Remembering Sunday
Rating: R
Pairing: Various/Ueda Tatsuya
Summary: The lights inside his head are spinning, bright and intense and blazing, his vision a ghastly blur of colors. Almond eyes from across the room are burning holes at the walls of his mind and it is a second too late when he realizes there is no way out.
Disclaimer: This is fo realz. And toilets can fly.
Notes: Entry for the Tatsuya-thon (five times he gets drunk and wakes up on a bed that’s definitely not his). And um, idek, but this beybeh is something I'm actually really proud of. Tell me what you think. :P ♥
Remembering Sunday
~ 1,852 words
I.
The lights inside his head are spinning, bright and intense and blazing, his vision a ghastly blur of colors. Almond eyes from across the room are burning holes at the walls of his mind and it's a second too late when he realizes there's no way out.
Tatsuya feels cold, clammy fingers crawl up to the sides of his neck and he allows himself to moan against the touch, brazen and open-mouthed. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, where his hands are touching and sliding, when and how he had gotten so close in the first place, whose name and face those eyes had belonged to. They look so beautiful up close, blood-shot and clouded with alcohol, very much like his own, and Tatsuya doesn’t think he wants to walk away just yet.
The last taste that lingers on his tongue is that of gin and sugar and lime and the last thing he sees are those almond eyes, beautiful and bloodshot, and when he wakes up the next morning in a place so foreign and unfamiliar, walls cracked at the sides and mattress hard against his back, they are no longer there.
II.
Tatsuya lets them pull him to an underground club, his mind spinning painfully as they swivel down endless flights of stairs to one of the deepest and most secret places in all of Tokyo. He hates all of it-the tasteless partying, loud music blaring into his ears, plastic boys trying to score plastic girls, every single goddamn thing about it, he finds disgusting.
But Tatsuya stays for the almond eyes. At least for the hope of seeing them again.
And when he finally does, they are staring from across the room, watching fixedly as Jin shoves a drink into his hand, drags him out to the dance floor, slides a hand down his hips and shoves a tongue down his throat. When Tatsuya pulls away, weak in the knees and very much drunk, the eyes are no longer there.
Tatsuya wakes up the next morning in a room all too familiar and for a second he is convinced that he’s in his own bedroom, but shortly he realizes that his walls are not green and there are most definitely no pictures of Jin and Kame beside his bed.
“Good morning,” Tatsuya hears from the side of the bed and when he opens his eyes he sees Kame with his arms crossed in front of his chest, slightly angry, but Tatsuya knows he just cares a lot.
“Sorry,” Tatsuya mumbles contritely, looking away, pictures of him and Jin making out last night playing vividly inside his head, and Tatsuya hates himself for blushing so openly.
“I’m really sorry,” he repeats, fisting the sheets and bowing lower than ever. He feels gentle fingers slide beneath his chin and it's Kame tilting his head up, Jin behind him holding a huge plate of bacon and eggs in the air and Tatsuya realizes just how much he loves the smell of it when the vicious growling inside his stomach echoes throughout the room.
“That’s the last time we’re taking you out partying.”
Tatsuya smiles and allows Jin and Kame to pull him out of bed. They eat breakfast and have coffee together, and though it's warm and homely, at the back of his mind are still the almond eyes, and he thinks of running far, far away to find them.
III.
It’s been months since Tatsuya last drank but, tonight, it's simply inevitable.
His colleagues have gathered for a birthday party, Tatsuya doesn’t quite remember where exactly, but probably in one of their seniors’ houses. Glass after glass after glass, he downs them, clear liquor scathing his throat but he isn’t sober enough to care. When he slurs and wobbles and limps to climb the stairs, he faints, and he will never know how intently the almond eyes had watched him.
Tatsuya opens his eyes an hour later to his own name ringing inside his ears. He wants, tries, to scream but his voice doesn’t come out of his throat.
“Uepi,” Taguchi whispers, reaching out to sweep damp ashbrown locks away from his eyes. “Why are you doing this?” He asks but Tatsuya doesn’t answer. Why won’t you let me take care of you, he wants to add, but he knows Tatsuya won’t answer, because Tatsuya never does.
Taguchi slides against the wall down to the marble floor just beside Tatsuya, wrapping his arms around that tiny, trembling frame. Tatsuya could hear Taguchi’s heart beating against his chest and he wonders idly why it doesn’t feel quite right.
Tatsuya pulls away and smiles a broken smile, shaking his head without saying a word.
Taguchi knows he doesn’t have to.
IV.
Tatsuya falls asleep at a rundown bar and wakes up early the next morning on that very same spot at the counter.
He is tired of waking up to unfamiliar places.
He is tired of not knowing what home feels like.
He is tired of looking for something he will probably never find again.
Goodbye, almond eyes.
V.
It’s two in the morning and the streets are still dark, the moon barely visible beneath a dark blanket of clouds. Tatsuya is walking, limping, home (wherever that is) when he hears a crackling noise creep behind him, hurried footsteps rustling against rough, uneven concrete.
In the next few seconds, Tatsuya finds himself pinned against the brick wall, cold and hard against his back, trembling hands gripping his wrists at the side.
“Are you fucking stupid?”
The voice is sharp and icy, very much like the hands that gripped him, and Tatsuya collects what little soberness he has left in his system to try to think of whose voice it belonged to, and when the realization hits him, it hits him hard, in the head and in the chest, where it hurts the most.
“Nishikido Ryo,” Tatsuya slurs, feeling his feet float above the ground, and for a second he thinks he is actually flying but it only takes him another to realize that Ryo had just heaved him onto his back. Tatsuya’s breath feels cold against Ryo’s neck and his limp arms feel heavy draped across his chest.
When Ryo kicks at the door of his apartment, the smell of beer and half-finished songs waft Tatsuya’s nostrils and he thinks he might finally be home again. The first thing he sees is a bed, sheets checkered and rumpled and spent, and he imagines lying down on it, how it would feel just right against his back. But Ryo completely walks past it and instead of a soft, spongy mattress, Tatsuya’s back meets cold, slippery bathroom tiles.
You bastard, he wants to scream but Ryo doesn’t allow him enough time to respond when he slides into the tiled tub with him, grabs his shirt with white-hot fists and tugs at it viciously, relentlessly. Because Ryo wants Tatsuya to know how horrible it had felt to watch him get drunk every night, how horrible it had felt to watch him get touched all over by strangers' hands, how horrible it had felt to watch him wordlessly from the corners of dimly-lit rooms and not be able to do anything else.
Tatsuya feels a familiar ache pump through his body from the heavy hands pounding at his chest, the effect of alcohol finally settling in, the way Ryo is saying his name, again and again and again. Tatsuya feels droplets of ice-cold water slide down his hair, his skin, his lips, and he shivers from the way Ryo is pushing his hair back, wiping his skin with a small towel and some soap, cleaning him up like he cares so much and holding his hands like they’ve known each other forever. Ryo moves in closer to kiss him, gentle and unhurried, and Tatsuya’s pulse quickens when he tastes the longing, the care, the pain. And for a second, Ryo hesitates, when he remembers he should be taking care of this man - treating his wounds and cleaning him up - not taking advantage and fucking him raw in the shower.
But Tatsuya knows he isn’t drunk.
Tatsuya knows there isn’t any advantage.
Tatsuya knows there isn’t anything to lose.
He takes Ryo’s hand, places it over the bone of his hips and watches carefully as it slides down, down, down, and Ryo finds himself unable to stop when he feels the hardness, the longing, the urgency. His other hand snakes to the back of Tatsuya’s head, fingers getting caught in a messy tangle of damp ashbrown locks. Ryo pulls Tatsuya into a bruising kiss, tongues and teeth clashing, droplets of water sliding through such little space between their bodies. They are choking on tongue and water and each other’s name but neither even thinks of pulling away.
If this means anything at all, don’t let me leave you anymore.
Ryo takes Tatsuya’s hand and kisses him softly before they collapse on top of each other inside the tub, water trickling down their bodies like rain on a Sunday morning.
*
The next day, Tatsuya wakes up to the scent of French toast and butter and warmth in the air. He tries to sit up but his body doesn’t allow him. His head is throbbing, an ache so familiar, but this time he can tell for sure that it isn’t from the after effects of alcohol but of something a lot more beautiful altogether.
“Get up,” Tatsuya hears from the side of the bed and he can tell from the snarky tone and a shirt being thrown carelessly into his face that it isn’t Kame, or Jin, or Junno, but Ryo in a pink apron, one hand on his hip, the other holding up a spatula. The events of last night play in brilliant colors inside Tatsuya’s head, but this time he doesn’t blush, because it all feels so natural, something that should have happened a long, long time ago.
When Tatsuya finally manages to sit up, he crawls to the side of the bed and kneels up to meet Ryo’s eyes, checkered sheets falling off his naked form and bunching up around his knees. Slowly, he brings his hand out to cup Ryo’s face, thumbing that soft spot just below his eyes.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
“Almond.”
Ryo doesn’t quite understand, but the spatula falls to the ground and in the next few seconds he is kissing Tatsuya and stroking his hair, his neck, his lips, pulling him tight and close enough to feel the the rapid beating inside his chest, something he should have done the first time Tatsuya fell asleep beside him.
Ryo says something about love, and Tatsuya doesn’t quite understand either, but this time he thinks he wants to stay.
End.
Pairing: Various/Ueda Tatsuya
Summary: The lights inside his head are spinning, bright and intense and blazing, his vision a ghastly blur of colors. Almond eyes from across the room are burning holes at the walls of his mind and it is a second too late when he realizes there is no way out.
Disclaimer: This is fo realz. And toilets can fly.
Notes: Entry for the Tatsuya-thon (five times he gets drunk and wakes up on a bed that’s definitely not his). And um, idek, but this beybeh is something I'm actually really proud of. Tell me what you think. :P ♥
Remembering Sunday
~ 1,852 words
I.
The lights inside his head are spinning, bright and intense and blazing, his vision a ghastly blur of colors. Almond eyes from across the room are burning holes at the walls of his mind and it's a second too late when he realizes there's no way out.
Tatsuya feels cold, clammy fingers crawl up to the sides of his neck and he allows himself to moan against the touch, brazen and open-mouthed. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, where his hands are touching and sliding, when and how he had gotten so close in the first place, whose name and face those eyes had belonged to. They look so beautiful up close, blood-shot and clouded with alcohol, very much like his own, and Tatsuya doesn’t think he wants to walk away just yet.
The last taste that lingers on his tongue is that of gin and sugar and lime and the last thing he sees are those almond eyes, beautiful and bloodshot, and when he wakes up the next morning in a place so foreign and unfamiliar, walls cracked at the sides and mattress hard against his back, they are no longer there.
II.
Tatsuya lets them pull him to an underground club, his mind spinning painfully as they swivel down endless flights of stairs to one of the deepest and most secret places in all of Tokyo. He hates all of it-the tasteless partying, loud music blaring into his ears, plastic boys trying to score plastic girls, every single goddamn thing about it, he finds disgusting.
But Tatsuya stays for the almond eyes. At least for the hope of seeing them again.
And when he finally does, they are staring from across the room, watching fixedly as Jin shoves a drink into his hand, drags him out to the dance floor, slides a hand down his hips and shoves a tongue down his throat. When Tatsuya pulls away, weak in the knees and very much drunk, the eyes are no longer there.
Tatsuya wakes up the next morning in a room all too familiar and for a second he is convinced that he’s in his own bedroom, but shortly he realizes that his walls are not green and there are most definitely no pictures of Jin and Kame beside his bed.
“Good morning,” Tatsuya hears from the side of the bed and when he opens his eyes he sees Kame with his arms crossed in front of his chest, slightly angry, but Tatsuya knows he just cares a lot.
“Sorry,” Tatsuya mumbles contritely, looking away, pictures of him and Jin making out last night playing vividly inside his head, and Tatsuya hates himself for blushing so openly.
“I’m really sorry,” he repeats, fisting the sheets and bowing lower than ever. He feels gentle fingers slide beneath his chin and it's Kame tilting his head up, Jin behind him holding a huge plate of bacon and eggs in the air and Tatsuya realizes just how much he loves the smell of it when the vicious growling inside his stomach echoes throughout the room.
“That’s the last time we’re taking you out partying.”
Tatsuya smiles and allows Jin and Kame to pull him out of bed. They eat breakfast and have coffee together, and though it's warm and homely, at the back of his mind are still the almond eyes, and he thinks of running far, far away to find them.
III.
It’s been months since Tatsuya last drank but, tonight, it's simply inevitable.
His colleagues have gathered for a birthday party, Tatsuya doesn’t quite remember where exactly, but probably in one of their seniors’ houses. Glass after glass after glass, he downs them, clear liquor scathing his throat but he isn’t sober enough to care. When he slurs and wobbles and limps to climb the stairs, he faints, and he will never know how intently the almond eyes had watched him.
Tatsuya opens his eyes an hour later to his own name ringing inside his ears. He wants, tries, to scream but his voice doesn’t come out of his throat.
“Uepi,” Taguchi whispers, reaching out to sweep damp ashbrown locks away from his eyes. “Why are you doing this?” He asks but Tatsuya doesn’t answer. Why won’t you let me take care of you, he wants to add, but he knows Tatsuya won’t answer, because Tatsuya never does.
Taguchi slides against the wall down to the marble floor just beside Tatsuya, wrapping his arms around that tiny, trembling frame. Tatsuya could hear Taguchi’s heart beating against his chest and he wonders idly why it doesn’t feel quite right.
Tatsuya pulls away and smiles a broken smile, shaking his head without saying a word.
Taguchi knows he doesn’t have to.
IV.
Tatsuya falls asleep at a rundown bar and wakes up early the next morning on that very same spot at the counter.
He is tired of waking up to unfamiliar places.
He is tired of not knowing what home feels like.
He is tired of looking for something he will probably never find again.
Goodbye, almond eyes.
V.
It’s two in the morning and the streets are still dark, the moon barely visible beneath a dark blanket of clouds. Tatsuya is walking, limping, home (wherever that is) when he hears a crackling noise creep behind him, hurried footsteps rustling against rough, uneven concrete.
In the next few seconds, Tatsuya finds himself pinned against the brick wall, cold and hard against his back, trembling hands gripping his wrists at the side.
“Are you fucking stupid?”
The voice is sharp and icy, very much like the hands that gripped him, and Tatsuya collects what little soberness he has left in his system to try to think of whose voice it belonged to, and when the realization hits him, it hits him hard, in the head and in the chest, where it hurts the most.
“Nishikido Ryo,” Tatsuya slurs, feeling his feet float above the ground, and for a second he thinks he is actually flying but it only takes him another to realize that Ryo had just heaved him onto his back. Tatsuya’s breath feels cold against Ryo’s neck and his limp arms feel heavy draped across his chest.
When Ryo kicks at the door of his apartment, the smell of beer and half-finished songs waft Tatsuya’s nostrils and he thinks he might finally be home again. The first thing he sees is a bed, sheets checkered and rumpled and spent, and he imagines lying down on it, how it would feel just right against his back. But Ryo completely walks past it and instead of a soft, spongy mattress, Tatsuya’s back meets cold, slippery bathroom tiles.
You bastard, he wants to scream but Ryo doesn’t allow him enough time to respond when he slides into the tiled tub with him, grabs his shirt with white-hot fists and tugs at it viciously, relentlessly. Because Ryo wants Tatsuya to know how horrible it had felt to watch him get drunk every night, how horrible it had felt to watch him get touched all over by strangers' hands, how horrible it had felt to watch him wordlessly from the corners of dimly-lit rooms and not be able to do anything else.
Tatsuya feels a familiar ache pump through his body from the heavy hands pounding at his chest, the effect of alcohol finally settling in, the way Ryo is saying his name, again and again and again. Tatsuya feels droplets of ice-cold water slide down his hair, his skin, his lips, and he shivers from the way Ryo is pushing his hair back, wiping his skin with a small towel and some soap, cleaning him up like he cares so much and holding his hands like they’ve known each other forever. Ryo moves in closer to kiss him, gentle and unhurried, and Tatsuya’s pulse quickens when he tastes the longing, the care, the pain. And for a second, Ryo hesitates, when he remembers he should be taking care of this man - treating his wounds and cleaning him up - not taking advantage and fucking him raw in the shower.
But Tatsuya knows he isn’t drunk.
Tatsuya knows there isn’t any advantage.
Tatsuya knows there isn’t anything to lose.
He takes Ryo’s hand, places it over the bone of his hips and watches carefully as it slides down, down, down, and Ryo finds himself unable to stop when he feels the hardness, the longing, the urgency. His other hand snakes to the back of Tatsuya’s head, fingers getting caught in a messy tangle of damp ashbrown locks. Ryo pulls Tatsuya into a bruising kiss, tongues and teeth clashing, droplets of water sliding through such little space between their bodies. They are choking on tongue and water and each other’s name but neither even thinks of pulling away.
If this means anything at all, don’t let me leave you anymore.
Ryo takes Tatsuya’s hand and kisses him softly before they collapse on top of each other inside the tub, water trickling down their bodies like rain on a Sunday morning.
*
The next day, Tatsuya wakes up to the scent of French toast and butter and warmth in the air. He tries to sit up but his body doesn’t allow him. His head is throbbing, an ache so familiar, but this time he can tell for sure that it isn’t from the after effects of alcohol but of something a lot more beautiful altogether.
“Get up,” Tatsuya hears from the side of the bed and he can tell from the snarky tone and a shirt being thrown carelessly into his face that it isn’t Kame, or Jin, or Junno, but Ryo in a pink apron, one hand on his hip, the other holding up a spatula. The events of last night play in brilliant colors inside Tatsuya’s head, but this time he doesn’t blush, because it all feels so natural, something that should have happened a long, long time ago.
When Tatsuya finally manages to sit up, he crawls to the side of the bed and kneels up to meet Ryo’s eyes, checkered sheets falling off his naked form and bunching up around his knees. Slowly, he brings his hand out to cup Ryo’s face, thumbing that soft spot just below his eyes.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
“Almond.”
Ryo doesn’t quite understand, but the spatula falls to the ground and in the next few seconds he is kissing Tatsuya and stroking his hair, his neck, his lips, pulling him tight and close enough to feel the the rapid beating inside his chest, something he should have done the first time Tatsuya fell asleep beside him.
Ryo says something about love, and Tatsuya doesn’t quite understand either, but this time he thinks he wants to stay.
End.