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Sun’s warm, orange — his skin, no, not his own, his, shines under it.
Orange roses in a blue vase. Zayn was right. They look good there.
Warm light. Warmer skin.
His breath brushes on him, on his ribs. Left ribs.
No mirrors. Rich walls.
The sound of his amusement is soft, expected, comforting, known. It pulls him under, he–
“Come here.” It’s spoken in murmur, only vibrations.
The acid has slipped past their lips easily enough. Colors are still the same. But him, oh, his skin.
Louis lowers his body, where was he going, when the whole world was right there, under him, between his thighs.
Warm light embraces him. So sweet Louis feels overwhelmed, sometimes. Like his heart is going to explode if he looks at him for too long.
Golden light, an aura, leaves traces behind where Zayn is caressing his body. Louis can see it lingering in the air around him. As golden as his eyes.
“Hey,” he doesn’t say the words, but his, his one still smiles at him.
“Hey you,” he replies, and Louis buries his nose in the crook of his neck, a deep adoration radiating through his chest. He rearranges himself, models his body to the shape of Zayn’s side.
Warm. Warm. Yellow.
His face fits in the crook of Zayn’s neck. He always knew, always noticed how their edges come together to form something new, something whole.
Louis pushes, pushes his face into Zayn’s warm, golden skin, a fit of frustration overtaking him. Smashes his nose under his jaw, barely breathing. Doesn’t matter.
There are no borders. The wall of their skin bothers him. He wants it gone. He can't touch him without also touching it.
He wants to. He needs to.
Zayn’s hands, soothing, light, cup his nape, fingers between his hair. Louis shivers. Down to the creeks of his brain.
“You have to be patient,” he is telling him without moving his lips.
“I know,” he knows.
He searches his eyes and finds him opening them at the same time as him.
His eyes. His eyes are. White light reflects on them.
His eye. Singular.
He–
“I…” words are stuck in his throat, the beauty of it too massive to escape from his teeth. “You,” he starts, but that is wrong. Sour. “I,” he tries again, and that is wrong, too.
Fingers press on his cheek, on the curve of his mouth.
White light. Warm eyes. Louis can see his own face in them, down to the sweaty hair, but that’s not — that isn’t.
He is in there. He. Both of them.
Looking back at him, looking at each other, eyelashes kissing, eyes touching, bodies connected, no longer touching. Touching like organs touch each other. Touching like blood touches the inside of the veins.
The curve of his lover’s iris is a pond. Reflections dance on the surface of the tea water. White behind him. Behind. Beyond.
The window and the wall are the same. They are not there anymore.
Zayn’s iris expands, the color of tea touching Louis’ hands, his wrist, his own eyes. Louis can understand now, he sees.
Himself, him, him.
Beyond.
Space blurs.
Zayn laughs and Louis feels it in his lungs, tickling his throat.
He pushes his face back in and dives into his lover’s body. It’s the first breath of pure air and he is falling with nothing to catch them, destination to nowhere.
He presses his face there until he can feel it. His body passes through Zayn’s, through his skin, and he is moving again, but he curves. They are not front-to-front anymore, how could they be? He is nested inside him, his back to his heart. He is safe. Inside him. Hugged by his ribs.
Their skins melt into one, their bones fuse.
They turn, barely, and the world turns with them.
His hands move inside Zayn’s chest. He feels Zayn’s heart pumping between his fingers, on his palm. His blood runs slow and mellow, lazy like the milk and honey rivers. His laugh is silent, vibrating, and when Zayn laughs with him Louis knows he is thinking about the same image.
The stains on the ceiling chase after each other, in an eternal play of catch. They look at them tumble, speed past each other, crash into each other, melt into one.
“That's one's me, that's you,” one of them, or maybe both, or maybe no one, says. The room remains silent. “Us,” the stains still, completed, united, in peace.
A new shadow joins them on the bed: they look at how it crawls from the floor and up to the bed's legs.
He raises a hand to stop it, and two of them appear in front of him. Thumbs. That's silly.
The giggle shakes them like an earthquake coming from within. The shadow can only back off onto the floor again, recoiling from their duvets to the tiles, to disappear behind. Behind. Beyond.
It doesn't exist anymore. Or maybe it's just hidden.
Warm. Louis is always so warm.
Under. A constellation of freckles. Tracing them is like weaving, like plotting, like creating.
He grumbles, it tickles, and Zayn knows it does, but only stops when the blue opens again.
Blue.
A stream, a continuous, vivacious stream. The rebellious sea, the sky that opens its arms and brings him home.
He could fall for that, for it, for him, a thousand times more. He does every time he looks at it, every morning when he turns right.
Sky's winds. Warm, like a summer night.
He reaches down. The sky embraces him back. It creates a shade. The world is upside down, inside out, but it's not wrong.
He holds on tightly. He doesn’t want to float away.
It holds him back. It always does. Never chained, always secure. d?
“What’s going on,” his sweetheart breathes. “In that big brain of yours.” It takes hours to get all the words out. Zayn would wait for them until the end of time.
He knows it hurts. He sees the bruises and the red skin. But his love just wraps his arms around his back. Puts him on his chest.
The spinning stops. He lands — soft. Sweaty and green, like the earth. Herbaceous.
“There you go.”
Chest to chest. Mind to mind.
“Was it pretty? From the sky?”
Zayn tries to imagine how to say it all – the diving, the curving, the tiny blocks of the pavement, the sky opening and taking him back home safely – but there is no need.
“You were there.”
He feels his smile in the air exhale.
“Stay with me.”