Summary: Sometimes, when he's had the right amount of pot, Justin gets profound.
Author's Notes: Just a little writing exercize to get the creative juices flowing while I work on putting out chapters for my two QAF WIPs and make three pieces of work for Chester College's 'Incoming Student Gallery'. ::headdesk:: Someone, like, shoot me… or write something for me. ^_^
Dedicated to mo_52, because he's AM-AZ-ING.
He laughs and throws his head back against the pillow, hair spilling liquid gold over the navy casing, glimmering 24 karat strands under the dim moonlight. He's glowing, you realize as the smoke curdles sinfully in your lungs. Vibrant, slithering colors illuminate his naked flesh, his smile.
"Mm, this shit is good," he comments through a snicker, shifting to nuzzle your shoulder. "And you feel nice. Silky."
"'Silky'?" You snort, drawing deeply on the joint again. "That's new."
He hums in contentment, arching his back in a feline stretch, eyes transfixed on the ceiling. The fluctuating lights that dance around him caress his sternum, his belly, glint off of his nipple ring, and seem to push him into the air, back arched impossibly. Almost in half. Like there should be wings emerging from his skin. He turns his head, falls back to the sheets, and fixes a smile of pure sunshine on you.
"I love you, Brian."
It makes you feel… exposed. And warm. And shit, you're happy. That's usually never a good thing.
What the fuck ever. It's not like he'll remember half of this shit in the morning.
"How much?" Like you don't know.
He turns his gaze back to the ceiling, lifting a hand in such a way that it looks like he's trying to touch it. The smile spreads across his face again and his eyes fall shut, hand still suspended in the air.
"So much that… I'd race the sky for you."
Sometimes, when he's had the right amount of pot, Justin gets profound.
"How the fuck could you race the fucking sky? That's impossible."
"No! No, I so could!" He shakes his head earnestly, eyes wide open now, and reaches for the blunt. "I could for you, so there."
And sometimes, when he's had the right amount of pot, Justin turns eight again.
"I would race the clouds, the sun, the… the other one. The white one."
"The moon, you twat."
"Right. That, too." He closes his eyes and nestles against you when you wrap an arm around him, pulling him tightly to your side. His temple falls into the place where your shoulder meets your neck, rubs against the sweat that gathered there from your earlier fuck. "I'd grow white wings… silky. Like you. Like the scarf."
You choke on a lungful of smoke, but he continues as if he doesn't hear you.
"And to show you how much I love you, I'd race them all… and I'd win."
You don't answer, just tighten your hold around him a bit more, and focus on the colors in the air. They fade after some time passes, just as Justin's breathing deepens and slows. His body grows a little heavier on your arm, but it's a comfortable weight. His hair tickles the underside of your jaw, but you make no move to shift away. Almost against your own volition, your eyes fall upon the spot where his hand had hung, where his fingers waggled so slowly that it was like they were swishing through water.
I would race the sky for you…
You glance down at him from the corner of your eye, taking in the hair pooling on your shoulder like gold satin, at the skin which looks translucent in the fading trails of the colors, at the mouth that brings you so much pleasure, physically and emotionally. At the boy that once was… and at the man that now is.
You close your eyes and think of the pair of Reeboks you keep for Spin Class and for the gym, hanging by their laces in your closet. They've given you a good run, are the ideal shoe once broken in. They've never let you down.
And you're sure, that if you put them on and tied them just right, that if you were so inclined, you could race the sky for him, too.