thirteenth post; fanfic- good morning, dear
title: good morning, dear
pairing: miharu/yoite
rating: g
summary: sometimes, dreams are just memories.
this is tiny but I missed these two so much.
"Ah, Yoite," Miharu says, one morning, "Don't you think it's cold out?" He turns, and shifts in bed. He's sitting up, Yoite is resting against the pillows, neither of them are looking at anything. Yoite can't see- everything's undeveloped polaroid- and Miharu doesn't want to see; Yoite's face is pale, and there are bruises as common as breathing- and even that, Yoite has trouble with.
"It might be," Yoite murmurs. His breathing is tinny and his voice is soft; it's like breathing into a flute, listening to him.
Miharu smiles, but only a little, and he says it again: "Yoite," and he leans down and kisses Yoite on the mouth. There are thin fingers, cold and harsh (it's easy to believe they're metallic, for a moment), clamping down on his wrist; then, everything goes soft. Yoite's face, Yoite's grip. Miharu rests his head on Yoite's chest and hangs on like the sea to the sand.
"Ne," he says. Yoite kisses him again.
Miharu wakes up, rubs his eyes, feels a burning fade from his cheeks. He wonders who he was dreaming about.
pairing: miharu/yoite
rating: g
summary: sometimes, dreams are just memories.
this is tiny but I missed these two so much.
"Ah, Yoite," Miharu says, one morning, "Don't you think it's cold out?" He turns, and shifts in bed. He's sitting up, Yoite is resting against the pillows, neither of them are looking at anything. Yoite can't see- everything's undeveloped polaroid- and Miharu doesn't want to see; Yoite's face is pale, and there are bruises as common as breathing- and even that, Yoite has trouble with.
"It might be," Yoite murmurs. His breathing is tinny and his voice is soft; it's like breathing into a flute, listening to him.
Miharu smiles, but only a little, and he says it again: "Yoite," and he leans down and kisses Yoite on the mouth. There are thin fingers, cold and harsh (it's easy to believe they're metallic, for a moment), clamping down on his wrist; then, everything goes soft. Yoite's face, Yoite's grip. Miharu rests his head on Yoite's chest and hangs on like the sea to the sand.
"Ne," he says. Yoite kisses him again.
Miharu wakes up, rubs his eyes, feels a burning fade from his cheeks. He wonders who he was dreaming about.