'crack in the ceiling' - [Uruha/Kai, etc] 1/?
Title: crack in the ceiling
Description: In which Kai promises him as he watches his eyes bleed into silver, “You were happy once.”
Pairings: Kai/Uruha, Aoi/Ruki, Reita/Ruki
Genre: Drama, romance, supernatural
Notes: For uruai's KU Summer Challenge :D
:.:
Who do you want to love tonight, darling?
Her lips were painted in dark rouge, a sin away from decadent noir; stained and slathered as if she had bitten into a thousand hearts. Uruha could almost hear the lost beats still pulsing on her tongue, each last gasp of life that left her coy leer as she handed him the photo. Uruha knowingly smiled back while quietly imagining her teeth coated with dripping scarlet. It would’ve been beautiful, he mused while running a thumb down the picture’s edge, to have the red stark against white, her incisors snapping open his veins - to have something tear him wide open.
Uruha examined the photo, eyes already flickering with a shadow of silver.
Old and worn, tarnished sepia - something kept close, something traced with a fingertip over and over again. Scuffs marred most of the man’s features, but it was enough.
He flipped it over. Script; small and signed in a hopeful slant:
Amano Shinji.
Uruha gave an absent nod, turning the picture over again to study the hazel eyes and sharp angles of the man’s jaw and cheekbones. He was steel shards and dark aplomb. Tall. Refined. Attractive.
Unavailable.
Uruha smirked, lifting his gaze and noticing the woman’s lingering, wistful stare upon the aged photo. The lamppost shuttered above them - light, no light; here, not here.
He whispered as he walked away, voice like crushed glass beneath their feet and lost to the vapors in the frosted air, “Two hours.”
:.:
The stars were smudged tonight, smog suffocating every lonely streetlight. The lolling darkness sighed against Uruha’s hunched shoulders as he walked briskly towards the address he let the stammering bartender scribble on his palm.
The young woman had sputtered as Uruha, borrowing Aoi’s come-hither glow and raven locks, had cocked his hip against the counter and smirked. The natural drawl of Aoi’s tenor had fallen almost too easily from his lips, the quirks already manifesting themselves as he slurred the vowels of her name and hummed at the pink staining her cheeks. Dragging the address out of her only took ten minutes, mostly due to Uruha’s own haste as Aoi’s skin began to feel too comfortable, too natural, too his.
And the soft-spoken blonde must have seen the streak of panic in his eyes, colors shifting from noir to copper, as she gently touched his arm in concern, “Are you alright?”
He had flashed her one of Aoi’s more charming grins, the one that usually had the elder lapping up the blushing delight of waitresses and bellboys alike, “It’s fine. I just haven’t been feeling like myself lately.”
Uruha nearly tore Aoi’s face off - his hair, his smile, his midnight eyes - when he stumbled behind the back of the bar. The brick was slick against his clammy palms as he waited for himself to return, pleading and swearing and “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Yuu”. It was slower this time, almost painful. His bones jostled and flesh shifted - static rippling through every vein and pore as he braced himself against the wall. A slow shiver wracked his spine, rattling him to fall back into Uruha. And even though he could feel the bowed lips parted in horror, the slender fingers, and the sun-dappled freckles, his gaze remained blackened by Aoi’s touch.
Too close, too close -
And so when Uruha found him smoking outside his apartment, he almost stopped.
Ashes were falling from his cigarette, pleading their last rites into the stained slush at the stranger’s feet - black specks that almost glistened with the burning sins of fallen stars. Uruha watched the man flick his cigarette again, unaware - his lips chapped and eyes pale.
He almost stopped.
Almost - almost,
but ‘almost’ wasn’t here.
“Can I borrow a light?”
The man - Shinji, Shinji - casually glanced over, his gaze drawn to the unlit cigarette in Uruha’s awaiting hand. He politely ignored the slight tremble of his bones, not commenting on how the other’s knuckles were a ghastly white - how something awful-beautiful was collapsing inside of him; breaking, shattering - and wordlessly held out a black Zippo.
The flame was too bright and Uruha nearly closed his eyes to the burn, his cold fingers reaching out - slowly, slowly - and brushing against Shinji’s.
And it was a warm pulse, a lick of static across his flesh - a glow of embers - and Uruha smiled with hazel eyes.
“Thanks.”
:.:
Something was snapping, Uruha realized later when the stilettos ripped into his sheets and the nails clawed at his collarbone. The push of it’s not - not what you - not you was careening into the chest, the heart, that wasn’t his. Hazel eyes gleaming, lapping at the trails of dust from the moon, he watched her spine arch perfectly into his desperate grip -
“Rough. He’s always rough.”
Uruha knotted his callused fingers in her dark roots, forcing her head back to murmur against her throat, lips dragging across her shaking breaths, “I don’t know any other way.”
- the metallic crimson tasted almost perfectly sweet as he bit deep into her shoulder and melted into her low purr. The foreign piercing slicing through his lip was cold against their sweat-slicked pants and he dragged it slowly across the goosebumps pricking her skin.
It was broken headboards and white-knuckling bedposts. It was nips against his jaw, scarlet dotting his stolen irises, black night covering them completely. Uruha slammed her into the mattress, hips crashing into her own, reveling in her sin-soaked moans - the cracked syllables of a name that’s not his. He sank in, so close to growling love into her quaking mouth.
But when she let out a soft sigh and pressed her maw gently upon his - not his - and pulled him close, quietly kissing the corner of his lips, Uruha yearned to lean away, rip himself out of this body, break every light, and drown in the stranglehold of night, because -
Because -
But her eyes were so alight with the gasp of every galaxy he could name, drops of nova-dust clinging to her eyelashes, and it was almost all for him - almost.
And he forgot in the moment between the sharp clicks of her heels as she wrapped her legs tight around his waist and the purr in her throat as she crooned Shinji into his parted lips. He forgot and he pushed and he was so close, so close -
Because her eyes were the same color as -
:.:
And the sheets were still tangled around his ankles, and his lamp was in a thousand shards, and she was pulling on her shredded tights.
He basked in the sickening feel of his eyes shifting from color to color - unsteady, unsure, which one, which one is real, is him - and she shoved the crumpled bills into his chest.
“You’re such a beautiful lie.”
ii.
Aoi could taste the last stains of lust, the final gasps of slipping control, when Uruha collapsed against the threshold of his room - shattering the quiet lull of 4AM. The floorboards were soaked in slush, the other’s boots in a dilapidated pile near the door, and Aoi quietly listened to the deep breaths and mumbled sorry’s. His hand hovered over the doorknob, ready to tear it off its hinges and take hold of Uruha’s shoulders. Maybe shake him. Maybe scream and plead and you’re so much more than this and promise a thousand trivial lies into the midnight bruises beneath those copper-silver eyes.
But Aoi stood there, listening. Slowly inhaling a shaky breath, the vermilion and sandalwood pulses of sex and despair flooded him, filled him - swallowing some void right beside his ribs and heart. He wanted to stop, to pluck the morose colors from Uruha’s grimaces and muted sobs… But his knees shook and it was so fucking good. Beautifully horrible.
Aoi touched his forehead to the splintered wood, mouthing his own silent apologies.
Because it was always like this: Uruha stumbling into their ransacked apartment in the hours between night and dawn, nearly gone and just barely grasping himself, and Aoi frozen on the outskirts - drinking in the war-torn emotions flitting across his soul, the bloodcurdling horror that echoes in every shutter of his lungs. Always almost twisting the knob open and dropping to his knees next to Uruha’s curled up form, sweeping the sweat-matted hair from Uruha’s pale cheeks; almost taking his hand and pressing it to his chest to bestow him every beautiful feeling he still has stirring within him to give. Almost.
But it waits until morning when Aoi will scorch his tongue on black coffee and will mutter to Uruha’s vacant stare across the table, “You still have the eyes of the whore you fucked last night.”
And Uruha will grin, something that nearly breaks his entire face apart, “It’s just a souvenir.”
Neither commenting on how he can’t shift the color back.
Sliding his hand off the door, Aoi slowly backed away and made his way into the kitchen. The glare of 4:32AM greeted him on the oven timer, reminding him of the heavy weight dragging down his eyelids and the curve in his slouched spine. He paused for a moment to stare at the time with unfocused eyes, absently noting the stick of the linoleum against his bare feet, before he gave in and turned to grab a glass.
Aoi stroked the smooth rim in order to calm the nerves raging inside of him, the hit of Uruha’s desire and disgust still swirling inside his mouth, and reached for the lower cabinet. The bottles of sake, rum, and other strong vices awaited him in a neat line, a pale shadow falling over them from the kitchen’s dim lighting. Aoi lifted out Uruha’s favorite scotch and poured the amber liquid until it nearly sloshed over the rim.
And he tried. With every sip and every swallow, Aoi tried to forget. But he could still taste the aureate decadence of sin, the sweet sonnets of maybe-love, the gritting teeth, and the haunted anguish. It was a heady mix, a wonderful toxin that Aoi would have loved to delicately seep into because it was close enough.
Another glass.
Another.
And even with the burn at his throat and the tilted angle of his kitchen through his glassy eyes, Aoi could still remember. He remembered the yellow happiness against his tongue as he watched Takanori lace his fingers with Reita, of watching the younger walk away, of wanting -
He remembered the hollow touch to his skin, the dead emotions fluttering inside his chest, as Uruha watched him watch Takanori, and promised, “You can have him. Just for tonight.”
And he had chuckled darkly, throwing back his sake so hard that his neck ached. He turned to the man draped against the bar beside him, noting the tousled auburn hair and the empty smile. Aoi snorted, eyes returning to his dry glass, “Oh? And what makes you so fucking sure?”
He started at the fingertip ghosting against his hand and nearly tore away with a snarl before the younger man softly uttered, “I’m not sure. But if you are, I can let you have him tonight.”
Aoi glared, the red filter of the bar’s lighting casting a dangerous glow to his noir eyes, “Fuck off and don’t you dare fucking touch him.”
The man only smiled wider, almost excited at the growl lacing Aoi’s words and the radiating irritation he released into the air, “You’re the one who will be doing the touching, don’t worry. All you have to do is ask.”
Incredulous, Aoi whipped around and caught the stranger’s collar in an iron grip. He jostled him, jaw clenching at the way those bowed lips only smirked in response. “What the fuck do you want from me?”
“It’s what you want.”
Aoi pulled him closer, his nails grazing the man’s throat, “And what do you fucking care?”
To Aoi’s sadistic pleasure, he could see the auburn-haired man start to gasp on the navy-laced anger that Aoi pushed into his chest. But he swallowed, a glint of sincerity - a glimmer of loneliness - in his copper eyes, “Because I understand. And it’s okay to want what you’ll never have.”
Aoi winced, wanting to turn away and leave - to close his eyes and pretend that maybe one day Takanori would look at him, really look, and that when he woke up with words written on every inch of his skin, they wouldn’t be Ruki’s confessions alone.
But he didn’t. He stayed and watched as the man’s smile softened, a hand reaching up to touch the taut tendons of his wrist, “But for you… You can have him tonight - I can have him love you tonight.”
He stroked his thumb against Aoi’s rapid pulse, “You just have to say yes.”
Aoi stared, unsure of what to make of the wry twist on the man’s lips nor the way his hand started to quiver. Because fuck.
He wanted.
Aoi wanted to know if Takanori’s hands could fit into his own, if he only smiled like that for Reita, if there was any chance - if maybe, maybe, Takanori could ease the addiction of tasting everyone else’s emotions but his own.
And Aoi was weak.
“How?”
The auburn-haired man smirked, stepping back as he was released from Aoi’s hold, and slipped him a card. The elder furrowed his brow at the address, but the stranger was already walking away - fading into the surly shadows of the bar and swallowing every last light with a final whisper:
“Two hours.”
Aoi found himself nearly aching with anticipation at the bar while he waited for the minutes to dwindle down. He scoffed at his eagerness and perhaps life-threatening stupidity for following a stranger’s odd promises. But his curiosity was piqued - the raw gruff of what if echoing in his ears, drowning the usually desirous emotions of lustful bar-goers.
Because maybe if he just had one night, maybe -
When an hour and a half slowly crawled by, Aoi pushed the money towards the bartender and let the door swing on his way out.
The address led him to a gritty area downtown - whores whispering sweet sonnets underneath streetlights and graffiti decorating every wall, sidewalk, and window. Aoi nearly gagged on the degrading auras that slunk past him, the decrepit resignation of every street urchin that lingered in the alleyways. It didn’t take long to find the apartment building - a dull pewter covered in the black scrawlings of society’s forgotten. The stairs creaked ominously and Aoi couldn’t help the morbid thought rushing to his mind as he glanced at the gaping holes in the plaster and the splintered mess of the banister, ‘This is going to be my tomb, isn’t it?’
Apartment 216.
The numbers were a tarnished gold and the ‘6’ was slanted to the right. Aoi stood there in askance, not knowing why he had decided to follow - only to be led into an underbelly, into something that wouldn’t sate him, but would perhaps destroy him.
He stood there contemplating, glaring at the crooked ‘6’, until he heard a shuffle from within. A slight scurrying, a quick padding of feet, and Aoi wanted to know, wanted to see.
Because maybe -
He knocked twice and held his breath as the shuffling came closer.
Closer, closer, and Aoi could taste it - the beautiful sin and relinquished control - just a little closer, and -
The door swung open to reveal Takanori - styled brown hair, small smirk, amber eyes, Takanori.
The smaller man folded his arms, taking in Aoi’s parted lips and wide eyes. With a chuckle, he stepped back, opening up the door a little wider, and mirthfully scolded, “You’re late. You better make it up to me.”
Aoi couldn’t - his throat was dry and his hands wouldn’t stop fucking shaking because this - this wasn’t, couldn’t be -
Watching the elder man slowly shake his head in mounting dread, Takanori’s smirk fell - mischievous visage softening with concern, “It’s okay.”
Aoi snapped, taking a rough step back, “No, no - I don’t know what this is, but I don’t want it, I don’t - ”
But he stopped, fucking stopped, because Takanori’s small hand was holding onto his wrist, the calluses of writing paper after paper rubbing against his flesh, and maybe this was real - maybe the stranger had let him know, talked to him, got him to see -
Takanori gently tugged on his arm, tawny gaze never leaving his frightened stare, “You want this and that’s okay. You can have it.”
The brunet lifted his other hand to tangle in Aoi’s raven locks, thumb caressing his temple. The taller man unconsciously leaned into the feather-light touch, the warmth, and Takanori pressed his lips to the underside of his jaw, “It’s okay like this. Just tonight.”
Aoi closed his eyes, tilting his head to nestle in further to the plush feel of Takanori’s mouth, wanting to memorize the beautiful curve of his smile against his flesh. And it was wrong - fucking wrong - but there was something beautiful in the tragedy of one starless night, of feeling the happiness still swell within him for something, anything.
Aoi sifted his hands into those soft tresses, fingertips dancing across the nape of his neck, lips hovering over Takanori’s quiet breaths - waiting, waiting, stretching this moment just a little longer so he can keep it maybe for a small part of forever.
Because Aoi had already fallen, and he didn’t mind plummeting even further. “Okay.”
And it was a wondrous blur of ratty curtains, torn sheets, hot pants, and wet declarations across clavicles. Aoi breathed in deep, trying to kiss every freckle that decorated Takanori’s alabaster flesh. The other moaned softly with every touch of his lips, sinking further and further into the elder’s grip as he straddled Aoi’s bucking waist. Hips snapped together, a beautiful cacophony of wait, yes, more and Takanori’s amber irises were aglow in the darkness. Aoi could feel him drinking in his pliant form, gaze unto him as he arched and mewled and dug his fingernails into the other’s shoulder blades to maybe rip them open wide and release the wings he always knew were there -
Takanori bent down to bite at his hipbones, leaving harsh pink reminders for the morning light, and Aoi could still feel tears prick his eyes - even as the sweet emotion of love threatened to overtake his heart, his fucking stupid heart - because he knew, he knew.
“You’re not him.” He was breathless, unraveling, needing to tear his eyes away from the image of Takanori lapping at his flesh, but wanting to keep him-not-him here all the same.
Takanori glanced up, tongue still pressing against him, heated gaze at half-mast and still beckoning him, “I could be.”
Aoi hissed, eyes squeezing shut as he arched off the sheets at the other’s skillful, patient touch slowly making its way to his ribs, “But you’re not. You’re not.”
And Takanori hesitated above his heart, hovering just above the frantic beats. Something flickered across his face - something Aoi would forever remember later when the apartment is still empty at the eleventh hour and insomnia greets him goodnight - and his amber eyes slowly faded to a dull copper-steel.
And he placed his cheek atop Aoi’s shaking chest.
“I know.”
:.:
Takanori-not-Takanori had tried to get him to turn away in the morning. He pleaded with him to not shatter the illusion, to gather the sheets and go. And Aoi wanted to. He fucking wanted to because he could still feel the fingertips tracing every part of him, the moans and gasps still fresh on his lips - the lies - but he stayed.
He stayed, even when he watched Takanori disappear - his hair lengthening to an auburn sheen, his lips becoming bowed, his face collapsing to become someone he didn’t know.
But he was still there - still in that warm amber hue and Aoi fisted his hand in the sheets when the other man glanced his way with those fucking eyes. “Who are you?”
The younger man shrugged, averting his gaze to stare down at the sheets pooling in his naked lap, “It depends.”
Aoi’s eyes blackened further, anger licking his spine at the nonchalance, and he growled lowly, “That’s not a fucking answer. You followed me at the bar, you led me on a fucking goose-chase into this hellhole and you wore my friend’s fucking face. Who the fuck are you?”
The man flinched, but he turned to look at him all the same. Aoi could see the amber slowly fading, silver beginning to streak across his irises.
“I’m whoever anyone wants. But I’m mostly Uruha.”
The acidic anger dissipated a little as Aoi felt a slight ache pulse between them, a desperate hollowness, and he let his fingers uncurl from the navy sheets. The silence loomed for a moment until Aoi couldn’t help but to crouch down and try to find those shifting eyes in the dying darkness, “Why do you do it?”
Uruha caught his questioning stare and smiled wanly, “It’s a chance for me too.”
Aoi furrowed his brow, frowning at the flippant words, “A chance for what? To be fucked?”
The other man leaned back on his hands, watching the chipping paint on the ceiling for a moment before he lolled his head towards Aoi once more, smile gone. “To have something, anything. Even if it’s only for a night.”
Aoi scoffed, “That seems a little desperate.”
Uruha smirked softly, “Aren’t we all?”
:.:
The bottom of the bottle was rimmed in a golden film, empty.
And Aoi was stretched out across the table, head buried in his arms - still remembering.
“We all get one night. And sometimes, when they’re fucking me, letting me fuck them, pulling my hair and whispering ‘I fucking love you’ into my skin - I almost believe it too.”
:.:.:
A/N: My prompt was "supernatural!AU bandfic" and so this is my first official time writing such a genre XD When I saw my prompt, I was immediately went "omg how do I do this D:" So, I hope nothing is too cliche! OTL
What started out as a oneshot has morphed into a multi-chapter monster - as you can see, poor Kai wasn't even mentioned yet! I'll try to get this written out quickly so everyone can enjoy some Uruha/Kai goodness :D
I hope you all enjoyed!
(major kudos to all three of my betas, including shadow_fictions here on LJ <3)
Oh! And just to eliminate any confusion so far:
Uruha: A shifter who is addicted to making "almost" become "something" by becoming everyone he's not (needs to touch whoever he wants to shift into in order to do so)
Aoi: An empath who is addicted to the emotions of others (can "taste" the color of emotions)
Even though Ruki was mentioned here, I'll leave it up to you guys to figure out what power he could possible have with the subtle clues I put in :3
Reita & Kai are coming soon :D
Description: In which Kai promises him as he watches his eyes bleed into silver, “You were happy once.”
Pairings: Kai/Uruha, Aoi/Ruki, Reita/Ruki
Genre: Drama, romance, supernatural
Notes: For uruai's KU Summer Challenge :D
:.:
Who do you want to love tonight, darling?
Her lips were painted in dark rouge, a sin away from decadent noir; stained and slathered as if she had bitten into a thousand hearts. Uruha could almost hear the lost beats still pulsing on her tongue, each last gasp of life that left her coy leer as she handed him the photo. Uruha knowingly smiled back while quietly imagining her teeth coated with dripping scarlet. It would’ve been beautiful, he mused while running a thumb down the picture’s edge, to have the red stark against white, her incisors snapping open his veins - to have something tear him wide open.
Uruha examined the photo, eyes already flickering with a shadow of silver.
Old and worn, tarnished sepia - something kept close, something traced with a fingertip over and over again. Scuffs marred most of the man’s features, but it was enough.
He flipped it over. Script; small and signed in a hopeful slant:
Amano Shinji.
Uruha gave an absent nod, turning the picture over again to study the hazel eyes and sharp angles of the man’s jaw and cheekbones. He was steel shards and dark aplomb. Tall. Refined. Attractive.
Unavailable.
Uruha smirked, lifting his gaze and noticing the woman’s lingering, wistful stare upon the aged photo. The lamppost shuttered above them - light, no light; here, not here.
He whispered as he walked away, voice like crushed glass beneath their feet and lost to the vapors in the frosted air, “Two hours.”
:.:
The stars were smudged tonight, smog suffocating every lonely streetlight. The lolling darkness sighed against Uruha’s hunched shoulders as he walked briskly towards the address he let the stammering bartender scribble on his palm.
The young woman had sputtered as Uruha, borrowing Aoi’s come-hither glow and raven locks, had cocked his hip against the counter and smirked. The natural drawl of Aoi’s tenor had fallen almost too easily from his lips, the quirks already manifesting themselves as he slurred the vowels of her name and hummed at the pink staining her cheeks. Dragging the address out of her only took ten minutes, mostly due to Uruha’s own haste as Aoi’s skin began to feel too comfortable, too natural, too his.
And the soft-spoken blonde must have seen the streak of panic in his eyes, colors shifting from noir to copper, as she gently touched his arm in concern, “Are you alright?”
He had flashed her one of Aoi’s more charming grins, the one that usually had the elder lapping up the blushing delight of waitresses and bellboys alike, “It’s fine. I just haven’t been feeling like myself lately.”
Uruha nearly tore Aoi’s face off - his hair, his smile, his midnight eyes - when he stumbled behind the back of the bar. The brick was slick against his clammy palms as he waited for himself to return, pleading and swearing and “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Yuu”. It was slower this time, almost painful. His bones jostled and flesh shifted - static rippling through every vein and pore as he braced himself against the wall. A slow shiver wracked his spine, rattling him to fall back into Uruha. And even though he could feel the bowed lips parted in horror, the slender fingers, and the sun-dappled freckles, his gaze remained blackened by Aoi’s touch.
Too close, too close -
And so when Uruha found him smoking outside his apartment, he almost stopped.
Ashes were falling from his cigarette, pleading their last rites into the stained slush at the stranger’s feet - black specks that almost glistened with the burning sins of fallen stars. Uruha watched the man flick his cigarette again, unaware - his lips chapped and eyes pale.
He almost stopped.
Almost - almost,
but ‘almost’ wasn’t here.
“Can I borrow a light?”
The man - Shinji, Shinji - casually glanced over, his gaze drawn to the unlit cigarette in Uruha’s awaiting hand. He politely ignored the slight tremble of his bones, not commenting on how the other’s knuckles were a ghastly white - how something awful-beautiful was collapsing inside of him; breaking, shattering - and wordlessly held out a black Zippo.
The flame was too bright and Uruha nearly closed his eyes to the burn, his cold fingers reaching out - slowly, slowly - and brushing against Shinji’s.
And it was a warm pulse, a lick of static across his flesh - a glow of embers - and Uruha smiled with hazel eyes.
“Thanks.”
:.:
Something was snapping, Uruha realized later when the stilettos ripped into his sheets and the nails clawed at his collarbone. The push of it’s not - not what you - not you was careening into the chest, the heart, that wasn’t his. Hazel eyes gleaming, lapping at the trails of dust from the moon, he watched her spine arch perfectly into his desperate grip -
“Rough. He’s always rough.”
Uruha knotted his callused fingers in her dark roots, forcing her head back to murmur against her throat, lips dragging across her shaking breaths, “I don’t know any other way.”
- the metallic crimson tasted almost perfectly sweet as he bit deep into her shoulder and melted into her low purr. The foreign piercing slicing through his lip was cold against their sweat-slicked pants and he dragged it slowly across the goosebumps pricking her skin.
It was broken headboards and white-knuckling bedposts. It was nips against his jaw, scarlet dotting his stolen irises, black night covering them completely. Uruha slammed her into the mattress, hips crashing into her own, reveling in her sin-soaked moans - the cracked syllables of a name that’s not his. He sank in, so close to growling love into her quaking mouth.
But when she let out a soft sigh and pressed her maw gently upon his - not his - and pulled him close, quietly kissing the corner of his lips, Uruha yearned to lean away, rip himself out of this body, break every light, and drown in the stranglehold of night, because -
Because -
But her eyes were so alight with the gasp of every galaxy he could name, drops of nova-dust clinging to her eyelashes, and it was almost all for him - almost.
And he forgot in the moment between the sharp clicks of her heels as she wrapped her legs tight around his waist and the purr in her throat as she crooned Shinji into his parted lips. He forgot and he pushed and he was so close, so close -
Because her eyes were the same color as -
:.:
And the sheets were still tangled around his ankles, and his lamp was in a thousand shards, and she was pulling on her shredded tights.
He basked in the sickening feel of his eyes shifting from color to color - unsteady, unsure, which one, which one is real, is him - and she shoved the crumpled bills into his chest.
“You’re such a beautiful lie.”
ii.
Aoi could taste the last stains of lust, the final gasps of slipping control, when Uruha collapsed against the threshold of his room - shattering the quiet lull of 4AM. The floorboards were soaked in slush, the other’s boots in a dilapidated pile near the door, and Aoi quietly listened to the deep breaths and mumbled sorry’s. His hand hovered over the doorknob, ready to tear it off its hinges and take hold of Uruha’s shoulders. Maybe shake him. Maybe scream and plead and you’re so much more than this and promise a thousand trivial lies into the midnight bruises beneath those copper-silver eyes.
But Aoi stood there, listening. Slowly inhaling a shaky breath, the vermilion and sandalwood pulses of sex and despair flooded him, filled him - swallowing some void right beside his ribs and heart. He wanted to stop, to pluck the morose colors from Uruha’s grimaces and muted sobs… But his knees shook and it was so fucking good. Beautifully horrible.
Aoi touched his forehead to the splintered wood, mouthing his own silent apologies.
Because it was always like this: Uruha stumbling into their ransacked apartment in the hours between night and dawn, nearly gone and just barely grasping himself, and Aoi frozen on the outskirts - drinking in the war-torn emotions flitting across his soul, the bloodcurdling horror that echoes in every shutter of his lungs. Always almost twisting the knob open and dropping to his knees next to Uruha’s curled up form, sweeping the sweat-matted hair from Uruha’s pale cheeks; almost taking his hand and pressing it to his chest to bestow him every beautiful feeling he still has stirring within him to give. Almost.
But it waits until morning when Aoi will scorch his tongue on black coffee and will mutter to Uruha’s vacant stare across the table, “You still have the eyes of the whore you fucked last night.”
And Uruha will grin, something that nearly breaks his entire face apart, “It’s just a souvenir.”
Neither commenting on how he can’t shift the color back.
Sliding his hand off the door, Aoi slowly backed away and made his way into the kitchen. The glare of 4:32AM greeted him on the oven timer, reminding him of the heavy weight dragging down his eyelids and the curve in his slouched spine. He paused for a moment to stare at the time with unfocused eyes, absently noting the stick of the linoleum against his bare feet, before he gave in and turned to grab a glass.
Aoi stroked the smooth rim in order to calm the nerves raging inside of him, the hit of Uruha’s desire and disgust still swirling inside his mouth, and reached for the lower cabinet. The bottles of sake, rum, and other strong vices awaited him in a neat line, a pale shadow falling over them from the kitchen’s dim lighting. Aoi lifted out Uruha’s favorite scotch and poured the amber liquid until it nearly sloshed over the rim.
And he tried. With every sip and every swallow, Aoi tried to forget. But he could still taste the aureate decadence of sin, the sweet sonnets of maybe-love, the gritting teeth, and the haunted anguish. It was a heady mix, a wonderful toxin that Aoi would have loved to delicately seep into because it was close enough.
Another glass.
Another.
And even with the burn at his throat and the tilted angle of his kitchen through his glassy eyes, Aoi could still remember. He remembered the yellow happiness against his tongue as he watched Takanori lace his fingers with Reita, of watching the younger walk away, of wanting -
He remembered the hollow touch to his skin, the dead emotions fluttering inside his chest, as Uruha watched him watch Takanori, and promised, “You can have him. Just for tonight.”
And he had chuckled darkly, throwing back his sake so hard that his neck ached. He turned to the man draped against the bar beside him, noting the tousled auburn hair and the empty smile. Aoi snorted, eyes returning to his dry glass, “Oh? And what makes you so fucking sure?”
He started at the fingertip ghosting against his hand and nearly tore away with a snarl before the younger man softly uttered, “I’m not sure. But if you are, I can let you have him tonight.”
Aoi glared, the red filter of the bar’s lighting casting a dangerous glow to his noir eyes, “Fuck off and don’t you dare fucking touch him.”
The man only smiled wider, almost excited at the growl lacing Aoi’s words and the radiating irritation he released into the air, “You’re the one who will be doing the touching, don’t worry. All you have to do is ask.”
Incredulous, Aoi whipped around and caught the stranger’s collar in an iron grip. He jostled him, jaw clenching at the way those bowed lips only smirked in response. “What the fuck do you want from me?”
“It’s what you want.”
Aoi pulled him closer, his nails grazing the man’s throat, “And what do you fucking care?”
To Aoi’s sadistic pleasure, he could see the auburn-haired man start to gasp on the navy-laced anger that Aoi pushed into his chest. But he swallowed, a glint of sincerity - a glimmer of loneliness - in his copper eyes, “Because I understand. And it’s okay to want what you’ll never have.”
Aoi winced, wanting to turn away and leave - to close his eyes and pretend that maybe one day Takanori would look at him, really look, and that when he woke up with words written on every inch of his skin, they wouldn’t be Ruki’s confessions alone.
But he didn’t. He stayed and watched as the man’s smile softened, a hand reaching up to touch the taut tendons of his wrist, “But for you… You can have him tonight - I can have him love you tonight.”
He stroked his thumb against Aoi’s rapid pulse, “You just have to say yes.”
Aoi stared, unsure of what to make of the wry twist on the man’s lips nor the way his hand started to quiver. Because fuck.
He wanted.
Aoi wanted to know if Takanori’s hands could fit into his own, if he only smiled like that for Reita, if there was any chance - if maybe, maybe, Takanori could ease the addiction of tasting everyone else’s emotions but his own.
And Aoi was weak.
“How?”
The auburn-haired man smirked, stepping back as he was released from Aoi’s hold, and slipped him a card. The elder furrowed his brow at the address, but the stranger was already walking away - fading into the surly shadows of the bar and swallowing every last light with a final whisper:
“Two hours.”
Aoi found himself nearly aching with anticipation at the bar while he waited for the minutes to dwindle down. He scoffed at his eagerness and perhaps life-threatening stupidity for following a stranger’s odd promises. But his curiosity was piqued - the raw gruff of what if echoing in his ears, drowning the usually desirous emotions of lustful bar-goers.
Because maybe if he just had one night, maybe -
When an hour and a half slowly crawled by, Aoi pushed the money towards the bartender and let the door swing on his way out.
The address led him to a gritty area downtown - whores whispering sweet sonnets underneath streetlights and graffiti decorating every wall, sidewalk, and window. Aoi nearly gagged on the degrading auras that slunk past him, the decrepit resignation of every street urchin that lingered in the alleyways. It didn’t take long to find the apartment building - a dull pewter covered in the black scrawlings of society’s forgotten. The stairs creaked ominously and Aoi couldn’t help the morbid thought rushing to his mind as he glanced at the gaping holes in the plaster and the splintered mess of the banister, ‘This is going to be my tomb, isn’t it?’
Apartment 216.
The numbers were a tarnished gold and the ‘6’ was slanted to the right. Aoi stood there in askance, not knowing why he had decided to follow - only to be led into an underbelly, into something that wouldn’t sate him, but would perhaps destroy him.
He stood there contemplating, glaring at the crooked ‘6’, until he heard a shuffle from within. A slight scurrying, a quick padding of feet, and Aoi wanted to know, wanted to see.
Because maybe -
He knocked twice and held his breath as the shuffling came closer.
Closer, closer, and Aoi could taste it - the beautiful sin and relinquished control - just a little closer, and -
The door swung open to reveal Takanori - styled brown hair, small smirk, amber eyes, Takanori.
The smaller man folded his arms, taking in Aoi’s parted lips and wide eyes. With a chuckle, he stepped back, opening up the door a little wider, and mirthfully scolded, “You’re late. You better make it up to me.”
Aoi couldn’t - his throat was dry and his hands wouldn’t stop fucking shaking because this - this wasn’t, couldn’t be -
Watching the elder man slowly shake his head in mounting dread, Takanori’s smirk fell - mischievous visage softening with concern, “It’s okay.”
Aoi snapped, taking a rough step back, “No, no - I don’t know what this is, but I don’t want it, I don’t - ”
But he stopped, fucking stopped, because Takanori’s small hand was holding onto his wrist, the calluses of writing paper after paper rubbing against his flesh, and maybe this was real - maybe the stranger had let him know, talked to him, got him to see -
Takanori gently tugged on his arm, tawny gaze never leaving his frightened stare, “You want this and that’s okay. You can have it.”
The brunet lifted his other hand to tangle in Aoi’s raven locks, thumb caressing his temple. The taller man unconsciously leaned into the feather-light touch, the warmth, and Takanori pressed his lips to the underside of his jaw, “It’s okay like this. Just tonight.”
Aoi closed his eyes, tilting his head to nestle in further to the plush feel of Takanori’s mouth, wanting to memorize the beautiful curve of his smile against his flesh. And it was wrong - fucking wrong - but there was something beautiful in the tragedy of one starless night, of feeling the happiness still swell within him for something, anything.
Aoi sifted his hands into those soft tresses, fingertips dancing across the nape of his neck, lips hovering over Takanori’s quiet breaths - waiting, waiting, stretching this moment just a little longer so he can keep it maybe for a small part of forever.
Because Aoi had already fallen, and he didn’t mind plummeting even further. “Okay.”
And it was a wondrous blur of ratty curtains, torn sheets, hot pants, and wet declarations across clavicles. Aoi breathed in deep, trying to kiss every freckle that decorated Takanori’s alabaster flesh. The other moaned softly with every touch of his lips, sinking further and further into the elder’s grip as he straddled Aoi’s bucking waist. Hips snapped together, a beautiful cacophony of wait, yes, more and Takanori’s amber irises were aglow in the darkness. Aoi could feel him drinking in his pliant form, gaze unto him as he arched and mewled and dug his fingernails into the other’s shoulder blades to maybe rip them open wide and release the wings he always knew were there -
Takanori bent down to bite at his hipbones, leaving harsh pink reminders for the morning light, and Aoi could still feel tears prick his eyes - even as the sweet emotion of love threatened to overtake his heart, his fucking stupid heart - because he knew, he knew.
“You’re not him.” He was breathless, unraveling, needing to tear his eyes away from the image of Takanori lapping at his flesh, but wanting to keep him-not-him here all the same.
Takanori glanced up, tongue still pressing against him, heated gaze at half-mast and still beckoning him, “I could be.”
Aoi hissed, eyes squeezing shut as he arched off the sheets at the other’s skillful, patient touch slowly making its way to his ribs, “But you’re not. You’re not.”
And Takanori hesitated above his heart, hovering just above the frantic beats. Something flickered across his face - something Aoi would forever remember later when the apartment is still empty at the eleventh hour and insomnia greets him goodnight - and his amber eyes slowly faded to a dull copper-steel.
And he placed his cheek atop Aoi’s shaking chest.
“I know.”
:.:
Takanori-not-Takanori had tried to get him to turn away in the morning. He pleaded with him to not shatter the illusion, to gather the sheets and go. And Aoi wanted to. He fucking wanted to because he could still feel the fingertips tracing every part of him, the moans and gasps still fresh on his lips - the lies - but he stayed.
He stayed, even when he watched Takanori disappear - his hair lengthening to an auburn sheen, his lips becoming bowed, his face collapsing to become someone he didn’t know.
But he was still there - still in that warm amber hue and Aoi fisted his hand in the sheets when the other man glanced his way with those fucking eyes. “Who are you?”
The younger man shrugged, averting his gaze to stare down at the sheets pooling in his naked lap, “It depends.”
Aoi’s eyes blackened further, anger licking his spine at the nonchalance, and he growled lowly, “That’s not a fucking answer. You followed me at the bar, you led me on a fucking goose-chase into this hellhole and you wore my friend’s fucking face. Who the fuck are you?”
The man flinched, but he turned to look at him all the same. Aoi could see the amber slowly fading, silver beginning to streak across his irises.
“I’m whoever anyone wants. But I’m mostly Uruha.”
The acidic anger dissipated a little as Aoi felt a slight ache pulse between them, a desperate hollowness, and he let his fingers uncurl from the navy sheets. The silence loomed for a moment until Aoi couldn’t help but to crouch down and try to find those shifting eyes in the dying darkness, “Why do you do it?”
Uruha caught his questioning stare and smiled wanly, “It’s a chance for me too.”
Aoi furrowed his brow, frowning at the flippant words, “A chance for what? To be fucked?”
The other man leaned back on his hands, watching the chipping paint on the ceiling for a moment before he lolled his head towards Aoi once more, smile gone. “To have something, anything. Even if it’s only for a night.”
Aoi scoffed, “That seems a little desperate.”
Uruha smirked softly, “Aren’t we all?”
:.:
The bottom of the bottle was rimmed in a golden film, empty.
And Aoi was stretched out across the table, head buried in his arms - still remembering.
“We all get one night. And sometimes, when they’re fucking me, letting me fuck them, pulling my hair and whispering ‘I fucking love you’ into my skin - I almost believe it too.”
:.:.:
A/N: My prompt was "supernatural!AU bandfic" and so this is my first official time writing such a genre XD When I saw my prompt, I was immediately went "omg how do I do this D:" So, I hope nothing is too cliche! OTL
What started out as a oneshot has morphed into a multi-chapter monster - as you can see, poor Kai wasn't even mentioned yet! I'll try to get this written out quickly so everyone can enjoy some Uruha/Kai goodness :D
I hope you all enjoyed!
(major kudos to all three of my betas, including shadow_fictions here on LJ <3)
Oh! And just to eliminate any confusion so far:
Uruha: A shifter who is addicted to making "almost" become "something" by becoming everyone he's not (needs to touch whoever he wants to shift into in order to do so)
Aoi: An empath who is addicted to the emotions of others (can "taste" the color of emotions)
Even though Ruki was mentioned here, I'll leave it up to you guys to figure out what power he could possible have with the subtle clues I put in :3
Reita & Kai are coming soon :D