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Nero’s fingers were more delicate than you were used to. He was always gentle with you, even though he knew you wouldn’t break. He enjoys it, and so do you. You sigh softly as his fingers run lightly over your shoulder blades. You turn your head and crack your eyes open slowly, your lashes fluttering just a little as you peer over your shoulder.
The curtains are open–as is the ornate window, letting in the warm summer heat–but the skies are overcast and dark in that bluish-gray way it always seems to be when it’s soon to rain. You can smell it. You breathe in deeply and Nero just laughs. He walks away just as your eyes shut again. You’re discontent, and you make it clear with a groggy noise of complaint in your throat. I don’t want your touch to leave me.
It’s a complaint quickly doused out, however, as he walks in with breakfast for the both of you a minute or so later.
You smell it just as you had smelled the rain. You’re quick to roll over and sit up, the blanket slipping down. Despite that, Nero says nothing, merely opting to ruffle your hair and set down the food on the bedside table before putting a record in the player. ‘Maybe’ by the Inkspots plays quietly, the notes filling Nero’s bedroom. You sit up against the headboard and take the mug of coffee he offers you–more liquid cane sugar and milk than coffee–and sip it slowly.
Nero sits at the edge of his bed, stretching his back and popping his shoulders. He grins lazily, sharp blue eyes watching with affection as you start tearing appreciatively through the eggs and bacon. He reaches over toward the table, moving the plate onto your lap so he can pour sweet, Canada-imported syrup onto the fluffy pancakes. It mixes with the melting butter. You hum and give him a kiss on the cheek. He sets his own on your nose, pressing another two to the arch. Your chests brush for the barest moment, enough for you to shiver pleasantly at the warmth of his skin.
He settles against your side, sipping from his orange juice before beginning to scarf down his own breakfast. You can see, glancing past his broad frame, that there’s dew on the plants sitting in his windowsill. You had gifted them to him months ago, taught him how to tend them properly. He’s kept them, like every other gift you’ve given him over the years.
Oh, he is too good to you. Nero was always so very good to you.
As you both eat in relative silence, and the Inkspots record keeps a’playin’, your knees touch. No words are needed, no conversation made. Mutual skin-on-skin contact and comfort during the wet, dewy, warm day is all the two of you need. You’re just finishing the rest of your pancakes and noisily slurping down the last of your first cup of coffee when Nero’s ghostly wings reach up to brush their claws over your cheeks. They trace the apples, the limbs more agile than they’ve any right or reason to be, before squishing your face fondly. Nero looks up from his food with bright, curious eyes, smiling as he watches you laugh brighter than the sun could burn.
Your laughter continues, even as Nero hastily moves your plates aside to pull you into his warm lap. He kisses you with all the softness in the world–he tastes like syrup and bacon and orange juice. The sweetness mixed with the savouriness makes you think of home. You laugh into his lips, only for him to hug you closer. You both press together more deeply, and you find there’s no place you’d rather be.
You lose yourself in it, in him, until you feel you’ve forgotten something. What did you forget, again? He made breakfast, let you sleep in some… oh!
“Thank you, pretty boy,” you say at last, murmuring into his neck where he’s just begun tucking you beneath his chin.
“‘Course, baby. Gotta keep you fed, don’t I?” He replies. You can feel him grin above you, so you drag down one of his hands to place kisses against his knuckles. He links your fingers comfortably.
“Mm,” you hum, happy. "Love you too, Nero."
Yeah–no place you’d rather be.