Cemetery Boys -7-
The morning sunlight was gentle but insistent against my eyelids, like a little kid trying to wake up its parent without getting its ass kicked. Being the shitty dad that I was, I waited an incredibly long time before I even bothered to let my eyes slide open. It was worth the effort; the first sight to greet my sleep-encrusted eyes was a peacefully snoring Patrick, flat on his stomach beside me with his limbs stretched to the four directions. Definitely not a bad thing to wake up to.
Stifling a yawn, I rolled onto my side and inspected him. I was in that weird just-woke-up place where your brain barely functions, so your senses work overtime to compensate. My eyes drank in everything. The sweet curve of his shoulder, sliding into the arm that had been carelessly flung over his pillow. The way the light played across that pale skin, catching on the tiny blond hairs and the smattering of Irish freckles that dotted his arms. The brilliant, angelic tangle of that blond-red-strawberry-what