'Skinny Wings' - [Tora/Hiroto] 1/1
Title: Skinny Wings
Genre: Romance, Drama
Pairing: Tora/Hiroto
Description: In which Tora arches his crooked back into Hiroto's shaking hands.
Notes: For bellcheria ♡ This is my first step into Alice Nine's fic-land, so I really hope you like it, love!
:.:.:
i.
He starts losing friction when they turn over in bed, their spines accidentally kissing hello.
Tora quickly casts his eyes down, fisting the sheets and mumbling with a crooked, trembling smile that he’s hoping Hiroto is one who kisses and tells because fuck he can’t remember a goddamn thing. Only a streak of light and yellow and the alcohol whispering sins so sweet -
- and Hiroto murmuring against his neck that he needs to slow down -
- and Tora grabbing his waistband with shaking fingers, head angled so the spike in his lip drags across the younger’s forehead, choking out: faster, please.
- and
His spine is trembling and Hiroto only breathes out a low chuckle as his fingertips tremble along the dip of his hipbone. It's a whimper away from desperate and it rattles him, makes him roughly grab those dark-rooted locks and pull, looming over this supine body he’s known for years.
It makes something crack inside his chest when Hiroto leans up to softly brush his lips against the underside of his clenched jaw. The same plush lips that almost found his last month, almost held him against the brick wall outside the bar; lips that almost tasted like vodka and rushed promises and silly little nothings they prayed the other wouldn’t remember when dawn dared to touch their shadows.
And fuck if Tora isn't arching his crooked back into Hiroto’s shaking hand - because it had never gone this far; he didn’t want to lose all those years, all those almost's, with a brash kiss, but maybe-maybe -
A breathless mewl, a plea, “Shinji - ”
And Tora kisses him harder, desperate like he’s running out of time and maybe he is because the elder can feel the secondhand rip into his back as they are suddenly intertwined so tight. Hiroto laps at his bottom lip, breath heavy as he nips at the metal spike - tugging, tugging.
Tora finds the crook of the younger’s neck, sucks at the tender flesh and grazes his nails along the blond’s side, hand drifting downwards until Hiroto jerks up with a strangled cry, and Tora wants to whisper how fucking beautiful he is into Hiroto's gasping chest as they begin to break-apart-unravel -
But really, he doesn’t remember.
And Hiroto lets him. Shrugs and mumbles something about dragging him to bed, something about him trapping the smaller man with his arm during the night - but that’s it, Tora-shi, don’t worry - and Tora can see the words crack and split on Hiroto’s lips, bleeding out into the sheets still pooled around their waists.
The crimson stains Hiroto’s smile.
ii.
Tora’s spine is about to snap, back hunched and fingers fidgeting in his pockets as they wait for Nao in the lobby. He can feel a crease carve itself into his forehead - engraved like a tombstone’s last rites - and he has to consciously stop his hand from reaching out and rubbing it away.
Shou nudges him in the side with a slow grin, “So, last night… I thought you didn’t drink anymore, Tora-shi?”
Shou’s fingers latch onto his jacket and tug lightly before letting go with a tilt of his head. Bones like twigs and lips cradling all the words he wants to confess into Shou’s ugly sweater, Tora snorts. “It happens.”
His voice is steady.
They happen and pass like snuffed out candles, like a flock of molting birds - loose feathers and skinny wings; they ebb away like the sighs in their chests as they closed their eyes and reached. They happen and then they’re gone.
Gone because Tora doesn’t know what he’d do if he allowed them to stay.
But he’s bundled up to his neck with the thickest scarf he could find.
Still mentally tracing over every pink bruise of remember-me against the flesh.
iii.
The smoke is curling inside his ribs a week later, lapping at his heart with a nicotine-laced coo, when Tora hears the backdoor of the studio creak open. He doesn’t turn to watch Hiroto pause in the doorway, feet shuffling with indecision - he stares at the asphalt, watches how it seems to glow like the embers on his cigarette underneath the streetlight.
There’s a sigh and suddenly two wisps of smoke are intertwining in the frigid air.
Tora bites his lip, furrows his brow - tries his goddamn hardest not to glance next to him because he knows Hiroto knows and if he catches sight of those tired eyes and that broken tilt of his head then Tora might just do something that will make them both fucking happy and -
“I’m sorry,” he whispers - confesses. “About the hotel and falling asleep on your arm.”
For trapping you - with me - because sometimes my fingers are claws and I ruin things and tear them apart, but one day - one day, I will -
The elder feels the shift beside him as Hiroto shrugs, voice low as he licks the ashes from his lips, “I know.”
Tora grips his cigarette tight, chest constricting, and - goddammit - looks over. Hiroto’s neck is orange from the streetlamp and there’s not enough light in the sky’s lungs to let Tora see if the glistening on Hiroto’s cheek is from the burn of the Menthol or maybe from the red puckers that are still raw along his collarbone -
- and the moon is waning, just a crescent. And Tora can see what he is losing.
And suddenly he can’t look away. The younger’s neck is stretched out, pale, an invitation for him to tangle his gnarled fingers within that dark-rooted hair - to skim his chapped lips behind the other’s ear and whisper promises they both know he won’t keep. But maybe, one day. He watches as Hiroto’s pulse thrums and thinks: I could love that.
His gaze flickers up and finds Hiroto’s warm eyes - so, that’s where all the stars have gone - staring right back and -
I could, I really fucking could.
- Hiroto smiles, constellations breaking in his eyes.
iv.
“It’s okay.”
v.
And when Tora falls, it’s with tangled hands.
:.:.:
A/N: /hides
Genre: Romance, Drama
Pairing: Tora/Hiroto
Description: In which Tora arches his crooked back into Hiroto's shaking hands.
Notes: For bellcheria ♡ This is my first step into Alice Nine's fic-land, so I really hope you like it, love!
:.:.:
i.
He starts losing friction when they turn over in bed, their spines accidentally kissing hello.
Tora quickly casts his eyes down, fisting the sheets and mumbling with a crooked, trembling smile that he’s hoping Hiroto is one who kisses and tells because fuck he can’t remember a goddamn thing. Only a streak of light and yellow and the alcohol whispering sins so sweet -
- and Hiroto murmuring against his neck that he needs to slow down -
- and Tora grabbing his waistband with shaking fingers, head angled so the spike in his lip drags across the younger’s forehead, choking out: faster, please.
- and
His spine is trembling and Hiroto only breathes out a low chuckle as his fingertips tremble along the dip of his hipbone. It's a whimper away from desperate and it rattles him, makes him roughly grab those dark-rooted locks and pull, looming over this supine body he’s known for years.
It makes something crack inside his chest when Hiroto leans up to softly brush his lips against the underside of his clenched jaw. The same plush lips that almost found his last month, almost held him against the brick wall outside the bar; lips that almost tasted like vodka and rushed promises and silly little nothings they prayed the other wouldn’t remember when dawn dared to touch their shadows.
And fuck if Tora isn't arching his crooked back into Hiroto’s shaking hand - because it had never gone this far; he didn’t want to lose all those years, all those almost's, with a brash kiss, but maybe-maybe -
A breathless mewl, a plea, “Shinji - ”
And Tora kisses him harder, desperate like he’s running out of time and maybe he is because the elder can feel the secondhand rip into his back as they are suddenly intertwined so tight. Hiroto laps at his bottom lip, breath heavy as he nips at the metal spike - tugging, tugging.
Tora finds the crook of the younger’s neck, sucks at the tender flesh and grazes his nails along the blond’s side, hand drifting downwards until Hiroto jerks up with a strangled cry, and Tora wants to whisper how fucking beautiful he is into Hiroto's gasping chest as they begin to break-apart-unravel -
But really, he doesn’t remember.
And Hiroto lets him. Shrugs and mumbles something about dragging him to bed, something about him trapping the smaller man with his arm during the night - but that’s it, Tora-shi, don’t worry - and Tora can see the words crack and split on Hiroto’s lips, bleeding out into the sheets still pooled around their waists.
The crimson stains Hiroto’s smile.
ii.
Tora’s spine is about to snap, back hunched and fingers fidgeting in his pockets as they wait for Nao in the lobby. He can feel a crease carve itself into his forehead - engraved like a tombstone’s last rites - and he has to consciously stop his hand from reaching out and rubbing it away.
Shou nudges him in the side with a slow grin, “So, last night… I thought you didn’t drink anymore, Tora-shi?”
Shou’s fingers latch onto his jacket and tug lightly before letting go with a tilt of his head. Bones like twigs and lips cradling all the words he wants to confess into Shou’s ugly sweater, Tora snorts. “It happens.”
His voice is steady.
They happen and pass like snuffed out candles, like a flock of molting birds - loose feathers and skinny wings; they ebb away like the sighs in their chests as they closed their eyes and reached. They happen and then they’re gone.
Gone because Tora doesn’t know what he’d do if he allowed them to stay.
But he’s bundled up to his neck with the thickest scarf he could find.
Still mentally tracing over every pink bruise of remember-me against the flesh.
iii.
The smoke is curling inside his ribs a week later, lapping at his heart with a nicotine-laced coo, when Tora hears the backdoor of the studio creak open. He doesn’t turn to watch Hiroto pause in the doorway, feet shuffling with indecision - he stares at the asphalt, watches how it seems to glow like the embers on his cigarette underneath the streetlight.
There’s a sigh and suddenly two wisps of smoke are intertwining in the frigid air.
Tora bites his lip, furrows his brow - tries his goddamn hardest not to glance next to him because he knows Hiroto knows and if he catches sight of those tired eyes and that broken tilt of his head then Tora might just do something that will make them both fucking happy and -
“I’m sorry,” he whispers - confesses. “About the hotel and falling asleep on your arm.”
For trapping you - with me - because sometimes my fingers are claws and I ruin things and tear them apart, but one day - one day, I will -
The elder feels the shift beside him as Hiroto shrugs, voice low as he licks the ashes from his lips, “I know.”
Tora grips his cigarette tight, chest constricting, and - goddammit - looks over. Hiroto’s neck is orange from the streetlamp and there’s not enough light in the sky’s lungs to let Tora see if the glistening on Hiroto’s cheek is from the burn of the Menthol or maybe from the red puckers that are still raw along his collarbone -
- and the moon is waning, just a crescent. And Tora can see what he is losing.
And suddenly he can’t look away. The younger’s neck is stretched out, pale, an invitation for him to tangle his gnarled fingers within that dark-rooted hair - to skim his chapped lips behind the other’s ear and whisper promises they both know he won’t keep. But maybe, one day. He watches as Hiroto’s pulse thrums and thinks: I could love that.
His gaze flickers up and finds Hiroto’s warm eyes - so, that’s where all the stars have gone - staring right back and -
I could, I really fucking could.
- Hiroto smiles, constellations breaking in his eyes.
iv.
“It’s okay.”
v.
And when Tora falls, it’s with tangled hands.
:.:.:
A/N: /hides