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Tristan looks like moonlight, sprawled out over the dark gray sheets like this. Like a star laid out against the inky expanse of space, bright and burning and beautiful.
Their hair is curled around the sloping nape of their neck and the cushion of their pillow, ticking up in sharp curls at the ends. The strands by their pierced ears frame their high cheekbones, the barely-there flush in them contrasting handsomely. A teeny whistled sound comes from their parted lips and gapped teeth, charming and cute, and Benji has to resist the urge to kiss them.
It’s a look that’s unfairly beautiful, pale-skinned and lithe as they snore softly into the quiet of their room. The ceiling fan whirrs gently above them, one of Tristan’s necessities for a good night's sleep.
Benji watches as their lips twitch in their sleep, the beginnings of a purse, and they inhale deeply through their nose as they shuffle a little in the sheets. He watches their head tip towards him, the side of their face pressed into the pillow now, and the way their cheek folds up gently against their nose makes Benji’s hands itch for a paintbrush for the first time since high school.
This startles him a little.
He’d always preferred digital art—if not that, simple pencil on paper and a good pen. He has the skill set for painting, and he’s done it before, but it’s… He just doesn’t click with acrylic and oils the way he does his usuals.
He’s only ever felt that urge to paint when he’s been struck with really, truly beautiful things. Lily ponds, and morning doves, and the sunset over Britannia Park.
And evidently, Tristan.
This revelation in itself isn’t anything necessarily new—He’s known this for ages. He’s kissed the affirmation of his attraction for them into the sharp sculpt of their cupid's bow, breathless with bubbly, happy nerves as if every time is the first time all over again.
They just make love so easy.
He’s never felt that way before. Sure, He never really had the relationships to have those feelings in, but… he knows love takes a lot of shapes. He sees it in Zaid’s arm looped around his shoulders and the smile he gets when Ivy walks into a room. He sees it in Tristan’s gentle coaxing away from his laptop late at night and their ‘pspspsps’ whispered to stray cats, a can of wet food tucked into their tote bag after a quick trip to the gas station for this singular purpose.
He’d seen it everywhere but within his own life, and then all of the sudden, it was around every corner he turned. It was birthday cakes with his name on them and gap-toothed smiles.
It was everything. It was Tristan.
They’re the love of his life, and the shock of that is one he never gets over. It’s not shocking that it’s Tristan, though. It’s shocking that he’s able to have one of those.
He’d spent so long alone. He knows they had too, but their loneliness had been two different creatures. His was exclusion and othering, eating lunch alone at an empty table, and theirs was a lack of real connection without any of the trust needed to be vulnerable, all while surrounded by “friends.”
They’ve both been burned. They’ve got the scars to show for it. But Tristan had seen him staring into that fire, the same one that hurt him, and shown him how to hold his hands out in a way that warmed him.
Now, they’ve built their own bonfire—a life together, no matter how many times people ask them, “Don’t you think you should date around more before settling down?”
The answer is no, and he can’t wait to see them with a wedding ring on their finger. They’ve always had pretty hands.
Tristan groans softly, the noise muffled into their cheeks with the way their mouth is closed. They turn over in their slumber, and his heart squeezes as he watches them reach out along the sheets for him blearily. He scoots closer, tucking one arm against his chest as his hand smoothes up their bare shoulder.
They preen under the touch despite remaining unconscious, practically purring into their pillowcase as their hand brushes against his clothed ribs blindly. They seem happy they’ve found him though, and they tug sleepily at his hoodie until he relinquishes his resting place on his pillow and joins them on theirs.
Their arm naturally finds his waist, slung over him and catching the sun that is drizzling in through the gaps in the blinds. They’ve got dried drool on their chin, and their hair is a mess. He could stare at them for days, guzzle down the sight of them greedily, soft and sweet with rest.
He tucks his head under their chin, breathing in the smell of them. Their skin is warm, but not hot, and he can smell the remnants of their sandalwood cologne and something more naturally them—like rain and smoke.
He sighs almost dreamily into their collarbone, and he knows they would be telling him that his hair tickles if they were awake. They snuggle closer, their knees bumping his beneath the sheets and comforter, and Benji kisses at the crux of their neck softly.
They make a tiny, murmuring sound, and he feels the muscles in their throat stir slightly as they flutter to consciousness. He lays his palm upon their chest, thumbing over the rise of their sternum.
Their hand curls around his waist with more intention, they breathe out a content noise as he kisses the space under their ear. They blink into awareness, slow and syrupy, only to squeeze their eyes shut again at the sunlight.
“Mm—What time’s it?” they murmur, tucking their nose into Benji's hair. It’s waved and messy with sleep, and they sigh, content. “You smell so good,” they mumble, thinking to themselves.
He smiles against their neck. He was just thinking the same thing. Maybe Zaid was right about that “chemically bonded” stuff.
“Dunno,” he rasps. “Can’t be too late.”
He wraps his arm around their middle, and they shudder as he traces little mindless shapes into the notches of their spine. “That feels nice,” they purr, kissing at his temple as they melt against the warm line of his pajama-clad body.
They stretch a little, careful to keep themselves in Benji’s arms as they reach behind themselves to fumble sleepily for their phone where it sits on the nightstand.
Their dark-nailed hand comes back victorious, and they tap the screen with their thumb to wake it. It blares back ‘8:22’ as they hiss and turn the brightness down quickly. Benji’s hand creeps up their back as he starts to stroke through their hair, and they smile as they set their phone down between them.
He blinks up at them, expectant, and they coo “It’s half past eight.”
He nods silently, gently pushing at their shoulder until they're laid flat on their back again. He presses against them on his tummy, and pushes himself up on his elbows to kiss down their neck and over they chest. They bite their lip to keep a flustered giggle from escaping them, petting over the back of his head while he thumbs across the scars that adorn their chest and kisses the pinker tissue.
“I don't tell you how amazing you are to just look at as much as i should,” he says lovingly into the gentle muscle of their pecs.
“You probably tell me something similar eight times a day, Ji,” they smile, amusement in the upturn of their lips.
“Mhm—Not enough…” he trails off, adoring and happy.
They curl in closer as he leans in to kiss their face, laughing and teasing about morning breath and a need for breakfast groceries. He just nods and kisses the corner of their mouth, the bridge of their nose, the space between their brows.
Birds sing outside, pretty melodies accompanying the early morning bustle down on the street. Neither of them has anywhere to be until at least ten. They’ve got time—and Benji’s got a blank canvas stashed away in the office somewhere.