currently untitled

BEFORE YOU READ, BE AWARE:
This is all very episodic, the POV changes quite frequently, and the plot hasn\'t been outlined into a bloody pulp. Why? This isn\'t a big project of mine. It\'s a fun little thing to write on to as well as an excercize in characters, but everyone who\'s read this has really enjoyed, so I\'m hoping to spread the love here. If you\'re looking for something very serious, with a big purpose and theme and all that whatnot, turn elsewhere. But if you can deal with a bit of meandering and a few corny scenes, with some nice descriptions and characters and m/m goodness scattered along the way, check it out.
That in mind, this is the one thing I\'m not looking for heavy criticisms on; this is purely intended as fun for me and the readers (hopefully they\'ll enjoy).
POV will be provided at the beginning of each scene for sheer clarity\'s sake. If you still don\'t get it, well, tough cookies; this thing ain\'t going through the Revise-o Machine again.

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[Character One!]

It didn’t really matter how close you got, or how far. No matter where you were, it was the same place, the same damned twisting, clenching place, and still you couldn’t breathe.

He understood that, into the depths that no one else before had even the notion of. He knew precisely the thoroughness of the suffocation, and so naturally, I was drawn to him. It was both the attraction of one animal to another of its kind, and that of a moth to a flame. Moreover, I think it was because to him, I was the first to truly understand; this gave me a sense of pride and confidence, and banished the concern that his expressed interest was because of pity or concern.

Had the circumstances been different, I don’t imagine we would have pursued this avenue very far. As it was, however, we were sole confidents, and the only place one could risk giving full trust.

He was… gorgeous, yes. Absolutely astounding, and it would be a lie if I said the occasions on which I wanted to (and had) ravish him senseless weren’t abundant. A generous soul, too, and the one who had the least of his concern was himself. These things, however, I detested as much as I desired. But, I suppose that was my own masochistic nature above anything else.

In short, he fueled me. Deeply and thoroughly. This was, despite all its splendor, our demise.

* * *
[Third Person!]

The boy’s lips were soft, plush, but he felt them as filled and ready to burst. The tongue inside his mouth was more than a gentle and probing one as so many of the other boys had. This one, instead, was sure, strong, and thirsting. After it had explored all the crevices of the boy’s mouth, and tasted every taste, gathered in all the sweetness and every stale flavor around the edges, the other boy’s entire body pressed in hard. The tongue ravaged his mouth, working against the older’s own, stabbing to life every nerve and vein that connected to places deeper inside. He felt the aggressor’s hips pushing rougher, rubbing and bucking against his own so that his erection screamed into his mind with each throb restricted by the jeans. The hands were the most frantic of all, stroking his scalp before darting down his back, beneath his pants squeezing and savoring the feel of his bare buttocks, then slithering up to torturing work his nipples and chest, digging into the soft and pink-red flesh, before firing down and clasping his hips to pull them into a harder grind. All the while, the tongue pressed deep into him, and the lips teased his wide open.

The boy would work him hard, engaging in this both chaste yet shockingly intimate game until they were both exhausted before finally giving it up for the cheaper pleasures of an orgasm. The younger never did this in any sort of mutual way, always getting them off separately unless the older’s sense of romance intervened; often, he wouldn’t even finish in the same room as his playmate.

Had the older boy ever been thinking clearly after these trysts, this would have troubled him. However, such sessions were rarely followed by anything but heavy sleep, preferably curled into his lover’s arms.

When they woke, though, the atmosphere and world were entirely reshaped. No longer was it a driven, screeching desperation, and no longer was it confined to that unbreakable membrane between their skin. Now, the world wrapped around all borders of their minds, and turned at once to the artistic, inquisitive, and the practiced; now was when the other half of their dance began.

* * *
[Character Two!]

To an outsider, watching him work would have been like watching plants grow, but to me it was almost lovemaking. Even when I had to keep my distance, I remembered all the triggers inside him, all the snaps and sensations in his mind. Usually, however, it was far more real an experience.

He sat in my collapsible desk chair, fists clenched and placed on either thigh. For this his glasses were removed and stowed beneath the pillow, but even though he couldn’t see the objects on the desk it was no longer necessary. Often, he kept his eyes shut.

Behind him I stood, specter-like in the proceedings, making only the slightest presence by placing my fingertips on his head, the middle in so light a contact with his temple, and the succeeding ones wrapping just above his eyebrows; the index fingers were held on opposite sides of the center of his skull. While he had no desire to see what elapsed in front of him, I was predatorial in my observations. I watched and mentally recorded all, like a vivid and six-dimensional television set.

He began, and I knew it first through the sudden, distant gravity to him that I felt through our connection; it was as if the earth was being drawn up into him. Then gradually an awareness became weaved around his body, and the small, shock-like sensations that passed over his skin were reflected onto mine. Soon after the objects on the desk stirred, shaking lightly as he warmed up but before long becoming one great, orchestrated semaphore. All the while I kept my fingers over his head, and sensed each connection firing in his brain, each change of state pass over him like a dull wave, and throughout it all the numbness of his heart.

When he was drawing to a close, his mind both opened and closed. One portion, the one which sparked and churned away during study and conversation roused, as if from some great hibernation. The other, however, the more mysterious and indefinable portion of which I alone in the world was given privilege to, it folded up, collapsed delicately in on itself like a closing lily, and condensed so deeply within him that I felt not a trace of it once the process was fully completed.

I went to the desk now and put away the items – a few of which I hadn’t set out for him in the first place – and he went to retrieve his glasses. As I slid a book into its shelf, I saw the snow globe sitting patiently by it. With a fond smile, I picked it up. “Not those.”

There was only the slightest of pauses before he zipped up his backpack. “Yes, these.”

“Conner, please.” I’d stopped shaking the globe, now watching the glistening flakes float down and pool on the glass. More than this, I gazed at the faces of the two small figures within.

“You need to get comfortable with all of them,” came his flat reply.

Behind me, he sat down on the bed and took the cards out of the case; as he looked over a few, heavy pangs hit my stomach. Setting the globe down, I turned to him and asked, “When am I ever going to have to deal with that?”

Wisely, he smiled, hands falling to his lap. “You always say that you’re never going to use chem, but you still study for it.”

I shifted to stand on one leg, arms crossing. We stared each other down briefly, my eyes quietly pleading, and from him coming nothing but confident firmness.

Slowly, I stepped across the room and sat beside him on the bed.

* * *
[Conner!]

I drew another card, holding it carefully between my fingers. I stared at it, the image sinking into my brain, and he shifted uncomfortably beside me as he withdrew it.

“Locusts.”

His voice was small, minute, and his form smaller as it curled against my back. No doubt he was fidgeting with the unthreading ends of his jeans, knees drawn up and eyes on some spot or smudge on the hardwood; I’d seen him in such a fetal post countless times before.

Placing the card face-down on the comforter, a little shock passed through my stomach as I glanced at the back of the next. “Keep focused, please,” he said at this, as sheepishly as he’d said since we’d started the deck. I took a moment, clearing my mind of the anticipation, and drew it.

“Disease.”

A shiver passed up his spine against my back. I drew another card. There was a quaver, shaking in his voice as he recited this one.

“Rain of fire.”

His hand came into view as a blur in the corner of my eye, and I moved to place mine over it with the card of burning houses still between two fingers. He withdrew his hand, which was unusually warm, quickly, and I picked up the next.

For a suspiciously long time, he was silent. Then his body shook against mine, and an odd, fleshy sound came from his throat.

“El?”

There was another and more fevered, but distinctly airless noise in response. I turned around, dropping all the cards into the pile on the bed. A hand was clutched at his throat, and he coughed silently. Quickly I bent him towards the floor and patted him hard on the back. With an unnatural sloshing sound, a puddle of water fell to the floor, and he took several rasping breaths. He huddled into my arms.

Turning to put the cards back in the box – giving the monsoon one an extra curious glance – I said nothing.

“I don’t like those cards.”

After tossing the deck to the floor, I brought him back into my arms, smoothing out his hair and kissing very lightly at his brow.

His breathing relaxed and muscles untangled, he leaned back onto the pillow. His milky blue eyes stared up at mine, then the slightest of frowns took his lips. Leaning down next to him, I placed two fingers on top of them, and after a moment felt them curve into a smile.

Once I was down beside him he cuddled into me, arms between us in what could have been a position of prayer, and his face burrowed into my shoulder. Gently, I stroked his hair.

“Conner?”

At first I didn’t respond, but not because I was distracted.

“Yes?”

“Don’t leave me, alright?” He gave a shivering sigh and drew closer. In a whisper, “Don’t make me do this on my own.”

I stroked his hair behind his ears, out of his eyes and off his forehead, and waited before answering.

“I won’t.”

I said it because I didn’t want to hear him crying.

* * *
[El!]

I knew from the beginning that it wouldn’t be solace for long, but that didn’t make it any easier when things changed.

He shoved me again from behind, giving another nonsense insult, but I still kept my balance.

“Shut up, Tim,” I said with an irritated sigh in m y tone, eyes giving a short roll.

“What’d you say?” One of his cronies stepped in front of me and gave a rough nudge to my shoulder.

“I said fuck off!” Though I tried to take a path through them, I was unable as another stepped in the gap. A punch was being raised, but I didn’t flinch.

“Hey, Tina.” The group turned to face the newcomer, angry looks plastered on all their faces. I looked subtly to the dark haired boy, glaring and giving the slightest shakes of my head, but he glanced away from me to the leader of the group and nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Still going after the small fry?”

Tim’s voice became especially vicious, but fear was the cause, and it pulsed slowly from him. “What do you want, fag?” His cronies added in their sneers.

A smug grin curved Conner’s lips. “If you’re that jealous, you could always try asking him for head.”

Tim no doubt shot some sad cross between a challenge and a comeback, but I didn’t listen. Intently I stared into Conner’s eyes, my head shaking.

But his eyes narrowed.

Behind us came a loud crack, and many bangs. All turned to look – even some who hadn’t been watching the proceedings – at the smashed and broken vending machine. Hisses rose into the air as several bottles fizzed out soda, but I didn’t have much time to examine the damage as a hand pulled me by the sleeve. We slipped easily from the crowd with this distraction.

Pulling me around the corner, he scolded, “El, you could stop him! Why don’t you even try? Do you want to get beat?”

“I don’t want to end up in a *mental* institution,” I snapped back, crouching beneath our two bushes that rested between classroom windows.

“El, we’ve been practicing; it’s not going to happen again.” Mildly disgusted, he took the apple from my tray, and muttered for the sake of changing the subject, “How can you keep eating this stuff…”

“It’s not that bad.” I turned the spork between my fingers and let slip a betraying sigh.

“Not even the fruit has flavor.”

At that, I leaned onto his shoulder and took the thousandth bite. “But it’s food.”

* * *
[Third Person!]

His breathing was heavy, fast, but the pant was consumed by the kiss. When it was broken, the boy gave a sound that was neither a whimper nor a moan, but certainly as desperate as each. His arms, hooked tightly around Conner’s neck, pulled closer as the dark haired mass moved down to his neck. He gasped at the firm sucking, and quivered as the other boy licked the flesh held between his teeth. He murmured the boy’s name. Conner looked up at this, and slid further between El’s legs as he pushed back the hair for another deep, consuming kiss. El writhed beneath him.

Conner unbuttoned the other boy’s shirt and moved it back to expose the shoulders, which he then covered in nips and kisses. As he licked his way down and found a nipple, El gasped and his back lifted so slightly off the bed. While the younger boy’s hands and tongue mapped every inch of flesh – from the curves of his ribs to the well of his stomach, and memorizing every hair that graced his ivory skin – El’s thighs spread unconsciously. His hips rocked hard, desperately against Conner’s, and the boy tossed back his head in pleading.

Whether by a stroke of kindness or cruelty, Conner stopped, sitting up and staring at the squirming form sprawled out before him, his eyes fevered but dull.

Cheeks heavily flushed and lips strawberry red, El glanced up at him, his breaths slowing. “Conner…” he whispered.

The younger’s hands rested on top of the other’s hips, hands dangerously close to the erection. Slowly, as though seconds became minutes, his hands drew up over the bare chest, fingers weaving through the pubic hair, gliding over the skin peppered with sweat, palms pressing down on the hardened nipples. El shuddered fiercely, but Conner held his gaze strong. Finally, the hands came to El’s cheeks, and the dark haired boy leaned in for one last kiss, finalizing his claim.

From there, it was not the frantic bucking of desperate teens, nor the haphazard kissing of adolescence. Nothing so anti-climactic would have followed in their situation.

With swan-like grace, El sat up and slipped his shirt off, his own hands trailing down his shoulders for his lover. Conner took them in his own, treading their fingers together for a moment, before bringing them down to the boy’s pants. El unzipped them, fingers quivering with uncertainty and need, and Conner pulled them off so that the boy laid naked, a pulsing statue of energy and beauty before him. “Elijah,” he whispered, hands guiding the boy’s thighs back up and around his own waist. El smiled at him, blushing deeply.

Conner stripped before him, revealing strong, compact muscle wired over his frame. Sweat gleamed across his face, and El could feel his whole body buzzing with heat. Conner had soon thrown his pants across the room and was leaning over El once more, locking him in a powerful, dizzying kiss that bruised his lover’s sore lips. One hand brought a thigh around his waist, and with little hesitation the older boy wrapped the other around him tightly, brushing their erections together. El moaned deeply at the contact.

Conner pressed them together again, the world blinking out so briefly as he felt El’s strong heartbeat against his painfully hard shaft. Holding the boy’s hips beneath him, Conner thrust against El’s cock, and his body became momentarily weak. He drove his tongue deeper.

El bucked against him, wrapping his arms around the other’s shoulders and returning the kiss as though one had been dying. Conner steadied him, pulled him up to a sit again. He broke the kiss for air, but brought a hand to their erections, stroking them.

The older whined in desperation, hands flying to Conner’s arms and the nails digging in. Conner savored this moment.

Then the thrusts began again, this time accompanied by the stroking of his hand, and soon they had finished and collapsed onto the bed. Conner’s eyes stared distantly at the blurred snow globe, while El shivered beneath him.

As their breathing began to calm and the blinding intensity faded, El dotingly stroked Conner’s hair, and kissed lightly at his lover’s neck.

Conner, as if roused from sleep, rolled over next to El. He took one of the still-intact curls from the boy’s own hair, fingers sliding over it, and then he took it in his mouth.

* * *
[Third Person!]

El squirmed, twisting in the sheets tangled around his waist and legs. One arm fought dumbly to get them free, and the other remained pinned beneath his wrestling body. Soft noises escaped him, moans that in his sleep-locked mind echoes as screams.

He had become coated in cool, slick sweat within the past few minutes, but the night was still long ahead of him.

* * *
[Third Person!]

Threading his fingers through his hair with a worrisome look, Conner stepped quickly down the sidewalk. Halfway between their homes, no one was out, and beneath the dark and glittering night all the energy and movement in the world beat rhythmically with Conner’s heart. And so when a new presence appeared, he knew before it spoke.

“Conner O’Malley?” It was inquisitive and polite, a voice one would use when addressing a potential customer.

The boy stopped, but did not turn. Beside him a lamp post flickered out, hiding his clenched fist momentarily.

The owner of the voice, however, acknowledged nothing. “The Conner O’Malley who is acquainted with a Mister Elijah September?” There was no pause, falter, or hesitation in the voice, even though at the mention of the second name Conner’s ears pounded with blood.

The dark-haired O’Malley gave half a turn, scrutinizing this man in the old blue blazer. He very briefly wondered why he even considered hearing the man out, in the middle of this cold and abandoned street, with El\'s sense – *his* El\'s sense – still beating along his skin in time with his own pulse, but the notion soon passed. He narrowed the eye in which he saw the man, muscles tightening as a smile curved the other’s lips.

“I hear… you boys have some interesting talents!” Conner nearly struck the man at hearing these words, but before he could a hand was extended.

Flicking out the business card from his palm, the man in the business suit said with a grin, “I’m Jack. Jack Crow.”

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All characters and materials herein are copyrighted to A. \"the lime mime\" Lowe. Distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of A. Lowe.