breathing through the phone
Archie calls Cook not to talk, but to hear his breath, its inhales and exhales, the way it hitches when Cook’s close and he twists his hand. He calls to hear the rustle of sheets, the slide of skin on skin, the strangled moans that get cut off in the back of Cook’s throat when it all becomes too much. He calls because he likes to know that he can, that he still has this power over Cook that he doesn’t understand, that no one else gets to hear Cook breathe like that but him.
Archie, Cook says, and there’s no voice to it, only breath, and Archie likes that sound so much that he drops the phone and Cook has to call him back, has to whisper that he misses him but soon, soon, and even then Archie’s heart won’t stop pounding against his chest, won’t stop trying to get out and back to Cook.
Cook likes it, likes how Archie calls to hear him, likes how Archie calls to make sure Cook is still his and his alone, as if Cook could ever be anyone else’s, as if Cook could ever want that, ever need that. He likes knowing that Archie thinks about him, likes knowing that his body is the only one Archie has ever seen, that his body is the only body that Archie has ever touched, ever tasted.
Cook sends Archie pictures to his mailbox, to his inbox, to his phone. He sends them and they’re all close-ups, close-ups of his hands or of his bare shoulder; of his ribs, his lips, the veins in his forearms. Archie never mentions them, never says that he gets them, but he does, Cook knows he does, because after each one, Archie calls him and they breathe.
Archie, Cook says, and there’s no voice to it, only breath, and Archie likes that sound so much that he drops the phone and Cook has to call him back, has to whisper that he misses him but soon, soon, and even then Archie’s heart won’t stop pounding against his chest, won’t stop trying to get out and back to Cook.
Cook likes it, likes how Archie calls to hear him, likes how Archie calls to make sure Cook is still his and his alone, as if Cook could ever be anyone else’s, as if Cook could ever want that, ever need that. He likes knowing that Archie thinks about him, likes knowing that his body is the only one Archie has ever seen, that his body is the only body that Archie has ever touched, ever tasted.
Cook sends Archie pictures to his mailbox, to his inbox, to his phone. He sends them and they’re all close-ups, close-ups of his hands or of his bare shoulder; of his ribs, his lips, the veins in his forearms. Archie never mentions them, never says that he gets them, but he does, Cook knows he does, because after each one, Archie calls him and they breathe.