Flash Fic Friday

Flash Fic Friday

**Something like Trust released on Sunday! Join Jared and Brandon as they tell us some more of their story….with dinner on a balcony and a slow dance. Enjoy!**

I knew what Brandon sounded like in all his moods.  And it was my job to give him what he needed.  So when I distinctly heard the strain in his voice—he was trying very hard to hide it—I suggested rather forcefully that he come home for a visit.  Three months was a long time to be away, especially for Brandon.  He’d managed two trips home in that time, and we talked every night, but it wasn’t enough.  My boy needed grounding, needed quiet and stillness, or else his anxiety spiked to dangerous levels.

It was hard for him to live such a public, chaotic life when at his core, he was a consummate introvert.

Brandon couldn’t come home, though, no matter how much we both wanted that.  There was only two weeks of filming left, and despite how much it had been wearing on him, Brandon was actually enjoying himself.  There were rumors that what started out as a one shot miniseries would be given a second miniseries as well, a second season.  Brandon was over the moon, thrilled to be able to portray his character a second time. Even though neither of us wanted to be separated for another six months while he filmed in Vancouver, it was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.

But that was still up in the air, and we would deal with that if it happened.  For right this moment, I was more concerned with my man on the edge of breaking when he still had two weeks left of work.  He couldn’t come to me, so I went to him.

He’d given me his spare key on his first trip home, just in case of emergency, and I used it to let myself into his nice, if not overly fancy, hotel suite.  It smelled like Brandon and I inhaled deeply, taking it in and relishing it.  It had been too long since I had smelled him.

I didn’t linger overlong.  The night before he’d told me it was his early day today, and that meant he’d be home by five.  That didn’t leave me much time.

By the time I heard him fighting with card reader, I was ready.  I pushed open the French doors that lead from his tiny living room out onto an awesome balcony.  I’d set the table with candles, though the wind was trying to blow them out, the music was playing softly, and I had already laid out the meal.  It was his favorite, Zane’s lasagna.  My brother had taken it straight from the oven and packed it up in such a way that after the three hour drive and the forty-five minute wait, it was still warm, but now the perfect temperature to eat.

I was waiting in the living room when Brandon came in, grumbling.  He saw me, and his entire body went stock still.  He didn’t even breathe.  I didn’t say anything.  I didn’t have to.  I just opened my arms and he came running, burying his face in my neck.  I held him to me, squeezing almost too tightly, and he just trembled and sighed, the relief pouring off him in waves.

“N-n-needed this,” he muttered into my skin.  I dropped a kiss on his head, then pulled back far enough to look into his eyes.

“I know,” I said with a smile, and then I leaned down to kiss him properly.  When we finally broke apart, we were both panting.  I tilted my head toward the balcony.  “Come eat.”

Brandon’s smile grew huge.  “Zane cooked for me?”

“Of course he did.  He knew what you needed.”  I gave him a pointed look.  “And so do I.  Which is why I’m here with your favorite meal.” I paused as familiar notes caught my attention.  The British redhead singing about waiting for someone to come home.  “And your favorite song.”

Brandon’s sigh was deep and content.  “And my favorite person.  Dance with me?”

It wasn’t exactly easy to dance to this song, and he looked and sounded relaxed.  Which he hadn’t been in weeks.  I pulled him in close, fitting his body to mine as we began to sway to the beat.  I could do nothing else because I loved him so much.


What Works For Me

As you can imagine, I follow a lot of blogs/authors/sites having to do with the m/m community. It’s a great place to be and most of the time there’s a lot of fun and entertaining things.

Sometimes authors talk about their processes, how they get the words on the page, what weird quirks they have, and I love that. I love hearing how other people’s brains work. So these posts/conversations alway catch my interest. 

But sometimes they turn into instructions, about how one HAS to write or should be doing it and that’s when I’m left feeling inadequate. Like I’m doing it wrong. 

I hate that. 

It’s only recently that I’ve come to accept that my process is what works for me and it’s not wrong or bad or anything else. It’s right, for me, and that’s all that matters. 

Look here’s the thing. I don’t write everyday. Sometimes it’s better for me not to write for a whole week, even two, and then really get into the zone and write non stop for ten hours on a Saturday. 

I need concrete motivation. I like to set the timer for an hour and write like mad until it goes off, and then take a break and play a game or something. Yes an hour. Not 15 or 20 minutes. Yes an hour is a long time.  But that’s what I need. That’s the sweet spot, the amount of time that works best for me. 

And I need accountability. Which is where my rough outline of major plot points comes in handy. Not only does it give me a basis to write off of, but it allows me to hold myself accountable for what needs to get written. And once I gave myself permission to view that outline as completely and totally changeable I was able to use it in that manner and to get stories written. 

So this is what works for me. I’d never presume to tell anyone else this is how they should do things. It took me a lot of trial and error for figure out what I need as a writer to work, and it took a long time to accept that this is okay. Because there are a lot of how tos out there that are very specific about what should be done in order to be successful. But we’re all different and our brains work in different ways. This is how mine writes a story.