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The sun shines airy through the window and the spring breeze flutters the curtains with a light touch. (It is morning.) Roman blinks his eyes open, blearily, the weight of sleep resting heavy and sated on his skin - it is morning. The blankets slip off of him along with the weariness, smooth as silk (they were silk, new comforters they had bought together just last week, arguing over colors in the aisle until Roman had just grabbed the white one), and he yawns, reaching arms over his head until they knock against the headboard, calloused hands against solid wood. (Now that was a memory.)
The space beside him is empty. Roman already knows it, ( someone's an early bird,) but he still lets his arms fall until they hit the open space besides him, finding blankets made up neatly so the warmth would keep in the absence of fire. He would worry - but love is merely the knowledge of loss, and then of returning. Still caught in the caress of sleep, Roman rises halfway, an unformed desire to find the source of his warmth, but the pillows call to him and Roman sinks back into them with a small sigh. Faint voices come from the kitchen, footsteps sure and comfortable on the love-worn floor. Loss, but there will be returning.
He dozes for a few more minutes, or seconds, or hours (time slips by like water when asleep in the arms of held promise), and resurfaces at a knock at the door. The sun is growing hot now, amber fire at the surface of light sheets, but he doesn't burn. He only feels warm. A head pokes in - pink, and brown, and white - and he smiles, yawning again, sitting up fully this time. (Loss and returning.)
"Neo, love. Good morning."
A chamber of his heart (still-beating and soft, despite it all) walks in past the door frame, something held in her hands. Roman waits for her to set down the tray, balancing it on four wooden legs atop his lap, heart still beating. His love for her was so much it almost killed them both, was so much that it saved them. As she ducks down to adjust the glass of juice on the tray, he ruffles her hair - pink, brown, white, glowing in light. She smiles as he touches her cheek, doting, the surety of the touch comforting them both. Simple assurances, gentle and warm like sunshine. "So, what's the occasion today?"
Hands free now from their gift, she signs quickly, even though her body language tells him all that he needs to know (always, they've always known each other like the sea knows rain). " Breakfast in bed for you today" and " I gathered the eggs" and " Qrow is cutting fruit" and " We'll all be together soon. " And there it was - the loss and the returning, all bundled up neatly in a bowl of cantaloupe and honeydew that heralds the arrival of the dove through the doorframe.
There is something simple and good about this , he thinks as Qrow settles back down on his side of the bed with a smile, facing the light then turning to him with a softness that fits so gently on his sharp face, something simple and good that stood in defiance of their shared stories . Neo nudges him until he moves, shifting to leave space for her to lean against him lightly and steal bits of bacon off of his plate. Two lines of warmth on either side of him and he feels secure, held tightly with two points, the strongest he's ever been even while weaponless, in bed, in his fluffy pink pajamas. Violence is the flip coin of love but it is furthest from his mind - there is no violence here. None in the unspoken affection of Qrow's hand on his or the silent joy of Neo's laughter as he pinches her in retaliation for snatching a pancake. (Love and affection she never has to steal, never. They are available plenty, in surplus in this small warm room.) Nothing but love.
"Good morning," Qrow says, touching lips to Roman's cheek. "Hope you slept well."
"I always sleep well when I'm with you," Roman replies, truthfully, feeling blissfully bare in the morning, and is rewarded with Qrow's soft smile. Roman closes his eyes and leans into him, the fire returning to heat his languid bones. "What's the occasion?" he repeats, hoping that with Qrow here he would get a clearer answer.
Neo just rolls her eyes (the colors stay the same). " Breakfast in bed," she says, " I already told you. No occasion. Just because-" And instead of finishing her sentence she makes a heart with her hands, and touches it to his chest with a smile.
There's something swelling there, inside him, beneath where Neo's fingers met the fabric of his pajama shirt - Roman would usually fight it down, stamp it back to its place hidden away in a corner of his heart so he won't lose it, but he lets it rise in him, swallow him down and wash over him, leave him glowing. (There's the loss.) The sun shines a bit brighter. Neo's eyes sparkle. (And there's the returning.)
"It's gonna get cold," Qrow says from his left side, and Roman turns to lean his head into the other man. "Hey, I'm serious here." There's laughter in his voice. Roman kisses his shoulder.
Neo cuts and spears a piece of toast, feigning annoyance as she raises it to his mouth. Roman chuckles, and accepts the bite, taking the fork from her. It wasn't cold, not at all. "I used to feed you like this," he says, just to see her scrunch up her face and accuse him of lying. "Kids always go through that phase where you've got to airplane them the food, even when they're older. Right, old man?"
"I'm not old," Qrow replies, almost automatically, rolling his eyes, just as Neo makes the same expression on his right side. The exasperation runs in the family , Roman thinks, and feels a burst of surprised joy at that. "But you're right. For a month or two Ruby was insistent on being fed when she was about… seven? Yang never did that, though. She'd slap me if I tried." He chuckles lightly at the memory, and Roman feels a wave wash over him again. (The tide coming, receding.) He settles back into the pillows, brings the fork again to his mouth.
They finish their meal in amiable silence. Plates and trays are cleared away, the blankets refolded and tidied up. Roman sheds his comfortable pajamas and changes into equally as comfortable day clothes, a simple shirt and pants for busywork around the house. Qrow rests a hand on the small of his back as they venture together out into the small garden, where they will be tending to the plants as Neo investigates the new family of rabbits that have made their home in a corner. Then they will go back inside, wash up while laughing at the dirt on Roman's white shirt as he throws handfuls of sink water at Qrow, and then they will have a snack before cuddling up together in the living room and catching reruns on the television. They have nothing else to do today, nothing to attend to or chase after or yearn for. Just love, and the warmth of the sun making patterns on the floor.
Roman feels Qrow's hand in his, Neo's arm against his shoulder vibrating as she hums to herself, the evening breeze touching the curtains and enticing them to dance. The love, the loss, and finally, the returning. They fill his heart and despite it all, he finds light in the small room, blooming between three pairs of intertwined hands.