Kissing Nick is like biting into summer, half-cruel, half relentlessly beautiful. Justin knows in the back of his head that he is just as beautiful, just as cruel, but Nick. Nick is somehow different, a blinding shining sunshower.
Because no matter how much Nick wants to be romantic, poetic, artistic, deep, he is only as deep as the shallow end of the ocean at noon. He is a pure Florida summer, undistilled, like when Justin was a kid. Uncomplicated, all beauty and heat and no reason.
When Justin kisses his way down Nick’s body, he tastes ocean water, oranges, warm yellow beaches.
When Nick flips him over, presses his face into clean white sheets and fucks him, Justin wants to cry because its scorching sun, painful and exhilarating all at once. Nick kisses the long arch of his back, his shoulders, and it feels like he’s lying on hot sand with the sun streaming all over his face, blinding him with white-hot beauty and burn.
When Nick leaves, Justin feels sunburned all over, raw and red and ugly.
But like a sunburn, it always heals, and he’s always left craving summer, and sunshine, and oranges.