rage_rekker | Last Days In L.A.

This would be one of the last mornings he would spend in his own bed, a tour looming in just a few days. While he loved the stage, Rekker’s not entirely certain he’s ready to leave the comforts and the privacy of his own space. Opening his eyes, he squinted at the morning California sun streaming in the windows and glass doors. He didn’t normally sleep in so long that the room was this bright. However, Bjorn and the others, hell maybe all the bands, had spent the night before having dinner and drinks all over L.A. At least he’d managed to get Bjorn showered before they climbed into bed which meant this morning, he wouldn’t be scrubbing off smudges of black eyeliner and glitter from his arm and chest. The small pleasures. That was what his therapist told him to remember and recognize all the time. All the little reminders to keep his internal darkness and violence at bay.

He shifted to look at the blonde, head on his shoulder, back to his side, and arms wound around his bicep so tightly he wouldn’t easily get free. Rekker wondered why the Swede slept like this, some nights he held on so tight the Brit woke with red marks on his arm that took hours to fade. Abandonment, maybe? Trauma, probably. Rekker knew that most of his darkness was his own mind, Bjorn carried things the world put on him, things he didn’t say but Rekker saw them. It was the downside of spending so much time in therapy. The process of reading his own trauma and pain gave him clear insight into the small behaviors in others that hinted at things kept silent.

Turning over he leaned into Bjorn’s back, gently brushing the bangs out of his face. Everything about the singer was soft; hair, skin, even his demeanor despite acting like a raging bitch. Rekker saw past it. The bitch was probably armor just like everyone else’s aggression, especially Rekker’s own. He pressed a kiss to the singer’s bare shoulder and admired how gorgeous he looked, pale against the ocean blue bedding he was cocooned in. It left only his arm and shoulder outside of the covers and the guitarist couldn’t resist caressing over his shoulder and bicep with the back of his fingers. Bjorn’s skin was so soft, pale, feminine. He let his eyes follow his fingers all the way down to the Swede’s wrist. The pink diamond bracelet around his wrist. He never took it off, hadn’t since he put it on.

The media had latched on to his lover, in a nearly unknown band, wearing jewelry that was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. It was cute when Bjorn accused him of being a sugar daddy, not so much when it was the media and dredging up old rumors about him being inappropriate with his students. As if Bjorn’s presence proved something illicit. The media missed the whole point that those who knew him saw clearly. Rekker was in love with the Swede. He hadn’t felt like this for a long time. Sure, he had people he cared about, girlfriends here and there, but not since the woman who… well who took his daughter from him.

He pressed his palm over Bjorn’s slim wrists and the bracelet. Maybe he was getting better, finally healing like his therapist told him, but his anxiety kept nagging him that he was about to die. He latched on to thoughts of being left and the spiral that would come after, the darkness and the desire to die. He’d been in that headspace a couple times since he started seeing Bjorn. A desire to end it before the pain could get to him again or his mind telling him this was meaningless, and the singer was just taking him for a joyride and some money before leaving. The thoughts were creeping in now as he laid in the sun watching Bjorn sleep.

All he could do was tuck his arm around the singer’s midsection and breathe. He listened to his own breath and Bjorn’s, focusing on the way they synced up as he relaxed and fought to dispel the negativity. His concentration narrowed in until everything faded but their breaths and the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. Slowly, he let the world back in and let his eyes flutter open. All he saw was the pale cheeks and pink lips of the man in his arms. He was beautiful in ways that Rekker just didn’t have words for, but he felt it. He was still learning how to see a man the same way he had always seen women. How to understand himself as someone he hadn’t expected, doing things he hadn’t expected.