Precarious | G
Darling — in these arms, he was swallowed to the hip. That if Harry shimmied to the left, Tom would follow with an elbow; had he done so to the right, Tom would brace him with a foot and with a knee and a calf and a thigh as a wall, so he wouldn’t teeter from the window and fall arse-first to the floor because Tom was kind, considerate and selfish — he had him first; and had he backed into the empire as it decimated when Tom sighed and grew again when he breathed and expanded along his chest, Tom would stitch him a little closer.
And Harry would have him behind his back; his spine like a stairwell for the laughter in that man when it came in puffs and huffs when Tom curled into him. Widening just a tad, just to hold him with all he had.
Precious — the newspaper didn’t hold a candle to his thoughts when Harry was distracted by the sunset. It looked a lot like an orange peel: with a bright, bloody rind and how it unraveled across the sky while flaking at the outskirts were the pith you’d pick off. Because they were stringy, tasteless and occasionally, bitter. Tough for you to chew on and inevitably, between your nails. Only caught there if you peeled this and never there if someone else did. And wouldn’t it be lovely for the earth to have had a sweetheart like that, as Harry grazed at his own and had done with his hands.
Mapping the long, nimble fingers that would devein a heart had he asked for it; or if right now were he hungry, would peel an orange and serve it to him. With nothing but a plate, made of palms and calluses and an entire future within those hands, and the napkins of his wrists; they were ready to have him cleaned and rubbed and pinked and sputtering at the mouthfuls of orange between his teeth.
Because that was the sunset if you asked Tom. He preferred it on Harry.
Love — there was something irrefutable about his gaze when Harry caught it through the canopy and the branches of his hair. Staring down, but not as harsh as the verb may pertain, was a curious bit of fondness and like a teaspoon of melted honey: as if Tom had found something that was every bit endearing, that he had no choice but to marvel how he ended up in this situation, as if he hadn’t done something to have coaxed this to occur. And that he hadn’t noticed what he was doing, that he was staring at his boyfriend, as if Harry was the best thing to have ever happened to him. And that he needed a reminder, a hug or a pinch, that this was real and this was his and that Harry felt him back.
When he snuggled to his chest and bared his shoulders to his heart, when he nestled to his pulse after leaning farther back, when he met Tom with his nose and booped him on the chin, and when Harry — like a mirror or like a puddle when it rained — reflected who he was and caught the motions of a grin.
Growing brighter, wider and made him cuter in every way: that this was for Harry as his fumbling was for Tom; that this was a gift as to Tom, he was a present.
Harry shifted in his arms to get a better look at him, and they followed to his stubble when Tom held him just like this: palm to his cheek while the other, behind his neck; thumb at a dimple and it was tempted to peel it back; and Tom traced him with a certainty and paid him nicely with a tooth. Biting gently at his own lip and grazing it like a nail, and Harry followed to where it went and dear Merlin, he was a mess.
A mess of orange and pink, dressed in a lovely white, that like the buttons to a buttoned-up, it loosened its grip and just about melted off of Harry — before he urged it to come back.
Because this was real, whole, genuine and his: not a dream, mirage, or something Tom misread when he faltered at Harry’s hands and was coaxed to come again. Because all of this, and all of him and this moment, was still here. And that Harry would remind him; they were in this together — so don’t fret, don’t worry, don’t tell yourself you’re not to have this.
And all of that was packaged when Harry mouthed into his skin; just his name — Tom’s name — and then an accent full of teeth came and nibbled at the heartlines; they were trenches for him to seek as Harry nuzzled his way up as a way of asking if Tom would kiss him.
Then he did and he did and there were three on Harry’s nose before his boyfriend found his senses that there was a face he ought to cover. And only then would he end this with a ‘Harry’ at Harry’s lips, confident that the waters he had drawn from a stream wouldn’t slip between his fingers and leave him as he was.
Parched, thirsty, could do a sip or two: Harry hummed when they met and like a trumpet, he’d sung back.