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Your nose wakes up first. Even before you’re fully conscious, you can smell it: heady, rich vanilla paste swirled into something sweet and buttery and warm—pancakes. Your brain invents the caramelized fragrance of syrup, and you’re already drooling.
Your ears follow second, and you hear sizzling. It’s fat beading on a frying pan, determined to gild whatever it touches.
Your mouth tastes of sleep and kisses you’re sure were pressed onto your lips (and peppered lightly onto every inch of your face that wasn’t buried into a pillow) an hour ago. You could never hallucinate that level of worship—the undignified kind that leaves Pierrot a gleefully spent patron driven again and again by ecstasy.
And you feel … the warmth of his hand, curled around yours. Your arm, you deduce groggily, must be outstretched across the mattress. You feel sheets—cold now—where it rests, but, still, your hand remains hedged in by long, clawed fingers. His touch is gentle, though, like he’s afraid you’ll tire of him. As if you could. Your life is so much more lively with him in it.
What you see, when you blink your eyes open, eyelashes fluttering at the morning light, is … him.
Pierrot.
He’s staring at you.
Kneeling at the side of your bed. With that dopey expression on his face. His smile is full and wide with adoration, stretching from ear to ear. There’s a blush, a deep one, since Pierrot never did things half-heartedly (for you, anyway), staining the apples of his cheeks. There’s a lovestruck bent to his yellow irises—and without trying too hard, you can imagine them as hearts. Maybe it’s just the sleep talking, but they might actually be hearts, today.
You wake up with a flutter in your chest. A butterfly that never would stop batting its wings around him.
But still.
He’s staring at you.
In your sleep.
He’s too cute to give too hard a time, but …
“Pierrot,” you murmur. It’s not a scold. Not even a little bit. You can’t make yourself do it. He’d beat himself up for the next thirty-seven hours if he ever thought he made you feel uncomfortable. Which he hadn’t—not really. You suppose you’re just not used to being loved so intensely, yet.
Upon hearing you speak, Pierrot, who’d been still and smitten and practically leaking fondness, finally stirs. “My dear!” There’s so much enthusiasm in his voice, you feel like your heart could burst. “You’re finally awake.”
You yawn and rub your eyes with your free hand. He still hasn’t let go. You’re certain that, if he had his way, he never would. You squeeze back a little as you sit up. “Guess I am.”
“To think,” his tone becomes woeful, as if he were narrating a lamentation, “I was without your touch, ah,” he glances down at your entwined hands, “in a sense, and without your voice for so long. A whole hour!” He inclines his head to kiss your knuckles. You don’t know how he manages to be tender yet so—so … igniting. The hiss of the stove in the kitchen tells you that other plans are in motion, but what you wouldn’t give for him to press you down into the mattress and make you forget every thought that wasn’t him, like he did last night. “Thankfully, I was able to overcome this separation by … occupying my hands.” His blush flares instantly, racing up to the tips of his ears. Then he blurts, “I made you breakfast!” For once, his gaze darts away from yours, and almost to himself, he mutters, “Yes, that’s … that’s all I did.” The conviction is nonexistent.
You raise an eyebrow, but decide, perhaps wisely—else you might actually have to deal with a combusted circus freak—not to press. The amount of effort you’re exerting is enormous.
“Pancakes?” you guess. It’s for his benefit, since you’d know that scent anywhere.
His blush recedes into a steady pink, and he’s finally able to meet your eyes again. Fuck, you’ve never seen so much earnestness in pure black sclera before. And forget finding it in pure white sclera; Pierrot is in a league of his own. You’re not sure how much longer you’ll be able to stave off the desire to cup his cheeks and kiss him senseless. It’s your turn to do it, in any case.
He nods. “Yes.”
Your nose rises to action again. This time, you don’t catch the whiff of butter and vanilla, no. You smell what your eyes have suddenly picked up: a plume of smoke, curling from the kitchen in a gray ribbon. “Pierrot?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“How long have you been in here?”
“Before you awoke? Only seven minutes.”
“And how long do pancakes need to cook?”
“I believe that depends. It’s longer for the first side—two to four minut—” He stops abruptly. His eyes widen, and you’re reminded of two boba pearls. Ugh, he’s so cute. “My dear, forgive me, I must—” Even in his haste, he gently places your hand back on the mattress. His long legs speed him to the kitchen so fast he leaves dust in his wake.
You can’t suppress your giggle as you wait for him to return. This isn’t entirely unusual. However diligent and hardworking Pierrot may be, you would never not be a distraction. He welcomes it, naturally—puppies often do—but this isn’t the first time he’s let himself dip too far into being enamored that he forgot what he was supposed to be doing. Whenever you point it out to him, he always corrects you with an assiduous, “Loving you is always what I’m supposed to be doing, my dear. My heart, it beats for you, and my soul? It’s for you that it screams.” Your own heart skips a beat at the thought.
When he’s gone for five minutes, you begin to get curious. The coiling smoke has ebbed, so you suppose whatever disaster has occurred kitchenward has been thoroughly vanquished thanks to your knight in jingling bells. Has Pierrot’s resolve strengthened to the point where he’s determined to focus on the pancakes? You huff a laugh at that. You ease yourself out of bed and pad out of your room and into the kitchen.
You are met with the most sorry sight you’ve ever seen. He’s almost too tall to even accomplish this, but there leans Pierrot against your refrigerator. His mouth is completely turned downward, and his face is flush against the refrigerator door. Even though his voice is muffled, you can hear him whimper, “I burned my dear’s pancakes.”
Your lips twitch in a smile, but you force it down. You mean this in the most endearing way: your Pierrot is so, so so pathetic. You can never be as quiet as him, but you softly shuffle behind him, anyway, and wrap your arms around his surprisingly-narrow waist. Jesus fuck. Even though he’s still slumped like a sack of potatoes against your fridge, you can feel him relax slightly. You breathe in his scent—subtle and soothing and altogether overpowering the smell of burnt batter. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a plate with two blackened discs. Your poor pancakes. You tighten your arms and rest your head on his back. And your poor Pierrot.
“Aww, it’s okay,” you soothe, because it really is. “It’s no big deal.”
Pierrot groans. “My dear, please don’t try to comfort me. This is my error, and for it, you are paying the price.” He sighs, and you feel the exhale against your chest. You know he’s about to say something so utterly silly. “I’m afraid you will not have breakfast today.”
You were right. You can barely hold back your laugh as your eyes flick to the counter nearby. On it, there’s a half-full bowl of lumpy batter.
“I think …” you try, “we maaaay be able to work something out.” You release your grip and retrieve the bowl. “Instead of you just cooking for me, how about you and I cook together?”
At that, Pierrot slowly turns around. He considers the idea for a beat, as the devastation begins to leak out of him. Soon enough, his pupils are blown totally wide. He presses a palm to his face, overwhelmed. “C—cooking with my dear? I—I would love that!” He makes a face that borderlines orgasmic. “I—I—my dear, are you sure? I would never want to—I mean—”
You have to laugh now. How did something as simple as cooking together carry the same breathless euphoria as when you quietly moan his name as he pumps himself inside you? “Of course, I’m sure! C’mon, it’ll be fun. We’ll take turns.” You switch the stove on. Pierrot looms behind you as you ladle some batter onto the frying pan. You can feel him practically vibrate in delight. “And tell you what—I’ll sweeten the deal with a competition. Whoever makes the best one gets a kiss.” It’s not really a deal. In any capacity. You’re okay with it, though. And you know he definitely will be.
His voice is warm as he whispers, “Then I will make you the most exquisite pancake known on this earth, then, my dear.”
You reach backward and pet his head. If he had a tail, it would be wagging right now. “I’m sure you will.”