A/N: Um. So, I wrote a fluffy Elleo fanfic. This is the first of my writing that I've managed to gather up enough of my courage to post.. I started it in study hall and then finished it at, like, three o'clock in the morning yesterday. That's kind of, like, the peak of my emotional sensitivity, so if it's super fluffy, um.. okay. Also, Second-person POV, although scarce and rare, does exist. Not really sure why I wrote in it.. Just kinda happened. I blame it on Homestuck. The poem belongs to Adrienne Rich, not I. I wish I could write as beautifully and intensely as she does. She's wonderful. Okay, um, bye. Sorry if this is, um, yeah. Okay, bye. I'll just leave this here.

"Leo." You say.

"Elliot." He responds evenly, his eyes still fixed intently to the splashes of ink on the page.

"Leo, I'm bored." You mean to match your tone with his, but it comes out with a slightly whiny quality to it.

"Elliot, I'm reading."

You take a moment to stare at him in hopes that maybe you can make him so uncomfortable that he'll stop reading and talk to you. Of course, that doesn't work, so you consider your other options.

You're still really bored. You're also kind of hungry. Your mouth falls open into the shape of a question. Hey, Leo, you want to- but it snaps shut on second thought because you already know what he will say. Eliooooottt, I'm reeeadiinngg. Elliooooottt, that's ruuuuddeee.

Gosh, can't a Nightray get a break around here?

You briefly consider snatching the book from him and hiding it- but no. Then he'd just get all sulky and probably find another book to ignore you with.

A few minutes elapse as you stare at him in blatant annoyance until, finally, you ask, "What are you reading?"

He spares a glance at you out of the corner of his eye.

"Adrienne Rich." He answers.

You take a few seconds to think. "That lesbian poet?" you ask.

"I-"he begins to say something else, but seems to reconsider and says, "Yes, Elliot, that lesbian poet."

"Oh," you say, nodding. "I like her."

He turns his head to look fully at you now and he gives you a look that's almost- incredulous. But it's not, because in it there is also admiration, and fondness, and some other emotion that you don't really know how to explain or even understand.

His mouth quirks up into a smile and, without thinking about it, your hand reaches up to gently touch his hair. It's soft under your fingertips – so soft that it makes you wonder how he even gets his hair so soft, since you both use the same shampoo and you're pretty sure that your hair isn't this soft.

His smile fades with your touch and replacing it is a gaze that speaks of a quiet intensity; a certain kind of intimacy.

You feel your fingers move gently, cautiously, to brush the bangs back from his face, because his eyes are so pretty, and, when he doesn't object, you slowly push his glasses up the bridge of his nose and then off his face completely, placing them gently on the bed beside you.

You look at him. You drink in his features. You memorize every inch of his face; the slight curve of his lips, the softly defined angles of his cheekbones, the nice, delicate stoop of his nose. And his eyes. His eyes are the darkest shade of black, and when he turns his head a certain way, it's almost as if you see little flecks of gold in them. They are the color of midnight, and yet they are so vivid. They capture you, and once you are caught, you find that you cannot seem to look away. And why would you want to?

You can't stop yourself.

"You have really pretty eyes." You say quietly.

He makes no reply and continues staring at you. For a moment, you almost wish that he needed the glasses to see. You've always been such an open book, and Leo, such a good reader. You've always felt so exposed under his gaze. And it would be nice, for once, to have the advantage. And for a moment, you even imagine that he can't see you right now. You indulge yourself in the fallacy that he can't see the conflicting emotions that cross your face, or the shade of red that now tints your cheeks; for once you are hidden and he is open.

But his eyes can see, and they are staring right at you, through you, inside you. It makes you nervous. You wonder why he isn't saying anything or doing anything; why he isn't shouting at you, or hitting you, or, god forbid, throwing a table at you.

You almost wish that he would. Well, maybe not hit you. But you do wish that he would do something.

He doesn't seem like he's going to be doing anything anytime soon.

With one last, regretful look at his eyes, and one last, lingering touch to his feather-soft fair, you carefully replace the glasses and smooth his hair back into place.

With a small cough you push yourself away, feeling another flush of warmth creep onto your cheeks. You suddenly feel very self-conscious. You wait for him to say something, but he doesn't.

"Uh- can you read it out loud?" you ask.

He says nothing, his gaze fixed intently on some distant point in front of him. He seems to be lost in thought, working something out in his heard. You really wish he'd say something.

Eventually, his eyes flicker back to the book and begin scanning the paper. He flips through the pages until, seeming to find what he is looking for, stops. He's still silent and you start to think that he just went back to reading, until he beings in a quiet tone.

"The world is not wanton. Only wild and wavering."

His voice is soft, smooth, and articulate.

"I wanted to choose words that even you would have to be changed by."

You wish that you could form words the way Leo does. It's like you have all of these thoughts in your head and when you try to speak they all tumble out and get tangled in your hair.

"Take the word of my pulse, loving and ordinary." He continues, pausing slightly for line breaks. "Send out your dark, scribbled flags, but take my hand."

You feel a warm, tingling sensation crawl up your spine and sneak into the pit of your stomach. You think that Leo could be an actor if he wanted to because of the way his words make you feel. Even if they're just a recitation.

"All wars are useless to the dead."

A pang of something like the opposite of nostalgia.

"My hands are knotted in the rope and I cannot sound the bell."

You reach out to gingerly capture a tuft of hair between your fingertips.

"My hands are frozen to the switch and I cannot throw it."

Your fingers trail down over his cheekbone and then over to trace along the line of his smooth lips, and then back across to rest gingerly on his cheek.

You can feel another wave of heat rush through you to tint your face a deeper shade of scarlet and you can feel your heart beating in your ears and how the hell can he make you feel like this, anyway?

Leo swallows a bit shakily, his adam's apple moving slightly under his skin, but otherwise remains the same.

"The foot is in the wheel."

You lean forward to gently place a kiss on his lips and then back away, eyes squinting, to see his reaction. When he says nothing, heat and embarrassment consume you, and you pull away with a stuttered apology on your tongue.

But then you feel his hand at the back of your neck. He rushes forward to kiss you hastily, but your lips never meet because noses and foreheads collide. It's kind of awkward because neither of you have ever done this before and you're both nervous and unsure. You snort in laughter and he turns and pushes against your chest, so that you are on your back and he's leaning over you.

He leans down and this time you both tilt your heads in the same direction. In addition to the smacking of foreheads and the colliding of noses, his glasses fall forward and the corner pokes you in the eye.

You hiss and exclaim in surprise, "Hey!"

And the bastard giggles.

"Damnit, Leo." You snatch the glasses off of his face in annoyance and unceremoniously toss them onto the floor.

The floor is carpet and it's a three-foot drop, so you obviously know that they're not going to break, but, of course, he still freaks out anyways.

His mouth opens in surprise and he leans over to see where his precious glasses have landed.

"Elliot, why wou-" he begins to scold you, but before he can get to the worst of it, you curl your fingers around a bunch of raven-black hair at the back of his head and pull him towards you.

Holding his head in place, you tilt your head slightly and crash your lips onto his. Your teeth graze and you hear a slight clinking sound, and you both laugh into each other's mouth.

Your hand falls from his hair and slides over to touch his cheeks, and his neck, and finally comes to rest on his shoulder.

They always portray kissing as such an ethereal, romantic thing in the movies, and that might have caused you to have some unrealistic expectations of your first kiss. In the end, it is just flesh against flesh. Time doesn't pause and the world remains securely on it's axis, but it is still the most wonderful, intense, breath-taking and mind-shattering thing that you have ever experienced in your life. And once you get the hang of it, it's not so hard anymore.

Then his lips are off of yours and you are left huffing and flustered, struggling to catch your breath. You feel his mouth pressing a gentle kiss to your jaw.

"And when we're finished," he murmurs, "Lying in a stubble of blistered flowers.."

It takes you a moment to realize that he is finishing the poem.

You feel his hand glide softly down your side to rest on your hip.

His lips move across your jaw and down to your neck, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

He is kissing and nipping and sucking at the skin there and you can't even process what is happening, but it feels so good. Your head falls back and your breaths are coming out in short, labored gasps. A certain touch to your collarbone, a gentle nip at the base of your throat, and a spider-like web of a million wonderful sensations are crawling through your skin, filling you with a voracious want and an indescribable sense of joy and elation.

"Eyes gaping," his words come out in rich murmurs, and you feel them vibrate pleasantly against your skin, "mouths staring."

He is placing gentle kisses along your jaw line.

"Dusted with crushed, arterial blues..."

His lips are on yours again, capturing you, surrounding you; you are overwhelmed, you are overjoyed, you are complete, and you are broken.

He breaks apart and is now looking down at you with those lovely eyes. Their expression is jubilant, but also sorrowful.

"I'll have done nothing..."

His tone is one of mourning.

"Even for you."

Was that as bad as I think it was?