Furniture -- Gravitation, Eiri/Shuichi
Title: Furniture
Fandom: Gravitation
Pairing: Eiri x Shuichi
Rating: R, for implicit sexual material and language
Disclaimer: Gravitation and its characters do not belong to me.
Shuichi came home from work one night to find the apartment dark and filled with the heavy silence that usually punctuates the moments between particularly emotional readings of poetry. His first instinct was to go crazy, to run outside and search every house and store and bar, snuffling along each stretch of sidewalk, like a bloodhound, until he found his wayward lover.
But on this night, Shuichi was tired. His throat was sore and his muscles ached and streams of endless lyrics were etched painfully into his brain, pounding at a volume that made it impossible for him to hear himself think. He wished he could say that he was simply too mature to react in such an inane way, just because the novelist had gone out. But Shuichi didn’t like to lie, not even to himself. Eiri often told him he spent too much time entertaining silly delusions anyway, and he was trying to break himself of the habit.
He toed off his shoes and dropped his bag, shedding his orange jacket as he made his way to the couch, where he collapsed. He considering going to sleep, even as he asked himself questions he couldn’t begin to answer, like how long ago did Eiri leave and how much longer was it going to be before he got back.
He wouldn’t have noticed the note on the coffee table, had he not caught sight of it while turning onto his back. He recognized his lover’s handwriting in the immediate way an eager dog notices a treat, and, despite the way his muscles and limbs protested, sat up to read it.
Brat, pack up your stuff. I’m moving.
Moving again. Shuichi sighed and dropped the note back onto the table. He remembered the first time the novelist had moved, remembered coming home to find an apartment as dark and as silent as this one now was. Except that one had been utterly and tragically empty. The memory brought back some feelings of hurt and anger that were still fairly raw for the singer.
It’d been barely 48 hours after the most horrific night of Shuichi’s life-another memory that would never go away: the rough and merciless hands on his skin, the light of camera flashes, and Taki Aizawa’s smirk that’d made his stomach curdle-and Eiri had left him without saying a word. Shuichi had instantly gone to the Uesugi temple in Kyoto to retrieve the writer, but truthfully, it had been hard to honestly forgive him for pulling such an insensitive stunt. Granted, it’d been easier to do after Eiri had taken Shuichi back with him to his new apartment, carrying him to the bedroom with that familiar heat simmering in his golden eyes. The singer had seen this as an obvious invitation to move back in with him, and though Eiri had denied it, his protests had been far too weak and half-hearted to be taken seriously.
But this time…
Shaking his head, Shuichi tried to clear his mind of any doubts. This time wouldn’t be any different, he knew. He thought. He hoped. With great effort, he picked himself up off the couch and proceeded to obey the order the novelist had left for him.
He decided to start with his clothes, because there were a lot of them and he kept them rather messily at the floor of Eiri’s closet; he knew they would get in the way when the writer packed his own clothes. But upon entering the bedroom, Shuichi saw that Eiri had not only already packed his clothes, but he’d also cleaned Shuichi’s out of the closet and had left them in piles on the bedroom floor. There were boxes laid out for Shuichi on the bed and, letting a reluctant whine escape his throat, the singer opened one and got started.
He packed his shirts, his jeans, his short-shorts, and socks. He packed his sweaters, his thongs, his schoolgirl outfit that Eiri kept threatening to throw away, but never did. He cast wistful glances at the bare, open closet as he worked. He knew it might’ve been silly, but he was attached to this room and to that closet.
-flashback-
“Yuki, have you seen my leather shorts?”
Shuichi frowns thoughtfully as he receives little more than a sleepy mumble and a slight rustling of bed sheets in response, and burrows deeper into the messy stack of clothes with one hand, the other struggling to pull fishnet stockings up his legs. A precariously wrapped towel threatening to unravel from around his shower-damp hair, Shuichi grumbles inaudibly about grumpy boyfriends who unplug alarm clocks and make people late for very important music video shoots.
“Yuki! Wake up, you sleepy-head! I need help finding my leather shorts!”
This time he receives a still sleepy, but quite articulate, “What?” in reply.
“Leather shorts. Help me find them, please? I thought I washed them the other day, but they weren’t in the dryer, so I figured I must’ve put them in here, but they aren’t in this stack, so maybe I didn’t wash them after all, and-” Shuichi chokes on any words he may have said, a squeak emitting from his mouth instead, as a pair of cold hands grip at sides, rough enough to bruise. “Yuki?”
Eiri’s breath is warm on his neck and the bite isn’t entirely unexpected or unwelcome, but Shuichi still jerks away from the sharp pressure, cringing when he feels his skin tear.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“Don’t whine so much,” Eiri mumbles in his ear, sounding irritated, though Shuichi doesn’t think he has any reason to be.
He nudges Shuichi forward a bit, and the singer can feel the writer’s arousal against his backside. Shuichi’s face flushes; he grabs onto the doorframe of the closet to keep from losing his balance, even as his towel drops to the floor and wet locks of pink hair fall into his face.
“I-I have to go to work, Yuki!” It’s difficult to keep his protest firm when Eiri’s hands are slipping beneath the band of his stockings and toying with the black string of his miniscule underwear.
“You should’ve thought about that before you woke me up,” Eiri growls, scolding. “You usually dress like this for work?”
“Ph-Photo shoot!” The hands have become bolder and Shuichi shivers at the feel of flesh-on-flesh contact.
“Hn.” Eiri grows silent, focusing his attention on the hardening skin coming to life in his hands.
Shuichi squirms, half from pleasure and half from disapproval, his knuckles turning white as his grip on the doorframe tightens. He bites his lip, but can’t keep the groan from sounding as Eiri’s cloth-covered arousal bumps against the thin layers that separate it from the singer’s rear; he thrusts back on impulse, even as he reminds the writer, “I can’t do this right now, I have to go-”
The strokes of Eiri’s skilled hands grow rougher, faster, and the singer cries out, nearly losing his grip and falling forward.
“It’s your fault for teasing me.” Eiri takes one hand away from Shuichi’s pulsing erection to tug down the singer’s stockings and thong, before bringing it up to his mouth to slick his fingers; Shuichi feels the movement and knows that he hasn’t a chance.
“T-Teasing? I-Nnh!” One of those slick fingers has slid inside. “Yuki, please, I can’t--!”
“Stop talking.”
Soon, talking and even thinking becomes impossible and it’s all Shuichi can do to hold on to the doorframe as he’s continuously pitched forward, rocking with the quick and shallow thrusts the novelist assaults him with. He knows he’s making an awful mess on his clothes, but he can’t quite bring himself to care, not with Eiri’s teeth on his neck and with his legs going weak.
Before he knows it, he’s lying prone on the pile of sticky clothes, breathing heavily and nearly unconscious.
“Oi.” The writer’s foot prods at Shuichi’s side. “Your shorts are in the basket on top of the dryer.”
“…Thanks.”
-present-
Blushing furiously, Shuichi shook his head to clear the memory from his mind. He didn’t have time to reminisce. When he finished with his clothes, he moved to the bathroom to pack his hygiene products-his strawberry scented shampoo that Eiri teased him about, his hair dye, his toothbrush, and his facial cleansers. He sighed, taking a moment to run his fingers along the edge of the sink. Even this room was going to be hard to leave behind.
-flashback-
“Shit.”
Shuichi glances over at Eiri, furrowed brow asking the question his toothpaste-filled mouth cannot. He loves the days when he and his lover-who usually sleeps late-are so in sync that they can go through their morning routines together. His heart always flutters at the thought of doing anything potentially couple-esque or domestic with the taciturn writer, despite the occasional knocking of elbows and huffs of annoyance when he gets in the way.
“S’nothing,” Eiri mutters when he notices Shuichi’s puzzled expression in the mirror, but the singer can see the familiar spark of irritation in his golden irises. He bumps his hip against the other man’s, silently prodding, encouraging him to say what was bothering him. Eiri swats at him in a half-hearted reprimand and scowls, but more at his own reflection than at Shuichi. “I’m losing my fucking hair.”
Shuichi nearly chokes in the onslaught of laughter that follows Eiri’s explanation. This time, there is no doubt Shuichi is the sole recipient of the writer’s glare, and he forces himself to quell his mirth before he gets his toothbrush shoved down his throat.
“Sorry,” he apologizes after rinsing out his mouth and looking up at Eiri sheepishly. “Sorry, but I just had this image of you looking like your dad, and-” He stops and barely manages to keep from snickering.
“That isn’t funny,” Eiri says coldly and steps back when Shuichi’s hands reach for him. “Don’t.”
“Oh, come on, Yuki. Everyone loses their hair.”
“I don’t.” The writer crosses his arms and turns his head, looking as petulant as a teenage boy.
Shuichi rolls his eyes good-naturedly; he understands. Eiri isn’t the vainest person he knows, but anyone can tell that his looks mean a lot to him. He wouldn’t have been voted Japan’s Sexiest Bachelor without them (Shuichi fussed about the “bachelor” term until Eiri smacked him on the head and reminded him that they weren’t married).
“Now, Yuki, there comes a time in a man’s life when he starts to get old-”
“Oh, shut up.” Eiri glowers at his reflection, reaching up and lightly brushing fingertips over his hair. “Dammit…” He sighs, drops his hand, and Shuichi feels a little sorry for him.
He sidles up to Eiri and, when he isn’t growled at, slides his arms around his waist and gives a consoling squeeze.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it won’t get that bad.” Lifting his head, he gazes up at him with adoration. “You’ll always be gorgeous in my eyes.”
Eiri’s expression softened into a fainter annoyance and he placed a hand on Shuichi’s head and pushes at him lightly.
“Don’t be a sap.”
-present-
When the hard edges of the sink Shuichi was leaning on cut too deeply into his back, he snapped himself out of the memory and finished packing, mentally scolding himself for letting his mind wander again when he had packing to do. He hurriedly finished in the bathroom and moved on to the kitchen. There waited his mugs-cracked and permanently stained-and the few baking pans he’d bought that hadn’t been destroyed in his often disastrous attempts to make the writer’s favorite sweets. A small box sat for him on the kitchen table, open and empty. A mean-spirited voice in Shuichi’s head told the singer that, were he really moving with Eiri, he wouldn’t have been left his own box, since he only had a maximum of six things to pack. He ignored that voice and started wrapping his favorite mug in newspaper. He smiled fondly at it, with its fading caricature staring back at him, and once again, his thoughts became hazy with memories.
-flashback-
“Yuki, I made you coffee!”
Shuichi grins brightly at the novelist from his perch on the kitchen counter. He’s barely been living in the apartment for two days and already he’s made himself comfortable in practically every room. Eiri walks towards him, sluggish and groggy, lifting his hand to rub at his eyes, still glazed over with sleepiness. Shuichi almost combusts in the delight that is seeing Eiri in such a graceless state; he’s so endearing that Shuichi can barely contain himself.
“Don’t tell me you’re a morning person,” the writer grumbles and Shuichi titters. Eiri eyes warily the object Shuichi holds in his hands. “What the hell is that?”
“Your coffee?”
“No.” Eiri points. “That thing.”
“It’s,” Shuichi look down at it, as if checking to make sure he isn’t holding something unnatural, “my mug.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
Shuichi bristles, defensive, and holds the mug close to his chest, almost forgetting there’s hot coffee in it.
“What do you mean? There’s nothing wrong with it!”
“It has a face.”
“So?”
“It’s ugly.”
“It is not!”
“It is.” Eiri reaches above Shuichi’s head for the cupboard. “I’ll use my own mug.”
“You can’t!” Shuichi tries to sit up taller and block his way. “You have to use this one!”
“The hell I do,” Eiri frowns. “Move.”
“No!” Shuichi whines; he knows the writer hates that, especially in the morning. “I’m offering you this one as a token of my love for you! If you refuse it, it’s like you’re refusing my heart!”
Eiri arches an eyebrow and glances at it. The corner of his mouth quirks upward in an unkind smirk.
“That’s a token of your love for me? Really, that’s the best you can do?”
Shuichi wilts and ducks his head down when Eiri opens the cupboard. He is silent while the novelist pulls down one of his own mugs and closes the cupboard door back. He pauses before he fills the mug, waiting perhaps for Shuichi to try and stop him, but the singer does not even look at him. Shuichi hops down from the counter and empties his forsaken mug in the sink before announcing flatly, “I’m going to work.”
“Brat-”
“See you tonight.”
Shuichi leaves the writer with his victory, almost satisfied knowing it’s a hollow one.
A week later, Shuichi comes home late after a long day of rehearsal and recording, and finds Eiri drinking from his mug. He grins, smug, and Eiri refuses to meet his eyes as the tip of his ears burn a slight red and he says, “It’s grown on me.”
“I knew it would.”
-present-
The front door opened just as Shuichi finished sealing the box closed. He hurried out to the living room to see Eiri holding the door key between his teeth, a case of beer in one hand and a bag from the bakery in the other. Shuichi smiled and took the key from him before placing a quick, chaste kiss on his lips. He stepped out of the way as Eiri went to the couch, dropping the bag and the beer on the coffee table in front of him.
“You bought cake,” Shuichi commented, unnecessarily, just feeling like he’d been quiet for too long.
“I finished my book,” Eiri explained as he took the strawberry shortcake out of its box and unwrapped the plastic cutlery.
“Before your deadline?” Shuichi whistled. “Wow.”
Eiri nodded faintly, his attention focused elsewhere. Shuichi sighed; it was useless competing with shortcake. He stood still for a moment, suddenly unsure of himself, and his earlier insecurities about moving resurfaced. Timidly, he made his way to sit beside the writer on the couch. He shook his head when Eiri pushed the cake toward him, only partly because he knew Eiri didn’t really want to give him any.
“Yuki?” He started tentatively, fisting his hands nervously. “About the move-” He looked down at the coffee table, at the note and Eiri’s cold, impersonal writing. “Am I going with you?”
Eiri’s golden eyes glanced at him for a second or two. He swallowed a mouthful of cake and popped open his first can of beer.
“Furniture,” he said before taking a swig.
“Furniture,” Shuichi echoed. He waited a moment for it to sink in. “Huh?”
“Furniture has to come,” Eiri said between bites as he finished off the cake. “It’s what makes a house. A place is empty without it.”
“Oh.” Shuichi frowned thoughtfully. “But I don’t-”
“You’re furniture.” Eiri threw his plastic fork at Shuichi’s head. “Idiot.”
“Oh!”
Picking up the empty box and bag, Eiri rolled his eyes and went into the kitchen to dispose of them. He returned for his beer and Shuichi threw his arms around Eiri’s waist.
“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me!”
“Yeah, yeah.” He patted Shuichi’s head obligingly. “Let go. I need to finish packing.”
Shuichi obeyed and watched adoringly as Eiri retreated to his study. Heart full and mind at ease, his exhaustion finally caught up with him and he sprawled out on the couch. He reached over for the note and brought it to his lips, kissed it and cradled it close to his heart, before happily drifting off to sleep.