(no subject)
OVERLY SMUSHY YAMA/GOKU DRABBLE WHUT. D:
Yamamoto lives in memory. But you would prefer to forget.
It starts with the photographs: this one in a baseball uniform, oh this one too, and another; and this one at a shrine with cousins, this one eating sushi, this one on his dad's shoulders the same way he holds the kids these days, this one of his mom--just a lingering glance at that one, no explanation, and then it slips to the bottom of the pile.
Don't you keep photos, Gokudera? A lit cigarette, a frown that says, "Who invited you into this secret place because it sure as fuck wasn't me." And that's the end of it.
And after the photographs, it's reclining in the grass by the river where they tried to teach their friend to swim, where Haru fell in, where the sound of current braiding around itself makes Yamamoto blessedly still, so the two of you go there a lot, except there isn't any "two of you," not if you have your say in anything which you never do, so fuck it all. But after the photographs, it's the river.
I came here once with my dad. And silence like the weight and texture of the river. Coldness in wordlessness, your sharp nails sliding up the length of blades of grass and then--And what about you? What did you do with your dad? And how do you say lies and avoidance and malevolence and that one time that guy came in and pressed the snout of a gun to your throat because you slowed his funeral-procession march to your dad's office? How do you say that to someone whose dad knows how to hug, so you don't say anything at all.
And then, after all that, after another silence like too much information because everything is too much information with Yamamoto; he can read you like a fucking opponent and you don't know why that makes you more hurt than sad. After that, it's summer heat and sweat and way too easy to walk around half-dressed because at least you can move that way. And it's him tracing one finger down that angry tattoo on your shoulder.
Did it hurt? And, what, you want to ask? What because he never looks at you like this when he's being stupid by choice, when he's hiding his concern, hiding his intuition, hiding his truth. Because he's not hiding anymore, is he? He's not and he's touching you--a fingernail clicking over a silver stud in your ear, a flat palm on the burn marks on your chest from that stupid fucking Shamal and lousy fucking teaching techniques and partly your own incompetency and damn it if that doesn't hurt worse than the wayward explosions ever did. So, What, you want to say? Because everything fucking hurts sometimes.
And next, moments later, his mouth tipping toward yours like the whole lousy world. And, because it doesn't hurt, something for once doesn't hurt, you let it happen. You might even lean forward too, might even let it--Yamamoto, history, future, a splitting of loyalties, since when did such a small word mean so much?--you might even let it distract you a little bit. Until--
I remember, he says, his breath on your neck like more thick skin, like vulnerable blood, like all of it all at once because that's what Yamamoto is, I remember the first time I wanted to do this. I thought you were dead. Do you remember too?
And you're not even sure anymore. You forget, sometimes, what you remember and what you don't. And maybe it doesn't matter when this very moment can fill you like a thousand lifetimes.
Yamamoto lives in memory. But you would prefer to forget.
It starts with the photographs: this one in a baseball uniform, oh this one too, and another; and this one at a shrine with cousins, this one eating sushi, this one on his dad's shoulders the same way he holds the kids these days, this one of his mom--just a lingering glance at that one, no explanation, and then it slips to the bottom of the pile.
Don't you keep photos, Gokudera? A lit cigarette, a frown that says, "Who invited you into this secret place because it sure as fuck wasn't me." And that's the end of it.
And after the photographs, it's reclining in the grass by the river where they tried to teach their friend to swim, where Haru fell in, where the sound of current braiding around itself makes Yamamoto blessedly still, so the two of you go there a lot, except there isn't any "two of you," not if you have your say in anything which you never do, so fuck it all. But after the photographs, it's the river.
I came here once with my dad. And silence like the weight and texture of the river. Coldness in wordlessness, your sharp nails sliding up the length of blades of grass and then--And what about you? What did you do with your dad? And how do you say lies and avoidance and malevolence and that one time that guy came in and pressed the snout of a gun to your throat because you slowed his funeral-procession march to your dad's office? How do you say that to someone whose dad knows how to hug, so you don't say anything at all.
And then, after all that, after another silence like too much information because everything is too much information with Yamamoto; he can read you like a fucking opponent and you don't know why that makes you more hurt than sad. After that, it's summer heat and sweat and way too easy to walk around half-dressed because at least you can move that way. And it's him tracing one finger down that angry tattoo on your shoulder.
Did it hurt? And, what, you want to ask? What because he never looks at you like this when he's being stupid by choice, when he's hiding his concern, hiding his intuition, hiding his truth. Because he's not hiding anymore, is he? He's not and he's touching you--a fingernail clicking over a silver stud in your ear, a flat palm on the burn marks on your chest from that stupid fucking Shamal and lousy fucking teaching techniques and partly your own incompetency and damn it if that doesn't hurt worse than the wayward explosions ever did. So, What, you want to say? Because everything fucking hurts sometimes.
And next, moments later, his mouth tipping toward yours like the whole lousy world. And, because it doesn't hurt, something for once doesn't hurt, you let it happen. You might even lean forward too, might even let it--Yamamoto, history, future, a splitting of loyalties, since when did such a small word mean so much?--you might even let it distract you a little bit. Until--
I remember, he says, his breath on your neck like more thick skin, like vulnerable blood, like all of it all at once because that's what Yamamoto is, I remember the first time I wanted to do this. I thought you were dead. Do you remember too?
And you're not even sure anymore. You forget, sometimes, what you remember and what you don't. And maybe it doesn't matter when this very moment can fill you like a thousand lifetimes.