characters: miharu, yoite
summary: You're laying close to him, and so you can feel his breath on your neck; it's like baking soda and blood.
notes: it's written in first person, present tense.
Watching him isn't easy.
You're laying close to him, and so you can feel his breath on your neck; it's like baking soda and blood. The way his chest rises and falls in time with the scent is uneven and unnerving. Ribcages can be so frail, after all. What else is there, aside from skin and blood and ruined lungs? Yoite has no meat on his bones. He's simply paper, porcelain, and clear blue glass, and that makes your heart hurt like his must at times.
The way his hair lays across his cheek, it's like a curve of dark, dark seagrass, and when you think about it, it does seem that Yoite should be underwater, where it's soft and muffled and cold. Yes, though it makes you feel a little guilty, Yoite does fit in well with the cold. Even his hands are probably cool, maybe clammy. You could touch them; his gloves are gone, right now, because he's sleeping and he trusts that you won't put skin to skin. 'They're ugly,' he'd say acknowledgingly, 'Thin, and black. You won't like them.'
You like them. It's a little exciting, seeing more of Yoite's skin. How much else is there? Are there white expanses, or is everything dark like his hands? If you look closely, you can see the edge of a bruise creeping up his neck.
Your fingers want to wander like bruises.
Still, as you hear tinny intakes of breath and deep, relieved exhales, you remember: watching him isn't easy. It's looking into dusk without the sunset; it's seeing him die in slow motion.
"Miharu, Miharu," he says, with his lips barely parting to let the sounds through. Hearing your name carry on his voice, no matter how shallow, makes you consider letting yourself cry. You take a chance and you kiss his forehead.
His skin is cool, like you thought it would be. He shivers, shudders, like shutters in the wind, when he feels the press of your mouth.
Touching him isn't easy. He might break.