Work Text:
Jackson follows his every move.
His catlike grace as he walks across the glossy parquet, the steps of his bare feet almost soundless. The grip of his knotty fingers as he pulls down the white fabric of his tank top. Jackson holds his breath watching with utmost attention how it sticks to his wet skin, clinging tight to every line of his slender figure — the want to touch tingles like electricity on the tips of his fingers.
Before him Jaebeom — all elbow angles and broken lines of collarbones — and Jackson traces the contours of the slightly protruding ribs, sneaking under the fabric and leaving a blazing imprint of his touch over Jaebeom’s smooth skin. He catches Jaebeom’s face in his palm, meeting the familiar squint of his eyes, and presses his dry lips to Jaebeom’s sharp jaw, all the while his fingers keep their soft, undemanding grip — but don’t let Jaebeom pull away. Jaebeom is not trying to, not anymore at least. He grabs at Jackson’s shoulders allowing to be propped up on the windowsill, and Jackson memorizes every single detail.
Everything that concerns Jaebeom — to Jackson, is allowed, encouraged and bared: Jackson draws invisible circles around the yellowing bruise on Jaebeom’s right knee that he got as a result of his collision with the bedside table, runs his wide palm over Jaebeom’s pale thigh. While Jaebeom runs his fingers through Jackson’s soft hair, deep and methodical, to the very roots, and grips harshly. He pulls, and Jackson obeys, getting closer by the second.
A gust of wind ruffles the curtains, bursting into their small kitchen and making itself at home in the four cramped walls. Goosebumps run across Jaebeom’s skin when Jackson giggles, leaving an imprint of his smile with a kiss.
“Kiss me?” a plea slips off the tongue with a heavy exhale, and it takes an effort for Jackson to tear himself away from Jaebeom’s wide shoulders, leaving the pattern of swelling red galaxies unfinished right below his collarbone.
Strong hands, adorned by the cheeky ink and lines of veins intertwining, slip under the loose shorts shamelessly and pull, Jaebeom hides his embarrassment in the crook of Jackson’s neck, and Jackson murmurs softly, tucking a stray lock of black hair behind Jaebeom’s ear:
“Can I?”
He has Jaebeom in the palm of his hand — yet, asks. Because Jaebeom, to him, still doesn’t seem real sometimes, more like created by a really talented artist and came to life off of the canvas. Jackson holds him by the wrists and can’t make himself believe that Jaebeom is his, all of him — from the elegant ankles to the tangled mess of his wet long hair.
Jaebeom graces him with a smile, looking down at him through half-closed eyes.
“You can…”
In Jackson’s memory Jaebeom is preserved with his skin wet in the gold of the sunset sun and his quiet exhales.