CrystalJohn
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James’s mind recalls vague sensations of warmth and sunlight filtering through trees. A thought occurs to him and he laughs softly, “I don’t think I have the teeth for fruit anymore.”
“Hm,” Francis muses, “That’s alright.”
The image becomes clearer, and James allows himself to sink into it. He is lying in the soft grass, his head resting in Francis’s lap. Francis bites into a peach, juice running down his palm, following the path of these lines like the rivers of some uncharted land. James imagines himself licking it up with the flat of his tongue. And there it is- that taste of fruit again, sticky and sweet.
James blinks at the canvas walls of the tent, and the image fades to a haze in the corners of his eyes. The hard shale presses into his side.
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“May I?” Francis asks almost hesitantly, all rough Irish brogue, and James nods, swallowing.
Did Francis not know how he was embedded in James’ mind like the sound of the ice? That he was equally maddening, as James lies awake under his cold sheets at night trying to remember the feel of his mouth? Of his hands?
And now Francis is undressing him slowly and gently, pulling the fabric away from his shoulders and then folding the burnt cape into a neat square. Lifting the edge of James’ once-white sweater and helping him pull it over his head.