Work Text:
Love is a pretty little glass thing.
An ornament. A lily lamp on a bedside table. Quill pen. Feathers.
Love is a pretty thing, from one perspective, and your eyes would have to be clear and pure to think like that.
Love is dangerous, a warning sign.
Chaotic arguments and screams. Suffocation. Ligament marks on skin. Cold.
Love is heavy.
The heavier, the more, the more, the heavier, the more, more weight on your feet, the more, more dragging around in dirt and mud, a loss of pride in exchange for more love.
Heavy. Too much for one’s shoulders to bear.
Love is a burden meant to be shared.
Sometimes, it’s shared unfairly, perhaps zero to ten, perhaps seven to three. But never equal.
Love and equilibrium are both very difficult to achieve. Some say they mean the same. Others call them acronyms.
Oikawa doesn’t really care.
Love is soft sighs and mornings and a body next to his, sheets soaking in sunlight and slipping against skin, simple kisses and a brew of coffee and tangled chestnut hair and droopy eyes. Love is reaching for the sky on the balcony at different times of the day; sometimes a bright blue, sometimes a blushing pink with white swirls, sometimes burgundy with plum and tangerine, sometimes gold and happily soft, sometimes navy with velvet heliotrope and mesh black dotted with white strokes of a paintbrush, dripping with ivory, like a fiery sparkler, proudly dominating the dark hues with small shards of light too far out to reach, tiny and insignificantly apart, distanced, and yet when clustered together, starry expanse creating mastery, a forge of diamonds and pearls in an upside-down sky.
Love is storming out, yelling and bursting into tears, angry shoves and frustration, pent-up demands and needs in a wave, an ocean of pleads. It is the space in between. It is the grave silence as they pile up void after void until they merge into the shape of each other, etched into their backs. Love is demeaning hostility, passing and catching, throwing and kicking from one end to another, left hook, a straight, counters and punches, words flung across to slap on cheeks tired from complaining and brawling. It is the curses and ugly shrieks of fear and punishment and abandon.
Love is the solidity of tensed muscle, a string of bruises around a flushed pink wrist and pattering across a heavily beating chest, love is sweat, it is the salt from tears, the cherub’s face crowned in a sensual draped curtain of adulthood, the derivation from youth to a man.
Love is anguish, the cries of departure, the wheels rolling and speeding along bright lights and white lines on tarmac, the engine’s kitten purr to a lion’s kingly roar, the clasped hands and breaths within farewells and steps drifting further and further until they were both far from their homes, the “Please don’t go” and the “I’m sorry,” over and over again.
Love is a dance, mating, bonding, kissing each bit of peach skin , biting each edge and curve, from the curve of his ear to the spiked out collarbone, biting each fingertip, one by one, they kissing each knuckle. Down his stomach, up his thigh. Oikawa has even kissed him there. He doesn’t intend to stop. He wants more. Love is a song, one, two, three, it is a paradise, a march for him, appraisal for the caramel eyes and butterflies. Love is taking in, drinking in, hydration from cherry lips and a sight to behold on an altar. Holy worship for him, prayers to be sung, and garlands of blinding flowers to be thrown.
Love is sharing, love is being one, love is the act of separation and reunion, love is counting each other’s pulse to see who has a louder heart, who is about to crumble and beg on helpless knees. Love is the brushing of a fallen fringe from sleepy eyes, love is wiping away the moans from last night. Love is wanting to feel, to take greedy handfuls of skin and pinch the flesh to earn sharp yaps, love is gluttony, to want to grace hands with each convolution of a rippling body, kindly, or not so kindly as Oikawa yanks at hair and ruins the mass of the animal trapped and squirming underneath.
Love is devouring each nook and cranny, love is heat, it is the bare nudity of it all, when there are no lies in between, because there’s no space in between, bodies pushed and shoved close, a blaze and whittle of purity as pleasure hums and echoes, on the edge, mouth sharing with mouth, tongue and tongue, fingers intertwined, body on and inside body, hearts thudding against and with each other.
Love is the wonderful insecurity which is granted, the shatter and tremble and dynamics of a tango, sidestepping, twirling, hand on waist, hazel eyes eyeing Oikawa and tugging at an unforgiving belt, hazel eyes fluttering shut as Oikawa speaks low, vibrations down an ear, taking over his brain, shivers, synapses undoubtedly broken and fizzing and popping, hazel eyes opening up when touch ensues.
Oikawa knows what love is.
It is deliciously filling, tip of toes to head, spreading an indescribable feeling, tingles in his fingers. A feast.
Oikawa knows what love is, it’s the bounce in his steps as he runs back home, the fizz in carbonated soda, the first slit of sunrise through the blockage of curtains seeping quietly within their room so that the brown-haired boy sleeping soundly in serenity wouldn’t open his eyes.
Oikawa knows what love is, it’s the ache in his chest he gets when he chucks out venom like it’s normal and not absurdity no other would think of, when he hurts the other boy so badly that he is broken, bits of china plates scattered and fragmented, when they are both tired, the slinking away to a friend’s house when they need space, the incompleteness of the field made from wishful thinking and delusions, the return back home and the shaking boy in his bed in his shirt and sobbing, the unsure width of hesitation in the middle of touch and rejection, the almighty pull which ends in a declaration of vows.
Oikawa knows love as Futakuchi, he knows it to be a gift, a celestial offering for all of his bad deeds, a punching bag which needs aftercare, a soft lover, his Juliet, his Aphrodite, his utter boundless perfection granted, a wonderful, wonderful lover, a darling.
Love is his face, his laughs, his smiles, his angelic divinity, his atrocity, his cheek, his voice, his moans;
Love is only defined within Futakuchi Kenji.