Innuendoes

The heavy gray clouds obstructed the pale morning light of February dawn, enveloping everything in misty wisps that will, eventually, disappear with the coming of noon. Here and there the streets were floated with shallow puddles, the only evidence of the storm in the previous night. No one walked the cloud-shadowed street, accept one boy in his late teens, cloaked with heavy gray coat that matched the lead-colored skies above, accompanied by his small, white fur canine friend. The young man walked grimly, head bowed at the foul weather, his jovial smile gone from his face, only wishing he could be done with his duty of walking his dog, and go home only to curl into bed, where it was warm.

In one of the buildings on that particular street, one boy was sitting in bad, back resting against the wall, looking intently at the other figure occupying the bed, white linen draped around his slim frame, more against the piercing cold than because of modesty. The clock that hung on one of the room's walls ticked in his ear, reminding him of how long he had been watching the other that night. The sound didn't bother him anymore, since the ticking were in-tune with his lover's peaceful breathing, fusing the last hour of sleep the other had to barely a few minutes, in his mind, after the storm died last night.

The storm last night...He could still remember it all so vividly in his mind, reliving everything in his fevered memory.

He remembered he was shivering with cold and sweating with warmth all together, in the same time, shivering so spasmodically he was almost completely out of control, his eyes glazed, focused and unfocused on the silhouette that was grinding forcibly into him from above, injuring him from the inside.

He remembered blood- his own blood- which was covering the white sheets, mingled with the sweat and semen, and saliva.

He remembered the pain of the intrusion to his body, the friction, and the uncontrolled poundings inside his body; the pain in his throat when he cried out loud when he came so hard on the other's bare, hard stomach, muffled by the booming sound of the thunder of the storm that was so near, that he barely heard himself over the noise.

He remembered the soft teasing touch of long fingernails, playing with his pale flash, in times biting into his skin, in times tickling him senseless, making him shiver even harder.

He remembered the gentle caress of the other's touch, the soft murmurs of boiling-hot, humid love words the other sang to him in his ears, the words that calmed him down and soothed the fevered blood in his veins, convincing him to breath once again cold air, that wasn't so cold anymore, not around the body that covered his so possessively.

He remembered, only by the crackling flashes of the lightning outside the short, spiky blond hair that few strands clung to the sweating forehead, red eyes and scar marks on the cheeks. He remembered a black tattoo around the navel; he remembered the hungry and passionate look in devilishly crimson eyes.

He remembered the soft kisses all along his body, and sharp teeth tearing at him and he remembered never feeling so good in his life.

He smelled the other's scent on himself, and smiled.

The faint taste of the other still lingered in his mouth and Gaara darted a dry tongue to lick the remains from his own broken, thin, slightly caked with crusted blood lips, remembering it forever in his heart, filing it away in his soul.