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Kerry doesn’t know what woke him up. It’s so early the sun is barely peeking through the windows, so it’s not sunlight. He can’t hear the cat pawing its way across the bedroom to sing the breakfast plea, and even that gremlin doesn’t bother rising before the sun anymore. Johnny doesn’t snore.
Maybe it’s something above them all, a guardian angel nudging him awake so he can see the moment happening. Like a reward, after all the pain and hurt they went through to build a little nest of peace together.
He turns on his side and blinks his eyes open, newly brown optics adjusting to the half light. Johnny is sleeping with his back against the soft glow of the sunrise. He has his chrome arm tucked around his midsection, but his flesh hand lays palm up on the mattress between them. The rockerboy sleeps like a cat, curled in a ball with little shudders running along his spine as he rests.
When Johnny takes a nap on the couch the cat climbs on his chest and to Kerry it looks like the pet is sharing its master’s dreams. They twitch and shiver in perfect synch, paws and fingertips, ears and eyebrows. The round shape of black fur rises and falls with Johnny’s lungs. Watching lulls Kerry to sleep too, he wants to wrap his arms around them both and squeeze. The cat mewls but ends up settling back in. Johnny makes little noises of protest in his throat at the disturbance but wraps his arms back around his partner and squeezes too.
Kerry thought he was a dog person, but somehow he ended up with two black cats.
Johnny’s hand is twitching, right now. index and forefinger dancing like their owner is making music in his sleep, plucking imaginary strings. One black eyebrow frowns before Johnny sighs and goes still again. Soldier, musician, terrorist, engram, scared man pushed back in flesh and bones; Johnny doesn’t always look peaceful in his sleep. He tends to mutter apologies under his breath, long after years erode most of the night terrors and nightmares.
For all the twitching and murmuring, Johnny’s a good bed partner. He doesn’t sprawl all over the bed and doesn’t mind Kerry doing so. He’ll open one eye when he feels Kerry move closer and let his best friend hold him, or be held, depending on what keeps Kerry’s anxiety at bay.
This morning, under the pastels of pinks and orange slowly making their way on his cream-white skin, Johnny’s face is gentle. The lines carved by anger and hurt across his forehead and cheeks are smoothed over by the soft blush of sleep. They’re getting joined by proof of better times lived together. Laughter and smiles are leaving creases at the corner of Johnny’s eyes, and mouth. Kerry firmly believes this is the hardest thing he ever did in his life, allowing Johnny in again, trusting him not to break the delicate balance that took fifty years to build so Kerry would live on out of Johnny Silverhand’s shadow.
Johnny tried his very best, and time did them right, for once. Kerry used to be afraid of growing older, convinced that he would run out of years before achieving anything worthwhile. Now he watches with impatience the laugh lines in the mirror and compares them with Johnny’s, eager to have them matching, yet.
There’re glasses on Johnny’s bedside table. Old school, silvery, round glasses that Johnny can’t wear without getting Kerry hot and bothered by accident. His partner is smart, glasses and books are a good look on him. The day the rockerboy came home with the eyeglass case, he was fuming, ranting about how crazy it was that the only solution to eyes getting tired when reading was to replace them altogether. Johnny was stubborn and had refused to switch to optics every single time. Kerry is glad for it. When his input is not looking at the world with anger all the time, his eyes are dark brown, like a rich, sweet chocolate. The reading glasses are a cherished, tangible proof that time has flown and freed them.
Johnny’s no longer made of ones and zeroes. Kerry’s no longer stuck in the shadows of past what-ifs and what-woulds. People begging for time to stop don’t understand what they are asking for. Ô temps ! suspends ton vol they cry, like old French poetry is back in fashion. But only days steadily trickling down could have brought the SilverDyne couple a chance to grow old together.
Just like one looks up at the clouds and tries to recognize shapes, Kerry’s gaze falls on the dark hair spilled on the pillow. It’s long enough that Johnny can tie them at the nape of his neck to sleep, but he either loses the hair tie during the night, or Kerry pulls it off him when goodnight kisses turn heated. The raven threads are feather soft and fall beautifully across Johnny’s shoulders when he’s sitting on his lover’s lap. Kerry is greedy, he likes well-made things and Silverhand in the throes of pleasure is one of the most handsome of them.
Sunlight climbs higher on Johnny’s skin, revealing the wreath of lovebites that blossom on his throat and chest like a patch of mauves and violets. Johnny shivers, still asleep. There’s one strand of hair caught against his collarbone and it’s most likely tickling him. Kerry raises his hand to push it back behind Johnny’s ear, and that’s when he notices.
There’s a silver hair at Johnny’s temple, caught in a ray of golden light. It could be a play of the light, a trick in Kerry’s optics, just like when the cat turns almost brown when it insists on sleeping right under the blaring sun in the summer, almost cooking itself in the process but purring for it.
It could be that Johnny’s hair is so dark that it shines muted rainbows throughout the day. But not this time. There’s one silver hair growing at Johnny’s temple.
Kerry shuffles closer, slowly as not to wake his lover up. There’s two of them. Two little white-silver threads so close together Kerry thought they were one. That’s why he woke up. There’s his reward. Johnny’s body is showing signs of aging alongside Kerry, and the white-haired rockstar is awake for it.
Love and tenderness swell in Kerry’s chest. He bows closer and presses a kiss in Johnny’s hair, then another one on his forehead, and his brow. His input hums in question under him, and soft, chocolate-brown eyes glance at Kerry from under their lashes.
“S’too early” Johnny murmurs, but he arches against Kerry all the same, inviting and soft. It makes lust stir under Kerry’s skin. They might not be young anymore, but he’ll always want Johnny. He could search for the bottle of lube lost somewhere in the sheets and push inside right away, and Johnny would welcome him, mellow from sleep and still relaxed enough from their midnight round. He might even have to fight against Johnny’s hands and legs to keep it slow, because the only reason Kerry cannot want too much is that Johnny wants just as much. Kerry could do that, wants to do that. But not now, not yet.
Kerry lies back down and coaxes Johnny to roll with him and settle in the cradle of his input’s legs, head pillowed on his chest. Kerry wants to watch the sunrise over the new silver hair and on the expanse of Johnny’s naked skin. He’ll make it flush pink to match the skies later.
Johnny smiles when he feels fingertips brushing against his temple. “You noticed, then?” Kerry makes a little “hm-hm” sound, not committing to anything as Johnny’s arms curl around his waist. He doesn’t want to give anything yet, just in case his input would want to get up and see for himself.
Soft lips touch the seams of Kerry’s implants before Johnny puts his head back in Kerry’s hands, very much like a cat searching for attention. He continues, unprompted “Saw it a few days ago. Thought you would like that.”
Kerry grins, fond, but says nothing. He keeps playing with the hair tickling his throat and chest each time he breathes. Johnny chuckles “Yeah, you like it”.
Kerry does like it. It’s the most handsome thing he has ever seen.