Drabbles: Useless as Next Morning's Sun (Tsuzuki, YnM)
Useless as Next Morning's Sun
Yami no Matsuei Drabbles
By Dorian Gray
AN: Tsuzuki: love and desire, the difference and how it matters. Written May, 2006 for p_zeitgeist. Two 100-word drabbles.
It uncoils like a dream: everything sharper, fluid. He can't speak, tongue sliced in two, so he doesn't need to ask and it's not his fault when he can't say no. Screams locked up inside his throat tumble into a knifepoint under the skin of his palm, blood on the ropes, pain sliding like a line of lazy kisses down the inside of his arm, flaring up unpredictably like the flick of a warm wet tongue.
Lips brush delicately against the side of his face, fluttering into Muraki's soft, barbed whispers.
"Always so beautiful."
Blood washes away in the shower.
All day long Hisoka is hunched over files and forms, only the span of their desks between them.
The afternoon's slowly unwinding around them when Tsuzuki brings Hisoka tea, leaves it by his elbow. Something in the sunlight, in the pale line of Hisoka's throat, in his serious concentration on this meaningless work makes Tsuzuki reach out, brushing his hand over Hisoka's hair. But he feels the caress slip at the last moment into something else, something careless and safe and familiar.
Hisoka jerks back, same as always. "Stop treating me like a kid."
Tsuzuki knows that line by heart.
--
Yami no Matsuei Drabbles
By Dorian Gray
AN: Tsuzuki: love and desire, the difference and how it matters. Written May, 2006 for p_zeitgeist. Two 100-word drabbles.
It uncoils like a dream: everything sharper, fluid. He can't speak, tongue sliced in two, so he doesn't need to ask and it's not his fault when he can't say no. Screams locked up inside his throat tumble into a knifepoint under the skin of his palm, blood on the ropes, pain sliding like a line of lazy kisses down the inside of his arm, flaring up unpredictably like the flick of a warm wet tongue.
Lips brush delicately against the side of his face, fluttering into Muraki's soft, barbed whispers.
"Always so beautiful."
Blood washes away in the shower.
All day long Hisoka is hunched over files and forms, only the span of their desks between them.
The afternoon's slowly unwinding around them when Tsuzuki brings Hisoka tea, leaves it by his elbow. Something in the sunlight, in the pale line of Hisoka's throat, in his serious concentration on this meaningless work makes Tsuzuki reach out, brushing his hand over Hisoka's hair. But he feels the caress slip at the last moment into something else, something careless and safe and familiar.
Hisoka jerks back, same as always. "Stop treating me like a kid."
Tsuzuki knows that line by heart.
--