[ love is a red-hot brand against the skin. it's a sharp blade against the soft parts of the throat, against the pale curve of an exposed belly. for june, it's a well-honed knife, unerring in its mark every time it cuts into meat of his mortal frame. june always bleeds, the pain a benediction and a balm to the cut-up remains of his heart. his poor, fragile heart — it's an twisted, shriveled drupe that no one could possibly want. how many people have left him behind? how many have said the words, never meaning them in all the times the words have passed their lips?
june knows better than to believe. he knows better than to pretend.
and yet, with saiph's hand finding him and drawing him to attention, june buys into the illusion once more.
his free hand moves to press against the soaked folds of saiph's clothes, chasing after the man even when his attentions move away from his mouth and down to the cradle of his shoulder. he leaves a kiss against saiph's temple, gets a mouthful of hair through the sheets of water cascading down around them. what little air that's been left in him has lodged itself high in chest, choking him with the fondness of an old friend, and june wants to much to touch that the ache in his ribs does nothing to keep him from pushing against saiph's grip.
june's free hand finds its place at the back of saiph's neck, and it stays there, firm and insistent. let me reach you, he wants to say. let me feel your skin against mine. he gasps against the combined pressure of forming bruises and saiph's hand on him, his gift coming awake spreading out of him without his permission. it turns the liquid heat pooling low in his belly into gasoline, igniting with every pass of saiph's hand on him and lighting him up like a housefire.
in the end, he fumbles with the buttons of saiph's shirt. the water cools his fingers, makes them shake, and he manages to tear the fabric by accident when he pulls too hard. it's worth it when june manages to peel the cloth back enough to be able to lay his hand against the other's sternum, to finally come in contact with the other's bare skin. he wants—
he wants so much more than this. june doesn't know where to start. he doesn't know how to ask. ]
no subject
june knows better than to believe. he knows better than to pretend.
and yet, with saiph's hand finding him and drawing him to attention, june buys into the illusion once more.
his free hand moves to press against the soaked folds of saiph's clothes, chasing after the man even when his attentions move away from his mouth and down to the cradle of his shoulder. he leaves a kiss against saiph's temple, gets a mouthful of hair through the sheets of water cascading down around them. what little air that's been left in him has lodged itself high in chest, choking him with the fondness of an old friend, and june wants to much to touch that the ache in his ribs does nothing to keep him from pushing against saiph's grip.
june's free hand finds its place at the back of saiph's neck, and it stays there, firm and insistent. let me reach you, he wants to say. let me feel your skin against mine. he gasps against the combined pressure of forming bruises and saiph's hand on him, his gift coming awake spreading out of him without his permission. it turns the liquid heat pooling low in his belly into gasoline, igniting with every pass of saiph's hand on him and lighting him up like a housefire.
in the end, he fumbles with the buttons of saiph's shirt. the water cools his fingers, makes them shake, and he manages to tear the fabric by accident when he pulls too hard. it's worth it when june manages to peel the cloth back enough to be able to lay his hand against the other's sternum, to finally come in contact with the other's bare skin. he wants—
he wants so much more than this. june doesn't know where to start. he doesn't know how to ask. ]