What You Share with the World
is what it keeps of you.
Mike wakes slowly, blinking a few times to shake off the hold of unconsciousness. He isn’t ready to move, isn’t ready to disturb the sleeping bundle in his arms, so he doesn’t. Leaning forward, he buries his nose in his boyfriend’s impossibly soft curls and inhales, the sweet, familiar scent of home filling his lungs.
Kevin stirs, mumbles something incoherent, but he doesn’t wake up. Mike leaves his head where it is, settled comfortably against Kevin’s, and he listens to the sound of their breathing for a few timeless seconds. One of his arms, curled loosely around Kevin’s waist, slips up his bare chest before coming to rest, fingers splayed across his heart.
These are the moments he cherishes, when it’s just the two of them and no one else. He wishes they could last forever, that they’d never have to leave the safety and the comfort of their soft, warm bed, that they could remain in each other’s arms for the rest of time itself, but Mike knows better than most that all things must end.
Not every day, though. Some days are special. Now and then, every once in a very long while, something happens which burns brightly and quietly enough that it will last, that it will take nothing less than a supernova to bring it to an end.
Mike knows that everything must end, but not every day. Not today.
He presses his grin into the nape of Kevin’s neck and leaves it there, and when Kevin wakes and whispers, “‘Morning,” voice still rough with sleep, he presses it to his lips too, sealing the promise across his skin.
Kevin stirs, mumbles something incoherent, but he doesn’t wake up. Mike leaves his head where it is, settled comfortably against Kevin’s, and he listens to the sound of their breathing for a few timeless seconds. One of his arms, curled loosely around Kevin’s waist, slips up his bare chest before coming to rest, fingers splayed across his heart.
These are the moments he cherishes, when it’s just the two of them and no one else. He wishes they could last forever, that they’d never have to leave the safety and the comfort of their soft, warm bed, that they could remain in each other’s arms for the rest of time itself, but Mike knows better than most that all things must end.
Not every day, though. Some days are special. Now and then, every once in a very long while, something happens which burns brightly and quietly enough that it will last, that it will take nothing less than a supernova to bring it to an end.
Mike knows that everything must end, but not every day. Not today.
He presses his grin into the nape of Kevin’s neck and leaves it there, and when Kevin wakes and whispers, “‘Morning,” voice still rough with sleep, he presses it to his lips too, sealing the promise across his skin.