"Liebling, please, you're going to fall asleep on your paints and die of inhalation or somet'hing," Gideon says, gently holding his shoulders, "you haven't in almost t'hree days, you're worrying me--which I know you don't like when I fuss but, you almost fell asleep in t'he shower, I'm just," he was gently leading the shorter man towards bed, "Your body needs to rest, please let it?" (operaticflair!)
jesse hasn’t slept in days. // selectively accepting.
THERE ARE TIMES WHEN JESSE’S own art seems to mock him. He stares at the half-covered canvas, at the brush strokes that are thrown haphazardly across the massive piece of cloth, as if he expects it to do anything but stare back and mock his absolute lack of technique. He stares at those fucking colors, at the placements of his lines and the way they seem to be placed there just to prove that this was never what he was cut out to do, like this is something he’s wasted his life doing.
He doesn’t even realize that he’s fallen asleep against a damp canvas until he hears a familiar voice pull him out of his patchy slumber and he peels himself off of the painted canvas, disoriented for a moment before he looks back at his piece with a look of such hatred that it’s a wonder the canvas doesn’t burst into flames right then and there.
Jesse rubs his tired eyes, desperate, sighing heavily into the fabric of his fingerless gloves.
“I just… I can’t… It doesn’t look right.”
He allows Gideon to pull him to his feet, and realizes very quickly that kneeling on a wooden floor for extended periods of time is not at all good for aging joints. It takes him several steps before he’s able to stop limping, and he leans against Gideon, lowering himself against the mattress with a sigh.
His clothes are caked in paint. He looks like an exhibit himself, paint smeared on his hands and his face and jaw and all over the front of his shirt and jeans, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s too tired to even realize that he’s been wearing the same clothes for nearly three days.
Jesse looks up at Gideon once he’s seated on the bed, his cerulean eyes full of fear and sadness.
“I – I can’t… I can’t sleep alone. Please, I-I…”
He looks down at his hands, like he’s afraid to tell Gideon the truth. They’ve never slept together before. They aren’t used to being intimate. Holding hands is the farthest they’ve gotten. Jesse can count the number of times they’ve kissed on one hand.
“P-Please… um… please stay with me. Just… Just ‘till I fall asleep.”
@operaticflair
