'milk teeth' - [Aoi/Uruha] 1/1
Title: milk teeth
Pairing: Aoi/Uruha, Reita/Ruki
Genre: Slice of life, romance
Notes: I demand more indie-days!GazettE fics :D
Synopsis: But then again, Akira works in a bakery - a fact that is always thrown into any argument with a sly grin, much to Akira’s endless frustration.
Aoi doesn’t begin to fall with twisted, shaking hands until later - much later.
It doesn’t start with a throat-ripping realization over cheap beer and cheaper cassettes that break between his fingers as they all crowd around his dilapidated stereo to play the tinny warbles of demo tapes. Not when he catches Kouyou’s vacant glance - not Uruha’s because Uruha didn’t exist yet; it’s only Kouyou’s deep-set stare and mirthful quirk of his lips and not Uruha’s coy smirk and navy-smeared eyes - over the top of Takanori’s tomato-beet-blood tuft of hair.
It’s not when Kouyou’s clouded gaze focuses, the blear of watered-down alcohol ebbing away to sharpen into a knowing grin - it’s not when Aoi (because he’s always been Aoi, never Yuu; never that country-born, sea-foam stained kid with too-wide smiles and easily bruised skin) smiles back before Takanori’s suddenly gesturing wildly with a touch of violence, and maybe with a hint of batshit crazy because fuck -
“It makes sense, it makes perfect sense - ”
And it’s not then either, not when Aoi’s eyes are still lingering on Kouyou’s, even though the other boy’s lackadaisical grin is now aimed at Takanori’s fevered babbling, and Aoi is left to trace the dip of his long lashes, the slope of his cheek as he smiles with all his crooked teeth when Akira grabs Takanori’s waif-thin wrists.
It’s not then. Not yet.
“You’re fucking insane - ” Akira has to dodge Takanori’s hand as the younger makes a wide sweep towards Aoi’s abused stereo and then a grand arc to the piles of cracked cassettes strewn across the nubby, crumb-ridden carpet.
“The fuck I am, it’s perfect.”
Akira cocks an eyebrow at the glimmer clawing its way onto Takanori’s beaming face - the grin is clashing with his murderous-red hair, but Aoi’s already used to the ex-drummer’s glaring duality, how Takanori sketches open-jawed skulls in jagged lines and coos over the tiny puppies pouncing inside the shop windows (even as they’re dressed in ripped fabric and rusted chains). But then again, Akira works in a bakery - a fact that is always thrown into any argument with a sly grin, much to Akira’s endless frustration.
Akira makes a grand show of surveying the ratty curtains, the holes in everyone’s jeans, the jutting spines, the broken heater, the skipping 8-track, before turning back to Takanori’s pleased humming. “Exactly what is perfect here?”
Kouyou huffs in amusement, mouth tilting to one side and even though Aoi catches it - the glow of jollity dancing on the other’s lips - it’s not then.
Takanori sputters, unable to grasp the fact that Akira doesn’t see this, and grabs a random cassette from the strewn pile upon the grubby carpet and waves it around like the holy grail, “This.”
Akira stares at the glee-splattered grin stretching Takanori’s usually stern and focused features for a beat, before whirling a glare towards Kouyou’s lackadaisical form draped across Aoi’s paisley (“Stop snickering, Taka. A free couch is always a good couch.”) cushions. Kouyou tilts his head in askance while Akira points an accusing, black-nailed finger at him, “Shima. If that shitty take-out you got us was laced, so fucking help me - ”
“Are you a fucking idiot?” Takanori shoves Akira squarely in the shoulder, huffing as he thrusts the tape underneath the elder’s nose - not yet hidden, not yet ‘Reita’, not yet - forcing Akira to lean back lest he’s force-fed plastic, “Look. Cassette.”
A pause filters through the room, save for the forgotten metronome still tolling out endless beats. Akira blinks and Aoi stifles a snort, stealing a glance at Kouyou beside him to find a slow smirk curling the taller man’s lips as he points a finger to his chest and drawls out low, “Me. Kouyou.”
He catches Aoi’s wandering eye with a playful nod - but it wasn’t then, not even when he bumped his knee against the elder’s and brushed his shoulder as he reached down for more greasy take-out - before Takanori snaps, thoroughly affronted. “Real fucking cute, Shima.”
Akira finally shoos away the musty-smelling cassette tape from his face and Takanori relents, the devious gleam already sparking in his contact-free eyes once more, “No, this is our name. It’s perfect.”
With a quirked brow, Aoi reaches over and plucks the tape from Takanori and curiously flips it over, “…Tori Amos?”
Kouyou tugged back on the stretched fabric of Aoi’s collar and pulled the other into the safe-haven of the dilapidated couch with a grin, saving the oblivious man from Takanori’s sharp-nailed, gaudy-ringed lunge. Aoi appropriately splutters, losing his grip on the cassette and squirming at the feel of the younger’s fingertips dusting across his neck before Kouyou let go, cheeky grin meeting his flushed gape. “Oi - ”
Akira smirks at them -
just like he would, later, when Aoi would slip up - forget - and absently run his finger down the spine of Uruha’s hellion.
and still like Reita would, even later - inside the calamity of the dressing room where Aoi lifts his shirt above his head and the doorknob-shaped bruise shines along the dip of his back and Uruha’s smirk tastes like charcoaled promises from across the room - and murmur into the pocket of silent darkness just before the encore, shoulder bumping against Aoi’s, catching his eye from the sliver of light chasing Uruha’s jaw, “About fucking time.”
- and nudged Takanori’s stiff form, a devious poke to the ribs melting the younger’s affronted scowl into something less sharp -
because Takanori-and-Akira had always been; steady waltzes of chaste touches and tangled limbs, of creaking thresholds and shadowed smiles in the backseats of a hundred vans.
“Just tell us what the hell you’re going on about, Taka.”
With a withering sigh, mourning the loss of artistic subtlety, Takanori pointed his dying cigarette towards the remaining pile of cassettes, ignoring Aoi’s low growl at the ashes burning pinholes into his carpet and security deposit, “Something like ‘cassette’ would be perfect. But something a little bit more. Something… harder - ”
-- harder, something so much fucking harder, but Aoi’s nails slice through the headboard so easily, and Uruha almost looks like Kouyou - a flicker of ‘before’, a soft breath of cheap cigarettes and brighter eyes - and Aoi almost loses it, almost shatters his spine and molds himself to the gasps that drip from the younger’s lips, “Aoi, I - fuck, Yuu, please - ”
and Aoi tries - tries to bite through the tender flesh beneath Uruha’s jaw, tries to lure out the broken moans and rattling bedposts. There’s a faint crash - burning hearts or a misplaced lamp - and suddenly it’s Kouyou there, beneath him and inside of him and drinking in Aoi’s growls and wrecked pleas to make it harder, harder -
but Kouyou crushes his hand into his own, breaks the spaces between his knuckles and whispers a hush into his trembling palm, “Not yet, not yet - ”
And it’s not then, not yet. Not when Kouyou still has visible freckles (not smudged away with kohl and navy and neon lights) nestling at the corner of his contact-free eyes - not when Aoi still drawls out his vowels too long (makes Kouyou’s name into a fucking sonnet) in an accent that still clings to hometown-whitecaps. It’s an accent that he later tries to erase from his tongue, rolling the words off from his maw in the bathroom mirror until the lilt of home breaks -
But he still slips back into the worn vowels and harsh rhythms like a lost love when Uruha nips his parted lips, hands sifting the gooseflesh of his inner thighs and arching his back into Aoi’s trembling grip with a hiss.
And Uruha drowns - sinks deep and hard - into the panting lilt that escapes Aoi’s throat. It’s words he can’t understand, phrases that seep into his bones and clog his lungs until he’s choking - gasping into what-could-be and maybe-what-is beneath Aoi’s soft murmuring, tattooing Uruha’s flesh with veiled confessions.
And Uruha doesn’t know - his eyes are already rolling back, his shoulder blades are already ripping apart, and his spine is already coiled around Aoi’s fingers so fucking tight he’ll never unwound. He doesn’t know, but he seizes Aoi’s shoulders anyway as they shake into the little death, red blooming beneath his fingernails, and whispers into the spaces of Aoi’s heart:
“Me too, me too - ”
But not yet.
Because it takes a couple thousand stolen Marlboros, shoddily bleached roots, and fistfuls of cracking desperation - jutting ribs and rations of juice. It takes reckless courage lapped up from amber bottles to finally catch almost-Kouyou’s (but mostly-Uruha’s) callused hand and feel his fingers slip from his palm - before anything happens.
Because there’s a whole lot of not-happening in the beginning. A lot of scraped knuckles and broken heaters. A lot of Takanori tearing out countless pages of fashion magazines and taping them across their walls to hold in the heat during dead-pale winters. A lot of Akira cursing and Yune leaving.
And there’s some knocks on his door at four in the morning and some nights when he can feel Kouyou’s steady gaze tracing the patterns of veins snaking underneath his neck. Some lingering hands and torn lips from biting on words too hard. And one stolen whisper as Uruha curls around him tight like a warped crucifix that one night - later, not yet, but right then when the smoke is tangled in their dried out hair and the bus lights are off and shit-fuck, Aoi, I think I might - I think I always -
But now - right now - Aoi nibbles on the end of his cigarette, fingers stained in ash as he tries to grip all two inches of remaining nicotine, and glances at his knee being jostled by Kouyou’s as the younger throws an arm over the slumping headrest. The room is silent, contemplating, and Aoi gets three more drags in. He lets each one paint his bones black.
He sighs, white-gray tumbling from his parted lips with abandon, “Something with a G.”
Kouyou glances at him with a quirked brow, but Akira nods along, something sparking in his usually placid gaze, “G’s are rock.”
Takanori gives them an unimpressed glower, “How?”
“Guns N Roses.”
“Grateful Dead.”
“Gackt.”
“Shima, I swear to fuck - ”
Takanori slaps a hand to Akira’s mouth, silencing his low growl. He practically glows, swinging out his other arm, nearly knocking over the 8-track, and flaps it a little. The maniacal grin is splitting his face apart, “Holy fuck, I got it. I fucking got it.”
And maybe it’s the dim lightbulbs that keep humming into the spaces of their silence, the moth-eaten clothes, the cold take-out and crooked lines of kohl outlining their too-wide eyes, but Aoi finds himself lowering his cigarette - listening.
Listening and remembering this moment - of what the instant between ‘before’ and ‘after’ sounded like.
But all he could hear was Kouyou -
breathing in -
and then not at all.
And Aoi finds out just what Takanori branded them in a fit of brilliant insanity - just what name would line their banners and blaze-and-burn the backlights of a million concerts - later that night. Because all he can hear is Kouyou’s breathless laugh - his arm wrapping around his shoulder and pulling him close, leaning into the tender flesh of his neck in a night-drunk burst of this-is-it - and smiling wide.
And it’s the beginning, the first trip and fumble of Aoi’s restless heart, as he watches Kouyou begin to cradle the flame that would forever burn beneath his ribs. But Kouyou is louder than the skipped beat inside Aoi’s chest as he grips him tighter and muses over Takanori’s preening and Akira’s prideful smirk:
“What do you think, Yuu? Perfect, right?”
And Aoi smiled back, palms itching to reach out and cradle Kouyou’s grin closer to him - close enough to hold and keep because - because -
“Not yet, but it will be.”
.:.:.:.
A/N: It's been awhile.. I apologize for being so snail-like with my updates; this was a grueling semester. But! I have three other drabbles waiting to be finished in my documents, so expect some more updates soon enough :)
I hope all of you enjoyed! <3
Pairing: Aoi/Uruha, Reita/Ruki
Genre: Slice of life, romance
Notes: I demand more indie-days!GazettE fics :D
Synopsis: But then again, Akira works in a bakery - a fact that is always thrown into any argument with a sly grin, much to Akira’s endless frustration.
Aoi doesn’t begin to fall with twisted, shaking hands until later - much later.
It doesn’t start with a throat-ripping realization over cheap beer and cheaper cassettes that break between his fingers as they all crowd around his dilapidated stereo to play the tinny warbles of demo tapes. Not when he catches Kouyou’s vacant glance - not Uruha’s because Uruha didn’t exist yet; it’s only Kouyou’s deep-set stare and mirthful quirk of his lips and not Uruha’s coy smirk and navy-smeared eyes - over the top of Takanori’s tomato-beet-blood tuft of hair.
It’s not when Kouyou’s clouded gaze focuses, the blear of watered-down alcohol ebbing away to sharpen into a knowing grin - it’s not when Aoi (because he’s always been Aoi, never Yuu; never that country-born, sea-foam stained kid with too-wide smiles and easily bruised skin) smiles back before Takanori’s suddenly gesturing wildly with a touch of violence, and maybe with a hint of batshit crazy because fuck -
“It makes sense, it makes perfect sense - ”
And it’s not then either, not when Aoi’s eyes are still lingering on Kouyou’s, even though the other boy’s lackadaisical grin is now aimed at Takanori’s fevered babbling, and Aoi is left to trace the dip of his long lashes, the slope of his cheek as he smiles with all his crooked teeth when Akira grabs Takanori’s waif-thin wrists.
It’s not then. Not yet.
“You’re fucking insane - ” Akira has to dodge Takanori’s hand as the younger makes a wide sweep towards Aoi’s abused stereo and then a grand arc to the piles of cracked cassettes strewn across the nubby, crumb-ridden carpet.
“The fuck I am, it’s perfect.”
Akira cocks an eyebrow at the glimmer clawing its way onto Takanori’s beaming face - the grin is clashing with his murderous-red hair, but Aoi’s already used to the ex-drummer’s glaring duality, how Takanori sketches open-jawed skulls in jagged lines and coos over the tiny puppies pouncing inside the shop windows (even as they’re dressed in ripped fabric and rusted chains). But then again, Akira works in a bakery - a fact that is always thrown into any argument with a sly grin, much to Akira’s endless frustration.
Akira makes a grand show of surveying the ratty curtains, the holes in everyone’s jeans, the jutting spines, the broken heater, the skipping 8-track, before turning back to Takanori’s pleased humming. “Exactly what is perfect here?”
Kouyou huffs in amusement, mouth tilting to one side and even though Aoi catches it - the glow of jollity dancing on the other’s lips - it’s not then.
Takanori sputters, unable to grasp the fact that Akira doesn’t see this, and grabs a random cassette from the strewn pile upon the grubby carpet and waves it around like the holy grail, “This.”
Akira stares at the glee-splattered grin stretching Takanori’s usually stern and focused features for a beat, before whirling a glare towards Kouyou’s lackadaisical form draped across Aoi’s paisley (“Stop snickering, Taka. A free couch is always a good couch.”) cushions. Kouyou tilts his head in askance while Akira points an accusing, black-nailed finger at him, “Shima. If that shitty take-out you got us was laced, so fucking help me - ”
“Are you a fucking idiot?” Takanori shoves Akira squarely in the shoulder, huffing as he thrusts the tape underneath the elder’s nose - not yet hidden, not yet ‘Reita’, not yet - forcing Akira to lean back lest he’s force-fed plastic, “Look. Cassette.”
A pause filters through the room, save for the forgotten metronome still tolling out endless beats. Akira blinks and Aoi stifles a snort, stealing a glance at Kouyou beside him to find a slow smirk curling the taller man’s lips as he points a finger to his chest and drawls out low, “Me. Kouyou.”
He catches Aoi’s wandering eye with a playful nod - but it wasn’t then, not even when he bumped his knee against the elder’s and brushed his shoulder as he reached down for more greasy take-out - before Takanori snaps, thoroughly affronted. “Real fucking cute, Shima.”
Akira finally shoos away the musty-smelling cassette tape from his face and Takanori relents, the devious gleam already sparking in his contact-free eyes once more, “No, this is our name. It’s perfect.”
With a quirked brow, Aoi reaches over and plucks the tape from Takanori and curiously flips it over, “…Tori Amos?”
Kouyou tugged back on the stretched fabric of Aoi’s collar and pulled the other into the safe-haven of the dilapidated couch with a grin, saving the oblivious man from Takanori’s sharp-nailed, gaudy-ringed lunge. Aoi appropriately splutters, losing his grip on the cassette and squirming at the feel of the younger’s fingertips dusting across his neck before Kouyou let go, cheeky grin meeting his flushed gape. “Oi - ”
Akira smirks at them -
just like he would, later, when Aoi would slip up - forget - and absently run his finger down the spine of Uruha’s hellion.
and still like Reita would, even later - inside the calamity of the dressing room where Aoi lifts his shirt above his head and the doorknob-shaped bruise shines along the dip of his back and Uruha’s smirk tastes like charcoaled promises from across the room - and murmur into the pocket of silent darkness just before the encore, shoulder bumping against Aoi’s, catching his eye from the sliver of light chasing Uruha’s jaw, “About fucking time.”
- and nudged Takanori’s stiff form, a devious poke to the ribs melting the younger’s affronted scowl into something less sharp -
because Takanori-and-Akira had always been; steady waltzes of chaste touches and tangled limbs, of creaking thresholds and shadowed smiles in the backseats of a hundred vans.
“Just tell us what the hell you’re going on about, Taka.”
With a withering sigh, mourning the loss of artistic subtlety, Takanori pointed his dying cigarette towards the remaining pile of cassettes, ignoring Aoi’s low growl at the ashes burning pinholes into his carpet and security deposit, “Something like ‘cassette’ would be perfect. But something a little bit more. Something… harder - ”
-- harder, something so much fucking harder, but Aoi’s nails slice through the headboard so easily, and Uruha almost looks like Kouyou - a flicker of ‘before’, a soft breath of cheap cigarettes and brighter eyes - and Aoi almost loses it, almost shatters his spine and molds himself to the gasps that drip from the younger’s lips, “Aoi, I - fuck, Yuu, please - ”
and Aoi tries - tries to bite through the tender flesh beneath Uruha’s jaw, tries to lure out the broken moans and rattling bedposts. There’s a faint crash - burning hearts or a misplaced lamp - and suddenly it’s Kouyou there, beneath him and inside of him and drinking in Aoi’s growls and wrecked pleas to make it harder, harder -
but Kouyou crushes his hand into his own, breaks the spaces between his knuckles and whispers a hush into his trembling palm, “Not yet, not yet - ”
And it’s not then, not yet. Not when Kouyou still has visible freckles (not smudged away with kohl and navy and neon lights) nestling at the corner of his contact-free eyes - not when Aoi still drawls out his vowels too long (makes Kouyou’s name into a fucking sonnet) in an accent that still clings to hometown-whitecaps. It’s an accent that he later tries to erase from his tongue, rolling the words off from his maw in the bathroom mirror until the lilt of home breaks -
But he still slips back into the worn vowels and harsh rhythms like a lost love when Uruha nips his parted lips, hands sifting the gooseflesh of his inner thighs and arching his back into Aoi’s trembling grip with a hiss.
And Uruha drowns - sinks deep and hard - into the panting lilt that escapes Aoi’s throat. It’s words he can’t understand, phrases that seep into his bones and clog his lungs until he’s choking - gasping into what-could-be and maybe-what-is beneath Aoi’s soft murmuring, tattooing Uruha’s flesh with veiled confessions.
And Uruha doesn’t know - his eyes are already rolling back, his shoulder blades are already ripping apart, and his spine is already coiled around Aoi’s fingers so fucking tight he’ll never unwound. He doesn’t know, but he seizes Aoi’s shoulders anyway as they shake into the little death, red blooming beneath his fingernails, and whispers into the spaces of Aoi’s heart:
“Me too, me too - ”
But not yet.
Because it takes a couple thousand stolen Marlboros, shoddily bleached roots, and fistfuls of cracking desperation - jutting ribs and rations of juice. It takes reckless courage lapped up from amber bottles to finally catch almost-Kouyou’s (but mostly-Uruha’s) callused hand and feel his fingers slip from his palm - before anything happens.
Because there’s a whole lot of not-happening in the beginning. A lot of scraped knuckles and broken heaters. A lot of Takanori tearing out countless pages of fashion magazines and taping them across their walls to hold in the heat during dead-pale winters. A lot of Akira cursing and Yune leaving.
And there’s some knocks on his door at four in the morning and some nights when he can feel Kouyou’s steady gaze tracing the patterns of veins snaking underneath his neck. Some lingering hands and torn lips from biting on words too hard. And one stolen whisper as Uruha curls around him tight like a warped crucifix that one night - later, not yet, but right then when the smoke is tangled in their dried out hair and the bus lights are off and shit-fuck, Aoi, I think I might - I think I always -
But now - right now - Aoi nibbles on the end of his cigarette, fingers stained in ash as he tries to grip all two inches of remaining nicotine, and glances at his knee being jostled by Kouyou’s as the younger throws an arm over the slumping headrest. The room is silent, contemplating, and Aoi gets three more drags in. He lets each one paint his bones black.
He sighs, white-gray tumbling from his parted lips with abandon, “Something with a G.”
Kouyou glances at him with a quirked brow, but Akira nods along, something sparking in his usually placid gaze, “G’s are rock.”
Takanori gives them an unimpressed glower, “How?”
“Guns N Roses.”
“Grateful Dead.”
“Gackt.”
“Shima, I swear to fuck - ”
Takanori slaps a hand to Akira’s mouth, silencing his low growl. He practically glows, swinging out his other arm, nearly knocking over the 8-track, and flaps it a little. The maniacal grin is splitting his face apart, “Holy fuck, I got it. I fucking got it.”
And maybe it’s the dim lightbulbs that keep humming into the spaces of their silence, the moth-eaten clothes, the cold take-out and crooked lines of kohl outlining their too-wide eyes, but Aoi finds himself lowering his cigarette - listening.
Listening and remembering this moment - of what the instant between ‘before’ and ‘after’ sounded like.
But all he could hear was Kouyou -
breathing in -
and then not at all.
And Aoi finds out just what Takanori branded them in a fit of brilliant insanity - just what name would line their banners and blaze-and-burn the backlights of a million concerts - later that night. Because all he can hear is Kouyou’s breathless laugh - his arm wrapping around his shoulder and pulling him close, leaning into the tender flesh of his neck in a night-drunk burst of this-is-it - and smiling wide.
And it’s the beginning, the first trip and fumble of Aoi’s restless heart, as he watches Kouyou begin to cradle the flame that would forever burn beneath his ribs. But Kouyou is louder than the skipped beat inside Aoi’s chest as he grips him tighter and muses over Takanori’s preening and Akira’s prideful smirk:
“What do you think, Yuu? Perfect, right?”
And Aoi smiled back, palms itching to reach out and cradle Kouyou’s grin closer to him - close enough to hold and keep because - because -
“Not yet, but it will be.”
.:.:.:.
A/N: It's been awhile.. I apologize for being so snail-like with my updates; this was a grueling semester. But! I have three other drabbles waiting to be finished in my documents, so expect some more updates soon enough :)
I hope all of you enjoyed! <3