[ it seemed right. to say it again properly this time, instead of when he's certain he's going to die. nureyev pulls him close and he moves with him, pulling at his shirt a little more eagerly now, kissing him in a way that he only knows how because he's done it before — with a hungry desperation because it's been next to forever and the pounding in his blood is urging, urging, urging.
and he wants him, there's no doubt about it.
maybe it helps that he feels flush and maybe it helps that nureyev's skin is warm to the touch, his lips are soft and feeling like home in the middle of nowhere, his body pressed to his is close enough that when he breathes he can fall right into him. there's something so irrevocably irresistible, as if there isn't normally, as if something's off but it only tips into his mind briefly and extricates itself.
his fingertips find the fold of his shirt, slip against the jut of nureyev's collarbone, trace with one callused finger where he'd pointed to before splaying a little more beneath the fabric. ]
no subject
and he wants him, there's no doubt about it.
maybe it helps that he feels flush and maybe it helps that nureyev's skin is warm to the touch, his lips are soft and feeling like home in the middle of nowhere, his body pressed to his is close enough that when he breathes he can fall right into him. there's something so irrevocably irresistible, as if there isn't normally, as if something's off but it only tips into his mind briefly and extricates itself.
his fingertips find the fold of his shirt, slip against the jut of nureyev's collarbone, trace with one callused finger where he'd pointed to before splaying a little more beneath the fabric. ]