Status: Oneshot, completed.
Like Moths to Flames
1/1
Ronnie is like fire.
He is spontaneous and erratic, flaring up and dying down in unpredictable, fluctuating spasms of volatility. His eyes are the same – flickering with flashes of unforeseeable emotion, his constant mental twister at once as terrifying as it is exciting.
Yes, Ronnie is like fire, Max thinks, as molten lips leave their mark on the pale satin skin of his throat.
This is not the first time they’ve done this, nor will it be the last. Even so, there is no concept of ‘past’ and ‘future’ at this point – there is only ‘now’ - lips and teeth and sweat-slicked skin on skin. It is a millisecond of flawless grace – a break in forever that loops fingers and toes into one continuous, unshakeable infinity.
Hands grip hips and whimpers splatter the walls with lust and life, and Max thinks he’s never felt so real, so alive as he does when he’s cloaked in nothing but sweat and Ronnie.
They are quiet, muffled grunts and groans bleeding into each other’s mouths in an endless storm of forgetting, Ronnie’s hair in Max’s hands, Ronnie’s fingers gripping slim hips hard enough to bruise.
Neither of them will last much longer.
It is getting closer and closer, that crumbling edge they push towards with every thrust, recklessly throwing themselves towards careless bliss.
Max falls.
He bites into Ronnie’s shoulder to mask his howl, warmth coating them both in a mess of melted ecstasy. Ronnie follows a moment later, and Max is overwhelmed by the heat of Ronnie’s embers filling his insides.
Bodies crash together in a tangled heap of exhausted exhilaration. Breathing slows.
And just like that, forever is broken.
Ronnie moves first, tired arms slinking out of Max’s hold, replaced by the chill air of the cheap, shitty motel room. He sits up, reaching for his boxers without a second glance at the mess of a boy on the bed behind him.
Before Max can gather the breath to call out, to protest, to do anything, Ronnie is dressed, standing, walking away without looking back.
“Ronnie.” Max croaks, his voice raspy and soft.
Ronnie stops but doesn’t turn.
“Do you love me?”
Ronnie glances back, then, at the lonely boy tangled in the filthy sheets and smeared in the mess they had made, deep green eyes so lost and vulnerable and deep that they look like shimmering emerald mirrors of the dust-clouded stars outside the dirty window.
Ronnie looks at Max, silky-pale and silent, painfully half-hopeful eyes fixed directly on his own, and suddenly he can’t stand looking at them another minute. He turns.
“No, Max, I don’t.”
The motel room door is near silent behind him as he walks out into the night, hair a mess, hips swaying haughtily, and something inside Max knows, just knows without conscious thought, that this is the last time he will ever see him.
Ronnie is like fire.
And fire burns.
He is spontaneous and erratic, flaring up and dying down in unpredictable, fluctuating spasms of volatility. His eyes are the same – flickering with flashes of unforeseeable emotion, his constant mental twister at once as terrifying as it is exciting.
Yes, Ronnie is like fire, Max thinks, as molten lips leave their mark on the pale satin skin of his throat.
This is not the first time they’ve done this, nor will it be the last. Even so, there is no concept of ‘past’ and ‘future’ at this point – there is only ‘now’ - lips and teeth and sweat-slicked skin on skin. It is a millisecond of flawless grace – a break in forever that loops fingers and toes into one continuous, unshakeable infinity.
Hands grip hips and whimpers splatter the walls with lust and life, and Max thinks he’s never felt so real, so alive as he does when he’s cloaked in nothing but sweat and Ronnie.
They are quiet, muffled grunts and groans bleeding into each other’s mouths in an endless storm of forgetting, Ronnie’s hair in Max’s hands, Ronnie’s fingers gripping slim hips hard enough to bruise.
Neither of them will last much longer.
It is getting closer and closer, that crumbling edge they push towards with every thrust, recklessly throwing themselves towards careless bliss.
Max falls.
He bites into Ronnie’s shoulder to mask his howl, warmth coating them both in a mess of melted ecstasy. Ronnie follows a moment later, and Max is overwhelmed by the heat of Ronnie’s embers filling his insides.
Bodies crash together in a tangled heap of exhausted exhilaration. Breathing slows.
And just like that, forever is broken.
Ronnie moves first, tired arms slinking out of Max’s hold, replaced by the chill air of the cheap, shitty motel room. He sits up, reaching for his boxers without a second glance at the mess of a boy on the bed behind him.
Before Max can gather the breath to call out, to protest, to do anything, Ronnie is dressed, standing, walking away without looking back.
“Ronnie.” Max croaks, his voice raspy and soft.
Ronnie stops but doesn’t turn.
“Do you love me?”
Ronnie glances back, then, at the lonely boy tangled in the filthy sheets and smeared in the mess they had made, deep green eyes so lost and vulnerable and deep that they look like shimmering emerald mirrors of the dust-clouded stars outside the dirty window.
Ronnie looks at Max, silky-pale and silent, painfully half-hopeful eyes fixed directly on his own, and suddenly he can’t stand looking at them another minute. He turns.
“No, Max, I don’t.”
The motel room door is near silent behind him as he walks out into the night, hair a mess, hips swaying haughtily, and something inside Max knows, just knows without conscious thought, that this is the last time he will ever see him.
Ronnie is like fire.
And fire burns.
♠ ♠ ♠
Don't really know what to say about this. I get really weird deep thoughts and completely nonsensical metaphors at three A.M. I'm not sure if I really like this one, to be honest. :/I do like my description in this, though. Just, like, the fourth and fifth paragraphs. I don't know why, but they're probably my favorite thing I've ever written. So yeah. Tell me what you think!
Much love. :)