Fic: Shinomiya/Iwai Vignette
Title: Release
Pairing: Shinomiya/Iwai
Rating: PG
A gust of rain sweeps over the balcony. Iwai stares down at his charcoal flower - now dripping - and licks his fingers, running them over the careful lines until they come away with black paste. He smiles, the sort of smile that you give when you’re by yourself. It’s wry and coy… and maybe just a little sad.
Rip, says the paper, and Iwai marvels at how easy it is to destroy a bit of soul.
The afternoon is cold and waterlogged; the balcony whistles with wind. Iwai casts his eye into the distance. In that distance, he sees a figure moving slowly and the russet of a school blazer which is strangely bright, like the first streak of colour on blank canvas. A student.
The student is running, but leisurely. There’s a stillness in him that Iwai likes immediately, something entirely self-possessed. Storms can’t faze me, it laughs. Glorious.
-
Iwai gasps as he’s barrelled into, the sketches in his hands spilling onto the wet ground. Up close, the boy is even better than he imagined - intense, all black eyes and clemency, if the grip on his arm is anything to go by. “Forget them,” the boy says, and Iwai allows himself to be ushered back into the building while a week’s worth of work is pounded into the pavement. Too late to regret - he’s already soaked to the bone.
The light in the entranceway is dim. The other boy’s hair is lank and bleeding onto his neck. Water everywhere. His breaths are loud. “I apologise--”
Surely it must be fever, because the way Iwai’s body warms is unnatural, has nothing to do with a stranger’s voice near his ear and the press of fingers curled around his bicep… Iwai glances up from that pale throat and shivers. He wonders if the calm is a mask.
-
Shinomiya, Iwai later discovers, is all about restraint. It’s just as well that on that late autumn day Iwai thought, ‘I want that,’ (and went to get it) because, really, nothing would have come to pass otherwise.
Pairing: Shinomiya/Iwai
Rating: PG
A gust of rain sweeps over the balcony. Iwai stares down at his charcoal flower - now dripping - and licks his fingers, running them over the careful lines until they come away with black paste. He smiles, the sort of smile that you give when you’re by yourself. It’s wry and coy… and maybe just a little sad.
Rip, says the paper, and Iwai marvels at how easy it is to destroy a bit of soul.
The afternoon is cold and waterlogged; the balcony whistles with wind. Iwai casts his eye into the distance. In that distance, he sees a figure moving slowly and the russet of a school blazer which is strangely bright, like the first streak of colour on blank canvas. A student.
The student is running, but leisurely. There’s a stillness in him that Iwai likes immediately, something entirely self-possessed. Storms can’t faze me, it laughs. Glorious.
-
Iwai gasps as he’s barrelled into, the sketches in his hands spilling onto the wet ground. Up close, the boy is even better than he imagined - intense, all black eyes and clemency, if the grip on his arm is anything to go by. “Forget them,” the boy says, and Iwai allows himself to be ushered back into the building while a week’s worth of work is pounded into the pavement. Too late to regret - he’s already soaked to the bone.
The light in the entranceway is dim. The other boy’s hair is lank and bleeding onto his neck. Water everywhere. His breaths are loud. “I apologise--”
Surely it must be fever, because the way Iwai’s body warms is unnatural, has nothing to do with a stranger’s voice near his ear and the press of fingers curled around his bicep… Iwai glances up from that pale throat and shivers. He wonders if the calm is a mask.
-
Shinomiya, Iwai later discovers, is all about restraint. It’s just as well that on that late autumn day Iwai thought, ‘I want that,’ (and went to get it) because, really, nothing would have come to pass otherwise.