[ It's an art, figuring out your boyfriend's needs when he's crested like storming waters from the safe haven of "disgusted with the world at large" to the narrowed tunnel vision of "disgusted with himself in the world's sphere, specifically."
Adam looks like what half of Henrietta is: a mess, rendered hot exclusively by Ronan's fondness and the statistic reality that, come what may, he's still sharing his bed with the 1% of the deadbeat, in-bred Virginian population. He's worn down to every bone Robert Parrish has tried to beat out of him, pulverized. Barely hanging.
And here's Ronan, with his bat and his mad following of turbulent ravens, peering their heads out like mad smears of trembled ink, before he waves at them — man and log and ancestral, cave instinct — and they retreat, with enough intelligence and elegance and instinct to understand, ah, Tarzan should be allowed to greet Jane first. He does, grin a wretched, knife-carved thing, glistened with the magic of the snow below.
There are constants in this world: first, the threadbare quality of Adam's clothes, largely depleted of any residual warmth they might have conspired to, in a kinder world. Then, Ronan's his own furnace, mad boy and frequent meals, and growing pains stoked by the sheer energy that rides his limbs, treacling.
He reaches long before he's asked, grasps both of Adam's hands in one of his own, brings them up for the token transaction of a kiss scattered over knuckles trodden by calluses — then eases the ice plates, his boyfriend's fingertips, against the warm stretch of his belly, under sweatshirt and tee, with animal compassion and the husk of an inevitable shiver. ]
Glare'em down, Parrish. Give them hell.
[ If anyone can reduce a living being to dust and withered shapes, it's Adam 'God damn you for moving when he means to sleep' Parrish. ]
Come inside, first. I've got it on good authority we've already discovered fire there.
no subject
Adam looks like what half of Henrietta is: a mess, rendered hot exclusively by Ronan's fondness and the statistic reality that, come what may, he's still sharing his bed with the 1% of the deadbeat, in-bred Virginian population. He's worn down to every bone Robert Parrish has tried to beat out of him, pulverized. Barely hanging.
And here's Ronan, with his bat and his mad following of turbulent ravens, peering their heads out like mad smears of trembled ink, before he waves at them — man and log and ancestral, cave instinct — and they retreat, with enough intelligence and elegance and instinct to understand, ah, Tarzan should be allowed to greet Jane first. He does, grin a wretched, knife-carved thing, glistened with the magic of the snow below.
There are constants in this world: first, the threadbare quality of Adam's clothes, largely depleted of any residual warmth they might have conspired to, in a kinder world. Then, Ronan's his own furnace, mad boy and frequent meals, and growing pains stoked by the sheer energy that rides his limbs, treacling.
He reaches long before he's asked, grasps both of Adam's hands in one of his own, brings them up for the token transaction of a kiss scattered over knuckles trodden by calluses — then eases the ice plates, his boyfriend's fingertips, against the warm stretch of his belly, under sweatshirt and tee, with animal compassion and the husk of an inevitable shiver. ]
Glare'em down, Parrish. Give them hell.
[ If anyone can reduce a living being to dust and withered shapes, it's Adam 'God damn you for moving when he means to sleep' Parrish. ]
Come inside, first. I've got it on good authority we've already discovered fire there.