It was us.

Just us on the summer hill that day, under the Central, blue sky, and bravely defending even the remaining crumbs of Aunt Iris' sandwiches from the scourge of foraging ants.

We defended the picnic like we were donned in our costumes and defending our city. Ant scourge. He laughed at the phrasing, the line of his jaw prominent as he smiled, the rows of straight white teeth exposed, and they shone. Like he's a celebrity. Like he's meant to be worshipped by others. And I would. Again. And again.

(And again, and we're burning together, like twin suns under flannel, and we're obscenely slow; and I want to go fastfast-fastfastpleaseUncleBarry, and his smile is uncertain, and it's almost too dark in the room to see it; the burning hurts but it doesn't last and it's -good-, so good.)

He's all thumbs sometimes, and even then he's too cool for me, and I laughed because I'm nervous. His teeth sank into one of the peppered deviled eggs. He's the only one that can make me nervous. He asked if the apple pie was any good. His lips rounded out, drawing in, drawing apart. I think he caught me staring.

And we're warm and it's not burning, and I could feel every estranged breath escaping.

And his lips — they were red and apple pie lips pressing and tasting mine, and they weree familiar. He's perfect. Thumbs and all that dig rigidly into the flat of my hips underneath my shirt. And he's nervous. But he didn't hurt me, that time with flannel and the green-glow-in-the-dark constellations on my ceiling.

But he's kind and patient, and I kept trying to tell him that — but his hands, oh, his hands wouldn't let me.

It was just us and the hill and the ant scourge that blue, summer day. And it was perfect.



Repost from my LJ from, whoa, probably March of last year. If any of my Barry/Wally readers are still around, you guys rock and here's some more delicious fic.



You are the only one who can make me nervous."