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As Øystein drapes himelf over the hood of a car, Pelle's eyes follow-- follows his arms as one falls over his eyes to sheild the sun, and the other to rest above his head. He lets his gaze drag down his torso, taking note of every crease and pull in his shirt, every thin hair that peeks out from the waistband of his jeans and crawls up to his navel. Every nick in each bullet of his belt, and every wave of denim that pulled from his bent leg.
He has to remind himself to not stare too long, in fret that he'll notice.
Øystein looked hypnotic like this, the sleepy suns elastic arms dancing in his pores, face muscles lax in a drunken haze. Hypnotic: in a way where he'd find himself feverishly fisting himself in the later hours of the night to the thought this sight, biting down on his palm to keep himself from making noise, fully engrossed in his trance.
They needed to escape the rampaging earache of the new years party, so they ran away together, minds cloudy from their numerous drinks. Almost too drunk to function at this point, really.
He forces his eyes up from his pale belly to the soft fatty clouds glowing a hazy orange, his squinted eyes falling down with the dingy blue that faded the farther it crawled to the earth.
Somehow, the sky reminded him of the fat that hides under a few layers of skin. He thinks about cutting for a moment, but takes a swig from his beer instead, not wanting to run away and ruin this moment of shared time.
It was nice sitting out here with him, the cold december wind tapping his pink nose, clearing his sinuses and freeing his head. He feels calm, and for once, truly at peace.