Love to hurt (6/? ) - uruha/ruki
Title: love to hurt.
Chapter: 6/?
Author: buriedinheart
Genre: angst, romance
Warnings: abuse, language, pain, sex, self harm, eating disorder, suicide attempt
Disclaimer: I own no one.
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Uruha x Ruki
Bands: the GazettE
Synopsis: We were pieces of driftwood floating in the raging seas, tornadoes and angry hurricanes.
Comments: '&&' = different scenes. PLEASE COMMENT IF YOU DO READ THEY KEEP ME GOING. im insecure as hell and am always unmotivated. :( oh well~ hope you enjoy this read. im finally back. more comments at the bottom.
Scraps… scraps are all that left. How to piece them together, or does he even want to?
Uruha breathes harshly into the cold, sweating bottle of vodka, the strong taste flowing into his veins like liquid agony.
He struggles to keep his senses in wake but everything is loud and invasive, the throbbing club music pounding into his senses, jolting him into nauseous consciousness. His bleary eyes dehydrated from exhaled smoke stare into the blurry glass he’s holding, his mind trying desperately to shut the day’s memories out.
He has nothing left. Just the cigarette he's holding, the bottle and his torn self. Shreds of his very being discarded in smoke tendrils wafting around his limp, brittle strands. He is smoking himself out. He thinks he might just dissolve into nothingness, on this bar stool in this indifferent club.; he feels the vodka he’s swallowed on an empty stomach back up insistently in his throat. So he clutches the cold bar top with wide eyes flying open in a heartbeat. because he mustn’t throw up. It’s the only control he has left.
His breath hitches,
In almost defiance Uruha brushes the nagging need to vomit away because this is the moment he is not living and the music is too loud, beats drumming into his delicate ears, strobe lights hurting his eyes, everything is moving, a shaking mass of flesh and music and sound and light and everything hurts.
I want to be in a place where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.
Maybe death would be better, he muses. He cant tell which way is the right side up anymore and he almost laughs when he feels his physical form meeting the unforgiving floor, he has no control and feel like a wobbling mess, delicate skin and bones crushing in abrasion with intolerant tiles.
Before his world goes dark he thinks he has asked for forgiveness in an ashen breath.
&&&&
Why the fuck did you drink so much.
No niceties, no ‘’how do you do’’ - who the fuck says that at four am in the morning anyway - the alcohol induced haze is dissipating from his head in a swirl of cigarette smoke dyeing the air with cold regrets and undeclared pain. Aoi insists on his question with a meaningful gesture of his burning cigarette, glowing embers flying away as the wind smokes the cigarette for him.
I don’t know.
He breathes the three words out slowly, watching Aoi’s dark eyes regard him gravely. He’s quite surprised, really, because he hadn’t expected this man to pick him up from the floor of the bar. He’s quite content with lying there in blacked-out bliss but the disgruntled bartender apparently had other ideas. He almost laughs at the irony, this dark stranger before him had punched the living daylights out of his face just the day before, and now aoi has rescued him like a knight in shining amour.
He snorts at the vision; aoi has no eyebrows so he can’t give the handsome, dark vibe a knight would have.
What. Aoi says almost angrily, obvious conflicting emotions flashing in his noir orbs.
I rush here on my motorbike because I don’t want another of my friends lying comatose in hospital, kai sleeps like the dead so I have to come, not like I want to, and im frustrated with everything and all you can do is laugh in my face.
Aoi’s words stream out of his mouth in a contorted waterfall of barely restrained anger and frustration, smoke leaving his lungs in forceful gasps.
Uruha blinks at the sudden torrent of words from the usually soft-spoken man, struggling to get his mind on straight. He sees clear now, and is in the displacing plateau between full sobriety and drunkenness. He looks at Aoi, his tall, shapely body wrapped in a thin wifebeater and black jeans, tired sleep still in his hair.
Aoi looks like frustration and anger personified, unhappiness and sadness radiating off his form in quiet waves. Uruha observes the way the static makes a distanced halo around the other man’s mussed up hair, almost fading in the dim streetlight as Uruha comes to his senses. He places a light hand on aoi’s motorbike, the throbbing engine giving him warmth.
Im sorry.
Aoi looks away at his apology, one of countless already, and lights up another stick.
You know, Taka didn’t mean to push you away like that. He’s just recovering from trauma and he really needed a cigarette.
Aoi says softly, meaningful eyes looking past Uruha’s over at some distant place only Aoi sees in the night.
You know how he gets when he hasn’t had a cigarette.
Uruha looks down at his hands, turns them over and lets his eyes roam over the constellations in his palm. He remembers Ruki tracing the worn out lines and wrinkles on his skin, breathing promises and poetic trailings of love and forgiveness, smooth thumbs rubbing over his coarse, steel bitten fingertips. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon after a fight, a useless one he can’t even remember the reason of. They had made love after that, Uruha recalls with a slow ache in his heart, and Ruki’s hair had smelled like rain and his own desperate longing for love.
That is another memory for another time and Ruki isn’t here anymore. The love of his life isn’t his any longer, just another one of his relationships he’s fucked up. Only Uruha thinks - no, he knows for sure - that this one would leave his heart pained forever, that this one was genuine. He doesn’t even feel his heart in its place, it’s all torn apart and bloody and unforgiving and everything is numb.
Regret draws tight on his heartstrings; they almost suffocate him.
It’s going to rain.
Aoi observes, shivering slightly. Aoi wonders if he should apologize for the bruised lip and cheekbone Uruha now wears like a battle scar, but thinks no, his band mate deserved it. He sighs then, doesn’t know what to do. His cigarette has long been extinguished.
Uruha nods briefly, lost for a moment in his wanderings. He tastes a dry, ashen decay in his mouth, his tongue gently prodding the roof of his mouth experimentally. He can’t help but think he desperately needs a shower and sleep, robotic function that almost ceases to exist in meaning now that his heart is heavy with burden. Let it rain. Drown his sorrow, because the weather has always mirrored his emotions.
He laughs mirthlessly at that thought, and whispers
Thanks for today.
Uruha breathes it out, all quiet purpose, words singed with meaning and weighty emotions.
Aoi flicks his strands out of his eyes, nods quietly, gently. He understands. No words necessary.
Im leaving now. Aoi stands for a moment, contemplating on driving Uruha home. He’s sleepy, distraught and straight up tired, just wants to sleep. And Uruha stays on the other side of the city, so far from his place. Distance is a bitch. Aoi rubs his face tiredly, sighs inwardly.
But then he looks at the dejected, crestfallen husk of a man standing before him, lifeless eyes looking away. He almost feels Uruha disappearing; his friend has become a cold, drunken pathetic excuse of life.
He really wants to scream at Uruha, I can’t feel you anymore. I can’t feel you when you are trying to disappear.
We used to be such close friends. Why didn’t you tell me? The air is heavy with unasked questions and unfounded declarations.
Aoi just hands the extra motorcycle helmet he has to Uruha, mumbling stoically, im driving you home.
And Uruha just stands there; it’s been so long since someone’s cared for him like that. Since Ruki’s hospital stay no one’s bothered to talk to him, to look at him like he was alive. Just through him, like he’s a disgusting mass of space and waste of air. Right now he just wants to sleep on the streets and have some gangster or street loon abuse him. He wants to die unknowingly.
He’s never been good with words.
So he looks away, his shaking hands taking the helmet.
Okay.
Okay.
A/N: wrote this in 30 mins in a burst of creative energy, i miss writing so much. exams just ended so expect more from me, im thinking there are gonna be 15 chapters for this. thanks for sticking around and supporting me :) this chapter is long overdue, i hope you liked this. love you guys. thanks again, your support means so much to me. im sorry if this aint what you are looking for, for chapter 6 but i tried my best and i thought this scene needed to be shared.
Chapter: 6/?
Author: buriedinheart
Genre: angst, romance
Warnings: abuse, language, pain, sex, self harm, eating disorder, suicide attempt
Disclaimer: I own no one.
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Uruha x Ruki
Bands: the GazettE
Synopsis: We were pieces of driftwood floating in the raging seas, tornadoes and angry hurricanes.
Comments: '&&' = different scenes. PLEASE COMMENT IF YOU DO READ THEY KEEP ME GOING. im insecure as hell and am always unmotivated. :( oh well~ hope you enjoy this read. im finally back. more comments at the bottom.
Scraps… scraps are all that left. How to piece them together, or does he even want to?
Uruha breathes harshly into the cold, sweating bottle of vodka, the strong taste flowing into his veins like liquid agony.
He struggles to keep his senses in wake but everything is loud and invasive, the throbbing club music pounding into his senses, jolting him into nauseous consciousness. His bleary eyes dehydrated from exhaled smoke stare into the blurry glass he’s holding, his mind trying desperately to shut the day’s memories out.
He has nothing left. Just the cigarette he's holding, the bottle and his torn self. Shreds of his very being discarded in smoke tendrils wafting around his limp, brittle strands. He is smoking himself out. He thinks he might just dissolve into nothingness, on this bar stool in this indifferent club.; he feels the vodka he’s swallowed on an empty stomach back up insistently in his throat. So he clutches the cold bar top with wide eyes flying open in a heartbeat. because he mustn’t throw up. It’s the only control he has left.
His breath hitches,
In almost defiance Uruha brushes the nagging need to vomit away because this is the moment he is not living and the music is too loud, beats drumming into his delicate ears, strobe lights hurting his eyes, everything is moving, a shaking mass of flesh and music and sound and light and everything hurts.
I want to be in a place where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.
Maybe death would be better, he muses. He cant tell which way is the right side up anymore and he almost laughs when he feels his physical form meeting the unforgiving floor, he has no control and feel like a wobbling mess, delicate skin and bones crushing in abrasion with intolerant tiles.
Before his world goes dark he thinks he has asked for forgiveness in an ashen breath.
&&&&
Why the fuck did you drink so much.
No niceties, no ‘’how do you do’’ - who the fuck says that at four am in the morning anyway - the alcohol induced haze is dissipating from his head in a swirl of cigarette smoke dyeing the air with cold regrets and undeclared pain. Aoi insists on his question with a meaningful gesture of his burning cigarette, glowing embers flying away as the wind smokes the cigarette for him.
I don’t know.
He breathes the three words out slowly, watching Aoi’s dark eyes regard him gravely. He’s quite surprised, really, because he hadn’t expected this man to pick him up from the floor of the bar. He’s quite content with lying there in blacked-out bliss but the disgruntled bartender apparently had other ideas. He almost laughs at the irony, this dark stranger before him had punched the living daylights out of his face just the day before, and now aoi has rescued him like a knight in shining amour.
He snorts at the vision; aoi has no eyebrows so he can’t give the handsome, dark vibe a knight would have.
What. Aoi says almost angrily, obvious conflicting emotions flashing in his noir orbs.
I rush here on my motorbike because I don’t want another of my friends lying comatose in hospital, kai sleeps like the dead so I have to come, not like I want to, and im frustrated with everything and all you can do is laugh in my face.
Aoi’s words stream out of his mouth in a contorted waterfall of barely restrained anger and frustration, smoke leaving his lungs in forceful gasps.
Uruha blinks at the sudden torrent of words from the usually soft-spoken man, struggling to get his mind on straight. He sees clear now, and is in the displacing plateau between full sobriety and drunkenness. He looks at Aoi, his tall, shapely body wrapped in a thin wifebeater and black jeans, tired sleep still in his hair.
Aoi looks like frustration and anger personified, unhappiness and sadness radiating off his form in quiet waves. Uruha observes the way the static makes a distanced halo around the other man’s mussed up hair, almost fading in the dim streetlight as Uruha comes to his senses. He places a light hand on aoi’s motorbike, the throbbing engine giving him warmth.
Im sorry.
Aoi looks away at his apology, one of countless already, and lights up another stick.
You know, Taka didn’t mean to push you away like that. He’s just recovering from trauma and he really needed a cigarette.
Aoi says softly, meaningful eyes looking past Uruha’s over at some distant place only Aoi sees in the night.
You know how he gets when he hasn’t had a cigarette.
Uruha looks down at his hands, turns them over and lets his eyes roam over the constellations in his palm. He remembers Ruki tracing the worn out lines and wrinkles on his skin, breathing promises and poetic trailings of love and forgiveness, smooth thumbs rubbing over his coarse, steel bitten fingertips. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon after a fight, a useless one he can’t even remember the reason of. They had made love after that, Uruha recalls with a slow ache in his heart, and Ruki’s hair had smelled like rain and his own desperate longing for love.
That is another memory for another time and Ruki isn’t here anymore. The love of his life isn’t his any longer, just another one of his relationships he’s fucked up. Only Uruha thinks - no, he knows for sure - that this one would leave his heart pained forever, that this one was genuine. He doesn’t even feel his heart in its place, it’s all torn apart and bloody and unforgiving and everything is numb.
Regret draws tight on his heartstrings; they almost suffocate him.
It’s going to rain.
Aoi observes, shivering slightly. Aoi wonders if he should apologize for the bruised lip and cheekbone Uruha now wears like a battle scar, but thinks no, his band mate deserved it. He sighs then, doesn’t know what to do. His cigarette has long been extinguished.
Uruha nods briefly, lost for a moment in his wanderings. He tastes a dry, ashen decay in his mouth, his tongue gently prodding the roof of his mouth experimentally. He can’t help but think he desperately needs a shower and sleep, robotic function that almost ceases to exist in meaning now that his heart is heavy with burden. Let it rain. Drown his sorrow, because the weather has always mirrored his emotions.
He laughs mirthlessly at that thought, and whispers
Thanks for today.
Uruha breathes it out, all quiet purpose, words singed with meaning and weighty emotions.
Aoi flicks his strands out of his eyes, nods quietly, gently. He understands. No words necessary.
Im leaving now. Aoi stands for a moment, contemplating on driving Uruha home. He’s sleepy, distraught and straight up tired, just wants to sleep. And Uruha stays on the other side of the city, so far from his place. Distance is a bitch. Aoi rubs his face tiredly, sighs inwardly.
But then he looks at the dejected, crestfallen husk of a man standing before him, lifeless eyes looking away. He almost feels Uruha disappearing; his friend has become a cold, drunken pathetic excuse of life.
He really wants to scream at Uruha, I can’t feel you anymore. I can’t feel you when you are trying to disappear.
We used to be such close friends. Why didn’t you tell me? The air is heavy with unasked questions and unfounded declarations.
Aoi just hands the extra motorcycle helmet he has to Uruha, mumbling stoically, im driving you home.
And Uruha just stands there; it’s been so long since someone’s cared for him like that. Since Ruki’s hospital stay no one’s bothered to talk to him, to look at him like he was alive. Just through him, like he’s a disgusting mass of space and waste of air. Right now he just wants to sleep on the streets and have some gangster or street loon abuse him. He wants to die unknowingly.
He’s never been good with words.
So he looks away, his shaking hands taking the helmet.
Okay.
Okay.
A/N: wrote this in 30 mins in a burst of creative energy, i miss writing so much. exams just ended so expect more from me, im thinking there are gonna be 15 chapters for this. thanks for sticking around and supporting me :) this chapter is long overdue, i hope you liked this. love you guys. thanks again, your support means so much to me. im sorry if this aint what you are looking for, for chapter 6 but i tried my best and i thought this scene needed to be shared.