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Jan. 5th, 2014 01:21 pmI.
In the early morning, the light that comes through the window is almost blue, nothing like the weak-butter light that Peter associates with that time just after sunrise. In it, everything looks cold, almost desaturated. In it, Isaac looks carved from marble, all the gold in his hair gone silvered, the pale of his skin gone almost glowing, too perfect and chill to be breathing. Sometimes it doesn’t matter. Sometimes he doesn’t feel it.
Sometimes he does.
Even with only half a pillow between them, Peter cannot hear Isaac’s heartbeat. Instead, he watches. He watches until he can see the subtle rise and fall of Isaac’s shoulder with his breath, that distance that could be measured in eyelashes instead of inches; he watches until Isaac’s eyelashes flutter, pupil moving beneath lids that never part; he watches until Isaac’s lips part, just slightly, and no sound comes out. He watches until Isaac is alive, and then he sleeps.
II.
In the afternoon, the light that comes through the window is white, chill and reflected, almost the sort of white that would blind if looked at too straight on. It lights up the apartment, shows every bare corner and blotched wall, every ragged edge on every blanket. On the days they have work, Isaac is often home first, alone in the apartment with only the unflinching light for company. Sometimes it doesn’t matter. Sometimes he doesn’t feel it.
Sometimes he does.
Peter is somewhere else, his boots and jacket gone from the doorway, and Isaac cannot hear his heartbeat. Instead, he breathes. He breathes until he can smell the sharp of leather, the woodiness of unburnt tobacco and the faint acrid haze of smoke; he breathes until he can smell the bitter of tea brewed strong enough to play coffee, a half-inch left in the bottom of a mug by the bed to stain rings around the edge of the cup; he breathes until he can smell the sweet of puppy fur and Peter’s skin. He breathes until Peter is there all around him, and then he relaxes.
III.
In the evening, the light from their lamps is honeyed yellow, dim and warm as candles, the sort of light that throws shadows into the corners and makes everything close and warm. It caramels Peter’s skin and turns Isaac’s hair to gold and soothes over all the threadbare edges of this little place they’ve carved out for themselves, this one small block of the world that is for them. Sometimes it doesn’t matter. Sometimes they don’t feel it.
Sometimes they do.
Sometimes, sitting hip to hip, Isaac lets Peter’s guitar rest against his stomach, feels the music through the vibration of wood and the shift of muscles in Peter’s arm and the slide of his jaw against Isaac’s hair as he sings. Sometimes, sprawled out on the mattress, they play video games, feet tangled together ostensibly to try and distract each other at vital points in the race, but not really. Sometimes, for no good reason at all, Peter springs to life and tickles Isaac until Peter ends up inevitably pinned to the mattress laughing hysterically and begging for mercy, after which he always flops over and rests his head on Isaac’s chest to listen to his heart slow. Sometimes, buried beneath a mountain of blankets, they touch until all Isaac can smell is Peter and all Peter can see is Isaac and all they can hear is each other and there isn’t anything to fear, not anything at all.
In the early morning, the light that comes through the window is almost blue, nothing like the weak-butter light that Peter associates with that time just after sunrise. In it, everything looks cold, almost desaturated. In it, Isaac looks carved from marble, all the gold in his hair gone silvered, the pale of his skin gone almost glowing, too perfect and chill to be breathing. Sometimes it doesn’t matter. Sometimes he doesn’t feel it.
Sometimes he does.
Even with only half a pillow between them, Peter cannot hear Isaac’s heartbeat. Instead, he watches. He watches until he can see the subtle rise and fall of Isaac’s shoulder with his breath, that distance that could be measured in eyelashes instead of inches; he watches until Isaac’s eyelashes flutter, pupil moving beneath lids that never part; he watches until Isaac’s lips part, just slightly, and no sound comes out. He watches until Isaac is alive, and then he sleeps.
II.
In the afternoon, the light that comes through the window is white, chill and reflected, almost the sort of white that would blind if looked at too straight on. It lights up the apartment, shows every bare corner and blotched wall, every ragged edge on every blanket. On the days they have work, Isaac is often home first, alone in the apartment with only the unflinching light for company. Sometimes it doesn’t matter. Sometimes he doesn’t feel it.
Sometimes he does.
Peter is somewhere else, his boots and jacket gone from the doorway, and Isaac cannot hear his heartbeat. Instead, he breathes. He breathes until he can smell the sharp of leather, the woodiness of unburnt tobacco and the faint acrid haze of smoke; he breathes until he can smell the bitter of tea brewed strong enough to play coffee, a half-inch left in the bottom of a mug by the bed to stain rings around the edge of the cup; he breathes until he can smell the sweet of puppy fur and Peter’s skin. He breathes until Peter is there all around him, and then he relaxes.
III.
In the evening, the light from their lamps is honeyed yellow, dim and warm as candles, the sort of light that throws shadows into the corners and makes everything close and warm. It caramels Peter’s skin and turns Isaac’s hair to gold and soothes over all the threadbare edges of this little place they’ve carved out for themselves, this one small block of the world that is for them. Sometimes it doesn’t matter. Sometimes they don’t feel it.
Sometimes they do.
Sometimes, sitting hip to hip, Isaac lets Peter’s guitar rest against his stomach, feels the music through the vibration of wood and the shift of muscles in Peter’s arm and the slide of his jaw against Isaac’s hair as he sings. Sometimes, sprawled out on the mattress, they play video games, feet tangled together ostensibly to try and distract each other at vital points in the race, but not really. Sometimes, for no good reason at all, Peter springs to life and tickles Isaac until Peter ends up inevitably pinned to the mattress laughing hysterically and begging for mercy, after which he always flops over and rests his head on Isaac’s chest to listen to his heart slow. Sometimes, buried beneath a mountain of blankets, they touch until all Isaac can smell is Peter and all Peter can see is Isaac and all they can hear is each other and there isn’t anything to fear, not anything at all.
