Post by ISA KRISTOFF on Mar 12, 2015 3:38:53 GMT
I ACHE, ACHE, ACHE FOR YOU, YOU, YOU
isa has no idea who this guy is, only that he must know the right people, when he’s standing up behind the booth with a drink and an easy smile. isa feels his eyes burning into his back as he sets up. shrugging off his sweater, isa turns to toss it onto a table, catching his eye with an even gaze.
he doesn’t look back at him for the rest of the night.
it’s nearly sunrise, isa is standing outside with a cigarette. by the back doors, because he’s had enough of people clapping him on the back, complimenting, asking for pictures. he hears the door open but doesn’t pay it much mind, until he’s leaned up against the wall.
isa doesn’t care about his blog. he barely cares about his name when he gives it. but he’s pretty. his voice is grating.
"listen," isa cuts him off. his accent used to be stronger, jarring. "my hotel is ten minutes from here."
—
"you really don’t know me?"
"i do now."
—
sometimes, isa wonders if they aren’t together because it’s all they know by now.
then, he thinks of paris. of longing. of laying, sweat-soaked, half-dressed; his phone taking up space beside him on the double bed.
virgil’s high. isa can hear it in the way his words roll slowly, crowded with smoke. he feels like he should be able to smell it.
"venez-ici."
"what?"
"come to paris."
—
he does. eventually. isa meets him at the airport and the air electric between them, this is the culmination of all his wet dreams - he wants to bruise his hips and swallow his tongue and devour him.
but isa's apartment is too small, virgil can't work with the clockwork of the city, can't speak the language and live in the monochrome.
they fight about it, the eiffel tower is boring, they fuck in the washroom of a gritty club, virgil disappears for three days and comes back pretending he wasn't lost, they argue the semantics of sacrifice.
the wanting, the lack, was the best part of them.
"then fucking leave."
he doesn’t look back at him for the rest of the night.
it’s nearly sunrise, isa is standing outside with a cigarette. by the back doors, because he’s had enough of people clapping him on the back, complimenting, asking for pictures. he hears the door open but doesn’t pay it much mind, until he’s leaned up against the wall.
isa doesn’t care about his blog. he barely cares about his name when he gives it. but he’s pretty. his voice is grating.
"listen," isa cuts him off. his accent used to be stronger, jarring. "my hotel is ten minutes from here."
—
"you really don’t know me?"
"i do now."
—
sometimes, isa wonders if they aren’t together because it’s all they know by now.
then, he thinks of paris. of longing. of laying, sweat-soaked, half-dressed; his phone taking up space beside him on the double bed.
virgil’s high. isa can hear it in the way his words roll slowly, crowded with smoke. he feels like he should be able to smell it.
"venez-ici."
"what?"
"come to paris."
—
he does. eventually. isa meets him at the airport and the air electric between them, this is the culmination of all his wet dreams - he wants to bruise his hips and swallow his tongue and devour him.
but isa's apartment is too small, virgil can't work with the clockwork of the city, can't speak the language and live in the monochrome.
they fight about it, the eiffel tower is boring, they fuck in the washroom of a gritty club, virgil disappears for three days and comes back pretending he wasn't lost, they argue the semantics of sacrifice.
the wanting, the lack, was the best part of them.
"then fucking leave."
