![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The mornings after, dragging himself out of bed was a hassle. It was large and warm and comfortable, even if he wasn't sleeping. It was good to be between two familiar bodies, to feel the warmth of bodies pressed in around him, to hear their breathing and know he was safe. He didn't want to get out of bed in the morning; being in the middle just made it harder, really, because it meant he had to crawl over one or the other, or wriggle his way down to the food of the bed and stumble out at the end of the bed without making too much noise.
But he was, somehow, the last one to wake that morning. The bed was still warm, still smelled of shampoo and soap and the distinction of two different boys' skins, and so Kavinsky didn't worry. He lingered for a moment in the laziness of being the last one up. The sun was coming in through the window in their bedroom.
He hauled himself out of bed without having to crawl over anyone and pulled on a hodgepodge of clothing. His sweatpants and Newt's t-shirt and one of Al's sweaters. It smelled like the soap Al liked, herbaceous and crisp. Kavinsky tucked himself into it deeply, pulling the sleeves down over his fingers and bringing them up to his face so he could be surrounded in the smell as he shuffled down the short hall from the bedroom to the kitchen. The clean, buttery yellow of the kitchen walls warmed him. There was already coffee made and he poured himself some.
Now it was just a matter of sussing out where the boys had disappeared to, he supposed.
But he was, somehow, the last one to wake that morning. The bed was still warm, still smelled of shampoo and soap and the distinction of two different boys' skins, and so Kavinsky didn't worry. He lingered for a moment in the laziness of being the last one up. The sun was coming in through the window in their bedroom.
He hauled himself out of bed without having to crawl over anyone and pulled on a hodgepodge of clothing. His sweatpants and Newt's t-shirt and one of Al's sweaters. It smelled like the soap Al liked, herbaceous and crisp. Kavinsky tucked himself into it deeply, pulling the sleeves down over his fingers and bringing them up to his face so he could be surrounded in the smell as he shuffled down the short hall from the bedroom to the kitchen. The clean, buttery yellow of the kitchen walls warmed him. There was already coffee made and he poured himself some.
Now it was just a matter of sussing out where the boys had disappeared to, he supposed.
