[ He doesn't remember the day he was accepted into a prestigious university. He doesn't remember the day he graduated, at the top of his class, his speech something he placed only the barest of thought into. He doesn't remember the congratulatory murmurs that rose up around him when his first major paper was published. But, what he does remember is the smell of the Earth on the day of an eclipse. He does remember the curiosity and life that had sparked up in the dark of Akira's eyes, set upon him as though he were as pale and as treasured as the moon. He remembers explaining the transfiguration of the rays of the sun, the way the break between leaves became pinholes of light instead the gray cast of shadow. He remembers treading out into the damp, the blue of his umbrella a match for the dull cover of the sky, the first drops of rain cold and slick down the back of his neck as he shielded Akira and the cat he so wanted to protect though it suffered and struggled until the very end.
Akira may harbor in him the idea that he was always average and ordinary before Ryo invited him into the truth of the world, but Ryo had always known that that perception was an inaccuracy. So close to the source of oneself, it was difficult to see anything at all as extraordinary. And though Ryo could not name or admit what it was that Akira had always meant to him, it had been enough for him to seek him out above all else and above all others. It had been enough to know that Akira's heart, one that could even warm the darkness of Ryo's own, could defeat the greatest evils he'd ever come to know. It had been enough for Ryo to find himself here, exposed and raw beneath the tide of Akira's attention, his heart and blood shot through with chemicals, his hair tangled and his free hand grasping at anything at all to steady him.
There's such small spaces left, such small and unconquerable expanses. Ryo almost shuts his eyes against it. That same pleasure and that same ache pulls all in him close and taut, a current caught against the coast of his body. It courses just below the skin, a hungry and wanting thing. Like all of humanity, it asks for its fill and more, his nerves prickling with each indefinable nuance of touch. There's only so much that one individual can consume, process. Each breath, each glance, each brush of rough fingers against the most receptive parts of him — he remembers the way it had always eventually overwhelmed, like deltas rushed with the melt of mountain snows, the salinity of the sea inundated and balanced in equal turns. But, this is a sensitivity he's never experienced. He's too aware of what it is Akira does, too aware of each gasp he pulls from his mouth. He's too aware of how warm he is against him, around him, beside him. He can't fill his lungs enough to even out the shallows of his breaths, the way that his name pressed so near to him hooks into something starved and neglected inside him. It keeps his voice at bay, as he lifts his eyes to him. It holds it, until it pushes forward all at once.
He'd always said his name like it meant more than it did. Akira had always given it something more than emptiness.
But, Ryo knows what is demanded in the language of Akira's body. It's something he's understood since he was small, translated in what ways he could like a reflex. He's just as much a part of Akira as Akira is a part of him. ]
You don't have to hold back, [ he breathes, his voice a tangible and weighted thing. It pitches amid the softer sounds he tries to keep back, broken over his tongue and teeth like ice in Spring. Their disruption is plain, unrelenting. It's almost painful, as his hips instinctively cant up to follow the heat of Akira's palm. Ryo doesn't stall. His fingers have learned of tender spots, the movements that have gained him the most traction in the desire to weave a clearer arousal. The pace he sets strays far from slow, exploratory — but, the attention is there. The same, calculated edge thins into liquid understanding underscored with the shape of directives. ]
Akira, [ he murmurs. He knows the form of his name. He knows the way it molds together, but has no concept of the way it falls like a psalm, strung like beads of a rosary each time it leaves his tongue. He finds it again, weighted, but soundless. His lips shape it, but nothing comes. It does not need to. It is an assurance, written in just as clearly as if he'd spoken it. Just as clearly as the way he keeps so near to him, each breath shared and taken between them. ]
no subject
Akira may harbor in him the idea that he was always average and ordinary before Ryo invited him into the truth of the world, but Ryo had always known that that perception was an inaccuracy. So close to the source of oneself, it was difficult to see anything at all as extraordinary. And though Ryo could not name or admit what it was that Akira had always meant to him, it had been enough for him to seek him out above all else and above all others. It had been enough to know that Akira's heart, one that could even warm the darkness of Ryo's own, could defeat the greatest evils he'd ever come to know. It had been enough for Ryo to find himself here, exposed and raw beneath the tide of Akira's attention, his heart and blood shot through with chemicals, his hair tangled and his free hand grasping at anything at all to steady him.
There's such small spaces left, such small and unconquerable expanses. Ryo almost shuts his eyes against it. That same pleasure and that same ache pulls all in him close and taut, a current caught against the coast of his body. It courses just below the skin, a hungry and wanting thing. Like all of humanity, it asks for its fill and more, his nerves prickling with each indefinable nuance of touch. There's only so much that one individual can consume, process. Each breath, each glance, each brush of rough fingers against the most receptive parts of him — he remembers the way it had always eventually overwhelmed, like deltas rushed with the melt of mountain snows, the salinity of the sea inundated and balanced in equal turns. But, this is a sensitivity he's never experienced. He's too aware of what it is Akira does, too aware of each gasp he pulls from his mouth. He's too aware of how warm he is against him, around him, beside him. He can't fill his lungs enough to even out the shallows of his breaths, the way that his name pressed so near to him hooks into something starved and neglected inside him. It keeps his voice at bay, as he lifts his eyes to him. It holds it, until it pushes forward all at once.
He'd always said his name like it meant more than it did. Akira had always given it something more than emptiness.
But, Ryo knows what is demanded in the language of Akira's body. It's something he's understood since he was small, translated in what ways he could like a reflex. He's just as much a part of Akira as Akira is a part of him. ]
You don't have to hold back, [ he breathes, his voice a tangible and weighted thing. It pitches amid the softer sounds he tries to keep back, broken over his tongue and teeth like ice in Spring. Their disruption is plain, unrelenting. It's almost painful, as his hips instinctively cant up to follow the heat of Akira's palm. Ryo doesn't stall. His fingers have learned of tender spots, the movements that have gained him the most traction in the desire to weave a clearer arousal. The pace he sets strays far from slow, exploratory — but, the attention is there. The same, calculated edge thins into liquid understanding underscored with the shape of directives. ]
Akira, [ he murmurs. He knows the form of his name. He knows the way it molds together, but has no concept of the way it falls like a psalm, strung like beads of a rosary each time it leaves his tongue. He finds it again, weighted, but soundless. His lips shape it, but nothing comes. It does not need to. It is an assurance, written in just as clearly as if he'd spoken it. Just as clearly as the way he keeps so near to him, each breath shared and taken between them. ]