"Get up, baby."
Alarms blare in the background - foreground, really - and eyes reluctantly open. The ignition that is arousal sparks an explosion that blasts away the dream. Five more minutes would be lovely, and is all that's desired. Is it procrastination when there's nothing yet, or left, to do?
Bodies move to programming; years of muscle memory. Life is waiting and reaction is procreated survival. But there's nothing revealed when the curtains open, nothing learned when the impact comes. The flash is blinding, but fails to illuminate in spite of its glow.
"You gonna get up or do I have to get you horny?"
Arousal is prepared while a mind awakens. Memories this early are never clear, never sure if they're still dreams. Eyes wander, hesitant, and a choice is made. None witness save a poster on a ceiling, and she offers no advice. Deceptively demure eyes do not point the way and supple, quivering lips remain silent.
"As good a way to wake up as any, I suppose."
Worn clothes worn, reminders of chores unfulfilled. One wonders if appearance would be so important in the land of the blind. It feels good enough with eyes closed. And open eyes are not necessary for a follower of dreams. The muffled gasps sound so loud.
"For fuck's sake, hurry up."
Feet hang off a bedside, afraid of what lies beneath. Monsters might make the world more interesting, but it's the floor that's too cold. He wants to stay in bed and continue the moment, for spirits enjoy their revelry without decisions in the way. This has become monotonous. Nightmares, never banal, reveal that sleep is truly living.
"Once more into the breach, eh, babe?"
Blankets comfort, even when they're too warm. And loneliness can be cold at night. Both serve as reminders of false memories; fantasies in the dark. There is no time for games, but there's grace in the playing. Open mouths taste the ambiance and closed eyes are not necessary, but oh, how wonderful they can be. If nothing else, they disguise the fear of embarrassment.
"I hate waking you up."
"I love it when you wake me up."
The joke's finally over. Both men want to get home. But they're going to have to survive the mortar attack first. The hands of far away lovers guide their aims and they know the fallen bodies of their enemies will revisit them later in life. At least they know it will be in the comfort of their own beds... and the foreplay won't be as deadly.
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