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tampered2006-06-06 08:49 am
at-titude.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2006-06-06 08:49 am
☎
When; I FORGOT
Rating; PG-13?
Characters; Spitfire {![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
at_titude} & Nue {electr0nic}
Summary; It's a date ♥.
Log; { C'mon dance, Misdirection }
“Nue, are you home?”
Spitfire lets the door shut behind him and listens for the telltale beat of Nue’s walk. At times it sounds electric; a zigzag monopoly of self-assurance and pride that skins at the knees and sometimes the heart. He walks in further, still listening. The apartment smells like cigarettes; a guideline of smoke skinned lungs and char grilled hearts. It’s a live in scent that doesn’t go away, but makes room for the distinct twist of cologne that peppers the air. It’s an intersection of sweet and sour that coats the tongue and blends in with the crowd of clicking teeth and spit.
He reaches forward and tests the doorknob; it’s open. Turning it, he peers in and raises a questioning brow, “Are you awake?”
Nue's eyes are shut and he's dreaming about the cemetery that he and his youthful comrades consider a Valhalla. The whimsical monsters that he weaves from the threads of his regalia burst into life and laughter echoes through the night. A visitor would think it eerie, but Nue thinks it's a piece of artwork, and he's sure the little children think so too.
Too bad it's all a dream, destined to be shattered for as long as he's trapped in this bat-shit fucking insane city. The crevice of light that just so happens to slice down on his eyes makes his brow wrinkle as his body instinctively flops over to the other side of the bed, taking the fluffy sheets with him while he shoves his head into the pillows.
"Nngh..." The only part of Nue's visage that's visible is the strand of hair that is always sticking up. He grudgingly lifts a hand and bats it at Spitfire, trying to shoo him away without actually getting up.
“Good morning to you, too.” Spitfire slips into the room; it feels less than lived in, more than empty. The walls are bare and he can see a spider web tracery of cracks beginning to form in the clear-cut corners. The ceiling’s white paint flesh peels at the edges like sunburned skin, growing brown at the edges.
He sits down on one end of the bed, feeling it dip under him. The hand Nue so generously offers him is taken and enveloped into the warm curve of his own; he presses the roads of their palms together, overlapping them till direction has no meaning.
”If you don’t wake up for our date,” he tugs at the tiger tail of Nue’s hair, “I’ll have to invite Simca over and have her help me fix that.”
Nue twitches when he feels the ever so slight tug on his hair and the heated touch of Spitfire's hand. He grumbles at the threat that Spitfire makes and ignores it. It's going to take more than just Simca to get him out of bed, and Nue isn't all that excited about the date. He rolls a little bit more across the bed, away from Spitfire.
"F...five more minutes," mutters the slumbering Thunder king.
“Really, now?” Spitfire rolls Nue over to face him and watches as shadows fall like cities across the sleep soft contours of Nue’s face. A brief flicker of a smile touches the corner of his lips as he brushes a thumb against the crease of Nue’s eye, “If that’s how you want it . . .”
Not even a twitch.
Spitfire’s thumb moves down and traces the unsteady line of a half open mouth. There’s a connection here; the way Nue breathes in time with his heart and his blood, which pumps through a roadmap of arteries that never seem to lose their way. If he holds his breath, he can hear it; the beat’s sluggish and slow right now, there’s no sizzle to make the sky dance like jolted bones or thunderbolts. He leans down and grazes his lips against Nue’s, once, twice, before making the third time a charm of skin-to-skin reaction.
Nue's body jerks so awake that one would've questioned the plausibility of it.
Unfortunately, his head comes into contact with Spitfire's, thus sending a hideously loud, "BANG!" ringing through his head. Which doesn't help at all because it makes him flop back into bed.
Delicately, Spitfire uses the pads of his fingers to rub the pain away from his forehead. A minor wince flashes across his face before it’s wiped away by a thoughtful look. If he connects this with that then . . .
“Nue, if you wanted another kiss, you could’ve just said so.”
How the FUCK did that work?
"Nngh...no!" Nue snaps between a groan, rubbing his forehead, which is still screaming messages of pain up and down his nervous system.
Slender fingers drift through the mess of Nue’s hair before curling against his nape. A brief pull brings Nue close enough for Spitfire to ghost a kiss against the tender bruise that’s beginning to form.
“No to the kiss?” the question imprints itself against the soft arc of Nue’s cheek and drifts down and across to filter straight into his ear, “Or no to going out?”
"To both," Nue states flatly, pushing Spitfire's face away with a blatant push, "And I'm going to kick you in the balls if you don't stop."
“Then we won’t be able to have children, Nue,” states Spitfire, in a matter of fact tone that brooks no argument. However, for the moment, he stops and allows Nue time to fully wake up.
"WHAT?!" Nue says, almost gawking, "I probably should've kicked you in the balls for that!"
The look on Nue’s face is priceless. Though, the words coming from his mouth make no sense to Spitfire. Maybe it’s the wind. He places the tips of his fingers underneath Nue’s chin and closes the gawking mouth, ”Think about the children, Nue.”
Kids? What kids?! Nue can't help but throw a tantrum when Spitfire gently closes his mouth. He'd punch the living daylights out if Spitfire if he didn't need the goddamn homo to buy him a pair of damn pants.
"I DON'T REPRODUCE!!" shrieks Nue before throwing himself off the bed and away from Spitfire. He tumbles over at just the right angle to hide his blushing cheeks, and no, not those cheeks.
Like a day-to-day routine, Spitfire uncovers his ears and peers over the bed to check on Nue’s sprawled form. He’s more than become used to Nue’s tantrums and can almost sense one when it’s about to hit their general area. “Nue, I won’t ask why you’re on the floor, but please get ready.”
A quick glance to the watch on his wrist tells him that they still have time, “I’ll be waiting outside ♥.”
"Fu...!"
Nue can't bring himself to shout it at Spitfire just as he watches the older male leave the room. Muttering the rest of the curse under his breath, he gathers himself quickly and tries to pretend nothing happened.
Tries to pretend Spitfire didn't just try to kiss him. Or was it a kiss? After all, their lips did touch.
He shakes his head and smacks himself twice. He purses his lips, while he scratches the strip of skin right under the waistband of his shorts. Nue's rough hands dig through the open drawer of clothes. It looks so out of place in his empty room, but he doesn't mind it, because he's never been the one for aesthetics.
Nue fishes out a shirt from the first drawer and then a pair of shorts from the second. Stripping himself of his large sleep garments, he tugs over his head the smooth material of the t-shirt before pulling the shorts up the built muscles of his white legs.
He finishes dressing with the click of the buckle from his belt.
Waiting is easy; Spitfire’s been waiting his entire life. For Nue to grow up, for the one hit wonders to rise and fall, and for all the kings and queens to filter in through the percentages. To fly above the odds and break past every self made limit created in the complex corners of their hearts. Their world is a ride that never stops moving, spinning, and few are worthy enough to bear the mark of a road less traveled.
If he adds up the numbers in his book, it works out too well because numbers are useless if he doesn’t put stock in them. And if he brings up statistics, the chances are slim to nothing. But if AT is a reflection of self, of the connection between his joints and limbs, then burning to cinders is perfection.
And if he takes Nue’s fingers and runs them over the worn in Braille of his wheels, then maybe words are unnecessary.
He keeps that in mind as he shrugs his coat off the angles of his shoulders. The t-shirt he wears underneath is plain, simple— a polite occasion of monotone shades. He runs a hand through the disheveled, but stylishly set locks of his hair and makes his way over to the kitchen.
A lone pack of cigarettes lies next to a stone-cut ashtray- Kaito’s, he presumes. He sets it aside and calls out, “Nue, if you’re ready we can leave now!”
"COMING!" Nue stretches the socks over his feet and wonders if he's really going to go with Spitfire. He hates fireflies and how they buzz in his face at night, but every now and then, they blend into the night sky like yellow stars shining bright and everything seems like it's going to be all right. They tango across the ballroom floor like a bee to its hive and the audience watches from far away. The jealous moon can't say anything because it's the fireflies that steal his heart tonight.
It's the same thing with Spitfire. So which is he going to be today? Nue wonders as he looks at himself in the mirror, which is like a shard of glass propped up against the dull rock that is his wall. He decides not to think about it too much as he exits the room with his blue sunglasses on. He knows he's inside and the only sunlight that's even barely visible is coming out of shafts of many different windows trapped behind blinds.
But it's not that sun he's worried about. It's the other one, burning bright at the door, waiting for him to take his hand and step out into the world.
When Nue appears, Spitfire takes his time to look him over and assess the contrast between before and after. The languid set of his eyes drifts like silk over the delicate cups of Nue’s shoulders, the calamity of still growing limbs and sleep spiked hair. It’s subtle, the change. And it makes a world of difference. A pleased twist of a smile centers on his lips; he likes how the white is bright enough to blind and disable, how there’s no red to signal a stop, but no green to allow him an advantage.
“Cute,” he lifts a hand and taps a finger against the cool edge of Nue’s shades. What Nue sees right now is how they look inside their veins, soft, dark and blue like a pair of unwashed jeans.
That same hand travels down the length of Nue’s arm and curves to fit around a hand smaller than his own.
He has no problem with leading, “Let’s go.”
Nue's never wondered if he looked okay or not, but when he sees the delight in Spitfire's face, he can't stop the blood from rushing to his cheeks and the adrenaline pumping through his veins. The room suddenly jolts to a scorching hundred degrees and he's surprised that he hasn't combusted from the inside out. Especially when Spitfire's hand takes his. Then, it's like seventy-hundred bombs dropping on a nation under fire. The burning blaze creates an eerie kind of beauty that disturbs and dispassionates.
He gives Spitfire's hand a shaky squeeze before pretending to shake a strand of stray hair away from his eyes. Nue's hand reluctantly leaves Spitfires, leaving a burning trail blaze etched under his skin. He shoves it down the pocket of his pants.
"Go where?" he asks, cracking his neck and rubbing it, when he's really wiping the sweat from it. He's used to leading, but he guesses that's only with the goblins and serpents that serve him in the cemetery.
“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.”
Spitfire’s words hold an element of secrecy; a cozy crush of mixed channels and signals that bypass the literal static growl of his throat. It lies in wait, a curl of breath and heat that likes to roll along his tongue and pass his lips in the shape of lines and connected numbers of seven. He moves like a match, striking and gorgeous in the span of a second, and picks Nue up in the cradle of his arms. The joints of Nue’s knees are held against the inner corner of his elbow; a perfect fit of pieces that connect like a puzzle.
There isn’t much time to argue when Spitfire starts, and there isn’t time to delay when he finishes. So he hefts the weight in his arms once, and speaks like there’s nothing wrong, like it’s an everyday thing to be carrying around a youth that’s younger than him by how many years, “Close your eyes.”
He pretends not to notice the still fading flame of red on Nue’s cheeks.No, not those cheeks.
"Wha-whoa!!" Spitfire's quick movements are like a bucket of icy water to the face, and Nue's body yields like a rag doll on display in blue and white. He remembers his joints can move as his muscles suddenly tense like freezing rubber, and he thinks he's about to explode when the match is lit. Like fireworks, stars are bursting and he can't remember when his ribs had trapped his lungs and heart so that he can't breath. It's the stars without the spangle, and no damn chorus in the background.
"Close my eyes?" he asks, one eyebrow arched over the other and a inquisitive look that raises storm clouds and rumbling thunder in the sky that is his mind, "Hell no! You're going to do something sneaky!" Nue puts up that barbed wire fence that he always has around by kicking his legs and making a ruckus.
"Besides, I need my shoes," he says, pointing down at the floor below.
Ignorance is bliss, and Spitfire has miles of it held underneath his feet and in his head. The words reach him, but his thoughts reflect away from their minor scuffle till they read like invisible ink. If he turns his head, he can maybe hear them in the background; a radio in between stations. It buzzes like an electric flame, an amp before the show starts and the music plays.
And what filters through is only what he wants to hear.
“I’d love to carry you everywhere, Nue,” Spitfire’s smile is choreographed and proud, with a taste of embers that sizzle and spark for catastrophe, for electric cities that sleep at night with their eyes closed and their mouths open.
The front of his shoe nudges their front door open, and he carries Nue out without batting a lash, “If you don’t close your eyes, I’ll have to get physical.”
He pauses.
“Well, more physical than I usually am.”
"Dammit!" says Nue because he swears he's just busted a fuse. The fire is raging and he's completely overwhelmed, he wants to throw his hand out and smack Spitfire, but now it is not really the time. The clock is tick, tock, ticking and in a way, he likes how the fire licks his skin and gives him an irritating rash to pick and scratch at in his idle time.
But it gets really annoying when his nail goes too deep and out pours the red wine that is thicker than water.
When Spitfire opens the door, his eyes lid as the wind comes crashing in like whirlwind. His cheeks flush when he clutches the sleeve of Spitfire's jacket unconsciously. The loose strand of hair that sticks up through the wild mass of static flaps around like wild electricity. He is clinging to Spitfire like lightning is to a rod and there is nothing he can do about it because it is all just a force of nature. Cellphone signals, television sets, they all go out and cities shut down for miles on out and it feels like the end of the world is coming.
Only it is just beginning, "At least give me my shoes," Nue pulls down at Spitfire's jacket, "and then I'll close my eyes."
“I’d have to let you go if I did that.”
There’s no time to backtrack or rewind; the remote’s lost and Spitfire’s already on his way. He’s never been one to listen, even when there’s too much to see and hear. Through the eyes of a king, the world is a mess of wires, of mechanical hearts and chain reactions. There are wheels gone wild and knees that knock against each other in the dark; action is everything and fear is only a consequence that few ever lay claim to. Nue’s still young, and maybe the world isn’t ready for him. He’s bursting with energy and shots of voltage that Spitfire doesn’t mind drinking down or knocking back.
But if the world doesn’t take Nue as the king he is, Spitfire will.
With or without the crown.
For Nue, he hopes the day will never come—where falling is the only way down. “Don’t worry, there are slippers on the roof.”
They go up, rising. Like heat. Flames. The timing is right, and the only door left is the exit. He opens it, holding Nue closer, and a fresh cut breeze sweeps in.
Again, color spreads like a virus over Nue's face. The boy complies, closing his eyes and holding on to Spitfire for support. Without his Air Treck, he is a bird without its wings. He can't see anything, but in his head, he tries to picture all the colors of the earth frolicking and swirling into one big black mass that is the darkness behind his eyelids. It feels like a child without his night-light. Walking to his bed, he can't imagine what he will trip over. Toys? Books? Everything is unmapped like a new world.
But with Spitfire it's different. They are out in the sun and Nue can feel its golden touch wash over his face like a mother cleaning her child. On the other side is the slick, heated body of Spitfire who is carrying him like a princess out of the castle. There is no dragon chasing them, no ogres, and no black night.
"The roof?" It is out into the atmosphere with these two.
The roof holds a picture perfect image of the horizon; an unlimited universe that dies and re-emerges from its own ashes like a phoenix. Spitfire watches the sun, which is laced and patterned in shades of heat, and sets Nue down so that his toes touch first, before his heels follow after. It’s better that way, to hear the silent caress of skin against stone instead of the clumsy thunk of sneakered feet.
He leans over so that his lips hover over the delicate shell of Nue’s ear, “Don’t open them yet.”
The next move he makes is to catch Nue by the shoulder and turn him so he faces the sky. He’s seen it before, and it never gets old; the way it bleeds in a wash of separate shades that like to mix and match, as if the sun’s an open wound that’ll never heal.
“Now,” the palm of his hand drifts down Nue’s front, smoothing over the jut of a collarbone sharp enough to cut. He pulls Nue towards him so that his back presses against his chest and finishes with, “Open them.”
He shivers when the slight chill of cold stone sends shocks up his nerves. Nue feels the soft groves of skin on his feet slide against the rooftop as Spitfire moves him.
Nue shudders when he feels Spitfire's low and smooth voice right outside of his ear. He feels 1000 watts of electricity charge up his spine, into his brain, and out into his veins as ice in the blood. It sounds like a live orchestra playing on the radio with perfect reception, it's all too perfect and absolution is not some distant dream rolling off the face of the Earth. All the planets align and the moon is there with them, with his man smiling down on all the little people. His voice is just that nice.
And so is his touch. A hard swallow is all Nue can do when Spitfire's hand encases the collarbone that is indeed jutting out. Unfortunately, his pull sends Nue tumbling a little and it scares Nue because he can't tell if there are stairs or cliffs, but the heat coming from Spitfire's chest makes his face burn dark maroon like the sky he opens his eyes to see.
He doesn't want to say.
He knows he should not. It is terribly cliché.
But it comes out of his red mouth like something the wind stole away, "It's so beautiful."
“I know,” this time, Spitfire isn’t looking at the sun. He’s fixated on the shock treatment of surprise that takes residence on Nue’s face. The view belongs to him, to everyone in the world that stands on his or her rooftop to see, but not be seen. His hand slides up, allowing his fingers to press against Nue’s throat; there’s a pulse there, a countdown of beats that never mean he’s beaten.
It’s here in this moment, with a heart held against palm, does he think that anything’s possible.
If the world can break them, then they can break the world between their fingertips. And if he speaks again, he’ll snap the fine line of maybe that stretches between them like a filament. It’s outlined in chalk, in the distance of numbers that separates them. It’s nothing he minds because Nue isn’t going anywhere and neither is he.
So he presses his lips against Nue’s temple, a kiss that compresses the view into a one liner sentence of emotion, and asks, “Did you expect something else?”
Underneath the question, there’s a hidden message. A Morse code rhythm that spells out every love letter he’s never written to all the girls he’s never loved.
The position is currently taken.
Nue’s ribcage is playing tricks on him again, or maybe it is Spitfire’s hand? Either way, he can’t tell because his heart’s beating 700 miles per an hour. His head is a jumble of butterflies, colors, and bumblebees. He’s staring out into the sunset and he isn’t sure what to say or what to do.
He thinks it’s all fun and games with Spitfire. Just like the little children from his Air Treck team, slumbering with fairies dancing in their dreams, he doesn’t take anything seriously and sometimes, Nue thinks Spitfire doesn’t really love him and it’s all some kind of hocus pocus. It’s just a game, something to do when you’re bored. Love didn’t really exist. It only exists between boys and girls, not between man and boy.
Nue’s in such a tight spot right now he can hardly breathe. It’s suddenly very warm again and he’s fishing for the words again. His brow crinkles like sun-dried clothes and his cheeks complement the morning sky.
What does Spitfire want from Nue? Is it honesty, or something else?
Now’s the perfect time to take advantage of the click track flow of Nue’s heart; it’s loud enough for Spitfire to shape against his palm. A formation of dreams and dying; where if he shifts to the right, his fingertips will trip into the alley of Nue’s throat and leave a cat scratch question mark of confusion.
He doesn’t move.
And when he speaks, his voice is a lucid 4AM special with the volume low enough to slide under skin, “I can’t listen if you don’t talk.”
It’s so simple; the way Spitfire puts it. A neat guideline of cause and effect that doesn’t leave them lost at sea. He knows his own heart, the singular catch to it that leaves everyone hanging. There are enough broken hearts in the world, and maybe later he’ll regret adding more than his share to that still-growing pile. But when Nue’s around, his plans change and he gets the feeling that no matter how many times he scores, the game’s already up.
He turns Nue around to face him. The sun bleaches the ends of his spikes white enough to look like crystal, transparent, almost filmy; it makes him think he’s walking on thin ice.
”You’re still young, Nue,” Spitfire takes Nue’s hand and presses his lips against the blunt moons of his knuckles, “So you shouldn’t worry too much.”
Nue feels so much heat rush to his neck and cheeks it feels like there are coals sizzling underneath his skin. The fuel is burning and it's never going to run out so long as Spitfire is around. Everything’s a jungle; a forest on fire. He wants to run but there's nowhere to run to. He's trapped in an angle of defeat, where all the corners don't fit into a box. There's the taste of blood on his tongue and it tarnishes his palette like acid to skin.
Nue's received love-letters in school, but he's always ignored them. They've always been trash; a child's pining to have something they could never have. If he was going to love, he said to himself one day, it would be out of his own free will, not as the little boy he is, but as the full grown man in him. Right now, it doesn't feel like either. Maybe it's the girl. What girl? Nue's a boy, and he knows better than to listen to a girl of all things. He's not even a female.
But why does his body tense, his heart thud, and his neck sweat whenever he's talking?
He let's Spitfire kiss the night sky that is his hand. The sun is kissing his moon, and all the stars stand still and watch, holding their breaths because love is in the air.
Finally, the lightning strikes, "...Are we going anywhere else?" Nue switches topics because he's too scared to answer.
“That depends,” Spitfire leans in close and looks Nue straight in the eyes, “Where do you want me to take you?”
Not to a place, not to an island where the sun blisters and burns skin till it’s cooked enough to eat. He’s talking about heights and how high they can go. If he looks beyond the evasion in Nue’s eyes and the firm set of his lips, he can see the words locked behind the milk white spill of his teeth. Courage is courage, even without the heart behind it and he’s got more than enough time to pin that badge onto Nue’s chest.
"Well," Nue begins, "I kind of need some pants." He takes off his blue-tinted sunglasses and all the colors of the world flood his vision. The bright red of Spitfire's hair looks even brighter than it did before. He likes looking at the world without his sunglasses better. He hooks them to the collar of his shirt.
"And I need my shoes," the boy looks down at the naked feet of his. They've got rocks and pebbles stuck to the bottom like a Zen garden charged with violence and friction. Not a place of peace at all, because his feet don't save; they create and destroy, create and destroy. It's a never-ending process.
"And I'd like it if they were my ATs," he says finally, opposing blue eyes look like a peak into the blue sky to be seen later on in the day.
If Spitfire picks Nue up again, the sun will look down on them and fall till it splinters and curls against the ground like fine hairs of porcelain. Dishes. Glass cups and crystal bells that ring, ring, ring for what they’ll never lose. It’s a chance he’ll take, because 50/50 isn’t so bad. And the ‘if’ isn’t so much a promise as it is a fraction of 1 where the minority doesn’t rule.
”Twenty four seven doesn’t become you, Nue.”
Jobs are jobs, and being king for a day isn’t in his schedule. So he picks Nue up like he weighs nothing, till his feet and ankles dangle off the side of his arm like flesh toned earrings made of skin and bones. When he looks down, his eyes hold the lingering warmth of the sky, which is unending and limitless. They’re sharp and maybe a little sorry, but they love what they see more than they like the way women walk. Because Nue is an electronic youth of stereos and sonic booms, he has a rechargeable battery for a teenage heart and he rides roads that no one else will ever see.
And in between, he’s a boy with wild hair and dynamite eyes.
“Wear what you want,” he speaks in notes, singular and touching, “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
For once, his words lack flippancy. For once, his words are his word; a vow that he offers to Nue like a gift from the sun; wings made of coral and clouds, where casual warfare isn’t present or part of the present.
Peace, they aren’t the type to melt.
Rating; PG-13?
Characters; Spitfire {
at_titude} & Nue {electr0nic}Summary; It's a date ♥.
Log; { C'mon dance, Misdirection }
“Nue, are you home?”
Spitfire lets the door shut behind him and listens for the telltale beat of Nue’s walk. At times it sounds electric; a zigzag monopoly of self-assurance and pride that skins at the knees and sometimes the heart. He walks in further, still listening. The apartment smells like cigarettes; a guideline of smoke skinned lungs and char grilled hearts. It’s a live in scent that doesn’t go away, but makes room for the distinct twist of cologne that peppers the air. It’s an intersection of sweet and sour that coats the tongue and blends in with the crowd of clicking teeth and spit.
He reaches forward and tests the doorknob; it’s open. Turning it, he peers in and raises a questioning brow, “Are you awake?”
Nue's eyes are shut and he's dreaming about the cemetery that he and his youthful comrades consider a Valhalla. The whimsical monsters that he weaves from the threads of his regalia burst into life and laughter echoes through the night. A visitor would think it eerie, but Nue thinks it's a piece of artwork, and he's sure the little children think so too.
Too bad it's all a dream, destined to be shattered for as long as he's trapped in this bat-shit fucking insane city. The crevice of light that just so happens to slice down on his eyes makes his brow wrinkle as his body instinctively flops over to the other side of the bed, taking the fluffy sheets with him while he shoves his head into the pillows.
"Nngh..." The only part of Nue's visage that's visible is the strand of hair that is always sticking up. He grudgingly lifts a hand and bats it at Spitfire, trying to shoo him away without actually getting up.
“Good morning to you, too.” Spitfire slips into the room; it feels less than lived in, more than empty. The walls are bare and he can see a spider web tracery of cracks beginning to form in the clear-cut corners. The ceiling’s white paint flesh peels at the edges like sunburned skin, growing brown at the edges.
He sits down on one end of the bed, feeling it dip under him. The hand Nue so generously offers him is taken and enveloped into the warm curve of his own; he presses the roads of their palms together, overlapping them till direction has no meaning.
”If you don’t wake up for our date,” he tugs at the tiger tail of Nue’s hair, “I’ll have to invite Simca over and have her help me fix that.”
Nue twitches when he feels the ever so slight tug on his hair and the heated touch of Spitfire's hand. He grumbles at the threat that Spitfire makes and ignores it. It's going to take more than just Simca to get him out of bed, and Nue isn't all that excited about the date. He rolls a little bit more across the bed, away from Spitfire.
"F...five more minutes," mutters the slumbering Thunder king.
“Really, now?” Spitfire rolls Nue over to face him and watches as shadows fall like cities across the sleep soft contours of Nue’s face. A brief flicker of a smile touches the corner of his lips as he brushes a thumb against the crease of Nue’s eye, “If that’s how you want it . . .”
Not even a twitch.
Spitfire’s thumb moves down and traces the unsteady line of a half open mouth. There’s a connection here; the way Nue breathes in time with his heart and his blood, which pumps through a roadmap of arteries that never seem to lose their way. If he holds his breath, he can hear it; the beat’s sluggish and slow right now, there’s no sizzle to make the sky dance like jolted bones or thunderbolts. He leans down and grazes his lips against Nue’s, once, twice, before making the third time a charm of skin-to-skin reaction.
Nue's body jerks so awake that one would've questioned the plausibility of it.
Unfortunately, his head comes into contact with Spitfire's, thus sending a hideously loud, "BANG!" ringing through his head. Which doesn't help at all because it makes him flop back into bed.
Delicately, Spitfire uses the pads of his fingers to rub the pain away from his forehead. A minor wince flashes across his face before it’s wiped away by a thoughtful look. If he connects this with that then . . .
“Nue, if you wanted another kiss, you could’ve just said so.”
How the FUCK did that work?
"Nngh...no!" Nue snaps between a groan, rubbing his forehead, which is still screaming messages of pain up and down his nervous system.
Slender fingers drift through the mess of Nue’s hair before curling against his nape. A brief pull brings Nue close enough for Spitfire to ghost a kiss against the tender bruise that’s beginning to form.
“No to the kiss?” the question imprints itself against the soft arc of Nue’s cheek and drifts down and across to filter straight into his ear, “Or no to going out?”
"To both," Nue states flatly, pushing Spitfire's face away with a blatant push, "And I'm going to kick you in the balls if you don't stop."
“Then we won’t be able to have children, Nue,” states Spitfire, in a matter of fact tone that brooks no argument. However, for the moment, he stops and allows Nue time to fully wake up.
"WHAT?!" Nue says, almost gawking, "I probably should've kicked you in the balls for that!"
The look on Nue’s face is priceless. Though, the words coming from his mouth make no sense to Spitfire. Maybe it’s the wind. He places the tips of his fingers underneath Nue’s chin and closes the gawking mouth, ”Think about the children, Nue.”
Kids? What kids?! Nue can't help but throw a tantrum when Spitfire gently closes his mouth. He'd punch the living daylights out if Spitfire if he didn't need the goddamn homo to buy him a pair of damn pants.
"I DON'T REPRODUCE!!" shrieks Nue before throwing himself off the bed and away from Spitfire. He tumbles over at just the right angle to hide his blushing cheeks, and no, not those cheeks.
Like a day-to-day routine, Spitfire uncovers his ears and peers over the bed to check on Nue’s sprawled form. He’s more than become used to Nue’s tantrums and can almost sense one when it’s about to hit their general area. “Nue, I won’t ask why you’re on the floor, but please get ready.”
A quick glance to the watch on his wrist tells him that they still have time, “I’ll be waiting outside ♥.”
"Fu...!"
Nue can't bring himself to shout it at Spitfire just as he watches the older male leave the room. Muttering the rest of the curse under his breath, he gathers himself quickly and tries to pretend nothing happened.
Tries to pretend Spitfire didn't just try to kiss him. Or was it a kiss? After all, their lips did touch.
He shakes his head and smacks himself twice. He purses his lips, while he scratches the strip of skin right under the waistband of his shorts. Nue's rough hands dig through the open drawer of clothes. It looks so out of place in his empty room, but he doesn't mind it, because he's never been the one for aesthetics.
Nue fishes out a shirt from the first drawer and then a pair of shorts from the second. Stripping himself of his large sleep garments, he tugs over his head the smooth material of the t-shirt before pulling the shorts up the built muscles of his white legs.
He finishes dressing with the click of the buckle from his belt.
Waiting is easy; Spitfire’s been waiting his entire life. For Nue to grow up, for the one hit wonders to rise and fall, and for all the kings and queens to filter in through the percentages. To fly above the odds and break past every self made limit created in the complex corners of their hearts. Their world is a ride that never stops moving, spinning, and few are worthy enough to bear the mark of a road less traveled.
If he adds up the numbers in his book, it works out too well because numbers are useless if he doesn’t put stock in them. And if he brings up statistics, the chances are slim to nothing. But if AT is a reflection of self, of the connection between his joints and limbs, then burning to cinders is perfection.
And if he takes Nue’s fingers and runs them over the worn in Braille of his wheels, then maybe words are unnecessary.
He keeps that in mind as he shrugs his coat off the angles of his shoulders. The t-shirt he wears underneath is plain, simple— a polite occasion of monotone shades. He runs a hand through the disheveled, but stylishly set locks of his hair and makes his way over to the kitchen.
A lone pack of cigarettes lies next to a stone-cut ashtray- Kaito’s, he presumes. He sets it aside and calls out, “Nue, if you’re ready we can leave now!”
"COMING!" Nue stretches the socks over his feet and wonders if he's really going to go with Spitfire. He hates fireflies and how they buzz in his face at night, but every now and then, they blend into the night sky like yellow stars shining bright and everything seems like it's going to be all right. They tango across the ballroom floor like a bee to its hive and the audience watches from far away. The jealous moon can't say anything because it's the fireflies that steal his heart tonight.
It's the same thing with Spitfire. So which is he going to be today? Nue wonders as he looks at himself in the mirror, which is like a shard of glass propped up against the dull rock that is his wall. He decides not to think about it too much as he exits the room with his blue sunglasses on. He knows he's inside and the only sunlight that's even barely visible is coming out of shafts of many different windows trapped behind blinds.
But it's not that sun he's worried about. It's the other one, burning bright at the door, waiting for him to take his hand and step out into the world.
When Nue appears, Spitfire takes his time to look him over and assess the contrast between before and after. The languid set of his eyes drifts like silk over the delicate cups of Nue’s shoulders, the calamity of still growing limbs and sleep spiked hair. It’s subtle, the change. And it makes a world of difference. A pleased twist of a smile centers on his lips; he likes how the white is bright enough to blind and disable, how there’s no red to signal a stop, but no green to allow him an advantage.
“Cute,” he lifts a hand and taps a finger against the cool edge of Nue’s shades. What Nue sees right now is how they look inside their veins, soft, dark and blue like a pair of unwashed jeans.
That same hand travels down the length of Nue’s arm and curves to fit around a hand smaller than his own.
He has no problem with leading, “Let’s go.”
Nue's never wondered if he looked okay or not, but when he sees the delight in Spitfire's face, he can't stop the blood from rushing to his cheeks and the adrenaline pumping through his veins. The room suddenly jolts to a scorching hundred degrees and he's surprised that he hasn't combusted from the inside out. Especially when Spitfire's hand takes his. Then, it's like seventy-hundred bombs dropping on a nation under fire. The burning blaze creates an eerie kind of beauty that disturbs and dispassionates.
He gives Spitfire's hand a shaky squeeze before pretending to shake a strand of stray hair away from his eyes. Nue's hand reluctantly leaves Spitfires, leaving a burning trail blaze etched under his skin. He shoves it down the pocket of his pants.
"Go where?" he asks, cracking his neck and rubbing it, when he's really wiping the sweat from it. He's used to leading, but he guesses that's only with the goblins and serpents that serve him in the cemetery.
“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.”
Spitfire’s words hold an element of secrecy; a cozy crush of mixed channels and signals that bypass the literal static growl of his throat. It lies in wait, a curl of breath and heat that likes to roll along his tongue and pass his lips in the shape of lines and connected numbers of seven. He moves like a match, striking and gorgeous in the span of a second, and picks Nue up in the cradle of his arms. The joints of Nue’s knees are held against the inner corner of his elbow; a perfect fit of pieces that connect like a puzzle.
There isn’t much time to argue when Spitfire starts, and there isn’t time to delay when he finishes. So he hefts the weight in his arms once, and speaks like there’s nothing wrong, like it’s an everyday thing to be carrying around a youth that’s younger than him by how many years, “Close your eyes.”
He pretends not to notice the still fading flame of red on Nue’s cheeks.
"Wha-whoa!!" Spitfire's quick movements are like a bucket of icy water to the face, and Nue's body yields like a rag doll on display in blue and white. He remembers his joints can move as his muscles suddenly tense like freezing rubber, and he thinks he's about to explode when the match is lit. Like fireworks, stars are bursting and he can't remember when his ribs had trapped his lungs and heart so that he can't breath. It's the stars without the spangle, and no damn chorus in the background.
"Close my eyes?" he asks, one eyebrow arched over the other and a inquisitive look that raises storm clouds and rumbling thunder in the sky that is his mind, "Hell no! You're going to do something sneaky!" Nue puts up that barbed wire fence that he always has around by kicking his legs and making a ruckus.
"Besides, I need my shoes," he says, pointing down at the floor below.
Ignorance is bliss, and Spitfire has miles of it held underneath his feet and in his head. The words reach him, but his thoughts reflect away from their minor scuffle till they read like invisible ink. If he turns his head, he can maybe hear them in the background; a radio in between stations. It buzzes like an electric flame, an amp before the show starts and the music plays.
And what filters through is only what he wants to hear.
“I’d love to carry you everywhere, Nue,” Spitfire’s smile is choreographed and proud, with a taste of embers that sizzle and spark for catastrophe, for electric cities that sleep at night with their eyes closed and their mouths open.
The front of his shoe nudges their front door open, and he carries Nue out without batting a lash, “If you don’t close your eyes, I’ll have to get physical.”
He pauses.
“Well, more physical than I usually am.”
"Dammit!" says Nue because he swears he's just busted a fuse. The fire is raging and he's completely overwhelmed, he wants to throw his hand out and smack Spitfire, but now it is not really the time. The clock is tick, tock, ticking and in a way, he likes how the fire licks his skin and gives him an irritating rash to pick and scratch at in his idle time.
But it gets really annoying when his nail goes too deep and out pours the red wine that is thicker than water.
When Spitfire opens the door, his eyes lid as the wind comes crashing in like whirlwind. His cheeks flush when he clutches the sleeve of Spitfire's jacket unconsciously. The loose strand of hair that sticks up through the wild mass of static flaps around like wild electricity. He is clinging to Spitfire like lightning is to a rod and there is nothing he can do about it because it is all just a force of nature. Cellphone signals, television sets, they all go out and cities shut down for miles on out and it feels like the end of the world is coming.
Only it is just beginning, "At least give me my shoes," Nue pulls down at Spitfire's jacket, "and then I'll close my eyes."
“I’d have to let you go if I did that.”
There’s no time to backtrack or rewind; the remote’s lost and Spitfire’s already on his way. He’s never been one to listen, even when there’s too much to see and hear. Through the eyes of a king, the world is a mess of wires, of mechanical hearts and chain reactions. There are wheels gone wild and knees that knock against each other in the dark; action is everything and fear is only a consequence that few ever lay claim to. Nue’s still young, and maybe the world isn’t ready for him. He’s bursting with energy and shots of voltage that Spitfire doesn’t mind drinking down or knocking back.
But if the world doesn’t take Nue as the king he is, Spitfire will.
With or without the crown.
For Nue, he hopes the day will never come—where falling is the only way down. “Don’t worry, there are slippers on the roof.”
They go up, rising. Like heat. Flames. The timing is right, and the only door left is the exit. He opens it, holding Nue closer, and a fresh cut breeze sweeps in.
Again, color spreads like a virus over Nue's face. The boy complies, closing his eyes and holding on to Spitfire for support. Without his Air Treck, he is a bird without its wings. He can't see anything, but in his head, he tries to picture all the colors of the earth frolicking and swirling into one big black mass that is the darkness behind his eyelids. It feels like a child without his night-light. Walking to his bed, he can't imagine what he will trip over. Toys? Books? Everything is unmapped like a new world.
But with Spitfire it's different. They are out in the sun and Nue can feel its golden touch wash over his face like a mother cleaning her child. On the other side is the slick, heated body of Spitfire who is carrying him like a princess out of the castle. There is no dragon chasing them, no ogres, and no black night.
"The roof?" It is out into the atmosphere with these two.
The roof holds a picture perfect image of the horizon; an unlimited universe that dies and re-emerges from its own ashes like a phoenix. Spitfire watches the sun, which is laced and patterned in shades of heat, and sets Nue down so that his toes touch first, before his heels follow after. It’s better that way, to hear the silent caress of skin against stone instead of the clumsy thunk of sneakered feet.
He leans over so that his lips hover over the delicate shell of Nue’s ear, “Don’t open them yet.”
The next move he makes is to catch Nue by the shoulder and turn him so he faces the sky. He’s seen it before, and it never gets old; the way it bleeds in a wash of separate shades that like to mix and match, as if the sun’s an open wound that’ll never heal.
“Now,” the palm of his hand drifts down Nue’s front, smoothing over the jut of a collarbone sharp enough to cut. He pulls Nue towards him so that his back presses against his chest and finishes with, “Open them.”
He shivers when the slight chill of cold stone sends shocks up his nerves. Nue feels the soft groves of skin on his feet slide against the rooftop as Spitfire moves him.
Nue shudders when he feels Spitfire's low and smooth voice right outside of his ear. He feels 1000 watts of electricity charge up his spine, into his brain, and out into his veins as ice in the blood. It sounds like a live orchestra playing on the radio with perfect reception, it's all too perfect and absolution is not some distant dream rolling off the face of the Earth. All the planets align and the moon is there with them, with his man smiling down on all the little people. His voice is just that nice.
And so is his touch. A hard swallow is all Nue can do when Spitfire's hand encases the collarbone that is indeed jutting out. Unfortunately, his pull sends Nue tumbling a little and it scares Nue because he can't tell if there are stairs or cliffs, but the heat coming from Spitfire's chest makes his face burn dark maroon like the sky he opens his eyes to see.
He doesn't want to say.
He knows he should not. It is terribly cliché.
But it comes out of his red mouth like something the wind stole away, "It's so beautiful."
“I know,” this time, Spitfire isn’t looking at the sun. He’s fixated on the shock treatment of surprise that takes residence on Nue’s face. The view belongs to him, to everyone in the world that stands on his or her rooftop to see, but not be seen. His hand slides up, allowing his fingers to press against Nue’s throat; there’s a pulse there, a countdown of beats that never mean he’s beaten.
It’s here in this moment, with a heart held against palm, does he think that anything’s possible.
If the world can break them, then they can break the world between their fingertips. And if he speaks again, he’ll snap the fine line of maybe that stretches between them like a filament. It’s outlined in chalk, in the distance of numbers that separates them. It’s nothing he minds because Nue isn’t going anywhere and neither is he.
So he presses his lips against Nue’s temple, a kiss that compresses the view into a one liner sentence of emotion, and asks, “Did you expect something else?”
Underneath the question, there’s a hidden message. A Morse code rhythm that spells out every love letter he’s never written to all the girls he’s never loved.
The position is currently taken.
Nue’s ribcage is playing tricks on him again, or maybe it is Spitfire’s hand? Either way, he can’t tell because his heart’s beating 700 miles per an hour. His head is a jumble of butterflies, colors, and bumblebees. He’s staring out into the sunset and he isn’t sure what to say or what to do.
He thinks it’s all fun and games with Spitfire. Just like the little children from his Air Treck team, slumbering with fairies dancing in their dreams, he doesn’t take anything seriously and sometimes, Nue thinks Spitfire doesn’t really love him and it’s all some kind of hocus pocus. It’s just a game, something to do when you’re bored. Love didn’t really exist. It only exists between boys and girls, not between man and boy.
Nue’s in such a tight spot right now he can hardly breathe. It’s suddenly very warm again and he’s fishing for the words again. His brow crinkles like sun-dried clothes and his cheeks complement the morning sky.
What does Spitfire want from Nue? Is it honesty, or something else?
Now’s the perfect time to take advantage of the click track flow of Nue’s heart; it’s loud enough for Spitfire to shape against his palm. A formation of dreams and dying; where if he shifts to the right, his fingertips will trip into the alley of Nue’s throat and leave a cat scratch question mark of confusion.
He doesn’t move.
And when he speaks, his voice is a lucid 4AM special with the volume low enough to slide under skin, “I can’t listen if you don’t talk.”
It’s so simple; the way Spitfire puts it. A neat guideline of cause and effect that doesn’t leave them lost at sea. He knows his own heart, the singular catch to it that leaves everyone hanging. There are enough broken hearts in the world, and maybe later he’ll regret adding more than his share to that still-growing pile. But when Nue’s around, his plans change and he gets the feeling that no matter how many times he scores, the game’s already up.
He turns Nue around to face him. The sun bleaches the ends of his spikes white enough to look like crystal, transparent, almost filmy; it makes him think he’s walking on thin ice.
”You’re still young, Nue,” Spitfire takes Nue’s hand and presses his lips against the blunt moons of his knuckles, “So you shouldn’t worry too much.”
Nue feels so much heat rush to his neck and cheeks it feels like there are coals sizzling underneath his skin. The fuel is burning and it's never going to run out so long as Spitfire is around. Everything’s a jungle; a forest on fire. He wants to run but there's nowhere to run to. He's trapped in an angle of defeat, where all the corners don't fit into a box. There's the taste of blood on his tongue and it tarnishes his palette like acid to skin.
Nue's received love-letters in school, but he's always ignored them. They've always been trash; a child's pining to have something they could never have. If he was going to love, he said to himself one day, it would be out of his own free will, not as the little boy he is, but as the full grown man in him. Right now, it doesn't feel like either. Maybe it's the girl. What girl? Nue's a boy, and he knows better than to listen to a girl of all things. He's not even a female.
But why does his body tense, his heart thud, and his neck sweat whenever he's talking?
He let's Spitfire kiss the night sky that is his hand. The sun is kissing his moon, and all the stars stand still and watch, holding their breaths because love is in the air.
Finally, the lightning strikes, "...Are we going anywhere else?" Nue switches topics because he's too scared to answer.
“That depends,” Spitfire leans in close and looks Nue straight in the eyes, “Where do you want me to take you?”
Not to a place, not to an island where the sun blisters and burns skin till it’s cooked enough to eat. He’s talking about heights and how high they can go. If he looks beyond the evasion in Nue’s eyes and the firm set of his lips, he can see the words locked behind the milk white spill of his teeth. Courage is courage, even without the heart behind it and he’s got more than enough time to pin that badge onto Nue’s chest.
"Well," Nue begins, "I kind of need some pants." He takes off his blue-tinted sunglasses and all the colors of the world flood his vision. The bright red of Spitfire's hair looks even brighter than it did before. He likes looking at the world without his sunglasses better. He hooks them to the collar of his shirt.
"And I need my shoes," the boy looks down at the naked feet of his. They've got rocks and pebbles stuck to the bottom like a Zen garden charged with violence and friction. Not a place of peace at all, because his feet don't save; they create and destroy, create and destroy. It's a never-ending process.
"And I'd like it if they were my ATs," he says finally, opposing blue eyes look like a peak into the blue sky to be seen later on in the day.
If Spitfire picks Nue up again, the sun will look down on them and fall till it splinters and curls against the ground like fine hairs of porcelain. Dishes. Glass cups and crystal bells that ring, ring, ring for what they’ll never lose. It’s a chance he’ll take, because 50/50 isn’t so bad. And the ‘if’ isn’t so much a promise as it is a fraction of 1 where the minority doesn’t rule.
”Twenty four seven doesn’t become you, Nue.”
Jobs are jobs, and being king for a day isn’t in his schedule. So he picks Nue up like he weighs nothing, till his feet and ankles dangle off the side of his arm like flesh toned earrings made of skin and bones. When he looks down, his eyes hold the lingering warmth of the sky, which is unending and limitless. They’re sharp and maybe a little sorry, but they love what they see more than they like the way women walk. Because Nue is an electronic youth of stereos and sonic booms, he has a rechargeable battery for a teenage heart and he rides roads that no one else will ever see.
And in between, he’s a boy with wild hair and dynamite eyes.
“Wear what you want,” he speaks in notes, singular and touching, “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
For once, his words lack flippancy. For once, his words are his word; a vow that he offers to Nue like a gift from the sun; wings made of coral and clouds, where casual warfare isn’t present or part of the present.
Peace, they aren’t the type to melt.