by DJ Maze
(09/19/07)
East facing windows, and Vincent's skin tastes like morning. Warm and white, like scalded milk and sunrise, flushed pink where the sweat gathers at the back of his neck. Overripe fruit, bursting sweet and whole on James' tongue.
Just the feel of it makes James lyrical, makes him stupid. He's always fucking poetic in the mornings, in the single, longest hour before the alarm goes off. Always thinking in snatches of song, or guitar riffs. He never remembers any of it later, after a shower and coffee, burnt and faded by the heat of noon. Everything he puts to paper then will be stilted, weary, the self-indulgent poetry of a man old enough to know better.
In sleep, Vince breathes in shallow, endless loops; tide pools shrinking in the sun, and James can't resist touching those, can't help sticking greedy fingers inside, seeing what lies underneath. He wants to peel away the layers like years, chase childhood and other cherished things down beaches and summers that never do end.
Everything Vince owns is still in boxes scattered over James' bedroom floor. Everything he cared enough to move, in any case, tucked neatly into six 2x4 pieces of cardboard, and one trip of his old jeep down from his apartment in Westwood.
And James can't remember ever being that elegantly simple, having a life so unencumbered that even though Monday was close of show in New York, and Thursday was moving day in California, there was still plenty of time in between to get it all done.
James can't remember when there was plenty of time.
Mornings like this one, when the sun is so bright that James can count the lines on his own hands, his palms itch with the need to just hold everything still. To make some kind of permanence with words or noise. To write music about boyhood and the universal truths of candy apples and cops and robbers. But everything he wants to say will come out Sesame Street: alliteration, boys and girls, words beginning with the letter 'S.'
(summer/song/stupid)
James runs his hand down Vince's shoulder blades and Vince's breathing quickens, body rising and expanding to fill James' palm. Runs fingertips down the center of Vince's chest, raising goose bumps and groans.
Just a small hissing sound when James' hand closes around slim hips, palms the curve of Vince's ass. Sweetest spot where his thigh ends, bruises there the colors of daylight. Fiery reds and the palest blues; and Vince's hiss gets louder and longer the harder James presses. He digs his fingers in deep, until the pitch finally matches the music inside James' head.
He flips Vince over, drags a hand through his hair; it's shorter now, just enough of it to tangle like roots between his fingers. Vince's eyes are closed, but his mouth opens before James even leans down.
Vince kisses like he needs like he loves (like a kid), pure and desperate and solely focused. It makes James want to coddle him at the same time it makes him want to tear Vince apart. Want to open him up and pour himself inside until Vince chokes.
(split/suck)
James drags Vince's feet up, over his shoulders. Drags his dick down the crack of Vince's ass. Sliding rough and ready against pink skin, pushing almost almost inside, on just morning sweat and leftover slick.
Gets a high pitched, puppy whine.
"Shh, shh," James says, breath low and even, making the fine hairs on the side of Vince's neck rise. Breezes through cornfields, ripples over water. "Be sooo gentle, promise."
Grasps Vince's dick in one tight fist. Tilts the balance.
Vince arches, middle C. Presses back into James' hand. Opens his eyes and his legs. The headboard slams into the wall.
(spread/slut)
James blinks against the sand of sleep and the stink of sex, stares at Vince underneath him. Barely awake, white T-shirt pushed up above his nipples, knees pushed up behind his ears. James shoving into him, some immense and inevitable tide, stealing shore and breath.
"James--" stray-kitten-lost voice, straight to James' dick, lightning bugs down his spine, in his balls.
(sick fuck)
"Yea," he says, twisting his hips, getting another buckshuddergasp as Vince bows, folds. Bending like guitar strings, holding his own ankles. Vibrating like sound, like rainbows. Blurred in sweat and sunshine, he should refract light, he should be..."here."
"More."
"Yea."
He bites into Vince's shoulder like it's the first apple of the season. Tastes blood and rhymes.
(swallow/sin)
Vince shouts, clutches at James' neck and hands. Tosses his head back and forth on the pillow in staccato beat, counterpoint to his hips snapping forward. Metronome: breathing, rocking, fucking. James can almost count the notes.
True North, perfect pitch, all things seek equilibrium, even James.
(safety/sanctuary/shrine/sonofa-)
"IloveyouIloveyou"
So goddamn effortless for Vince, words pouring like sweat, like music. Vince never has trouble finding the rhythm.
But there are lyrics James will never be able to write, there are chords he will never learn to play.
"Love-you-"
(shattered)
After, James will breathe in rhythm to the silence in his head. He will clutch at it with greedy, grabby hands, certain (afraid) it won't last. He will pull the blanket over Vince, while he sprawls out in the shape of a starfish across the center of the mattress, mumbling about pancakes and eggs.
And James will stare at the bruises on Vince's hips. Hold his own hand out flat atop them, line up the marks with his palm (bluebells and cabbage-roses, things that grow then fade just as quick). Run a hand over his own jaw, where the razor stubble is prickly and uneven, the way change always feels.
Then he will light a cigarette, watch the sun try to stain Vince's shoulders the color of strawberries as he sleeps. Watch the dust scatter like summer raindrops in its wake.
He will think about getting up, think about writing, or playing guitar.
Instead, he will reach over, and turn off the alarm before it can ring.
It's 6:57. For a while, he'll just be.
(still)
