“With you?” Jude murmured, unabashed. “Everything.”
He kept his arms around Kieran but loosened his hold, slowly becoming aware of his own wild heartbeat in the dark. Anything might have been a fairer answer, because he would take anything. He knew he was asking for too much.
But Jude wanted all of it. He wanted to keep kissing him for hours; all night; for days. He also wanted – quite desperately – to fuck him, and for Kieran to fuck him too. (Preferably both of these more than once.) He wanted to make good use of his hands and his lips and teeth and tongue, and to shut out the world until he had learnt every inch of him by heart. And he wanted to turn up the lamplight just enough to see him properly, as well. To gaze at him without guilt or the bitter ache of longing, without having to wonder how soon he should glance away. Freely, openly, without constraint: Jude wanted to look at everything that way, to reconsider everything he remembered in this new slant of light, with the angles different and the meanings clear.
(Some moments made sense. Garlands and paintings. Tidying up late after May Day, the streetlamps low and their spirits high. Kieran at his door asking for help. Jude knelt in the kitchen, washing Kieran’s wounds. That night in the attic – there had been endless full moon nights – when he’d surveyed the bite on his shoulder and the bruises on his wrists, and actually dared to hold him for a moment. Watching him leave in the mornings... how many times had he wished Kieran would stay? Some still bewildered him: especially those fights in the Augurey, sprawling arguments and ugly ends to conversations; Kieran often drunk, Jude usually angry. Loved you the whole time, Kieran had said, somehow. He wanted to make sense of it. He wanted to hear it a thousand more times.)
The list went on. He had thought too much about the question, had wanted for years; there was not enough time in tonight for half of it. But they were here, and alone, and had a few hours yet – so Jude was optimistic, at least, about their chances of undressing.
“I love you,” he said, first. Just in case that wasn’t obvious; in case Kieran thought he felt any less, or that this was all some elaborate attempt to distract himself from the election. (It was hard to think about the election now, breathless from kissing. Instead, his hands had moved to play helplessly at the edges of Kieran’s jacket.) “I thought you knew.”
And if he hadn’t, well... “I always wanted to say it,” Jude admitted earnestly: he had come so close to telling him so many times, “but I was afraid I’d – scare you off.”
He kept his arms around Kieran but loosened his hold, slowly becoming aware of his own wild heartbeat in the dark. Anything might have been a fairer answer, because he would take anything. He knew he was asking for too much.
But Jude wanted all of it. He wanted to keep kissing him for hours; all night; for days. He also wanted – quite desperately – to fuck him, and for Kieran to fuck him too. (Preferably both of these more than once.) He wanted to make good use of his hands and his lips and teeth and tongue, and to shut out the world until he had learnt every inch of him by heart. And he wanted to turn up the lamplight just enough to see him properly, as well. To gaze at him without guilt or the bitter ache of longing, without having to wonder how soon he should glance away. Freely, openly, without constraint: Jude wanted to look at everything that way, to reconsider everything he remembered in this new slant of light, with the angles different and the meanings clear.
(Some moments made sense. Garlands and paintings. Tidying up late after May Day, the streetlamps low and their spirits high. Kieran at his door asking for help. Jude knelt in the kitchen, washing Kieran’s wounds. That night in the attic – there had been endless full moon nights – when he’d surveyed the bite on his shoulder and the bruises on his wrists, and actually dared to hold him for a moment. Watching him leave in the mornings... how many times had he wished Kieran would stay? Some still bewildered him: especially those fights in the Augurey, sprawling arguments and ugly ends to conversations; Kieran often drunk, Jude usually angry. Loved you the whole time, Kieran had said, somehow. He wanted to make sense of it. He wanted to hear it a thousand more times.)
The list went on. He had thought too much about the question, had wanted for years; there was not enough time in tonight for half of it. But they were here, and alone, and had a few hours yet – so Jude was optimistic, at least, about their chances of undressing.
“I love you,” he said, first. Just in case that wasn’t obvious; in case Kieran thought he felt any less, or that this was all some elaborate attempt to distract himself from the election. (It was hard to think about the election now, breathless from kissing. Instead, his hands had moved to play helplessly at the edges of Kieran’s jacket.) “I thought you knew.”
And if he hadn’t, well... “I always wanted to say it,” Jude admitted earnestly: he had come so close to telling him so many times, “but I was afraid I’d – scare you off.”
