finding more fallen hairs on your pillow, watching your favorite stuffed bread disappear from the convenience store. (for 23 years now where is my nanamin) (thất hải kiến nhân)
yall know why i downloaded the game because of sylus but ended up falling for zayne?
BECASUE HE REMINDS ME OF NANAMI KENTO I CRIED OH MY GOD SLEEPLESS WORKAHOLIC SO DRY HUMOUR AND AS CARINGLY SOFT AS A FEATHER HE IS NANAMI IF HE IS A DOCTOR I SWEAR-
When you wear your Nanami hoodie to the coffee shop you frequent once, the Barista commits it to memory, and then hands you this latte art today.
Amazing!
Its not freehand, they have a fancy machine that you can upload your pet or personal photos to, so they pulled him off the internet for it, but still DAMN. :D
Kento glanced back over his shoulder, sleepy, to where you sat massaging knots out of his back. He didn't know why he'd bothered perusing his shelves beforehand; your hands had moulded and made him heavy, and he sunk, unbidden, his book forgotten and his eyelids made of lead, groaning in bliss.
Your eyes traced Kento's back...his arms...his hands. All ripped and reformed, broken and made stronger, the scars (both old and new), criss-crossing him, his life-story turned roadmap.
At some points, Kento's body seemed as though it would last centuries and end up in a museum somewhere, with futuristic admirers who did not know him as you did. At other points, he was just a porcelain man, full of cracks, to be handled with care lest he break.
Kento hummed; a cover-all rumble, unsure.
"...paint me?" He teased, a coy half-smile on the corner of his mouth. "Like one of your French girls?"
You laughed, kissing his shoulder blades, still stroking those seams of pink flesh with your fingertips. He shuddered, the hairs on the base of his undercut standing on end.
"Not quite...do you trust me?"
"Yes." No hesitation.
"Then just...close your eyes."
Kento huffed through his nose, leaning forwards on his elbows and clasped calloused hands. He heard you rattling around behind him, the tap running, the soft dompf of you resettling on the sofa. More rattling, and your quiet voice.
"Stay still..."
Kento jumped, shivering as the tip of a fine, wet brush licked at the skin on his shoulder blade. He hummed again, dubious.
"Oh...you meant paint me."
"Semantics."
"Bless you."
You laughed at his gentle idiocy. "Keep still."
In truth, as your brush traced idle patterns over his shoulder, his arm, and his hand, Kento didn't need to be told to keep his eyes closed even once. He meant it when he said he trusted you; and he meant it when your presence rocked him to sleep. Time lost meaning as he dozed, sat like The Thinker as you finally removed your brush from his hand.
"There. All done."
Kento opened his eyes...to art.
Patches of the back of his hand had been brushed matte with a soft jade green, fading out against peach flesh. Through the jade, where pink seams had once scored the skin, they now ran golden, liquid beauty joining the edges of his pain and history. And it was...lovely.
Kento swallowed thickly, laid bare beneath your eyes. He gently flexed his hand, seeing how the green and gold flexed with him, held together by your very own repairs. He tracked more and more patches up his forearm, his bicep, over his shoulder...
Kento was quiet, stoic, vulnerable. He whispered, as you took lamplit photos of your work. "I adore you."
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Christmas had come and gone, and still, Kento did not allow you to touch him as he once did.
The air between you was as taut as the flesh of his left side. You washed the dishes, and he dried, kept company only by the hush of the taps and clink of the plates. Kento reached for a mug with his left hand, and, numb-fingered, dropped it with a spitting curse, to where it shattered beyond repair around your feet.
Barefoot, and pausing with an oh!, you lifted your foot as if to move, and Kento berated you, growling, snapping.
"Stay where you are."
"Kento, it's alright, I'll get it--"
"No. It's my mess. My fault. Sit down."
"Really, it's fine--" Your words cut off with a squeak, as one strong arm looped around your waist. Kento grunted as he lifted you out of the shards with ease, to his body, only to drop you to safety the moment your hands began to brush his bare chest.
"Sit down." Kento rumbled, dark and sullen, his one good eye glowering at you beside the patch. You prickled, rejected. You refused to sit. Watching Kento, as he finished vacuuming, your eyes drifted without thought between him, and your paint set in the chest beneath the kitchen cabinet.
On his way over to the sofa, Kento spotted you, and scoffed, hissing with pain as he dropped himself to sit. He sneered, nasty.
"Sorry, my love. Not enough gold in that box to repair me."
You gritted your teeth, your mouth twisted in disgust, tears in your eyes. You pushed your chair away in a tearful rage, and padded over to Kento, fast, determined.
The briefest flicker of alarm crossed his half-burned face as you straddled him, trapping him to the sofa with a hand on each cheek. You spat, forcing him to see you, gripping him down as he writhed to get away.
"Then I'll break into palaces. I'll rob museums. I'll be a thief in the night. Because they don't deserve it, not like you do."
Kento cursed at you, twisting like a rat in a trap, and you held on tighter, sick of being pushed away, and you forced the words out of you as tears spilled over to drop onto his chest.
"And if there's not enough gold there then I'll melt myself down, but you don't need gold because you're not broken--"
"--get off me-- let me go--"
"No." You cried, looping your arms around his neck, your core pressed to his. The air stilled, his rejection rejected.
You panted, your shoulders heaving, weeping into his neck. Kento and you sat this way in silence, the tap still running and forgotten, your sniffles muffled into his neck. You felt him soften, his hands coming to rest on your hips, stroking you.
Kento's voice was thick, agonised. "You...deserve someone whole."
"I don't want them. They're nothing to me. It's you, or no-one."
Kento's teeth bared, his face stinging as it crumpled, salty tears washing away the grief. He gripped onto you, the fracture not breaking under stress; the bond, golden.
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