It’s been raining all afternoon, and
showing no signs of letting up, but that’s all right. Saturday was a
busy day–putting in the garden, grocery shopping, laundry, running
errands, scouring the little thrift shops in the suburbs for the
perfect end table–but today there’s nothing urgently hanging over
them. They can afford to spend the gray, sleepy day on the couch,
reading and watching movies and drawing. And the newly planted
tomatoes need the water.
Feuilly’s half-asleep, their
paperback slipping from their hands to rest against their chest,
their head pillowed against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, when they feel the
soft touch of lips against their temple. Struggling to blink their
eyes open, they turn to look up at Courfeyrac.
whispers. "I didn’t mean to wake you up. I just. This is so
nice and cozy and I love you a lot and–“ He doesn’t need to
finish the sentence. Feuilly knows that Courfeyrac’s most natural
way of showing affection is through touch; that sometimes his love
for his friends just wells up and he has to hug or kiss or caress.
They know–without having to go through that whole discussion again–that
it doesn’t Mean Anything.
But at the same time it means
everything Feuilly could ever want and more. They smile sleepily up at
Courfeyrac, then settle back against his shoulder, their eyes
slipping closed again.