Flesh and Bone
Disclaimer: Don't own The Killers' "Flesh and Bone" or Fujimaki Tadatoshi's Kuroko no Basuke.
Note: Happy LiuHimu day, guys!
As the snow falls, the steady creak of wheels on old train tracks echoes eerily into the dark. It's not night, barely even evening, but the days are so short that the night seems almost constant—get up for practice and it's dark, see a weak ray of sunlight through the classroom window, leave practice and it's dark again. The northern winter is not pleasant. IT is excessively bitter, excessively grating. The falling snow is somehow hypnotizing in a numbing kind of way. Liu's face slides further into his hand as he peers outside the window. He sees only his reflection, skin too pale from no exposure to the sun (seriously, he must be getting some sort of vitamin deficiency from this) and bags under his eyes. Even though it's winter and all he wants to do most of the time is crawl into his bed and hibernate in a blanket fort, he's not actually getting much sleep. Schoolwork is piling up (junior year was always supposed to be the hardest, after all) and after the disappointing show at the Winter Cup, Coach has been ramping up their training schedule, especially for the upperclassmen.
But it's Christmas week, so all school activities are suspended for religious observance. Everyone's going home, even most of the international students. It's Liu's own fault he's not going home, because he'd just put off buying a plane ticket until far too late. (He doesn't really want to go home, anyway, if it's just for a week. He won't get any time to himself and he'll be even more tired from the jet lag and he'll fall so far back into his old routines that coming back to Akita will be too hard and he won't get to do everything he wants to do.)
Himuro, arm nestled in the crook of Liu's elbow, head leaning against Liu's arm, sleeping with a nervous frown—he's not going home, either. He's got a lot of complicated regrets and things left behind; most of them he doesn't want to talk about but some he has anyway. No matter. They're here, now, in the deepest depths of the coldest part of the year, together, on their way even farther north.
Japanese Christmas is still mostly for lovers, anyway, even when they're surrounded by the bible readings about Jesus's birth and the magic of renewal. The words don't hold water in a land where everything is frozen. Hope is ludicrous; talk of rebirth is greeted with skepticism.
Liu lightly elbows Himuro in the side. "Hey."
He starts, blinks up at Liu. "Hmm? Are we getting close?"
Liu nods. Himuro smiles, tight, half-fake.
They don't have any luggage, just wallets and keys and phones crammed into bottomless coat pockets. Liu grabs Himuro's frozen hand and pulls it into his pocket. Himuro squeezes. No one notices; they're too preoccupied with the snow. It's coming down harder, sticking like giant flakes of dandruff in people's hair. It's not really blowing in a particular direction, just dropping like dead weight to the semi-trampled layer of whiteness on top of the pavement. They pause under an awning where the ground is wet and visible and light cigarettes with the same flame. The cold, wet, monochrome world spins around outside of their little corner. The owner of the shop doesn't tell them to scram because no one's here and the shop is closed. It's too late and too cold for anything to be open.
They're alone.
They wander the streets as the snow slows, hand in hand, not saying much. It's late and it's cold but to open your mouth is to invite the chill inside to freeze your saliva (not that it stops them from opening their mouths to each other, Himuro standing atop a snowdrift, suspended by his careful balance and the levity of his step, leaning over to brush his wind-chapped lips against Liu's, snowflakes detaching themselves from the ends of his eyelashes. He leans too far and comes crashing into Liu's arms and doesn't let go, buries his red cheeks in Liu's black scarf soggy with melted snow and warm breath. When he tilts his face upward again, Liu takes his mouth, hungry for some more contrast to the cold.
The morning comes somewhat suddenly. They're so used to the dark that the way the deep gray sky turns whiter and whiter is disconcerting. They share cheap coffee from a dingy shop, first batch and it's already burnt and stale. It's warm and caffeinated, though, and their numb tongues can't taste very much. Even as the morning wears on, people don't stray from their houses. It's cold and it's Christmas. Why leave the house when you can stay inside with your loved ones?
They don't know where they're going and they really don't care. It's a small enough town that they'll be able to figure it out somehow, and it's pretty easy to find the ocean, anyway. The smell of the salt cuts through the air, magnified by the dull view and lack of sound.
They step out onto the snow-covered sand. Himuro sniffles and Liu looks over in concern, but he's not crying. His nose is bright red from the chill; his scarf keeps slipping down from his face. Before he can drab it upwards again, Liu leans down and kisses his nose. Even though his lips are exposed to the wind, it's shockingly frozen. Now that their faces are closer, he can see Himuro's eye watering, too. He's really not used to cold weather.
Liu wraps his arms around Himuro, and Himuro buries his face in the front of Liu's peacoat.
The waves are gentle, washing over and back on a stretch of bare sand, catching the snowflakes as they fall and letting them take their sweet time melting. The sea is quiet, muffled by the clouds.
They find a cheap hotel that lets them in (the receptionist is a bit skeptical of their uniform pants and lack of luggage, but they're willing to pay up front so she's willing to overlook it). Once they're in the warm room, they fall asleep almost immediately, a tangle of limbs on the double bed where Liu has to stretch diagonally because he can't fit lengthwise.
Liu wakes up to Himuro cuddling closer and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. His mouth is warm now; the hotness of his breath tickles Liu's cheek and neck.
His fingertips, pressing at Liu's half-open shirt, are still cold and Liu flinches back. "You're still too cold."
Himuro blinks at him. "Wei..." he says, and whenever he uses Liu's first name like that it's too much and too unfair.
"Damn it, Tatsuya."
Himuro smiles (was that all he wanted?) and continues to press his luck and press his fingers against Liu's warm body and eventually they grow warmer (or maybe Liu is getting used to the cold but screw semantics).