Matching Leather Jackets

Morphine.

        The dawn of light that fills my hospital room wakes me from my slumber effortlessly. All I can feel is light, all I can smell is light, all I can see is light, all I can hear is light, all I can taste is light.

        Coming from almost three weeks of darkness into the morning of light is a big transition, and it's to be understood. It's not easy.

        I attempt to part my eyelids several times before I can actually get them completely open. My neck cracks some when I twist it to survey the florescent room, my head feeling heavier than ever due to the cast.

        I rest my head back onto Blake's soft arm and observe his features. Although I have to look up to see his face, I see the light scattered across the right side of his face, bright and innocent looking. The left side of his face holds a shadow, ashen and alienated, yet soft as well.

        One of his arms is still under my head, its warmth radiating to my body, while the other is loosely draped over his torso.

        The last thing I notice about him is his hand. His hand still holds mine, just as firmly as it was late last night. I don't know how, but this small detail makes my heart flinch in some kind of sensitivity to his touch, just by realizing it.

        Instantaneously, I have to be closer to him. Swiftly, slyly, I slide my head against the sheets, stopping only when my forehead is against his chin.

        To anyone it could seem like I was just stretching, maybe even finding a better position for sleep. After all, I did keep my eyes closed the majority of the short time it took me to do the simple action.

        I open my eyes again now, staring down at his chest.

        I had come a long way, in terms of my attitude. A few months ago, I was way more bitter than I am now. Angry, even. It would be irrelevant to deny it; it affected me and those around me. It seems so far away, but in reality, it's still practically yesterday. Dad hitting me, Ray was so blind. I was angry at everyone, I didn't want to be a softy.

        Now, though, I feel like the queen of softies. I'm not as angry and I'm more sensitive now. I cry too much, and I could try to stop that but I doubt it's going to change anytime soon.

        This all came from the return of Blake, the appearance of Kurk, and the leave of absence my father took. It changed me, hell, it still is. But I know it's not ending anytime soon.

        Nothing ever does.

        "Morning," Blake whispers against the top of my forehead. His sleepy voice, husky and low, raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I feel my cheeks emit heat.

        I drag my head away from his chin, trying to act natural. I clear my throat with a forced cough. "Good morning. How was your sleep?" I ask.

        Blake turns so he is completely facing me. "I had a dream. It was about you and—"

        Abruptly, the door of our- my- hospital room opens with a soft click, then a swoosh.

        No, I really want hear about his dream. I had me in it, of course I would be curious as to what it was about. Since when did anyone dream about me?

        An extremely stout man, about five feet in height, pushes into my room and, ignoring the two figures on the bed, walks over to the windows and separates the curtains.

        "Vrise ank shone," Little Man bellows, his accent strong and rough. I think he said, "Rise and shine'.

        I jump away from Blake, nearly rolling off of the bed. Just as the upper half of my body slips, Blake reaches out to grap my waist. His hands clamp my sides, secure, and pull me back up to him.