Gardenia
"i've- i've been trying so hard not to, but..."
“Takanori?”
The man in question turns, eyebrows raised in curiosity as he faces the blond who's currently bowing his head out of sight, who's clasped his hands behind his back, who looks completely not like himself. The singer shuts his make-up case, looks at the bassist fully, asks what's wrong.
“Nothing's wrong, I just wanted you to come check something out,” replies Akira calmly, still refusing to look him in the eye, and when the singer is close enough, he grabs his hand and all but pulls him from the dressing room.
Akira ignores the other's questions, dodges people and boxes and equipment, and it's with great difficulty that he's able to open, close the door to the room he's found, breathes to slow his quickening heartbeat.
There's silence in the room and Akira can hardly get himself to face Takanori. But he does, meets his gaze, blushing.
“Akira, tell me already. What's wr–?”
The blond's pulling him close by the arm, catching his lips with his own, and Takanori can do nothing. He's frozen, the suddenness of the movement so quick that his bones, his muscles, his brain do not register the fact that he's against the door, that suddenly, suddenly, suddenly he's kissing back. And there's a pause in Akira's body when this happens, when Takanori's arms grip his biceps tightly, returning the pressure that the blond is gifting him with.
And Akira says quietly, so softly when they pull away, “I've– I've been trying so hard not to, but... I-I guess it's already kind of obvious.” He swallows the invisible lump in his throat, “I love you.”
Takanori says nothing, only pulls him back down so as to kiss him again. He tries to say everything through touches, through the smile on his face, through the whispers of nothing that escape his lungs, and Akira holds onto him tightly, the rest of the world stopping, the silence of the room they're in intoxicating in the sense that it's just them, it's just them, it's just them.
And Akira strokes his cheek, their noses just touching as he nudges Takanori's forehead.
“You thought I wouldn't feel the same way,” murmurs Takanori, and it isn't a question, but a statement that they both know to be true. And Takanori shakes his head, chuckling, “Idiot,” as he kisses Akira once more. He finds himself being pushed up the wall and he wraps his legs around the bassist's waist, so incredibly at peace with everything in the universe that a bomb could drop and they wouldn't notice a thing. “I love you too.”
The man in question turns, eyebrows raised in curiosity as he faces the blond who's currently bowing his head out of sight, who's clasped his hands behind his back, who looks completely not like himself. The singer shuts his make-up case, looks at the bassist fully, asks what's wrong.
“Nothing's wrong, I just wanted you to come check something out,” replies Akira calmly, still refusing to look him in the eye, and when the singer is close enough, he grabs his hand and all but pulls him from the dressing room.
Akira ignores the other's questions, dodges people and boxes and equipment, and it's with great difficulty that he's able to open, close the door to the room he's found, breathes to slow his quickening heartbeat.
There's silence in the room and Akira can hardly get himself to face Takanori. But he does, meets his gaze, blushing.
“Akira, tell me already. What's wr–?”
The blond's pulling him close by the arm, catching his lips with his own, and Takanori can do nothing. He's frozen, the suddenness of the movement so quick that his bones, his muscles, his brain do not register the fact that he's against the door, that suddenly, suddenly, suddenly he's kissing back. And there's a pause in Akira's body when this happens, when Takanori's arms grip his biceps tightly, returning the pressure that the blond is gifting him with.
And Akira says quietly, so softly when they pull away, “I've– I've been trying so hard not to, but... I-I guess it's already kind of obvious.” He swallows the invisible lump in his throat, “I love you.”
Takanori says nothing, only pulls him back down so as to kiss him again. He tries to say everything through touches, through the smile on his face, through the whispers of nothing that escape his lungs, and Akira holds onto him tightly, the rest of the world stopping, the silence of the room they're in intoxicating in the sense that it's just them, it's just them, it's just them.
And Akira strokes his cheek, their noses just touching as he nudges Takanori's forehead.
“You thought I wouldn't feel the same way,” murmurs Takanori, and it isn't a question, but a statement that they both know to be true. And Takanori shakes his head, chuckling, “Idiot,” as he kisses Akira once more. He finds himself being pushed up the wall and he wraps his legs around the bassist's waist, so incredibly at peace with everything in the universe that a bomb could drop and they wouldn't notice a thing. “I love you too.”