You never, in a million years, thought that what happened last night would ever actually happen. Sure, you had been playing with fantasies in the back of your mind for a while now. It was fun, entertaining ideas of stolen kisses and lustful gasps, but only for a short time. You quickly found yourself craving more. You think you kissed him first. Or maybe he kissed you. You don't know, and you are content to simply think of those first few, slightly awkward minutes as a happy blur.
The hand that gripped your hair and ran down your chest and clutched your fingers through your gloves is now tucked snugly underneath his head, fingers curled into his messy, brown mane. He's not facing you, but that's okay. Right now, you can admire the light filtering through the curtains and hitting the skin of his neck, you can allow your gaze to lazily move over the set of his shoulders and down the barely-defined muscles in his arms. You almost scoff. Still such a weakling, still such a long way to go. You can't help but begrudgingly admire his determination.
You let your eyes drift lower, down his spine, to the jut of his hip, and even lower to the curve of his buttocks, where the covers (unfortunately), conceal him from you. But again, that's okay. You remember what it was like to run your gloved hands down his gloriously soft backside as he sat above you, lay below you, and arched against you, his back forming a curve against your chest and his head tilted back and rubbing on your collarbone, hair tickling your chin. His flawless skin was a stark, yet delightful contrast to your own, scarred and pale and ugly. Though he didn't seem to mind. In fact, you recall him kissing some of your scars, and while you didn't find the experience all that agreeable, you found you didn't have the heart to stop him.
It occurs to you that you could just steal his body, right now. You could stab him with your trident and kiss him goodbye. Or you could run the spikes down his back, slowly, watch him wake in pain and watch the tears spring from his eyes and run down his face. Oh, you can just picture it, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth voicing his feelings of betrayal. You're almost excited. Almost. However, for the moment, you would prefer to stay the way you are, warm and content and relaxed, watching the soft rise and fall of his torso as he sleeps and wondering what it'd be like to have your head against his chest, just listening to his heart beating.
Yes, yes, this is much more preferable.
You lightly touch the base of his throat (maybe you'll be able to feel his pulse), and he stirs. You pull your arm back like you just touched open flames, but he doesn't make another sound. After a solid thirty seconds, his breathing has returned to normal and you feel ready to try again. Sometimes, you forget that the leather of your gloves becomes cold, and hesitate to remove them. It feels strange, the air on the exposed skin of your hands. You keep them covered almost constantly. You can't stand seeing the fading scars that litter your flesh. However, you feel it was worth the sacrifice to be able to feel his warm skin underneath your fingers, to be able to ghost your nimble fingertips over the bumps of his spine, your hand resting on his waist as you move closer, burying your face in his hair and closing your eyes. Breathing him in.
"Good morning to you too." Comes the amused, if slightly groggy voice of Vongola Tenth. You frown.
"How long have you been awake?"
He chuckles, "How long have you been feeling me up?"
You snort mirthlessly, but don't deign to reply, instead rubbing your nose into his scalp and lowering your eyelids once again.
"… Go back to sleep, Vongola."
There was a beat of silence, followed by the rustling of fabric as he turned over, nuzzling his head into your chest. You hope he can't hear your heart beating.
"Whatever you say, Mukuro."