Status: ♂♂
Head Spin
and I'll never hold you close enough
“--the hell?”
Ezra kicks the basket of laundry Christian had been folding, boxers and t-shirts and the sweatshirt he had to buy for work scattering around the living room.
“My fucking… my fucking dad,” he says, uncharacteristically quiet, and falls into the armchair across from Chris. His fingers crowd his face and Chris’ throat closes.
He doesn’t ask, do they know?, because he knows Ezra wouldn’t be here if he did. He really fucking hopes he wouldn’t be, but.
So all he says is, “yeah?’’ with a guarded voice and when Ezra looks up his eyes are hooded. He blinks and it matches the Christian’s heartbeat – quick like a hummingbird; panicked -- and he breathes out noisily. Chris can't help wondering why the kid isn't in school, why his backpack is half-open and busting with fabric instead of books, but he thinks he knows the answer anyway.
“How can something… how can the things people think of you, the things people say… why do they hurt so much? Why do we even care?”
Chris stares at him, lets his shoulders droop on a sigh that feels like it bleeds from his bones. He swallows back against absurd lump in his throat and pulls at the neck of his t-shirt and says, voice thick, “Fuck.”
Ezra’s eyes glaze over, droplets catching on the ends of his lashes. His hands shake. He doesn’t move until Christian does, and then it’s only to scoot over in the armchair when Chris walks over, lets the older boy crowd into his space until he can mold into his side like heated glass, fragile as he shapes himself against the curve of Christian’s flank, all body heat and salty tears.
He just holds, like holding Chris is something that he's been missing for way too long.
--
Christian’s socked foot rubs against Ezra’s shin, and he hums, “bed?” and Ezra shrugs against him, shifting from under Christian’s arm. The loss of warmth is startling, and he reaches for Ezra reflexively.
He shivers as he sits up, lets his lips graze the back of Ezra’s neck as he stands. The younger boy leans into the touch and offers Christian his hand. They fall onto the bed like that.
They don’t kiss, scarcely even touch save for where their bodies are pressed together, Ezra's hand curled into a fist in Chris' palm. They share a few hot exhales and Ezra’s eyes flutter closed. Christian’s heart never stops jackrabbiting.
“I have to get up soon,” Ezra finally breathes into the soft skin of Christian’s clavicle, a quiet hum that shatters the silence. “I have to…”
“It’s Saturday,” Christian says, and it sounds strange to his own ears, strange and hollow. It feels like his veins are running cold. “You don’t – it’s Saturday.”
“You should… I should probably go.”
Christian grips a fistful of Ezra’s hair, loose and looped between his fingertips, an unassuming brown that makes Christian’s head spin. He tugs until Ezra looks up at him with an apology in his eyes.
“You’re gonna..." he pauses, his nose touching Ezra's cheek. "You should stay.”
“I don’t…”
Chris’ arms tighten, whispers, “I know.”
--
Christian snaps the elastic of his briefs against Ezra’s skin, dipping his finger down the back of them, pressing into the warm skin of his back. He’s thin, so thin, and seems almost translucent in the evening light, like a Polaroid picture with its colour saturated.
When he turns, his eyes hardly brighten, but he greets Christian with a private smile and makes a quip about cold hands and, really, Christian is head over fucking heels in love with this kid.
"Wash that mug when you’re done," he says, landing a kiss behind Ezra’s ear and feeling like watching this skinny teenager stand in his underpants in the kitchen is the most intimate thing he’s ever done.
"I'll see you upstairs in a minute," Ezra says back. Christian throws the dish cloth at him and races to his bedroom with a settling hope that Ezra won't ever change his mind.
--
They stay in bed when Christian is supposed to be in classes at the community college, Ezra ignoring his cell phone until Christian can’t anymore.
"Aren’t your parents worried?" he says carefully, fingers dancing over Ezra’s belly. He tenses, swatting at Christian’s hand and turning onto his side; away.
"Fuck," Christian sighs. "I’m not... I’m not trying to be a dick here, kid."
Ezra snorts and shrugs off the hand Christian lands on his flank. "Don’t call me a goddamn kid, you asshole."
Christian flicks his side, rolling and pushing until Ezra is forced to look at him.
"Kid," he says again, but his eyes are hard, voice serious. Ezra won’t meet them and his heart feels weighted.
"Don’t," he says, voice a hiss, but Christian doesn’t miss the plea under all that bravado. He sighs and Ezra leans into him minutely, thinks of the two of them in bed and how vulnerable he feels at that moment; how much of a child he feels when Ezra looks at him, how much of a child he feels even when he doesn't.
Christian reaches for his face, his tan skin a shock against Ezra’s, and says, "Okay," says, "I’m sorry." and Ezra leans up, and whispers, "Kiss me," against Christian’s mouth.
So he does, he does.
--
"I told them I’m staying at a friend," he says later, when Christian is getting up to go to the bathroom, limbs heavy, chest light.
"Okay," Christian says, because okay. He never expected much else, really.
"Just okay?" Ezra repeats, and he sounds petulant, then, angry. Christian side-tracks on his way to his en suite and walks back to his bed, presses his lips to Ezra’s forehead.
"Okay, Ez."
Ezra kicks the basket of laundry Christian had been folding, boxers and t-shirts and the sweatshirt he had to buy for work scattering around the living room.
“My fucking… my fucking dad,” he says, uncharacteristically quiet, and falls into the armchair across from Chris. His fingers crowd his face and Chris’ throat closes.
He doesn’t ask, do they know?, because he knows Ezra wouldn’t be here if he did. He really fucking hopes he wouldn’t be, but.
So all he says is, “yeah?’’ with a guarded voice and when Ezra looks up his eyes are hooded. He blinks and it matches the Christian’s heartbeat – quick like a hummingbird; panicked -- and he breathes out noisily. Chris can't help wondering why the kid isn't in school, why his backpack is half-open and busting with fabric instead of books, but he thinks he knows the answer anyway.
“How can something… how can the things people think of you, the things people say… why do they hurt so much? Why do we even care?”
Chris stares at him, lets his shoulders droop on a sigh that feels like it bleeds from his bones. He swallows back against absurd lump in his throat and pulls at the neck of his t-shirt and says, voice thick, “Fuck.”
Ezra’s eyes glaze over, droplets catching on the ends of his lashes. His hands shake. He doesn’t move until Christian does, and then it’s only to scoot over in the armchair when Chris walks over, lets the older boy crowd into his space until he can mold into his side like heated glass, fragile as he shapes himself against the curve of Christian’s flank, all body heat and salty tears.
He just holds, like holding Chris is something that he's been missing for way too long.
--
Christian’s socked foot rubs against Ezra’s shin, and he hums, “bed?” and Ezra shrugs against him, shifting from under Christian’s arm. The loss of warmth is startling, and he reaches for Ezra reflexively.
He shivers as he sits up, lets his lips graze the back of Ezra’s neck as he stands. The younger boy leans into the touch and offers Christian his hand. They fall onto the bed like that.
They don’t kiss, scarcely even touch save for where their bodies are pressed together, Ezra's hand curled into a fist in Chris' palm. They share a few hot exhales and Ezra’s eyes flutter closed. Christian’s heart never stops jackrabbiting.
“I have to get up soon,” Ezra finally breathes into the soft skin of Christian’s clavicle, a quiet hum that shatters the silence. “I have to…”
“It’s Saturday,” Christian says, and it sounds strange to his own ears, strange and hollow. It feels like his veins are running cold. “You don’t – it’s Saturday.”
“You should… I should probably go.”
Christian grips a fistful of Ezra’s hair, loose and looped between his fingertips, an unassuming brown that makes Christian’s head spin. He tugs until Ezra looks up at him with an apology in his eyes.
“You’re gonna..." he pauses, his nose touching Ezra's cheek. "You should stay.”
“I don’t…”
Chris’ arms tighten, whispers, “I know.”
--
Christian snaps the elastic of his briefs against Ezra’s skin, dipping his finger down the back of them, pressing into the warm skin of his back. He’s thin, so thin, and seems almost translucent in the evening light, like a Polaroid picture with its colour saturated.
When he turns, his eyes hardly brighten, but he greets Christian with a private smile and makes a quip about cold hands and, really, Christian is head over fucking heels in love with this kid.
"Wash that mug when you’re done," he says, landing a kiss behind Ezra’s ear and feeling like watching this skinny teenager stand in his underpants in the kitchen is the most intimate thing he’s ever done.
"I'll see you upstairs in a minute," Ezra says back. Christian throws the dish cloth at him and races to his bedroom with a settling hope that Ezra won't ever change his mind.
--
They stay in bed when Christian is supposed to be in classes at the community college, Ezra ignoring his cell phone until Christian can’t anymore.
"Aren’t your parents worried?" he says carefully, fingers dancing over Ezra’s belly. He tenses, swatting at Christian’s hand and turning onto his side; away.
"Fuck," Christian sighs. "I’m not... I’m not trying to be a dick here, kid."
Ezra snorts and shrugs off the hand Christian lands on his flank. "Don’t call me a goddamn kid, you asshole."
Christian flicks his side, rolling and pushing until Ezra is forced to look at him.
"Kid," he says again, but his eyes are hard, voice serious. Ezra won’t meet them and his heart feels weighted.
"Don’t," he says, voice a hiss, but Christian doesn’t miss the plea under all that bravado. He sighs and Ezra leans into him minutely, thinks of the two of them in bed and how vulnerable he feels at that moment; how much of a child he feels when Ezra looks at him, how much of a child he feels even when he doesn't.
Christian reaches for his face, his tan skin a shock against Ezra’s, and says, "Okay," says, "I’m sorry." and Ezra leans up, and whispers, "Kiss me," against Christian’s mouth.
So he does, he does.
--
"I told them I’m staying at a friend," he says later, when Christian is getting up to go to the bathroom, limbs heavy, chest light.
"Okay," Christian says, because okay. He never expected much else, really.
"Just okay?" Ezra repeats, and he sounds petulant, then, angry. Christian side-tracks on his way to his en suite and walks back to his bed, presses his lips to Ezra’s forehead.
"Okay, Ez."