Universe: New York
Title: Skating (1)
Author: deleerium
"That’s a wrap, folks.”
Elijah flipped the long dangling plaid of his scarf over one shoulder, his bright movie-star smile morphing into a snaggle-crooked grin as the lights and cameras powered down.
He quickly glanced one way then the other before swinging two-fisted around the edge of a nameless coat-clad body. He shoved off, digging his skate blades into the ice with hard pumps of his calves and thighs, picking up speed across the frozen Zamboni’d water. He was free for some unknown number of stolen minutes thieved between Saturday Night Live going off the air and his Assistant Wrangler picking him out of the crowd.
He held out both arms, flying further from the black cameras across the white ice of Rockefeller Center. The worry of moving and movies and memories and the moment fell away.
He was six years old again and he. Could. Fly.
He rocketed towards the far rubber-bumper wall, dark benches around the rink looming just on the other side and at the last possible moment jump-turned-skidded - a power-plow of shaved ice - and hip-slammed into the rubber rail with a low grunt and a huge grin.
“Childish git.”
Elijah’s head jerked around as a dark figure rose from one of the long benches and moved slowly towards the rail, knee-length black wool coat and black beanie pulled low over dark eyes covered by only-a-movie-star glasses after midnight. Elijah whooped, his grin exploding and with an easy bouncing flex of both arms, vaulted over the chest high rail.
Orlando caught him with a grunt, lifting him skates dangling and spinning away, body blocking them from prying eyes. There was a three second quick-area-check hesitation before Orlando lowered his head, goatee scruff sliding along Elijah’s chin as their mouths caught, opened and stole too-fast fucking-missed-you tastes, hands clutched in brown and black checkered wool as their heads twisted and mouths pressed harder, closer…
Elijah’s skates still dangling inches off the floor.
Author: deleerium
"That’s a wrap, folks.”
Elijah flipped the long dangling plaid of his scarf over one shoulder, his bright movie-star smile morphing into a snaggle-crooked grin as the lights and cameras powered down.
He quickly glanced one way then the other before swinging two-fisted around the edge of a nameless coat-clad body. He shoved off, digging his skate blades into the ice with hard pumps of his calves and thighs, picking up speed across the frozen Zamboni’d water. He was free for some unknown number of stolen minutes thieved between Saturday Night Live going off the air and his Assistant Wrangler picking him out of the crowd.
He held out both arms, flying further from the black cameras across the white ice of Rockefeller Center. The worry of moving and movies and memories and the moment fell away.
He was six years old again and he. Could. Fly.
He rocketed towards the far rubber-bumper wall, dark benches around the rink looming just on the other side and at the last possible moment jump-turned-skidded - a power-plow of shaved ice - and hip-slammed into the rubber rail with a low grunt and a huge grin.
“Childish git.”
Elijah’s head jerked around as a dark figure rose from one of the long benches and moved slowly towards the rail, knee-length black wool coat and black beanie pulled low over dark eyes covered by only-a-movie-star glasses after midnight. Elijah whooped, his grin exploding and with an easy bouncing flex of both arms, vaulted over the chest high rail.
Orlando caught him with a grunt, lifting him skates dangling and spinning away, body blocking them from prying eyes. There was a three second quick-area-check hesitation before Orlando lowered his head, goatee scruff sliding along Elijah’s chin as their mouths caught, opened and stole too-fast fucking-missed-you tastes, hands clutched in brown and black checkered wool as their heads twisted and mouths pressed harder, closer…
Elijah’s skates still dangling inches off the floor.