#about pascal

The first thing I’m aware of is the lavender eyes, glinting with sunlight and joy the moment they see that I’ve awoken. Asra. At least, that's who I assume they belong to. It’s hard to tell without my  glasses, even without him lying within kissing distance.

“Were you watching me sleep?” My first words are gravel in my throat.

“Only for a moment.” Yes, it’s Asra. I’d know that babbling brook of a morning voice anywhere. “I just rolled over; that must be what woke you.”

No apology? No, that’s just as well -- he knows there’s nothing I’d rather wake up to.

Well. Maybe one thing.

“D’ya wanna put on some coffee?”

His nose crinkles. Again, I assume it crinkles. I should really put on my glasses.

“I do,” he replies, the angel from above sent to deliver me sustenance, “but first, I was hoping for something a little sweeter.”

How foolish of me to think that Asra would get out of bed without getting his --

--warm lips on mine break my train of thought. Thankful for the respite from the sun’s morning onslaught through the bedroom window, I close my eyes, drinking in Asra’s honey-sweet kisses. We exchange a lazy few in silence before I trace the outline of his lips with my tongue -- a question. My answer, as always, comes as a soft and needy sigh, followed by their parting to let me inside.

Bless him; he tastes like the curry I butchered last night; the same that he told me had “come so far,” before he ate every last bite of and went for seconds. And even when combined with his uniquely rancid brand of morning breath, I wouldn’t trade this kiss for the world.

Just as I start to wrap my lover up into my arms, the crash of a book hitting the floor shatters my peace.

My head whips around. On my nightstand sits a catlike blur, staring right past my irises and into my soul.

I hunger, father.

“You’re a cat.”

I require breakfast.

“Then catch yourself some.”

No sooner had my last word left my mouth than the splattering of my tarot deck skittering to the floor sounded through the bedroom. Fucker. Blindly, I grope around my end table until Berlioz pushes my glasses into my path.

Ah. Clarity. I turn to pick up where I left off to find an empty space where my magician was supposed to be. Instead, he’s now sitting off the bed, stretching out the night’s stiffness. It could be worse, I think to myself. The muscles in his back flex marvelously, carving irregular lines into amber skin. They’re not for touching; not now that Asra’s risen and started padding into the kitchen.

Devastated and alone, I finally roll out of bed. My delighted familiar leaps off the end table to bound into the kitchen after Asra. I follow along.

Inside is a scene that would have warmed my heart were it in a caffeinated state. As I am now, all I witness is betrayal. Berlioz has her paws up on the counter, where she is enjoying a head scritch from none other than my magician, my magician who was supposed to be making me coffee.

“I thought you were desperate for food.” I lean against the counter. “Why aren’t you knocking Asra’s shit off the table?”

“I gave her a few treats,” admitted my lover, hitting a particularly itchy spot behind Berlioz’ ear. It’s too much to bear. Quietly, I come up behind Asra to hug him around his middle. My nose gets buried in a fluffy white cloud when he leans his head back. “Do you want to go ahead and open the shop while I find some breakfast for everyone?”

Open the shop? “No, I don’t think I do.” It’s a terrible idea, what with Asra’s warm frame melting against my chest, with the intoxicating combination of sandalwood and body odor that is so uniquely Asra flooding my mind. “In fact,” I tell him, “I don’t think I want to go downstairs at all this morning.” Somehow, through all the curls and morning frizz, I’m able to find the shell of his ear to give it a quick nip.

I was hoping he would startle a bit, get flustered -- but no, Asra only gives me a breathy sigh, head lolling to the side to lay back on my shoulder, relaxed. In my embrace I feel his core let go of tension. “Unless you had any appointments before noon?” I ask, giving him a way out.

“Mmm… none that I can remember,” murmurs that sweet voice. His arms cross in front of him to secure my embrace.

That was easy. I kiss his temple. “On second thought -- what if someone needs a reagent urgently?” Another kiss. “What would happen then, hmm?” And while I’m trying to keep the air of sincerity, the sarcastic twinge still makes its way into my tone.