Vanilla

Thirty Three

A/N: Hmm was the last chapter a little too inappropriate? ;-; I'm concerned if some Beans decided to skip the chapter since there's a lot less engagement. I'll try to keep it PG if the majority of us are uncomfortable :'D Leroy and Vanilla are a little young after all!

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[Leroy]

I was up before he was and it had pretty much everything to do with that huge window behind the bed without its curtains drawn, leaving the sun all up in our faces and the urge to reverse it back down the horizon just at the forefront of my head. I'd gone to bed at least fifteen minutes later than he did, minutes after taking care and washing up, then making sure he was fast asleep before lying next to him.

Sitting up, I checked the time. He didn't look like he would be waking up anytime soon and I was reluctant to move. The bed wasn't too bad. Small, but comfy. He'd chosen a good duvet. Everything smelled like him, too; refined, a little reserved but still soft and soothing. Chamomile. I felt for my phone and snapped a picture. Then put it aside.

There was something about his face right now that said a lot about the things he liked to hide behind those glasses of his, often like a mask. People used to hearing big words line his every sentence, said in a tone so serious that he'd be mistaken for an icicle, wouldn't see past the dangers of honesty and the complexity that was the web of his mind.

Without the active shield of words and knowledge, he looked defenceless. Almost soft, breathing into the side of his pillow like a flower in the breeze, ripples in a pond.

Staring at him first thing in the morning didn't cross my mind as a bad idea but it soon did when I felt instincts rushing down south so I got back up and checked the general state of my situation under the covers.

Hm.

I had to get up either way, which meant either doing so now at a low risk of him seeing all that versus giving it a gamble while we were both awake and heading to the bathroom to brush our teeth. The safer call would be the first, even after factoring in the possibility that he'd wake from my climbing across him to get out—my side being a wall, so.

I made it out safely after carefully adjusting the covers so that they replaced my warmth and then, supporting myself on both hands beside his head, rolling out. He didn't stir. Also, I almost stepped on his glasses. For some reason, they were on the floor. So then it was brushing my teeth and washing up, dealing with morning wood, wearing some pants just in case he'd get a heart attack minutes into the waking world, then searching the fridge for anything breakfast worthy.

Sure, it wasn't part of the usual routine. I skip it most of the time since it meant a couple more minutes in bed, especially on weekends when I set the alarm for noon. Still, he was the kind who needed some distraction after first times, regardless of the context. Giving him a something on a plate to critique would suffice.

"Two eggs," in the egg rack. I nearly laughed. His uncle wouldn't be pleased to know how often he'd been resorting to microwaved box lunches. This fridge was basically unstocked without me.

I checked the freezer for some leftover bacon, and then after fishing out a red and green pepper from the bottom of the vegetable drawer of expired stuff, mapped out a vague menu of frittatas and rosti. Fortunately we had a couple of potatoes leftover from last night.

Getting the burner going made an unnecessarily loud sound so I turned over to check if he stirred. Surprisingly, he didn't. The logical assumption was that giving (not entirely) and receiving a hand job for the first time had been extremely exhausting. Studying, reports, essays, exams were easy for someone like him but it all came down to one activity that drained all the energy otherwise spent in the world he was comfortable in.