Laze
Alfred wakes to rain tapping the windows, grey morning light peering through the curtains, and an Englishman burrowing into his chest. Alfred chuckles through his yawn and slips his hand beneath Arthur’s sleep shirt—an impressively faded piece of rock merchandise from days of yore—to stroke up and down his back. Alfred’s hand must be cooler than the warmth it finds beneath that shirt; Arthur groans, lifts his head, and veritably head-butts Alfred’s sternum. His eyes remain firmly shut. Not even the pillows are fooled.
“I thought you didn’t like sleeping in,” Alfred says, bringing his free hand up to smooth hair from Arthur’s forehead.
Muffled by Alfred’s chest and his own barely opened lips: “It’s too cold to get up.”
“It’s September,” Alfred reminds him. “It’s not cold yet.”
“Mmmmm.” The guttural moan of a bear disturbed from hibernation.
“Well.” Alfred strokes Arthur’s cheek. His face always seems a little puffy after he sleeps, through Alfred has never mentioned it for fear of giving offense, probably because he plumps his pillow by slamming his head into it every night. “Are you sleepy?”
Arthur hisses in a breath, rolls over so he lies on top of Alfred, and sighs it back out. The eyes have yet to make an appearance. “Mmmmno.”
“Alright.” Alfred continues stroking his back, from his shoulders down to the waistband of his boxers and back again. Normally he wouldn’t need to ask, but there are always the occasions where Arthur is distracted or just plain oblivious. “Do you wanna do somethin’ else?”
Arthur’s mouth stretches wide open for a yawn and, when it closes, his eyes are left open at last. The bleary green things look up at Alfred with a stray tear caught in their lashes, drawn forth by the yawn. Arthur blinks it away, chin resting on Alfred’s breastbone as he lazily slides his knee between Alfred’s legs.
Alfred spreads for him, amused. “You still don’t look very awake.”
Because Arthur is yawning again, and this time he comes out of it with heavy eyelids. The chill air of the bedroom joins forces with the warm world beneath their quilts to work a very convincing magic on those susceptible. Always the ones you’d least expect, Alfred thinks fondly.
“Are you sure you wanna top?” Alfred asks when Arthur’s head flops to its side once more on his chest.
Another groan from the depths of his throat. Alfred can feel the potential for their intended activity—one of them generally wakes up with it and the other, generally, is not far behind—but the prospects look slimmer and slimmer with each increasingly deep breath from his partner. Still, Arthur’s hips shift valiantly against Alfred, just barely enough friction for sensation.
“Arthur.” Alfred wraps his arms around him, voice dipping to a whisper. “You can sleep. I can wait.”
Arthur stills, eyes closed. His words are already slurred with slumber. “Top yourself.”
A pause. They both shake with Alfred’s barely stifled laughter. “Did you just tell me to f—”
“Mmmmmmmmm.”
Alfred presses a smile-shaped kiss to Arthur’s hair. An extra hour never hurt anybody, right? He settles back into the pillows, listening to the rain and the soft sleep murmurings of his perfectly disciplined bedmate.
