Heather
Yutaka is crying.
Yutaka is crying.
It’s not the pretty crying either, where the tears are cool to the touch, streaming down his face in perfect little rivers, and oh, his lips are quivering just slightly to give him that kicked puppy look. No, it’s snot and swollen eyes and heavy, warm tears that stain his cheeks like thick, congealed streams of dried glue. It’s all broken sobs and fragmented sentences, stuttering and losing his mind.
Yutaka is clinging to Kohara, the slightly taller of the two rubbing comforting circles on his back. He’s whispering baby, it’s okay and other soothing, possibly empty words. He just wants calm, serenity; he wants Yutaka to be okay.
He wants his words to end up being true.
And Kohara knows why he’s broken, and he doesn’t know how to fix him. He’s at his wit’s end, and the only solution right now is hugging, kissing the top of the drummer’s head, holding him close and promising to never let go. He’s scared, but refuses to show it lest Yutaka cry harder: the poor man doesn’t need anything more to add to the weight he already has on his shoulders.
He swears on his life, on the ring that Yutaka’d slid onto his ring finger not too long ago that he’ll protect him. He won’t have to hurt, to worry, to be petrified ever again.
Kohara wants these words to be true.
And when Yutaka finally falls asleep in his arms, trembling, having become physically sick from the terror of it all, Kohara cracks, buries his face in Yutaka’s hair and breaks. He’s careful not to make too much noise for he doesn’t want to wake the drummer; a sob or two escapes his chapped, bitten lips and he can’t help but cry harder. Kohara’s holding him tighter because he promised to never let go.
He sniffles and bites his lip, an old habit that is slowly dying.
Kohara watches Yutaka sleep, afraid that if he falls into a slumber too, Yutaka will awaken, alone and afraid.
Kohara wants to protect him.
It’s not the pretty crying either, where the tears are cool to the touch, streaming down his face in perfect little rivers, and oh, his lips are quivering just slightly to give him that kicked puppy look. No, it’s snot and swollen eyes and heavy, warm tears that stain his cheeks like thick, congealed streams of dried glue. It’s all broken sobs and fragmented sentences, stuttering and losing his mind.
Yutaka is clinging to Kohara, the slightly taller of the two rubbing comforting circles on his back. He’s whispering baby, it’s okay and other soothing, possibly empty words. He just wants calm, serenity; he wants Yutaka to be okay.
He wants his words to end up being true.
And Kohara knows why he’s broken, and he doesn’t know how to fix him. He’s at his wit’s end, and the only solution right now is hugging, kissing the top of the drummer’s head, holding him close and promising to never let go. He’s scared, but refuses to show it lest Yutaka cry harder: the poor man doesn’t need anything more to add to the weight he already has on his shoulders.
He swears on his life, on the ring that Yutaka’d slid onto his ring finger not too long ago that he’ll protect him. He won’t have to hurt, to worry, to be petrified ever again.
Kohara wants these words to be true.
And when Yutaka finally falls asleep in his arms, trembling, having become physically sick from the terror of it all, Kohara cracks, buries his face in Yutaka’s hair and breaks. He’s careful not to make too much noise for he doesn’t want to wake the drummer; a sob or two escapes his chapped, bitten lips and he can’t help but cry harder. Kohara’s holding him tighter because he promised to never let go.
He sniffles and bites his lip, an old habit that is slowly dying.
Kohara watches Yutaka sleep, afraid that if he falls into a slumber too, Yutaka will awaken, alone and afraid.
Kohara wants to protect him.