Chapter Text
The thing people need to understand, is that John doesn't- he doesn't understand why sex makes up such a large part of people's relationships, why it's considered so normal, why it's required, why it defines you, why everyone craves it. The closest he's come to understanding was a hot, sticky night in a strangers apartment, where he'd felt nothing past the burning desire between his thighs, where he'd smelled nothing behind the overwhelming musk of Alex's skin, where he'd forgotten how to do anything but arch his back and beg for more, fisting the sheets and pretending they were something else. The next morning, he'd left before he could find out what that something might've been.
Alex and him have been 'together' for a few months now, and John thinks he might be getting better, thinks this might be the 'happy' thing people are always talking about. He can't remember what his flat looked like without Alex's clothes strewn over the floor, without empty coffee cups littering the counter, without the scent of Alex imbedded in his pillows, in his sheets (because whenever Alex touches anything, he leaves part of himself behind- a bright, burning fingerprint that sinks into the surface and stays there- fingerprints that cover John, trail over his neck and cheek and chest and back and everywhere, because Alex is everywhere).
He and Alex met in lust and desire, in flames and ash, so it's only natural their relationship should be expected to continue that way- only, it doesn't (certainly not from lack of trying on Alex's part, though- but it should be noted that he backs off almost immediately, because consent is fucking important). It's not that John doesn't love Alex (which is pretty ridiculous, seeing as they literally just met a few months ago), but he's not so fond of all that stuff. It isn't a problem of body insecurity though, or any of that shit to be honest, because John knows he's not exactly unfit (one of the small blessings of three years in the military)- but the concepts of lust and love don't exactly match up in John's mind.
Love is getting up early and watching the sunrise, holding someones hand in the street despite the fact you feel like you're burning, love is late nights and popcorn and tasting the salt on someone else's lips, love is soft and warm and comforting; love is coming home. Lust is tearing open someone else's skin and licking away the blood, driving into someone so hard they break apart and calling it love, lust is hot and burning and pain. John doesn't want to feel that with Alex- not yet, at least. He knows the day will come when Alex will push him against the wall, will take everything John has and kiss away his tears because he's been taught that means love.
He doesn't remember much from that night- only the unbearable heat and the lights and Alex's skin sliding against his own, Alex's hands everywhere and nowhere at once, burning up and melting and dying (but living), growing shattered wings of glass and alcohol, and the feeling of flying right through the sticky jasmine air. Which of course, meant that when he'd come crashing down, it hurt all that much more.
John is twenty-two (although he's forgotten what it feels like to actually celebrate the turning of the years- last year he'd been in Syria, and the small, flickering fires could've easily been mistaken for candles, he supposes). Twenty-two year olds are supposed to just be finishing up with college, should be getting their first real jobs and going out with friends, sleeping with random strangers in bars and never calling them back, laughing about it the next day. At twenty-two, John has lost all contact with people who called him family, lived rough on the streets for a year, performed three years of active service in the military, and still has no clue of what he's going to do with his life. He thinks he wants to die, because he has no reason to live.
That early morning on the roof he'd been so ready to give it all up, to let himself go and melt away with the soft, pale dawn sky. Sometimes, he wishes he had; then maybe Alex wouldn't be saddled with him, because he knows Alex only stays out of pity- and still, he doesn't want him leave. Not yet, at least. He knows Alex will leave eventually, knows it'll end in tears and something else, sharp and acrid and bitter, something that leaves an ashy taste in his mouth, knows that day will come- but as long as it's not today, he doesn't mind. He thinks he'll do anything to keep Alex by his side just a little longer.
So when Alex presses him down into the bed, he tries his best not to flinch (of course, his best isn't enough). The sheets are hot and thick and suffocating, so he arches away from them, trying to escape the burning press of Alex's body against his. He twists his head slightly so his cheek is crushed into the pillow, sweat-damp curls splayed in a dark ring, framing his face in a tangled mass. He pretends he doesn't want to brush it away. Squeezing his eyes tight shut, he grips harder at Alex's hip, eyelashes clumping and sticking together, because he doesn't want to open his eyes, because it's so fucking bright, and he's sure if he does he'll be blinded, and he still has so many things he wants to see.
Alex is hard against him, unyielding stone, and John spreads his palms over his chest, pushing slightly to see if he'll give. He doesn't. Instead, he shuffles slightly, readjusting his body over John's so he's propped up on his elbows, bumping his nose clumsily against John's, a warm huff of air escaping from his parted lips. Alex leans down, brushing his mouth over John's with a feather-light intensity, and part of John wants to pull him back down, lick into his mouth, hot and wet, kiss him until his lips are bruised and red and swollen, until pleasure is bordering on pain and keep kissing anyway. The other part wants to curl up into a ball, retreat into himself and stay hidden until the lights have faded, until there's nothing left but himself and oblivion. Oblivion is soft and sweet and welcoming, and he thinks it would be nice to let himself sink into it, fold himself into the hazy clouds and melt into them, until he's nothing but fog and sunlight.
Sometimes he wishes he could hate Alex, because god, it would be so much easier- but how can a person hate the sun? Pay no worship to the garish sun, he thinks, and chuckles, the laughter dripping from his lips, low and raw and dark and bitter. He will kneel before the sun and he will let himself burn just to be near, to be close enough to touch the colours drifting through the air, and when he's gone, when there's nothing left of him but ash, he will smile. After all, he's never listened to Shakespeare.
There's something coiling in his muscles, something cold and icy and heavy, weighing in his veins like his blood has suddenly frozen, turned to stone. He sucks in a sharp breath, the sudden intake burning his throat, bitter and ashy, choking him. He flicks his eyes up to the milky ceiling, following the crack in the plaster like it's his lifeline. His body is taught and trembling, and he's so full of life it's overflowing, but he can't move, he's frozen and summer never seems to come. He wishes he could see the sun- but the sun is gone, so he glances back to Alex, and thinks close enough.
Alex pulls away slightly, so there's nothing but the hot, heavy air between them, and John's not sure whether it's a relief or a disappointment. He gasps, choking on the thick fog surrounding him (he thinks it's smoke, thinks he might be burning), the desperate desire for air filling his aching lungs, leaving no room for anything else.
"John?" There's a question in Alex's voice when he speaks, and his hot, sticky breath does nothing to cool the flames between them.
The sheets stick to John's slick, heavy skin, and he squirms away from the blinding light, lifting a hand and pressing it over his burning eyes.
"Jesus- fuck, you're shaking," Alex breathes, and his words hang in the air, clinging to the smoke and the fog and the flames. John thinks he can smell the jasmine.
John shakes his head, tries to speak- but the words stick to his throat, come out clingy and broken, like half of them are still hanging onto his lips. The vowels are rounded and drawled, coated in the slick layer of the southern accent he'd tried so hard to lose.
"'S nothing. 'M fine."
He presses himself up to Alex again, trying to ignore the awful, aching burn that sets deep in his bones. If he goes through with this, maybe Alex will stay for just a bit longer, because when Alex touches him it's something so bright and heavenly and indescribably beautiful it borders on pain, and John will grit his teeth and John will lie and John will force a laugh; John will look straight into the hot, burning sun if it means holding onto Alex.
He pushes his lips insistently against Alex's, pretending the slick slide of skin on skin doesn't make him want to flinch away, and the shivers that wrack his body are only from pleasure. He's almost relieved when Alex responds.