Just the Right Notes

God, what a day.

Elliot hadn't realized quite how much non-architectural work would be involved in running his own firm. It wasn't even like it was a big firm or anything. Him, two junior architects fresh out of university, and a secretary.

He pulled up into the driveway and took a minute to admire the house. It really was beautiful, if he did say so himself. He chuckled as he got out, grabbing his jacket and his briefcase. It was probably egotistical as hell to love your own work so much, but he did.

Now, if Graham was just in a better mood than when he'd left this morning, his Friday night just might be salvageable.

He let himself in. "Hey, honey, I'm home."

Silence.

Well, that could be good or bad...

He wandered through the living area into the kitchen, where he found a half-full bottle of wine and a shattered glass. He was starting to lean toward not good, and a plan began to form in his mind. The bag was packed and it was late enough they'd have missed the worst of the traffic. An hour and a half and they could be at the cabin.

He headed for the study.

The light was on, Graham sprawled over a chair, score sheets crumpled and torn, tears streaking the lean cheeks even in sleep.

Oh, he didn't think so. Enough was enough. If anything or anyone was going to torture Graham, it was going to be him, and Graham was going to love every fucking second of it.

He turned on his heel and headed for their bedroom, grabbing the black bag from the back of the closet. He didn't need to check it -- it would have everything they needed. Every time they used it, he carefully repacked it when they got home again. So it was always ready. He took it out and put it in the trunk of the car.

Heading back in, he called his work number and reset his outgoing message to indicate he would be unreachable for the weekend.

Then he went to wake Graham.

His beautiful lover's jet black hair was loose, wild, and tangled; undisciplined, uncontrolled, and he reached out, stroked a hand through it, Graham's eyes fluttering open.

Crouching next to Graham, he smiled into the most amazing green eyes he'd ever seen. "G. Love."

"Hey, El." Graham reached up, cupped his cheek. "I... I must have fallen asleep."

"Yeah. You had a bad day." It wasn't a question. "You've had a bunch of 'em lately."

Leaning in, he pressed their lips together, tasting tears and wine and the intense, addictive flavor of Graham himself.

Graham kissed him softly and then leaned back. "The song won't come out. I keep working on the bridge."

"Well." He stood and stretched and then held out a hand. "Leave it for now. You're coming with me."

"I am?" The long, talented fingers slid into his, the green eyes just beginning to wake up.

"Oh, yes. You are." He walked backward, bringing Graham with him, grinning.

"You look wicked..." Graham looked back at the papers on the floor, that frown coming back again.

He let go of one hand to take Graham's chin in his fingers, turning his lover's face back to him. "That's because I am wicked."