Morning Rituals:

 

I always wake up earlier than he does. Perhaps it’s just my inner clock that has refused to let go of its past habits. No matter how tired I am physically or mentally, I just can’t seem to stay asleep any longer than four o’clock in the morning. I usually lay on my back, unmoving, and staring blindly at the ceiling, having to remind myself that I didn’t have to get up to check up on an old friend. Wing. I lay there and tell myself that the war is finally over. I tell myself that I have a new life now and that this new life has begun with someone who has shared my past with me.

 

How ironic.

 

Once I give myself the ‘pep-talk’, as he likes to call it, I take the time to admire the breathing creature beside me. Even in sleep, he looks ‘alive’. His mouth hangs open a little, some spittle or ‘drool’ as he likes to say, clearly visible. His breathing is smooth and a bit uneven and its warm breath brushes against my arm causing tiny goose bumps to appear on my skin. His hair is always unraveled. I really don’t understand why, as some of them tend to end up in his mouth most of the time. Why, the other day, he almost choked on a strand of it. But despite that, it is a beautiful sight to behold. Unnaturally long and thick, it cloaks his naked form like a blanket, which in turn gives him a childlike quality that never ceases to take my breath away. Without realizing it, I reach out to brush them away from his face. Perhaps I can get a better view this way. He stirs a little and I stop, but then continue my exploration of his mesmerizing features.

 

The smoothness of his skin against my fingers send a delightful chill down my spine. It’s a strange color, his skin is. Not exotic as Wufei’s, or mine and not as creamy as Quatre’s or perhaps Trowa’s. It’s different. It’s just…him. My finger tips brush against the tiny scar on the side of his cheek. He had cut himself the other day while trying to open up a can of fruit. I am not really sure of how that had happened, but he had bled and quite badly too. His nose…so…pert and upturned like a stubborn or petulant child. Quatre had once considered it cute, but I don’t think I would go as far as that. There is also a scar there, but it’s quite faint. It had happened during a battle – a helpless reminder of what we had been through – and yet I find myself always enjoying the way he scratches it absently when in serious thought.

 

His lips – twin plump and delicious things that I can no longer get enough of. I enjoy him touching me with them – no, worshipping me with them. It has become a weakness that I am powerless to fight. I think I gave up fighting it about a year ago. They are very talented – those lips of his. Yes, they do have the tendency to speak at an alarmingly fast rate of things that seem, half the time, to be unnecessary. But oh, dear God, when he wasn’t speaking, those lips were the envy of the gods themselves. I relish and cherish every moment they spend against my skin – any where on my skin. Be it a simple kiss on mine or on my cheek or against my neck or…or down there…

 

Oh, yeah, I just remembered. I have to go to the bathroom now.

 

__

 

He always wakes up before me. Man… and here I was thinking I had set my internal clock to beat his. Oh, well. I guess some things can never be changed. I open my eyes and stare at the dent on his pillow, the only obvious indication that he had actually been in bed with me the night before. It’s still warm and I find myself creeping towards it as if hoping that somehow, he would magically appear before me. Perhaps I miss the fact that he cannot be here to give me a proper good morning greeting. The only time he does that is after we have had a night of sex. We are usually so exhausted after it that we end up waking up at the same time…well almost. I close my eyes and inhale his scent. Sharp, hot, yet with a richness that is just…him. I really wish I could get to see him wake up in the mornings.

 

The apartment is silent now. I know where he is. Every day at this time, he spends it running around the block or blocks for an hour and a half. I am left to my devices for the duration. Time to do what? Time to sit and pout and wonder why he can’t take me with him. Speaking of which, I really need to move my lazy ass out of bed and get things moving before he begins a day filled with rants. Believe it or not, the boy does have the tendency to talk more than his usual limitations. It is a surprising act that never ceases to…well, surprise me.

 

I pad to the bathroom in my birthday suit – never did see the use for pjs in the first place…

 

___

 

He is probably washing his hair right now. Since I am usually out of the house before him, I don’t get to watch this guilty pleasure of mine….except on the days we are both too exhausted after a night of sex. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I have seen him do this more than once and it’s now so imprinted in my memory, I sometimes feel I am in there with him. He has a rather strange way of washing his hair. Maybe it’s because he was raised in a colony where water was sparse or maybe it’s just something he enjoys doing. Whatever the case may be, he likes to conserve the water as much as possible.

 

We have a shower by the way.

 

He always walks naked into the bathroom, which shouldn’t really be surprising considering that he sleeps that way. Once inside, he uses the toilet and then turns the shower on. First hot – almost scalding – and then cold. He always gives a soft yelp once the boiling water touches his skin. When I asked him why he does that, when he obviously knows the outcome, he just gives me a silly lopsided grin and says something to the effect of ‘I just like it’.

 

Strange one that boy is.

 

He steps into the shower stall and turns his back to the now warm spray of water. Arching his neck, he lets his hair flow down behind him, getting it as drenched with the liquid as possible. The once slightly wavy silken locks suddenly look limp and heavy against his skin. It is rather unsightly, but for me…it’s pure magic. Once he is satisfied at how wet it has become, he promptly switches off the shower and reaches for his never ending supply of shampoo. It is the one indulgence he engages in besides anything sweet or edible. A generous amount, roughly half of the bottle, is poured directly on top of his head. And with a speed and skill that is quite amazing to watch, he sinks those talented fingers of his into it and begins to scrub away like a man possessed. Back and forth, up and down, he works those sweet smelling suds into his hair. No part is left untouched and surprisingly he is done in about five minutes. What always makes me smile is how he tends to wave his hands around in search of the shower knob. On some days, he ends up turning the ‘Cold’ knob on, and I end up laughing to myself at how ridiculous he looks hopping around in the stall while screaming obscenities.

 

Yes, watching him in the shower is a guilty pleasure I can never get enough of. And don’t get me started on sharing the shower with him either…

 

__

 

It’s my turn to do the laundry today and I am already dreading it with a passion. He knows that only too well. Maybe he just likes torturing me.

 

Sicko.

 

Gently putting Coco back on the bed as she had made her way up my shoulders, I begin to pick up the items of clothing strewn across the room. Of course, eighty percent of them belong to me, but who’s keeping count? Suddenly, I am in the NBA and I am shooting and scoring three-pointers with an accuracy that stuns the crowd. I pick up the ball (His black t-shirt – hmm…when exactly did he wear this one?) and eye the distance from the three point line (our closet) to the basket a million feet high in the air (the laundry basket…about two feet away from me). I line up the shot, my tongue sticking out of my mouth in concentration and then…

 

HE SHOTS! HE SCORES! Oh, my goodness! He is the leading NBA scorer of all time!

 

Coco thinks I am nuts. I probably am.

 

The basket is full now. I have to make the bed. No…I have to change the sheets too. Aaargh! Why me?!

 

__

 

He is probably protesting his chores for the morning. No big deal. He does it all the time. I wonder if I should pick up those bagels I spied in Maury’s window this morning? He likes bagels. I am sure he would appreciate them.

 

__

 

Oh, oh. We are out of laundry detergent. Just great. Does this mean I have to go grocery shopping too? Coco’s meowing is beginning to get on my nerves. Hell! Everything is beginning to get on my nerves now. I walk over the dumped pile of clothes on the laundry room floor and make my way towards the kitchen. I open up the fridge, praying to goodness that we at least have some milk for the cat. If not…

 

Yes! There is a god out there after all.

 

Grinning at Coco, who is now chasing her tail - I thought only dogs did that? – I pour a generous amount for her and then realize that I have to make breakfast too. Quick, quick, quick! It’s gotta be something quick. He is bound to walk through that door any minute and I haven’t gotten a damn thing ready.

 

Eggs. Milk. Cereal. Bacon. Sausages. That should do it. In minutes I have two bowls set on the small table. His favorite black bowl with some Japanese inscription on the side that he says means ‘strength’, filled with his favorite cereal – frosted flakes. Two plates filled with fried eggs, two slices of toast and bacon and two sausages each, are set as well and the smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the kitchen. I rub my hands together in satisfaction before having to lift Coco off the dining table as she attempts to dig through his bowl.

 

Five more minutes. He should be home in five more minutes.

 

And I still can’t do the damn laundry.

 

He had better not make me go grocery shopping. It’s his turn anyway.

 

I sit down on the kitchen table and wait for him, knowing full well that my day can not begin without seeing that scowling visage of his. It’s the same thing every day. He comes in with that look in his eyes, but I know otherwise. I think I like it this way. If he did come home with a smile, I think I would begin to question his sanity or mine. I have gotten used to that look and I wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the world.

 

I love watching him eat. Even though my cooking will never measure up to his, I still can’t help feeling a sense of pride and accomplishment as he savors the little I can whip up for him. The other day, I had tried to make miso soup for him as a sort of surprise. Boy, had that been a surprise or what? Not only did it taste like something that had come out from a gutter, it had ended up being burnt as well. But to my surprise…he ate it all. Every single drop of that horrible soup. He finished it and didn’t say a word to me afterwards. Now that I think of it, he must have gone to the bathroom to throw up or something. But still, that made me feel so good inside. To think that he would actually eat up that muck just to make me happy…

 

I sit up quickly as I hear the familiar footsteps outside the door. One, two, three. One, two, three. He taps his sneakers outside to get the soil or grass that might have accumulated on it, out. He is probably bending down to pick up the morning paper now. I hear the daily greeting from Mr. Naraku, our neighbor. He is responding. That voice that never ceases to send a delicious warmth down my spine. My heart rate is quickening and I am unaware that I am acting like a lovesick fool or wife awaiting her husband’s return. But, I won’t show him just how much I care. Oh, no. It wouldn’t do for me to go jumping into his arms like the last time. We almost broke down the kitchen door with our…my enthusiasm.

 

Coco, who has grown so much over the past few months, sits waiting in front of the door. She will be the one doing the pouncing and I can only hold my breath in anticipation of the scenario that is definitely going to take place. The outer door opens up slowly, Coco mewls once and stands up on all fours, her tail slowing waving back and forth. I know he is being cautious, but it still doesn’t prepare him for the round ball of energy that comes flying towards him, sending him falling to the ground as a rough, pink tongue begins to lick his ear.

 

I give up and laugh heartily, clearly enjoying the sight of my lover and friend lying on his back being molested by the cat. God, he looks so delectable while struggling. Those tight black shorts of his seem to be a second skin and that black tank top barely covers the obvious bulge of an arousal that makes itself prominent with each writhe or wiggle of his hips. He is a powerful creature - this lover of mine. A lean, mean, sex machine. Haha! I called him that the other day and he thought I had gone crazy.

 

Yeah, I probably am.

 

He finally manages to flee from Coco’s clutches and stands to his feet. As expected, he glowers at me, but I can only grin in response. Sit down and eat, I tell him. But of course, he can’t do that. He has to wash up a little first. He dumps the paper on the table and walks over to the sink to wash his hands. It is then that I notice he has dropped something else along with the paper. The smell is undeniable. Could it be…? Oh, yes it was! My favorite bagels in the world! They were pretty expensive, but worth every single bite.

 

I stare at his back, the lean muscles rippling gently beneath the tank top, which would soon be tossed into the laundry room in five…four…three…two…bingo! I am now left to gaze at his expanse of bare skin as the flimsy clothing ends up joining the others on the floor. I wonder how long it would take for him to notice that I hadn’t begun doing the laundry yet.

But that doesn’t matter now. What matters is that I can admire him this way…for as long as I want.

 

He turns around to smile at me. It’s not much of a smile but it’s there. And as if my morning couldn’t get any better, he leans close to me and gives me a soft kiss on my lips. But I want more and he knows I want more, but he won’t give it to me.

 

Stingy.

 

I protest and he silences me with a look that sends my stomach fluttering in anticipation. I lean over the table to steal another kiss as he reaches for his fork to being eating. Mmm…he tastes like sweat and smells like rich, ripe earth. And as our eyes meet – as I melt within those cobalt depths that still make me burn with a fever that can never be cured – I realize that my love for this boy…this boy of mine, will never ever die.

 

…I just hope he doesn’t kill me when I do tell him about the laundry…