As children, they’d crossed each other naturally like the shadow of the moon against the blue shell of the Earth, the soft swell of the ocean. Ryo was an absent and loveless thing, something to be gazed upon at a distance. But, Akira harbored in him all that was rich and warm and somehow beautiful, the press of his fingers in his like soil to roots or sun to flowers. Where Akira waited, Ryo followed in ways he did not recognize. Like the washing of salt from the earth, little by little Akira had made all of Ryo more hospitable, less opposed to the growth that could come so long as it was him who coaxed Ryo into Spring, no matter how he tried to supplant the tentative, fragile sprigs. Akira had always bloomed to him, even if he could not see it. Akira had always been something welcoming, a being that gathered light instead of merely reflecting it toward what deserved it most.
And here, Ryo finds himself in the grey of comprehension. He knows the composition of chemicals that floods through him, Akira, the bursts of adrenaline and the rush of dopamine. He knows the addictive qualities of what is and what will be, but beneath his explanations yawns something indistinct and weighted — something that draws up smaller gasps where he had once been silent, the skim of Akira’s teeth and tongue at his throat, catching against his lower lip enough to pull up the audible hitch of breath, the instinctual reaction to arch and mold against all that he gives him. Ryo too is greedy in ways he does not recognize, but his body fully crystallizes beneath the heavy stretch of their shared heat against his skin.
Humans chase pleasure their entire lives. They take risks, they plunge forward into feats both moral and immoral, coast in and out of the shadows of society like the way hands coast past hips. Ryo’s justifications are buried in the flesh of him, but the way Akira follows into perfect mirror — the lazy curvature of his hand about his cock, slicked, Ryo finds a matching note in the way he drags the pad of his fingers up the shaft, the careful and calculated application of pressure. Akira’s hand is stronger and rougher in comparison to his own, but he can feel so acutely each effort at softness — the impression of care that Ryo never once took with himself. Akira takes his time, as much Ryo does without ever bringing into the focus the cause. Even as Akira brushes his lips against his jaw, peers at him across the minuscule expanse as he settles back beside him — the recognition willfully blurs. It becomes hazy, the more his body wants, responds in ways far more noticeable to Akira than they would ever be to him.
It’s a minute distance, but the fissure runs deep. It runs painfully into all that Ryo is, but still he finds a way across it. Like the first rush of water over seawalls, the destructive tide brought up by storms — a certain determination to take all that it can back into the dark of its body, pulling back stone and mortar. His nose brushes against Akira’s as he leans in, presses his mouth to the corner of Akira’s lips. It’s soft and it’s fleeting, like the burning of fog off the ocean. It comes back again, in a shudder of a breath, formless words breaking across Akira’s skin like waves against palms. It skims through the whole of what could be but does not quite exist as he presses up into the loose circle of Akira’s fist, his own hand keeping a languid tempo, the next exhalation caught against the mold of his lips as Ryo finally commits to the act after a long draw.
He’d never bothered with others quite like this. Kisses had been perfunctory and performative. But, there’s something compulsive and sharp in him that seeks to do this — and in the moment he indulges what he would typically pass off as baser needs. For a moment, there’s a flare of inquisitive hunger in the way he licks at the seam of Akira’s lips, asks for what he had granted Akira earlier. For a moment, he thinks of the way that Akira had watched him through the sweep of his lashes and his every thought tangles into a indefinable loop that does not allow itself to be undone.
And it pulls taut, like the cast of desire and the welling of all things hot and shapeless he cannot begin to place behind the cage of his ribs.
Akira had always been so transparent. He had been always there for Ryo to read, just as he reads him now, but blinds himself to the most critical edge. Like rainwater across the petals of skeleton flowers, the rubbing of scales off a moth’s wings. There are some things that do not fade under scrutiny. There are some things that Ryo cannot grasp in both his hands, because he keeps them closed. There are some things — and Ryo almost sighs, a sound both low and warm, against the full of Akira’s lips. ]
no subject
As children, they’d crossed each other naturally like the shadow of the moon against the blue shell of the Earth, the soft swell of the ocean. Ryo was an absent and loveless thing, something to be gazed upon at a distance. But, Akira harbored in him all that was rich and warm and somehow beautiful, the press of his fingers in his like soil to roots or sun to flowers. Where Akira waited, Ryo followed in ways he did not recognize. Like the washing of salt from the earth, little by little Akira had made all of Ryo more hospitable, less opposed to the growth that could come so long as it was him who coaxed Ryo into Spring, no matter how he tried to supplant the tentative, fragile sprigs. Akira had always bloomed to him, even if he could not see it. Akira had always been something welcoming, a being that gathered light instead of merely reflecting it toward what deserved it most.
And here, Ryo finds himself in the grey of comprehension. He knows the composition of chemicals that floods through him, Akira, the bursts of adrenaline and the rush of dopamine. He knows the addictive qualities of what is and what will be, but beneath his explanations yawns something indistinct and weighted — something that draws up smaller gasps where he had once been silent, the skim of Akira’s teeth and tongue at his throat, catching against his lower lip enough to pull up the audible hitch of breath, the instinctual reaction to arch and mold against all that he gives him. Ryo too is greedy in ways he does not recognize, but his body fully crystallizes beneath the heavy stretch of their shared heat against his skin.
Humans chase pleasure their entire lives. They take risks, they plunge forward into feats both moral and immoral, coast in and out of the shadows of society like the way hands coast past hips. Ryo’s justifications are buried in the flesh of him, but the way Akira follows into perfect mirror — the lazy curvature of his hand about his cock, slicked, Ryo finds a matching note in the way he drags the pad of his fingers up the shaft, the careful and calculated application of pressure. Akira’s hand is stronger and rougher in comparison to his own, but he can feel so acutely each effort at softness — the impression of care that Ryo never once took with himself. Akira takes his time, as much Ryo does without ever bringing into the focus the cause. Even as Akira brushes his lips against his jaw, peers at him across the minuscule expanse as he settles back beside him — the recognition willfully blurs. It becomes hazy, the more his body wants, responds in ways far more noticeable to Akira than they would ever be to him.
It’s a minute distance, but the fissure runs deep. It runs painfully into all that Ryo is, but still he finds a way across it. Like the first rush of water over seawalls, the destructive tide brought up by storms — a certain determination to take all that it can back into the dark of its body, pulling back stone and mortar. His nose brushes against Akira’s as he leans in, presses his mouth to the corner of Akira’s lips. It’s soft and it’s fleeting, like the burning of fog off the ocean. It comes back again, in a shudder of a breath, formless words breaking across Akira’s skin like waves against palms. It skims through the whole of what could be but does not quite exist as he presses up into the loose circle of Akira’s fist, his own hand keeping a languid tempo, the next exhalation caught against the mold of his lips as Ryo finally commits to the act after a long draw.
He’d never bothered with others quite like this. Kisses had been perfunctory and performative. But, there’s something compulsive and sharp in him that seeks to do this — and in the moment he indulges what he would typically pass off as baser needs. For a moment, there’s a flare of inquisitive hunger in the way he licks at the seam of Akira’s lips, asks for what he had granted Akira earlier. For a moment, he thinks of the way that Akira had watched him through the sweep of his lashes and his every thought tangles into a indefinable loop that does not allow itself to be undone.
And it pulls taut, like the cast of desire and the welling of all things hot and shapeless he cannot begin to place behind the cage of his ribs.
Akira had always been so transparent. He had been always there for Ryo to read, just as he reads him now, but blinds himself to the most critical edge. Like rainwater across the petals of skeleton flowers, the rubbing of scales off a moth’s wings. There are some things that do not fade under scrutiny. There are some things that Ryo cannot grasp in both his hands, because he keeps them closed. There are some things — and Ryo almost sighs, a sound both low and warm, against the full of Akira’s lips. ]