He Was
1/1.
In the three years that they’d been together, Yuu had never been able to find the proper word to describe his lover. He’d settled on ‘beautiful’ for a while, as that was what all the other words came to eventually, but it still had never seemed to be enough. Kouyou was unique, and he had elegance, and he was the most graceful creature that Yuu had ever seen. But none of those words had ever settled into anything universal. Because Kouyou was more than unique- he was literally one of a kind. And he was more than elegant- when he moved or when he walked, there was a visible flow to his movements that would convince a person that he’d been walking on air for twenty-eight years. And as for grace? In all modes of movement, he could fucking glide if he wanted to and no one would notice the difference.
Leaving Yuu stuck searching through every word, dialect, and language that he knew of every day when he was alone in the kitchen and Kouyou was still in bed. During these kinds of mornings, he had time to consider words like gorgeous and heart-killing and tease. He could make himself something easy, light a cigarette afterward, and then sit and ponder the multitude of synonyms for Takashima Kouyou. And some mornings, this method worked. He’d come up with a few, save them in his memory for later, and even write them down if they were good enough. He could always whisper them to Kouyou later, just to let him know exactly how much Yuu thought about him, just to acknowledge the fact that it was three years later and the novelty of their relationship had yet to wear off.
Some mornings, however, it almost suited Yuu better to snuff out his cigarette, rinse off whatever dishes he’d used, and then return the bedroom, and silently observing his love in his most relaxed state. On most of these mornings, Yuu would walk in and find his lover still sleeping, either on his side or on his stomach, and on these mornings, Yuu knew that he was being allowed a glimpse at what real peace looked like. He’d find his love lying on either his side or his stomach, arms around the pillow, cheek pressed against it, brow furrowed together and eyes resting closed. The sun shining down onto his bare skin through their window would bring words like angel and divine into his mind, and Yuu would only be able to silently thank every god imaginable for allowing him the ability to slide into bed beside Kouyou.
Holding him, touching him, skimming his fingers along his skin, made Yuu think trust and warmth, and hearing him sigh in response to the light touches brought forth love and need. On mornings like these, Yuu could lie close to him, hand slipping up and down along his spine, caressing the warm skin beneath his palm, and he could see all of the different ways that all kinds of different people would ever see him. It was sure that Kouyou was beautiful- after three years of being with him, Yuu hadn’t seen a single thing change that fact- but the source of Kouyou’s unique, graceful beauty was something left to interpretation.
Yuu had never been able to settle on just one answer for this. He’d always seen Kouyou’s slender form and thought of it as beautiful, and yet, he’d thought the same of the light in his eyes or the brightness of his smile or the softness of his skin. He’d found it in Kouyou’s quiet laughter or his kisses or the way he seemed to unravel when the two of them made love, and he’d found it in the way that one moment of contact with him was enough to make a person want more. It was enough to make someone want to touch him, hold him, stare at him, and put him up on a pedestal, worship him, and never bring him back down. He was a deity given human form.
He was an abstract painting with a pulse; he was DaVinci's Mona Lisa, he was van Gogh's Starry Night. He was every masterpiece that had ever been created.
He was art.
Leaving Yuu stuck searching through every word, dialect, and language that he knew of every day when he was alone in the kitchen and Kouyou was still in bed. During these kinds of mornings, he had time to consider words like gorgeous and heart-killing and tease. He could make himself something easy, light a cigarette afterward, and then sit and ponder the multitude of synonyms for Takashima Kouyou. And some mornings, this method worked. He’d come up with a few, save them in his memory for later, and even write them down if they were good enough. He could always whisper them to Kouyou later, just to let him know exactly how much Yuu thought about him, just to acknowledge the fact that it was three years later and the novelty of their relationship had yet to wear off.
Some mornings, however, it almost suited Yuu better to snuff out his cigarette, rinse off whatever dishes he’d used, and then return the bedroom, and silently observing his love in his most relaxed state. On most of these mornings, Yuu would walk in and find his lover still sleeping, either on his side or on his stomach, and on these mornings, Yuu knew that he was being allowed a glimpse at what real peace looked like. He’d find his love lying on either his side or his stomach, arms around the pillow, cheek pressed against it, brow furrowed together and eyes resting closed. The sun shining down onto his bare skin through their window would bring words like angel and divine into his mind, and Yuu would only be able to silently thank every god imaginable for allowing him the ability to slide into bed beside Kouyou.
Holding him, touching him, skimming his fingers along his skin, made Yuu think trust and warmth, and hearing him sigh in response to the light touches brought forth love and need. On mornings like these, Yuu could lie close to him, hand slipping up and down along his spine, caressing the warm skin beneath his palm, and he could see all of the different ways that all kinds of different people would ever see him. It was sure that Kouyou was beautiful- after three years of being with him, Yuu hadn’t seen a single thing change that fact- but the source of Kouyou’s unique, graceful beauty was something left to interpretation.
Yuu had never been able to settle on just one answer for this. He’d always seen Kouyou’s slender form and thought of it as beautiful, and yet, he’d thought the same of the light in his eyes or the brightness of his smile or the softness of his skin. He’d found it in Kouyou’s quiet laughter or his kisses or the way he seemed to unravel when the two of them made love, and he’d found it in the way that one moment of contact with him was enough to make a person want more. It was enough to make someone want to touch him, hold him, stare at him, and put him up on a pedestal, worship him, and never bring him back down. He was a deity given human form.
He was an abstract painting with a pulse; he was DaVinci's Mona Lisa, he was van Gogh's Starry Night. He was every masterpiece that had ever been created.
He was art.