Chibimagic's Weblog

New Year’s

Posted on: February 1, 2014

I awake to his chest hairs tickling my nostrils. No matter which way I turn my head, they seem determined to crawl up my nose. I give up and inhale his scent, slowly. He smells of powder as always. I caught whiffs of it in the car last week as he drove, stirring up old memories. He shifts again, arms wrapped around me, which I note with surprise. He always had trouble sleeping while touching someone. His cold must be hitting him hard.

I run my finger down his side. His skin feels feverish, and damp from sweat. But here, away from cat fur and dander, at least his breathing is no longer wheezy or strained.

Last night he placed his hand on my hip and pulled me against him as we waited to get him a drink. I rested my head on his shoulder, nestled against his neck. I noticed a friend across the room I hadn’t seen in a while, and made a move to head over. “Don’t abandon me,” he teased, intertwining his fingers with mine. Same sneaky shyness. I had managed to drag him to this party where I was the only person he knew by promising to entertain him all evening. It was towards the end of the night and I had barely noticed any of the other attendees.

I grinned at him and stayed, absent-mindedly playing with his shirt instead. “Your shirt’s blue,” I commented after undoing a couple buttons.

“Is it?” he asked. “The outer one is blue too.”

“It’s gray,” I replied, remembering. His color blindness.

Later, as I bounced on his knee in time to the karaoke song that other people were singing, he grasped me by the shoulder and drew me backwards until my back laid against his chest. With my head next to his, we mostly stayed like that until midnight.

After the countdown and cheering he kissed me with a kiss that was at once old and new. A few minutes later we slipped away from the chaos and noise to hide out in an used room. In the darkness we giggled like schoolchildren.

His alarm goes off. He’s supposed to pick up his friends for a ski trip today. He sits up, groaning, and reaches for his thermometer. As he sits there with it in his mouth, waiting, I trace my fingers around each abdominal muscle. I poke him, imploring him to flex. He pulls his stomach taut and I take in the six well defined rectangles.

“Crap,” he mutters, looking down at the thermometer. “Okay, you’re not going to like it, but I need to put some clothes on.”

I make whining noises and pout at him as he clambers out of bed. As he wanders the room looking for a shirt, I sit up on my elbows to leer at him, admiring the V of his hips. When he gets back in bed, clad in shirt and pajama pants, I crawl on top of him, and slide his shirt off again.

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