That Is, Of Course, I Love You (Boreo The Goldfinch Oneshots)

nighttime!

Theo POV (let me know if you want more Boris POVs... they're harder to write, which is why  I generally write from Theo's). 904 words

Nighttime softens my thinking. In the dark, all is left is my feelings, no logic. I consider this idea while lying awake in bed next to Boris. He is radiating warmth; I want to be closer. The clock by the bed reads 1:50. 

I can't sleep. Or to be more specific, I can't stop thinking, and when I can't stop thinking, I can't fall asleep. I really, really want to wake Boris up, but he is a huge believer in beauty sleep ("Potter, the only reason I look this good is because you let me sleep in!"), therefore I can only imagine he'd be annoyed with me. 

But since there's nothing wrong with staring, (it won't wake him up), I watch Boris in his slumber. It's really captivating to watch air just travel in and out of someone. A miracle, even. He's breathing through his mouth; I wonder why not his nose. It's these small questions that keep me up.

Boris shifts, not awaking. I do the same after realising I've been in the same uncomfortable position for probably the last twenty minutes. I try to get further under the blankets, it's cold, I'm always cold. Boris says I'm too sensitive ("Potter, you think this is cold? You'd not survive a winter in Ukraine.") and consequently complains constantly about overheating.

"Cold, Potter?" Boris unexpectedly asks. heh this has the same energy as "scared, Potter?" 

"I didn't know you were awake." He must been awaken by me moving around, or at least I hope he was. Otherwise he'd probably have noticed me looking at him, and admittedly it was a bit creepy.

"Just now I woke up. Are you cold?" he repeats.

"Well. A little bit." 

"Will help." Boris wiggles like a worm closer to me. This analogy is so absurd to me I begin to giggle. "What are you laughing at Potter?" Boris questions, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. I put mine around his waist, nestling my head into his collarbone. Immediately I am satisfied in terms of temperature. 

"Nothing. You just looked funny." My words are muffled by him pulling me closer.

"It's not polite to laugh at people," Boris pretends to scold. When I say nothing in response, what am I supposed to say to that, he kisses my hair lightly. 

That felt nice.

Nice is an understatement, sure, but how am I supposed to describe how Boris makes me feel? Seeing him is like a refreshing drink of water in the middle of the night, but every day. It's like the best part of a rollercoaster, the fun, not the scariness. Well, sometimes the scariness. It depends. 

"Why'd you kiss me?" I ask, seemingly out of nowhere, even to myself. 

"Why not?" Arms tangled, lives intertwined, it seems a plausible answer. Why not? Why not kiss my hair? It's not like a kiss on the lips, though even that doesn't seem out of the question.

"Fair enough." On a whim, I kiss his shoulder. 

"And why'd you do that?"

"Why not?" I counter. A perfect replication.

Boris pulls back and examines me at arms length. The moonlight streaming softly through the window illuminates him just so, almost a silhouette, but not quite. His hair is highlighted with a cold blue glow.

His lips curl slowly into a smile; I feel like I shouldn't be staring at his lips, but here I am wondering what they'd feel like on my own rather than my hair. I notice soon that Boris isn't exactly looking into my eyes, either. 

"Theo," he says, using my real name. "What even are lips?"

That breaks the trance, shatters the bubble. Back to silly- not that I mind, I don't. I laugh right along with him.

"What are lips? Parts of our faces, I guess." I decide to treat it like a real question, just for fun, even though I know he already knows what kips are, obviously.

"What are lips," Boris begins, sounding like he's reciting a poem. "What are lips for but pleasure: eating, kissing, drinking, painting."

"Painting?"

"Makeup, Potter. Shush. So what are lips made for but for us? And your lips, what are they? Personally, am thinking that they are very pretty. Looking very soft." Still, Boris looks me not in the eyes but below. I don't blush; I never feel embarrassed around Boris. 

"And what are you going to do about that?" It's risky question, a bit dodgy, but you get nowhere in life without risks, in my opinion. 

"What am I going to do? I don't know Potter, what are you going to do?" It doesn't seem fair he was challenging me, but I'll accept nonetheless. 

"This," I tell him, taking one last look as his own lips, looking very soft themselves. Then we close the gap between us, mutually. I don't feel weird about this, it's just Boris and I expressing affection in another way.

Our kiss is gentle, like an experiment, at first. Then Boris pulls me on top of him, which I haven't a problem with. When we're done, I rest my head on his shoulders, still lying on top of him, and his head nestles in mine. 

I say what doesn't need to be said, what's already known: "I love you."

And Boris reciprocates, not missing a beat: "I love you too."

I tumble off him and give him one last goodnight kiss.