avocado toast & other stories

iv.

The world is pink and Yuriko Fujji is sleeping through springtime. It is so early—too too too early, the sun slipping in with liquid fingertips as it peels back sheer curtains—and with a no, no, I'm still tired, Yuriko flips over on her stomach. Their comforter still smells of sugar cookies ("brown sugar cookies, please, there's a difference, Yuri") and lilac and drops of mint tea essence. It makes her soft, this smell, small and sleepy, a whisper of something tiny leaving her lips and traveling into the hallway.

Yuriko reaches out her other hand and fumbles with the edge of the blanket before tapping the spot next to her, several facts catching up to her brain that might be faster than the incoming light.

First:

She is cold. She's almost never cold, with her girlfriend being a literal human heater for hands (those are nice) and a constant, revolving collection of comforters and throws that Yuriko reaches out and always touches something a little like cotton.

Second:

The space next to her is empty. On their (not Yuri's or Gwen's, but theirs, holy shit) nightstand, the clock flickers half past eight, and too early, too early, god everything is just too early, so Yuriko closes her eyes. Tries to forget the discomfort gnawing at her fingertips. But her mouth is kind of dry and the haze around her head is thick like cream, thinning out as the numbers flash 8:31, 8:32, 8:33, 8:34.

Yuriko grips the sheets and curls into a ball, limbs a bit lankier now but still so small, a bit bent here and there but shivering nonetheless. She's dressed in a purple baby tee and basketball shorts that hang off her hips ("what the fuck, Yuri, what the fuck is this, why do you look so good?"). The fabric rubs against her skin, making it rise one inch and then another three, cold air hitting the lower portion of her stomach.

The girl holds the pillow a little tighter, clutches it to her chest, and blinks blearily at the window to her right. It's silent, but—

"Yuri," Gwen calls out, her voice silver as mercury, swirling around until it gets sticky and rests at her chest, right above her heart. The voice is close enough that Yuri knows Gwen is leaning against the creaking door frame like she always does with the sheer blue paint chipping at the edges. She's been wanting to fix it for a few days now, that door, because Yuri likes to fix things and make them pretty again after a bit of wear and tear, this lovable quality that makes her too prone to emotions. Yuri should really buy some paint today. "Yuri?"

The girl in bed groans and whimpers softly, voice hoarse and full of drowsy sleep. "M'cold," Yuri whispers, reaching out a few fingers half-heartedly and pouting when they meet cold air instead. No, no, no, she wants warmth now, wants this chill to leave her spine forever. "Come back to bed?" She yawns and snuggles further into the blanket. "Just for a few. Promise."

It's silent for a couple seconds but she could honestly care less with the way her satin pillowcase rubs against her cheek, tempting Yuri to fall back into sleep's siren call and just rest her head above the waters of dreams for just a moment, flickers of memories and colored pieces of glass encircling her figure like a waterfall. She almost forgets about the other girl standing at the door frame with an apron on until—

"Up, up, up," someone whispers in her ear, and Yuri's eyes shoot open because oh, Gwen is so warm, so honeyed and soft, and she wants nothing more than to reach out and pull her down on top of her. "Sweetheart, there's breakfast on the table."

Her stomach growls traitorously. "M'not hungry," she mumbles, turning over so that she's curled up closer to Gwen's body, powdered sugar liquifying as it smears across her skin, turning it a sweet shade of snow. Yuri whispers: "Okay, maybe a little. Just a bit. But, like—I can't get up. Don't want to."