|| white feathers ||

JC trails his fingertips over the slope of muscle and bone that spans Justin's shoulderblades, a canvas of ink and skin and blood. This is the first time he's seen the tattoo up close instead of just glimpses of it from beneath soft cotton, and he traces the fine black lines where they curve and twine together gently before slipping back into flesh. There are colors, too-- sky blue and fierce scarlet, cool green and the palest ivory, and they make the skin below his hands feel different somehow.

Brand-new secrets under your skin, he whispers, feeling the barest brush of ghost-feathers across his lips with the touch of his tongue to the tip of an inked wing. I want to know them all. A question with no answer, and JC lets his head tip slowly back into the silence, losing himself in salt and sweat and heat as Justin bites into the soft hollow beneath the line of his jaw.

I have no secrets, Justin says quietly, there's nothing to tell, and his warm breath curving across JC's throat in the late afternoon light is in the perfect shape of a lie.

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