Home, Sick

We are standing in the large room and he is standing to my right sorting through the contents of his backpack; mostly clothes and things he's picked up here and there. As I'm emptying the fillings of my hands and pockets onto a small maple coffee table, he lifts up a shirt with a picture of a cat on it that he told me about earlier that day. I laugh a little, seeing how proud he is at his findings in thrift stores and about town, and tell him that I like it. He pulls off the his v-neck and slips on a dark green Sage Francis shirt that I've always loved, and I wonder how much thought he really put into that action. I pause a moment and concentrate on the decision to turn the volume of my phone off. It was on vibrate at the time which was dicey, considering everyone else in the house was asleep, and fully unaware of our presence. What if someone tried to call? I knew we were going to end up laying in bed watching the TV he had already turned on, and thought that if my mom or friend (I had plans with) called I wouldn't pick it up or even want to get up to see who was calling in the first place. I turn the volume completely off, and follow him to the massive bed covered in quilts and pillows. I ask him about the bed and the room, which he revealed is his, but showed no such indications. He laid down to the left, and explained how the bed is so large because it is really two beds put together. As we lay together I think back to all of our past conversations, and realize warmly that he would be doing this same exact thing as we talked, but now I am here to be a part of it. We watch a few shows, one show was about giants, and we converse about what it would be like. As the night grew later his arm was situated around me, and he began gently drawing and running his fingers and hands along my arms. Our conversation went in and out casually and we reposition so my head was resting on his shoulder, and left arm wrapped around his upper waist. His left arm was around the back of my neck and the other was occupied rubbing my arm, or the sides of waist where my shirt had come up. Laying there reminded me of the time we cuddled and held hands on all the mattresses in the downtown furniture store, but I never told him that. I was perfectly warm and comfortable, and stroked his arm lightly as we talked sleepily. His sickness and cough seemingly disappeared as the TV flashes bright colors on the large white walls of the bedroom. His hand played with my hair affectionately, occasionally disheveling the front so I would have to move it out of my eyes to see. At one point I became aware of the time, and how cozy I really was. I came to the conclusion I was fine to fall asleep where I was positioned, and became almost care-free there with him. His hand was now tracing the edge of my pants on my stomach softly, and moving up under the side of my shirt. From time to time he would stop whatever roaming his hands were doing to squeeze or pinch me quickly to receive a look or a complaint, and waited until I least expected it to pinch again. I remember thinking how comfortable he was with me, and how it seemed almost like we had spent so much time together to get to where we were then. He began running his hands along the inside of my legs as I rested my hand on the warmth of his abdominal muscles.