Those Days

Drake loves waking up . . . Well, not the getting out of bed and starting all the tasks of a new day part, of course. But he relishes the two or three seconds between dreams and reality, when every sense is heightened, and every stimulus has the potential to make or break his daily attitude.

There are the late mornings when he trips into consciousness to the melody of rustling clothing and dresser drawers and car keys, while the adrenaline rush of tardiness infringes on what might have otherwise been a stumblingly slow dawn.

Others, he wakes too early, the whining, rusty plumbing narrating that he won't be able to use the shower for at least a half hour if he doesn't want to freeze, the thought of which gives him goosebumps.

Sometimes, if he's lucky, the first thing he hears is the click-clacking of laptop letters, calling out that he and the water heater are both ready for him to awake. That's when relaxation settles in, and he takes his time, grinning lazily as his feet hit the floor.

It's different on days off however, when lethargy is a guarantee, condoned, and he does everything at his own pace.

If he bothers to stir before noon, it's the scents that draw him in. One day, chocolate, chocolate chip pancakes lure him from his blankets, a topping of chocolate syrup dripping deliciously into his brain. Another, the sharp pinch of cinnamon French toast jerks him from sleep with a firm but fair grip.

If he's still ensconced in his sheets at lunchtime, he can almost taste the canned soup bubbling in the kitchen, can just imagine the mouth-watering texture of beef-ish chunks and mushy, over-processed vegetables, and he doesn't mind having slept in, knowing that he's being taken care of.

And whenever he remembers that, he automatically thinks of those days, the few that make waking up the best part of his week. They're so rare that it's easy for him to believe his dreams have somehow bled into his life, easy for him not to mention them aloud.

And it doesn't matter what time it is or what plans he has for the rest of the day because he's always drenched in a heavy coat of subconsciousness--because in such moments, the world consists of only him and the warm, just-beneath-the-skin tingling that quickly wrings him out.

It's nothing much, usually--a fist to the shoulder when he's slept too long or a hand against the forehead if he was feeling sick the night before. It can be something as unassuming as the alarm-like calling of his name, bouncing off the inside of his skull and triggering a million different memories at once, or a round, impatient laugh that brings the image of a smile swimming before his closed eyes.

On occasion though, it's a little more--an open-palmed nudge to the chest or a tug on his wrist or the brush of fingertips across the skin of his face--even a whisper that's either too quiet or too secret to be properly understood but which echoes all the same.

And once--just once--he swears he feels a weight so soft and sweet on his lips, that it simply can't be real. Never mind that he can make out the distinct flavor of mint toothpaste after the pressure disappears, or that when he opens his eyes a millisecond later, a mane of curly, dark hair is retreating from his view. Never mind the terrible thrill that creeps from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his toes and makes him wonder, quite seriously, if he will ever feel this way again. Never mind the fact that he's desperately hoping he will.

All right, confession: Drake really only likes waking up, but he loves the sensations that go along with it, especially the surreal ones he encounters on those days.

A/N: Happy November!