Beside Myself (Uruha/Kazuki, oneshot)
Title: Beside Myself
Author: SCIENCESAVES
Genre: Drama, romance, angst
Rating: R
Warnings: Adult situations, language, implied infidelity
Pairing: Uruha/Kazuki (Implied Aoi/Uruha)
Summary: When we fuck, you beg me to say your name, your real name, over and over again; I say it.
I’m your classic film remade in color, the secrets you keep in your sheets. You know, the ones he sleeps in. Thinking that those loose strands of hair on his pillow
really belong to him.
When you pull me into bed, I move my hips slow
slow like you like.
“Look up,” you say, and grab my chin roughly between your fingers.
“Fuck me,” I hiss against your ear with a voice that sounds like I’ve come twice already.
Warm waters gone cold. Dripping from chilled skin to pool at my feet on the hardwood floor. When I walk past you, dodging yesterday’s dirty clothes, strewn in messy, desperate piles, everything smells like smoke, incense, and vodka and even though I haven’t said a word, it feels like I’ve kissed you on the cheek.
Neck.
You smile and laugh when I jump on the bed, twist my body around for you, bend over without you asking me to
fall to my hands and knees, straddle your hips and
arch my back
spread my thighs.
“Bitch.” You say in English and I laugh.
I laugh and pretend I like hearing you butcher the pronunciation-- with a tongue too slick for those marble mouth mongrel tones.
You call me names. Slut. In Japanese this time. I groan against your throat.
With eyes half-lidded you touch my skin-- that’s darker than yours because it’s still summer-- and grab at my hair, wild and damp and smelling like the sea even though it seems like a million miles away from Tokyo, and we haven’t been since June.
When we fuck, you beg me to say your name, your real name, over and over again; I say it.
When I do, I turn the dangerous curves around and around in my mouth, feeling the sharp edges with my tongue.
It sounds like a name that belongs in an afternoon drama. One about car accidents and girls in wheelchairs who always die in the end anyway, so what's the point? I say it like it doesn’t belong to a man five years my senior who owns his own home and wears freshly pressed designer suits to company meetings.
He appears suddenly, in a likeness of a sigh against my shoulder.
You catch my hand before it lands, and kiss my palm.
When you’re sleeping, I study him through handwritten notes, through discarded guitar straps on the floor, through empty beer cans and bottles of vodka and a hundred spent roaches and cigarette butts in the crystal ashtray on the bedside table. I look for clues of him when you’re sending emails and texting and answering phone calls and I’m lying naked in sheets that still smell like him no matter how much we fuck or how much cologne I wear.
Sometimes I’ll walk to the kitchen wearing your shirt and read the notes he leaves for you on the counter.
I’ll memorize them. All of it-- his handwriting, the words-- like a silent film full of your private conversations.
Grocery list. Eggs, bread, tomatoes, strawberries, trash bags. Trash bags and tomatoes are crossed out.
Your mother called, she couldn’t get you on your cell, so she called mine. She says to call your sister--or at least text-- it’s her birthday tomorrow. In parentheses, (don’t be an asshole.)
Leftovers in the fridge. I love you.
I study them. Those little yellow sticky notes
electricity bill envelopes
unused napkins.
Repeat them, try to hear them in his voice.
When you’re not looking, I try on his jewlery. The ones you give him. Bracelets are my favorite. Even though they’re usually too big for my wrist, something too heavy, bulky, gauche, something I would never wear.
Sometimes
I drop them in my bag, in that little side pocket with a zipper that always catches the lining in hungry square teeth.
Take them home with me-- to the apartment you’ve never been to-- so that when he asks,
“babe, where did that new bracelet go?”
you’ll think of my wrists-- both of my wrists held just a little too tightly in one of your hands, tendons shifting, a pained gasp, when you fuck me hard against the bedroom door-- my hands, my fingers clawing across the skin of you back, leaving trails you have to hide.
My phone is full of photos of faces you could name by now but pretend not to be able to. My mother’s face flashes across the screen when she calls early in the morning, and you toss a pillow at me in annoyance.
“Who the fuck is calling?”
“My mother.”
It’s my mother, and she would think I’m a disgrace if she knew where I was right now.
“気持ち悪い” she would say derisively; except it wouldn’t sound the same way it does when you say it, when I’m face down on the couch and you spit it out between deep pants, your tongue lingering on the words like you’re licking my ear.
She used to say the same thing with her nose scrunched, looking at my hair. Hair too long for the all-boys school she enrolled me in, shaking her head at cheap rings that turned my fingers green.
That’s what those boys in Osaka wear, she would tell me. We used to see them during family holidays. On our way back from an evening out, leaning against the brick wall between the convenient store and the fast-food curry joint. Picking up customers for the night, they sneered when my mother took my tiny hand in hers, hissed “みないで” as we walked past the boys with backcombed, fluorescent hair and jeans with shining rhinestones on the pockets. But I would. I would peek through the spaces where my fingers were blocking my eyes, I would see trailing car lights and legs too skinny to be attached to the men they were, my eyes would catch the little local shrine crookedly shoved between buildings, blotchy, weatherbeaten red bibs on stone fox statues. Later, I would think about those boys as I listened to my father yelling drunkenly through the paper thin walls.
But you don’t keep me around long enough to know all of this. When the faces in the pictures get too familiar, you push me out of bed. You untangle yourself from me, grab a clean towel, and drop it on my chest.
I’ll get up, hand you your cell phone and pretend that I’m him, pretend you’re leaving because there’s work to do in the studio, not because you need to stop by his apartment to pick up your sunglasses and guitar.
“Kazu, you need to leave.”
When I leave, you’ll tear the sheets off and bury them in the hamper, jump in the shower and scrub at arms that still hold the crescent moons my painted fingernails leave, watercolor red.
Use the same damp towel that I did
to give it a reason for being wet.
***
AN: This is old. Just cleaning up my google drive.
Author: SCIENCESAVES
Genre: Drama, romance, angst
Rating: R
Warnings: Adult situations, language, implied infidelity
Pairing: Uruha/Kazuki (Implied Aoi/Uruha)
Summary: When we fuck, you beg me to say your name, your real name, over and over again; I say it.
I’m your classic film remade in color, the secrets you keep in your sheets. You know, the ones he sleeps in. Thinking that those loose strands of hair on his pillow
really belong to him.
When you pull me into bed, I move my hips slow
slow like you like.
“Look up,” you say, and grab my chin roughly between your fingers.
“Fuck me,” I hiss against your ear with a voice that sounds like I’ve come twice already.
Warm waters gone cold. Dripping from chilled skin to pool at my feet on the hardwood floor. When I walk past you, dodging yesterday’s dirty clothes, strewn in messy, desperate piles, everything smells like smoke, incense, and vodka and even though I haven’t said a word, it feels like I’ve kissed you on the cheek.
Neck.
You smile and laugh when I jump on the bed, twist my body around for you, bend over without you asking me to
fall to my hands and knees, straddle your hips and
arch my back
spread my thighs.
“Bitch.” You say in English and I laugh.
I laugh and pretend I like hearing you butcher the pronunciation-- with a tongue too slick for those marble mouth mongrel tones.
You call me names. Slut. In Japanese this time. I groan against your throat.
With eyes half-lidded you touch my skin-- that’s darker than yours because it’s still summer-- and grab at my hair, wild and damp and smelling like the sea even though it seems like a million miles away from Tokyo, and we haven’t been since June.
When we fuck, you beg me to say your name, your real name, over and over again; I say it.
When I do, I turn the dangerous curves around and around in my mouth, feeling the sharp edges with my tongue.
It sounds like a name that belongs in an afternoon drama. One about car accidents and girls in wheelchairs who always die in the end anyway, so what's the point? I say it like it doesn’t belong to a man five years my senior who owns his own home and wears freshly pressed designer suits to company meetings.
He appears suddenly, in a likeness of a sigh against my shoulder.
You catch my hand before it lands, and kiss my palm.
When you’re sleeping, I study him through handwritten notes, through discarded guitar straps on the floor, through empty beer cans and bottles of vodka and a hundred spent roaches and cigarette butts in the crystal ashtray on the bedside table. I look for clues of him when you’re sending emails and texting and answering phone calls and I’m lying naked in sheets that still smell like him no matter how much we fuck or how much cologne I wear.
Sometimes I’ll walk to the kitchen wearing your shirt and read the notes he leaves for you on the counter.
I’ll memorize them. All of it-- his handwriting, the words-- like a silent film full of your private conversations.
Grocery list. Eggs, bread, tomatoes, strawberries, trash bags. Trash bags and tomatoes are crossed out.
Your mother called, she couldn’t get you on your cell, so she called mine. She says to call your sister--or at least text-- it’s her birthday tomorrow. In parentheses, (don’t be an asshole.)
Leftovers in the fridge. I love you.
I study them. Those little yellow sticky notes
electricity bill envelopes
unused napkins.
Repeat them, try to hear them in his voice.
When you’re not looking, I try on his jewlery. The ones you give him. Bracelets are my favorite. Even though they’re usually too big for my wrist, something too heavy, bulky, gauche, something I would never wear.
Sometimes
I drop them in my bag, in that little side pocket with a zipper that always catches the lining in hungry square teeth.
Take them home with me-- to the apartment you’ve never been to-- so that when he asks,
“babe, where did that new bracelet go?”
you’ll think of my wrists-- both of my wrists held just a little too tightly in one of your hands, tendons shifting, a pained gasp, when you fuck me hard against the bedroom door-- my hands, my fingers clawing across the skin of you back, leaving trails you have to hide.
My phone is full of photos of faces you could name by now but pretend not to be able to. My mother’s face flashes across the screen when she calls early in the morning, and you toss a pillow at me in annoyance.
“Who the fuck is calling?”
“My mother.”
It’s my mother, and she would think I’m a disgrace if she knew where I was right now.
“気持ち悪い” she would say derisively; except it wouldn’t sound the same way it does when you say it, when I’m face down on the couch and you spit it out between deep pants, your tongue lingering on the words like you’re licking my ear.
She used to say the same thing with her nose scrunched, looking at my hair. Hair too long for the all-boys school she enrolled me in, shaking her head at cheap rings that turned my fingers green.
That’s what those boys in Osaka wear, she would tell me. We used to see them during family holidays. On our way back from an evening out, leaning against the brick wall between the convenient store and the fast-food curry joint. Picking up customers for the night, they sneered when my mother took my tiny hand in hers, hissed “みないで” as we walked past the boys with backcombed, fluorescent hair and jeans with shining rhinestones on the pockets. But I would. I would peek through the spaces where my fingers were blocking my eyes, I would see trailing car lights and legs too skinny to be attached to the men they were, my eyes would catch the little local shrine crookedly shoved between buildings, blotchy, weatherbeaten red bibs on stone fox statues. Later, I would think about those boys as I listened to my father yelling drunkenly through the paper thin walls.
But you don’t keep me around long enough to know all of this. When the faces in the pictures get too familiar, you push me out of bed. You untangle yourself from me, grab a clean towel, and drop it on my chest.
I’ll get up, hand you your cell phone and pretend that I’m him, pretend you’re leaving because there’s work to do in the studio, not because you need to stop by his apartment to pick up your sunglasses and guitar.
“Kazu, you need to leave.”
When I leave, you’ll tear the sheets off and bury them in the hamper, jump in the shower and scrub at arms that still hold the crescent moons my painted fingernails leave, watercolor red.
Use the same damp towel that I did
to give it a reason for being wet.
***
AN: This is old. Just cleaning up my google drive.