A WIP for you all :D
Working Title: Pea Soup
Genre: Slice of life, romance
Description: In which Uruha isn’t completely oblivious, just slow on the uptake.
Synopsis: In which Uruha is a beauty school dropout and Aoi is none the wiser.
AKA: an excuse for colberry to write Uruha and Ruki as beauticians XD
Ruki was in the middle of turning the page of his magazine, pausing just so to admire those mauve pants on page three one last time, when the ever-living shit was knocked out of him.
“Ruki!”, a desperate, barely contained glee-slathered hiss rushed into his left ear, “Ruki, Ruki there he is!”
Ruki would have loved to reply. Maybe something poetically eloquent with a dash of metaphor – he was an artist after all – basically boiling down to: I don’t fucking give a two-cent whore’s ass. However, none of those Shakespearean-worthy allusions and metonymies would grace his lips since he currently had an Uruha slathered across his back, making his chest squeeze against the reception counter.
The overgrown tumor on his spine tightened its grip on his shoulders, “Christ, look at him.”
Ruki offered a venomous growl from below. He could feel his coveted magazine creasing where his hands unconsciously tightened as he was bowled over. Fuck. Now he’ll never be able to read the serial number of those pants…
Uruha was still whispering incoherent sweet-nothings in his ear and with the last breath still surviving in his lungs, the shorter man grumbled, “Uruha. Move.”
The taller did just that, only to crouch beside his man-handled friend and poke his head discreetly above the desk. Ignoring the way Ruki was gasping for air while he attempted to smooth out the ruined pages of his magazine, Uruha hummed with wonder, “That’s the sixth time he’s paused by our window this week. It’s a sign.”
He wants to walk over, kneel upon the floor and wrap his arms around Ruki’s narrow waist. Reita wants to bury his head into the vocalist’s stomach and whisper words he doesn’t know how to say into his shirt.
He sees Ruki clench his jaw tight, teeth bared and lip curled back. But he also sees the tears shining in the fluorescent lights, sliding down his cheeks and plunging from his painted jaw.
And this time he follows instinct – walking over and touching.
Touching this beautiful, broken mess that’s full of glitter, skulls and black ribbons. Crimson eyeshadow, rose lips and pale flesh.
It’s rushed. A flurry of fingertips across the younger’s cheeks in an attempt to brush away each droplet. A mad dash of hands at his shoulders, his waist, his heart. Reita breathes in deep and rests his large hands atop that petit and rapid pulse.
He counts the beats within his palms.