‘Charles…’
‘No.’
‘Just so we’re clear, we’re gonna address some things you said.’
Charles sways away, tempted to revive the French Revolution. ‘Yes. Of course. I understand… Like what?’
‘We don’t have to do it this morning.’
‘Oh. Great. Excellent.’
Charles’ lips head straight for the spot on Loris’ neck that he had to abandon earlier. He resumes painting on his back, this time with firm but anarchistic strokes, a bit frustrated by his incapacity to touch his entire body at once. And Loris’ fingers are travelling down his spine artistically, when Charles wants abstract and messy.
He kisses his way up, reaches Loris’ earlobe and elicits a noise that becomes his all-time favourite sound. He will provoke it once more now that he’s found the switch. He will compose a film score with it.But Loris catches his lips in another kiss and, soon, Charles is the one producing unheard-of sounds because of the friction of their hips.
Loris is pushing him, or Charles is stepping back. It’s not easy to determine with the room twirling and so much skin to feel.
When Charles’ legs hit the bed behind him, Loris draws back. His eyes are still burning and it’s now obvious what from. Yet, he looks hesitant, as if he fears Charles might not be sure. But the only thing Charles is torn about is where to build the first barricade if they don’t kiss and rub again, so he drops backwards. Surprised, Loris lets him slip from his grasp, Charles finds himself on his own on the mattress, and Bastille seems like an appropriate place to bring planks and chairs, albeit a bit cliché.
‘You’re so ridiculously good-looking.’ Loris’ gaze is tracing the shape of Charles. ‘It’s beyond understanding.’
‘Your bathroom mirror disagrees.’
‘That’s the lightbulb. Even I look bad in there.’
Charles laughs, but Loris looks all sorts of sinful at the moment, his V-lines teasing him, so he kicks the back of Loris’ knee with his heel. Loris outstretches his arms to break his fall and glances up with a reproachful shake of the head. Charles grins proudly, for a second. The next second, Loris is pressing kisses along his ribs and turning the flat into the microwave Charles blinked at earlier.
Or yesterday. Perhaps in 1789. Time is a construct after all.
Nothing is real.
This is unreal.
This is unlike anything Charles has experienced. But the unknown he should be edgy about – the muscles rolling underneath his fingers or the stubble scratching his chest – echoes in the deepest part of him. Like a song he listens to for the first time but whose lyrics tell a story he could have written.
It’s a misleading impression, though.
‘Loris…’
‘Hmm?’
‘Less scoopy scoop of your life but… I’ve never done that. I’ve never been with a man.’
Loris crawls up between Charles’ arms and legs to look him in the eyes. ‘I’ve never been with you.’
Charles chases his bottom lip, but Loris pushes himself up after just a touch, more serious.
‘We can stop if you want to.’
Charles raises his knees to barricade him. ‘You wish.’
‘No, I don’t wish that.’
‘Don’t listen to me. Carry on. Carry— Yes…’
Loris is slithering against him, hard already and hardening, which draws new chords out of their mouths.
Charles isn’t going to last much longer, and still he wants more. He slides a hand into Loris’ pants while he pulls down his own boxers, but this initiative startles Loris. He brings his waving to a halt and casts a glance at the kitchenette, looking hesitant again.
