Gravity, Love, and Suffering
A 'Gravitation' vignette
Sephy

Am I fair? Am I strong?
Am I there? Do I belong?
Is it only skin I touch
when I reach for you?
--Tara MacLean, Settling

Sometimes he felt like a ghost.

Now was one of those times, the apartment empty as he came in through the front door, pausing to step out of his soggy sneakers, fingers so stiff he could barely unknot the laces. Shuuichi wished he'd remembered to bring his jacket, the weather having turned suddenly, the balm of the morning killed by the slow creep of an autumn chill, crisp and tart as it settled in his bones. His blood felt frozen, damp and clinging as it slogged through his veins, the tips of his fingers and ears red. He should have let Hiro drop him off; the guitarist had offered after practice but for some reason he'd found himself wanting to walk, near twitchy with nervous energy, troubled by something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Practice had gone well, everyone so intent on working on the new song that the usual bickering that accompanied sessions had been conspicuously absent. Hell, he and Fujisaki had actually had a conversation without tossing insults back and forth, abbreviated though it had been. No, it wasn't Bad Luck that was crawling beneath his skin, creating tiny pricks of discontent with each wriggle. It was something else, and seeing as there was only one other thing in the world that meant as much to him as his band, he had a pretty good idea what it was.

Shuuichi glanced across the living room towards the closed door, light puddling around the edges. It was quiet enough that he could hear the click-clack of a keyboard, muffled, yes but he was accustomed enough to the sound that his mind could replace each missed clack. Yuki was working. Again.

'Joy,' he sighed, allowing his backpack to slide to the floor, making enough of a thud that if his lover hadn't realized he was home then he would now. Chewing his thumbnail, he stared at the door a moment longer, waiting, hoping… He shrugged, disappointed as he headed into the kitchen, snagging the kettle and a cup of instant ramen he kept in the shelf above the stove. He wasn't hungry but he would be -- would be starving long before Yuki thought to bestir himself from whatever pull kept him tied to the computer. He knew from past experience what it would mean to disturb the writer and as much as he wanted the company, he wasn't in the mood to fight right now. And if Yuki lost his muse… Well, that there would be hell to pay was putting it mildly.

It wasn't that Shuuichi didn't understand. On occasion, he'd pulled an all-nighter, working tirelessly until he'd finished a song, unable to put pen and paper down long enough to catch a bit of sleep. He could count on several hands the number of times he'd passed out at his desk during school the next day because of it. 'But at least my muse is nice enough to remember that you gotta eat sometimes,' he thought grumpily. 'And kissing your boyfriend hello…yeah, good thing.'

He held his hand above the warming stove plates, wincing as the patina of cold broke, his fingers beginning to tingle painfully, pins and needles making him flex his fingers. He thought about Hiro and his tattered gloves, the ones stitched over and over until all they were was a collection of patches one on top of the other, refusing to get new ones even though he could afford it. Ayaka herself had offered to buy him a new set, openly disdainful of their ragged appearance but Hiro had just laughed and said he couldn't possibly be rid of them. That he had a history with them and flimsy though they appeared, those gloves had protected his fingers, the same fingers that plucked his guitar strings with such nimble ease, for this long, why jinx himself now? Coming from anyone else, Shuuichi might have laughed but Hiro was probably one of the most practical and least superstitious people Shuuichi had ever met and it was clear that he believed every word of it.

Gloves would have been nice on the way home, he acknowledged, turning his palm downward, sighing as the heat wafted over the hollow his hand and wrist. A jacket, too. Or maybe even just someone there lay an arm around him while he walked. He couldn't remember the last time he had taken a walk with Yuki, just the two of them, without having to worry about being stalked by the media or fans, his or Yuki's. He couldn't even remember the last time they'd been out of the apartment together. Sometime before his last tour perhaps? It was so hard to remember. True, he hadn't exactly been in a mood to go anywhere when he'd gotten back, too tired and worn to do much more than collapse and take up the couch for a week before K had arrived to drag him back in the studio. And Yuki was so busy these days, working on another novel and still promoting the one that had come out while he was away. If Shuuichi saw him at all, it was either stalking towards the kitchen, cigarette in one hand, empty beer can in another -- replaced as soon humanly possible with a grunt should he attempt to speak to the writer before shutting the study door again or in the morning, passed out in bed beside him. Waking him up then was next to impossible. The outside world for Yuki Eiri simply did not exist before lunchtime and Shuuichi had to be at the studio by nine each morning.

It wasn't exactly doing wonders for their sex life.

He leaned back, absently plunking the kettle on the stove, a small flush creeping up his neck as it was wont to do whenever he thought about Yuki and sex in the same breath. He hated it. That he could blush so easily brought about more by strong emotion than true embarrassment. If he was angry or embarrassed, his face would flood with color, most of it the color of ripe tomatoes. Yuki liked to tell him he had a face like glass with every emotion was on display for the world to see and exploit if he weren't careful. And try as he might, he couldn't curb the reaction, much to his chagrin and his lover's amusement. Trying had earned him weeks of needling the one time Yuki had caught him standing in front of the bathroom mirror trying school his face into something resembling his stoic boyfriend's. 'Of course he didn't have to tell me I looked like a monkey with the case of the runs,' he rolled his eyes.

Would it always be like this? He wondered, his eyes again wandering towards that closed door. Their professional lives constantly pulling them in different directions? Yuki at best was intensely reserved, any effusion he might have possessed for his prose alone, preferring to demonstrate his affections through little things, small touches or the way his eyes softened sometimes, hard gold melting into striping ambers and silky shades of suede. He was not apt for participating in long phone conversations (even if he was more than willing on occasion to sit and let Shuuichi natter on) nor was he one for any sort of declaration of affection. 'Love' as a word entered into his thoughts only when he was writing and even then it was something he derided as a 'construct for fools, a crutch to help people get through the hopelessness of their meaningless lives.'

Yuki Eiri, he had decided long ago, was the biggest fool of all. 'Of course,' And his lips twitched, 'I'm the fool's lover, so what does that say about me?'

He loved Yuki even if he did not always like him, longing to break down that distance, the wall, invisible and going on forever, full of treacherous barbs, between them. Love was what had allowed Shuuichi to continue trying, long after cooler and more intelligent heads might have given up. Because Yuki was worth it, because he was certain, so very certain that the man did care or else why would they still be together after a year's time? He'd said as much once and Yuki had well and thoroughly crushed him for a week by taking his cigarette, stubbing it out, as he looked Shuuichi in the eye, replying with casual indifference, "Habit."

Habit. Was that what he was? A habit and not an addiction? Something to be put up with but not craved, not really wanted? Something to be humored and indulged and patted on occasion like a small dog? If he'd thought for once instant that it was true, if he let himself believe it… He'd walk out the door right now and not be back.

No, there was something more than habit between them, a force stronger than gravity, more volatile than desire, and more tangible than infatuation. If it wasn't love, then it was the closest Shuuichi had and would ever get to it. As precious and rare as one of Yuki's fleeting smiles, those times where he could feel the walls between them thinning, his lover letting him inch closer, past the enigmatic insensitivity he presented to the world. It was there when he touched Shuuichi, part of the lust but not the greater whole. It was the consideration he gave him, the unusual deference he gave to making sure Shuuichi was pleasured too, instead of just taking, seeming to enjoy the way he could wring soft gasps and moans with skilled hands. Yuki could be a rough lover, sometimes enthusiasm pushing them into something more tumble down and rushed, but he could also be gentle, taking his time to bring the atmosphere to a boil, emotions and desire simmering over in a complicated mix. And sudden frigid snaps aside, Shuuichi had never worried beyond the first time that he was in anything but good hands when they made love. Even when they couldn't talk to each other, when they couldn't say aloud those things, those thoughts and words that lay unspoken, their bodies could, eloquent where words could be so clumsy, so imperfect. But he wanted the words.

He wanted them more than he could say.

Yuki had once asked him what good would it be to say, "I love you," because it changed nothing, proved nothing, and could easily be taken back on a whim but Shuuichi didn't see things that way. Maybe love was inconstant, fickle, and easily broken but it never went away. Even when it turned to hatred, some part of it still survived, a seed sleeping, waiting to germinate again, if given the chance. Love survived because it changed, because it became something greater or less than what it had been. When he said, "I love you" to Yuki, he was giving something of himself, a piece that would always belong to Yuki Eiri whether the novelist wanted it or not. Whether /he/ wanted it or not, something of Yuki would always belong to him, too. Would color his songs and the way he touched things and people, the way he might linger over a particular phrase or be reminded of fierce golden eyes with each sunrise.

The kettle shrilled, a blast of whistling steam and shaking metal rattling against the cast iron eye and he let it scream a second longer, peeling at the plastic packaging of the ramen, the dried noodles crunching against the side of the cup. There was still some comfort to be found in the little things and even if his world were to end tomorrow and Yuki decided to throw him out for good, there would still be instant ramen, overly salted and manufactured as it might taste.

'Yes,' he thought, removing the kettle, careful not to slosh steaming hot water all over himself, 'Life would go on but it would not be the same. Without Yuki---' He let the thought dangle as he had so many times in the past. It wasn't that he couldn't survive without his lover. Romantic notions aside, he knew very well he could. It was more that he didn't want to, couldn't bear contemplating such an ending. It would be like throwing away his voice or the chance to ever write songs, taking away so very much at the core of his being that he would no longer be Shuuichi without it.

And so he would put up with Yuki's coldness, the times when he pushed so hard, trying to see how far Shuuichi would let him go, if this time it would be different and the singer would wash his hands of him forever. After a year, he had learned something of his lover's mind and knew too, that his nature was just as mercurial as Shuuichi's, if not more gruff. The difference was in the way they dealt with things, Shuuichi far more open than Eiri ever would be, if not just as set at having his own way. And it was their circumstances that had created that difference.

He clenched the set of chopsticks in his hands uneasily, twirling them between his fingers as he made his way into the living room. Yuki's past was something of a sore subject for him, arousing every protective instinct in him, horrified and amazed that anyone could have taken advantage of Yuki Eiri like that. Then again, from what his lover had told him through cryptic comments and the occasional outburst, Shuuichi had gleaned enough to understand that Yuki was not like he was now because he had wanted it but because he had been made that way. Something had broken him, if not beyond repair, to the point where he had nothing but contempt for his fellow man. Shuuichi believed -- in goodness, in people because he could conceive of no other way. And likewise Yuki believed that everyone he met was out to either use or abuse him in some fashion because /he/ could concede no other way of interaction. It had taken months for him to even acknowledge that Shuuichi wanted something beyond notoriety or sex from him and even now there were moments of …uncertainty. A hint of uneasy fear he glimpsed when Yuki thought he was not looking, as if he expected at any moment to be betrayed. It made things difficult, leaving him with a curiously defeated sense of pain, sharp as glass and cutting in the general of his chest to see that look.

'Although you'd think I'd be used to it by now,' he shook his head, picking at his noodles. Just the memory of it was enough to near kill his appetite and he stared at the steaming golden mix glumly, picking at a noodle or two without eating. He sighed, settling cup and chopsticks on the table, watching translucent wisps of steam curl upward.

"Wasting food again?"

Shuuichi started, shifting in his seat to find Yuki staring down his nose at him, glasses precariously perched as he thumped a pack of cigarettes against his thigh. The novelist was rumpled, white shirt looking suspiciously like the one he'd been wearing yesterday, matted with wrinkled gray ash stains, golden hair in casual disarray, tufts sticking out here and there. Yuki looked strangely energetic for someone with three day's worth of stubble sprouting on his chin and bloodshot eyes. He was really engrossed in this one, Shuuichi surmised, if he couldn't tear himself away from the computer long enough to do more than sleep. Otherwise the stubble and the stained clothes would never have been tolerated, Yuki compulsive enough to loathe anything less than absolute cleanliness on a normal day. Shuuichi had been kicked out of bed a time or two for not washing his stage make-up off enough to his lover's exacting taste before an impromptu game of snuggle-the-Yuki-and-see-if-he-kicks-you-in-head-for-it. It really wasn't fair, Shuuichi thought. He had to put up with cigarette smoke, never mind how bad it was for his throat, on a constant basis. The least Yuki could do was cut him some slack for smearing foundation and eye make up all over him. Of course there were times when Yuki didn't seem to mind, when the moment was right and he was too busy doing -- other things, too busy touching and tasting Shuuichi to care. It just meant a hell of a lot of complaining later about how slimy he felt and how gritty and nasty Shuuichi's make up felt caked on his skin and lips.

"Just giving it a minute to cool," Shuuichi lied, not certain he was pleased or not at how casual it sounded. "And when have I ever wasted food? Weren't you the one who said I was the mouth with legs?"

"I was referring to your mindless prattling, not your eating habits, idiot. And do you really want the list? Because there are whole boxes of Chinese food in the refrigerator /you/ wanted and /never/ touched beyond a few bites. I think some of them are developing language skills."

"Probably telling you that you shouldn't drink so much." Shuuichi replied lightly.

Yuki snorted, "More likely, they're telling me I should stop buying food for wasteful brats because they're feeling overcrowded."

"Meaaaaan," He couldn't help but fall into habit, his voice raising with a slight whine, his tongue sticking out. It was just too easy and safe to do so, easier to deflect how well Yuki could draw blood with his words, to not dwell on how each one was a perfectly crafted weapon, made all the more hurtful by the kernel of truth each one inevitably contained. He picked up the ramen, stuffing a clutch of noodles in his mouth and nearly choking on them as they burned the insides of his mouth, causing him to sputter. He slurped down a few more, ignoring the look of disgust Yuki shot at him and the ache of his scorched tongue, "There. I ate more than half the bowl. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Yuki replied dryly. And still he hadn't moved beyond the nervous rhythm of the cigarette box slapping against his leg. Shuuichi was surprised. Normally by this time, he'd be in the kitchen, head buried in the refrigerator as he rooted around for a beer, possibly some of that leftover Chinese he complained about. Something was up and that put him on guard, well aware of how easily he could take the blame for whatever it was, if he wasn't careful. He tried not to squirm under the rake of inscrutable golden eyes -- Sphinx eyes, daring him to say something, measuring him, and leaving him aware of the riddle he had yet to solve, the riddle that was Yuki Eiri, something that grew more complex by the day.

"Why are you sitting in the dark anyway?" The question was idle, coming from out of left field and he blinked, glancing around and realizing for the first time, he was sitting in the dark, the kitchen and hall lights the only illumination in the apartment. He hadn't even bestirred himself enough to turn the heat up, instead feeling the icy air slide down his throat, a cold burn branching downward with each breath. If he sat long enough would that slow crawl continue, his blood thickening completely and heart slowing until he could feel the space between each beat, an unlikely Sleeping Beauty waiting for an eternal kiss?

Childish stupidity, he thought suddenly tired, heavy and cold with something that went beyond the uncomfortable temperature, weighing him down until he felt as if his limbs were sunk with it. That was what Yuki would tell him -- that he was being childish and stupid and only fools would fall into such fancies. There was no room in the real world for fairy tales. A kiss did not waken someone who slept death's slumber, nor did it turn frogs into princes. Life was what it was -- real and immediate, with little room for dreams and idle fantasies. Happy endings were something that happened in stories, the type that were read to children and he was no longer a child.

The darkness rose up and Shuuichi scuttled into the cushion, taken aback by sun-spark eyes boring into his, Yuki's eyebrows slashed downward as he leaned forward, one hand on either side of his body, as close and as far as one of those storybook kisses. His voice was harsh, not sonorous and filled with trumpets, almost … worried? "What's wrong?"

"Um…what?"

"The television isn't blaring, the stereo is off, and you're not screaming at the top of your inane little lungs. Instead you're sitting in the dark, looking like someone's died. What. Is. Wrong. With. You?" The words should have been punctuated with a shake of his shoulders or something equally dramatic but he felt them nonetheless, pounding against him with the force of a blow.

'Someone did die,' Shuuichi thought numbly, 'And I think it was me. I just never realized it until now.' And really why should he? His life was one long distraction these days -- with Bad Luck at the top of the charts and a new album overdue he had more than enough to think about. He shouldn't have time to dwell on Yuki's absences, on how the length between the time they spent together was growing. He shouldn't mind it so much that he came home to an empty apartment, that he saw more of his band mates than his lover. It was just the way things worked out. Patterns were set and inevitably distance and absence of some sort came with them. Passion faded, stories came to an end, and even songs could hit a sour note. He had the adulation of millions -- what was the regard of one man against that?

Yuki was still waiting, eyes alight with almost an unnerving amount of interest. He thought of a million different answers, all equally contrived, some more hurtful than others.

Instead Shuuichi drew up his legs, tucking them underneath him as he twisted around, laying his head against the cushion, white cuffs filling his vision as he stared at Yuki's thin wrists, wiry and deceptively fragile seeming despite the strength he knew they possessed. "I'm cold."

There was nothing to warn him, not breath nor eyes. He was alone, with only the memory of warmth and then it was touching him, kindling in and around him as Yuki tugged him upward just enough to slide underneath, cradling Shuuichi in his lap, the scent of unwashed male and nicotine pungent. He didn't understand it at first, could do little but whimper and attempt to move, Eiri's arms holding him steady, preventing any escape.

He lay still, quiet against his lover, the sound of a heart loud in his ears, almost wallowing in the sensual embrace of heat pooling between his body and Yuki's, enjoying the stroke of long fingers over his back, tracing down his spine and over knobby hips. He closed his eyes and let go of the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, a loose groan shaking free.

"Idiot." But the word held less bitterness, almost affection and concern. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed this time, the dream would last.

"I miss you, Yuki," he whispered, tilting his head, tucking more securely underneath the other's chin.

"I haven't gone anywhere." There was a curious puzzled sort of pain in that reply, as if Eiri understood what he wasn't saying, even as he tried valiantly to stick to the script between them.

He buried his face against the open collar of Yuki's shirt, clutching a fist full of stiff fabric, "Yes, you did."

There was no reply this time and he expected none. "I think," Shuuichi continued, rubbing the top of his head against the underside of Yuki's chin, almost begging with catlike abandon for another scrap of regard, "That we both did."

The hands caressing his back stilled, and he wondered at its completeness, at how he could almost feel the thoughts rattling around in his lover's brain, following his bread crumb trail of logic he'd scattered. "And…" Yuki sounded strange, awkward and uncertain, his voice causing Shuuichi to pull back, to gaze into Yuki's down turned face. "Can we find our way back? Do you think?"

"Do you really want to?" The words were rushed, flat and dead, rustling dry as desiccated butterfly wings -- a breath would break them.

"Do you?" The challenge came, fire freezing over, he could feel it nipping at their heels. Winter lay in wait and with it the death of everything, the death of hope, the death of love. Yuki was remote, glacial, and for a moment, he forgot everything but that, imagining sculpted ice, brittle and unyielding.

"I want--" He could hear them, invisible strings trembling, a riff that not even all of Hiro's skill would ever be able to emulated, tortured and drawn out, screaming between them with all the things that could and would be. Futures were created and destroyed in seconds, bridges smoldering, needing only a wind to fan them into destruction.

"What?"

What did he want? Could he give it words and through those words life and meaning? Could he bring into life every doubt, every fear, and desire -- and deal with the consequences of that?

He touched Yuki's rough skin, stubble prickling underneath his fingertips, scratchy and bushy in patches while unbelievably sparse and silky in others. It wasn't even a proper growth, more like clumps of blond stuck in places to his chin and some of his jaw. It was seedy and unkempt and so un-Yuki he felt dizzy, unable to stop the transverse of his hands, flattening and smoothing over the contours of his lover's altering face. He thought of old stories, of princes hidden in bear skins and other monsters -- cruel and fearsome and terrifying but so sad and lonely beneath it all. Dig deeper, the old stories seemed to say and so he did, leveling their faces so he could stare into twin suns, golden and glorious as a summer's day, as they stared back, revealing nothing but polished mirrors.

The eyes were the mirrors of the soul...

If that were true, then at this moment he despaired of Yuki being anything more than a doll, soul-less and waiting, flawless skin and glass eyes and empty of anything save that fixed expression. Dolls were to be played with, to be dressed and set out on display, and nothing more. They were projections, doors to imaginary worlds and friends but of real-ness...they were only real so long as someone believed in them, so long as someone loved and cared for them. His eyes widened fractionally and then drooped again. He leaned forward--

--and set his lips against Yuki's, and he felt the cold line of them, stiff and fixed, then warming with life, softening, losing the edge of fleshy porcelain as he slowly moved his mouth against his lover's. He pulled back again, Yuki's eyes cracking, confused and angry.

"You're real," And he couldn't stop the wonderment, the realization unfolding with agonizing slowness. He took Yuki's hand and laid it against his chest, pleased when the writer let him.

Yuki didn't give him the chance to finish, catching the back of his neck and re-taking his lips with ruthless efficiency, nipping and prying until they parted, a tongue sliding over his teeth. The cold seemed far away now, blood bubbling and seething as it rushed from head to toe, leaving him feeling light, almost drowsy. Yuki tasted of unbrushed teeth, and beer, and cigarettes and -- and--

"Pocky?" his voice was breathless when they parted, Yuki's hand holding him close still.

Eiri didn't redden per se but somehow he managed to seem a little embarrassed none the less. "If you don't want your candy eaten you shouldn't leave it in my office. I can't be bothered to --"

Mouths connected again, bodies falling into each other, manipulated shamelessly by invisible strings of need, a feast to be savored this time, Shuuichi catching Yuki's upper lip and lavishing it with one, two, three kisses before moving to the bottom, the act gentle, almost worshiping. Yuki's hands slid up and down his back, then down to cup his buttocks, pulling him closer, one knee and then the other on either side of the writer, framing his hips. His arms rose, languid as they draped over his lover's shoulders, closing loosely, one wrist over the other just behind his neck. Sparks of color went off behind his closed lids as he sank into Yuki, into the way his tongue caressed Shuuichi's, coaxing him outward so that Yuki was able to catch him, suckling lightly on that wandering tongue. There was nothing between them now, not breath, nor hesitation. Fear became something else, feeding the beast at the door, transforming him into something else, something more manageable and infinitely more powerful.

Now he understood the stories, why Sleeping Beauty could only be roused by a kiss. Maybe the story had been garbled over time and she had never been dead or sleeping just -- not alive. Not living. Going through the motions of life without thought or question. She was just like every one else, sleepwalking until somehow, some way, that rogue kiss had been bestowed upon her unlooked for, unseen and it had changed everything. It had /made/ her think, made her see a world beyond the narrow confines of her own perceptions, her own mind. It had shown her there was a whole world out there, yes and that dreams could be found and reached with hard work and a little luck, but without the passion, the love, and fervor behind that impetus, none of it meant anything. Without it, she was dumb, mute and blind in a dreamless sleep. She needed that spark, that fire, that only someone else could inspire.

But the stories had gotten it completely wrong -- the tale didn't end with a kiss. It began.

And Yuki was warm. Was flesh and blood and not carved ice nor inhuman porcelain. He was real, more so than any dream and like every other dream in his life, Shuuichi pursued, giving to his lover all that he was, all that he had and as always praying that it would be enough.

Yuki pulled away this time, his lips swollen and glistening, eyes molten gold as he cupped Shuuichi's cheek, a low murmur rumbling out of his chest. "Shuuichi."

Accepted then.

It was strange that a name could hold so much promise and power, that it could shatter and remake a soul in a second's smattering. His heart felt like it was clawing its way up his throat, all the way to shine out of shuttered eyes, when words failed and his mouth... He couldn't stop himself, needing to feel the rasp of lips against Eiri's, against his skin, burning and cracking. He could and perhaps would sing hundreds of love songs in his career (if he were lucky), but the only one he had ever wanted to compose, to keep entirely to himself, was right here.

"I should shave," Yuki spoke, voice husky, breath catching as Shuuichi ran his lips over the hollow between jaw and neck, stubble grating against one side of his mouth and the other side met with smoother skin. Despite the words, Yuki showed no signs of rousing himself.

"Oh, I don't know," Shuuichi ran his hand over that glossy facial hair speculatively. "Well, I mean, yeah, eventually but I'm wondering..."

"Wondering?"

"How--how it would feel," he colored.

Amber-gold eyes burned. "Where?" Yuki prodded, the fingers curled around his hipbone traveling again, tracing lightly over his thigh and then juncture between his legs, not where he so desperately wanted it to be, instead moving back and forth over the artery in his inner leg, wiggling underneath his shorts. "Tell me where? Or shall I guess?"

Shuuichi whined in the back of his throat. "Yuki," he scooted closer, trapping his lover's hand there, the feel of fingers splayed against his skin and the bulge of an arousal against his own, moving as Yuki shifted underneath him, his head against the back of the couch.

"What would you like from me?" The whisper was seductive, a devil's snare encircling his soul. Shuuichi reached blindly.

"Everything." Nimble fingers slid further upward, the tip of a finger teasing him.

Yuki laughed, a bitter, almost knowing sound that was painful in spite of the pleasure threatening to overwhelm him. "Greedy brat." He sounded almost...disappointed.

He blinked sleepily, almost pityingly at his lover, reaching down to stop the sure movement of Yuki's hand, staying him with a hold to his wrist. "When I say I want everything, /this/," he removed the writer's hand, placing against the palm. "Isn't what I mean. I want /you/. All of you. Not just the sex. I could get that from anyone."

"Why don't you?"

"Because then it'd just be sex."

"And what is it you think we do?" he inquired, eyebrow quirking.

"Making love," Shuuichi let the whisper ghost against Yuki's skin and hair, pleased with the shiver and the rebirth of perplexion in that dear face. With some regret, he slid to his feet, trying to ignore the throb between his legs, as he steadied himself.

"Romantic foolishness," Yuki snorted. Shuuichi tried not to groan at the picture he made, legs askew, arms and head resting on the back of the couch, his shirt rumpled and slightly open.

"Probably," he acknowledged cheerfully, folding his arms behind his head. "If that's what it takes then..."

"If that's what /what/ takes?" Yuki demanded, straightening out of his slump. "Bra--"

He twined a hand around the writer's head, bestowing a lingering kiss, Yuki attempting to deepen it. He danced out of the way, tweaking his nose and watching bemused eyes cross. "I need a shower," he smacked his palm against his other hand. "And then I think we should order something to eat. And watch a movie and --" he waggled a finger in front of his face. "There will be cuddling!"

Yuki attempted to stare him down. "Idiot --"

"Shower!" Shuuichi announced, "And you should think about taking one yourself."

He could tell Yuki didn't understand this mercurial swing of mood and to tell the truth, Shuuichi didn't either. But something had happened, had occurred, to reassure him that even if Yuki didn't show it, even if the author wasn't entirely aware of it himself yet, Shuuichi had his regard. Maybe Yuki would never be particularly effusive in how he showed that regard but it was there, something solid and almost tangible between them. It was in all the little things he did, little ways he --

"Shuuichi?"

He looked back, couldn't help himself. Yuki said his name so rarely and tonight he'd spoke it twice. Twice. Shuuichi wasn't sure if he should just stand back and savor the moment or beg for more. "Hmm?"

"How about we both shower? Together?"

He didn't have to ask. Indeed, most of the time, Yuki never asked. It wasn't that he took, more that he just assumed that Shuuichi wanted him and he was usually right. That he *would* ask... Well, the implications were breath-stealing to say the least.

Not trusting himself not to barrel over and tackle the author, effectively spoiling the mood, he smiled and nodded, holding out his hand. After some hesitation, Yuki's gaze shifting between his face and hand, his lover rose, his larger hand enfolding Shuuichi's, pulling him forward as he started walking towards the bathroom.

"Yuki?"

"What?"

"You really do love me?"

"Idiot."

***End