No, I'm working, I SWEAR.
Jesus Christ. Okay, so, I spent today writing stuff on ye olde Patrick on Broadway futurefic, instead of the fic I should be writing for my own damn challenge, and then I realized (with help) that it actually wouldn't ever fit in any story ever. So. Here. It's an outtake. With snuggles. And plot allusions because, you know, this was supposed to fit.
Patrick wakes up slowly. It's a day without any particular plans, so he has the luxury of it, of blinking his eyes open and staring fuzzily at the shadows on the ceiling. Light leaks through the blinds and lays a bright bar across the bed, which means that it's probably past noon, but Patrick can't be bothered to turn his head and check in the digital clock on his bedside table. Gerard is curled on his side to Patrick's left, his arm slung across Patrick's stomach, right arm hugging a pillow under his head. Gerard's fingers twitch against Patrick's side when Patrick stretches, but when he looks, Gerard is still asleep, face mashed in the crack between their two pillows, his hair a dark tangle across his forehead. Sleeping, Gerard hides from light like the vampire his fans used to think he was.
It's soft and warm here, and so Patrick lets his mind drift, thinking idly of what he might want to do on his day off. Gerard is here; maybe he'll want to stay through the day and evening, and they can visit a photography gallery one of the costumers at the theater contributed to. That would be nice. He'd like to support her. The walls in his apartment are dismayingly blank when he notices them.
Next to him, Gerard sighs and, sounding half-asleep, mutters, "Mm. What're you playing?"
Patrick looks down and realizes that he's brought his left hand up to Gerard's forearm, fingers playing guitar chords on Gerard's skin. "Did I wake you up? I'm sorry." Patrick brushes his hand down Gerard's arm.
"Mostly up anyway," Gerard says, stretching and contracting, ending up draped with his head cushioned on Patrick's chest. "What were you playing?" he asks again. His lips move over Patrick's bare skin, stubble tickling Patrick's ribcage.
Patrick's voice comes out breathy with laughter when he says, "Nothing, I don't remember."
"A morning song," Gerard says, and begins singing scratchily to Patrick's navel about sunny-side up eggs and toast and coffee in bed, freestyling and making up melodies until Patrick, laughing, pushes him onto his back and kisses him.
"So I was thinking I might make coffee," Patrick says, rubbing his thumb along the line of Gerard's jaw.
"Wow, that's a great idea," Gerard says, eyes closing, head moving into Patrick's touch. "That's such a great idea. You must've been inspired."
Patrick snorts a laugh, shaking his head, and kisses Gerard again lightly before rolling out of bed, snagging his pajama bottoms from the floor and his glasses from the side table.
"Use the beans I brought over," Gerard orders, already pulling the covers back over his shoulders. "I put 'em in the freezer."
"Hey, hey," Patrick says, putting on an Italian Mafioso voice. "You wanna make your own coffee, huh, punk? Huh?" He leaves and Gerard yells, "Fuck you!" to him down the hall, laughter a thin thread under his voice.
Patrick is humming when he gets to the kitchen and starts grinding the beans. He sets the water to heating and pulls out a mug. Something about this melody is still tickling at the back of his mind, though, and he moves over to the piano on autopilot, all thoughts of making eggs abandoned. There's something there, the rhythm of it, something wrapped up in lazy awakenings and warm blankets and the feel of Gerard's skin against his. Something a little bluesy, but happy. Maybe cabaret. Gerard would make a good lounge singer. He loses track of time trying to capture it in notes.
He has the shape of it outlined on notebook paper when he looks up from sitting hunched over the piano keys to see that Gerard is in the easy chair in the corner, a coffee cup in one hand, his sketch pad in the other.
"Oh, your coffee," Patrick says, blinking. He's cold, he realizes. That's what he gets for sitting shirtless in his apartment for forty-five minutes.
"It's cool. You seemed really involved," Gerard says. "It's kind of neat, you know. To see you work." He grins. "I drew it."
Patrick looks down at himself and shakes his head. "Oh, jeez. Me in all my glory, huh?" He can't quite believe it, though, that something he's been searching so long for finally came back, and he has to run through the chords again to be sure, hearing the rest of it in his head. It's not, maybe, that good. He feels rusty at it, like he has to teach himself again the tricks he'd mastered five years ago, but he's so relieved he almost wants to cry, because after over a year of endless dead silence, this is. This. He can work with this.
Gerard stands up, oblivious to Patrick's mental drama, and walks back to the coffee pot, pouring himself another cup. "So what is it?"
"A morning song," Patrick murmurs. "I mean. I think." He lifts his hands from the keys, scrubbing at his face and then the back of his head. The sun is out and shining through the living room windows like a benediction and he feels something lighten, like he's finally letting go of something that he'd held too tightly for all of that long year and the months since.
"Right on," Gerard says, making Patrick laugh.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah." He closes his notebook and caps his pen. "Come here," he says, and Gerard does, eyebrow quirking curiously, letting Patrick take his hand and tug him down to the piano bench so that he's sitting with his back to the keys, facing Patrick. "Hi," Patrick says, holding Gerard's hand like they're about to waltz.
"Hi," Gerard says, smiling a little. Patrick leans in and kisses him, tasting coffee and Gerard, bitter and warm. Gerard's hand tightens on his, surprised, and he smiles into Gerard's lips.
"Hi," he whispers.
Patrick wakes up slowly. It's a day without any particular plans, so he has the luxury of it, of blinking his eyes open and staring fuzzily at the shadows on the ceiling. Light leaks through the blinds and lays a bright bar across the bed, which means that it's probably past noon, but Patrick can't be bothered to turn his head and check in the digital clock on his bedside table. Gerard is curled on his side to Patrick's left, his arm slung across Patrick's stomach, right arm hugging a pillow under his head. Gerard's fingers twitch against Patrick's side when Patrick stretches, but when he looks, Gerard is still asleep, face mashed in the crack between their two pillows, his hair a dark tangle across his forehead. Sleeping, Gerard hides from light like the vampire his fans used to think he was.
It's soft and warm here, and so Patrick lets his mind drift, thinking idly of what he might want to do on his day off. Gerard is here; maybe he'll want to stay through the day and evening, and they can visit a photography gallery one of the costumers at the theater contributed to. That would be nice. He'd like to support her. The walls in his apartment are dismayingly blank when he notices them.
Next to him, Gerard sighs and, sounding half-asleep, mutters, "Mm. What're you playing?"
Patrick looks down and realizes that he's brought his left hand up to Gerard's forearm, fingers playing guitar chords on Gerard's skin. "Did I wake you up? I'm sorry." Patrick brushes his hand down Gerard's arm.
"Mostly up anyway," Gerard says, stretching and contracting, ending up draped with his head cushioned on Patrick's chest. "What were you playing?" he asks again. His lips move over Patrick's bare skin, stubble tickling Patrick's ribcage.
Patrick's voice comes out breathy with laughter when he says, "Nothing, I don't remember."
"A morning song," Gerard says, and begins singing scratchily to Patrick's navel about sunny-side up eggs and toast and coffee in bed, freestyling and making up melodies until Patrick, laughing, pushes him onto his back and kisses him.
"So I was thinking I might make coffee," Patrick says, rubbing his thumb along the line of Gerard's jaw.
"Wow, that's a great idea," Gerard says, eyes closing, head moving into Patrick's touch. "That's such a great idea. You must've been inspired."
Patrick snorts a laugh, shaking his head, and kisses Gerard again lightly before rolling out of bed, snagging his pajama bottoms from the floor and his glasses from the side table.
"Use the beans I brought over," Gerard orders, already pulling the covers back over his shoulders. "I put 'em in the freezer."
"Hey, hey," Patrick says, putting on an Italian Mafioso voice. "You wanna make your own coffee, huh, punk? Huh?" He leaves and Gerard yells, "Fuck you!" to him down the hall, laughter a thin thread under his voice.
Patrick is humming when he gets to the kitchen and starts grinding the beans. He sets the water to heating and pulls out a mug. Something about this melody is still tickling at the back of his mind, though, and he moves over to the piano on autopilot, all thoughts of making eggs abandoned. There's something there, the rhythm of it, something wrapped up in lazy awakenings and warm blankets and the feel of Gerard's skin against his. Something a little bluesy, but happy. Maybe cabaret. Gerard would make a good lounge singer. He loses track of time trying to capture it in notes.
He has the shape of it outlined on notebook paper when he looks up from sitting hunched over the piano keys to see that Gerard is in the easy chair in the corner, a coffee cup in one hand, his sketch pad in the other.
"Oh, your coffee," Patrick says, blinking. He's cold, he realizes. That's what he gets for sitting shirtless in his apartment for forty-five minutes.
"It's cool. You seemed really involved," Gerard says. "It's kind of neat, you know. To see you work." He grins. "I drew it."
Patrick looks down at himself and shakes his head. "Oh, jeez. Me in all my glory, huh?" He can't quite believe it, though, that something he's been searching so long for finally came back, and he has to run through the chords again to be sure, hearing the rest of it in his head. It's not, maybe, that good. He feels rusty at it, like he has to teach himself again the tricks he'd mastered five years ago, but he's so relieved he almost wants to cry, because after over a year of endless dead silence, this is. This. He can work with this.
Gerard stands up, oblivious to Patrick's mental drama, and walks back to the coffee pot, pouring himself another cup. "So what is it?"
"A morning song," Patrick murmurs. "I mean. I think." He lifts his hands from the keys, scrubbing at his face and then the back of his head. The sun is out and shining through the living room windows like a benediction and he feels something lighten, like he's finally letting go of something that he'd held too tightly for all of that long year and the months since.
"Right on," Gerard says, making Patrick laugh.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah." He closes his notebook and caps his pen. "Come here," he says, and Gerard does, eyebrow quirking curiously, letting Patrick take his hand and tug him down to the piano bench so that he's sitting with his back to the keys, facing Patrick. "Hi," Patrick says, holding Gerard's hand like they're about to waltz.
"Hi," Gerard says, smiling a little. Patrick leans in and kisses him, tasting coffee and Gerard, bitter and warm. Gerard's hand tightens on his, surprised, and he smiles into Gerard's lips.
"Hi," he whispers.