"Once upon a time..."
When I was small and my mother was still alive, there was a story she always used to tell me. Before she could start, each and every time I would protest, insisting that I was too old for such a story, persisting that I, as a man, couldn't listen to such stories. She would chuckle at me and busy her hands with tucking the covers in tightly around me. It was an indirect embrace, cherished as much as her warm arms wrapped around me. She would ignore my subsiding protests and begin.
"Once upon a time..." And my protests would die down completely as I clutched the edges of my blankets. It was a story I knew by heart – a story of a prince and a princess and the evil jealous witch – but each time she told it she always spoke with such enthusiasm that I would get dragged under too. Though I knew the outcome, I would pepper her with questions – "And then?" "What happened next?" Too soon it would end with the standard, "And they lived happily ever after."
Ever the child, my dreams on those nights would consist of a prince, a princess, and an evil jealous witch. I would be the prince of course, off to destroy the witch and rescue the princess with relative ease. Naturally, though, it's not nearly as easy to destroy evil and sweep the princess off her feet as the stories make it out to be. Although the fight is quite worth it in the end.
These are my thoughts as I stare down at my princess, but I'm sure I'd have a lovely shiner and possibly some broken bones if he ever heard that. That realization has me chuckling lightly and I'd love to see the shock on his face if he ever heard me laugh. Because I don't think he has. I'll make a mental note to laugh a little, just for him while no one's around. Really, it will be a special privilege for him. And he can have the satisfaction of knowing that he's the cause of it.
He's sleeping, like the princess from the story, except he's snoring lightly; his arms and legs are tucked and flopped out at angles that look so uncomfortable I wonder how he's able to sleep. That's why I'm awake. He kicked me in the side, hard to enough to wake me up and knock the wind out of me with a whoosh. And after dropping the kunai, which I had grabbed from the bedside table, to the carpeted floor I figured that I didn't mind so much, being awake while he slept. These days, he's much more mature, less like the Number One Hyperactive Knucklehead Ninja I knew all those years ago. He's still unpredictable to be sure, but less innocent, if he ever had been. So it's nice right now to see that innocence on his tan features.
And with the story fresh in my mind, I lean down and kiss him. It's gentle, tender, different than when we're both awake, both wanting, needing. He doesn't awake, like the princess in the story, doesn't open his sky blue eyes, or give me his infectious grin, but I decide I like this, and I lean down to do it again. This time, his face scrunches up, and he slowly opens cerulean eyes, blinking hazily, clearing sleep from his eyes. Finally, he smiles softly and pulls me into an embrace, before closing his eyes again.
"Morning," he mumbles, but moments later his soft snores continue. I can't help but smile at this.
"Morning," I reply, relaxing into his embrace.
"...And they lived happily ever after."