gravitation: ❝you go your way.❞
fandom: gravitation.
pairing: hiroshi > shuichi (...so basically these guys are one of my ~forever and always~ otps and i don't even care who knows.)
words: 731.
notes: ...lmao okay so ngl, i have no idea where the fuck this even came from. i haven't read gravitation in ages, seriously. but i suddenly got hit with the urge to write fic, and it kind of... wouldn't leave me alone? this is probably pretty shit, but either way, i more or less just wanted to get it out so it would go away already, lmao.
[you go your way]
He's changed, somehow. You can't quite place it, but it's there, in the shine of his eyes, the line of his hips (right where yours touched, in his old room, sitting so close together on his bed, content to listen to the mattress-springs squealing and the scratch of his pencil against paper, scribbling out lyrics-doesn't that feel so long ago, now, doesn't it all just feel so far-away?). In the parts of him that Yuki has seeped into, a slow and quiet venom, a steady growth of poison-ivy: a tolerable toxin. He has fallen in love and so have you-the both of you perhaps mistaking heart-ache for something beautiful, as many people do-but in the end they are not the same things at all. They are not the same sorts of love. You are not the same people.
He leaves Yuki, once, twice, again and again, but he always returns and it sometimes feels to you as though both things happen in the same day. Maybe they do. And Shuichi tells you this-and-that, about Yuki, about him, about them, and you always listen but don't always remember, can't always keep it all from melting away and falling together, the same thing now and then and forever: he has changed. Either way, right now it's something or other, some old-wound of an argument, the recollection of which you can't quite take hold of for the brush of Shuichi's hair over your skin where he leans against your shoulder (you still remember dyeing it for him, that day, hunched over the bathroom sink with your hands smeared black and his breath so loud in your content silence, and you still think: I miss that. I miss you).
He breathes out, heavy and deliberate, shifts restlessly-the tour bus is small, and curled into each other, your bed creaks and shivers with your weights. You could close your eyes and almost imagine his bedroom around you and his school-bag dropping near your feet and his hands, long-fingered and bony, pushing your guitar into yours again and again: 'aah, Hiro, we need to practice!' You could dream of not-changing and not-growing and of never falling in love, but it would change nothing. So you don't.
"Oh, Hiro," he says, voice a perfect, trembling sigh. "God, he's just so-so-you know! Him." He picks at the hem of his shirt, maybe fiddling with some stray thread, and you watch the twist of his wrist and the flick of his fingers thinking: yeah, I do know. You say nothing. "Sometimes, I just..."
He drifts off into silence, and you let him. Your hips touch, side-by-side, right at the jut of the bone. His breath is warm and slow over the curve of your shoulder and if it could change a thing, you would think, right now, of how it would taste (used to taste) in your mouth; collecting in your spit, unfurling down your throat. You would think of his perfect red mouth with its perfect white teeth, saliva glazing over his lips. You would think of anything at all if it was his. (If he was yours. But for all he says, he is content with his life and his love and he is perfectly happy to not be yours.)
[i'll go your way too.]
And he looks at you, all red-mouthed and white-toothed, all miserably in-love, and right then you think you could kiss him: you could close the distances of your worlds, where he has changed and you have not, you could fall away from the present into the quiet contentment of your memories where you are still writing songs in his bedroom and dyeing his hair black over the sink-because even if on the whole it hadn't been for you, it had still held something for you that no-one else could take away-and almost-kissing him through the taste of Pocky where it does not entirely cover the taste of him. But he has grown, grown so far above you and so very far-away, and although it is perhaps the only difference between you, it is, in the end, the only one that ever could have mattered-so you don't. (So you are, too.)
pairing: hiroshi > shuichi (...so basically these guys are one of my ~forever and always~ otps and i don't even care who knows.)
words: 731.
notes: ...lmao okay so ngl, i have no idea where the fuck this even came from. i haven't read gravitation in ages, seriously. but i suddenly got hit with the urge to write fic, and it kind of... wouldn't leave me alone? this is probably pretty shit, but either way, i more or less just wanted to get it out so it would go away already, lmao.
[you go your way]
He's changed, somehow. You can't quite place it, but it's there, in the shine of his eyes, the line of his hips (right where yours touched, in his old room, sitting so close together on his bed, content to listen to the mattress-springs squealing and the scratch of his pencil against paper, scribbling out lyrics-doesn't that feel so long ago, now, doesn't it all just feel so far-away?). In the parts of him that Yuki has seeped into, a slow and quiet venom, a steady growth of poison-ivy: a tolerable toxin. He has fallen in love and so have you-the both of you perhaps mistaking heart-ache for something beautiful, as many people do-but in the end they are not the same things at all. They are not the same sorts of love. You are not the same people.
He leaves Yuki, once, twice, again and again, but he always returns and it sometimes feels to you as though both things happen in the same day. Maybe they do. And Shuichi tells you this-and-that, about Yuki, about him, about them, and you always listen but don't always remember, can't always keep it all from melting away and falling together, the same thing now and then and forever: he has changed. Either way, right now it's something or other, some old-wound of an argument, the recollection of which you can't quite take hold of for the brush of Shuichi's hair over your skin where he leans against your shoulder (you still remember dyeing it for him, that day, hunched over the bathroom sink with your hands smeared black and his breath so loud in your content silence, and you still think: I miss that. I miss you).
He breathes out, heavy and deliberate, shifts restlessly-the tour bus is small, and curled into each other, your bed creaks and shivers with your weights. You could close your eyes and almost imagine his bedroom around you and his school-bag dropping near your feet and his hands, long-fingered and bony, pushing your guitar into yours again and again: 'aah, Hiro, we need to practice!' You could dream of not-changing and not-growing and of never falling in love, but it would change nothing. So you don't.
"Oh, Hiro," he says, voice a perfect, trembling sigh. "God, he's just so-so-you know! Him." He picks at the hem of his shirt, maybe fiddling with some stray thread, and you watch the twist of his wrist and the flick of his fingers thinking: yeah, I do know. You say nothing. "Sometimes, I just..."
He drifts off into silence, and you let him. Your hips touch, side-by-side, right at the jut of the bone. His breath is warm and slow over the curve of your shoulder and if it could change a thing, you would think, right now, of how it would taste (used to taste) in your mouth; collecting in your spit, unfurling down your throat. You would think of his perfect red mouth with its perfect white teeth, saliva glazing over his lips. You would think of anything at all if it was his. (If he was yours. But for all he says, he is content with his life and his love and he is perfectly happy to not be yours.)
[i'll go your way too.]
And he looks at you, all red-mouthed and white-toothed, all miserably in-love, and right then you think you could kiss him: you could close the distances of your worlds, where he has changed and you have not, you could fall away from the present into the quiet contentment of your memories where you are still writing songs in his bedroom and dyeing his hair black over the sink-because even if on the whole it hadn't been for you, it had still held something for you that no-one else could take away-and almost-kissing him through the taste of Pocky where it does not entirely cover the taste of him. But he has grown, grown so far above you and so very far-away, and although it is perhaps the only difference between you, it is, in the end, the only one that ever could have mattered-so you don't. (So you are, too.)