2010 Winter Games Kink Meme
Part 2
I never really expected this to take off so well, let alone end up with 4000+ comments. Now it's time for part 2!
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1. We are all here to have a little fun. Am I right?
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u tool. cant talk now, call me later n tell me bout it
That night JR calls him lying down in bed, perfectly still on his back, and whispers so his mother won't hear. About the pain, the buzz of the needle gun, the way his skin is raised up now and hypersensitive. He runs his fingertips over his chest. He makes a joke in a rush of quiet, breathless laughter: "hey, I'm legal now, how about that?" Doesn't add and I'm touching myself, knowing it's perverse and weird, why did he think of that? It's not a funny joke. It's not funny at all.
Apolo shoots back, "You can throw a party, but it doesn't mean anyone will show up," and it shouldn't hurt as much as it does.
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Somehow it becomes a routine. Like that's Apolo's present to him: we can talk every night. Soon it gets to how JR can't fall asleep without at least hearing Apolo say, "Talk to you tomorrow, I promise." Promise. He wants to lace his fingers through the word and dig his teeth in. It feels solid. Something to hold onto.
But sometimes when he promises there's a girl laughing in the background, or thumping bass somewhere. And sometimes there's just nothing at all.
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And sometimes when Apolo promises, he's pushing his palms into his eyes, knowing. Knowing that JR is curled in bed warm and sleepy, unwound, boundaries dropped. Think about that tan skin with the lines worked into it. Think about it and don't dare act. Apolo balances on the edge of a razor when he's skating but this is more precarious. Do you really want me to sing you to sleep? I don't know anything sweet enough. I just know angry songs. If he were twenty and young he could write something of his own but he feels ancient, weary, eroding away. He makes promises he can't keep. I can't be around. I can't be dangerous to you.
But it's more dangerous to push away, to reject, to acknowledge anything more. To admit: sometimes you fall asleep and I listen to you breathing. Sometimes you tell me we should live together someday so we can talk every night. These are not things to let rise to the surface. These are the things you keep buried.
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Seven years like an enormous iron bell, ringing over both their houses. It has a Biblical sound to it, redolent of retribution and punishment.
JR thinks of it as a mountain: one slow, weary step at a time up towards adulthood. Towards being someone Apolo doesn't call kid.
Apolo goes on calling him kid, thinking, careful. Thinking of all the pebbles that catch in his shoes on the sidewalk. Thinking of collecting them to build a mountain.
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Seven years doesn't stop the movement. Particle physics. Circle in orbits around each other, move like the elliptical swing of hips on a dance floor. JR gets dangerous: starts telling Apolo secrets. "I used to, like, worship you. Is that weird? I thought you were the hottest thing on two feet."
And Apolo, for his part, lets the mortar crumble a bit. Brick dust raining over them, falling like stardust from their ceilings. "It's better now that we're actually friends." Pause. "Actually close."
JR: "Say that again."
"What?"
"Say that we're close."
Each of them not breathing, thinking physicality, thinking of falling forward and what they could catch on. Hands on collarbones. Forehead on shoulder. Mouth on neck. "I shouldn't have to," Apolo says, and each of them knows exactly what it means and doesn't mean.
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I. love. this. fill. Your writing is phenomenal, anon. I love this story and everything about it! Well done.
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