Indefinite
Title: Promises carved on the body
Chapter: IV
Author: lyrasoren
Pair: Ryoma and Tezuka
Words: 1500
Rating: PG-13
You can’t measure time by the amount of smiles per day, or how many times you held hands when there were no prying eyes to witness, and certainly not by the skips of beat whenever you see him, they say. For Tezuka, time seems to have crawled to a stop. In theory, he is positive is practically impossible to halt seconds, or even better ignore their flow. In practice, knowing that familiar weight snuggled safely in his embrace, everything else becomes vague and unimportant. Time ends. Space caves in.
The most unadorned gestures appear in the sequence of days as intimate as the opening of eyes in the morning. He doesn’t want to wash his face, in fear everything is just a dream conjured by his tired mind. Fortunately, the hand tracing feather like lines on his chin seems fairly real. As does the soft hum of appreciation pressed against the nape of his neck. And the closing of the eyelids, the etching of a small smile kissing his skin, and the other hand slunk under his shirt, roving, and, the heat mounting to dangerous degrees?
No matter how eager the other is, he unhurriedly untangles from the tousle of limbs, grappling his shoulders and kissing the tip of his nose, then his forehead, and soon enough he is forgiven. This is called insolence from his part, whim, he is well aware that someday the patience will run thin, and Echizen will get bored of him. No, that is not the problem. Lately, (how should he put it?) he began resisting the notion less and less. Nothing to be ashamed of, he is at the proper age (17 is not too young and not too old either), he is a teenager with normal drives, in love, so where lain the inhibition?
“Wake up, Kunimitsu!” Ryoma frowns, his gaze scrutinizing, and he has always seen through him.
“Sorry, what?” He cocks his head to the side and moves his face a little closer.
“You know, you can be really clueless sometimes.” What is he talking about? Tezuka musses. When? “Ryoma…”Tezuka argues in vain.
“Shh, I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” He leans his face on the other’s shoulder and starts massaging it with his thumb in careful and tender circles, as if soothing the bit of pain that still resides there. Tezuka exhales, it always calms him.
“Then what did you mean?” As if he doesn’t already know. He wants to hear it the more.
The silence starches longer this time. Ryoma puts his arms around him, purposely not replying. They just sit there in the middle of the row of books, on the carpet, hugging, sometime after the closing of the bookshop. It’s not very romantic, and not very comfortable either (Tezuka already feels the itch on his left knee), and somehow is the only alternative they have, other than the parks and rarely their homes, when they can have some privacy. It does not matter. To them is their little sanctuary. Their own oasis.
“I will also wait for you.” Ryoma whispers.
**
July. There is a presence that fills every fraction and corner of places, dreams, thoughts and vision. There is solidity, consistency. In a world where the flimsy motives set people apart, like two magnets with similar polarity, he has found persistence. Or it was the other way around. He never knew he was wandering, seeking himself in others, until Ryoma. Can a mingled breath sustain life, or is a heart sufficient to beat for the two of them? When people compare them, Tezuka is not surprised; on the other hand he is certain that the people were blind. They see only what is on the surface, not the essence. Ryoma is Kunimitsu, and Kunimitsu is Ryoma, and there is no compromise.
Tezuka puts another book on the shelf. It’s on days like this that he dwells on the decision that made him ignore his better judgment in favor of this frail never-ending reverie. What was the point of no return? The answer is what they seem to continue whispering to each other. Promises. He has learned the rhythm of this relationship, vaguely resonating with him being slammed on the edge of a wood wall, and slowly kissed: on the forehead, eyebrows, cheeks, helix of his ear, nape of his neck, and ultimately on the corner of his lips, teasingly.
For the past three weeks, these kisses have carved a new name on his body, a name that he couldn’t forget in these three years. And now when he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t see his reflection, but Ryoma’s. Two days ago, he couldn’t take anymore of that give-and- take game and ended it with their first proper kiss. Yet another promise.
Ryoma gives him another book meant to be placed on shelves too high for him to reach. He hears a noncommittal sigh come from his right. They have been arranging the new books that came that morning under different sessions and authors. Consequently not taking a break yet and it is almost noon. Tezuka is waiting to see when the younger’s patience will run thin, and the moment is not far away.
“We need to finish this today, right?” Surprisingly is not what Tezuka was expecting at all.
“Ah. Tomorrow another stack will arrive.”
He looks down at his companion to see if he wants to add something, however, Ryoma seems to have no intention to stop anytime soon, and the curios thing is that he puts twice as much determination in every gesture. His eyes are alight as they only are when he is involved in a demanding match.
“You can take a break if you want.” Tezuka says, because really it will not help if Ryoma works himself to extenuation.
“I don’t need one. You are the one who needs to rest.” He admits with a huff. Tezuka frowns.
“Nonsense.” Tezuka can guess the little smile that graces Ryoma’s lips. In turn he is grateful for this.
Ever since that day, Ryoma has offered to help him at the bookshop. He did not ask something in return. He came in the morning, drinking from his can of Ponta, half asleep, with Karupin in tail. He insisted Tezuka should take a good nap, once in a while. Tezuka knew he could, knew Ryoma was reliable, but his knowledge told him that Ryoma being younger needed the sleep as much as he did. Thus, they reached an agreement, grudgingly; to take a nap together after all the work for that day was completed. They managed to keep that small promise until then.
“Ryoma, you need to eat, you will starve, otherwise.” Tezuka advises with a voice that should not leave room for any argument, the tinge of authority almost palpable.
His attempt is met with an obstinate silence. Tezuka reconsiders; he needs to somehow persuade Ryoma into taking a pause, especially with the slump of his shoulders and the tint of tiredness in his voice. If only Ryoma were more cooperative. He will have to work late into the night, regardless it will be worth it.
“We will eat together.” This at least gauges a reaction from Ryoma, who immediately turns around and graces him with a curious glance, half in acceptance and half in denial. His golden eyes waver with thoughts that are always visible clues to the inner battle that takes place in his head. Finally, he nods, dumbly, careful to look away from Tezuka, so he can’t see his embarrassment. Tezuka knows anyway, therefore doesn’t comment on it.
**
There is a park of sakura trees less than a hundred miles from the shop. They find a bench out of the sun’s glare. Tezuka realizes this is the first time they came to this place, though it takes less than a minute to get here. He wonders why hasn’t he brought Ryoma up until then? Ryoma was right; he had been too busy lately. Forgetting that there is a world outside.
He passes Ryoma his bento, with fried fish, while his has fried eel, both of them being his mother creations.
“Itadakimasu!” They say at the same time. They look at each other, and there are similar smiles both don’t bother to hide. Carefully they probe the food and relish in the exquisite smell of their favorite dishes, the chopsticks held with their left.
“Kunimitsu, your mother’s cooking is delicious.” Ryoma rarely praises, but now he licks his lips in appreciation, as he continues: “Though only you know this little secret. My favorite food, that is. Arigato.” Ryoma leans closer and kisses him on the cheek.
As Tezuka puts the bento boxes in the set, Ryoma stands and when he is ready, offers him a hand.
“Come. We still have a long way to go.” Tezuka accepts it, and knows that for now he only needs these small fingers entwined with his, as they return to the bookshop for another round of sorting the books.
Chapter: IV
Author: lyrasoren
Pair: Ryoma and Tezuka
Words: 1500
Rating: PG-13
You can’t measure time by the amount of smiles per day, or how many times you held hands when there were no prying eyes to witness, and certainly not by the skips of beat whenever you see him, they say. For Tezuka, time seems to have crawled to a stop. In theory, he is positive is practically impossible to halt seconds, or even better ignore their flow. In practice, knowing that familiar weight snuggled safely in his embrace, everything else becomes vague and unimportant. Time ends. Space caves in.
The most unadorned gestures appear in the sequence of days as intimate as the opening of eyes in the morning. He doesn’t want to wash his face, in fear everything is just a dream conjured by his tired mind. Fortunately, the hand tracing feather like lines on his chin seems fairly real. As does the soft hum of appreciation pressed against the nape of his neck. And the closing of the eyelids, the etching of a small smile kissing his skin, and the other hand slunk under his shirt, roving, and, the heat mounting to dangerous degrees?
No matter how eager the other is, he unhurriedly untangles from the tousle of limbs, grappling his shoulders and kissing the tip of his nose, then his forehead, and soon enough he is forgiven. This is called insolence from his part, whim, he is well aware that someday the patience will run thin, and Echizen will get bored of him. No, that is not the problem. Lately, (how should he put it?) he began resisting the notion less and less. Nothing to be ashamed of, he is at the proper age (17 is not too young and not too old either), he is a teenager with normal drives, in love, so where lain the inhibition?
“Wake up, Kunimitsu!” Ryoma frowns, his gaze scrutinizing, and he has always seen through him.
“Sorry, what?” He cocks his head to the side and moves his face a little closer.
“You know, you can be really clueless sometimes.” What is he talking about? Tezuka musses. When? “Ryoma…”Tezuka argues in vain.
“Shh, I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” He leans his face on the other’s shoulder and starts massaging it with his thumb in careful and tender circles, as if soothing the bit of pain that still resides there. Tezuka exhales, it always calms him.
“Then what did you mean?” As if he doesn’t already know. He wants to hear it the more.
The silence starches longer this time. Ryoma puts his arms around him, purposely not replying. They just sit there in the middle of the row of books, on the carpet, hugging, sometime after the closing of the bookshop. It’s not very romantic, and not very comfortable either (Tezuka already feels the itch on his left knee), and somehow is the only alternative they have, other than the parks and rarely their homes, when they can have some privacy. It does not matter. To them is their little sanctuary. Their own oasis.
“I will also wait for you.” Ryoma whispers.
**
July. There is a presence that fills every fraction and corner of places, dreams, thoughts and vision. There is solidity, consistency. In a world where the flimsy motives set people apart, like two magnets with similar polarity, he has found persistence. Or it was the other way around. He never knew he was wandering, seeking himself in others, until Ryoma. Can a mingled breath sustain life, or is a heart sufficient to beat for the two of them? When people compare them, Tezuka is not surprised; on the other hand he is certain that the people were blind. They see only what is on the surface, not the essence. Ryoma is Kunimitsu, and Kunimitsu is Ryoma, and there is no compromise.
Tezuka puts another book on the shelf. It’s on days like this that he dwells on the decision that made him ignore his better judgment in favor of this frail never-ending reverie. What was the point of no return? The answer is what they seem to continue whispering to each other. Promises. He has learned the rhythm of this relationship, vaguely resonating with him being slammed on the edge of a wood wall, and slowly kissed: on the forehead, eyebrows, cheeks, helix of his ear, nape of his neck, and ultimately on the corner of his lips, teasingly.
For the past three weeks, these kisses have carved a new name on his body, a name that he couldn’t forget in these three years. And now when he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t see his reflection, but Ryoma’s. Two days ago, he couldn’t take anymore of that give-and- take game and ended it with their first proper kiss. Yet another promise.
Ryoma gives him another book meant to be placed on shelves too high for him to reach. He hears a noncommittal sigh come from his right. They have been arranging the new books that came that morning under different sessions and authors. Consequently not taking a break yet and it is almost noon. Tezuka is waiting to see when the younger’s patience will run thin, and the moment is not far away.
“We need to finish this today, right?” Surprisingly is not what Tezuka was expecting at all.
“Ah. Tomorrow another stack will arrive.”
He looks down at his companion to see if he wants to add something, however, Ryoma seems to have no intention to stop anytime soon, and the curios thing is that he puts twice as much determination in every gesture. His eyes are alight as they only are when he is involved in a demanding match.
“You can take a break if you want.” Tezuka says, because really it will not help if Ryoma works himself to extenuation.
“I don’t need one. You are the one who needs to rest.” He admits with a huff. Tezuka frowns.
“Nonsense.” Tezuka can guess the little smile that graces Ryoma’s lips. In turn he is grateful for this.
Ever since that day, Ryoma has offered to help him at the bookshop. He did not ask something in return. He came in the morning, drinking from his can of Ponta, half asleep, with Karupin in tail. He insisted Tezuka should take a good nap, once in a while. Tezuka knew he could, knew Ryoma was reliable, but his knowledge told him that Ryoma being younger needed the sleep as much as he did. Thus, they reached an agreement, grudgingly; to take a nap together after all the work for that day was completed. They managed to keep that small promise until then.
“Ryoma, you need to eat, you will starve, otherwise.” Tezuka advises with a voice that should not leave room for any argument, the tinge of authority almost palpable.
His attempt is met with an obstinate silence. Tezuka reconsiders; he needs to somehow persuade Ryoma into taking a pause, especially with the slump of his shoulders and the tint of tiredness in his voice. If only Ryoma were more cooperative. He will have to work late into the night, regardless it will be worth it.
“We will eat together.” This at least gauges a reaction from Ryoma, who immediately turns around and graces him with a curious glance, half in acceptance and half in denial. His golden eyes waver with thoughts that are always visible clues to the inner battle that takes place in his head. Finally, he nods, dumbly, careful to look away from Tezuka, so he can’t see his embarrassment. Tezuka knows anyway, therefore doesn’t comment on it.
**
There is a park of sakura trees less than a hundred miles from the shop. They find a bench out of the sun’s glare. Tezuka realizes this is the first time they came to this place, though it takes less than a minute to get here. He wonders why hasn’t he brought Ryoma up until then? Ryoma was right; he had been too busy lately. Forgetting that there is a world outside.
He passes Ryoma his bento, with fried fish, while his has fried eel, both of them being his mother creations.
“Itadakimasu!” They say at the same time. They look at each other, and there are similar smiles both don’t bother to hide. Carefully they probe the food and relish in the exquisite smell of their favorite dishes, the chopsticks held with their left.
“Kunimitsu, your mother’s cooking is delicious.” Ryoma rarely praises, but now he licks his lips in appreciation, as he continues: “Though only you know this little secret. My favorite food, that is. Arigato.” Ryoma leans closer and kisses him on the cheek.
As Tezuka puts the bento boxes in the set, Ryoma stands and when he is ready, offers him a hand.
“Come. We still have a long way to go.” Tezuka accepts it, and knows that for now he only needs these small fingers entwined with his, as they return to the bookshop for another round of sorting the books.