All Five Senses
Sexual
Spot loved this.
He loved the sight; Race's hair blending in with the black couch pillows, the reflection of the dim light on his naked back.
He loved the sound; the way Race moaned and mumbled in Italian, tried to silence himself and failed.
He loved the smell and the taste; the scent of sex, so strong when they were this close that he really could taste it.
But mostly he loved the feeling of the boy underneath him, the way they moved together, the waves of pleasure it sent through his body.
Sometimes, Spot thought, he even loved Race.
Caught
Scared.
Dizzy, so dizzy. Gritty bricks behind him, then gone; rough cobblestones instead.
On the ground. Scared and dizzy.
A look up, only cold faces staring back. People who used to be his friends. One of them starts to move again.
Oh god please no.
Boot to the stomach, face, chest. Bile rises, the scent of vomit fills his nostrils. He tastes blood, bit his cheek. The pain is indistinct; the pain is everywhere.
Somewhere close, Mush is screaming too.
Oh please god make it stop.
They'd been caught.
He shuts his good eye. It all fades to black anyway.
Spring
Blink loves spring. Hoisting his papers on to his shoulder, he feels the cool breeze and smiles. Just cool, not biting cold. As they walk off to sell together, Mush whistles cheerfully; he loves spring, too. Blink looks at him and grins. They both grin a lot during the spring.
Everyone is out today, enjoying the weather. Papers sell easily. Everyone is in a pleasant mood. They split a cheap lunch; even that tastes good, and linger for a moment in Central Park. Blink inhales deeply. He can smell a rain storm coming, the first spring rain.
Blink loves spring.
Citrus
Specs watched Dutchy peel the orange with his fingernails. It stained his nails slightly orange. He dropped a large piece of the peel and Specs picked it up, ran his fingers over the slightly pebbly surface. Dutchy gave him a strange look.
The scent of citrus filled the air and Dutchy popped the first orange section into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. Specs reached for a piece. "Please?"
"Of course."
Specs ate a piece, savored the taste of it. "I love oranges," he confessed.
"I love you," Dutchy confessed in return, his voice soft, then finished with his orange.
Specs smiled.
Nice Night
The night air was cold, not freezing. Dutchy dozed on the steps, too broke for a bed. He heard a noise behind him and the door opened; he didn't have to look over to know who it was.
"Hey," he said, trying to sound calm, not excited.
"Hey." Bumlets sat next to him, lit a cigarette. Dutchy liked the smell of it, finally looked over to see the gorgeous profile of the boy next to him. "Drag?" Bumlets offered, and Dutchy accepted. He could almost taste Bumlets on the cigarette, or so he liked to imagine.
"Nice night," Bumlets commented.
Coffee and TV
It was nice to just watch TV together. But for all Blink was paying attention, the TV could be muted. When he was this close to Mush, he didn't see or hear anything else.
He inhaled deeply, he hoped subtly, noting that Mush always smelled vaguely like coffee. Blink wondered if he tasted like coffee, too.
Almost unthinkingly, Mush shifted slightly, leaned on Blink's shoulder. "Nothing's on," he noted.
Blink couldn't have cared less, given the way Mush's curls were tickling his neck. He put an arm around Mush's shoulder. It was comfortable.
He went back to not watching TV.
Stolen Moment
He'd had no money, so Dutchy offered to share a bunk. Bumlets snored lightly beside him. But Dutchy didn't sleep: this was his stolen moment, close to the boy he adored.
Dutchy reached out, brushed a hand over Bumlets' shoulder. He had such nice shoulders, smooth and toned. He sniffed Bumlet's hair, which smelled kind of like a girl's scented soap. No wonder it was so pretty.
He wanted to touch Bumlets more, be closer. He wondered what Bumlets might taste like, if Dutchy licked up his neck. Probably like sugar, he decided.
Finally, Dutchy drifted off watching Bumlets sleep.
Guitarist
Concerts always smelled like beer and tasted like smoke, and he could feel the people pressed against him, waiting. He was amazed his favorite band was playing a venue so small and intimate--he kept hearing them on the radio; their third album was actually on the charts. But somehow, they hadn't begun playing larger venues yet.
The crowd erupted into screams as they took the stage and began to play...
There were four men on stage, but he only cared about one: the guitarist. Skinny, ripped jeans, t-shirt, purple Fender, platinum blond and wire-rimmed glasses.
He was in lust.
Harmonica
He sat on the docks and stared at the moonlight. The harbor always smelled like salt water and trash, but the moonlight reflected off the water, dancing in the ripples. It was hypnotic, which was what he wanted. Spot didn't want to think or feel.
A wave broke on the dock support, the spray caught his feet, and he distantly noted the cold water but didn't care.
Finally he reached for the harmonica in his pocket and played one piercing, sad note. It hurt to hear, but the harmonica still tasted like Race's lips.
That was all he had left.
Perfection
He was perfection, Blink thought, running his hand down Mush's chest. His skin was smooth, his muscles were perfect, and he was built like a Greek god come to life. He had a voice like an angel, and when he sighed happily it sounded like music to Blink's ears. He smelled like soap and tasted slightly salty, probably from sweating from a day's hard work.
Blink stared in to Mush's chocolate brown eyes and felt himself melting, wanting, craving, but was too scared to ask. But then Mush sat up enough to kiss his lips gently.
Mush was definitely perfect.
Pastries
He presses himself to the window, staring in at the treats he could never afford. The glass is cold against his nose, but the pastries and cakes are so tantalizing he can almost taste them. Every time the door to the shop opens, the bells above it jingle and the smell wafts out.
Francis sighs and knows he can't have them. But he's so hungry...
He slips in to the store and the store keeper glares at him, but a customer diverts his attention. Once his back is turned, Francis grabs a cake and runs.
He almost makes it, too.
Chicken Soup
Les coughed pathetically and leaned back against the flat, hard pillows of his bed. Esther sighed and pushed a bowl of soup into his hands. It looked a little watery, but smelled good, though his nose was too stuffed up for him to actually smell it.
"Now drink this up," she told him, "and you'll feel so much better."
He hoped so. The soup was hot and soothed his aching throat, and he set the bowl on the floor when he finished and tried to drift off, listening to the quiet noises of his mother working in the kitchen .
Bread
Hunger pains were a bitch. Bumlets' empty stomach rumbled out loud, but not loudly enough to be heard by anyone else--the babble of the newsboys waiting in line drowned out everything except the bell, when the newspaper finally decided to let them in.
Bumlets glanced up at the headline chalkboard and groaned. Nothing good. Nothing that would get food in his mouth... And now there was the irritating smell of fresh bread nearby, and he could actually taste it.
He turned to glare at whoever had it. But it was Dutchy, who tore off a chunk, and held it out. Smiling.
Sunset
Mush's hand on his shoulder was steady, reassuring. Blink leaned into his arm a little bit, and Mush tightened his grasp.
The city seemed oddly muted, the sounds far away. Blink and Mush didn't talk. They didn't need to, they could communicate without speech.
Blink inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of his friend. Mush smelled like the fish sandwich he'd had for dinner.
The sun was sinking quickly, and the skyline seemed to glow a firey orange. It was so peaceful. Blink sighed slightly and turned to Mush, who kissed him gently.
Mush tasted like Coca Cola. Blink smiled.