After all the dead years, it takes you to bring back Keigo’s name.
Keigo Takami, and your hummingbird boy tastes the sugar with a burn on his tongue. You curl Keigo’s name like a cherry stem in your mouth and his belly twists with unfamiliar butterflies. They flutter and burst in kaleidoscope colors like the stars in his eyes when you catch them. Can he bring himself to answer you? He thinks it might stop his heart.
Keigo Takami, and his heart feels fletchling young. You whisper his name and an ache glows in his chest, beckoning him to bury himself in your navel, a sanctuary promised to an infantile heart. Eyes shut and lips purr. Arms are tightly woven around your body, his safety blanket, his bed, his home. Sleep, now.
Keigo Takami, and his shoulders fall lax. Lazy, gooey love untangles the knots in his musculature, oils the ache in his joints, oxygenates the air in his lungs. He melts into the sound of your voice, dying little deaths of pleasure with each syllable, popped like resuscitating electric sparks, and suddenly the stiffness in his body slips away to yesterday.
Your voice, his heart tied red to one other, the one claim to his name.
