Advent Calendar '07: Day 14
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On the day that I turned thirty-eight years old, I awoke to heaven.
Dark tousled hair filled my mouth and nose. A heavy arm was draped over my side, fingers were clenched tightly in the neck of my shirt, and a strong knee was jammed into my thigh. None of the blankets were on my side of the bed any longer, either wrapped around the lean form curled against me or lying kicked off on the floor, leaving my feet bared to the cold. As I drifted more into wakefulness soft little snuffles murmured against my chest, the grip on my shirt-neck tightening to the point of stretching the thin fabric for good.
I sighed happily and nestled closer to the oblivious lump at my side.
The pastel blue glow of early morning shone through the slatted blinds of the windows, piercing through the curtains to dance lines of light throughout the room. A young bird warbled within the branches of the trees outside, a discordant tune somehow still managing to emerge as a sweet harmonious melody. I would have been happily content to stay that way, bathed in the gentle sleepy morning, but Nikolai inevitably began to stir with my own wakefulness disturbing his slumber.
I pulled back enough so I could watch his face, the lines of the pillow pressed into his cheek as he shifted in my arms with a quiet mumble. I traced the lines of his features with my eyes, and then with the tip of my forefinger; brushing down his forehead, trailing between his eyes and tracing along the line of his nose. As I did, he wrinkled his nose adorably in sleep, frowning a little even as he nuzzled against my hand, sighing into my palm. I cupped his cheek and stroked my fingers across his jaw, watching as his eyes fluttered and then half-opened as he woke.
Eyes the color of quicksilver were liquid trusting in that unguarded place between sleep and conscious thought, and I smiled down into that innocent gaze. Nikolai smiled back, softly, sleepily, and I leaned down to brush my lips against his forehead. His arm, thrown over my side, slid down to lay his wrist on my waist, and his grip on my shirt loosened. I dropped my hand from his cheek to trail down his chest, playing with the dusting of soft hair that tapered off as I explored lower. I rubbed the back of my knuckles against the skin of his belly and he arched his back deliciously, pale-pink lips parting in a quiet, sleepy moan.
Nik always stole the blankets, so he never worried about the cold; and so it was just bare skin beneath my fingertips when I slipped my hand beneath the waistband of his loose pajama pants. I curled my fingers around him and he let out a quiet gasp, eyelids fluttering shut as his mouth went slack in pleasure.
The house was quiet and the room was quiet and the whole world seemed to still as I stroked my hand up and down Nikolai’s shaft, his soft moans still only half-awake and his gentle thrusting into my grip the only thing that mattered within the sleepy confines of the moment. He curled his fingers against my chest and let his head fall back, allowed me to dip down to taste the skin of his throat, warm and spicy beneath my lips.
When he came he did so with a soft keening cry, arching against me, spilling hot over my hand. I stroked him through the aftershocks and he shuddered, moaning, pressing his face against my neck and whimpering quietly as the bird outside trilled.
“’appy birth’ay, Sergei,” he mumbled, incoherently, sated and pliable in my arms. “’s five a.m. C’n I make ’ou breakfast in two-or-three m’re hours?”
“Certainly,” I replied magnanimously, raising my hand to my lips, tasting him on my fingers. He mumbled something else and burrowed back against my chest.
I had Nikolai to wake up to every morning, and so thirty-eight years old wasn’t at all that bad.
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On the day that I turned thirty-eight years old, I awoke to heaven.
Dark tousled hair filled my mouth and nose. A heavy arm was draped over my side, fingers were clenched tightly in the neck of my shirt, and a strong knee was jammed into my thigh. None of the blankets were on my side of the bed any longer, either wrapped around the lean form curled against me or lying kicked off on the floor, leaving my feet bared to the cold. As I drifted more into wakefulness soft little snuffles murmured against my chest, the grip on my shirt-neck tightening to the point of stretching the thin fabric for good.
I sighed happily and nestled closer to the oblivious lump at my side.
The pastel blue glow of early morning shone through the slatted blinds of the windows, piercing through the curtains to dance lines of light throughout the room. A young bird warbled within the branches of the trees outside, a discordant tune somehow still managing to emerge as a sweet harmonious melody. I would have been happily content to stay that way, bathed in the gentle sleepy morning, but Nikolai inevitably began to stir with my own wakefulness disturbing his slumber.
I pulled back enough so I could watch his face, the lines of the pillow pressed into his cheek as he shifted in my arms with a quiet mumble. I traced the lines of his features with my eyes, and then with the tip of my forefinger; brushing down his forehead, trailing between his eyes and tracing along the line of his nose. As I did, he wrinkled his nose adorably in sleep, frowning a little even as he nuzzled against my hand, sighing into my palm. I cupped his cheek and stroked my fingers across his jaw, watching as his eyes fluttered and then half-opened as he woke.
Eyes the color of quicksilver were liquid trusting in that unguarded place between sleep and conscious thought, and I smiled down into that innocent gaze. Nikolai smiled back, softly, sleepily, and I leaned down to brush my lips against his forehead. His arm, thrown over my side, slid down to lay his wrist on my waist, and his grip on my shirt loosened. I dropped my hand from his cheek to trail down his chest, playing with the dusting of soft hair that tapered off as I explored lower. I rubbed the back of my knuckles against the skin of his belly and he arched his back deliciously, pale-pink lips parting in a quiet, sleepy moan.
Nik always stole the blankets, so he never worried about the cold; and so it was just bare skin beneath my fingertips when I slipped my hand beneath the waistband of his loose pajama pants. I curled my fingers around him and he let out a quiet gasp, eyelids fluttering shut as his mouth went slack in pleasure.
The house was quiet and the room was quiet and the whole world seemed to still as I stroked my hand up and down Nikolai’s shaft, his soft moans still only half-awake and his gentle thrusting into my grip the only thing that mattered within the sleepy confines of the moment. He curled his fingers against my chest and let his head fall back, allowed me to dip down to taste the skin of his throat, warm and spicy beneath my lips.
When he came he did so with a soft keening cry, arching against me, spilling hot over my hand. I stroked him through the aftershocks and he shuddered, moaning, pressing his face against my neck and whimpering quietly as the bird outside trilled.
“’appy birth’ay, Sergei,” he mumbled, incoherently, sated and pliable in my arms. “’s five a.m. C’n I make ’ou breakfast in two-or-three m’re hours?”
“Certainly,” I replied magnanimously, raising my hand to my lips, tasting him on my fingers. He mumbled something else and burrowed back against my chest.
I had Nikolai to wake up to every morning, and so thirty-eight years old wasn’t at all that bad.
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