Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

Thought I'd give you guys a break from waiting and supply a little story I wrote to go with a drawing I did. If I ever figure out the scanner, I'll photobucket the thing. Anyway, here's the story.

He wasn’t as jaunty as in the evenings, but the mornings suited him just fine as well. To wake up in someone’s arms was a pleasure. To wake up in the arms of one you called your father, now that was a joy.
Perhaps it was the litany of the day that drove him to cherish the end of the working hours. When, in the mornings, out of earshot of clanging alarm phones and the restlessness of a Monday a**-crack-of-dawn retinue, a twitch, a sudden feeling, a smell, or a feel of light against his lids could simply awaken him.
These moments were spent in quiet communion. Other people would have, he reasoned assuredly; been inclined to think it a 10.5 on the creepy scale to wake up and stare into the eyes of a parent for time that stretched itself to eternity.
He was usually the second in that bed to greet the dawn. His sister would probably be up and running about by then, hogging the bathroom, as per usual. Undoubtedly, the man beside him would stir and watch him as he had for so long before their…adoption, of sorts. He paused to wonder whether a parent could adopt his or her own child.
But those thoughts came later, after their talks that weren’t talks. After all, the thing that awakened him was more often than not a touch. So sensitive was his skin, he could have told his small family apart just by feel. Another flash of thought—what if he had not had his eyesight saved? He brushed it away.
A warm hand on his face, resting there after combing through his disheveled, cowlicked, curly hair. A kiss on his forehead, something that seemed so habitual as to be instinctive. Then he would open his eyes and find himself gazing into those drowning-pools of a color he couldn’t name. Dawn light. That was all he knew as to say about it.
To him, it was the color of the exact point in time when a nebula exploded into a star. Something beyond him, beyond time.
Other times, and these were rarer than finding his onee-san asleep, he could find the other asleep. Those were when he could gock openly without feeling like a total rude, barbarous, drooling, perpetually horny adolescent. He could watch as the long strands of obsidian-jet fell over a face with a born-in tan that every girl in his high school sought after.
He wouldn’t notice the heat in the bed. There it was distributed over a greater space, only causing him to notice a sheen of sweat along his body enough to soak his nightshirt. Once he’d found him asleep in a chair and, thinking he’d passed out from a fever, dumped the super-heated Archangel in an ice-filled bathtub. Not one of his greatest moments, but panic was panic.
Again, he attributed it to the feeling of a star being born. The intensity of the flames, of fusion, of gravity driving the particles of matter together with such a force that it formed a sphere of gas, ground, water, life. He swallowed, slowed his breathing. Felt a globule of sweat plop onto his neck from his stringy hair.
Then his eyes had opened. Now they sat in the bed, one propped on an elbow, the other in perfect repose, somehow lying while propping himself up. A skill the younger had never quite mastered.
A movement, or none at all. Maybe one a normal eye couldn’t catch. He breathed in the scent of earth, of fire, the sweet tang of strawberries, and a thousand other flavors that his tongue lolled over with each drawn in rush.
He contented himself by pulling an arm over the other’s waist—he could only mentally laugh at the fact that it was what every male dreamed of looking like—and snuggled closer to that pervasive warmth. The staccato that usually played out Beethoven’s 5th—his mind worked lazily over the fact of the angel’s heartbeat and the rhythm of the music—was a slower melody now, lulling him back into a blissful half-consciousness.
Arms closed over him. He smiled slowly, knowing that those eyes would be at half-mast, watching him. If he could lie here forever…
Again, the cogs of his mind churned, blearily focusing on a few small words: addicted to him. Funnily enough, he wouldn’t mind if or if nots. This was good.
He felt safe, knew he was, and it was good.

Comments.