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Title: Closet I really am a sucker, writing yaoi for a series that's features a het relationship as its core. Oh well. They're not mine: Asuba wanted some, and he got what he wanted, the strange motherfucker. Summary: Lunchtime nooner. * To tell you the truth, it's something that's quite simply never come up in their relations. It's not part of the relationship. It doesn't belong. Nonexistant. One of them would tell you in utter honesty that it's just not like that, and the other would pretend he didn't hear you. And to tell the truth again, true love isn't something you casually mention in the hallway while walking from Chemistry to Mathematics, and it's not a question that you resolve over lunch in a little out of the way mop closet. On the other hand, lust can be resolved pretty well. The room smells like bleach, ammonia, and cleaning supplies, and Amira feels like his heart burst out of his mouth and now it's stuck somewhere up in the shelves between the window cleaner and the spare mop heads. He certainly feels like all of his bones have burst through his skin: he can't stand up straight or move properly. All he can manage is a slump against tiled walls and not even that very well because he's got to grab hold of one of the racks to stay semi-upright and every breath he takes, he takes through his mouth and has to think through each careful, laborious step. It's funny, he decides. You never realize just how complicated breathing is until you have to pay attention. You never realize how complicated anything is until you have to pay attention. Sitting on the other side of the small (very small) room, Asuba wipes his mouth on the back of his left hand. The motion makes the gold ring on his pinky gleam dully, then, he settles the arm back on his bent knee; his right leg is stretched out in front of him, and the room is so small that he has to keep the leg crooked, and still, his heel is planted against the wall. Arima tries not to think about the fact that said foot is between his legs. In fact, he tries not to think about what's between his legs at all. After all, paying attention to it got him into this whole wretched situation in the first place. With deliberate casualness, Asuba yawns, then adds, "Pull up your pants or somebody will think something happened." Arima refrains from mentioning that 1) he can't because Asuba's foot is in the way and, more importantly 2) something did very much happen. Instead, he says, "Gum?" Asuba's eyebrows go up. "What, the perfect student has gum? Isn't that a violation of school policies or something?" "Actually, it's yours. You handed it off to me a week ago so you wouldn't be caught with it when the teacher searched you." "Week old gum?" When Asuba's scrunches up in a look of distaste, it's his earring's turn to gleam. With a small twitch, Arima notices that there's a little trickle of blood on the other boy's earlobe, probably from when he grabbed onto Asuba's head during. . . His mind skirts away from the issue even as the memory starts up a small, sudden ache in his belly. He says, "I keep it around for emergencies like this." Asuba snorts once with laughter. "Yeah, I'd say it was an emergency. If you'd kept that book in your lap much longer, it would have started levitating, six hundred pages of organic chemistry be damned. Maybe if you told me what's so goddamned sexy about benzene rings, I'd get better marks too. " To Arima's quiet silence, Asuba adds, "I guess if you squint, they kinda look like nippleless breasts. But that's nothing to get that excited about." It's a little after the fact to be embarressed with a guy who's just had your -- down his. . . After all, he's seen just about all of you that there is to see and a little from the inside more to boot, but Arima closes his eyes nonetheless. When he realizes that this probably looks like embarressment to Asuba -- which it is -- The idea that Asuba would tell Miyazawaki hasn't even crossed his mind, and when it does, Arima considers it for a moment before discarding it and pushing Asuba's foot out of the way so that he can pull up his pants. "I don't want to talk about it." Arima says as he slips the tongue of the belt back into its usual hole, then yanks it home. His hands are pretty steady as he threads the belt through the loops, and when he puts his hand on the doorknob to go out, he grips it firmly, but then, falters when Asuba says, coolly, calmly, the faintest edge of amusement cutting into his voice, "You don't want to talk about very much, do you?" Arima freezes, then, after a moment, he says, his back still turned to Asuba. "No, I don't." There's a frozen pause, and then, behind him, Arima can literally *hear* the grin breaking out across Asuba's face. "Good. Me neither." * end * Comments to anasile@aol.com |