Chapter Text
"Falling asleep over there?"
Mark shot up. "Nope! Just restin' my eyes, is all."
They were both seated at the kitchen table. The lights were dimmed, and Mark was waiting for Wallter to finish his poem so he could proof-read it and then go to bed.
Wallter smiles. "Well, perhaps you should 'rest your eyes' on the table instead of your seat, lest you tip back too far."
"Nah, I'm alright." He leaned towards him, and Wallter quickly covered up his writing with his hands. "Yer not even gonna let me take a peek?"
"No, I will not. You said you would wait until I was completely finished, and so I will write until I am completely finished. I offered to show you in the morning."
"Yeah, but ya said you'd finish the thing today, and ya seemed real excited about it."
Wallter sighed. "My dear, if you are willing to fall asleep in your chair to read this, then be my guest. That being said, woodworking is a physical labour, so I would not blame you in the slightest for getting some sleep."
"'Preciate the thought, hun, but I'm stayin' here. Sleepin' in the bed I made and all that."
"I believe the proper phrase is 'You've made your bed, now lie in it,'" Wallter replied with a smirk.
Mark folded his arms and put his head on the table. "Yeah, yeah. Ya think yer real cute."
"I'd say beautiful suits me better. Handsome. Stunning, even."
"Mhmm." Mark watched his partner focus back on his writing through half-closed eyes. Wallter kept mechanically shifting his arm down to write the next line.
The scratching sound was nice. There's probably not a soul left on this earth still using an ink and quill in this day and age.He crossed out words, sentences, even entire stanzas, furrowing his brow at the paper. The worst part is that they were all probably fine, great, even. Wallter's real pushy on getting everything exactly the way he wants it in one go. How on earth aren't any of those words he's writing good enough for him? They always seemed worthy to get published by some big-shot publishers to him.
Maybe he's biased. Every single work of Wallter's is beautiful to him. His words are beautiful. He's beautiful.
He got so lucky. His partner is an author. A singer. A poet. And understands the work of a handyman, even if it's with all that dull concrete instead of wood. But Wallter himself isn't dull, not even a little. His eyes light up and crinkle at the corners and he talks with his hands and he chatters off prose and poetry like it's as easy as breathing. He has a lopsided smile and a really nice voice and he has laugh lines he stresses over but just make him all the more gorgeous. He's just gorgeous. He really, really likes him. And he still doesn't have a clue how to show it.
He blinks, and feels a hand shaking his shoulder. Wallter is standing beside him with a steaming mug in one hand and a stack of paper in the other.
"Good nap?"
"Grreeat nap." He yawns and stretches out his arms.
Wallter leans down and plants a kiss on his temple. "I made you some coffee, if it's not too late in the day for it."
"T's never too late, thank ya, doll."
He takes the mug from his hands and smiles. Wallter's eyes widen before he covers his mouth with his hand.
"What?"
"You- you left drool everywhere," he says in between stifled laughter.
Mark's eyes shot to the table. Sure enough, there was a small pool of tree sap on the table. And probably all over his face.
He swiped at his mouth. "Ah, crap, how didn't I notice that?"
Wallter placed a wet towel in his hand. "It's on the table, as well. I finished writing, and I don't want to ruin the pages."
"You're done?"
Mark hurriedly wipes down the surface and holds out his hand. Wallter gives him the stack of paper, with poems written on in cursive handwriting.
"Don't yer hands cramp up from writin' so much?"
"Yes, but those are bearable. The headaches are not. So please excuse me and read over those as I make myself tea." Wallter kissed his cheek and turned off the lights, save for one for the kitchen table.
His head was still sluggish from waking up, but Mark began flipping through the pages.
This set of poems was to be part of a larger collection, which Wallter intended to bind up and sell to the public. Some of his earlier poems had been about stability, perfection, and a whole lot of gushing about bricks and concrete. Not his sort of thing, but it was well written.
But every once in a while, he would get to read romantic pieces like these. He and Wallter had discussed keeping their relationship away from the public eye, but seeing these poems mirroring their lives together in print was the next best thing.
He spent the rest of the night smiling to himself, finding bits and pieces of their own relationship in every line before going to join his partner and falling asleep.