#can i remember to tag things plz? 😅

[jessie-writes-things]

Sunrise Is Underrated: Frankie Morales

Decided to try and do a mini fluff series comprised of flash fiction posted throughout the day. Here's the first piece!

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Neutral Reader

Words: 400

Genre: fluff

Warnings: mental health, recovery (not graphic at all)

Summary: Frankie trying his best and doing great at it.

Mini series masterlist.

Frankie was trying to be more proactive in his recovery and you loved that.

Waking up to him getting out of bed at 4am, not so much.

He’d always try to sooth you back to sleep, rubbing you back and murmuring soft words until you stop stirring. But bed was never the same without him. It was too cold, too spacious, reminding you of when he used to go away for long periods of time and you just hated it.

It wasn’t long until you were dragging yourself out of bed, visiting the bathroom before padding your way outside where you knew he would be.

Summer had always been Frankie’s favourite time of year. The early morning breeze was a comfort, the trees that outlined the woods at the bottom of the garden rustling gently. Early morning birds sing in the distance, slowly beginning to wake up themselves. Pinks and oranges and reds painted the sky, mixed with stars that hadn’t yet faded.

You pulled yourself further into the hoodie you had grabbed in your sleepy faze. Shuffling along the deck, you plonked yourself down on the swing chair, a slightly too cold coffee placed in your hands upon contact.

Art supplies dotted the small coffee table. An extra sketchbook. A few packets of those fancy pencils you had brought Frankie for his birthday. Some paints that hadn't been opened yet.

Usually, he was very protective over his work, not letting you see it until it was done if at all. Every time you tried to sneak a peek over his shoulder, Frankie would quickly turn away and claim something absurd that he wasn’t a good artist which was bullshit. You’ve seen some of his works from high school hanging in his mother’s house, he was great!

That morning he didn’t seem to care as much. Frankie let you peek over his shoulder at his page, a mess of pastel colours blended together perfectly to match the colours of the sky. Some faint pencil lines were dotted about, some rubbed out, outlines of trees and a few rogue birds scattered in the foreground.

‘I woke up happy today.’ He explained, voice was still rough with sleep, but you could hear a smile creeping through all of that, ‘It doesn’t happen a lot. I wanted to remember it.’

Your brain was still not working at full capacity. Not knowing what to say, you planted yourself against him, cheek smushed into his shoulder as you watched Frankie work on his happy piece.