morning / for john

[loficharm]

dated: idk whenever

Martin certainly didn't used to wake up with such ease, rising naturally before any alarm he might set. Indicative first that he feels more relaxed here, that he actually enjoys his job, and now, unbelievably, joyously, that he has someone to wake up with. John is not an early or an easy riser, but Martin likes that just fine, as it allows him precious moments in the light of dawn to return quietly to consciousness, remember where he is and why he's so happy, to blink through the haze of whatever dreams he's already forgetting and see John beside him, resting, breathing slowly.

Martin likes to just look at him, but he knows that has a limited life span; John can always feel it when he's being watched, sooner or later. So more and more he finds other ways to rouse him, as gently as possible: a little kiss to the brow, a warm hand cradling the back of his neck or brushing through his hair. This morning, pulled by an inward surge of affection, he foregoes these gentler methods and just shuffles forward, wrapping an arm around the narrow hunch of John's shoulders and pulling himself close, positioned such that he can reverse their frequent arrangement, tucking his chin on top of John's head. He smiles and shuts his eyes as he feels John stir beneath him.

"G'morning," he says softly.

Comments

[statement_ends]

One of the unanticipated delights of moving in together is no longer waking to something as impersonal and unforgiving as the buzzing of an alarm. Worst case scenario, they're roused by The Bishop's demanding chirps, which at least have the virtue of rarely escalating into any pointed (or pointy) taps from his paws. Best case scenario, it's something much more agreeable: fingers combing gently through his hair, lips brushing against his forehead, a warm hand curling around his own. John may not be an early riser by habit or inclination, but it's impossible to resent being roused so gently. Especially when 'roused,' at this hour, tends to be rather loosely defined.

He's briefly, drowsily startled by the arm around his shoulders, his brain fumbling with the idea that perhaps he is (or was) about to roll off the bed, and that this might be a rescue attempt. But then he registers that he is not being moved: Martin is just pulling himself closer. Must be morning, then. Doesn't mean he has to accept it with any immediacy, though, and when Martin tucks his chin atop John's head, John nuzzles close to his chest, warm and safe from any ambient dawn light that might try to drag him into full consciousness.

He can't ignore Martin's voice, though, and he acknowledges the greeting with a sleepy grunt, one hand questing forward until his knuckles brush against something warm and soft — Martin's belly, he thinks — before settling back down with a sigh of satisfaction.