Gravitation. Eiri x Shuichi. Home.
Barely a month had passed before Yoshiki called him. He considered not picking up because, really, he thought it was about time the Kitazawa clan leaved him the hell alone. Still, he forced himself to answer and somehow-miraculously-managed to keep from simply hanging up when she told him, “Riku keeps asking me when he’s going to go home.”
“He is home,” Eiri said, pulling an unlit cigarette out of the pack in his pocket and bringing it to his frowning lips. “Just tell him that until he gets it. And don’t call here again.”
“Don’t be like that.” Eiri could hear her grinning and it pissed him off. “Riku will want-”
He hung up before she could finish. He stood by the phone for a moment or two or three, and closed his eyes so he couldn’t see the shake of his hand when he lit his cigarette. If he couldn’t see it, he could pretend it didn’t exist.
[--]
“It’s kinda weird, not having someone to tuck in at night anymore. Isn’t it?”
Eiri growled around the flesh of Shuichi’s neck in response and felt the body beneath him shiver only slightly. The damn brat was distracted.
“Don’t you miss him at all?”
“No.” He bit down, hard, and enjoyed the whimper that escaped the singer’s throat as slender, microphone-gracing fingers gripped at his hair.
Riku had meant bad things. Riku had meant nasty memories. Riku had meant responsibility, had meant forcing him to step up in a time when he was blind, vulnerable, and lost. Riku had meant quieter, softer sex. Riku had meant fatherhood, family, and other such things that made Eiri want to puke.
So, no. He didn’t miss him. He didn’t miss him at all.
“Stop thinking about it,” he commanded, his hand sliding down to grip between Shuichi’s legs. “Concentrate on this, moron.”
“Yuki,” Shuichi gasped and Eiri kissed him and the boy was completely his again. For the rest of the night, at least.
“I thought you were asleep,” Shuichi giggled.
Eiri slipped his finger beneath the elastic band of his skimpy underwear and tugged him close to the edge of the bed where he still lay. Eiri kissed his hip and hummed-low, content, tired-as the singer’s fingers traced a path along his cheek and jaw.
“I have to go to work,” he protested half-heartedly. “We’re shooting a video today, so I might be a little late for dinner.”
“I’ll wait for you,” he murmured into soft skin and glanced upward to watch the jubilant smile spread across Shuichi’s face.
“Oh, Yuki,” he cooed. “What do you do with yourself all day long without R-ow, don’t pinch me! I was just-”
“Well, don’t,” Eiri snapped, releasing him. “Do you have to keep talking about him? He’s gone.”
“I know,” Shuichi snapped back. “But I miss him. Just like you do, but you’re too fucking proud to say it.”
Eiri glared at him for a bit before rolling onto his stomach and turning his head. “Put your clothes on and get out.”
[--]
They broke up after a couple of weeks. They called it “artistic differences” when the nosier reporters and talk show hosts questioned them; everyone knew it was bullshit, but they gave up asking when they kept getting the same, rehearsed, unemotional answer.
Mika compared it to a couple losing an infant and being unable to console each other.
“It’s not that intense.” Eiri kept his gaze focused on the sunset, decidedly ignoring the way his finger was being held captive by the baby in his lap. “We just want different things out of life.”
“Oh, don’t give me that.” Mika’s red lips frowned at him. “I’m not an idiot.”
“Really?” He teased, earning a smack to the shoulder. He sobered instantly and watched the sky as his niece-who seemed to be contemplating putting his finger in her mouth-gurgled happily. “It was time. That’s all.”
“Oh, Eiri,” she sighed, running a palm over her face before reaching over to brush her hand over her daughter’s soft hair. “Well, at least it got you to come home.”
Eiri said nothing. He didn’t correct aloud, but in his head and in his heart-if he had one-he knew this place wasn’t home. He knew it wasn’t even close.
[--]
Eiri was nearly drunk when the phone rang. That was the only reason he answered with a not hopeful-no, not that-but quiet, “Shuichi?”
“Daddy.”
Eiri’s eyes went slightly panicky for a moment, and then he closed them, exhaling shakily. “Riku,” he said, voice near-laughter. “What do you want?”
Silence first, and then, “To see you.”
The hand holding the phone trembled slightly and Eiri swallowed hard, his free hand reaching for the wall to balance himself. He felt sick and his mind was fuzzy from alcohol and heartbreak. “That’s-that’s sweet, kid. But-you can’t-”
“Why not?”
“Don’t ask questions.” He felt so sick. “I like you best when you keep your mouth shut.”
Riku said nothing and Eiri found himself remembering the way those big eyes could stare at him for several minutes, unblinking, searching, looking through the writer’s skin and into his soul, reading him like he was one of his own books.
“Miss you.”
“No.” He’s sick. Sick and unworthy. Unworthy of being missed.
“I want to come back.”
“No.” And when did the boy start using sentences?
“Please.”
“No.” He felt like crying, and he hadn’t cried in a long, long time. But it was all too much. Too much beer. Too much pain. Too much…
“Please…”
[--]
Two months later, he texted Shuichi and told him he was leaving the door unlocked until midnight.
The brat showed up at 11:59. He looked at Eiri with his arms crossed, like he was so pissed, but he couldn’t quite pull it off. His eyes were already swimming with hope and anxiousness. He was never very good at guarding himself from the writer. Eiri almost pitied him. He almost envied him. He took his time putting out his cigarette before meeting the singer’s expectant stare.
“Welcome home.”
Shuichi dropped his gaze as the tears started to fall. His lips quivered and, slowly, he smiled. “Oh, Mr. Romance Novelist.” His voice broke, and so did he, falling into Eiri’s arms and clutching his shirt as he wept and whispered about how happy he was, how much he loved him. He was so predictable.
And for once, Eiri was glad of it.
[--]
That fall, he found himself frowning at Yuki Kitazawa’s grave. He glowered over the checkered scarf that Shuichi had lovingly-hastily, passionately, way too excitedly-wrapped around his neck and most of his face, his hands balled into fists in his pockets.
“I’m not here to ask your permission,” he said. “If you’re against this, use whatever power ghosts like you have and talk some sense into your son.” He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them slowly, his harsh glare softening. “This is…some sort of payback, isn’t it? I ended your life and so you’re sending a kid to ruin mine?” He nodded faintly with understanding, his lips curving slightly upward in a bit of a smirk. “Well, all right then…if that’s the best you can do.”
Yoshiki opened her apartment door with a smug smile on her face, and if she’d still been a man, Eiri might’ve punched her. He ignored her instead and stepped sedately inside, his eyes focused on the little boy’s head that was poking out of a room at the end of the hall.
“You got your stuff packed?” He asked.
The head nodded.
“Then let’s go.”
[--]
Eiri wasn’t sure when his apartment became a home for the two bodies snuggled up beside him.
Before him, a late-night horror movie that he had little interest in continued, the hero’s love interest screaming her head off while being attacked by what looked suspiciously like a tentacle trying to wriggle its way up her skirt. To his left, Shuichi was dozing against his shoulder, and to his right, Riku was fast asleep, his head pillowed on Eiri’s leg. Shuichi’s hair was tickling his chin and he was beginning to feel that pins-and-needles sensation in his leg.
But he wasn’t moving. He was trying to figure out when-and how, and why-the rooms that had only ever been rooms to him had become a place of importance and permanence for two other people. Just because of him? He was hardly a figure of stability. And he’d made a point of telling them not to get too comfortable. Then, maybe it was just to spite him? He wouldn’t put it past them.
In any case, he couldn’t get rid of them now.
That was stability, at least, he supposed with a weary sigh. Then maybe-maybe-that would finally be enough to make it a home for him, too.
“He is home,” Eiri said, pulling an unlit cigarette out of the pack in his pocket and bringing it to his frowning lips. “Just tell him that until he gets it. And don’t call here again.”
“Don’t be like that.” Eiri could hear her grinning and it pissed him off. “Riku will want-”
He hung up before she could finish. He stood by the phone for a moment or two or three, and closed his eyes so he couldn’t see the shake of his hand when he lit his cigarette. If he couldn’t see it, he could pretend it didn’t exist.
[--]
“It’s kinda weird, not having someone to tuck in at night anymore. Isn’t it?”
Eiri growled around the flesh of Shuichi’s neck in response and felt the body beneath him shiver only slightly. The damn brat was distracted.
“Don’t you miss him at all?”
“No.” He bit down, hard, and enjoyed the whimper that escaped the singer’s throat as slender, microphone-gracing fingers gripped at his hair.
Riku had meant bad things. Riku had meant nasty memories. Riku had meant responsibility, had meant forcing him to step up in a time when he was blind, vulnerable, and lost. Riku had meant quieter, softer sex. Riku had meant fatherhood, family, and other such things that made Eiri want to puke.
So, no. He didn’t miss him. He didn’t miss him at all.
“Stop thinking about it,” he commanded, his hand sliding down to grip between Shuichi’s legs. “Concentrate on this, moron.”
“Yuki,” Shuichi gasped and Eiri kissed him and the boy was completely his again. For the rest of the night, at least.
“I thought you were asleep,” Shuichi giggled.
Eiri slipped his finger beneath the elastic band of his skimpy underwear and tugged him close to the edge of the bed where he still lay. Eiri kissed his hip and hummed-low, content, tired-as the singer’s fingers traced a path along his cheek and jaw.
“I have to go to work,” he protested half-heartedly. “We’re shooting a video today, so I might be a little late for dinner.”
“I’ll wait for you,” he murmured into soft skin and glanced upward to watch the jubilant smile spread across Shuichi’s face.
“Oh, Yuki,” he cooed. “What do you do with yourself all day long without R-ow, don’t pinch me! I was just-”
“Well, don’t,” Eiri snapped, releasing him. “Do you have to keep talking about him? He’s gone.”
“I know,” Shuichi snapped back. “But I miss him. Just like you do, but you’re too fucking proud to say it.”
Eiri glared at him for a bit before rolling onto his stomach and turning his head. “Put your clothes on and get out.”
[--]
They broke up after a couple of weeks. They called it “artistic differences” when the nosier reporters and talk show hosts questioned them; everyone knew it was bullshit, but they gave up asking when they kept getting the same, rehearsed, unemotional answer.
Mika compared it to a couple losing an infant and being unable to console each other.
“It’s not that intense.” Eiri kept his gaze focused on the sunset, decidedly ignoring the way his finger was being held captive by the baby in his lap. “We just want different things out of life.”
“Oh, don’t give me that.” Mika’s red lips frowned at him. “I’m not an idiot.”
“Really?” He teased, earning a smack to the shoulder. He sobered instantly and watched the sky as his niece-who seemed to be contemplating putting his finger in her mouth-gurgled happily. “It was time. That’s all.”
“Oh, Eiri,” she sighed, running a palm over her face before reaching over to brush her hand over her daughter’s soft hair. “Well, at least it got you to come home.”
Eiri said nothing. He didn’t correct aloud, but in his head and in his heart-if he had one-he knew this place wasn’t home. He knew it wasn’t even close.
[--]
Eiri was nearly drunk when the phone rang. That was the only reason he answered with a not hopeful-no, not that-but quiet, “Shuichi?”
“Daddy.”
Eiri’s eyes went slightly panicky for a moment, and then he closed them, exhaling shakily. “Riku,” he said, voice near-laughter. “What do you want?”
Silence first, and then, “To see you.”
The hand holding the phone trembled slightly and Eiri swallowed hard, his free hand reaching for the wall to balance himself. He felt sick and his mind was fuzzy from alcohol and heartbreak. “That’s-that’s sweet, kid. But-you can’t-”
“Why not?”
“Don’t ask questions.” He felt so sick. “I like you best when you keep your mouth shut.”
Riku said nothing and Eiri found himself remembering the way those big eyes could stare at him for several minutes, unblinking, searching, looking through the writer’s skin and into his soul, reading him like he was one of his own books.
“Miss you.”
“No.” He’s sick. Sick and unworthy. Unworthy of being missed.
“I want to come back.”
“No.” And when did the boy start using sentences?
“Please.”
“No.” He felt like crying, and he hadn’t cried in a long, long time. But it was all too much. Too much beer. Too much pain. Too much…
“Please…”
[--]
Two months later, he texted Shuichi and told him he was leaving the door unlocked until midnight.
The brat showed up at 11:59. He looked at Eiri with his arms crossed, like he was so pissed, but he couldn’t quite pull it off. His eyes were already swimming with hope and anxiousness. He was never very good at guarding himself from the writer. Eiri almost pitied him. He almost envied him. He took his time putting out his cigarette before meeting the singer’s expectant stare.
“Welcome home.”
Shuichi dropped his gaze as the tears started to fall. His lips quivered and, slowly, he smiled. “Oh, Mr. Romance Novelist.” His voice broke, and so did he, falling into Eiri’s arms and clutching his shirt as he wept and whispered about how happy he was, how much he loved him. He was so predictable.
And for once, Eiri was glad of it.
[--]
That fall, he found himself frowning at Yuki Kitazawa’s grave. He glowered over the checkered scarf that Shuichi had lovingly-hastily, passionately, way too excitedly-wrapped around his neck and most of his face, his hands balled into fists in his pockets.
“I’m not here to ask your permission,” he said. “If you’re against this, use whatever power ghosts like you have and talk some sense into your son.” He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them slowly, his harsh glare softening. “This is…some sort of payback, isn’t it? I ended your life and so you’re sending a kid to ruin mine?” He nodded faintly with understanding, his lips curving slightly upward in a bit of a smirk. “Well, all right then…if that’s the best you can do.”
Yoshiki opened her apartment door with a smug smile on her face, and if she’d still been a man, Eiri might’ve punched her. He ignored her instead and stepped sedately inside, his eyes focused on the little boy’s head that was poking out of a room at the end of the hall.
“You got your stuff packed?” He asked.
The head nodded.
“Then let’s go.”
[--]
Eiri wasn’t sure when his apartment became a home for the two bodies snuggled up beside him.
Before him, a late-night horror movie that he had little interest in continued, the hero’s love interest screaming her head off while being attacked by what looked suspiciously like a tentacle trying to wriggle its way up her skirt. To his left, Shuichi was dozing against his shoulder, and to his right, Riku was fast asleep, his head pillowed on Eiri’s leg. Shuichi’s hair was tickling his chin and he was beginning to feel that pins-and-needles sensation in his leg.
But he wasn’t moving. He was trying to figure out when-and how, and why-the rooms that had only ever been rooms to him had become a place of importance and permanence for two other people. Just because of him? He was hardly a figure of stability. And he’d made a point of telling them not to get too comfortable. Then, maybe it was just to spite him? He wouldn’t put it past them.
In any case, he couldn’t get rid of them now.
That was stability, at least, he supposed with a weary sigh. Then maybe-maybe-that would finally be enough to make it a home for him, too.