Grapefruit

Some mornings, more so than others, Kris is harder to wake.

Tao is early to rise, whether he's early to bed or not. Young he might be, but discipline he lacks not. Bleary eyed and sluggish, he rises without an alarm, and makes sure to extract himself from the cozy comforts of bed before he becomes conscious enough to realize he really would rather stay in it.

Kris sleeps through Tao's eye-rubbing and squinting, a balled fist knuckling at dry, still-closed eyes.

There's something special about a boy who manages not to crash into anything or step on any of the floorboards that creak, even when half asleep. Tao just calls it practice.

Padding down the hall, he heads to the living room which is not only silent but still at this hour of morning. He huddles into his hoodie and zips it all the way up, pulling the hood over his head. Jogging slightly in place to bring warmth into his muscles and blood into his veins, he goes through a few simple stretches before sliding into deeper, longer stretches, in more complicated poses.

By the time he's gone through the sun salutation once, his body is alert and alive, and he pushes forward with that initial burst of energy to go through two, three, ten repetitions.

When he's done with the continuous, flowing routine, his joints are limber, muscles warm. He folds himself into a pose and holds - warrior, triangle, tree - or moves through smaller sets of basic poses like downward dog and plank pose. The cobra, in particular, puts a delicious stretch through his shoulders and opens up his lungs to deep, full breaths, head thrown back. He likes moving fluidly from plank to cobra, cobra to downward dog, then back to cobra and doing it all over again.

Tao particularly likes the morning when no one is around to disturb his practice, ruffle his meditative calm. The right start to the day means a good day, no matter what challenges come his way. He doesn't mind waking up before everyone else to get started on the day, his way.

Tao does much of his practice with his eyes closed, an odd habit that he's decided isn't working against him, and so, he has missed the times when Kris has woken and, just as stealthily as Tao himself, come quietly down the hall for a glass of water and forgotten all about his thirst as he lays eyes upon the raven-haired youth. He notices how sturdy Tao's feet are on the floor, how impeccable his balance. It is no wonder Tao never trips over his own feet. It's palpable how in tune he is with his body, and gravity. It is Kris who missteps when Tao executes a physics-defying jumpkick midair, not Tao. Kris chalks it up to awe, and does not mind, not even when he is called out for his mistake. There are some things this lifestyle cannot, will not, take from him.

Kris makes his way back to bed and crawls under the covers before Tao notices he was ever there, watching from the doorway with a small, sleepy smile on his lips.

~*~

Yoga makes Tao hungry, but not in the same ravenous way that a long schedule and hours of dance practice do. Yoga makes Tao's body hum in anticipation of something, it reminds him every time he emerges from his final poses that his feet walks upon this earth and that he has the power to do something with his day. There is spring in his step that nothing can steal from him.

Tao wants more than just calories, he wants to devour life itself.

The act of eating a grapefruit is meditative, the way Tao goes about it. Methodically, he slices it at the equator, making sure the two halves are equally thick. He squints, frowning as he carefully cuts it, watching closely that his estimation of the center is right. The lush, co