The sun wakes him.
Stripes of peach-gold across his bedroom ceiling, muted brightness turning the air hazy soft, floating. Spectral colours tilt and fade across the cream walls as he lies still, counting breaths. His heart feels heavy, each beat thudding and there in a way he’s never noticed before. The drumline of his pulse rushes through his ears and the tremble of it in his neck is jarring.
Then a hand strokes across his side, calloused and coarse but gentler than anything Clint’s ever known. And there are people, even now, even still, who will say that this is wrong - that he is flawed and something broken. But Clint, he knows broken. He’s spent his whole life in jagged pieces and flinty shards. Now, he doesn’t feel like the dark confessional booth, like the sharp edges of a rosary, like a sin.
He feels like an altar to be worshipped at.
And Phil leans across, soft eyes and lips curled at the edges, and Clint can’t think of anything more right.
When Phil’s lips press against his, he stops worrying about his pulse.
When Clint kisses back, he feels the whole world inside his chest, and thinks he can get used to the weight of having Phil locked away inside his heart.
- phlint #2, i see eden in your eyes.