BEAUTY IN DEATH / hq drabbles

( kita shinsuke ) drunk on the wisdom his eyes seem to hold

He had left you, constellations unstrung in your veins. That kiss was full of syrupy acetone, stripping away the polish that you thought was worth putting on display. And you're longing again, unravelled form trying to feel okay, wanting to feel sun-kissed again.

And the two of you are sitting under that warmth, cushioned by rice fields, feeling his sun-filled finger tips caress your skin; his whispers come from carapaces of bodies in oasis, hung duly in your eardrums without a second thought.

You're not supposed to love him, feeling his fingers entwined with yours like a couple holding hands. The dry strands from days of disarray fall lightly onto his shoulder; eyes sting from dried tears beneath your eyes.

Each day that feeling cries inside the essence of a fragile soul, tethered and knitted, as if an emotional earthquake threatens to fracture everything. And even though the guilt of wanting him creates a hurricane inside you, the decay and rubble that remains from it still craves for him.

That's what this is, isn't it? Coming to see him after all those years, the knots in your chest tightening with every passing moment. You love that irritation in your skin, tingling and soft and passion steeping every touch; it dances across two lovers, taking pleasure in the beautiful abyss, enclosed by the honeyed sun of Hyogo.

His hair is short and silver, the perfect shade of winter grey as you run your fingers along the ends. He simply bites his lip when he feels your fingers sink into his satin skin, exploring a landscape you once ventured eons ago.

Even now, beneath the warm echoes of summer days, remaining as flowers immune to winter chills, you wonder how it ended up like this.

let's fall in love for the night and forget in the morning.

You're engulfed in that promise that he once gave you, on the final day of high school, how his lips parted eternally with grace; that the two of you would be forever. Here, feeling skin cushioned by soft fields roaming across the small world; this feels like forever.

He turns and his eyes strike their gaze into yours, like cupid playing the harp. The composition of those brown hues are sprawled out in front of you, just as all those years ago when he had played you like an instrument. And the strings on that harp, just as his fingers trace the ridges on your spine, they are the strings of your heart, which wept years later.

He used them until they broke, unintentional in his soul, but he did not buy another pair. Instead, as you contemplate how 'brown' can ever be so soothing in those eyes of his, you understand that he is trying to fix the broken, and that slowly... it's working.

It was volleyball that drove something between you, like a wall that blocked you when you try to trace the scars that line his chest, the bruises from playing the sport.

Are your hands sticky with paste, trying to mend something that cannot be fixed?

But the twinge in your heart tells you that the years passing have brought you closer together more than ever. He puts your face in his palms, just as you gaze at him with a teary expression; our hearts have become so entangled, I don't know where my own has gone. Is yours drowning me?

That is love, is it not? How steeped you've become when you follow him across rice fields under the basking sunlight. And you chase him with a laugh and dimples faintly present on your ivory cheeks and he's got this smile upon those kissable lips.

And you blink in stupor like drunk on the wisdom his eyes seem to hold, and you look past that light gray hair with black tips at the ends and that blunt way of speaking and you make it your turn to tell him how badly you've fallen for him.

"I miss you, Kita."