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Johnny was never good with mornings.
There were too many days he started with a pounding head and nausea that would drive him out of the bed, stumbling towards the bathroom, acid and exhaustion burning down his throat as he bent over the toilet. There were too many restless nights, his sleep shallow and not bringing him comfort, the sheets too cold or too hot, the space beside him too empty, the hopeless gloom of the impending day pressing in between his shoulder blades, making it so impossibly hard to get up.
Now, he sometimes wakes up alone. But he doesn’t feel lonely. Not anymore.
Johnny grunts when the sun creeping from in between the curtains hits his face, and he rolls on his stomach, burying his face into a pillow that’s now slightly cool, the scent of sweat and spice filling his nostrils, comforting and grounding.
He can feel the mattress still warm on the other side, and as his senses wake up, he can hear soft noises coming from the kitchen.
It used to be so eerily quiet in the mornings. Now, he can hear a clattering of dishes and a soft murmur of a conversation.
It makes his heart flutter in that way that’s still new but quite familiar by now, that softness he buried in himself so long ago, until the spring started to bloom around and inside him.
His nan gives him a small nod from where she’s sitting at the table, glasses on her nose and a pen in her hands, the book of crosswords splayed in front of her. Gheorghe is standing by the stove, multitasking between chopping tomatoes and stirring eggs in the pan. He smiles when he sees Johnny, and Johnny’s heart flutters again, stronger this time.
“Morning.” Gheorghe says, leaning to kiss Johnny’s temple, “Coffee’s hot. Sit down.”
Nan glances at him when he sits down on the other side of the table, a corner of her mouth quirking in an almost there smile, and Johnny feels his cheeks warming up. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s new, the way she looks at him now, the way she doesn’t react to these small displays of affection Johnny and Gheorghe allow themselves to show in front of her.
It’s new, too. But it’s good.
“Slept well, lad?” she asks, staring down at the pages, the pen tapping the page, and Johnny hums in confirmation, “The oldest city in Europe, seven letters.” she hums, and Johnny knows it’s not directed to him.
“Plovdiv.” Gheorghe says, placing two plates on the table and sitting down, nan’s breakfast eaten hours ago.
She hums with a sharp contentment, and Johnny can’t help but smile.
It’s so important to him, the quiet relationship Gheorghe and his nan have. The way she quietly hands him a cup of coffee and how he brushes her shoulder sometimes when he passes her in the kitchen. She’s still stoic like a stone, her eyes still icy blue. But sometimes, the deep lines on her face smooth just a little bit, the way the tight line of her lips softens.
They eat in comfortable silence, and then Johnny moves to reheat soup for dad, who sleeps in late these days and prefers non-solid food. Gheorghe moves quietly next to him, putting dishes in the sink and opening the tap, squeezing his waist briefly before he gets to cleaning.
Mornings are nice, now.
Johnny used to despise the hills and plains of Yorkshire. It used to feel like a trap, a prison, a fate he hadn’t chosen himself. And then Gheorghe came, bringing spring with him, and everything changed. And now, on this unusually hot summer day, Johnny feels more free than he ever did.
The grass they’re resting on is soft and lush, and Johnny allows his fingers to card through it, fingers catching on the daisies peeking from between the green strands. The sun is warm against his face, and Gheorghe’s breathing is even and grounding, his hand resting comfortably in Johnny’s lap.
Johnny never imagined something could feel this right.
There are words swelling inside his chest, growing for months, begging to be let out, to be made alive. And it scares him. It scares him still, how much he’s able to feel, how strongly, after years spent in a state akin to hibernation, too cold and too small to allow himself to feel anything but hopelessness and pain.
He feels so much now and it terrifies him sometimes. But at the same time, it makes him feel whole.
“Gheorghe.” the name slips out of his tongue easily now, with ease practiced during nights shared under the same blanket, whispered in between the countless kisses.
“Johnny.” Gheorghe hums quietly, turning to his side, head propped on his hand, a daisy trapped in between his fingers, “What are you thinking?” he asks gently, reaching out, tucking the flower behind Johnny’s ear.
Johnny from before would scowl at that. He would be mortified and crude and he would run away. Now, he still feels a bit embarrassed, still getting used to the way Gheorghe treats him, like he’s precious and worthy of the softness that Johnny was lacking for so long.
“What's this face?” Gheorghe asks, brushing his fingers down Johnny's nose, alongside his cheek, before he gently grabs his chin and tilts his face how he wants it before leaning in for a kiss.
It's soft in a way he taught Johnny kisses could be. Unhurried and slow, right in the open.
The words are out before he can think about it.
“I love you.”
He has never said it before to anyone, in any way.
Gheorghe smiles against his lips, his hand curling around Johnny's hip.
“I figured.” he says, the cheeky bastard he is, and Johnny shoves at his shoulder, his face hot from something else than just the sun.
“Shut up.” he mutters, sitting up, suddenly unable to look up.
Gheorghe’s fingers are on his face again, gentle and grounding.
“I love you too.” he kisses the corner of Johnny's mouth, “Idiot.”
“Asshole.”