my hand's a scaffold

Calum tastes like the dark roast coffee he’s drinking while Luke finally gives him that tour of the store.  The next morning, Calum tastes like maple syrup and diner pancakes. Later that night, he tastes like beer and cigarette smoke. He tastes like sweat and noise when he pulls Luke into the crowd, one hand warm against his waist as they sway through the bodies around them, Calum leaning in to sing low into his ear about an island in the sun, playing and having fun. He tastes like Luke himself when he kisses him breathless afterward, Luke still shaky from coming, whimpering into Calum’s mouth as he’s held by the hips and pushed onto the mattress. Right before bed, he tastes like mint mouthwash, saying goodnight with a kiss that turns into a slow, sleepy mess of hands and mouths until neither of them can keep it going. Those flavors sit on Luke’s tongue long after he wakes up the next morning, the house quiet around him, with only the last traces of Calum and another note on the nightstand to prove he’d been there.