[ Whispers of the deep linger yet at the periphery of his thoughts, twining cadences clashing with one another to coalesce into a ghostly trill of a past forgotten and a future feared. Always, that sharp, cold note of analytics and pessimistic expectations rises above the supporting ensemble, slithering along his vertebrae in an icy, serpentine path of you can't do this and this is all your fault.
But for the first time, that vicious logic finds contest in its climb, a second coil of fire and desire sweeping down its frozen paths, alighting the nerves in its wake in white embers.
It isn't real, the long-time companion of doubt murmurs, you aren't even real—
An arm winds around him like a spool, holding the threads of him together, giving shape to the tangled spirit within. No, this pantomime of a human called Lavi isn’t real, but for this moment, he is tangible, corporeal.
Maybe, he wishes desperately, I can be real, for just a little while, if I can stay here in these arms.
The tender hands obstructing tears leaving cold swaths on fevered skin, those hands might mold him into something real, something that can outlive the drying of ink.
—and he knows he should fear that more than any act of war or violence that could be laid upon him, but he can't. Not when his heart races with a newfound measure of frenzy, his skin quaking in the pulses of that beat, clamoring without abandon or the usual safeguard of logic.
Because when the kiss breaks, he feels it like a fracture in his very being, as if his soul has been plunged into icy waters that wash away the fragile constructs of his existence without mercy or pause.
His fingers grip tighter in the nest of cloth, urging, pleading voicelessly what his trembling lips can't summon.
Don’t—I’m not ready to fade away again—
But the fear has seldom a moment to build between desperate breaths before he's pulled right back into the warmth of Kanda's mouth, lips pliant and eager to welcome the slick tongue at their threshold. A groan emanates from somewhere low in his chest, vibrating against the coalescing heat of tongues meeting and exploring, twisting and winding.
He wants, above all else, to fall into this moment so far and fast that he can't remember the things that would haunt his waking world, that even those voices crowding the edge of his mind fall into grave silence.
His hands, the traitors that started this foolish escapade, move again without conscious thought, seeking the warmth of skin as they dance down from the sharp angle of nape and collar, tremulously sliding until they catch the hem of shirt and dive beneath. Smooth planes of muscle spark the fever in his mind to the transverse of flesh, his body achingly insatiably for more – more of that skin against him, those arms around him.
It leaves him breathless, and when his lungs demand the air stolen from them without leniency, he’s forced to tear himself apart and let the contact of lips break again. Struggling, shuddering with the effort to regain the lost oxygen in the heated atmosphere around him, he dares a glance up, green washed bright with the recent presence of tears.
Unguarded, uncertain. As much fear as there is entreaty in the fever-burned look. ]
I—
[ Where are the words the ordinarily serve him so well? A speechless soothsayer serves no one, least of all Lavi. ]
I didn’t think—you, I mean—
I didn’t know.
[ How either of them felt, if this is to be believed as more than the fancy of disease. ]
no subject
But for the first time, that vicious logic finds contest in its climb, a second coil of fire and desire sweeping down its frozen paths, alighting the nerves in its wake in white embers.
It isn't real, the long-time companion of doubt murmurs, you aren't even real—
An arm winds around him like a spool, holding the threads of him together, giving shape to the tangled spirit within. No, this pantomime of a human called Lavi isn’t real, but for this moment, he is tangible, corporeal.
Maybe, he wishes desperately, I can be real, for just a little while, if I can stay here in these arms.
The tender hands obstructing tears leaving cold swaths on fevered skin, those hands might mold him into something real, something that can outlive the drying of ink.
—and he knows he should fear that more than any act of war or violence that could be laid upon him, but he can't. Not when his heart races with a newfound measure of frenzy, his skin quaking in the pulses of that beat, clamoring without abandon or the usual safeguard of logic.
Because when the kiss breaks, he feels it like a fracture in his very being, as if his soul has been plunged into icy waters that wash away the fragile constructs of his existence without mercy or pause.
His fingers grip tighter in the nest of cloth, urging, pleading voicelessly what his trembling lips can't summon.
Don’t—I’m not ready to fade away again—
But the fear has seldom a moment to build between desperate breaths before he's pulled right back into the warmth of Kanda's mouth, lips pliant and eager to welcome the slick tongue at their threshold. A groan emanates from somewhere low in his chest, vibrating against the coalescing heat of tongues meeting and exploring, twisting and winding.
He wants, above all else, to fall into this moment so far and fast that he can't remember the things that would haunt his waking world, that even those voices crowding the edge of his mind fall into grave silence.
His hands, the traitors that started this foolish escapade, move again without conscious thought, seeking the warmth of skin as they dance down from the sharp angle of nape and collar, tremulously sliding until they catch the hem of shirt and dive beneath. Smooth planes of muscle spark the fever in his mind to the transverse of flesh, his body achingly insatiably for more – more of that skin against him, those arms around him.
It leaves him breathless, and when his lungs demand the air stolen from them without leniency, he’s forced to tear himself apart and let the contact of lips break again. Struggling, shuddering with the effort to regain the lost oxygen in the heated atmosphere around him, he dares a glance up, green washed bright with the recent presence of tears.
Unguarded, uncertain. As much fear as there is entreaty in the fever-burned look. ]
I—
[ Where are the words the ordinarily serve him so well? A speechless soothsayer serves no one, least of all Lavi. ]
I didn’t think—you, I mean—
I didn’t know.
[ How either of them felt, if this is to be believed as more than the fancy of disease. ]