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It always goes like this:
He gives.
He gives, and he gives, and he gives. Thing after thing thought after thought. Comfort in a vibrant cadence.
Light catching in the blunt edge of a knife.
Blinding.
Shoulders taut with tension, a punch to the mouth. A myriad of bruises, warm digits over a heaping of old scars.
He gives.
He gives and accepts, but he never, ever,
takes.
He looks. Perceives. Bleeds
(by)
(for)
him.
Staring. A single glance. Running knowing eyes over the lines of his wrist, the knots of his fingers. Like he can figure everything out with nothing but the details of a cursory glance.
Looks at him, like he does not mean to know him, but understands.
He reaches, even when he doesn’t want to—finds him whether he wants to be found or not, mesmerized.
Fire
in his eyes and
scratched-up knuckles
in calloused
hands.
Humming. Words mumbled by the shell of an ear. Bumping shoulders, crashing foreheads, nosing into the purples the yellows the greens of a bruised cheek.
Palming at the fabric of him until he figures out how to tug. How to patch him back together, sashiko over his back.
Respectful.
Entirely
out of line.
He's always half a tragedy away from breaking. Cracked, forever, from the middle—and outwards—only ever held together with dyed glue. An array of mismatched pieces but
useful, where it counts.
He doesn't unravel. He won't. He can't.
They won't
allow the frayed ends to be
anything other than chiseled or
burned down.
He's anger and despair and regret, braided together in cotton, red and white. All he needs is a single pull to be set free, one tug to tear him apart. Presence comforting in between his shoulder blades like the handle of a knife.
A request, a single word, to embroider, tie him down.
He's always been
collared to his own ambition,
always for the taking of the few
he respects,
willing, in the hands of the ones that have known
how to mold him and chose
to let him roam.
Darned, ash-colored edges, constantly clashing together and falling apart around the time camellias bloom. Torn to shreds as summer blossoms, red.
Still. He'd tear down mountains if he'd only ask. Sometimes he does. Other times,
he offers,
tracing
where they fit
together
chipping away
where they
do not.
An exchange that always begins like pulling scabbards. Scratching an itch. Blood pumping like violence is a normal thing to
want.
Muscle deep,
collateral damage.
Cackling,
a part of him wonders what the price will be this time.
Give a second,
take a mile.
This time,
this time,
this time?
He lives only to pay dues and run himself with favors, ragged.
It's funny, even kind, not remembering. Until he does.
Until they meet.
Until he looks at him and thinks,
oh.
Oh,
he knows the look in his eyes.
The name is new but the intonation is familiar in his mouth. Teeth and gums and tongue tasting around the syllables, stubborn to get it right.
(Please,) he will think,
(stay,) he will ask.
Sound threaded in the air leaving his lungs as he slams to the ground. Rising dust painted golden. Written between the trickle of sweat down his spine, the furrow of his brow tantalizing as they fight.
Not out loud. Never
out loud.
Only ever, with gestures and the promise of mutual, mutual, mutual.
(Harm. Growth. Warmth.)
Mutual fixes
of adrenaline.
He's always torn. Loyal. Deep fractures in the structure of his being. Mind hiding, ever-changing, until found.
Held together purely by spite, teeth bared to keep his bleeding heart behind a carcass. Itching for violence as if he yearns for new skin. A new mask.
He digs heels to the floor and lets debris catch,
pulling layer after layer with a firm, familiar grasp.
Only then does he—
dare
—run the pad of his thumb
under the missing (he's always Missing Something) like he would something holy. Something lucky.
Something cherished.
Tongue in cheek, blood swept from the corner of his mouth, desperation bone-deep,
hands pressing
down
over his stomach.
Warmth.
Warmth.
Warmth.
Warmth.
Reaching out for answers. Comfort that never comes. Loneliness. Quiet, tight throats,
sore with mourning.
Dull, broken blades. Smoke-filled lungs. Hands seemingly only touching to
tug
hurt
stop.
Rarely, ever,
to love.
Marching on, running, a slowing bounce in their step.
One.
The other.
Doesn't matter who leaves first, but one always does;
taken
given
offered.
Never easy. He wishes he could cherish something easy but they are
who they are.
He'll linger. Only rarely. Like the seasons, like the howling in the air of spirited vengeance. To give.
(end this, end
me,
I beg of you—)
Oh, so rarely, he gives.
And the other pulls and takes, and claws and binds until they've made nothing
but a mess.
(He will never recover,)
(this is why he doesn't take—)
(this is why they don't keep track.)
After all is said and done, as he leaves him,
to rot.
Pale visage under golden suns, blood trailing down arms. Down chests. Down mouths. Muscles spasming and fists always up, one, two, one, two,
one,
two,
three times.
(What's one more, when you've lost count?)
He haunts him,
as he arrives
as he stays
as he leaves.
In between firm touch, blunt nails in the bed of his fingers. Caring but always at arms' length, never soft, rarely lingering, as if he knows.
Like he wants to keep him from hurting—but—it never helps,
and it never stops.
Majima keeps
pushing,
Kiryu doesn't budge.