Background Notes

I woke up to him crawling up my bed towards me, under the bedcovers. An impressive feat, considering the sheer weight of all the blankets heaped on my bed- I hate the cold; that being so, moving about under the things exerts effort second only to serious weight lifting.

I woke in a panic, searching for the discrepancy that had broken my sleep, clutching the covers to my chest, heart pounding, staring blindly out into the darkness. He poked his head out of the top of the blankets, and peeked up at me.
"Did I scare you cupcake?"
"Nope, not me.. I have men crawling at my feet all the time."
"Right." He put his arms around me and we snuggled down together, no questions asked; we'd both known he wouldn't actually sleep on the couch.

I met Joel when I was five; my parents had just relocated us yet again, to an even more remote corner of Wales. I was sulking, and looking for my older brothers; like the Rugrats, I wanted to carry out a kitchen raid on the cookie jar.
While searching for them I found Joel kicking his heels, and immediately recruited him for a mission that turned out to be a resounding success- we spent the rest of the afternoon lying out in the fields behind our houses in what could be accurately described as a diabetic hell and a childs heaven.

Looking back, it didn't take much for me to fall head-over-heels for him; although I think the initial attraction was formed when I saw him crawl, Action Man style, across my mothers' kitchen floor in search of sugary snacks, and went on to consolidated later that same afternoon as we lay in the sunshine, plowing our way methodically through our haul, as I got to know him.

Lucky for him I've never been particularly fussy, isn't it?

It was all very idyllic, that first summer spent kicking our heels in Abergavenny (say it with a welsh accent, it's cute), exploring the castle and playing in the woods near the canal; I lost track of how many times I'd return to my furious mother covered in bumps and grazes. One year, we found a kitten (or a very small half starved cat, whatever) and brought it back with us- JIm (see how our names run together there? Hee). He bit my lip, gave me a scar; I pushed him off the back of the couch and gave him a scar that runs through his eyebrow.
War wounds.

I have other war wounds though, gathered more recently during a fat induced jaunt to the gym.
Unlike Fuckkit, who must be officially mad, I don't enjoy it, in any way shape or form.
I hate the ugly shoes and I hate the ugly clothes, I hate the smell and I hate the showers, and the thought of changing room floors, and I hate how I always, without fail, run into the Ex when I'm working out. Or one of them, whatever.
Not something I relish when not at my most attractive.

Anyway, during the recent trip, being ever so suave, I tripped on my roller blades and scraped my knees to high heaven. Snuggled up in bed last night, Joel ran his hand down my leg, and encountered the still healing scrapes.
"What happened there?"
"I fell off my skates on the way to the gym- god's will." He accepted the explanation without question, as I have a long history of such things- not a history of roller blading (thank you god) but of things cropping up at the last minute and stopping me from going to the gym.
"Cupcake, you need to work out."
"Mmmf," I said, curling up under the covers and going to sleep.

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He woke me up as daylight- I want to say sunshine, but that seems a bit optimistic- began to creep past the curtains. He threw a pair of daps on the bed, followed by ugly work out clothes- red and brown, of course.
"I can't wear that!" I said, the smell of coffee on the window sill waking me. "It'll clash!"
"What? Listen Cupcake, all we're doing is visiting the gym. Relax, noone'll care."
"I care." I narrowed my eyes. "I mean, black and brown?"

He won. I got dressed and we went to the gym.

"I'm only doing this for you, you know."