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Little Wonder You

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Posted to the RoswellSlash mailing list July 7, 2001

Title: Little Wonder You 1/1
Author: Scynneh
Disclaimer: The idea of plot can be a bad thing, so it is discarded here. If only certain individuals in authority would follow this example.
Distribution: Let me know.
Rating: R
Notes: This is pointless. Mnemosyne rendered a beautiful pic of two boys and Jen instructed me to write PWP. So here it is. If it doesn't make sense, who cares? The title comes from David Bowie.

        The Christian idea of love was "sexless passion." Kyle is much more inclined to define that emotion as "passionate sex."

        Their hands were sweaty with longings; some of which had been confronted, and others that had been knotted in a box under the bed, stenciled with 'ideals', 'molds', and even 'stereotypical expectations'.

        Mouths met, kisses unfocused, the pre-show had been gone through, curtains were ton up and they were ready for the part that sold tickets. The bedroom was simple, whenever his life underwent a large change, the near loss of life, surviving the summer after sophomore year, rediscovering his faith in something, Kyle redecorated. Now the bed was a queen-size, blue construct- several bland- Formica desks had been converted into storage space for clothes. Tidy, that was the word to describe this sanctuary.

        But they did not discuss that state of the room, or the fact that the carpet was quite horribly clean, scrubbed, the smell of bleach in the air, stink of a perception of himself that tormented his mind.

        The other one understood about being clearly, only excessive scrubbing might remove the cankers of emotions from him. Love for small blond females who smiled and demanded total unconditional sharing and never leaving each other, and then she had found love and another blond wanted more than family. She wanted partnership.

        It was so unreal, mop of hair, so mocking, music sort of tangled in his head, he was singing that tune, which he had never heard, expect when he touched Michael. He didn't want flying stars or sand beneath his feet when he tripped, and hated remembering gritty fear and the impact of leather on his shoulders.

        But when they were pressed together, all over, the notes of the Unknown Song was stifled by skin and what was important right then.

        Kyle met the softness of his bed and lay there, inhaling desolation while cool fingers worked at the laces of his shoes. He summoned enough of his mind into a semblance of order to get his socks of- on little scrinching movements. Denim was peeled off and silk's cost was disregarded as it floated away from sinewy arms, smooth shoulders. His father had bought him that shirt, and he'd worn it this time only, he hadn't known why. But it sure was pretty draped off that chair.

        Rolling over, Kyle found the alien looking down at him, unhurried lust in his expression. No more than a flicker in his eyes that desire, but on the scale of Michael expressions it is loud and should not be left alone.

        And when he moved upwards to give back to that outpouring of feeling, a smile worked itself out of stoic blankness and bestowed light feelings on him.


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