A twenty-eight year old Beckham Cooke walked through the door of the apartment that was only half his after an annoyingly long day at work. He didn’t mind shadowing at the new bakery in the city; the job was easy enough. All he had to do was watch people and point out their mistakes, even if he didn’t really care to do the latter most of the time. What he did mind was working well past five and into the eighth hour of the evening instead, the overtime he knew he would clock in from it not making it worth it. He had grown up a bit in the last decade, but he still found himself wishing that he didn’t need a stupid job to maintain his lifestyle.

He tossed his keys towards the ridiculous bowl he was instructed to store them in and listened to them bounce off the wall and hit the ground with a metallic smack. He felt the left corner of his lips turn upwards in defiance as he ignored it — it was the little things in his day to day life that still made him feel like the careless person he really was deep down, as sad as his past self would have found it. He tossed himself on the horrendously navy blue couch — another item he hadn’t wanted — and flung his arm dramatically over his eyes. Just because he had chosen to take responsibility with his life didn’t mean he was going to be chipper about it.

"Spence," he called out, his voice quiet though it rang through the otherwise silent apartment, unmoving from his position on the couch. He was used to walking in and finding his partner somewhere near the door, as if he was always waiting, and not seeing him the instant Beckham walked in was a little strange. He didn’t remember Spencer saying he was going out somewhere, but Beckham didn’t really remember small things like that. He remembered important things, like favorite movies and foods and drinks, but others, such as birthdays and anniversaries and passive plans, always slipped his mind. "You better not be baking anything," he continued to call out, despite not being sure if Spencer was inside of the apartment they shared. "Because I’ll critique it and you’ll get mad. I’m still in work mode."

  1. disfome reblogged this from sp-haw-2341 and added:
    Beckham couldn’t tell if his name was shouted out frustration or if he was being chastened, but he didn’t care....
  2. sp-haw-2341 reblogged this from disfome and added:
    Spencer smiled at Beckham, seeing the expression mirrored in the other man. The affectionate touch of clearing his tears...