Marco shifted and buried his nose further into the sweet smelling pillow, not yet ready to move from the warmth of the bed. It was the end of May and the weather was warming up slightly. He could feel cozy rays of sunlight pouring onto his bare back from the bedroom window, a few twittering birds made a racket outside.

He could hear muted, but still rather enthusiastic singing from downstairs, wafting up to him and tickling his ears, choruses louder than the rest of the song and high notes breaking from time to time. Marco smiled lazily into his pillow, gripping it closer. Dylan could sing rather well, especially when he thought no one was listening. He never let anyone but Marco hear him either, except for maybe his best friend, and not too often at that, so getting to hear these small unguarded moments always warmed him.

Minutes ticked by luxuriously and still Marco didn't move, entirely too comfortable in his little nest of blankets to mess with movement. He realized the other side of the bed still held the lingering heat of the man that had slept there and on impulse he snuggled and wormed his way over, settling into the familiarly scented warmth there in favor of his own side.

The smells of breakfast lingered in the sunshine filled air and he felt his priorly happy stomach give a weak protest. Marco groaned into the mattress.

With one last lame attempt to stay in bed, Marco finally disentangled himself from the blankets ever so slowly, reluctant to part with them. He moved lethargically, grabbing the pajama pants off the floor and slipping them on, almost falling over in the process as his leaden limbs refused to cooperate.

He padded downstairs, cursing the fact that he had forgotten to grab a pair of socks as well as the night chilled carpet on the stairs froze his feet. He rounded the corner at the bottom and the sight that met him made him smile softly.

Dylan stood at the stove dressed in a pair of pajama pants as well, hair completely wild and everywhere, strange patterns of curls sticking out from his head. The curtains were drawn back on the window above the sink and the sunny light that had warmed him up in the bedroom fell on Dylan's broad shoulders and spread blonde fire through his hair.

With a small appreciative sigh Marco moved from the wall and tip toed over soundlessly to wrap his arms around the older man's waist and bury his cold nose in the sun warmed back. Dylan started a bit but relaxed just as quickly, lifting an arm so Marco could slide under and hug him from the side.

Marco looked at the pan of frying eggs and then up to Dylan. "They're not poisoned are they?"

Dylan only snorted lazily and continued cooking with one hand, humming a song and letting words formulate under his breath when the song hit a high point. Marco only squeezed his waist tighter, enjoying the heat and the lazy sunlight, the smell of food and the vibration of Dylan's chest as he sang.

Marco had missed Dylan. The blonde had been in America all last week for a hockey game and Marco had stayed home, clicking at his computer and getting absolutely nowhere on his work. It wasn't as if it was the first time the man had gone away for a game. But every time Marco went into a small fit of depression because their home was so very quiet and so very cold when Dylan wasn't around.

Every time Dylan returned it was like this, Marco realized. He would wake up in bed and there would be the warmth of another body on the bed clothes for the first time in days and it was like a breath of fresh air every time. The curtains on all the windows in the house would always be pulled open. His roommate hated the brightness, Dylan would always explain. He never got to have an open window at their hotels or on the plane and so when he got home he made sure he felt every ray of light available. And Dylan would always be downstairs when Marco woke up, cooking something and singing for him.

Marco didn't know if Dylan actually knew when he was awake, or even if he sang simply so Marco could hear. But he believed that Dylan did just that. Sang from downstairs loudly and surely so he could hear, be apart of probably the most private part of Dylan.

He never dared sing with him, his voice was too high pitched and his embarrassment came too easy. But he enjoyed just being able to listen. To listen and appreciate something about Dylan that no one else shared.

It made the mornings Dylan returned that much more special and worth clinging to. And it also made the days he had to say goodbye... a bit easier.

And when they would sit down to eat Dylan would always have one thought to give him. "No hockey when I'm old," he'd say quietly, and then they would smile and eat in silence, bathed in sunlight and hushed sung notes.

There would be no leaving when they were old. And Dylan had promised forever.

Marco would always nod and wrap his foot around Dylan's under the table. He could wait. He had a thousand lazy Sunday mornings to hear him promise after all.

I wanna wake up where you are
I won't say anything at all
So why don't you slide
Yeah we're gonna let it slide