#28 Theme 07: Can You Keep A Secret? - Utada Hikaru; Tora/Hiroto
Title: Loving Vanilla
Author: beyondtheremix
Theme: 007 Can You Keep A Secret? (Utada Hikaru)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Tora/Hiroto, Reita/Hiroto, Reita/Ruki
Band[s]: Alice Nine, the GazettE
Disclaimer: AU, angst, fluff
Comments: Here’s something I started ages ago.
Loving Vanilla
Making his trek down grimy subway stairs, Hiroto studied the jump and bounce of Tora’s scarf; the way, no matter how stained and dyed black each thread was, they still managed to catch light within the dim passageway. Even though he had it wrapped twice around his neck, the scarf’s ends still hung, dangling haphazardly between his knees. And like half his outfit, it was borrowed - things Tora left behind or forgot to take; although the comfy sweater was technically on permanent loan.
He was used to Tora’s coming and goings, but the slight connection he felt wearing Tora’s clothes, eating Tora’s leftovers, sitting in Tora’s seat at the table, never failed to comfort him. He liked having Tora’s scent close by, liked pulling out the too big parkas and dress length tees, liked reveling in the simmering smokes and balmy cologne.
The memories were ever-present, always good. They were the things that kept him going when Tora was away, when their relationship was put on hold for the sake of a job, when he was standing there like he was now, alone in a subway, surrounded by strangers with not a familiar face in sight. The distance between him and Tora seemed to stretch continents - and sometimes it did. His only reassurance was the knowledge Tora always came home here.
An elbow in the side brought Hiroto back from his thoughts.
Four high school students made their way carelessly through the rush hour crowd, reeking the familiar stink of shared blunts as they passed, leaning groggily on one another and giggling as their toes tread too far past the yellow-painted safety line. Foolish faith they pressed into each other, droopy arms intertwined against the pull of passing trains; they caught Hiroto’s eye.
Sight, scent-smell. Small things like absent touches. Big things like broken trust. They brought back a different set of memories.
He left on a whim his first year of high school; left with a big bag of trust, a heart full of hope, and a head clouded with dreams. Disillusioned youth looking for a purpose, a movement, he followed the lead rebel body, mind and soul.
Reita was everything he could have hoped, an enigma full of must-be-truths and big-world-ideas. In reality, they never amounted to more than just words, the ideals of a nobody. In hindsight, Hiroto never amounted to more than a plaything, his boy toy.
“Don’t think about it, Pon.”
A warm set of arms wrapped around Hiroto’s waist and pulled him into a close hug. He shook away the last of his recollections and snuggled into the other’s open coat. Life with Tora was simple. What Tora said never carried stringed on lies. What Tora did never came with expected compensation. An honest home from an honest living, housing an honest saint and a worthless fool. Shuddering Hiroto squeezed his eyes shut against the unwanted words.
“I said not to think about it,” Tora whispered softly, resting his cheek against disheveled hair.
Pulling back with a guilty nod, Hiroto took in the fond smile, weatherworn features and ruffled shirt. Tora was good to him, more than he deserved. From beginning to end he’d been by Hiroto’s side, trying to guide him through and away from the toughest years of his life. But Tora hadn’t been able to compete with Reita’s coercion, the mystery in his eyes and addiction in his pockets.
It wasn’t until years later, used and milked of all light and innocence, he retracted his hold over Hiroto. By then the damage was irreparable, a harsh gravity pulling at Hiroto’s lips, dark holes for eyes, affects of the body and soul that spoke of fear and distrust.
His first taste of charity. The cure to his addiction. A small jump off the edge of the world. Tora. Tora had been the only one there to stop him, to save him. Abruptly, Hiroto reached up and cupped the older man’s cheeks in his hands, pulled the other’s face down to meet his own.
“Thank you, Tora-shi,” he grinned. With a lilt to the last syllable, Hiroto brushed his thumb across Tora’s bottom lip and tangled his fingers in silky hair.
“Stop it,” Tora complained, batting away playful prods with a gruff brush of his fingers. He blushed profusely and held Hiroto an arm’s length away. The shy action never failed to cheer the other up, although it embarrassed Tora to no end. He didn’t like being thanked, it was unnecessary. His love was unconditional and it was only through good fortune Hiroto was finally back in his life. They were also in public, under prying eyes that judged too harshly. Nevertheless, it made him ridiculously happy to hear the small praises and whispered sentiments, see that long ago smile spring back to life.
Hiroto had laughed and cried the first time he mentioned it.
They were walking down the street that night, wordlessly enjoying each other’s company and silently looking forward to their warm bed at home. Turning the corner Tora had run smack into a stranger who ended up full on groping him, introducing himself as Shou and inviting them both out for a drink.
That in itself had Hiroto howling down the block.
“I’m not like that,” Tora whined. Shou had long since sashayed away off into the neon glow of party lights and booming music, a goodbye roll of his shoulders and flamboyant flip of his flowery, silk scarf. “I don’t do this flip thing,” Tora demonstrated. “I am a little gay, only for you, but that doesn’t mean I have to be gay!”
Hiroto nearly peed himself watching Tora wildly flip his hands in frustration.
“Okay, okay. I get it,” he choked out between peals of laughter. Clutching his stomach, Hiroto and Tora continued on their way home, smiles plastered across their faces. They were halfway way there when Hiroto spoke up.
“… Tora?”
“Hmm?”
“Can we hold hands?”
Tora gave him a pained look, studiously ignoring the elderly lady who had exited a nearby store just in time to hear the other man’s request. The world must be trying to embarrass him every shade of the rainbow tonight.
“I mean… since I’m the only one you’re gay for,” Hiroto added quickly. “I thought we could do the gay thing and hold hands.” The wink of Hiroto’s eye held that old mischievous light he once had, a familiarity almost enough to tempt Tora into actually taking his hand. Almost.
Instead he opened his mouth to say something, a weak excuse about the disapproving stares of the elderly even as their feet took them further and further away from haughty eyes. A shadow flittered across the other’s eyes, stopping the unsaid words from tumbling past Tora’s lips. That haunting look again. It made his insides clench in fear, panic, understanding. He was scared Hiroto would slip away again, sew himself back up in that well worn suit of despair and refuse to talk. It hurt to know.
“Don’t… don’t do that,” he pleaded. “Pon… come here.”
Two blocks from their house, in the shadows of a nearby building, Tora held him. He pulled the other into a desperate embrace, refused to let go even though Hiroto’s half-hearted protests and claims he was crushing Tora’s shoes rang loud in the night air.
Finally easing up, he slid a hand between them to lift Hiroto’s chin up into the streetlight.
“When you laugh, when you smile. That happiness. Don’t ever lose it, okay?” Tora let go and allowed Hiroto to bury his face against his neck, let burning eyes wet the collar of his shirt.
“Sometimes I miss the old you Pon,” he whispered into the night, “but then I remember all this, all that, and I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more than I do now. You’re perfect and I just want you to be happy again.”
Tora could do hugs. Hugs were common enough.
“What’d you do before I got here?” he asked, hoping to change the subject and at least give himself time to boil down to a lesser shade of pink.
“Thinking about buying you flowers,” Hiroto snorted.
“What, really?!”
“Maybeee,” the other man sang. “Actually I really was at the florists,” he switched abruptly to a more serious tone. “I was thinking about getting a job there. I… I’d just have to wake up early… water plants… clean,” Hiroto continued hopefully. “It doesn’t seem hard, I mean…”
“I know,” Tora ended for him, wrapping an arm around the other’s shoulder and herding him towards their train home. He really didn’t like it when Hiroto reminisced, not out in public at least. At home they had time for breakdowns and buildups, Hiroto could let everything out and Tora could hold him together.
Reita took away his last hopes for a future when he left him that day. With a small frame, stunted education and history of delinquency, it was hard to find a job. Hiroto was in the grey. He looked like a minor and he certainly didn’t have the skills to contest otherwise. Years spent in the shadier parts of town doing even shadier deeds left little room for books and research and deftly severed all family relations he once had. But he was trying. He was still so new to this sort of life, to having Tora, to healing.
Little things still set him off. Intricate kanji scrawls he couldn’t read in the newspapers Tora brought home. The pressed uniforms of upperclassmen he had never gotten to wear. When Tora found him, newspapers were usually scattered all over the kitchen floor, coffee spilt on the table. And he would slowly stoop down to gather the classified ads, press them into the dripping java, and head down the hall. In their bedroom he’d snuggle under the covers and do his best to help Hiroto stop the crying.
The hiss and clatter of opening doors and exiting people filled the underground subway.
They stood amongst a crowd of passengers awaiting entrance, Tora’s arm now retracted to answer an incoming phone call. It was nice, Hiroto thought, the warm masses of bustling people and everyone waiting to go home. Within the crowd he felt important, included, like one of the busy businessmen chattering numbers into a cell phone, much like Tora was doing at the moment.
At home he got up early in the mornings, made breakfast and watched Tora eat. In their bedroom Hiroto would sprawl across the sheets and point at ties, pick out the outfits for the day. Inside he felt worthless. There was little he had to offer; Tora was his crutch, his lifeline and sanity. The least he could do was cook and clean, right? Otherwise, what good was he? He wasn’t worth keeping. No matter how much Tora reassured him to relax, I love you for simply for being here with me, Hiroto couldn’t shake the guilt from his bones. He felt like the homeless men leaning against the walls of the subway station, their fingers grimy and shaking.
Eyes widening, Hiroto slowly took a step back and slid behind Tora, burrowing his face into the warm corduroy of the other’s jacket and trying to breathe.
The memories came vividly crashing down on him again, dragging his feet on the dirtied cement as he followed Tora into the subway car. They were weighty volumes of thought, dust-caked covers and cracked-glue spines. Clutching the brown-yellow plastic of a seat he was lucky to get, Hiroto tried to fill his lungs. The memories, the books he had hidden away, written off as antiques, obsolete, they weighed heavy on his mind, making the small train car shudder and groan as they fell, jarring his vision and tensing his muscles.
Tora couldn’t know. Tora didn’t know, Tora couldn’t, shouldn’t know. Breathe act normal breathe.
Adverting his eyes to the floor Hiroto tried to forget the harsh way calloused fingers gripped his hips, jerking him back into each thrust. He tried to forget the humiliating way his spine arched into every touch as his knees bruised purple and his fists curled white.
He saw.
Fierce eyes were once again on him, holding his gaze, telling him with a quiet finality there was someone he’d found. Someone he preferred with blonde hair that shone bright in the sun, a mouthy confidence that fought for control at each backhanded rendezvous.
It was a kick in the face, the realization he’d submitted time and time again out of what he thought was love. All of it to be cleanly and clearly thrown back and cut off.
“It was fun.”
A cocky smirk and he was gone, leaving Hiroto feeling worthless and used, leaving Hiroto with a gaping hole as empty as the wasted years.
Hiroto pulled his knees up onto the seat, an effort to ward off the now intrusive bodies stuffed tight in the tiny compartment, an excuse to hide his wet eyes in rusty-blue denim. He thought that flame had been extinguished long ago - when he found Tora. But it didn’t stop the nervous sweat from breaking out every time he thought of Reita’s fingers slipping past his lips. It didn’t stop the adrenaline from coursing through his veins and making him itch.
Deep down he should have known it would be harder to forget.
The bottles of bleach and rowdy attitude were leftover testaments of what he once had, what he still wanted. Those first few months alone while Tora combed the alleyways searching for him, Hiroto tried to change. He wanted to be different, to be taken back, to be loved so badly it hurt.
In the end he was just fooling himself. The roots of his platinum blond hair grew back burning brown as ever. The façade of strength and dominance unwound into lulls of disquiet. The conceited twist of his lips unraveled into a straight-mouthed frown that quickly crumbled and trembled into tears. This wasn’t him. He couldn’t be someone else.
He was a sham and it showed.
”This is Ruki.”
Hiroto looked up from his place on the ground. In all the long hours Reita had been away, he’d managed to wander down into a a hundred yen shop, pick out a thousand piece puzzle which really wasn’t ¥100, but Hiroto bought it anyway. They stood at the doorway, clad in expensive leather, grungy studs, and flashy colors. On the floor Hiroto felt a sudden wave of inadequacy, dressed in one of Reita’s dirty tees and a pair of oversized sweatpants.
“Yoroshiku,” he murmured, toying with a few puzzle pieces at his feet.
“Awww isn’t he cute,” Ruki smirked, moving closer to inspect.
“Later,” Reita purred, twirling the smaller man around by the waist and nudging him towards their bedroom.
No more words, just a meaningful look Hiroto wasn’t able to decipher. Not until weeks later when Reita shoved a bag in his hands and pushed him out the door.
A woman, full with baby, sweat trickling down her brow, came into view. Her dress was a bright red, printed in golden flowers and jade green sunbursts, straining at the front. Reluctantly Hiroto struggled up into the mass of standing passengers and gave her his seat. She gave him a grateful smile, but Hiroto was already lost, unable to catch sight of Tora’s raven tuffs of hair. The crowd had already swallowed him up in wool-lined coats and fidgeting fingers.
With a gasp he felt his hips gripped from behind, unseen hands jerking him backwards until patent leather engulfed his senses.
“Long time no see, Hiroto-chan.”
Breathe, breathe, breathe. A shuddery sob left his lips; his worst fears, buried hopes. Cold fingers slid under the loose material of Tora’s sweater, up the line of Hiroto’s abdomen, swirling around his bellybutton before resting open palmed on his belly.
“Just as disappointing as ever,” Reita tsk-ed in his ear.
Hiroto’s eyes blurred the world brown. Sepia photos and half-hearted memories. Almost as if his life were flashing before his eyes.
He was reminded of his childhood, large tubs of ice cream his mother brought home. When he used to have a home. They were Neapolitan stripes tucked away in the freezer for safekeeping, stowed at just the right height so even the littlest ones could eat. And when Hiroto finally found the occasion to crack open the door and pull out the tub, two thirds of its contents would usually be gone. The chocolates and strawberries were always eaten up first, the rest left to grow old and frostbitten.
Nobody wanted vanilla. Least of all Reita.
The train came to a halting stop, the packed bodies within swaying to the faltering screech of the tracks. There was nowhere Hiroto could go. Nowhere he could curl up into himself and try to forget. People pressed in from all sides, Reita enveloped him from behind.
Tora pushed his way through the crowd. Something wasn’t right. Where was Hiroto? Fighting his way through the swarms of exiting passengers, he was met with a brief flash of his long black scarf tangled up in contrasting red leather. Shit. He pummeled forward, heedless of the bruised limbs he left in his wake. It couldn’t be.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?!” Panic barely concealed in his voice, Tora yanked Hiroto free of the stranger’s grasp and cradled him close, glaring at the other man whose hands had been up Hiroto’s shirt not seconds ago.
Tora couldn’t know. Tora didn’t know, Tora couldn’t, shouldn’t know.
“Just saying hi to a dear old friend,” the blond man smirked, walking past.
Hiroto buried his face into Tora’s neck, soft puffs of breath, trying to block out the intense burn of Reita’s eyes, how he felt buried deep inside, hot and heavy, tongue trailing lines up his skin. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening. His own screams deafened his ears, blocked out everything but the clunk and chink of Reita’s boots and chains out the door.
With a heavy heart Tora got them out from the subway and into the afternoon air. That could only be one person. He had never seen him, not face to face, only rare glimpses of bleached hair and shining metal. But there was really only one other person left in the world who would still recognize Hiroto after all his long years of isolation.
The sun dowsed the world in shallow warmth and the winter night slowly took over.
“Hiroto… Hiroto… Hiroto.”
He repeated until the other finally looked up, eyes shimmering, but not empty.
“There’s a place, a town a couple cities south of here, close to the sea, closer to work.”
Work where he didn’t have to leave home. Reaching down, he swept the loose strands of Hiroto’s dark chocolate hair behind his ears, pressed a kiss to his cheek. Hiroto was home and he hated leaving home. Fuck what everyone thought.
In the crowded subway, eyes roving and dodging in disgust, Tora sealed their lips together, intertwined their fingers and tugged.
“What do you say we get out of here?”
A/N:
aflakhflkgjflkajfg
WOW. That only took five months to post.
Archive
Author: beyondtheremix
Theme: 007 Can You Keep A Secret? (Utada Hikaru)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Tora/Hiroto, Reita/Hiroto, Reita/Ruki
Band[s]: Alice Nine, the GazettE
Disclaimer: AU, angst, fluff
Comments: Here’s something I started ages ago.
Loving Vanilla
Making his trek down grimy subway stairs, Hiroto studied the jump and bounce of Tora’s scarf; the way, no matter how stained and dyed black each thread was, they still managed to catch light within the dim passageway. Even though he had it wrapped twice around his neck, the scarf’s ends still hung, dangling haphazardly between his knees. And like half his outfit, it was borrowed - things Tora left behind or forgot to take; although the comfy sweater was technically on permanent loan.
He was used to Tora’s coming and goings, but the slight connection he felt wearing Tora’s clothes, eating Tora’s leftovers, sitting in Tora’s seat at the table, never failed to comfort him. He liked having Tora’s scent close by, liked pulling out the too big parkas and dress length tees, liked reveling in the simmering smokes and balmy cologne.
The memories were ever-present, always good. They were the things that kept him going when Tora was away, when their relationship was put on hold for the sake of a job, when he was standing there like he was now, alone in a subway, surrounded by strangers with not a familiar face in sight. The distance between him and Tora seemed to stretch continents - and sometimes it did. His only reassurance was the knowledge Tora always came home here.
An elbow in the side brought Hiroto back from his thoughts.
Four high school students made their way carelessly through the rush hour crowd, reeking the familiar stink of shared blunts as they passed, leaning groggily on one another and giggling as their toes tread too far past the yellow-painted safety line. Foolish faith they pressed into each other, droopy arms intertwined against the pull of passing trains; they caught Hiroto’s eye.
Sight, scent-smell. Small things like absent touches. Big things like broken trust. They brought back a different set of memories.
He left on a whim his first year of high school; left with a big bag of trust, a heart full of hope, and a head clouded with dreams. Disillusioned youth looking for a purpose, a movement, he followed the lead rebel body, mind and soul.
Reita was everything he could have hoped, an enigma full of must-be-truths and big-world-ideas. In reality, they never amounted to more than just words, the ideals of a nobody. In hindsight, Hiroto never amounted to more than a plaything, his boy toy.
“Don’t think about it, Pon.”
A warm set of arms wrapped around Hiroto’s waist and pulled him into a close hug. He shook away the last of his recollections and snuggled into the other’s open coat. Life with Tora was simple. What Tora said never carried stringed on lies. What Tora did never came with expected compensation. An honest home from an honest living, housing an honest saint and a worthless fool. Shuddering Hiroto squeezed his eyes shut against the unwanted words.
“I said not to think about it,” Tora whispered softly, resting his cheek against disheveled hair.
Pulling back with a guilty nod, Hiroto took in the fond smile, weatherworn features and ruffled shirt. Tora was good to him, more than he deserved. From beginning to end he’d been by Hiroto’s side, trying to guide him through and away from the toughest years of his life. But Tora hadn’t been able to compete with Reita’s coercion, the mystery in his eyes and addiction in his pockets.
It wasn’t until years later, used and milked of all light and innocence, he retracted his hold over Hiroto. By then the damage was irreparable, a harsh gravity pulling at Hiroto’s lips, dark holes for eyes, affects of the body and soul that spoke of fear and distrust.
His first taste of charity. The cure to his addiction. A small jump off the edge of the world. Tora. Tora had been the only one there to stop him, to save him. Abruptly, Hiroto reached up and cupped the older man’s cheeks in his hands, pulled the other’s face down to meet his own.
“Thank you, Tora-shi,” he grinned. With a lilt to the last syllable, Hiroto brushed his thumb across Tora’s bottom lip and tangled his fingers in silky hair.
“Stop it,” Tora complained, batting away playful prods with a gruff brush of his fingers. He blushed profusely and held Hiroto an arm’s length away. The shy action never failed to cheer the other up, although it embarrassed Tora to no end. He didn’t like being thanked, it was unnecessary. His love was unconditional and it was only through good fortune Hiroto was finally back in his life. They were also in public, under prying eyes that judged too harshly. Nevertheless, it made him ridiculously happy to hear the small praises and whispered sentiments, see that long ago smile spring back to life.
Hiroto had laughed and cried the first time he mentioned it.
They were walking down the street that night, wordlessly enjoying each other’s company and silently looking forward to their warm bed at home. Turning the corner Tora had run smack into a stranger who ended up full on groping him, introducing himself as Shou and inviting them both out for a drink.
That in itself had Hiroto howling down the block.
“I’m not like that,” Tora whined. Shou had long since sashayed away off into the neon glow of party lights and booming music, a goodbye roll of his shoulders and flamboyant flip of his flowery, silk scarf. “I don’t do this flip thing,” Tora demonstrated. “I am a little gay, only for you, but that doesn’t mean I have to be gay!”
Hiroto nearly peed himself watching Tora wildly flip his hands in frustration.
“Okay, okay. I get it,” he choked out between peals of laughter. Clutching his stomach, Hiroto and Tora continued on their way home, smiles plastered across their faces. They were halfway way there when Hiroto spoke up.
“… Tora?”
“Hmm?”
“Can we hold hands?”
Tora gave him a pained look, studiously ignoring the elderly lady who had exited a nearby store just in time to hear the other man’s request. The world must be trying to embarrass him every shade of the rainbow tonight.
“I mean… since I’m the only one you’re gay for,” Hiroto added quickly. “I thought we could do the gay thing and hold hands.” The wink of Hiroto’s eye held that old mischievous light he once had, a familiarity almost enough to tempt Tora into actually taking his hand. Almost.
Instead he opened his mouth to say something, a weak excuse about the disapproving stares of the elderly even as their feet took them further and further away from haughty eyes. A shadow flittered across the other’s eyes, stopping the unsaid words from tumbling past Tora’s lips. That haunting look again. It made his insides clench in fear, panic, understanding. He was scared Hiroto would slip away again, sew himself back up in that well worn suit of despair and refuse to talk. It hurt to know.
“Don’t… don’t do that,” he pleaded. “Pon… come here.”
Two blocks from their house, in the shadows of a nearby building, Tora held him. He pulled the other into a desperate embrace, refused to let go even though Hiroto’s half-hearted protests and claims he was crushing Tora’s shoes rang loud in the night air.
Finally easing up, he slid a hand between them to lift Hiroto’s chin up into the streetlight.
“When you laugh, when you smile. That happiness. Don’t ever lose it, okay?” Tora let go and allowed Hiroto to bury his face against his neck, let burning eyes wet the collar of his shirt.
“Sometimes I miss the old you Pon,” he whispered into the night, “but then I remember all this, all that, and I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more than I do now. You’re perfect and I just want you to be happy again.”
Tora could do hugs. Hugs were common enough.
“What’d you do before I got here?” he asked, hoping to change the subject and at least give himself time to boil down to a lesser shade of pink.
“Thinking about buying you flowers,” Hiroto snorted.
“What, really?!”
“Maybeee,” the other man sang. “Actually I really was at the florists,” he switched abruptly to a more serious tone. “I was thinking about getting a job there. I… I’d just have to wake up early… water plants… clean,” Hiroto continued hopefully. “It doesn’t seem hard, I mean…”
“I know,” Tora ended for him, wrapping an arm around the other’s shoulder and herding him towards their train home. He really didn’t like it when Hiroto reminisced, not out in public at least. At home they had time for breakdowns and buildups, Hiroto could let everything out and Tora could hold him together.
Reita took away his last hopes for a future when he left him that day. With a small frame, stunted education and history of delinquency, it was hard to find a job. Hiroto was in the grey. He looked like a minor and he certainly didn’t have the skills to contest otherwise. Years spent in the shadier parts of town doing even shadier deeds left little room for books and research and deftly severed all family relations he once had. But he was trying. He was still so new to this sort of life, to having Tora, to healing.
Little things still set him off. Intricate kanji scrawls he couldn’t read in the newspapers Tora brought home. The pressed uniforms of upperclassmen he had never gotten to wear. When Tora found him, newspapers were usually scattered all over the kitchen floor, coffee spilt on the table. And he would slowly stoop down to gather the classified ads, press them into the dripping java, and head down the hall. In their bedroom he’d snuggle under the covers and do his best to help Hiroto stop the crying.
The hiss and clatter of opening doors and exiting people filled the underground subway.
They stood amongst a crowd of passengers awaiting entrance, Tora’s arm now retracted to answer an incoming phone call. It was nice, Hiroto thought, the warm masses of bustling people and everyone waiting to go home. Within the crowd he felt important, included, like one of the busy businessmen chattering numbers into a cell phone, much like Tora was doing at the moment.
At home he got up early in the mornings, made breakfast and watched Tora eat. In their bedroom Hiroto would sprawl across the sheets and point at ties, pick out the outfits for the day. Inside he felt worthless. There was little he had to offer; Tora was his crutch, his lifeline and sanity. The least he could do was cook and clean, right? Otherwise, what good was he? He wasn’t worth keeping. No matter how much Tora reassured him to relax, I love you for simply for being here with me, Hiroto couldn’t shake the guilt from his bones. He felt like the homeless men leaning against the walls of the subway station, their fingers grimy and shaking.
Eyes widening, Hiroto slowly took a step back and slid behind Tora, burrowing his face into the warm corduroy of the other’s jacket and trying to breathe.
The memories came vividly crashing down on him again, dragging his feet on the dirtied cement as he followed Tora into the subway car. They were weighty volumes of thought, dust-caked covers and cracked-glue spines. Clutching the brown-yellow plastic of a seat he was lucky to get, Hiroto tried to fill his lungs. The memories, the books he had hidden away, written off as antiques, obsolete, they weighed heavy on his mind, making the small train car shudder and groan as they fell, jarring his vision and tensing his muscles.
Tora couldn’t know. Tora didn’t know, Tora couldn’t, shouldn’t know. Breathe act normal breathe.
Adverting his eyes to the floor Hiroto tried to forget the harsh way calloused fingers gripped his hips, jerking him back into each thrust. He tried to forget the humiliating way his spine arched into every touch as his knees bruised purple and his fists curled white.
He saw.
Fierce eyes were once again on him, holding his gaze, telling him with a quiet finality there was someone he’d found. Someone he preferred with blonde hair that shone bright in the sun, a mouthy confidence that fought for control at each backhanded rendezvous.
It was a kick in the face, the realization he’d submitted time and time again out of what he thought was love. All of it to be cleanly and clearly thrown back and cut off.
“It was fun.”
A cocky smirk and he was gone, leaving Hiroto feeling worthless and used, leaving Hiroto with a gaping hole as empty as the wasted years.
Hiroto pulled his knees up onto the seat, an effort to ward off the now intrusive bodies stuffed tight in the tiny compartment, an excuse to hide his wet eyes in rusty-blue denim. He thought that flame had been extinguished long ago - when he found Tora. But it didn’t stop the nervous sweat from breaking out every time he thought of Reita’s fingers slipping past his lips. It didn’t stop the adrenaline from coursing through his veins and making him itch.
Deep down he should have known it would be harder to forget.
The bottles of bleach and rowdy attitude were leftover testaments of what he once had, what he still wanted. Those first few months alone while Tora combed the alleyways searching for him, Hiroto tried to change. He wanted to be different, to be taken back, to be loved so badly it hurt.
In the end he was just fooling himself. The roots of his platinum blond hair grew back burning brown as ever. The façade of strength and dominance unwound into lulls of disquiet. The conceited twist of his lips unraveled into a straight-mouthed frown that quickly crumbled and trembled into tears. This wasn’t him. He couldn’t be someone else.
He was a sham and it showed.
”This is Ruki.”
Hiroto looked up from his place on the ground. In all the long hours Reita had been away, he’d managed to wander down into a a hundred yen shop, pick out a thousand piece puzzle which really wasn’t ¥100, but Hiroto bought it anyway. They stood at the doorway, clad in expensive leather, grungy studs, and flashy colors. On the floor Hiroto felt a sudden wave of inadequacy, dressed in one of Reita’s dirty tees and a pair of oversized sweatpants.
“Yoroshiku,” he murmured, toying with a few puzzle pieces at his feet.
“Awww isn’t he cute,” Ruki smirked, moving closer to inspect.
“Later,” Reita purred, twirling the smaller man around by the waist and nudging him towards their bedroom.
No more words, just a meaningful look Hiroto wasn’t able to decipher. Not until weeks later when Reita shoved a bag in his hands and pushed him out the door.
A woman, full with baby, sweat trickling down her brow, came into view. Her dress was a bright red, printed in golden flowers and jade green sunbursts, straining at the front. Reluctantly Hiroto struggled up into the mass of standing passengers and gave her his seat. She gave him a grateful smile, but Hiroto was already lost, unable to catch sight of Tora’s raven tuffs of hair. The crowd had already swallowed him up in wool-lined coats and fidgeting fingers.
With a gasp he felt his hips gripped from behind, unseen hands jerking him backwards until patent leather engulfed his senses.
“Long time no see, Hiroto-chan.”
Breathe, breathe, breathe. A shuddery sob left his lips; his worst fears, buried hopes. Cold fingers slid under the loose material of Tora’s sweater, up the line of Hiroto’s abdomen, swirling around his bellybutton before resting open palmed on his belly.
“Just as disappointing as ever,” Reita tsk-ed in his ear.
Hiroto’s eyes blurred the world brown. Sepia photos and half-hearted memories. Almost as if his life were flashing before his eyes.
He was reminded of his childhood, large tubs of ice cream his mother brought home. When he used to have a home. They were Neapolitan stripes tucked away in the freezer for safekeeping, stowed at just the right height so even the littlest ones could eat. And when Hiroto finally found the occasion to crack open the door and pull out the tub, two thirds of its contents would usually be gone. The chocolates and strawberries were always eaten up first, the rest left to grow old and frostbitten.
Nobody wanted vanilla. Least of all Reita.
The train came to a halting stop, the packed bodies within swaying to the faltering screech of the tracks. There was nowhere Hiroto could go. Nowhere he could curl up into himself and try to forget. People pressed in from all sides, Reita enveloped him from behind.
Tora pushed his way through the crowd. Something wasn’t right. Where was Hiroto? Fighting his way through the swarms of exiting passengers, he was met with a brief flash of his long black scarf tangled up in contrasting red leather. Shit. He pummeled forward, heedless of the bruised limbs he left in his wake. It couldn’t be.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?!” Panic barely concealed in his voice, Tora yanked Hiroto free of the stranger’s grasp and cradled him close, glaring at the other man whose hands had been up Hiroto’s shirt not seconds ago.
Tora couldn’t know. Tora didn’t know, Tora couldn’t, shouldn’t know.
“Just saying hi to a dear old friend,” the blond man smirked, walking past.
Hiroto buried his face into Tora’s neck, soft puffs of breath, trying to block out the intense burn of Reita’s eyes, how he felt buried deep inside, hot and heavy, tongue trailing lines up his skin. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening. His own screams deafened his ears, blocked out everything but the clunk and chink of Reita’s boots and chains out the door.
With a heavy heart Tora got them out from the subway and into the afternoon air. That could only be one person. He had never seen him, not face to face, only rare glimpses of bleached hair and shining metal. But there was really only one other person left in the world who would still recognize Hiroto after all his long years of isolation.
The sun dowsed the world in shallow warmth and the winter night slowly took over.
“Hiroto… Hiroto… Hiroto.”
He repeated until the other finally looked up, eyes shimmering, but not empty.
“There’s a place, a town a couple cities south of here, close to the sea, closer to work.”
Work where he didn’t have to leave home. Reaching down, he swept the loose strands of Hiroto’s dark chocolate hair behind his ears, pressed a kiss to his cheek. Hiroto was home and he hated leaving home. Fuck what everyone thought.
In the crowded subway, eyes roving and dodging in disgust, Tora sealed their lips together, intertwined their fingers and tugged.
“What do you say we get out of here?”
A/N:
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WOW. That only took five months to post.
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