'The Minor Fall' [Aoi/Uruha, oneshot]

[colberry]

10 Passions
#3 :  ‘Don’t Be Afraid’
Aoi/Uruha

The Minor Fall

 

.:.:.:.

What’s with me

and my lack of innocence?

.:.:.:.

His tongue is bruised and night was slipping through his fingers – Uruha absently watched as Aoi traipsed towards the doorframe, threshold creaking just like the pulse in his breath.  The elder’s silhouette shimmers like an ethereal sigh, one that makes his eyes white and heaves his chest because it’s too much to hold inside his lungs.  He needs to seep in this, but his hand barely makes it past the pastel sheets to grasp at Aoi’s bleared figure.  The raven-haired man is still tip-toeing across sawdust lips, and Uruha imagines dawn’s kiss sweeping past the guitarist’s eyelashes as he closes his eyes to this world.

Because they have made one so much brighter, verve sliding against their ribs –

Uruha’s head lolls across the damp pillowcase, tawny strands tangling as he dares to define those wavering lines of Aoi’s presence.  He was always an enigmatic definition, escaping textbook whispers to embrace the fifty-and-two souls that cram themselves within those opaque eyes.

Aoi is the charmer,

The jester,

The starving artist,

The aloof deity,

The weak-kneed survivor,

The soft-eyed doe –

Uruha feels his ankles shiver when the elusive man turns to regard the perfect mess of twisted sheets, roseate lips and glitter-splattered cheekbones vacating the bed.  The younger’s fingers slowly crawl past the planes of blue sheets, one lonely arm stretching from his encasement of blankets; the yawning sun splays across the taut skin of his hand.  Aoi watches the appendage reach towards himself, lithe fingertips begging to graze one last splice of him, of this. 

His own hand tentatively drags away from its precarious placement upon the door’s frame.  The wood almost splinters and Aoi almost needs to grab something, anything for leverage as Uruha’s caramel eyes fall into his own gaze.  The little heaven is careening down his throat, his esophagus is on fire (full of angel wings and tiny sins) and the rhythm guitarist shudders before turning around to regard the other fully.

Uruha bars the mewl that threatens to resonate off these walls and watches Aoi break.  It’s fascinating, how his knees almost hit the floor – each shard of his visage of ‘this is nothing, nothing, nothing’ clamoring to the grains of wood.  He is always just out of reach, skittering that lovely line of untouchable and celestial-mire.  But now he seems almost tangible, with his eyes averted and stance uncertain.  The blonde-haired man parts his lips, hand still outstretched and fingers clawing the sheets, and lets an almost inaudible pant paint his maw.

Come here, boy.

It’s an after-live disaster that burned its way through their resolves – the universe’s tug had made their bodies crash together, made their teeth sliver and forced legs to part and hips to jerk.  It had been so damnably hot under those spotlights, skin slick with sweat and kohl eyes smeared with something larger than human-might.  They had glowed, arching their backs as they screamed songs through copper chords – eyes glazed.

They had been filled to the brim, barely down he hall of the hotel before Uruha’s back had been pushed into a kiss with the wall.  Aoi’s hair was a wild tangle of lion’s mane and downy feathers as it nuzzled against the crook of the taller man’s neck – knees clumsily knocking together and lips pressing into every inch of skin except together.  Because they weren’t in love.

No, no, no; not in love.

“You fucking planned this,”  Aoi leers against Uruha’s guttural moan, one that makes his chest vibrate underneath the elder’s fingertips.  His hands are rough as they warp themselves all over the sinewy body that is buckling under his whisper, tawny-drenched head colliding with the wall.

“You had to be – you know what you do out there,”  A leg pushes between the younger man’s thighs, “And I’m not one to deny a fucking spectacle.”  It’s all harsh words because they feel good against his tongue and Uruha croons to his heart that he doesn’t mind – no, no he doesn’t because these lips upon his neck are too full and too sure.

A hand chastely brushes against his throbbing arousal and Uruha careens forward, pressing his forehead urgently against Aoi’s collarbone.  He latches on tight, the itch in his skin ripples across each vein and he bares his teeth before he nips the milky flesh beneath him with his own vigor.  The hiss of pleasure escaping those pierced lips crashes against his jaw. 

Iron fingers suddenly tug him off the wall and Aoi roughly rips the first button off his stage vest (repair costs be damned tonight) before he begins to lead him towards a room numbered 306.  His legs are rubbing against the delicious friction of Aoi’s own calves and he feels his hands grab at the other’s shoulders, nails digging in deep.  He can’t let go, even when the older man propels them both towards the door, a growl just above his ear, “Not here, not here..”

“Then take me fucking somewhere —“

‘Haste’ has long since leaked from his bones.  The roseate hues of the clouds catch a glare in his eyes; Uruha sags along the mattress in feline lackadaisical fashion.  He watches Aoi saunter over, the way his hands minutely tremble inducing a small smile from the younger.

“I thought you said we wouldn’t have a morning-after?”

The words are muffled by the blue against his lips.  Aoi pauses, drinking in the image of this filthy deity sprawled atop stained sheets with premature sun sprinkled in his hair.  Half-mast eyes gleam with guarded amusement, small insecurities flushing between his lungs.

The older man smirks, “I also said I hate goodbyes.”

He takes another step and the mirth in Uruha’s eyes disappears, replaced with contemplation with this newfound insinuation and – Aoi has never been a clear definition. 

Aoi stops by the edge of the mattress, hands idle and Uruha can catch the wafting scents of sandalwood and vanilla that Aoi always seems to hold.  The pucker-marks of nights that flew out of their control dart across the elegant curve of the rhythm guitarist’s neck.  They are pink, little-lovelies that make Uruha want to giggle, but his heart is too busy being breathless.

In one fluid motion, Aoi drops to his knees, chin perched atop the bed.  His eyes begin to smolder in the streak of dawn-light that filters past the magenta hotel curtains, “Tell me to go.”

Uruha swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, the chapped skin burning and the soft command fists his heart tight.  He can’t help but murmur with a quirk of a grin, despite how Aoi is edging closer with celestial breaths –

“Give me a reason to.”

Aoi tilts his head to the side, a slow smile working across his lips, “I can give you plenty of those.    ‘Can’t really give you any for why I should stay.”

And Uruha dares to briefly stroke the underside of Aoi’s jaw with a lone finger, warmth settling comfortably in his bones as the elder’s eyes flutter almost imperceptibly – because this is touch, not grabbing, seizing, biting. 

He lets his fingertips rest in the shade of Aoi’s jaw, “Does ‘because I want to’ count?”

And Aoi traps those fingers underneath him with a playful slant of his head, smile widening, “If I used that excuse every time, there’d be no hope for control.”

No, no; they weren’t in love –

“Well then, here’s to chaos.”

.:.:.:.


A/N:  Just a little something that’s been sitting in my head.  Hope you enjoyed!