Hot and Cold


Mission over, he made for the cold water, clutching the bottle tightly and unscrewing the top with reverent haste. Hours in the sun with nothing but stale, lukewarm...

The first splash chilled his teeth, made them ache; the first swallow spread down into his belly and out. He shivered and tilted the bottle up higher, settling into a rhythm; suck, hold, swallow, gasp...

"For fuck's sake, Daniel, get a room."

Daniel gave the bottle a fond pat, then trashed it. "He's infatuated with a Coke can, Jack; it'd never work out."

"'He'?" Jack called after him, sounding bemused. "Daniel, 'he'?"


I like him naked, standing beside me in the showers. Wet and hazy with the steam, my bare eyes making each angularity indistinct.

I store snatched, stolen, guilty glimpses to recall later; an arched, bowed spine as he bends forward to scrub and rinse, hands holding white foam, long fingers slick; his face, blindly ecstatic as hot water courses over his skin, dusty, dirty, sweaty skin, revealed by rivulets.

And I want to taste his skin wet, kiss it wetter still, but I can't.

So if I had to pick, I like Jack better dressed.

I can touch him then.

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