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Midnight of fireflies, the room feels cold.
His eyelashes are trembling. This is irrational, illogical. There's a spiral on the walls, he's losing the sense. Going around in the same circle, an cycle without an end or an end without a cycle. What's happening, he wonders. This tangle of inconsistencies brushes against his fingers, and Hugo...
Ah, of course, Hugo.
Loki sighs, his breaths a monotonous strain from deep within his throat. He feels tense, his muscles rigid. Sees his hands—his hands, he can't believe it and repeats—slipping silently inside his clothes, touching the skin beneath his shorts as if it were nothing, as if it were everything. It's confusing, and he's so effusive, it makes him shrug in the shadow of his body; he sighs, a faint wine-colored blush, so faint it barely touches his face.
And he presses his lips together, this forbidden sound that seems like a threat. Hugo leans over him, clings to his hips, panting like a dog against his ear; agitated, loyal and reliable, like a Dogue de Bordeaux, like the Great Pyrenees. He sees his arms, sees his neck, drops of sweat spattering the floor; his chest rises and falls, his lips slightly parted.
Loki thinks he's been delayed. He's being patient, if now is when he tears off the clothes that fall to the floor, if now is when the edge of his fingers crowns his thighs. He scribbles on his legs, whispering anything and everything, and his hand moves, moves and moves down; he trembles, and he has to pull at his shirt to keep stable, quiet.
His mind goes blank, for a few seconds. His eyelids feel heavy, he squints, his touch feels different. Almost, almost heavenly. It overwhelms him, he'd say, if it didn't sound like a lie; being in his arms suffocates him. His hands are invasive, gigantic—he doesn't mind, really, but he likes to complain about it—and Hugo is so-
"Loki..."
Hugo is an idiot.
It's so strange, he doesn't understand it. And that's saying a lot for him, Julian Loki. He has this space, this black hole in his pupils, this bottomlessness that steals his soul. Blood falls between his hair, the color of cherry and red wine; there is no life in his eyes. Calluses scrape the bronze of his back when he touches, his incessant words turn to void; he almost gasps.
When he thrusts, holding the base and pumping; when he penetrates deeply inside him. And Hugo is so strange, burying his nose in the curve of his neck, caressing his waist like a fool. His compliments are lost in the room, as he has become lost in it, his eyes rolling slightly upward. What he says is white noise; praise upon praise against his skin, it makes him want to smile.
Ah, how well he knows him. He murmurs compliments in his ear, his pelvis moving in circles, hips thumping; he recites poetry and religion when he raises his face, looks at him from the depths of nowhere and, he thinks, he is referring to him as an almighty God. He knows him so, so well it's almost impossible, almost ridiculous.
But it's Hugo, and it's his peculiar kind of selfishness. Loki feels breathless, his arms beside his own, suffocating. His glaze down slightly, his eyes meeting poison; the volcano erupts, far away from their lips. And Hugo has abandoned—he remembers, for him—the man's greatest goal; the top of the world within his grasp. Ah, as he says, his destiny.
Hugo is so, so strange. He doesn't understand. And he lifts his lips from his neck and travels over his body, setting the rhythm. Is like a painter, he thinks, tinting galaxies red, white and blue with his kisses. Cold, damp, ice floes that graze the skin of his cheeks; they curse, condemn. A spasm runs down his spine, a gasp that almost escapes him as he moves up his jaw and touches his cheeks, as if by chance. It isn't, with Hugo it never has been, and he wonders if he'll have the impulse (the courage) to finally touch his lips.
He bites them instinctively, a thin red thread running down his chin. He doesn't even realize it, anyway. His ruby shadow falls across his body, twilight seems to seep through the windows; oh, he can only think of Hugo. And he knows, Hugo can only think of him.
That's what's so rewarding, actually. And he feels it, in the down, it's so deep inside...
Ah, what a problem. It drives him crazy, and what's truly moral in his hands? A murmur escapes him, unconsciously a gasp—who would have thought it, from him?—and he thinks he sees Hugo smiling under his bangs.
Dumb, idiot.