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carlyinromeTITLE: Fireworks
RATING: PG
PAIRING: Ray Levoi/Walter Crow Horse
SUMMARY: A rainy day. For cottoncandy_bingo prompt fireworks.
They’d had to cross over the border to get them. Firecrackers, poppers, Roman candles. A little tube the size of Walter’s thumb that looked like a crayon of lipstick, but was technically a half-stick of dynamite.
Walter eyed Ray speculatively as they loaded the stuff up into the car. His own childhood, most exciting thing he’d had was sparklers, and usually Ray got so squeamish about law breaking, even if it was just minor mischief and there wasn’t a chance they’d be prosecuted.
“Sure we got enough?” Walter joked, but Ray replied dead serious.
“I think we’ll be fine.” A shadow of worry crossed his fine features. “Don’t you think?”
Walter rolled his eyes and slammed the tailgate shut before Ray could fill it with anything more.
That was weeks ago, back when the watermelon beetles were just waking up, throwing the earth off their striped shells and clattering up into the sky. And every day since, Ray had waited for the Fourth practically like it was Christmas, and, not for the first time, Walter gave some real thought to what his childhood must have consisted of. Cookouts, probably, and blueberry pie and sparklers burning silver and gold into your vision. Parades with pretty girls in convertibles and Uncle Sam on stilts, and Ray a fresh-faced boy with that dark gold skin he got in the summer, being held up through the crush of the crowd to watch him go by.
Now the windows were open and Ray could see the streets flooding. Rain speckled the sad petunias on the sill, the hardwood floors beneath, so worn they looked fake, like pressboard cutouts. The air smelled like ozone cracking open, like the last cigarette in the pack, two-thirds gone. The rain was loud enough that it almost covered the sound of boots on the hardwood, low thunder notes.
“Raining,” Walter said, settling behind him.
“Yeah,” Ray said, and Walter didn’t need to see his face to know his hangdog expression.
Walter gave Ray’s shoulder a squeeze. “Can’t tell the heavens what to do. They don’t care it’s the fourth of July.”
Ray closed his eyes. His face was damp with cold rain. Walter moved his hand through Ray’s short-cropped hair, and then closed that hand, and Ray’s neck was pulled taut. The rain on his face shined in the dim light. So still and glistening, he looked like a statue in a museum, something ethereal and beautiful—with a sign in front, DO NOT TOUCH. Walter was never much good with signs like that. He leaned in close, and pressed a kiss to Ray’s pulse point, the throb beside his Adam’s apple. Ray drew in such a breath that his ribs rattled. Walter pressed his hand to Ray’s belly, drew him back against Walter’s own self, close enough Walter could count the change in Ray’s back pocket, if he’d had a mind to.
Walter could feel Ray’s heart beating, a rabbit pulse. Walter held him until his pulse beat back to normal, until Ray sighed, his muscles relaxing. Then Walter leaned Ray back, and kissed him proper.
Fireworks.
Walter eyed Ray speculatively as they loaded the stuff up into the car. His own childhood, most exciting thing he’d had was sparklers, and usually Ray got so squeamish about law breaking, even if it was just minor mischief and there wasn’t a chance they’d be prosecuted.
“Sure we got enough?” Walter joked, but Ray replied dead serious.
“I think we’ll be fine.” A shadow of worry crossed his fine features. “Don’t you think?”
Walter rolled his eyes and slammed the tailgate shut before Ray could fill it with anything more.
That was weeks ago, back when the watermelon beetles were just waking up, throwing the earth off their striped shells and clattering up into the sky. And every day since, Ray had waited for the Fourth practically like it was Christmas, and, not for the first time, Walter gave some real thought to what his childhood must have consisted of. Cookouts, probably, and blueberry pie and sparklers burning silver and gold into your vision. Parades with pretty girls in convertibles and Uncle Sam on stilts, and Ray a fresh-faced boy with that dark gold skin he got in the summer, being held up through the crush of the crowd to watch him go by.
Now the windows were open and Ray could see the streets flooding. Rain speckled the sad petunias on the sill, the hardwood floors beneath, so worn they looked fake, like pressboard cutouts. The air smelled like ozone cracking open, like the last cigarette in the pack, two-thirds gone. The rain was loud enough that it almost covered the sound of boots on the hardwood, low thunder notes.
“Raining,” Walter said, settling behind him.
“Yeah,” Ray said, and Walter didn’t need to see his face to know his hangdog expression.
Walter gave Ray’s shoulder a squeeze. “Can’t tell the heavens what to do. They don’t care it’s the fourth of July.”
Ray closed his eyes. His face was damp with cold rain. Walter moved his hand through Ray’s short-cropped hair, and then closed that hand, and Ray’s neck was pulled taut. The rain on his face shined in the dim light. So still and glistening, he looked like a statue in a museum, something ethereal and beautiful—with a sign in front, DO NOT TOUCH. Walter was never much good with signs like that. He leaned in close, and pressed a kiss to Ray’s pulse point, the throb beside his Adam’s apple. Ray drew in such a breath that his ribs rattled. Walter pressed his hand to Ray’s belly, drew him back against Walter’s own self, close enough Walter could count the change in Ray’s back pocket, if he’d had a mind to.
Walter could feel Ray’s heart beating, a rabbit pulse. Walter held him until his pulse beat back to normal, until Ray sighed, his muscles relaxing. Then Walter leaned Ray back, and kissed him proper.
Fireworks.
no subject
Date: 2012-08-08 03:47 am (UTC)There can never be enough references to that beautiful tan. See the girl on the left in the icon? That's my daughter. I feel strongly that she and Alexander Skarsgard should make some babies....who will grow up to look like Val Kilmer. Yes?
Rain speckled the sad petunias on the sill, the hardwood floors beneath, so worn they looked fake, like pressboard cutouts. The air smelled like ozone cracking open, like the last cigarette in the pack, two-thirds gone. The rain was loud enough that it almost covered the sound of boots on the hardwood, low thunder notes.
Can I have this paragraph? I know some traditionally published authors who need to read it. This is everything multisensory descriptions should be.
This is also a beautiful image:
The rain on his face shined in the dim light. So still and glistening, he looked like a statue in a museum, something ethereal and beautiful—with a sign in front, DO NOT TOUCH.
The ending...man...gorgeous.
no subject
Date: 2012-08-08 07:26 pm (UTC)See the girl on the left in the icon? That's my daughter. I feel strongly that she and Alexander Skarsgard should make some babies....who will grow up to look like Val Kilmer. Yes?
Aw, she's a beauty! I support this plan, though I have a friend who would put up quite a fight over Alexander Skarsgard.
Thank you so much for the lovely feedback! I'm so glad you liked the story.
no subject
Date: 2012-08-08 09:06 pm (UTC)Eh, I maintain he has enough hotness to spread it around. She's not so much into ASkars...prefers the Padalecki, she does. I refer you to the iconic evidence. I'm sure those would be pretty babies as well, though.
no subject
Date: 2012-08-08 09:12 pm (UTC)Either way, you're in for very, very tall grandchildren. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-08-08 09:20 pm (UTC)