references to gun violence but no actual violence, 403 words sweats this is sort of vague and ominous, hahah. i just really love random aus ok.
the sun is setting, bleeding orange-red over the road, shadows slanting at their sharpest angle. there's something appropriate about it, something poetic, but youichi is a thousand miles away. he's thinking about the dead dark of midnight somewhere much colder than this, trying to divine shapes in the cloud of ryousuke's breath, staring at the wry twist of his lips in the glare of the headlights. he's thinking about the lilt of ryousuke's voice, carefully casual, saying, don't stop until you hit the ocean. don't look back.
what a joke.
youichi's been running on adrenaline and bravado for most of his life; he's used to running toward things, not away. he's driving through the middle of the desert at sunset like some kind of goddamn action hero but there's a problem: the passenger seat is empty. it's empty, and the absence aches like a loose tooth. ryousuke should be there. or youichi should be there, watching ryousuke's hands on the wheel, light and sure. he can see it like an afterimage, the tilt of ryousuke's face in the roseate light, the sweet bow of his mouth pursing as he hums along to the radio. youichi always wants to kiss him, but he wants to kiss him most when he does that.
the radio's not on. youichi listened to half a day of static before he turned it off, ears tuned to signs of pursuit. he's waiting for the sound of engines in the distance, the far-off glint of a rifle scope spelling danger on the horizon. he's waiting for this stretch of solitary flight to collapse in on itself, implode in a blaze of fury and gunfire to prove that he should never have left in the first place. there's nothing, just empty road and sunlight, cheap prepaid phone burning a hole in youichi's pocket. he's not supposed to call. he wants to. he wants to hear ryousuke's voice, wants to listen to him breathe.
but no. ryousuke, if he picked up at all, would just tell him he's being stupid. this isn't supposed to be permanent, a few months, a half a year. just until things cool off. just until ryousuke can ferret out the rats and crush them. it's been less than a week; ryousuke will call when it's safe. youichi presses his thumb against the hard plastic edge of his phone pressing up through his jeans, wills it to ring.
FILL: team daiya no ace, T
sweats this is sort of vague and ominous, hahah. i just really love random aus ok.
the sun is setting, bleeding orange-red over the road, shadows slanting at their sharpest angle. there's something appropriate about it, something poetic, but youichi is a thousand miles away. he's thinking about the dead dark of midnight somewhere much colder than this, trying to divine shapes in the cloud of ryousuke's breath, staring at the wry twist of his lips in the glare of the headlights. he's thinking about the lilt of ryousuke's voice, carefully casual, saying, don't stop until you hit the ocean. don't look back.
what a joke.
youichi's been running on adrenaline and bravado for most of his life; he's used to running toward things, not away. he's driving through the middle of the desert at sunset like some kind of goddamn action hero but there's a problem: the passenger seat is empty. it's empty, and the absence aches like a loose tooth. ryousuke should be there. or youichi should be there, watching ryousuke's hands on the wheel, light and sure. he can see it like an afterimage, the tilt of ryousuke's face in the roseate light, the sweet bow of his mouth pursing as he hums along to the radio. youichi always wants to kiss him, but he wants to kiss him most when he does that.
the radio's not on. youichi listened to half a day of static before he turned it off, ears tuned to signs of pursuit. he's waiting for the sound of engines in the distance, the far-off glint of a rifle scope spelling danger on the horizon. he's waiting for this stretch of solitary flight to collapse in on itself, implode in a blaze of fury and gunfire to prove that he should never have left in the first place. there's nothing, just empty road and sunlight, cheap prepaid phone burning a hole in youichi's pocket. he's not supposed to call. he wants to. he wants to hear ryousuke's voice, wants to listen to him breathe.
but no. ryousuke, if he picked up at all, would just tell him he's being stupid. this isn't supposed to be permanent, a few months, a half a year. just until things cool off. just until ryousuke can ferret out the rats and crush them. it's been less than a week; ryousuke will call when it's safe. youichi presses his thumb against the hard plastic edge of his phone pressing up through his jeans, wills it to ring.