Chapter Text
Every day you would stir before me, and your yawn would be the cockcrow that would wake me. But I would often pretend to still be asleep, so that I could feel your cautious, tender touch when you lean down to run feathery fingers across my right cheek, the side not sunk into the soft pillows, dehydrated from the overnight coolness. I think a thousand years would pass and we would still be in awe at how great humankind would have come— would we ever truly get used to the comfort and ease of modernity? My thoughts and fancies would fly as such, as your movement and strange murmurs would attempt to pull me, one cognitive thread after another, into the reality of morning. Yet, I would never budge, except for a curl of the toes or an escaped smirk, pining for your routine to continue. You would shuffle out of our shared mattress, and when your feet touch ground your hand would find its way into your wild, wild hair, tousling it like you have always done since centuries ago. Your mane has always been like a lion’s, untamed and defying all laws of nature, and there I would lie in feigned sleep, reminiscing about a time when your hair had not been so light, but blazing like the scorching flames on kindling. Suddenly, you would stand, and leave the room in a sort of quietness quite strange for a loudmouth like yourself, as if you dared not wake me. You would be an idiot, then, to assume I would not be disturbed by your first movement. Nevertheless, at least you would attempt to ameliorate the damage. That is one endearing thing. Still, there I would lay unmoving for a good while, as you would change out of your nightwear for a quick rinse. Yes, you would do that, while I would enjoy the euphonious birdsong from outside our window and the clement sunlight enveloping the uncovered parts of my motionless body, awaiting your return. And you would return, with a breath of fresh mint and two cups of coffee, exactly the way we would like it made. Setting the cups on the nightstand on the right, the pinewood one, you would come back towards our bed, this time before me. You would never have noticed, but only my eyes would be closed, and I would be quite conscious when your dry lips would gently peck its way from my exposed neck to the centre of my forehead. Only then would I let my eyelids gradually unfurl, or let my arms wrap themselves around your well-toned body, grown increasingly robust across the years. Then my lips would meet yours as our backs arch in the tight embrace, and we would stay that way for the next half hour or so, drowning in our brief moment of ecstasy.
“God morgen, Norge,” you would try to whisper (in an adorably unsuccessful seductive way). “Your coffee’s on the—”
“I know.”