Pinned under his body, John laughed as he sighed and moaned. Pain in his throat when teeth sank in deep and sharp, his hips snapped up, his heels kicked against muscle and skin.
Just his luck to find someone from home and he’s not even human. He’s not even alive. He’s not even warm and yet here he is. On him, in him, sucking at his throat as if John was the fount of all that was good and bright and golden and perfect and … oh fuck, yeah … right there. Again.
Just a taste of home, he’d said. I know you, he whispered. We’re one and the same and I’m so alone and here, have another drink, John.
Lines and lines and lines and nothing that had never been said before and yet … John felt it coming off of him in waves. When he described the white blossoms of cherry trees and the scent, when he talked of rainstorms and thunder and the sound of water in the dark from the Pacific Ocean.
The way the streetlights would leech the color from the world when they played touch football in the road in August and even the neighborhood girls could score a touchdown with the right plan. The smell of bar-b-que smoke in the air that mixed with cigarettes and cigars, the sound of ivory against ivory from the adults playing pool. Beer cans and torn off tabs, sparklers dropped in the grass, still hot enough to burn the bottom of his feet when he ran barefoot through the dark playing tag, twenty questions and truth or dare. That scared, tight feeling in his abdomen, first kisses behind the garage.
Lips lifted to his, bloody and warm and Angel stared into his eyes.
*runs off to watch more*