they make me sick. post-brighton
“What’s your game.”
“No game,” Declan says, smug and guileless where he’s sprawled across the sheets. Martin can’t stand him. He drops onto his elbows, cocks his head. “You coming over here?”
Everything’s a fight with them. “Last I checked you weren’t the one who scored,” Martin says.
Beat, test. Give. Declan rolls his eyes and bounds up, lithe and expansive. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, already closing the distance between them. On the pale skin of his chest exertion shows up like sunburn; Martin digs the heel of his palm into his sternum, the bite of bone against bone hard enough for him to feel it.
Declan looks at him. This close Martin has to tilt his head up. Under his hand Declan runs steady and hot. “So,” he says.
“So fucking come here,” Martin says, and drags his laugh down into silence.
