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I couldn't write this without it being horribly despressing, and the other one was depressing enough, so I gave up for a few days. And then today I went on a picnic and wrote this; CAN YOU TELL?!!??!

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Underneath the tree, the grass was wet, and Stephen shifted as the mud seeped up through the seat of his jeans. Beside him, Paul was easily stretched out on his back, and when he moved his arms from his sides to fold them above his head, Stephen saw long patches of darkened fabric all along the backs of the sleeves, clinging to the skin beneath. Paul gazed vaguely up through the branches into the late afternoon sky, the blue there heavy enough to drip between the leaves and leave shifting puddles of light across Paul's face.

Stephen's shoulder blades were firmly wrapped around the rough trunk of the tree, and a large, winding root pressed rudely against the undersides of his thighs. A slow ache was spreading down through his legs, and he longed to pull them in against himself, to stretch his arms out and rotate his back away from the unyielding bark, and, as the moisture crept along the hem of his shirt, to change into clean, dry clothes. But he was loathe to disturb the warm haze of Paul lounging under shifting ovals of shadow, of the faint scent of barbeque from some sunny, distant patch of the park, the indistinct cries of someone else's children, and flowing under it all, the comfortable humming of insects, and whatever stilling sound the soft, drifting dust motes made as they slowly rubbed against the air.

The afternoon hung low in Stephen's belly, even with his sore back and wet jeans and numb legs, and he did not have the strength of will to unbalance the hammock of calm swaying in him. However, Paul did, and when he moved, it was not within the balance of light and temperature and soft, summer noises. Paul rolled to his side, and as the fabric of his clothes was too wet to rustle, the motion was instead accompanied by an uninviting squelch of grass. He crooked his arm and rested his head on it, and let out a brash, near-grunt of a sigh, impatient and much too loud. Stephen took the opportunity to twist his spine back into place, placing his hands on his hips and leaning to either side.

They were still for a moment, after that, but not long enough for the calm to creep back in. Then, Paul righted himself, and moved to sit beside Stephen, back against the tree and both legs casually thrown over the errant root.

The insects were silent, as were the far off children, now sitting around cracked picnic tables and quietly devouring the spoils of the cooling grill. The lazy dust settled, shining less brightly as the sun snuck closer to the horizon. The shadows grew longer, and Paul turned and kissed Stephen.

Stephen didn't have the strength of will to move away, and as Paul's hands drifted up and curled themselves through his hair and around the back of his neck, he felt a sick leap in his belly, as a balance of light and temperature and soft, patient noises was overturned. There was chaos and the coldness of mud on his skin, there was the white light of morning and the busy brightness of day. In him then was the harsh silence of warm afternoons sinking into dangerous nights, and panicked flashes of pinprick stars and cold, distant moons. He opened his eyes. There were shades of light and shadow lightly chasing each other across Paul's skin, and his eyes were warm and sweet as heavy syrup. Reflected in them was a deep, languid sky, and as Paul's tongue crept through Stephen's lips, Stephen could hear that, inside of him, there had begun a very faint, but steady humming.

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AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

I loooooove this. SO MUCH. OH man, this is just what I needed right now. How you write them together is just so so so much love.

♥♥♥