[Noah skates his palm up Ronan's arm, smoothes it across his shoulder, up into the peach fuzz of his neck. He drags a gentle pattern there, in sync with the strokes of his tongue. Maybe, if the two could meet in the middle, something of his touch could stay imprinted in Ronan's mind. Maybe he could live there, just a little part of him, the memory of two boys breathing into each other on the forest floor.
Their knees bump, and Noah's teeth come down on Ronan's lip, entirely on accident. Something in the action sparks a muscle memory, the ancient, distant memory of backseat trysts, and he makes himself pull back a bit. Ronan isn't some girl from swim team. He isn't Barry. And Noah was trying to be gentle, after all. This is about giving, not taking.
He looks up with leaves in his hair, red in his cheeks. His chest rises and falls against Ronan's.]
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Their knees bump, and Noah's teeth come down on Ronan's lip, entirely on accident. Something in the action sparks a muscle memory, the ancient, distant memory of backseat trysts, and he makes himself pull back a bit. Ronan isn't some girl from swim team. He isn't Barry. And Noah was trying to be gentle, after all. This is about giving, not taking.
He looks up with leaves in his hair, red in his cheeks. His chest rises and falls against Ronan's.]
... So.