[fic] j/ino - untitled - relating to 'showers'.
fic~~ again product of ficcing with mimei and yokozuki! :D ♥
untitled | LUNA SEA (j/ino) | 2nd person (J) | 30mins. timed | 400w approx. | shower
It’s dark outside, it’s raining, and he’s late again. And you swear he wouldn’t be on time even if you charged him. He wouldn’t be on time even if it meant you left. You’re standing in the doorway to his apartment block as if that tiny brick overhang above the glass doors was stopping you from getting wet-or any wetter than you already are, and you’d swear you’d hit saturation point hours ago.
You haven’t a clue where in hell Inoran is only that he’s not home or-if he is-he isn’t answering the bell. They wouldn’t let you loiter in reception so you’re standing outside getting soaked and being stared out by the doorman who comes out every half hour or so to ask you why you’re still there. (Even if he’s terrified of you and your being a head taller than him and complete with bleached hair, piercings tattoos and a determination to smoke even though the rain ruins every new cigarette before it’s even close to half-smoked.)
You ring the bell every ten or fifteen minutes because you know there’s an underground car park around the other side of the building he might be using. It’s been over two hours by the time you get a voice come through on the speaker the other side of the bell, six stories up, tucked away in some cosy little apartment space. His voice asking who it is and then, when you tell him it’s you and to let you the fuck up, him telling you to come on up.
You finally get let through past the doorman who’s wearing a frown-because he doesn’t want the likes of you in his building-and you’re taking the stairs because a part of you wants to keep Inoran waiting for once.
Through his door and he’s looking at you sort of concerned as if it isn’t his fault you’ve been waiting in the rain, as if you’re just crazy for thinking you’d arranged to meet. You toss your zip-up jacket, heavy and soaked through, on one of his chairs and you light a cigarette, taking your time. Not saying anything except, “You’re late,” as he kneels down and takes your shoes off for you as if he really cares about etiquette which is really just stupid superstition anyway.
“So,” you say, “We still on?”
And when he says sure you smile, step inside and start heading for the bathroom, beckoning him with a turn of the head and a glance.
untitled | LUNA SEA (j/ino) | 2nd person (J) | 30mins. timed | 400w approx. | shower
It’s dark outside, it’s raining, and he’s late again. And you swear he wouldn’t be on time even if you charged him. He wouldn’t be on time even if it meant you left. You’re standing in the doorway to his apartment block as if that tiny brick overhang above the glass doors was stopping you from getting wet-or any wetter than you already are, and you’d swear you’d hit saturation point hours ago.
You haven’t a clue where in hell Inoran is only that he’s not home or-if he is-he isn’t answering the bell. They wouldn’t let you loiter in reception so you’re standing outside getting soaked and being stared out by the doorman who comes out every half hour or so to ask you why you’re still there. (Even if he’s terrified of you and your being a head taller than him and complete with bleached hair, piercings tattoos and a determination to smoke even though the rain ruins every new cigarette before it’s even close to half-smoked.)
You ring the bell every ten or fifteen minutes because you know there’s an underground car park around the other side of the building he might be using. It’s been over two hours by the time you get a voice come through on the speaker the other side of the bell, six stories up, tucked away in some cosy little apartment space. His voice asking who it is and then, when you tell him it’s you and to let you the fuck up, him telling you to come on up.
You finally get let through past the doorman who’s wearing a frown-because he doesn’t want the likes of you in his building-and you’re taking the stairs because a part of you wants to keep Inoran waiting for once.
Through his door and he’s looking at you sort of concerned as if it isn’t his fault you’ve been waiting in the rain, as if you’re just crazy for thinking you’d arranged to meet. You toss your zip-up jacket, heavy and soaked through, on one of his chairs and you light a cigarette, taking your time. Not saying anything except, “You’re late,” as he kneels down and takes your shoes off for you as if he really cares about etiquette which is really just stupid superstition anyway.
“So,” you say, “We still on?”
And when he says sure you smile, step inside and start heading for the bathroom, beckoning him with a turn of the head and a glance.