“Forty-two,” Heroin said absently as he leaned back into the embrace, tilting his chin to offer his jaw for Marijuana’s kisses; it was blessedly warm in his arms, his hand was a welcome burn through the crisp cotton of Heroin’s sleep pants. To say nothing of Marijuana’s voice which always turned his husband’s knees into things like overcooked oatmeal, lumpy and loose and soft. It was a wonderfully normal morning. Heroin decided on an egg scramble, then; the egg cracked smoothly, followed by another and another once the wonderful warmth of Marijuana’s arms moved away and Heroin tossed thin slices of bell peppers and Italian sausage into the pan. The earthy, familiar sounds of cooking almost covered the metallic thumps and bangs of the Altoid tin as Marijuana brought it down for his morning smoke. It was on the tip of Heroin’s tongue to offer to roll a joint – he knew Mari’s preferences – but bit back the words and picked up a spatula, instead. There were pancakes to flip, eggs to scramble, bacon to plate before it burned and Heroin hadn’t even started to rummage for the makings of a fruit salad. And behind him, he could feel the moment that Marijuana inhaled; it was a wonderfully normal morning.
The closeness was too good to give up, Heroin turned off the bacon but made no move to pull down serving plates for the food as it finished cooking. He caught his husband’s hand instead and pulled it to his lips for a light kiss across the palm and from there it was easier to kiss the inside of his wrist, where the blooded tap-tap-tapped beneath the sweet skin, instead of answering the question. Instead, instead, instead, one choice after another, possibilities raised and precluded in the same breath. Heroin sighed against Marijuana’s pulse and it hammered too loudly in Heroin’s ears before he let go. “My only plans for the moment involve the coffee part next to you; plans which I would hate to have to adjust.” There was a little smile on his lips which couldn’t entirely reach his eyes, still cloudy and far away; he shut them and kissed Marijuana sweetly. There, much better.
The second smile Heroin offered to his husband reached pale hazel eyes; he stroked Marijuana’s hair briefly, half habit and entirely fond before Heroin stepped aside to browse through the cabinets for plates. They stacked simply; he ducked them between his arm and side until he was able to nudge Mari away from the counter space. From there, Heroin slid the bacon onto the first dish and nudged it in his husband’s direction – priorities, after all – the pancakes were all piled onto one large platter where they teetered, uncertain, but stayed. Heroin believed firmly in food doing what it was supposed to with a minimum of fuss and the food he made quite clearly got the message. Two plates filled, Heroin finally poured himself a cup of the blissfully burbling coffee; the half and half was too far away and Marijuana was so much closer, Heroin gave into the impulse and slipped closer to his husband. “But now that that’s taken care of,” he smiled, “I like my nail in your vein, Geliebte. If you do.”
A question haunted Heroin’s eyes – so expressive, traitorously expressive – as he simply looked at Marijuana. Moments and possibilities, Heroin looked away, drifted away as he sipped his coffee. Eggs still needed to be scrambled, the sausage would have to cook through and Heroin plucked a wooden spoon at random to stir. “Would you grab the syrup, Marihuana?” Not the question he wanted to ask, certainly not a question which would make its way to mercurial eyes, but it was an easy question for an easy, peaceful moment. Absently, Heroin continued to stir.