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Mornings are one of a kind, even when you yearn to keep hiding in the dark behind your eyelids or just one of those people who revel in the night. You come to in different degrees, allowing you to comprehend the day’s presence one at a time. It prods at your senses, and it doesn’t matter which one goes first.
Hear the birds sing the arrival of dawn, their wings flapping and their feet tapping against the branches. Listen to the early footsteps stepping on gravel, the slow rolling of tires through cobbles, and perhaps the trains on tracks echoing through the somewhat streets and halls of Paris. Be relieved at the sound of breathing as you wake up to another day with them and yourself alive. Rouse at the sudden ringing of your phone or the incessant call of your mother to get up.
Smell the aroma of freshly baked goods wafting through the wind as they escaped the still closed doors of bakeries and patisseries. The shampoo of your beloved who sleeps beside you and the sunlight from yesterday baked onto the fur of your pet. The brewing coffee and piping hot tea that sits in cups and mugs as they await their consumers to drink themselves to become more alert. The scent of cooking eggs in pans or baking breads in ovens are nothing but reminders of your hunger.
Feel the warmth of sunlight touch the cold corners of your room that the night has left behind. Touch the softness of your pillow and sigh in satisfaction at how it’s just cold enough for you to relish it. How a hand pets the back of your feline friend sleeping by your face, or just a finger timidly caressing the cheek of that person still asleep in front of you. Cherish the warmth of skin embraced against you, or just your hands embraced against your warm mug.
Picture the dark shadows from every corner of your house slowly fading away as the light comes crawling in to brighten the place from wall to wall. See the sun paint the sky in yellows, pinks, blues, and purples. Look at how these colours bleed into your memory, tainting you and asking you to open your eyes wider and to gaze at its rawness. Notice how the clouds are just like the curtains of your windows, barely keeping the brightness out and allowing the sun a peek or two. Wake up to the sight of children’s vulnerable slumbering faces that may or may not be dreaming about flying with wings or ruling lands with peace and adventure.
Taste the dryness of your mouth that yearns to be satisfied with the flow of water, your tongue moistening your lips. Wince at the abundance of mint in your toothpaste as you brush your teeth and salivate at the sight of freshly made breakfast laid out on the table. Relish how warm tea or coffee or juice (or even just water) goes down your throat before you realize that time has suddenly gone too fast during breakfast.
But to Luka, one of his best mornings is in an anchored boat named La Liberté, one that he and his mother and sister call their home.
And just like the water of the Seine that glistens in the morning, the cool colours of teal and blue and black splash against the warm brown and red striped pillow. His eyes are closed and have yet to blink open, his eyebrows settled in a relaxed state along his smooth forehead. His left hand rests on his chest while his right lays flat on the bed. Possibly from the many times he’s moved and shifted within the night, his red shirt has slipped up just enough to expose a little skin of his left hip.
The sun has finally made its way into his room, where it shines on his arms and greets it like a mother jostling her child awake. The redness of his shirt burns brighter as more of the sun peeks into his room, and a shadow cast upon him from above.
“Luka…” a soft voice whispers to him, and his fingers twitch as his ears recognizes her. Two hands cast their weight on each side of his head, a head bending and leaning lower, their noses now only a hair’s breadth away from touching each other. His right shoulder suddenly carries the weight of a dark waterfall, soft and slightly tangled tresses tickling parts of his neck and falling right onto his pillow besides his messed-up hair.
A smile slowly starts stretching across his face, a low humming of his voice filling the silence. The sides of his eyes crinkle, though they remain closed even if he’s now obviously awake and no longer lost in the world of dreams.
It takes a few rubbings of her nose against his for him to finally open his eyes and see the pink of her lips. He strays from this and stares into the sky that’s somehow found itself confined in her eyes.
“Hey.” His voice is thick and husky due to hours of disuse and lack of water.
“Hey yourself, handsome.” A blush spreads across her cheeks and even traipses over her cute nose, which is probably what’s happening to his own face.
A kiss on his forehead has him memorizing the feeling of her lips and planting it in his mind, hoping the memory lasts him a lifetime with her.
A kiss on his nose has him tickled with emotions, his chest bursting with so much affection that he has a hard time holding them in when he’s with her.
A kiss on the mouth has him falling in love with her (over and over and over and over) again, just as he’s promised to her. Something that she, too, has promised him once upon a night.
“I made some tea. Drink it while it’s still warm.” He stares at the sight of Marinette dressed in one of his oversized shirts, pink in colour similar to her lips.
He gets up with help from her, makes his bed, and holds her hand before she leads him to the kitchen counter where his teal and pink mermaid tail mug sits waiting for him.
Mornings are something to people. But to Luka, mornings with Marinette are everything to him.