Work Text:
He’s a traditional painting behind the pane of glass.
Movements blurry, sacred, aura glowing, blending with the golden music, teal, violet, yellow, black,
The tangy brass notes land muted on his tongue, like the fuzzy image across two dirty windows and the film of rain.
It’s okay though, he can use his imagination.
Heart churning, he wonders if it’s following the pounding bass of the number, or the waves of the body. He isn’t on time, but it seems that’s not what is on his mind.
It’s pulling on his fingers, and suddenly, paper crinkles under his palm.
Oh.
He was supposed to be writing, about what, he doesn’t remember,
Looking down numbly, nutrient, chemicals, words...words...words...hands, curls, slanted eyes-
His cheeks warm and redden, he tells himself it’s only from the reflection of the stained glass across in hallucination.
But his heart is still churning, Stop, no, but that only makes it grow hotter.
Wicked thing, he muses,
Like the body two windows across,
Unflinching to the burning gaze,
Moving closer, closer, out of touch.