To Ryo, the earnest complexities of his character were more than Ryo himself could give. Subsumed by the transparent image he cast, all who glanced over him had seen something pale and ephemeral, a concept to hang hopes and accolades on. They had not seen Ryo, beneath the blaze of his intelligence and the density of his conversations. They'd seen no one, but still he'd reflected for all the good it would do. But, Akira had given him something that wholly for him. Akira had given him the whole of his friendship, his kindness, his patience. Akira had given him a place to rest. He'd told Ryo where it was safe to disarm, to reroute to words instead of the brunt of his violence.
But, Ryo could never capture that same gentleness. Not with others. He could never let himself wish to relate to others, to take their traumas as his own. He could never manage it, but Akira's warm expressions bloomed for him all the same as though he were not an inhospitable plain, the dim wash of the moon. Akira had taken Ryo's efforts, pinned them to his chest, and Ryo allowed them to stay there because — Akira's voice is dark and low, a thrum that strokes through the full of him like a current. No matter the fractured avenues of language, Ryo had long understood him. He paths their deficits with substitutions — the heat of his breath, the damp of their skin, the way Akira answers his unformed request with the increasingly familiar press of his lips against his. His body hums beneath the tenderness of it, a prospect he's never allotted to anyone, but Akira.
Akira, who slumps beside him — settles in so close that Ryo can only recall the full of his frame, can count the fall of his lashes. The dark of his eyes are rested on him and it is something felt more than observed as Ryo sinks back against the mattress, bracketed by the bubble of profundity that keeps contained the moment. Like Akira, he finds there are no words for him to salvage, for reasons he cannot discern amid the evening keel of their breathing.
Instead, he finds a way to talk without them. He lays his fingertips against Akira's open palm, skims the meat of them along the lines that fortune's laid its claim to. Ryo doesn't wonder, even in all of his sentimentality, if fate had long ago had drawn their straws like humanity's older Gods. He does not wonder if they'd ordained to him the sea, only to take it back. He does not wonder if he now walks along the Styx, Akira's footsteps borrowed from the world above, a willing shade of sound behind him. What he does think of is that they'd once laid like this, side-by-side in clearly divided circumstance, their eyes cast up to their own vaster tapestry of emptiness and spoke only of the moon. He remembers the cool of stone beneath his back, the scuff of Akira's yellow shoes as he kicked his feet in protest. He remembers so much of him, that even now if he were to shut his eyes, he could visual the full of him — down to the barest details of his skin.
Even now. Even now that he'd been forged by Ryo's instrumentations, blood and bone the magnum opus of the nebulous and indefinable qualities petrified in the pit of his chest. But, still, he'd laid an altar. Still, Akira's instinctual and implicit bond to him is what had saved him in the end — a hapless approximation of a desirous Pygmalion, the golden crown of his head rested at the feet of beasts instead. For all that he had burdened Akira with, Akira had accepted each scrap of favor he could give. For all that he'd placed upon his shoulders as though a heavy mantle, Akira had withstood it. For Akira, Ryo would do anything. Even if all in him cannot metamorphose into the bright of admittance, the sentiment lays beneath the sediment of the foundation they'd both laid in their youth. Akira was everything. Akira was his. And Akira, even after all their distance, was the only individual he had ever wanted.
And yet, it all remains stubbornly dormant. It sleeps like the waters off the Arctic, a desert of ice he leaves all thoughts of love in. Miles into himself, even the thaw of Akira's attention cannot penetrate to the softer body of it, but it aches a little more each time another mark to open him to the core is hewn. Every attempt Akira has ever made is not in vain, no matter how Ryo would deny it. There is something in him and he knows its edges, but he will not let himself call it by its name.
But, Ryo drinks in all of him. Without guilt and without shame, the blue of his eyes follow every aspect, each valley and crease of flesh that he can bear witness to in the dimness — his lips curving up without ever having say. ]
no subject
To Ryo, the earnest complexities of his character were more than Ryo himself could give. Subsumed by the transparent image he cast, all who glanced over him had seen something pale and ephemeral, a concept to hang hopes and accolades on. They had not seen Ryo, beneath the blaze of his intelligence and the density of his conversations. They'd seen no one, but still he'd reflected for all the good it would do. But, Akira had given him something that wholly for him. Akira had given him the whole of his friendship, his kindness, his patience. Akira had given him a place to rest. He'd told Ryo where it was safe to disarm, to reroute to words instead of the brunt of his violence.
But, Ryo could never capture that same gentleness. Not with others. He could never let himself wish to relate to others, to take their traumas as his own. He could never manage it, but Akira's warm expressions bloomed for him all the same as though he were not an inhospitable plain, the dim wash of the moon. Akira had taken Ryo's efforts, pinned them to his chest, and Ryo allowed them to stay there because — Akira's voice is dark and low, a thrum that strokes through the full of him like a current. No matter the fractured avenues of language, Ryo had long understood him. He paths their deficits with substitutions — the heat of his breath, the damp of their skin, the way Akira answers his unformed request with the increasingly familiar press of his lips against his. His body hums beneath the tenderness of it, a prospect he's never allotted to anyone, but Akira.
Akira, who slumps beside him — settles in so close that Ryo can only recall the full of his frame, can count the fall of his lashes. The dark of his eyes are rested on him and it is something felt more than observed as Ryo sinks back against the mattress, bracketed by the bubble of profundity that keeps contained the moment. Like Akira, he finds there are no words for him to salvage, for reasons he cannot discern amid the evening keel of their breathing.
Instead, he finds a way to talk without them. He lays his fingertips against Akira's open palm, skims the meat of them along the lines that fortune's laid its claim to. Ryo doesn't wonder, even in all of his sentimentality, if fate had long ago had drawn their straws like humanity's older Gods. He does not wonder if they'd ordained to him the sea, only to take it back. He does not wonder if he now walks along the Styx, Akira's footsteps borrowed from the world above, a willing shade of sound behind him. What he does think of is that they'd once laid like this, side-by-side in clearly divided circumstance, their eyes cast up to their own vaster tapestry of emptiness and spoke only of the moon. He remembers the cool of stone beneath his back, the scuff of Akira's yellow shoes as he kicked his feet in protest. He remembers so much of him, that even now if he were to shut his eyes, he could visual the full of him — down to the barest details of his skin.
Even now. Even now that he'd been forged by Ryo's instrumentations, blood and bone the magnum opus of the nebulous and indefinable qualities petrified in the pit of his chest. But, still, he'd laid an altar. Still, Akira's instinctual and implicit bond to him is what had saved him in the end — a hapless approximation of a desirous Pygmalion, the golden crown of his head rested at the feet of beasts instead. For all that he had burdened Akira with, Akira had accepted each scrap of favor he could give. For all that he'd placed upon his shoulders as though a heavy mantle, Akira had withstood it. For Akira, Ryo would do anything. Even if all in him cannot metamorphose into the bright of admittance, the sentiment lays beneath the sediment of the foundation they'd both laid in their youth. Akira was everything. Akira was his. And Akira, even after all their distance, was the only individual he had ever wanted.
And yet, it all remains stubbornly dormant. It sleeps like the waters off the Arctic, a desert of ice he leaves all thoughts of love in. Miles into himself, even the thaw of Akira's attention cannot penetrate to the softer body of it, but it aches a little more each time another mark to open him to the core is hewn. Every attempt Akira has ever made is not in vain, no matter how Ryo would deny it. There is something in him and he knows its edges, but he will not let himself call it by its name.
But, Ryo drinks in all of him. Without guilt and without shame, the blue of his eyes follow every aspect, each valley and crease of flesh that he can bear witness to in the dimness — his lips curving up without ever having say. ]