He remembered the first time they met.
Remembered the bloodied lips and ruined silken suit, the bittersweet taste of wine and scent of aftershave. The rush in his veins and adrenaline in his system, the careless grin and breathless laughter.
He could still feel the way they came down from that high, their frantic run slowing down into a sedated pace. As they searched the street for somewhere to rest and wound up on a beat up food stall.
He doesn’t even have to close his eyes to experience, once again, the endorphin that led them into their first kiss. And then more.
And he, more than anything, could still recall how good it was to be in the other man’s embrace, how safe and sound it felt. How nice it is to be not only wanted but also taken care of.
Like a freight train, the memories flash through his thought when they finally see each other again, not two weeks later.
Because this time, it wasn’t his hand that was being pulled out of the dance floor after a bar fight.
It was someone else’s.
And he knows, now, that nothing is ever as good the second time around.
À la mort,
It’s been some time, but I finally found another prompt.