5th in the night ficlet series
for diskarte, because she begged for more fic. preread by the wifey (<3!), so it can't be that bad :)
The Anchovies are laughing at us.
He's going to leave his responsibilities back here on his bed, draped neatly around the sheets so he can come back later and wrap himself into them. He leaves his shoes, side by side before the bed, kicked into order with a careless tap of the foot, though (there is a distinction between careless/instinctive, he doesn't kick shoes as he kicks balls, and doesn't kick balls as he kicks boots). The beach is near, just one-two hundred metres of warm tarmac and powdry sand. Are you ready, David asks, and he closes the door. The night is cold already and the sky is touched by stars (freckles, his inner voice states with a grin) and the long, caressing fingers (his, says the inner voice, and he doesn't find it funny) of the lighthouse. David's hands are cold and wet, because he can't restrain himself from playing in the water, and ...when the fuck have they started competing at building sandcastles? Villa wins.
David's kisses leave scrunchy sand between Villa's teeth, and Villa wonders if he should tell him flat out he loves him because does David know? But does he know himself, is it possible to love two people (that way), because he loves Patricia too, does he, doesn't he, and if it's impossible, who does he love then, and is that a stray fox over there, look, David, fuck, let me kiss you again. And they are not going to fuck on the beach like some horny teenagers, sand creeping over their bodies, they are not. They are, like (desperate, horny) adults. And the sand creeps over their bodies, impatiently claiming its territory. (It's late. We really need to sleep. The sea covers David's voice with it's whispers.) David sits up, pulls the clammy, sticky T-Shirt back on, and Villa wonders why he isn't the responsible one in this relationship.
The Anchovies are laughing at us.
He's going to leave his responsibilities back here on his bed, draped neatly around the sheets so he can come back later and wrap himself into them. He leaves his shoes, side by side before the bed, kicked into order with a careless tap of the foot, though (there is a distinction between careless/instinctive, he doesn't kick shoes as he kicks balls, and doesn't kick balls as he kicks boots). The beach is near, just one-two hundred metres of warm tarmac and powdry sand. Are you ready, David asks, and he closes the door. The night is cold already and the sky is touched by stars (freckles, his inner voice states with a grin) and the long, caressing fingers (his, says the inner voice, and he doesn't find it funny) of the lighthouse. David's hands are cold and wet, because he can't restrain himself from playing in the water, and ...when the fuck have they started competing at building sandcastles? Villa wins.
David's kisses leave scrunchy sand between Villa's teeth, and Villa wonders if he should tell him flat out he loves him because does David know? But does he know himself, is it possible to love two people (that way), because he loves Patricia too, does he, doesn't he, and if it's impossible, who does he love then, and is that a stray fox over there, look, David, fuck, let me kiss you again. And they are not going to fuck on the beach like some horny teenagers, sand creeping over their bodies, they are not. They are, like (desperate, horny) adults. And the sand creeps over their bodies, impatiently claiming its territory. (It's late. We really need to sleep. The sea covers David's voice with it's whispers.) David sits up, pulls the clammy, sticky T-Shirt back on, and Villa wonders why he isn't the responsible one in this relationship.