Lucid Dreams
His hair fans out against the pillow, tousled, catching the light that streams through the window in the early dawn. His eyes are closed, his mouth is open, and he lets out a long sigh, fingers gripping the sheets. Blue eyes look up, seeming to smile, because his mouth can't. He's too busy kissing every inch.
This part of Matthew. Has he tasted it before? The smooth skin at the juncture of his thigh and hip. The back of his knee, where his lover lets out a little giggle, moaning at the sharp bite he gets. He wants to imprint this, this moment, in his memory.
"Alfred."
Each moan of his name. Each pleasured cry. Each sharp hiss. The way violet eyes sparkle with tears, blinded with pleasure. He wants that. He wants to remember the silk of his hair through his fingers, warm kisses in the morning when they both wake up, the taste of his lips, the sounds he makes while sleeping, the warmth of his body on cold nights. He wants so much that he can't hope to contain any of it.
Even his name, Matthew. He wants to remember every sound and syllable.
He kisses his way back up Matthew's body, studying the marks around his neck, red splotches on his peach skin. The indents of teeth on the insides of his thighs, spread for him. Matthew stares back at him, a finger held to his mouth for silence, for control, to stop the whines he wants to utter. Please. Hurry. I need you now.
They kiss. Slow and sweet and warm. He groans softly into it, smoothing his hands down Matthew's hips, feels Matthew's arms wrap around his shoulders, thin and shaking. He's crying. They're both crying. He doesn't want tears. Of all things, he doesn't want tears. He wants love bites and kisses and hickies and the taste of him, the scent of him.
He wants the scars he leaves on Matthew to last forever
"Alfred, please..."
They're long past the point of knowing what it is they are looking for. If he could just move a little closer. Melt into Matthew and stay in his warmth, in his sweetness like a cloud in fog. He doesn't want to think. He doesn't want to be farther than he has to be.
Matthew groans loudly when he pushes inside, head tossing back, hair catching the sunlight again. Sunlight that is too high. He wants more time. Wants to go slow. Wants to feel his heat. Wants to watch his stomach flutter each time he pushes back in. Wants to hear him scream when he finally reaches the peak. Wants to listen to his heart beat as they both come back down.
As it stands, he thrusts, quickly to feel Matthew's body tighten around him, just to hear his raw scream of ecstasy. He kisses Matthew's neck, listening to his barely audible moans, rasping through swollen pink lips. But those moans are there. In the silence, those moans are so loud. And Matthew blushes with his embarrassment, his excitement, his need.
"You're beautiful." He says it, wants to keep saying it. Never wants to have to leave so that he can remind Matthew of it every day because he has the tendency to forget. He forgets just how much Alfred loves him. Doesn't realize that Alfred has never loved another person more. Couldn't possibly manage it. Matthew takes up his whole heart.
Matthew's name is always on his tongue, sweet, like peaches. With cream and sugar and fine bone china bowls. He's perfect. He's all that Alfred needs.
When they finally crash, panting heavily, the sun is higher in the sky, an omen of what was to come. Matthew gently lays silent kisses on Alfred's shoulder. Down, over his heart. He's still crying. The tears are as silent as his kisses. But Alfred knows. Even if there were no actual tears, he would still be crying.
"You don't have to go." It really translated to I don't want you to go, even if Matthew would never say it, never admit that he can't stand to be away from Alfred's side. But Alfred shakes his head, and Matthew knows that Alfred would give him that answer.
He has to go. If he doesn't go, who will fight for Matthew? Who will keep Matthew safe? He has to go.
They share a deep kiss, fiery and deep like spices. The taste of Matthew fresh and crisp, and he promises, inscribes it on his soul, never to forget it. Promises not to die. To come back home. To be alive always, keep Matthew at the forefront of his mind.
If he dies, who will tell Matthew that he is beautiful?
He stands, pulls on the uniform that Matthew had ironed the night before. Matthew watches, long past tears. Too tired to cry. Too tired to do anything but pray that he returns. Alfred watches him back, studies the shape of his legs under the thin pale blue sheets, the sun on his chest, the sheen of sweat on his body.
He wants to remember it, even if it will only come to him in dreams. Even if he has to be away for years. Matthew. The taste of his Saturday morning pancakes, the sound of his voice reading from Charles Dickens, the feel of his fingers on his back after a long day of work.
Matthew.
"I love you." He waits at the door of the bedroom, hat held against his chest, hand on the doorframe. "I love you." Matthew raises from bed, smiles gently. His final kiss is so breathtaking that Alfred wants to screw it all, climb back into bed with Matthew and never leave him again. Never even entertain the idea. "I love you so much."
"I know. Go. Go fight."
Of everything, that smile, that sight. He'll remember that the most.
Owari