Fic: Moonshine
E-mail: the_smooth_one910@hotmail.com
Rating: PG to the 13ish, maybe.
Warnings: Implied boy-on-boy here, not to mention between real people. Let's just say that if these two were really doing this, as if I'd be writing about it. I'd be videotaping the fucking thing.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Pairing: Aaron/Shawn
Summary: "He's supposed to be waiting."


He dreams for a long time, of flashes of light and skin and waves, and he lingers for a while, in and out of sleep, in and out of reality and dreams. When he finally wakes, he's disoriented, can still feel the tremor in his legs from fighting against imaginary current. He turns his head, and the finality of the red blinking lights, calling out 10:38 in the p.m., is what causes him to finally roll out of bed. He hopes he hasn't slept too long. He's supposed to be waiting.

He walks out of his room, walking slowly, watching as his feet are illuminated by the light coming in through the windows. It's a full moon tonight, and all the curtains are pulled back, all the blinds raised, and with each step he takes, he becomes more entangled in the shadows and the light, fighting to reclaim their territory. He sees it, but it doesn't register. He's supposed to be waiting.

He walks down the hall slowly, still half stuck in the dreams. He puts his hand on the wall, closes his eyes, sees a flash of his hand running along the slopes of translucent skin, of the way the moonlight shining inside turns the skin into almost white. He just smiles to himself and keeps walking. He's supposed to be waiting.

The sound of his feet padding against the carpet is almost deafening in his ears. It reminds him of the soft thunk, sounding like an explosion almost, while being thrown down to the floor, of feeling the fibers imprint themselves into his skin as he writhes around, willingly trapped underneath milky white skin. Yet the thought passes as he walks into the living room. He's supposed to be waiting, after all.

The lights in the living room and the kitchen are off, the walls cast in part shadow, part beams of moonlight, dancing in an erratic pattern. Moonlight tends to do that, he notices vacantly, thinking of how it likes to dance on moving bodies intertwining into each other, on roaming mouths and eager hands. It likes to illuminate dark crevices like the curves of the throat, the slopes of shoulder blades. But it also compliments other bright things, too, turning it into an almost fluorescent shade, especially things like ice blue eyes, eyes he's supposed to be waiting for.

Before he walks out the door, he picks up a blanket, sitting in the rocking chair. He has to blink before he recognizes which one it is. The one his grandmother made for him when he was small. It's old and slightly worn, but still sturdy. He holds it to his face and smells it, taking in the smell of an unfamiliar cologne, and when he closes his eyes he can see how dark the blanket looked against the moonlight and the white skin, wrapped tightly around the both of them, guarding them as they drifted away into dreams, lying in each other's arms. He forces himself to open his eyes and pull the blanket away from his face. He's supposed to be waiting.

It's really lovely out tonight, the wind swaying just as slightly as he is, the sky black as can be. He's happy he finally gave in and bought a place of his own. He loves how his front porch faces the lake; he loves sitting on the porch wrapped up in his blanket, watching the clouds wisp on by, the fish jump in the water. He can see them moving, sees the ripples in the water, and it reminds of him of the touches and caresses, almost weightless in the water, and he can imagine how they look emerging from the water, dripping in the sin the water offers them. He'd like to jump in right now, splash the water on his face so he'll truly wake up, but he can't. He's supposed to be waiting.

What he really loves is falling asleep on the porch, at any time of the day, whenever he pleases. He loves sitting in the chair, lazily waking up and falling asleep at random, with the smell of the water in his nose and the rhythmic breathing next to him in his ear. He yawns, but tells himself he can't fall asleep right now. He's supposed to be waiting.

He wraps the blanket around himself and sits with his knees up to his chest, staring out at the water. It's so beautiful tonight, the moonlight catching the ripples, and it is so rare, he knows, to see something so beautiful every night. He should know, he used to see it every night like this, ice blue eyes so pained yet passionate, mouth open in a cry and a moan, his own name never sounding so horrible yet melodic on anyone else's lips before. He shakes his head to rid the thought. He's supposed to be waiting.

He doesn't know how long he sits out there, wrapped up in the only tangible thing he has left, but when the moonlight steadily starts to fade, he realizes he's waited all night. It shouldn't be a surprise to him, the moonlight fading and the sun starting to beat brightly. The sun always destroys everything; he should know. He has become Pyro in so many ways, but there's no time to mourn that. He's supposed to be waiting.

Honestly, it shouldn't be a surprise, he decides, as the sunlight bounces off the water and blinds him. He always knew it would have to end, because such beautiful things never last forever. He only knows that too well now, but it doesn't matter, doesn't matter that Shawn hasn't come, probably never will again. Aaron's still waiting.


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