[ He’d grown around the impression Akira had left behind.
In his first days in America, Ryo found himself retracing the shape of their last memory, worn smooth by dedication like waves to stone or perhaps Orpheus to Eurydice, his footsteps followed so long as he did not look back to see if Akira was there behind him after all. He recalls that, until they could no longer see the shape of one another against the bright and rolling hills, Akira had watched him go.
He remembers thinking he’d have like to have returned. He would have liked to have trekked back, just long enough to rub the soft pads of his thumbs across the damp skin beneath Akira’s dark eyes and told him not to cry. Not anymore. But, Akira had always told him it was Ryo who cried too. Akira had always cried when Ryo couldn’t, his heart unable to comprehend what it was it felt. He remembers the way Akira’s small hand had balled up in the front of his red shirt, so close to where the sticky ache welled up behind Ryo’s ribs too. He remembers thinking he’d come to find Akira again. Somehow.
He thinks now that it feels almost the same now, as Akira gives and retreats — gives again with the subtle change of pacing, the constriction of his fingers. He thinks Akira follows so dutifully in the path that he’s laid for him, as much as Ryo follows his. Akira’s hand about him is a vivid heat, his palm as grounding as it is freeing, his exploratory touches enough to pull from him breaths both waning and uneven. Each sensation, the stirring something tidal and reaching. Each pass breaks off a little more of him. Each exhalation Akira presses against the pale of his skin makes him forget the hardest boundaries of himself, his harsh edges eroded into something soft and pliant. Wanting.
Where Akira struggles with the basest parts of himself, Ryo struggles to keep all that he is aligned. All that is left is so fragile, fleeting. He holds onto it tightly, because that is all he has ever done. He can't name what it is that rests in the depths of himself. In the dark, Akira's affections are a fixed point on a horizon he's always known, but can't fully contain. It waits for Ryo to let them come. And he does, in some ways. He does in ways he isn't fully sure of. But, Akira —
They'd always been so stubborn. Akira's ideologies skim across him as much as Ryo's skim across Akira. Yet, he'd never belittled Akira for all that he held within. He had never faulted him for his thoughts, had never held himself above them. Akira's perspectives, his thoughtfulness, his consideration for all that the world thought was unforgivable and unpalatable in him — Akira's body yields to him as much as Ryo's yields to him. Each small, blistering sound is swallowed up by the heat of Akira's mouth as he licks in, traces the blunt edge of teeth and the harder points of canines. Ryo's gentleness for him was incomparable. Irrefutable, when placed beside any other. He takes such time to map anything Akira relents to him, presents to him with a willingness so bright it sears across each separation. Akira tastes warm and sweet, metallic across the tip of his tongue. And Ryo knows it is himself, a part of him.
There's a low sound that breaks at the base of his throat before he can contain it, the lines of his body alight with the realization. It moves through him like an undertow, something he can't pin down. He can't raise his head above it. He doesn't wonder what will happen if he doesn't.
Instead, Ryo's curls his fingers a little tighter — makes a firmer circle with his thumb and index finger, stroke him slow and even from base to head. There's no pause between as he curves his wrist, catches just below the ridge. Akira's cock still strains against his palm. And like Akira, there is no deeper concern for himself. There is only what he can do, what he can provide him — and he pulls back just enough to catch the meat of Akira's bottom lip between his teeth. It's a momentary hold, but — the returning kiss isn't without its own pressure. There's no lightness in it, firmer and surer. It's a balm, as much as it is something else. ]
no subject
In his first days in America, Ryo found himself retracing the shape of their last memory, worn smooth by dedication like waves to stone or perhaps Orpheus to Eurydice, his footsteps followed so long as he did not look back to see if Akira was there behind him after all. He recalls that, until they could no longer see the shape of one another against the bright and rolling hills, Akira had watched him go.
He remembers thinking he’d have like to have returned. He would have liked to have trekked back, just long enough to rub the soft pads of his thumbs across the damp skin beneath Akira’s dark eyes and told him not to cry. Not anymore. But, Akira had always told him it was Ryo who cried too. Akira had always cried when Ryo couldn’t, his heart unable to comprehend what it was it felt. He remembers the way Akira’s small hand had balled up in the front of his red shirt, so close to where the sticky ache welled up behind Ryo’s ribs too. He remembers thinking he’d come to find Akira again. Somehow.
He thinks now that it feels almost the same now, as Akira gives and retreats — gives again with the subtle change of pacing, the constriction of his fingers. He thinks Akira follows so dutifully in the path that he’s laid for him, as much as Ryo follows his. Akira’s hand about him is a vivid heat, his palm as grounding as it is freeing, his exploratory touches enough to pull from him breaths both waning and uneven. Each sensation, the stirring something tidal and reaching. Each pass breaks off a little more of him. Each exhalation Akira presses against the pale of his skin makes him forget the hardest boundaries of himself, his harsh edges eroded into something soft and pliant. Wanting.
Where Akira struggles with the basest parts of himself, Ryo struggles to keep all that he is aligned. All that is left is so fragile, fleeting. He holds onto it tightly, because that is all he has ever done. He can't name what it is that rests in the depths of himself. In the dark, Akira's affections are a fixed point on a horizon he's always known, but can't fully contain. It waits for Ryo to let them come. And he does, in some ways. He does in ways he isn't fully sure of. But, Akira —
They'd always been so stubborn. Akira's ideologies skim across him as much as Ryo's skim across Akira. Yet, he'd never belittled Akira for all that he held within. He had never faulted him for his thoughts, had never held himself above them. Akira's perspectives, his thoughtfulness, his consideration for all that the world thought was unforgivable and unpalatable in him — Akira's body yields to him as much as Ryo's yields to him. Each small, blistering sound is swallowed up by the heat of Akira's mouth as he licks in, traces the blunt edge of teeth and the harder points of canines. Ryo's gentleness for him was incomparable. Irrefutable, when placed beside any other. He takes such time to map anything Akira relents to him, presents to him with a willingness so bright it sears across each separation. Akira tastes warm and sweet, metallic across the tip of his tongue. And Ryo knows it is himself, a part of him.
There's a low sound that breaks at the base of his throat before he can contain it, the lines of his body alight with the realization. It moves through him like an undertow, something he can't pin down. He can't raise his head above it. He doesn't wonder what will happen if he doesn't.
Instead, Ryo's curls his fingers a little tighter — makes a firmer circle with his thumb and index finger, stroke him slow and even from base to head. There's no pause between as he curves his wrist, catches just below the ridge. Akira's cock still strains against his palm. And like Akira, there is no deeper concern for himself. There is only what he can do, what he can provide him — and he pulls back just enough to catch the meat of Akira's bottom lip between his teeth. It's a momentary hold, but — the returning kiss isn't without its own pressure. There's no lightness in it, firmer and surer. It's a balm, as much as it is something else. ]