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The thin burlap curtains filter the velvety rays of the rising sun, brushing on Alfie’s skin when he opens his eyes. The sheets aren’t very clean, but they smell like him. The suave and musky scent that he can’t seem to grow bored of sinks around him. Alfie buries his face deeper into the cushion, letting the smell whispers through his nostrils, this light fragrance that makes him feel at home in this foreign bedroom.
The sheets are cold around his body. Tommy must be already out of bed , he thinks quickly, before the springs of the bed squeak and his body bounces suddenly against the old mattress, as a weight moves sleepily at the other end of the bed.
Alfie turns over, certain he’ll find the bewitching blue gaze of his lover’s eyes brushing over his silhouette.
Tommy usually wakes first and will often lie in bed, gazing warmly at Alfie. He would never admit it, but Alfie can feel his eyes on him. Youthful amusement will crinkle in the corners of his lips, bringing every ounce of fondness Tommy holds for Alfie brimming to the surface. As if he is something worthy of being looked at. Fucking ridiculous.
His own sentiments for Tommy come bursting forth as he turns to his lover, freezing as he finds Tommy sound asleep next to him. He understands in that second how Tommy can spend ages watching him.
Tommy is curled up in a ball. He’s bundled into the duvet and nestled deep into his pillow, the top of his head just barely pokes out. This uncompromising man, who so often puffs out his chest in an attempt to look broader appears uncannily soft, nearly childish. His face is washed of all the relentless pains usually creasing his chiseled features.
He seems so peaceful, and so different. And yet, it’s him in all his simplicity. It’s him without false pretences, without restraint, or lies. It’s the calm cascade of his milky skin and the life heaving in his chest. It’s the long black eyelashes, brushing delicate as feathers over his pale cheekbones and drawing shadows along his smooth cheeks. It’s not really Tommy, and yet it’s him in his entirety. It’s him with the purity of a soul that hadn’t been weakened yet.
A sudden, thundering need to protect him seizes through Alfie, and though Tommy would despise it if he acted on it, he can’t help himself. He wants to embrace him to shield his thin skin from the thorns that could rip it. Warm his limbs from the insufferable, icy chill of winter that could freeze his lungs and stop his tiny heart from beating.
Scared to ruin this moment of grace, he settles for lightly stroking the short locks caressing his face.
If he could read minds, Tommy would definitely hate these thoughts with all his being. He would argue how he’s no precious brittle thing that could break at any given moment, that he’s not made of porcelain.
And yes, Alfie knows all of that, but how could he not worry? How could he not worry for someone so beautiful in a world that wrecks every pretty thing? Poppies had covered the fields of the Somme before death had plowed through and turned the soil over. Alfie saw them being crushed by large muddy boots, blown up piece by piece, as the earth flew skyward.
Alfie startles, and yanks his hand back when he feels Tommy snuffle. His wandering thoughts distracting him, and almost rousing Tommy.
Tommy makes a sweet sleepy moan as he tries to settle back into the cushion, brushing the side of his face against it and swallowing thickly.
He’s between the realms of slumber and reality. Sailing on a hazy cloud as his face already shows signs of his waking. Tommy’s eyes flutters, though he squeezes them tightly shut again, assaulted by the glowing rays of sunshine. His relaxed plump lips reunite to become one thin line again and the stressed frown of his eyebrows creases the rest of his sleek features. But Alfie can’t see the usual icy walls freezing his soul and cracking his skin yet.
“What time is it?” Tommy manages to mumble into the pillow, still half asleep.
Alfie rolls on his back to lazily grab a pocket watch from the bedside table. He has a quick look at it, before throwing it back where it was, and laying again towards Tommy, supporting his head with his elbow.
“7:30.” Alfie states casually, for pure informational purposes, as if Tommy had scheduled time in the morning for sleeping in, and on occasion, fucking, Alfie dares to think as an agreeable heat pools low in his belly. Concerning this last thought, Alfie is fully aware he can go back to sleep and fucking dream.
“Fuck.” Tommy slurs his words and his hand curls loosely over his mouth, hiding a jaw breaking yawn. The movement creases his forehead as his mouth opens up wide. The smooth features warp until they look like crumpled paper, marking his fine wrinkles, reminding him of his true age, in a way his smooth skin often fools him into forgetting. He’s not too concerned by the hour yet, and hasn’t tried to open his eyes again. Settling on his back, he lays the back of his flat palm on his forehead and brushes the bridge of his nose with his thumb.
Alfie scoots closer, carelessly throwing an arm over Tommy. His hand rests on Tommy’s chest, where he can distinctly feel his heart beating. It’s reassuring. To hear it. To feel it. To rest against him, as it bangs against his ribcage. He feels a strong need to check, just in case.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty” Alfie says, kissing his temple.
Tommy clicks his tongue and rubs his heavy eyelids with his thumb and forefinger. He takes a deep breath and suddenly pulls himself up. Considering the long deep sigh he makes, this slight movement looks like it takes an insurmountable effort, but is essential if he wants to get out of the sheets anytime soon. And that isn’t a part of Alfie’s plan at all.
Tommy’s hands barely sink into the firm mattress, as his whole weight rests on his forearms. His fingers wring into the sheets, as he grasps them tightly and struggles to hold himself up. The heavy weight of exhaustion seems to sink into his bones, weakening them quickly. He tightens his hands more around the fabric, as his irritation at this increasingly hazy feeling grows. For a brief instant, he’s hit by a sense of duty and responsibility, and finally pushes on his forearms to get out of bed.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Alfie strengthens his embrace around Tommy’s waist and pulls him back down to the mattress. Tommy’s head bounces against the coarse fabric of his pillow case and the surprisingly violent move makes him swallow back the air in his throat.
As he settles back into the sleep warm blankets, Tommy moans in despair, wondering if he’ll ever be able to get out of bed on his own, and Alfie is entirely uncooperative, snuggling closer, kissing and sucking on the thin skin of his neck.
Tommy’s eyelids threaten to slip closed. They drop down slowly, until he yanks them open for fear of falling asleep again. Alfie can’t help but feel very endeared by how much Tommy is struggling to wake up, finding his annoyed frown adorable and the sharp curve of his hipbone deliciously sinful where the white sheet has slipped off.
“Just a bit more” Alfie whispers in the shell of his ear, tightening his hug and watching closely as fresh small hickeys dot along Tommy’s neck, so obvious that even his posh collar won’t be able to hide them.
Just a bit more time under the velvety rays of sun.