(no subject)
Title: Resuscitation
Fandom: Loveless
Pairing: Kio/Soubi
Rating: R
Warnings: No real spoilers, dubious consent
Word Count: ~2900
Notes: Prompt words "cotton," "pity," and "incomplete" by yutaka who is also the best beta in the world. Oh, yes.
There's this loose thread on the shoulder seam of Kio's favorite shirt and, from his contorted position on the floor, it is tickling the side of his face.
Kio blows at it. He twists up his features to force breath from the corner of his mouth. The thread wavers once in false concession, then returns to its previous position of torment.
It wouldn't be there, he knows, if he didn't wear the shirt all the damn time. But he does because Soubi likes the way it looks with his eyes and Kio likes hearing it. And it isn't a bad shirt, really. It's a fine-woven cotton material, lilac-colored and delicate. Kio's worn it to near-transparency and treasures it...but right now it's a goddamned traitor and he really wants to move to scratch at the tickle the loose, lilac thread is spreading across the left side of his face. But, after dragging Soubi from the quiet abyss of seclusion and making him just do his homework, please, Kio isn't really in the mood to be the one to ruin Soubi's painting.
But, really, it's not like Soubi would notice, not with the lethargic way he's dragging his brush across the canvas, up what Kio thinks might be his leg, or maybe the side of his favorite shirt, immortalized in pigment. Not with the way he won't look at Kio except in brief glances for position and shading references.
Not that Kio hasn't tried to get his attention the past few weeks.
Kio sighs and steals a quick scrub of his nails against his cheek, and wonders how he can be so happy about something that makes Soubi so sad.
Soubi's been a corpse for weeks now and Kio is tired of it. He's tired of coming up with more elaborate excuses to deal with the increasing impatience of Soubi's professors. He's tired of being ignored. Kio wonders what would happen if he just didn't show up one day.
He doesn't even respond when Kio goes out of his way to be irritating. Kio sneaks junk food into Soubi's apartment, but Soubi forgets to eat so he never sees it in his cupboards anyway. He says nothing when Kio uses his paintbrushes and fails to rinse them out properly. Even that afternoon when Kio dawdled around changing his shirt for the painting session, Soubi was quiet as death.
Kio had taken his time, taking care with each undone button, tossing his previous, inferior shirt - one that Soubi had never noticed - into a crumpled mess on the floor and had wondered why Soubi hadn't called for him yet. Soubi was always so quick to become irritated with him, his firm voice exasperated with waiting, worrying over small bowls of paint with pigment drying out at the edges. But not that afternoon.
Kio had returned from changing, and Soubi hadn't looked bothered at all. Instead, he had sat cross-legged on the floor in front of his canvas, staring in that distant way he'd acquired recently at the quiet, still mobile phone to his right.
It had been disquieting and Kio pushes it out of his mind as he rolls his shoulders, hoping to relieve some of the tension, and the thought that Soubi's phone may actually ring crosses his mind - but not as intensely as it courses through his body, sending shockwaves of painful goosebumps up his limbs and neck and face.
That just makes the thread's tickle more noticeable and he breaks down and scratches at his cheek.
Kio waits to be reprimanded, but Soubi's eyes don't leave his paintbrush. Cramps work their way up Kio's limbs and back and Soubi is taking so long with this painting and he needs to stretch, but he stays still, as if moving would ruin some perfect moment they have. At least, he stays mostly still. One hand sneaks up to finger the loose thread harrassing his face. Soubi, expectedly, is silent.
Soubi's better off now, Kio knows. Soubi might not know, but he'll be happier now. Healthier. He won't have to spend so much time sprawled on Kio's couch, getting patched up. And the sooner he gets over this little depression, the better. Kio clears his throat and lowers his eyelids a bit, hoping for something seductive in his appearance but Soubi swirls his fingers in a paint dish and doesn't look up.
Kio gives a weary sigh and Soubi holds his fingers to the light, inspecting the hue of the thin paint.
Kio tugs anxiously at the thread, missing his discarded chupa, twists the thread around his finger and pulls until the blood pools in the tip and it swells. He turns his head to glance at the dull ache.
And the thread pulls loose.
Crimped string slides free of lilac fabric, opening the seam, cool air spilling down his sleeve.
Kio's eyes go wide and he panics, grasps with both hands now at the thread and pulls it to his chest, hoping to gather it, but only ends up pulling more free. The rip is clear around to the underside of his arm now, his shoulder exposed and pale, when a sound slices through his guts.
Kio!
He freezes.
When he looks up, Soubi is on his knees and watching him, a pitying, patronizing expression light and fluttery on his features. Kio could cry.
Don't pull on it, Soubi says, his voice hoarse and unused.
The simple command is all that is necessary and Kio drops the string.
His world quivers for a moment. This was his shirt, his favorite shirt, the shirt that smelled like Soubi because Soubi always touched him when he was wearing it. He's all lost-dog and welling tears, and he's not sure how to respond when Soubi shakes his head in that slight way. At first, he's sure that he's ruined Soubi's painting, that Soubi will have to start over now that his model has been altered. But Soubi almost smiles in that warm way that he reserves for Kio alone. Kio can almost tell.
It's better this way, he says, sexier.
Kio blushes. Soubi can always make him so prideful and so embarrassed at the same time and Kio loves the sensation. It's something only Soubi can do. But then, there are a lot of things that "only Soubi" can do.
Still, despite Soubi's approval, Kio feels off-kilter, incomplete somehow. Soubi is such a mystery so much of the time, an enigma and sometimes Kio's shirt - this shirt that Soubi likes draped over Kio's body - is the only tangible assurance Kio has that Soubi is real at all. Without his perfect, lilac-colored shirt, Soubi might just disappear.
Kio's face feels warm as Soubi kneels before him and tugs on the torn sleeve, rearranging it on Kio's arm. Soubi pulls it down further, leaving Kio's solar plexus naked and exposed. Kio feels naked all over as Soubi steps back and takes him in. It is the first time in weeks that Kio has seen his eyes focused on something. He shivers.
A small nod and it's over and Soubi sinks back to the floor. Sable makes ghostly contact with canvas - Kio has done it so many time before that he can picture the paint stretching its web-like tendrils in between the textured hills and valleys. Kio wonders why anticipation has never felt quite so liquid.
He can still feel Soubi's fingertips against his shoulder, tingly and itchy, tangible and he wants to scratch that itch. Everything would be better if he did. Soubi would be better if he did. That brief glance of life had been enough to convince him. He knows it deep like fever and scar, and so he unfolds his body from his model's pose and bends to hands and knees.
Kio crawls slow and cautious, feels the cool of hardwood beneath his palms, firm resistance at his knees. Soubi raises his eyebrows in near-warning, but Kio doesn't care. It's a reaction. It's something. And something, anything, is better than this look of complacency, of apathy, of do-with-me-as-you-wish burning the edges of his expression. He advances, eyes intent on Soubi's.
Kio stops when his knees rest against the side of Soubi's leg, when he can rest his hands on Soubi's shoulders.
I've missed you, Sou-chan, he thinks about saying but doesn't. Instead, he rests his forehead against Soubi's. Their glasses clink together and Kio presses a kiss against Soubi's cheekbone. Soubi blinks but doesn't push him away. Soubi's sweat tastes sharp on his tongue and he likes it, doesn't even mind that Soubi maybe smells a bit like he hasn't showered as frequently as he had before. It doesn't matter because Kio's never felt the smooth, cool skin of Soubi's face against his lips and he wants it enough to ignore the rest.
Sou-chan, he breathes when he pulls away, painting can wait, can't it?
Soubi turns his face away and picks up a brush again.
Kio..., is all he says.
Kio pauses, hand half-raised, fingertips near enough to Soubi's neck to feel its warmth and he swallows hard. But Soubi says nothing more and while it isn't exactly permission, it's not rejection either and Soubi begins to paint again. Almost as if he's saying, "please stop me." Kio closes his eyes - a small, silent apology - and presses forward. His hand curves along the back of Soubi's neck, his lips touch to the shell of Soubi's ear.
Soubi almost shivers, almost, and Kio takes it as approval. They'be both wanted this for so long, he knows, and now they can have it. It's time for Soubi to close the attic on these ghosts and to take what he needs from Kio. Kio would give him everything. Kio loves him.
He slides his fingers between Soubi's, feels paint slither down his lifeline, down his wrist like pulse, and now his nose is sliding lightly, moistly along the back of Soubi's neck. It makes him shudder to smell Soubi's musk so thickly.
Kio shifts up against his back, runs his free hand up beneath the hem of Soubi's shirt, feels Soubi's quivering flesh, his sharp ribs. He bites his lip, doesn't want to say anything embarrassing right now.
Soubi is still.
Kio's fingers are light and cautious as they slide along Soubi's collarbone. Goosebumps spring and push him forward. This is good, he's sure of it. They need this, more than Soubi needs to finish this painting, more than Kio needs his conscience, more than either of them needs these ghosts. Soubi is broken and this can fix him. Kio can fix him.
Kio licks his way down Soubi's neck, kissing to make it better. He slides around to face him, graceful and terrified. He makes a point not to look in Soubi's eyes, afraid of what might be there, and instead buries his face in the curve where Soubi's neck meets his shoulder. He can smell the bandages wrapped tightly around Soubi, fresh - the only thing so clean and new about Soubi these days. But Kio can ignore it; Kio can ignore a lot of things.
He's straddling Soubi's legs, his head pressed pathetically against Soubi's shoulder, his fingers laced together behind Soubi's waist. They're tangled up and near, but Kio has never felt so distant from his friend before.
Sou-chan, comes his breath, thick and begging, Sou-chan, I love you.
Soubi tenses once - a reaction, a something - then falls limp again in Kio's arms. Kio's insides quake when Soubi turns his face away.
Don't look away, Kio's mind screams, don't you dare look away.
He needs Soubi to watch him, to see what he does to Kio. He needs Soubi to see this need and to feel it in the pit of his stomach. To act on it. Because they need the need, they need to finish this the way they started it years ago.
Kio tangles his fingers in Soubi's hair and kisses him, hard and on the mouth this time. Soubi's slack lips offer no resistance and Kio finally knows what his best friend tastes like, all warm, thick like nicotine, tingly like menthol. Kio shuts his eyes because seeing hurts, and he grips Soubi's hand, moving it up to rest on his hip.
Do this right, he wants to growl, forget him.
Kio presses his chest, his sternum flush against Soubi's, wanting to feel lean ropes of muscle and strong resistance, wants to remember when Soubi was alive. Soubi tastes like a crematorium, like brimstone, but Kio tilts Soubi's head and his tongue forges deeper. He feels like he's posing a doll, but he squints his eyes, inhales deeply, and rocks his hips forward against Soubi's.
Lay down, lay down, he mumbles against still lips and feels Soubi's eyelids brush against his cheekbones.
Kio guides him, hand cupping head, hips pressing forward, until they are stretched out before canvas. Paint tips over, but Kio is only aware that his favorite shirt is out of the line of danger and that the curves of their bodies align - so perfect and so long overdue. Kio's fingers tug at Soubi's buttons, he thinks he might have lost one, bouncing in sharp staccato against the floor, rolling under a desk maybe, but Soubi's chest is bare now and Kio bends down to lick a line between his ribs.
Paint seeps into the knee of his jeans and Kio figures there's only one way to take care of that. Soubi doesn't seem to mind when Kio stands and strips his pants from his body, miraculous and quick, tossing them into a corner. They're ruined now, cerulean bleeding into the leg, but he doesn't care. His kneecap is a little blue, too, but that will wash. His shirt is fine and Soubi is still stretched out beneath him and Kio kneels back to work.
Soubi's belt is undone with the ease of practiced fingers and Kio closes his eyes as he undoes the button. It's too easy, far too easy and why isn't Soubi fighting back?
Kio's fingers hesitate over the waist of Soubi's jeans.
We dont..., he trails off when Soubi closes his eyes and drops his hands limply at his sides.
Kio winces, takes hold of one of Soubi's hands, brings it to his mouth, kisses it. He kisses each finger, pulls the flesh at the wrist into his mouth. Soubi's eyes half-focus on a point somewhere beyond Kio's left shoulder and Kio can see the shadow of a ghost tangled up in the faded blue.
Fight back, Kio thinks when he squeezes his eyes shut.
He slides his hand up Soubi's abdomen, moist and clammy - and he's not sure who he's feeling - rocks their hips together, and Soubi's body moves with his far too easily.
Please stop me, he might say, he's not sure, stop me, Sou-chan.
Soubi closes his eyes and Kio twists his hand in his traitorous, lilac-colored, Soubi-scented, ripped-shoulder-seam shirt and collapses, sobbing into Soubi's chest.
Don't disappear. Don't disappear.
***
Kio has never felt more awkward before when slowly pulling on his pants. "Sorry" would be ridiculous at this point, so he doesn't say it. He just fumbles with buttons and buckles and blushes when Soubi finally catches his eye.
The light's still good, he says, if we hurry, I can finish tonight.
But Kio shakes his head.
Leave it, he says, let it be.
Soubi frowns, glances quickly at the incomplete painting, but nods in a small way. It is the first time Kio sees Soubi leave something unfinished.
Kio changes his shirt in silence, careful not to look at his friend kneeling on the floor, putting away his paints. He folds his shirt with care and reverence, not in the quick one-fold method his cousins had taught him. One sleeve across the back, then the other. He folds in the sides, makes a crease a third of the way down and flips it. It is a neat package, lovely until it is turned over and the wide rip in the shoulder is revealed.
He erects himself, glances quickly at the mess of paint in the hardwood, at the paint on his knees, in the creases of his hand and clears his throat in a way that makes his eyes water.
Kio bids Soubi good night in a sheepish way, not surprised when Soubi doesn't respond, and steps cautiously out the door, telling himself that he really needs to take the shirt to a seamstress, someone with more experience than he has. But the idea of someone touching his shirt, his beloved shirt makes him cringe. He'll do it himself. It can't be that hard.
He can fix it.
Fandom: Loveless
Pairing: Kio/Soubi
Rating: R
Warnings: No real spoilers, dubious consent
Word Count: ~2900
Notes: Prompt words "cotton," "pity," and "incomplete" by yutaka who is also the best beta in the world. Oh, yes.
There's this loose thread on the shoulder seam of Kio's favorite shirt and, from his contorted position on the floor, it is tickling the side of his face.
Kio blows at it. He twists up his features to force breath from the corner of his mouth. The thread wavers once in false concession, then returns to its previous position of torment.
It wouldn't be there, he knows, if he didn't wear the shirt all the damn time. But he does because Soubi likes the way it looks with his eyes and Kio likes hearing it. And it isn't a bad shirt, really. It's a fine-woven cotton material, lilac-colored and delicate. Kio's worn it to near-transparency and treasures it...but right now it's a goddamned traitor and he really wants to move to scratch at the tickle the loose, lilac thread is spreading across the left side of his face. But, after dragging Soubi from the quiet abyss of seclusion and making him just do his homework, please, Kio isn't really in the mood to be the one to ruin Soubi's painting.
But, really, it's not like Soubi would notice, not with the lethargic way he's dragging his brush across the canvas, up what Kio thinks might be his leg, or maybe the side of his favorite shirt, immortalized in pigment. Not with the way he won't look at Kio except in brief glances for position and shading references.
Not that Kio hasn't tried to get his attention the past few weeks.
Kio sighs and steals a quick scrub of his nails against his cheek, and wonders how he can be so happy about something that makes Soubi so sad.
Soubi's been a corpse for weeks now and Kio is tired of it. He's tired of coming up with more elaborate excuses to deal with the increasing impatience of Soubi's professors. He's tired of being ignored. Kio wonders what would happen if he just didn't show up one day.
He doesn't even respond when Kio goes out of his way to be irritating. Kio sneaks junk food into Soubi's apartment, but Soubi forgets to eat so he never sees it in his cupboards anyway. He says nothing when Kio uses his paintbrushes and fails to rinse them out properly. Even that afternoon when Kio dawdled around changing his shirt for the painting session, Soubi was quiet as death.
Kio had taken his time, taking care with each undone button, tossing his previous, inferior shirt - one that Soubi had never noticed - into a crumpled mess on the floor and had wondered why Soubi hadn't called for him yet. Soubi was always so quick to become irritated with him, his firm voice exasperated with waiting, worrying over small bowls of paint with pigment drying out at the edges. But not that afternoon.
Kio had returned from changing, and Soubi hadn't looked bothered at all. Instead, he had sat cross-legged on the floor in front of his canvas, staring in that distant way he'd acquired recently at the quiet, still mobile phone to his right.
It had been disquieting and Kio pushes it out of his mind as he rolls his shoulders, hoping to relieve some of the tension, and the thought that Soubi's phone may actually ring crosses his mind - but not as intensely as it courses through his body, sending shockwaves of painful goosebumps up his limbs and neck and face.
That just makes the thread's tickle more noticeable and he breaks down and scratches at his cheek.
Kio waits to be reprimanded, but Soubi's eyes don't leave his paintbrush. Cramps work their way up Kio's limbs and back and Soubi is taking so long with this painting and he needs to stretch, but he stays still, as if moving would ruin some perfect moment they have. At least, he stays mostly still. One hand sneaks up to finger the loose thread harrassing his face. Soubi, expectedly, is silent.
Soubi's better off now, Kio knows. Soubi might not know, but he'll be happier now. Healthier. He won't have to spend so much time sprawled on Kio's couch, getting patched up. And the sooner he gets over this little depression, the better. Kio clears his throat and lowers his eyelids a bit, hoping for something seductive in his appearance but Soubi swirls his fingers in a paint dish and doesn't look up.
Kio gives a weary sigh and Soubi holds his fingers to the light, inspecting the hue of the thin paint.
Kio tugs anxiously at the thread, missing his discarded chupa, twists the thread around his finger and pulls until the blood pools in the tip and it swells. He turns his head to glance at the dull ache.
And the thread pulls loose.
Crimped string slides free of lilac fabric, opening the seam, cool air spilling down his sleeve.
Kio's eyes go wide and he panics, grasps with both hands now at the thread and pulls it to his chest, hoping to gather it, but only ends up pulling more free. The rip is clear around to the underside of his arm now, his shoulder exposed and pale, when a sound slices through his guts.
Kio!
He freezes.
When he looks up, Soubi is on his knees and watching him, a pitying, patronizing expression light and fluttery on his features. Kio could cry.
Don't pull on it, Soubi says, his voice hoarse and unused.
The simple command is all that is necessary and Kio drops the string.
His world quivers for a moment. This was his shirt, his favorite shirt, the shirt that smelled like Soubi because Soubi always touched him when he was wearing it. He's all lost-dog and welling tears, and he's not sure how to respond when Soubi shakes his head in that slight way. At first, he's sure that he's ruined Soubi's painting, that Soubi will have to start over now that his model has been altered. But Soubi almost smiles in that warm way that he reserves for Kio alone. Kio can almost tell.
It's better this way, he says, sexier.
Kio blushes. Soubi can always make him so prideful and so embarrassed at the same time and Kio loves the sensation. It's something only Soubi can do. But then, there are a lot of things that "only Soubi" can do.
Still, despite Soubi's approval, Kio feels off-kilter, incomplete somehow. Soubi is such a mystery so much of the time, an enigma and sometimes Kio's shirt - this shirt that Soubi likes draped over Kio's body - is the only tangible assurance Kio has that Soubi is real at all. Without his perfect, lilac-colored shirt, Soubi might just disappear.
Kio's face feels warm as Soubi kneels before him and tugs on the torn sleeve, rearranging it on Kio's arm. Soubi pulls it down further, leaving Kio's solar plexus naked and exposed. Kio feels naked all over as Soubi steps back and takes him in. It is the first time in weeks that Kio has seen his eyes focused on something. He shivers.
A small nod and it's over and Soubi sinks back to the floor. Sable makes ghostly contact with canvas - Kio has done it so many time before that he can picture the paint stretching its web-like tendrils in between the textured hills and valleys. Kio wonders why anticipation has never felt quite so liquid.
He can still feel Soubi's fingertips against his shoulder, tingly and itchy, tangible and he wants to scratch that itch. Everything would be better if he did. Soubi would be better if he did. That brief glance of life had been enough to convince him. He knows it deep like fever and scar, and so he unfolds his body from his model's pose and bends to hands and knees.
Kio crawls slow and cautious, feels the cool of hardwood beneath his palms, firm resistance at his knees. Soubi raises his eyebrows in near-warning, but Kio doesn't care. It's a reaction. It's something. And something, anything, is better than this look of complacency, of apathy, of do-with-me-as-you-wish burning the edges of his expression. He advances, eyes intent on Soubi's.
Kio stops when his knees rest against the side of Soubi's leg, when he can rest his hands on Soubi's shoulders.
I've missed you, Sou-chan, he thinks about saying but doesn't. Instead, he rests his forehead against Soubi's. Their glasses clink together and Kio presses a kiss against Soubi's cheekbone. Soubi blinks but doesn't push him away. Soubi's sweat tastes sharp on his tongue and he likes it, doesn't even mind that Soubi maybe smells a bit like he hasn't showered as frequently as he had before. It doesn't matter because Kio's never felt the smooth, cool skin of Soubi's face against his lips and he wants it enough to ignore the rest.
Sou-chan, he breathes when he pulls away, painting can wait, can't it?
Soubi turns his face away and picks up a brush again.
Kio..., is all he says.
Kio pauses, hand half-raised, fingertips near enough to Soubi's neck to feel its warmth and he swallows hard. But Soubi says nothing more and while it isn't exactly permission, it's not rejection either and Soubi begins to paint again. Almost as if he's saying, "please stop me." Kio closes his eyes - a small, silent apology - and presses forward. His hand curves along the back of Soubi's neck, his lips touch to the shell of Soubi's ear.
Soubi almost shivers, almost, and Kio takes it as approval. They'be both wanted this for so long, he knows, and now they can have it. It's time for Soubi to close the attic on these ghosts and to take what he needs from Kio. Kio would give him everything. Kio loves him.
He slides his fingers between Soubi's, feels paint slither down his lifeline, down his wrist like pulse, and now his nose is sliding lightly, moistly along the back of Soubi's neck. It makes him shudder to smell Soubi's musk so thickly.
Kio shifts up against his back, runs his free hand up beneath the hem of Soubi's shirt, feels Soubi's quivering flesh, his sharp ribs. He bites his lip, doesn't want to say anything embarrassing right now.
Soubi is still.
Kio's fingers are light and cautious as they slide along Soubi's collarbone. Goosebumps spring and push him forward. This is good, he's sure of it. They need this, more than Soubi needs to finish this painting, more than Kio needs his conscience, more than either of them needs these ghosts. Soubi is broken and this can fix him. Kio can fix him.
Kio licks his way down Soubi's neck, kissing to make it better. He slides around to face him, graceful and terrified. He makes a point not to look in Soubi's eyes, afraid of what might be there, and instead buries his face in the curve where Soubi's neck meets his shoulder. He can smell the bandages wrapped tightly around Soubi, fresh - the only thing so clean and new about Soubi these days. But Kio can ignore it; Kio can ignore a lot of things.
He's straddling Soubi's legs, his head pressed pathetically against Soubi's shoulder, his fingers laced together behind Soubi's waist. They're tangled up and near, but Kio has never felt so distant from his friend before.
Sou-chan, comes his breath, thick and begging, Sou-chan, I love you.
Soubi tenses once - a reaction, a something - then falls limp again in Kio's arms. Kio's insides quake when Soubi turns his face away.
Don't look away, Kio's mind screams, don't you dare look away.
He needs Soubi to watch him, to see what he does to Kio. He needs Soubi to see this need and to feel it in the pit of his stomach. To act on it. Because they need the need, they need to finish this the way they started it years ago.
Kio tangles his fingers in Soubi's hair and kisses him, hard and on the mouth this time. Soubi's slack lips offer no resistance and Kio finally knows what his best friend tastes like, all warm, thick like nicotine, tingly like menthol. Kio shuts his eyes because seeing hurts, and he grips Soubi's hand, moving it up to rest on his hip.
Do this right, he wants to growl, forget him.
Kio presses his chest, his sternum flush against Soubi's, wanting to feel lean ropes of muscle and strong resistance, wants to remember when Soubi was alive. Soubi tastes like a crematorium, like brimstone, but Kio tilts Soubi's head and his tongue forges deeper. He feels like he's posing a doll, but he squints his eyes, inhales deeply, and rocks his hips forward against Soubi's.
Lay down, lay down, he mumbles against still lips and feels Soubi's eyelids brush against his cheekbones.
Kio guides him, hand cupping head, hips pressing forward, until they are stretched out before canvas. Paint tips over, but Kio is only aware that his favorite shirt is out of the line of danger and that the curves of their bodies align - so perfect and so long overdue. Kio's fingers tug at Soubi's buttons, he thinks he might have lost one, bouncing in sharp staccato against the floor, rolling under a desk maybe, but Soubi's chest is bare now and Kio bends down to lick a line between his ribs.
Paint seeps into the knee of his jeans and Kio figures there's only one way to take care of that. Soubi doesn't seem to mind when Kio stands and strips his pants from his body, miraculous and quick, tossing them into a corner. They're ruined now, cerulean bleeding into the leg, but he doesn't care. His kneecap is a little blue, too, but that will wash. His shirt is fine and Soubi is still stretched out beneath him and Kio kneels back to work.
Soubi's belt is undone with the ease of practiced fingers and Kio closes his eyes as he undoes the button. It's too easy, far too easy and why isn't Soubi fighting back?
Kio's fingers hesitate over the waist of Soubi's jeans.
We dont..., he trails off when Soubi closes his eyes and drops his hands limply at his sides.
Kio winces, takes hold of one of Soubi's hands, brings it to his mouth, kisses it. He kisses each finger, pulls the flesh at the wrist into his mouth. Soubi's eyes half-focus on a point somewhere beyond Kio's left shoulder and Kio can see the shadow of a ghost tangled up in the faded blue.
Fight back, Kio thinks when he squeezes his eyes shut.
He slides his hand up Soubi's abdomen, moist and clammy - and he's not sure who he's feeling - rocks their hips together, and Soubi's body moves with his far too easily.
Please stop me, he might say, he's not sure, stop me, Sou-chan.
Soubi closes his eyes and Kio twists his hand in his traitorous, lilac-colored, Soubi-scented, ripped-shoulder-seam shirt and collapses, sobbing into Soubi's chest.
Don't disappear. Don't disappear.
***
Kio has never felt more awkward before when slowly pulling on his pants. "Sorry" would be ridiculous at this point, so he doesn't say it. He just fumbles with buttons and buckles and blushes when Soubi finally catches his eye.
The light's still good, he says, if we hurry, I can finish tonight.
But Kio shakes his head.
Leave it, he says, let it be.
Soubi frowns, glances quickly at the incomplete painting, but nods in a small way. It is the first time Kio sees Soubi leave something unfinished.
Kio changes his shirt in silence, careful not to look at his friend kneeling on the floor, putting away his paints. He folds his shirt with care and reverence, not in the quick one-fold method his cousins had taught him. One sleeve across the back, then the other. He folds in the sides, makes a crease a third of the way down and flips it. It is a neat package, lovely until it is turned over and the wide rip in the shoulder is revealed.
He erects himself, glances quickly at the mess of paint in the hardwood, at the paint on his knees, in the creases of his hand and clears his throat in a way that makes his eyes water.
Kio bids Soubi good night in a sheepish way, not surprised when Soubi doesn't respond, and steps cautiously out the door, telling himself that he really needs to take the shirt to a seamstress, someone with more experience than he has. But the idea of someone touching his shirt, his beloved shirt makes him cringe. He'll do it himself. It can't be that hard.
He can fix it.