Luna Sea - The Hours When You're Away [Jinoran]
Title: The Hours When You're Away
Pairing: J x Inoran
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angsty drabble
Summary: You shouldn't destroy the mood and just keep breathing.
Note: Drabble written for magdalan.
one. two. three. four.
only four of them you were able to save from the ashtray, your
fingertips stained grey with the remainders of your previous chain-
smoking hours. you wriggle your nose and scrunch up your face in the
progress; it is not a pretty sight, but had he been there he
would've told you that you were handsome even with ashes on your
hands (but that you had to wash them first before running them
through his hair).
you smoke cigarette buds while staring out of the window, waiting
for the sun to rise again. you forgot to put up the curtains or
maybe you had just been lazy. they were made by this one designer
who's name you always pronounced wrong six times in a row before
getting it right; you were never keen on foreigners anyway, despite
the many collaborations and ties. you especially hate the british.
thud. thud.
the empty can of beer keeps rolling back to your foot when you
gently nudge it away with the edge of your sneaker. it had something
to do with the baltic pine floorboards and how they weren't in the
best of conditions. he would've preferred brazilian cherry, or
something exotic like that, because he had always been a little more
refined. you never referred to it as 'picky' anymore. not after that
one time.
beep. you don't recall installing the answering machine
properly, but the phone is turned off and the message recorded;
....something about someone somewhere with something that you really,
really, really shouldn't forget about....
click.
they're all crazy anyway, calling you at a quarter past three in the
morning. it reminds you of those times when he was overseas and
forgot to take the time-difference in consideration. you would beat
the pillow, fist the sheets and tell him to hurry. the. fuck. up.
because you knew he didn't like to spend money on his phone bill
(but he was almost there so really, you shouldn't destroy the mood
and just keep breathing).
there had been times in which you had nearly killed him. it wasn't
your fault, he repeated, as he held on to the little calories that had
survived his ten minutes hanging over the toilet seat. not yours,
because he knew just as well it was illegal. you never told
him you cried afterwards, with your knuckles bruising against the
ceramic tiles.
the wall has become your new favorite scenery. it wasn't a tough
decision to make in the first place because sunrises were perhaps a
little too upbeat. it doesn't fit in the cracks and the holes of
your heart as illuminating as it had done before. if you stare at
sunrises for too long now, you'd get blind spots dancing in front of
your eyes.
( 'we were supposed to watch the sunrise,' he wasn't angry
when you awoke in the middle of a park with a lower-back situation
and stiff necks. 'i've seen enough,' you always sound so
groggy, so terribly groggy even when happy. 'okay,' and then
he had you waiting for sunset with just one word. )
sometimes he said cryptic stuff that had you thinking for days, but
in the end it all translated the same;
(I love you. I love you.)
yet he never actually said it out loud. you on the other hand had
said it so often that the shape of the words hurt your mouth now.
Somewhere in the house something falls over. it catches your
attention barely as you are still plotting. how to be less of one
thing and more of the other, but the word 'bastard' keeps echoing in
your ears. 'let them take it,' you think, imagining the
silver cutlery and the Gibson, 'let them take it, i'll write a
song about it', and you would.
but the silver cutlery is his and so is the Gibson and thus all
your songs are about him.
yoshiki once told you it was dangerous and that you two really had
to watch it. you had snapped and laughed and danced upon his fifth
fucking year of misery then and he was a nun; a freaking
saint and you had wanted to throw things at him for messing
up your best friend but he had stopped you.
thin long fingers creeping around your wrist, drawing figures and stories
that hide had never been as beautiful as when seen through yoshiki's
eyes and you had to hand it to him.
you could do nothing else all the fucking time.
and you still can't.
and that's why you're waiting with the doors locked and the phone
off; the reason you turn your back towards the window and forgot to
take out the trash yesterday. you are still trapped in that which
was yours but now wasn't as 'deeply inspiring' as he had once
claimed it to be. But you could never sale the house, even if
you will be living there waiting for him until the end of times.
it didn't matter and it still doesn't; you laugh in the face of
danger as you watch the filter burn. you challenge death on a daily
basis but it just prolonges your life as a penalty, scorches your
skin as a warning but never let's you end it. your fingertips are
as red as the sun bouncing off the walls.
if only you were to pick up the phone;
( you would tell him that you love him and that you would take every
last bit of his sorrow and burn it so you could inject the ashes into
your eyes and cry the same tears )
but you can't reach it from where you sit.
Pairing: J x Inoran
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angsty drabble
Summary: You shouldn't destroy the mood and just keep breathing.
Note: Drabble written for magdalan.
one. two. three. four.
only four of them you were able to save from the ashtray, your
fingertips stained grey with the remainders of your previous chain-
smoking hours. you wriggle your nose and scrunch up your face in the
progress; it is not a pretty sight, but had he been there he
would've told you that you were handsome even with ashes on your
hands (but that you had to wash them first before running them
through his hair).
you smoke cigarette buds while staring out of the window, waiting
for the sun to rise again. you forgot to put up the curtains or
maybe you had just been lazy. they were made by this one designer
who's name you always pronounced wrong six times in a row before
getting it right; you were never keen on foreigners anyway, despite
the many collaborations and ties. you especially hate the british.
thud. thud.
the empty can of beer keeps rolling back to your foot when you
gently nudge it away with the edge of your sneaker. it had something
to do with the baltic pine floorboards and how they weren't in the
best of conditions. he would've preferred brazilian cherry, or
something exotic like that, because he had always been a little more
refined. you never referred to it as 'picky' anymore. not after that
one time.
beep. you don't recall installing the answering machine
properly, but the phone is turned off and the message recorded;
....something about someone somewhere with something that you really,
really, really shouldn't forget about....
click.
they're all crazy anyway, calling you at a quarter past three in the
morning. it reminds you of those times when he was overseas and
forgot to take the time-difference in consideration. you would beat
the pillow, fist the sheets and tell him to hurry. the. fuck. up.
because you knew he didn't like to spend money on his phone bill
(but he was almost there so really, you shouldn't destroy the mood
and just keep breathing).
there had been times in which you had nearly killed him. it wasn't
your fault, he repeated, as he held on to the little calories that had
survived his ten minutes hanging over the toilet seat. not yours,
because he knew just as well it was illegal. you never told
him you cried afterwards, with your knuckles bruising against the
ceramic tiles.
the wall has become your new favorite scenery. it wasn't a tough
decision to make in the first place because sunrises were perhaps a
little too upbeat. it doesn't fit in the cracks and the holes of
your heart as illuminating as it had done before. if you stare at
sunrises for too long now, you'd get blind spots dancing in front of
your eyes.
( 'we were supposed to watch the sunrise,' he wasn't angry
when you awoke in the middle of a park with a lower-back situation
and stiff necks. 'i've seen enough,' you always sound so
groggy, so terribly groggy even when happy. 'okay,' and then
he had you waiting for sunset with just one word. )
sometimes he said cryptic stuff that had you thinking for days, but
in the end it all translated the same;
(I love you. I love you.)
yet he never actually said it out loud. you on the other hand had
said it so often that the shape of the words hurt your mouth now.
Somewhere in the house something falls over. it catches your
attention barely as you are still plotting. how to be less of one
thing and more of the other, but the word 'bastard' keeps echoing in
your ears. 'let them take it,' you think, imagining the
silver cutlery and the Gibson, 'let them take it, i'll write a
song about it', and you would.
but the silver cutlery is his and so is the Gibson and thus all
your songs are about him.
yoshiki once told you it was dangerous and that you two really had
to watch it. you had snapped and laughed and danced upon his fifth
fucking year of misery then and he was a nun; a freaking
saint and you had wanted to throw things at him for messing
up your best friend but he had stopped you.
thin long fingers creeping around your wrist, drawing figures and stories
that hide had never been as beautiful as when seen through yoshiki's
eyes and you had to hand it to him.
you could do nothing else all the fucking time.
and you still can't.
and that's why you're waiting with the doors locked and the phone
off; the reason you turn your back towards the window and forgot to
take out the trash yesterday. you are still trapped in that which
was yours but now wasn't as 'deeply inspiring' as he had once
claimed it to be. But you could never sale the house, even if
you will be living there waiting for him until the end of times.
it didn't matter and it still doesn't; you laugh in the face of
danger as you watch the filter burn. you challenge death on a daily
basis but it just prolonges your life as a penalty, scorches your
skin as a warning but never let's you end it. your fingertips are
as red as the sun bouncing off the walls.
if only you were to pick up the phone;
( you would tell him that you love him and that you would take every
last bit of his sorrow and burn it so you could inject the ashes into
your eyes and cry the same tears )
but you can't reach it from where you sit.