603k:
hold up, two, three - a first, one that’s bound to make it to the books when he finds himself drawing away. that, he’ll never confess but rather seal with half of a grin and a set of raised brows, eyes opening and welcoming the year that’s to come. the giddiness remains, faint in his chest, the rest of the high coursing through his limbs and face.
“i’m wearing this again,” he tells the other. the party hat’s snapped back onto his head, string awkwardly around his face before he grabs a stray party horn (probably used, definitely not cared for) and blows it enthusiastically. the other hand’s reaching for terry’s already, in case having had him pressed against himself for a good few seconds wasn’t enough. as was all the time before that, spending the hours shoulder to shoulder. in homes not within a home. another silent confession, in case mutuality’s wearing thin in ways he doesn’t know nor see.
they’re on their way out, this five-year-old and their not-so-sober suburban soccer mom. a mutual question at the door, possibly: whose house is this again? (christ, what the fuck. / me too.) “let’s watch some fucking fireworks!” kiel exclaims at the top of his lungs, throwing the union of their hands in the air before swinging it down just a bit too excitedly. it’s just the adrenaline, he’ll say if ever. gentle will exist the minute they’re back in the night. i promise.
his response is a mix between a scoff and suppressed laughter. regardless, he follows suit - not that he has much of a choice the moment their hands are clasped together. more instinct on terry’s end, to wrap lithe fingers around the other’s own, holding on tight, praying his fingertips don’t break off when the cold, night air hits. (warm only from the smoke and potential fire hazard.) his other hand’s exposed to the cold now, too,if only to grab the nearest, unopened can of beer on the way out. directly from the ice bucket. the irony. but, free booze is just that - free booze.
there’s amusement that lights up eyes hazy from the two cans and three tequila shots prior - or it could be the iridescence that continues to paint the dark canvas of the sky. the corner of his lips twitch upward as he watches the love of his life act like a child which, really, is a sight to see. however, not at all uncommon. the can is left to dangle at his side, arm hanging limp when he’s left mesmerized by the scene ahead or in his peripheral. (both, maybe. at the same time.)
he watches the fireworks reflected in kiel’s eyes instead of the distance, mania causing him to become hypersensitive enough to get a headache from the blast and lights. “you could get stds from that,” he says, nodding toward the horn, loud enough (hopefully) to pierce through the chatter and cheers.”herpes.” or some shit like that. “you don’t know where that thing has been.”
