you were the first. i had my hands full of “i-nevers” until you took my palm from across the table and pressed your rosebud lips past my knuckles. it was the wrong place, the right place, with no time at all - and i still had salt on my mouth, gaping wide open. i kissed him like this, you said, eyes catching mine as you mouthed the words around the bones in my hands - these hands that had never held, never touched, never reached, never-i-never. and i didn’t know what to say, too caught up in the curve of your body as you leaned towards me because no one ever had. you were soft, even as your fingertips grazed the underside of my palm. i looked it up later that day, the deep line in my skin you traced over and over. the sun line. apollo. you were the first who made me want - everything and nothing, something or anything; all of you or nothing at all. it was 4PM on a tuesday. it was the smile you pressed into me.
when you pulled away, i said nothing but knew you’d be the one to make me write bad sonnets that i would read in front of the entire english class come monday, knees knocking and palms wet but trying to catch your eye above the words. to see if you knew. to see if you were mouthing along. to see you. do you see me —
do you see that you make me play ‘teenage dirtbag’ on repeat on the bus back home. that you make me want to alliterate every word that’s spit from my mouth and tie together metaphors around our pinkies like wayward kites.
do you see that i’m layering up, sweater after sweater in september; cold, cold, cold and trying to remember the warmth you pressed into me.
you were bad poetry in twenty hidden word documents on my laptop.
you were a list of how much i wanted, how i wanted to be wanted;
a list of places i wanted to go: your pink-bitten collarbones, the valley between your breasts, your hips between my thighs, your heart in my palms.
you played the viola and all i wanted to tell you over the swell of our bows catching on notes of dead men we would never know, "you should come over."
you straddled the seat next to me, pink nails curling over the back maybe like how we could hold hands, one day, later. maybe in the hallways, grips like steel and steps in tandem as we become a forever-whisper in corners and in bathrooms. maybe your fingers would crook along the freckle on my arm, the one you once drew into a smiley face - one eye sea blue, the other dusk brown (and how i told myself over and over that it wasn’t a metaphor no matter how blue your eyes were when you looked up at me with a lost word on your lips nor how brown my eyes were when drew a sloppy heart on your knee).
sometimes i felt like i maybe had beehives inside of me. on the inside of my mouth. the way it stung. the way i couldn’t kiss you if i tried.
the things i’ll miss about you:
your thumbs licking against my wrists as you pull me forward into the dressing room at h&m; wearing nothing but jeans and a bra and a smirk.
your lips like sugar, the picture of apple pie as you tugged my hands to lay on the lace, dragging them down, down along your ribs, your quivering stomach.
your nose in the hollow of my throat in the dark theater.
your smile fitting around my name.
"you laugh like a house on fire."
you, to me, after.
prom night: you wrapped up in tulle, me held together by black straps and your arms.
we fit strawberries in our mouths, giggling as the lights washed out the colors of our eyes into yellows, reds, and greens. our heels clacking underneath the table, our friends squeezing us together for photos; your sun-speckled shoulder pressing into my arm all night as i reached down to curl your hand into mine under the dark. you already have your stilettos dangling from your hand by the fifth song and i’m humming "but lo and behold, she’s walking over to me" into your ear. wheatus as our witness.
it was a friend who suggested we sleep over her house, our smiles night-drunk as we agreed. it was me who suggested we stay in the guest room. it was me who closed the door and you who stood in the middle of the room with only the lamplight to color your skin gold.
and i remember the way your collarbones dipped.
and i remember the bruise of your eyeshadow as you closed your eyes and breathed in deep and began to tangle your finger around the strap of your dress.
and i remember the way your voice - like bleeding pomegranates, like a thousand touches to my hips - shook.
"is this okay?"
the was strap dangling off your shoulder, your makeup smudged, the wisps of your hair ghosting your neck.
the june night was on my tongue as you suddenly made this into this, silently offering. and i couldn’t - didn’t want to ever, ever - say no.
"always, fucking always, yes." i dribbled out, your orbit pulling me in - stockinged feet whispering closer and my breaths bent towards you like dirtied prayers. father, and son, and holy spirit, and holy shit - holy fuck- let me have this.
i slid the bobby pins out of your hair, pale sunlight coating my fingernails. there were 23. the bedsheets were powder blue. there was a water stain on the ceiling above us. it was 2009 and there was a crescendo of yes’ in my throat. it was 17-year-olds and rabbit-racing hearts.
you held my trembling fingers against the zipper, thumb sliding into the valleys of my knuckles. we stood there, still. we could hear a soft, lulling hum of music somewhere. i stared at your shoulder where white dress met pale flesh.
i pinched the zipper between my fingers and you leaned in and held your lips against the veins of my neck and you whispered something.
i didn’t catch it, too low and fast and fleeting. and sometimes, now (after), i wonder what it could’ve possibly been.
or a cheeky verse of "come with me friday, don’t say ‘maybe’."
we unfolded like red carnations. we gasped with fireflies underneath our gums. your lips (there and there) were flushed. my hands shook the entire time, and so did yours.
but we laughed, hushed and breathless and rosy. when i knocked my elbow against the wall, when you tripped on the countless folds of your tulle.
the walls held us in like a promise as we lay there, curved towards each other like parentheses. like 'x' marks the spot. like you are here.
and i said - traced over your cheek in braille - "oh."
oh, here we are.
i wanted to put your heart in a jar and watch it glow.
and for awhile, i did. wrapped it tight like a bow between my lungs. and you had mine, warm and yours.
but we only had milk-teeth then. clumsy limbs and quick hearts. promising too fast and loving too hard.
but we fit.
until we didn’t.
until there was a boy and your heart found its own "oh" and i couldn’t stop you.
i didn’t want to stop you.
not when your mouth was full of stars even as my own bones were twisted up in a car crash - ribs jutted out like a last attempt to pull you back. and even though i had whispered my secrets into your wisdom teeth and you had breathed all the places we could go on the insides of my arms, i didn’t want to stop you.
not even when it fucking hurt. nights where my words were like crushed glass shoved down the throat of your heart. nights when i fit my mouth around the barrel of a thousand things i didn’t mean. nights when i broke apart all the wishbones i ever dared to keep.
not even then.
because you and him were happy.
still are, 5 years later.
and it would be okay, you and him, and us.
because for a moment in this universe, there was a you and me.
later, after: you said there were stars in my eyes and i laughed and said it must’ve just been the light.
In an attempt to keep up with the times, I’ve transferred all my fics from LJ to AO3! The tag system there is absolutely wonderful and I may have had too much fun with it owo
Anyways, here is the link if anyone desires it! Expect updates soon~
☆ AO3 ☆
“The first time I saw you,” Uruha’s mouth is full of stars, each one dripping right onto Aoi’s nubby, beige carpet. His tongue is loose, easy to catch but quick to fall, and Aoi watches him clutch the lip of the lager tight. “The first time, I was nineteen.”
Aoi is just as loose, legs splayed open and eyes somewhere five-seven-nine years ago. Somewhere with a no-kiss New Years’, with crinkled confetti still in his burnt-yellow hair; somewhere with Ruki’s knee jostling his as the younger gestures to this mountain of a boy-man. Something about ‘Kouyou, lead guitar’. Broad shoulders, hollow collarbones, strong handshake and a whiplash smile.
Aoi sighs across their lips, “Don’t tell me this.”
Uruha is half-in, half-out of a dream – hand stretched across the couch cushions where he collapsed into Aoi’s side, where Aoi is leaning as far away as he can without leaving (like always), fingertips reaching into the past when he said yes. Again and again like it was God on his tongue and not five shots of vodka and Ruki’s hand gripping his shoulder tight.
Like one last ‘this could be it’.
One last bruise, mottled reds and purples on their eyes and spines, one last ripped knuckle for a beggar’s dream.
And they would all like to think they were iron giants in that moment, the gunshot of agreement around the table, but they were so fucking hungry. And Uruha was so small, cold, starving, and so the first time he looked up into Aoi’s smile across from his shaking hands, all he could think was –
“Your coat looked so warm.” Uruha lifts a hand up and over and catches Aoi’s tightening jaw, tilting his face towards his glazed eyes, “And I wanted to be warm, too.”
Aoi scoffs lightly, but allows Uruha to cradle him, “Is that why you said yes?”
Because Aoi can remember bringing those frostbitten blisters closer to his mouth, blowing puffs of hot air as they waited for a cab they couldn’t afford alone. Uruha’s hands in his, Reita’s hands in Uruha’s pockets. An unspoken glance upwards, Uruha leaning into Reita’s easy grin while he traced dirty sonnets inside Aoi’s palms.
“’Yes’,” Uruha mouths the word, tracing each razor edge and curve. He flutters his fingers into the dip of Aoi’s inner thigh lazily, “Is that what I said?”
Aoi rips Uruha’s roving fingers away from his fevered skin with a grit of his teeth; he snatches his wrists and braces them above the younger’s lolling head, knuckles white. Aoi perches above him and he’s dark under the eyes. Midnight bruises, so dark, and Uruha can taste the countless times Aoi has said yes.
And Aoi knows Uruha doesn’t love him. Not like he used to.
Not like ripped sheets and night-drunk kisses in front of an entire crowd. Not like scrapes on their knees and running through the mouth of neon nights until they were everyone and no one at all, biting each other’s fists to keep quiet.
But Uruha thinks that might be okay, because he thinks maybe Aoi has always been a little crooked on the idea. Always a little too fast to say it, to let it rush out if only to have a marred little piece of it. Believing in it until they are both burning up and up, and suddenly those notes are spilling out so fucking fast, song after song, and all it takes is Uruha against the door or Aoi on his hands and knees and Uruha’s hand buried in his short-long-black-pink-blond-black-black hair, don’t stop.
Maybe Aoi has forgotten how to love. Maybe he never learned how.
Not really, not when ‘love’ was a free cigarette in January.
“Yes, you did,” Aoi kisses him hard, biting and taking and bleeding the lie dry.
Sometimes Ruki is there and sometimes he isn’t.
Sometimes he’s curling around Reita’s ribs in hail-mary chokeholds, sharp nails digging into his wrist.
And sometimes he’s a quiet whisper – stalking through the house with trembling hands and shadowed teeth that clamp down on pillowcases as Reita runs a finger down his spine; biting and gnashing like there’s something crawling beneath his flesh.
Something that smirks at Reita with red lips, dilated pupils fixed to the pulse fluttering in his pale throat.
Something that whispers wetly into the crook of Reita’s neck: “let me in.”
Title: boy kings
Genre: Slice of life, romance, drama
Pairing: Aoi/Uruha, Reita/Uruha, etc.
Notes: A little “the way we were”: aoiha style.
Synopsis: In which Uruha isn’t completely oblivious, just slow on the uptake.
Because all of them were still faceless Peter Pans with fool’s gold glory who could afford to fuck-for-nothing, but couldn’t afford a stereo. They still had splintered drumsticks and thrift shop jeans; Takanori still had to press his lips into the mic so hard, still had tear the skin open and drip red into the feedback, just to make a sound.
A couple yellow-blue bruises on their necks was nothing, nothing, just skin-on-skin.
– just Akira’s ex-girlfriend on the elder’s lips as he grips Uruha’s shoulder tight, the bar lights sparking his glazed eyes as he slurs into Uruha’s clenched jaw, “I think we’re going to make it, Kou.”
It was nothing-nothing, but after looking away for months – keeping his eyes on the elder’s shoulder as the chords warbled and tripped, only ever catching his fleeting silhouette – Aoi was suddenly there.
I’m going to tell you something very important.
The amount of comments you receive on your writing does not measure the beauty, the depth, or the strength, of your writing.
It’s sometimes hard to hear “write for yourself, first” when you’re just starting out, or if you have always been a little secure with your writing in general. But I can tell you, without any doubts, that while every comment is appreciated a hundredfold, the true gift - the true passion - lies within you creating something from nothing. And isn’t that simply amazing? That you were so enamored with an idea, with the story that unfolded within your mind, that you gave it words, a voice. That’s beautiful, anon. And no amount of comments or reviews or praise will ever compare to that feeling of placing that final period and looking back at all that you’ve done.
Please, don’t ever reduce your writing to trivial numbers. Your writing is so much more than that. And if you need a little more convincing, one of my favorite authors in the fandom receives almost no comments at all — and that has never, not once, taken away the simply astounding way she molds her words and creates, the way I have to catch my breath after every drabble.
Comments don’t matter. Passion matters. Always. ♥
Aoi’s hands tremble only slightly, just light shakes of not-yet-right, of Yune’s kiss on his spine – his knees cracking apart as Uruha drags his hips west, mouth on his flesh like a starless wound. Gaping, wide-open.
And bar smoke singes his words as Aoi leans down, palms slick against Uruha’s collarbone and ash (and Yune) against his teeth:
"This isn’t for you – “
Fingertips reaching up and tracing the freckles dusting Uruha’s jaw (but not-Uruha, more like ‘Kouyou’; more like the birth of a gunshot).
"I don’t want you – ”
Aoi watches him arc like a dirtied prayer into his chest.
All legs and yellow-burnt hair and five beers and Akira.
And his smile sharp as he breathes into Aoi’s quaking lips: “You will.”
Title: sounds like hallelujah
Genre: Romance, drama
Synopsis: In which Akira’s ragged voice whispered “more" - and it was so wrecked that Kouyou could only touch back and nod: “okay, okay.”
Title: milk teeth
Pairing: Aoi/Uruha, Reita/Ruki
Genre: slice of life, romance
Synopsis: But then again, Akira works in a bakery – a fact that is always thrown into any argument with a sly grin, much to Akira’s endless frustration.