Hungover and Cat Napping
Oct. 24th, 2021 12:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rage_rekkerFor 101 Ways to Say I Love You #32 "Go back to sleep, (term of endearment)."
Routines came fast to Rekker from years of therapy telling him that they would help. He's not sure they ever did outside of letting people find him and check on him. That had saved him a few times but it really didn't do much for his own mind. Not when he was alone anyway. With another person routine settled his anxiety by allowing him to expect things and anticipate without stress. Bjorn had became a chaotic routine. Afternoons and nights were wild, unplanned and out of control but the mornings were almost set in stone. Rekker woke early, had breakfast, worked on music or had lessons, spent some time with Crusher and the other animals. Then sometime around lunch Bjorn would crawl out of bed looking for food and a hug.
Bjorn'd been out with his band late and Rekker glanced at the clock from where he sat on the couch, running lyrics through his head. Hexed, Rekker's band, might be broken up but Rekker still wrote, sometimes more for his mental health than to record anything. Bjorn was sleeping in though the Brit couldn't even place when the Swede came in last night, late, and while the Brit was deeply asleep. It had been early enough that Bjorn slept long enough to smudge his makeup into raccoon eyes and leave a black smear of eyeliner across Rekker's bare shoulder. It meant a day to stay in, lounge around in sweat pants and write to empty his mind of all the pressure and negativity.
He went back to writing and drinking tea while sitting in the sun streaming in the open windows. That's when he heard the groan and the shuffling feet on the tile floor. Bjorn looked a mess. Bleary eyed, eyeliner down to his cheekbones, and trying to push his wild hair out of his face; shirtless and wearing the pair of pants Rekker had left at the bedside the night before when he stripped them off. Usually, it was everything. If the guitarist left his belt or chain wallet on his pants Bjorn would wander out with those too. This had become a common occurrence that the guitarist always wanted to know why. Convenience of slipping into slightly too big jeans instead of wiggling into the glam star's usual skin tight clothing when he was tired or hungover? Some desire for comfort in the texture or smell he associated with the Brit? Something else? Rekker wondered but he never asked because his lover always seemed barely conscious when he wandered out of the bedroom in Rekker's pants.
The Swede didn't speak as he curled up in Rekker's lap on the couch, face buried in the ginger hair. He had sympathy for the obvious hangover and set his pen and paper on the arm of the sofa, one arm wrapped around the singer's back and gently stroking his soft skin. There was something about the jeans that was vaguely sexual or erotic, like a girlfriend walking around in just her panties and boyfriend's button down shirt. Rekker was familiar with the feeling from past relationships but was still adjusting to the feelings being evoked by the singer in his jeans. In fact, he was still getting used to having a male partner at all. Everything prior, that had lasted more than a few hours, had been with women.
“Do you need anything?” He finally asked the blonde now fully curled into a fetal position in his lap, arm around his knees and laying heavily into Rekker's chest. Bjorn shook his head and groaned, eyes closed and hiding his face from the sun in the mass of long, red curls. It was enough to make Rekker laugh quietly. The shaking from the laughter causing the singer to grouch in Swedish. The Brit didn't know any of the words but he could recognize the language at least. He stilled himself, wrapping the one arm tighter and bringing the other over to caress Bjorn's thigh beneath the baggy jeans. Though they were the same height, Rekker was more muscular and so the jeans always fit loosely everywhere even if they were tight on the Brit. Somehow, the pants not fitting quite right made the whole thing more attractive.
“You need a drink?” Rekker asked, besides the mint tea he was drinking would probably help the singer's stomach settle. Bjorn tried to shake him off and Rekker insisted. “Don't be a little bitch.”
The blond relented and took a sip and then downed the whole, large mug. He finished off the warm tea before giving the mug back, shaking a little. Rekker smiled and set the cup aside then wrapped his arms back around his lover. He held the singer, listening to the sounds of discomfort and the sighs of contentment. The misery of Bjorn's hangovers did discourage Rekker's drinking, though he was drinking more now than he had in a long time.
“You look sexy in my pants.” Rekker eventually told the singer while hugging him a little tighter. Bjorn looked up at him like he was crazy but the Brit could only grin. “I'm serious. It's hot to watch you walk out of my bedroom in my pants all the time.”
And it was incredibly hot. Bjorn giggled and pushed his face farther into Rekker's hair. The Brit shook his head at the singer's behavior and thought about going back to work, glanced at the notebook then moved them both to the end table.
“Come here.” Rekker shifted as gently as possible to lay out on the couch with his head propped up on the armrest. At first the singer stayed balled up but slowly he unfolded, stretching out on top of the Brit. Though Rekker couldn't tell if these groans were hangover or the pleasant ones of comfort. He kept stroking the pale singer's back while he shifted to put his face in the crook of the guitarist's neck. “Go back to sleep, luv.”
There wasn't any help for a hangover this bad other than sleeping it off. Bjorn didn't need much encouragement because he had soon gone limp, fast asleep and obviously comfortable where he had wedged himself into Rekker's arm between the Brit's body and the back of the couch. He could only sigh when he realized his arm was going to fall asleep in this position but he didn't have the heart to make Bjorn move again. He needed the rest. Rekker felt sleepy now too in the midday sun, like a cat in a window. Stretching slightly he tucked his chin against Bjorn's matted, teased and messy hair before closing his eyes. A nap wasn't a bad idea at all.
Routines came fast to Rekker from years of therapy telling him that they would help. He's not sure they ever did outside of letting people find him and check on him. That had saved him a few times but it really didn't do much for his own mind. Not when he was alone anyway. With another person routine settled his anxiety by allowing him to expect things and anticipate without stress. Bjorn had became a chaotic routine. Afternoons and nights were wild, unplanned and out of control but the mornings were almost set in stone. Rekker woke early, had breakfast, worked on music or had lessons, spent some time with Crusher and the other animals. Then sometime around lunch Bjorn would crawl out of bed looking for food and a hug.
Bjorn'd been out with his band late and Rekker glanced at the clock from where he sat on the couch, running lyrics through his head. Hexed, Rekker's band, might be broken up but Rekker still wrote, sometimes more for his mental health than to record anything. Bjorn was sleeping in though the Brit couldn't even place when the Swede came in last night, late, and while the Brit was deeply asleep. It had been early enough that Bjorn slept long enough to smudge his makeup into raccoon eyes and leave a black smear of eyeliner across Rekker's bare shoulder. It meant a day to stay in, lounge around in sweat pants and write to empty his mind of all the pressure and negativity.
He went back to writing and drinking tea while sitting in the sun streaming in the open windows. That's when he heard the groan and the shuffling feet on the tile floor. Bjorn looked a mess. Bleary eyed, eyeliner down to his cheekbones, and trying to push his wild hair out of his face; shirtless and wearing the pair of pants Rekker had left at the bedside the night before when he stripped them off. Usually, it was everything. If the guitarist left his belt or chain wallet on his pants Bjorn would wander out with those too. This had become a common occurrence that the guitarist always wanted to know why. Convenience of slipping into slightly too big jeans instead of wiggling into the glam star's usual skin tight clothing when he was tired or hungover? Some desire for comfort in the texture or smell he associated with the Brit? Something else? Rekker wondered but he never asked because his lover always seemed barely conscious when he wandered out of the bedroom in Rekker's pants.
The Swede didn't speak as he curled up in Rekker's lap on the couch, face buried in the ginger hair. He had sympathy for the obvious hangover and set his pen and paper on the arm of the sofa, one arm wrapped around the singer's back and gently stroking his soft skin. There was something about the jeans that was vaguely sexual or erotic, like a girlfriend walking around in just her panties and boyfriend's button down shirt. Rekker was familiar with the feeling from past relationships but was still adjusting to the feelings being evoked by the singer in his jeans. In fact, he was still getting used to having a male partner at all. Everything prior, that had lasted more than a few hours, had been with women.
“Do you need anything?” He finally asked the blonde now fully curled into a fetal position in his lap, arm around his knees and laying heavily into Rekker's chest. Bjorn shook his head and groaned, eyes closed and hiding his face from the sun in the mass of long, red curls. It was enough to make Rekker laugh quietly. The shaking from the laughter causing the singer to grouch in Swedish. The Brit didn't know any of the words but he could recognize the language at least. He stilled himself, wrapping the one arm tighter and bringing the other over to caress Bjorn's thigh beneath the baggy jeans. Though they were the same height, Rekker was more muscular and so the jeans always fit loosely everywhere even if they were tight on the Brit. Somehow, the pants not fitting quite right made the whole thing more attractive.
“You need a drink?” Rekker asked, besides the mint tea he was drinking would probably help the singer's stomach settle. Bjorn tried to shake him off and Rekker insisted. “Don't be a little bitch.”
The blond relented and took a sip and then downed the whole, large mug. He finished off the warm tea before giving the mug back, shaking a little. Rekker smiled and set the cup aside then wrapped his arms back around his lover. He held the singer, listening to the sounds of discomfort and the sighs of contentment. The misery of Bjorn's hangovers did discourage Rekker's drinking, though he was drinking more now than he had in a long time.
“You look sexy in my pants.” Rekker eventually told the singer while hugging him a little tighter. Bjorn looked up at him like he was crazy but the Brit could only grin. “I'm serious. It's hot to watch you walk out of my bedroom in my pants all the time.”
And it was incredibly hot. Bjorn giggled and pushed his face farther into Rekker's hair. The Brit shook his head at the singer's behavior and thought about going back to work, glanced at the notebook then moved them both to the end table.
“Come here.” Rekker shifted as gently as possible to lay out on the couch with his head propped up on the armrest. At first the singer stayed balled up but slowly he unfolded, stretching out on top of the Brit. Though Rekker couldn't tell if these groans were hangover or the pleasant ones of comfort. He kept stroking the pale singer's back while he shifted to put his face in the crook of the guitarist's neck. “Go back to sleep, luv.”
There wasn't any help for a hangover this bad other than sleeping it off. Bjorn didn't need much encouragement because he had soon gone limp, fast asleep and obviously comfortable where he had wedged himself into Rekker's arm between the Brit's body and the back of the couch. He could only sigh when he realized his arm was going to fall asleep in this position but he didn't have the heart to make Bjorn move again. He needed the rest. Rekker felt sleepy now too in the midday sun, like a cat in a window. Stretching slightly he tucked his chin against Bjorn's matted, teased and messy hair before closing his eyes. A nap wasn't a bad idea at all.
