#jimrey

Jim’s fingers fall along old strings, the acoustic sweep of a down-tuned guitar crackling through the afternoon air.

He’s sat on the floor, back slumped against his box spring, one knee bent to keep the neck of his guitar close. What started as a lame attempt at meditating- something he knew he was too hyperactive to sit down and actually do, but dealing with the silence after Corey went asleep was becoming unbearable- is now a mindful disturbance. His guitar might as well be his own half-ass meditation, even if he isn't actually playing anything, only fumbling and plucking over chords and notes that matched the pattern of his growing restlessness. He's not surprised Corey’s been able to sleep this long. For him, it isn't entirely out of character, as there's been countless times of his tendency to sleep in causing delays for their bands in the past. Leave it to Corey to test the patience of others in his sleep.

Jim’s very own patience was tested this morning. Every attempt he made at trying to get him up resulted in nothing but the soft snoring of a fucked-out man. His untouched serenity is what made Jim leave him alone. It's also what's making Jim pick up his tempo, the longer he thinks about Corey’s sleeping face.

The memory of Corey melting under his touch has his fingers wandering along the fretboard. His palm mutes a note as he thinks about Corey’s flushed skin, kneaded and pulled by the same palm so desperately, because he'll be the first one to be fucking honest about wanting him for so long. Last night he'd had him- finally, finally had him- and right now, as he's pulling at twos and fours, Corey is breathing on every odd note. The way he gasped under Jim’s weight echoes in the twinkling steps of Jim’s middle and index. Flashbacks of Corey’s bright smile matched the tune to Jim’s minor progression in perfect harmony. They were both beaming at a joke no one seemed to make. As Jim plays it over in his mind, they were definitely both reacting to each other’s post-orgasm faces.

Just as he's giggling to himself about it again- because Corey’s little nose pulled up into his brow as he panted like a dehydrated hound was actually really funny- the bed creaks, and the top of his hair is now tickled by a warm cheek.

“Some alarm clock you are.” Corey’s laying upside down, his voice like a twitching cicada trying to crawl its way out of molasses. Jim fucking loves it, unashamedly. Possibly hopes he can at least hear it for the rest of his life.

“You have to pay to get the ringtone sheet.” Jim pushes his nose into Corey’s, revels in the blush accompanying that laugh of his. “Remember ringtones?”

“Yeah,” Corey snorts, chasing Jim’s affection with a flurry of lips and chin, “we were only on, like, a dozen of those.”

“One for each album.” Jim knows he's smiling like an idiot and can't really know for sure if anything they've done together has been someone's jaunty little phone jingle, but Corey also doesn't seem to know, or even care. “Give or take some albums.”

“Speaking of,” Corey nods in the direction of Jim’s acoustic, an exasperated sigh pulling from his chest, “are we goin’ somewhere?”

Leave it to Corey to not know if they were supposed to be in the studio by now, and to assume Jim’s not-so-subtle way of telling him that was to noodle around for hours on end waiting for him to wake up.

“Nope.” Jim’s attention is still on Corey, but his fingers carry on with strumming, open notes fading out while his unoccupied hand draws patterns in the carpet underneath him. “Just keepin’ myself busy.”