- Intoxicating love - (Jesse Klaver x Rob Jetten)

16- selfcare

He opens the fridge- empty.

Well almost. Some radish, cheese, milk, 3 eggs, pasta with ketchup, useless rubbish. How the hell is he supposed to live from that?

He lets the fridge door fall shut, as slow as possible to not make too much noise, a few things shuffling in his arms. Immediately his eyes wander to the couch. Asleep, asleep.

His knuckles crack, the arms stretched. Knife, whisk and spoon assemble in a mess of dough and milk, the smell of pastry and fruit lingers in the air. Enough to wake a certain someone.

Slowly, silently, he works his way through the useless ingredients. One magic move after the other, one hand holding a knife, the other knitting dough. Multitasking, the right way.

Every once in a while a noise startles him. Awake? Asleep, asleep.

The sleeping body shifts, from stomach to side, from side to back. Rays of sunshine tone his face in a golden tint, the long lashes throw shadows on his defined cheeks. The nose arched in a slight bow, the lips soft and kissable.

Butter sizzling in a pan, the heat low to reduce noise. Toes dancing over the white tiles to the music of silence. No sound, no sound.

Soon the ingredients take over the shape of improvised pancakes with fruit, bread buns and ragu made of whatever the fridge had to offer. The smell, overwhelming in the best way possible. The looks of it, godly. Execution? 10/10.

Again, scanning the sleeping figure on the couch. He looks peaceful like that. His lazy hair, so different from his usual parliament self. The lips sealed, for once not spitting angry words. Though he realizes he might like them better speaking.

They may be sharp, but the cuts exhilarate. He uses his tongue with grace, cutting his opponent without killing, but enough to make them feel dizzy. And when it finds its way to Jesses mouth, it takes his breath.

Memories come flooded in like the ocean after an ebb. The bar, the bench, Robs bed, parts of it are still blurry. He remembers the text messages, how they made him feel and how his hips buckled to the fantasies described in the texts. He remembers waiting for the door to open, or the silence on the other side of the door.

The fallen glass, Robs fingers typing and undoing messages quickly, all while he urged for them to undo him instead. Him on his knees, supposedly only opening his shoe laces, but meanwhile having those dark eyes filled with desire. The gaze still burns through him.

Now they're shut, no desire. Only sleep. Jesse is still surprised he hasn't woken up from the constant noise in the kitchen. Or maybe he's faking? Faking, just like Jesse did so many times before.

Carefully, his finger checks Robs breathing. Asleep, asleep.

Loose hair on his forehead, it must tickle. Jesse reaches to stroke it away, but pulls away as Rob moves. His eyes flutter, Jesse holds his breath. They fall shut; false alarm.

Now this is too real. Suddenly, it's overwhelming. What's he supposed to do? Greet him with a hug, go in for a kiss, shake his hand? What's he supposed to say? 'Good morning', 'Hello', 'Hey'? He prefers silence.

Panic. Overwhelmed. Overheated.

Quickly, his feet slide over the wooden floor, the socks heating up from the friction. Blazer tucked into the hook of his arm, shoes held together by thumb and fingers.

The door opens, slowly, silently. Socks soaking from the wet stone underneath, gate rattling from his quick escape. New memories; Jim Beam, Tequila, beer, at least a whole pack of cigarettes. Too much, too much.