(no subject)
Title: Seaweed
Author: snorefest
Disclaimer: I do not own these people, they belong to themselves. I am writing this for fun and not for profit.
Fandom: Disney RPS
Pairings/Characters: Sprousecest
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,269
Warnings: non-graphic sexing
Summary: It is the night before they are set to leave for NYU, for their new lives.
"Can't sleep," Cole said, and it was kind of like a question. There was a crash and a flash and Cole's face was suddenly illuminated, and he looked terrified. A lightning storm in the August heat, and Dylan suddenly remembered for no reason that when they were kids Cole had been afraid of thunder, remembered how they had pressed together like breath when it had stormed, how Dylan had wrapped protectively around Cole and traced a hand over Cole's elbow, and how he had felt Cole's heartbeat quick all the way through him. When he was a kid he thought that because they were twins they shared a single heart that echoed through both of their bodies. Sometimes he still thought that.
If there was one thing that Dylan Sprouse was good at, it was thinking. If there was one thing he was good at, it was overthinking, really, because most of the time he was completely incapable of turning off his brain.
And there were a few things that Dylan understood about himself: like that because he had spent his formative years in the public eye as the 'fat twin,' he had become charismatic in a way that Cole could never be. That he liked art because he could control his paintings in a way that he had never been able to control his characters; that paint on the canvas had always been easier for him to understand than another human's emotions painted over himself, and he liked that. Maybe especially because his own human emotions had somehow become so far out of his control that he wasn't sure he could ever get them back. Dylan understood, and this was maybe more important than any of the other things, that he needed Cole like he needed oxygen. And that it frightened him.
It frightened him that he needed Cole in a way that he didn't even realize he needed him, because it was Cole, and Cole was constant like nothing else in their life had ever been. He needed Cole in a way that it had always been their life, really, never singly Dylan's or Cole's but some weird in between amalgam. He needed Cole in a way that meant he didn't notice the knot forming in his stomach when they were waiting for their college acceptance letters until it was twining up around his heart; and even though Dylan talked big about Pratt, about how one day they would have to go their separate ways and lead their own lives, even though all of it, he legitimately couldn't fathom a life in which he didn't see Cole every day. Which kind of fucked with his head, but whatever.
He needed Cole which was why relief settled into the pit of his stomach like a prayer when Cole had come to him, when Cole shyly displayed his acceptance letter to NYU, and said that even though it was their backup school maybe it was the right choice. Because even though he assumed that one day they actually would have to face that, face a life without each other, and even though it would probably be the most painful experience of his life (like maybe that's what growing up was, though, cutting off limbs and waiting for them to scab over enough to not be blindingly painful, cutting wounds big enough that they might never heal), even though all of it, he couldn't handle losing Cole. Not now. He couldn't. He couldn't imagine not seeing Cole every day. He couldn't imagine not knowing Cole like Cole was a part of his body. He couldn't. And he was really really ridiculously embarrassingly glad that they would have four more years together. And after that-- they would figure it out. Maybe four years in the future it would hurt less. Maybe four years in the future it would be fathomable.
Still, even though college was something he would face with Cole, even though because of that it was less big and scary and horrible-- it was still starting an entirely new chapter of their lives, and it was still moving across the country, and it was still a campus full of people who wouldn't give a shit that they had been Disney's poster twins. And it was like-- Dylan was excited. He was. He and Cole had signed the lease on an apartment that they were going to share because they weren't famous exactly, but they were othered enough that dorms wouldn't work. And this way they would have a little more space (not a lot, because even with their savings New York was still expensive. So it wasn't a huge space, but it was big enough. Especially for him and Cole, it was big enough), and Dylan could have his own studio and actually paint. And when they had visited the campus, it had taken Dylan all of two seconds to fall completely and totally in love with the city and its life, even the dirty parts. He wanted to do everything that the city had to offer, he wanted to visit Central Park and Lincoln Center, he wanted to ride the subways and eat really good pizza, and he wanted to take ridiculous touristy pictures with Cole-- and that was the best part of all of it. With Cole.
But doing this, going to NYU, being normal was so abnormal, was completely different from everything that had been their lives for the past two decades. It was still scary. And lying awake at 1AM, his bags packed in the corner of his room, his alarm set for 6AM the day before they were set to depart, the butterflies in his stomach weren't totally nervous, and they weren't totally excited. The plane tickets were sitting on his bedside table, and he was painfully aware of them. Of the fact that they were waiting to take him and Cole to New York. Of the fact that they were waiting to take him and Cole to their home for the next four years. He tried to turn his brain off, but it was completely impossible, his thoughts rattling and shaking through his head, and he wanted to cry, he wanted to laugh, he wanted to scream, he wanted to do something--
His door creaked open.
He sat up in his bed, but he didn't need to look really to know that it was Cole in his doorway, backlit by the hallway light so Dylan couldn't see his face, but it didn't matter because emotion was rolling off of Cole in waves, it didn't matter because they had never needed words, really. Cole was tiny, fragile, birdlike as though in these moments he could flutter out the window and be gone forever. His hands were raised and clasped in front of him, then moving jerkily to his sides to smooth along the side of his legs, his heels clicked together like he wanted to go home.
"Can't sleep," Cole said, and it was kind of like a question. There was a crash and a flash and Cole's face was suddenly illuminated, and he looked terrified. A lightning storm in the August heat, and Dylan suddenly remembered for no reason that when they were kids Cole had been afraid of thunder, remembered how they had pressed together like breath when it had stormed, how Dylan had wrapped protectively around Cole and traced a hand over Cole's elbow, and how he had felt Cole's heartbeat quick all the way through him. When he was a kid he thought that because they were twins they shared a single heart that echoed through both of their bodies. Sometimes he still thought that.
"Come here," Dylan said, patted the space on the bed next to him, tried not to think about the fact that they were both probably way too old for this. But when Cole walked into the room wearing his loose grey drawstringed pyjama pants and a white tank top; when he smiled wryly at Dylan and the golden light from the hallway warred with the silvery moonlight over his shoulder and his hair fell in his eyes and Dylan's breath caught in his throat; when Cole slipped under his comforter and Dylan could feel the soft flannel of Cole's pyjama pants against his leg, could feel the heat that was Cole seeping through that; when Cole sighed quietly under his breath like he was finally okay (and the echoes of their single heart slowed in both of their chests); Dylan couldn't work up the will to regret it.
"I brought," Cole said, and leaned over to reach into the pocket of his pyjama pants, the skin of his shoulder pressing suddenly against Dylan's, and Dylan thought a million things all at once that he could never put words to. But then Cole was dangling his ziplock baggie of weed in Dylan's face, the ridiculous pink pipe that Brenda had bought him as a joke (but Dylan knew that Cole secretly loved it) and a lighter in his other hand. "It might calm us," Cole said, and he was smiling at Dylan, all scrunchy nose and teeth, and even if Dylan had wanted to, he couldn't say no.
"All right," he said, and Cole was packing the pipe before the words were even out of his mouth. "But we're never gonna be able to wake up tomorrow."
"That might be okay." Cole didn't look up from the pipe in his hand which he was poking at with his fingernail, but the corners of his mouth quirked like he wanted Dylan to give him an answer only-- Dylan didn't have one, because he kind of somehow agreed completely. Like when Cole's leg pressed against his under the comforter and it felt like it should always be there, like Dylan wished that the night could never end, that things could always stay the same, that they could slot together and become a single person. "Here, have the first toke," Cole said, their fingertips brushing as Dylan took the pipe and the lighter, and Cole's hand fluttered then toyed along the edges of the baggie before he settled them into his lap.
And Dylan thought that maybe this was exactly what he needed. The glass of the pipe was cool against his lips, then burning down his throat into his lungs, and it didn't burn nearly as much as Cole's eyes on him. He passed the pipe back to Cole, "Thanks," he said, and coughed, watched Cole's hands shake almost so much that he couldn't light the bowl. "How are you holding up?" He didn't need to ask.
"Nervous about flying," Cole said, and Dylan knew without knowing that Cole was lying. If there was anything that Cole could never be afraid of, it was flying, but the truth was way more than they could touch so Dylan didn't press.
"Yeah," Dylan said and took the pipe back, watched in a sort of awe as the smoke slipped past Cole's lips, and maybe that was closer to the truth than anything they could say.
"I don't," Cole said, and cleared his throat.
"I know," Dylan said.
"No." Cole ran a hand through his hair, shook it out, leaned back against Dylan's headboard, and Dylan tried really hard not to think because it was dangerous when Cole was like this, all languid, loose limbs, golden hair and freckles and Dylan had always been lost. "I," Cole said, and he leaned forward, put his cheek against Dylan's shoulder.
Dylan froze, the pipe against his lips, smoke in his mouth. "Cole," he whispered into a cloud of smoke.
"Yeah?" Cole said, and put his hand over Dylan's forearms, turned his head so his lips were ghosting against the edge of Dylan's shoulder and Dylan couldn't breathe suddenly, couldn't think at all.
"Cole," Dylan said again, steel in his voice because there had to be, because if there was any more of this, any more of Cole Dylan would burst apart into a million pieces. And Cole pulled away which was good and also bad, fell back against the headboard with a thump. Dylan handed the pipe back.
"I'm sorry," Cole said, and there was something in his voice like a promise or a lie or a million things all at once and all for Dylan and it was so much more than he could handle.
The echoes sped up and Dylan looked over his shoulder, watched Cole's cheeks hollow, watched the bowl glow red, watched a thread of smoke escape. Everything was moving slowly like a moment stretched too long-- and maybe it was because of the weed that settled in Dylan's room like a cloud, like they were flying already-- but Dylan thought that it was something else entirely. And he was tired of resisting suddenly, tired of pushing everything that always was into never could be, and he turned and leaned raising a hand to wrap around Cole's wrist, pushing his hand out of the way until all that was between their lips was air and want.
Cole's lips were pressed shut, his eyes soft, and Dylan tried to read the freckles that lit across Cole's nose. "Don't be," Dylan said, and leaned the rest of the way so their lips were touching, just barely but Dylan could feel it all the way to his toes. Cole opened his lips against Dylan's and it was all heat, all everything they had ever been when Cole let out a gust of smoke and Dylan inhaled, and the taste of Cole overwhelmed the weed, and it was all that Dylan had always needed all that Dylan had never allowed himself to want. He heard a small noise escape his throat as Cole's tongue darted against his lips, and helplessly he flipped himself over till his legs were folded around Cole's hips, till they were pressed together like puzzle pieces, like they just fit. Somehow both of his hands were gripping at Cole's wrists and they were all that was left to hold onto, Cole was all that was left for Dylan to hold onto, then Cole's hands were sliding and twining with Dylan's, and Cole's hands were sweaty against his, sticky against the inside of his fingers, and it was perfect.
Cole watched him quietly, his eyes half-lidded and too bright, and Dylan leaned forward and kissed him then, because he couldn't not, because he had to, because they had always been like waves crashing together, completely inevitable, because Cole tasted like everything that Dylan wasn't, because somehow the way they fell together wasn't like falling at all, it was like every time they had wrestled, every time they had touched for just moments too long, every time their eyes had met and they always knew it would end this way somehow.
"Dylan," Cole said against his neck, in a way that wasn't like talking at all.
And Dylan knew that he should stop this, knew that he should roll off of Cole and go to sleep and go to college in the morning and forget that this happened, knew that he should have never let it go this far. But he was nipping at Cole's jaw before he had even properly realized he was doing it, and Cole was moaning against him, rumbling in his chest, and he couldn't resist this. It was completely out of his control like everything always had been. Cole had a hand free up and sliding against Dylan's back, and Cole's fingers were long and thin and clammy nervous, but they weren't shaking anymore. They were pressing indents against his shoulder blades and pulling Dylan closer until he was folded nearly in half, until they were flush against each other. Dylan slid his hands up and under Cole's shirt because he needed more, needed more soft skin underneath his finger, scraping up his ribcage thumbing across his nipple then pressing flat to feel the echo of their heart against the palm of his hand.
Dylan ran a trail of kisses down the side of Cole's neck, and as Cole arched his head back, jaw tilting up, Dylan realized that he didn't love Cole like this anymore than he loved Cole any other time. Dylan realized that that love was still overwhelming him, this normal Cole love that ran through his veins, that was as much a part of him as his body, overwhelmed him completely. Without Dylan even realizing it really their shirts were somehow off, and it was just them, Cole's hands fucking everywhere and miles and miles of skin. It wasn't like Cole's skin was unfamiliar; it was as familiar as Dylan's own skin, and that made it somehow better like he didn't need to think even. Which was good because thinking was becoming difficult, especially when Cole nipped at the corners of his mouth, and wrapped his hands like that around Dylan's arms and sliding down along his back, especially when Cole made that chokey-gaspy sound and cursed against Dylan's mouth, and it was all so much more than he'd ever thought he would have.
"Cole," Dylan said, pulled away and Cole's hands scrabbled uselessly across Dylan's ribs then settling down at his hips. "Cole, I--"
There were a thousand things he wanted to say, a thousand things he should have said, but he looked at Cole then and it was a mistake because Cole was beautiful like this. Somehow they'd managed to slide down the bed so Cole's hair was spread golden around his head, tangling on the pillow, so Cole's mouth was red and swollen and open a little, so Cole's eyes were nearly closed, eyelashes fluttering and settling on his cheekbones, and God it wasn't fair that Cole got all the pretty genes because it meant that Dylan got all the helpless genes and lost his train of thought completely in moments like this. Cole reached up a hand and traced it over Dylan's jaw, thumb flitting over the edge of Dylan's lips, like he thought that Dylan was the pretty one somehow.
Dylan caught Cole's hand in his, twined their fingers. "I shouldn't," he said. "We shouldn't." He leaned off of Cole, unentangled their fingers and cradled his wrist to his chest, but he wasn't strong eneough to pull away completely, wasn't strong enough to meet Cole's eyes, so he knelt, and held his hand to his ribs, and tried to remind himself how to breathe.
Cole was silent for several long moments, and it probably should have been uncomfortable, Dylan probably should have been thinking too much, but all he could think about somehow was the contact between their hips, all he could think about was the memory of Cole's lips, of soft noises and smoke and friction. And then Cole's hand were tracing up Dylan's jaw around the back oh his neck, and sliding down to his waist. Cole was sitting up, wrapping his arms around Dylan, pressing his lips to the side of his neck, just underneath his ear.
"It's okay," Cole said, and moved his hands to press against Dylan's chest, his fingers spreading to play against Dylan's collarbone. "It's--" and Dylan was helpless leaning forward, tilting his head to kiss Cole, Dylan was helpless, wrapping his arms around Cole, helpless when Cole dropped his head down breath hot against Dylan's collarbone, helpless in the taste of Cole, the smell of Cole, the feel of Cole. "Look," Cole said, kissed the edge of his shoulder, "We fit." And then Cole was pushing his hips up and oh God it was like they didn't even have to try to get this, to get these perfect moments.
It took Dylan minutes, maybe longer, to realize that Cole's eyes were on him, that Cole was studying him quietly, his hands threading through Dylan's hair, his mouth open. Cole was beautiful like this, like Cole was beautiful always but these moments reminded him, when a flush settled high on Cole's cheekbones, a sheen of sweat spread over Cole's face, and it made Dylan's stomah clench. He lifted a hand and traced it over the hollow of Cole's cheekbone then looping under his jaw.
"You are," Dylan said, and his voice was caught somehow, chokey like he couldn't quite get it past all the things that he didn't know how to say, but Cole understood, because his eyes softened, and he was tracing curves up Dylan's spine.
They were kissing again, and it was as easy as anything that Dylan had ever done when Cole's lips were open and moving against his, it was like speaking when Cole's tongue mapped the inside of his mouth, and there was something like a revelation in the way Cole's hand twined in his hair, in the way Cole's skin felt underneath his fingertips, in the echo of their heart that was storming its way through both of their bodies.
"I need," Dylan said, breathed really, but then Cole was snaking a hand between them, slipping into the slit of Dylan's boxers, and-- oh. God. Dylan's hips were pushing forward into Cole's hand before he was even really aware of what he was doing, tiny words like prayers dripping off of his tongue because Cole's hand was moving slow then fast then slow again, and Cole was pressing his lips against Dylan's pulse point, teeth scraping along his collar bone, and it was so much.
Dylan put his head in the place where Cole's neck became Cole's shoulder, and breathed open mouthed in a place that made Cole squirm, and tried to think, tried to remember all the reasons why this was something they shouldn't do, tried to feel guilty, tried to worry about the future, and couldn't. Cole's hips were pressing up against him, and Cole's hand was on him, and Cole smelled nice under him, like soap and sweat and summers and everything he had ever loved. And when Dylan slipped his hand through the loose waistband of Cole's flannel pyjama pants, when Cole let out a small chokey gasp right next to Dylan's ear, and fisted his free hand into the hair at the nape of Dylan's neck, when Cole was in his hand and it was everything he shouldn't do and everything he had to do, and it somehow felt like the most normal thing in the world, Dylan couldn't breathe.
And Dylan's world dissolved except it couldn't actually, because Dylan's world was, had always been, Cole. And Cole underneath him, Cole moving with him, Cole's tongue and the way Cole said his name like a song and bit the lobe of his ear, it was everything that he had always somehow known. When he pushed the heel of his hand down the front of Cole's chest, the echo of their heartbeat pushed back through his wrist, and he was amazed that it wasn't strong enough to shatter every bone in his hand, to shake it apart into a million tiny pieces, because he was nothing compared to this.
It took him an embarrassingly short amount of time (or maybe it had taken him his entire life) to come apart, shaking and gasping on the edges of Cole's name. And Cole was jerking under him a moment later, was pressing his mouth against Dylan's neck and saying something that sounded like a million things that Dylan couldn't find the words for, so maybe it was okay. They stayed like that for a couple of moments without moving, Dylan's arms wrapped around Cole, Cole's breath against his shoulder. Cole pulled away and looked at him quietly. And Dylan tried to remember how wrong everything was, tried to remember everything that he should be feeling right now, but all of it was swallowed up by Cole's fingers tracing up his elbows skating just past the ticklish part of the inner-back of his arm. Dylan put his hands on either side of Cole's face, thumbed over the line of his jaw and kissed the side of his nose.
"I love you," he said, and of all the millions of things that he should have said, of all of the millions of things that he needed to say, that was probably the worst.
Cole's eyes widened, and for once Dylan had absolutely no idea what he was thinking. The hands on his arms stilled suddenly, and when Dylan pushed himself up and off of Cole to kneel next to him, Cole didn't stop him. So he turned and folded his legs off the bed, and buried his head in his hands and still couldn't find a single fucking regret.
Fingertips traced tiny paths up his spine, replaced by lips, and Cole was wrapping his arms around Dylan's waist, putting his legs on either side of Dylan's hips and pulling Dylan in tight so his back was pressed flush against Cole's chest, so Cole's chin could rest in the crook of Dylan's shoulder right where it fit, so Cole could kiss the side of Dylan's neck. "I think," Cole said and paused, and Dylan tilted his head back onto Cole's shoulder. "I think," Cole said slowly, "That love doesn't really begin to cover, um-- everything that I feel. About you."
Dylan put his hands on Cole's knees, his fingers loose. "It doesn't--"
"Yes. It does." Cole's arms tightened around Dylan, like he was somehow afraid that if he let go Dylan would disappear like smoke. "It's just that-- well, it's everything, you and me. It's so much more than fucking 'I love you' and I don't know how to--"
Dylan twisted in Cole's arms, turned himself so that his legs were around Cole's waist, and held Cole's face, and kissed him. "I understand," he said, then pressed Cole down and kissed him into the mattress. And when Cole's breathing slowed, when Cole nuzzled into his neck, when Cole's arm settled heavy around his waist, nothing, none of it, could touch him. And they faded into sleep, twined like seaweed as though the remains of tomorrow would sweep them back to sea; but their heartbeat held them back into the sky.
Author: snorefest
Disclaimer: I do not own these people, they belong to themselves. I am writing this for fun and not for profit.
Fandom: Disney RPS
Pairings/Characters: Sprousecest
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,269
Warnings: non-graphic sexing
Summary: It is the night before they are set to leave for NYU, for their new lives.
"Can't sleep," Cole said, and it was kind of like a question. There was a crash and a flash and Cole's face was suddenly illuminated, and he looked terrified. A lightning storm in the August heat, and Dylan suddenly remembered for no reason that when they were kids Cole had been afraid of thunder, remembered how they had pressed together like breath when it had stormed, how Dylan had wrapped protectively around Cole and traced a hand over Cole's elbow, and how he had felt Cole's heartbeat quick all the way through him. When he was a kid he thought that because they were twins they shared a single heart that echoed through both of their bodies. Sometimes he still thought that.
If there was one thing that Dylan Sprouse was good at, it was thinking. If there was one thing he was good at, it was overthinking, really, because most of the time he was completely incapable of turning off his brain.
And there were a few things that Dylan understood about himself: like that because he had spent his formative years in the public eye as the 'fat twin,' he had become charismatic in a way that Cole could never be. That he liked art because he could control his paintings in a way that he had never been able to control his characters; that paint on the canvas had always been easier for him to understand than another human's emotions painted over himself, and he liked that. Maybe especially because his own human emotions had somehow become so far out of his control that he wasn't sure he could ever get them back. Dylan understood, and this was maybe more important than any of the other things, that he needed Cole like he needed oxygen. And that it frightened him.
It frightened him that he needed Cole in a way that he didn't even realize he needed him, because it was Cole, and Cole was constant like nothing else in their life had ever been. He needed Cole in a way that it had always been their life, really, never singly Dylan's or Cole's but some weird in between amalgam. He needed Cole in a way that meant he didn't notice the knot forming in his stomach when they were waiting for their college acceptance letters until it was twining up around his heart; and even though Dylan talked big about Pratt, about how one day they would have to go their separate ways and lead their own lives, even though all of it, he legitimately couldn't fathom a life in which he didn't see Cole every day. Which kind of fucked with his head, but whatever.
He needed Cole which was why relief settled into the pit of his stomach like a prayer when Cole had come to him, when Cole shyly displayed his acceptance letter to NYU, and said that even though it was their backup school maybe it was the right choice. Because even though he assumed that one day they actually would have to face that, face a life without each other, and even though it would probably be the most painful experience of his life (like maybe that's what growing up was, though, cutting off limbs and waiting for them to scab over enough to not be blindingly painful, cutting wounds big enough that they might never heal), even though all of it, he couldn't handle losing Cole. Not now. He couldn't. He couldn't imagine not seeing Cole every day. He couldn't imagine not knowing Cole like Cole was a part of his body. He couldn't. And he was really really ridiculously embarrassingly glad that they would have four more years together. And after that-- they would figure it out. Maybe four years in the future it would hurt less. Maybe four years in the future it would be fathomable.
Still, even though college was something he would face with Cole, even though because of that it was less big and scary and horrible-- it was still starting an entirely new chapter of their lives, and it was still moving across the country, and it was still a campus full of people who wouldn't give a shit that they had been Disney's poster twins. And it was like-- Dylan was excited. He was. He and Cole had signed the lease on an apartment that they were going to share because they weren't famous exactly, but they were othered enough that dorms wouldn't work. And this way they would have a little more space (not a lot, because even with their savings New York was still expensive. So it wasn't a huge space, but it was big enough. Especially for him and Cole, it was big enough), and Dylan could have his own studio and actually paint. And when they had visited the campus, it had taken Dylan all of two seconds to fall completely and totally in love with the city and its life, even the dirty parts. He wanted to do everything that the city had to offer, he wanted to visit Central Park and Lincoln Center, he wanted to ride the subways and eat really good pizza, and he wanted to take ridiculous touristy pictures with Cole-- and that was the best part of all of it. With Cole.
But doing this, going to NYU, being normal was so abnormal, was completely different from everything that had been their lives for the past two decades. It was still scary. And lying awake at 1AM, his bags packed in the corner of his room, his alarm set for 6AM the day before they were set to depart, the butterflies in his stomach weren't totally nervous, and they weren't totally excited. The plane tickets were sitting on his bedside table, and he was painfully aware of them. Of the fact that they were waiting to take him and Cole to New York. Of the fact that they were waiting to take him and Cole to their home for the next four years. He tried to turn his brain off, but it was completely impossible, his thoughts rattling and shaking through his head, and he wanted to cry, he wanted to laugh, he wanted to scream, he wanted to do something--
His door creaked open.
He sat up in his bed, but he didn't need to look really to know that it was Cole in his doorway, backlit by the hallway light so Dylan couldn't see his face, but it didn't matter because emotion was rolling off of Cole in waves, it didn't matter because they had never needed words, really. Cole was tiny, fragile, birdlike as though in these moments he could flutter out the window and be gone forever. His hands were raised and clasped in front of him, then moving jerkily to his sides to smooth along the side of his legs, his heels clicked together like he wanted to go home.
"Can't sleep," Cole said, and it was kind of like a question. There was a crash and a flash and Cole's face was suddenly illuminated, and he looked terrified. A lightning storm in the August heat, and Dylan suddenly remembered for no reason that when they were kids Cole had been afraid of thunder, remembered how they had pressed together like breath when it had stormed, how Dylan had wrapped protectively around Cole and traced a hand over Cole's elbow, and how he had felt Cole's heartbeat quick all the way through him. When he was a kid he thought that because they were twins they shared a single heart that echoed through both of their bodies. Sometimes he still thought that.
"Come here," Dylan said, patted the space on the bed next to him, tried not to think about the fact that they were both probably way too old for this. But when Cole walked into the room wearing his loose grey drawstringed pyjama pants and a white tank top; when he smiled wryly at Dylan and the golden light from the hallway warred with the silvery moonlight over his shoulder and his hair fell in his eyes and Dylan's breath caught in his throat; when Cole slipped under his comforter and Dylan could feel the soft flannel of Cole's pyjama pants against his leg, could feel the heat that was Cole seeping through that; when Cole sighed quietly under his breath like he was finally okay (and the echoes of their single heart slowed in both of their chests); Dylan couldn't work up the will to regret it.
"I brought," Cole said, and leaned over to reach into the pocket of his pyjama pants, the skin of his shoulder pressing suddenly against Dylan's, and Dylan thought a million things all at once that he could never put words to. But then Cole was dangling his ziplock baggie of weed in Dylan's face, the ridiculous pink pipe that Brenda had bought him as a joke (but Dylan knew that Cole secretly loved it) and a lighter in his other hand. "It might calm us," Cole said, and he was smiling at Dylan, all scrunchy nose and teeth, and even if Dylan had wanted to, he couldn't say no.
"All right," he said, and Cole was packing the pipe before the words were even out of his mouth. "But we're never gonna be able to wake up tomorrow."
"That might be okay." Cole didn't look up from the pipe in his hand which he was poking at with his fingernail, but the corners of his mouth quirked like he wanted Dylan to give him an answer only-- Dylan didn't have one, because he kind of somehow agreed completely. Like when Cole's leg pressed against his under the comforter and it felt like it should always be there, like Dylan wished that the night could never end, that things could always stay the same, that they could slot together and become a single person. "Here, have the first toke," Cole said, their fingertips brushing as Dylan took the pipe and the lighter, and Cole's hand fluttered then toyed along the edges of the baggie before he settled them into his lap.
And Dylan thought that maybe this was exactly what he needed. The glass of the pipe was cool against his lips, then burning down his throat into his lungs, and it didn't burn nearly as much as Cole's eyes on him. He passed the pipe back to Cole, "Thanks," he said, and coughed, watched Cole's hands shake almost so much that he couldn't light the bowl. "How are you holding up?" He didn't need to ask.
"Nervous about flying," Cole said, and Dylan knew without knowing that Cole was lying. If there was anything that Cole could never be afraid of, it was flying, but the truth was way more than they could touch so Dylan didn't press.
"Yeah," Dylan said and took the pipe back, watched in a sort of awe as the smoke slipped past Cole's lips, and maybe that was closer to the truth than anything they could say.
"I don't," Cole said, and cleared his throat.
"I know," Dylan said.
"No." Cole ran a hand through his hair, shook it out, leaned back against Dylan's headboard, and Dylan tried really hard not to think because it was dangerous when Cole was like this, all languid, loose limbs, golden hair and freckles and Dylan had always been lost. "I," Cole said, and he leaned forward, put his cheek against Dylan's shoulder.
Dylan froze, the pipe against his lips, smoke in his mouth. "Cole," he whispered into a cloud of smoke.
"Yeah?" Cole said, and put his hand over Dylan's forearms, turned his head so his lips were ghosting against the edge of Dylan's shoulder and Dylan couldn't breathe suddenly, couldn't think at all.
"Cole," Dylan said again, steel in his voice because there had to be, because if there was any more of this, any more of Cole Dylan would burst apart into a million pieces. And Cole pulled away which was good and also bad, fell back against the headboard with a thump. Dylan handed the pipe back.
"I'm sorry," Cole said, and there was something in his voice like a promise or a lie or a million things all at once and all for Dylan and it was so much more than he could handle.
The echoes sped up and Dylan looked over his shoulder, watched Cole's cheeks hollow, watched the bowl glow red, watched a thread of smoke escape. Everything was moving slowly like a moment stretched too long-- and maybe it was because of the weed that settled in Dylan's room like a cloud, like they were flying already-- but Dylan thought that it was something else entirely. And he was tired of resisting suddenly, tired of pushing everything that always was into never could be, and he turned and leaned raising a hand to wrap around Cole's wrist, pushing his hand out of the way until all that was between their lips was air and want.
Cole's lips were pressed shut, his eyes soft, and Dylan tried to read the freckles that lit across Cole's nose. "Don't be," Dylan said, and leaned the rest of the way so their lips were touching, just barely but Dylan could feel it all the way to his toes. Cole opened his lips against Dylan's and it was all heat, all everything they had ever been when Cole let out a gust of smoke and Dylan inhaled, and the taste of Cole overwhelmed the weed, and it was all that Dylan had always needed all that Dylan had never allowed himself to want. He heard a small noise escape his throat as Cole's tongue darted against his lips, and helplessly he flipped himself over till his legs were folded around Cole's hips, till they were pressed together like puzzle pieces, like they just fit. Somehow both of his hands were gripping at Cole's wrists and they were all that was left to hold onto, Cole was all that was left for Dylan to hold onto, then Cole's hands were sliding and twining with Dylan's, and Cole's hands were sweaty against his, sticky against the inside of his fingers, and it was perfect.
Cole watched him quietly, his eyes half-lidded and too bright, and Dylan leaned forward and kissed him then, because he couldn't not, because he had to, because they had always been like waves crashing together, completely inevitable, because Cole tasted like everything that Dylan wasn't, because somehow the way they fell together wasn't like falling at all, it was like every time they had wrestled, every time they had touched for just moments too long, every time their eyes had met and they always knew it would end this way somehow.
"Dylan," Cole said against his neck, in a way that wasn't like talking at all.
And Dylan knew that he should stop this, knew that he should roll off of Cole and go to sleep and go to college in the morning and forget that this happened, knew that he should have never let it go this far. But he was nipping at Cole's jaw before he had even properly realized he was doing it, and Cole was moaning against him, rumbling in his chest, and he couldn't resist this. It was completely out of his control like everything always had been. Cole had a hand free up and sliding against Dylan's back, and Cole's fingers were long and thin and clammy nervous, but they weren't shaking anymore. They were pressing indents against his shoulder blades and pulling Dylan closer until he was folded nearly in half, until they were flush against each other. Dylan slid his hands up and under Cole's shirt because he needed more, needed more soft skin underneath his finger, scraping up his ribcage thumbing across his nipple then pressing flat to feel the echo of their heart against the palm of his hand.
Dylan ran a trail of kisses down the side of Cole's neck, and as Cole arched his head back, jaw tilting up, Dylan realized that he didn't love Cole like this anymore than he loved Cole any other time. Dylan realized that that love was still overwhelming him, this normal Cole love that ran through his veins, that was as much a part of him as his body, overwhelmed him completely. Without Dylan even realizing it really their shirts were somehow off, and it was just them, Cole's hands fucking everywhere and miles and miles of skin. It wasn't like Cole's skin was unfamiliar; it was as familiar as Dylan's own skin, and that made it somehow better like he didn't need to think even. Which was good because thinking was becoming difficult, especially when Cole nipped at the corners of his mouth, and wrapped his hands like that around Dylan's arms and sliding down along his back, especially when Cole made that chokey-gaspy sound and cursed against Dylan's mouth, and it was all so much more than he'd ever thought he would have.
"Cole," Dylan said, pulled away and Cole's hands scrabbled uselessly across Dylan's ribs then settling down at his hips. "Cole, I--"
There were a thousand things he wanted to say, a thousand things he should have said, but he looked at Cole then and it was a mistake because Cole was beautiful like this. Somehow they'd managed to slide down the bed so Cole's hair was spread golden around his head, tangling on the pillow, so Cole's mouth was red and swollen and open a little, so Cole's eyes were nearly closed, eyelashes fluttering and settling on his cheekbones, and God it wasn't fair that Cole got all the pretty genes because it meant that Dylan got all the helpless genes and lost his train of thought completely in moments like this. Cole reached up a hand and traced it over Dylan's jaw, thumb flitting over the edge of Dylan's lips, like he thought that Dylan was the pretty one somehow.
Dylan caught Cole's hand in his, twined their fingers. "I shouldn't," he said. "We shouldn't." He leaned off of Cole, unentangled their fingers and cradled his wrist to his chest, but he wasn't strong eneough to pull away completely, wasn't strong enough to meet Cole's eyes, so he knelt, and held his hand to his ribs, and tried to remind himself how to breathe.
Cole was silent for several long moments, and it probably should have been uncomfortable, Dylan probably should have been thinking too much, but all he could think about somehow was the contact between their hips, all he could think about was the memory of Cole's lips, of soft noises and smoke and friction. And then Cole's hand were tracing up Dylan's jaw around the back oh his neck, and sliding down to his waist. Cole was sitting up, wrapping his arms around Dylan, pressing his lips to the side of his neck, just underneath his ear.
"It's okay," Cole said, and moved his hands to press against Dylan's chest, his fingers spreading to play against Dylan's collarbone. "It's--" and Dylan was helpless leaning forward, tilting his head to kiss Cole, Dylan was helpless, wrapping his arms around Cole, helpless when Cole dropped his head down breath hot against Dylan's collarbone, helpless in the taste of Cole, the smell of Cole, the feel of Cole. "Look," Cole said, kissed the edge of his shoulder, "We fit." And then Cole was pushing his hips up and oh God it was like they didn't even have to try to get this, to get these perfect moments.
It took Dylan minutes, maybe longer, to realize that Cole's eyes were on him, that Cole was studying him quietly, his hands threading through Dylan's hair, his mouth open. Cole was beautiful like this, like Cole was beautiful always but these moments reminded him, when a flush settled high on Cole's cheekbones, a sheen of sweat spread over Cole's face, and it made Dylan's stomah clench. He lifted a hand and traced it over the hollow of Cole's cheekbone then looping under his jaw.
"You are," Dylan said, and his voice was caught somehow, chokey like he couldn't quite get it past all the things that he didn't know how to say, but Cole understood, because his eyes softened, and he was tracing curves up Dylan's spine.
They were kissing again, and it was as easy as anything that Dylan had ever done when Cole's lips were open and moving against his, it was like speaking when Cole's tongue mapped the inside of his mouth, and there was something like a revelation in the way Cole's hand twined in his hair, in the way Cole's skin felt underneath his fingertips, in the echo of their heart that was storming its way through both of their bodies.
"I need," Dylan said, breathed really, but then Cole was snaking a hand between them, slipping into the slit of Dylan's boxers, and-- oh. God. Dylan's hips were pushing forward into Cole's hand before he was even really aware of what he was doing, tiny words like prayers dripping off of his tongue because Cole's hand was moving slow then fast then slow again, and Cole was pressing his lips against Dylan's pulse point, teeth scraping along his collar bone, and it was so much.
Dylan put his head in the place where Cole's neck became Cole's shoulder, and breathed open mouthed in a place that made Cole squirm, and tried to think, tried to remember all the reasons why this was something they shouldn't do, tried to feel guilty, tried to worry about the future, and couldn't. Cole's hips were pressing up against him, and Cole's hand was on him, and Cole smelled nice under him, like soap and sweat and summers and everything he had ever loved. And when Dylan slipped his hand through the loose waistband of Cole's flannel pyjama pants, when Cole let out a small chokey gasp right next to Dylan's ear, and fisted his free hand into the hair at the nape of Dylan's neck, when Cole was in his hand and it was everything he shouldn't do and everything he had to do, and it somehow felt like the most normal thing in the world, Dylan couldn't breathe.
And Dylan's world dissolved except it couldn't actually, because Dylan's world was, had always been, Cole. And Cole underneath him, Cole moving with him, Cole's tongue and the way Cole said his name like a song and bit the lobe of his ear, it was everything that he had always somehow known. When he pushed the heel of his hand down the front of Cole's chest, the echo of their heartbeat pushed back through his wrist, and he was amazed that it wasn't strong enough to shatter every bone in his hand, to shake it apart into a million tiny pieces, because he was nothing compared to this.
It took him an embarrassingly short amount of time (or maybe it had taken him his entire life) to come apart, shaking and gasping on the edges of Cole's name. And Cole was jerking under him a moment later, was pressing his mouth against Dylan's neck and saying something that sounded like a million things that Dylan couldn't find the words for, so maybe it was okay. They stayed like that for a couple of moments without moving, Dylan's arms wrapped around Cole, Cole's breath against his shoulder. Cole pulled away and looked at him quietly. And Dylan tried to remember how wrong everything was, tried to remember everything that he should be feeling right now, but all of it was swallowed up by Cole's fingers tracing up his elbows skating just past the ticklish part of the inner-back of his arm. Dylan put his hands on either side of Cole's face, thumbed over the line of his jaw and kissed the side of his nose.
"I love you," he said, and of all the millions of things that he should have said, of all of the millions of things that he needed to say, that was probably the worst.
Cole's eyes widened, and for once Dylan had absolutely no idea what he was thinking. The hands on his arms stilled suddenly, and when Dylan pushed himself up and off of Cole to kneel next to him, Cole didn't stop him. So he turned and folded his legs off the bed, and buried his head in his hands and still couldn't find a single fucking regret.
Fingertips traced tiny paths up his spine, replaced by lips, and Cole was wrapping his arms around Dylan's waist, putting his legs on either side of Dylan's hips and pulling Dylan in tight so his back was pressed flush against Cole's chest, so Cole's chin could rest in the crook of Dylan's shoulder right where it fit, so Cole could kiss the side of Dylan's neck. "I think," Cole said and paused, and Dylan tilted his head back onto Cole's shoulder. "I think," Cole said slowly, "That love doesn't really begin to cover, um-- everything that I feel. About you."
Dylan put his hands on Cole's knees, his fingers loose. "It doesn't--"
"Yes. It does." Cole's arms tightened around Dylan, like he was somehow afraid that if he let go Dylan would disappear like smoke. "It's just that-- well, it's everything, you and me. It's so much more than fucking 'I love you' and I don't know how to--"
Dylan twisted in Cole's arms, turned himself so that his legs were around Cole's waist, and held Cole's face, and kissed him. "I understand," he said, then pressed Cole down and kissed him into the mattress. And when Cole's breathing slowed, when Cole nuzzled into his neck, when Cole's arm settled heavy around his waist, nothing, none of it, could touch him. And they faded into sleep, twined like seaweed as though the remains of tomorrow would sweep them back to sea; but their heartbeat held them back into the sky.