Fingers, smoother than his own work-battered, bruised and callused touch, clammy and soft as they molded against puffed red cheeks—bisque-red skin fading pallid, thickly painted with an unnatural scarlet, Mag’s fingertips felt scalding like boiling cabbage soup on a hot, sparkling fire. The morning air felt damp and humid, even as the light breeze whipped at the tent’s thin fabric, sweeping jolts of cold up his spine. Dark fabric still left the tent more comfortably warm than the outside world’s bare cold, like sips of tea on a cold September’s day, as your sisters and mother huddled under a heavy wool blanket ‘too small for you to fit’ in—still, ivory hands, paler than his own ill colours, felt icy, and leeched the warmth from him, only to bestow bursts of unnatural flame-like burning in trade. Hot. Hot. Feverish. Sick. The male’s stomach did uneasy contortions that forced him to swallow mouthfuls of rising bile, groaning as it scratched at his already dry throat, tasting of the breakfast that he had only minutes ago been engrossed in, yet had high trouble remembering. Darkly polished nails tapped at his jaw, hands lingering, and lingering, and urged his skin to burn ardently with knowing coyness. Boy, did it work.
Thoughts, if one might name them such, churned slowly; this might have been the work of a mischievous, idle imp, and Daichi likened the feeling to cotton balls doused with bucket-fulls of milk forced through his ears and into the hollow his loving momma often complained about on his ‘slow days.’ This, it seemed, was such a day, and dark orbs widened painfully, stretching warm skin too tight, as he pursed gaping lips that seemed to have understood before him the words he had seemingly spewed. The echo of his utterance, ‘his voice,’ bubbled to the surface of his tangle of odd feelings and ideas, plopping onto a cushioned seat in his mind, garnering the attention of busy thoughts frantically forcing themselves to sort into simpler, smaller opinions on the curvaceous siren with her hands plastered on his chin and heart. It had been a long time, maybe too long, since Daichi had heard himself that loud. A dumb groan cemented ideas that he sounded deeper, more mature, ‘manly’ even, than he remembered—was it not yesterday that he had giggled like his twin, spoke just-enough-deeper than the young girl next door, thought of himself as any other hooligan flying down the path between dismal painted houses? When had he become him? When had he become the sort of person who would feel so entranced by someone, a lady nonetheless, for reasons he struggled to call? The sort of person who could barely hold her blank, light gaze, who slipped so shamelessly into staring where he shouldn’t? The sort of person who simply could not slap her hands away like he had so easily before? Was it months ago? A year? Years? Hours?
“I. Ugh. Sick. I feel—hah?”
Around him, gentle breeze slid across a smooth, plastic-like fabric that seemed to huff its chest and scream of its worth (which Daichi assumed was more than every part of him put together, add a few more of similar low value) as the wind fought against it. It only dented the smooth mass of thick cloth, the tent standing steady and tall as it had since he had been there; this was, apparently, sometime ago. The breeze tickled his ears with noises that tempted him outside, where he would indulge in a much needed deep breath of fresh morning ear, thin and devoid of the heavy atmosphere he felt weighing on his chest. That sensation, however, lifted with the passing of a few violent hacks and coughs and mumbled ‘sorry, I’s and more blood smudged into the waist of good trousers he was sad to ruin. Against the backdrop, a man he solemnly recognized as the-person-he-hardly-needed-to-see-right-now eyed him, almost, curiously, in a way that elicited another bout of coughs. Panicked, the brunette glanced over every trinket, every expensive little beauty stuffed in the corners, desperate to get away from either blank gaze. Either appraising look. Either glare. Yes, they were glaring at him, he could feel their piercing looks through his shirt, on his back, digging holes into his bone and muscle. Why was he here? He wasn’t meant to be here? Seconds ago, only seconds ago, he was.
“I’m going to throw up, I—“ The brunette glanced frantically around, feet carrying him slowly, but surely, back towards the flap of the tent. Leave, just leave. He couldn’t bear to deal with this, deal with the questions, deal with the disgusted grimaces. He couldn’t.
“Oh. Ah, it’s been a while.” Arms raised in a stretch, joints clicking satisfyingly, and a louder, more poised brunette groaned similarly. Narrowed eyes rested on a small, yet almost pretty woman, all dressed up in ribbonish red. Curvy, and surprisingly so. “You are?” He mumbled, though hardly waited for an answer, hooking a finger in her sleeve and yanking her towards him, letting his lips meld with hers.
It burned, like an unrestrained summer loose on his tongue, slipping into his throat as he sought to deepen their kiss. That was new, but it hurt a bit too much to be worth it. Still, he smiled as he pulled away. “Ages. It’s been ages.” A quick, fleeting appraisal of the tent revealed they had a bit of an audience, one he found himself too excited to care about, old men rarely made good victims.
He was up for fun, and there ought to be more interesting beings outside their little covering.