Reita is sure Ruki's fingers are going to be stained forever - vermillion dye splattering into the sink, streaking the tarnished porcelain in gruesome blushes. The color is smeared across the gray counter, the mirror; each shade of red is crusting into the grout. And it's as if Ruki had strangled the Sun and won with every snarl and whisper in the dark of Reita’s one-room apartment that this is it, this is it, Akira.
The younger bends over the sink, craning his head beneath the pathetic trickle of water to wash out every last doubt and what-if-we-don’t – choking Daddy’s disappointment and silencing the slam of the screen door against his bruised back. Reita silently watches the dye sink in and he can almost catch a glimpse of before. The stuttering, broken boy who had burnt his lip on Reita’s proffered cigarette in the back alley of the dive-bar two years ago, flickering in-out-not-here. And now he's too drowned in scarlet – fingers like claws as he rakes them across his burning scalp. His silver gauges are glistening in the dank yellow lighting, and the halo of flames shudder.
Reita fingers a lock of his own newly white-bleached hair, the echo of Ruki’s fingers tugging and twisting around the strands until his neck was pulled back to bare his throat in the mirror. The younger had smirked at their reflection, his other hand slowly stroking the pale sliver between Reita’s gossamer shirt and frayed jeans. Like this was real. Like he could have this.
Come and take it.
And he was smirking now, hands still buried in the knotted roots of Reita's hair, and mouthing dark promises beneath the dive’s low bass.
And it’s like biting into a syringe – all metallic tongues and poison-eyes as Reita catches Ruki’s growl in his mouth.
And he’s whispering something into Ruki’s searing kisses – mouthing something god-awful-wonderful into the younger’s neck and jaw and spine as he shoves his hand beneath his waistband and tastes the dye on the other’s flesh –
“You’re going to make this fucking world scream – ”
But more like the words that get stuck in his throat until he’s gasping on the little-nothings with every buck and thrash from Ruki’s hips.
It’s horrible – the burn of bleach and the sharp scent of antiseptic are slick against Ruki’s hands as he braces himself on the sink while Reita bites into his shoulder so hard-hard-fuckfuck.
But it’s a marred and ruined beauty that cracks in Ruki’s eyes when he looks up in the mirror, catching Reita’s heated gaze in their debauched reflections. It’s fuck and roll. It’s rouge lips and blood bangs; it's skinny bones that Reita can grasp with his bare hands. It’s Ruki reaching around blindly to fist Reita’s aching cock, his eyes glazed and somewhere far away, somewhere in the future where they can do this on a fucking king-sized mattress with clean sheets and not in a cramped bathroom on a nameless street.
Somewhere that has Reita being patient, slow – steady hands and soft smiles and kisses between shoulder blades.
But now, here, it’s deliciously rough – they lap at sin while the mirror trembles with their desperate thrusts. Desperate for money and rations and something like fame, even if it’s a little crooked and a little painful – desperate for warm hands that hold their lungs as blisters break and track marks pucker underneath busted heaters.
But now, Reita can’t give two fucks about the flickering lights or the graffiti scrawled on the walls (cries of failed rebels and fallen saints), too busy holding on to this fire quaking in his palms.
Too busy falling,
falling, and –
“Don’t just fucking stand there.” Ruki gasps, forehead pressing against the glass, strangled pants fogging the mirror and he’s snapping – snapping and swallowing stars and he’s too bright for this –
Because Ruki has never been still his whole life. He’s one constant breathless sprint, one beautiful finale that wrecks his voice from smoking cigarettes too hard and saying I-love-you’s too fast.
But Reita is full of fading promises and broken leashes from always following Shima’s drunken footsteps and maybe – maybe, he thinks as Ruki arches and moans and lets the elder unravel every piece of himself, lets him graze the beginning breaths of a star –
maybe this is it.