DirkJake with them living together on Earth C c:

You’re not very good at making your bed but you do it, for him, for your new life together, for the fact that it’s no longer a twin mattress which means you’re an adult, now, despite how little you feel its influence.

There’s dinosaur sheets on the bed. Neither of you have been excellent at adulthood, but you try. With each unwieldy elastic corner slipping beneath foam after a generous tug, you try.

Jake is making breakfast because he’s an adult now too and being an adult means making breakfast for your partner who is making the bed even if the yolk breaks and the bottom sizzles to the consistency of elastic that stubbornly refuses to slide over the last foam corner.

And then you’re standing there, in the kitchen, an adult. And he’s standing there, with a paper plate, and two waffles damp from an impromptu toaster defrost and an egg marbled white and gold and a bright smile.

“Good morning,” he says, because you woke up to the sound of forming-elastic and neither of you had a chance to say hello until this moment.

“Morning,” you return, and press a short kiss to the corner of his mouth, even if that’s what kids do. Shy ones, that are bad at cooking and bed-making. Sweet ones, that never lost their way, or maybe sweet ones that did and are attempting to get back to when toaster waffles tasted good. Immortal ones, that still feel too young.