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Sleep leaves me like a train leaving a station: loudly, hot, and with an unbearable rocking sensation prattling away in my head.
I groan unintelligibly, pushing myself off the red silk sheets beneath me, the dozen or so matching pillows of various shapes and sizes purchased more for their aestheticism and less for their comfort or functionality.
Lucio, on my left, seems to be in a similar predicament. He shifts a little, squinting his eyes open through the sunlight for the briefest of seconds before shutting them quickly again and throwing his arm over his face to cover it.
“Mmmph.”
Indeed.
I find I’m still absolutely exhausted, the kind of tired where you just wake up dreading your own menial existence, anticipating the suffering shuffle through the rest of the day feeling like the six to eight hours you slept weren’t nearly enough to satisfy the buzzing at the base of your skull, the ache in your temples and between your brows. The kind of day where you want to take a nap but can’t find the time, or can’t find it in yourself to actually sleep if you do get the chance. Regardless, the little wine night that I had with Lucio yesterday probably isn’t helping much, not that I’ve ever been a morning person. Neither of us are.
I kick off the sheets on my side of the bed, rolling sluggishly to the edge of the monstrously large mattress, cold morning air hitting my bare, hot legs in a way that manages to be simultaneously both pleasant and jarring. I’m about to swing them over the edge out of mostly just spite against the drudgery of life yet to be lived when something wraps around my waist and tugs me sharply back to the sheets, sloppily repositioning me into something resembling a leisurely embrace. Lucio digs his face into my collarbone, groaning.
“Don’t go,” he mumbles, the words just barely discernible pressed up against my skin. “If you’re going that means it’s already morning.”
I sigh, bringing my hand to ruffle up his messy hair. It’s getting rather long in the back, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to grow some sort of mullet. I wouldn’t put it past him.
“It is morning though,” I say, my own voice scratchy.
He removes his head from its perch against me just briefly enough to send up a scowl. “Not if I don’t say it is. I hate mornings”
That makes two of us.
Still, as much as Lucio just wants to lie in bed and cuddle me all day, something that I wouldn't necessarily be averse to granting him, one of us has to be responsible, and it sure as hell won't be him.
“It’s nearly noon,” I realize, finally waking up a little as my eyes snag on the wall clock that Lucio had put up only upon my insistence. “You have a meeting at one. I have to go check on some magic stuff. We-“
I can hear his whine before he ever utters a sound. “Noooooo. We don’t talk about business in this bed. I’m not even awake yet."
He fixes me with the best pout he can possibly conjure up, his thin lips scrunching together, fishing for pity.
I smile, a little.
Then I whack him over the head with one of those stiff cylindrical pillows until he lets go of me with a hissed string of swears.
We’re off to a great start.