(one-shot) here comes the sun
Title: Here Comes The Sun
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: HayaRyu [Gokusen 2]
Genre: Friendship, angst, perhaps romance
Rating: PG
Disclaimer(s): I own nothing.
Summary: You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.
A/N: For elanielyn, with lots of love. ♥ Also a thank you to all of my readers, as I've been writing fic for this fandom for more than two years now. Inspired by Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles and the poem You Are Jeff by Richard Siken. These are both quoted several times in the fic, as well as in the summary above. Sorry to all of the fic commenters I have not gotten around to replying to for a while ;; will definitely reply this time, I promise. That being said, comments are very, very much appreciated. ♥
(You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.)
Light from the window pans across his face, flickering over the bridge of his nose and playing subtle shapes in between the spaces of his eyelashes. He is turned away from you, jaw line sharp and eyebrows drawn tight, knitted against his brow into a pensive expression. He drags a finger down the edge of the windowpane, lets the palm of his hand press against the cold dustiness of the dashboard, fingers barely trembling.
You bite your lip, hands tightening on the steering wheel. Here is something you can’t have, here is something you can’t want, here is something you can’t need. The dark splashes momentary shadows onto his face as you drive underneath the trim of treetops, branches twisted in quiet teardrops overhead. The road is misty, sidewalks glazed with fog and curbs never-ending, rounding into corners that lead into nowhere.
Your mouth forms a familiar shape, breath ghosting over the bare skin of your own knuckles when you whisper, a silent whisper that never reaches human ears. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t hear, doesn’t turn to you.
In fact, he never does.
--
(And you feel like you've done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired.)
The wall is frigid behind you, a frigidity that seeps into the fabric of your thin jacket and spreads, menacing, into the warmth of your skin, into the pounding of your heart. Shivering, you pull your jacket tighter, hands grasping at the flimsy buttons, rubbing just beneath your shoulders to keep yourself warm. The crooked wire fence glints back at you in the moonlight, broken and swinging forlornly in the wintry gusts of wind.
You don’t know if he’s coming. You haven’t seen him in what seems like years (weeks, you tell yourself, mere weeks). The last glimpse you’d had of him was from the opposite end of the bar, fringed hair falling down the side of his face as he wiped at the counter, arm scrubbing in circular movements. When he’d turned in your direction, dark contours and swift gaze, you’d glanced away, downing the rest of your (illegal) drink and burying the lower half of your face into your sleeve. You’d slipped against the counter, shoulders sagging in order to match the rest of the drunkards wandering about, amidst loud laughter and chaotic applause.
You don’t know if he ever saw you, sneaking out the back door in the middle of the frenzy, stuck in between the thick choke of cigarettes and stench of alcohol-tainted breath. If he knew you’d walked down the sidewalk for hours, the sidewalk that stretches on for long, never-ending hours from Frentzen to the gates of the school, from the lake to Kuma’s ramen shop, lights still dim and soft within. If he realized that you were waiting, waiting for something, somebody that would never come. If he knew that you were waiting for him.
You’re still waiting, but this time, he’s coming - loitering, padded footsteps, hair perfectly straight and falling to his shoulders. He hesitates beneath the streetlight, and he’s in Technicolor - bright orange hair, dark black suit, paled skin, white stranded necklace - but then he steps out, back into the duller shades of dusk, and he’s just a shadow once more.
He approaches you confidently, but his eyes are cautious as they lock with yours. His feet come to a halt, toes scuffing the pavement as he continues to stare at you unwaveringly, as if he is anticipating your first move, his next move, your last move.
Instead, though, you remain silent. Only a few seconds pass before confusion washes over his features, dots the crease of his brow as he measures your stance with his gaze, sweeps an invisible finger over your cheekbones. You close your eyes. (Your heart is throbbing, and you wish you could make it shut up.)
“I hate you.”
The words pierce the air, falling like droplets of acid on the line drawn between him and you, you and him. Surprised, you open your eyes, and for a moment, you can’t decipher whose voice it was that said it, whose fault it was that made it like this, whose side you’re on even though you’re one of the sides. But then, his voice is the one that responds, the one that chances the pain of a question, and you know that it’s you who said it (your fault, your words, your actions, his side).
“Still?”
--
(Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here.)
You’re at a rest stop. Where, you’re not sure, but he’s beside you, daylight plastered all over his face, ice-cold Frappuccino cupped in his hands. The air smells like freshener, breezy lemon and fresh air all wrapped into one. There’s a lake at your feet, water nudging the shoreline and spreading soft, careful fingers into the rocky sand just beneath the fringe of grass. It’s quiet, a peaceful, serene quiet that dulls your heartbeat into the gentle lull of the waves.
He murmurs something in a breathless voice, something indistinguishable below the rippling of the water and flashes of cold daylight mapped out across the sky. You crane your head farther back; legs swinging carelessly as you push yourself further back onto the hood of the car. He glances back at you, eyes narrow and fleeting, strands of orange hair caressing the back of his nape as he turns away again, shifting to raise the Frappuccino up to his lips.
Opening your mouth, you attempt to form coherent words, try to unclog the mess of thoughts that threaten to pour from the back of your throat. A plane whirs overhead, the high-speed engine zooming in a streak across the sky and drowning out what could have been left of your voice. You cough slightly, open your mouth again - but there are no words, no sound. He looks back at you again, and you can hear his voice in your head, can hear the soft, raw whispering of your name, the weak, wavering curve of his short-lived smile.
--
(You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling - )
“Why?” He’s slumped against the wall beside you; still partly covered by the patterned shadows; moonlight slicing in a diagonal line down the building and his face. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been yelling (except he never yells), and his fingers are looping around each other, twisting into random shapes before you. You keep your gaze trained on them, on the flutter of his fingertips, the crack of his knuckles, the smooth lines of his skin.
“I should be asking you,” you reply, as casually as possible. The breath in your lungs is rough and shallow, your voice just barely trembling.
After a silent moment, he looks up at you, pins you with dark eyes. “But I don’t hate you,” he mutters, a clumsy confession - and something inside your chest releases, strings loosening as your body relaxes against the rigid bricks wall, eyes flitting upwards to gaze at the faint outline of the moon above your heads.
Your lips quirk involuntarily; the imprint of a smile lingers at the corners. “Don’t you,” you say quietly, and he glances back up from where he’s staring far ahead. His eyes darken into an indescribable color, a sort of furious, deep emotion that startles you, makes your breath hitch and heart fumble.
“No,” he replies finally.
Biting your lip, you hesitantly offer a smile, a crescent of tenderness that you hold out in your palm for him to take. His eyes register surprise, but his lips curve as well, a reflection of your own.
And for once, he doesn’t look away.
--
(Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting.)
His laugh resounds in your ears, a low, thick sound that pours through you like warmth, that soaks up the remnants of tears pooling around your cheeks. You hadn’t even realized you’d been crying.
You’re on the highway, directed to nowhere. He’s beside you in the passenger seat, drumming a catchy tune on the dashboard, face lighted with a subtle, quiet kind of joy. With a smirk, you reach out to turn the knob of the radio, to change the song just to spite him - and he swats your hand away with a laugh, calls you an idiot with the wrinkles of a smile forming at the corners of his eyes.
The road up ahead seems to last for eternity - it never ends, never will end. The horizon line is right at your fingertips, a rainbow of colors that spills onto the pavement in determined swirls, bursts with the glow of sunrise. It’s the sun, you think - warm, comforting sunshine, and his hand curls around yours when you both reach for the remaining Frappuccino at the same time.
“Sorry,” you grin, and he suppresses his own. Suddenly, your vision begins to blur, blots of darkness appearing at the edges. You blink frantically, but they don’t go away - and the sun is still rising, rapidly now, rays of light shooting out from the blanketed darkness, his voice loud and defined in your ears - Hayato, are you okay - Hayato, wait for -
With a start, you sit up in bed, hands fisted tight against your bedcovers and hair collapsing in heaps over your eyes. You shake your bangs away, tugging the covers downwards and leaning back carefully, elbows digging into your pillows as you smile slowly, hesitantly.
Sunshine streams in through the blinds guarding your window, patches of bright yellow that dot the ground of your bedroom. You blink, and you can see his face in your mind perfectly, etched contours and the hint of a smile playing at his lips.
(Here comes the sun, and I say, it’s all right.)
--
His head is heavy on your shoulder, hair tickling the crook of your neck, warm breaths cascading onto your collarbone. You twirl a strand of orange hair around your index finger; gaze tentative as you peek down at his sleeping figure, the elegant, serene expression on his face as he dreams (of what you do, perhaps - car rides, never-ending roads, Frappuccino).
But you jump, instantly moving away when he whispers a conscious word against your skin. “Hayato,” is what he says, and you start to break free, but his hands scrabble for the fabric of your shirt, and he grabs your wrist, pulls you down against him. Slowly, he raises his head, and you suck in a short, quick breath; heart pounding erratically. His eyes are downcast, almost soft as he rises from his position, his warmth withdrawing from your shoulder. Uncertainly, you still your movements, letting him draw in a long, deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, a flurry of syllables that washes over your senses like water lapping at a shoreline. “I.” He seems to be searching, trying to patch together words that he must have formed with careful thoughts; words that refuse to escape him. You’ve both never been very good with words.
Before your brain can process your own actions, you are leaning over, finger landing on his lips to quiet the words that won’t come out, his shallow breathing. He stares at you when you pull your finger back, and you watch him, the change in his eyes.
You open your lips, words at the tip of your tongue, but there’s a loud whistle from a near distance. I don’t hate you, you end up mouthing, and the train roars past, a sharp, noisy contrast to the silence of nighttime your ears have become accustomed to. His eyes are focused on you the entire time, the inaudible utterance issued from your lips, the comforting, hesitant quaver of your smile.
When the train disappears into the distance, your own gaze falls upon his lips. “Ryu,” you murmur, and only then does he smile, eyes crinkling and lips tugging upwards, cheeks curving.
(But he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.)
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: HayaRyu [Gokusen 2]
Genre: Friendship, angst, perhaps romance
Rating: PG
Disclaimer(s): I own nothing.
Summary: You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.
A/N: For elanielyn, with lots of love. ♥ Also a thank you to all of my readers, as I've been writing fic for this fandom for more than two years now. Inspired by Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles and the poem You Are Jeff by Richard Siken. These are both quoted several times in the fic, as well as in the summary above. Sorry to all of the fic commenters I have not gotten around to replying to for a while ;; will definitely reply this time, I promise. That being said, comments are very, very much appreciated. ♥
(You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.)
Light from the window pans across his face, flickering over the bridge of his nose and playing subtle shapes in between the spaces of his eyelashes. He is turned away from you, jaw line sharp and eyebrows drawn tight, knitted against his brow into a pensive expression. He drags a finger down the edge of the windowpane, lets the palm of his hand press against the cold dustiness of the dashboard, fingers barely trembling.
You bite your lip, hands tightening on the steering wheel. Here is something you can’t have, here is something you can’t want, here is something you can’t need. The dark splashes momentary shadows onto his face as you drive underneath the trim of treetops, branches twisted in quiet teardrops overhead. The road is misty, sidewalks glazed with fog and curbs never-ending, rounding into corners that lead into nowhere.
Your mouth forms a familiar shape, breath ghosting over the bare skin of your own knuckles when you whisper, a silent whisper that never reaches human ears. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t hear, doesn’t turn to you.
In fact, he never does.
--
(And you feel like you've done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired.)
The wall is frigid behind you, a frigidity that seeps into the fabric of your thin jacket and spreads, menacing, into the warmth of your skin, into the pounding of your heart. Shivering, you pull your jacket tighter, hands grasping at the flimsy buttons, rubbing just beneath your shoulders to keep yourself warm. The crooked wire fence glints back at you in the moonlight, broken and swinging forlornly in the wintry gusts of wind.
You don’t know if he’s coming. You haven’t seen him in what seems like years (weeks, you tell yourself, mere weeks). The last glimpse you’d had of him was from the opposite end of the bar, fringed hair falling down the side of his face as he wiped at the counter, arm scrubbing in circular movements. When he’d turned in your direction, dark contours and swift gaze, you’d glanced away, downing the rest of your (illegal) drink and burying the lower half of your face into your sleeve. You’d slipped against the counter, shoulders sagging in order to match the rest of the drunkards wandering about, amidst loud laughter and chaotic applause.
You don’t know if he ever saw you, sneaking out the back door in the middle of the frenzy, stuck in between the thick choke of cigarettes and stench of alcohol-tainted breath. If he knew you’d walked down the sidewalk for hours, the sidewalk that stretches on for long, never-ending hours from Frentzen to the gates of the school, from the lake to Kuma’s ramen shop, lights still dim and soft within. If he realized that you were waiting, waiting for something, somebody that would never come. If he knew that you were waiting for him.
You’re still waiting, but this time, he’s coming - loitering, padded footsteps, hair perfectly straight and falling to his shoulders. He hesitates beneath the streetlight, and he’s in Technicolor - bright orange hair, dark black suit, paled skin, white stranded necklace - but then he steps out, back into the duller shades of dusk, and he’s just a shadow once more.
He approaches you confidently, but his eyes are cautious as they lock with yours. His feet come to a halt, toes scuffing the pavement as he continues to stare at you unwaveringly, as if he is anticipating your first move, his next move, your last move.
Instead, though, you remain silent. Only a few seconds pass before confusion washes over his features, dots the crease of his brow as he measures your stance with his gaze, sweeps an invisible finger over your cheekbones. You close your eyes. (Your heart is throbbing, and you wish you could make it shut up.)
“I hate you.”
The words pierce the air, falling like droplets of acid on the line drawn between him and you, you and him. Surprised, you open your eyes, and for a moment, you can’t decipher whose voice it was that said it, whose fault it was that made it like this, whose side you’re on even though you’re one of the sides. But then, his voice is the one that responds, the one that chances the pain of a question, and you know that it’s you who said it (your fault, your words, your actions, his side).
“Still?”
--
(Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here.)
You’re at a rest stop. Where, you’re not sure, but he’s beside you, daylight plastered all over his face, ice-cold Frappuccino cupped in his hands. The air smells like freshener, breezy lemon and fresh air all wrapped into one. There’s a lake at your feet, water nudging the shoreline and spreading soft, careful fingers into the rocky sand just beneath the fringe of grass. It’s quiet, a peaceful, serene quiet that dulls your heartbeat into the gentle lull of the waves.
He murmurs something in a breathless voice, something indistinguishable below the rippling of the water and flashes of cold daylight mapped out across the sky. You crane your head farther back; legs swinging carelessly as you push yourself further back onto the hood of the car. He glances back at you, eyes narrow and fleeting, strands of orange hair caressing the back of his nape as he turns away again, shifting to raise the Frappuccino up to his lips.
Opening your mouth, you attempt to form coherent words, try to unclog the mess of thoughts that threaten to pour from the back of your throat. A plane whirs overhead, the high-speed engine zooming in a streak across the sky and drowning out what could have been left of your voice. You cough slightly, open your mouth again - but there are no words, no sound. He looks back at you again, and you can hear his voice in your head, can hear the soft, raw whispering of your name, the weak, wavering curve of his short-lived smile.
--
(You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling - )
“Why?” He’s slumped against the wall beside you; still partly covered by the patterned shadows; moonlight slicing in a diagonal line down the building and his face. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been yelling (except he never yells), and his fingers are looping around each other, twisting into random shapes before you. You keep your gaze trained on them, on the flutter of his fingertips, the crack of his knuckles, the smooth lines of his skin.
“I should be asking you,” you reply, as casually as possible. The breath in your lungs is rough and shallow, your voice just barely trembling.
After a silent moment, he looks up at you, pins you with dark eyes. “But I don’t hate you,” he mutters, a clumsy confession - and something inside your chest releases, strings loosening as your body relaxes against the rigid bricks wall, eyes flitting upwards to gaze at the faint outline of the moon above your heads.
Your lips quirk involuntarily; the imprint of a smile lingers at the corners. “Don’t you,” you say quietly, and he glances back up from where he’s staring far ahead. His eyes darken into an indescribable color, a sort of furious, deep emotion that startles you, makes your breath hitch and heart fumble.
“No,” he replies finally.
Biting your lip, you hesitantly offer a smile, a crescent of tenderness that you hold out in your palm for him to take. His eyes register surprise, but his lips curve as well, a reflection of your own.
And for once, he doesn’t look away.
--
(Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting.)
His laugh resounds in your ears, a low, thick sound that pours through you like warmth, that soaks up the remnants of tears pooling around your cheeks. You hadn’t even realized you’d been crying.
You’re on the highway, directed to nowhere. He’s beside you in the passenger seat, drumming a catchy tune on the dashboard, face lighted with a subtle, quiet kind of joy. With a smirk, you reach out to turn the knob of the radio, to change the song just to spite him - and he swats your hand away with a laugh, calls you an idiot with the wrinkles of a smile forming at the corners of his eyes.
The road up ahead seems to last for eternity - it never ends, never will end. The horizon line is right at your fingertips, a rainbow of colors that spills onto the pavement in determined swirls, bursts with the glow of sunrise. It’s the sun, you think - warm, comforting sunshine, and his hand curls around yours when you both reach for the remaining Frappuccino at the same time.
“Sorry,” you grin, and he suppresses his own. Suddenly, your vision begins to blur, blots of darkness appearing at the edges. You blink frantically, but they don’t go away - and the sun is still rising, rapidly now, rays of light shooting out from the blanketed darkness, his voice loud and defined in your ears - Hayato, are you okay - Hayato, wait for -
With a start, you sit up in bed, hands fisted tight against your bedcovers and hair collapsing in heaps over your eyes. You shake your bangs away, tugging the covers downwards and leaning back carefully, elbows digging into your pillows as you smile slowly, hesitantly.
Sunshine streams in through the blinds guarding your window, patches of bright yellow that dot the ground of your bedroom. You blink, and you can see his face in your mind perfectly, etched contours and the hint of a smile playing at his lips.
(Here comes the sun, and I say, it’s all right.)
--
His head is heavy on your shoulder, hair tickling the crook of your neck, warm breaths cascading onto your collarbone. You twirl a strand of orange hair around your index finger; gaze tentative as you peek down at his sleeping figure, the elegant, serene expression on his face as he dreams (of what you do, perhaps - car rides, never-ending roads, Frappuccino).
But you jump, instantly moving away when he whispers a conscious word against your skin. “Hayato,” is what he says, and you start to break free, but his hands scrabble for the fabric of your shirt, and he grabs your wrist, pulls you down against him. Slowly, he raises his head, and you suck in a short, quick breath; heart pounding erratically. His eyes are downcast, almost soft as he rises from his position, his warmth withdrawing from your shoulder. Uncertainly, you still your movements, letting him draw in a long, deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, a flurry of syllables that washes over your senses like water lapping at a shoreline. “I.” He seems to be searching, trying to patch together words that he must have formed with careful thoughts; words that refuse to escape him. You’ve both never been very good with words.
Before your brain can process your own actions, you are leaning over, finger landing on his lips to quiet the words that won’t come out, his shallow breathing. He stares at you when you pull your finger back, and you watch him, the change in his eyes.
You open your lips, words at the tip of your tongue, but there’s a loud whistle from a near distance. I don’t hate you, you end up mouthing, and the train roars past, a sharp, noisy contrast to the silence of nighttime your ears have become accustomed to. His eyes are focused on you the entire time, the inaudible utterance issued from your lips, the comforting, hesitant quaver of your smile.
When the train disappears into the distance, your own gaze falls upon his lips. “Ryu,” you murmur, and only then does he smile, eyes crinkling and lips tugging upwards, cheeks curving.
(But he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.)