but I love the bones of you
;lollygag
;Ohno Satoshi/Ninomiya Kazunari
;The other one, with the black hair and small hands, is standing on the shore, pushing seashells into sand with his big toe like they are secrets.
;PG
;Angst. If you want it to be.
;Absolute fiction.
;Cross-posted to jent_fanfics
There is something infinitely sad about the place. The ocean is just outside the house, and there are two men there. One of them, the one with a slight hunch and hair like toasted autumn, is ankle-deep in the water. He has his pants folded up to the middle of his shins and he’s just waddling around and squinting into the sun. The other one, with the black hair and small hands, is standing on the shore, pushing seashells into sand with his big toe like they are secrets.
The sun begins to set and the one with the small hands (let’s call him Foreshore; Shore for short) pulls the other man (let’s call him Waves) into the house. When they get into the house Shore continues to pull Waves by the wrist to the bed pushed up against one stark white wall, almost like an afterthought (the bed, not the pulling of the wrist; that needed no reason nor deliberation), and somewhere between the doorway and the bed Waves manages to trip over nothing. He laughs quietly, and Shore shakes his head without turning around to look.
They start undressing each other. An ear gets caught on the collar of a sweater and the waistband of an old pair of boxers gets snagged by the zipper of a new pair of jeans for the hundredth time, but other than that no one gets hurt and no one trips. Specks of light and dust dance in front of the windows, skydiving and kissing each other in mid-air. Shore gets on his hands and knees and when he turns around to look at Waves he smiles for the first time that evening, as if Waves smells nice and feels warm in a way that reminds him of cigarettes breaking neatly into an ashtray and too much coffee.
Waves has stained fingertips. Almost like he’s been fooling around with paint and dye. His index finger is a rosebud and there is a tiny globe on his thumb. He climbs onto Shore and parts his thighs further apart without leaving a mark, and fucks him into the mattress. Shore bites the pillow, swallows all his words so that he’s bursting at the seams, and when he comes he’s a mess of ink and paper and drowning them both in all this black and white.
They lie on top of each other long after they finish (in reality, Waves lies on top of Shore but in the afterglow the floor is the ceiling and the ceiling is no longer there, so Shore thinks he’s lying on top of Waves, but that’s not the point). Waves’ toes touch the soles of Shore’s feet, once, twice. He puts his lips to the nape of Shore’s neck and whispers, so quietly, “I chipped a tooth biting into a konpeito once, when I was five.”
Again.
“Sometimes I can relate better to people I meet on the streets than to people I’ve known my whole life.”
And again.
“I dreamt of the universe last night. It was thin and boundless and I folded it into a crane. We balanced feathers on our eyelids and tasted flight.”
And again. Me too, Shore thinks, even though he has never chipped a tooth on a konpeito and never dreams. He closes his eyes and lets Waves murmur secrets into his skin, one by one, like pushing seashells into sand, till they become his and so that when morning comes he won’t be able to tell where he begins or where Waves ends.
“I find bone where most people find heart.”
Me too.
“I tried.”
Me too.
“I just discovered today that they sell eggs in tubes at the supermarket.”
Me too.
“I hope you’ll never have to wait for anyone.”
Me too.
“I hope -”
Me too.
“If everything is quiet for the next ten seconds, I will stay here a while longer.”
Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississi
Outside, the waves crash into the shore (or perhaps it is the shore that crashes into the waves; it is hard to tell them apart). Inside, Waves stands up, and mumbles that he has to leave. Shore knows he can’t. Not really.
“I’ve been you,” he says.
Waves begins to get dressed. He pulls on his jeans extra carefully so his boxers won’t get snagged and wishes his shoes had laces. Shore tries to like him a little less (because Shore has loved many people but Waves is the only person he’s ever liked, and they could have drowned in that, too, but there are not enough oceans between them).
;Ohno Satoshi/Ninomiya Kazunari
;The other one, with the black hair and small hands, is standing on the shore, pushing seashells into sand with his big toe like they are secrets.
;PG
;Angst. If you want it to be.
;Absolute fiction.
;Cross-posted to jent_fanfics
There is something infinitely sad about the place. The ocean is just outside the house, and there are two men there. One of them, the one with a slight hunch and hair like toasted autumn, is ankle-deep in the water. He has his pants folded up to the middle of his shins and he’s just waddling around and squinting into the sun. The other one, with the black hair and small hands, is standing on the shore, pushing seashells into sand with his big toe like they are secrets.
The sun begins to set and the one with the small hands (let’s call him Foreshore; Shore for short) pulls the other man (let’s call him Waves) into the house. When they get into the house Shore continues to pull Waves by the wrist to the bed pushed up against one stark white wall, almost like an afterthought (the bed, not the pulling of the wrist; that needed no reason nor deliberation), and somewhere between the doorway and the bed Waves manages to trip over nothing. He laughs quietly, and Shore shakes his head without turning around to look.
They start undressing each other. An ear gets caught on the collar of a sweater and the waistband of an old pair of boxers gets snagged by the zipper of a new pair of jeans for the hundredth time, but other than that no one gets hurt and no one trips. Specks of light and dust dance in front of the windows, skydiving and kissing each other in mid-air. Shore gets on his hands and knees and when he turns around to look at Waves he smiles for the first time that evening, as if Waves smells nice and feels warm in a way that reminds him of cigarettes breaking neatly into an ashtray and too much coffee.
Waves has stained fingertips. Almost like he’s been fooling around with paint and dye. His index finger is a rosebud and there is a tiny globe on his thumb. He climbs onto Shore and parts his thighs further apart without leaving a mark, and fucks him into the mattress. Shore bites the pillow, swallows all his words so that he’s bursting at the seams, and when he comes he’s a mess of ink and paper and drowning them both in all this black and white.
They lie on top of each other long after they finish (in reality, Waves lies on top of Shore but in the afterglow the floor is the ceiling and the ceiling is no longer there, so Shore thinks he’s lying on top of Waves, but that’s not the point). Waves’ toes touch the soles of Shore’s feet, once, twice. He puts his lips to the nape of Shore’s neck and whispers, so quietly, “I chipped a tooth biting into a konpeito once, when I was five.”
Again.
“Sometimes I can relate better to people I meet on the streets than to people I’ve known my whole life.”
And again.
“I dreamt of the universe last night. It was thin and boundless and I folded it into a crane. We balanced feathers on our eyelids and tasted flight.”
And again. Me too, Shore thinks, even though he has never chipped a tooth on a konpeito and never dreams. He closes his eyes and lets Waves murmur secrets into his skin, one by one, like pushing seashells into sand, till they become his and so that when morning comes he won’t be able to tell where he begins or where Waves ends.
“I find bone where most people find heart.”
Me too.
“I tried.”
Me too.
“I just discovered today that they sell eggs in tubes at the supermarket.”
Me too.
“I hope you’ll never have to wait for anyone.”
Me too.
“I hope -”
Me too.
“If everything is quiet for the next ten seconds, I will stay here a while longer.”
Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississi
Outside, the waves crash into the shore (or perhaps it is the shore that crashes into the waves; it is hard to tell them apart). Inside, Waves stands up, and mumbles that he has to leave. Shore knows he can’t. Not really.
“I’ve been you,” he says.
Waves begins to get dressed. He pulls on his jeans extra carefully so his boxers won’t get snagged and wishes his shoes had laces. Shore tries to like him a little less (because Shore has loved many people but Waves is the only person he’s ever liked, and they could have drowned in that, too, but there are not enough oceans between them).