Before He Wakes

Mattheo is still asleep.

Theodore knows it before he looks, but he turns anyway, careful, like the moment might close if he moves too quickly. Mattheo has drifted closer in his sleep, as he always does, one arm loosely wrapped around Theodore’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if even unconscious, he is trying to keep him there.

Theodore does not move at first.

There is something about it that feels like being chosen without being asked. Something quiet and fragile and almost too much to hold.

Mattheo’s face is softer like this. His hair falls across his forehead, uneven, his lashes resting low against his skin. His breathing is slow, steady, and Theodore finds himself matching it without meaning to, as if that might keep him here longer.

Carefully, reluctantly, he lifts Mattheo’s hand and sets it back against the bed. The space it leaves feels immediate.

The floor is cold when he stands. It feels deserved.

In the kitchen, the morning has not fully arrived yet. The light is thin, uncertain.

Breakfast. He should make breakfast.

Eggs, he thinks. Eggs feel like effort. Like saying something without having to speak.

But eggs can go wrong. Too much, too little, not what was wanted.

Toast is easier. Toast asks nothing of him.

But toast feels like absence. Like stopping halfway through care.

Theodore rests his hands on the counter and stares at them, waiting.

Mattheo will wake soon.

He tries to imagine the look on his face, the way he notices everything, even the things Theodore wishes he wouldn’t.

It should be simple.

It is not.

So he stands there, already missing the weight of Mattheo’s hand, unsure which choice will mean more, or worse, mean nothing at all.

Theodore stands there, clutching the edge of the kitchen island and sighs, his head bowed between his shoulders. Eggs and toast were off the table as options.

Maybe pancakes, but even that has its own set of implications. Blueberry pancakes could seem like he thinks Mattheo is sour but is willing to accept him regardless, but isn’t that too soon to say? Banana pancakes — well, he didn’t like bananas, so would Mattheo think he doesn’t like him? While chocolate ones are too basic.

French toast pops into his mind. Then he thinks it would be too posh of a thing; maybe then Mattheo would think he found him overtly out of his league or something. Cereal would make it seem like he doesn’t care when he does, he really does. Otherwise he would not be agonizing over this simple thing. Come on, Theo.

Smoothies are delicious and colorful, bright — maybe that could be good? But he isn’t aware of Mattheo’s taste palate. What would he like the best, bananas and strawberries, with nuts? What if Mattheo is allergic to the nuts or fruits he would put in? He feels the time tick away, each second feeling like hours, as he runs a hand through his hair and pinches the bridge of his nose.

He takes out his phone and hastily types into the search bar: Breakfast foods.

He scrolls through the various images that appear on the screen: breakfast burritos, waffles, crepes, English breakfast, protein bars — no. Not protein bars for sure.

He presses his lips together in indecisiveness, while he leans against the counter, his eyes aching from staring so intently at the glaring screen.

Oatmeal comes onto his screen, for which he twists his face in disgust and closes the app. That is when he hears, “Theodore?”

“Theodore?”

He hears it.

He does not turn at first. The name settles somewhere low in his chest, heavier than it should be, as if it has been waiting there longer than this moment.

The kitchen feels smaller now. Or maybe he has just become more aware of it.

“Theo?”

Closer this time.

He turns.

Mattheo stands in the doorway, hair still falling into his eyes, sleep not fully gone from his face. There is a softness to him that does not ask questions, only waits.

Theodore feels, suddenly, like he has already answered something wrong.

“I didn’t know what to make,” he says.

It comes out quieter than he expects. Not quite steady.

For a second, nothing happens.

Then Mattheo steps closer, slow, careful, as if Theodore might move away if he does it too quickly. His hand finds Theodore’s waist without hesitation, familiar even in its gentleness, resting there like it belongs.

Theodore exhales before he means to.

“You could’ve woken me,” Mattheo murmurs.

Not accusing. Not even surprised. Just… there.

Theodore nods, though he isn’t sure what he’s agreeing to.

“I thought I should get it right,” he admits, after a moment, voice catching somewhere in between.

Mattheo’s thumb shifts slightly against his side, grounding, almost absentminded.

“You don’t have to,” he says.

It should settle something. It doesn’t. Not fully.

“Let me cook,” Mattheo adds, softer now.

Theodore hesitates, then lets himself lean, just slightly, into the touch.

He does not move away when Mattheo does.

He follows.

The kitchen is still there. The choices, too.

But for now, he lets them be.

Mattheo makes them scrambled eggs, and fries some potatoes, and squeezes oranges to make juice for them. Theodore sits at the dinner table, his eyes gazing at Mattheo as though he hung stars into the sky, while Mattheo sprinkles pepper and salt onto the eggs.

Mattheo walks over with the plates in his hand, and kisses Theodore’s forehead when he places the dishes down.

Theodore jabs the egg pieces with his fork and eats them. He lets out a hum, feeling Mattheo’s eyes on him. “It’s really good,” he says, his voice hanging in the air as a declaration.

Mattheo clears his throat and grabs a fork too, “I would have loved anything you made. You are a good cook after all.”

Theodore swallows. “I wanted to make you something that showed that I know you, I guess? Not just,” he pauses, hesitation entering his voice. “Toast.”

Mattheo smiles, “I am sure there will be plenty of time for that.” Then pauses. “At least I hope — certainly hope my eggs aren’t that bad.”

Theodore replicates the same smile, “Well, they could use more salt.” This makes Mattheo roll his eyes in fondness.

They eat in silence but with grins never leaving their faces. Theodore’s heart beats with reassurance of Mattheo’s statement. “I would have loved anything you made.” It has a mundanity to it, a sense of relief and domesticity. A feeling like he could wake up every day to Mattheo making these same scrambled eggs, and the same juice, and that life would not be bad. They would not be bad. He could get that normalcy and bliss, merely for existing, breathing and feeling his lungs fill and exhale without needing to be anything except what they are. And that was worth everything.