Ugh, I swear to god if I keep churning out these 1000 word drabbles, I'll just make a collection of them.

Also, I would like to admit that this idea isn't entirely my own, and the bracketed italics near the end are almost directly lifted from a poem I read somewhere.

Craig keeps his eyes where they belong, on thick books with classic authors like Hawthorne and Steinbeck and classic names like Little Women and The Scarlet Letter, scanning over sentences and doubling back over good words, infinitesimal and soughed. Kenny keeps his where they are meant to be, on legs and necks (not to mention all the things in between, oh me oh my) and makes sure his hands follow closely, makes sure his vocal cords form flattery that allows his digits slip under clothing. This is how this tradition started, in which Craig reads and murmurs words from time to time because they beg to be uttered, and Kenny presses his lips to the back of his jaw and says, "You're captivating, love." It's been going like this for weeks. Craig's at least half-convinced nobody suspects it.

There are stacks of books on Craig's desk, all with different meaning; one tower is books he's read but won't read again, another is ones yet to be read, yet another is books with bad plots but lovely sentences, the one adjacent to that one is just the opposite. He doesn't have a bookshelf, because he believes this is more efficient. (It isn't.)

Under Kenny's mattress is the closest thing to a diary he has; a chronicle of all the people he's fucked, whether they were good or bad or kinky or just mediocre. He has all their names, where the dirty went down, if they were good looking. There are pages and pages of Jessica, of Elaina, of Tiffany and Lexi, but none of them are boys' names. Craig is his first boy. He tried Craig in the first place because he needs to try something new and he believes he's just straight. (He isn't.)

They've kissed on the lips – mutually – only a couple of times. The first time was about a week after Kenny started caressing the lines of Craig's neck and laying dry kisses on his skin, muttering nothings. Craig placed his hand on the spine of his book, holding it open, making it quite clear that he had full intention of returning to it after he had done what he thought he had to do. Kenny had felt his movement and lifted his head from the spot he had found on Craig's shoulder, where he had been beginning a love bite. Craig had leaned forward and kissed him rather simply, more an agreement than a real kiss. The lack of feeling had not been lost on Kenny.

The second kiss was just a couple of days ago, when Kenny admitted he was tired of drawing love notes with his tongue everywhere but where tongues ought to go. He tugged Craig upward and said, "Can I kiss you?" Craig took a second to turn A Tree Grows In Brooklyn on its stomach and then nodded. Kenny assumed he'd probably do most of the lip work, but they met somewhere in the middle, and he found Craig quite willing to participate. This was a kiss with heads that move and tongues brushing. This was a kiss that made Craig swipe a hand across his mouth before he returned to his paracosm built out of adjectives and nouns.

Today, Craig lies on his front, propped up by his elbows, chipping through the full collection of all of Edgar Allan Poe's short stories. He's halfway through The Cask of Amontillado, mumbling fettered and rheum. Kenny pushes his shirt two-thirds of the way up his torso and kisses the small of his back, runs his fingers over the hills and valleys of Craig's spine.

"I love all your bones," he says, pressing his lips to each vertebra up to the hem of his shirt. He draws circles around them. "You're so thin."

"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.

"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones I busied bones among the- Craig's concentration falters.

Kenny spirals his tongue around a bone that juts out significantly. "And you're beautiful." With his thumb, he smears the trail of spit left behind around until all there's left is the resistance of skin on skin.

As I said these words I busied myself as I said these words I busied myself I busied as I said busied these words- That's not a sentence.

Kenny returns to the spot on Craig lower back, just inches above his belt, kissing and sucking on the skin there.

Craig looks at the wall and slides a bookmark into the crack between pages even and odd. (if he calls me)

"Ravishing," Kenny murmurs, words ghosting over his skin.

(two more times)

"Fucking ravishing," he says. Craig closes the book and pushes it on the floor. Pages bend. He rolls over and sits up, facing Kenny. Kenny parallels his movements, and they are suddenly at eye level.

(then I think I'll let him)

"Fuck me," Craig says, and it's hardly a whisper.