It seems so simple, perhaps because it's so prevalent in the celluloid. Two actors on a screen with eyes locked, gazing lovingly, completely unaware that they are surrounded by some six billion others. That look is so intense, so private. Sometimes there would be the sweet, almost-corny-but-for-its-sincerity smile of infatuation or the stony intensity of passion so all-consuming that to break that gaze would be to die.
And yet, that's exactly what the boy did, this boy that sat across from him and the moment was done. It was an ill-fated moment that began with the best of intentions but devolved not long after its inception because of the boy's, and also his own, inability to hold the stare. It started as that blissful tension that comes before you kiss for the first time, if not the first time ever than after a substantial distance, sometimes all the more meaningful for the time elapsed. A hand - or even a toe - wanders closer, lightly touching, giving little hints that could be mad flirtation or nothing more than an innocent graze if, God forbid, the other person did not respond. Then, thankfully, fingers entwine and you find this most mundane body part inexplicably fascinating. Hands, for the most part, are not that different from one another; veins, joints, nails. But when you touch a new one for the first time...heaven.
Their hands lacing, knees began to slide, legs opening and then closing, wrapping around the other's waist like roots, holding them there, in place, facing one another. Eyes met, his searching his companion's for depth or understanding or any sign that this was organic and correct. And there it was, that movie star moment, as though they'd been frozen. Hairsprayed. Maximum hold. Then the boy cocked his eyebrow and he felt his own respond in kind. Damnit. The movie was done, the reel having caught fire and shriveled as this sign of innocent mockery was exchanged. Not mockery at each other (the rest of the night would prove this) but rather a sign that they were not a silver screen couple, that this intimacy was too much, perhaps just too soon, but in either case unsustainable. His companion, this boy, eyebrow still raised, pursed his lips like the star of a blaxploitation film and then looked away with a grin, and then finally foolishly leaned in for the kiss. It was lovely, always had been, but it was hardly Klimt. Hell, it was barely Sex & the City. Still, it felt good and as they walked to the bed, he was content. The Gables and Lombards were excellent fantasies, but he hadn't seen a true example thus far and was exhausted from looking. He was tired and this would do fine. His lips would burn the same the next morning, the smell of the boys hair still wafting off of his fingers well into the next afternoon.