by Sylvia A. Winters
Free Story. 500 words. M/M. This was supposed to fit into three or four tweets, but kind of got away from me.
“Watch out!” Tommy yells, but it’s too late and Paul’s falling, the world spinning out from under him as he goes down, ankle twisting out from the offending tree root, and he tumbles down and over, over again until the blue sky stops whirling and is static above him, just one sliver of white cloud marring its smooth surface.
“You okay?” Tommy asks, but Paul can see that he’s biting the insides of his cheeks to keep from laughing, his green eyes lit up with amusement.
Asshole, Paul thinks, but he’s always liked it when Tommy laughs—even if that means he’s laughing at him—and he grabs Tommy’s wrist, pulling him down. The shock on his face is worth the elbow in the ribs that Paul gets, narrowly avoiding knocking the wind out of him.
Tommy’s hands go straight to his hair, curling into it, and Paul wonders if maybe he is winded, feeling suddenly breathless with Tommy pressed so close, their mouths barely inches apart, Tommy’s hand in his hair.
“Ow!” There’s a sharp tug to his scalp and Tommy waves a twig in his face, complete with blond strands of hair still attached to it.
Paul glares at him, and Tommy laughs, settling against him, his body a hot, hard line against Paul’s, the sun lighting up the bare skin of his arms, his face—making his green eyes look brighter, dazzling like emeralds. And that’s it—Paul can’t hold back any more, can’t keep waiting for Tommy to make the first move. He kisses him, leaning up and pressing their mouths together, gentle, chaste, no pressure—so soft it could almost be deniable later.
The grin doesn’t fade from Tommy’s face, but his eyes darken and Paul thinks that’s it—he’s lost him and Tommy will never talk to him again after today. But then he leans down, fingers pressing against Paul’s jaw—a light touch, but for Paul the prints are almost searing, burnt into his skin and he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget this touch—and kisses him.
They stay like that—kissing, lightly exploring each other’s mouths, each other’s skin, counting freckles, tracing birthmarks—until the light begins to dim and the sun sinks, until the harsh scream of a fox startles them out of the soft, warm cocoon they’ve wrapped around themselves.
At the edge of the field, just before gravel and the route back to civilisation begins, Tommy grabs Paul’s wrist, pulls them flush against one another, and kisses against his ear, whispering. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Paul agrees, unable to keep the satisfied smirk off his face, elated at the realisation that this afternoon was not a one-time thing, not something deniable or regrettable, but something that can, and will, happen again.
The rest of the way home feels like he’s walking on air, and even when Tommy turns off down Church Lane and Paul keeps going straight, he can feel the imprint of his touch, the promise echoing in his ears. Tomorrow.