Nights In White Satin
Title: Nights In White Satin
Pairing: Matt Cardle/Aiden Grimshaw
Fandom: X Factor 2010
Rating: R
Summary: The crowd is grey, but something catches his eye. Amidst the drab sea is a boy shifting from the heels to the balls of his feet, chewing absent-mindedly on the wire of his earplugs as he contemplates the queue before him. Matt figures he’s a Lit student at the local uni; he just has that look about him. He realises he’s staring when the boy’s eyes meet his and the wedding ring it sickens him to look at burns in the pocket of his jeans. He averts his eyes, instead watching stray pieces of litter blow by outside.
The moonlight falls into the room and lands on a man with his head in his hands. He shakes with each deep inhale and his fingers itch for a cigarette but he can’t bring himself to move from the foot of the bed to the balcony. His eyes take in the room service trays they hadn’t gotten round to leaving outside the door. They linger on discarded pieces of hotel note paper he’d earlier scrawled possible lyrics on to try and comprehend his emotions. The pressed flowers in frames glint eerily.
Behind him, the bed’s other occupant shifts in his sleep, satin sheets sliding to his waist. The man at the foot of the bed turns around and feels a smile tugging at his lips. Whatever was on his mind before seems to fade away and he shakes his head disbelievingly as he wonders how he got here.
***
Matt smiles wearily as the barista hands him his coffee before he takes a seat at the bar along the window. It’s not quite light yet and the people that stumble past seem half-asleep, fumbling their way through the door for that all-important caffeine fix. He can’t remember the last time he slept; even now he’s thrumming with restless energy that couldn’t be killed by a night drinking and playing with his band. There’s a fine film of decay on his teeth and a staleness to his breath he hopes the coffee can disguise.
He fidgets as he nurses his drink, ashamed for not feeling guilty that he hasn’t gone home yet. Instead, he watches as the shadows of bins and trees and hanging baskets overflowing with wilting flowers grow marginally shorter outside.
He knows it’s eight o’clock when he sees children skipping to school with their parents in tow, some chattering happily as they enter the coffee shop for a quick breakfast. Sitting behind him at tables for two are businessmen and women starting tentative romances, flirting awkwardly before continuing on their daily commute just to break a mundane cycle.
It’s becoming more crowded now, what had been a dull murmur of conversation rising to an incessant buzz. He doesn’t mind; he can block it out if he needs to or tune into random snippets of speech if he needs something to focus on. It’s always the same drivel about last night’s soap operas (“Can you believe it were the cleaner who done him in?”) or proposals for presentations to increase the output of whatever office department.
The crowd is grey, but something catches his eye. Amidst the drab sea is a boy shifting from the heels to the balls of his feet, chewing absent-mindedly on the wire of his earplugs as he contemplates the queue before him. Matt figures he’s a Lit student at the local uni; he just has that look about him. He realises he’s staring when the boy’s eyes meet his and the wedding ring it sickens him to look at burns in the pocket of his jeans. He averts his eyes, instead watching stray pieces of litter blow by outside.
Sometime later, someone sits beside him. He makes a point of not looking to see who it is; the café is busy and the person has every right to sit by him. He hears the slap of a notebook on the table and the flutter of pages being rifled through. A biro rolls into his personal space; with a glance to the left he realises it’s the boy, scribbling intently. Thoughtful, he places the top of the pen between his lips and gazes into the distance before his eyes narrow slightly.
“How d’you spell ‘capo’?” He turns to Matt, maintaining eye contact only for a moment. “It’s for a poem.”
Matt’s startled by the sudden question, digging his thumb into the outline of the ring in his pocket as his eyes stray to the younger man’s teeth digging into his lip. “Dunno mate. I just play with them, don’t write about them.” He pauses. “What makes you think I’m a musician?”
He looks down and his mouth quirks to the side. “Er, I saw you do a gig the other night. An open mic night sort of thing. My mates were performing. You were dead good.” His eyes flicker upwards earnestly.
“Thanks mate. Appreciate it.”
“It was your own stuff, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, yeah it was.”
“You should have a record deal or something. More people need to hear stuff like that.” Colour rushes to his cheeks, causing Matt to smile at his sincerity. How had he not noticed him at an open mic night before? He’s sure this guy would have stood out with his awkward mannerisms and intense eyes. Perhaps he had become the clichéd musician getting lost in his own words and melodies, ignorant to the world around him.
“I’m Matt,” he introduces himself and extends his hand because it seems like the right thing to do. The boy takes it and squeezes, and Matt tries not think how reassuring his grip is.
“Aiden.” He jerks his head in acknowledgement, meeting Matt’s eyes again briefly.
It’s so easy to make conversation after that, even if it is idle banter about the joys and woes of writing and how John Mayer’s a totally underrated guitarist. Aiden checks his watch every now and then, shoulders slouching more each time.
“I have to go now,” he says in a break in conversation. “Don’t wanna be late for college. I’m eighteen,” he blurts, and Matt wonders if his face had hinted at his surprise; he was wrong about the younger man being a university student. “I’m nineteen soon. Month after next.”
“You should come and see my band tomorrow night. We’re playing the Apollo at eleven. I’ll buy you a drink afterwards,” he adds as an afterthought, pleased when the younger man’s face lights up.
“Yeah, that’d be great! I’ll, um, see you then.”
“See ya later.”
His eyes follow Aiden’s retreating form out of the shop, now completely unaware of his discarded wedding ring.
***
Matt’s house smells of fresh paint and decaying flowers. His wife had made them promise that they’d never bring their work home with them, but had been breaking that promise for the both of them recently.
“Matt, would you paint the living room this weekend? It’s so lifeless in here.”
“I’ve brought these old flowers home from work. I still think they’re beautiful.”
She’s kidding herself of course; the petals on that orange blossom are already brown and crispy at the edges and the scent changes quickly from a pretty perfume to a pungent reek. Matt’s so used to the smell of paint and turpentine that it barely registers and instead he’s overwhelmed by the stench of rotting foliage.
***
Aiden smells like tea and cigarettes. It clings to the grandad-style cardigans he tends to wear and to his breath that dampens Matt’s neck as he pants against it. He doesn’t know who he is when he’s with Aiden and yet he’s never felt more like himself. Aiden picks flecks of paint from Matt’s fingernails as Matt explains a chord progression he’s having difficulty with. When they’re not together, he traces not-quite-faded bite-marks on his skin and his heart flutters. His fingers tremble when he receives texts from Aiden about how the stubble burn on his inner thigh still hasn’t faded.
His wife doesn’t notice.
She stops replacing the dead flowers, perhaps observing their slow collapse.
***
Aiden’s forearms are dotted with careless cigarette burns. Matt knows they’re not deliberate; Aiden just loses focus when he becomes lost in thought. He never drops a cigarette when he’s with Matt.
***
“I don’t love you anymore.”
“Quiet, Matthew, I’m trying to calculate the shop’s outgoings.”
She returns to her paper-strewn desk, unaware of Matt picking up his keys and wallet and leaving the house.
***
He goes to collect some of his things the next day. Aiden waits in the car. She isn’t in the house. Matt finds that everything worth taking fits into a rucksack, save his guitar.
On his way out, he takes his wedding ring from his pocket and leaves it in front of a vase of drooping stems.
He wonders how long it will be until she notices it.
***
Matt hears Aiden inhale sharply and shift as he wakes up. Noticing the bed beside him is empty, he sits and his brows furrow as he notices Matt.
“You’re thinking about her,” he states, and it doesn’t sound like an accusation.
Matt shakes his head. “No. I’m thinking about you.”
He feels the bed shift as his lover crawls towards him, kneeling behind him. As arms encase him, he leans back into the touch, muscles relieving themselves of tension he hadn’t even been aware of.
“You saved my life, you know,” he says after a few minutes. “I didn’t even realise it needed saving.”
He hadn’t realised that love was more important than not wanting to be alone. He hadn’t realised that a glance could tie up his insides and wipe his mind blank. He hadn’t realised what he’d been missing and may never have found if not for a chance encounter.
But as he sits here caressed by moonlight, he realises he can still taste Aiden’s breath in his mouth and laughs to himself. “C’mon, let’s go for a cigarette.”
Pairing: Matt Cardle/Aiden Grimshaw
Fandom: X Factor 2010
Rating: R
Summary: The crowd is grey, but something catches his eye. Amidst the drab sea is a boy shifting from the heels to the balls of his feet, chewing absent-mindedly on the wire of his earplugs as he contemplates the queue before him. Matt figures he’s a Lit student at the local uni; he just has that look about him. He realises he’s staring when the boy’s eyes meet his and the wedding ring it sickens him to look at burns in the pocket of his jeans. He averts his eyes, instead watching stray pieces of litter blow by outside.
The moonlight falls into the room and lands on a man with his head in his hands. He shakes with each deep inhale and his fingers itch for a cigarette but he can’t bring himself to move from the foot of the bed to the balcony. His eyes take in the room service trays they hadn’t gotten round to leaving outside the door. They linger on discarded pieces of hotel note paper he’d earlier scrawled possible lyrics on to try and comprehend his emotions. The pressed flowers in frames glint eerily.
Behind him, the bed’s other occupant shifts in his sleep, satin sheets sliding to his waist. The man at the foot of the bed turns around and feels a smile tugging at his lips. Whatever was on his mind before seems to fade away and he shakes his head disbelievingly as he wonders how he got here.
***
Matt smiles wearily as the barista hands him his coffee before he takes a seat at the bar along the window. It’s not quite light yet and the people that stumble past seem half-asleep, fumbling their way through the door for that all-important caffeine fix. He can’t remember the last time he slept; even now he’s thrumming with restless energy that couldn’t be killed by a night drinking and playing with his band. There’s a fine film of decay on his teeth and a staleness to his breath he hopes the coffee can disguise.
He fidgets as he nurses his drink, ashamed for not feeling guilty that he hasn’t gone home yet. Instead, he watches as the shadows of bins and trees and hanging baskets overflowing with wilting flowers grow marginally shorter outside.
He knows it’s eight o’clock when he sees children skipping to school with their parents in tow, some chattering happily as they enter the coffee shop for a quick breakfast. Sitting behind him at tables for two are businessmen and women starting tentative romances, flirting awkwardly before continuing on their daily commute just to break a mundane cycle.
It’s becoming more crowded now, what had been a dull murmur of conversation rising to an incessant buzz. He doesn’t mind; he can block it out if he needs to or tune into random snippets of speech if he needs something to focus on. It’s always the same drivel about last night’s soap operas (“Can you believe it were the cleaner who done him in?”) or proposals for presentations to increase the output of whatever office department.
The crowd is grey, but something catches his eye. Amidst the drab sea is a boy shifting from the heels to the balls of his feet, chewing absent-mindedly on the wire of his earplugs as he contemplates the queue before him. Matt figures he’s a Lit student at the local uni; he just has that look about him. He realises he’s staring when the boy’s eyes meet his and the wedding ring it sickens him to look at burns in the pocket of his jeans. He averts his eyes, instead watching stray pieces of litter blow by outside.
Sometime later, someone sits beside him. He makes a point of not looking to see who it is; the café is busy and the person has every right to sit by him. He hears the slap of a notebook on the table and the flutter of pages being rifled through. A biro rolls into his personal space; with a glance to the left he realises it’s the boy, scribbling intently. Thoughtful, he places the top of the pen between his lips and gazes into the distance before his eyes narrow slightly.
“How d’you spell ‘capo’?” He turns to Matt, maintaining eye contact only for a moment. “It’s for a poem.”
Matt’s startled by the sudden question, digging his thumb into the outline of the ring in his pocket as his eyes stray to the younger man’s teeth digging into his lip. “Dunno mate. I just play with them, don’t write about them.” He pauses. “What makes you think I’m a musician?”
He looks down and his mouth quirks to the side. “Er, I saw you do a gig the other night. An open mic night sort of thing. My mates were performing. You were dead good.” His eyes flicker upwards earnestly.
“Thanks mate. Appreciate it.”
“It was your own stuff, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, yeah it was.”
“You should have a record deal or something. More people need to hear stuff like that.” Colour rushes to his cheeks, causing Matt to smile at his sincerity. How had he not noticed him at an open mic night before? He’s sure this guy would have stood out with his awkward mannerisms and intense eyes. Perhaps he had become the clichéd musician getting lost in his own words and melodies, ignorant to the world around him.
“I’m Matt,” he introduces himself and extends his hand because it seems like the right thing to do. The boy takes it and squeezes, and Matt tries not think how reassuring his grip is.
“Aiden.” He jerks his head in acknowledgement, meeting Matt’s eyes again briefly.
It’s so easy to make conversation after that, even if it is idle banter about the joys and woes of writing and how John Mayer’s a totally underrated guitarist. Aiden checks his watch every now and then, shoulders slouching more each time.
“I have to go now,” he says in a break in conversation. “Don’t wanna be late for college. I’m eighteen,” he blurts, and Matt wonders if his face had hinted at his surprise; he was wrong about the younger man being a university student. “I’m nineteen soon. Month after next.”
“You should come and see my band tomorrow night. We’re playing the Apollo at eleven. I’ll buy you a drink afterwards,” he adds as an afterthought, pleased when the younger man’s face lights up.
“Yeah, that’d be great! I’ll, um, see you then.”
“See ya later.”
His eyes follow Aiden’s retreating form out of the shop, now completely unaware of his discarded wedding ring.
***
Matt’s house smells of fresh paint and decaying flowers. His wife had made them promise that they’d never bring their work home with them, but had been breaking that promise for the both of them recently.
“Matt, would you paint the living room this weekend? It’s so lifeless in here.”
“I’ve brought these old flowers home from work. I still think they’re beautiful.”
She’s kidding herself of course; the petals on that orange blossom are already brown and crispy at the edges and the scent changes quickly from a pretty perfume to a pungent reek. Matt’s so used to the smell of paint and turpentine that it barely registers and instead he’s overwhelmed by the stench of rotting foliage.
***
Aiden smells like tea and cigarettes. It clings to the grandad-style cardigans he tends to wear and to his breath that dampens Matt’s neck as he pants against it. He doesn’t know who he is when he’s with Aiden and yet he’s never felt more like himself. Aiden picks flecks of paint from Matt’s fingernails as Matt explains a chord progression he’s having difficulty with. When they’re not together, he traces not-quite-faded bite-marks on his skin and his heart flutters. His fingers tremble when he receives texts from Aiden about how the stubble burn on his inner thigh still hasn’t faded.
His wife doesn’t notice.
She stops replacing the dead flowers, perhaps observing their slow collapse.
***
Aiden’s forearms are dotted with careless cigarette burns. Matt knows they’re not deliberate; Aiden just loses focus when he becomes lost in thought. He never drops a cigarette when he’s with Matt.
***
“I don’t love you anymore.”
“Quiet, Matthew, I’m trying to calculate the shop’s outgoings.”
She returns to her paper-strewn desk, unaware of Matt picking up his keys and wallet and leaving the house.
***
He goes to collect some of his things the next day. Aiden waits in the car. She isn’t in the house. Matt finds that everything worth taking fits into a rucksack, save his guitar.
On his way out, he takes his wedding ring from his pocket and leaves it in front of a vase of drooping stems.
He wonders how long it will be until she notices it.
***
Matt hears Aiden inhale sharply and shift as he wakes up. Noticing the bed beside him is empty, he sits and his brows furrow as he notices Matt.
“You’re thinking about her,” he states, and it doesn’t sound like an accusation.
Matt shakes his head. “No. I’m thinking about you.”
He feels the bed shift as his lover crawls towards him, kneeling behind him. As arms encase him, he leans back into the touch, muscles relieving themselves of tension he hadn’t even been aware of.
“You saved my life, you know,” he says after a few minutes. “I didn’t even realise it needed saving.”
He hadn’t realised that love was more important than not wanting to be alone. He hadn’t realised that a glance could tie up his insides and wipe his mind blank. He hadn’t realised what he’d been missing and may never have found if not for a chance encounter.
But as he sits here caressed by moonlight, he realises he can still taste Aiden’s breath in his mouth and laughs to himself. “C’mon, let’s go for a cigarette.”