Daydreams

At seven thirty in the morning, I roll off of his sofa, grateful for a constitution that only needs a late-night meal and four hours' sleep to be freshfaced after a long, loud night at our local pub. Given the choice, he never rises before noon. I don't understand how he can lose the day that way, but this morning it serves me well: No competition for the shower.

He's been in this apartment for as long as I've known him, but there're still boxes in the kitchen and office, and a five-gallon jug for brewing mead seems to've taken up permanent residence in his guest tub. Such is life; I raid the dryer for a pair of towels and pad quietly into the master suite. Not the first time I've slid past him on the way to impose on his hospitality. Afterward, I'll make him breakfast and we'll be square.

My hair still smells of cigarrette smoke and beer, a fact which amuses and annoys me by turns. I neither smoke nor drink beer. Hold it back with one hand for now, and with the other, balance my weight on his nightstand to lean over his sleeping form and kiss the tip of his nose. Easing back up, I'm careful not to disturb his overflowing ashtray. This one.... I wouldn't change him. Wouldn't shift a thing about him. But can you tell he's a bachelor? Feather-light, I smooth his sleek blond hair back from his face. My bachelor. I'm careful not to make a sound, shutting his bathroom door behind me.

We don't need to go into the finer points of my pre-shower routine, do we? At the end of it, I'm standing in front of the mirror giving myself the critical eye. That's still me, alright. Nothing new to see. Although I've got to admit, there's a special little thrill in knowing that the wall behind me isn't my wall. A slight flush starts in my cheeks and spreads as a handful of interesting ideas propose themselves and then set themselves aside. No, kitten. That way lie monsters. Stop that.

But when my hand reaches to lock the door... ... ... I don't.
~*~
The room is thoroughly steamed, and I am thoroughly soaped. There are few ways nicer than this to start a morning. I close my eyes and turn my back to the water, loving the way it scours my skin., loving the heat it pours over my bones. Bliss. Decadence. Wonderful... Bracing my palms on the wall, I arch to focus the stream on my low back and legs. Next in line is my hair, which until now I've kept topknotted out of the way. At the moment, it's damp, but still mostly dry. First, though, one more shot of bliss for the shoulders.

It's the temperature change that makes me open my eyes. There he is, half in, half out of the room, still as a painting. Eyes wide, I go still myself, a deer in headlights, wondering just how much distortion this transparant curtain is good for. When I move, it's to kill the shower.
"I knocked," he says, in a different voice than I've ever heard before.
"I wasn't listening..." I answer, peeking round the curtain like it's actually a barrier.
"I noticed..."
Silence for a while, while we each try to read the other's expression. "So," I finally say, with a nod at the door. "Are you coming or going?"
"Do you have a preference?"

Do I have a preference... Yes, actually, but here there be... ...

...He's beautiful. The tension in the air makes it almost too thick to breathe. I can feel him from across the room, a tightly contained maelstrom of heat and promise. Any other man would've walked right in and the hell with what I thought about the matter. But this one... there's the power to do just that rolling around in him...but there's something... infinitely more human and vulnerable there, too. Not just because *he* wants to come in, is he asking. He wants me to want him there enough to say yes. And if I don't, then he won't. Pride and honor won't let him.

Yeah. Here there might be monsters. Or cities of gold. And the only way to know is to go exploring.
So.
"Yes, actually, I do." I reach out for a towel.
He steps in to hand it to me.
~*~