"and possibly i like the thrill / of under me you so quite new." -e.e. cummings


It's horribly ridiculous to think and he will never admit it to anyone else and oh god he will be mocked for the rest of his life, but waking up with winter sunlight dancing in the corner of his eyes and the warmth of two bodies smashed together in a bed that is too small and too lumpy and too cold and smells a bit like rainwater and the pavement in August -- waking up like this is quite possibly the best present he will ever receive.

There are things like kisses stolen between the eggs and dairy at the supermarket and flushed cheeks on seventy-second and toes curling on the subway and words that trickle down his throat, honeysweet, but nothing compares to Christmas morning with cold palms tucked in the dip of David's hip and fingers splayed across his own belly and fine stubble scraping against his collarbone.


Previous Christmas mornings, as far back as he is really capable of remembering, greeted him in foggy greydawn with the oppressive feeling that he couldn't breathe because there was a manic bundle of cowboy pajamas sitting on his head. This year, his first away from home and there's that feeling in his gut again, but he has a real cowboy -- all arm-freckles and calloused hands and tawny skin and thighs wrapped around his -- with sloppy kisses that are really more chin than lip, and morning breath that makes him grimace just a bit but who's counting sorry and oh, oh.

This might be better than coffee.


Their breath hangs heavy in the alcove they've knotted their limbs into, and Jack pulls the blankets, thick wool and puffy comforter, over their heads.


David chuckles at the thought and buries his nose into the curve of Jack's shoulder shy and rosy, and inhales deeply -- the scent of ocean and wooden planks laid out in the sun and wet grass and newspaper ink. He will never say out loud that he would forego Christmas tradition with his family every year (oh mother that is absurd no it doesn't change a thing) to wake up to this, because he is superstitious and paranoid and surprisingly irrational or maybe not so shocking if everyone is being perfectly honest.

Something like this should be savored and memorized and tucked away, rain rain go away, in teacups and bookshelves and coat pockets, like the lemon sweets his pappy snuck him with a wink and a grin and the crinkle of his skin like it was a roadmap.


It's almost noon.

Gngk, shit-oh. Yes, there.

You unplugged the alarm clock. Why would you unplug the clock? Now we'll have to reset it, and--




Truth be told, they cannot fit each other under the Christmas tree that is really more of a Christmas shrubbery (it's better this way no--oh i don't mind who needs pine needles), and it is doubtful at best if they will ever leave the warmth of their bed.