"I love you too, you cheesy fucker. Now let me sleep, dammit."

It's shocking, and for a second, I'm almost certain I'd imagined it. But this moment has all been too real to not believe, and the sound of me sliding satin over my arms lets me know that I am awake now, and I did hear something I'd thought I'd have never.

I love mornings. There's just something about them that never fails to leave me in some sort of hazy dream, and even with brown hot coffee spills, orange and loud traffic jams, trashy grey co-workers or messy offices, I can't seem to come to grip with any other reality but warm rays of yellow light glowing around cotton comforters and soft, hushedblue eyes.