like a bad pun.

while his finger marks the length, his thumb creeps under the collar of control’s shirt. he gives him a sweep across the collarbone.

the touch starts at the base of his neck but the feeling takes root in the bottom of his spine, works its way up slowly, climbing his vertabrae like a ladder.

it's a slow reaction, a head-turn that happens about the same time as the goosebumps crawling up his arms.

“by your estimate,” he agrees. but. “i think it becomes you.”

james & control: bakery verse (NOT YOUR TRADITIONAL)

so it might not be jealousy, but there is something sharp about it—in this sea of people, look at me, i am under these lights, too. but now he's won: out of all of them, and the prize is fresh air, the warmth of a hip pressing against hip.

"you still got it."

who could say no to you?

admiration, and relief: it gets lonely, sometimes, the art of knowing what to say when. the mask drop is significant, and heavy wtih how relatable it is. control pats down the front of james' pockets for him, and this is also an excuse, to touch.

“you draw the eye more than i do. i might be jealous if i weren’t looking, too.” only he is allowed this treat: control lit warmly from below by the ember of the cigarette. an openness to his expression for which he had to fight, from which they both bear scars.

"let's get some air."

down a staircase to a balcony, with a heavy door that control props open behind them—he is guiding james by the small of his back the entire way, like he needs some grip on him to ensure he won't drift away under the lights again.

you do, don’t you? with a push back, a laugh, it would be. his expression would sit unevenly. because i do. i do.

in the walk-in, the lights are a sort of muted silver but their breaths become an icy white. somehow that seems, to control, like the element that will give them away, even though the door is closed.

james reaches for the oranges, he reaches for an embroidered shirt pocket to pull close.

the kiss is quick, juvenile. tasting of whatever it is james is sneaking bites of outside.

control can't fight his grin. their mouths close enough together to melt each other's breath before it takes. there are footsteps just outside—whitby, or worse.

one of his arms is still in the air en route to the oranges, but dragging now, hanging heavy against the fingers he’s hooked on the wire shelf.

the overhead light flickers, so he kisses him back.