Gyro had gotten used to squeezing the both of them on his full sized bed— he’d have to buy a queen when (more like if) he got a raise. He was more than okay with the fridge suddenly full with leftovers. He wasn’t okay with those leftovers burning in the microwave, in the middle of the night no less, almost setting off the fire alarm.
He was used to waking up early. He usually had to, anyway. However, he was not used to waking up to an alarm that played various mariachi melodies. He kept all of his ideas in folders; color coded and alphabetized. He didn’t put his ideas scattered all over the apartment on sticky notes… at least the sticky notes were color coded, though. That was an upside.
He had systems and order.
Fenton, to a certain degree, did too.
But it was his own mixed up order that never quite ran smoothly. He claimed that he couldn’t think if everything was too orderly, that a little chaos was the mo to his madness, the spark for his flame.
Whereas some people hung posters in their bedroom, they had blueprints for all sorts of inventions.
From petty, but fun, inventions— things for convenience like a pen-umbrella combo, a blender-coffee maker two-in-one, or mindless ideas, such as a dozen different adaptations of Lil Bulb; “Because what if he goes evil because he’s lonely?” Fenton once argued, and so, the variations were born…
...to their pride and joy, their magnum opus, Gizmoduck.
Blueprints littered their entire apartment and just added to the mild mess all around them.
The chaos was not unwelcome. Gyro expected it when he asked his boyfriend to move in with him. But every day brought something new to get used to.
Such as what was supposed to be lazy Sunday, where Gyro would tinker with the petty inventions and Fenton would hover over his shoulder to make excited suggestions, suddenly became rearrange the apartment and move more stuff in Sunday.
“This is the fifth box you’ve brought from your mom’s place this week,” Gyro declared. “How much stuff does one man own, Fenton?”
“A… lot?” Fenton admitted, giving a bashful shrug.
Snowglobes and scrapbooks, knick knacks and halfway built inventions were piled onto the shelves with other things he had brought on other days. He had moved into the apartment a month ago and it seemed that he was never quite done settling down into the new place he called home.
Gyro shook his head at the reply and went back to sipping his coffee (once dubbed to be as dark and as salty as his soul— he often wondered why exactly he put up with Fenton).
Now he remembered.
It was the way Fenton softly hummed and sang to himself as he put his things away, on shelves and in random closets. How he danced a little to his own made up ditties. And all the little trinkets he owned, how he wasn’t quite a hoarder but perhaps an active collector of random items that had a certain essence of sentiment to them. His brain overflowing with ideas, that in his new stage of moving in, Fenton had to rustle through the pockets of his buttondown shirt for sticky notes, scribble a new idea and stick it to the wall, for later.
It was all the little things and so much more that made Gyro remember why he had gone soft for this absolute dork.
Even when some things were not so little and actually quite messy and chaotic and … out there.
Quite literally out .
“Are you trying to tell the whole complex you’re gay?” Gyro asked, arching an eyebrow at his boyfriend.
Fenton shrugged as he took out the last thing of the cardboard box he had brought in this morning, unfurling it and pinning it in front of the window behind their television.
The Pato Rican flag, it’s usual red and white stripes replaced with rainbow.
“Sure?” he said, with a laugh.
Gyro rolled his eyes, almost amused at it.
Once upon a time, not that long ago, his apartment was pristine and minimalist. Not a single paper or piece of furniture out of place. Now, there was just the slightest bit of disarray. Tray tables almost always brought out to use as impromptu desks. Lively music to keep life in their little one bedroom home. Color and ideas popping all over the place.
Once the flag was pinned and Fenton observed his work with his new things set up, he slumped onto the couch, leaning in for a sort-of-but-not-quite cuddle.
“I’m glad you let me live here,” he beamed.
“Yeah,” Gyro said, with a grin, ruffling his boyfriend’s never tame hair. “Having you around isn’t that bad.”