sup, ladies?

Hugo Vasquez likes to sleep in Saturday mornings.

So does everybody else, but he thinks it's worth noting. Everyday from Monday to Friday he disentangles himself from the ever-tempting embrace of his boyfriend and gets up at hellish hours to start jogging the whole kilometer area and keep his body fit. He's not getting any younger— he's seen a couple of grey hairs in his beard the other day, much to his horror— and he wants to stay in shape. These abs aren't maintaining themselves, you know.

In weekdays when he gets home from his morning jog, Rhys is still asleep, and he starts the coffee, because he's nice like that. Then he enters their bedroom and kisses his rival-turned-boyfriend even though the younger man still tastes of morning breath.

Apparently that's what love does to you.

He still makes sure to make fun of Rhys for being human and tasting like ass, but whatever. It's all part of the routine.

But right now, it's Saturday, and he keeps his eyes close, reaching for the younger man in his bed.

He's been with Rhys long enough to know just how far or how close he is when they sleep together in bed without opening his eyes. His hand searches for Rhys' hip blindly and he pulls himself closer to sidle up, his chest pressing against Rhys' back, his nose buried in the juncture of Rhys' neck. Hugo runs his warm hand on the part where Rhys' hip and thigh meets because Rhys' skin has always been so soft— oh hey wait a minute. Rhys isn't wearing an underwear.

Hugo opens his eyes and squints at his sleeping boyfriend, though he reckons Rhys might wake anytime soon. He takes a look under the covers and sees that he himself is wearing only a pair of boxers.