[Shusai]
SNOWFALL
by zoesque
No sky,
no land -- just
snow falling.
- Kajiwara Hashin
It's been snowing incessantly for two days now, the December sky a grey and unbroken ceiling of clouds. Akira and Shindou are on their way home from the Institute, squeezed into a subway compartment crowded with wet and irritated commuters, steam veiling the window. Shindou's snowboarding jacket is dripping water onto Akira's wool coat, but there's no room to move away.
Shindou gets off at the same stop Akira does, as he has been doing more and more throughout winter's approach, gradually as the first tentative layer of snow. They walk through the park in Akira's neighbourhood, and when they pass the playground, Shindou wipes snow off the seat of the swing with his sleeve and sits down. His hands are uncovered and red with cold, curling around the metal chain as he begins to swing in a lazy arc.
Akira watches him for a few moments, the snowflakes beading on his hair, the wet hem of his jeans and the ice and snow caked onto his runners.
"You look like you want to kiss me," Shindou says, eyes grey as the sky and lips tugging upward with the same pull of inevitability Akira feels in his heart.
"I do," he answers simply, as the slow rhythm of Shindou's swinging winds to a halt. Shindou brushes a wet, curling strand of hair from his cheek, leaving the skin damp and glistening.
"You can, you know."
Akira knows, so he takes a step towards Shindou, movement a little uncertain with the snow beneath his feet, yielding and slippery at the same time. He wraps his gloved hand around Shindou's bare one, still clinging to the swing's chain, and leans down to press his lips to Shindou's.
Snow tumbles down from the bough of a nearby evergreen, weighted down too long, and Shindou kisses him back, feet planted firmly on the ground so the swing underneath him doesn't sway. He tastes vaguely of the sweet apple cider Ashiwara had brought in earlier that day, and his lips are parched and cracked a little from the cold.
Shindou makes a small noise that sounds a bit like the one Akira has been muffling in his pillow for months now, and it's like a jolt down his spine: that this has been here, all along.
And then Shindou has tilted his head back a little, laughing softly, his earlier confidence melted into happy relief, cupping Akira's face with one very cold hand. Akira shivers, and licks his lips, feeling snowflakes melting on his tongue. His hair is wet now, cold water pooling between his nape and the collar of his coat, and the hand on his cheek is making him shiver.
"Touya, we should get going," prompts Shindou, laughter still curling around the edges of his words like a warm scarf. "I've got snow in my socks, seriously!" he tries again, when Akira cannot seem to stop kissing him, "Touya!" and then nothing at all; the sound of breath condensing and fading into nothingness, the silent fall of snow.
by zoesque
No sky,
no land -- just
snow falling.
- Kajiwara Hashin
It's been snowing incessantly for two days now, the December sky a grey and unbroken ceiling of clouds. Akira and Shindou are on their way home from the Institute, squeezed into a subway compartment crowded with wet and irritated commuters, steam veiling the window. Shindou's snowboarding jacket is dripping water onto Akira's wool coat, but there's no room to move away.
Shindou gets off at the same stop Akira does, as he has been doing more and more throughout winter's approach, gradually as the first tentative layer of snow. They walk through the park in Akira's neighbourhood, and when they pass the playground, Shindou wipes snow off the seat of the swing with his sleeve and sits down. His hands are uncovered and red with cold, curling around the metal chain as he begins to swing in a lazy arc.
Akira watches him for a few moments, the snowflakes beading on his hair, the wet hem of his jeans and the ice and snow caked onto his runners.
"You look like you want to kiss me," Shindou says, eyes grey as the sky and lips tugging upward with the same pull of inevitability Akira feels in his heart.
"I do," he answers simply, as the slow rhythm of Shindou's swinging winds to a halt. Shindou brushes a wet, curling strand of hair from his cheek, leaving the skin damp and glistening.
"You can, you know."
Akira knows, so he takes a step towards Shindou, movement a little uncertain with the snow beneath his feet, yielding and slippery at the same time. He wraps his gloved hand around Shindou's bare one, still clinging to the swing's chain, and leans down to press his lips to Shindou's.
Snow tumbles down from the bough of a nearby evergreen, weighted down too long, and Shindou kisses him back, feet planted firmly on the ground so the swing underneath him doesn't sway. He tastes vaguely of the sweet apple cider Ashiwara had brought in earlier that day, and his lips are parched and cracked a little from the cold.
Shindou makes a small noise that sounds a bit like the one Akira has been muffling in his pillow for months now, and it's like a jolt down his spine: that this has been here, all along.
And then Shindou has tilted his head back a little, laughing softly, his earlier confidence melted into happy relief, cupping Akira's face with one very cold hand. Akira shivers, and licks his lips, feeling snowflakes melting on his tongue. His hair is wet now, cold water pooling between his nape and the collar of his coat, and the hand on his cheek is making him shiver.
"Touya, we should get going," prompts Shindou, laughter still curling around the edges of his words like a warm scarf. "I've got snow in my socks, seriously!" he tries again, when Akira cannot seem to stop kissing him, "Touya!" and then nothing at all; the sound of breath condensing and fading into nothingness, the silent fall of snow.