Jupiter
It is Anaheim. It is insanely hot.
Janne's hair is just freshly dyed blue. Jussi flits by, followed closely by Tommy, both smiling, hands twined together. Steve and Todd are dancing to the rhythm of the heat waves that roll off the sidewalk and through the house. Ales is off by the wall, some man is kissing his neck. Shawn leaves my side to get a drink. I wish he would come back.
I hate the heat. My head swims, my temples throb, beads of sweat form and run in trails; sweat in my eyes, drips down my neck, beads at the small of my back. And never goes away, no matter how much I try to wipe it away.
Words. Whispered. Low and French and smooth as honey spreading over warm toast, punctuated by a soft chuckle here and there. I don't understand a word of it. His breath on my ear is almost unbearable, but I don't move. I like that voice. Soothing. Coaxing. A sigh escapes, hovering in the air around us and he laughs.
"Come," he says, louder, and the words ring in my head as he grabs my hand and leads us through rooms and out the back door onto the patio where it is even hotter. We move towards a man in the corner, set up at a table wit paints all around him. I am beckoned to sit, and Georges pats my hand before letting it go. "I'll get you something to drink," he whispers and heads off.
It seems like there is nothing to do but sit.
"Tell me about yourself." The man is tall and thin; his clothes seem to hang off his bones and nothing quite seems to fit. But it's his eyes- shockingly blue and deep-set- and his mouth- thin-lipped but still softly lined- that keep my attention. He looks coiled, ready to snap at any moment.
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything. Everything."
For some reason, I do.
I tell him I play hockey. He grimaces. I tell him I'm the youngest of three children. He smiles and begins to mix paints. I don't know why- maybe it's the eyes that even through the haze of sweat manage to pierce right through me, maybe the interest of what colour he'll come up with next- but I find myself telling him things that I've never said out loud before.
Like how Cathy looks so happy with her husband and excited about her baby and I want that feeling but I know I can't have it the way I want it, or how when I was young I would have given anything to fly. Or how I used to wish that it was me dying instead of my mother, especially when my father would lock himself in his room and cry.
He picks up his palette and dips his fingers in the red, dragging them across my cheeks. I start to talk about hockey and skating and playing games of ping-pong with Paul until our fingers bleed, and he smiles and nods but never says a word, never breaks his gaze. Fingers press in the designs until it feels like they are burning into my skin, melding to my face.
Georges re-appears with two glasses filled with ice in one hand and a bottle- I can't quite tell what it is- in the other. He sets them on the table beside the paints and pours two drinks. The crackle of the ice as the liquor rolls over it fills the air, drowning out the chatter and laughter for a brief second.
A glass is pushed towards me. It is cool in my hand. I wonder if I can melt it, just from body heat. The smell of rum, harsh and sweet, mixes with the air as I pick it up, swirling the drink before taking a sip.
Cold. Deliciously so. I press the glass against the side of my neck, trying to absorb as much as I can. For the first time, I realise Georges' face is also painted, a gold sun on a dark blue background, and he is smiling widely. The painter takes a swig of rum straight from the bottle, leaving streaks of paint where his fingers were.
"Done," he announces, satisfaction evident on his face. Before I can do anything, Georges is pressing money into is hand and pulling me away and I barely have time to toss a "thank you," over my shoulder before he is swallowed up by the crowd.
I am led back into the house and into a hallway where a mirror hangs on the wall and he pulls me in front, glass resting on my shoulder as one arm wraps around my waist from behind. He is close. The heat is worse.
I don't care.
He is strong against me; I have the distinct impression he can probably break me in half if he really wants to. It's almost exhilarating. But I know he won't. "Look," he murmurs. I am. My face is painted a deep blood red. A butterfly spreads its wings across my cheeks, flecks of gold dust the tips of my hair and highlight the butterfly. I almost don't recognise myself. "Beautiful," Georges says, and laughs softly as my head ducks.
Eric passes by us with a confused look, but just smiles and nods before heading off, presumably to look for Janne.
"We should probably go," I say and he nods, but neither of us makes a move. I can feel the ice melting. My face feels clammy and streaky. He takes a sip of his rum and his lips- still cool- press against the base of my neck. My head tilts back, urging him to do it again. He does, but this time catches an ice cube in his teeth and drags it across my skin. It cuts through the haze in my mind, the soft edges disappear, everything is startlingly sharp for a second, and then it is gone.
I don't want to move. But I want more. I pull away- his hand still hasn't left my waist- and walk towards the stairs. The carpet tickles the bottoms of bare feet as we climb, passing various couples on the way. I think he might be humming behind me, but that might just be the heat messing with my mind, it's hard to say.
We find an open room at the end of the hallway and he follows me in, closing the door behind us. The room smells like cigarette smoke and vanilla incense and the window is open, letting in the night. Our glasses clink together in a toast. The ice is almost melted. The rum is watery. He takes the glass from my hand and sets it on the dresser, biting his lip nervously as he turns back.
My hands find his shoulders, he cups my chin, tilting it upwards, and licks my lips, tastes them, the way you would lick the salt off the rim of a margarita glass. Buttons fall away under my fingers at the barest brush. He kisses my cheek, his lips come away crimson, catches my bottom lip between his teeth like it is a piece of fruit.
"Are you okay with this?" he asks softly as he finds the collar of my shirt, tugging gently at it. The shirt falls easily from his shoulders. His chest is strong and dark and smooth under my hands, which seem tiny in comparison.
"Yes." There doesn't seem to be any other possible answer. The heat is worse up here, my head feels lighter, paint is starting to run into my eyes, blanketing everything in a reddish haze.
I sit on the edge of the bed and take his hand, pulling him down beside me before sliding up higher. Georges undresses me slowly, unbuttoning my shirt and jeans, leaving a trail of golden-coloured kisses on my skin. The first, just under my collarbone, is the brightest, by the time he reaches my stomach they have almost faded completely, only a small glitter betrays the fact his lips lingered there softly, almost reverently.
And then he is kicking his pants off and coming back up for another kiss. His skin burns against mine. His hands, presumably reaching for my waist, slide over my stomach, over hipbones, curl around my thighs, slick with sweat. He chuckles against my mouth. I can feel it right through me.
A finger, slick with sweat and spit, presses into me; he catches a gasp with his mouth, swallows it before it is even fully formed. It is too hot for resistance, too good to stop and think about what the fuck is happening. This is insane. He has never been more than a whisper of a fantasy and now he is here, the ledge of his hips, the muscles of his back under my fingertips, the heat of his skin. He breathes cool air onto my neck. I shiver. He laughs again. I like his laugh. I can close my eyes and let it wrap around me, warm and low.
His forehead rests against mine as he pulls out and shifts his weight. My legs wrap around his waist and my mouth moves to his neck and then he is inside of me- all quiet power and gentle thrusts and so fucking good. I am breathing hard into the curve of his ear. He pauses for a moment until I nod and then moves slowly, a hand curling around my cock. And I scream. He smiles against my skin and angles his hips, coaxing another from my throat.
Blunt teeth scrape across the side of his neck. He throws his head back and his lips part. I do it again, only harder, and this time the moan is audible.
I think I am shaking. His skin tastes like salt and sweat. He is moving faster now; I can only cling to his shoulder and lift my hips up to meet him, my mind is swimming, my throat is parched, but I wouldn't exchange this for anything in the world. And then I am coming and there is no way they can't hear us downstairs and I really don't give a fuck. In the morning, perhaps, but not now.
Several thrusts later he has caught my lip again and is shaking against me and I can feel the growl deep in his chest as he comes. I wince as I discover my nails have raised welts on the skin of his back. He doesn't seem to mind though, as he shifts himself over the mattress to try and keep from crushing me.
"What..." An arm wraps around my waist and pulls me closer. I have so many questions. What just happened? What does it mean? Why? But he just places a finger across my lips and shakes his head.
"Tomorrow," he says. "We can talk all you like tomorrow." I find that my head fits perfectly in the crook of his neck. It is comfortable here. I nod, and slowly, we both drift off to sleep.