maybe.
pair: yaotome hikaru x yabu kouta
rating: g
summary: Yabu gets sentimental.
wordcount: 228
note: I have clearly forgotten how to write coherently. written after reading this where Yabu talked about talking to Hikaru for two hours.
One day Yabu wakes up and realizes that he hasn’t quite managed to grow up. He feels the warmth against his cheek and the dull ache of his limbs, stiff and folded against him like wings. The van gives a jerk and his head re-establishes contact with the solid heat, and when he looks up he sees Hikaru, head lolling and eyes still closed, through the jitter of the rough road and the spangled streetlights seeping through the glass.
He doesn’t remember how they’d gotten there, when the conversation had mellowed out into silence and when he’d let himself go - even when he’d felt as though his heart was that close to bursting, filling his chest and his throat with all sorts of strange and indescribable - but Yabu thinks, maybe this is where they’re supposed to be. Maybe this is how he’s meant to fall asleep, in packed-up van too big and too small and too far from home, curled up and pressed against Hikaru with his newly-dyed hair and his same godawful jokes, moulded together again and again and again.
I'm too old for this, he thinks, slipping a hand around the curve of Hikaru’s neck, where the heat could spread through the fan of his fingers like comfort, like promise, like something he’d wanted to say but never quite managed to.
rating: g
summary: Yabu gets sentimental.
wordcount: 228
note: I have clearly forgotten how to write coherently. written after reading this where Yabu talked about talking to Hikaru for two hours.
One day Yabu wakes up and realizes that he hasn’t quite managed to grow up. He feels the warmth against his cheek and the dull ache of his limbs, stiff and folded against him like wings. The van gives a jerk and his head re-establishes contact with the solid heat, and when he looks up he sees Hikaru, head lolling and eyes still closed, through the jitter of the rough road and the spangled streetlights seeping through the glass.
He doesn’t remember how they’d gotten there, when the conversation had mellowed out into silence and when he’d let himself go - even when he’d felt as though his heart was that close to bursting, filling his chest and his throat with all sorts of strange and indescribable - but Yabu thinks, maybe this is where they’re supposed to be. Maybe this is how he’s meant to fall asleep, in packed-up van too big and too small and too far from home, curled up and pressed against Hikaru with his newly-dyed hair and his same godawful jokes, moulded together again and again and again.
I'm too old for this, he thinks, slipping a hand around the curve of Hikaru’s neck, where the heat could spread through the fan of his fingers like comfort, like promise, like something he’d wanted to say but never quite managed to.