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followup

ωαяиιиg: ¢σитαιиѕ α∂υℓт ¢σитєит!! νιєωєя ∂ιѕ¢яєтισи α∂νιѕє∂!! 

Alastor 

I wake up on zero mechanics. It's early, and for some reason, there's a nagging feeling of excitement, like the feeling you have as a small child when it's early Christmas morning but you just woke up and you're groggy enough that you forget for a second. 

I blink, coming back to reality and realizing why I feel excited. Angel! 

My breath skips as I remember what happened last night. 

Worrying when he failed to come home at his average time of midnight/ one A.M. Sending my shadow to find him when it was still three A.M. and he hadn't been home. My shadow summoning me to one of the more ghetto-like parts at three-forty-five A.M. Seeing Angel covered in cuts and bruises. Being so unspeakably angry that he was in harm's way that I accidentally directed it at him. His retaliation. Watching him walk away, feeling an emotion that I've hardly ever felt- an emotion I still cannot name. Hearing that someone attacked him for being gay and almost losing my mind. The conversation from last night... 

My face flushes. Rarely have I ever expressed myself in such an open way. 

Where is  Angel? Did he really go back to his room last night? I want to see him... 

My question is answered when I look to my left and see an Angel-shaped indent in my bed that's slowly filling in, and I remember that he fell asleep next to me while talking about his day. 

So where is he?

I get up, making my bed and putting on a different suit than normal. This one is red and black like the others, but the patterns are different, the shades varying. 

I check myself in the mirror, grinning. All set for the day. Then a thought hits me. Does this mean Angel is my boyfriend??

...What else would this mean?

I shake my head in amusement at my foolish thoughts. 

Going to the door, I see a note hanging off the doorknob. 

Hey, Smiles. Don't freak out. I haven't been kidnapped. If  I'm not in bed and you're reading this, I'm making you breakfast. But I do have to be at work by 10 A.M. for shooting. So, if I'm not back by now, you might as well go down to the kitchen and we can be together (since you aren't asleep anymore) while I make your food.

Kisses, Angel

It's signed in pink, with a couple hearts around his name. I smile (genuinely) in spite of myself. Of course he's making breakfast for me. He did mention last night that he's a hopeless romantic and he loves to do sappy stuff like wear matching pajamas and dance in the rain and watch old movies together and so on.

I open the door and head downstairs.

There he is, in the kitchen, wearing a blue sleeveless crop top and black shorts. I turn my radio volume down to zero quickly.

I'm not so good with the touching thing, but I have a feeling he'd be happy if I gave him a hug. I walk up behind him. Apparently oblivious, he hums as he cracks two eggs into a bowl, sprinkling in a few herbs. I watch, transfixed by the constant motion of his hands as one set whisks the eggs, another set pulls steamed spinach out of the microwave, and the third set, one hand armed with a spatula, drops a few raw sausage links and a steak into a cast-iron pan with the other hand. 

I hesitate. What if I startle him and he accidentally hurts himself?

I decide to ignore that, closing the gap between us with one step and wrapping my arms between the first and second set of his, resting my chin on his shoulder.