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The hall is pale, and the tapping of your cane against the floor creates a white on white echo. Each tap is a tiny ping on a radar, growing ever closer to your destination. You feel along the wall with your free hand: here is the gap where a door opens to the bathroom, and then wall again. Eventually your fingers touch something that gives slightly. This, you know, is the guest room door. Your lips are already stretched in a wide grin that you know shows too much teeth and freaks most people out.
The door gives under your touch, swinging on it's hinges with a distinct rust creak. The room is a butter mellow blur. You lean against the door casing, feeling it dig into your bony shoulder. You feel almost tipsy—drunk on red red red that's been clashing against your senses for far too long. Your body warm from the taste of sweet candy and cherry and the caffeine fix of coffee, the burn of warm red low and tense in the pit of your stomach. The faintest stirring of cool air touches your bare legs, and you notice movement in your blurry, pointless vision and suddenly blueberry explodes across your palate.
You follow your nose until your cane smacks up against something that utters a low "ow".
"Sorry, John," you say and only half mean it.
"It's fine," he says. Brilliant blue reels across your senses. "You just hit my leg is all."
You reach out and find the feel of soft worn denim beneath your fingertips. Beneath that is the hard rounded knob of John's kneecap. You drop your cane to the floor and flatten your palm against his knee, with your other hand you reach out and encounter warm skin.
A lot of warm skin. And everything is a soft peach blueberry blur against your senses. "John," you say, voice embarking on something like coy. "You're not wearing a shirt."
"Er, I was going to get it. And I did say it was stuffy in here."
You laugh, low and throaty and deeply amused and flatten your palm against his chest, slide it up to rest on his shoulder and lean in close. Your nose bumps his and you can make out the outline of his glasses, the vivid bright blue of his eyes a blurry smudge just beyond. He's blushing strawberries and cream against peaches and your mouth is thick with saliva and the want to taste. "It's fine," you say. "I told you I wasn't bothering with pants."
Your knees knock against his as you lean in closer, nose brushing against his cheek and for a moment you wonder if you should back the hell off. But then there are hands, flat and warm and resting just at the slight curve of your boney hips, steadying you. You grin and boldly trace tap the tip of your tongue against his cheek, and his breath rustles against the side of your face—warm and humid. The corner of your glasses clacks against the lens of his but you don't care. You flatten your tongue against his cheek for a long swipe and languish in the flavor. He doesn't even flinch, and it makes you grin wider.
"Tz?"
You give a little "Hrm?" to the questioning tone, but you're much more interested in nosing along the line of his jaw. It's a little rough with stubble, but you don't mind too much. You lean forward and bury your nose against his neck and suddenly everything is blue blue blue. You must have been a little too eager, or caught him by surprise because he falls back, dragging you with him. The two of you land on the mattress with a muted pale thwumph, and John gives an adorably uncomfortable cough that you're sure has everything to do with your positions.
But you're too immersed in an ocean of blue to care. Blueberries and something a little softer, and beyond that something a little darker and headier. You never knew blue could be so delicious and intoxicating and calming all at once.
You trip your fingers along the side of his neck and tangle your fingers in his hair and touch your nose against his cheek again. You can feel the burn of his flushed skin against your skin, against your senses, and his fingers dig into the giving flesh above the protruding points of your hipbones. You press your nose against his again, peer down into what you can see of wide eyes and the reflective flash of his glasses.
"Sloppy make outs, John," you remind him, grin gone predatory and shark-like again.
"Uh, right."
"Did you think I was bluffing?"
"Well...This is kind of, uhm, that is to say..."
You snicker out a little trademark hehehe and shut up his stupidly adorable stuttering with a kiss. Your dyed hair falls around your face, laying against his cheeks and sticking where one is wet with saliva still. Then his hand cups the base of your skull, fingers tangled in your hair and pressing against the curve of your neck. You close your near useless eyes and drown in the blue that plays against the back of your eyelids and across our lips.
Kissing John is a slow languorous affair. Romance packed into a kiss. He takes his time; hesitant but forthcoming all at once. Inexperienced and a little awkward, and you can't help but enjoy it. It's nice, makes you feel less weird and more appreciated. You don't feel like the complete and utter freak show you're sometimes certain you are with him.
You pull away before it gets deeper and tuck your nose against his neck again. You chuckle, soft puffs of air against his throat.
"Teresa?"
His fingers whisk lightly through the hair at the nape of your neck, trace down your spine like he's counting vertebrae. The touch is barely there, so brief and light like the breeze you'd swear he smells like. You shift, settling yourself more comfortably with your knees bracketing his thighs and your arms folded atop his chest. You can't really make out his expression and perhaps it's a little too warm in the slightly-stuffy-room, but John's hand rests on the small of your back, pressing hot and close against the patch of bare skin where your shirt has ridden up. His chest his warm beneath your arms and torso, and you feel languid and sleepy.
Drugged on blue rather than hyped up on red for the moment, though you can't help but wonder what would happen when that cool, relaxing breeze turns into thunderstorms on your tongue—all hot sizzling blue-white-purple lightning and bruised storm clouds.
You flick his chin, and flash him your teeth in another grin. "Calm down, Windy Boy. Just relax."
And he laughs deeper than his cirrus cloud snickers—the tall build of ever changing cumulus—and you can feel him relaxing into the mattress beneath your weight. This is nice, you can admit. Particularly when his fingers find yours and they tangle together.