For a lonely soul, you're having such a nice time [for Al; post-GAPS]

[mitsubishievo]

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.

Comments

[sorriest]

Kavinsky doesn't sleep in. Lately, he's been staying in bed with us until we have to get up, sandwiched between Newt and me, but I know he has a hard time sleeping. Today is an exception, with him still asleep even when we climb out from underneath the covers, trying not to wake him when he looks comfortable, like he's finally managing some needed rest.

We take turns in the kitchen, but Kavinsky's the one who handles breakfast, a lot of the time. Today, I'm making coffee his way -- trying to. It sits there, waiting, while Newt checks on the garden and I give him a hand with any weeds growing out here.

When I head back inside to look in on more than just the coffee, Kavinsky's up, out of bed and with a steaming mug in his hand. "Morning," I start, smiling at him as I hover between the hallway and the kitchen. I'd move closer for the usual, high-five included, but I figure I'd better wash my hands first.

"Don't tell me we woke you after all?"

[mitsubishievo]

"Hey, morning," Kavinsky said, smiling around his coffee cup a little bit. He moved out of the entry into the kitchen, just to the side a little bit, so there was room for Al to slip past and in. He let his eyes dart down to the dirt on his hands, under his nails. Closed his eyes for a moment and enjoyed the sensory overload of the moment: warmth, familiarity, the smell of coffee and soap, the presence of Al nearby.

"No, I just got up on my own. Probably my brain telling me to stop being so lazy."

He had a right to be lazy, he knew. He'd been through a lot over the weeks he'd been missing, and his body needed the rest when he could get it. Still, he couldn't help feeling a bit out of sorts to sequester himself while Newt and Al hauled themselves up and out of bed like reasonable sorts.

"The ground finally starting to thaw enough for Newt to start putting things in?"