(fic) Fire Escapes
Title: Fire Escapes
Pairing: Jordin Tootoo/Ilya Kovalchuk
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, it is untrue.
a remix of Anna's (meromero_da) the secret's in the telling, and rooftops and invitations For the re-mix challenge.
Ilya loves New York.
Even in the summer, especially in the summer, when the heat rises off the sidewalk and all the people sway through the downtown with their skin and their gold earrings glistening in the sweaty air.
He likes the way secretaries walk in their high heels like the whole city is a movie set.
He likes New York in the summer even though every breath he takes is squeezed through exhaust and concrete and it’s like swallowing the taste of the city with every inhale.
Ilya wonders what the point of sun is that falls on nothing. All that wasted light and energy. Could bottle it and ship it to Northern Canada, but Jordin says that the polar ice has melted enough.
Jordin doesn’t say much else. Just that he was at a loose end; that he was in the neighbourhood, that the season didn’t end the way anyone was expecting.
He’s still standing, in the doorway between the dining room and the living room and says that he misses Scottie. ‘He had always been there.’ Jordin almost smiles and Ilya throws him the spare key card that he keeps in the letter rack by the door.
Ilya likes dawn in the city in the summer, the way the sun slamming over the horizon announces the day, the way sunrise breaks the night, cracks into white heat white light that floods his windows and rips through the curtains.
The sun burns in so cruel so bright that all the shadows in the room are barely gray, flat hard against the wall. The light is too rigid, too reaching, searching scratching up against Jordin’s eyelids.
Ilya watches him throw an arm over his eyes, try to block out the armies of light with his dark skin.
It’s so totally the way of things. Ilya was going to go home for the summer, except that he’s had the worst spring of his life and he knows that Jordin insists home is anywhere except where it is.
The summer air is like a whet stone for the sun, shooting it back off the pavement in spikes of sharper crueler light, and they only walk at night when the air at least moves a little in damp eddies around doorways and street corners.
It’s so hot that when Ilya rolls over he can only touch Jordin’s chest with the top of his finger tips as the glass of the window writhes in its frame.
Jordin keeps his arm over his eyes and licks his lips again and again as Ilya touches him, smooth and soft and steady, and not asking any questions at all.
Pairing: Jordin Tootoo/Ilya Kovalchuk
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, it is untrue.
a remix of Anna's (meromero_da) the secret's in the telling, and rooftops and invitations For the re-mix challenge.
Ilya loves New York.
Even in the summer, especially in the summer, when the heat rises off the sidewalk and all the people sway through the downtown with their skin and their gold earrings glistening in the sweaty air.
He likes the way secretaries walk in their high heels like the whole city is a movie set.
He likes New York in the summer even though every breath he takes is squeezed through exhaust and concrete and it’s like swallowing the taste of the city with every inhale.
Ilya wonders what the point of sun is that falls on nothing. All that wasted light and energy. Could bottle it and ship it to Northern Canada, but Jordin says that the polar ice has melted enough.
Jordin doesn’t say much else. Just that he was at a loose end; that he was in the neighbourhood, that the season didn’t end the way anyone was expecting.
He’s still standing, in the doorway between the dining room and the living room and says that he misses Scottie. ‘He had always been there.’ Jordin almost smiles and Ilya throws him the spare key card that he keeps in the letter rack by the door.
Ilya likes dawn in the city in the summer, the way the sun slamming over the horizon announces the day, the way sunrise breaks the night, cracks into white heat white light that floods his windows and rips through the curtains.
The sun burns in so cruel so bright that all the shadows in the room are barely gray, flat hard against the wall. The light is too rigid, too reaching, searching scratching up against Jordin’s eyelids.
Ilya watches him throw an arm over his eyes, try to block out the armies of light with his dark skin.
It’s so totally the way of things. Ilya was going to go home for the summer, except that he’s had the worst spring of his life and he knows that Jordin insists home is anywhere except where it is.
The summer air is like a whet stone for the sun, shooting it back off the pavement in spikes of sharper crueler light, and they only walk at night when the air at least moves a little in damp eddies around doorways and street corners.
It’s so hot that when Ilya rolls over he can only touch Jordin’s chest with the top of his finger tips as the glass of the window writhes in its frame.
Jordin keeps his arm over his eyes and licks his lips again and again as Ilya touches him, smooth and soft and steady, and not asking any questions at all.