I open my eyes to a strange grey light. Where am I? As I look through the room, blissful ignorance bleeds into a swirl of anxiety and happiness.
I'm home. Well, not home, but...home. At Mom's. Merry Christmas.
The covers are warm. My face is chilly. Before I let myself examine those facts too closely, I swing out of bed, shrug into my robe, and head to the bathroom. The floor is so cold -- my feet are burning. Or that's what it feels like. Couldn't I have taken twenty seconds to pull on my slippers?
No one else is up, which is good. A house this big, you'd expect it to have more than one bathroom, but no. The door is ajar, just a bit. I push it open.
Oh my God, it's a fucking Winter Wonderland in here. The window -- who left the window open? I shut it quickly, then stand shivering on the bath mat, looking around for drifts of snow I can talk accusingly about over breakfast. None. I'm disappointed.
After a minute the air is thawed from frigid to merely cold. I shut the door, get up my nerve, gird up my loins, and do what I came to do. Should I stay and shower, dress, make breakfast? Its...just after seven. No, I want to go back to bed, get more sleep, get warm. Snuggle.
Hurry, hurry, before your toes turn black and fall off. Down the hall, into the bedroom, door clicking softly behind me. The sun is rising through the curtains and I can see that Walter's moved a little since I got up, curling into himself a bit, facing the edge of the bed. I'm sure if I stood here long enough, I could burn this peaceful morning scene into my memory. Forget it. I'm too cold. Next time, when I'm wearing slippers.
I drop the robe for one last shock of gooseflesh and burrow beneath the sheets. For a wonder, I remembered to pull them up before I left and a bit of warmth still lingers on my side. But not enough.
The broad back tempts me. It often does, for different reasons. At the moment, I'm mainly interested in it as a heat source. So I slide over and start to spoon myself around him, chest to back, knees to thighs.
Toasty. Mmm.
My feet still feel like lumps of ice. I wonder what he'd do if I found his feet, tangled mine into his. Jump? Wake up and swear at me? Let them stay? I can't predict what his mood will be -- too many unknown factors.
He moves a little and some sort of weird back muscle ripples against me. Who has muscles on their back? It's unnatural. And nice.
I want to put my arm around him but my hands are probably still too cold. Maybe if I... I slide it carefully, forearm against him, hand touching only the sheets. But he stirs, puts his own arm over mine, hand over hand, pressing my palm into his chest. My fingers splay through the curling hair and they are warmer already.
Is he awake? Partly? After all these months we still dance this dance, one or the other asleep or feigning sleep in these moments of dawn and midnight tenderness. I still can't read him. I don't know if he can me.
I think it makes it easier to be vulnerable, to let the body speak if the other listens only subconsciously. Or maybe it's just the game we play, sleeping or waking. I like it. I hope he can tell.
If I think this much I'll never get back to sleep. I move my head to press a drowsy kiss against his neck. Feels good. I'll stay there. I pull myself a little closer, though I have to move away first to do so. He pushes back and then we're still, we're together. Flesh and bone and something more.
This is the morning scene I want to remember always, not the image, but the sounds of sleep and the smell of skin on skin. The lingering taste of last night and the warmth that's only partly physical. Together.
I'm sinking back into my dreams, vivid morning dreams, and just before I go down for the third time I realise we've achieved thermal equilibrium.
Except my feet. Can't have everything.
FINIS