his form is a lone, frail thing in the mirror. discolored, craggy sleeves which bleed onto the skin of his torso. his hair catches light in a rich burgundy that twists his gut. the pale patch of skin in his middle still holds onto the life from which beauty is derived— he feels it painfully in that reflection, the contrast to his limbs that are already less, despite his age. he hates these mirrors. today, there is nobody with him to admire their shared visage on the thing, or to break it in a burst of rage. those events, those people ghost on that prismatic surface.
something in him is so weary. nothing in him resembles this luminescent space. he turns to step into the shower, underwear once more discarded, somewhere in the vicinity of the cursed thing.
lukewarm streams trickle over his form, and the tiled floor is eerily warm under his feet. in here, somehow, it is inevitable if he closes his eyes, that he’ll again feel the slow submerge in that bath-water all those years back. like scattered flowers from a fallen vase, he might even pick up the forgotten words in his mother’s letter. she never got his address again. he only blinks.
his eyes are slow to turn to the open door and the feet that cross the space in just a few strides. still, each second passes through him different— disbelief, skepticism, and as the intent becomes clear, heart-thumping excitement. the man’s almost an apparition, things he never expected to see in one somehow so— and amidst it all, the single, icy eye that gleams unpredictable and purposeful and proven him wrong. ( and daiji is starting to find it intensely, ever-more alluring. )
his lips curl in a smirk at the touch on his neck, on his collar. so impulsive and needy. he didn’t expect that, not from this aloof, prideful man. it’s endearing. a thank you almost slips from his lips, because this distraction is more welcome than he anticipated ( he has a pride of his own. ) he kisses the silent word onto a carelessly showered cheek, with lips curled in a smile. it takes on a smirk as he pulls back, his hand coming to brush over slick hair, slipping behind the man’s ear. i think i know your type now— you can’t stand not gettin’ what you want, right? his own heartbeat flickers at that notion.
hmm, the hum poorly feigns contemplation or belief. his palms come onto the man’s shoulders, and he leans in once more, a kiss planted onto his brow. he stays to hover close, very close, eyes locked onto his and smoldering with many unnamed things.
“ i’ll do it anyway. is that a problem? ”
the discarded, wet pile of robe beside their feet is answer enough. his fingertips trail over the exposed figure, in patterns he distantly recalls to have been pleasurable. their bodies seem to move on their own, and he just closes his eyes, turns his back to time and worldly matters.
they find him again, grapple onto him from the blank view of that ceiling. his toweled hair rests against a bare chest soft and luminous in a way his own will never be. the two of them smell cleaner than the sheets they lay on. it’s so easy to linger. each tick of the clock is sort of reluctant. inevitable. i want this to continue, somehow, he aches to tell him. but they met just last night, murdered for one another, fled judgement and responsibility together. he doesn’t even know his name. but he knows his, and it’s beautiful on his lips. the first time he’s heard it like that. his throat is tight with this feeling he just can’t place.
“ find anythin’ on that menu? ” the question serves more himself, anything to drag him from the whims of his own mind. he laughs a little then, the words so useless in his ears and still he doesn't know better. “ this place, though. i got no idea how we found here. ”
every trace of that smile fades to a silent pause, contemplating, hesitating. it’s the first time he’s admitted these things. but a lot of firsts have occurred with this strange man. “ it’s— all a mess. i’m sorry. ”
