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Chloe doesn’t wake him. He finds her pliant touch superior to an alarm, delivered by hand rather than over the loudspeaker or to his clock or the watch on his nightstand. But, for once, there’s another human in Elijah’s bed that might not appreciate any manner of interruption.
As soon as Elijah’s adjusted to the light, a warm yellow glow streaming through the curtains, he rolls onto his side. Leo’s pulled up so close to him that there’s no room to stretch out, barely even enough to escape the tickle of morning breath seeping through Leo’s parted lips. There’s a sliver of drool leaking out between them, staining the pillow. That should probably bother Elijah. None of his perfected super-beings leave stains. But it sends a curious prickle down his spine, because Leo is so flawed—he’s gloriously human.
Since retiring, Elijah had almost forgotten what it felt like to share a bed with another man made of flesh and blood. He’d lost the little details of sheets still damp with sweat and stray hairs on his blanket. He forgot how pleasantly messy it could be. He’s glad that when he cut off all his other contacts, particularly those still tied to CyberLife and the nightclub scene he used to rule, he still kept the Manfreds.
Carl would kill him, of course. Carl specifically told Elijah not to eye his son up like a fresh dessert. But Elijah has a nasty habit of getting what he wants. He watches the subtle swell and release of Leo’s steady breathing, the faint flutter of his lashes against his cheek and the tumble of his brown hair across his forehead whenever he shifts. He’s a deeper sleeper than Elijah would’ve thought. Maybe he doesn’t have the luxury of sleeping in often. Elijah’s been retired for years and still can’t seem to sleep in, even on a weekend.
But he doesn’t ruin it for Leo, because he always likes a chance to observe, and Leo’s a pretty subject. The stubble along his soft jaw-line is getting a tad scruffy—Elijah risks curling his fingers against it and lightly stroking Leo’s skin. Leo doesn’t stir, and Elijah shivers from the scratch. They’ll have to shave it later. Elijah will shave it. Leo’s hands shake too much—he always cuts himself when he tries. Elijah’s hands are intensely steady, very skilled.
He trails down to Leo’s throat, lightly tracing the smattering of red circles—nips and suction and a few scrapes from blunt fingernails. Leo’s skin bruises so easily. Elijah loves the look of it. It’s a shame the sheet’s draped across Leo’s shoulder, hiding the rest of him, because Elijah would like to appreciate all of him. When Elijah finds a particularly worthy work of art, he tends to marvel over it for hours.
He leans in to brush his lips over the tip of Leo’s nose and resists straying any lower without Leo’s agreement. That one touch is enough. Leo makes a low, groaning noise from the back of his throat, and his eyes squint open.
He squeezes them shut a split second later, face scrunching up at the onslaught of the sun. Elijah mischievously ruffles his hair and murmurs, “Good morning, beautiful.”
Leo makes a disagreeable rumbling noise like a pissy cat and buries his face in the pillow. Elijah can’t help chuckling, even though he knows it’ll annoy his partner.
It feels strange to think partner. Perhaps that’s a little premature. Elijah knows the dangers of growing attached to infinitely fragile humans. But Leo has to be his something, because Elijah is also fiercely possessive and likes to leave his mark on things.
He presses into the sliver of Leo’s cheek that he can reach, irritating Leo with a fleeting kiss. As he trails those kisses down the round slope of Leo’s shoulder, Leo sleepily grumbles into the pillow, “What’re you doing?”
Elijah nips at his bicep, eliciting a short yelp, and chuckles, “Admiring my little lion.”
Leo turns his face enough to crossly mutter, “I’m not—”
But Elijah cuts him off with a kiss over his lips, morning breath and all. Leo makes a muffled sound of surprise and aggravation, but when his arms snake out of the sheets and grab Elijah’s broad shoulders, they don’t push. They just hold on. Elijah cups Leo’s cheek and tilts his face, bidding Leo’s lips wider open with his tongue. Leo begrudgingly obliges, quick to suck on that tongue.
He tastes a little ashy, stale. Elijah savours the kiss anyway. When he pulls back, he still hovers close, so he can look right into Leo’s eyes and see the vulnerability there—the cloud of arousal but the clarity of desire. It’s a very different gaze than the one Elijah first took back to his apartment. He’s tempted to murmur, yet again, how very proud he is of Leo’s journey—the sobriety, the therapy he’s attending, the maturity to actually be nice to the Chloes. Or civil, at least. Elijah’s vain enough to think he had a hand in all of it. It’s a personal project, one he’s poured a great deal of time and energy into, and it’s been rather rewarding. Leo sniffs and rubs his nose against Elijah’s like a dog that wants to be angry but can’t.
There’s a brief moment where Elijah thinks that Leo’s so terribly cute that it’d be a crime not to conserve him—surely if Elijah made a model based on Leo’s looks, it’d be a best seller. He’d have to adjust the personality, of course, because not everyone enjoys a challenge like Elijah does, but he would keep a few choice mannerisms. Then Leo presses his face into the side of Elijah’s and groans, wrapping around Elijah’s body and curling up like he wants to sleep forever. And Elijah realizes that he can’t ever use Leo’s specifications, because he couldn’t stand to share.
Kissing his cheek, Elijah suggests, “Let’s go get breakfast.”
“Let’s sleep,” Leo mutters, and he yawns right over Elijah’s heart.