writing is a painful gift

Uruha hums something that describes spring.

His voice is considerably drowned out by the soft plucks of strings on acoustic guitar, but Aoi can still hear the vibrations in his throat. His eyes twitch behind his eyelids, and his chest rises and falls as his body rustles in the sheets its entangled in. Uruha remains in a corner of the bedroom, with his eyes cast off somewhere between the window and Aoi’s bare backside in bed. Slivers of light had already begun to graze him, and they had been up till dawn yet again. The morning is frozen behind the glass, but Uruha feels nothing but the warmth behind his eyes and on his skin. 

When Aoi wakes up, he has the tune in his head, and he’s threading each acoustic note with a smile that says everything beyond ‘good morning’. 

Music was their savior, their strength, their will to breathe. It existed in the very blood that ran through their veins and the mangled breathes of air they’d take together. In the fury of passionate moments, among the ones where their backs were turned to each other. They held onto each other with melodies and distant unspoken words until they collided behind the privacy of closed doors. Fingers running up sweat soaked backsides, nails lingering on the surface of skin and breathing so hard they couldn’t make sense of anything else. Nothing else but each other. Uruha didn’t realize when the lines between them had eventually blurred, but it wasn’t a perplexing transition or anything he had to think about.

It just had felt right from day one. 

On stage, Aoi has a teardrop pick between his lips, and pants. The lights are sweltering and he brushes sweat glazed fingertips over his and chuckles. Though Aoi can’t hear him laugh, he can watch it through his eyes and feel it through the presence of electric guitar. Aoi teases the crowd, but he’s teasing Uruha more. Later, they don’t say anything. Aoi’s on the floor with his shirt embedded on him with sweat and Uruha watches from above, until his hand brushes his shoulder, and they slip out together with hands in danger of falling into each other all together. 

Uruha continuously communicates as loudly as he can through the use of strings forever. Even three years later, when he’s playing the same melody he had played so long ago at their wedding ceremony across the Atlantic Ocean. Faces remain silent but Aoi cries behind his hand and breathes out. 

He listens to the I love you that’s always been reserved just for him.