Work Text:
You’re so bad. Yet you look so good.
The shirt exposes a little of porcelain skin as Futakuchi stretches lazily, like a cat.
Are you an angel or a demon? I’ll take you either way. You're beautiful.
Oikawa thinks as he watches Futakuchi’s enticing lips. They let out a sigh, a soft sound vibrating in his rising and falling chest, as sunlight scattered across his face, planting gentle golden pecks of sunlight across his marble skin.
Futakuchi looks like a literal god.
Oikawa wants to praise him, he wants to praise the glory, the beauty, the ethereality.
You’re making me fall for you.
He watches gold and caramel flutter, candy-pink lips pressing into a languid smile. A gaze is shifted towards him and Oikawa can feel his smoldering eyes piercing him.
“What is it, Tooru? Do I have something on my face, or are you just looking at me?”
Oikawa lets his eyes flit back to the moving lips, watches each syllable form as words tinkled out like bells. His voice was magical, soothing, sweet and smooth like molasses.
“Yeah.”
Futakuchi frowns.
“There’s something on my face?”
A slender hand, slightly smaller than Oikawa’s, goes up to absent-mindedly trace his face, fingers brushing a mole usually hidden by a curtain of copper fringe, the grey shadow over his face colouring his cheeks a darker shade of rose.
“No.”
The boy’s frown deepens, eyebrows knitted closely together, soft skin wrinkling, eyes large and unblinking.
“Then what?”
“I’m looking at you.”
A flush and another flicker of chocolate eyelashes invites Oikawa closer, and poorly made words try and force their way out of the flustered boy’s mouth, until eventually, after a brief touch of Oikawa’s hand on his, Futakuchi calms down, and he parts his lips, debating on how to reply.
Finally, he settles on a simple “Okay.”
Oikawa smiles, his own carmine lips twitching up.
“Won’t you look at me too, baby?”
A hush falls over the two, the curtain billows next to them as a breeze walks in to ruffle their hair, and Futakuchi lets out a soft laugh, quiet, melodious, and they look into each other’s eyes, chocolate, hazel, caramel, making a special dessert, precious golden honey of the sun’s rays delectable and melting in their eyes.
Their hands have crept closer, and Oikawa traces Futakuchi’s knuckle and the brunet smiles at the ticklish feeling, but he intertwines their fingers anyway.
“Yeah,”
“Hm?”
The temperature rises when Futakuchi leans in to allow their noses to touch, faces so close that Oikawa could almost feel Futakuchi’s eyelashes on his cheek, he can see them, they’re fanned out like butterfly wings of gold and amber, flared against ripened cheeks.
“I’m looking at you now.”
---
Futakuchi lies on the hard floor.
It’s raining.
He wants to close his eyes, he’s waiting for an anchor which has snapped and sunk far from the boat, he wants comfort, he needs love, he needs the simple reassurance, he needs the warmth, he needs Oikawa.
Rain tries to drown him, even though he’s already suffocating.
Raw pain is shoved down his mouth, forcing its way into his heart and lungs, snatching oxygen, polluting blood, leaving nothing but pain behind. His breath shatters as he clutches his stomach and shoves his own fingers down his throat, trying to make himself throw up the hurt.
When he retches, and tears are flowing down from coal eyes, there’s nothing because he was on an empty stomach anyway. Futakuchi wipes saliva from his fingers onto his shirt. It stains.
He just wants Oikawa back.
He needs Oikawa by his side.
Futakuchi wants to stand up and drink. He wants to forget everything even just for tonight, even just for a little while, maybe he could get someone to drink with, maybe let them take him home.
Who is he kidding? Unless it’s Oikawa, he wouldn’t let anyone do that.
He still wants to forget, though.
But it’s like the angels stole his energy, drank away every little drop of what strength there was because he can’t move, he’s on the ground, shaking as the tears keep falling.
His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out, afraid of what he was going to find, and he sees a calendar notification.
‘Anniversary.’
It chokes him all over again.
Oikawa smiles, merciless on his phone screen, smiling, giving off bottomless energy and love and it makes Futakuchi’s stomach churn and squeeze. Futakuchi almost reaches out like an infant, blabbering and whining as he tries to grab at the person stuck in a crystal screen.
Oikawa looks like gold. Bright, beautiful, sparkling. Everyone wants him. He’s number one. He looks like he’s been frozen with Midas’ golden touch, frozen in time, locked within the home screen.
“Hey, hey, listen,”
He traces Oikawa’s sunlit face with his fingertip.
“I’m looking at you.”
The picture doesn’t respond.
“I’m looking at you now.”