The Little Things.
The Little Things.
And it’s the little things that bother Tom, he ponders to himself, as his mind is being rapidly taken over by signals from nerve endings on his neck and hips. The little things, like the excited, insincere chuckle that leaves the lips feasting on his collarbone right this second. But they’re pushed to the back of his mind, night after night, by the sensation of being burned alive by touches and bites and muffled moans.
It’s the way his fingers seem to salsa leisurely over Tom’s back, accustomed to frequenting the soft dance floor stretched over foundations of bone. The playful intercourse between digits and spine, alternating between gripping, scratching, smoothing and stroking – it’s what makes his torso arch, what makes his lips beg, what makes his fingers curl up in his pillow with defeated frustration in the deep of the night.
And he wonders, rather inquisitively as the door slams and his head hits the peeling paper, what it is Danny likes about this room so much. Why is it that these walls that construct a little coop of burning heat seem to enthral him? Is it the blend of blonde against cornflower blue as he pushes Tom upon the cold towel rack that drives him wild? Or perhaps the fact that the flimsy walls of the tour bus bathroom are so thin, so that the thrilling chance of discovery is increased tenfold? Tom doesn’t know, but as lactic acid caused by playing guitar for two hours is disappearing rapidly with every involuntary contraction of his fingers in Danny’s shirt, he wishes he did.
It’s the little smug, tired yet exhilarated laugh, open mouthed against Tom’s lips as hands scrabble at his necktie. The corners of those lips turn up at this, and he yanks Danny’s denim-clad hips into his own further and harder as he’s slammed against a fresh patch of icy blue, and manages to coordinate his slick fingers round the stubborn buttons that guard his frantic hands from their prize. Damp sheaves are itching on his flushed forehead but there’s no limb unoccupied to brush them away because both shirts refuse to be peeled from their owners, finding a bone joint to cling to or a watch to snag on. It’s the little grunt of satisfaction that finds its way from Danny’s throat to Tom’s ears every time, when they’re finally rid of their sweat-soaked tops and aching ribcages are pressing so hard against each other that it feels as if the skin would tear and the bones might slot together, as easily as the clasped hands that are pinned to the wall.
It’s not the way that they seem to fall ever so naturally into a rhythm with their private, muscle-twitching dance against what could be the sky, the sea – Tom doesn’t care what it could represent, for Tom can’t see it at this moment. What he does care about is how Danny always makes the sound of zips being pulled down sound so fulfilling, so addictive and so craved – yet he hates it at the same time. But it’s the little teasing snigger that Danny forces against the crook of Tom’s neck as he licks the protruding veins and tendons, pulling his hips away from the wall so he can melt their jeans and boxers into puddles on the blinding cerulean floor.
And these doubts and thoughts linger in the blonde’s mind as the tiny bathroom seems to morph into an oven as it always does, remnants of cloudy breaths of arousal trickling like tears down the tiles. They’re even there when suddenly there’s pain and there’s grinding of teeth as Tom’s hand grapples at the thick shelf for support, the maple plank shivering ominously as his thighs hug their familiar friends, Danny’s hips; a freckled palm has to fly to Tom’s open jaw, which quivers and is unable to keep the groans of release, shock and frustration to themselves without assistance. Helpless whines are absorbed by the blue wallpaper as breath is sucked sharply in between Danny’s fingers – but the tiles and paint are all melting into red fire as the pain starts to subside and they’re both getting what they need; now it’s the brunette’s turn to bite his lip to shush shaky whimpers as Tom grins and crosses his calves tighter across his back.
And Tom knows what’s coming as he feels his stomach burn and squirm, and Danny’s breath is more frantic, jerky and heated against his lips. He could echo the holy fuck that bursts from the other boy’s chest, just like it does every time fists clutch painfully at the flesh coating the nape of Tom’s neck and every time the both of them freeze in pure, gasp-eliciting ecstasy. Their worn out chests heave against each other’s, trying desperately to force saturated air into their lungs as muscles continue to quiver - but their bodies are calmer now, though sticky, slick and still twisted together. Tom’s energy-drained arm drapes over a speckled shoulder, his neck exposed and extended to Danny’s forehead as if in invitation, which Danny accepts - but not in the way Tom would like, leaving imprints of soaking chocolate curls against his blazing skin that will fade in time. Shocking blue eyes that shine brighter than the glistening wallpaper retreat, and Danny peels himself away to collect his clothes with a sleepy smile. He’s too tired to shower off, but not tired enough to collapse in Tom’s arms and let him steer the way to either of their bunks, to fall in together and sleep in a mess of cool sheets and humid breaths.
It’s the little click of the bathroom door as Danny leaves for bed without him that bothers Tom the most.
It’s the way his fingers seem to salsa leisurely over Tom’s back, accustomed to frequenting the soft dance floor stretched over foundations of bone. The playful intercourse between digits and spine, alternating between gripping, scratching, smoothing and stroking – it’s what makes his torso arch, what makes his lips beg, what makes his fingers curl up in his pillow with defeated frustration in the deep of the night.
And he wonders, rather inquisitively as the door slams and his head hits the peeling paper, what it is Danny likes about this room so much. Why is it that these walls that construct a little coop of burning heat seem to enthral him? Is it the blend of blonde against cornflower blue as he pushes Tom upon the cold towel rack that drives him wild? Or perhaps the fact that the flimsy walls of the tour bus bathroom are so thin, so that the thrilling chance of discovery is increased tenfold? Tom doesn’t know, but as lactic acid caused by playing guitar for two hours is disappearing rapidly with every involuntary contraction of his fingers in Danny’s shirt, he wishes he did.
It’s the little smug, tired yet exhilarated laugh, open mouthed against Tom’s lips as hands scrabble at his necktie. The corners of those lips turn up at this, and he yanks Danny’s denim-clad hips into his own further and harder as he’s slammed against a fresh patch of icy blue, and manages to coordinate his slick fingers round the stubborn buttons that guard his frantic hands from their prize. Damp sheaves are itching on his flushed forehead but there’s no limb unoccupied to brush them away because both shirts refuse to be peeled from their owners, finding a bone joint to cling to or a watch to snag on. It’s the little grunt of satisfaction that finds its way from Danny’s throat to Tom’s ears every time, when they’re finally rid of their sweat-soaked tops and aching ribcages are pressing so hard against each other that it feels as if the skin would tear and the bones might slot together, as easily as the clasped hands that are pinned to the wall.
It’s not the way that they seem to fall ever so naturally into a rhythm with their private, muscle-twitching dance against what could be the sky, the sea – Tom doesn’t care what it could represent, for Tom can’t see it at this moment. What he does care about is how Danny always makes the sound of zips being pulled down sound so fulfilling, so addictive and so craved – yet he hates it at the same time. But it’s the little teasing snigger that Danny forces against the crook of Tom’s neck as he licks the protruding veins and tendons, pulling his hips away from the wall so he can melt their jeans and boxers into puddles on the blinding cerulean floor.
And these doubts and thoughts linger in the blonde’s mind as the tiny bathroom seems to morph into an oven as it always does, remnants of cloudy breaths of arousal trickling like tears down the tiles. They’re even there when suddenly there’s pain and there’s grinding of teeth as Tom’s hand grapples at the thick shelf for support, the maple plank shivering ominously as his thighs hug their familiar friends, Danny’s hips; a freckled palm has to fly to Tom’s open jaw, which quivers and is unable to keep the groans of release, shock and frustration to themselves without assistance. Helpless whines are absorbed by the blue wallpaper as breath is sucked sharply in between Danny’s fingers – but the tiles and paint are all melting into red fire as the pain starts to subside and they’re both getting what they need; now it’s the brunette’s turn to bite his lip to shush shaky whimpers as Tom grins and crosses his calves tighter across his back.
And Tom knows what’s coming as he feels his stomach burn and squirm, and Danny’s breath is more frantic, jerky and heated against his lips. He could echo the holy fuck that bursts from the other boy’s chest, just like it does every time fists clutch painfully at the flesh coating the nape of Tom’s neck and every time the both of them freeze in pure, gasp-eliciting ecstasy. Their worn out chests heave against each other’s, trying desperately to force saturated air into their lungs as muscles continue to quiver - but their bodies are calmer now, though sticky, slick and still twisted together. Tom’s energy-drained arm drapes over a speckled shoulder, his neck exposed and extended to Danny’s forehead as if in invitation, which Danny accepts - but not in the way Tom would like, leaving imprints of soaking chocolate curls against his blazing skin that will fade in time. Shocking blue eyes that shine brighter than the glistening wallpaper retreat, and Danny peels himself away to collect his clothes with a sleepy smile. He’s too tired to shower off, but not tired enough to collapse in Tom’s arms and let him steer the way to either of their bunks, to fall in together and sleep in a mess of cool sheets and humid breaths.
It’s the little click of the bathroom door as Danny leaves for bed without him that bothers Tom the most.