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Cold hands gripping his, with a cold mouth, too, locked with his own; cold tongue slipping through every defence he possessed to make conversation with his own in their hot, slimy dance, the kind that would make spit connect them after and oxygen cloud in the frigid air. Soft, softer still—hot, heavy, delightful.
Shame filled in the rest with its tail between its legs. How dare he think about Gallagher that way. How sickening he was. How dirty.
“Is it his words that’re making you hesitate?”
His wrists were caught in the bramble of Gallagher’s grip, where he was reaching for his waist. It wasn’t to unbutton or any other perverted thing. It was just to touch. He liked to touch; touch and be touched.
A thumb tapped his chin. Silent reprimands skirted around inside his head and hit his spine straight like the end of a ruler to the palms. Discipline learned and never spoken of. Be a good boy, be a better man.
“C’mon,” he prompted, hazy stare keeping his. “Talk to me, birdie.”
Why were they so close? Pressed together? What were they even doing back there, stuffed into a back-alley, a pair of jaunty paramours with time to waste and days to swim through, chasing each other through dreams instead of chasing their own, giving up everything for each other?
“What are we doing here?”
Gallagher’s lips pulled in one direction. He imagined a snaggletooth where there wasn’t one. Something to make the smirk more wolfish than it was; make it more like dreams he’d had of their dalliances.
“I thought you were gonna undress me,” he said seriously. “I thought you were gonna get on your knees and give me head, maybe, but I guess I overestimated you.”
How dare he get irritated at a suggestion of his inability to do something. Pride following Lust. He was utterly doomed. Ena, save him.
“Why would I do something so…”
“Spontaneous? How would I know,” Gallagher said, broad chest rocking with his accompanying chuckles, his hands lifted in a shrug.
He’d let go of his wrists, and they’d fallen to rest between them both, spindly evidence of their inappropriate closeness, of impulse over logic.
“Can I kiss you yet or will you get angry?”
“Belligerence must be one of your better qualities,” he bit—he seethed and toiled over his seething. He tormented only himself. Gallagher cared little.
So little he cared that he kissed him anyway.
Just as he’d imagined it.
And in the years to follow, Sunday did his best to remember what that dream felt like, for it was the sweetest he’d ever had, and he’d never be so close to Gallagher again.