Drabble

[jettabug.livejournal.com]

Title: Perfection (1/1)
Pairing: Monaboyd.
Rating: PG-13 (for implied slash, sorta)
Summary: Just thoughts of perfection...
Notes: I don't usually drabble. I mean, I usually plan to write a fic, but with this, I just opened up Word and started typing.



Perfection
by Jenna

There are things about him I hate. Like the way he clicks his tongue when he’s reading the newspaper. Or when he talks in his sleep. Or when he itches himself with his car keys.

I hate it when he leaves dirty dishes in the sink and will pile the garbage up so high until it falls over. His theory is that of Homer Simpson’s: the last person who puts something on the top that causes it to fall, must haul the bastard out to the sidewalk.

And then there’s the way he channel surfs. Constantly. Me, I’m happy to sit and watch the discovery channel all day, but no, when he gets hold of that remote…it’s goodbye sanity. He will flick for hours, through all 52 channels of cable TV and not be able to find anything to watch. I love how his favourite show is Queer Eye For The Straight Guy, but he makes fun of me for liking Alias.

He leaves toothpaste in the sink. He doesn’t make the bed. He hogs the comforter. He always has a craving for cookie dough ice cream at midnight. He always makes me get said ice cream. He has to have nearly every single light in on the house at any given time. He never puts CDs or DVDs back in their cases. He always insists on driving everywhere we go. He has to read some of his book every night.

But through all that, I love him. I can love every imperfection he has. I love watching him read the paper, the same expression on his face, that of deep concentration. And the things he speaks of when he’s asleep is priceless. He talks of love, of me and our relationship, like a session at therapy. The car key thing, I’ll never love, but at least he has his own set of keys.

Dirty dishes, overflowing garbage, toothpaste, ice cream, CDs and books make everything about him special. His quirks make him endearing. Make him real.

The irritating things remind me of the things I love about him.

I love that we have the same taste in music. We can sit for hours together in the living room listening to one CD after the other, from Elvis to Coldplay, Radiohead to The Beach Boys.

I love that he likes to cuddle when he’s falling asleep. I love the feeling of wrapping him in my arms and slipping into a dream knowing that I’m holding him, that he’s mine. I love that he loves to do laundry. I hate it, but he loves it. I love the way he looks when he’s reading, glasses perched on his nose, brow furrowed in concentration, drinking in every single word.

I love the way he laughs. With his whole face. He opens his mouth wide and throws his head back in a cackle, a sound that I will never get sick of. I love how he stands up for what he believes in, that he won’t let anyone push him around. I love how he hit some guy in a bar for making fun of our relationship.

I love it when he makes love to me. I love it when we’re one, each other as a whole, when we’re as close as we can get. I love it when he loves me, and when I love him.

I adore it when he goes out of his way each day to tell me how much I mean to him. Whether it be a little note, or a flower, or an email, he always makes me feel special. In his eyes I’m special, and I can see that every time he looks at me.

I love it that he’ll let me listen to Linkin Park in the car at top volume, even though he hates it. I love it when he gives me time to myself to be me: to play a video game or to call my mom for a chat.

I love that he doesn’t have to hide who he is. He’s himself all the time, and he doesn’t care what people think. I love how he taught me about all the important things: love, acceptance, hope, happiness. I love how we can spend all day on the beach, doing nothing. I love how we pack our surfboards, even though we know we’ll barely make it onto the sand before collapsing and just looking out over the ocean.

I love how we can sit in silence for hours, and then walk away from the moment feeling as though it was the best conversation we’ve ever had.

I love that he believes in the goodness of people. I love that he thinks meeting me was destiny. I love the way he thinks. I love the way he breathes. I love the way he moves.

I love him.

I’m reminded everyday how lucky I am, just by the way he does things. The simplest thing, like making me a cup of tea in the morning, and surprising me with it and a fresh flower from the garden, or coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist for a hug. It’s the little things that are most important to me. He could hire a sky-writer to profess his love for me, but at the end of the day, that doesn’t matter. All he has to do is say it.

And he does, all the time. And every time he does, I thank God that I have his love, the love of a man who is the most imperfect, real thing in my life.

I love how I don’t have to like everything about him.

I love how he doesn’t try to be perfect.

Even though in my eyes, he practically is.

“What are you thinking, love?”

I looked up at Billy, who had discarded his book and was watching me intently.

I smiled and lay down, my head resting in his lap. “Nothing Bill.”

He smiled and stroked my hair as we sit on our couch. “You were thinking something, Dommie. Tell me.”

I looked up at him, into his green eyes, his smiling face. Light stubble adorned his chin and I reached up to stroke it idly.

“Spill it,” he coaxed again, catching my hand and rubbing it with his fingers.

“I was just thinking of all the reasons I love you. I was doing fine until I realised that you’re practically perfect in every way.”

Billy raised an eyebrow. “Practically perfect?”

I grinned. “We need to work on the car key thing…”