It’s one of his nicer pens, the felt tip one, and he starts with less risky places on Kris: forearms and knuckles. Vines and stars, stylized moons over nocturnal night life and smooth silhouettes. Quotes range from dumb jokes (’Blink twice for a good time.’) scratched over the crook of an elbow, to Latin phrases curled over the thin veins of the wrist. (Whenever Kris asked, Jude just grinned and said that it was his incentive to study.)
The ink traveled up, and Jude’s thighs softly squeezed Kris’ hips. Kris’ room was dim and dark, but comfortably so, with nostalgia humming in the corners over trinkets and livable messes. The bed sheets were crumpled at the end of the bed, and here, together, they shared the epicenter. It felt like the immediate aftermath of a bright fire; living quietly in the black ashes of a warm summer night.
Because, really, that’s what it was. Long, dark hours of midnight escapades and rebellious rendezvous. Their feet were sore and their clothes smelled of fresh dirt and foam. But they had won, and it was another three a.m. alone together, mutually clinging the the remnants of conspiratorial adrenaline.
Jude tilted his head continued to murmur out his own responses to Kris’ comments.
“Hey,” he said eventually, “stay still. Here.”
The pen is lifted and feathered, going from chin to lip to over Cupid’s bow, ‘Jude’s’ is written over Kris’ mouth, and Jude kisses it dry. His laugh whispered over heated skin.
“Don’t worry, we can’t get ink poisoning from this shit. Gotta deep throat like ten of these things to worry about that.”
Palms hover over cheeks and waists and the cap of the pen lightly presses into the flush of Kris’ face. Jude idly begins to tap it in some mindless rhythm. Then, fingers hook under pale chin, and he’s drawing over brow and cheek bones. Each star, each heart, each personal signature comes stamped with a press of the lips. Even when marks begin to create new paths. Traveling over jaw and down to the thrum of a throat. Jude blooms both flowers and bruises in the grove of Kris’ clavicle.
“It’s also waterproof–I can help you wash it off afterwards.”
He doesn’t say when he plans to stop, especially when pen is left hanging unused in between fingers, eventually. Time and space is occupied by only the reverent apparitions of affection. Carving through adoring touches, Jude was good at hiding the clumsiness of inexperience. But he knew Kris could still pick out every slip of the teeth and stuttering pause of a gaze.
On the bedside table, Jude’s phone lit up at 3:43 a.m. He puffed out a breath, leaning back, seeing a dark, blurry photograph from Sally. He tucked the pen behind his ear. Hair either fell free from the action, or got caught over the hook of the cap. Arms–free of heavy sleeves, only the slim-fitting cotton of his v-neck now–stretch over broad shoulders, and he’s pushing the both of them into well-worn pillows.
A beat, and he’s just observing Kris, understanding what can be only understood in the solitude of a late night comfort. Then he rolls off, and goes to his side of the bed, flicking open the message from Sally.
“Or we can take a shower in the morning, that’s all up to you, dream guy.”
He turns slightly, just enough for the shrug of a grin and a grin of a shrug to be recognized. He didn’t really care what Kris chose to do, as long as he didn’t slip away from the snaking of fingers between fingers. As long as he had that, Jude would go anywhere with him.
