There’s an explosion of freckles along Martin’s right shoulder, trailing off down his bicep to his forearm in smaller and smaller constellations to end at a single point between his thumb and pointer finger. His bare chest rises and falls deep and steady with sleep, Jon’s head rising and falling with every breath. Gerry traces a finger over the constellation of freckles along Martin’s shoulder, up the side of his neck, almost light enough to tickle. He’s named some of the constellations before, called them things like Orpheus or Ariadne, pressing kissing into the bare skin until Martin giggles and presses him gently away.
Martin and Jon are both asleep. A rare and lovely sight early on a lazy Sunday morning. Jon’s loose hair tangled half over his face, tickling Martin’s nipple. Gerry eases a long strand back and coaxes it behind his ear, trailing fingertips down and along the sharp jut of his jaw, lingering for a moment at the tiny pale scar at the dip of his chin.
The sun streams in past the curtains warm and buttery, creeping along the floor to the base of the bed. It highlights where Martin’s feet have stuck out from under the covers, mismatched socks a cheery yellow and striped red and gray. Gerry hums and nudges Martin’s foot with his own, hooking an ankle over his.
Sometime during the night Martin’s hand had fallen in between them and Gerry curls their fingers together now, absently bringing it up to kiss the skin of his knuckles and down to that lonely freckle settled between his thumb and pointer. Martin’s hand twitches and Gerry lets it go.
Martin pats at the bed and then reaches for Gerry, curling his fingers into his hair and urging him up until Gerry can grin at his sleepy eyes, still unfocused and half lidded. Gerry leans in for a kiss and Martin hums at him warmly. “Good morning,” He says once they’ve separated.
“Good morning,” Martin replies, voice scratchy.
Martin draws in a sharp breath and lets it out, mouth curling into a lovely warm smile that Gerry is helpless but to kiss again. Jon snores on between them, little whuffing breaths of warm air that puff out across Martin’s skin. Gerry kisses his temple.
“Please,” Martin agrees.
It takes a moment for Gerry to untangle himself from the covers and the arms of the ones he loves most. The cold creeps into his feet even through his socks. He can’t help himself from leaning in one more time to catch the corner of Martin’s mouth with his lips and Martin laughs softly, trying not to jostle Jon. “I love you.”
Martin squeezes his hand very hard and then lets go.
Gerry stumbles to the kitchen on love weak knees and starts the kettle. Five years of lazy sunday mornings just like this stretch on behind him, and as he pulls their mugs from the cabinets he thinks about just how many more they have to come, and he smiles.