'wide shut' - [Aoi/Uruha] 1/1
Title: wide shut
Pairing: Aoi/Uruha
Genre: Drama, romance
Notes: Written between 1AM and 2AM.
Synopsis: Because Aoi still presses his lips to Uruha’s shoulder when it’s over, mouthing hushed constellations into each freckle.
.:.:.:.
.:.:.:.
i.
The more Aoi drinks, the more everyone begins to grin - faces stretched wide and beckoning, come just a little closer - the more every shadow from a flickering lamppost becomes a hand, reaching for his trembling fingers. And he’s scattered - across this bar, the blushing stars, the somber smile and crooked teeth Uruha sends his way when he starts to tug on Uruha’s sleeve. There’s something in his throat, something warm and almost-there, when Aoi leans in close to Uruha’s lithe body. He stares into the canary-yellow of the taller’s throat and the words start to spill out. Little confessions.
Like:
“I wrote it for you.”
And more like:
“Sometimes I wish you were here.”
And Uruha swallows, his throat pulsing in skipping heartbeats as he whispers into the smoke of the bar, “I’m right here.”
And Aoi’s shaking his head no-no-no - his hand reaching down to bring Uruha’s cold fingers up to cup his face. He leans in. Eyes glazed. Spine cracking apart.
“No. Here.”
ii.
They fuck raw and they fuck tender - wrists bruised, and lips torn, and hearts ripped out and thrown on lampshades - but it never changes a thing.
Because Aoi still presses his lips to Uruha’s shoulder when it’s over, mouthing hushed constellations into each freckle. His leg still slides over the aching space between them to tangle around Uruha’s stiff limbs. Cold toes graze frigid ankles. Shy fingers drift to trembling hands (can we have this? just once?)
Because Uruha still runs as far away as he can - to the soundproof walls of the studio, to the bottom of a glass, to anywhere but the wrinkled sheets and the silent plea to stay.
And maybe it’s good like this, Aoi bites out after slamming the recording room door open and viciously ripping off Uruha’s headphones with a snarl. He leers, a broken smirk splitting his face apart, “Maybe now you’ll have some inspiration to write your fucking solo.”
Aoi throws the headphones to the floor, the sickening crack slamming against their chests, “It must be so hard to write sober.”
“Aoi,” Uruha grits his teeth, hand tightening against the muted strings, “Stop -”
“No, harder, Kouyou,” Aoi hisses, eyes bruised in shattered midnight.
When the door slams, its rattle echoes against their bones.
iii.
And Aoi tries.
He pushes up rocks and digs trenches and builds distance between them. He tweets until the fans chastise him for being up until dawn; he smokes until his eyes blur from ash. Aoi drags Hitsugi (and Kazuki and Mizuki and Chiyu and - ) out to every bar he can remember. The lights start to blur as his hands go numb, the neon-slathered night cradling him as he tips back another shot.
He tries to forget the blisters on his fingers from snapped strings.
He tries to forget that practice is tomorrow.
He tries to forget his name.
He tries to forget.
iv.
He doesn’t.
v.
Aoi’s lips taste like vodka and withered goodbyes when Uruha opens the door, night bleeding out into his apartment as Aoi collapses forward - trembling hands tangling in Uruha’s flesh. Aoi’s hair is mussed with smoke and Uruha almost chokes. The stale kiss of nicotine bites into his chest - he’s gasping, Aoi’s cheeks are wet, and they’re falling, falling -
The wall hits Uruha’s back with a breathless hello. He lets Aoi bruise him with every clash of their lips, clutching the elder by the elbows when he starts to slip.
And Aoi’s barely holding on, his grip tugging Uruha forward - down, down, until they’re on their knees and Aoi’s whispering to just look at him -
Uruha traces the lines of Aoi’s face with a shaking finger, a moment of hushed calm in the face of Aoi’s wrecked voice and glazed eyes. Fingertips brush against Aoi’s parted lips, thumbs stroking the underside of his jaw - he can feel the elder’s rough swallow in his pulse - and Uruha leans in.
He bites the delicate skin behind Aoi’s ear, and for a fleeting, beautiful moment, he forgets that this isn’t what this is supposed to be.
He forgets with every soft mewl that drips from Aoi’s maw - forgets and gets lost and found in the soft charcoal tresses, the warm
sighs ghosting along his skin.
Until the scent of cheap liquor starts to stick to their sides, ashes making Aoi’s mouth taste like hell, and Uruha can’t - can’t - can’t -
He grounds his body into Aoi’s, hands digging into those desperate hips - tries to make this a wicked thing, tries to get Aoi to scream and carve his name (Yuu, Aoi, Shiroyama) into his back with blackened claws. He tries to make it hurt with each thrust and guttural moan. Uruha bites Aoi’s lip hard, feels crimson stain his teeth. But Aoi only sweeps his fingertips beneath Uruha’s eyes, calluses gentle, and they come away glistening.
Aoi seems to flicker as he stares at the tears in his hands, breath heavy, before he starts pushing at Uruha’s shoulders. But the alcohol is still in his bones and he’s left clutching at Uruha’s shoulder blades, squeezing so tight like maybe he could crack them apart and release crooked wings.
“Don’t fuck with me,” Aoi finally whispers into Uruha’s neck.
The younger blinks at the feel of his own tears against his back as Aoi slides his hands into sloppy Hail-Mary’s. They lay there, hipbones sharp and knees chapped from the hardwood floor.
“Don’t,” Aoi warns, throat raw - begging.
And Uruha merely presses his lips to Aoi’s cheek -
his jaw -
his footsteps
his bones -
his shadow as he walks away.
vi.
Uruha bathes his face in kohl. His cheeks are a burning shade of violet and rose and someone else’s fingertips.
Aoi glances up from tangled strings and sees the blacks and grays screaming in Uruha’s eyes.
He sees ache and someone else’s name on Uruha’s lips.
vii.
Uruha sometimes wonders what Aoi looks like when he sleeps - when he closes his eyes against the crash of their chests, when his raven hair tangles in the sheets and Uruha’s hands. He wonders if Aoi’s the same person when he lays there, eyes naked and fingers grasping the tails of falling stars.
Uruha wonders what Aoi would do if he whispered into the space between his heart and collarbone, “Okay. This time - okay.”
Because maybe Aoi would graze his fingertips near the corner of Uruha’s eyes, lips hovering so close - close, close - and thighs trembling as he stops everything to breathe in. Out.
And maybe Uruha could promise, could swear it - and maybe it would be amazing.
Aoi’s back arching into Uruha’s callused hands, soft cries rattling them apart, and maybe Uruha would reach back after it’s over, reach for Aoi’s waiting hand and clasp that empty palm and maybe -
Uruha watches as Aoi takes a drag from his cigarette, headphones lopsided, laptop whirring with prenatal notes and chords. His eyes trace the faint lines wrinkling on his forehead, watching as Aoi’s eyes flutter shut as the music swallows him.
And Uruha wonders what color Aoi’s eyes are when no one can see them.
Wonders if they are the same inked midnight that find his when Aoi pushes Uruha up against the doorframe later - headphones tangled in wires and tongue lapping at his pulse.
“You smell like cigarettes,” Aoi nips Uruha’s bottom lip, tasting the ash.
Uruha lets his head fall back, hissing at the feel of his lip being pulled through Aoi’s teeth.
“Did you miss me that much?”
Uruha lolls his head against the wall, Aoi’s hips rolling slowly - slowly, painfully, reveling in waistband friction - teasing out the little death. “Did you say my name when he made you come?”
Another roll, hipbones stabbing into him.
Aoi’s eyes are noir and plagued and Uruha wants to soothe the ache in them - somehow explain to the ragged hole in Aoi’s chest that he didn’t mean to, he never meant to, and he always wanted to - wanted -
But instead, he whispers into Aoi’s steady hands: “Yes.”
viii.
look-at-me
look-at-me
And when Uruha finally does, Aoi has half his face buried in the pillow - cheek reddened by the pattern of the quilt tangled around their ankles. Light is a faraway thing, but Uruha can see the angles of the other’s body glow. He can see the curve of his back, the freckles on his shoulders. And when Aoi opens his eyes -
dark, dark,
brown - warm,
gasping his name
- Uruha kisses them shut.
.:.:.:.
A/N: Hello, angst. I've missed you.
**unedited; will edit in the morning (..later in the morning since it's 3:21AM right now)
Pairing: Aoi/Uruha
Genre: Drama, romance
Notes: Written between 1AM and 2AM.
Synopsis: Because Aoi still presses his lips to Uruha’s shoulder when it’s over, mouthing hushed constellations into each freckle.
.:.:.:.
.:.:.:.
i.
The more Aoi drinks, the more everyone begins to grin - faces stretched wide and beckoning, come just a little closer - the more every shadow from a flickering lamppost becomes a hand, reaching for his trembling fingers. And he’s scattered - across this bar, the blushing stars, the somber smile and crooked teeth Uruha sends his way when he starts to tug on Uruha’s sleeve. There’s something in his throat, something warm and almost-there, when Aoi leans in close to Uruha’s lithe body. He stares into the canary-yellow of the taller’s throat and the words start to spill out. Little confessions.
Like:
“I wrote it for you.”
And more like:
“Sometimes I wish you were here.”
And Uruha swallows, his throat pulsing in skipping heartbeats as he whispers into the smoke of the bar, “I’m right here.”
And Aoi’s shaking his head no-no-no - his hand reaching down to bring Uruha’s cold fingers up to cup his face. He leans in. Eyes glazed. Spine cracking apart.
“No. Here.”
ii.
They fuck raw and they fuck tender - wrists bruised, and lips torn, and hearts ripped out and thrown on lampshades - but it never changes a thing.
Because Aoi still presses his lips to Uruha’s shoulder when it’s over, mouthing hushed constellations into each freckle. His leg still slides over the aching space between them to tangle around Uruha’s stiff limbs. Cold toes graze frigid ankles. Shy fingers drift to trembling hands (can we have this? just once?)
Because Uruha still runs as far away as he can - to the soundproof walls of the studio, to the bottom of a glass, to anywhere but the wrinkled sheets and the silent plea to stay.
And maybe it’s good like this, Aoi bites out after slamming the recording room door open and viciously ripping off Uruha’s headphones with a snarl. He leers, a broken smirk splitting his face apart, “Maybe now you’ll have some inspiration to write your fucking solo.”
Aoi throws the headphones to the floor, the sickening crack slamming against their chests, “It must be so hard to write sober.”
“Aoi,” Uruha grits his teeth, hand tightening against the muted strings, “Stop -”
“No, harder, Kouyou,” Aoi hisses, eyes bruised in shattered midnight.
When the door slams, its rattle echoes against their bones.
iii.
And Aoi tries.
He pushes up rocks and digs trenches and builds distance between them. He tweets until the fans chastise him for being up until dawn; he smokes until his eyes blur from ash. Aoi drags Hitsugi (and Kazuki and Mizuki and Chiyu and - ) out to every bar he can remember. The lights start to blur as his hands go numb, the neon-slathered night cradling him as he tips back another shot.
He tries to forget the blisters on his fingers from snapped strings.
He tries to forget that practice is tomorrow.
He tries to forget his name.
He tries to forget.
iv.
He doesn’t.
v.
Aoi’s lips taste like vodka and withered goodbyes when Uruha opens the door, night bleeding out into his apartment as Aoi collapses forward - trembling hands tangling in Uruha’s flesh. Aoi’s hair is mussed with smoke and Uruha almost chokes. The stale kiss of nicotine bites into his chest - he’s gasping, Aoi’s cheeks are wet, and they’re falling, falling -
The wall hits Uruha’s back with a breathless hello. He lets Aoi bruise him with every clash of their lips, clutching the elder by the elbows when he starts to slip.
And Aoi’s barely holding on, his grip tugging Uruha forward - down, down, until they’re on their knees and Aoi’s whispering to just look at him -
Uruha traces the lines of Aoi’s face with a shaking finger, a moment of hushed calm in the face of Aoi’s wrecked voice and glazed eyes. Fingertips brush against Aoi’s parted lips, thumbs stroking the underside of his jaw - he can feel the elder’s rough swallow in his pulse - and Uruha leans in.
He bites the delicate skin behind Aoi’s ear, and for a fleeting, beautiful moment, he forgets that this isn’t what this is supposed to be.
He forgets with every soft mewl that drips from Aoi’s maw - forgets and gets lost and found in the soft charcoal tresses, the warm
sighs ghosting along his skin.
Until the scent of cheap liquor starts to stick to their sides, ashes making Aoi’s mouth taste like hell, and Uruha can’t - can’t - can’t -
He grounds his body into Aoi’s, hands digging into those desperate hips - tries to make this a wicked thing, tries to get Aoi to scream and carve his name (Yuu, Aoi, Shiroyama) into his back with blackened claws. He tries to make it hurt with each thrust and guttural moan. Uruha bites Aoi’s lip hard, feels crimson stain his teeth. But Aoi only sweeps his fingertips beneath Uruha’s eyes, calluses gentle, and they come away glistening.
Aoi seems to flicker as he stares at the tears in his hands, breath heavy, before he starts pushing at Uruha’s shoulders. But the alcohol is still in his bones and he’s left clutching at Uruha’s shoulder blades, squeezing so tight like maybe he could crack them apart and release crooked wings.
“Don’t fuck with me,” Aoi finally whispers into Uruha’s neck.
The younger blinks at the feel of his own tears against his back as Aoi slides his hands into sloppy Hail-Mary’s. They lay there, hipbones sharp and knees chapped from the hardwood floor.
“Don’t,” Aoi warns, throat raw - begging.
And Uruha merely presses his lips to Aoi’s cheek -
his jaw -
his footsteps
his bones -
his shadow as he walks away.
vi.
Uruha bathes his face in kohl. His cheeks are a burning shade of violet and rose and someone else’s fingertips.
Aoi glances up from tangled strings and sees the blacks and grays screaming in Uruha’s eyes.
He sees ache and someone else’s name on Uruha’s lips.
vii.
Uruha sometimes wonders what Aoi looks like when he sleeps - when he closes his eyes against the crash of their chests, when his raven hair tangles in the sheets and Uruha’s hands. He wonders if Aoi’s the same person when he lays there, eyes naked and fingers grasping the tails of falling stars.
Uruha wonders what Aoi would do if he whispered into the space between his heart and collarbone, “Okay. This time - okay.”
Because maybe Aoi would graze his fingertips near the corner of Uruha’s eyes, lips hovering so close - close, close - and thighs trembling as he stops everything to breathe in. Out.
And maybe Uruha could promise, could swear it - and maybe it would be amazing.
Aoi’s back arching into Uruha’s callused hands, soft cries rattling them apart, and maybe Uruha would reach back after it’s over, reach for Aoi’s waiting hand and clasp that empty palm and maybe -
Uruha watches as Aoi takes a drag from his cigarette, headphones lopsided, laptop whirring with prenatal notes and chords. His eyes trace the faint lines wrinkling on his forehead, watching as Aoi’s eyes flutter shut as the music swallows him.
And Uruha wonders what color Aoi’s eyes are when no one can see them.
Wonders if they are the same inked midnight that find his when Aoi pushes Uruha up against the doorframe later - headphones tangled in wires and tongue lapping at his pulse.
“You smell like cigarettes,” Aoi nips Uruha’s bottom lip, tasting the ash.
Uruha lets his head fall back, hissing at the feel of his lip being pulled through Aoi’s teeth.
“Did you miss me that much?”
Uruha lolls his head against the wall, Aoi’s hips rolling slowly - slowly, painfully, reveling in waistband friction - teasing out the little death. “Did you say my name when he made you come?”
Another roll, hipbones stabbing into him.
Aoi’s eyes are noir and plagued and Uruha wants to soothe the ache in them - somehow explain to the ragged hole in Aoi’s chest that he didn’t mean to, he never meant to, and he always wanted to - wanted -
But instead, he whispers into Aoi’s steady hands: “Yes.”
viii.
look-at-me
look-at-me
And when Uruha finally does, Aoi has half his face buried in the pillow - cheek reddened by the pattern of the quilt tangled around their ankles. Light is a faraway thing, but Uruha can see the angles of the other’s body glow. He can see the curve of his back, the freckles on his shoulders. And when Aoi opens his eyes -
dark, dark,
brown - warm,
gasping his name
- Uruha kisses them shut.
.:.:.:.
A/N: Hello, angst. I've missed you.
**unedited; will edit in the morning (..later in the morning since it's 3:21AM right now)