It's Kind Of Like Love
It’s not like anything. Well, anything Maya knows. If it had to be anything, he supposes it would be predictable. Soft, a slow escalading partnership that burrowed its way into something…raw. An animalistic habit fulfilled by the opposites they are, the longing for something new, something tarnished and used to claim as their own, to rebuild it into something else.
And it was so good for so long.
Maya doesn’t think about the strange things that happen, at least not in the beginning, because there was something more beautiful to focus on. Aiji. Aiji above him and part of him and inside of him, heavy breathing having led from heavy petting, and now, this. Maya liked to think of it as making love, but he’d never voice it out loud. He’d like to think that what they had was love. They were so lovely together, after all.
But things were strange. Aiji was quick to forget, but a deep hollow look in his eyes betrayed each apology, and soon that look was creeping through Aiji in each bedroom escapade, each quivering muscle, each whispered word that belied his feigned affection.
Of course Maya blew it off. It’s Aiji, and Aiji isn’t romantic, he isn’t loud, he isn’t expected to make each moment memorable, like they do in books. In movies. In art. This was real and Aiji was there, but… he wondered. Sometimes.
Soon Maya feels guilty, even ashamed, at making the only noises as they move between covers, bodies mixing together fluidly. He feels like oil. Aiji is water, flowing through him swiftly and easily, but never bonding, never combining, while Maya lays back, his mood turning as murky a color as the oil itself.
And the morning comes, his bed is warm with his own love, boundless, energizing love, and the emotions from the night previous are lost to the present’s joy. Aiji has his guitar in the studio and he’s strumming quietly, waiting for Maya with a cup of coffee and it’s odd. Very odd. But Maya loves him. And once again, he opens his mouth to speak of plans. Dinner, maybe. A quiet one inside his house. But Aiji, as always, declares they need to work. All is pushed aside, but that’s kind of how love is. At least. Their love.
They fuck again. Each night. Every night. And each night it hurts a little more that Aiji doesn’t whisper Maya’s name when he comes, keeps his mind focused on the task rather than the act, and each night Maya feels a little more like that oil, sinking further and further under Aiji until all he can breath is this overpowering emotion. Constricting him. Tormenting him.
It’s a positive emotion, Maya convinces himself, dropping his head against the pillow and feeling his sweat-sticky hair warm the cotton beneath it.
Yeah. It’s kind of like love, he thinks.
He doesn’t have to hide his sobs. Aiji never stays.
And it was so good for so long.
Maya doesn’t think about the strange things that happen, at least not in the beginning, because there was something more beautiful to focus on. Aiji. Aiji above him and part of him and inside of him, heavy breathing having led from heavy petting, and now, this. Maya liked to think of it as making love, but he’d never voice it out loud. He’d like to think that what they had was love. They were so lovely together, after all.
But things were strange. Aiji was quick to forget, but a deep hollow look in his eyes betrayed each apology, and soon that look was creeping through Aiji in each bedroom escapade, each quivering muscle, each whispered word that belied his feigned affection.
Of course Maya blew it off. It’s Aiji, and Aiji isn’t romantic, he isn’t loud, he isn’t expected to make each moment memorable, like they do in books. In movies. In art. This was real and Aiji was there, but… he wondered. Sometimes.
Soon Maya feels guilty, even ashamed, at making the only noises as they move between covers, bodies mixing together fluidly. He feels like oil. Aiji is water, flowing through him swiftly and easily, but never bonding, never combining, while Maya lays back, his mood turning as murky a color as the oil itself.
And the morning comes, his bed is warm with his own love, boundless, energizing love, and the emotions from the night previous are lost to the present’s joy. Aiji has his guitar in the studio and he’s strumming quietly, waiting for Maya with a cup of coffee and it’s odd. Very odd. But Maya loves him. And once again, he opens his mouth to speak of plans. Dinner, maybe. A quiet one inside his house. But Aiji, as always, declares they need to work. All is pushed aside, but that’s kind of how love is. At least. Their love.
They fuck again. Each night. Every night. And each night it hurts a little more that Aiji doesn’t whisper Maya’s name when he comes, keeps his mind focused on the task rather than the act, and each night Maya feels a little more like that oil, sinking further and further under Aiji until all he can breath is this overpowering emotion. Constricting him. Tormenting him.
It’s a positive emotion, Maya convinces himself, dropping his head against the pillow and feeling his sweat-sticky hair warm the cotton beneath it.
Yeah. It’s kind of like love, he thinks.
He doesn’t have to hide his sobs. Aiji never stays.