(one-shot) beyond the horizon
Man, this was posted so long ago.
Title: Beyond the Horizon
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: Akame
Genre: Romance, slice-of-life-ish
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.
Summary: His breaths are hushed, like he’s anticipating something great, something life-altering.
A/N: Based loosely on news of Kame's solo and this ~drama~ in general. For matchynishi, originally posted here at ficwars in April 2010. Enjoy. ♥
His laughter slices through the night air, raw and soft. You can hear the squeak of his sneakers against the pavement if you strain your ears enough, the quiet, echoing ding of his ring hitting the railing as he leans over, fingers curled around the cold metal. His breaths are hushed, like he’s anticipating something great, something life-altering.
The sun is low on the horizon, rays of color struggling to peek out over the ocean. You hold your breath, and he inhales sharply. You’re both waiting.
“Good night,” he finally whispers, his voice static-filled; there’s rustling on the line. “Sleep tight.”
You tilt your head up at the disappearing colors. They’ve gone to his side of the world.
“Good morning,” you whisper back, almost like a promise.
--
He smells different, of sandy dunes on beaches and the bright blue sky of America, large half-face sized sunglasses pulling back his hair. As soon as he toes off a shoe, you corner him into an unfamiliar wall, just beside the doorway to his tiny closet. His lips are pliant and yielding beneath yours, body hard and curved in all the right places. You brace hands on his hips as he slips a leg between yours, bites down gently on your bottom lip.
He murmurs your name into your mouth, shifting to press another open-mouthed kiss on the corner of your lips. His movements are languid, soft as he rocks slowly against you, easing away the desperation from moments ago.
“You still taste the same,” you feel the need to announce, closing your eyes as he strains against you. He laughs, the same laugh that echoes at you from halfway across the world over the thin wires of phone lines.
“Nice to see you again too.”
--
The coffin is smooth beneath your fingertips, black paint a solidly perfect layer on top of the wood. You turn the mask around in your hands, rubbing a thumb over the edges of protruding cheekbones. It’s a mirrored phantom image of your face.
With one hand, you hold it out, letting it catch the glint of the spotlights that are cast down onto the stage. Your other hand snaps a picture with your cell phone, pressing send to his number with calculated movements. Perfect for Hollywood?
Seconds later, your phone buzzes with a reply, ignorant of the fact that it’s three in the morning in Los Angeles.
Perfect for Halloween, is the retort. There’s an extra space, like a hesitation. Come visit again. There’s candy.
The smile struggles to leave your face.
Worst pick-up line ever.
--
Months of his voice over the static of the phone pass. The tour rolls around, crackling lights and explosions complete, the blood dripping from your fangs. It’s right before your solo when he texts you, characters sharp in the dimmed lighting of backstage. You have to squint to read the message.
Trick-or-treat. Paying extra to send this overseas.
You squint even more, but the deeper meaning behind the second sentence surpasses you. You’re on in five minutes, and you decide to take the easy way out.
Come here and I’ll have candy for you. Your chest tightens as you send it, the background sounds of staff rushing around fall back from your peripheral vision. Suddenly, your hands feel clammy, and not because of the roaring crowd outside.
Now who has the bad pick-up lines?
You abandon your cell phone on the table, and step on stage with a quirk of a smile.
--
The amount of cryptic messages increase - and to think everyone perceives you as the smarter one, you think with a wry smile. His voice mail messages are curter, slightly breathless, and even hesitant. It strikes you that a place like Los Angeles certainly isn’t supposed to bring out the shyer nature in people.
“So,” he’s saying one day, in awkwardly stilted speech. Crossing your legs, you lean back into the couch. “So.” His voice is quiet, and you feel as if you should be witnessing some sort of epic change in the world.
Instead, he falls silent. You can see him picking at the unraveled thread of his jeans, fedora propped on the table beside his sofa chair, the red one that made you grimace in distaste before you fisted into the fabric of his shirt and pushed him onto it. You purse your lips.
“So,” he repeats. Outside the window, the sun sends colored streaks across the sky, in between rooftops.
“So I’m coming back, next month.”
--
The day he comes back is Halloween. You can’t help but think, suspiciously, that he planned it - you carefully tuck the mask onto your face, fitting it to settle just over your cheekbones. His flight arrived an hour ago.
When the doorbell rings, you sweep forward with a cape. The door falls open. “Trick-or-treat,” he pronounces in almost perfect English, and you watch with satisfaction as his eyes widen.
With as wicked a smile as you can manage, you grab the bowl of Japanese candy you’ve thrown together from the store nearby. “Candy, human?” His grin is beautifully slow, your own mischief reflected in his eyes. He steps forward, and you catch a whiff of Tokyo in his scent, the misty smell of cars and damp sidewalk pavement.
“I think the candy can wait for later,” he replies quietly, breath hot against your skin.
--
“So,” you begin, amidst rumpled bed sheets. “So.” You prop your head up, elbow digging into the fluff of your pillow. You’re suddenly aware of his intense gaze on you, dark eyes and silky bangs. “So.”
“I love you,” he blurts out, loud and challenging in the comfort of silence.
You blink, watching as his cheeks hint a faint red, as if a make-up artist had provided a bit too much blush. You feel like this is supposed to be something momentous, but instead, all you can do is smile a slow, warm smile.
“I know,” you reply fondly.
The sky is a dusky gray outside; the sun has set peacefully.
Title: Beyond the Horizon
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: Akame
Genre: Romance, slice-of-life-ish
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.
Summary: His breaths are hushed, like he’s anticipating something great, something life-altering.
A/N: Based loosely on news of Kame's solo and this ~drama~ in general. For matchynishi, originally posted here at ficwars in April 2010. Enjoy. ♥
His laughter slices through the night air, raw and soft. You can hear the squeak of his sneakers against the pavement if you strain your ears enough, the quiet, echoing ding of his ring hitting the railing as he leans over, fingers curled around the cold metal. His breaths are hushed, like he’s anticipating something great, something life-altering.
The sun is low on the horizon, rays of color struggling to peek out over the ocean. You hold your breath, and he inhales sharply. You’re both waiting.
“Good night,” he finally whispers, his voice static-filled; there’s rustling on the line. “Sleep tight.”
You tilt your head up at the disappearing colors. They’ve gone to his side of the world.
“Good morning,” you whisper back, almost like a promise.
--
He smells different, of sandy dunes on beaches and the bright blue sky of America, large half-face sized sunglasses pulling back his hair. As soon as he toes off a shoe, you corner him into an unfamiliar wall, just beside the doorway to his tiny closet. His lips are pliant and yielding beneath yours, body hard and curved in all the right places. You brace hands on his hips as he slips a leg between yours, bites down gently on your bottom lip.
He murmurs your name into your mouth, shifting to press another open-mouthed kiss on the corner of your lips. His movements are languid, soft as he rocks slowly against you, easing away the desperation from moments ago.
“You still taste the same,” you feel the need to announce, closing your eyes as he strains against you. He laughs, the same laugh that echoes at you from halfway across the world over the thin wires of phone lines.
“Nice to see you again too.”
--
The coffin is smooth beneath your fingertips, black paint a solidly perfect layer on top of the wood. You turn the mask around in your hands, rubbing a thumb over the edges of protruding cheekbones. It’s a mirrored phantom image of your face.
With one hand, you hold it out, letting it catch the glint of the spotlights that are cast down onto the stage. Your other hand snaps a picture with your cell phone, pressing send to his number with calculated movements. Perfect for Hollywood?
Seconds later, your phone buzzes with a reply, ignorant of the fact that it’s three in the morning in Los Angeles.
Perfect for Halloween, is the retort. There’s an extra space, like a hesitation. Come visit again. There’s candy.
The smile struggles to leave your face.
Worst pick-up line ever.
--
Months of his voice over the static of the phone pass. The tour rolls around, crackling lights and explosions complete, the blood dripping from your fangs. It’s right before your solo when he texts you, characters sharp in the dimmed lighting of backstage. You have to squint to read the message.
Trick-or-treat. Paying extra to send this overseas.
You squint even more, but the deeper meaning behind the second sentence surpasses you. You’re on in five minutes, and you decide to take the easy way out.
Come here and I’ll have candy for you. Your chest tightens as you send it, the background sounds of staff rushing around fall back from your peripheral vision. Suddenly, your hands feel clammy, and not because of the roaring crowd outside.
Now who has the bad pick-up lines?
You abandon your cell phone on the table, and step on stage with a quirk of a smile.
--
The amount of cryptic messages increase - and to think everyone perceives you as the smarter one, you think with a wry smile. His voice mail messages are curter, slightly breathless, and even hesitant. It strikes you that a place like Los Angeles certainly isn’t supposed to bring out the shyer nature in people.
“So,” he’s saying one day, in awkwardly stilted speech. Crossing your legs, you lean back into the couch. “So.” His voice is quiet, and you feel as if you should be witnessing some sort of epic change in the world.
Instead, he falls silent. You can see him picking at the unraveled thread of his jeans, fedora propped on the table beside his sofa chair, the red one that made you grimace in distaste before you fisted into the fabric of his shirt and pushed him onto it. You purse your lips.
“So,” he repeats. Outside the window, the sun sends colored streaks across the sky, in between rooftops.
“So I’m coming back, next month.”
--
The day he comes back is Halloween. You can’t help but think, suspiciously, that he planned it - you carefully tuck the mask onto your face, fitting it to settle just over your cheekbones. His flight arrived an hour ago.
When the doorbell rings, you sweep forward with a cape. The door falls open. “Trick-or-treat,” he pronounces in almost perfect English, and you watch with satisfaction as his eyes widen.
With as wicked a smile as you can manage, you grab the bowl of Japanese candy you’ve thrown together from the store nearby. “Candy, human?” His grin is beautifully slow, your own mischief reflected in his eyes. He steps forward, and you catch a whiff of Tokyo in his scent, the misty smell of cars and damp sidewalk pavement.
“I think the candy can wait for later,” he replies quietly, breath hot against your skin.
--
“So,” you begin, amidst rumpled bed sheets. “So.” You prop your head up, elbow digging into the fluff of your pillow. You’re suddenly aware of his intense gaze on you, dark eyes and silky bangs. “So.”
“I love you,” he blurts out, loud and challenging in the comfort of silence.
You blink, watching as his cheeks hint a faint red, as if a make-up artist had provided a bit too much blush. You feel like this is supposed to be something momentous, but instead, all you can do is smile a slow, warm smile.
“I know,” you reply fondly.
The sky is a dusky gray outside; the sun has set peacefully.