The morning light is very bright this day named after Saturn. Or was it named in Saturn's honor? I wouldn't know. I'm just a calm young man, barely out of the warm claws of my childhood home, sitting here. Thinking. Waiting. 

And as I sit here and think, I think of the way I sit, cross-legged on our comfortable bed. The room is bathed in the sun's light, the sea's scent creeping in with the breeze through the open windows, but I'm hidden in the cooling shade of the sheer, ivory curtains of our canopy bed. He calls it a baldachin because I'm a prince. His prince, he says, and I smile everytime. But I'm not smiling for that cause right now. I'm smiling because the light tickles my face as I bend my waist to touch my head of black locks on my knee, covered in silken pants. I think he gifted me this sleep attire. Or was it his mother?

He says it's not as silky as my hair. As if my hair compairs to pure, oriental silk. To him it does, he says. In his opinion, my skin is finer than any porcelain his father has ever traded, my eyes deeper turquoise than any sea he'd sailed across, my hair blacker than his brother's raven's feather, therefore more lustrous in the onyx sheen in gives in the morning light. Then why isn't he here to admire it, in the morning light?

Our duvet is a tad bit crumpled, it's usual eggshell glory present in mere fractions because of last night's sleep. Our pillows are still all over the bed. I see he once again threw a few off. He's always said they make too much of a distance between us and I'd always giggled at his silly little pout because he's such a masculine presence and I always secretly relish in his unwinding in front of me, his trust is my biggest treasure. No twenty golden rings, no aquamarine-laced collars, no jade bracelets and no pearl earrings could ever be worth the gaze in his eyes that reflects my intimate feeling, the touch of his warm hands on my cheeks or the kiss, oh the sweet, sweet kiss, his bloody lips leave on my shaking ones once he comes back home after a conflict, with a whole nation.

I still feel his touch on my bare waist from the previous night of him holding me tight. I still hear the sugary words of his admiration and love, still feel them slipping back from my own, still feel the soft kisses we shared, cocooned in the warmth of our bed. Our bed.

See, this is why I smile. This is why I wake up every morning. This is why I live and why my presence and existence are of any importance in this whole weird, tangled mess we call the flow of time. This is why I've been groomed to perfection, showered in gifts and praise, or in glares and some inexplicable bouts of anger and, perhaph, jealousy, raised coldly and distantly but still loved deeply because I'm the prince's. I'm his.

I'm his gift, his little life joy, his love to spoil, his prize to cherish, his companion to lean onto, his saving grace in his darkest times, that's what he says.

But does he not know how much he means to me as well? How much he heals my wounds, how much he caters to my every need, how much love he gives to this poor soul, damned to only understand a crumb of his affections because his love overcomes understandable barriers, it breaks down any and every wall gate or door between us because it's a love we share. A profound love for the look in the others eyes, the smile on the others lips. A deep love for the others bare, vulnerable soul. 

And so I sit, on this four poster ivory bed covered in intricate carvings of fine greenery and precious little blossoms my lover hasn't failed to compare to my beauty, clothed in the most expensive cloths, adorned with the finest jewelry, my hair laced with golden strings, it's short raven curls slightly hindering my eyesight. I sit and think. Think of love. Think of war. Think of all the hardships my lover went through to keep me safe, keep me happy, keep me his. I think of the gifts he gave me, and I wonder if he realises that nothing will be as big of a gift as he. 

I also think of where he is right now. We went to bed together last night, after supper. And my face breaks in a grin, thinking of his embrace, I'll never get enough of it. Where could my love be? Where could the sun of my sky be? Where is the moon of my starry night? I need him to shine bright on my fears, I need him to take away the dark that is this world. Where is the steadfast soil to my restless sea of thought? I needed him to awaken me from my internal monologue, so I could notice a tall, sturdy figure lean against the entrance to our personal kingdom, inside of our worldly one of course. I needed him to help me notice the auburn wave of his short tresses, the delicate slant of his sharp emerald eyes, the broad shoulders that seem to carry the world and never get tired, and the small smile on his lips as he admires my light figure, still deep in thought.

''My love?''

'Where could my love be?' I ask myself, still not noticing the ever-advancing, smiling figure, the figure of my nightly dreams.

''Lu?''

Realisation of his presence hits me only miliseconds after I get bundled up in a strong hug by the one I love the most.

''My little star thinks as many thoughts as there are drops of water in the sea.''

''Only if it's about you, Sehun, my moon.''

Our hearts beat in harmony, the fresh salty air still coming through our open windows.