What if cows gave root beer for milk?
He watches, intrigued. The achromatic liquid sloshes against a pair of equally pallid lips. An unnerving silence lingers about in the air, still as a fucking stale-water breeding pond for mosquitoes. He can hear him ingurgitating the putrid waste, the sound mellifluous to his ears. It is the only sound that surmises silence.
"How the fuck can you drink that?" Bright, crystallized eyes snap towards him in one fluid movement. He is enamored by the boy sitting across from him; patience, he thinks. Practicing patience is hard, however, when you're ripped away from a heated amount of magnetism so that your lover can drink a glass of goddamn milk.
"What, you don't like milk?" His grin is as pearly and opaque as the insufferable liquid that he's consuming. "You seem more like a hot chocolate kind of person, regardless." He places the glass down, reaching across the counter to grab a fucking cancer-stick. It too is pearly white, much like the boy himself and the milk he so readily consumes.
"And why is that?" The boy asks, impatience rising. Drawing himself from the sheets which reek of sweat, he swings his tan legs over the side of the bed and looks to his poster-boy once more. He wanted to drag the boy back to bed, to bite and grab and tear at his perfectly white complexion. To rid him of his false, personified purity.
To get him dirty.
His lover merely grinned, sticking the filter into his mouth and lighting the end. Sick and benevolent, the white knight immersed himself in the smoke and the ash that he himself created. Not a word was spoken, only that gripping silence. He grabs at the sheets, throwing himself back down into the glorious stench of sweat. The whites and the blues are haunting, they truly are.
All he wants is dirt.
"And why are you so eager to have me back there?" He turns his head, looking over to his pearly knight as he shines his pearly teeth in front of the pearly window. Fuck pearly. He wanted dirty; the walls covered in the grease and excretions from the hunger of the moment. To have his knight covered in nothing but him.
"Why are you so eager to stay there?" He asks, avoiding the ever-present gaze.
"You want to fuck me; I'm prolonging that longing." Against the wall. Against the door. Against the window. All over the place—licking, sweat, want. Everywhere.
He doesn't answer. He buries himself in the sheets that gently touch every inch of his body, unlike his white knight. He remains there, thinking. Fuck.
Slowly, the sound of a cigarette being put out. The hissing of the ash. A glass being pushed aside and a chair being pulled forward. He can feel him now, although he cannot see him—he knows that he hovers over top him, waiting, wanting. He smiles as he feels the warmth of his knight's body, sliding into the sheets and reaching out to grab him. He delights in the warmth.
"Where were we?" There is a short, prolonged pause. The silence, about to fall, is broken as he turns and faces his lover with all his wants surmised.
"Right here."
If cows made root beer, he wouldn't be able to dirty up his pretty little knight.