inspire
“Do you ever think about what inspired the greats?” James asks. He pulls at the grass under his hands; it’s cool in the warm sun of midafternoon.
Regulus shrugs; James feels it in the shift of his body. James’ head is in his lap, his body sprawled out on the grassy hill. There’s a guitar beside him—Regulus’—and a notebook with half-started and some finished songs.
“I suppose their muses,” Regulus supplies, index finger dancing along the curve of James’ ear. “Or other art.”
“What inspires you, love?” James tilts his head back so he can look up at Regulus.
“Everything. This park, the grass, the art in the museum we visited last weekend. Music and dance.”
James hums at the feel of Regulus’ fingers on his jaw. “And what about me? Am I a good enough muse for you?”
Regulus’ smile is a small, soft thing. He leans forward, bends so he can brush James’ lips with his own in a Spider-Man kiss. “You’re in every song I write, James. You inspire everything.”