Work Text:
It goes like this.
Naoe implies. Takaya cringes.
Naoe pushes. Takaya pushes back.
Naoe asks, and Takaya says no even when he almostsortofnotquite wishes, tells himself he can'tshouldn'tdoesn't want.
Until it doesn't.
-
"You don't."
"Maybe. Sometimes."
Naoe shakes his head. "Foolish."
-
"You love him."
"No. Maybe."
Turns his head, looks out the window into the distance of the sky toward where he thinks the mountains might be, and sees Naoe's soft smile in the glass, sad and dangerous.
-
They push, really, is all that it is. Dark blue nights in hotel rooms and brighter days by oceans until it all falls apart.
"Yours?"
"Maybe."
"I'll think about it."
-
Theirs is a history of objects. Tight tight violin strings and swords and bracelets. Cigarettes and fog and jackets. Cars. Watches. Sunglasses. Motorcycles. Mirrors and leashes and veils. Blood.
Mostly, though, not even they know what it is.
Glass. Smoke. Stars.
But nothing so beautiful.
-
Maybe it's not what Takaya imagined but maybe it's all he has and maybe he can live with this.
Breathes. "I can keep running."
"I'll still be waiting."