Mike's eyes fluttered open briefly, wakefulness only barely making itself known as he languished dreamily in the lazy cocoon of an early Sunday morning. The sheets beneath his cheek were soft and sleep-warmed, a faint scent of detergent mingling with the more familiar and well-loved combination of maleness. Drifting to hazy consciousness, he cracked his lids open a little more and saw a flash of blue above him. It was the colour of the sky after a storm and the ocean at sunrise; it was beautiful. He blinked away the final remnants of sleep-fuelled romanticism and watched as the blue gradually defined itself into a pair of much-loved, smiling eyes.
Mike grinned and sighed happily into the kiss that greeted him.
The house was quiet, just the faint hum and whir of the icebox and the evenly timed scrape of paper on paper as Gus turned the pages of his book.
He didn't mind the silence; it acted as the perfect counterpoint for when Mike got home. Then there would be noise, and lots of it - music, laughter, tall tales of the day at work. Later still there'd be noise of a different kind - murmured words, skin gliding over skin, rough gasps as their arching bodies moved as one.
Until finally there'd be silence again, just the faint hum and whir of the icebox and the evenly timed whisper of breath against breath as they slept entwined.