Crack The Shutters
Title: Crack The Shutters
Rating: PG
Pairing: Brendon/Dallon
Summary: Sleepy early morning drabble.
Warning: None.
A/N: I was bored on the 7 odd hour flight from the US back to the UK, so I wrote stuff.
Word Count: 248
He’s silent, cooling warm hands, large palms and long fingers, on the radiator that hasn’t worked since last summer, pale fingers flexing and curling over the icy metal, scratching the flaking paint. He sighs, eyes trained on an unfocused point, on something, or someone, that simply isn’t there.
Turning, his sleepy blue eyes traverse the mountains and valleys made in the crisp white sheets in the almost dark room, settling on the human contours sprawled out in sleep, dark head peeking out, resting on a pillow.
He slips across the room, a shadowed ghost, quiet, bare feet scuffing on slightly coarse carpet. Tugging down the sheet smoothly, he plays cold fingers up the pale bumps of a spine like a piano, brushing cold and gentle against bed warm skin. The bed’s occupant stirs and shivers, mumbling slurred and half asleep, “Can’t you wake me later?” He just smiles, running fingers up and smoothing them to brush the short hair on the back of the sleepers neck and trails them down to the dip of a side.
“Okay… later,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss the back of the sleeper’s neck, drawing cold fingers away and retreating to sit on a window seat.
With deft cold fingers, he cracks the blinds, watching the light burst liquid and golden in bars of light across the room, highlighting the sleeping shape on the bed and immortalising it as a picture in his mind, a snapshot of early morning and glorious sunshine. Brendon continues sleeping.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Brendon/Dallon
Summary: Sleepy early morning drabble.
Warning: None.
A/N: I was bored on the 7 odd hour flight from the US back to the UK, so I wrote stuff.
Word Count: 248
He’s silent, cooling warm hands, large palms and long fingers, on the radiator that hasn’t worked since last summer, pale fingers flexing and curling over the icy metal, scratching the flaking paint. He sighs, eyes trained on an unfocused point, on something, or someone, that simply isn’t there.
Turning, his sleepy blue eyes traverse the mountains and valleys made in the crisp white sheets in the almost dark room, settling on the human contours sprawled out in sleep, dark head peeking out, resting on a pillow.
He slips across the room, a shadowed ghost, quiet, bare feet scuffing on slightly coarse carpet. Tugging down the sheet smoothly, he plays cold fingers up the pale bumps of a spine like a piano, brushing cold and gentle against bed warm skin. The bed’s occupant stirs and shivers, mumbling slurred and half asleep, “Can’t you wake me later?” He just smiles, running fingers up and smoothing them to brush the short hair on the back of the sleepers neck and trails them down to the dip of a side.
“Okay… later,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss the back of the sleeper’s neck, drawing cold fingers away and retreating to sit on a window seat.
With deft cold fingers, he cracks the blinds, watching the light burst liquid and golden in bars of light across the room, highlighting the sleeping shape on the bed and immortalising it as a picture in his mind, a snapshot of early morning and glorious sunshine. Brendon continues sleeping.