Disclaimer: This was entirely inspired by the first poem in David Levithan's first poem in the book Realm of Possibility, more specifically the last line, which has been included in this story. Therefore it is not mine. Neither are Luke and Noah, the Snyders or the Walshes. They all belong to P&G, CBS, ATWT, etc.
Imagine that I am onstage
Under a watchtower of punishing light
And in the haze is your face bathed in shadow
And what's beyond you is hidden from sight.
Ani Difranco - Imagine
Nothing grand really, Christmas kindnesses that have become a beloved ritual. Tradition, stuffing two or three gingerbread snowmen into cellophane, green and red twist ties to enclose them. There is a relaxing monotony to the event, and he's happy to be doing it of course, knowing full well that he's more than lucky, hell more than blessed in practically every way possible. Part Walsh and part Snyder, and just so damned loved that it makes his heart quicken. He can feel Noah's heat through his knit sweater, everything feeling so present when Noah's around, reminding him that he has crooks in his elbows and supple spaces on the expanse of his ribs. Noah constantly reminding him that, well Christ, he has hands.
Watches while Noah bags sugar cookies the shape of mistletoe and church bells, looks so content doing it that Luke would swear he was drifting. Something purposeful in Noah's delicate handling of the treats, almost fearful that his tapered fingers would crush them, afraid that their thud against the counter could mean they've already started to crumble.
Noah, so careful that Luke can feel himself break — everything to those crystalline eyes is unbelievably precious. Noah so scared that just his touch would cause it to spoil.
Allows himself to bask for a second until he's near giggling, because Noah's done bagging but he's got one twist tie left and he looks so concerned about what to do with it. Doesn't want it to waste, his father so vigilantly efficient and resourceful yet, Luke thinks, the Colonel wasted so much for the both of them. Watches Noah thumb the red paper and wire, musing, then interrupts, "It's okay Noah, you can throw it out."
Even as he says it, feels the muscles in his hand catch and tingle. Feel alighted. The smooth fingers of Noah's spinning him through its undertow as they grasp and lift, examine, leaving coloured sugar in its wake. Breadcrumbs across the terrain of knuckles and skin, that Noah's mouth greedily follows. Luke really giggling now because of the rough stubble of Noah's chin, spider's feet mapping intricacies, webbed in the heat of Noah's breathing, and honestly he's just so ticklish.
He does it so quietly, suddenly, secures the loop with a small tug, around Luke's finger, the laughter fading into something warmer. Luke marvels at its weight, feels bruised with its potential, with the torrential possibility bracketing his finger. "I found a better use for it."
Glances at his fourth finger as the gauzy cloak of Noah breaks over him, lets it pull him in, pull him inseparable. And even as their mouths meet, the effortless collision of tongues getting lost in their searching, Luke thinks that this —Noah flush against him, completely unshakeable— this right here, will linger.
A/N: Comment at will (constructive criticism is always welcomed) and I hope you enjoyed!