(no subject)
muses: maoxuruha.
warnings: its a fucking novel! really long & colourful!
summary: uruhas plans for the new year change when mao wont let him leave.
have i already posted this? haha.
old stuff moved from private writing journal.
but im never gonna finish it, so why not? 8D
*where you'll find me。It's funny in the way that we'll never get what we want and yet he still found himself climbing the stairs from first to fourth before reconsidering the halls and stealing way into the lift-- floor eight or floor six but somehow his fingers found the button that curved like a bell and hooked at the floor. Didn't want to have to run down two flights any farther than what his heart was already falling from inside stone cavities, paper chest made of ribs breaking like concrete in the wake of armageddon.
Hands raised and rubbed against palms as Mao blew roughly on the surface in an attempt to warm them, heels bouncing as he wished for time to stop yet fast forward just so his eyes could find their way like fingertips would find their way to unbroken bow of lacklustre lips in sudden attempt to make this work. I just want to make this work because I _________.
Boots tore into shifting of air before doors could even open, with laces soon beating upon hallway floors like mechanical hearts operating from within false idols/within me as pockets and chains on hips swinging the sound of the contents of his mind to the image of Uruha's door. Silent save for the few movements within that Mao could have imagined to be the guitarist getting ready for the day or just staring ahead at the television like he used to do in his apartment, honey hazel eyes oblivious to stolen side glances from his own lensed green ones, and it was from those few moments of peace that he swore he'd lost himself in this/in them.
What am I doing here to run through his mind in a flash of a quarter microsecond as he suddenly looked away, bent fingers reaching out at an angle to hover above cold surface of impending guardian; barrier seemed to know everything but risking everything I'd built myself upon just to face off with a no-name demon wasn't what I did this for. Muscles into motion if only just to deliver the first knock.
Please..
The sound of what was coming was inevitable to his ears, and though inaudible through the walls like tigers beneath grass/glass, he could feel it in his veins in the form of emotionally surgical, steel wires. Cottonclouds to the touch or just first for the rush and suddenly Uruha was pacing his apartment, hands between intervals fixing the colour into his eyes with fingertips slipping through strands and making them right.
Curtainless windows sang the winter birdsong of grey cities covered in concrete, pale blue skies hinting ghosts in white moving peacefully over tension of a country coming off its champagne high; in the distance of all that held their world together, he was on the edges of it, making an appearance for moments if only just to fuck up a happy home before returning to the limits, boundaries upon which he felt so falsely secured upon.
It wasn't that he didn't have a heart to deal with or a soul to contend, more so he refused to admit that such humanly wonders were ever there, thriving on the image that nothing affected him and this life was his playground. No attachments except for the ones that found their way into his plane of existence and rode the same wave of understanding, or just something close enough to have made him want to reach out for them and never let go.
New years meant new fears, but I want to put an end to all of this and start fresh: honest, believing, unforgettable/not unforgivable, strong. They hadn't counted down in promise of seeing you in the light of another time, and for once, Uruha had been actually looking forward to going to see the person he was involved with. It was a strange sound, but that always seemed to be the case for him when it came to Saga-- embarassed I love you's to I want to try, and he'd meant that in all sincerity.
Keys hooked to belt look aside the pocket by way of nails layered in black ink led fabricated feet into weathered boots worn to undecided (im)perfection, one hand on the wall for balance as the other held the metal sway over hips. Despite the elimination round of rented furnishings, the drywall surface left a powdered feeling on his fingertips, and upon their transition to the doorknob, he felt it most especially. Eyes widened upon sight hitting the tips of unlaced shoes after the pullback of impenetrable bait and then lifted for vocalist's equally surprised face.
Fist raised but never falling until the door shut before parted lips could even utter the other's name in faint whisper, and only his back against painted wood could accompany cold click of the lock sliding into place.
Impact to echo through his chest like a multiple wound carcrash he couldn't escape.
"Uruha."
"How did you find my address?"
And he may as well have pleaded with the way he was pounding against the door, softly first despite the contact like a riot through his bones and splintering his senses like a systematic override of black-letter letdowns, numbers like images and memories like rotted shadows. I never want this to fade but somehow you're making it harder to take; let me be worth it because I know I'm worth it, I can't see why you're pushing me away like this.
Didn't know that he'd end up being the other man, but he had yet to figure that out and react.
"Let me in."
"Go home" never felt so flat and yet he was levelling it against words breathed and not spoken, situation pressed against him like the door on his back if only to ache forward through his chest. It was an order in disregard to all insecurities, alarms going off like a session at the backparty parade, bells like sirens nonstop and lights flashing--
I'd counted one hundred and eight chimes past New Year's Eve in trying not to think of you, set my life straight, get it straight and for once not be hateful vs hated for the things I've done. Unspeakably unforgivable and filthy as we both know, and yet...
"I need to talk to you."
"I don't."
This structure sang a speech for smothered hearts and, according to Mao, it whispered a life story of sad lovers and broken glass decorating pools of cold water and rose petals over hardwood reflecting rejection and apathetic brick walls. He rested his forehead against it, eyes closed as he fell into an interval of desperately trying not to lose his mind for having followed it. "Uruha, please.." in a hollowed whisper weighed down by too many emotions and his begging into the fine print of apartment number three-six four ninety-two in a series of missing pieces because he knew the other could hear him and it's taking every inch and fibre of his body to keep from pulling back and pulling him ( in )
You're Heaven-sent and unforgiving and that's why I can't get enough of you.
Set on the borderline of wanting to die suddenly and never having to deal with this kind of pain; those words 'don't talk to me anymore' had sent him into a misfire of frenzied undercalculated reactions, bodily responses tampered with like a violated seal with all but the most important of its pills missing. I know we promised, I know I lied, but so are you ( so are you.. )
Silence echoed through his bones and settled in between his fingers, clenched into a fist that tensed on the surface of the door before releasing a frustrated bout. Once, because it's all I can manage and once was enough to have gotten me this far rather than away from you like I should have. Please..
"I won't go home without you" found their way to his lips as "I need you" through this disquietude, and then the secret's out because I'm giving in. I've lost it in this fight to stay 'just friends' against your trembling back / my fading voice, closed eyes / rising heat upon this door.
And that's what got him, got Uruha to move without ever thinking that he'd done it, because even the slightest, faintest, most hateful breath uttered from carnival turkey's beak was enough to destroy what few remnants of his vain pride he'd believed himself to have.
They'd promised, and he'd lied, and Uruha had let himself get in too far with that burden anchored to what traces of his soul Mao had seemed to find. Fingers just barely having so delicately grasped transparent edges, like clouds or just castles beneath the mist, he never expected it to have been taken away so sincerely when wanted to try so hard for another.
"It wasn't meant for you," slipped half-uttered in an almost forgotten outward breath as he found himself standing face to face with full honesty through his vinegar-thin shell. Door pulled back and it's back to this: beck and call, only this time I'm waiting, not walking forward, not making this mine. Eyes set upon what felt like ages within the space of moments, staring down the atrocity of never wanting to fall in love, but the hunger was there, and the disease was more than thriving ( it's alive &we won't be getting away from this any time soon )
Couldn't resist the gravity of past actions leading into this present for the future. Crossed wires for tangled paths. If it wasn't the truth, it would still be okay because you've brought me this far on just lust alone.
So close vs so cold.
In the start, we swore to God and so much more that we'd never get attached. We'd close our mouths as well as we'd close our eyes, if only just to--
"Promise you'll never need me" as much as I needed this, needed you to feel alive the way I wanted to ( with just one breath / one touch to my skin, you'd set my veins on fire ) and I'm lost because I'd fallen into this no-named lie, backfired rather than pulsed. And in the end, "You know I won't" like you know I won't promise or you know I won't ever need you behind false meanings folded into another so-called truth but a lie.
I've needed you since the first night, or the last time.
Destroying worlds was never what Mao had in mind when everything began, just the need to hold and be held for reasons unexplainable because such things could only speak for themselves in the form of mismatched/misplaced/mistaken interests so carelessly thrown into the hands of the first person attainable.. wanted to say he wasn't like that and he had to work for this, it didn't just come to him, because he'd worked for it and he wanted to make it last.
Perfection of the art of tongues against wooden grain of wanting to love you and the limbs vs lies left in between the sheets and folds of my teeth
We've only made it this far on lust on lies on longing alone and I want to touch the edges of the universe with you, from my fingertips to my toes and the space in between.
"You say this, but I know you want to" in seldom response to that look in your eyes that says you're as scared as I am that everything has come to this. Fingers reaching out hesitantly were preceded by boots that couldn't hold their sway, and suddenly the world felt as though it were tilting on its three-quarter scale axis, sun veering off course to replace the moon and blanket this planet in ice.
He stopped short of tender blonde locks with every sensation impatient and yearning to all but jump from his skin, nerves unwound and they were suddenly too close-- knew he wasn't going to be able to talk his way out of this one because he could never stop those impulses of taking something for granted. Just wanted this moment to last before I find/lose myself in this suffocating presence that is you crowding out every ounce of me.
"Because I want to."
I know.
The warmth on his lips from every heaving and heavy-hearted breath against the inevitable magnetism of two bodies moving forward collided with where he knew in his mind this was going, eyes fixated on that one star hidden somewhere in the nebula of truth/lie.
Don't let this be the last, uttered in faint whisper or just in his mind as lips pressed gently closed with parting pressure/pleasure of finally winning them over. Fingers tugging on what locks they'd found their wary way to drew him in closer, and despite reluctant eyes that closed as if to ward off nightmares of you, there was no salvation for lovers and liars and half-emptied hearts with no souls.
Wanted to be held until the final moment with everything but the truth of what this really was, because facing these things in words was something I couldn't handle:
To be more than just fresh meat for hungry mouths, to never give in so easily to the sugarsweet innocence of daydream believers who didn't belong in such a cruel world with fucks as unkind as he was. Always screwing up, never giving up/giving in for the ghost.
Don't let this be the last once more because he didn't want it to just end like this. Even with a conscience falling two-fold, the taste Mao seemed to leave on Uruha's tongue was stronger in memories, longer-lasting in presence, and reminiscent of glass scattered over concrete-- disaster lights and emergency fucks for needing more than they could ever handle.
Should've known from the start about those beer bottle friendships, teetering inward over the rounded rim rather than falling out would take them into this proposition, make them take it in.
Lips in ignition and locked into place as flat press of tongue took to the inside of his cheek, Uruha moved forward against the other with hands reaching out for the doorhandle to urge it shut.
No words slurred in such sobriety, but they never needed it to begin with in the way that all things seemed to just come to a silent understanding; bodies aching inside and out and although he would never have dared to push the limits of boundaries set up in counterclockwise motion, Mao was sure Uruha knew/should have.
Hands pushed outward roughly to separate skin from bone in the resolution of keeping this secret behind closed doors with locks engaged, prelude to hushed voices pressed against sheets but he didn't care anymore. Just wanted to make this moment the first in a series of making you mine, and it didn't matter if the whole world heard them, saw them, felt them, knew they were there for having waited for so long.
Intoxicated and unforgiving, he held the other pinned against the wall in hope and out of a fear that such inward collapsing moralities couldn't keep him together in one piece for much longer.
I'm unravelling at the seams and crashing down out of my mind from the amount of alcohol consumed in search of you.
"You're drunk."
"When are you not?"
"I'm not."
"So just let me have this moment; I can regret it in the morning for not being able to remember everything. And I'm sorry, but I can't get enough of you, so much that not even shotgunning Stoli or sixteen bottles of beer could remedy the taste of you walking/closing that door for every night we're not together and thinking of the end of the world/fuckeration. It's there and I breathe it, I sleep it, I dream it, and I think it's always going to be there until I solve this problem of why you're not with me."
warnings: its a fucking novel! really long & colourful!
summary: uruhas plans for the new year change when mao wont let him leave.
have i already posted this? haha.
old stuff moved from private writing journal.
but im never gonna finish it, so why not? 8D
*where you'll find me。It's funny in the way that we'll never get what we want and yet he still found himself climbing the stairs from first to fourth before reconsidering the halls and stealing way into the lift-- floor eight or floor six but somehow his fingers found the button that curved like a bell and hooked at the floor. Didn't want to have to run down two flights any farther than what his heart was already falling from inside stone cavities, paper chest made of ribs breaking like concrete in the wake of armageddon.
Hands raised and rubbed against palms as Mao blew roughly on the surface in an attempt to warm them, heels bouncing as he wished for time to stop yet fast forward just so his eyes could find their way like fingertips would find their way to unbroken bow of lacklustre lips in sudden attempt to make this work. I just want to make this work because I _________.
Boots tore into shifting of air before doors could even open, with laces soon beating upon hallway floors like mechanical hearts operating from within false idols/within me as pockets and chains on hips swinging the sound of the contents of his mind to the image of Uruha's door. Silent save for the few movements within that Mao could have imagined to be the guitarist getting ready for the day or just staring ahead at the television like he used to do in his apartment, honey hazel eyes oblivious to stolen side glances from his own lensed green ones, and it was from those few moments of peace that he swore he'd lost himself in this/in them.
What am I doing here to run through his mind in a flash of a quarter microsecond as he suddenly looked away, bent fingers reaching out at an angle to hover above cold surface of impending guardian; barrier seemed to know everything but risking everything I'd built myself upon just to face off with a no-name demon wasn't what I did this for. Muscles into motion if only just to deliver the first knock.
Please..
The sound of what was coming was inevitable to his ears, and though inaudible through the walls like tigers beneath grass/glass, he could feel it in his veins in the form of emotionally surgical, steel wires. Cottonclouds to the touch or just first for the rush and suddenly Uruha was pacing his apartment, hands between intervals fixing the colour into his eyes with fingertips slipping through strands and making them right.
Curtainless windows sang the winter birdsong of grey cities covered in concrete, pale blue skies hinting ghosts in white moving peacefully over tension of a country coming off its champagne high; in the distance of all that held their world together, he was on the edges of it, making an appearance for moments if only just to fuck up a happy home before returning to the limits, boundaries upon which he felt so falsely secured upon.
It wasn't that he didn't have a heart to deal with or a soul to contend, more so he refused to admit that such humanly wonders were ever there, thriving on the image that nothing affected him and this life was his playground. No attachments except for the ones that found their way into his plane of existence and rode the same wave of understanding, or just something close enough to have made him want to reach out for them and never let go.
New years meant new fears, but I want to put an end to all of this and start fresh: honest, believing, unforgettable/not unforgivable, strong. They hadn't counted down in promise of seeing you in the light of another time, and for once, Uruha had been actually looking forward to going to see the person he was involved with. It was a strange sound, but that always seemed to be the case for him when it came to Saga-- embarassed I love you's to I want to try, and he'd meant that in all sincerity.
Keys hooked to belt look aside the pocket by way of nails layered in black ink led fabricated feet into weathered boots worn to undecided (im)perfection, one hand on the wall for balance as the other held the metal sway over hips. Despite the elimination round of rented furnishings, the drywall surface left a powdered feeling on his fingertips, and upon their transition to the doorknob, he felt it most especially. Eyes widened upon sight hitting the tips of unlaced shoes after the pullback of impenetrable bait and then lifted for vocalist's equally surprised face.
Fist raised but never falling until the door shut before parted lips could even utter the other's name in faint whisper, and only his back against painted wood could accompany cold click of the lock sliding into place.
Impact to echo through his chest like a multiple wound carcrash he couldn't escape.
"Uruha."
"How did you find my address?"
And he may as well have pleaded with the way he was pounding against the door, softly first despite the contact like a riot through his bones and splintering his senses like a systematic override of black-letter letdowns, numbers like images and memories like rotted shadows. I never want this to fade but somehow you're making it harder to take; let me be worth it because I know I'm worth it, I can't see why you're pushing me away like this.
Didn't know that he'd end up being the other man, but he had yet to figure that out and react.
"Let me in."
"Go home" never felt so flat and yet he was levelling it against words breathed and not spoken, situation pressed against him like the door on his back if only to ache forward through his chest. It was an order in disregard to all insecurities, alarms going off like a session at the backparty parade, bells like sirens nonstop and lights flashing--
I'd counted one hundred and eight chimes past New Year's Eve in trying not to think of you, set my life straight, get it straight and for once not be hateful vs hated for the things I've done. Unspeakably unforgivable and filthy as we both know, and yet...
"I need to talk to you."
"I don't."
This structure sang a speech for smothered hearts and, according to Mao, it whispered a life story of sad lovers and broken glass decorating pools of cold water and rose petals over hardwood reflecting rejection and apathetic brick walls. He rested his forehead against it, eyes closed as he fell into an interval of desperately trying not to lose his mind for having followed it. "Uruha, please.." in a hollowed whisper weighed down by too many emotions and his begging into the fine print of apartment number three-six four ninety-two in a series of missing pieces because he knew the other could hear him and it's taking every inch and fibre of his body to keep from pulling back and pulling him ( in )
You're Heaven-sent and unforgiving and that's why I can't get enough of you.
Set on the borderline of wanting to die suddenly and never having to deal with this kind of pain; those words 'don't talk to me anymore' had sent him into a misfire of frenzied undercalculated reactions, bodily responses tampered with like a violated seal with all but the most important of its pills missing. I know we promised, I know I lied, but so are you ( so are you.. )
Silence echoed through his bones and settled in between his fingers, clenched into a fist that tensed on the surface of the door before releasing a frustrated bout. Once, because it's all I can manage and once was enough to have gotten me this far rather than away from you like I should have. Please..
"I won't go home without you" found their way to his lips as "I need you" through this disquietude, and then the secret's out because I'm giving in. I've lost it in this fight to stay 'just friends' against your trembling back / my fading voice, closed eyes / rising heat upon this door.
And that's what got him, got Uruha to move without ever thinking that he'd done it, because even the slightest, faintest, most hateful breath uttered from carnival turkey's beak was enough to destroy what few remnants of his vain pride he'd believed himself to have.
They'd promised, and he'd lied, and Uruha had let himself get in too far with that burden anchored to what traces of his soul Mao had seemed to find. Fingers just barely having so delicately grasped transparent edges, like clouds or just castles beneath the mist, he never expected it to have been taken away so sincerely when wanted to try so hard for another.
"It wasn't meant for you," slipped half-uttered in an almost forgotten outward breath as he found himself standing face to face with full honesty through his vinegar-thin shell. Door pulled back and it's back to this: beck and call, only this time I'm waiting, not walking forward, not making this mine. Eyes set upon what felt like ages within the space of moments, staring down the atrocity of never wanting to fall in love, but the hunger was there, and the disease was more than thriving ( it's alive &we won't be getting away from this any time soon )
Couldn't resist the gravity of past actions leading into this present for the future. Crossed wires for tangled paths. If it wasn't the truth, it would still be okay because you've brought me this far on just lust alone.
So close vs so cold.
In the start, we swore to God and so much more that we'd never get attached. We'd close our mouths as well as we'd close our eyes, if only just to--
"Promise you'll never need me" as much as I needed this, needed you to feel alive the way I wanted to ( with just one breath / one touch to my skin, you'd set my veins on fire ) and I'm lost because I'd fallen into this no-named lie, backfired rather than pulsed. And in the end, "You know I won't" like you know I won't promise or you know I won't ever need you behind false meanings folded into another so-called truth but a lie.
I've needed you since the first night, or the last time.
Destroying worlds was never what Mao had in mind when everything began, just the need to hold and be held for reasons unexplainable because such things could only speak for themselves in the form of mismatched/misplaced/mistaken interests so carelessly thrown into the hands of the first person attainable.. wanted to say he wasn't like that and he had to work for this, it didn't just come to him, because he'd worked for it and he wanted to make it last.
Perfection of the art of tongues against wooden grain of wanting to love you and the limbs vs lies left in between the sheets and folds of my teeth
We've only made it this far on lust on lies on longing alone and I want to touch the edges of the universe with you, from my fingertips to my toes and the space in between.
"You say this, but I know you want to" in seldom response to that look in your eyes that says you're as scared as I am that everything has come to this. Fingers reaching out hesitantly were preceded by boots that couldn't hold their sway, and suddenly the world felt as though it were tilting on its three-quarter scale axis, sun veering off course to replace the moon and blanket this planet in ice.
He stopped short of tender blonde locks with every sensation impatient and yearning to all but jump from his skin, nerves unwound and they were suddenly too close-- knew he wasn't going to be able to talk his way out of this one because he could never stop those impulses of taking something for granted. Just wanted this moment to last before I find/lose myself in this suffocating presence that is you crowding out every ounce of me.
"Because I want to."
I know.
The warmth on his lips from every heaving and heavy-hearted breath against the inevitable magnetism of two bodies moving forward collided with where he knew in his mind this was going, eyes fixated on that one star hidden somewhere in the nebula of truth/lie.
Don't let this be the last, uttered in faint whisper or just in his mind as lips pressed gently closed with parting pressure/pleasure of finally winning them over. Fingers tugging on what locks they'd found their wary way to drew him in closer, and despite reluctant eyes that closed as if to ward off nightmares of you, there was no salvation for lovers and liars and half-emptied hearts with no souls.
Wanted to be held until the final moment with everything but the truth of what this really was, because facing these things in words was something I couldn't handle:
To be more than just fresh meat for hungry mouths, to never give in so easily to the sugarsweet innocence of daydream believers who didn't belong in such a cruel world with fucks as unkind as he was. Always screwing up, never giving up/giving in for the ghost.
Don't let this be the last once more because he didn't want it to just end like this. Even with a conscience falling two-fold, the taste Mao seemed to leave on Uruha's tongue was stronger in memories, longer-lasting in presence, and reminiscent of glass scattered over concrete-- disaster lights and emergency fucks for needing more than they could ever handle.
Should've known from the start about those beer bottle friendships, teetering inward over the rounded rim rather than falling out would take them into this proposition, make them take it in.
Lips in ignition and locked into place as flat press of tongue took to the inside of his cheek, Uruha moved forward against the other with hands reaching out for the doorhandle to urge it shut.
No words slurred in such sobriety, but they never needed it to begin with in the way that all things seemed to just come to a silent understanding; bodies aching inside and out and although he would never have dared to push the limits of boundaries set up in counterclockwise motion, Mao was sure Uruha knew/should have.
Hands pushed outward roughly to separate skin from bone in the resolution of keeping this secret behind closed doors with locks engaged, prelude to hushed voices pressed against sheets but he didn't care anymore. Just wanted to make this moment the first in a series of making you mine, and it didn't matter if the whole world heard them, saw them, felt them, knew they were there for having waited for so long.
Intoxicated and unforgiving, he held the other pinned against the wall in hope and out of a fear that such inward collapsing moralities couldn't keep him together in one piece for much longer.
I'm unravelling at the seams and crashing down out of my mind from the amount of alcohol consumed in search of you.
"You're drunk."
"When are you not?"
"I'm not."
"So just let me have this moment; I can regret it in the morning for not being able to remember everything. And I'm sorry, but I can't get enough of you, so much that not even shotgunning Stoli or sixteen bottles of beer could remedy the taste of you walking/closing that door for every night we're not together and thinking of the end of the world/fuckeration. It's there and I breathe it, I sleep it, I dream it, and I think it's always going to be there until I solve this problem of why you're not with me."