svegliarsi la mattina - franco tufano. the song title translates as 'to wake up in the morning'.
Stiles can safely say that he's never woken up in a nicer way. Not that he has many experiences to draw from: his dad yelling at him that he's "going to be late for school!", his mum opening the curtains and letting the sunlight stream in (that hurt his eyes like a bitch). And now, Jackson. Jackson who litters his face with soft gentle kisses. Jackson who runs his hands over Stiles' skin, warm and smooth.
Stiles has, surprisingly, slept many nights in Jackson's bed. The thing they have crept up on them, stealthily, unseen and unpredicted by anyone. They spend most of their time together now. Everyone agrees that Jackson has calmed Stiles down, and Stiles has made Jackson less arrogant. It shouldn't work, they all say, but it does. And times like this, lying in bed, slowly waking up to the feel of Jackson's fingers running through his hair, make everything worth it.
And today, Stiles doesn't know what's so special, but he enjoys how Jackson wakes him up. Running his fingers gently through Stiles' hair. Dancing his fingertips across his face, his lips. Tracing patterns with his lips, across Stiles face, decorating his skin. And Stiles moans quietly as he wakes. Jackson laughs, faintly. "Good morning, sleepy head," he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of Stiles' ear. Stiles' eyes open, blearily, and he shuts them again, giving in to the effort of keeping them open. "Why are you so cheery?" he grumbles, but with an underlying sense of affection. Jackson laughs again. "Because I love you," he whispers in Stiles' ear, as if it were a secret. "I love you," he whispers again, trying the words on for size. Stiles relaxes into the bed, Jackson's bed. "Don't say it too much," he says. "You'll wear it out."
"No, I won't," Jackson replies. "I love you." Stiles smiles, tiredly.
"I love you, too."