Fic: Family Portrait II - Morning Glory (Various Pairings)
“Wha’?” came a muffled voice out of the mattress.
Ryan turned around again. “The blanket”, he said accusingly, glaring into Gary’s direction just for good measure.
“I am freezing!” he added with an increased air of urgency when Gary’s reaction (or the lack thereof) told him that his partner was drifting off into sleep once again.
Gary didn’t even bother to make his snoring sound a little more sympathetic.
For the second time this morning, Ryan huffed in annoyance.
Then, he thrust his feet under the blanket.
Gary sat bolt upright in an instant.
“Bloody ‘ell, take them icicles off me legs!”
Ryan didn’t budge an inch, smirking to himself in the semi-darkness of the bedroom.
Muttering something undecipherable under his breath (the word ‘blackmail’ seemed to play a big part), Gary lifted the blanket.
Ryan didn’t need a second invitation.
They stayed like this for a while, the bedroom's dim cosiness multiplied by the howling storm and the sound of rain drumming on the window pane. Gary’s hand found its way under Ryan’s shirt; slowly traced invisible patterns on his chest.
Eventually, Ryan shifted.
“What now?”
“’s six.”
That was Ryan, always afraid that the ground would open up to swallow him whenever he was so bold to claim some personal freedom.
“Five?”
“No.”
Ryan remembered much too clearly what had happened when he had last, giving in to Gary’s nagging, turned around for another several-minute slumber in the quiet hours of the morning.
The peaceful snooze had ended two hours later, and rather painfully so, when Wayne had woken up to discover that it was nine already and the big football tournament at school about to start in an hour. Thankfully (for him), Wayne had discovered a sure-fire way of waking his daddy, and for days afterwards, a conscience-stricken Gary tried every single recipe from Ma Neville’s endless repertoire on the fist-shaped bruises on Ryan’s chest.
With that in mind, Ryan slipped out of the bed and into a pair of jeans, then climbed down the stairs. The light of the street lanterns shone in through the window by the door, cast shadows of dreadful monsters on the walls, moving back and forth, jaws and claws wildly opening and closing.
Funny how twigs and leaves, moving in the strong wind outside, could make a shiver run down his spine, he mused while putting coffee into the machine; funny how the bright light of the ceiling lamp would have disturbed the peacefulness of the dark bedroom upstairs a few minutes ago and was now able to create warmth and comfort in the kitchen.
Not for long, however, because the voices of Paul and Ole floated in from the staircase.
“…defeated Denikin at Tsaristyn?”
“Roman Abramovich - oh, just how would I know, Paul?”, came the exasperated reply.
“Well, it’s you who is writing a test on the Russian Civil war, after all.”
”Don’t remind me!”
“And that from someone who woke me up in the middle of the night to revise.”
“I was scared. And five o’clock is hardly ‘the middle of the night’!”
“You bloody threw the whole Russian Revolution at me!”
“I’m sorry, the book just - god, Paul, you are such a morning grouch! Have you ever heard of ‘Early bird gets the worm’… ”
“…but the late bird empties the dustbins at Burger King? Oh yeah.”
The kitchen door swung open, and in marched Paul and Ole, the former carrying a large textbook, the latter’s face an expression of tired panic that seemed to be reserved for students who woke up at five o’clock in the morning to the discovery that there was a test of some sort that very day. Ole’s curly hair was sticking out in all directions; he made a feeble attempt to straighten it, then gave up and reached for the cereal bowls.
“What was the main problem of the White Army?”
“White Megaperls wasn’t discovered yet, so whenever they got a stain on their banner, there was a big panic.”
“Ha, ha. Hear my uncontrollable, maniac laughter.” Paul sat down on the table and dangled his legs, watching Ole pour himself some cereals with a stoic expression. “No, and seriously?”
“No unity. Corruption. Erm…different aims?”
“As there were?”
“Restoration of monarchy, forming a dictatorship, kicking the Bolsheviks out of power…”
Two heads turned; four eyes widened in disbelief.
“Dad?”
Ole stretched out a hand to feel Ryan’s forehead; but Ryan ducked away, taking Noa’s milk from the counter and opening the microwave in one swift motion.
“I went to school, too, you know,” he confided in his two sons, smiled and put his empty cup in the sink. He turned on the water and started rinsing the crockery he had used for his breakfast.
“Yeah, but how do you remember that after…”
Just when Ole realised that he had manoeuvred himself into a cul-de-sac that would certainly end with a remark along the lines of ”So you think I’m that old?”, a primal scream from upstairs saved his metaphorical ass.
“What the fuck…”
Ryan rushed to the stairs.
“Jesus Christ, what is happening up there?”, he hollered. There was no use in trying not to wake Noa now; he could already hear her whinging in her cot.
“I ask you t’same thing!”, Alan cried on top of the stairs.
His bleach blonde hair, all flat, hung over his ears and into his face, but didn’t manage to cover up the frown line that had appeared on the boy’s forehead; droplets of water ran down his naked torso. The towel that he had hastily slung around his waist rode dangerously low on his hipbones. Water dripped on the carpet.
“I was in’t shower and you have to turn t’bloody watter on!”
“I’m sorry Alan, I didn’t know -”
“Shampoo and body lotion and all!”
“I’m really sorry Alan, just how was I supposed to know you -”
“Well, listen for’t shower before you start washing up then!”
“You could just come down and say you’re having a shower, too.”
An angry snort from upstairs was the only answer Ryan got for that; and shaking his head, he returned to the kitchen, where Ole and Paul had started to act out their very own version of the incident.
“Bikini wax and face mask and all!” Ole twanged and dangled an imaginary handbag from his arm.
“Don’t worry daaaahhhling, I think you look fahn-tahs-tec with those slices of cucumber!”, Paul chirruped in return and clasped his hands.
Ole snorted into his cereals, and Paul chuckled quietly.
“Paul, Ole! Stop that now; and I don’t want any of this when Darren is here tonight, understood?”
Ryan glared at the two boys and folded the towel he had just used to dry the crockery. The boys nodded; when their father turned around, however, to put the dish and the cup back in their respective place, Paul reached over the table and pulled Ole’s hands towards him, pretending to chew them off in what was supposed to be a slightly OTT display of loving affection. Ole couldn’t suppress a giggle.
Ryan turned around.
Both boys peacefully munched on their Choco Pops.
Ryan furrowed his eyebrows and began to prepare breakfast for Wayne, Cris and Owen.
A herd of elephants on the stairs announced the arrival of two of them; and shortly after Wayne and Cris had burst into the kitchen, pushing each other on the way to their seats (each determined to get there first), Owen lumbered in, brown curls in disarray, a half sleepy, half dreamy look on his face.
“Morning, Owen,” Ryan said and ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately while he put an apple into Ole’s lunchbox, “you slept well?”
Owen made a face. And then, he rose to the tips of his toes to whisper into Ryan’s ear:
“It was under my bed!”
Ryan found it astonishing that while a storm was howling outside, Little Owen’s only worry was the big hairy monster that lived under his bed in the room he shared with Noa; he had seen it twice and he insisted that it had massive white teeth and looked a bit like Alan when you tried to steal his hair gel to try a new painting technique on the bathroom floor.
“Don’t worry”, Ryan said reassuringly and pulled his son into a tight hug, “If it’s still there when I go up later, I’m going to take the hoover - it’s scared of the hoover, remember?”
Owen nodded; and with a small smile, he shuffled over to the table and started eating his toast.
“...Trotsky play in the Civil war?”
“He rebuilt the structure of the army and had his own train, in which….”
“I want my own train, as well!”
“Me, too!”
“Copycat, copycat…”
“Owen, Choco Pops are for eating and not for making patterns on the table.”
“Where is the milk?”
“Oi! Give that back!”
“I’m not a copycat!”
Gary entered the kitchen, a very sleepy Noa owling around the kitchen from her position on his arm.
“Morning”, he greeted the boys assembled around the kitchen table and put the little girl into her high chair. Pressing the power button on the microwave, Ryan smiled and allowed him a short embrace and a brief kiss, before he hurried to explain the purpose of Choco Pops to Owen, who was now trying to add a certain touch to the picture by pouring milk in the space between them.
“It is raining!”
“Yeah, so what? It rains on one out of three days in the United Kingdom.”
Cristiano pouted. “My hair is going to go all flat!” he said, casting a hateful glance out of the window.
“Sissy!” Wayne taunted. “Ouch!”
He scowled at his brother and rubbed his shin, while Cristiano grinned in a smug fashion that stood in sharp contrast to his whinging before, and resorted to his cereals, the rain temporarily forgotten in the light of his little victory.
“Dee!” said Noa and hit Paul, who was kneeling in front of her high chair, with her bottle of milk, an affectionate look on her face.
Paul winced. Being Noa’s favourite had its downsides - but not many, he concluded when his little sister made it up by kissing his arm.
Ryan, upon watching this, smiled and momentarily forgot that his primary task was a sea of milk flooding the table.
Later, after he had raced upstairs three times (once to find the sock Owen - the true artist he was - had managed to lose on his way from the bathroom, and twice to remind Alan that he had to go now) and every child had been equipped with the right bag containing the right lunchbox, Ryan gave Gary a peck on the cheek and waved with one hand while the car (Gary had finally given in to Cris’ moaning and offered to drive them to school - “just for’t once - just so ‘e stops mitherin’ us”) pulled out of the drive, the other securing the enthusiastically waving Noa on his arm.
“Okay,” he said once the car had disappeared around the corner and closed the door.
“And what do you suggest we are going to do now?”
“Mahh,” made Noa and rested her head on Ryan’s shoulder. Yes. Resting was a good idea.
Ryan turned around again. “The blanket”, he said accusingly, glaring into Gary’s direction just for good measure.
“I am freezing!” he added with an increased air of urgency when Gary’s reaction (or the lack thereof) told him that his partner was drifting off into sleep once again.
Gary didn’t even bother to make his snoring sound a little more sympathetic.
For the second time this morning, Ryan huffed in annoyance.
Then, he thrust his feet under the blanket.
Gary sat bolt upright in an instant.
“Bloody ‘ell, take them icicles off me legs!”
Ryan didn’t budge an inch, smirking to himself in the semi-darkness of the bedroom.
Muttering something undecipherable under his breath (the word ‘blackmail’ seemed to play a big part), Gary lifted the blanket.
Ryan didn’t need a second invitation.
They stayed like this for a while, the bedroom's dim cosiness multiplied by the howling storm and the sound of rain drumming on the window pane. Gary’s hand found its way under Ryan’s shirt; slowly traced invisible patterns on his chest.
Eventually, Ryan shifted.
“What now?”
“’s six.”
That was Ryan, always afraid that the ground would open up to swallow him whenever he was so bold to claim some personal freedom.
“Five?”
“No.”
Ryan remembered much too clearly what had happened when he had last, giving in to Gary’s nagging, turned around for another several-minute slumber in the quiet hours of the morning.
The peaceful snooze had ended two hours later, and rather painfully so, when Wayne had woken up to discover that it was nine already and the big football tournament at school about to start in an hour. Thankfully (for him), Wayne had discovered a sure-fire way of waking his daddy, and for days afterwards, a conscience-stricken Gary tried every single recipe from Ma Neville’s endless repertoire on the fist-shaped bruises on Ryan’s chest.
With that in mind, Ryan slipped out of the bed and into a pair of jeans, then climbed down the stairs. The light of the street lanterns shone in through the window by the door, cast shadows of dreadful monsters on the walls, moving back and forth, jaws and claws wildly opening and closing.
Funny how twigs and leaves, moving in the strong wind outside, could make a shiver run down his spine, he mused while putting coffee into the machine; funny how the bright light of the ceiling lamp would have disturbed the peacefulness of the dark bedroom upstairs a few minutes ago and was now able to create warmth and comfort in the kitchen.
Not for long, however, because the voices of Paul and Ole floated in from the staircase.
“…defeated Denikin at Tsaristyn?”
“Roman Abramovich - oh, just how would I know, Paul?”, came the exasperated reply.
“Well, it’s you who is writing a test on the Russian Civil war, after all.”
”Don’t remind me!”
“And that from someone who woke me up in the middle of the night to revise.”
“I was scared. And five o’clock is hardly ‘the middle of the night’!”
“You bloody threw the whole Russian Revolution at me!”
“I’m sorry, the book just - god, Paul, you are such a morning grouch! Have you ever heard of ‘Early bird gets the worm’… ”
“…but the late bird empties the dustbins at Burger King? Oh yeah.”
The kitchen door swung open, and in marched Paul and Ole, the former carrying a large textbook, the latter’s face an expression of tired panic that seemed to be reserved for students who woke up at five o’clock in the morning to the discovery that there was a test of some sort that very day. Ole’s curly hair was sticking out in all directions; he made a feeble attempt to straighten it, then gave up and reached for the cereal bowls.
“What was the main problem of the White Army?”
“White Megaperls wasn’t discovered yet, so whenever they got a stain on their banner, there was a big panic.”
“Ha, ha. Hear my uncontrollable, maniac laughter.” Paul sat down on the table and dangled his legs, watching Ole pour himself some cereals with a stoic expression. “No, and seriously?”
“No unity. Corruption. Erm…different aims?”
“As there were?”
“Restoration of monarchy, forming a dictatorship, kicking the Bolsheviks out of power…”
Two heads turned; four eyes widened in disbelief.
“Dad?”
Ole stretched out a hand to feel Ryan’s forehead; but Ryan ducked away, taking Noa’s milk from the counter and opening the microwave in one swift motion.
“I went to school, too, you know,” he confided in his two sons, smiled and put his empty cup in the sink. He turned on the water and started rinsing the crockery he had used for his breakfast.
“Yeah, but how do you remember that after…”
Just when Ole realised that he had manoeuvred himself into a cul-de-sac that would certainly end with a remark along the lines of ”So you think I’m that old?”, a primal scream from upstairs saved his metaphorical ass.
“What the fuck…”
Ryan rushed to the stairs.
“Jesus Christ, what is happening up there?”, he hollered. There was no use in trying not to wake Noa now; he could already hear her whinging in her cot.
“I ask you t’same thing!”, Alan cried on top of the stairs.
His bleach blonde hair, all flat, hung over his ears and into his face, but didn’t manage to cover up the frown line that had appeared on the boy’s forehead; droplets of water ran down his naked torso. The towel that he had hastily slung around his waist rode dangerously low on his hipbones. Water dripped on the carpet.
“I was in’t shower and you have to turn t’bloody watter on!”
“I’m sorry Alan, I didn’t know -”
“Shampoo and body lotion and all!”
“I’m really sorry Alan, just how was I supposed to know you -”
“Well, listen for’t shower before you start washing up then!”
“You could just come down and say you’re having a shower, too.”
An angry snort from upstairs was the only answer Ryan got for that; and shaking his head, he returned to the kitchen, where Ole and Paul had started to act out their very own version of the incident.
“Bikini wax and face mask and all!” Ole twanged and dangled an imaginary handbag from his arm.
“Don’t worry daaaahhhling, I think you look fahn-tahs-tec with those slices of cucumber!”, Paul chirruped in return and clasped his hands.
Ole snorted into his cereals, and Paul chuckled quietly.
“Paul, Ole! Stop that now; and I don’t want any of this when Darren is here tonight, understood?”
Ryan glared at the two boys and folded the towel he had just used to dry the crockery. The boys nodded; when their father turned around, however, to put the dish and the cup back in their respective place, Paul reached over the table and pulled Ole’s hands towards him, pretending to chew them off in what was supposed to be a slightly OTT display of loving affection. Ole couldn’t suppress a giggle.
Ryan turned around.
Both boys peacefully munched on their Choco Pops.
Ryan furrowed his eyebrows and began to prepare breakfast for Wayne, Cris and Owen.
A herd of elephants on the stairs announced the arrival of two of them; and shortly after Wayne and Cris had burst into the kitchen, pushing each other on the way to their seats (each determined to get there first), Owen lumbered in, brown curls in disarray, a half sleepy, half dreamy look on his face.
“Morning, Owen,” Ryan said and ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately while he put an apple into Ole’s lunchbox, “you slept well?”
Owen made a face. And then, he rose to the tips of his toes to whisper into Ryan’s ear:
“It was under my bed!”
Ryan found it astonishing that while a storm was howling outside, Little Owen’s only worry was the big hairy monster that lived under his bed in the room he shared with Noa; he had seen it twice and he insisted that it had massive white teeth and looked a bit like Alan when you tried to steal his hair gel to try a new painting technique on the bathroom floor.
“Don’t worry”, Ryan said reassuringly and pulled his son into a tight hug, “If it’s still there when I go up later, I’m going to take the hoover - it’s scared of the hoover, remember?”
Owen nodded; and with a small smile, he shuffled over to the table and started eating his toast.
“...Trotsky play in the Civil war?”
“He rebuilt the structure of the army and had his own train, in which….”
“I want my own train, as well!”
“Me, too!”
“Copycat, copycat…”
“Owen, Choco Pops are for eating and not for making patterns on the table.”
“Where is the milk?”
“Oi! Give that back!”
“I’m not a copycat!”
Gary entered the kitchen, a very sleepy Noa owling around the kitchen from her position on his arm.
“Morning”, he greeted the boys assembled around the kitchen table and put the little girl into her high chair. Pressing the power button on the microwave, Ryan smiled and allowed him a short embrace and a brief kiss, before he hurried to explain the purpose of Choco Pops to Owen, who was now trying to add a certain touch to the picture by pouring milk in the space between them.
“It is raining!”
“Yeah, so what? It rains on one out of three days in the United Kingdom.”
Cristiano pouted. “My hair is going to go all flat!” he said, casting a hateful glance out of the window.
“Sissy!” Wayne taunted. “Ouch!”
He scowled at his brother and rubbed his shin, while Cristiano grinned in a smug fashion that stood in sharp contrast to his whinging before, and resorted to his cereals, the rain temporarily forgotten in the light of his little victory.
“Dee!” said Noa and hit Paul, who was kneeling in front of her high chair, with her bottle of milk, an affectionate look on her face.
Paul winced. Being Noa’s favourite had its downsides - but not many, he concluded when his little sister made it up by kissing his arm.
Ryan, upon watching this, smiled and momentarily forgot that his primary task was a sea of milk flooding the table.
Later, after he had raced upstairs three times (once to find the sock Owen - the true artist he was - had managed to lose on his way from the bathroom, and twice to remind Alan that he had to go now) and every child had been equipped with the right bag containing the right lunchbox, Ryan gave Gary a peck on the cheek and waved with one hand while the car (Gary had finally given in to Cris’ moaning and offered to drive them to school - “just for’t once - just so ‘e stops mitherin’ us”) pulled out of the drive, the other securing the enthusiastically waving Noa on his arm.
“Okay,” he said once the car had disappeared around the corner and closed the door.
“And what do you suggest we are going to do now?”
“Mahh,” made Noa and rested her head on Ryan’s shoulder. Yes. Resting was a good idea.