Alexander is all angles. Alexander is too skinny, and his eyes too bright. Alexander has run himself raw with the wait.
His hands are pushing and impatient, and the dark-eyed boy indulges him. Snow falls thick and fast and there is newspaper crinkling beneath them like brushfire. Elegant fingers skim the sides of his stomach as Alexander curls around him, catlike; he's spark where Aaron's shadow, and very nearly gentle when so he chooses.
Aaron favors choice: he chose Princeton, chose seminary school, chose to leave it. Chose cigarettes on cold benches and the clothes on his back, and this, Alexander above him. This, warm hands and cheap wine.
Alexander's tongue still tastes like it, tracing a coy line down his abdomen with soldierly precision. The Columbia student is the only one he knows who reads the newspaper in bed, half-dressed and irate. His sheets are inkstained and distressed and, Alexander whispers to him, ripped in fingernail curves where six months of lonely nights tore through.
Aaron considers that. Alexander demands to be fucked, grinds their hips together with tumultuous hunger and forces his hand.
Alexander pins him to the bed by his neck and presses down, gorgeous, inarticulate, lips parted and head thrown back, the sheets an ocean around them.
"Saint Theresa," Aaron says, after.
Alexander purses his lips. "Sacrilegious."
"Italy." Aaron pecks them. "I'll take you some day."