Six Things Before Breakfast

17

Sanders is pretty ugly when he wakes up.

He knows this. He has drool everywhere, his hair is a mess, and, well, it's not a pretty sight, let's leave it at that.

So when Becks shouts in his ear, early in the goddamn morning (before his fucking alarm), he knows she's holding her laughter in from the sound of her god-awful shriek of, "Good morning! Get up!"

Without opening his eyes, Sanders grabs a pillow and covers his face. "Go away," he croaks. Yep. He doesn't have that sexy morning voice guys have, either. It's just...a raspy croak from a dried mouth and an itchy throat.

"You have a game today, you twat." Becks throws her body over his, shaking him, trying to steal his pillow. "Get up, you need to go to your run and eat breakfast and—ah, Jesus, you look like an animal."

Don't get him wrong. He does. But doesn't mean that Becks doesn't look like it in the mornings, too. (Which he has had to endure for the past three years.)

"Speak for yourself," he mutters, rubbing his eyes now that Becks managed to snatch the pillow away from him. "It's too early, why're you awake?"

Becks never wakes him up. It's not this way around, it's the other way around, and it's a little disorienting to wake up with her voice in his ear, interrupting his pretty good dream, but Sanders can't complain. It's just not...the way things work.

Becks must be thinking the same thing, because she hesitates. Finally, she shrugs and answers, "Just excited for your game, so I went ahead and cooked breakfast. You need to eat a lot." She slams a hand down his butt and stands. "Go do your thing. Pray, shower, run, get my almond milk."

Sanders grunts. He cracks open one eye. Becks is standing over him, hands on her hips, in her ridiculously large shirt and shorts, and her hair isn't straightened. He almost smiles. "You cooked breakfast?"

"Please. I can handle some eggs."

"And onions?"

"How could I forget you eat your eggs with onions, of course with onions." She huffs and crosses her arms. "You have so little faith in me it's actually really insulting."

Sanders smiles this time. With a groan, he sits up. "Okay. Fine. Guess I have to eat it, then. I would want your hard work all to myself."

She blinks. Her eyes brighten. "Really?"

"To throw away."

Becks rolls her eyes. "Ass."

"Bitchflake."

"Grinch."

"Slug." He grins, stands, and pushes her head back with his palm. "D'you cook for Max, too?"

"No." Becks scrunches her nose. "He doesn't have a game today. Plus, he needs to leave early, so he made himself a sandwich."

That's...weird, but Sanders doesn't have the energy or effort to unpack that so early in the morning. He yawns and brushes past her. "Give a man some privacy, will you?"

"Please," she scoffs. "Like there's anything I haven't seen before."

It's out of his mouth before he thinks it over. Give him some slack. He just woke up. "Or sucked?"

Sanders flinches as soon as it's out, but Becks doesn't even seem fazed. She pushes his chest when she passes by. "Stop talking like you lasted long. Go wash up, idiot."

Sanders can't help the loud laugh that bubbles from his chest. He's still laughing on the way to the bathroom.

(The eggs, surprisingly, don't suck. Becks is watching him carefully for his reaction, and it's a relief that he doesn't have to lie and gag every time he chews and swallows. It was a very...hearty breakfast.)