'sounds like hallelujah' - [Reita/Uruha] 1/1
Title: Sounds Like Hallelujah
Pairing: Reita/Uruha
Genre: Romance, drama
Notes: This bromance is underrated, I believe. **Reita is two years older than Uruha in this tale.
Synopsis: But he holds on, rests the bottom of his palm where Kouyou’s collarbones begin to swoop down like skinny wings, and stays there.
i.
They hold each other’s bottom lips with their teeth.
It’s a kiss bruised with snarls - crooked claws twisting into crisp white sleeves, a half-desperate shaking moan of mine-mine-you’re-mine slithering into Kouyou’s open-wide mouth. And Akira tangles himself inside Kouyou’s jacket, snagging himself on the metal buttons and breaking his short nails along the zipper; Kouyou is gasping too deep to catch the rhythm right, his palms hovering over Akira’s shoulder blades.
The bathroom stall door shakes, jangling on its hinges with quivers that lick Kouyou’s spine. His vertebrae slowly splinter and crack apart, and Akira’s lips find the cluster of freckles beneath his jaw - he tilts his head up-up-over until his throat is a northern star.
“Touch me, Kou - please, just fucking touch me - ”
Kouyou rushes forward, fumbles a bit and pushes his open mouth - wide, so wide, like he would swallow the entire galaxy plus five more Saturns for him, for him - into Akira’s cheek instead of his awaiting lips. He accidentally swipes the tip of his tongue along the elder boy’s stubble (two days old, Kouyou remembers - remembers the bristle against his fingertips from yesterday, the soft whisper of flesh against his own cheek from the day before that) before whipping back with a stuttered sorry-hold-on-I-can
I-can-do-this
for-you
- banging into the door before Akira rolls his eyes and tugs him back with a quirk of a smile. Kouyou closes his eyes tight, leans in before the red shame can bloom on his face - but not before Akira pushes a leg between his thighs, slowly angling it into Kouyou’s sudden hiccup-gasp, and catches the younger’s groan with another kiss.
It’s biting, sharp - more gums and teeth than sweet whispers and all the other flowery drivel that Kouyou secretly reads from the magazines he steals from his sister; the ones he pours over with a flashlight beneath his sheets and studies each word on how to tilt your head like this, how to fit your hands into his, how to make him feel good, how to make him love you -
But there aren't any stars in the sky as they kiss, craning their necks back until the ache starts to throb below their belts and Akira shucks off his jeans and grabs Kouyou’s hips like they’ve done this four-hundred-and-two times (when, really, they’ve only tentatively stroked and ghosted over hot and hard flesh with unsure fingers behind the gym and beneath the bleachers) and for a second, Kouyou thinks this-is-it.
This.
Two o’clock in the afternoon, the boy’s bathroom, stall number three; Akira’s tie twisted around to dangle down the slope of his back; his own lips bitten clean through and boxers already half-soaked.
But then Akira looks up from Kouyou’s shifting hips - lifting up-and-away into the other’s callused and rough fingertips, arching into whatever-you-want, because as-long-as-it’s-you, because I-think-I-might - and finds Kouyou’s bowed lips shaking with half-spoken words. A strangled whisper of please-no-yes tangled in his teeth.
Kouyou waits, head falling back into the metal door, static cling making dark-rooted strands stick to the slick surface. Akira spares a glance behind Kouyou’s head, watches the other boy’s tresses snag and splay like a crooked little halo. He tears a hole into his lip with a choked moan, and Kouyou’s back springs off the door as Akira’s palm slides across his aching cock.
It’s fast.
There’s still no stars when they kiss, even as Akira’s unsteady hand frantically slides across Kouyou’s erection - even as Kouyou twists and twines and curls himself like a dirtied prayer along Akira’s hand, little wet croons falling too easily from his lips. There’s no stars, but there’s wind up there - warm breaths shaking out of Akira’s spread-eagled little death, fanning across Kouyou’s damp forehead.
There’s ocean, too. Water lapping at their toes as Kouyou arches back like a sprung bow - hand reaching out with the last thrust of his sore hips to dig his fingers into the last remains of the shore, but there’s nothing-nothing-onlyAkira -
There’s entangling his fingertips into Akira’s short tufts of bleached blond instead; his skinny waist with Akira’s own narrow hips, and a thousand whispers thrumming in both their veins as Akira curls his fingers around Kouyou’s belt loops - minemine-mine.
(and for two weeks afterwards, Kouyou would close his eyes while he pecked the girls’ lips in the hallways and only remember him -
and texting him under the rumpled covers on the first night of the third week, his sister’s magazines all torn up, and giving in: “You’re everywhere and nowhere, so just come here.”)
ii.
Akira is two years too-old. It’s in the way he places his blunt nails beneath Kouyou’s chin and takes.
It’s the way he takes his coffee black and unzips Kouyou’s jeans too fast, batting away the younger boy’s fumbling hands with an amused grin and knowing eyes. It’s the way he undresses himself, t-shirt (stained with engine oil and hair wax) first. Then belt-buckle. Then self. He slips out of his skin, roams the sheets with velvet lips and knife-sharp shoulder blades, slides his too-big palms across Kouyou’s tensed navel - teasing out the little gasps that unravel them both so fast-quick-hurry.
And Kouyou can only reach up and try to hold onto the loose folds of whatever-this-is. He turns off his cellphone, forwarding Ruki’s exasperated calls (“Shima, where the fuck are you? If you’re leaving me alone to deal with Shiroyama, so fucking help me - ”) to voicemail, as he steps over the threshold.
It’s a bit like falling in reverse - all knees and elbows, but then stark-blinding clarity that gnashes his ankles until he’s standing straight up against the wall with his hips butterfly-stitched to Akira’s snap-thrusts, or he’s bent over in half on top of the sheets with Akira’s lips hovering just above his cock - his sister’s shredded magazines beneath his bed and his mother gone for the weekend.
And it’s different from before - this nakedness, this flesh-against-flesh, this. Their erections slipping past each other in searing hello’s to break their jaws with delicious moans; the headboard that’s cold and slick against Kouyou’s shoulders; the bare-bones of Akira clashing into him with every stark, haunting shudder of his hips.
They sweat, here. They whisper.
Akira whispers when he’s about to cum - mangled sonnets of maybe-what-if spilling from his dry lips. And it’s too quick and hushed for Kouyou to truly grasp onto and keep. So, he just nods along and groans (yes-yesyesplease) until the walls nearly cave in, until Akira slumps into his chest, until Akira’s heart slows down (flutters next to his).
Kouyou whispers as Akira leaves - no ‘kiss goodbye’, just a parting promise as his fingertips ghost along Kouyou’s inner thigh (over and under the secret bruises that will appear tomorrow, reminding him of black eyes and bleached hair with every step).
It’s little-nothings. Little left-over’s from his sister’s stupid magazines (words like ‘love, maybe’ and ‘maybe, stay’). His voice shakes all the same, too low and too smothered in his pillow for Akira to hear, but - maybe - maybe -
maybe he’ll become his favorite secret.
iii.
And they’ve been choking on each other for years - months of chaste touches in the hallways, smuggled kisses in the darkest corner of the library, muffled moans and biting Akira’s pillowcases while his roommate is showering in the communal bathroom (raking his fingernails against the dorm’s white-cement walls, his mouth opened wide and body quaking as the twin bed creaks dangerously beneath their thrusts and Akira dips down to capture all the words that are begging to escape from the younger’s chest).
They choke on shitty cell reception in musty closets and even shittier bars, alcohol clinging to Kouyou’s ribs from his father’s scotch (the one he forgot to take with him when he slammed the front door ten years ago) and Akira lapping up the torn, almost-sobs that leak from Kouyou’s throat - crimson scratches marring Akira’s collarbone and Kouyou’s legs wrapping around the elder’s waist tight, so tight.
They’ve been choking ever since a sly grin in Biology class, ever since the first touch of lips after soccer practice - cleats still strapped to their shins and Kouyou’s cheek still bruised from bumping into the goal post. Ever since Akira’s ragged voice whispered “more” - and, fuck, it was so wrecked and just-for-him that Kouyou could only touch back and nod “okay, okay”.
So, when Akira tries to choke him, he cups his neck like he’s holding a bird whose heart is but a fluttering murmur. He doesn’t squeeze and Kouyou stays still - shallow breaths even and fingers still loosely curled into Akira’s mussed hair (dim golds and dull blacks). He doesn’t grip Kouyou tight, doesn’t dare to harshly twist his pulse. He doesn’t fist his fingers around him like an arm rest, a wedding band, a lager.
But he holds on, rests the bottom of his palm where Kouyou’s collarbones begin to swoop down like skinny wings, and stays there. He waits. Kouyou waits.
He breathes in deep then, and presses his fingerprints into Kouyou’s skin. And Kouyou knows this-is-it. That this is the way they’re meant to be held - like a broken bird, like he’s cared for, like he’s love-d .
And that’s how he knows -
that this will not last.
They’re just swollen lips and morning-after-bruises on their limbs.
iv.
Akira closes his bedroom door slowly, coaxing the creaks to stay silent - locks it shut, another girl’s name waiting on his neck -
and Kouyou whispers -
and -
“I’ve always wanted to wake up to you.”
.:.:.:.
A/N: This is a little choppy and messy, but it's finals week and I needed to let my fingers just be unhinged / free from responsibility for a handful of hours :)
I hope you guys enjoyed all the same <33
Pairing: Reita/Uruha
Genre: Romance, drama
Notes: This bromance is underrated, I believe. **Reita is two years older than Uruha in this tale.
Synopsis: But he holds on, rests the bottom of his palm where Kouyou’s collarbones begin to swoop down like skinny wings, and stays there.
i.
They hold each other’s bottom lips with their teeth.
It’s a kiss bruised with snarls - crooked claws twisting into crisp white sleeves, a half-desperate shaking moan of mine-mine-you’re-mine slithering into Kouyou’s open-wide mouth. And Akira tangles himself inside Kouyou’s jacket, snagging himself on the metal buttons and breaking his short nails along the zipper; Kouyou is gasping too deep to catch the rhythm right, his palms hovering over Akira’s shoulder blades.
The bathroom stall door shakes, jangling on its hinges with quivers that lick Kouyou’s spine. His vertebrae slowly splinter and crack apart, and Akira’s lips find the cluster of freckles beneath his jaw - he tilts his head up-up-over until his throat is a northern star.
“Touch me, Kou - please, just fucking touch me - ”
Kouyou rushes forward, fumbles a bit and pushes his open mouth - wide, so wide, like he would swallow the entire galaxy plus five more Saturns for him, for him - into Akira’s cheek instead of his awaiting lips. He accidentally swipes the tip of his tongue along the elder boy’s stubble (two days old, Kouyou remembers - remembers the bristle against his fingertips from yesterday, the soft whisper of flesh against his own cheek from the day before that) before whipping back with a stuttered sorry-hold-on-I-can
I-can-do-this
for-you
- banging into the door before Akira rolls his eyes and tugs him back with a quirk of a smile. Kouyou closes his eyes tight, leans in before the red shame can bloom on his face - but not before Akira pushes a leg between his thighs, slowly angling it into Kouyou’s sudden hiccup-gasp, and catches the younger’s groan with another kiss.
It’s biting, sharp - more gums and teeth than sweet whispers and all the other flowery drivel that Kouyou secretly reads from the magazines he steals from his sister; the ones he pours over with a flashlight beneath his sheets and studies each word on how to tilt your head like this, how to fit your hands into his, how to make him feel good, how to make him love you -
But there aren't any stars in the sky as they kiss, craning their necks back until the ache starts to throb below their belts and Akira shucks off his jeans and grabs Kouyou’s hips like they’ve done this four-hundred-and-two times (when, really, they’ve only tentatively stroked and ghosted over hot and hard flesh with unsure fingers behind the gym and beneath the bleachers) and for a second, Kouyou thinks this-is-it.
This.
Two o’clock in the afternoon, the boy’s bathroom, stall number three; Akira’s tie twisted around to dangle down the slope of his back; his own lips bitten clean through and boxers already half-soaked.
But then Akira looks up from Kouyou’s shifting hips - lifting up-and-away into the other’s callused and rough fingertips, arching into whatever-you-want, because as-long-as-it’s-you, because I-think-I-might - and finds Kouyou’s bowed lips shaking with half-spoken words. A strangled whisper of please-no-yes tangled in his teeth.
Kouyou waits, head falling back into the metal door, static cling making dark-rooted strands stick to the slick surface. Akira spares a glance behind Kouyou’s head, watches the other boy’s tresses snag and splay like a crooked little halo. He tears a hole into his lip with a choked moan, and Kouyou’s back springs off the door as Akira’s palm slides across his aching cock.
It’s fast.
There’s still no stars when they kiss, even as Akira’s unsteady hand frantically slides across Kouyou’s erection - even as Kouyou twists and twines and curls himself like a dirtied prayer along Akira’s hand, little wet croons falling too easily from his lips. There’s no stars, but there’s wind up there - warm breaths shaking out of Akira’s spread-eagled little death, fanning across Kouyou’s damp forehead.
There’s ocean, too. Water lapping at their toes as Kouyou arches back like a sprung bow - hand reaching out with the last thrust of his sore hips to dig his fingers into the last remains of the shore, but there’s nothing-nothing-onlyAkira -
There’s entangling his fingertips into Akira’s short tufts of bleached blond instead; his skinny waist with Akira’s own narrow hips, and a thousand whispers thrumming in both their veins as Akira curls his fingers around Kouyou’s belt loops - minemine-mine.
(and for two weeks afterwards, Kouyou would close his eyes while he pecked the girls’ lips in the hallways and only remember him -
and texting him under the rumpled covers on the first night of the third week, his sister’s magazines all torn up, and giving in: “You’re everywhere and nowhere, so just come here.”)
ii.
Akira is two years too-old. It’s in the way he places his blunt nails beneath Kouyou’s chin and takes.
It’s the way he takes his coffee black and unzips Kouyou’s jeans too fast, batting away the younger boy’s fumbling hands with an amused grin and knowing eyes. It’s the way he undresses himself, t-shirt (stained with engine oil and hair wax) first. Then belt-buckle. Then self. He slips out of his skin, roams the sheets with velvet lips and knife-sharp shoulder blades, slides his too-big palms across Kouyou’s tensed navel - teasing out the little gasps that unravel them both so fast-quick-hurry.
And Kouyou can only reach up and try to hold onto the loose folds of whatever-this-is. He turns off his cellphone, forwarding Ruki’s exasperated calls (“Shima, where the fuck are you? If you’re leaving me alone to deal with Shiroyama, so fucking help me - ”) to voicemail, as he steps over the threshold.
It’s a bit like falling in reverse - all knees and elbows, but then stark-blinding clarity that gnashes his ankles until he’s standing straight up against the wall with his hips butterfly-stitched to Akira’s snap-thrusts, or he’s bent over in half on top of the sheets with Akira’s lips hovering just above his cock - his sister’s shredded magazines beneath his bed and his mother gone for the weekend.
And it’s different from before - this nakedness, this flesh-against-flesh, this. Their erections slipping past each other in searing hello’s to break their jaws with delicious moans; the headboard that’s cold and slick against Kouyou’s shoulders; the bare-bones of Akira clashing into him with every stark, haunting shudder of his hips.
They sweat, here. They whisper.
Akira whispers when he’s about to cum - mangled sonnets of maybe-what-if spilling from his dry lips. And it’s too quick and hushed for Kouyou to truly grasp onto and keep. So, he just nods along and groans (yes-yesyesplease) until the walls nearly cave in, until Akira slumps into his chest, until Akira’s heart slows down (flutters next to his).
Kouyou whispers as Akira leaves - no ‘kiss goodbye’, just a parting promise as his fingertips ghost along Kouyou’s inner thigh (over and under the secret bruises that will appear tomorrow, reminding him of black eyes and bleached hair with every step).
It’s little-nothings. Little left-over’s from his sister’s stupid magazines (words like ‘love, maybe’ and ‘maybe, stay’). His voice shakes all the same, too low and too smothered in his pillow for Akira to hear, but - maybe - maybe -
maybe he’ll become his favorite secret.
iii.
And they’ve been choking on each other for years - months of chaste touches in the hallways, smuggled kisses in the darkest corner of the library, muffled moans and biting Akira’s pillowcases while his roommate is showering in the communal bathroom (raking his fingernails against the dorm’s white-cement walls, his mouth opened wide and body quaking as the twin bed creaks dangerously beneath their thrusts and Akira dips down to capture all the words that are begging to escape from the younger’s chest).
They choke on shitty cell reception in musty closets and even shittier bars, alcohol clinging to Kouyou’s ribs from his father’s scotch (the one he forgot to take with him when he slammed the front door ten years ago) and Akira lapping up the torn, almost-sobs that leak from Kouyou’s throat - crimson scratches marring Akira’s collarbone and Kouyou’s legs wrapping around the elder’s waist tight, so tight.
They’ve been choking ever since a sly grin in Biology class, ever since the first touch of lips after soccer practice - cleats still strapped to their shins and Kouyou’s cheek still bruised from bumping into the goal post. Ever since Akira’s ragged voice whispered “more” - and, fuck, it was so wrecked and just-for-him that Kouyou could only touch back and nod “okay, okay”.
So, when Akira tries to choke him, he cups his neck like he’s holding a bird whose heart is but a fluttering murmur. He doesn’t squeeze and Kouyou stays still - shallow breaths even and fingers still loosely curled into Akira’s mussed hair (dim golds and dull blacks). He doesn’t grip Kouyou tight, doesn’t dare to harshly twist his pulse. He doesn’t fist his fingers around him like an arm rest, a wedding band, a lager.
But he holds on, rests the bottom of his palm where Kouyou’s collarbones begin to swoop down like skinny wings, and stays there. He waits. Kouyou waits.
He breathes in deep then, and presses his fingerprints into Kouyou’s skin. And Kouyou knows this-is-it. That this is the way they’re meant to be held - like a broken bird, like he’s cared for, like he’s love-d .
And that’s how he knows -
that this will not last.
They’re just swollen lips and morning-after-bruises on their limbs.
iv.
Akira closes his bedroom door slowly, coaxing the creaks to stay silent - locks it shut, another girl’s name waiting on his neck -
and Kouyou whispers -
and -
“I’ve always wanted to wake up to you.”
.:.:.:.
A/N: This is a little choppy and messy, but it's finals week and I needed to let my fingers just be unhinged / free from responsibility for a handful of hours :)
I hope you guys enjoyed all the same <33