(no subject)
title: call me, please; i want you back
author: chartre
rating: r
pairing: tegopi
summary: heck, he was in love-or so he believed. infatuated, smitten, lovesick, he was in love, so much in love, he told himself that one day he woke up without tegoshi by his side.
notes: fictional. very on the spot, because i meant to finish my nishikato fic when huey_tsai suddenly decided she needed to read a tegopi fic. so, i decided to make her one, with the prompt break-up and the song the man who can't be moved by the script as bases. yey~ ♥
Call Me, Please; I Want You Back
tegopi
Yamapi is a persistent man, everyone in the agency knows that. They all know who he is, what he does, and what he’s been up to these past few days. News gets passed around quickly in these places, he once said, but he didn’t mean it like he should. Yamapi was busy with other matters.
He brings him home once, and just once because he doesn't have any other place to stay in. It's one night they all talk about, and in the next twenty-four hours he disappears.
“What did you two have, you and Tegoshi,” Ryo asks over a cup of black coffee, as if he were interested in the alternate life of this man in front of him.
There is nothing, really. Nothing much besides that one night he touched his kouhai just because he had seen another side of him, something he had probably been hiding from everyone-and Yamapi loved that side of him.
Heck, he was in love-or so he believed. Infatuated, smitten, lovesick, he was in love, so much in love, he told himself that one day he woke up without Tegoshi by his side.
“It was a one-night thing, you shouldn’t worry,” Ryo tellshim, pat his back after paying for his share, and then leaves Yamapi to grow into a mind fit over the loss of words and actions. How would he know, he’s never had someone like him. Maybe, he suddenly thinks, he wouldn’t really know.
Everyone tells him of the same thing: it’s just mind fuck, don’t worry about it so much, or something of relation. Yamapi still believes otherwise, believes in his own opinion and judgment. He is wrong to ask others for their opinion; like they know about this feeling: swelling heart, warm atmosphere and that longing-for-a-toy feeling when he was a kid, only this was bigger, rawer, and quite sensitive to the heart.
One day he walks past him on the sidewalk, and they both notice and realize it. Yamapi stops in his tracks and turns around to meet his back, only Tegoshi had actually done the same. Nothing shows on their faces beneath the thick scarves, but Yamapi is afraid he’s showing too much of himself. He feels it again, the tight push and pull of his chest, and the throbbing sensation in his head.
The first thing that goes into mind when he sees him is the picture of his face in noir, a pained expression at first, then followed by the muffled sound of his screams because Yamapi can remember the night well. Slowly he remembers the scent of his hair, of his skin, then the feeling of his kisses on his lips, warm, needy, and eager; the rise and fall of his chest every time he thrust, the push and pull, push and pull.
Yamapi feels a tight knot in his stomach and he bites his upper lip under the scarf. He knows he wants to say something, but his throat suddenly runs dry and his words are like lines lost in a movie script.
“Tegoshi,” he forces it out, and he feels the sharpest pain caught in his throat, but it’s the best thing he’s ever said the whole day, the slip of his name in his palette so forgiving and wanting. He’s missed this, this name, the breathing of it over and over again when he kissed him that one time, and in the other dream-filled nights that followed.
Yamapi is persistent, and Tegoshi knew that. “I want to talk to you.”
He watches him carefully, even if he appears to him in broken black and white vision. It’s the agony of not having to see him in awhile that makes him wanton about looking at him like that, cautious, meticulous, and particular about everything in front of him now.
“Pi,” Tegoshi finally speaks, and Yamapi falls in his step. He’s imagining things, thinking of the likely events to come, like Tegoshi standing there in tears then running off to him in his arms, like a good happy ending in a children’s story book. To his great disappointment, however, there are no such things as real princesses to be swept away by their princes in a shining armor on a mighty white steed.
“I can’t. I’m not up for this.”
Suddenly, flowers in a vast field die, lose all color and scent, glimmer and shine. Birds are creating a distorted image in the sky, squawking and flapping their wings as feathers fall off from their backs mercilessly. A child on the street starves to death, and a baby weeps over the loss of his mother. Yamapi tries to remember the ending of a book he’s read in the past week, but all he remembers is the death of the hero. He remembers feeling bad over this, lying in bed alone and pondering about the rest of his life to come.
“Okay,” he says, gives up. All this talk about his persistent personality suddenly falls into a jinx, as if someone had forgotten to knock on wood just to save a life. Yamapi kicks a loose nugget on the pebblewash ground, thinks of doing something dramatic like running to Tegoshi and unexpectedly kissing him just so he can get understand, or making a slow turn and just simply walk away so he can watch him move on away from his life. Yamapi wants to do the first option. He badly does, just for old time’s sake, for getting having to experience that lost feeling. He chooses to do the latter instead.
Tegoshi shuffles in his stance. “I lied,”
Yamapi suddenly remembers the ending of that book.
“I want you back.”
Something story-book-ending happens, and Tegoshi falls into him, a cold embrace turned warm with blade-hot tears on Yamapi’s shirt, and a dramatic ending theme song plays in his head. Tegoshi buries himself in Yamapi and he lets him do whatever he wants because he misses this, embracing someone warm and so close, length on its own existence had to be impossible in this world. Yamapi grasps onto his shoulder tight, his face into his hair, and it smells like nostalgia: mint, vanilla, and some other undistinguished scent but Yamapi doesn’t care because he has him in his arms now, and neither one of them wants to let go even if all eyes have to look at them. Everyone knows, they all do; so what does it matter to them now?
Yamapi pulls him in the middle of an empty alleyway, some place with lost sound and lost eyes and he starts to pull on the belt of Tegoshi’s pants, his hands crawling from his cheeks to his neck, down on the waistband of his jeans. His lips stay on Tegoshi’s, ever hungry and deprived of this, but he knows he wants this; they both do.
Tegoshi mutters something in between jerky movements and breathy noises, but Yamapi replies quite intelligibly, “I love you, too.”
author: chartre
rating: r
pairing: tegopi
summary: heck, he was in love-or so he believed. infatuated, smitten, lovesick, he was in love, so much in love, he told himself that one day he woke up without tegoshi by his side.
notes: fictional. very on the spot, because i meant to finish my nishikato fic when huey_tsai suddenly decided she needed to read a tegopi fic. so, i decided to make her one, with the prompt break-up and the song the man who can't be moved by the script as bases. yey~ ♥
Call Me, Please; I Want You Back
tegopi
Yamapi is a persistent man, everyone in the agency knows that. They all know who he is, what he does, and what he’s been up to these past few days. News gets passed around quickly in these places, he once said, but he didn’t mean it like he should. Yamapi was busy with other matters.
He brings him home once, and just once because he doesn't have any other place to stay in. It's one night they all talk about, and in the next twenty-four hours he disappears.
“What did you two have, you and Tegoshi,” Ryo asks over a cup of black coffee, as if he were interested in the alternate life of this man in front of him.
There is nothing, really. Nothing much besides that one night he touched his kouhai just because he had seen another side of him, something he had probably been hiding from everyone-and Yamapi loved that side of him.
Heck, he was in love-or so he believed. Infatuated, smitten, lovesick, he was in love, so much in love, he told himself that one day he woke up without Tegoshi by his side.
“It was a one-night thing, you shouldn’t worry,” Ryo tellshim, pat his back after paying for his share, and then leaves Yamapi to grow into a mind fit over the loss of words and actions. How would he know, he’s never had someone like him. Maybe, he suddenly thinks, he wouldn’t really know.
Everyone tells him of the same thing: it’s just mind fuck, don’t worry about it so much, or something of relation. Yamapi still believes otherwise, believes in his own opinion and judgment. He is wrong to ask others for their opinion; like they know about this feeling: swelling heart, warm atmosphere and that longing-for-a-toy feeling when he was a kid, only this was bigger, rawer, and quite sensitive to the heart.
One day he walks past him on the sidewalk, and they both notice and realize it. Yamapi stops in his tracks and turns around to meet his back, only Tegoshi had actually done the same. Nothing shows on their faces beneath the thick scarves, but Yamapi is afraid he’s showing too much of himself. He feels it again, the tight push and pull of his chest, and the throbbing sensation in his head.
The first thing that goes into mind when he sees him is the picture of his face in noir, a pained expression at first, then followed by the muffled sound of his screams because Yamapi can remember the night well. Slowly he remembers the scent of his hair, of his skin, then the feeling of his kisses on his lips, warm, needy, and eager; the rise and fall of his chest every time he thrust, the push and pull, push and pull.
Yamapi feels a tight knot in his stomach and he bites his upper lip under the scarf. He knows he wants to say something, but his throat suddenly runs dry and his words are like lines lost in a movie script.
“Tegoshi,” he forces it out, and he feels the sharpest pain caught in his throat, but it’s the best thing he’s ever said the whole day, the slip of his name in his palette so forgiving and wanting. He’s missed this, this name, the breathing of it over and over again when he kissed him that one time, and in the other dream-filled nights that followed.
Yamapi is persistent, and Tegoshi knew that. “I want to talk to you.”
He watches him carefully, even if he appears to him in broken black and white vision. It’s the agony of not having to see him in awhile that makes him wanton about looking at him like that, cautious, meticulous, and particular about everything in front of him now.
“Pi,” Tegoshi finally speaks, and Yamapi falls in his step. He’s imagining things, thinking of the likely events to come, like Tegoshi standing there in tears then running off to him in his arms, like a good happy ending in a children’s story book. To his great disappointment, however, there are no such things as real princesses to be swept away by their princes in a shining armor on a mighty white steed.
“I can’t. I’m not up for this.”
Suddenly, flowers in a vast field die, lose all color and scent, glimmer and shine. Birds are creating a distorted image in the sky, squawking and flapping their wings as feathers fall off from their backs mercilessly. A child on the street starves to death, and a baby weeps over the loss of his mother. Yamapi tries to remember the ending of a book he’s read in the past week, but all he remembers is the death of the hero. He remembers feeling bad over this, lying in bed alone and pondering about the rest of his life to come.
“Okay,” he says, gives up. All this talk about his persistent personality suddenly falls into a jinx, as if someone had forgotten to knock on wood just to save a life. Yamapi kicks a loose nugget on the pebblewash ground, thinks of doing something dramatic like running to Tegoshi and unexpectedly kissing him just so he can get understand, or making a slow turn and just simply walk away so he can watch him move on away from his life. Yamapi wants to do the first option. He badly does, just for old time’s sake, for getting having to experience that lost feeling. He chooses to do the latter instead.
Tegoshi shuffles in his stance. “I lied,”
Yamapi suddenly remembers the ending of that book.
“I want you back.”
Something story-book-ending happens, and Tegoshi falls into him, a cold embrace turned warm with blade-hot tears on Yamapi’s shirt, and a dramatic ending theme song plays in his head. Tegoshi buries himself in Yamapi and he lets him do whatever he wants because he misses this, embracing someone warm and so close, length on its own existence had to be impossible in this world. Yamapi grasps onto his shoulder tight, his face into his hair, and it smells like nostalgia: mint, vanilla, and some other undistinguished scent but Yamapi doesn’t care because he has him in his arms now, and neither one of them wants to let go even if all eyes have to look at them. Everyone knows, they all do; so what does it matter to them now?
Yamapi pulls him in the middle of an empty alleyway, some place with lost sound and lost eyes and he starts to pull on the belt of Tegoshi’s pants, his hands crawling from his cheeks to his neck, down on the waistband of his jeans. His lips stay on Tegoshi’s, ever hungry and deprived of this, but he knows he wants this; they both do.
Tegoshi mutters something in between jerky movements and breathy noises, but Yamapi replies quite intelligibly, “I love you, too.”