He's too far away, down there on his knees. Down there where I should be. I read this book once, when the WASPs at St. James were trying, and largely failing, to be diverse. Zora Neale Hurston was no fool. Kissing on the feet, that's no good. It's kissing on the mouth that counts, that carries us through the night when moonlight abandons us for something purer. I'm up here, basking alone in what we should be sharing.

Down where I already am

I can't decide who's being selfish here; me for getting off or him for withholding his own pleasure. He knows how much I crave it, how I shake and beg for his release. I need it more than I need my own, even when I'm about to go insane from want. That insanity isn't my body's need to find reprieve. No, it's a mad, irrational urge to have his reach inside me for his own perfection, his climax.

Down inside where height doesn't begin to describe where we are

I can't stand to be separated from him like this, unbalanced sensation knocking me senseless. I want to surround him, engulf him, wind myself around him. I wish I had more arms to hold him, longer legs to pin him, stronger hands to keep him steady when he falls. Fallen, falling higher and up until we're there. I want to shield him from this fiery rain, even though it's me who needs protection from the impact of it, burning my skin with every impact. It might be hotter, but I know he prefers my warmth. It drives away the cold, but I drive away everything bad--just like he does for me.

Driving down, pushing out and back in

He's surprised to see me when I reach him, eyes unable to hide the shock as I wrap myself around him. He never expects my strength, even though he's felt it a thousand times by now; still each time I reach for him his body tingles with welcoming delight at this forever-unknown steadfastness.

I know what you need

We're melting together, skin slickly bonding. I can taste his sweat, even through the wash of water and the various chemicals he smears on himself. He's tense-relaxed-tense, muscles confused by the heady atmosphere and the lack of sexual release. It doesn't understand his mind's games, getting me off without a reciprocal gift for himself. He's not attacking me, not moving at all really. His face is pressed against my shoulder, breath pushing water droplets this way and that. His knees have to be killing him on the tile, leaving bruises. It's not like he's got padding there--or much of anywhere. Just like I like him. All Brian, no filler.

What I need, when I want for nothing at all

So I hold him tighter, since he's not telling me to stop. I need him, need this connection. This closeness closer that I crave, feeling his heart pounding erratically, jumping and jolting when I move my hands or lick his skin. I suck on his collarbones and revel in the way he twitches and twists, trying to escape only to get closer. Closer to me, to what I can give him. Giving back what he gave me, folded over and returned tenfold. He's falling into a mood, I can tell. What kind, though, is a mystery, even to me who knows him better than most. That's not saying much--like saying that a monk knows god better than the layman, just because he spends his days fucking with his soul instead of his cock. Knowing that the iceberg is bigger than what you can see above the water doesn't mean you truly grasp how enormous it is. The nature of Brian Kinney is to be unknown.

Driving into the darkness, tumbling into black, knowing you hold me safe in your mouth

That doesn't bother me; it draws me closer to him. I'm addicted to walking down this twisting road, with its switchback turns and blind curves. He's here, somewhere, waiting around a bend, wanting me to find him, to bring him home. Cradle him in my arms, take him into my body, let him relax and sleep and rest his weary mind. He's trembling with it, with what he's holding back. It's that guarded vulnerability that spurs me on, that makes me hold him tighter. My hands don't resist touching, stroking, coaxing him closer. We communicate by touch, we sing by fucking. I want him to tell me what's on his mind, on his body, what's curling itself around him and holding him down. Stretch up and let me see, let me know.

Driven, we are driven to find this, driven to seek each other within ourselves, driven to become

I can take it, so give it to me. Let me in and I'll surprise you, Brian. No matter what it is you think is holding you down, I can bear it. I can carry anything you can throw at me, I can bear your weight on my shoulders with nary a sound. You are weightless to my arms, a burden I scarcely feel for the simple pleasure of having it near. Whatever it is that you think you have to fight alone, hand it over to me. That's why I'm here; you fight my battles and I'll fight yours. Shieldbrothers is what we are, guarding each other as we kneel twisted like serpents on this wet floor. Rain falls down, clouds suffocate us, but we are safe. Guarded by what-we-are.

Driving in circles, circling each other, circling prey

He's coming around now, body and mind finally figuring out that I'm here, that he's hard and wanting and unfulfilled, that I am comfortable but the floor is not. It's a tiny shift, just a few tendons tightening in the right direction, and now I'm not just wound around him; he's wound around me too. We're back to the ouroboros, ending begetting the beginning, alpha scrawled inside omega. We are.

This is

And we've yet to become, but we're getting there.

Here, we are