The plea never resolves itself into a request. Anything wedges beneath John's ribs instead, the sweetness of it better than anything John could have asked for.
Anything stretches out in his mind, spanning more ground than he can manage the words to say now. They are so close. John cannot bring himself to draw back long enough to catch a breath, to try and pluck enough words to demand or encourage. It doesn't matter now, not when they've come to this point, teetering at the limits of their collective endurance.
If John had thought of holding back, it was a useless endeavor. He cannot rightly say whether it is the sound Flint makes or the tight draw of his fingers or the way he leans impossibly closer. It hits all at once. He'd barely let go of Flint before his hand drops to Flint's forearm, fingers digging in as he shudders through the sensation.
They will have to draw apart. At least to get into this bed, John knows. But leaning together, catching their breath, John's mouth opens against Flint's throat. The softness of that kiss speaks more clearly than John is able to in this moment.
In counterpoint, in balance, sits the shape of Flint's hand against John's neck, his pressing fingertips splayed over the drawn tight muscle of his shoulder. It's firm, holding despite the sensitivity elsewhere. Maybe they will leave matches marks on each other, is some distant though - (no they won't; their holds aren't so fierce as all that) - John's vice grip at his forearm, and his thumb latched so hard over his shoulder.
Under that soft mouth, he breathes in. It's a short, swallowing thing, and between them his hand has gone all soft, touch converting into little more the mute scuff of knuckles against bare middle and a turning wrist. Slowly, like coming untied, he twitches back to look down into the narrow slip of space between them and at the wreck they've made of each other. He touches John's hip, John's wrist, and eventually the angle of his arm turns enough that he can slip through the softening pressure of that hold to slip slick stained fingers clumsily into his hand.
He doesn't know how long that lasts, for how long they trade the same air while the twitching animal thing drains free of all their shared skin. Eventually, ragged against the prickle of full beard and the shape of an ear, he asks, "Alright?"
More recedes, quiets as their fingers lace together and John's mouth maps the slowing thud of Flint's pulse. The taste of salt and sweat are still heavy in his mouth, linger when the desperation has ebbed and all that is left is the space they're sharing now.
It is enough.
But the answer to that question comes slowly. John's mouth drags along the join Flint's shoulder before he breaks, drawing in a deep breath. (Along with the familiar ebb of aches in his body comes Madi, her face, the prickle of uncertainty that cannot be answered as quickly as John wishes.)
"Yes," at last, John straightening enough to look into Flint's face. He is weighted down by everything else that should come after, tangled sentiments that they both already know by heart. John leans into kiss him instead, as easy as drawing a breath, before returning, "Are you?"
That hand at his shoulder eases, slides, moving up into the great tangle of Silver's dark hair and gentling there as the base of his skull. It is a soft curl of fingers, the shape of his knuckles as natural as the line of his brow set close through that kiss.
No.
That isn't a thing he can say. No, only not because of this. No, though it doesn't change anything. No, but you're not either.
(A few hours from this point, he will wake when the morning sun rises just high enough to expose them together in this shared bed. For some minutes while he lies listening to the shape of Silver breathing, he will miss Thomas so much that it threatens to break him.
Sometimes he thinks he has become enough of a different person, and so entrenched in things that neither Thomas or Miranda would easily recognize, that it shouldn't still catch him by the throat. But it does, rising and falling in him. The world around a small boat in a predawn sea.
What comes after this part? He doesn't know. How does he begin to get to after? How is anyone meant to recover?)
"For right now," he says. It's a soft shape against Silver's mouth and it feels near enough to the truth.
Edited (typos my way into hell) 2020-08-17 07:15 (UTC)
The meaning is understood, adds dimension to what John hadn't quite said. Yes, he is alright now. Yes, the wound has been staunched. But they both know that what staves off agony in the moment doesn't put it off forever.
The pain comes sooner or later. And then they'll both have to live with it. (Madi's voice comes back to him: Maybe to go to such a place, one needs another to hold the tether and to find a way out.) His thumb drags along Flint's knuckles, marking out the shape of it, the way their fingers fit together so securely.
"Lay down with me," John entreats finally. Flint's hand feels good in his hair, held in his own, and the soft exchange of breath is so intimate that John's entire being aches with it. Parting becomes a trade off in his mind, considering how they fit back together in a new configuration.
That has an easy answer. He doesn't need to say it though, just shifts and begins to unravel how they are wound together.
It seems unlikely they he'll ever rise again (not tonight), and so somewhere in the process of rearrangement he pauses to strip the rest of the way out of his trousers and leaves just softer, whiter drawers behind. Laces at the knee and the small of his back are summarily undone or eased, and there is something in this simple thing done with John so near that settles at last a frayed end. When he does finally move to lay beside him, there is no ragged part left to question the shape of it; he simply bends to what seems most reasonable and allows him to easily catch John's hand, to draw it up and press his mouth to the curving palm and feel the shape of his fingers at his day worn cheek.
"It can be better," he says, without specification. This. The thing they've committed themselves to. The tilt of the world in motion. Not today, but eventually—for someone.
This too is a kind of familiar ground. They have slept alongside each other before, so often that this new layer fit seamlessly over what has already been between them for years.
There is a moment, braced on the edge of the bed, where John kneads the heel of his palm down his thigh, soothing the pain kindling there. It will pass. And it eases once he's laid down, diminishes in his attention when Flint fits himself alongside him.
"I know," John answers. Flint's mouth at his palm sticks in his mind, catches his breath for a moment. "It will be."
There can be no alternative now. It's cost them too much for John to entertain otherwise. His hand slips to cup Flint's cheek, thumb at the corner of his mouth. (Thinks again of the way the air shuddered with the force of Flint's voice, how his own blood had sparked to that tremor.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Anything stretches out in his mind, spanning more ground than he can manage the words to say now. They are so close. John cannot bring himself to draw back long enough to catch a breath, to try and pluck enough words to demand or encourage. It doesn't matter now, not when they've come to this point, teetering at the limits of their collective endurance.
If John had thought of holding back, it was a useless endeavor. He cannot rightly say whether it is the sound Flint makes or the tight draw of his fingers or the way he leans impossibly closer. It hits all at once. He'd barely let go of Flint before his hand drops to Flint's forearm, fingers digging in as he shudders through the sensation.
They will have to draw apart. At least to get into this bed, John knows. But leaning together, catching their breath, John's mouth opens against Flint's throat. The softness of that kiss speaks more clearly than John is able to in this moment.
no subject
Under that soft mouth, he breathes in. It's a short, swallowing thing, and between them his hand has gone all soft, touch converting into little more the mute scuff of knuckles against bare middle and a turning wrist. Slowly, like coming untied, he twitches back to look down into the narrow slip of space between them and at the wreck they've made of each other. He touches John's hip, John's wrist, and eventually the angle of his arm turns enough that he can slip through the softening pressure of that hold to slip slick stained fingers clumsily into his hand.
He doesn't know how long that lasts, for how long they trade the same air while the twitching animal thing drains free of all their shared skin. Eventually, ragged against the prickle of full beard and the shape of an ear, he asks, "Alright?"
no subject
It is enough.
But the answer to that question comes slowly. John's mouth drags along the join Flint's shoulder before he breaks, drawing in a deep breath. (Along with the familiar ebb of aches in his body comes Madi, her face, the prickle of uncertainty that cannot be answered as quickly as John wishes.)
"Yes," at last, John straightening enough to look into Flint's face. He is weighted down by everything else that should come after, tangled sentiments that they both already know by heart. John leans into kiss him instead, as easy as drawing a breath, before returning, "Are you?"
no subject
No.
That isn't a thing he can say. No, only not because of this. No, though it doesn't change anything. No, but you're not either.
(A few hours from this point, he will wake when the morning sun rises just high enough to expose them together in this shared bed. For some minutes while he lies listening to the shape of Silver breathing, he will miss Thomas so much that it threatens to break him.
Sometimes he thinks he has become enough of a different person, and so entrenched in things that neither Thomas or Miranda would easily recognize, that it shouldn't still catch him by the throat. But it does, rising and falling in him. The world around a small boat in a predawn sea.
What comes after this part? He doesn't know. How does he begin to get to after? How is anyone meant to recover?)
"For right now," he says. It's a soft shape against Silver's mouth and it feels near enough to the truth.
no subject
The pain comes sooner or later. And then they'll both have to live with it. (Madi's voice comes back to him: Maybe to go to such a place, one needs another to hold the tether and to find a way out.) His thumb drags along Flint's knuckles, marking out the shape of it, the way their fingers fit together so securely.
"Lay down with me," John entreats finally. Flint's hand feels good in his hair, held in his own, and the soft exchange of breath is so intimate that John's entire being aches with it. Parting becomes a trade off in his mind, considering how they fit back together in a new configuration.
no subject
It seems unlikely they he'll ever rise again (not tonight), and so somewhere in the process of rearrangement he pauses to strip the rest of the way out of his trousers and leaves just softer, whiter drawers behind. Laces at the knee and the small of his back are summarily undone or eased, and there is something in this simple thing done with John so near that settles at last a frayed end. When he does finally move to lay beside him, there is no ragged part left to question the shape of it; he simply bends to what seems most reasonable and allows him to easily catch John's hand, to draw it up and press his mouth to the curving palm and feel the shape of his fingers at his day worn cheek.
"It can be better," he says, without specification. This. The thing they've committed themselves to. The tilt of the world in motion. Not today, but eventually—for someone.
no subject
There is a moment, braced on the edge of the bed, where John kneads the heel of his palm down his thigh, soothing the pain kindling there. It will pass. And it eases once he's laid down, diminishes in his attention when Flint fits himself alongside him.
"I know," John answers. Flint's mouth at his palm sticks in his mind, catches his breath for a moment. "It will be."
There can be no alternative now. It's cost them too much for John to entertain otherwise. His hand slips to cup Flint's cheek, thumb at the corner of his mouth. (Thinks again of the way the air shuddered with the force of Flint's voice, how his own blood had sparked to that tremor.)
What is really being said: I believe you.