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I can feel the film of grease covering my face like a gross reminder of my adolescence. My tongue tastes like sour coffee, which isn't fair considering I haven't had any yet. My back feels just as oily as my face as I wipe the sleep from my puffy eyelids. My hair sticks up in all directions and I smell like my unwashed sheets. Why. Still, my co-part enters the room like it's his, holding two cups of coffee. His eyes look a bit swollen with sleep, too but his smile makes it cute. I take the cup offered to me wordlessly as he slides into bed next to me. He smells like stale laundry but with something else, too. It's warm and natural and comfortable. I sip the hot coffee and he sips his. I look at him and he looks out the window to the brightening pink sky of our crisp morning. He has a habit of finding windows and gazing out them whenever he's indoors.
The bed creaks as he shifts to lay across my slumped back so his head fits over my shoulder. He's warm and the steam from his coffee heats my ear. "Does the grease on my back and face bother you?" I ask him as he cuddles closer. His shorter hair scratches my temple and he moves so his nose peeks over my shoulder and his breath tickles it. It melts me. His mouth smirks against my skin.
"Does the grease on my face bother you?" He pulls away and asks before wiping his face on my shoulder. He also has an oily face.
I tense, attempting to pull away. "Ack!" My own sound of alarm. He laughs and wrapped himself around me, crossing his feet around my waist and his arms over my chest, trapping me. I wanted to reach around to touch him but I still have my cup of coffee in hand. He must have set his on the stand beside the bed before grabbing me.
I wish I could see his face, but in my current situation all I could do was search behind me for it with my hands. I skim his cheeks and eyelashes; he kisses my fingertips as carefully as they run over his skin. He traces my collarbone with his own. We could turn to look at each other but we aren't as hungry to anymore. A game of memorization through touch gives our relationship a long-lasting buzz that powerful greed couldn't. The best part is that we both feel the same way about it. "Guess what my mouth tastes like," I challenge, sticking my tongue out and making a sour face. He is tracing the bags under my eyes when I ask. Poking my cheeks, he thinks.
"Vomit?"
I sampled my own saliva. "Close."
"Stale garbage?"
"Nope."
"A dirty diaper?"
"Ugh, I hope not."
He moved off to face me. "Well your hands smell like croutons for some whackass reason." I gave him an incredulous look and sniffed my palms. Immediately, I burst out laughing.
"Okay, that is strange."
He smiled lazily and moved closer, tilting my chin up for convenience. His lips met mine experimentally, just to taste. "Tastes like old toast and grapes." He confirmed, still in proximity.
"You'd think I'd taste like coffee, right?" I whispered, blushing despite myself.
"Yeah, that's pretty gross, Cas." He murmured before kissing me again. He tastes like bitter coffee and cream. Gross. I deepened the kiss. I'm living in a dream.