![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rsadelleI've spent the last two days alternating between wanting to cry and feeling like I'm going to jitter out of my skin (don't worry; it's just PMS), so I comforted myself by writing some cuddling fic that came out with more dialogue and less cuddling than I anticipated. (If you have recs for cuddling fic with more cuddling, I could totally go for some of that.)
Bill loves touring, loves being on stage, loves playing for an adoring audience. But there's a point on every tour where he starts to hate life on tour. He wants his own bed, a wardrobe of more than three shirts, and a regular sized refrigerator.
A good knock-down drag-out screaming match with Mike would make him feel better, but Mike, along with the rest of his band, has disappeared to parts unknown, leaving Bill alone with a page full of words that won't gel.
The door to the bus opens, and Bill's not sure whether to be grateful they're back or yell at them for interrupting his solitude.
Except when he looks up, it's not Mike or anyone else he can really pick a fight with.
"Billiam." Gabe looms over him. "Where are the rest of your compatriots?"
Bill shrugs as best he can while lying on the couch. "I don't know. Somewhere else."
"All alone, then." Gabe leers and squirms his way onto the couch with him. It's like Crazy Gabe's Magical Superpower, the way he can make any space big enough for himself, or for himself and Bill. It's something Bill would have loved in those days when they were still in a van that never had enough room for him. Right now, though, the couch is big enough for him and his notebook, and he doesn't need to share it with Gabe.
"Leave me alone," he grumbles. "I'm working."
Gabe pulls the notebook out of his hands, looks at the page that has mostly crossed out lines, and unceremoniously drops it on the floor. "No you're not. We're snuggling."
"Gabe," Bill protests with what even he can admit is a whine, "I don't want to snuggle."
It doesn't do him any good. Gabe just cuddles him closer, and Bill knows from experience that Gabe's like an octopus when he's determined to snuggle.
Bill keeps scowling for a while, but he's tired, and Gabe keeps humming snatches of music into his hair, and eventually the scowl slips off his face.
It's still not his own bed, he's pretty sure he's been wearing the same shirt for at least four days, and the fridge is still too small, but he feels better.
Bill loves touring, loves being on stage, loves playing for an adoring audience. But there's a point on every tour where he starts to hate life on tour. He wants his own bed, a wardrobe of more than three shirts, and a regular sized refrigerator.
A good knock-down drag-out screaming match with Mike would make him feel better, but Mike, along with the rest of his band, has disappeared to parts unknown, leaving Bill alone with a page full of words that won't gel.
The door to the bus opens, and Bill's not sure whether to be grateful they're back or yell at them for interrupting his solitude.
Except when he looks up, it's not Mike or anyone else he can really pick a fight with.
"Billiam." Gabe looms over him. "Where are the rest of your compatriots?"
Bill shrugs as best he can while lying on the couch. "I don't know. Somewhere else."
"All alone, then." Gabe leers and squirms his way onto the couch with him. It's like Crazy Gabe's Magical Superpower, the way he can make any space big enough for himself, or for himself and Bill. It's something Bill would have loved in those days when they were still in a van that never had enough room for him. Right now, though, the couch is big enough for him and his notebook, and he doesn't need to share it with Gabe.
"Leave me alone," he grumbles. "I'm working."
Gabe pulls the notebook out of his hands, looks at the page that has mostly crossed out lines, and unceremoniously drops it on the floor. "No you're not. We're snuggling."
"Gabe," Bill protests with what even he can admit is a whine, "I don't want to snuggle."
It doesn't do him any good. Gabe just cuddles him closer, and Bill knows from experience that Gabe's like an octopus when he's determined to snuggle.
Bill keeps scowling for a while, but he's tired, and Gabe keeps humming snatches of music into his hair, and eventually the scowl slips off his face.
It's still not his own bed, he's pretty sure he's been wearing the same shirt for at least four days, and the fridge is still too small, but he feels better.