The story so far:
Four in the morning.
Donny was asleep.
Vince was not.
Pale skin clashed with the bright green sheets of Donny’s bed, his legs tangled in them. He was sprawled against the mattress facedown.
He’s so vulnerable.
A cigarette grew cold in an ashtray and when Donny twisted a slender arm, sunglasses fell to the ground.
Vince was perched over Donny, balanced on forearms, knees, and the tips of his feet. He took Donny’s cigarette and inhaled smoothly, saving it from certain death. It was warm now. His teeth were bared fiercely and biting down. His eyes were lazy and bloodshot, focused on the defenseless skin beneath him. Vince felt like a predator, a jungle cat, a liquid panther dominating the kill in the hot, sticky air.
I’m surprised he’s still asleep.
He finished the cigarette and pressed it into the ashtray. With his weight on his knees, he slid off one leg and slowly the other. The mattress expanded. He bit Donny’s hair and slid back into his own room.
Violet clouds stirred in the sky. Stars sat alone, drifting and wished for guidance. Street lamps flickered. Silence as time halted.
Donny turned over in his sleep and his body stiffened.