"Play it until you've got it a hundred percent." He hesitated just a little bit, adjusting the way that he sat into a more comfortable sprawl, propped on the armrest. "Then wake me up and play it again."
A small flicker of a smile as he picked the instrument up and settled it on his leg again. "Alright." If it'd help, he was happy to do it. He'd have been happy to regardless, but that was probably the magic. Either way, he looked back up at the music and started plucking at the strings again. Still slowly, but there'd be considerably less errors and his singing was more sure of itself from the start.
It was tricky fingering; it was definitely going to take him a bit to get it all right, and then it was up to Fletcher to decide what 'a hundred percent' meant, in terms of dynamics, and tone, sticking to the script versus making his own adjustments. Rowan would definitely tell him if it was wrong.
When finished the first playthrough he headed straight into another, tempo picking up so he could play with the pacing. Over and over again until he had to lyrics down, fingers moving by muscle memory. Enough to shift until he was sitting with his back against the couch Rowan was lounging on, one leg stretched out and one curved close.
Rowan slept, but it was more of a doze than a deep, dead to the world sleep. At some point, he reached out idly to put his hand on the top of Fletcher's head and let it rest there, fingers just barely moving. It was a sharp contrast to the edges and danger of being in his bedroom. Or even the limo.
He'd tip his head back at the feel of those fingers moving slowly through his hair, eyes closing as he played. It was very relaxing, and Fletcher took his time, made sure he could play the song through without the slightest hiccup. He'd play with the pacing and the highs and lows in his singing until it sounded right, to him. Maybe twenty minutes, maybe longer, but when he thought he had it he reached up to touch the hand on his head, sliding his fingers back over his knuckles and up over his wrist.
"You stopped again." Barely asleep, then; just enough to make his voice rough and rumbly, instead of the usual clear-as-a-bell.
His hand lingered against Rowan's skin, head tipping back to look up at him. "You said to wake you when I have it down a hundred percent." He kept his voice on softer side, not wanting to break the peace that'd settled in the room. "I'm ready to play it for you." Hoped it was up to the right standard. He didn't want to disappoint.
He made a very small sound, attention dragging off of Fletcher to check the time - rumpled but more together as he brushed his hair back, thinking it over. "Alright."
He flashed a small smile, fingers lingering a second more before trailing back over his hand and away so he could set them back against the strings, ready and poised. A second ago it'd been so easy, he knew the notes, he knew the words, he knew he had it down. Now he needed to take a breath to settle before he started playing, eyes closing as he let his fingertips fly over the strings, voice rising in accompaniment.
It was, perhaps, unkind that Rowan reached out to touch the back of his neck while he played -- his fingers there distracting in a way that had to be intentional, and his eyes half closed.
A distraction that helped to ease that little bit of nerves that had settled when he'd woken Rowan to play for him. The magic of his touch thrilled along the soft skin at the nape of his neck, and Fletcher tipped his head back against it, posture loosening, and he managed to do it all without skipping a beat or missing a word. These days he was at his best when he thought he was appreciated, and that one touch, to him, was that.
Rowan tapped at the back of his neck in the silence after, like he was thinking about it -- and then pulled his hand back to grab his glass and straighten a bit where he sat. "We can work on the pronunciation."
Fletcher kept his head back against the couch cushion, watching Rowan for approval, dislike, anything. He was a hard one to read, but the lack of overall criticism was taken as a good sign by the bassist and a look of content settled on freckle kissed features.
It was the best he was going to get, probably. Rowan rubbed at his eyes, downed the last of his wine, and then used Fletcher as a prop to get up. "You want to put me to bed?"
Fletcher'd brace for it, holding very still as Rowan got to his feet again, and only after those warm fingers had slid away did he move to put the guitar away. "Yes." Closing the case and setting it gently on the piano bench with his change of clothes on top, he shifted on his knees to get the sheet music from the chair he'd been using as a stand and set it on the piano.
Rowan left the glass on the piano, which seemed blasphemous, considering the beauty of the instrument, and started back through the house. Some of the hard energy had gone out of him, relaxed down to something calmer.
Baby blues spared a glance to glass, but he remembered Ferris' comment about the brownies. Surely they wouldn't let anything happen to Rowan's piano. No rings. So he left it, left everything there, and turned to follow Rowan, falling into step at his side, but a step or two behind.
"How's your album?" It came with a slantwise look, eyebrows raised. "And more importantly, my songs?"
"Albums going well. I'm laying down some lyrics for some of the first composed melodies, but I still need to find a big enough space for recording." He gave a soft huff, like perhaps the latter had been giving him trouble. "I've got the start of something promising for one of your's. The melody is coming together nicely, but it needs more still." He was missing something with it, he knew it, it was just a matter of finding it.
"Melody before the words?" He raised an eyebrow, flicking a look back to Fletcher, brief.
He raised one right back, head tilting. "The music usually comes to me first. Not always, but usually."
"Did you work with a lyricist?" He paused with a hand light on the banister, considering.
Rowan stopping had Fletcher stopping as well. "My old...singer, he wrote, but we collaborated on quite a lot." A soft, puzzled frown took over. "The music comes first, but once it's there the rest falls into place. Once I can play it, then I feel it."
"Like magic." His tone was casually mocking, as he took a step up the stairs.
"I guess so." Brows twitched, the frown lingering, but he started moving again as well.
"Some people don't have to try very hard in life." He raked at his hair again, heading up the stairs slowly. His other hand ghosted over the top of the rail.
"That's very true." Fame had almost literally fallen into Fletcher's lap. There would be no argument from him on the matter.
Rowan made a rumbling sound of ascent, just a little sour. "What do you do with your days?"
"These days I write, work with my manager on staying relevant, take meetings with possible investors." He shrugged. It was quite the turn around, considering before Beau's little party he'd been trying to inebriate himself into oblivion most of his waking hours.
"Add exercise to your schedule." He said it with the easy carelessness of someone who expected to be obeyed. Not a request, but a simple order.
"O-okay." A slight hesitation, like that hadn't been what he'd expected Rowan to say. "Is there something in particular I should be working on, or just overall fitness?"
"Fitness. Cardiovascular health. You're human; a lack of exercise won't just make you a little soft around the middle -- " said like, maybe, Fletcher was. A little. " -- but also can lead to larger problems."
Well, he wasn't wrong.
Fletcher mulled that over a moment as they continued on before his shoulders rolled in an agreeable shrug. "I'll look into personal trainers tomorrow."
"I mean, I could make it so you didn't have to bother but..." He wavered a little on the top step, considering. "I don't think you could afford it."
That got a head tilt as Fletcher stopped a couple of steps beneath him. "What do you mean?"
"Maybe just go to the gym. Run on the treadmill while you listen to where you started." He beckoned Fletcher along to the bedroom.
A puzzled frown followed, but he let it go as he trailed after the other man into the bedroom. Fingertips skimming along the doorframe as he entered.
"You won't be young forever is all I'm saying." There was a flash of unkind amusement behind that. Rowan shrugged out of his robe and tossed it onto a chair, fingers going up into his hair again.
Door close behind him, Fletcher had to tuck his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out to run his fingers through Rowan's hair. A look of longing flowing over freckled features.
Rowan half-turned to look at him already starting to bind his own hair up -- quick and familiar like he'd done it a million times. The look on Fletcher's face made him pause, assess. "I need to sleep."
He blinked like he hadn't even realized he'd been staring until it was pointed out, and a touch of color darkened pale cheeks. "Of course. What do you want me to do?"
"I just want to be very clear." He rolled his shoulders and then finished sweeping up his hair, stepping away toward the bathroom. "Your pajamas should be in the bottom dresser drawer."
He nodded. "I wouldn't try anything unless I knew it was welcomed." That dynamic had been set up with that first rough kiss. Crouching at the dresser, he paused with his hands on the soft material of the pajamas and looked up again. "Do I have to wear the shirt?"
"You can wear whatever you like." He eased into the bathroom, speaking from the distance. "You can stay here or I can have them make up the guest room."
Just the bottoms then. He pulled them out and laid them on the edge of the bed so he could strip out of the jeans and tee shirt he'd worn over. "I’d rather stay in here." With you.
He folded what he'd just taken off and laid them on a chair, slid into the soft bottoms a moment later, then drew down the blankets on the side he'd slept on last time and climbed up to sit on the edge of the bed, waiting.
Rowan lingered in the bathroom: washed his face, bound his hair up tight so it wouldn't catch in the night, brushed his teeth - and came out with just a faint frown, distracted as he sat on the other side of the bed.
Waiting was fine. Fletcher seemed to have bottomless wells of patience by nature. As Rowan walked out the redhead looked up from his phone, setting it on the side table as he turned on the bed. "Is something wrong?" Not prying, not demanding, concerned curiosity.
He thought about it -- head tipped -- and then reached out to flick off the light. "Don't know where I left my phone."
The phone Rowan had given him was sitting with his clothes, since he doubted he'd need it when he was with the man, but he glanced at it now before the lights were flicked off. "I could call it for you..." But he probably didn't need it just then. "In the morning, if you want."
Even as he said it he was tucking his legs under the covers, stretching out on his side as he curled an arm around the nearest pillow and pressed his face into the fabric to breath in any scent that might have clung there.
"It should show up in the morning." Reluctant, but he flopped down onto the bed rubbing along the line of his jaw.
Fletcher shifted, drawing a leg up as he turned on his side again and slid a little closer. "Okay. If you're sure."
Rowan flicked him a look and then shrugged just a tiny bit, grimacing at Fletcher. "Any emergencies can wait four or five hours anyway."
One arm tucked under his pillow, the other curled on the bed between them. Close, but not touching, his fingers curling against the sheets. "Can I touch you? Nothing sexual or anything, just..."
He narrowed his eyes, focusing back in on Fletcher. "Just don't wake me up."
He shook his head, the effect a little lost with the pillow, but there was a tiny flicker of a smile. The hand laying between them relaxed before sliding those last few inches to Rowan's arm, fingers gliding along that soft, warm skin from elbow to shoulder. Light, caressing. Something he'd always liked done to him when he'd had trouble sleeping. It'd always been really relaxing.
He watched Fletcher through narrowed eyes in the dark, thinking it over -- and then closed them and let it be, working to relax.
This close he could smell that summer breeze scent that always clung to the other man, and the bassist sighed softly, turning his head to press his face into the pillow. The overly early hour of the morning was catching up with him. The lack of sleep before Rowan's call had woken him up and the given task had kept him alert. Whatever energy he'd managed to tap into to play was seeping away.
His hand made another few strokes along Rowan's arm before the movements grew more sluggish, palm coming to rest against his shoulder finally, his thumb stroking slowly back and forth. That buzz, glamour, feeling wonderful against his skin.
Rowan must have slept at some point -- the idea had been for him to sleep. But he was very quiet in the bed, and even quieter when he got up again, so that Fletcher would wake up alone.
He slept deeply, and when Rowan woke and slipped from the bed Fletcher moved in his sleep like he was seeking out the absence of heat that'd been there before. But he didn't wake up, not for some long hours. When he opened his eyes again the room was light, sun filtering in through thin curtains. He yawned as he rolled onto his back, stretching from the tips of his fingers to curl of his toes. The bed was comfortable, it would have been easy enough to roll over and go back to sleep.
Instead he pushed himself up so he could sit on the side of the bed, rub the sleep from his eyes. Listening for any sign that there was anyone else in the house.
There was sound, maybe, from the kitchen -- but nothing here, and none of the prickle that would say Rowan was waiting to have coffee with him, or showering before an early morning toss, or anything else. A late night booty call with no booty.
After a few moments to wake a little more fully the redhead finally stood and shuffled across the room and out the door. Down the steps, towards the kitchen, following the faint sounds of movement he thought he'd heard coming from that direction.
Not a soul. Not even Ferris, this morning. But there was breakfast out, the same huge spread he'd had before, and cash for a cab. If he needed it.
He stood in the doorway for a long moment eyeing the food thoughtfully. Then turned on his heel to head back through to the room they'd been in the night before so he could fetch his other phone to shoot a quick text to Rowan before grabbing the clean clothes he'd brought with him and heading back upstairs to change and grab the stuff he'd left in Rowan's room.
[Is this food/cash safe?]
It'd be a good forty minutes before the reply: [Safe.] and that was it.
It was all the reassurance he needed to fill a plate and settle into a big breakfast. In the time he'd waited he changed, cleaned himself up a bit, folded and packed up the last night's clothes in the guitar case with his guitar, and still had time to sit at the counter with his personal phone in his hand, playing with lyrics in his notes app.
When he was finished he washed his dishes and put them away, called himself a ride home, and gathered up his belongings. When he got home he looked into whether or not his apartment building had a gym.
