Oneshot: Sweetheart

[andrew_in_drag]

Title: Sweetheart
Author: andrew_in_drag
Pairing: Kyo/Toshiya
Rating: 15
Warnings: language, vulgarity, sort of lyrical
Synopsis: I've seen you sleep and wake, eat and talk and dream; I've seen you sweet and tough, spied on you in the shower; I've seen you. When your ship came in, and when your loves were leaving. I always think I've seen it all, but then you go and open my eyes again.

Sweetheart

I've seen you in a lot of places, in a lot of ways.
I've seen you on the stage and off it; I've seen you in the crowds when you were young. I've seen you sleep and wake, eat and talk and dream; I've seen you sweet and tough, spied on you in the shower; I've seen you. When your ship came in, and when your loves were leaving. I always think I've seen it all, but then you go and open my eyes again.

I've seen you tanned brown on Spanish fields, long limbs against rust-red earth, olive leaves, hot skies; I've seen you bundled against the snowy norths with your dark hair soaked darker. Phoenix deserts and Detroit concrete: the backdrop changes but the player stays the same: just you, all the time just you, shining like beach glass, a lost jewel.

And I've seen myself as the applicant in this long, long fight for you.

I asked myself all the questions that I thought you could ask, psyching myself out; am I: tall enough, kind enough, young enough; am I: complete, damaged, ready; do I wear false hair or false teeth, a glass eye, a rubber cock?

And have I seen you swimming in the lake by your parents' old house?
Somebody else owns it, now.
And have I seen you stand in the terrible violence of your hometown, jagged mountaintops puncturing the sky, leaking clouds
And the wind gagging your mouth with your own blown hair?

“Rock,” you were counting, “Pop. Metal. Rap.”
And ticking them off on your long, pretty fingers. It was bright and stuffy on the bus, your hair a shadow and hot bands of morning sunshine stretching over the aisle, and you were twittering away either to me or yourself, so I took the chance.
“Symphonic. Ambient.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Traditional. ...I'm trying to think of all the musical styles we've used.”
I let my pen-holding hand relax a little.
“Are we missing anything?”
“Techno, dance, house, jazz–”
“Jazz,” I said dismissively, “You make it up as you go along.”
You tipped your head back over the armrest and grinned at me. You were lying on your back over two seats, perfectly at ease; earlier, you'd had your headphones in, and now your toes were against the window and still tapping to whatever tune had remained in your head.
“It's harder than you think,” you said teasingly. You stretched hard, tapping my notepad with a ringed finger, “Like, try to read out this first draft, or something. It's tough; just ideas.”
“I don't like sharing my first drafts,” I said firmly, and angled the paper away from you, into a bright slant of sunlight.
In my dreams I kiss your cock, your sweet hard cock.
In my ugly barbed-wire handwriting.
In my thoughts I fuck you senseless all day long.

I've seen you on a Nevada highway, smelling heatbaked asphalt. I've seen you pass some hare bones, squinting against the sunset; I've seen you pass the roadside crosses where flowers for the dead were wilting into the gritty wind; I've seen you.
Hypnotised by sunstroke and smiling blind, “I'm just a little homesick.”
Your voice breaking, “We're really far away, aren't we?”

It's been sixteen years. I don't think we're showing any sign of slowing down or stopping: I see sixteen years and sixteen more, a dreamwall stretching forth into the bright haze of our future.
I have loved, and will love you. My hands are empty except for when you slide your fingers against them, and then they become busy tools to untangle your hair and rub away aches, a lifetime promise, guaranteed to thumb your kind eyes closed at the end. My lips spit foulness unless they're pressed against some part of you, and then the rocks tumble and they form your truest endearment, sweetheart. My eyes are hard pebbles, pupils greedy and getting fat on darkness; the darkness of your hair and your body under bedclothes; my eyes are ice that will only melt before fabled beauty, the stuff of myth – and look at you, pulling the sword from the stone.
It's been sixteen years. In those years countless men and women have had you; you've been public rockstar and private pornstar, the face on the ceilings of the suburban bedrooms when teenage hands wander to tender cocks and clits.
For sixteen years I've thought of you and started to dream.
Sixteen years and you were standing by the ocean, watching the viciousness of a shingle beach as the sea and stones hissed, cold moonlight reflecting off the waves as far as you could see, wincing like a terrible migraine.
“This is the furthest away we've ever been now,” you said. “What ocean is this?”
“It's the Pacific.”
You slipped your hand into mine, fingers nestling trustfully against my palm.
“So we're almost home, then.”

I've seen you laugh at nothing at all; I've seen you crying, lost and lonely. I've seen you in your private and most vulnerable moments, and I've watched you dream the minutes of your life away. I've seen you beautiful. Always.
And the most beautiful thing I've ever seen is you standing by that lonely shore the moment after I kissed you, smiling shy and tucking your long hair behind your ear, sweet-eyed, soft-lipped, happy.