Valentine's Day Extras 1/3 Reed

MC - composed, dominant, melancholic

Post-game

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The smooth pale cotton retains the indistinct fragrance of Reed’s favorite detergent and the vanilla scented water softener pellets he’s been using lately even after weeks of being hidden at the bottom of the drawer, hidden from sight.

The fabric is worn, stretched out and fraying at the hem. You can decipher the faded slogan out of your memory only. The garment's existence is an exception to all rules; Reed's clothes never remain in his wardrobe past their prime. Hence your surprise at the discovery.

You didn't expect Reed to keep the shirt, then again, you suppose you should've. It was, after all, a gift. A keepsake from simpler days, a reminder of childhood that passed too early. The traces of stale happiness woven in the threads have long since been washed away.

Pulling the shirt over your head, you find that it still suits you quite well, only the sleeves flow down past your knuckles, the threads loosened with age. Dressed in your spare pants, you leave your fancy outfit folded on the bathroom counter; the lingering tang of perfume and booze clings to the fibres like chewing gum.

Your choice of attire was… perhaps intentional, or maybe it was the only item your size you could find. Either way, it’s Reed’s, and you have prepared yourself beforehand for the commentary that will undoubtedly break out once you rejoin him in the living room.

To your utmost surprise, naught but silence welcomes you back. A quick glance at the slumped silhouette taking up the majority of the armchair tells you why.

Reed’s fast asleep, splayed out on the seat, legs thrown over the armrest and head resting in the crook of his elbow. His meticulously straightened hair is once again fighting the pomade, twisting against his cheeks and forehead.

He has to be beat, after your date and the all-nighter he pulled at work. You knew better than to suggest staying at home; if only to save yourself the whining. It is, or - you look at the wall, the clock strikes 2 am - was, Valentine’s Day. You wouldn’t deprive him of an excuse to celebrate. But you can’t with clean conscience let him spend the night folded nearly in half.

“Your neck is going to be killing you tomorrow,” you mutter, walking towards Reed to give him a gentle shake.

It takes you three tries to succeed, which is two less than usual. Everything else, however, follows a distinct pattern. Reed’s body stretches languidly, wriggling in the seat. The red leather underneath screeches loudly as he twists and turns, settling into some pretzel-like position to face you fully.

“Reed?”

“Mhm?” He blinks at you drowsily, letting out a soft hum, not quite alert yet but getting there. Once the clarity returns, his eyes squeeze into slits, dark pools of umber glimmering in the warm light of the bedside lamp. “D’ya miss me?”

Ridiculous. “Go to bed,” you repeat, biting down the fond smile that he has to sense because his lips curl as if in an answer.

“Nah,” he breathes out, shifting his thighs to the back of the armchair and patting the newly freed spot. “The bed is too far and my poor feet hurt.”

"What a baby," you tsk, sitting down for once without making a fuss. Reed’s arms wind up around your waist even before your backside can rest on the cushion. “Wasn’t it you who insisted on ‘one more dance’?" Only for the 'one more dance' to turn into two, then three… and so on and so on to make you lose count.

“Was it?” Reed muses, entirely for show, using the distraction to draw you closer until your palms are splayed on his nape, his face resting on your collarbone. “I can’t recall.” His warm breath tickles the bare skin above the neckline. “It must be the wine.” Of which he had barely a flute.

“Uh huh.” He makes no move to get up. On the contrary, he nestles himself against you, eyes fluttering closed. “You’ll be miserable tomorrow.” And you will be as well, having to listen to him mourn his stiff joints.

“I’m miserable now.” The complaint is feigned, dulled by the hoarse yet satisfied voice and the shamelessness with which he nudges your hands, wordlessly pleading for pets.

It’s charming, as always, his hair is softer than eiderdown. But you don’t relent easily, playing with him until he whines audibly, making you snort with laughter.

“You’re so cruel to me!”

“I am, aren’t I?” The kvetching cuts abruptly when you thread your fingers through the locks, slick with brilliantine. The deep rumble resonates against your rib cage where Reed’s front is pressed to yours. “Still cruel?”

“Mhm, the worst.” He sighs contentedly, hiding the grin in the material of your borrowed shirt.

It’s the occasion, you reason with yourself, allowing Reed the indulgence and digging your nails into his scalp in a way you know makes his toes curl. The resulting groan sounds less innocent than it truly is.

You know better than to enable him. Especially since just a moment ago you felt restless with leftover energy, but now the rote motion paired with the quiet tick of the clock in the otherwise silent apartments fills you with a somnolent lassitude.

Breathing in the aroma of sage, sweet red wine and cinnamon, the latter of which can be barely disassembled at this point, your consciousness fades gradually. You have to admit, though, the satin of Reed's black dress shirt makes for an excellent pillow; the hardness of his abdominal muscles, not so much.

In the morning, when Reed begins his lamentation for the crick in his neck, you magnanimously offer to snap it for him to ease his suffering.

Predictably, he refuses.

Oh, well, knowing him, there will be more opportunities to revisit the proposal.