just a reminder that daniel is blonde here and corbyn brunet.
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corbyn knocked and strolled in, closing the door quickly behind him. he chucked his coat and shivered. in his hand was a mountain bouquet of wildflowers, his customary birthday present. a thick grey shirt stretched across the muscles of corbyn's shoulders and chest. his jeans were faded in all the right areas and low on his hips. corbyn kicked off his boots and offered a sweet smile.
it really was a crying shame they never slept together when they first met. after all this time, though, it would be awkward. daniel though that corbyn never seemed interested in him that way, and the blonde boy's curiosity had been fleeting back then. corbyn was the only man in existence he trusted. it would be unwise to focus on anything other than what they had. soulmates in best friend form. daniel wondered what made him think of old memories now. perhaps the manifestation of another letter. it always threw him off-kilter.
shoving his soft brunet hair off his forehead, he walked deeper into daniel's apartment, green eyes scanning his kitchen.
"happy birthday. whatcha cooking?"
daniel accepted the flowers and buried his face in them, inhaling the bit of spring he loved. "these are perfect."
corbyn shook his head. "most people want roses and cars. you want wildflowers and pajamas. you're easy to please."
daniel wasn't easy to please, and that was part of his problem, why he'd been stuck in this rut the past few months. or years. nothing ever felt...satisfying.
"we're not dating. if we were, you could buy me roses and cars. i'm happy with these. you can drain your bank account on the revolving door of people you sleep with." grinning for effect, daniel reached for a vase and filled it with water, setting the flowers inside. "seriously, i love them."
ignoring daniel's jab at his dating life, corbyn peeked at the stove. "and i love your food. i repeat, what are we having?" the last part of his sentence was spoken in a whisper as his gaze landed on the letter he'd set on the counter. "you got another one." corbyn's jaw tensed.
daniel leaned against the counter. "i know who's sending them, too. remember me talking about that photographer, casey barlow? i have one of his earlier prints."
corbyn's gaze didn't meet daniel's. "yeah. an old man who snaps pictures of people rolling in grass or fondling a tree stump. they're from him?"
his lack of surprise was interesting. from the moment the first letter arrived, corbyn had been as interested in daniel's response to them as the mystery of the notes themselves. he knew daniel well. they'd go to hell and back for each other. the blue eyed boy'd told him things he wouldn't dare repeat to anyone. so corbyn knew daniel needed control in most things, especially his private life and who he dated. but he didn't know how dark, how deep that control brought daniel at times.
the conversation daniel wanted to have with him about the matter would need to be treaded lightly. as much as he loved corbyn, no way was he going in the metaphorical bedroom with him. he wanted, needed his advice, though.
"he wants to meet."
slowly, corbyn's gaze lifted to the younger man. saying nothing, he picked up the letter and skimmed it before tossing it down. "what do you want to do?"
