ds_flashfiction | Under the wire...

A tiny morsel of 360 words.

Slide

He loved it when his mom waxed the kitchen floor. He’d tie a towel around his neck like a cape, run down the hall in his sock feet, and slide, slide, slide across the gleaming linoleum with a whoop. For a few seconds he was free, skating across the floor, Mr. Anti-Gravity Man.

Then he’d crash into the cabinets, glasses flying, sock feet skidding out from under him. He’d land on his butt, hard, his teeth jarring. Sometimes he’d bite his tongue, and he’d swallow the curses he knew, the ones he’d learned when he snuck out of bed and crept down the hall, listening to his dad and his dad’s buddies playing poker in the kitchen.

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He loved it when Stella agreed to dance. He’d put on the shirt she liked, and his leather shoes. They’d slide, slide, slide across the polished floor like they were skating, and he’d grin a crazy guy grin, trapping his shout of joy and possession deep in his chest. For a few hours they were in sync, in perfect unison, and he was Mr. Happily-Married Man.

Then she’d wrinkle her nose and shake her head when he asked. “Not tonight,” she’d say, and he felt as if his feet had been pulled out from under him. His head hurt, and his eyes, like the time he’d lost his glasses for a week and he had to squint in class, guessing at the blurred characters smeared across the blackboard.

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He loved it when Fraser rolled onto his stomach. He’d pick up the lube with shaking hands, squeeze some onto his aching cock, and he’d slide, slide, slide into Fraser with a groan. For a few minutes they were connected, sharing heartbeats and bodies, and he was Mr. Content.

Then Fraser would tense beneath him, calling his name as he climaxed, and he’d tumble after, together in this, as in everything. They’d pant in stereo, and he’d whisper prayers into the nape of Fraser’s neck, bargains with a God he wasn’t sure he believed in, asking for time and health and maybe another week of vacation so they could go north again.