[ Time was a fickle thing, a concept that moved and bent. To Ryo, it had always been less linear than what humanity perceived, an endless continuity spanning off in infinite directions and down infinite paths. Time was enormous, immense. As he knew it, as some humans knew it, there was little time spent on the whole of whatever was and whatever could be. He knew that forever and eternity were definitions even he could not conceive and so, in the whole of what had happened between them, the dilation of time was natural — pleasant. It settled into his bones like a low tide settles back into the dip of continental shelves, the trenches carved by the ocean's persistence — ancient and unknowable impacts. When he was young, he'd wonder which inundated craters once held the body of the moon.
He'd wonder if they'd ever find it. And here, he wonders if there's any real need at all for time to weave back into fabricated comprehension. He wonders if he needs to look away from Akira at all, if there's any purpose in ceasing the steady and tidal movements of his fingers across the rough of his broad palm.
He knows that there is and Akira knows that there is, but for a while — it's welcome, wanted. Once upon a time, it wasn't something he would have allowed. Once upon a time, he wouldn't have thought he'd be here in this bed with Akira beside him, as worn smooth and silent as he is. ]
Yeah, [ he murmurs, breathes eventually — the tips of his fingers brush brief and slow against the gentle roof that Akira's created with his own. It's an absent admission to the rush of reality, not unlike the fleeting goodbyes they'd once give at the door. He recalls that on some nights the tension in the tight circle of Akira's arms was almost painful to relinquish, rescind. He knows now what he knew then, that in the whole of his physiology, the whole of his psychology, he'd craved the consistency and constancy of any touch that Akira could give. Ryo, who had only let so few trade contact with his skin, had only ever found that comfort in him — that bloom of oxytocin, the slow roar of his heart. And this new proximity too, as uncertain and hungry as it is, skims against that familiarity in its residual chrysalis.
Still, his speech carries forward no further motivation to leave the mess they'd created. He knows that the tackiness that coats him will feel no better with time, that eventually the heat of his body will subside and leave him to something less preferred. He knows all these things, but in the interim between waking and sleep, the sound of Akira's laugh washes over him and he blinks against the dimness — heavy-lidded as something heavy and warm unfurls in his chest, brings up something that is rarer to ever pass his lips. It's no more than an exhalation, a quiet puff of air, but it's something that can be marked as an echo. Ryo, in all of his life, can't remember the last time he'd laughed at all for something that wasn't crafted by the shock of adrenaline — he can't remember if he ever had as he finally moves to stretch, long and lazy, languid. It's not unlike a cat, one palm flat to the bed levering him up.
He leans a little, the usually impeccable lay of his hair framing his face in knotted curls as he searches out Akira's form in the darkness. ] We should shower.
[ As much as it's a statement, it's also a question. While he's waiting for an answer, he lists back into his own space, bending just a little to peel the rest of his jumpsuit from his body. It wouldn't do to trip out of bed after all that, especially with the way it's shucked down around his legs. ]
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He'd wonder if they'd ever find it. And here, he wonders if there's any real need at all for time to weave back into fabricated comprehension. He wonders if he needs to look away from Akira at all, if there's any purpose in ceasing the steady and tidal movements of his fingers across the rough of his broad palm.
He knows that there is and Akira knows that there is, but for a while — it's welcome, wanted. Once upon a time, it wasn't something he would have allowed. Once upon a time, he wouldn't have thought he'd be here in this bed with Akira beside him, as worn smooth and silent as he is. ]
Yeah, [ he murmurs, breathes eventually — the tips of his fingers brush brief and slow against the gentle roof that Akira's created with his own. It's an absent admission to the rush of reality, not unlike the fleeting goodbyes they'd once give at the door. He recalls that on some nights the tension in the tight circle of Akira's arms was almost painful to relinquish, rescind. He knows now what he knew then, that in the whole of his physiology, the whole of his psychology, he'd craved the consistency and constancy of any touch that Akira could give. Ryo, who had only let so few trade contact with his skin, had only ever found that comfort in him — that bloom of oxytocin, the slow roar of his heart. And this new proximity too, as uncertain and hungry as it is, skims against that familiarity in its residual chrysalis.
Still, his speech carries forward no further motivation to leave the mess they'd created. He knows that the tackiness that coats him will feel no better with time, that eventually the heat of his body will subside and leave him to something less preferred. He knows all these things, but in the interim between waking and sleep, the sound of Akira's laugh washes over him and he blinks against the dimness — heavy-lidded as something heavy and warm unfurls in his chest, brings up something that is rarer to ever pass his lips. It's no more than an exhalation, a quiet puff of air, but it's something that can be marked as an echo. Ryo, in all of his life, can't remember the last time he'd laughed at all for something that wasn't crafted by the shock of adrenaline — he can't remember if he ever had as he finally moves to stretch, long and lazy, languid. It's not unlike a cat, one palm flat to the bed levering him up.
He leans a little, the usually impeccable lay of his hair framing his face in knotted curls as he searches out Akira's form in the darkness. ] We should shower.
[ As much as it's a statement, it's also a question. While he's waiting for an answer, he lists back into his own space, bending just a little to peel the rest of his jumpsuit from his body. It wouldn't do to trip out of bed after all that, especially with the way it's shucked down around his legs. ]