Work Text:
In a rare occurrence he was the first to arrive at the studio. Even if over the years he learned to be more disciplined, have more control over his life, he could never beat Atticus on the (most probably one sided) race to who gets to the studio first. Not like he really cared that much about it, but sometimes he was baffled, even frustrated, at the capacity of his partner of always being ready on his computer to start working everytime he got in. The few times this wasn't the case it was a small win to him. Of what, he didn't know.
He sat in one of the desk chairs, sliding with the wheels closer to the controls without being too fast to let his coffee spill out. He started to think about what they should work on again so he opened his phone to check his agenda. He knew it was a bad idea to have these things on your phone, he preferred way more having a physical one like many things related to his writing, but it got full and he hadn't got around to getting a new one. This solution did for now, even if it wasn't the best one.
He checked his list remembering his previous ideas and worked on it for a while, ticking off tasks and writing others. After that while, he began to get bored.
He slowly drank down his now colder coffee, waiting. Looked towards the door expecting a change. He checked the time, it wasn't that late for him to get worried about it and message him, neither to give up and start working alone. His eyes went down to his phone and he sighed, about to give in to what he didn't let himself do at this time and also loathed. But wasting five minutes wouldn’t kill him.
He opened Instagram to entertain himself, and the first thing shown in his feed already made him want to roll his eyes. He ignored it and proceeded to watch some stories, those didn't have much new to say, so he got off quickly. As last resource he went to the for you page, and between all of the posts one got his attention, an older picture of him and others during Tapeworm. Nostalgia poked him, he observed it for a moment. Maynard, Danny, him, Atticus, they were so young it seemed like an eternity ago.
He felt his mind starting to get a melancholic turn, so he decided to not get stuck in it. He slided down… and the new post definitely got his attention.
--
Atticus arrived. Agitated, his scarf half way undone, drying with his hand some sweat off his brow. He left his coffee over a desk and began undoing his coat, greeting Trent and apologizing.
He was met with silence. Guilt got to him, maybe Trent was mad at him? Was he that late?
He turned around only to find him looking at his phone, distracted. Rare for him.
'Hey'
'Hello' He greeted him again, a little out of air. He wished to explain why he was delayed but was interrupted.
'Come here, look at this. Is this you in these pictures?'
Atticus frowned, feeling some fear at such phrase, and walked closer to Trent. He picked up the phone, looked at the screen…all the colors came off his face, his eyes opened wide. Trent worried for a second fearing the worst, but the feeling was quickly replaced by curious amusement when he saw that his colors returned, now a beaming red.
'Are they real?'
'...Yes'
Atticus sat down on the opposite chair, covering his face with one of his hands 'I never thought that would divulge anywhere...on the Internet I mean..' he said, his voice lowering volume. He left the phone on the desk.
Trent picked it up again, looking at the pictures. He couldn't tell exactly what they were for, maybe some artistic ..stuff?
'What were these for?'
Atticus layed his head on his hand and sighed.
'Well.. I was a model for a while'
Trent's eyebrows shot up 'A model? '
Atticus turned even more red. 'A very short while. I think I mentioned before, my sister was one, so I...gave it a shot. I just did those photos, to everyone's luck'
He avoided his gaze again. Trent leaned his head, looking for his eyes, but his partner still looked down.
He rolled closer to him with his chair.
'I like them'
He got even closer, his legs between the other’s. He picked his face, turning it to him.
'You looked good’ He drew his face nearer ‘Pretty good…’
He got up his chair and placed himself on Atticus' lap, the latter held him by the hips by instinct. He smiled shakily, looking down 'My heart wasn't really in it-' Trent picked his face and started kissing him, giving him some pecks over his lips and face. Atticus let himself be doted, unable to say no to the interruption. Trent separated from him and continued his trail roaming his jaw, breathing down over his neck. Atticus held him a little tighter.
‘We probably wouldn't have ever met'
'Hmm?'
‘If I stayed, I mean'
He mumbled, his mouth still busy kissing ‘When was it?'
Atticus tried to remember, and answered with hesitation ‘Late eighties? I was still in England'
Trent stopped and sat straighter, intrigued. He picked his phone again from his pocket, unlocked it and read a little from the post, the photo shoot apparently dated 1988.
‘Shit’
‘What?’
‘It was on 88’. Just a year later I did the mixing for Pretty Hate Machine there, in England’
Atticus leaned on his chair, starting to ponder what could've happened if they crossed ways. Even if they had been in the same country, Trent wasn't in there for long, and he would have barely been useful to him back then. If they would've been in the same room, Trent probably wouldn't have even considered talking to him, and he would've been too shy to approach him.
Atticus sometimes didn't understand how he even liked him when they met, but his guess was because he always relied on his skill- when people thought he was too quiet, he could let his ability speak for him. If he was useful, his person didn't matter, because his worth would be somewhere else.
'I was a mess back then though, and kept being one for a long time' Trent's hands, now more older and wrinkled, picked one of Atticus', intertwining and holding them 'I'm still glad we met when we did. There was too much noise before, and a lot of people I knew just wanted to make more, break more. I needed someone with your presence. I needed you.'
Atticus felt his heart clenching, burning. In response he felt he could only squish their jointed hands, treasuring the words quietly, and thank his lover by getting closer and giving him a kiss.