HAPPY BIRTHDAY FRENCHSOAP
for frenchsoap, for her birthday, which is tomorrow.
uryuu/ryuuken. er. R?
He supposes he has the culture here to thank: a student could rent an apartment anywhere, no questions asked. Which was a good thing, because he didn’t want to give the answers anyway.
Answers that he was quite sure he knew.
-
This one was good - not so far from school as to be out of walking distance, but not too near either. A middle distance, hidden among the others living in pairs and threes and fives - happy communal cohabitation with beer and sex on the weekends - the noise not exactly Mozart, but bearable enough. Small, single bed, second-hand desk and a tiny wardrobe - but he only has his school uniform, mostly, so it was okay.
Not as extravagant as what he used to have, but anything is better than that.
-
Life was routine, comfortable, but never settled.
He wakes up, has yesterday’s leftovers for breakfast, steps over the boy from the room next door (sprawled unconscious in the corridor, half-naked with a girl pressed to his T-shirt) and heads for the stairs, to school, and back again at two, doing homework with the shutters half-closed: all the way would be too suspicious; he could be seen if they weren’t. Grocery shopping at five, when everyone is out on the streets and a boy in a zip-up shirt and khaki pants won’t be noticed.
Weekends are spent at home - going out to practise would be too dangerous - he denies all offers of get-togethers, and sleepovers. “Just next door!” they never hesitated to say, but just next door is already too far away.
-
His four-poster has cream sheets and down pillows. That is all he can say about it, because that is all he has time to notice, his face buried into the pillow, his hands gripping the sheets as Ryuuken fucks him into the mattress. Later, because he rarely falls asleep straightaway, he stares at the ceiling until his eyes go out of focus, at the hairline cracks and the tiny smattering of cobwebs in the corner, trying hard not to hear Ryuuken breathing, feel the rise and fall of Ryuuken’s chest, taste the sweat and come on his own lips, praying, always praying that he will sleep, blank and blissful, and awake to an empty bed.
His four-poster has cream sheets and down pillows.
The sheets are changed every day.
-
Sometimes he finds he can’t decide.
Yes, I would like the steak for dinner. Medium-rare, and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Yes I shall buy the pale green shirt, because it is exquisite Egyptian fabric, and the buttons are mother-of-pearl. Yes, I shall do my history essay before my math homework, because it is easier to concentrate on writing in the afternoons, as opposed to evenings.
These things are easy.
What he can’t decide, is whether he is ordering steak and wine because Ryuuken tells him to, whether he buys the pale green shirt because Ryuuken has picked it out, whether it is fear or anticipation he feels when he is scribbling out mathematical formulae, driving his mind to think of integers, coefficients and limits, and nothing else, not dinner, not shopping, not the night time, and his bed, sitting just behind him, reflected in the French windows.
And when Ryuuken positions himself above him, and slides his length in none too gently, he can never decide if the sheer ecstasy he is feeling is something born of his own warped desires, or a sick mutation induced in him by his father, always there, always hinting, always waiting.
Uryuu, Ryuuken will say, and Uryuu will come into his own hand, onto his own sheets, and relish in the feel of his father’s breath in his ear - leave the self-hate for later.
-
I can hide here, with the wholesome families and their dogs, he can’t find me here but he only knows how wrong he is when he turns the corner leading to his apartment, and sees Ryuuken’s shadow just beyond the streetlamp, unmistakably Ryuuken - he can tell by his stance, by the glint of a pair of frameless glasses on the only face that can exude that kind of malice without even being visible.
He knows Ryuuken will bide his time, and wait for the opportune moment to pounce, like a cat after its meal.
But he also knows that Ryuuken will let him go, and watch him run, only to hunt him down again, and watch, hiding around corners and only letting himself be seen when he wants to, like a cat after its meal even though it’s really not hungry, and only wants to play.
-
There is little he needs - he has a stash of money at the back of his drawer, saved up for a rainy/silent day/night, piled clothes into a duffel bag, sweater tugged on back-to-front and out the door into the storm, where he hopes the snow will cover his footprints, slow Ryuuken down: he will run and find someplace to stay where Ryuuken can never find him, where he can be safe, if only for a little while.
That first night he sits under a large tree with low branches in the park a mile off from school, clutching the 7-Eleven Styrofoam coffee cup in his bare fingers - his gloves are somewhere in his room, he has forgotten them - and wishing that Styrofoam wasn’t such a bloody good insulator.
The next night he is back, tied to the four posters of his four-poster bed, cursing his stupidity while begging for more.
-
He has run out of writing paper, and the assignment is due tomorrow. The stores are closing so he runs, breath misting in his face, trying to make it in before they can flip that little plastic sign to “CLOSED”, before he has to trudge back home, and write his assignment out on recycled paper.
The last store on the street is still open, but only because a wheel on the rack they usually place outside got stuck, and the owner was having a hard time dragging it in by himself. He helps drag the rack in and purchases a new writing pad, brisk-walking back home because to be out after dark is to attract attention.
The party is already under way next door - he can hear the pounding music through the thin walls as he unlocks the door to his own apartment, and locks it behind him. It is only when he has removed his shoes, only when he has already placed his coat on the chair that he notices that shadow in the corner, Ryuuken, leaning against the wall and smiling, hands in his pockets, eyes on him.
It is too late to run but he finds he is stuck, frozen with the soles of his feet melded into the floor, eyes fixed on Ryuuken, arms stuck to his sides and sweat on his forehead because it suddenly gets very hot in the room, and he can’t breathe.
“Say something, Uryuu, haven’t you missed me?” and Uryuu opens his mouth and breathes like a fish, quick and gasping because Ryuuken’s tongue on his neck is too cold, Ryuuken’s lips on his collarbone is too light and feathery: his hands move automatically to grip Ryuuken’s shoulders, his leg moves and rubs itself against Ryuuken’s thigh - he mewls, soft and needy.
Ryuuken’s teeth graze Uryuu’s bare skin.
“That’s my boy,” he whispers, fingers on the zipper at Uryuu’s throat.
Uryuu finds he is hard already.
END
uryuu/ryuuken. er. R?
He supposes he has the culture here to thank: a student could rent an apartment anywhere, no questions asked. Which was a good thing, because he didn’t want to give the answers anyway.
Answers that he was quite sure he knew.
-
This one was good - not so far from school as to be out of walking distance, but not too near either. A middle distance, hidden among the others living in pairs and threes and fives - happy communal cohabitation with beer and sex on the weekends - the noise not exactly Mozart, but bearable enough. Small, single bed, second-hand desk and a tiny wardrobe - but he only has his school uniform, mostly, so it was okay.
Not as extravagant as what he used to have, but anything is better than that.
-
Life was routine, comfortable, but never settled.
He wakes up, has yesterday’s leftovers for breakfast, steps over the boy from the room next door (sprawled unconscious in the corridor, half-naked with a girl pressed to his T-shirt) and heads for the stairs, to school, and back again at two, doing homework with the shutters half-closed: all the way would be too suspicious; he could be seen if they weren’t. Grocery shopping at five, when everyone is out on the streets and a boy in a zip-up shirt and khaki pants won’t be noticed.
Weekends are spent at home - going out to practise would be too dangerous - he denies all offers of get-togethers, and sleepovers. “Just next door!” they never hesitated to say, but just next door is already too far away.
-
His four-poster has cream sheets and down pillows. That is all he can say about it, because that is all he has time to notice, his face buried into the pillow, his hands gripping the sheets as Ryuuken fucks him into the mattress. Later, because he rarely falls asleep straightaway, he stares at the ceiling until his eyes go out of focus, at the hairline cracks and the tiny smattering of cobwebs in the corner, trying hard not to hear Ryuuken breathing, feel the rise and fall of Ryuuken’s chest, taste the sweat and come on his own lips, praying, always praying that he will sleep, blank and blissful, and awake to an empty bed.
His four-poster has cream sheets and down pillows.
The sheets are changed every day.
-
Sometimes he finds he can’t decide.
Yes, I would like the steak for dinner. Medium-rare, and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Yes I shall buy the pale green shirt, because it is exquisite Egyptian fabric, and the buttons are mother-of-pearl. Yes, I shall do my history essay before my math homework, because it is easier to concentrate on writing in the afternoons, as opposed to evenings.
These things are easy.
What he can’t decide, is whether he is ordering steak and wine because Ryuuken tells him to, whether he buys the pale green shirt because Ryuuken has picked it out, whether it is fear or anticipation he feels when he is scribbling out mathematical formulae, driving his mind to think of integers, coefficients and limits, and nothing else, not dinner, not shopping, not the night time, and his bed, sitting just behind him, reflected in the French windows.
And when Ryuuken positions himself above him, and slides his length in none too gently, he can never decide if the sheer ecstasy he is feeling is something born of his own warped desires, or a sick mutation induced in him by his father, always there, always hinting, always waiting.
Uryuu, Ryuuken will say, and Uryuu will come into his own hand, onto his own sheets, and relish in the feel of his father’s breath in his ear - leave the self-hate for later.
-
I can hide here, with the wholesome families and their dogs, he can’t find me here but he only knows how wrong he is when he turns the corner leading to his apartment, and sees Ryuuken’s shadow just beyond the streetlamp, unmistakably Ryuuken - he can tell by his stance, by the glint of a pair of frameless glasses on the only face that can exude that kind of malice without even being visible.
He knows Ryuuken will bide his time, and wait for the opportune moment to pounce, like a cat after its meal.
But he also knows that Ryuuken will let him go, and watch him run, only to hunt him down again, and watch, hiding around corners and only letting himself be seen when he wants to, like a cat after its meal even though it’s really not hungry, and only wants to play.
-
There is little he needs - he has a stash of money at the back of his drawer, saved up for a rainy/silent day/night, piled clothes into a duffel bag, sweater tugged on back-to-front and out the door into the storm, where he hopes the snow will cover his footprints, slow Ryuuken down: he will run and find someplace to stay where Ryuuken can never find him, where he can be safe, if only for a little while.
That first night he sits under a large tree with low branches in the park a mile off from school, clutching the 7-Eleven Styrofoam coffee cup in his bare fingers - his gloves are somewhere in his room, he has forgotten them - and wishing that Styrofoam wasn’t such a bloody good insulator.
The next night he is back, tied to the four posters of his four-poster bed, cursing his stupidity while begging for more.
-
He has run out of writing paper, and the assignment is due tomorrow. The stores are closing so he runs, breath misting in his face, trying to make it in before they can flip that little plastic sign to “CLOSED”, before he has to trudge back home, and write his assignment out on recycled paper.
The last store on the street is still open, but only because a wheel on the rack they usually place outside got stuck, and the owner was having a hard time dragging it in by himself. He helps drag the rack in and purchases a new writing pad, brisk-walking back home because to be out after dark is to attract attention.
The party is already under way next door - he can hear the pounding music through the thin walls as he unlocks the door to his own apartment, and locks it behind him. It is only when he has removed his shoes, only when he has already placed his coat on the chair that he notices that shadow in the corner, Ryuuken, leaning against the wall and smiling, hands in his pockets, eyes on him.
It is too late to run but he finds he is stuck, frozen with the soles of his feet melded into the floor, eyes fixed on Ryuuken, arms stuck to his sides and sweat on his forehead because it suddenly gets very hot in the room, and he can’t breathe.
“Say something, Uryuu, haven’t you missed me?” and Uryuu opens his mouth and breathes like a fish, quick and gasping because Ryuuken’s tongue on his neck is too cold, Ryuuken’s lips on his collarbone is too light and feathery: his hands move automatically to grip Ryuuken’s shoulders, his leg moves and rubs itself against Ryuuken’s thigh - he mewls, soft and needy.
Ryuuken’s teeth graze Uryuu’s bare skin.
“That’s my boy,” he whispers, fingers on the zipper at Uryuu’s throat.
Uryuu finds he is hard already.
END