Cinnamon: the first thing that Mitch processed as he woke up. He groaned, rolling over to try to find Scott on the other half of the bed and coming up empty.
He lifted his head, blinking blearily at the open door. Scott was up already, then, and probably cooking breakfast if the cinnamon was anything to go by.
Mitch flung the covers off the bed and slid his feet into slippers, venturing out to find Scott.
“What are you doing in there?” Mitch heard a muffled curse from the kitchen and the hurried tail end of a conversation. “Who’s with you?”
“Noooooo!” Scott suddenly appeared in the doorway, blocking his view into the room. “You were supposed to stay in bed.”
“How could I stay in bed knowing that you were doing something with things that could potentially burn the house down.”
“I’m not going to burn the house down. I’ve got it under control. Go sit on the couch at least?”
Mitch squinted at him. “Fine. But if I smell any smoke, you’re banned from the kitchen.”
A couple minutes - and no suspicious smoke - later, Scott re-emerged from the kitchen with two plates of what seemed like cake and two mugs. He set everything down on the coffee table in front of them. “Happy anniversary, baby.”
And suddenly, it hit Mitch how much he loved this, how much he looked forward to these little things, how much he wanted to stay in this moment forever.
He smiled. He was happy.
There were certain textures that bothered him.
Maybe he was just too picky, or maybe he’d somehow associated them with something unpleasant, or whatever. All he knew was that he hated it.
Things that were too fuzzy or too smooth or had too much give at best made his hand feel all tingly, and at worse made him want to throw up.
Mitch enjoyed torturing him with it, bringing him weird fabrics and rubbing them against his arm until he finally snapped and tackled him on the couch, the shirt or coat or swatch getting lost as Mitch tried to fend off the tickles.
Mitch would apologise, insincerely since Scott knew that it was going to happen again when Candice got another shipment of clothes, and he would forgive him.
But he’d be quietly planning his revenge.
Mitch was tired. They’d been up since three-thirty in the morning, trying to leave enough time to actually get ready and make it to their 5AM call time, and after an all-day shoot, Mitch was practically dead on his feet.
He stumbled into their living room and fell face down on the closest couch. He heard Scott laugh from above him.
“I think you missed the bed.”
“Too far. Staying here,” Mitch mumbled into the cushions.
Another soft laugh, barely more than an exhale, came from above him. “Oh, baby.” Warm hands gently lifted his head and Scott settled down next to him, placing his head back down into his lap. “We can stay here for a bit.”
Mitch settled into the denim-clad legs below him, nudging his head into Scott’s hands slightly.
“You’re not the cat of this household.” Nevertheless, blunt fingernails ran over his head, smoothing his hair and breaking up the product that had been left in it by their beauty department. “Go to sleep, angel. I’ll bring you to bed.”