#5 Theme 3: Beauty and Stupid - hide; Tora/Hiroto
Title: Slowly Sinking In
Author: beyondtheremix
Theme: 003 Beauty and Stupid (hide)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Tora/Hiroto
Band[s]: Alice Nine
Disclaimer: AU, violence, non-con, angst, memory loss
Comments: Best read at a slow pace I guess :\
Slowly Sinking In
Vibrations alert Tora to the incoming call in his front jean pockets. A flash of neon green backdrop and an all too familiar number. After the fifth ring, after the fourth day, after the second week - he picks up.
"Yes?"
And the same female voice replies, every day, every week, at the same hour, in the same patient voice, with the same anticipating undertone layered with the richness of time and one too many smokes. A prolonged intonation that leaves her sentence hanging at the end, as if Tora was supposed to finish it, as if it was more than a simple reminder. As if it was an invitation to reply.
"He's awake now..."
He hangs up and flips the car's signal on, making a sudden U-turn to the left and ignoring the blaring horns and flipped fingers as he continues down the lane. And for the first time in two weeks and four days Tora heads back to his apartment.
---
The door opens for him when he knocks. The woman on the other end of the phone line stands there in greeting. Her ironed, white dress washes the color from her face, its cut too form-fitting to be professional. She smiles warmly and shoulders her bags before heading out the door.
Tora barely acknowledges the sincere caring behind those eyes - the suggestive wink betrays the white purity of her clothes.
"Call me when you need me again."
He can breathe again once the clicking of her heels has disappeared into the hum of a thrumming lift. Time seems to stumble to a halt and Tora’s still standing on the same rectangle of welcoming mat, inhaling the same stale, cigarette air - menthols that tug at his cravings.
Someone has removed the charred remains of their only couch, sprayed away the heady scent of burnt wood and replaced it with used tobacco and an artificial, lavender spring breeze. The splatters of black are wiped up and the ceiling painted over. She did her job, he’d give her that.
Angry tears escape and stream down angled cheekbones. Self-hate. Self-pity. Despair. Tora chokes back the sounds threatening to explode from the pit of his stomach. Instead of screaming, of burying his fists into the wall and crying his eyes dry, Tora scoots further back into the living room wall.
There had been enough lashing out today. Too much pain. Too many tears. He crosses his arms over drawn up knees and rests his wrinkled forehead there.
Time seems to stumble to a halt and Tora’s still sitting on the same square of tile, inhaling the same harsh, gasoline air. The crack of a match and Tora watches the white, brown, and wet stains disintegrate into slender flames that flicker and spit, licking up the air and regurgitating angry, grey clouds of smoke. He sits entranced, watching until his door is forced open and white engulfs the couch. The hiss of air and foam pollute the silence.
Purge this sin.
Feet kick into motion with the flapping of calendar pages in the wind.
She hadn’t bothered to change that. But then again it wasn’t hers to change.
Tora glares angrily at the circled date, almost regretfully. A careful scrawl, someone else’s handwriting, had drawn a “Tora’s B-day” diagonally across the date’s small square, a heart replacing the “O” in his name. Tora ripped it off the wall with a pained growl. It wasn’t his birthday anymore. It would never be, not now.
Tora grinned to himself. Today had been like any other day. He’d gotten the same call, but this time the feminine voice on the end of the line had informed him in an almost conspiratory manner, “Prepare yourself for a surprise. He looked at the calendar today and has been bouncing off the walls waiting for you to come home.”
It had been half a week and three days. He was eager to be back after leaving so upset. He had been rude and unforgivably cruel, but Tora knew it wasn’t his fault. He knew and yet it hadn’t stopped him from hurting inside, each word and confused look like a stab to his already tattered heart.
He wasn’t angry at him anymore. Now he knew he could never be. Now he knew his deepest, inner-most thoughts had shattered into complete and total understanding. Before there was doubt and uncertainty; an irrational, seething pain that wanted to blame everyone else. Tora knows he has moved on. He’s better than that - he should have known he was better than that. But at the time he only felt betrayal.
“Wh-who are you?”
A voice so frightened, cracked, stuttering, and shaking.
“Stop! Go away! I don’t know youyoudon’tknowmestopgoAWAY!”
He’s angry now, the alarm turned to vicious panic. He picks up something, anything to defend himself.
Tora’s too stunned to move. She said, but she said… The heavy, decorative bowl flies at him. The gold of its glazed curves and the intricate crack-like seams running along its bottom, glint in the sunlight streaming from the ever-open apartment window. Deep purple petals and shredded bark, all dyed and scented life, rain from the bowl as it travels into Tora’s sensitive lower abdomen. Potpourri scatters all over the floor and Tora doubles over.
Betrayal, overwhelming betrayal like a blanket of water, mutes his mind and ears.
Movement from the corner of his eyes.
How long has he been standing? How much reality passes when time seems to stumble to a halt and Tora loses himself in the past?
Hopeful eyes peek from the hallway, garnished around the edges with deep browns and fading purples. The burn of fabric has rubbed his left cheek into a healing scab.
There was so much hope, so much expectation, all laced in fear and anxiety, but Tora was thankful for each day he was given. At least he was still alive - they were both still alive.
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
The doctors had said it was merely a possibility, a chance that would take time. So Tora kept quiet, kept his enthusiasm to himself each and every time he was given reason to hope.
Regardless, the hope seemed grow and grow and accumulate in his chest until Tora was so sure.
There was a point where the feelings had built up and then silence wasn’t enough. And now there was only shattered hope. He could see it with his very eyes, hear it with every jumbled demand.
Uncontrollable rage and indignation only egged on by his terrified questioning and pleas. The first smack echoed throughout the room, but it brought with it silence.
Tora smiles reassuringly, letting the dark feelings flow out of his mind. His brow smoothes over and his arms open invitingly. Chocolate eyes and chestnut hair make their hobbled way towards him.
A slight limp still lingers.
He never knew how deep hope could run until the hope had been twisted into a distorted pain.
Hiroto was bent over the couch, sobbing and ignorant to what was happening, who the man ripping him in two was, the devout past they shared. He screams as his face and body push further up and over the armrest, his cock pressing into the rough cloth as a hand brings him unwillingly to full arousal.
“Stop! P-Please, who are you?!”
Behind him Tora growls and snaps his hips violently into the man below him. He’s held back for so long all reason has finally evaporated. Tugging, pulling, pressing. He gives Hiroto a harsh punch to his ribs as the younger man tries to escape his vice grip, kicking his feet and trying to fight back with his nails. A guttural moan is muffled by the skin of Hiroto’s back as he clenches around Tora from the sudden impact.
“How?"
"How could you forget me? Don’t you love me?”
“I-I, I can’t, I don’t, don’t remember. N-No.”
“Stupid. Useless fucker. Can’t remember a thing to save your ass.”
Each word is punctuated by a thrust and grunt, a punch and slap. Hiroto helplessly responds in gasps and whimpers.
The act is instinctual; an animalistic urge to reclaim what fate seems to constantly be stealing away from him.
A shuddery cry slips past Hiroto’s bitten lips as his cum splatters amongst his blood, sweat, and tears; the couch’s dizzyingly swirled, red and golden designs tainted and stained. Tora continues pushing for his orgasm, finally pulling out and emptying himself all over Hiroto’s backside, collapsing atop his used frame.
There’s immediate regret once his mind resurfaces.
He pulls Hiroto into his arms, turning him around and sobbing for forgiveness, searching those beautiful, lost eyes for understanding. The desperate tenderness Hiroto sees there confuses him, makes him wonder if he should hate or pity the man littering him with soft kisses and touches, bathing him, drying him, and tucking him into bed with a cherishing gentleness so drastically different from the man of an hour ago.
“I’m sorry.”
Tora finds himself consumed in inner turmoil, pacing in front of their only couch.
---
He left after they put out the flames; called in Hiroto’s nurse, his caretaker, and left.
I want to hurt you, because I know, later, in the morning, you won't remember.
Hiroto steps into the embrace unquestioningly. He can feel the comforting aura the other radiates and, somehow, he knows he can trust the tall man even though he’s never seen him before.
Time seems to stumble to a halt and they stand there together basking in each other’s presence. There’s new hope, new understanding, and Tora’s just thankful for each day he has.
We’re alive, we’re still alive.
“I’ll make you fall in love with me - every day until you remember.”
A/N:
*sigh* Sorry if you don't get it.
Archive
Author: beyondtheremix
Theme: 003 Beauty and Stupid (hide)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Tora/Hiroto
Band[s]: Alice Nine
Disclaimer: AU, violence, non-con, angst, memory loss
Comments: Best read at a slow pace I guess :\
Slowly Sinking In
Vibrations alert Tora to the incoming call in his front jean pockets. A flash of neon green backdrop and an all too familiar number. After the fifth ring, after the fourth day, after the second week - he picks up.
"Yes?"
And the same female voice replies, every day, every week, at the same hour, in the same patient voice, with the same anticipating undertone layered with the richness of time and one too many smokes. A prolonged intonation that leaves her sentence hanging at the end, as if Tora was supposed to finish it, as if it was more than a simple reminder. As if it was an invitation to reply.
"He's awake now..."
He hangs up and flips the car's signal on, making a sudden U-turn to the left and ignoring the blaring horns and flipped fingers as he continues down the lane. And for the first time in two weeks and four days Tora heads back to his apartment.
---
The door opens for him when he knocks. The woman on the other end of the phone line stands there in greeting. Her ironed, white dress washes the color from her face, its cut too form-fitting to be professional. She smiles warmly and shoulders her bags before heading out the door.
Tora barely acknowledges the sincere caring behind those eyes - the suggestive wink betrays the white purity of her clothes.
"Call me when you need me again."
He can breathe again once the clicking of her heels has disappeared into the hum of a thrumming lift. Time seems to stumble to a halt and Tora’s still standing on the same rectangle of welcoming mat, inhaling the same stale, cigarette air - menthols that tug at his cravings.
Someone has removed the charred remains of their only couch, sprayed away the heady scent of burnt wood and replaced it with used tobacco and an artificial, lavender spring breeze. The splatters of black are wiped up and the ceiling painted over. She did her job, he’d give her that.
Angry tears escape and stream down angled cheekbones. Self-hate. Self-pity. Despair. Tora chokes back the sounds threatening to explode from the pit of his stomach. Instead of screaming, of burying his fists into the wall and crying his eyes dry, Tora scoots further back into the living room wall.
There had been enough lashing out today. Too much pain. Too many tears. He crosses his arms over drawn up knees and rests his wrinkled forehead there.
Time seems to stumble to a halt and Tora’s still sitting on the same square of tile, inhaling the same harsh, gasoline air. The crack of a match and Tora watches the white, brown, and wet stains disintegrate into slender flames that flicker and spit, licking up the air and regurgitating angry, grey clouds of smoke. He sits entranced, watching until his door is forced open and white engulfs the couch. The hiss of air and foam pollute the silence.
Purge this sin.
Feet kick into motion with the flapping of calendar pages in the wind.
She hadn’t bothered to change that. But then again it wasn’t hers to change.
Tora glares angrily at the circled date, almost regretfully. A careful scrawl, someone else’s handwriting, had drawn a “Tora’s B-day” diagonally across the date’s small square, a heart replacing the “O” in his name. Tora ripped it off the wall with a pained growl. It wasn’t his birthday anymore. It would never be, not now.
Tora grinned to himself. Today had been like any other day. He’d gotten the same call, but this time the feminine voice on the end of the line had informed him in an almost conspiratory manner, “Prepare yourself for a surprise. He looked at the calendar today and has been bouncing off the walls waiting for you to come home.”
It had been half a week and three days. He was eager to be back after leaving so upset. He had been rude and unforgivably cruel, but Tora knew it wasn’t his fault. He knew and yet it hadn’t stopped him from hurting inside, each word and confused look like a stab to his already tattered heart.
He wasn’t angry at him anymore. Now he knew he could never be. Now he knew his deepest, inner-most thoughts had shattered into complete and total understanding. Before there was doubt and uncertainty; an irrational, seething pain that wanted to blame everyone else. Tora knows he has moved on. He’s better than that - he should have known he was better than that. But at the time he only felt betrayal.
“Wh-who are you?”
A voice so frightened, cracked, stuttering, and shaking.
“Stop! Go away! I don’t know youyoudon’tknowmestopgoAWAY!”
He’s angry now, the alarm turned to vicious panic. He picks up something, anything to defend himself.
Tora’s too stunned to move. She said, but she said… The heavy, decorative bowl flies at him. The gold of its glazed curves and the intricate crack-like seams running along its bottom, glint in the sunlight streaming from the ever-open apartment window. Deep purple petals and shredded bark, all dyed and scented life, rain from the bowl as it travels into Tora’s sensitive lower abdomen. Potpourri scatters all over the floor and Tora doubles over.
Betrayal, overwhelming betrayal like a blanket of water, mutes his mind and ears.
Movement from the corner of his eyes.
How long has he been standing? How much reality passes when time seems to stumble to a halt and Tora loses himself in the past?
Hopeful eyes peek from the hallway, garnished around the edges with deep browns and fading purples. The burn of fabric has rubbed his left cheek into a healing scab.
There was so much hope, so much expectation, all laced in fear and anxiety, but Tora was thankful for each day he was given. At least he was still alive - they were both still alive.
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
The doctors had said it was merely a possibility, a chance that would take time. So Tora kept quiet, kept his enthusiasm to himself each and every time he was given reason to hope.
Regardless, the hope seemed grow and grow and accumulate in his chest until Tora was so sure.
There was a point where the feelings had built up and then silence wasn’t enough. And now there was only shattered hope. He could see it with his very eyes, hear it with every jumbled demand.
Uncontrollable rage and indignation only egged on by his terrified questioning and pleas. The first smack echoed throughout the room, but it brought with it silence.
Tora smiles reassuringly, letting the dark feelings flow out of his mind. His brow smoothes over and his arms open invitingly. Chocolate eyes and chestnut hair make their hobbled way towards him.
A slight limp still lingers.
He never knew how deep hope could run until the hope had been twisted into a distorted pain.
Hiroto was bent over the couch, sobbing and ignorant to what was happening, who the man ripping him in two was, the devout past they shared. He screams as his face and body push further up and over the armrest, his cock pressing into the rough cloth as a hand brings him unwillingly to full arousal.
“Stop! P-Please, who are you?!”
Behind him Tora growls and snaps his hips violently into the man below him. He’s held back for so long all reason has finally evaporated. Tugging, pulling, pressing. He gives Hiroto a harsh punch to his ribs as the younger man tries to escape his vice grip, kicking his feet and trying to fight back with his nails. A guttural moan is muffled by the skin of Hiroto’s back as he clenches around Tora from the sudden impact.
“How?"
"How could you forget me? Don’t you love me?”
“I-I, I can’t, I don’t, don’t remember. N-No.”
“Stupid. Useless fucker. Can’t remember a thing to save your ass.”
Each word is punctuated by a thrust and grunt, a punch and slap. Hiroto helplessly responds in gasps and whimpers.
The act is instinctual; an animalistic urge to reclaim what fate seems to constantly be stealing away from him.
A shuddery cry slips past Hiroto’s bitten lips as his cum splatters amongst his blood, sweat, and tears; the couch’s dizzyingly swirled, red and golden designs tainted and stained. Tora continues pushing for his orgasm, finally pulling out and emptying himself all over Hiroto’s backside, collapsing atop his used frame.
There’s immediate regret once his mind resurfaces.
He pulls Hiroto into his arms, turning him around and sobbing for forgiveness, searching those beautiful, lost eyes for understanding. The desperate tenderness Hiroto sees there confuses him, makes him wonder if he should hate or pity the man littering him with soft kisses and touches, bathing him, drying him, and tucking him into bed with a cherishing gentleness so drastically different from the man of an hour ago.
“I’m sorry.”
Tora finds himself consumed in inner turmoil, pacing in front of their only couch.
---
He left after they put out the flames; called in Hiroto’s nurse, his caretaker, and left.
I want to hurt you, because I know, later, in the morning, you won't remember.
Hiroto steps into the embrace unquestioningly. He can feel the comforting aura the other radiates and, somehow, he knows he can trust the tall man even though he’s never seen him before.
Time seems to stumble to a halt and they stand there together basking in each other’s presence. There’s new hope, new understanding, and Tora’s just thankful for each day he has.
We’re alive, we’re still alive.
“I’ll make you fall in love with me - every day until you remember.”
A/N:
*sigh* Sorry if you don't get it.
Archive