pulling on me like the moon (r) - 1/1
anonymous
September 6 2011, 23:40:36 UTC
The thing is, Esposito tries to suppress all the domesticness that sometimes crops up when Ryan stays the night. He’s picking up his clothes off the floor, boxers and then socks and then pants and t-shirt and button down, dressing himself in yesterday’s clothes, squinting slightly in the dim almost-dawn light of the room. Sometimes he stays on a Friday, and they don’t always fuck. Sometimes, they stay in and order pizza and drink beer from the store around the corner, staying up too late playing HALO or watching a horror movie that’s more bad than good and more funny than scary.
The thing is, on days like today, when it’s a Saturday and they sleep until noon after being up until three and Kevin stumbles out of his bed before he does, it’s the coffee machine that wakes him up, brewing it strong and black the way that Kevin likes it. And because he makes the coffee whenever he stays the night, usually four out of seven, Esposito has forgotten the way that he likes his own coffee and drinks it strong and black now too. Kevin is in the kitchen, perched up on the counter. His boxers are wrinkled; chest bare as he stares at the coffee machine like it holds all the answers. “Kevin,” Javier says, kitchen tile cold against his bare feet. He moves over until he’s close enough to be able to see the fading bruises from his mouth and lips and hands, scattered across his hips and chest and neck. Close enough to see the scars that are littered across his skin, from the cases that got a little too violent, chases that ended up with a bullet clipping his shoulder or a knife slashing his arm.
The thing is, he’s close enough to count the freckles that dust his shoulders and chest, the ones that he’s mapped out with his fingertips and lips. He says, “Kevin,” again, and he’s close enough to fit in between his legs. Ryan spreads his legs so that his knees are fitted on either side of Javier’s hips. The coffee machine drips steadily behind them, liquid life falling to pool at the bottom of the pot. Their lips brush slowly, the same kind of slow as the dust that moves in the ray of sunlight filtering in through half closed windows. Kevin’s arms slide around his neck, sliding into short black curls to hold him in place so he can kiss him deep and thorough. It almost seems easy the way that Javier shifts his legs so that they can slide around his waist, linking with the ankles around his back. He drops him on his bed and they fit together like matching puzzle pieces, rocking in a slow motion of skin and lips and whispered promises, promises that mean absolutely nothing and everything they want.
The thing is... the thing is that there isn’t usually a real after. Usually, Kevin gets out of the bed, puts his clothes on - boxers, socks, pants, t-shirt and then button down and, nine times out of ten a sweater vest - usually, Javier is still in bed, or at best, in his boxers in the living room when the front door closes with a click. This time, it’s gone past one in the afternoon on a Saturday in September, and they’re pressed back to chest, fitted around each other the way that they belong. Javier’s skin is tan and contrasts to the pale milky-white that proves Kevin’s Irish descent. His arm is holding him against him, fingers linked together with Ryan’s. Their palms lie over his heart and he can feel it beating, and Esposito thinks that this is everything that he wants and exactly what he needs, but they’re both too scared to say it out loud.
The thing is, on days like today, when it’s a Saturday and they sleep until noon after being up until three and Kevin stumbles out of his bed before he does, it’s the coffee machine that wakes him up, brewing it strong and black the way that Kevin likes it. And because he makes the coffee whenever he stays the night, usually four out of seven, Esposito has forgotten the way that he likes his own coffee and drinks it strong and black now too. Kevin is in the kitchen, perched up on the counter. His boxers are wrinkled; chest bare as he stares at the coffee machine like it holds all the answers. “Kevin,” Javier says, kitchen tile cold against his bare feet. He moves over until he’s close enough to be able to see the fading bruises from his mouth and lips and hands, scattered across his hips and chest and neck. Close enough to see the scars that are littered across his skin, from the cases that got a little too violent, chases that ended up with a bullet clipping his shoulder or a knife slashing his arm.
The thing is, he’s close enough to count the freckles that dust his shoulders and chest, the ones that he’s mapped out with his fingertips and lips. He says, “Kevin,” again, and he’s close enough to fit in between his legs. Ryan spreads his legs so that his knees are fitted on either side of Javier’s hips. The coffee machine drips steadily behind them, liquid life falling to pool at the bottom of the pot. Their lips brush slowly, the same kind of slow as the dust that moves in the ray of sunlight filtering in through half closed windows. Kevin’s arms slide around his neck, sliding into short black curls to hold him in place so he can kiss him deep and thorough. It almost seems easy the way that Javier shifts his legs so that they can slide around his waist, linking with the ankles around his back. He drops him on his bed and they fit together like matching puzzle pieces, rocking in a slow motion of skin and lips and whispered promises, promises that mean absolutely nothing and everything they want.
The thing is... the thing is that there isn’t usually a real after. Usually, Kevin gets out of the bed, puts his clothes on - boxers, socks, pants, t-shirt and then button down and, nine times out of ten a sweater vest - usually, Javier is still in bed, or at best, in his boxers in the living room when the front door closes with a click. This time, it’s gone past one in the afternoon on a Saturday in September, and they’re pressed back to chest, fitted around each other the way that they belong. Javier’s skin is tan and contrasts to the pale milky-white that proves Kevin’s Irish descent. His arm is holding him against him, fingers linked together with Ryan’s. Their palms lie over his heart and he can feel it beating, and Esposito thinks that this is everything that he wants and exactly what he needs, but they’re both too scared to say it out loud.
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*sigh*
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