lofticries

(it's wrong—even if the realization comes tardy, after he's unconsciously closed his eyes, gravitated into the kiss; even if for one instantaneous moment a star contracts and bursts before his eyelids, and all the air in his lungs burns up, fuels the supernova. it's wrong. leviticus 18:22 instills a cold panic to replace the evacuated air. tate draws back and flees, because he's already lost the fight.)

later, he decides if he can't deny its existence he can at least obliterate all traces. he cuts off contact; with trembling fingers but a resolute mind tate deletes and blocks jonah's number. but blocking jonah from memory is not an easy fix. in his dreams he sees snow and feels heat, wrenches himself awake night after night and sits over a cup of coffee at the kitchen table nursing self-hatred.

he manages to evade sleep, but sanity suffers. so when tate turns the hallway corner and sees white hair and an achingly familiar profile standing outside his door, the bag of groceries in his hand drops audibly. it's a hallucination, it must be. he rubs his eyes—pushes hard into the bony socket, hard enough for his eyes to water and his vision to swim. but the apparition remains.