pick up sticks
He could hear the near rattle of plastic blades over head, the sound faintly similar to that of a swarm of killer bees, the noise vibrating off the sickly yellow blinds and sticking to the air. The blinds allowing only a millimeter’s worth of moonlight to seep inwards and streak across the contours of shoulder blades that seemed to jut out like razors. Bare flesh pressed against thin linen and it felt as if he were suffocating from the body poised against him rather than the humid summer heat. Sweat leaving behind a small track of bullets along his neck and after a few moments of just listening to Haydn breathe he finally found the courage to twist so he had been laying back flat against the mattress rather then slightly twisted.
Spinal cord contorting before settling and he swore he could feel the smile rather than see it through the endless ocean of filtered yellow and blues.
“It‘s too hot and I can‘t breathe.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed with how you’re sweating, it could rival the fucking Nile River.”
“Shut up, now move before the ink bleeds into my shirt and beneath my skin.” He was aggravated but only mildly so because in all honestly he couldn’t find the courage or patience to get angry for long. Platonic love that ran deeper than the mines built in the quest of blood diamonds or rivaled it. Either way he wouldn’t have even held the man accountable for murder, even with the murder weapon in hand while he was reciting every detail of the dirty deed.
“No. Shut up and let me stay because you love me and fuck if I will and fuck if I won‘t move.”
He felt the shaky exhale filter through his nose before snorting quietly to himself as he became nothing more than a conventional pillow. Stuffing and all.
The fan humming quietly in the distance as it consumed the oncoming silence until fingers curled around his barely bent fingers in something horribly romantic. Cheek pressed against his chest until he could hear the bones shift beneath skin as those lips pressed to the hallow of his throat. He could smell the cinnamon and gun powder mixed in with something simply Haydn before it was extinguished by the scent of slightly damp linen. Lips quirking upwards into a smile as that head went back from once it came to fall like a paper weight.
To either help him from drifting away or simply allowing for him to sink further.
“I‘ll make you marshmallows tomorrow. Now go to sleep otherwise I‘ll let it bleed into your crotch.”
I love you.
haydn/peeps. Some dialogue taken from Connie & inspired from short snippets of conversation.
For you.
(transfered over from personal journal here so I can find it.)